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

  The first letter was written several years before when the first stirrings of the present conflict began, but it was as if Whitefield had foreseen the very situation Rowland faced now.

  About thirty-four years ago, the Master of Pembroke College, where I was educated, took me to task for visiting the sick and going to the prisons. In my haste I said, “Sir, if it displeaseth you, I will go no more;” my heart smote me immediately—I repented and went again. He heard of it, threatened, but for fear he should be looked upon as a persecutor, let me alone. The hearts of all are in the Redeemer’s hands. I would not have you give way, no, not for a moment. The storm is too great to hold long. Visiting the sick and imprisoned and instructing the ignorant are the very vitals of true and undefiled religion. If threatened, denied degree, or expelled for this, it will be the best degree you can take. A glorious preparation for, and a blessed presage of, future usefulness. Now is your time to prove the strength of Jesus yours.

  Blind as he is, Satan sees some great good coming on. We never prospered so much at Oxford as when we were hissed at and reproached as we walked along the street. It is a poor building that a little stinking breath of Satan’s vassals can throw down. Your house I trust is better founded—is it not built upon a rock? Is not that rock the blessed Jesus? The gates of Hell, therefore, shall not be able to prevail against it. Go on, therefore, my dear man, go on. You are honored in sharing Christ’s reproach and name.

  God bless and direct and support you—He will, He will. Good Lady Huntingdon is in town—you will not lack her prayers.

  Yours, in an all-conquering Jesus,

  G.W.

  Yes, Whitefield was right. But how could he make his family see this? How explain to his mother and father that it would be a good thing to be expelled for conscience’ sake? And Mary—would she ever speak to him again if he presented himself to her sans degree, sans ordination? He had been so sure when last he talked with her at The Cedars and hinted so broadly of what was in his heart. What would his great stand for conscience’ sake mean to her?

  He turned to his second letter from Whitefield.

  I have had a profitable conference with your brother Richard. He tells me your brother Brian may soon be gained for the Kingdom. What grace is this! Who knows but the root as well as the branches may be taken by and by: Abba, Father, all things are possible with Thee. Steadiness and perseverance in the children will be one of the best means, under God, of convincing the parents. Their present opposition I think cannot last very long; if it does, to obey God rather than man, when forbidden to do what is undoubted duty, is the invariable rule.

  Satan sees he is only a mastiff chained. Continue to inform me how he barks and how far he is permitted to go in your parts, and God’s people shall be more and more stirred up to pray for you all.

  Yours, in our all-conquering Emmanuel,

  G.W.

  If only Whitefield’s prophecy might come true, that his parents would see the light. But so far there was no sign of it.

  A knock came on his outer door. Rowland put the letters away and rose. Why did he always feel a sense of dread these days when an unexpected caller came by? If this kept up much longer, he would soon be as long-faced as Bottisham. But he relaxed when he saw his old friends Pentycross, Simpson, and Robinson.

  “Come to escort you to the Greek Testament lecture, old man. You look as though you could use some help,” Pentycross greeted him.

  “Egad, is it six o’clock already?” Rowland hurried back to his inner room to throw on his black robe and grab the soft black cap required for lectures. “Been looking over Whitefield’s letters.”

  “Oh, yes,” Pentycross said. “I remember the verse he sent me when my exhibition was withdrawn for visiting the sick and such.

  ‘Satan thwarts and men object;

  Yet the thing they thwart, effect.’”

  “And so it is with you, eh, Penty?” Simpson said.

  “Yes, I have continued quite well without their grant of thirty pounds a year. And Frampton told me later it was hearing the story of my steadfastness that brought him into our society. Would that I had thirty thousand to give up for Jesus’ sake.”

  This lecture, which the vice-provost conducted at a sacrifice of his day of rest, was the college’s great concession to the idea that young ordinands should be given some background in the Holy Scriptures. It purported to be a critical and exegetical analysis of the Gospels. The students were asked to construe a passage from St. Matthew or St. John, and occasionally the vice-provost would read from some commentator, offering an explanation of the text.

  Rowland would have infinitely preferred quiet reading in his own rooms or a study time with his friends. He felt the lecture did more harm than good, for a wine-gathering always followed Hall on Sundays. A great deal of wine was consumed in a very short time on the plea, “We’ve no time to lose, so pass the wine.” Rowland had accepted an invitation to only one such party, but it showed him why scarcely any of the gownsmen were clear-headed enough to understand the lecture.

  The week wore on with similarly unprofitable lectures. Rowland chafed at the enforced curtailment of his activities, but he was grateful for the loopholes that allowed him to visit the sick beyond Cambridge and to preach at the Castle. Of course, if the authorities had thought of those things, they would have forbidden them also, but for the moment he could continue. At times he wished for the final blow. If the decision came on the side of expelling him, then he would be released from all bounds by the college, and he could preach wherever anyone would listen to him.

  But when Pearce appeared at Rowland’s door, it was merely to inquire into his charge’s studies. He had no news of his own to deliver.

  “Pearce, you’re a good fellow to carry this brief for me. But I am wearied with the waiting. I believe I should beard the Master in his den myself. I feel such a coward hiding behind my tutor’s skirts.”

  “It’s nothing of the kind, Hill. The Master has chosen to operate in this fashion, and we must be content. If you were to go to him yourself, he would merely see it as another infraction of the rules.”

  And so Rowland waited. The one bright spot of those weary days was a letter from the Countess of Huntingdon inviting him to attend the celebration of the seventh anniversary of the opening of her chapel in Bath.

  Our dear Charles Wesley will lead the music, and our old friends Romaine and Fletcher have promised their attendance. I have hopes of Berridge. If only Whitefield were here to preach again as he did at the opening. But we must carry on apace. I shall expect you.

  Well, if he were not allowed to remain in Cambridge, his time would be his own. But even if he did complete his degree, there would be time for a visit to Bath at Easter. And if the Master’s decision was negative, he would not likely be welcome at Hawkstone; so all around, the countess’s invitation was a cheering prospect. Except that in her last letter, Elizabeth informed him that Mary and Mrs. Tudway had accompanied her to Bath. If Mary were still in the city at Easter, it could mean only a renewal of the argument started at The Cedars. He had so hoped that when he saw Mary again, he would come to her complete with his degree and ordination—solid credentials which would put an end to her pleas that he give up his irregular preaching. When fully ordained, he would not need to hold irregular services. “Lord, speed the day,” was his heartfelt prayer, as he thought of all that ordination meant to his future. But he must have his degree first.

  The last Saturday in March was mild and sunny with clumps of daffodils and crocuses blooming on the Backs of the colleges along the river and a soft spring-green frosting the fields, fens, and hedgerows beyond Cambridge. This would be a perfect day to call on his old mentor, John Berridge.

  The hour and a half ride to Everton did much to restore Rowland’s humor. He even found himself singing the last few miles.

  Just outside the village, however, he stopped singing to observe an interesting sight. A butcher, proclaimed so by his heavy, blood-stained ap
ron and the square cap on his head, was marching straight for his shop with a trail of five fine cows following him. There was no driver with a whip behind the cows, and the butcher didn’t even look behind to make sure they were following. Rowland reined in his horse and sat a moment, observing. What secret did this pied piper possess that the cows would follow him to slaughter so docilely of their own free will? At last he spotted a clue and, laughing, spurred his horse.

  At the old stone vicarage, he tossed his reins over the post and bounded forward. Berridge, who had seen him coming, threw open the door and stood with arms outspread, a broad smile wreathing his round face.

  “My dear Rowly, my very dear Rowly, what a joyous surprise! I see by your demeanor that you bring me good news.”

  Rowland clasped his friend’s hands. “Indeed, I bring you excellent news. I have just discovered a new illustration for a sermon.”

  “Well, come in, come in, and tell me.” The white-haired man led the way into his book-lined study.

  “As I was coming along, I saw a butcher followed by a number of cattle. I couldn’t at first make out how he got them to follow him. But presently I saw that he dropped some beans as he went along, and the animals picked them up and ate them. Thus he got them into the slaughterhouse and closed the door.” Rowland thumped on Berridge’s desk as if on a pulpit “This, I say, is just what the devil does. He drops worldly pleasures and concerns in the path to lead sinners to the slaughterhouse. We must warn them before the door is slammed.”

  Berridge threw back his head and laughed. “My dear Rowly, a most excellent example indeed. But have you come to tell me that you have been permitted to preach?”

  The pleasant ride, the joy of singing his favorite childhood songs, and the unexpected delight in finding new sermon material had put Rowland’s troubles completely out of his mind. But now they were back. He sank into a chair. “Alas, no, sir, I have not. There is no news. The Master delays, and Pearce tells me there is nothing more I can do but to behave with circumspection and attend lectures. It is frustrating.”

  Berridge nodded, his face serious, except for the perennial twinkle in his eyes. “Yes, it chafes. When I was a fellow at Clare Hall, Cambridge, I was surrounded with witty and amusing companions such as you well know the university abounds in. But when I ‘turned Methodist,’ I too found that the jeers and rejection indeed chafed. And I can see by the glow your little anecdote brought over you that preaching is your great love.”

  Berridge rang a small bell on the table by his chair. When his housekeeper appeared, he requested a tray—a hearty one to refresh his young friend. Then he turned back to Rowland. “Luther used to say that when the Lord had fresh work for him, a strong trial was sent beforehand to prepare him for it by humiliation. So take these present slings and arrows as precursors of God’s blessings.”

  Rowland started to speak, but Mrs. Stoke entered with a tray of cold meat, cheese, bread, and jellies. Rowland found he was indeed hungry—the hungriest he had been for days.

  “Eat up, my dear Rowly. And listen well. What better bargain can you find than to fill your stomach and your mind at the same time?” Berridge took a sip of tea laced with milk and sugar and then continued. “Study not to be a fine preacher. Jerichos are blown down with rams’ horns. Look simply to Jesus for preaching material, and what is wanted will be given; and what is given will be blessed, whether it be a barley or a wheaten loaf, a crust or a crumb.”

  He paused to push Mrs. Stoke’s basket of buns closer to Rowland. “Your mouth will be a flowing stream or a fountain sealed, according as your heart is. Avoid all controversy in preaching, talking, or writing. Preach nothing down but the devil and nothing up but Jesus Christ.”

  Rowland shook his head with a rueful smile. “Avoid all controversy! You cannot know how I should like to follow your advice. But controversy follows me as the tail follows the dog. It seems the only way I can avoid controversy is by avoiding preaching. And if I am to do that, I may as well quit breathing.”

  “No, no, you must not do that. Breathe deeply. But breathe of His Spirit. I think your chief work for a season will be to break up fallow ground. This suits the accents of your voice at present. God will give you other use of your tongue when it is needed; but now He sends you out to thrash the mountains, and a glorious thrashing it is. Go forth, my dear Rowly, whenever you are invited into the devil’s territories; carry the Redeemer’s standard along with you and blow the gospel trumpet boldly, fearing nothing but yourself. If you meet with success, as I trust you will, expect clamor and threat from the world and a little venom now and then from its children. These bitter herbs make good sauce for a young recruiting sergeant, whose heart would be lifted up with pride if it were not kept down by these pressures.”

  Berridge refilled his guest’s cup. “The more success you meet with, the more opposition you will find; but Jesus sits above the floods and remains King forever. His eye is ever upon you, and His heavenly guards surround you. Therefore, fear not; go on humbly, go on boldly, trusting only in Jesus, and all opposition shall fall before you. Make the Scriptures your only study and be much in prayer. The apostles gave themselves to the Word of God and to prayer. Do thou likewise.”

  Rowland had been listening with pleasure to the words of his spiritual guide, drinking them in, savoring them, and showing his agreement with a slight nod of his head. But suddenly Berridge took a new tack. “Now is your time to work for Jesus; you have health and youth on your side and no church or wife on your back.”

  Rowland could not keep the frown from his face, and his cup clattered in its saucer. “Ah, I see that I have touched a sore spot.” Berridge laughed. “You are thinking that now I have ceased preaching and gone to meddling.”

  “As things now stand, it appears unlikely that I shall ever, as you say, ‘have a wife on my back.’ But I do not view that as a happy state of affairs. Preaching is first in my heart, but it is not quite all.”

  Berridge was serious now. “Indeed, I am sorry to hear it. Very sorry. Grieved even. Have you not read St. Paul’s advice on the subject? I am unalterably opposed to the marriage of our young Methodist clergy. Those who will try it have been punished for their folly. Charles Wesley was spoiled for his work by his happy marriage. John Wesley and George Whitefield were only saved from making shipwreck of the cause by God’s sending them a pair of ferrets for wives.”

  “It is your advice then that if I must marry, I should take a shrew for a wife?”

  “How many a minister we have seen who in early life was active, zealous, and useful, who, when settled as pastor and united in wedlock to an amiable and agreeable woman, became—if not entirely negligent—at least comparatively indifferent and useless to the work. The attractions of domestic life are powerful; the spirit of the world creeps in, the strength of personal piety lessens, and he becomes—alas, for himself and others—at ease in Zion.”

  The conversation turned to happier subjects while Rowland finished Mrs. Stoke’s repast. He then took his leave, for he had a long ride before him. And much to think about. Was Berridge right? Even if he could persuade Mary to become his bride, would it spell disaster for his ministry? Perhaps his lack of success in wooing her was God’s answer for the pattern his life was to take. If this were so, he should rejoice in her indifference to him. But he could not do so.

  Later in the week, when the long-awaited answer came from the Master’s lodge, Rowland found that it further complicated the matter of his love for Mary.

  The warmth and scent of spring filled the air, and Rowland had no desire to return to his room or visit the library after lecture, so he continued on across tiny Third Court squeezed between Second Court and the river and walked across Kitchen Bridge. The Backs were landscaped with walks, a bowling green, carefully trimmed hedges, and a wilderness bounded by a yew hedge. Rowland was strolling along one of the gravel paths, considering following it to the fields beyond, when he heard Pearce’s voice calling.

  “Hill, I say
, Hill. I have word at last.”

  Rowland caught his breath, then turned toward Pearce. He could read nothing in either his tutor’s voice or stance. Had he come as executioner or pardoner? It suddenly seemed to Rowland that he had been holding his breath for months waiting for this moment, waiting for the blow to fall.

  Pearce didn’t even wait for Rowland to voice his questions. “I have purchased for you a peg tower. I have assurance all will be amicably settled. You will receive your degree.”

  “And what are the terms fixed upon?” Rowland was careful not to claim victory before he knew the terms of surrender, or indeed which side had surrendered.

  “In the end, the Master was exceedingly vague. Never a word was mentioned of your visiting the sick and imprisoned, dispensing Methodist books, or of frequenting houses suspected of Methodism.”

  “In short, I am free to do just what I please!” Now Rowland would permit himself to rejoice. “I perceive that the Master only wanted to draw his head out of the halter as handsomely as he could. Blessed be God!”

  With a sense of light-headed unreality, Rowland grabbed Pearce’s hand and pumped it up and down vigorously. Pearce, however, was too much the dutiful tutor to give himself over entirely to celebration. He could not consider his commission complete without a sturdy word of warning. “And now that this matter is successfully concluded that you may remain for your degree, may I suggest that you put all other matters out of your mind but the successful completion of your work. We have but one term left now to prepare for exams and orders!”

  “Indeed, Pearce.” Rowland was still shaking his hand. “Indeed. I shall be entirely at your command—after vacation. I go to Bath next week. Then my brain shall be all yours for the term to cram as much learning into it as your heart desires.”