Divine Companionship as Deep Listening
A Reflection on Tracy Tucker’s Can We Talk About Death?
In open and relational theology, we rightly praise divine action. We speak of God “luring” the world toward beauty, wholeness, and transformation. We emphasize that God does not control but invites. This is good and true. But even within this tradition, we often overlook another side of divine love: receptivity.
We forget that the world itself becomes the very content of God’s feelings—that God receives the world, moment by moment, into the divine life in a ministry of absorption and care. Not only our joys and sufferings, but we ourselves become part of God's ongoing life in God’s deep listening. Divine love, then, is not only persuasive and active. It is also tender, spacious, and deeply affected. It listens, suffers, remembers, and embraces. It stays near without fixing, feels without fleeing. It is the love of presence—a love that companions rather than commands, that holds rather than heals, that waits rather than urges.
This receptive love is mirrored in countless human situations. We see it in the quiet strength of a friend who simply sits with us in grief. We see it in the attentiveness of a hospice chaplain, who practices a ministry of presence rather than solutions. But we also see it in joy: in the delighted gaze of a parent who watches a child take their first steps—saying nothing, simply receiving the wonder. We see it in the shared silence between old friends watching the sun set, where no words are needed and all that matters is the fullness of the moment received together. In all these moments, whether painful or joyful, something of God is revealed—not the God of control or intervention, but the God of tender attention: the One who receives rather than directs, who companions rather than cures.
It is this side of divine love that I find myself especially drawn to as I read Tracy Tucker’s Can We Talk About Death? An Open and Relational Vision. Tucker explores the intersection of language, theology, and death with clarity and compassion. The book is organized into three sections. The first, Why We Can’t Talk, examines the theological and cultural barriers that prevent meaningful conversations about death, shedding light on the silence and discomfort that often surround it. The second explores the language we do use—how our culture, especially under religious influence, speaks about death and the afterlife. Finally, the third section offers Tucker’s own constructive perspective, presenting open and relational theology as a more life-giving framework for speaking about death, dying, and the nature of divine love.
It is in this final section—especially where Tucker reflects on the practice of caregiving—that something quietly profound comes into view. He emphasizes the importance of listening: listening not to fix, but to honor; not to respond, but to receive. In doing so, he does more than describe a model of good caregiving—he gives us a window into the very heart of God. The listening of the caregiver, in its attentiveness, patience, and presence, reveals the listening of God.
Tucker writes:
“Listening is referred to in other considerations, but it is important enough to bear repeating. The value of listening to the grieving person cannot be over-emphasized... Listening is the highest expression of respect. The first need of a grieving person is to know they have been heard... Listening rightly highlights the griever as the center around which the conversation moves.”
(Can We Talk About Death?, p. 194)
This is no ordinary listening. It is full-bodied, self-emptying, reverent. It de-centers the self in order to center the other. It is a kind of sacred hospitality of the heart. In this listening, the caregiver becomes a sanctuary of presence—a place where the grieving can speak, or not speak, and still feel received. And in that sacred space, something healing may emerge—not because it is given or imposed, but because it is allowed.
Tucker, drawing on the insights of hospice chaplain Johan Tredoux, names this kind of presence as withness. It is not mere proximity, but attunement. Tredoux writes:
“Withness is about the relational connection that occurs when I become attuned to the body language, voice, and nonverbal communication of the patient… I have learned that the practice of presence includes a focus on emptiness, and self-emptying, to make space for being fully present.”
(p. 194)
In this “withness,” we glimpse something that resonates deeply with the open and relational image of God. The God who does not fill all the space but makes space. The God who listens with tenderness, not because silence must be broken, but because love itself is made known in the act of listening. The God who, like the caregiver, self-empties in order to become more fully present—not absent, but not overwhelming. Not fixing, but faithfully attending.
Tucker turns to this side of God in other portions of the text, too—one of which appears in his discussion of life after death. He notes that some open and relational thinkers, particularly those influenced by process theology, speak of two kinds of life after death: subjective immortality in the heart of God, wherein the individual soul continues its journey; and objective immortality, in which every person is lovingly “stored” in the divine memory. He writes that some speak of heaven as:
“...the depth of memory in God’s ‘heart or mind.’ All experience, these thinkers insist, is kept secure in the divine memory and somehow woven into the creative fabric of the universe.”
And then adds:
“What seems consistent throughout open and relational thinking is that the experiences and the players within the created order are not lost on the heart of God.”
(p. 173)
That phrasing--not lost on the heart of God—is evocative, but from a process theological perspective, it may be more faithful to say that nothing is lost in God. In process thought, God is not merely an external observer but a fellow participant in the world—and a spacious recipient of the world’s actualities. God is an evolving reservoir of all that has been, transformed into beauty. The memories of people—and the people themselves in the concreteness of their lived experience—are not only remembered in God, but, as Whitehead says, apotheosized: transformed by divine feeling and woven into the ongoing, creative life of the universe. This is the work of the consequent nature of God, who receives all things with a tender care that nothing be lost, and lovingly integrates each thread into the deep harmony of a wider, tragic beauty.
In process theology, this withness is inescapable. We do not choose to be received by God into the loving heart of God; we are received into that heart whether we want to be or not. God’s receptivity is not conditional on our awareness or consent. It is the nature of divine love to include, to hold, to remember. If there is indeed a continuing journey after death—as many process thinkers allow—then we might imagine a path of spiritual growth beyond this life: a journey that includes awakening to the harm we have done, opportunities for reconciliation, and even reunion with those we have loved or wronged. All of this is imaginable within a process framework. But either way, the receptive love of God is inescapable.
Tucker affirms this in explicitly Christian terms:
“Open and relational proponents take very seriously the inescapable love of God. In his discussion on the love of God expressed through Jesus, the Apostle Paul asked, ‘Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will affliction or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or peril or sword?’ Paul answers his own questions with a resounding ‘No one and no thing!’”
Tucker’s discussion of listening occurs within a larger framework of wisdom. In Part III, he offers eight practical “considerations” for caregivers—gentle guidelines for how to accompany those facing death. These are: Let It Flow, Remain Curious, Use Open-Ended Statements or Questions, Stay out of the Weeds, Stay in Your Lane, Be Brief, Listen, and Allow for Grief and Expressions of Pain. Each consideration contains hard-earned insight, the kind that can only come from deep personal experience. Together, they form a kind of spiritual map—not rigid or prescriptive, but evocative and relational.
All eight, I would suggest, can be understood as ways caregivers respond to the lure of God within their hearts and minds: small, sacred acts of attunement. And while this reflection has centered on Listening as a window into divine love, it is not the only one. For example, Remain Curious reminds us of God's own openness to the world, God’s refusal to reduce any person to a fixed identity. Let It Flow echoes the divine willingness to be carried by the moment, to trust process over prescription. Allow for Grief and Expressions of Pain mirrors the divine willingness to receive anguish without turning away—to make space, as God does, for lament, sorrow, and longing.
These are not just caregiving techniques. They are, in their deeper sense, spiritual practices—ways of participating in the divine life. They remind us that divine love is not only an idea to be grasped but a way of being to be embodied. And Tucker, with humility and grace, helps us begin to imagine what that way might look like in the face of death, and in the midst of life.
Why is all of this important? Like so many open and relational theologians, Tucker is convinced that how we think about God affects how we act in the world. Theology is not merely abstract speculation—it shapes our relationships, our ethics, our politics, our caregiving, our grief. A controlling God may invite passivity or fear; a relational God may invite presence and participation. But I would also add—and I’m sure Tucker would agree—that our theology is not the sole or determinative force in how we live. People may disagree with the open and relational view that God is not all-powerful, or that God does not know the future in advance, or that God creates the universe out of chaos rather than out of nothing—and still live in the deep conviction that, one way or another, God is Love. How a concept of God functions in a person’s life depends not only on the content of the concept, but on the context of that person’s life, and on the myriad relationships, experiences, and inner movements that shape their faith.
One of the strengths of Tucker’s book is that he knows this. He does not write with theological arrogance or assume that one view fits all. His tone is invitational rather than argumentative, pastoral rather than polemical. He offers a vision, not a verdict. And in doing so, he opens space for many kinds of readers—caregivers and grievers, seekers and skeptics, theologians and laypeople—to find themselves gently received.
Of course, all I have said here only skims the surface of Tucker’s book. My reflections have focused primarily on one aspect of his constructive proposals in Part III—his rich insights into the receptive love of God as mirrored in the practice of caregiving. But the book includes much more. Across its three sections, Can We Talk About Death? offers a thoughtful and compassionate guide to reimagining how we speak about death, dying, God, and love. It weaves theological reflection with pastoral wisdom, drawing from open and relational theology while remaining accessible to a wide audience. For caregivers, chaplains, spiritual directors, and anyone walking alongside those facing death—or contemplating their own—this book is a deeply valuable resource: honest, hopeful, and full of grace.
We forget that the world itself becomes the very content of God’s feelings—that God receives the world, moment by moment, into the divine life in a ministry of absorption and care. Not only our joys and sufferings, but we ourselves become part of God's ongoing life in God’s deep listening. Divine love, then, is not only persuasive and active. It is also tender, spacious, and deeply affected. It listens, suffers, remembers, and embraces. It stays near without fixing, feels without fleeing. It is the love of presence—a love that companions rather than commands, that holds rather than heals, that waits rather than urges.
This receptive love is mirrored in countless human situations. We see it in the quiet strength of a friend who simply sits with us in grief. We see it in the attentiveness of a hospice chaplain, who practices a ministry of presence rather than solutions. But we also see it in joy: in the delighted gaze of a parent who watches a child take their first steps—saying nothing, simply receiving the wonder. We see it in the shared silence between old friends watching the sun set, where no words are needed and all that matters is the fullness of the moment received together. In all these moments, whether painful or joyful, something of God is revealed—not the God of control or intervention, but the God of tender attention: the One who receives rather than directs, who companions rather than cures.
It is this side of divine love that I find myself especially drawn to as I read Tracy Tucker’s Can We Talk About Death? An Open and Relational Vision. Tucker explores the intersection of language, theology, and death with clarity and compassion. The book is organized into three sections. The first, Why We Can’t Talk, examines the theological and cultural barriers that prevent meaningful conversations about death, shedding light on the silence and discomfort that often surround it. The second explores the language we do use—how our culture, especially under religious influence, speaks about death and the afterlife. Finally, the third section offers Tucker’s own constructive perspective, presenting open and relational theology as a more life-giving framework for speaking about death, dying, and the nature of divine love.
It is in this final section—especially where Tucker reflects on the practice of caregiving—that something quietly profound comes into view. He emphasizes the importance of listening: listening not to fix, but to honor; not to respond, but to receive. In doing so, he does more than describe a model of good caregiving—he gives us a window into the very heart of God. The listening of the caregiver, in its attentiveness, patience, and presence, reveals the listening of God.
Tucker writes:
“Listening is referred to in other considerations, but it is important enough to bear repeating. The value of listening to the grieving person cannot be over-emphasized... Listening is the highest expression of respect. The first need of a grieving person is to know they have been heard... Listening rightly highlights the griever as the center around which the conversation moves.”
(Can We Talk About Death?, p. 194)
This is no ordinary listening. It is full-bodied, self-emptying, reverent. It de-centers the self in order to center the other. It is a kind of sacred hospitality of the heart. In this listening, the caregiver becomes a sanctuary of presence—a place where the grieving can speak, or not speak, and still feel received. And in that sacred space, something healing may emerge—not because it is given or imposed, but because it is allowed.
Tucker, drawing on the insights of hospice chaplain Johan Tredoux, names this kind of presence as withness. It is not mere proximity, but attunement. Tredoux writes:
“Withness is about the relational connection that occurs when I become attuned to the body language, voice, and nonverbal communication of the patient… I have learned that the practice of presence includes a focus on emptiness, and self-emptying, to make space for being fully present.”
(p. 194)
In this “withness,” we glimpse something that resonates deeply with the open and relational image of God. The God who does not fill all the space but makes space. The God who listens with tenderness, not because silence must be broken, but because love itself is made known in the act of listening. The God who, like the caregiver, self-empties in order to become more fully present—not absent, but not overwhelming. Not fixing, but faithfully attending.
Tucker turns to this side of God in other portions of the text, too—one of which appears in his discussion of life after death. He notes that some open and relational thinkers, particularly those influenced by process theology, speak of two kinds of life after death: subjective immortality in the heart of God, wherein the individual soul continues its journey; and objective immortality, in which every person is lovingly “stored” in the divine memory. He writes that some speak of heaven as:
“...the depth of memory in God’s ‘heart or mind.’ All experience, these thinkers insist, is kept secure in the divine memory and somehow woven into the creative fabric of the universe.”
And then adds:
“What seems consistent throughout open and relational thinking is that the experiences and the players within the created order are not lost on the heart of God.”
(p. 173)
That phrasing--not lost on the heart of God—is evocative, but from a process theological perspective, it may be more faithful to say that nothing is lost in God. In process thought, God is not merely an external observer but a fellow participant in the world—and a spacious recipient of the world’s actualities. God is an evolving reservoir of all that has been, transformed into beauty. The memories of people—and the people themselves in the concreteness of their lived experience—are not only remembered in God, but, as Whitehead says, apotheosized: transformed by divine feeling and woven into the ongoing, creative life of the universe. This is the work of the consequent nature of God, who receives all things with a tender care that nothing be lost, and lovingly integrates each thread into the deep harmony of a wider, tragic beauty.
In process theology, this withness is inescapable. We do not choose to be received by God into the loving heart of God; we are received into that heart whether we want to be or not. God’s receptivity is not conditional on our awareness or consent. It is the nature of divine love to include, to hold, to remember. If there is indeed a continuing journey after death—as many process thinkers allow—then we might imagine a path of spiritual growth beyond this life: a journey that includes awakening to the harm we have done, opportunities for reconciliation, and even reunion with those we have loved or wronged. All of this is imaginable within a process framework. But either way, the receptive love of God is inescapable.
Tucker affirms this in explicitly Christian terms:
“Open and relational proponents take very seriously the inescapable love of God. In his discussion on the love of God expressed through Jesus, the Apostle Paul asked, ‘Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will affliction or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or peril or sword?’ Paul answers his own questions with a resounding ‘No one and no thing!’”
Tucker’s discussion of listening occurs within a larger framework of wisdom. In Part III, he offers eight practical “considerations” for caregivers—gentle guidelines for how to accompany those facing death. These are: Let It Flow, Remain Curious, Use Open-Ended Statements or Questions, Stay out of the Weeds, Stay in Your Lane, Be Brief, Listen, and Allow for Grief and Expressions of Pain. Each consideration contains hard-earned insight, the kind that can only come from deep personal experience. Together, they form a kind of spiritual map—not rigid or prescriptive, but evocative and relational.
All eight, I would suggest, can be understood as ways caregivers respond to the lure of God within their hearts and minds: small, sacred acts of attunement. And while this reflection has centered on Listening as a window into divine love, it is not the only one. For example, Remain Curious reminds us of God's own openness to the world, God’s refusal to reduce any person to a fixed identity. Let It Flow echoes the divine willingness to be carried by the moment, to trust process over prescription. Allow for Grief and Expressions of Pain mirrors the divine willingness to receive anguish without turning away—to make space, as God does, for lament, sorrow, and longing.
These are not just caregiving techniques. They are, in their deeper sense, spiritual practices—ways of participating in the divine life. They remind us that divine love is not only an idea to be grasped but a way of being to be embodied. And Tucker, with humility and grace, helps us begin to imagine what that way might look like in the face of death, and in the midst of life.
Why is all of this important? Like so many open and relational theologians, Tucker is convinced that how we think about God affects how we act in the world. Theology is not merely abstract speculation—it shapes our relationships, our ethics, our politics, our caregiving, our grief. A controlling God may invite passivity or fear; a relational God may invite presence and participation. But I would also add—and I’m sure Tucker would agree—that our theology is not the sole or determinative force in how we live. People may disagree with the open and relational view that God is not all-powerful, or that God does not know the future in advance, or that God creates the universe out of chaos rather than out of nothing—and still live in the deep conviction that, one way or another, God is Love. How a concept of God functions in a person’s life depends not only on the content of the concept, but on the context of that person’s life, and on the myriad relationships, experiences, and inner movements that shape their faith.
One of the strengths of Tucker’s book is that he knows this. He does not write with theological arrogance or assume that one view fits all. His tone is invitational rather than argumentative, pastoral rather than polemical. He offers a vision, not a verdict. And in doing so, he opens space for many kinds of readers—caregivers and grievers, seekers and skeptics, theologians and laypeople—to find themselves gently received.
Of course, all I have said here only skims the surface of Tucker’s book. My reflections have focused primarily on one aspect of his constructive proposals in Part III—his rich insights into the receptive love of God as mirrored in the practice of caregiving. But the book includes much more. Across its three sections, Can We Talk About Death? offers a thoughtful and compassionate guide to reimagining how we speak about death, dying, God, and love. It weaves theological reflection with pastoral wisdom, drawing from open and relational theology while remaining accessible to a wide audience. For caregivers, chaplains, spiritual directors, and anyone walking alongside those facing death—or contemplating their own—this book is a deeply valuable resource: honest, hopeful, and full of grace.