Persecution of George Whitefield

Well, we're back from our break, friends, and before we go to our time of prayer, I wanted to take this time to focus on the great British evangelist, George Whitefield. We had previously been doing a study on Azahel Nettleton and the Second Great Awakening, and I want to turn our attention to Whitefield at this time. Few men have had the international fame and impact on the kingdom of God that George Whitefield had.

Sadly, he's almost forgotten in history or often viewed as an oddity, and there's likely reasons for this. Whitefield left no denomination behind him, like Wesley did, to promote and safeguard his life and writings. And Whitefield himself declared his desire to be forgotten.

He often would say, let the name of George Whitefield perish. But few men, few preachers in the history of the church, have possessed such holy fire. His apostolic preaching startled those who heard him.

When George Whitefield preached, he was like Mount Sinai. He was altogether on a smoke. And other than Pope or King, few men were as famous as George Whitefield in his day.

I remember when I went to Gloucester, the place of his birth, and talked to some of the locals there, nobody even had heard of him. Yet in his day, he was more well-known than his good friend Ben Franklin. And I want us to look at how Whitefield was persecuted today from taking from his diary.

But first, I want to read a little bit from the foreword to my two-volume biography on Whitefield. And this foreword was written by J.I. Packer. I wanted to take a little insight.

Packer knows Whitefield better than most, and his insights are very helpful to us as we proceed. But let me read you his words. George Whitefield of Gloucester, England, intercontinental gospel preacher with a voice like organ music and a lifelong West Country accent was a phenomenon.

Let me pause there quickly, friends. When Packer's talking about that West Country accent, Packer's from the same town. In fact, he and Whitefield went to the same grammar school at St. Mary the Crypt, not at the same time, of course.

But when he's talking about that West Country accent, it's a twang. Whitefield would never say Christ. He pronounced it Croist.

So let me get back to the foreword here by Packer. Whitefield was a phenomenon. He was an unusual human being on whom God equipped and used in a quite unique way.

He was a very godly man. From the time when as a student in Oxford, he met the Wesleys. His passion was to grasp and to be grasped by the God they served, the God of the Bible, the God and Father of the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Following his conversion, he left Oxford and ministered in and around his hometown. He came to the bishop's notice and received ordination at 21, two years younger than the statutory minimum age. Overnight, he became a popular preacher, always highlighting the new birth.

Throughout his ministry, he lived by rule, maintaining a steady devotional life each day, reading and rereading the marvelous Puritan exposition of the Bible by Matthew Henry, usually on his knees, and interceding at length for the advance of God's kingdom. His penitent humility before God was lifelong and deep and was the taproot of the compassionate, confident, and confidential boldness that never ceased to amaze his hearers. He was a disciplined man, abstinence in food and drink, taking no more sleep than he needed, and he could manage on less sleep than most, and was always meticulous in his personal affairs.

A single-minded and eager, well-focused and joyful, genial and practical, he lived every day, full stretch for his Lord. Premature aging and the onset of asthma or angina, or perhaps both, did not slow him down. The odd response that he commanded whenever he preached was as much admiration for his transparent spiritual zeal as for the stupendous force of his preaching as such.

He was a very gifted man. To his natural energetic alertness and charm were added in sanctified mode all the powers that mark great actors. What were these? First, the power to command and hold attention, movement, or action as the classical theorists of rhetoric called it, is central here, and Whitefield was never still in the pulpit.

Second, big in Whitefield's case, a huge voice, capable of expressing the whole range of human emotions and attitudes, Whitefield could thunder, lament, caress, and encourage with overwhelming, heart-searching, heart-breaking power. Third, total identification with what he was projecting, not in Whitefield's case, a character on stage, but the holiness and mercy of God and the transformation of life that Christ brings when through faith and repentance we learn to live in, through, to, and for him. Fourth, the ability to make every utterance an easy flow of vivid and arresting speech.

All great actors and all great preachers can do this. Fifth, a power to impact each individual in the crowd that he or she feels personally addressed, arrested, and drawn into what is going on in Whitefield's case, persuasion from God through his messenger. Thus gifted as a dramatic communicator, Whitefield had an evangelistic and nurturing ministry in the pulpit of unprecedented power and fruitfulness.

Well, those words of Packer are true friends, and I want to read us a couple of quotes before I actually go to Whitefield's words on his actual persecution. This is from someone who sat listening to Whitefield preach. There is nothing in the appearance of this remarkable man which would lead you to suppose that a Felix would tremble before him, to have seen him when he first commenced.

One would have thought anything but enthusiastic and glowing, but as he proceeded, his heart warmed with the subject, and his manner became impetuous till forgetful of everything around him, he seemed to kneel at the throne of Jehovah and to beseech in agony for his fellow beings. After he had finished his prayer, he knelt a long time in profound silence, and so powerfully had it affected the most heartless of his audience that a stillness like that of a tomb pervaded the whole house. And I want to talk about Whitefield's labors before we go to the persecution of the man.

Henry Vann had this to say about Whitefield's dependents' labors. What a sign and wonder was this man of God and the greatness of his labors. One cannot stand amazed that his mortal frame could, for the space of near 30 years, without interruption, sustain the weight of them.

For what so trite to the human frame, and youth especially, as long-continued, frequent and violent straining of the lungs, who that knows their structure would think it possible that a person above the age of manhood could speak in a single week, and that for years, in general, 40 hours, and in very many weeks, 60, and that the thousands. And after this labor, instead of taking any rest, could be offering up prayers and intercessions with hymns and spiritual songs, as his manner was, in every house to which he was invited. The truth is that in point of labor, this extraordinary servant of God did as much in a few weeks as most of those who exert themselves are able to do in the space of a year.

And that's true, friends. Whitefield actually wore himself out at the age of 55. As a matter of fact, when he and Wesley saw each other for the last time, I believe they met for breakfast, Wesley said of him that Whitefield looked, indeed, as a very old man.

And, well, I wanna read a section from Whitefield's letters regarding his persecution. Whitefield stood on the battlefront of the gospel, friends. He went after Satan in all the places he could find him.

Whitefield took the gospel out to the highways and hedges, and he preached in the open air. People threw dead cats at him, rotten eggs. A man tried to thrust him through with a sword one time, he was trying to be knocked off his platform several times when he was preaching.

He was often harassed and ridiculed. He was lambasted in the press and ridiculed on stage in the most horrible manner. And even when he preached in Ireland, he was attacked by a mob and actually stoned.

I wanna take this time now, friends, before we go to our time of prayer, to read you his letter that he wrote on July 9th, 1757. And he wrote this from Dublin, Ireland. Many attacks have I had from Satan's children, but yesterday you would have thought he had been permitted to have given me an effectual parting blow.

When here last, I preached in a more confined place in the weekdays, and once or twice ventured out to Oxmington Green, a large place like Moorfields, situated very near the barracks where the Ormond and Liberty, that is, high and low party boys, generally assemble every Sunday to fight with each other. The congregations then were very numerous. The words seemed to come with power and no noise or disturbance ensued.

This encouraged me to give notice that I would preach there again last Sunday afternoon. I went through the barracks, the door of which opens into the green, and pitched my tent near the barrack walls, not doubting of the protection, or at least interposition of the officers and soldiers, if there should be an occasion. But how vain is the help of man! Vast was the multitude that attended.

We sang, prayed, and preached without much molestation. Only now and then, a few stones and clouds of dirt were thrown at me. It being wartime, as is my usual practice, I exhorted my hearers not only to fear God, but to honor the best of kings, and after sermon, I prayed for success to the Prussian arms, all being over.

I thought to return home the way I came, but to my great surprise, access was denied, so that I had to go near half a mile from one end of the green to the other, through hundreds and hundreds of pappas, finding me unattended for a soldier and four Methodist preachers who came with me had forsook me and fled. I was left to their mercy, but their mercy, as you may easily guess, was perfect cruelty. Valleys of hard stones came from all quarters, and every step I took, a fresh stone struck.

It made me reel backwards and forwards till I was almost breathless, and all over, a gore of blood. My strong beaver hat served me, as it were, for a skullcap for a while, but at last, that was knocked off, and my head was left quite defenseless. I received many blows and wounds.

One was particularly large and near my temple. I thought of Stephen, and I believed that I received more blows, that I was in great hopes I should be like him and be dispatched and go off in this bloody triumph to the immediate presence of my master, but providentially, a minister's house lay next door to the green, and with great difficulty, I staggered to the door, which was kindly opened to and shut upon me. Some of the mob, in the meantime, having broke part of the boards of the pulpit into lord splinters, they beat and wounded my servant grievously in his head and arms, and then came and drove him from the door.

For a while, I continued speechless, panting for and expecting every breath to be my last. Two or three of the hearers, my friends, by some means or other, got admission, and kindly, with weeping eyes, washed my bloody wounds and gave me something to smell and drink. I gradually revived, but soon found the lady of the house desired my absence for fear the house should be pulled down.

What to do? I knew not, being two miles from my destination. Some advised one thing and some another. At length, a carpenter, one of the friends that came in, offered me his wig and coat that I might go off in disguise.

I accepted of and put them on, but was soon ashamed of my not trusting my master to secure me in my proper habit and threw them off with disdain. I determined to go out since I found my presence was so troublesome in my proper habit. Immediately, deliverance came.

A Methodist preacher with two friends brought a coach. I leaped into it and read in gospel triumph through the oaths, curses, and imprecations of whole streets of Pappas unhurt, though every threatened step of the ground. Not one of these spectators of the scene can form an idea of the affection with which I was saved by the weeping morning, but now joyful Methodists.

A Christian surgeon was ready to dress her wounds, which being done, I went into the preaching place and after giving a word of exhortation, joined in a hymn of praise and thanksgiving to him who makes our extremity his opportunity, who steals the noise of the waves and the madness of the most malignant people. The next morning, I set out for Port Arlington and left my persecutors to his mercy, who out of persecutors hath often made preachers. Well, that's a reference to Saul, of course, who became Paul.

And Whitefield, when he was in New England, friends, he was introduced to a minister from Ireland. And after the introduction, Whitefield removed his beaver cap and leaning over, pointed to a large scar on his forehead and said, this, sir, is a wound I received for preaching Christ in your country. Well, that wraps up our study of Whitefield for today before we go to our time of prayer.

But let us remember these men that God used, friends, in times of revival. God used them for a reason. These men cared little for their own reputations.

They cared little for their own body. They were willing to lay everything out for their Lord. How few of us today are willing to do so.

We want to protect our skins. We want to protect our reputations. Oh God, have mercy on us.