Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Read online

  Clouds alternated with sunshine as Whitefield continued to build the solid doctrinal foundation on which he based every sermon. In a moment when sunbeams and shadows crisscrossed the room, he stretched out his arm at a moving shadow. “See that emblem of human life! It passed for a moment and concealed the brightness of heaven from our view. But it is gone! And where will you be, my hearers, when your lives are passed away like that dark cloud?

  “O my dear friends, I see you sitting attentive, with your eyes fixed on this poor, unworthy preacher. In a few days we shall all meet at the Judgment Seat of Christ and every eye shall behold the Judge! With a voice whose call you must abide and answer, He will enquire whether on earth you strove to enter in at the strait gate? Whether you were supremely devoted to God? Whether your hearts were absorbed in Him?”

  Now the sun was gone, the room dark, and thunder rumbled in the distance. “My blood runs cold when I think how many of you will seek to enter in and shall not be able. What plea can you make before the Judge of the whole earth?”

  The storm was almost overhead. In the eerie light of the thunderclouds, George Whitefield held his arms aloft and cried, “O sinner! By all your hopes of happiness I beseech you to repent. Let not the wrath of God be awakened! Let not the fires of eternity be kindled against you.”

  Forked lightning streaked past the windows. “See there! It is a glance from the angry eye of Jehovah. Hark—” He lifted his finger and paused. A tremendous crash of thunder shook the room. As it died away the preacher’s deep voice spoke from the semidarkness. “It was the voice of the Almighty as He passed by in anger!”

  Whitefield covered his face with his hands, fell to his knees in silent prayer while the storm subsided. When the sun shone again in a few minutes the windows reflected a magnificent rainbow. Whitefield rose and pointed at it. “Look upon the rainbow and praise Him who made it. Very beautiful it is in the brightness thereof. It compasseth the heavens about with glory, and the hands of the Most High have bended it.”

  It was several moments before anyone moved in the room. At last Lord Bolingbroke rose, shook out the lace ruffles beneath the wide cuffs of his green velvet coat, and crossed the room to the speaker. “Sir, I am much moved by your address. Will you call upon me tomorrow morning?”

  “I would be much honored, my Lord.”

  It seemed that Bolingbroke’s stamp of approval was what all were waiting for, as now all the guests surged around the speaker. Lord Chesterfield, godfather to the young Earl of Huntingdon, the Countess’ son, shook Whitefield’s hand. “Sir, I will not tell you what I shall tell others—how I approve of you.” He stayed for some time, affably conversing with the preacher.

  But the outspoken Dowager Duchess of Buckingham was less enthusiastic as she took leave of her hostess. “I thank your Ladyship for the information concerning the Methodist preacher. But I find his doctrine most repulsive. It’s strongly tinctured with impertinence and disrespect toward his superiors.”

  She turned toward all the room and tapped her walking stick on the parquet floor. “It is monstrous to be told that you have a heart as sinful as the common wretches that crawl upon the earth. I find this highly offensive and insulting. I cannot but wonder that your Ladyship should relish any sentiments so much at variance with high rank and good breeding.” With a toss of her head, she exited, the still-fatigued Duchess of Queensberry following in her wake.

  As the noble guests made their departure and the room became easier to move about in, Catherine gravitated to Sally Wesley’s side, desiring first to compliment her on her excellent musicianship. But they had the opportunity to exchange only a few words before they were joined by the guest of honor himself. “And how is the excellent Mrs. Wesley?” Whitefield asked.

  “Very well, Sir, I thank you.”

  “And how are you getting along in the book I made you a present of?”

  “Exceeding well.” She turned to Catherine. “Mr. Whitefield made me a wedding present of William Law’s A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life.”

  “It is a gift I never tire of giving to others, for I never forget the great longing I had to possess a copy.” Catherine was especially interested in Whitefield’s words, as she recalled Phillip having told her that the book and its author had a great influence on his life. “I was just leaving for my first term at Oxford,” Whitefield continued, “when I called on a friend who kept Gloucester’s best bookshop. He showed me the brand-new book which had just arrived that day from London, but allowed me to hold it for a few minutes only, lest my grubby fingers spoil the calf. In those brief moments, though, I read enough to fire me. I still recall the passage.

  He therefore is the devout man who lives no longer to his own will, or to the sway and spirit of the world, but to the sole will of God; who considers God in everything, who serves God in every thing, who makes all the parts of his common life, parts of piety, by doing everything in the name of God, and under such rules as are comfortable to His glory.

  “That precise passage provided the recipe I followed for salvation,” Charles Wesley said, as he joined them. “Law was counselor-in-chief to both my brother and myself during the years of our night of legalism. We often walked from Oxford to London to talk to him. His book convinced me of the exceeding height and breadth and depth of the love of God. The light flowed in so mightily upon my soul that everything appeared in a new view, and I cried to God for help.”

  The artist Loggan, who at Tunbridge Wells had declared his desire to hear more of the Countess’ doctrine, joined them in company with the poet Lord Lyttelton. “And reading that dissenting fellow’s book changed your life? Remarkable!”

  “The book and its author. They convinced me of the absolute impossibility of being half a Christian. I determined, through His grace, to be all devoted to God, to give Him my soul, my body, and my substance.”

  “But what did the fellow say to bring on such a determination?” Loggan asked.

  Wesley returned Loggan’s bow and hastened to answer his question. “With respect to an inward means of atonement, or reconciliation to God, Mr. Law declared his unequivocal belief that through the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ alone, and by means of His suffering on the cross solely, mankind can be delivered from a state of sin and misery. That was the good news I had sought for years.”

  With a deep bow accompanied by a flourish of his green velvet coat skirts, Lord Lyttelton said, “That’s William Law, you say? I once took up his book at a friend’s house. I was so fascinated I could not go to rest until I had finished it. You can well imagine I was not a little astonished to find that one of the finest books ever written had been penned by a crackbrained enthusiast. Oh,” Lord Lyttelton surveyed the circle to whom he spoke, “I daresay, that wasn’t very tactful of me, was it?”

  Wesley laughed. “Don’t give it another thought; if crackbrained were the worst we were ever called, we should be remarkably complimented. But I believe much of Law’s greatness lies in the fact that his sensitivity to logic is as marked as his sensitivity to conscience. Many of our number may be crackbrained, but I don’t believe the term applicable to Mr. Law.”

  The poet bowed and the silver thread on his coat shone in the light now streaming in the windows. “Perhaps that is why the book had such a powerful effect upon Dr. Johnson. I recall he told me he had become a sort of lax talker against religion, for he did not much think against it. He said this lasted till he went to Oxford and there took up Law’s Serious Call, expecting to find it a dull book as such books generally are. ‘But I found Law quite an overmatch for me; and this was the first occasion of my thinking in earnest of religion after I became capable of rational inquiry.’ I believe I have Johnson’s words exactly, as they made a profound impression upon my mind.”

  The conversation then became general and the Perronet party left a few minutes later, with Sally expressing her warm desire that she and Catherine should meet and visit more during the days she and Charles were to spend in Lon
don.

  The very next afternoon, just after Catherine had dismissed her students to their noon meal, Sally saw her in the courtyard and called, “Do come up to John’s rooms; he has begged that Charles and I make free of them while we’re here.” Sally led the way to Wesley’s apartment and prepared tea for them in the large ivory and blue teapot made especially for John Wesley by Josiah Wedgewood. Catherine read the inscription on the pot,

  Be present at our table, Lord,

  Be here and everywhere ador’d;

  These creatures bless and grant that we

  May feast in paradise with Thee.

  Sally poured the tea into little handleless dishes. “Oh, how good it is to be in a well-appointed house. I so long to set up housekeeping.”

  “Have you and Charles no place of your own?” Catherine tried to keep the surprise out of her voice.

  “Alas, no. We have been riding circuit.”

  “On your honeymoon?” And this time Catherine made no attempt to hide her shock.

  “Do not misunderstand. I’m not complaining. I’m most eager to share in my husband’s work. And always we have the most sweet fellowship in the sacrament and in prayer. I could ask for nothing more, truly.” She paused. “It is just that sometimes the circumstances have been rather, er—uncomfortable.”

  Such gentle understatement aroused Catherine’s sense of humor and soon the tea was cooling in the dishes while the women exchanged stories of their circuit-riding experiences. “…and then my mare dropped a shoe, which occasioned so much loss of time that we could not ride across the sands, but were obliged to go round through a miserable road. And then, our guide lost his way, so that we arrived at the ferry too late for the last crossing…” Sally paused for a sip of tea while Catherine told of their near-disastrous crossing of the flooded river.

  Then Sally took up the conversation. “The next day Charles was preaching to near three thousand when the press-gang came and seized one of the hearers. They even tried to take Charles, but he told them that as a duly ordained minister he was acting under protection of the King’s law, and they left him alone.”

  Catherine then contributed her experience with the military in Canterbury.

  “I do not believe Satan likes our work,” Sally said. “But a higher One protects us. We were in a Society meeting in a home in Camborne when a member cried out, ‘We will not stay here; we will go to Lefroy’s house.’ That house was in quite a different part of the town, but we all rose up and went, though none of us knew why. Soon after we were gone, a spark fell into a barrel of gunpowder, which was in the next room to the one we had vacated, and blew up the house.”

  “Such a story builds my faith. I have wrestled long with the matter of God’s guidance in our lives.”

  “And have you reached a conclusion?”

  “I am certain He guides… if we but have the faith to follow. I think it is now a matter of understanding His perfect timing. Perhaps it is just that I am too impatient,” and she spread her hands in a helpless gesture.

  Sally laughed, and said, “Oh, how good it is to talk to one who shares my feelings! I have no answers either, but so many questions. And I do know that holding onto the good times—all the times God has answered and fulfilled His promises—has gotten me through the bad times.

  “Like the evening Charles was preaching in a barn when he began to sink out of sight before my very eyes. I never knew worse fear. I thought he was to be taken away from me right there. It transpired that the barn had been built on a marsh and the weight of the crowd made the floor sink. No one was hurt, and we continued with a glorious service in the field. That night many even fainted under the sense of Divine love.”

  Then Sally laughed again and finished her story in a hushed voice, “And that night in the inn, the mattress collapsed right through the bedstead and we were obliged to sleep on the floor.” She finished with a blush.

  Catherine had promised Durial she would not be late, so with repeated professions of friendship, the women parted, promising to have many more such visits.

  But that was not to be; for when Catherine reached Greenwich, she found Durial headachy and fretful, and still struggling to carry on with the housework. For many days Catherine’s time was fully consumed and allowed no leisure for anything but duties at school and home. Even her resolution to visit Elmira Smithson had to be postponed.

  Eighteen

  PHILLIP, HOWEVER, WAS carrying forth his program of prison visitation with success. He had gone back every day since that initial visit to pray with the little band of condemned men. There were now fifteen who regularly crowded into the murky, fetid room to sit on the dirty straw covering the cold stone floor and listen to the words of comfort Phillip brought them. Lancaster continued to be his strongest support, every day bringing a new prisoner to the group.

  But most remarkable of all was Doyle, who had entered spewing curses on that first visit. Following Lancaster’s continued witnessing, Doyle had asked forgiveness for his sins and was now a most enthusiastic worker amongst his fellow prisoners, going from cell to cell, sharing his own clear sense of forgiveness and striving to bring the same to his fellow sufferers.

  Today Phillip sat on the straw with the condemned men and listened to Doyle preach. “I say to you, it matters not which side of the walls we be on. It is absolutely impossible to be happy, either in time or eternity, without knowing your sins are forgiven….”

  Phillip couldn’t help thinking what a shame this man was due to be hanged in two days. If he could have received an education, he would have made a fine preacher. His voice, which reverberated so well off the stone walls, could have carried as well in a parish church.

  But then, as Phillip rose, and his own voice filled the stone room with prayer, he reflected that the same might be said of himself. He too was preaching in prison when he would sooner be ministering in a church. He suppressed a sigh that it was not to be so.

  At the end of his prayer, however, he looked at the faces around him and had to ask forgiveness that he had complained. For the moment this was his place of ministry, and he would do it to his utmost, with thankfulness to the God who allowed him a place.

  He turned to Atkins, a youth of about nineteen. “Are you afraid to die?”

  “No, Sir. Really, I am not.”

  “Wherefore are you not afraid?” Phillip continued the catechism.

  “Because I have laid my soul at the feet of Jesus; therefore, I am not afraid to die.”

  Phillip continued around the room. Next was Gardner, a journeyman carpenter, about fifty, who gave a strong report of what the Lord had done for his soul. And on down the row, to one Thompason, an illiterate young man who, in spite of a severe speech defect, gave assurance that he too was saved from the fear of death, and was perfectly happy in his Saviour.

  That evening, Phillip went home knowing that the next night would be his last with those men. Although hardly a humorous situation, he couldn’t suppress a small smile at the irony. He had prayed fervently for a congregation he wouldn’t have to leave. So he was supplied with a congregation that would be leaving him.

  He lit his fireplace, but did not take off his coat. It would be some time yet before the room was comfortably warm, even on a June night. But the flame would be enough to fry a rasher of bacon to accompany his evening tea. Stepping to his cupboard he saw the letter his landlady had laid on his bed.

  At first the name Perronet made his breath come in a strange way; but on second look, he saw that the post was from Vincent, not from his daughter. He lit a candle to supplement the dim light from the window and read. The words brought such a surge of hope to his heart he jumped to his feet and circled his small room in five strides before making himself read the letter through a second time.

  … As the Bishop of Ely is an old friend of mine, I have taken the liberty of writing to him myself to recommend you for this post. I was able to tell him I have personally heard you preach in my own pulpit. Further, with Camb
ridge in his diocese, he should be well-disposed to your academic credentials.

  I wish you well, my Son. May His blessings go with you.

  Vincent Perronet

  The living at Grantchester was open, and in the gift of the Bishop of Ely. That lovely village on the banks of the Cam, just outside Cambridge, was without a vicar. A vicarage—not just a curacy. It was far more than he had dared pray for.

  Phillip’s first impulse was to pack clean linen in his bag and set out at once. Then he stopped and smiled for the second time that evening. Such impulsive behavior was unlike him; besides, he could not leave yet. He had a commitment at the Fleet to fulfill first. He cut two slices of bacon from a slab and placed it in a wire rack to cook over the fire. In spite of the excitement in his heart, this night would be spent the same as every other—alone in his room.

  The next night, however, was unlike any other he had experienced. Armed with adequate money for garnishment, Phillip convinced the inner keeper to give the condemned men the opportunity of assembling together in one cell so that they might pass their last hours together in prayer. The men came in quietly and sat on the straw and stone. Nothing in their outward appearance showed that they had but a few hours to live. Phillip began the gathering by reading from the Prayer Book, first the Commination, “Now seeing that all are accursed who do err and go astray from the commandments of God, let us (remembering the dreadful judgment hanging over our heads) return unto our Lord God with all contrition and meekness of heart, bewailing and lamenting our sinful life…”

  Lancaster led the others with a loud, “Amen.”

  Then Phillip turned to the Psalm, “Have mercy upon me, O God, after Thy great goodness; according to the multitude of Thy mercies do away mine offenses. Wash me thoroughly from my wickedness; and cleanse me from my sin, for I acknowledge my faults; and my sin is ever before me.”