A Few Words on the Passing of Frederick Buechner

The great writer, pastor, and theologian Frederick Buechner passed away yesterday.

I’m not an expert on his life, so I won’t belabor the facts apart from saying he was a Presbyterian minister and author of 39 published works, of various genres, and he died peacefully at the age of 96.

But, while the news is fresh and the urge to memorialize is strong, I want to share a few, brief words about what Frederick Buechner’s writing has meant to me.

I have written about Buechner a few times before, here and here. And I’ve probably mentioned or quoted him at other points that I cannot recall. So, if you’re a reader of mine, you’ve likely heard his name.

My introduction to Frederick Buechner was about twenty years ago, through a literature class in college called Faith & Doubt. Buechner’s The Sacred Journey was on the syllabus.

At the time, I was studying worship arts at a Christian college and, ironically (?), deeply struggling with my faith. From the moment I opened it, Buechner’s book was like a balm for my soul. I had come to the end of myself and my ability to process my struggle. Buechner’s book gave me language to express the spiritual angst I was feeling and let me know I was not alone. And, more than that, it gave me a glimpse of something beyond the struggle and into a place “beyond time,” where all things would be reconciled.

Shortly after reading The Sacred Journey, I mentioned the book to a friend and he asked, “But have you read Godric?!”

And that’s when I went down the rabbit hole.

In the years that followed, I read many of his books.

I read most of his fiction–Godric, Brendan, The Storm, On the Road with the Archangel, Son of Laughter, the four books of The Book of Bebb.
I read his four memoirs.
And I dug into his nonfiction, particularly his sermons and his books about preaching and writing.

I bought copies of my favorites. I gave copies away. I bought them as gifts. I pulled them off the shelf when I needed a friend.

Over the past twenty years, Frederick Buechner has become my own “personal theologian.”

I could get in trouble for saying that among my Reformed Presbyterian brethren, because Buechner could certainly fly a little loose with his theology. He could stretch Biblical narratives in ways that make some uncomfortable. He was colorful with metaphors and a bit audacious in his suggestions about how to apply them.

I would not have depended on Frederick Buechner to define my systematics, to be sure, but he helped craft some of the deeper, internal parts of my faith expression. He helped me reconcile my faith with the seemingly irreconcilable experiences of longing, doubt, pain, sadness, and remembrance. He helped me redefine the concept of “saint” and cultivated a generous spirit in me toward others on the journey of faith.

I can sense a bit of him in the cadence of my own writing and, most certainly, in the content. I’ve written more than a few songs inspired by him. And I’ve been pleased to introduce friends to his writing.

Not everyone loves reading him, of course.
There is a roundabout, indirect style to his writing that some readers find tedious. There is some redundancy in his sermons and memoirs. (He certainly had a “schtick.”)

I’ve never been offended by someone that wasn’t a Buechner fan.
But I’ve never met a Buechner fan I didn’t like.

I’m so thankful to have discovered him.
He’s been such a gift to me and so many others.

Happy Homecoming, Mr. Buechner.
All that’s been lost is found again.

“Not For Happiness…”

A few weeks ago, I stayed up until nearly sunrise writing about the concept of vocation and what it means to be “married” to your life’s work. It’s an idea I’ve been thinking about for much of the past few months, as I struggle through understanding the value of this season of my life and the next phase in our family life.

The post I wrote that night was somehow deleted as it was being saved at the end. I lost a lot of mental energy on that post, but ended that night reading through similar thoughts by one of my favorite authors.

So, if you’re interested, I’ll just let Frederick Buechner speak for me.

Like “duty,” “law,” and “religion,” the word “vocation” has a dull ring to it, but in terms of what it means, it is really not dull at all. Vocare, to call, of course, and a man’s vocation is a man’s calling. It is the work that he is called to in this world, the thing that he is summoned to spend his life doing. We can speak of a man’s choosing his vocation, but perhaps it is at least as accurate to speak of a vocation’s choosing the man, of a call’s being given and a man’s hearing it, or not hearing it. And maybe that is the place to start: the business of listening and hearing. A man’s life is full of all sorts of voices calling him in all sorts of directions. Some of them are voices from inside and some of them are voices from outside. The more alive and alert we are, the more clamorous our lives are. Which do we listen to? What kind of voice do we listen for?

When you are young, I think, your hearing is in some ways better than it is ever going to be again. You hear better than most people the voices that call to you out of your own life to give yourself to this work or that work. When you are young, before you accumulate responsibilities, you are freer than most people to choose among all the voices and to answer the one that speaks most powerfully to who you are and to what you really want to do with your life. But the danger is that there are so many voices, and they all in their ways sound so promising. The danger is that you will not listen to the voice that speaks to you through the seagull mounting the gray wind, say, or the vision in the temple, that you do not listen to the voice inside you or to the voice that speaks from outside but specifically to you out of the specific events of your life, but that instead you listen to the great blaring, boring, banal voice of our mass culture, which threatens to deafen us all by blasting forth that the only thing that really matters about your work is how much it will get you in the way of salary and status, and that if it is gladness you are after, you can save that for weekends. In fact one of the grimmer notions that we seem to inherit from our Puritan forebears is that work is not even supposed to be glad but, rather, a kind of penance, a way of working off the guilt that you accumulate during the hours when you are not working.

The world is full of people who seem to have listened to the wrong voice and are now engaged in life-work in which they find no pleasure or purpose and who run the risk of suddenly realizing someday that they have spent the only years that they are ever going to get in this world doing something which could not matter less to themselves or to anyone else. This does not mean, of course, people who are doing work that from the outside looks unglamorous and humdrum, because obviously such work as that may be a crucial form of service and deeply creative. But it means people who are doing work that seems simply irrelevant not only to the great human needs and issues of our time but also to their own need to grow and develop as humans.

In John Marquand’s novel Point of No Return, for instance, after years of apple-polishing and bucking for promotion and dedicating all his energies to a single goal, Charlie Gray finally gets to be vice-president of the fancy little New York bank where he works; and then the terrible moment comes when he realizes that it is really not what he wanted after all, when the prize that he has spent his life trying to win suddenly turns to ashes in his hands. His promotion assures him and his family of all the security and standing that he has always sought, but Marquand leaves you with the feeling that maybe the best way Charlie Gray could have supported his family would have been by giving his life to the kind of work where he could have expressed himself and fulfilled himself in such a way as to become in himself, as a person, the kind of support they really needed.

There is also the moment in the Gospels where Jesus is portrayed as going into the wilderness for forty days and nights and being tempted there by the devil. And one of the ways that the devil tempts him is to wait until Jesus is very hungry from fasting and then to suggest that he simply turn the stones into bread and eat. Jesus answers, “Man shall not live by bread alone,” and this just happens to be, among other things, true, and very close to the same truth that Charlie Gray comes to when he realizes too late that he was not made to live on status and salary alone but that something crucially important was missing from his life even though he was not sure what it was any more than, perhaps, Marquand himself was sure what it was.

There is nothing moralistic or sentimental about this truth. It means for us simply that we must be careful with our lives, for Christ’s sake, because it would seem that they are the only lives we are going to have in this puzzling and perilous world, and so they are very precious and what we do with them matters enormously. Everybody knows that. We need no one to tell it to us. Yet in another way perhaps we do always need to be told, because there is always the temptation to believe that we have all the time in the world, whereas the truth of it is that we do not. We have only a life, and the choice of how we are going to live it must be our own choice, not one that we let the world make for us. Because surely Marquand was right that for each of us there comes a point of no return, a point beyond which we no longer have life enough left to go back and start all over again.

To Isaiah, the voice said, “Go,” and for each of us there are many voices that say it, but the question is which one will we obey with our lives, which of the voices that call is to be the one that we answer. No one can say, of course, except each for himself, but I believe that it is possible to say at least this in general to all of us: we should go with our lives where we most need to go and where we are most needed. Where we most need to go. Maybe that means that the voice we should listen to most as we choose a vocation is the voice that we might think we should listen to least, and that is the voice of our own gladness. What can we do that makes us gladdest, what can we do that leaves us with the strongest sense of sailing true north and of peace, which is much of what gladness is? Is it making things with our hands out of wood or stone or paint on canvas? Or is it making something we hope like truth out of words? Or is it making people laugh or weep in a way that cleanses their spirit? I believe that if it is a thing that makes us truly glad, then it is a good thing and it is our thing and it is the calling voice that we were made to answer with our lives.

And also, where we are most needed. In a world where there is so much drudgery, so much grief, so much emptiness and fear and pain, our gladness in our work is as much needed as we ourselves need to be glad…

Thou, Who art the God no less of those who know thee not than of those who love thee well, be present with us at the times of choosing when time stands still and all that lies behind and all that lies ahead are caught up in the mystery of a moment.

Be present especially with the young who must choose between many voices. Help them to know how much an old world needs their youth and gladness. Help them to know that there are words of truth and healing that will never be spoken unless they speak them, and deeds of compassion and courage that will never be done unless they do them. Help them never to mistake success for victory or failure for defeat.

Grant that they may never be entirely content with whatever bounty the world may bestow upon them, but that they may know at last that they were created not for happiness but for joy, and that joy is to him alone who, sometimes with tears in his eyes, commits himself in love to Thee and to his brothers.

Lead them and all thy world ever deeper into the knowledge that finally all men are one and that there can never really be joy for any until there is joy for all. In Christ’s name we ask it and for his sake. Amen.


Excerpt from The Hungering Dark by Frederick Buechner.

(Mr. Buechner, many apologies for the gross overuse of quoted text. There was so little I was willing to toss out.)