Where Love Illumines (Where There is Love Book 2) Page 2

  “Oh, no, not another church service,” Sarah groaned. “Attending the Abbey every day after breakfast is surely quite enough care to take of one’s soul.”

  “But I should hope you won’t attend the countess during any regular services of the Abbey.” Maria, John Tudway’s shy wife, spoke up for the first time that evening. “That would show the greatest disrespect to the established church. My dear papa feels such behavior can lead to grave errors. He has warned me repeatedly against entanglements with enthusiasts.”

  Mary thought Rowland looked a little uncomfortable at this speech from the woman seated next to him. It gave Mary great satisfaction when she was able to catch his eye with a telling look.

  A few moments later, Maria requested her mother-in-law’s permission to leave the table. With a look that clearly expressed her hopes that Maria’s desire for rest would soon be followed by an interesting announcement from her second son and his wife, Mrs. Tudway nodded approval. This left no one sitting between Elizabeth and her brother. She turned to him and spoke in a low voice. “Rowly, I have had a letter from our mother. As I know you intend to depart early in the morning, I feel I simply must speak to you most plainly.”

  Mary could not help overhearing this private conversation between brother and sister.

  “Elizabeth, you know how dear mother is to me. I would never choose to cause her distress.” The candlelight shone on his long face with the square jaw, heavy eyebrows, and kind mouth.

  “Then, Rowland, you must give up this course you are pursuing. Enthusiasm can only bring disgrace upon yourself and the entire family. Papa has received a letter from the Master of St. John’s.” Elizabeth paused for emphasis.

  “Yes?” The tight voice with which the single word was spoken revealed Rowland’s nervousness.

  “If you continue to visit the prisons and hospitals and preach in the fields around Cambridge, you will force the authorities to take action. Rowland, you must give this up.”

  “But no one tells our brother Richard he must give up his faith. No one tells our sister Jane she has disgraced the family by espousing a personal religion.”

  “Your personal faith is just that—a personal matter. I do not speak of it. As indeed such matters should never be spoken of. It is your activities. Why can’t you behave as other young men your age? All of England, except a few Jews, are Christian—why must you make public display of it?”

  “‘To him that knoweth to do good and doeth it not, it is sin.’” Rowland spoke quietly. Mary could see that this was one situation he did not find humorous.

  “But does not the fact that you are the only one who believes so in your entire university class of thirty-two gownsmen indicate that perhaps it is you who are wrong?”

  “Nay, sister, it is you who are wrong.” And Mary noted that the sparkle had come back into his eyes. “In the entire university there are three others who would be identified as Christians.”

  “My point precisely. A total of four gownsmen and no Master or dons?”

  “I fear not. But the shoeblack at the gate always has a smile for me. Indeed, for the first year I was there, until I found my three friends, he was the only one in the university who would smile at me. But truly, our numbers have grown.”

  Knowing the real situation, Mary realized that his humor was self-deprecating. For a moment her heart went out to him. How difficult to be one of only four holding out against the entire university on a matter of faith.

  Later when the other guests had departed, Rowland took his leave of Mary. Again he showed no sign of his characteristic humor as he bowed over her hand. “Mary, I am to return to Cambridge for my final term. If all goes well, I should be ordained by summer. When that is accomplished, I wish to speak to you more to the point.”

  Even more than his words, the look in his brown eyes elated and confused Mary so that it was impossible for her to form a reply. Fortunately his rapid departure made speech on her part unnecessary. She stood in the hall with the warm memory of his lips just brushing her fingertips as lightly as if she had dreamt it. His words left no doubt of their meaning; yet what could he be thinking? Did he expect her to marry a Methodist?

  Then she smiled with a brilliance born of new hope. If he cared for her as deeply as his words indicated, he surely would change his actions. On their next meeting she would persuade him. It was only a matter of time until Rowland Hill would become a sensible young man.

  Two

  It was to be some time, however, before Mary had her chance at persuasion. A few weeks later, Rowland sat studying the Greek New Testament with a newly enlarged group of gownsmen in his rooms at St. John’s, Cambridge.

  “I daresay.” Robinson yawned as he ran a hand through his blond hair. “My brain has had all the Greek it cares for tonight, and I still need to read that passage of Locke before the lecture tomorrow.”

  Frampton, a newcomer to the circle, looked at Rowland and the three others who had started the group. “I’m afraid my brain has had quite a bit more than it cares for. Did you say you fellows have been swatting away at this for years—on your own?”

  Rowland smiled. “Ah, now we are a veritable houseful—twelve of us, just like the early disciples. But for my first years here, Penty, Sims, Robinson, and I had to make do with one another’s company in toto.”

  “Which wouldn’t have been so bad,” Pentycross said grinning, “except that it meant putting up with Hill’s little jokes.”

  “An unhealthy situation, you’ll agree.” Simpson waved at the air around him as if to clear away the harmful humors.

  “Ah, yes.” Rowland nodded. “I have always been most grateful to the letter H, for without it I should have been ill all my life.”

  The gownsmen’s groans were interrupted by Rowland’s somber gyp Bottisham bringing in a tray of coffee. But a short time later, over steaming cups of the milky liquid, the conversation turned serious again. “It does seem to me,” observed the freshman Frampton, “that since St. John’s is a richly gifted college in livings and so many of the gownsmen look forward to a clerical life, the college preparation of only a chapter or so of weekly Greek construing from the Gospels is hardly adequate.”

  “Which is why we read together on our own, no matter how the authorities frown on it,” Robinson said. “Of course, we are also required to attend lectures, but not one word do we ever hear of the early church, of the fathers of the faith, or of the doctrines of Christianity. We have Locke and Aristophanes, but not one work of true religion.”

  “And so the young gentlemen obtain college prizes, proceed to ordination, and have livings bestowed upon them.” Simpson’s voice was thick with disgust. “After which they grow obese, read the Quarterly Review, and die at last of fat rot. These, my friends, are England’s clergymen.” He hit the table for emphasis.

  Frampton set his cup down and drew back in his chair. “Surely you are a bit harsh.”

  Rowland shook his head. “Sims is harsh but not inaccurate. The clergy are not entirely to blame though. They receive no instruction in Christian doctrine. Every word of the mysteries of the faith is as strange to their minds as if they were Mohammedans or Buddhist monks.”

  “Little wonder our churches are mortuaries when our church leaders are dead.” Simpson’s frown darkened.

  “Sick, very sick, but not quite dead, Sims,” protested Rowland. “Some of the serious clergy have been brought to deep repentance and converted from a life of debauchery. Then for the first time they begin to read the Scriptures and find a true knowledge of God.”

  But Rowland’s words had little effect on Simpson. “Indeed, I hope there are many. But you’ll not find them at Cambridge. The university produces half the clergy of the kingdom. It is an ever-teeming fountain of bishops, priests, and deacons. The Masters of colleges are mostly dignitaries of the church, and two-thirds of all the fellows of the colleges are ministers. And yet religion at Cambridge is entirely theatrical; everything is done for show. All is pomp and cere
mony—white linen and scarlet robes, wax candles, organs, anthems, and processions.”

  “But not just at Cambridge,” Robinson reminded them. “The sermons in most pulpits are dull and the gospel unknown. Preachers talk about virtue and justification by good works, a little against enthusiasm, and a good deal about the duty of being an Englishman.”

  “And when our small number is gone, who shall be here to light the flame in all this darkness?” Pentycross asked.

  Rowland Hill nodded. “I, too, have given that serious consideration. I am convinced that we must pray heartily for the next generation of Cambridge students, that they will have someone to lead them in the way.”

  After his companions departed, Rowland sat over his guttering candle. How he longed to change it all. If the divinity students filling Oxford and Cambridge could be taught the truth of the Scriptures, presented with honest faith, and meet Jesus Christ personally, the entire nation could be changed in a generation. But the pulpits and pews would have to be filled with people whose hearts burned with vital faith. The empty churches needed to be turned into centers of holy fire. Then England could blossom as the truly Christian nation it was meant to be.

  Rowland slipped to his knees. For some time he interceded for God to bring this miracle of renewal to his land, to his fellow gownsmen, to those around Cambridge to whom he preached, and to his own family. Finally, he came to prayers for Mary. His last talk with her had been far from satisfactory, and her heated words stung his memory. He had cared deeply for her for many years. Would he have to choose between his love for her and his vision of reawakening England to a true knowledge of Christ?

  He stayed long on his knees, the room growing cold as his mind struggled—visions of life with Mary playing tug of war with his visions of preaching the gospel. At last he rose and snuffed his almost-drowned candle flame. “Lord, I love you more even than I love her.” With a sigh of resignation he pulled his blankets over his head. He knew his prayer was right, but he didn’t find it cheering.

  The next morning, Rowland found nothing to comfort him but his naturally buoyant nature and his faith in God’s lordship over all. The morning’s lecture on Locke was cold and sterile, but less numbing than the compulsory chapel service that followed it. Rowland couldn’t help wondering if required chapel attendance wasn’t actually an evil. At that moment he could conceive of nothing worse than forcing undergraduates to attend chapel and take the sacraments. The Scripture was clear that one should not partake unworthily, and yet the system forced troops of young profligates to receive the Lord’s Supper.

  “‘…Therefore with angels and archangels, and with all the company of heaven, we laud and magnify Thy glorious name, evermore praising Thee, and saying, Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of hosts; heaven and earth are full of Thy glory; glory be to Thee, O Lord most high. Amen.’” The priest monotoned the glorious words at such speed that, had Rowland not known them by heart, he would have had no idea what was being said.

  Their black academic robes and caps whipping in the spring wind that whistled through First Court, Rowland and Pentycross left the chapel, crossed into Second Court under the statue of the college founder, Lady Margaret Beaufort, and went up the staircase to Rowland’s rooms.

  Crossing the larger outer room where the group had met the night before, they went on to the inner sanctum, as Rowland called it. This was a smaller, cozier room with a well-worn green carpet and a case of his most cherished books. Pentycross was telling of the time he went out shooting with a local clergyman. “We were some two or three miles from Cambridge when he said to me, ‘We must go on a little to the right to St. Mark’s Church. I have promised to take a funeral there at three o’clock.’ We reached it in time and stopped at the outer gate. ‘Keep the dog and my gun,’ quoth he. He leaned the gun by the gate, tucked up his trousers into breeches, went in, performed the funeral, came forth, took up his gun, patted doggie on the head, and we went on as before, shooting our way home. Now I ask you, Hill, would you like to be buried by such a priest?”

  “Indeed, not.” Rowland rang the bell for his gyp to bring their morning coffee. “I should not like to be buried by any priest just at the moment. There are a number of things I hope to accomplish first.” The twinkle was back in Rowland’s eye.

  “Fah, Hill! Must you make a joke of everything?”

  Rowland held up his hand. “No, no. I quite take your point. A minister who truly cared for his flock would use such a time to offer the comfort of true faith in Christ—which this man couldn’t do because he didn’t know it himself.”

  Pentycross’s reply was cut short by the entry of Rowland’s lugubrious servant.

  “Nice to see you looking your usual cheerful self this morning, Bottisham.” Rowland took his coffee and the morning post the college servant held out to him. “Ah, riches indeed. Three letters in the post.”

  He started to set them aside, then noted that the top one was from John Berridge. Rector of the nearby village of Everton, Berridge was one of the small number of clergymen in the established church who preached a personal, saving faith in Jesus Christ. He served as mentor to the young band of Cambridge Christians. “This one’s from Berridge. Shall I read it out?” Pentycross nodded vigorous assent.

  Dear Rowly,

  My heart sends you some of its kindest love. How soft and sweet are those silken cords which the dear Redeemer ties about the hearts of His children!

  I hope you will have leisure to call upon me soon at Everton. Until then may grace, mercy, and peace be with you. May heavenly truth beam into your soul and heavenly love inflame your heart.

  Be faithful and diligent, and look up to your Master continually for direction and assistance. Remember His gracious promise, “Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.” He will supply you with wisdom, strength, and courage, for He sends none upon a warfare at their own cost.

  Go out, therefore, and work whilst the day lasts; and may the Lord Jesus water your own soul and give ten thousand souls to your ministry. I am with great affection your

  J. Berridge

  Rowland looked puzzled. “I wonder what prompted that?”

  Pentycross shrugged. “He has undoubtedly heard of the official objections over your preaching to those in prison and visiting the sick and orphans.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s all. Well, I must call on him soon.” Rowland smiled and sipped his coffee, but he was unusually quiet. A small frown creased his forehead.

  “Do you preach at the Castle today?” Pentycross asked, as he set down his empty cup.

  “Yes. In about an hour’s time. Will you go with me?”

  Pentycross nodded, agreed to meet him at Magdalen Bridge, then took his leave.

  Rowland turned to his unopened post and broke the red seal on a missive in his father’s unmistakable, powerful handwriting. He had read only a few lines when he knew he was glad he had read Berridge’s words of encouragement first, because his father’s were far from encouraging:

  …and, therefore, I hope to hear you have renounced this irregular preaching. Your mother and I deeply regret this signal mark of indifference to the established church, which we fear might soon strengthen into defiance of its power and renunciation of its principles.

  Your activities are such as to represent you as a headstrong and heedless zealot. Such a hopeless branch many would cut off and leave to take root and flourish where it could or wither through want of stability and support. It is through the influence and intercession of your brother Richard, however, that I will not take such a drastic step. You must know though that if such activities continue on your part, I will be forced to reduce your allowance, at the very least.

  Rowland put the letter down with a slow shake of his head. Why couldn’t his family understand? They were such good people—the solid aristocracy upon which the strength of England rested. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for their family, their country, or their church. But there was nothing they could do for God
because they did not know Him, although they called themselves Christian and attended church regularly.

  And Rowland respected all the traditions they stood for. He would never willingly do anything to hurt or embarrass his family. He was proud of his pedigree and hoped his family could be proud of him. But his allegiance to his Heavenly Father demanded first place. If only he could make them understand.

  He turned with relief to the third letter, this also from his family seat, Hawkstone, but in his brother Richard’s hand. Here he would find support and encouragement from one who understood his heart and shared his faith.

  Still, the news was not heartening. Richard wrote to inform him of storm clouds gathering at Oxford over the heads of a small band of Christians very like his own society at Cambridge. Rowland had kept up a lively correspondence with the Oxford group and had encouraged them much. But it had been several weeks since he had heard from them, and now he knew why. Activities of the Oxford Methodists had come to the attention of the college authorities.

  …In spite of repeated warnings from the dons, our friends think it cowardly to desist, even though they are threatened with loss of character, degrees, orders, and even expulsion itself.

  Our friend Mr. Hallward assures me that they are unmoved by these things and that for his part he “considers it a happiness and privilege to be counted worthy to suffer reproach for Jesus’ sake with the little flock.”

  Dear Rowly, you must proceed cautiously that you not bring similar recriminations upon your own head. In Oxford the lion has roared, though I think he has had but little real cause. Beware you give him not cause in Cambridge.