Thank God, the fields are open
Thank God,
the fields are open
The return trip to England on board The Mary began with the winds against them. The storm grew so fierce that hardened sailors feared for the ship. As seas rose and winds raged tearing sails and splintering wood, barrels and boxes of supplies went overboard. Only small rations of food and water were left, too little to satisfy anyone’s thirst or hunger. George felt too weak to walk about, but he was calm as he read his Bible and prayed.
The strong winds drove The Mary turning her until no one knew where they were. All hope seemed gone. One of the passengers, a Captain Gladman, who had been shipwrecked near Georgia and was returning to England, could not understand George’s peace.
“We are lost, and near death,” the captain cried. “Tell me, Mr. Whitefield, what is this hope of yours? I confess I am terrified.”
George grasped Gladman’s hand as the boat listed and drifted. “What you need, friend, is the good news of Jesus. I have peace because I know His grace will be all I need whatever happens.” Gently and clearly George spoke the gospel to the man. By the end of the trip Gladman had become a Christian, ready to serve the Lord Jesus, and had joined George’s little group.
At last the lookout cried out “Land, land ahead.” They had come to the coast of Ireland and the ship put into port safely. The next morning George and those with him set out to Dublin on horseback. When people heard that George Whitefield was there he was asked to preach at the Cathedral before leaving for England the next day. “You are not yet twenty-four years old,” Captain Gladman said, “and already God has given you a ministry throughout England and in America. Your name is known in Ireland, and in Wales and Scotland too.”
“God is indeed blessing his work,” George said, “and I can only praise him.”
They were soon back in England and George began his plan to raise money for the orphanage. “The trustees have given me a license to raise funds here in England for the building of an orphanage in Georgia, and I must visit the churches to tell them of the desperate needs of the orphans.” George’s plan quickly ran into trouble.
George and William Seward, a close friend and helper, had just come from another church closed to George. Like the others this minister also refused to let George talk about the needs of the orphans in Georgia. “How can the churches turn us away, William? Church law in the Church of England allows the use of its churches to raise funds for such charities! They know that I have a license from the trustees to raise funds for the orphans.”
William answered quickly. “These ministers just want you to stay away from their churches and congregations. They fear you now that you are back in England because their people listen to your message.”
The following morning George read aloud the headlines from the official church newspaper. “Mr. Whitefield would do well to return to Georgia, and we shall do our best to see that he does so!” George put down the paper, and looked up at Marcus and William and Gladman seated around the breakfast table. “At least I am still welcome in four churches.”
“Yes,” Marcus agreed. “And you have been asked to preach twice each Sunday and five days of the week between.” More preaching came as the people demanded they be allowed to hear George. In fifty-six days George preached fifty-seven times! The Religious Societies wanted him too, and by Christmas George was preaching and ministering to people from morning to midnight. “This is like nothing we’ve seen before,” George said to the members of the Holy Club,“this is God’s hand at work!”
Bishop Benson was ready to ordain George now as a priest in the Church of England. “I invite you all to come,” George told his friends. Others came too, among them Lord and Lady Huntingdon. When the ceremony was over, it was time for him to preach his first sermon as an ordained priest of the Church of England. In his hand George held the Bible, and when he began to speak a hush filled the crowded church. As George urged all who were there to see the love of the Lord Jesus for them, some could not help their tears. In the weeks that followed his preaching slate filled again and again.
The crowds who wanted to hear George were so dense people sometimes stood on stairs or on whatever place they could find. There was no noise once he began to speak. George always seemed to speak to each one personally. Once George saw a young boy with a lantern in his hand, perched on a ledge listening intently. When George lifted his hands to heaven, the boy lifted his too letting the lantern crash to the ground. George wondered later what had become of the boy.
Marcus was worried about how little rest George had. “I must preach wherever I can,” George said. Often so many came that some had to listen through the windows. “There has never been a voice like this in England,” people said. “Thousands are turning to God.”
The enemies of George were asking, “How can we silence the voice of George Whitefield?” In spite of his opponents George was not silenced. People came, and the amazing voice God had given him could be heard for greater distances than anyone imagined possible. His enemies could weaken it only one way, turn the people against him! They would attack his words, his message, his trustworthiness, and his character! Attacks on his character came quickly.
A chaplain to the Prince of Wales accused George of teaching spiritual pride. “Mr. Whitefield speaks of a ‘new birth’, and tells the people they can know they are saved,” he said. “This is spiritual pride,” he declared. Next came an attack on George Whitefield’s trustworthiness.
Marcus felt deep hurt and anger for his friend. “George, you need to do something. They say you stole the pulpit when you preached at St. Margaret’s church last Sunday. The story is told that you waited while your friends locked away the minister who was to preach, and then arrived to take the pulpit yourself,” he said. “How could they twist the truth so? We were late that night because the coach broke down,” Marcus said. “It was a sexton who locked the minister’s pew. And it was the church warden who came to say you were to preach and even led you to the pulpit.”
“Sadly, such a story will do its work, and some will believe I will do anything to get into the churches to preach,” George said. “Even steal the pulpit from another. One day the Lord will make all clear.”
People still came to hear George, and the next Sunday he preached twice to a crowd of nearly a thousand. Hundreds more had to be turned away for lack of room. George was deep in thought that night. “Could it be, Marcus, that I might preach without doors and walls, in the open air?”
Marcus shook his head. “Now that would give your enemies something new to say. I think it is a mad notion, George.” George had already exchanged letters with a preacher, Howell Harris, who preached outdoors in the hills and villages of Wales.
One morning George announced, “Friends, while I’m still here in England we must reach out to Kingswood and its coal miners. These people have no churches and no schools, and no clergymen go there.”
Marcus knew the area. “Thousands live in Kingswood, colliers who work in the dark mines under terrible conditions. Their lives are full of danger, disease, and dirt,” he said. “The place is despised and known for its viciousness, and Bristol folk fear them.”
“Yes,” George said, “but I long to tell them of Jesus’ love.” On the coldest February day in memory he and William dressed as warmly as they could and set out to call the people out of their pits and hovels to come to a meeting the following day. Two hundred people came. George stood on a small mound to preach. The message was not like anything they had heard. George’s words spoke straight to their unchurched, unschooled hearts as he made the love of Jesus real to them. George saw the white streaks made by tears on the dirty faces of many of the hardened men and women touched by God’s message. He promised to return the following Wednesday. A crowd of 2,000 waited for him. The final week 20,000 came, as farmers and townspeople and others stood by the side of the colliers they had once shunned.
“Lord, give me a voice like a trumpet,” George prayed. “Give me eyes to see whatever you have sent me to use as a natural sounding board. Let the wind aid my voice, Lord, and give me wisdom to deal with those who might disturb these listeners.” He had already asked the Lord for the message.
All throughout these months in England George had raised money for the orphanage. “We’ve collected two hundred pounds,” he told his friends. “But before I go back to Georgia, I want to raise money for a school where there has never been one, a school here in England for the children of Kingswood.” They cheered, and the money came. George appointed John Wesley to take over the work while he was in America.
Before he left Kingswood one of the colliers came to see George. “Sir,” he said, “God sent you to us, Mr. Whitefield. We want you to lay the first stone for the new school. It will bless us to know your hand was the first on it.” George laid the first stone and prayed for all who would one day enter the new school.
On the last night at Kingswood, as he and William were leaving, George turned to look back. “William, look at what God has done! Did you ever dream when you came to serve the Lord it would be so grand as this? When the churches are closed, He shows us another way.” William had tears in his eyes and couldn’t speak. George stretched out his arms. “These fields are our outdoor church and may hold as many as will come.” He smiled broadly at William. “Now there is one more trip I must make, a quick one. Come with me to Wales, and we will meet Howell Harris together. He is the first traveling preacher to make the hills and fields of all South Wales his parish, and I hope to learn much from him.”
When George saw Howell, a sturdily built man, though not tall, striding toward them, he cried out, “How much I have wanted to meet you!” Almost at once the three began a preaching tour. George soon learned from Howell how to use almost anything to stand on for a pulpit, a horse block in front of an inn, a table in the center of a street, or a stone wall. Howell preached in Welsh, and George followed with English. The week passed quickly. “We’ve slept little, prayed much, and loved every bit of serving the Lord,” George said, as they parted.
Back in London there was still no sailing date, and George hoped to preach in Moorfields Park. It was a place where people came evenings and Sundays to see everything from bear baiting to dog fights. His friends warned him not to go. “You will never come out alive if you try to preach there,” they said. George listened but knew he would go anyway. On the Sunday he chose, the word spread quickly, “Whitefield is coming.” Great crowds waited for him and George felt a twinge of fear, but the people made way for him. He preached standing on a stone wall between the upper and lower Moorfields, and the people listened!
The Kensington Commons was another place George longed to reach. The commons, a twenty acre plot of ground held a permanent scaffold for hangings. Many of London’s worst sorts, including pickpockets, came to watch the hangings, and the mob could get out of hand quickly. George prayed for the Lord’s help. The crowd who gathered to listen to him grew to near 30,000. A hush rolled over them as George began. No one had spoken of God to them with such power before. George felt the words of God deeply as he preached to the people before him, and many came to the Lord that day. He returned to preach at Kensington and Moorfields to growing crowds. George spoke to them all of the love of Christ, the new birth, and the forgiveness of sins.
Now the time for George to leave for America was drawing close.