Press, New York Times (November 24, 1961).
3 John White, The Cost of Commitment (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 2006), 72–74, 79–80.
4 John White, The Pathway of Holiness: A Guide for Sinners (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1996), 38–39.
2: Decision
For many years now, I have sought for some reasonable explanation as to why I made the most ruinous and destructive decision of my life. That I was very afraid, I already know. Why I was afraid and why I chose that catastrophic course of action to deal with my fear is what completely bewilders me now. Perhaps part of it was because I made that decision when I was only seven years old, and I was afraid, and very alone.
I had what I see now as an unusually good childhood—my early one at least. We were all loved and well cared for, and I have fond memories of times with my siblings and both my parents. I know I was treated no differently than any of the other children. The same love and discipline were given to each of us. I was a bit more independent than the other kids, but there is nothing I can think of that could possibly account for such a drastic decision. Life was pretty happy for all of us. Other than when he was preaching, I’ve only heard my father raise his voice once. We were being quite loud downstairs, and he was trying to study for a very difficult exam which would admit him to practice psychiatry in Canada. It shocked us, and we looked at each other—frightened and a bit bewildered. The exam has long since been banned as being far too difficult. He passed it. His professor failed. As I said, my father was a remarkable man.
I do not remember my mother ever raising her voice to any of us once. How she managed that is to me now simply incomprehensible, especially considering I was one of those children. I never saw or heard my parents fight or argue—ever. We were always taught right from wrong, and more importantly, we were taught why things were right and why they were wrong. We were taught to understand. If I did something wrong, my father, who carried out the discipline for “serious” offences, would first ask if I knew why I was in trouble. If I was unsure (which wasn’t very often), he would explain. Then he would ask if I knew why it was wrong. Again, if I was unsure, he would explain. Finally, he would ask if I understood why he was going to spank me or take away a privilege, and I know with me at least, the discipline dispensed, he would take me into his arms and tell me I was loved and that the matter was finished. No one was ever allowed to tease anyone about what had been said or done. Discipline was, of course, carried out in private.
I write these things because I truly don’t understand why I became so fearful—what it was that drove me to such a terrible decision that morning. Perhaps it was because we had moved to a new house and a new neighbourhood and it was my first day at a new school. We had just moved from South America to Winnipeg, Manitoba, two years earlier, and then, when we moved again, it seemed something happened to me. I became afraid. Or maybe it was being run over by that car on my sixth birthday. I don’t know. All I do know is that on the very first day of grade three at my new school a terrible fear took root inside me and immediately began to destroy any hope I had of a normal life. That day saw a horrible nightmare begin—a misery from which I could not wake for over 45 years.
I had arrived early that morning, and as I sat by myself on those cold school steps dreading the arrival of the other students, I felt very alone and afraid. For some strange reason I believed deep down inside that if I didn’t master that fear in every area of my life I would crumble and be utterly destroyed beneath it. That thought frightened me more than the fear itself did.
For some reason, by some strange convolution of logic, I decided that I must become really fierce to overcome this fear. And in order to become fierce, I felt that I must become … bad. They seemed to be two sides of the same coin. Inseparable. So that day I made the decision to become bad—really bad—and fierce—fierce with all the fury that this “being bad” would require of me. Unknowingly, I had made that decision an unspoken vow, and as I felt it sink to the very core of me, somehow I felt safe—protected with a shield of badness and armed with a sword of fury.
Now all of this was fine and good, but I immediately discovered I had some serious hurdles to overcome. You see, I was only seven, and at that age I did not know how to be bad, or fierce, for that matter. I had known nothing but goodness and love all of my life. I thought carefully about my predicament for some time as I sat alone on the steps that morning. After quite a bit of serious puzzling, I was suddenly struck with what I thought was a wonderfully good idea about how I could become terribly bad. I needed a mentor—someone to show me the ropes, so to speak. I decided to accomplish this task by carefully observing all the other kids, picking the one who always seemed to be in trouble, becoming his friend, and then watching and learning all there was to know about being bad.
So I did exactly that, and by the end of that day I had found my new teacher. My progress right from the start was outstanding—amazing, really. I found that I had a truly exceptional genius for this particular field of endeavour, and so I quickly surpassed my mentor.
He had given me all the basics (lying, stealing, talking back, how not to get caught, mess making, and sticking to my story). By the end of the following year I had taken things to a whole new level. I had added to my craft stealing smokes, school skipping, and its companion, note forging (a true art, for which I was paid). At the end of my third year I was the “Holy Terror” of the entire school, and it was thoroughly exasperated with me, never mind how my parents were feeling. They were hurt, confused, and exhausted. By the time I hit grade five, the school was going to kick me out for the second time. The only reason they didn’t was because it was just a couple of weeks till the end of the school year.
But to my dismay and confusion, the fear—it hadn’t really gone away. It continued to fester deep inside me. No matter what I did, I was still afraid, and I didn’t know why, and I felt like a coward for it. Yet there I was, at no more than eight years old, hopping on and off freight trains—sometimes hanging on to the side ladders and digging my boot heels into the gravel, skiing alongside the train and timing my hops to skip over the railway ties. By age 11 or 12 I was skipping school, riding long-distance railcars, howling into the wind, and jumping off high train trestles into the river—smoking, drinking, staying out way past curfew—and then, if my folks would try to ground me, I’d just slip out a window and be gone the minute I wasn’t being watched.
Yet I can see now that God’s hand of mercy, protection, and care seemed always to be on me. I clearly remember sliding down a long banister at school (which was strictly forbidden) and, at the bottom, flying through the air a good six or seven feet and smashing through a 12 by 8 foot sheet of plate glass for a nature exhibit. I also remember very distinctly feeling as though underneath me was a great cushioned hand, and it seemed as if I was almost floating through the air—to the point where when I glanced around I half expected to see the Pillsbury Doughboy’s fingers wrapped around my waist. This was all done with a detached observation or, at most, a mild surprise.
When I crashed through the glass I felt it as it closed in all around me. I had no fear of harm at all. Even while getting up amidst the great thick shards of plate glass and putting my hands into tiny splinters, I remember looking at the glass all around me, and all I felt was like “Well, that was odd.” Nothing. Not even one scratch. I never even thought twice about it.
Had you mentioned God might have been protecting me I’d have probably looked very gravely at you, shrugged my shoulders, nodded my head, and said something like “I know …” then turned around and in no more than five steps have some new mischief bubbling away in that endlessly diabolical imagination of mine. In my young mind, the whole not getting hurt by the glass thing was normal. I never got hurt, so all was simply as it should have been—as it always was. Everything had gone as naturally as things like
