What Justin Bieber is to a bevy of giddy schoolgirls, John Piper is to star-struck seminoids. My first meeting with Piper was a brutal guerrilla ambush. He was taking a tour of the seminary library where I worked, unaware that he was being stalked like paparazzi prey. As he entered the elevator I stealthily shot up the emergency staircase and was waiting for him when the doors opened. His experienced entourage was no match for my shamelessness. Before they could wriggle him out of my request, I had him. So Piper, in the hallway, with one sprained finger in a splint (I kid you not), leaning on the back of his bent-over assistant, patiently autographed the proffered copy of Desiring God before retreating. I felt dirty. I had treated a man I deeply respect like a rubber stamp. And I vowed that my next meeting would be infused with a modicum of dignity. [A goal I almost accomplished. See next week’s post “The Day John Piper Touched My Chin.”]
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