George Whitefield
(Part 2)

The attempts of George Whitefield to reform himself through an abundance of religious acts and duties were brought to a sudden and shattering end in the pages of “that excellent treatise,” as he later called Henry Scougal's book, “The Life of God in the Soul of man.” “I never knew what true religion was,” he recalls, “until God sent me that excellent treatise.”

From the reading of the book, two things impressed themselves most firmly on the young George Whitefield; the absolute inability of man to create saving grace in his soul through the fulfilling of religious works, and the absolute necessity of being born again of the Spirit of God in order to give us a right and proper standing before the God with whom we have to do. The anecdote has been related time and time again over the years how that Whitefield was asked by a woman one evening why he preached so often on, “Ye must be born again;” “because, madame,” came his now famous reply, “ye must be born again.” The seeds of that reply, and the fact of his continual preaching on the subject of the new birth, were sown in his heart and mind as he made his way through the pages of that book that God had “sent” him. “At my first reading it,” he says, “I wondered what the author meant by saying, ‘That some falsely placed religion in going to church, doing hurt to no one, being constant in the duties of the closet, and now and then reaching out their hands to give alms to their poor neighbours.’ Alas! Thought I, if this be not religion, what is? God soon showed me; for in reading a few lines further, that ‘true religion was a union of the soul with God, and Christ formed within us,’ a ray of Divine light was instantaneously darted in upon my soul, and, from that moment, but not till then, did I know that I must be a new creature.” That piece of information and knowledge, of course, didn't make him a new creature, but from that period onwards the work of grace became evident in his life and his conversion is placed in the year 1735.

In the following year, George Whitefield was ordained to the ministry of the Church of England. His very first sermon was due to set the pattern of his life's work; “Last Sunday, in the afternoon, I preached my first sermon in the church of St. Mary-le-Crypt, where I was baptized, and also first received the sacrament of the Lord's Supper. Curiosity, as you may easily guess, drew a large congregation together upon this occasion. The sight at first a little awed me. But I was comforted with a heartfelt sense of the divine presence. As I proceeded I perceived the fire kindled, till at last, though so young and amidst a crowd of those who knew me in my childish days, I was enabled to speak with some degree of gospel authority. Some few mocked, but most seemed for the present struck, and I have since heard that complaint was made to the Bishop that I drove fifteen mad the first sermon! The worthy prelate wished that the madness might not be forgotten before next Sunday.” That same bishop sent for a copy of Whitefield's sermon and after reading it, decided to keep it and send Whitefield £5 instead, saying that he had split it into two sermons which he would preach to his own congregation the following week!

The reputation of Whitefield began to grow more and more as it became apparent that God was beginning to call out men fitted for the times which He had in His will and purpose. Few buildings could be found adequate to hold the congregations which gathered to hear the Word of the Lord. At some times it was estimated that a man could have walked across the heads of the people they were so closely packed together, and at another time, a Bristol church was so crowded that the heat caused steam to form and drop like rain on those gathered. And yet, in His own unsearchable way, the Lord saw fit to call Whitefield from these scenes and send him on his first trip across the Atlantic. This was a journey he was to make on thirteen different occasions.

We are given a fair specimen of such an undertaking in the following words; “Day after day, ploughing her way through the terrific seas, the good ship has shuddered in the grip of the gale. The sailors were at their wits' end: the sails were torn to ribbons and the tackling was all strained and broken. George Whitefield has been drenched through and through twice in one night. The ship has been so buffeted and beaten that nearly three months have passed before the Irish coast is sighted. Rations have been reduced to famine fare. Today, however, there is a lull in the storm. The seas have moderated and the sun is shining. In the afternoon, Mr. Whitefield assembles the passengers and crew, and conducts a service on the deck … standing on the hatchway, with a coil of rope at his feet, he announces his text: ‘Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.'” That scene is typical and was more than once repeated, but in this year of 1737, Whitefield is making his first crossing to America and the land and its people would greatly endear themselves to his heart and soul. His preaching, however, was without compromise, and invariably revolved around that great and eternal theme of salvation by grace alone.

The treatment of the Negro slaves laid a great burden upon him and he felt constrained to write an open letter to the slave owners of Maryland and Virginia etc. The central appeal of this letter is full of instruction, for Whitefield chooses to dwell, not on the “equal rights” of all men before God, but on the equal sinner-ship of all men. The children of the households and the slaves of the households are all equally born in sin and, therefore, all equally necessary of being born again of the Spirit of God. Here is how he finishes a sermon on The Lord our Righteousness; “Here, then, I could conclude; but I must not forget the poor negroes: no, I must not. Jesus Christ has died for them, as well as for others. Nor do I mention you last, because I despise your souls, but because I would have what I shall say make the deeper impression upon your hearts. O that you would seek the Lord to be your righteousness! Who knows but he may be found of you? For in Jesus Christ there is neither male nor female, bond nor free; even you may be the children of God if you believe in Jesus. Did you never read of the eunuch belonging to the queen Candace? A negro, like yourselves. He believed. The Lord was his righteousness. Go home, then, turn the words of the text into a prayer, and entreat the Lord to be your righteousness…”

By the time Whitefield completed his first tour of America and returned to England in the autumn of 1738, the work of the religious awakening had taken a much firmer grip; but, so too, had the spirit of opposition. “The bulk of the clergy,” we are told, “were no longer favourable to him, and regarded him with suspicion as an enthusiast and a fanatic. They were especially scandalized by his preaching the doctrine of regeneration or the new birth … the number of pulpits to which he had access rapidly diminished. Church wardens who had no eyes for drunkenness and impurity were filled with intense indignation about what they called ‘breaches of order …’ In short, from this period of his life, Whitefield's field of usefulness within the Church of England narrowed rapidly on every side.”

It is at this point, then, that the familiar gowned figure of the preacher of the fields begins to emerge.

It was to the miners at Kingswood colliery near Bristol that Whitefield first turned with his open-air preaching in February of 1739. His own description of the scene speaks of the men being greatly affected so that the tears that ran down their blackened faced made “white gutters” to appear on their cheeks. The die was cast for the 18th century awakening, and soon, vast crowds were gathering, such as the thirty thousand that seemed to hang on every word at Kennington Common. No place seemed to be deemed unsuited for the preaching of the Word. Where churches and chapels were made available these were gladly used, but a table or chair, a horseblock and even on top of a coffin on one occasion at a hanging, proved an acceptable pulpit.

As the work of the awakening spread, of course, so the opposition to the work and the workers also increased in volume and spite. In the year 1740 William Seward one of Whitefield's closest friends was stoned to death. But, the words of Whitefield himself, more or less, summed up the philosophy of most of the men that the Lord was deigning to use: “I endure all things for the elects' sakes”, he said, “… want to leave my seventy years, I long to be dissolved and be with Christ. I do not fear dying suddenly, or being dispatched by a poignard, or a pistol to make a passage for my soul to flee to Christ.” In fact, that never happened, although on more than one occasion - and especially once in the city of Dublin - he was brought right to the very brink of martyrdom itself. Be that as it may, however, Whitefield was obliged to live out his life in the midst of slander, and abuse, and opposition from day to day. He was even accused of being a “secret Roman Catholic”! “If I am a Roman Catholic,” he commented, “the Pope has certainly given me a large dispensation!” Even his personal appearance didn't escape the tongues and pens of “outrageous strife,” and a “turn” in his right eye earned him the nickname of Dr. Squintum.

A pamphlet of the times gives us some indication of the type of abuse that Whitefield was often subjected to; herein is the title page. “The Crooked Disciple's Remarks upon the Blind Guide's Method of Preaching for some years. Being a collection of the principal words, sayings, phraseology, rhapsodies, hyperboles, parables, and miscellaneous incongruities of the Sacred and Profane, commonly, repeatedly, and peculiarly made use of by the Reverend Dr. Squintum … A work never before attempted … whereby the honesty of this preacher's intentions may be judged of from his doctrine.” These things failed to move him, however and Whitefield preached his doctrine still.

(To be continued.)