Where Love Illumines (Where There is Love Book 2) Read online

  “That is true, sir. I have occasionally done so. I had the honor to be invited by Mr. George Whitefield to fill both those pulpits while I was a student.”

  The bishop shook his head slowly. “Does not the catechism teach us that our duty towards our neighbor is to submit to the king and to all that are put in authority under him—governors, teachers, spiritual pastors, and masters? To order ourselves lowly and reverently to all our betters? Have you not violated this in choosing to preach in places unconsecrated by the Church of England?”

  “I hope not, sir. I love the Church of England. I am unalterably attached to her articles and liturgy.”

  “And you are not troubled with conscientious scruples in subscribing to them, as are many Methodists?”

  “None, sir. I believe no person could ever exceed my admiration of the spirituality and beauty of the Book of Common Prayer.” Rowland reverently rested his hand on that book as he spoke.

  “And yet I have heard many reports of your preaching in fields and praying extempore. This is not showing submission to your spiritual masters.”

  “If it seems so, sir, it is because I put my duty to God first,” Rowland spoke quietly.

  “And what is your duty toward God?” the bishop continued his catechism.

  Rowland answered in the words of the prayer book in a voice that told they were indeed the words of his heart also. “My duty toward God is to believe in Him, to hear Him, and to love Him with all my heart, with all my mind, with all my soul, and with all my strength; to worship Him, to give Him thanks, to put my whole trust in Him, to call upon Him, to honor His holy name and His Word, and to serve Him truly all the days of my life.”

  As the bishop was silent, Rowland continued. “I believe I can best fulfill this duty and serve Him most truly by preaching. I long to be ordained that it might be within the church; but if that is not to be, I must do as my conscience tells me and preach without.”

  The bishop continued to sit in silence for long moments, the tips of his fingers pressed tightly together before his face. At last he spoke. “It grieves me to have to refuse so qualified and intent a young man, Mr. Hill. But I detect in you what I can only name as a spirit of rebellion to authority, which I believe to be of grave danger to yourself and to the church; and, therefore, I cannot sign your papers.”

  The bits of snow and frozen rain that flew at him were nothing compared to the icicles those words stabbed into Rowland’s heart. As he made the torturously slow two-hundred-mile ride to London, he saw places where he might have held field services, villages where he knew farmers likely to loan their barns for his use, but he hadn’t the spirit. For once his passion to preach was quenched. Without the heart to proclaim the Word of God, he had no heart for anything else. It was as if Barnabas carried him along the London road by his own volition.

  And once there? Rowland had no desire to stay with Elizabeth and Clement, for he knew Mary was with them, and he could not face her in his hour of defeat. He considered going to the countess, but felt he would rather remain free of her authority. Perhaps the rooms maintained for itinerant preachers at the Tabernacle House in Moorfields? Able to think of no better plan, that was where he went.

  The spacious edifice stood on the ground of the small shed George Whitefield had erected thirty years before to assault the “vanity faire,” as he called it, of holidayers who assembled in Moorfields for entertainment at booths and sideshows on fete days. There Whitefield recorded, “Three hundred fifty awakened souls were received into the Society in one day—numbers that formerly seemed to have been bred for the hangman were plucked as brands from the burning.” As Rowland approached the large white building, he could only hope that he would find shelter for his weary soul as well as for his exhausted body.

  And comfort was waiting there for him, in the form of a letter from his old friend John Berridge. Rowland flung his saddlebags across the single chair his room provided and sat on the hard bed, feeling warmed just by holding the letter and looking at its familiar hand. And the words brought more comfort:

  My dear Rowly,

  With desire that this may soon find its way into your reading, I shall address this to you at the Tabernacle, where I am sure you will receive it when your path takes you to London. I have heard of your many hardships. I look upon your present trials as a happy omen of future service. If you continue waiting and praying, a door will open by and by. Be not solicitous about orders. When the time is right, they will drop into your lap. I would observe, concerning your present situation, that it may possibly grow more dark before it clears up. The darkest moment in the whole nucthemeron is just before break of day.

  Many souls here remember with joy and gratitude the happy times they enjoyed under your ministry. Further, I have received word from my friend in Bristol who reports that “from the Sabbath on which I had the pleasure to introduce Hill in the chapel pulpit, religion has been reviving through his instrumentality, and the flame has burned strong ever since. Other instruments may have helped, but it began with him.”

  It is without doubt, my dear Rowly, that the Lord has blessed the truth you have delivered to hundreds, nay, to thousands. I earnestly entreat you to continue in your work, as multitudes everywhere long for the time when they should hear you again. Many I have visited on their sickbeds bless God for the time they heard you, and I know of whole families stirred up to seek the Lord by your ministry.

  I continue,

  Yr friend in the faith,

  J. Berridge

  Rowland read the letter three times. Each time the smile on his face grew wider. He would have read it again, but the bells announcing time for service began to peal. Rowland Hill was to preach tonight, and he must wash the dust of the road off his hands and face first.

  It was the bells of St. Marylebone that Mary heard a few days later, as the Tudway carriage bore Elizabeth and her sister-in-law to Lady Anstine’s home in Portman Square. As soon as the callers had been served dishes of bohea in Milady’s best china, their hostess questioned them excitedly about the young preacher who was causing such a stir. “Lady Huntingdon is demanding all her friends accompany her to hear him. I haven’t done so yet, but I doubt I can hold out against Her Ladyship any longer.

  “But I simply must know, my dear Elizabeth—can he be a relative of yours? I know you are the daughter of Sir Richard Hill, and all the world says that the preacher is the son of a baronet. Can there be more than one Hill so titled?”

  Elizabeth shook her carefully coiffured head. “I believe not, Lady Anstine. Rowland Hill is indeed my brother. But that he should be in London and causing a stir with his preaching astounds me. I have heard nothing of it.”

  Lady Anstine was clearly pleased that she should serve as informant on the person leading the gossip sheets of London society. “Well, I pride myself on staying abreast of the news.” She refilled her callers’ delicate handleless tea dishes. “But you must be most anxious to hear him. Shall I send a note to Her Ladyship that you will make up her party tonight? I believe the preaching is to be in Tottenham Court Road Chapel.”

  She crossed to the fireplace and looked through several cards set there. “Ah, yes, here is Her Ladyship’s card. Yes, at the chapel. I believe that is the place Dr. Johnson called ‘Mr. Whitefield’s soul trap.’”

  As Elizabeth had no other engagements for that night, the matter was settled.

  Mary approached the evening with trepidation. She longed, yet feared, to see Rowland. If her heart had been in a turmoil the past weeks with him off in another part of the country, what would it be like now to come suddenly face to face with him after so many months apart?

  She had of late been able to put him out of her mind for quite a whole day at a stretch, but to be with him again and to hear him preach once more would without doubt bring an end to the tenuous peace she had achieved.

  Indeed, it was not necessary for Mary to see Rowland for the turmoil she dreaded to begin. They were barely seated in the best seat
s the Tabernacle offered before the countess launched into her favorite topic. “The popularity of Mr. Hill and the crowds that follow him wherever he preaches overwhelm me with astonishment and gratitude to the God of all grace, who has endowed him with such gifts.”

  Mary looked around at the large chapel chock-full of those who had come to hear the preacher. The countess’s words were true. Adding much to Mary’s amazement, the congregation drew from all classes of society. The poor who lived in the alleys of Tottenham Court Road stood behind the back benches and under the galleries; actors from nearby theaters and music halls, their bright clothing and face paint proclaiming their profession, filled the galleries; and those of the quality, as in Lady Huntingdon’s party, occupied the front pews.

  “I am so pleased you have come to town,” Lady Selina said to Mary in her soft voice. “I shall see that Mama sends you a card for her next drawing room. It is to be a very special one.” From the smile she gave Colonel Hastings sitting beside her, Mary had little doubt as to the purpose of that occasion. She assured Selina she would be delighted to receive the invitation.

  Then the countess’s voice claimed Mary’s attention again. “Rowland boldly proclaims the doctrines of the cross, and the Word of the Lord is glorified in the conversion of multitudes. Dear Captain Joss told me above a hundred awakened souls—the fruits of his preaching—have been received into the Tabernacle Society—so eminently does the benediction of our dear and precious Emmanuel rest on the labors of His servant. Excepting my beloved and lamented Mr. Whitefield, I never witnessed any person’s preaching wherein there was such display of the divine power and glory as in Mr. Hill’s. I believe him to be a second Whitefield.”

  Mary paid scant attention to the singing of the hymn, so anxious was she to hear Rowland. When the music ended, he took his place in the pulpit. The fact that he wore a froth of white lace at his neck, rather than the severe Geneva bands of the clergy, proclaimed him to be yet unordained.

  Mary was shocked that the fact should strike her so deeply. Wasn’t this what she had wanted—that he should be refused on grounds of his enthusiasm, until he came to see he must work within the parameters of the established church? But now as she saw him standing tall and dignified before her, she was glad he had not denied his belief, and she shared what she knew must be his hurt at being denied orders.

  “Matches! Matches! Matches!” This startling cry began Rowland’s sermon. He had everyone’s attention.

  “You may wonder at my text. This morning while I was engaged in my study, the devil whispered to me, ‘Rowland, your zeal is indeed noble, and how indefatigably you labor for the salvation of souls.’ At that very moment a man passed under my window crying, ‘Matches! Matches!’ And conscience said to me, ‘Rowland, you never labored to save souls with half the zeal this man does to sell matches.’”

  He then went immediately to the heart of his sermon. “How happy is the man that can assume this character to himself—a sinner saved! Stop and consider—is it you? Oh, then, what miracles of mercies have been revealed to your heart! The world by nature knows nothing of our Emmanuel; but the convinced sinner knows that he is lost without Him. He sees that he cannot be more completely fallen or more certain of destruction than he is in himself. This strikes at the root of all his self-righteous pride and compels him to cry out as with the prophet of old, ‘Woe is me, for I am undone!’”

  This strikes at the root of all self-righteous pride. Mary shifted in her seat, hoping that the stab those words brought to her heart was mere coincidence. Pride was not her problem, and she was not a sinner. Why should she feel uneasy?

  “The sinner now trembles at justice and prays for mercy,” Rowland continued. “His hopes from a covenant of works now fall to the ground. Then it is that the Spirit divinely convinces of the work of Jesus; the sinner sees it and is enabled, as his faith increases, to rest satisfied with the fullness of the work of Christ; he rejoices in the dignity of it and is happy in its security. This teaches him boldly to renounce all his homespun righteousness; he dares not bring it as a condition at first or as a wretched adjunct to complete the whole at last. No. He renounces it wholesale and is enabled to rest only upon Jesus as his everlasting all.”

  Homespun righteousness? How dare he so characterize her faith built on all the teachings and rituals of the church! Temper pushed away Mary’s tender feelings. Were it not for the throng around her, she would have told Mr. Rowland Hill just what she thought of his homespun religion lacking any stained glass or incense or embroidered vestments.

  Mary knew her ire showed on her face for all, including the preacher, to see, but she didn’t care. Let him know how deeply his words irked her. Then perhaps he would change his ways.

  But the preacher continued. “So does this new man renounce the law? Yes. As a covenant of works unto salvation, he renounces it altogether. For he is under the law of Christ, and love to Christ makes him return obedience as his privilege. Besides, Christ has given him an obedient heart. How blessed are they then who believe in Jesus; they have all things, the best of things, and all too for nothing—the free gift of God.”

  And thus, after an invitation to those who wished to seek Christ to come forward for prayer, the service closed. At least, Mary thought, she had avoided the confusion she feared the preaching might arouse in her. She was more solidly convinced of her position than ever before. And she would so inform Mr. Hill at her earliest opportunity.

  That opportunity came sooner than she thought. Rowland, who had seen the countess’s guests from the pulpit, came to them directly after the service. After he greeted Her Ladyship and his sister, he turned to Mary. “I am happy to see you here tonight, Mary. I trust you enjoyed the service.”

  “Enjoyed it? Sir, I have never been so insulted—that you should accuse me of being proud and homespun. The bishops were right to refuse you.”

  “And because you refuse me, Mary, will you also refuse Christ?” His voice was soft, and his intense brown eyes glowed with a warmth Mary found disconcerting.

  “Certainly not! I don’t refuse Christ or His church—it is you who do that.”

  Rowland moved as if he would take her hand and then stopped abruptly. “No, Mary. I will never do that. If the church refuses me to the end of my days, I will never refuse it. To acknowledge a higher Master is not to refuse His earthly instruments. But we must keep them in perspective. The rubric of the church is not our highest authority.”

  With a shake of her head Mary shifted the subject. “La, you should hear the countess sing your praises. Do you turn your back on preaching to the aristocracy? Do you mean to spend the rest of your life in Tottenham Court Road?”

  It was as if she had asked a question he had longed to answer. “Mary, let me show you where I hope to minister. May I call for you tomorrow morning?”

  “Sir, you may.” She dropped a curtsey and turned her back.

  The next morning Mary insisted that Brickett arrange her hair as carefully as for any ball, and she chose her most elegant morning gown and most richly adorned hat. She was determined to show Mr. Rowland Hill what she thought of his Methodistical ways. But the choice of a cloak brought her into conflict with her dresser. “Brickett, I’ll have none of that heavy fur-lined cloak. What’s the good of wearing my sapphire blue gown if I’m to cover all its ruching and embroidery with black wool and beaver?”

  “But, miss, the wind is exceedingly sharp today, and it looks as if it might rain.”

  “I shan’t get wet in a closed carriage, Brickett. I shall wear my blue velvet shoulder cape.”

  But when Rowland called for her a few minutes later, it was not in an enclosed chaise as she had imagined, but in an open carriage. He apologized for his inability to provide a more elegant conveyance, but explained that he had been traveling on horseback, and this vehicle was the only one available from the Tabernacle stables.

  Mary felt it a point of pride not to squabble over a mere detail. “The carriage will do quite well. A
nd you can put the calash up if the weather turns nasty.”

  They drove through the heart of London, passed St. James Park, and crossed the Thames by Westminster Bridge. On the south side of the river the buildings immediately became shabbier, the children playing in the street dirtier, and lanes leading off the main road muddier. It seemed that a gin shop stood on every corner. “This is where you would choose to minister? Before we crossed the bridge, I had hoped you were taking me to Westminster Abbey.” It wasn’t just the chill in the air that caused Mary to pull her cape closer around her shoulders.

  At the corner of Westminster Bridge Road and Blackfriars Road, Rowland pulled the carriage to a stop. Mary looked at the shabby neighborhood in dismay. “Here?” she asked in a small, choked voice.

  “Here. With the Lord’s help I would erect a standard for the gospel in the very middle of the devil’s dominion. This is one of the worst spots in London. What fine soil for plowing and sowing!”

  Mary could only shake her head.

  “The Scripture says that those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick do. Can you imagine a place more truly answering that purpose?”

  Mary again shook her head, her eyes wide with horror at the poverty and depravity around her.

  “I would go into the very stronghold of the devil’s territory.” Rowland pointed to two men in a drunken stupor on a doorstep, a jug of gin between them. “And I would build the chapel in circular form so the devil should not have a corner in it.”

  For the first time since the service the day before, Mary laughed. “I am satisfied, sir, that if Beelzebub himself were to enter, you could chase him out. And what else would you do?”

  Three urchins, two boys and a smaller girl, walked by, staring at the elegant carriage. Mary opened her purse and tossed them each a halfpenny. They grabbed the coins with whoops of delight and darted off down the alley. “Start a ragged school,” Rowland answered her question. “We should get at the children as soon as we can. The devil begins soon enough. If possible, let us steal a march on him.”