The Voice that Awakened England
The Voice that
Awakened England
George was right! The Master was not pleased to see him return to Oxford. On the day of his final exam George wished he had studied even later the night before. The test would cover every field of his studies at Oxford, and he must answer each question. “Pray for me, Marcus,” he said as they came to the exam room.
An unsmiling Master and a large number of tutors and upper classmen were waiting for him. Sweat ran down George’s neck into his robe as he concentrated on each question thrown at him. At the end the Master’s stern voice pronounced that George Whitefield had passed the exam and was now ready to begin graduate work. Marcus pummeled George’s shoulder. “Congratulations, brother, at last you can enjoy life at Oxford, do your studying, and lead the Holy Club too.”
George smiled broadly. “I can’t say I’m disappointed to be rid of my old life as a servitor.” But all too soon he faced a new challenge. One of George’s friends was a minister at the Tower of London Chapel who hoped to take a break while he finished his work at Oxford for a few months. He needed a replacement and asked George if he could help. George immediately said, “I’m afraid I’d need two years more at Oxford and a hundred more sermons before I’d dare minister in such a large chapel.” A week later he was on his way to the Tower of London Chapel.
“Awake this city to you, Lord Jesus,” he prayed as he stepped from the coach. The London slums where the poor lived were filthy, crime ridden, foul smelling, terrible places. In another part of London the wealthy lived lives of indulgence and pleasure in grand homes. The Church of England’s ministers enjoyed the luxuries they could afford. “They need you, Lord, the rich, the poor, and the clergymen of England who have forgotten you,” he whispered.
As George walked the streets of London in his gown and cassock, many came out of their shops and houses to stare at him. One of the shopkeepers cried out, “There’s a boy parson!” George quickly sent up a prayer, “You know how small I feel, Lord. Don’t let them close their ears to your word because of my youth.” His prayer was quickly answered.
Soldiers stationed at the Tower, and people from all parts of society came to hear him. Sunday after Sunday, as George preached at the Tower, he forgot everything but the people listening, and the message God was giving him for them. The joy of the good news of Jesus filled him and overflowed. Bible stories came alive as he told them. His voice was not like any the people had heard before. The chapel was full each Sunday. When his friend returned from school, George threw his arms about him and said, “God blessed me in spite of my fears, but I’m truly glad to go back to Oxford.”
For the next eight weeks George held Bible studies, visited the charity schools and prison work of the Holy Club, and studied. Life at Oxford was good, but God had another plan for him.
For a second time George was asked to fill in as minister while a friend took classes. Not at the famous Tower of London this time, but a country parish of poor folks, mostly farmers. George was eager to help and was soon on his way to Dummer, a place that would change his life forever.
Barefoot children in clothes too big for some, and others with even the patches worn through crowded around him as he walked from cottage to cottage to visit the folks of Dummer. He was welcomed everywhere, given the best seat, usually a stool by the fire, and offered whatever the household had to share. Today, Monday, he meant to read to as many of the sick and old in his parish as he could. The children running ahead of him quickly shouted the news, “Minster’s a-comin’.” The first small thatched roof cottage he visited held a family of eleven. Inside, an old grandmother sat, as she did each day to look out for the youngest of eight children while their parents toiled in the fields. George had just entered the low door when the farmer and his wife and the rest of the children came rushing from the fields.
“Heard you was coming, Reverend,” the farmer said, “we ‘uns didn’t want to miss a word you have to say.” His clothes were old and not clean, but the man’s eyes seemed to light up when George opened his Bible.
“You are welcome all of you. I plan to read the Word of God to grandmother here, and since the Bible is meant for all of us, I’m glad you’ve come to listen.” George read them the story of the lost sheep and then explained it. While he spoke not a whisper of sound interrupted him, and when he rose to go there were tears in the grandmother’s old eyes. George could hardly keep back his own, and as he turned toward the door the farmer too, and his wife, wiped their eyes.
“Can’t none of us read a word, Reverend, and when we hear you read the Bible so plain, it’s just like God writes it on our hearts, isn’t it, Mother?” His wife nodded. The two escorted George a little way to the next house and as they left him to return to their work, he felt something he hadn’t felt before. It was as much a privilege to preach to them as it was to preach to the great, the rich, the wise, the business people, anyone he had ever preached to before.
A letter had come to him in Dummer, from John Wesley begging for help in Georgia, one of the youngest colonies in America. John wrote, “George Whitefield, what if you are the man?” George wondered if God had sent him to learn from the poor in Dummer to prepare him for the mission field in Georgia, the poorest and newest of the colonies. It would be hard, he was young, and he would have to return to England in a year or two to Oxford for ordination as a priest in the Church of England. George walked along a country lane between fields of golden grain waiting to be harvested. He thought surely in America there were many who needed to hear the gospel. “I will gladly go if you send me, Lord.” By the time his ministry at Dummer was over George was eager to go to Georgia.
Back at Oxford, Marcus was waiting for him. “I’ve sad news to tell you, George. Sir John Phelps has died. What will you do without the stipend he paid you to oversee the Holy Club and stay at Oxford?”
“I am sad at the loss of such a good man, but I will not need that stipend, Marcus. God will supply all our needs. And I shall certainly write and tell you how wonderfully he has when I’m in Georgia!” He chuckled at the look of surprise on his friend’s face.
“You can’t mean it. You are really going to Georgia?”
“Yes, and I can hardly wait. Charles Wesley is ill and must return home. John has asked me to come help him. I’m off first thing to apply to the church and government authorities in London for the necessary papers for mission work in the colony of Georgia.”
“They will surely offer you a stipend as a minister to the parish in Georgia,” Marcus said.
“Yes, and I will not accept it.” Gently, George patted his friend’s shoulder. “If God wants me in Georgia he will care for my needs in his own will and way.”
The governor of the colony, General Oglethorpe, was in London on business and wished George to sail with him on his return to Georgia. The General hoped to finish his affairs soon. George planned to say goodbyes to his friends and family at Gloucester first, and then in Bristol.
His mother sat in Elizabeth’s parlor and looked as if her heart would break. She did her best to change his mind “You are far more needed here in England,” she pleaded. “I was so proud of you, George, and now you are running off to a savage land where no one knows you, and I may never see you again.”
Elizabeth tried to comfort her. “George must do what God has called him to do. God will take care of him, and we will see him again when he returns for his ordination.”
“I will still be here for the next few weeks,” George said, “while I preach in the Reverend Harris’s church at Stonehouse village.” George did not know that it would be nearly a year before he left England, a year that would turn all England upside down.
Each week while he waited, George preached to large congregations that seemed to grow larger and larger as news of his preaching spread. General Oglethorpe was still unable to leave, and as invitations to preach came, George accepted them.
He was on his way to preach in Bristol. They were about a mile from the city when the coachman called down to him. “Looks like word has spread you’re a-coming, Mr. Whitefield. I can’t remember such a crowd excepting for the Queen passing through, and they’re heading straight here.”
George stuck his head out of the coach window and stared. People were on foot, others in coaches, some on horseback, and he could hear them now calling his name. Like a grand procession the people flocked around his coach escorting it into the city. George sat back inside the coach smiling at what he’d seen of the welcoming crowd. Like a small twisting vine, pride began to creep into his heart. He was famous! All those people knew who he was! All at once fear gripped his stomach and his face flushed with shame. “Forgive me, Lord. Wash me from the sin of pride,” he cried. The honor these people were giving him belonged to God! George bowed his head. “They are hungry to hear your words, not mine,” he said.
In Bristol church after church wanted him to preach. He spoke five times a week, and still the congregations grew larger and larger. People of all ranks of society and denominations flocked to hear him. Many came early to get into the church, and yet hundreds had to be turned away. Abel Dagge, the keeper of Bristol’s Newgate prison had come early to hear Reverend Whitefield. He squeezed into the tightly packed pew and soon forgot the crowding as he listened to the message. Afterwards he found George and joyfully told him how God had touched his heart! From that day on Dagge was a changed man. He invited George to read prayers at the prison and teach every morning that George could come. The prison was famous for its filth and cruelty, but now Dagge was concerned for his prisoners. He did away with cruel practises and allowed no more abuse. He cleaned up the prison, and showed kindness to the prisoners. A famous writer imprisoned for his debts wrote of the kind treatment that had surprised him in Newgate.
George had hoped to sail soon for America, but once again the general was unable to leave. New invitations to preach kept coming, and George felt a powerful joy fill him—“This is what God planned for me to do all along.”
The fame of his ministry in Bristol spread to London, and his slate calendar of preaching times quickly filled. Religious Societies that met at six in the morning asked George to speak to them. Not many often came at that early hour, but now so many made their way to church long before day with lanterns in their hands, that the dark streets looked as if they were filled with thousands of burning candles. For four months George preached, sometimes getting very little sleep, and preaching even ten times a week. People were leaving their lifeless churches to hear him, and their ministers were not pleased.
“Whitefield upsets all England,” they said. “He sounds like a Puritan with his talk about sin and holy living. Such preaching has no place in the Church of England.”
Among the nobility, Lady Huntingdon had only good to say of George, and invited many of her wealthy friends to hear him. One friend wrote to her, “It is monstrous to be told that one has a heart as sinful as common wretches, but I shall be most happy to accept your kind offer to accompany you to hear your favorite preacher.”
George was visiting his friend James and as they talked George asked, “Have you heard that I am lately called a spiritual pickpocket? Some of the clergy say that their churches are empty, and I must be using a charm to catch people and their money.”
James laughed. “I hear that they are calling for the Bishop to silence you. While others just wait for you to go off to Georgia, and hope you will never come back.”
“I pray the Lord will open their eyes, James, and wake them all to himself.”