A Fierce Persecution
A Fierce Persecution
George sat on deck writing letters. He was about to write another when a strong gust of wind blew the loose paper from his lap. Before George could catch it a young boy ran to where it stuck against the rail, and brought it back. It was one of the orphan children coming with him to Bethesda, a young lad of about nine.
The boy’s dark eyes looked questioningly at George as he handed him the paper. “If you want, Mr. Whitefield, I could sit on the deck by you just in case the wind takes any more papers,” he said.
George reached out to brush the lad’s unruly red hair from his eyes. “Martin, isn’t it? I like that idea just fine. How about you sit here by me and we talk? I’d like to hear more about your days on the streets in London.” Carefully the lad sat next to George and began his story. It was one like many George had heard before. Tears were in his eyes as the boy finished. “Martin, may I tell you the story of the kindest, most loving, and greatest of Kings, who never turns away a single boy or girl like yourself from his kingdom?”
Martin looked up with a surprise on his face. “It ain’t a true story, not for real, Sir, is it?” he asked.
George put his arm around Martin’s shoulder. “It is indeed true, my boy. The truest story ever told.”
Later that afternoon the children were safely with their care givers, and George sat on the deck whispering a prayer, “The children you have brought us, Lord, are a precious trust. Help me to teach them of your forgiveness, your steadfast love.”
It was October 1751, and eleven weeks since they’d left England when they arrived in South Carolina. The children were bursting with eagerness to set foot in the new world of America. George could not hide his own delight as they neared Bethesda. “You will find this the happiest place on earth,” George promised. “I should like to stay here myself if I didn’t go preaching the good news of Jesus in places that need to hear it.” Martin looked up at George with a question in his dark eyes. George patted his head. “You will like it here, Martin, and when I come back I’ll want to hear all you’ve been doing.” The boy nodded and turned to follow the others.
On a fine morning, George and his two companions left to begin a preaching circuit. “Ah, my friends, how good God is to us. The joy of an itinerant preacher knows no boundaries.” From Philadelphia to New York George preached as they went. In New Jersey The College of New Jersey gave him an honorary degree of Master of Arts. George tucked it away in his saddle bag. In Boston he was asked to preach at the Old North Church, but had to be let in by a window because the crowd had packed the church before he arrived. As they kept riding northward towards Canada, the cold weather turned the way slick with patches of ice. As always George and his companions stayed wherever they could, even if only on blankets on the floor for the night, and ate what was offered. He rose early to pray and read his Bible, and snatched what moments he could along the way to write brief letters. To Marcus he wrote, “I am thanking God for his care. My strength is back, and I praise the Lord for this. Though we will not reach into Canada this time, I will have ridden two thousand miles before I finish this preaching circuit.” It was time to begin the return journey southward and back to Georgia.
In Maryland, George was invited to the home of the married daughter of an old friend, Colonel Bayard. “My dear Mr. Whitefield, you will of course not recognize me, sir,” the daughter’s husband said. “Do you remember the little boy in London who was so moved by your preaching that he dropped a lantern from his hand?”
George smiled broadly. “I do indeed remember the incident. I wondered later what became of the lad.”
“I am that boy,” he said.
George embraced the young man. “I can barely believe you’re the same lad. What a joy for me,” he said. “You are one of over a dozen here in the Colonies who have told me of their conversions back in England. I begin to have many spiritual children.”
“You do, Sir,” the young man said, “and I have heard of twenty young men who came to the Lord on one of your earlier visits to America and are now preaching. Many thousands have come to the Lord Jesus in this great Awakening in America.” George could not help the tears of joy that came to his eyes.
To Elizabeth he wrote,
It is January already, and I have preached a hundred times in New England alone, and many more along my way north. Now on my return south I revisit each place to preach again. You cannot imagine the vast areas here in America where there is still no witness to the gospel. In Virginia many people come fifty miles to hear the good news preached. Some of them are farmers who leave their fields to come just for one meeting. I am now on my way back to Bethesda. I only wish you were here with me. That place brings me great happiness, as it does to those who live there. These past seventeen years, my dear, we have spent more than five thousand pounds to keep it, but now our crops support many orphans for less than half that amount. I never thought to have slaves, but our laborers at Bethesda, and on our small plantation in South Carolina, grow in the faith, and each one of them is dear to me. My prayer is to reach every slave with the gospel, and their owners. They must be treated as the Word of God demands, in all godliness, kindness, and fairness.
George dipped his pen again and wrote, “Do not be concerned for my health, my dear, as I manage well these days. The illness that brought me close to death in Philadelphia has left. The Lord has healed me. The people are hungry for the Word, and I have been more welcomed everywhere than ever before. As always I am ready to preach wherever God shall send me. I look forward to the sea voyage and the joy of seeing you soon, my dear.”
In May, after only seven months in America, George landed in England. A month later he was off on a preaching tour with London at its center. “At least you will be using the chaise to go about, my dear husband, instead of riding horseback, and I am grateful for that,” Elizabeth said as he left.
When George returned his eyes sparkled with the news he had been waiting to tell Elizabeth. “My dear wife, you will be glad of my news,” he said. “I’ve been offered the use of a meeting-house, the Long Acre Chapel that is right on the edge of London’s theatre district. My hope is that some of them will come to the Chapel.”
“That is great news,” Elizabeth said. “As a boy you loved theatre.”
“Yes. As a boy I gave myself to the parts I played. Thanks to the Lord, now I can give myself fully to preach or teach a Bible story. Sadly, our theaters mock all that is good. Plays are filled with godlessness, and the vilest uncleanness. I long to tell those enslaved to that world of the new birth in Christ. I begin preaching this very weekend.”
Neither George nor Elizabeth knew that while they were filled with gladness over the new chapel, others were not. A protest meeting was already gathering with plans to resist all George’s efforts. The meeting was packed with actors, play writers, stage hands, costume makers, managers and supporters. A wealthy theatre owner addressed the meeting, “Good people,” he said, “we know what this Whitefield has done in Scotland. Because of his preaching one of the finest theatres in Glasgow was torn down. We shall not allow this Whitefield’s Methodist fanaticism to do the same here in London.” The crowd shouted their defiance of Whitefield until they quieted to hear what was to be done. The plan was to drown out Mr. Whitefield, break up every meeting with noise and stones, and drive away those who listened. A large platform on nearby property was for use to sound every kind of drum, bells, clappers, whatever would help make the loudest sounds the moment Whitefield began to preach. They vowed to keep up their protest as long as it took.
The protest went further. Rioters stood at the chapel door during the service and vented their rage as people came out from the meeting. Windows were smashed and large stones were flung at some of the congregation, injuring them. Those aimed at George narrowly missed him but struck others nearby.
After weeks of suffering the opposition George wrote to the Bishop in charge of the parish, asking him to put a stop to the rioting. Some were certain they had seen a few of the Bishop’s own officials among the troublemakers. “I do not doubt it,” George said. “The Bishop accuses me of being disloyal to the Church of England because I am an itinerant preacher and often preach outside the church. He has forbidden me to minister anywhere under his rule without a license from him, though he will not give me a license. I must try though I expect little help from him.” George was right, and soon a darker threat began.
For the third day Elizabeth held out a letter addressed to George Whitefield, but with no word who might have sent it. Her face was pale as George opened the seal. “Is it another death threat?” she asked.
“Yes,” George said. “This time I am threatened with certain, sudden, and inescapable stroke. I must bring this to the attention of the King who knows that we are loyal subjects of his Majesty.” The King quickly commanded an official notice be published announcing, “His Majesty’s reward for the finding and bringing to justice the writers of three threatening letters to George Whitefield.” “At least this will discourage whoever they might be,” George said.
“Maybe, dear husband, you need to leave Long Acre Chapel and go on with the work in another place,” Elizabeth suggested.
“I have thought the same and prayed about it,” George said. “I’ve found a property in Tottenham Court Road far enough away from the rioters, but within reach of most people who came to Long Acre Chapel.” By November a large brick chapel was built and ready. The numbers of people who came rose quickly, and the need for more room was clear. George agreed that a new addition should be built. When it was finished he took Elizabeth to see it. “It is 70 feet in breadth, 127 feet in length, and 114 feet to the top of its dome,” he told her. The new Tottenham Court Road Chapel was now the largest Nonconformist church in all Britain.
As they walked past the green field surrounding the church and the little houses built just at the edge of the field, Elizabeth stood still. There were twelve cottages, each with a small bit of garden in front of it. Her eyes filled with tears. “These little alms-houses you have built for poor widows are a joy to my heart,” she said.
“These widows pray for me constantly,” George said, “as you do, my love, and you know how much I need those prayers.” Elizabeth could only nod. She was grateful for those who prayed for him.
George was soon more thankful than ever for those praying widows. He was preaching in Dublin, Ireland. Large congregations were coming to hear him in spite of violent opposition from fiercely loyal papists. Here as in England, Irish Methodists were being persecuted for their beliefs and way of life.
Accompanied by friends, George had gone to preach to a large crowd in an open field. When the service was over George became separated from his friends. He could not go back the way he had come, and began to make his way across the field. Insults and shouts followed him as angry papists taunted him. Suddenly a sharp stone hit his shoulder, another struck his back, and soon someone struck him with a stick. George’s thick beaver hat helped protect his head at first, until someone knocked it off. Soon a heavy blow sent him reeling. Blood poured down his face. The blows and stones kept coming as he staggered towards the edge of the field where a minister’s house stood. It flashed through his mind that he might die for the faith. By the time he reached the door of the house and was pulled inside, he was covered with blood from his wounds and nearly unable to stand. The woman of the house tried to help him but seemed terrified. “I fear they will break down the house to attack us all,” she said.
When George felt able to stand, he said, “I will not stay, friends.” As he opened the door to leave, a coach driven by two of George’s friends stopped directly in front of him, George was snatched inside, and driven away leaving the rioters behind. When they arrived at the home of Christian friends George was lovingly received and his wounds tended by a Christian doctor. “I am overwhelmed with thanks to the Lord for his deliverance and for your kindness,” George said. “In the morning I must go to preach in another part of Ireland. I leave my persecutors to His mercy, who out of persecutors has often made preachers.”
Some weeks later he wrote to Elizabeth:
I have stayed in Ireland since the rioting, and I can hardly bear to leave, though I must. The congregations have been enormous. The people in Limerick and Cork beg me to stay, but I must return to England.
George returned home weak and worn out. He continued to preach whenever he could, though suffering once again from the weak blood vessel in his throat. Elizabeth urged him to rest. Slowly he returned to more and more speaking, reaching out to the areas around London. As winter came on he wrote to Marcus,
I am confined now to staying in London, and preach once a day, and on Sundays generally three times. Thousands attend every evening, and on the Lord’s Day many, many go away for want of room. Last summer with a table as my pulpit, and the heavens for my sounding board, I was able to preach three times a day to call many thousands to come to Jesus. How I long that the Lord will give me that joy come spring to preach again.”
By spring George wrote to tell Marcus that he was well enough to do the itinerant preaching he loved so much.
From Scotland George returned to London with amazing news. “Elizabeth, though I did not expect it, a considerable sum of money has been willed to me, enough to pay all the orphanage debts and more. What a gift of grace the Lord has sent.”
Elizabeth covered her face with her small hands and wept. “You have borne the burden of debt for the orphanage for so long, and at last it’s over,” she said. When she had dried her eyes with the handkerchief George handed her, she said “How I thank the dear Lord for this blessing, and for such a husband. I only long to be a helpmate to him, though I fear I’m often a burden these days.” She laughed lightly and extended her hand to George who sat close by. Elizabeth had not been well since coming home to England after her long stay in America.
He patted her hand gently. “Elizabeth, you are my right hand, the best of helpmeets. I have said it before and say it again, we have been happy with each other and together in Jesus.” For a moment George had a far-away look in his eyes. “Elizabeth, there is something on my heart to share with you. I long to continue preaching the gospel until the Lord takes me home, but I am also hoping to build a college at Bethesda to train future preachers and leaders.” Eagerly George filled her in on the plans he had drawn up for such a college. Because of the war between England and France it had been eight years since he had been to Bethesda. “I must go soon,” George said.