Brooks's main point seems to be that people who want to understand evangelicals should become acquainted with the best of them, not the worst, and I won't argue with that. Especially when Brooks says things like the following:
There's been a lot of twaddle written recently about the supposed opposition between faith and reason. To read Stott is to see someone practicing "thoughtful allegiance" to scripture. For him, Christianity means probing the mysteries of Christ. He is always exploring paradoxes. Jesus teaches humility, so why does he talk about himself so much? What does it mean to gain power through weakness, or freedom through obedience? In many cases the truth is not found in the middle of apparent opposites, but on both extremes simultaneously.
Stott is so embracing it's always a bit of a shock - especially if you're a Jew like me - when you come across something on which he will not compromise. It's like being in "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood," except he has a backbone of steel. He does not accept homosexuality as a legitimate lifestyle, and of course he believes in evangelizing among nonbelievers. He is pro-life and pro-death penalty, even though he is not a political conservative on most issues.
Most important, he does not believe truth is plural. He does not believe in relativizing good and evil or that all faiths are independently valid, or that truth is something humans are working toward. Instead, Truth has been revealed.
That's as accurate and as positive an assessment as you are likely to get of any evangelical leader in the New York Times, even though plenty of its readers will not agree that "truth is revealed." I still wonder, How did Brooks encounter the writings of John Stott? Is there a religious mole at the Times?
I am reminded of the one time I met John Stott. It was at Fuller Seminary, the fall of 1975, when Stott came to speak and lecture. The chapel service -- then held at Pasadena Presbyterian Church -- was full almost to standing room in anticipation, so, with a buddy of mine, I went to the side door, still hoping to snag a good seat. And there, himself waiting to enter, was John Stott. "Hello," he said. "My name is John Stott." Not, "I'm John Stott" -- which would imply "and you're not." But "My name is John Stott," as if we really might not know who he was. "Are you students from Fuller?" I don't remember the rest of the conversation -- I was struck dumb, no doubt -- but I will always remember his humility and (yes) his sanctity.
