A Flickering Taper
A Flickering Taper
On a warm, sunny day in June George boarded The Jenny for his sixth trip to the Colonies. It was 1763, the war between France and England was over, and he was finally on his way. For days he had waited for this voyage across the Atlantic. Sea journeys were known to be good for one’s health, and he needed to rest and recover. When the passage became rough he used the time to write letters. To Marcus he wrote:
I am forty-eight years old now, and it seems that I’ve grown stouter and my body grown weaker. Lately I’m short of breath. I have little hope, dear friend, since my last illness, of much further public usefulness. Whatever I am able to do now I think will be like the last struggles of a dying man, or the glimmering flashes of a taper just burning out. But we serve a Master who will not forsake his servants. Pray for me, as I for you. G.W.
To his congregation at The Tabernacle in London, he wrote:
During this twelve week voyage when I had breath to preach the Captain and ship’s company attended each Lord’s day. You will not forget to pray for this willing pilgrim, who dearly loves you all, pray that whether absent or present, Jesus may be more and more precious to us.
The voyage was long and this time George did not recover his strength as he’d hoped. By the time they landed in Virginia word that George Whitefield had come brought crowds who longed to hear him. George preached four times, but soon his breathing worsened and the old weakened blood vessel in his throat troubled him. By the time he reached Philadelphia he was too ill to go farther. Two doctors saw to his care, and after a week George felt well enough to be on his way. The doctors thought otherwise. George wrote to Elizabeth, “The doctors will not allow me to journey on to Bethesda.” It was a year before he saw his beloved orphanage. By December he improved enough to begin preaching three times a week and wrote, “I am better, though the breathing problem and throat bleeding after I preach still comes back every once in a while.”
In New York, the warm welcome of the people touched George’s heart and he preached often. In Connecticut George visited the Wheelock School for Indians where native Americans studied to take the gospel to their own people. He had raised funds for it and helped send its first graduate, Samson Occum, a Mohegan Indian to England to raise interest in the school. “The south is still troubled with Indian raids,” George said, “and this is a work dear to my heart. The Indians need to hear the good news of Jesus in their own tongue.”
In Boston the grateful citizens honored George for collecting money for them after the great fire of 1760. At Harvard they thanked him for restocking their burned library. George’s heart sang, “Only you turn hearts to yourself, Lord, and I see your hand at work everywhere!”
Though he could not preach as often as he used to do, he preached to the crowds in open fields as they headed south. At last they reached Savannah and soon after Bethesda and his beloved orphans.
At once George wrote to the governor of Georgia and the members of the Council “I shall need 2,000 acres of land for a college to be built at Bethesda.” After five weeks, George received word that the land would be granted! “We have the land,” he cried with a shout of joy! “Now I must be off to England as soon as possible for a charter for the college.” It was February when George said goodbye to the staff and children and laborers gathered in front of the orphanage to see him off. Only red-haired Martin was missing. George smiled. “Like me,” he said, “you miss seeing our friend Martin standing here with you. If he were here he would surely tell you the wonderful things he is doing now with Pastor James. And I believe that some of you children will follow in his footsteps to serve the Lord Jesus.” Martin, the young orphan lad George had brought from England, had left a week ago to be an assistant pastor in one of Georgia’s churches.
On board ship bound for England George wrote first to John Wesley:
“I have taken the gospel to new places opening up in Virginia and the Carolinas,” he wrote, “but I have barely begun! Had strength permitted I might have preached to thousands and thousands. John, there is room here for a hundred itinerant preachers! I am not sorry I’ve been poor, or despised, cast-out, and now am almost a worn-out itinerant. I would do it all again, if I had my choice.”
He arrived in England barely able to preach at all, and wrote to Marcus:
“I have little strength and must rest.”
In Bristol he stayed with friends and rested. Elizabeth was away in the country to rest, and by the time she arrived home she found George well again. By October he was back to preaching.
“You must come and speak in my new chapel at Bath,” Lady Huntingdon wrote. George went once again to preach to the wealthy of high society. The Chapel was filled with splendidly gowned women and equally fashionable men who preferred to attend a private chapel, especially one as beautiful as Lady Huntingdon’s in Bath. George prayed, and felt God strengthening him while he preached.
At home George had new help. A young man named Cornelius Winter had come asking to work for him. When George heard Cornelius’ story he hired him at once. As a boy Cornelius went from a workhouse for the poor, to live with a drunken uncle who treated him cruelly. One day, at age thirteen Cornelius heard George speaking at The Tabernacle. As often as he could sneak away Cornelius went back, happy to catch even the last ten minutes of George’s sermons. He became a believer, bought a Bible, and joined a Society, determined one day to be a preacher. Already Cornelius was preaching twice a week at The Tabernacle for George, and learning much from his beloved Mr. Whitefield.
Cornelius reported to a friend, “Mr. Whitefield preaches his finest sermons at six in the morning come summer or winter, and I have heard him say, ‘while you slept, this is what the Lord gave me to speak to you.’ And though a thousand people might be in the congregation, he speaks personally to you. When he weeps, he will touch your heart. I have heard him say from the pulpit, “How can I help it when you will not weep for yourselves, though your immortal souls are on the verge of destruction, and this might be the last sermon you will hear.”
George was glad for this willing young man who assisted him with duties at The Tabernacle. In London, besides the care of the churches, George’s love for the works of John Bunyan the preacher and author of “Pilgrim’s Progress” kept Cornelius busy as he helped to prepare two volumes of the works for publishing.
Though George often felt worn out, he wrote to Marcus:
“O that God would open the way for me into every town in England! My itinerant preacher’s heart wants to be on its way to preach come spring.”
By spring George had strength enough to visit his old preaching places. When he planned to preach in Wales, Lady Huntingdon insisted that he must go slowly and travel with her household since she was also going to Wales. As so often before, thousands came and stood in the fields to hear him.
When George had been back in London for several days he received a letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury. Marcus sat quietly as George read aloud, “I deeply regret that there can be no charter for a college in Bethesda unless the school is ruled by the Church of England.”
“No!” George said. “It would mean only Church of England students would be allowed to attend the school, and not one of those I call brothers and they call Dissenters. I already have the land grant. Marcus, I will withdraw my petition to the Archbishop, and go directly to the governor of Georgia for a charter. The College of New Jersey and the Academy in Philadelphia have their charters in the colonies.”
“You could call it an Academy,” Marcus suggested. George nodded and at once began his new plan. He hired three builders and sent them to Georgia to begin the work.
“If the Governor can see the new building going up, it may move him to grant a charter.”
In August George felt well enough to take on a brief preaching tour. When he returned Elizabeth lay ill with a fever. “I fear she will not be with us long,” the doctor said. “There is no more I can do for her.”
George knelt at Elizabeth’s bedside to pray. She seemed just asleep, though George knew it was the fever. As he watched and prayed, slowly she grew weaker, and at last she could not lift her hand to his. On the fifth day Elizabeth slipped away to be with the Lord they both loved and served. For a long while George sat at her bedside. He had preached at the funeral of his infant son, though his heart was breaking, and now he must do the same for his dear wife and companion.
Marcus visited as often as he could. One morning as they left the Tottenham Chapel together, George looked back to where Elizabeth was buried in the vault beneath it. “Six months have passed since Elizabeth’s death, Marcus, and I feel the loss of my right hand daily,” he said. “Lady Huntingdon has asked me to speak at the dedication of the new College of Trevecka in Wales. Will you come with me?”
“That’s just what I’d hoped to do,” Marcus said. “When Oxford expelled six students last year for teaching the Bible and praying in private homes, they had no idea Lady Huntingdon would build a college for them.”
“We must hope for a thousand more to be expelled for living for the Lord. A thousand youths to call all who will listen to the Lord Jesus Christ,” George said.
“May it be so,” Marcus sighed, “but I think none will call as loudly as you.”
The reception after the dedication was a grand feast, though George would have been as pleased with a simple meal of his favorite pig knuckles. They were almost home when George said, “I long to be back in Georgia. The need for future ministers in the colonies is great, Marcus. I must return and build a college to train them.”
“Will you go soon then?” Marcus asked.
“If the Lord opens the way, Marcus, I will leave as soon as possible.”