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And we forgive him for his shortcomings, partly because he's a world-class storyteller. When he's describing the principal of his Swiss school ("a robust tweed-clad, child-hating, wide-hipped French woman married to a small subservient Swiss husband who trotted at her side, the way a worried pilot fish accompanies a shark"), or a or wheezy old communist gurgling snuff at a British boarding school, or Pat Robertson waxing apocalyptic about masturbation in the makeup chair at the 700 Club, Schaeffer shows why he's worth reading, listening to, enjoying. It's not because he had famous Christian parents or knew the Fords. It's because he can make us laugh, make us wince, and make us really think about things, all at the same time.

This doesn't mean he's exorcised himself of all the old nastiness. He still has a way of hitting the nail right on the head, only to turn around and sling the hammer at some innocent bystander. He's grossly unfair to Billy Graham, for instance, and snobbish about the evangelical proletariat. When he describes his former fan-base, he sounds as gracious as a guy complaining about his ex-wife's bra size.

 What will bother evangelical readers most, of course, is how harsh the former Frankie is on his parents—especially his mother. Well, give him a break, if you can. It's not just that Francis and Edith Schaeffer chose to make their family life a part of their public ministry (Edith's memoir The Tapestry was longer than The Brothers Karamazov). It's not just that missionaries and pastors do their children a disservice when they live very different lives in public and private. It's not just that growing up in a missionary family can be like growing up in Windsor castle: feeling inept and superior at the same time, longing to be ordinary but looking down on everyone, even your own parents.

This book, for all its embarrassing human revelations, ultimately honors the Schaeffers, as only a son's story could. In the golden years of L'Abri, Francis Schaeffer sought a Christianity that was honest, authentic, and open-minded. His admirers may be uncomfortable to learn about his failings, but I hope he'd be relieved now to have his son tell us who he really was in private, without the evangelical mandate or his own celebrity clanking behind him like Jacob Marley's chains.

As for Edith, it's Frank's account—not her own—that has finally taught me to admire her. She loved stories. She loved the arts. She loved God. She was a natural actress who read aloud to her children from some of the world's best books. She was hilariously, eccentrically frank about sex. She was tolerant toward nearly everyone and fiercely loyal to those she loved.

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