Chapter II: Launching the Ministry
II
Launching the Ministry
A crowded sanctuary, filled with people moved by the curiosity to hear one of their own sons, greeted George Whitefield when, at age twenty-one, he ascended to the pulpit at his home church in Gloucester to deliver his very first formal sermon. With the sounding board above his head, the congregation in pews at all sides, his voice rang out clearly and beautifully as he spoke from experience on the “benefits of a religious society.” It was a night to remember and hinted at things to come:
Curiosity drew a large congregation together. The sight, at first, a little awed me… . As I proceeded, I perceived the fire kindled, till at last … I was enabled to speak with some degree of Gospel authority. Some few mocked; but most for the present seemed struck: and I have since heard, that a complaint had been made to the Bishop, that I drove fifteen mad.
That bishop responded with approval, hoping that “the madness might not be forgotten, before next Sunday.” The outrageous reaction of the audience mirrors the larger reaction of people about his ministry throughout his early years: some would mock, most would be impacted, and some would go mad. But as Whitefield matured, he met the challenges of the mocking and madness, convincing with logical arguments and keeping audience emotions under control. Soon after his first sermon, a friend set up Whitefield at the chapel in the Tower of London while its regular minister was out of town. In London, people stepped out of their shops to gawk at such a young man in a minister’s gown. One person shouted out, “There’s a boy parson!” A large, curious congregation showed up the first Sunday, and he got their attention. Whitefield preached there for two months until the regular minister returned. He had still not found his permanent niche in the world, but letters from the Wesley brothers who were in America inspired him: “Their accounts fired my soul, and made me even long to go abroad for God too.”
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Charles Wesley returned to London and contacted Whitefield to “procure labourers” for the work in America in the colony of Georgia. Whitefield also received a letter from John Wesley, still in Georgia, informing him of the need for a minister. Wesley concluded with, “What if thou art the man, Mr. Whitefield?” Whitefield responded strongly, saying, “my heart leaped within me, and, as it were, echoed to the call.”
Whitefield returned to Gloucester to say goodbye to friends and relatives, but found that he “began to grow a little popular.” When Whitefield said his farewells to family in Bristol, the minister of their church asked him if he would deliver the sermon. His preaching startled the community. An impromptu revival broke out as he started preaching every day and twice on Sundays to crowded churches throughout the locale. The people of that parish made him a lucrative offer to stay as their regular minister, but he declined.
Whitefield moved on to London as the Georgia trip approached, and he preached regularly for three weeks to larger crowds than ever before. He was invited back to Gloucester and Bristol, by popular demand, where the crowds increased even further. This is when Whitefield started publishing his sermons—a prudent public relations tactic that helped spread his fame across the countryside. He may at this point have begun to recognize the effectiveness of returning to preach in a location after a short absence, giving the grapevine the opportunity to spread the news. Whitefield wrote, “Persons of all ranks, not only publicly attended my ministry, but gave me private invitations to their houses.”
While waiting to depart for Georgia, Whitefield’s ministry evolved from simply filling in for a vacationing minister into a true revival enterprise. Pesky friends “prevailed upon” him to print more of his sermons. He also started collecting money for the poor in Georgia. He seized invitations to preach, and ministered regularly to growing masses without hesitation. Crowds grew larger and increased in passion. Whitefield often scheduled additional meetings to appease the throngs of people because they would not all fit in the English church buildings during a single service. Within a year of graduating, Whitefield was regular news in the London papers. He developed the basic strategies of his revival enterprise, preaching whenever he could, publishing sermons, and promoting his meetings with advertisements. He learned how to stay in the news, and sermon sales were so brisk that counterfeiters were hawking black market versions.
But from the view of the church and government officials who were keeping a suspicious eye on him, Whitefield’s popularity may have reminded them of earlier revolutionary times where the power of mobs was inspired by charismatic speakers. No doubt, it was the political possibilities of such mobs that caused fear, not the religious revival. An increasing number of ministers, angry with Whitefield over doctrinal issues (or simply jealous), closed their churches to him. Inevitably, a London minister intending to silence him complained to the local bishop. On the surface, he complained about arrogance on Whitefield’s part, yet at a deeper level, perhaps he and the other ministers sensed danger from Whitefield’s ability to draw and manipulate crowds. To make things worse, Whitefield was scolding unconverted ministers, using them as “whipping-boys” to highlight the conversion experience.
England, like the rest of the world, had a long history of connecting religious theology to the political parties. This was the case in the Glorious Revolution of 1688 when Protestants overthrew the Roman Catholic king. In those years, the bishops, ministers, and politicians were passionate young men overthrowing their government. A generation later, they could see themselves in Whitefield, stirring up revolution all over again, fearing that these young popular methodists might overthrow the politicians backed by the Church of England. They were right in some ways, and British politics would feel the impact. But the struggle would be conducted in the churches rather than the streets for the time being. In spite of their opposition, Whitefield had enough friends to continue his promising ministry. At this point, he defended himself in an effort to keep church doors open to him. As he matured, he used the opposition as a publicity tool.
He continued preaching in London until January of 1738, when he finally left for Georgia. On his way out of town, Whitefield ran into John Wesley just returning to London. After facing sharp condemnation for denouncing slavery and insisting that everyone conform to their strict “methodist practices,” the Wesleys made few friends, became disillusioned, and left Georgia forever. John begged Whitefield not to go, but to stay in London. He had been attacked by a woman who charged at him with scissors and a pistol and bit his arm before he was able to escape. However, Whitefield only became more resolved to go. He now saw Georgians without a shepherd and believed it was his destiny to fill that position.
The First American Visit
Whitefield arrived in Georgia after his voyage was delayed due to bad weather. He did not stay long. As the Wesley’s methodism was rejected by the Georgian settlers, they were suspicious of Whitefield upon his arrival. He soon won them over. As the newly appointed minister to the Georgia colony, he planned to establish the first parish in Savannah and eventually to erect a meetinghouse. Whitefield spent most of his time visiting the neighboring areas, even where Wesley was attacked, preaching regularly and performing other duties for the villages of only three to five families each. By his account, the people of Georgia and South Carolina loved him, and today Whitefield is counted as one of Georgia’s founders and leading early citizens.
In Georgia, Whitefield found many orphans who could become “useful members of the Colony” if only someone would take them in. As he traveled through the region, he was further convinced of the need for the orphanage project—a project that would be a major aspect of his life and enterprise. Whitefield also had a nice talk with Alexander Garden, who oversaw the Church of England in the region from Charleston. Then he departed for England (to be ordained as a priest because there was no Church of England bishop in America), intending to return and begin work on the orphanage. His desire to found the orphanage may have been rooted in his own fatherless childhood, which produced a compassion for the children whose parents had succumbed to Georgia’s hot climate. The orphanage project also provided Whitefield a cause worthy of charity, which he effectively wielded in his fundraising.
Further hardening his resolve to continue the revival when they arrived in England, Whitefield suffered a particularly grueling journey back, which he attributed to opposition from Satan. The wind stopped, and the ship drifted for many days while the crew and passengers consumed the dwindling supplies. After the rations and their hope were gone, they spotted land and came to a port in Ireland. Whitefield, writing in retrospect, believed the devil was attempting to kill him and thwart the coming revival.
If my friends ask me, why I arrived no sooner, I may truly answer, Satan hindered us. For I believe it is he who is permitted to do this; but this still gives me greater hopes, that a more effectual door than ever, will be opened in England for preaching the everlasting Gospel.
In his promotional materials he used the difficult journey as “evidence” that a supernatural force was against him. His London critics were offended by his claim in two ways. First, most enlightened church leaders did not believe that God, or the devil, intervened in the affairs of men in this manner. The Enlightenment period of philosophical history was already exerting its influence on theology, and supernatural acts were being increasingly explained by science. Second, his claim that the devil himself took notice suggested that whoever else might oppose him was inspired by the devil. His critics could not accept that without finding themselves in a tight spot. Because of such statements, they either had to support or oppose him. Arriving in London for ordination, Whitefield’s popularity and his desire to preach caused him to stay in England instead of returning to Georgia immediately. While in England, he continued building his revival enterprise and used this opportunity to raise money for the orphanage.
Whitefield spent the next year in England filling vacant pulpits in Gloucester, Bristol, and London, improving his already spellbinding preaching style, perfecting the business of revivals, and continuing his rise as a preaching sensation. At this time, he committed to being a traveling preacher. Whitefield believed that “a [single] sermon from a stranger may do more good than many from those the people are constantly used to.”
During his six-month stay in England, in between his first and second American tours, Whitefield became a purpose-driven, dedicated young man. He had a dream to “preach the Gospel … in every Province in America belonging to the English.” To accomplish this monumental task, he developed an efficient organizational machine, complete with a public relations team that made advance arrangements and publicized his meetings. Whitefield expressed a vision of having the whole world as his parish. Founded on the conversion experience, he sparked an international movement that crossed all denominational boundaries within the British Empire. Whitefield’s first step would be to establish a national “parish” in England, where he met growing opposition from the Church of England. But people were as eager to hear him as ever, as Whitefield noted:
Preached nine times this week and expounded near eighteen times with great power and enlargement. I am every moment employed from morning till midnight. There is no end of people coming and sending to me.
As he traveled around southern England, Whitefield collected money for the orphanage and began to perfect the strategies he would use in his revivals. He fine-tuned his preaching style, increasingly used the print media, and added a team of friends to assist him.
Impressive as it was, Whitefield’s preaching was still developing, and he would shortly employ two more tactics that would lift his enterprise to an even higher level: extemporaneous sermons and outdoor preaching. As was customary for British ministers, Whitefield still took a full manuscript of the sermon to the pulpit and read it (declamation). But after returning from America, he tried preaching from memory, without the notes or a manuscript. Whitefield commented about this significant shift: “This is the first time I have preached without notes … but I find myself now, as it were, constrained to do it.” To deflect criticism from jealous ministers who scrutinized anything different about him, Whitefield credited God with this shift to extemporaneous preaching, claiming that he would hinder God’s work if he used notes.
Abandoning the manuscripts gave his preaching a sense of naturalness that enhanced his messages even further. Unchained from paper notes, Whitefield could more effectively act out biblical players in his sermons, moving, gesturing, punctuating and underscoring his words with vigorous action. But more profoundly, it shifted his mental processes from the left side of the brain (analytical and logical) to the right side, where his creativity and performance were energized. His style did not look “acted” and was supported behind the scenes with memorized themes composed with artful language, which he could recall and deliver word for word. The naturalness of his preaching came from his belief that he was telling people the truth. Without a manuscript, he was also free to adapt his sermons to the special situation of each audience as his relationship with them unfolded in the performance. He could change directions as he sensed a need. Whitefield could now genuinely interact with people who were accustomed to listening to a sermon, not participating in one. If an audience became too emotional, Whitefield knew how to calm them so they did not miss an important point. Armed with his theatrical skills, carefully composed ideas, and the freedom to have a conversation with his listeners, Whitefield spoke in a way people had never experienced.
The second innovation took him out of the small church buildings (there were no mega-churches in that day) and moved his revivals outdoors where the force of his powerful voice and his public relations abilities could reach even more people. Whitefield’s shift to preaching outdoors was his response to the organized opposition from a group of bishops who were locking him out of the churches. As his vision expanded, opposition increased. In the summer of 1739, the bishop of Gloucester ordered Whitefield to preach only in the parish to which he had been assigned. Whitefield refused, replying, “But, my lord, if you and the rest of the Bishops cast us out, our great and common Master will take us up.” In this response, the leaders saw an independent spirit that caused concern.
Whitefield’s conflict with the Church of England’s bishops peaked when he was invited to preach at St. Margaret’s Parish where, unbeknownst to him, someone locked the regular minister into a closet, while another person, purporting to be a church officer, gave Whitefield permission to preach. But the minister did not stay locked up forever. News of the malicious incident caused many churches to close their doors to Whitefield as they accused him of masterminding the scheme. Whitefield denied any knowledge of it, but the closing of churches gave him the excuse to move his ministry outdoors.
Whitefield’s first outdoor sermon took place on February 17, 1739. He had been encouraged by stories from Howell Harris, a Welsh evangelist with whom he had been exchanging letters. Whitefield preached in a field at Kingswood to an audience of two hundred, and afterward exclaimed, “Blessed be God that I have now broken the ice!” Whitefield immediately recognized that people who would not come to a church would go to a park. Within a week, ten thousand people were gathering to hear him. One can only imagine the reaction of his critics! Although he was not the first to preach outdoors, Whitefield’s talents and the excitement surrounding him drew hordes of people to his meetings. His ability to attract a crowd, combined with his incredibly loud voice and a willingness to travel, provided the means to reach people face-to-face as never before. It was a mass-media innovation that equaled the introduction of radio, TV, or the Internet in the twentieth century.
In addition to increasing crowd size, outdoor preaching emphasized the nondenominational nature of his enterprise. To him there was but one church—his parish—in which all members equally shared in the family. His acceptance of all Christian denominations sent a strong message about unity. Members of groups that broke away from the Church of England—commonly called “dissenters” in history books—who would not set foot inside a Church of England building, would come to a field or park to hear Whitefield with no qualms. He moved his message to neutral ground, bypassing any bias people had about the Church of England. The outdoor sermons also soothed people’s misgivings about entering a sacred place while in a state of sin. He took his message to them.
Whitefield claimed that God was confirming these controversial changes by his improved health after preaching, by the success of his message, and by God’s hand of judgment on his enemies. A few days after he began preaching without notes, he was so ill that he was almost unable to speak, but upon entering a pulpit he claimed, “God gave me courage to begin, and before I had done, I waxed warm and strong in the Spirit.” Whitefield attributed this upturn in his health to God’s miraculous touch and interpreted it as divine approval of his extemporaneous preaching. Whitefield said to his critics, “See ye not, ye opposers, how you prevail nothing? Why do you not believe that it would not be thus unless God was with me?” Conversely, God’s blessing on Whitefield meant judgment upon his most relentless opponents. Upon hearing that one of them was given only a few days to live by physicians, Whitefield took the opportunity to say, “Alas poor man! … We all prayed most heartily for him, knowing how shortly he must give an account of what he had most unjustly said and written against me.” Within one month of beginning outdoor, extempore preaching, Whitefield was attracting crowds of over twenty thousand people. Now the Church of England and political leaders had something they could really fear. But before they could take action, Whitefield returned to America.
Through the first half of 1739, Whitefield traveled across southern England, perfecting his new techniques, preaching everywhere he could to immense audiences, and successfully raising money for the orphanage. As the tour progressed, he fine-tuned two additional strategies to reach England’s masses. The first has been labeled “print and preach.”1 Whitefield’s publications were already being circulated by this time, and he was keeping his name in the news with the help of media-savvy colleagues like William Seward. The publicity generated by the printed sermons and Seward’s public relations work fueled his popularity, drawing the crowds to his revival meetings. Secondly, Whitefield employed a “preach and return” strategy.2 After preaching in one location, he would leave and preach elsewhere, returning when he sensed his popularity had peaked and another visit would have an even greater effect. Whitefield’s travels would not follow a straight line through an area but would include backtracking before moving on to another region. No politician or minister before him had ever developed and employed such advanced (and modern) promotional methods.
Seeing his ministry the way a farmer would see his fields helped Whitefield to understand the nature of evangelization. The new birth did not happen instantly in Whitefield’s view. It took some time as God predestined, called, and justified the convert. Yet a person could prepare their own heart by seeking God and forsaking sin, making the salvation process easier. Whitefield believed that the ground (human hearts) must be “plowed and broken up” before the “seed” (God’s word) could be planted. Whitefield and others used “terror” sermons to do the plowing and then preached on conversion for the “planting.” Then, after a time of “germination,” and “cultivation,” Whitefield could return and claim a harvest. The prepared heart would have time to receive grace as the conversion progressed. Upon returning to an area where he had already performed these tasks, Whitefiled would preach cultivation sermons on the need for religious societies, or he would preach lifestyle sermons that condemned certain sins or practices and encouraged virtue. At this point the new believers could begin to receive teachings and connections with other believers, both of which were essential to a healthy Christian life.
An “enterprise,” as Frank Lambert has labeled it, is by far the most accurate term to describe Whitefield’s revival ministry. He took great pains to manage his public image, promote his meetings, satisfy the demand for his published sermons, and collect funds for his orphanage as well as his travel expenses. Understanding the role of his appearance in the formation of a public image, Whitefield made extensive efforts to prepare his clothes and wig for preaching events. To counter charges that he was fanatical or radical, he always appeared in public in his official preacher’s robe and wig to reinforce his commitment to the Church of England and look like any other respectable minister. Because he was criticized for smiling too much, he even sat for a portrait with a somber expression on his face to foil perceptions that he was the “radical enthusiast” portrayed in London political cartoons. For six months in 1739, Whitefield matured as a businessman, promoter, and preacher. His second trip to America would bring a tested and smooth enterprise to the task of reaching everyone in the British colonies.
Whitefield the Orator
The famous philosopher David Hume said that Whitefield “was worth going twenty miles to hear.” Precisely what was it about his preaching that drew people to hear him? Certainly any short drama routines he incorporated into his sermons were new and interesting. Since we have no electronic record of Whitefield’s eloquence, and since the firsthand witnesses who imitated him (Patrick Henry was one) are deceased, the only chance we have to visualize his manner of delivery is through the writings of friends and antagonists. Oratorical delivery is hard to grasp in writing. The subtle combinations of voice inflection, facial expression, and gesture are exceedingly difficult to capture and describe in a meaningful way. Nevertheless many have put their impressions of Whitefield’s style into words, and these form the only available image of Whitefield’s preaching.
John Gillies, a traveling companion and Whitefield’s earliest biographer, described Whitefield’s appearance in some detail: “His person was graceful and well proportioned; his stature rather above the middle size. His complexion was very fair. His eyes were dark blue in color, and small, but sprightly … His features were in general good and regular. His countenance was manly.” Most portraits of Whitefield show a portly figure of a man, but Gillies insisted that “in his youth he was very slender, and moved his body with great agility to action, suitable to his discourse,” projecting an energetic, dynamic manner. In addition to Whitefield’s insistence on being well dressed, his “deportment was decent and easy,” observed Gillies, “without the least stiffness of formality; and his engaging, polite manner, made his company universally agreeable.” Thus, in appearance and polite manner he charmed his audiences.
The texture of his enchanting voice may be forever lost, but several people attempted to capture it in words. Gillies provided the most extensive evaluation of his vocal skills, which others confirmed:
He had a strong and musical voice, and a wonderful command of it. His pronunciation was not only proper, but manly and graceful. Nor was he ever at a loss for the most natural and strong expressions. Yet these in him were but lower qualities. The grand sources of his eloquence were, an exceeding lively imagination, which made people think they saw what he described; an action still more lively, if possible, by which, while every accent of his voice spoke to the ear, every feature of his face, every motion of his hands and body, spoke to the eye; so that the most dissipated and thoughtless found their attention involuntarily fixed, and the dullest and most ignorant could not but understand.
According to Joseph Beaumont Wakely, a later biographer, Whitefield’s voice was “smooth, variable, and could express the gentlest emotions.” Yet he could also raise his voice into “thunderpeals” that caused ears to tingle and hearts to tremble. His voice could carry for a mile if the weather conditions were right. One account reports a range of up to two miles!
Whitefield’s natural speaking style stands as a thread of continuity in various descriptions from friends to enemies. The term “fake” was never used—not even by his enemies. Gillies asserted that Whitefield failed to offer any appearance of falsehood in his discourse, seemingly genuine in both his thundering accusations and emotional pleadings, recalling his voice as “exceeding strong; yet … softened by an uncommon degree of sweetness,” and that his demeanor “was utterly devoid of all appearance of affectation.”
When faced with an indifferent audience, Whitefield would stamp his foot for attention and ask “Where’s your contrition! Where’s your tears! Nobody weeps! No meltings amongst you! Come, my friends, I will weep with you and for you.” And Whitefield himself regularly wept while preaching. For him the consequences of the audience’s response to his message was of ultimate importance and deserved his unrestrained emotional investment: “Would weeping, would tears prevail on you, I could wish my head were waters, and my eyes fountains of tears, that I might weep out every argument, and melt you into love.”
In addition to his emotion-laden voice, one biographer records an account of a witness who recalled that Whitefield’s impact “was owing to his voice in part, but more to his expressive face. That face, said he, was like a canvas, and the preacher painted on it every passion that stirs in the human breast.” Whitefield’s theater training undoubtedly sharpened a natural skill in communicating with facial expressions. Some people’s faces display every emotion freely and clearly, in contrast to people who control and mask what they are feeling. On one occasion, when Whitefield was preaching in Philadelphia, a German woman who spoke no English commented after the sermon that “never in all her life had she had such a quickening, awakening, and edifying experience.” The emotion and messages carried in his voice and upon his face gave her a deep satisfaction. This experience is supported by present-day experts who routinely assert that 93 percent of communication takes place through tone, gesture, and facial expression.
His audiences, for the most part, believed him and responded with self-concern. Every biography of Whitefield records the white furrows cut by tears in the coal-stained cheeks of miners in England as they listened to him preach after a day in the mines. The human voice, according to modern researchers, has the ability to carry emotion and implant it in those who are listening. Psychologists call this effect the “emotional contagion,” and it can have a powerful impact on listeners as the emotions felt by the speaker are transferred into the hearers through vocal inflection and facial expression.3 The emotion with which Whitefield could clothe words was observed by the actor David Garrick, famous for introducing a “natural style” of drama to the British stage: “Whitefield could make his audiences weep or tremble merely by varying his pronunciation of the word Mesopotamia.” On another occasion Garrick said (or quipped), “I would give a hundred guineas if I could only say ‘O’ like Mr. Whitefield.” A Whitefield biographer commented on the reception he received from notable members of London’s theater community:
Oratory so perfect and so exciting could not fail to bring some actors among the motley throng that listened to him. [Samuel] Foote and Garrick might sometimes be seen side by side; their opinion was that the sermon was preached best when preached for the fortieth time.
In an oratorical age of flat and stale preaching, Whitefield provided a contrast that few people could resist.
Whitefield’s style was also unique enough that people recognized it when mimicked. He had a West Country accent with a curious pronunciation of particular words. He pronounced “Lord God” as “Lurd Gud.” Samuel Foote’s comedy play would open with Foote mimicking Whitefield in his monologue. Patrick Henry, widely acclaimed as a fine orator, and who said “Give me liberty or give me death,” owed much to Whitefield’s preaching style. A striking story came from a drinking club in Delaware. The club employed a “negro boy [sic]” to clean up and serve drinks, and on occasion he would mimic famous people. One night they asked him to imitate Whitefield. He refused for a while but then gave in, jumped up on a table and exclaimed, “I speak the truth in Christ. I lie not. Unless ye repent, you will all be damned.” He captured Whitefield perfectly and brought him right into the room, where the club’s patrons were doing exactly what Whitefield regularly condemned. The stunned men broke up their party and closed the club.
Not all of Whitefield’s contemporaries were so flattering, and instead found flaws in his style that countered his strengths. Henry Angelo, a prominent London citizen, contrasted Whitefield’s “energy, feeling, and pathos” with other instances of “extravagant ravings, and pious rhodomontade [vainglorious boasting].” Samuel Foote explained that “like the cow, after giving a good pailful of milk, he was apt to kick it down again.” Angelo and Foote were among the many in the British upper classes who would attend Whitefield’s events for their appreciation of his oratorical skill.
However, expressing a more balanced view of Whitefield’s ability, historian Alan Heimert explains that those who called him “a fulminating and flailing declaimer” were overzealous in their observations, and that “less partial observers suggest that there was in fact nothing extravagant in Whitefield’s manner.”4 Even Whitefield’s friend John Gillies offered an honest portrayal: “Had his natural talents for oratory been … somewhat more improved by the refinements of art and the embellishments of erudition, it is possible they would soon have advanced him to distinguished wealth and renown.” These sober reflections by his biographer and a noted historian suggest that Whitefield’s effect was not simply due to emotion, as we will see in later chapters.
As Whitefield left England in August of 1739, his London popularity had been reported across the Atlantic in colonial newspapers and created widespread curiosity. In fact, detailed news of his enterprise was just hitting the American press as Whitefield arrived in Philadelphia, providing an ideal environment and perfect timing for his debut. The next fifteen months would see him in every colony and alter the face of the continent as the Great Awakening followed in his footsteps. His tour would shake up the American colonists, challenging not just their standing before God, but their personal identities. Whitefield would call them into his expanding unified parish through a message of conversion.