The Daniel Voll Story

That was in the last few days of January in 1973. Little did anyone guess that the strange events of those days would be broadcast and framed in headlines in newspapers and magazines across the nation. “Deprogramming,” which had been going after “Jesus freaks” on the West Coast for over a year, had now come East.

I still have a badly disfigured finger to remind me of that freezing winter night, the police station, St. Luke’s Hospital, the subsequent court trial of Ted Patrick. Wes’s testimony, Patrick’s grin. I thank God it was only my finger that was injured, and not my mind. Patrick never had the opportunity to get me behind locked doors to try to crack my mind—he calls it “breaking” a person. He only got me halfway into a car; then the police intervened.

Patrick was acquitted in the trial, on the argument that he was only acting as the agent for my parents who were only trying to do what they, whether rightly or wrongly, thought best for me. But they left the courtroom without their son. We were, by now, miles apart: in heart, in soul, in mind.

They, I felt, were crushed by the experience, and I wondered if things could ever be the same. The ties between us, it seemed, had been broken. The attempt to take me away and force me out of my beliefs had widened the gap between us by what seemed like miles. And still the controversy continued. My mother publicly insisted that she would find “the way” to bring me out of my supposed condition.

Their view of my life and associations, not favorable to being with, had been totally soured by Patrick’s advice. The man seeks out parents who are uneasy or dissatisfied with something about the way one of their kids is going. Posing as an expert on “cults,” he tells them things are much worse than they had suspected, that their son or daughter has been “mesmerized” and brought under powerful control. This, he says, must be broken by swift and forceful methods.

Then he offers his solution: abduction, followed by involuntary imprisonment at some prearranged location, followed by days and nights of grueling “deprogramming” sessions until the subject “breaks.”

All Patrick asks is a few necessary expenses—for plane fares, hotels, rented cars, meals, anywhere from a few hundred dollars up into the thousands—not too much to pay to force your son or daughter back onto the right track.

The assumption, of course, is that he is on the wrong track. I knew what my parents did not know—that I was not, as Patrick said, in some weird cult. I had come into a good relationship with other Christians, a relationship that was important to me because it met some of my deepest desires. And I knew that the fellowship I was in was made up of intelligent people working, some with recognized distinction, in a variety of fields. Yet to Patrick, we were nothing but a collection of “zombies” and malign manipulators. His answer to his own analysis called for the emergency cancellation of personal and religious liberties—especially mine.

But what Patrick was working overtime trying to annul, I found growing stronger within me and my friends. I had not come into this way of life by chance, and I was not about to throw it over at the insistence of some heavy-handed “zombie” hunter.

Early in my life I had received Jesus Christ as my personal Savior, and I quickly found that He was not one to forsake those who trust in Him. He was, as the Scriptures say, “a friend that sticks closer than a brother” (Proverbs 18:24).

During my high school years I began to see that the call of Christ was much more than a summons to a life of middle-class virtue punctuated by Sunday ritual.

As this early relationship deepened, I sensed God’s call to me to give Him more than just my friendship, more than my spare-time attention. It was a call to discipleship: to give Him my future, my life, my all. And that is what I did. Not knowing what He had in store, what I would encounter, where I might be going, I gave the Lord my answer and put my life into His hands.

That one word, “Yes”—that answer, that decision—was the beginning for me: a beginning that led me to other Christians, to fellowship, to service—but also face-to-face with Patrick.

I came down to Colombia, South America, something I had wanted to do for years, to set up my life away from the shadow of “deprogramming” and pursue my career in Christian service.

It wasn’t very long before my mother followed—fully ready to do whatever might be necessary to persuade or pressure or force me to leave Bogotá, to leave my friends, and to return to the States with her. That was the beginning of the end.

I, unwilling to comply, proposed (as I had done a number of times before) that we talk: talk about anything and everything—her complaints, our disagreements, my life. She accepted my proposal and the Bogotá Peace Talks began.

For two weeks we talked, toured, chatted, dined, shopped, mused—and in the end had a beautiful time. She moved into a room in my apartment and visited the English classes I taught. The son she met was not like the one she had expected. She was delighted with my teaching ability—my father is an educator—and was reassured when she saw that I had not lost my sense of humor, which, according to her, was psychological proof that I was not brainwashed.

She met and had lunch with Mrs. Hannah Lowe, who has spent a good 35 years living and working with the Colombians, and others of the fellowship; her suspicions and fears of five long years gave way to a friendship and an appreciation of something that speaks louder than words: a way of life.

That was what changed her mind: seeing us the way we are and not as we had been depicted to her. She realized that what she had wanted all along was not a young man pressed into some mold by his parents, by Patrick, or by anyone else; but simply her own son, living his own life in his chosen way. In fact, she said that she now believes it was the mercy of God that they and Patrick did not succeed in their attempt to seize and “deprogram” me.

Now we are reunited and reconciled, not by the hand of Patrick, but by the hand of God. A mountain  has been moved, a sea has been crossed, and our faith in the wisdom and power of God is stronger because of it.

It was a little over five years ago, in the summer of 1970, that I told the Lord Jesus Christ that my life was unreservedly His. Since that time there have been severe difficulties and times of testing, but through them all there has been the continual peace and deep satisfaction that my life was not being spent in vain, but was counting.

Now I see the value of pressing on down that road, even when things get rough. For though this road is less traveled by, it certainly made the difference in my life, and will make the difference in anyone’s life who, at the time of decision, chooses to pursue it.

Perhaps some of you have thought about God’s call and considered the prospect of living your life for Him. Why not take the first step today and turn your heart, your future, your life over to the Lord Jesus Christ?

Many promises of the Scriptures go with such a decision. One that has encouraged me is:

“The path of the just is as the shining light that shines more and more unto that perfect day” (Proverbs 4:18).

Daniel Voll, Jonathan Edwards ’74