John Stott, RIP

Although small in public stature, by personal design, John Stott was a giant Christian man and spiritual light.

The imprint left by the life and work of Stott was so clear and definite, that no less than Billy Graham and David Brooks of the New York Times have both paid respect to him.

My life has been challanged, my mind enriched, and my soul fed for having read and learned from Stott over the years.

With his passing many fine summaries of Stott's life have recently appeared.

I can't think of a better way to note Stott's arrival in glory than sharing one of his quotes that typically distills an ocean of truth into a few drops of words.

Every time we look at the cross Christ seems to say to us, “I am here because of you. It is your sin I am bearing, your curse I am suffering, your debt I am paying, your death I am dying.” Nothing in history or in the universe cuts us down to size like the cross. All of us have inflated views of ourselves, especially in self-righteousness, until we have visited a place called Calvary. It is here, at the foot of the cross that we shrink to our true size.

The Gift

by Li-Young Lee

To pull the metal splinter from my palm 
my father recited a story in a low voice. 
I watched his lovely face and not the blade. 
Before the story ended, he'd removed 
the iron sliver I thought I'd die from. 

I can't remember the tale, 
but hear his voice still, a well 
of dark water, a prayer. 
And I recall his hands, 
two measures of tenderness 
he laid against my face, 
the flames of discipline 
he raised above my head. 

Had you entered that afternoon 
you would have thought you saw a man 
planting something in a boy's palm, 
a silver tear, a tiny flame. 
Had you followed that boy 
you would have arrived here, 
where I bend over my wife's right hand. 

Look how I shave her thumbnail down 
so carefully she feels no pain. 
Watch as I lift the splinter out. 
I was seven when my father 
took my hand like this, 
and I did not hold that shard 
between my fingers and think, 
Metal that will bury me, 
christen it Little Assassin, 
Ore Going Deep for My Heart. 
And I did not lift up my wound and cry, 
Death visited here! 
I did what a child does 
when he's given something to keep. 
I kissed my father.