Buechner, the Sage

Frederick Buechner, Presbyterian minister, writer and theologian, died this week at the age of 96. His novels (try Goodrich and Brendan) are filled with spiritual yet earthy wonderings, his autobiographical trilogy (The Sacred Journey, Now and Then, and Telling Secrets) is heart-breaking yet hopeful. His collections of sermons (The Clown in the Belfry, A Room Called Remember) are rich devotionally, and he writes short reflections on biblical characters (Peculiar Treasures) and theological words (Wishful Thinking, which are my favorite of all (Wishful Thinking, Whistling in the Dark). I have them all in my library, so stop by and I’ll get you going!

When I arrived at Winnetka Covenant Church now 33 years ago to begin as youth pastor, Pastor Bob Dvorak promptly took me to lunch and handed over a few of Frederick’s treasures with the caveat, “Read em, and we’ll talk.” And I did and we did, and my pilgrim journey with Frederick Buechner began.

His premise through all his work is that “At it’s heart most theology, like most fiction, is essentially autobiography…that is to say, I cannot talk about God or sin or grace, for example, without at the same time talking about those parts of my own experience where these ideas become compelling and real.” (The Alphabet of Grace)

And grace abounds. I must share here my favorite lines of all his tomes, which his little reflection on “GRACE” from Wishful Thinking:

“After centuries of handling and mishandling, most religious words have become so shopworn nobody’s much interested anymore. Not so with Grace, for some reason. Mysteriously, even derivatives like gracious and graceful still have some of the bloom left.

Grace is something you can never get but only be given. There’s no way to earn it or deserve it or bring it about anymore than you can deserve the taste of raspberries and cream or earn good looks or bring about your own birth.

A good sleep is grace and so are good dreams. Most tears are grace. The smell of rain is grace. Somebody loving you is grace. Loving somebody is grace. Have you ever tried to love somebody?

A crucial eccentricity of the Christian faith is the assertion that people are saved by grace. There’s nothing you have to do. There’s nothing you have to do. There’s nothing you have to do.

The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you.

There’s only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you’ll reach out and take it. Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too.”

Rest In Peace and rise in glory, Frederick. Thanks be to God!

Peter Hawkinson

Buechner, the Sage

Frederick Buechner, Presbyterian minister, writer and theologian, died this week at the age of 96. His novels (try Goodrich and Brendan) are filled with spiritual yet earthy wonderings, his autobiographical trilogy (The Sacred Journey, Now and Then, and Telling Secrets) is heart-breaking yet hopeful. His collections of sermons (The Clown in the Belfry, A Room Called Remember) are rich devotionally, and he writes short reflections on biblical characters (Peculiar Treasures) and theological words (Wishful Thinking, which are my favorite of all (Wishful Thinking, Whistling in the Dark). I have them all in my library, so stop by and I’ll get you going!

When I arrived at Winnetka Covenant Church now 33 years ago to begin as youth pastor, Pastor Bob Dvorak promptly took me to lunch and handed over a few of Frederick’s treasures with the caveat, “Read em, and we’ll talk.” And I did and we did, and my pilgrim journey with Frederick Buechner began.

His premise through all his work is that “At it’s heart most theology, like most fiction, is essentially autobiography…that is to say, I cannot talk about God or sin or grace, for example, without at the same time talking about those parts of my own experience where these ideas become compelling and real.” (The Alphabet of Grace)

And grace abounds. I must share here my favorite lines of all his tomes, which his little reflection on “GRACE” from Wishful Thinking:

“After centuries of handling and mishandling, most religious words have become so shopworn nobody’s much interested anymore. Not so with Grace, for some reason. Mysteriously, even derivatives like gracious and graceful still have some of the bloom left.

Grace is something you can never get but only be given. There’s no way to earn it or deserve it or bring it about anymore than you can deserve the taste of raspberries and cream or earn good looks or bring about your own birth.

A good sleep is grace and so are good dreams. Most tears are grace. The smell of rain is grace. Somebody loving you is grace. Loving somebody is grace. Have you ever tried to love somebody?

A crucial eccentricity of the Christian faith is the assertion that people are saved by grace. There’s nothing you have to do. There’s nothing you have to do. There’s nothing you have to do.

The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you.

There’s only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you’ll reach out and take it. Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too.”

Rest In Peace and rise in glory, Frederick. Thanks be to God!

Peter Hawkinson

From This Side of COVID

Well.

After two years, four months, and several odd days of fearing it, preparing for it, guarding against it, and wondering if I had it…finally, COVID found me.

And while I can confidently say that I am one of the lucky ones, in that it hasn’t sent me to the hospital, prevented me from caring for my dog, or really and truly debilitated me – I can also just as confidently say that it has been rough.

Getting COVID is a surprisingly emotional experience – at least I found it to be so. There are the ordinary emotions of feeling sick, weak, humbled and unable to carry on normally – the things we feel when we have a bad cold or a stomach flu – but with COVID these are also coupled with a good deal of lingering trauma from the last couple of years. Many people have gotten this and died – will I be one of them? It’s scary to get sick, but even more so without the protection of vaccines and boosters, or the promise of antiviral treatments – what must it have been like to have COVID under those conditions?

I texted with friends of mine the day I got that first positive test result, and we talked about the rollercoaster of COVID feelings. I cried a lot that day, from the overwhelm and uncertainty, the pent up anxieties of trying to avoid this exact scenario for so long, and the fear of what this diagnosis had meant for others and could mean for me.

But by that evening, I was crying for other reasons. (My friends and I have agreed: tears should be added to the list of likely symptoms by the CDC).

It was because I woke up to a phone call telling me that there were bags of groceries in my condo lobby, homemade soup and fresh bread, sports drinks and fruit.

There were friends who got my medicine from the pharmacy, friends who took my dog for a walk or an afternoon, friends who saw my name on the prayer list and emailed or texted: do you need anything? what can I do?

One sent a Door Dash gift card, so I could unapologetically order to my door whatever sounded good or necessary.

One showed up with both popsicles and Panera chicken soup when I said that either sounded amazing.

One asked if I needed trashy magazines (it made me laugh then, which I badly needed, and still makes me chuckle today).

And all of them, in their own way, reminded me: I don’t have to get through this on my own.

There will be help, and prayers, and check-ins, even after the initial days of isolation, while the fatigue lingers on and the cough won’t quit.

I cannot tell you precisely what that meant to me. What that means to me.

The truth is that I’m on day ten now, the last day that the CDC offers much guidance for what to do if you’re sick, the last day that you have much to grab onto in terms of: what do I do? What happens next?

And I still feel crummy. Not awful. But tired and congested and not my normal self.

This next phase, days 11 and onward, feels uncertain. How long until I get back to normal? When do I safely take a mask off with close friends? When am I no longer a risk to people I might visit?

These questions are swirling, and they can threaten to overwhelm me. But I keep coming back to you all, and your love, and care, and how God has shown up for me even in the midst of this.

And it’s enough, more than enough, to keep me going.

With a heart full of thanks,

Pastor Jen