Frederick Buechner is a highly influential writer and theologian who has won awards for his poetry, short stories, novels and theological writings. His work pioneered the genre of spiritual memoir, laying the groundwork for writers such as Anne Lamott, Rob Bell and Lauren Winner.His first book, A Long Day's Dying, was published to acclaim just two years after he graduated from Princeton.
Let this list of 11 quotations by the American clergyman Frederick Buechner lead you to an inspirational day. Recharge yourself with motivational life, pain, live sayings, and satisfy your hunger for a better life.
What are the best Frederick Buechner quotes?
We've made this hand-picked collection of quotes to show you what is Frederick Buechner truly willing to say and leave for generations. Whether an inspirational quote or a motivational message about giving your best, we can all benefit from the wisdom, captured within these words.
Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid.
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.
Doubts are the ants in the pants of faith. They keep it awake and moving.
Everybody prays whether you think of it as praying or not.
The odd silence you fall into when something very beautiful is happening or something very good or very bad. The ah-h-h-h! that sometimes floats up out of you as out of a Fourth of July crowd when the sky-rocket bursts over the water. The stammer of pain at somebody else's pain. The stammer of joy at somebody else's joy. Whatever words or sounds you use for sighing with over your own life. These are all prayers in their way. These are all spoken not just to yourself but to something even more familiar than yourself and even more strange than the world.
Religion points to that area of human experience where in one way or another man comes upon mystery as a summons to pilgrimage.
God doesn't reveal his grand design. He reveals Himself.
I've written a lot of autobiography, which also involved listening.
The first ministers were the twelve disciples.
There is no evidence that Jesus chose them because they are brighter or nicer than other people. Their sole qualification seems to have been their initial willingness to rise to their feet when Jesus said, "Follow me."
I was deeply influenced by an Episcopal laywoman named Agnes Sanford, who in her day was quite famous as a faith healer, which is a term I've always distrusted, because it conjures up charlatanry. She was not a charlatan. She was the real thing, and she had had remarkable healings.
I'm a hopeless prayer. I think somewhere in there I spend a great deal of time at it.
I don't think Christ would give a hoot whether you mentioned Christ to them or not. What matters - I'm speaking arrogantly and absurdly - to him is, are you living the kind of life that I embodied? Whether you believe in Christ or don't, who cares?
To forgive somebody is to say one way or another, "You have done something unspeakable, and by all rights I should call it quits between us. Both my pride and my principles demand no less. However, although I make no guarantees that I will be able to forget what you've done, and though we may both carry the scars for life, I refuse to let it stand between us. I still want you for my friend.
You hear as many things as you would imagine.
I hear voices of people I loved once. I hear moments that took place. I hear silences.
I pray for people I love when they are sick. I pray that way.
Lord, I believe; help my unbelief' is the best any of us can do really, but thank God it is enough.
And now brothers, I will ask you a terrible question, and God knows I ask it also of myself. Is the truth beyond all truths, beyond the stars, just this: that to live without him is the real death, that to die with him the only life?
Life is grace. Sleep is forgiveness. The night absolves. Darkness wipes the slate clean, not spotless to be sure, but clean enough for another day's chalking.
You can never be sure whether you are discovering the truth or inventing it.
Faith is homesickness. Faith is a lump in the throat. Faith is less a position on than a movement toward, less a sure thing than a hunch. Faith is waiting.
To be wise is to be eternally curious.
There is no event so common place but that God is present within it, always hidden, always leaving you room to recognize Him or not to recognize Him.
There is a fragrance in the air, a certain passage of a song, an old photograph falling out from the pages of a book, the sound of somebody's voice in the hall that makes your heart leap and fills your eyes with tears. Who can say when or how it will be that something easters up out of the dimness to remind us of a time before we were born and after we will die?
The preaching is part of the reason I don't go to church.
Plus, I don't know, it was never part of my tradition.
You do not need to understand healing to be healed or know anything about blessing to be blessed.
To be bored to death is a form of suicide.
Theology, like fiction, is largely autobiographical.
Our father. We have killed him, and we will kill him again, and our world will kill him. And yet he is there. It is he who listens at the door. It is he who is coming. It is our father who is about to be born. Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Like Buddha under the Bo tree, Jesus, on his tree, has his eyes closed too.
The difference is this. The pain and sadness of the world that Buddha's eyes close out is the pain and sadness of the world that the eyes of Jesus close in.
In New England, especially, [faith] is like sex.
It's very personal. You don't bring it out and talk about it.
The sacred moments, the moments of miracle, are often the everyday moments.
Faith is the assurance that the best and holiest dream is true after all.
The world speaks of holy things in the only language it knows, which is worldly language.
The past is the place we view the present from as much as the other way around.
It was the upward-reaching and fathomlessly hungering, heart-breaking love for the beauty of the world at its most beautiful, and, beyond that, for that beauty east of the sun and west of the moon which is past the reach of all but our most desperate desiring and is finally the beauty of Beauty itself, of Being itself and what lies at the heart of Being.
When friends speak overmuch of times gone by, often it's because they sense their present time is turning them from friends to strangers. Long before the moment came to say goodbye, I think, we said goodbye in other words and ways and silences. Then when the moment came for it at last, we didn't say it as should be said by friends. So now at last, dear Mouse, with many, many years between: goodbye.
I believe with the best of who I am in God, but I sometimes think if anybody would watch me and [they] didn't believe a damn thing, they would have a very hard time deciding which of us is which.
Pay mind to your own life, your own health, and wholeness.
A bleeding heart is of no help to anyone if it bleeds to death.
Gail Godwin has written a book about the heaviest matters of loss, grief, and loneliness with a touch so light that I was as often deeply amused by it as I was deeply moved.
Thus, when you wake up in the morning, called by God to be a self again, if you want to know who you are, watch your feet. Because where your feet take you, that is who you are.
Compassion is sometimes the fatal capacity for feeling what it is like to live inside somebody else's skin. It is the knowledge that there can never really be any peace and joy for me until there is peace and joy finally for you too.
For outlandish creatures like us, on our way to a heart, a brain, and courage, Bethlehem is not the end of our journey but only the beginning - not home but the place through which we must pass if ever we are to reach home at last.
And there are other dangers potentially more dangerous than even nuclear war.
There is AIDS. There is terrorism. There are drugs and more to the point the darkness of our time that makes people seek escape in drugs. There is the slow poisoning of what we call "the environment" of all things as if with that absurdly antiseptic phrase we can conceal from ourselves that what we are really poisoning is home, is here, is us.
Here and there even in our world, and now and then, even in ourselves, we catch glimpeses of a New Creation, which, fleeting as those glipmses are apt to be, give us hope both for this life and for whatever life may await us later on.