In Memoriam: Wendell Berry
1934–2026
It was late fall or early winter of 2000, as I recall. Wendy and I, along with a few friends, made our way to a bookstore in downtown St. Paul to hear a man read from his newest book. It was not the first time I had heard of this man, Wendell Berry of Kentucky. But that evening made me a student of this Kentucky farmer, novelist, poet, conservationist, and profoundly deep and witty writer.
The book from which he read that night was Jayber Crow: A Novel: The Life Story of Jayber Crow, Barber, of the Port William Membership, as Written by Himself. I left that bookstore with a copy that is now worn, battered, and deeply loved. I now have thirty-five of his books in a place of prominence on my bookshelf. I have read them all, many of them more than once. I am pretty sure a friend or two has others that once sat on my shelf but never found their way home. On a wall in our house, I have a letter from him, written in Advent 2017, and nearby, a picture of him sitting at his writing desk—just a few feet from my own.
Wendell died on August 31, 2026, at his home in Port Royal, Kentucky. He was ninety-two. I grieve his death. I feel it as a personal loss. My tears fell, and my voice choked when I heard the news because, for more than twenty-six years, he had become an honored teacher, a spiritual influence, and a wise voice in my life. I want to tell you why.
My remembrance begins, perhaps surprisingly, with the implements he used to write more than fifty books—including his final book, published only a year ago when he was ninety-one. He wrote all of them with pen or pencil because he believed that one can type faster than one can think well.
One of the first pieces of his writing I encountered—possibly forty years ago—was his explanation to a skeptical world of why he would never use a computer. “Why I Am Not Going to Buy a Computer” first appeared in the Autumn 1987 issue of New England Review and Bread Loaf Quarterly. Harper’s reprinted it in September 1988 under the heading “Against PCs.” He never did buy one. He continued to write with a pencil to the end. Many ridiculed, criticized, and mocked him for it. His response in the essay ended with this thought:
“My final and perhaps my best reason for not owning a computer is that I do not wish to fool myself. I disbelieve, and therefore strongly resent, the assertion that I or anybody else could write better or more easily with a computer than with a pencil. I do not see why I should not be as scientific about this as the next fellow: when somebody has used a computer to write work that is demonstrably better than Dante’s, and when this better is demonstrably attributable to the use of a computer, then I will speak of computers with a more respectful tone of voice, though I still will not buy one.”1
This storyteller made me laugh, cry, grieve, celebrate, and ponder more than any other writer in my seventy-seven years of life. He taught me how to pay attention, belong, remain faithful, grow old, and face death.
Over the past few days, I have reviewed the many ways his words found their way into my own. A student at The Seattle School of Theology & Psychology once said to me, “I don’t think you have ever given a speech without introducing us to something else you have learned from Wendell Berry.” The student was probably right.
At my farewell homily to the school, I was given my own copy of Wendell’s Jayber Crow. A theology professor had absconded with it from my office one day while I was away—had “stolen” my own book—and sent it to Wendell to sign for me. He wrote: “Oct., 2017, Dear Keith Anderson, as you continue your adventure, I know you have the good wishes of your friends at The Seattle School. To theirs, I now add mine. I hope to see you here. Sincerely, Wendell Berry.”
Along with my book came a hand-drawn map to help Wendy and me find our way to his farm in Port Royal, Kentucky, and an invitation to visit. COVID intervened before we could make that sacred pilgrimage. But we wrote, and my journey with him continued until the time of his passing. I did meet him and greet him with my heart’s gratitude when he came to Seattle and spent an evening at Benaroya Hall reading his words, but mostly answering questions from perhaps one thousand people—many of them young farmers seeking to live faithfully according to his vision of careful stewardship of the earth.
In this remembrance, I want to do what I tried to do for our students at The Seattle School: introduce you to what I learned from Wendell, in the hope that you will buy first one, and eventually many, of his books.
What did I learn from him that I most want others to hear?
Keith’s remembrance continues in the PDF below, where he shares eight lessons from Wendell Berry and his final reflections on a life and voice that shaped him deeply.
In Memoriam: Wendell Berry in full.
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Keith Anderson, D.Min., is a Faculty Associate for Spirituality and Vocation at VantagePoint3 and President Emeritus of Seattle School of Theology and Psychology. He is the author of several books, including his most recent: On Holy Ground: Your Story of Identity, Belonging and Sacred Purpose (Wipf & Stock, 2024). His other works include Reading Your Life’s Story (IVP, 2016), A Spirituality of Listening (IVP, 2016), and Spiritual Mentoring (IVP, 1999). In his writing, teaching, and mentoring, Keith seeks to set a table for people looking to enter the “amazing inner sanctuary of the soul” in the most ordinary and extraordinary moments of life.
1 Wendell Berry, “Why I am Not Going to Buy a Computer,” Harper’s Magazine, 1987.