Morning Thanks--Eugene Peterson

It was, I think, one of the scariest moments of my life, in great part, I suppose, because what created that moment was an honor I didn't think I'd deserved. These were real writers, men and women whose work sold thousands, even millions--Luci Shaw, the dean of thoughtful Christian poetry; Walter Wangerin, a National Book Award winner; Philip Yancey, a household name among Christians; Keith Miller, A Taste of New Wine; Richard Foster, Celebration of Discipline; and, good night! Madeline L'Engle. Twenty distinguished Christian writers had asked me to join them and, as an intro, read a story. It was one of the scariest moments of my life.

It didn't need to be. This confab--the Chrysostom Society--was an odd thing, something of a love fest. They got together to talk about writing, but they also loved each other. That too was a little scary. Keith Miller, Texan, a Southern Baptist, kept hugging me because, he said, those dang Calvinists are cold fish. About me, he wasn't wrong.

One was working on the Bible, rewriting it. I knew him by reputation, but, back then, I hadn't read a thing he'd ever written. This man--tall, gaunt, slightly stooped, wearing a fleece vest over a plaid shirt, and silvery comb-over atop an naked scalp, seemed especially reserved, thoughtful, even, in a very good sense, preacherly. Eugene Peterson seemed to me to be the softest touch of the bunch. 

My wife and I have been reading the book of Isaiah for a while now, for about as long as any human being can. Eugene seemed to me to have none of that, not a bit. He was quiet, his wife, Janice, more social, nimble in conversation. Sometimes I thought he entered the fray only at her prodding. He was no more aggressive than he was judgmental. I told my wife had the bearing of as a saint.

I don't need to sell anyone on that perception. For the substance of his thoughtful work, his commentaries and expositions of scripture, he was greatly loved. 

But I haven't read much of that. I page through commentaries only when I need to, so this little eulogy for Eugene Peterson may well be unique because I knew him far better than I know his work. We've been friends for 25 years.

Maybe a decade ago now, he told a story--the two of them did. Out of nowhere, they got a call from someone doing the legwork for a rock star who'd read The Message, found it wonderful, and wanted to meet Eugene. The man's name, they said, they didn't recognize right away.

It was Bono. 

The two of them told that story the next year at Chrysostom. They were flown out, had dinner, rode in a limo, went backstage, then sat up front for a concert unlike any they'd ever experienced. The Petersons laughed and laughed and laughed, mostly at themselves. As did we. That too was the Eugene Peterson I knew.

Once, we were talking about the place of self in what we wrote--the perils and temptations--just chatting about how we looked to those of love us most, our families, how difficult it must be for them to read us because they know us too well. 

But it's impossible not to write without self, we said--isn't that true?  So I asked Eugene how much of Eugene is in The Message. "Every word," he told us, nodding. 

So I have this to say to those many thousands who know Eugene through his work. If you believe you've heard his voice in what he's written, then be assured that you would not have been at all surprised by the Eugene Peterson who lived outside his book covers. His warm and loving presence always was and yet remains an abiding blessing to us all.

It's now been a couple weeks since his death. Much has already been written and remembered. But this morning, I'm giving thanks to God for the gifts Eugene Peterson so abundantly gave to all of us.