Reading Buechner

Once upon a time, during college, I "discovered" the writing of Frederick Buechner. Shortly thereafter, I read ten of his books in a single year. He's continued to be one of my very favorite writers – a novelist, memoirist, and Presbyterian minister whose unlikely but real Damascus Road conversion came after stumbling into a liberal Manhattan church and hearing the words "confession, and tears, and great laughter" spoken from the pulpit.

For Christmas, Heidi and Jordan (my sister and brother-in-law), gave me a copy of Reading Buechner: Exploring the Work of a Master Memoirist, Novelist, Theologian, and Preacher by Jeffrey Munroe. I devoured it. And I was reminded all over again why his work has meant so much to me.

Buechner gives words to the deepest longings of our hearts and the messiness of faith. One gets the sense he respects his readers too much, and has seen too much, to peddle trite clichés. Though I imagine he would cringe at the suggestion, it seems to me he occupies a sort of middle space between evangelicalism and the Protestant mainline. That may not be everyone's cup of tea, but it sure is mine most of the time.