Remembering Rachel
I loved Rachel's brain, which was sharp and curious, bold and tender, all at the same time.
In all of my confusing grief, I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry when I got to the lectionary passage last week. Jesus appeared on the shore when Peter, John and a couple of other disciples were fishing. They didn’t recognize him, until after Jesus instructed them to put down their nets, and they caught all those fish, without the nets breaking. Then naked Peter (an odd detail), put on his clothes and rushed Jesus.
As I wrote the sermon, Rachel Held Evans was in the hospital. As the week wore on, her news became dire. By the time I stood up to preach, my voice trembled, and I failed at holding back tears, because Rachel had died.
The last face-to-face conversation Rachel and I had was in "Monkeytown," over lunch with Kathleen, Rachel’s college roommate and close friend. We talked about the strange nature of John 20 and 21. Rachel believed in a literal bodily resurrection. I, on the other hand, read a lot of mystery in the story. I thought there were things our post-enlightenment brains, with their innate commitment to science, could no longer grasp. I mean if all the bones and blood cells came back together in a biological fashion, then why did Mary think he was the gardener? Why was he appearing in locked rooms? Why didn’t the disciples on the Road to Emmaus recognize him? Why didn’t John and Peter know who he was? Something happened. I was just not sure that I could understand it completely.
