Telling the Truth is a small book divided into four chapters that brings us a refreshing look at (sharing) the Gospel. "So if preachers or lecturers are going to say anything that really matters to anyone including themselves," Buechner knowingly tells us,
they must say it not just to the public part of us that considers interesting thoughts about the Gospel and how to preach it, but to the private, inner part too, to the part of us all where our dreams come from, both our good dreams and our bad dreams, the inner part where thoughts mean less than images, elucidation less than evocation, where our concern is less with how the Gospel is to be preached than with what the Gospel is and what it is to us. They must address themselves to the fullness of who we are and the emptiness too, the emptiness where grace and peace belong but mostly are not, because terrible as well as wonderful things have happened to us all. (4 emphasis mine)This kind of truth telling is precisely what Frederick Buechner does in Telling the Truth. A gifted, contemplative listener to life and literature, Buechner uses everyday life to tell Gospel history in fresh ways, and he uses those stories together with the poetry of the prophets, the magic of familiar fairy tales, and the blood-bought masterpieces of some of Buechner’s favorite writers to tell the truth, which is the Gospel.
Frederick Buechner is a brilliant storyteller, who, like Shakespeare, gets both the peasant and the prince, writing stories that all at once capture them both, stories that are magical and earthy. In Telling the Truth, Buechner tells the story of Jesus before Pilate, but as if it were happening in 1977. And it’s real. What I mean is, it isn’t cheesy. As I’m reading it I believe it could have happened in 1977, like I’m watching it happen on some old rerun: Pilate in a suit and tie, taking a drag from his cigaret, walking around his mahogany desk through a puff of smoke to ask Jesus, "What is truth?"
And this is part of telling the truth: making new metaphors and painting contemporary word pictures so that people who have ears to hear… But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Before we can speak the Truth we have to hear it. One way we do this, Buechner tells us, is by listening to our lives. All of it: the tragedy, the comedy, and the fairy tale. Your marital affair, your friend who betrayed you, the iPhone you own but can’t afford… the self-righteousness you feel about someone else’s affair, materialism, misfortune: that is the tragedy. And the comedy is that part which is both your wedding day and the day you fall in the toilet because he left the seat up, both “a kind of terrible funniness and of a happy end to all that is terrible” (6).
Finally, we must listen to our lives within the overarching framework of fairy tale. Because the tragic and the comic isn’t all that’s there. The fairy tale is the spell lifted and the Beast becoming on the outside the handsome prince he had become on the inside. It is the beautiful stepsisters whose feet turned out to be too fat and ugly like the sisters were in their hearts. It is those moments in our lives when we give to the least of these in spite of ourselves because we climbed up the tree a cold opportunist and climbed down a caring, and cared for, philanthropist.
This listening to life… in the silence before we finally but restlessly fall asleep or start our car or pour our coffee; listening to the rustling of our tossing and turning, the cranking of the engine, the brewing of our espresso… This listening to our own lives and the lives of others—the darkness and joyousness and impossible possibility of transformation into newness that we all share—listening to all of it enables us to tell the truth, the truth that sets us free.