18. Cooling Off
Can there be too much righteousness?
The answer depends on the definition. One person’s pastime is another one’s vice. When Whitefield’s revival came sweeping through town—any town—it demonized many behaviors that were previously considered quite innocent. We’ve already seen how George’s adolescent piety ruled out card playing and theater going. At minimum, these were diversions, mindless entertainments that kept people from seriously focusing on the things of God.
“Oh that the divine spark may again kindle in the heart till it become a flame of fire!” George wrote from Philadelphia to a clergyman friend back in England. “When with you last, I thought you spoke too favourable of horse-races, and such things. But what diversion ought a Christian or a clergyman to know or speak of, but that of doing good?”1
This was the method of the Methodists, devoting so much time to prayer, praise, Bible study, and good deeds that there was little left for anything else. This was the life a convert was reborn into—as George described it in that same letter, “a life exactly conformable to the holy JESUS.”2
Wherever George went, he saw so-called Christians who had lost their ardor for true holiness. Instead, they were spending their time and energy in worldly pursuits, such as card playing, drinking, dancing, or horse racing. This was evidence that they had not been reborn into the righteousness God wanted for them. George wasn’t just telling people to avoid these “sinful” actions; he was summoning them into a new Christhke life in which those diversions would not belong. People responded emotionally to his emotional message and then confirmed their emotional response by rejecting these unholy behaviors.
As a result, the purveyors of such distractions found George Whitefield bad for business. This proved true later for the London theaters, as Whitefield preached outdoors in their neighborhood, and it proved true in 1739 for a dancing hall in Philadelphia.
A notice appeared in the Gazette the week after George’s second sweep through Philadelphia: “Since Mr. Whitefield’s preaching here the Dancing School Assembly and Concert Room have been shut up, as inconsistent with the doctrine of the Gospel: And though the gentlemen concerned caused the door to be broke open again, we are informed that no company came to the last Assembly night.”3
This anonymous news item, accepted by Franklin for inclusion in his paper, was apparently a victory cry from Whitefield’s supporters. Look how thoroughly the gospel has taken hold of this city. Even the dancing school has shut down!
One problem: it wasn’t entirely true. Some of those who ran the dance hall demanded that Franklin print a retraction, which he did in the next issue, declaring, “I have often said, that if any person thinks himself injured in a public newspaper, he has a right to have his vindication made as public as the aspersion.” And then he printed a lengthy message from the aggrieved parties, stating that “William Seward, who came into this place as an attendant and intimate companion of Mr. Whitefield’s, . . . took upon him to invade other men’s property; and contrary to law and justice, on the 16th of April, shut up the door of the Concert Room, without any previous application to, or consent had of any of the members.”4 It was true that there was no one attending the next night, but that was because the season was over, and there were no more dance nights scheduled for a while. The dance hall would be back in business, thank you very much. Those overrighteous zealots had not won a victory here.
The letter went further, charging Franklin and other newspaper editors with puffery in regard to Whitefield. “Nor is this the only instance of misrepresentation in favour of Mr. Whitefield’s success; for in all those articles of news, which give an account of the vast crowds who compose his audience, their numbers are always exaggerated, being often doubled and sometimes trebled.”5
To his credit, Franklin printed the entire complaint. Because many elite Philadelphians attended concerts at the dance hall, this incident was taken seriously. And Franklin now had to answer charges of twisting the facts to favor Whitefield. This was a turning point for the printer. He began to put some distance between himself and Whitefield. While his early treatment of the preacher was 90 percent positive, he now began to even it out, printing more critical letters.
Early in his newspaper-publishing career, Ben had printed an “Apology for Printers,” in which he set forth some principles of fair play. “When men differ in opinion, both sides ought equally to have the advantage of being heard by the public; and that when truth and error have fair play, the former is always an overmatch for the latter.”6
Some of these principles seemed to anticipate future criticisms: “It is unreasonable to imagine printers approve of everything they print, and to censure them on any particular thing accordingly; since in the way of their business they print such great variety of things opposite and contradictory.”
He further noted, “If all Printers were determined not to print anything till they were sure it would offend nobody, there would be very little printed.”7
These were the principles he touted once again. From this new, more evenhanded position, Ben benefited from the controversy as much as the craze. The dance-hall debate was the underlying subject of that ersatz exchange between “Obadiah Plainman” and “Tom Trueman.” The elite Trueman was highly offended that an unruly mob of Whitefield supporters would close down a refined place of entertainment where the “better sort” gathered. Plainman was offended that the working class was considered a “mob.”
William Seward seemed unrepentant, but he met with Franklin and the dance-hall owners to work things out. “Call’d at Mr. Franklin’s the printer’s,” Seward recorded in his journal, “and met Mr. P—and several other gentlemen of the [Dancing School] Assembly, who accosted me very roughly, concerning a paragraph I had put in the papers, alleging it to be false.”
Seward claimed that he acted with “great sweetness and calmness of temper,” but his account of this meeting seems rather belligerent. After explaining that he was once as fond of dancing as they were, he added, “I prayed the Lord to convince them of their error, as he had done me of mine.” He told Mr. P that “if he could prove that Jesus Christ, or his Apostles, or the primitive Christians, approved of these diversions, I would yield up the point; but as they could not pretend to do that, I did insist they were as odious in the sight of God, and did as effectually promote the Kingdom of Satan, as any of the heathen idolatries.”8
So much for sweetness and calmness of temper.
In modern times, we might call this a culture war. Here’s a born-again Christian trying to change society in what he thinks is a positive way—by shutting down the dance hall. And here are some members of that society who don’t want to be changed. And there, literally in the middle of that discussion, is Benjamin Franklin. While he promoted and practiced a life of self-discipline, he would have had no problem taking an occasional quaff of ale or a spin around the dance floor. From his youth, he was familiar with the strictures of Puritan life, but he seemed to have sorted through those to arrive at a general policy of moderation: work hard, play well, and get a good night’s sleep. Was this paragon of practicality now to be linked with the methodical overrighteousness of George Whitefield? Would Methodist zealots squeeze all fun out of public life? Granted, Seward might not have handled this dispute the way Whitefield would have, but his aversion to diversions lined up with George’s. One can imagine Ben sinking lower in his chair as he heard Seward rail on about the “Kingdom of Satan.”
Or maybe he enjoyed watching the dance-hall snobs sweat. As we see in the ensuing Plainman-Trueman dialogue, Ben understood this not only as a culture war but also as a class war. If the dance hall was where the “better sort” went to get away from the rabble, then maybe it was a “heathen idolatry,” or something like that. If the working class wanted to let out their frustrations at people who never did a lick of work, and if they used religion to do it, why not give them the power of the press?
Always the pragmatist, Ben found a way to make this work. As a newspaper editor, he would reposition himself at the center of this debate. He would consider all sides and give everyone a hearing. Yet, as a publisher, he would continue to put out Whitefield’s best-selling books. He would be Whitefield’s printer, but not his lackey.
The dance-hall debacle did not destroy Franklin’s relationship with Whitefield, but it might have raised a red flag. If Ben felt an initial attraction to George’s energy, his passion, or his nonconformity, it was now balanced by the realization that George’s vision of a perfect world was much different from Ben’s. George was calling people to be fully Christian even if they thought they were Christian before. Righteousness meant more than good citizenship; it involved a radical change of priorities, a complete immersion in the things of God. As he learned more about George’s vision, Ben might have found it less inspiring and more alarming.
As Franklin biographer Walter Isaacson put it, “By the fall of 1740, Franklin showed signs of cooling slightly toward Whitefield, though not toward the profits that came from publishing him. The preacher’s efforts to make him a ‘new born’ believer in Calvinist orthodoxy wore thin, and valuable patrons among the Philadelphia gentry began to denounce the Gazette’s ardent flackery.”9
Ups and Downs
By the time George Whitefield delivered a farewell sermon in Charleston, South Carolina, in late August 1740, his second American tour had already been remarkable. He had been in the colonies nearly a year, visiting Philadelphia four times, Savannah twice, and New York twice, with many sermons delivered in between. An orphanage was now being built for him in Georgia and a meeting hall for him in Philadelphia. Thanks largely to Ben Franklin, his publishing efforts extended his message to those who couldn’t hear him personally or those who just wanted to take in more of his message. From New York City southward, people were talking about Jesus. They were excited about their new relationship with God. Lives were being changed.
Yet 1740 was turning out to be difficult for George on several fronts. The trip had taken a toll on George’s already sketchy health. “Several times I was so weak before I began to preach, that I thought it almost impossible for me to get through half the discourse; but the Lord quickened, enlightened, and supported me above measure. Out of weakness, I became strong.”10
George had also faced more opposition on his second time through the area. In the fall of 1739, he was a curiosity, a celebrity, a burst of energy in a humdrum world. Supporters thronged, and opponents were awed. But when he returned to these same towns in the spring of 1740, his enemies were ready for him. More churches were closing their doors. Preachers were warning against him. There were even some critical letters appearing in the newspapers. George’s victory parade had become a march into battle.
As with the dancing hall, the Whitefield camp itself sparked some of this opposition. Seward’s news reports, reprinted fully by many editors (including Franklin), were effusive in their praise of Whitefield, and this invited mockery. Whitefield did not shrink from criticizing errors of theology or practice wherever he saw them—especially among the religious elite. In particular, he had written a lengthy diatribe against the writings of Archbishop Tillotson, a well-respected liberal churchman who had dominated Anglican thought in the previous half century and had died in 1694. Years earlier, Franklin himself had written in praise of Tillotson’s clear writing style—and still he published Whitefield’s scathing critique, in which George famously charged that the archbishop “knew no more about true Christianity than Mahomet [Muhammed].”11
Papers throughout the colonies and back in England picked up the quote. Churchmen who had been weaned on Tillotson’s writings cried foul. As a result, many more Anglican churches were closed to Whitefield’s services, their leaders specifically referring to this piece about Tillotson.
This, then, was the context of Franklin’s new distancing policy. Ben was declaring his independence, in a way. He would keep Whitefield in the news, but he would not be George’s pet publisher. Controversy sold papers, and Ben would play both sides. That was just good business.
And it was very good business. One scholar reported, “From 1739 to 1741, Franklin published 110 titles—as many as he printed during the previous seven years. Almost all the increase came from Whitefield.” In certain cities Whitefield’s works were more profitable for Ben than his own bestselling Poor Richard’s Almanac. In 1740 alone, “Whitefield wrote or inspired thirty-nine titles, or 30 percent of all works published in America.”12 Other printers throughout the colonies were publishing volumes by and about Whitefield, but Franklin remained the most active. George kept giving Ben sermons and journals to publish. Apparently he was willing to accept the new reality: Ben would not always avoid printing critical pieces.
Heartstrings
There were also some major relationship issues tugging at George’s heart in the summer of 1740—a failed romance with a woman back in England and an even more painful rift with his old mentor, John Wesley, who was preaching and writing about God’s grace in a way that George disagreed with. Put in its most basic terms, Whitefield had become a Calvinist and Wesley had not. Whitefield believed that God called (elected) certain people into salvation and that an emotional response to the gospel was evidence of God’s calling. Wesley held that salvation was available to all. One other sticking point between the two preachers was perfectionism. Wesley believed that God’s sanctifying work could and should make a believer effectively perfect. Whitefield insisted that earthly perfection was unattainable.
The differences came to light in 1740 with publications by the two men and letters between them. “Why then should we dispute, when there is no probability of convincing?” George asked in a March 26 letter to John. “Will it not in the end destroy brotherly love, and insensibly take from us that cordial union and sweetness of soul, which I pray GOD may always subsist between us? . . . How glad would the enemies of the Lord be to see us divided? How many would rejoice, should I join and make a party against you? And in one word, how would the cause of our common Master every way suffer by our raging disputes about particular points of doctrines?”13
There were many more “Dear John” letters as the year unfolded, always with the same call for peace—although George was not compromising his convictions. On May 24 he wrote: “I write not this, honoured Sir, from heat of spirit, but out of love. At present, I think you are entirely inconsistent with yourself, and therefore do not blame me, if I do not approve of all that you say.”14
On June 25 it was “For Christ’s sake, let us not be divided amongst ourselves.”15 On August 25: “I cannot bear the thoughts of opposing you: but how can I avoid it, if you go about (as your brother Charles once said) to drive John Calvin out of Bristol?”16 A month later: “I am sorry, honoured Sir, to hear by many letters, that you seem to own a sinless perfection in this life attainable.”17
There were letters received from other friends in England, reporting on Wesley’s preaching. George longed to hear from John directly. Part of the problem, of course, was the ocean that separated the two men. On November 9 Whitefield wrote that he had just received John’s letter dated March 11. It’s hard to carry on a civil debate with an eight-month lag. George could only reiterate his own position and ask for understanding. “Oh that we were of one mind: for I am yet persuaded you greatly err.”18
The emotional agony of this situation is evident in the correspondence. “Honoured Sir” was not just eyewash—Whitefield truly honored John Wesley as a trusted advisor and role model. No one, with the possible exception of Charles Wesley, had meant more to the early development of George’s faith. Yet now they were on opposite sides of a theological argument that both felt was crucial to a proper understanding of the gospel. “My dear brother,” George wrote on November 24, “for Christ’s sake avoid all disputation. Do not oblige me to preach against you; I had rather die.”19
As if the emotional ups and downs of 1740 weren’t yet enough, at some point that fall George got a letter from Charles Wesley. It was a welcome document for several reasons. For one thing, Charles had been seriously ill, and some newspapers in England had even reported his death. Here he was announcing his recovery. The letter was also a sort of olive branch, acknowledging the division between Whitefield and the Wesleys and seeking peace between them. “Be assured, my dearest brother, our heart is as your heart.”
But Charles had bad news to pass on as well. Concerned about the spiritual welfare of his mother and his sister, George had asked Charles to look after them. Reluctantly, Charles reported, “Your mother continues dead in sin. . . . Your sister (God help her! God convert her!) is far, very far, from the kingdom of heaven.”20 In America George Whitefield was welcoming crowds into the kingdom, but his loved ones back in England were still on the outside.
The Next Step
Why didn’t Whitefield just head back to England in August 1740? After a year of constant travel, frequent preaching, health issues, and emotional turmoil, he could have packed it in, declaring this mission accomplished and heading home victorious. He had taken Philadelphia by storm. He had conquered the middle colonies with the power of the gospel. He had returned in triumph to Savannah. But there was one more challenge he chose to tackle.
New England.
The ship he took from Charleston landed not in the old ports of old England, but in Newport, Rhode Island, arriving September 14. From there he visited Boston and the surrounding towns for several weeks, then worked his way west through Massachusetts and south through Connecticut to New York, Philadelphia, and back to the orphanage. It was an ambitious addendum to an already grueling trip.
Avoiding John Wesley might have been one reason he extended his American tour. In his May 24 letter he told Wesley, “I dread coming to England. . . . I dread your coming over to America, because the work of God is carried on here (and that in a most glorious manner) by doctrines quite opposite to those you hold.”21 Maybe God was marking out different turfs for the two preachers. Wesley was carrying on a very successful ministry in England, picking up where Whitefield had left off, especially with outdoor meetings among the coal miners and other common folk. Though George was refusing to budge on his theology, he didn’t want to cause division among the new believers who had come to faith through this international revival. “Sometimes I think it best to stay here, where we all think and speak the same thing: The work goes on without divisions, and with more success, because all employed in it are of one mind.”22
While George was evading internal controversy in the Methodist cause, he knew there would be plenty of external controversy. There always was—but New England would bring even greater challenges, and this might be why George had not ventured there before this time.
Boston was, of course, home to the Puritans. While George’s Calvinism would be welcome there, his dramatic, emotional methods would not. Harvard College was there, and George had all sorts of issues with the way it overintellectualized the faith. And in Northampton, Massachusetts, was a famous minister named Jonathan Edwards—a man George Whitefield highly respected and possibly feared. Would George be able to get through this gauntlet?
The common folk of New England were quite ready for Whitefield. They had been reading about him for a year now, as Franklin’s colonial printing network shared stories about his work in the other colonies. When he disembarked in Newport, Rhode Island, George was welcomed with the usual mixture of acclaim and curiosity.
Franklin’s Gazette printed a news item from a Newport correspondent: “Last Lord’s Day arrived here the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield from South Carolina, who preached two excellent sermons on Monday in the Church of England. . . . Great numbers of people flocked from all quarters both in town and country to hear his sermons and exhortations, and many of them could not refrain shedding tears.”23
The final stage of Whitefield’s phenomenal preaching tour had begun.