Eric smiled. During their childhood, whenever Eric had been asked if he wanted to do something—he’d always said, “Ask Rob.” Now Rob had said, “Ask Eric.”
“When and where?” Eric asked.
“Friday night. In Armadale.”
Eric nodded, his eyes searching the pattern of the floor’s rug as his heart called out to his heavenly Father for direction. Within a moment, the answer came, and Eric looked from the floor to the man sitting only a few feet away, anxiousness etched into his face.
“All right,” Eric said. “I’ll come.”
* * *
ONE DAY, when speaking of this meeting with D. P. Thomson, Eric would say,
I was brought up in a Christian home where the stories of the Bible were often told and became familiar to me. In school, the stories of the Bible and the teachings of Christ were placed before me. The beauty of the Christian life began to appeal to me. The time came when the appeal of Christ became more personal and I began to realize that it was going to affect my life. In this experience of Christ there was a sense of sin but that was not nearly so great as the sense of being called to do a piece of work for which I was absolutely unqualified. My whole life had been one of keeping out of public duties but the leading of Christ seemed now to be in the opposite direction, and I shrank from going forward. At this time I finally decided to put it all on Christ—after all if He called me to do it, then He would have to supply the necessary power.[5]
D. P. decided that Rob should come and speak in Armadale as well. While Thomson was delighted and Rob willing, Eric felt the familiar inner butterflies that always showed up before a race. The morning after Eric’s visit from Thomson, a letter arrived addressed to Eric from his sister Jenny. Her correspondence ended with a passage from Scripture, Isaiah 41:10: “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”
Eric, feeling ill-prepared for his new quest, was greatly comforted by this peculiarly timed oracle.
On Friday evening, April 6, 1923, Rob and Eric prepared to speak to the crowd of about eighty men. Rob spoke first and performed adequately but not as dynamically as Thomson had hoped.
Then Eric stepped up. Quiet and unassuming, he shared a few Bible passages and his faith in Jesus Christ and encouraged the young men with coal-dusted faces to trust Christ as well. To no one’s surprise—save perhaps Eric’s—his first speech was a smashing success.
The local newspapers picked up the story that the famous Scottish athlete Eric Liddell was speaking about his faith. The news rippled throughout the United Kingdom. After that, anytime it was announced that Eric would be speaking, large crowds responded. One week after the minor attendance in Armadale, Eric and D. P. spoke to a crowd of more than six hundred in Rutherglen. Everyone wanted to see the Flying Scotsman up close. Whether they just wanted to brush up against a rising celebrity or had a deep desire to hear his words, their motivations didn’t matter at the outset. The most important thing was that people showed up.
Thomson was eager to train Eric in how best to articulate his faith. Dwight L. Moody, an American evangelist who encouraged a straightforward, winsome style of Bible teaching, had influenced D. P. Thomson greatly in his approach to ministry. Thomson found Moody’s writings inspiring and enjoyed observing the results from implementing his methods. The unassuming tactics of decision theology—teaching people to decide to accept Jesus and to follow him—seemed to Eric easy enough to understand and communicate. Eric had little evangelism experience and only basic theological training, but he was sincere and committed to Christ.
Thomson, whose inspiring mentors also included Henry Sloane Coffin, possessed a slightly different, more pragmatic definition of living faith than Eric had grown up with. “Brought up in a Christian home,” Thomson wrote in his journal describing his early observation of Eric, “inspired by the highest ideals from childhood, guided in all he did by Christian principles, Eric Liddell had, I believe, long before that day, a faith in Jesus Christ at once simple and strong. To his own great impoverishment, however, as well as to that of others, he had been until then a secret disciple. Of his influence for good there could be no question—it was acknowledged on every hand—but he had never disclosed its secret, and had never openly confessed his Lord.”[6]
Eric might not have agreed with D. P. about the secrecy of his faith, having publicly professed it earlier in school and at chapel and church services. Eric’s Congregationalist values were open to alternative philosophies. Congregationalists generally had no issue with exploring doctrinal nuances, the role of baptism, or the interplay between law and gospel from the broad spectrum of Christianity. But when Eric spoke before the growing crowds, he simply told his personal story, explained the strength behind his faith, and encouraged those listening to believe.
Eric’s raw but genuine delivery would soon be honed under the watchful tutorial of Thomson.
Eric’s rising popularity led to more opportunities and to larger and larger crowds at events now known as “Muscular Christianity Campaigns.” Students and local athletes were invited to a “campaign,” where they had fun participating in or watching staged matches or competitions. Eric took part in these, much to his delight . . . and the crowd’s. Above all, those in attendance came to understand that Christianity bore no resemblance to weakness or boredom. Rather, being a Christian was exciting.
One afternoon the postman delivered a large stack of mail to Eric—something he had become uneasily accustomed to. But this particular stack held an envelope with an interesting bit of correspondence. A young girl, Miss Elsa McKechnie, informed Eric that she had formed the official “Eric Liddell Fan Club” and was eager to hear back from him. Eric always tried to correspond with everyone who took the time to write him. He took special consideration for the youth, artistically weaving his playfulness with his passion for God. Elsa was no exception, since it was “official” business after all.
Through it all, Eric did his best to remain humble as he polished his oratory skills with each new speaking opportunity. He engaged people with the prospect of faith in Christ and how that might factor into their lives and futures.
During the fall of 1923, Eric had to make preparations for the VIII Olympiad, which was swiftly approaching. Despite his valued contributions to Scotland’s international rugby team, he decided to sacrifice his rugby play and focus exclusively on his running regimen. Knowing that he was the strong favorite to win the Olympic gold medal in the 100 meters, he decided that training for the sport and the race deserved his complete focus. With so much on the line, he didn’t want to risk potential injury, especially with the hopeful eyes of the nation on him.
During this time, everything in Eric’s life ran smoothly and efficiently. He enjoyed all the things prized by the superficial—athletic superiority, fame and adoring fans, youthfulness and health, respect and admiration from his peers, and a bright future. Yet as a man of faith, contentment reached its height with a sense of purpose and security in the belief that he was accomplishing what God had assigned him.
And then—just as everything seemed to be going well for the young Scottish athlete—news turned Eric’s world on its head.
The opening heats for the 100 meters in the Olympics fell on a Sunday.
By this time, Eric had literally told tens of thousands of people about the role of Christ in his life and the importance of observing the Sabbath. How could he possibly compete on the Lord’s Day, going against his own word—not to mention the Word of God—and throw sand in the eyes of everyone who had listened to him in the process? The very fabric of his integrity was at stake.
And he knew it.
What he didn’t know, however, was that a single decision would send an otherwise humble man to the heights of fame, not only in his lifetime but for nearly a century afterward.
[5] David McCasland, Eric Liddell: Pure Gold: A New Biogr
aphy of the Olympic Champion Who Inspired Chariots of Fire (Grand Rapids, MI: Discovery House, 2001), 71.
[6] D. P. Thomson, Scotland’s Greatest Athlete: The Eric Liddell Story (Barnoak, Crieff, Perthshire, Scotland: Research Unit, 1970), 44.
CHAPTER 5
OLYMPIC MIND GAMES
Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Exodus 20:8
Late Autumn/Early Winter 1923
Eric stood at the sitting room window, staring out. The land he loved lay beyond the street of the town house he called home. He had not been born into this land; rather, it was the land of his forefathers, the one that had adopted him early in his life and that embraced him as a mother nurtures a child.
She had been good to him, providing him friends and an education, places to strengthen his faith and tracks to fortify his abilities in races and games. She had trained him, nourished him, adored him.
And now . . . was it any wonder she had turned on him?
“Your decision not to run on the Sabbath has farther-reaching consequences than national pride, Eric,” D. P. said from a chair behind him in the sitting room, the same chair where, only months earlier, he had come to Eric asking him to join him in Armadale.
Eric crossed his arms and felt every muscle in his back tense. “How’s that?”
“The people are nearly out for blood—you were their shining hope in the aftermath of the war.”
Eric flinched. “I didn’t ask to be. I never—”
“No,” D. P. agreed. “No, you didn’t. But I daresay more than you imagine is at stake.”
Eric turned and kicked at the fraying carpet with the toe of his shoe. “I know.” He didn’t look at his friend. He didn’t have to. He knew instinctively the overwhelming concern that had worked its way across D. P.’s face.
“The more tarnished your image becomes, my boy, the more negative the impact it could have on the campaigns.”
Eric sighed deeply as he walked to the same chair he had sat in the previous spring. “What do you suggest then?”
Thomson chuckled as he shook his head. “I would never dream of trying to persuade you, Eric—though I’ve surely been propositioned to do so.” He stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I wouldn’t even be so presumptuous as to believe I could persuade you to change your mind. I only want you to understand the situation for those who have put their faith in you—”
“But I have put my faith in God,” Eric said, the resolution rising in his voice.
“Some are saying this is a type of publicity stunt.”
Eric’s hand twitched. “You know me better than that.”
D. P. chuckled again. “Ah, yes. Yes, I do, Eric. Your decision is based on principles from which you have never deviated. Not even by a hairsbreadth.”
Eric closed his eyes against the words, remembering the agitation of those who had demanded something more of him than he could give. To go along with them meant to turn his back on God—the God of the Sabbath and the God of his life. And he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t.
Eric’s eyes opened to find D. P. staring at him expectantly.
But Eric shook his head. “I will not run,” he said. “I will not.”
* * *
PERHAPS THE BIGGEST MYTH surrounding Eric Liddell’s life involves one highly scrutinized episode: that he deliberated over withdrawing from the 100 meters up until the week of the Olympic Games and that by serendipitous fortune, an eleventh-hour opportunity presented itself for Eric to run in the 400 meters, thereby paving the way to glory. What sounds like a Hollywood story indeed is presented beautifully, but inaccurately, in the critically acclaimed film Chariots of Fire (1981).
In actuality, upon hearing the news in the early fall of 1923—months before the Summer Olympics—that the opening 100-meter heats were set for a Sunday, Eric knew without question what his response would be. He would not run on the Sabbath—even for the Olympics. End of discussion.
Eric’s deep-seated reverence for the Sabbath was rooted in the seriousness of his missionary upbringing, cultivated in the rigidity of his boarding school, and nourished by D. P. Thomson’s strong legalistic theology. In Eric’s thinking, it stood to reason that mankind should adhere to one of God’s earliest commandments. But even to Christians of his day, Liddell’s practice was in the minority and seemed like foolish extremism to non-Christians and those of weak belief.
After his conversation with Eric, D. P. helpfully framed Eric’s Sabbath understanding to those who inquired by saying, “Eric [believes], as I myself have always done, that, one day in seven, different in every way from the others, gives new significance and value to the remaining six.”[7]
While Eric considered his decision to be quite commonplace, the majority of onlookers perceived it as a much bolder statement, especially considering everything at stake. Not only would Eric withdraw from the 100 meters, but his participation in two relays—the 4 x 100 meters and the 4 x 400 meters—would be withdrawn as well, since those events also fell on Sundays. Having Eric step out of three races would be a genuine deathblow to Great Britain’s chances not only to lay claim to the fastest man on earth but also to mark a triumphant return to global sports dominance. In the wake of World War I, this was of immeasurable value for national pride and morale.
While Eric was more than equipped to make the sacrifice, he was not prepared for the ensuing aftermath. He had always been likable, with hardly a disparaging word spoken against him, and in recent years only good press followed wherever he went. All that was about to change.
Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion about his decision.
After Eric refused to run on Sunday, Britain ran through the stages of grief. They said Liddell would ultimately change his mind. When that hope went unrealized, they grew angry, calling him a coward and asking how he could turn his back on his country. They bargained, suggesting that he dedicate the race to the Lord or that the Sabbath ended at a particular time of day.
“My Sabbath lasts all day,” Eric replied.
There was even speculation that the British Olympic authorities should appeal to the International Olympic Committee to reschedule some events, owing to religious observance. Any such controversial conversations that may have taken place were behind closed doors, unpublicized, and without success. Ultimately Great Britain dissolved into depression as the winter months set in, accepting that Eric—their greatest hope for national pride and glory—could not be swayed from his beliefs.
Eric genuinely lived according to the doctrines of his faith—which he believed and clung to—and he would not waver or consider it shrewd to compromise. He did not see the wisdom in competing on the Sabbath, nor did he worry about what his choice cost him. Seeking the glory and praise of other people was not his purpose. He would have accepted never competing in the Olympics at all, without losing any sleep in the process, had no reasonable solution come forward.
Lost in all the nearly political hullabaloo was the fact that Eric still planned on competing in the 200 meters, held on a Tuesday and Wednesday. But a wounded nation preparing for battle saw this only as a pale olive branch.
And then there was the 400 meters, which was not scheduled on a Sunday, and there was still time to qualify. However, there was one glaring problem. Eric had never—ever—seriously competed at that distance before.
This jump might not sound like much to a novice, but to the seasoned competitor, it bordered on preposterous. Those who had spent years training and competing in the 400 would surely leave Eric in their dust. But in some attempt to continue to do right by his country without turning his back on God’s order, Eric sought out his coach, Tom McKerchar, to explore the prospect.
The year before, during the 1922 track season, Eric had run the 400 meters after his featured events in the 100- and 200-meter races, but only twice. They served, more or less, as extra events to sneak in a full workout on a race day, thereby strengthening him for later in the season. His times were decent f
or a world-class sprinter, but nothing to write home about. They were surely nothing to assure a gold at the Olympics.
Except for one event . . .
Eric’s performance at this Stoke-on-Trent event during the summer of 1923 convinced McKerchar that Eric should at the very least try.
Eric ran the event without the benefit of lanes. Legally, the runners could cross in front of each other but were prohibited from boxing in other runners. From the firing of the gun, Eric fell behind. Then, fifteen yards down the track, another runner, J. J. Gillis, fouled Eric, who rolled onto the grass infield. When Eric heard the judge cry “foul,” he assumed the ruling was toward him. But just then another judge screamed at Eric to get up.
Eric stood and stared down the track. The other runners were now twenty yards ahead.
Once he had his bearings, Eric took off at lightning speed. By the 300-yard point, he had caught up to the others. Then spectators watched in awe as his “heid went back.” Legs pumping and heart pounding, Eric passed Gillis, who was in the lead, and won by two yards.
The Scotsman, in its article on the race, wrote, “The circumstances in which [Liddell] won made it a performance bordering on the miraculous.”[8]
Eric fell to the infield grass, his heart pounding as though it might erupt from his chest. A teammate helped him onto his feet, then over to the pavilion. He suggested Eric have a drop of brandy to revive him. But Eric, in semiconsciousness, replied, “No thanks, Jimmy. Just a drop of strong tea.”
His time was 51.2 seconds, almost three full seconds off the world record—and every tenth of a second in a race that short was a major barrier.
Yet the question remained: What could Eric have run had he not fallen?
Both McKerchar and Eric believed there was a possibility—albeit slim—that they could transform Eric—a 100-meter champion—into a world-caliber 400-meter man in time for the Olympics. But they only had six months to do it.
The Final Race Page 4