Frederick Buechner died this week. He was 96 years old, and left a sprawling legacy. Nearly every Christian artist I respect lamented his loss this week. He was one of the giants on whose shoulders we sway.
Buechner’s writing is so timeless that I was sometimes surprised to find he was still around, still jotting words which might leave us breathless. That era of creation, as far as we can see, is over for now.
So there is sadness, sure, yet I’ll also quote John Blase: “I'm sad, but 96yrs is the end of a lifetime, isn't it? And it's not a tragedy when a man dies at the end of his life.”
There are so many other writers eulogizing Mr. Buechner beautifully (like David Brooks at The NY Times), so I will not attempt to do that.
Especially since I wrote about Frederick Buechner earlier this summer, about how he is revered and about our shared Presbyterian roots, and I shared one of his many passages which have flabbergasted me.
Frederick Buechner’s legacy is a great gift from God to so many of us, and I feel a strange sense of relief that his body of work is still a vast mansion in which I’ve only glimpsed a few rooms.
A closing prayer:
Thank you, Master, for working through your servant. May he rest peacefully with You. Amen.
Well said.