My Last Visit with John Stott

June 17, 2011

"There was a man sent from God whose name was John"

John the Baptist, to whom the above reference refers, was beheaded by a king in a palace at a relatively young age. John Stott, who from my first meeting in January of 1957 spent his final days on earth in a small bed-sitter in a rest home for retired clergy about 30 miles south of London. He was weak, frail, nearly blind, and bedridden. He had turned 90 this spring, and was expecting to go home to the Lord very soon.

But in his heyday, and for more than a half century, John Stott had an impact on his world akin to that of John the Baptist. Both were sent from God. Both pointed to Jesus. Both attempted to live very simply. Both had few possessions. Both were filled with the Holy Spirit. Both had a group of disciples who drank deeply from their wisdom. Both operated on the fringes of power - political as well as ecclesiastical. Both were men who knew the Scriptures and the power of God.

There the similarities end. The Baptist was a rough-hewn, plain-speaking, abrasive country preacher. John Stott was a highly educated, urbane, son of a titled English doctor, who spoke and wrote in impeccable Oxford English. Moreover John Stott was a diplomat, statesman, apologist, and scholar. Could there be two Johns more different?

Now that we have news that John Stott has left us for greener pastures in heaven, an event that happened on July 27th, I want to share a few reflections with you on my visit to St Barnabas' in Surrey just over a month ago, and a few thoughts about the 40 minutes I had with my mentor, model, and dear friend.

Remarkably he was well enough to see me, as other visitors had been discouraged from coming. His health had been precarious all spring. But a window opened up, and John told his lifetime secretary Frances Whitehead that he would definitely see me.

I fed him coffee through a straw, and sipped from a cup myself. We talked of old times such as the time we had a water pistol fight on Christmas morning at the Rectory in London, and the breakfast we shared a few years back on a terrace overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway in Florida.

We talked about the Anglican Communion and the struggle for Truth that is straining the "bonds of affection" within it. I read him Psalm 34, one of his favorites. I took his hand and prayed, giving thanks for his life, and commending him to our Father. Before I left I said that we would soon see each other in heaven. He agreed. A Philippine assistant came in to feed him his lunch, and I quietly left. I then went outside and wept.

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