Wesley as a Preacher
The great revival was by this time in full progress, and even at this early stage two concurrent and parallel lines of work are visible in it. One is aggressive, and consists of a great chain of preaching services stretching through the whole of Wesley’s lifetime, and covering the three kingdoms. The other is conservative, and is represented by the tiny societies which were formed everywhere, and within whose sheltering curves the new converts were gathered.
Wesley’s supreme instrument was preaching. He used other forces; he built schools, he organised societies, he published books, he waged great controversies, he was tireless in correspondence and conversation. But not literature, or controversy, or personal influence is Wesley’s trusted and most effective instrument. First and last the movement Wesley represents is the revival on an unprecedented scale, and with unprecedented effects, of the office and work of the preacher. “It pleased God,” wrote Paul, as the spokesman of the earliest Christian generations, “by the foolishness of preaching to save them that believe.” And in Wesley’s movement Christianity simply reverted to its first and greatest instrument of power.
But the preaching of the new movement, as we have seen, broke away from traditional forms. It was open-air preaching, not imprisoned in stone walls. It was itiueri ant preaching, not confined to fixed spots. It took the! three kingdoms for its field. It turned aside from the drowsy handfuls in the churches, and sought with eager pity the forgotten multitudes outside them, fast drifting into a worse heathenism than that which lay on British soil before Augustine landed. Instead of the pulpit the preachers of the great revival took the hill-side, the market-place, the village green, the stony city lane; wherever men would listen there they delivered their message.
Aud the new conditions created new methods. The decorous platitudes of drowsy divines, mumbled to nodding congregations, gave place to the living speech of living men; of men with a message, who felt themselves to be the direct spokesmen of the Spirit of God. If Wesley and his comrades had not been thrust out of the churches, the essential genius of the movement, the nature of the work to be done, the methods necessary for its accoml»lishment, would have taken them out. The ancient ( hannels through which truth ran were narrow at best.*’ Kud they had become fatally clogged. No current could stir in ihem. New channels must be opened; new forces called into exercise; new classes reached. So at its very first step the great revival breaks out of existing ecclesiastical boundaries. It betakes itself to the busy street, the wind-swept moors, wherever men and women for whom Christ died could be gathered. This was preaching as the first Christian century knew it.
And Wesley quickly became the most commanding figure in the new crusade. He lacked some of Whitefield’s special gifts as an orator, yet he somehow was as successful in open-air preaching as even his great comrade; and he brought to the work more orderly plans, and a more concentrated purpose, than even Whitefield.
What was the secret of Wesley’s power as a preacher? In many respects it might be imagined that he was the last man to sway an eighteenth century crowd. He was a gentleman by birth and habit, a scholar by training, a man of fine and almost fastidious taste, with an Englishmau>’ uneasy dislike of emotion, and a High Churchman’s hatred of irregularity. He had little imagination and no descriptive power. He told no ancedotes. as a rule, and certainly fired off no jests. What fitness had he to talk to peasants, to miners, to the rabble of the city, to the slow-thinking farmer drawn from his plough-tail?
Yet he stood up, a little, trim, symmetrical figure; his smooth black hair exactly parted; his complexion clear and pure as that of a girl; his hazel eyes flashing like points of .steel. And beneath his words the crowd was melted and subdued until it resembled a routed army shaken with fear and broken with emotion; men and women not seldom falling to the ground in a passion of distress. His voice had no trumpet notes; but it was clear as a silver flute, and ran across the wondering crowd to its farthest verge.
There was undoubtedly something of prophet-like force in Wesley’s preaching. He drew his inspiration from far-off realms. His printed sernions are only the bones of his spoken discourses, and they are commonly dry as bones, though they have something of mastodon-like scale. But his spiritual insight was hardly less than terrible. He seemed to see into men’s souls; to put his finger upon the hidden sin, the unconfessed fear. He had the power of making each man feel as though he talked to him alone. And there was something in his discourse — a note in his voice, a flash in his eye — that thrilled the crowd with awe, awe that not seldom deepened into dread. The mood of the speaker was one of perfect calmness. But it was the calm of power, of certainty, of an authority which ran back into the spiritual world. Nelson gives perhaps the best picture of John Wesley as a preacher. He says: —
“Mr. Whitefield was to me as a man who could play well on an instrument, for his preaching was pleasant to me, and I loved the man; so that if any one offered to disturb him, I was ready to fight for him. But I did not understand him. I was like a wandering bird cast out of its nest till Mr. John Wesley came to preach his first sermon at Moorfields. ... As soon as he got upon the stand, he stroked back his hair and turned his face towards where I stood, and, I thought, fixed his eyes upon me. His countenance fixed such an awful dread upon me, before I heard him speak, that it made my heart beat like the pendulum of a clock; and when he did speak, I thought his whole discourse was aimed at me. When he had done I said, ‘This man can tell the secrets of my heart; he hath not left me there; for he hath showed the remedy, even the blood of Jesus.’ I thought he spoke to no one but me, and I durst not look up, for I imagined all the people were looking at me.... But before Mr. Wesley concluded his sermon he cried out, ‘Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.’ I said, ‘If that be true, I will turn to God to-day.’”
Who can wonder that a preacher with this strange power could shake the hearts of multitudes, and stamp himself on the imagination of the three kingdoms!
With the exception of a few brief visits to London, and a hasty run into Wales, Wesley spent the remainder of 1739 in Bristol. In nine months, it is reckoned, he delivered at least five hundred sermons and expositions, and only six of these were in churches. His plan was to expound the Bible in one or other of the little societies every night, and spend the days in open-air services. He has left on record his teaching at this period, and to his open-air audiences. Religion, he proclaimed, does not consist in negatives; in external morality; in orthodox opinions. It is the creation of a new nature in us. The sole condition is repentance towards God and faith in our Lord Jesus Christ. He that believes is justified by the redemption which is in Christ Jesus, and, being justified, has the consciousness of a new relation to God and of power over sin.
This is simple and obvious teaching, but it is curious to note that the doctrine that we are saved through faith, which is the very essence of Christianity, and which was now the burden of Wesley’s sermons, kindled the most active enmity. Says Wesley: —
“We could hardly speak of anything else, either in public or private. It shone upon our minds with so strong a light that it was our constant theme. It was our daily subject, both in verse and prose; and we vehemently defended it against all mankind. But, in doing this, we were assaulted and abused on every side. We were everywhere represented as mad dogs, and treated accordingly. We were stoned in the streets, and several times narrowly escaped with our lives. In sermons, newspapers, and pamphlets of all kinds, we were painted as unheard-of monsters. But this moved us not.”
The preaching begun under these new conditions was attended by marvellous results. It was the preaching of early apostolic times, and with many of the results of the apostolic age. Whole pages of John Wesley’s Journal, indeed, resemble a new chapter of the Acts of the Apostles, written in modern terms. It is inscribed with the records of conversions; of conversions sudden in point of time, dramatic in character, rapturous in joy. Later Wesley, after his methodical fashion, asked some of his converts to write in plain and sober prose the story of their spiritual experiences, and the result is a series of human documents of enduring and curious interest. The fight of a century still leaves them vivid.
Wesley’s own account of the practical results of the work is thus given in rej)ly to an angry critic: —
“The question between us turns chiefly, if not wholly, on matter of fact You deny that God does now work these effects; at least, that He works them in this manner. I affirm both;
because I have heard these things with my own ears, and have seen them with my eyes.’ I have seen (as far as a thing of this kind can be seen) very many persons changed in a moment from the spirit of fear, horror, despair, to the spirit of love, joy, and peace; and from sinful desire, till then reigning over them, to a sure desire of doing the will of God. These are matters of fact, whereof I have been and almost daily am an eye or ear witness.... And that such a change was then wrought, appears (not from their shedding tears only, or falling into fits, or crying out; these are not the fruits, as you seem to suppose, whereby I judge, but) from the whole tenor of their life, till then, many ways wicked; from that time holy, just, and good.
“I will show you him that was a lion till then, and is now a lamb, him that was a drunkard, and is now exemplar ily sober; the whoremonger that was, who now abhors the very ‘garment spotted by the flesh.’ These are my living arguments for what I assert, viz. ‘that God does now, as aforetime, give remission of sins, and the gift of the Holy Ghost, even to us and to our children.’” ’
But a feature began presently to emerge in Wesley’s meetings which is still a puzzle to science, and which at the moment seemed to justify the worst things Wesley’s angriest critics could say about the revival. Remarkable scenes of physical agitation and distress broke out. It was as if some sudden blast of energy, outside the order of nature — whether evil or good could not be easily determined — swept over the listening multitudes. The first of these strange scenes occurred on April 17, 1739, at a meeting of one of the societies. Wesley tells the story in his Journal: —
“At Baldwin Street, we called upon God to confirm His word. Immediately, one that stood by cried out aloud, with the utmost vehemence, even in the agonies of death. But we continued in prayer, till a new song was put into her mouth, a thanksgiving unto our God. Soon after, two other persons were seized with strong pain and constrained to roar for the disquietude of their heart. But it was not long before they likewise burst forth into praise to God their Saviour.”
A still more remarkable scene took place in the same locality a fortnight later. Wesley records in his Journal: —
“May 1. — At Baldwin Street, my voice could scare be heard amidst the groanings of some, and the cries of others calling aloud to Him that is mighty to save. A Quaker, who stood by.
•Journal, May 20, 1739. was very angry, and was biting his lips, and knitting his brows, when he dropped down as thunder-struck. The agony he was In was even terrible to behold. We prayed for him, and he soon lifted up his head with joy, and joined us in thanksgiving. A bystander, John Hayden, a weaver, a man of regular life and conversation, one that constantly attended the public prayers and Sacrament, and was zealous for the Church, and against Dissenters, laboured to convince the people that all this was a delusion of the devil; but next day, while reading a sermon on ‘Salvation by Faith,’ he suddenly changed colour, fell off his chair, and began screaming, and beating himself against the ground. The neighbours were alarmed and flocked together. When I came in I found him on the floor, the room being full of people, and two or three holding him as well as they could. He immediately fixed his eyes on me, and said, ‘Ay, this is he I said deceived the people. But God has overtaken me. I said it was a delusion of the devil; but this is no delusion.’ Then he roared aloud, ‘0 thou devil! thou cursed devil! yea, thou legion of devils! thou canst not stay in me. Christ will cast thee out. I know His work is begun. Tear me in pieces if thou wilt, but thou canst not hurt me.’ He then beat himself against the ground; his breast heaving as if in the pangs of death, and great drops of sweat trickling down his face. We all betook ourselves to prayer. His pangs ceased, and both his body and soul were set at liberty. With a clear, strong voice he cried, ‘This is the Lord’s doing; and it is marvellous in our eyes. Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, from this time forth for evermore.’ I called again an hour after. We found his body weak as that of an infant, and his voice lost; but his soul was in peace, full of love, and rejoicing in hope of the glory of God.”
On May 21 the scene was repeated, but this time in one of the open-air services: —
“While I was preaching, God began to make bare His arm, not in a close room, neither in private, but in the open air, and before more than two thousand witnesses. One, and .another, and another were struck to the earth; exceedingly trembling at the presence of His power. Others cried, with a loud and bitter cry, ‘What must we do to be saved?’ In the evening, at St. Nicholas Street, I was interrupted, almost as soon as I had begun to speak, by the cries of one who strongly cried for pardon and peace. Others dropped down as dead. Thomas Maxfield began to roar out, and beat himself against the ground, so that six men could scarcely hold him. Many others began to cry out to the Saviour of all, insomuch that all the house, and indeed all the street for some space, was in an uproar. But we continued in prayer, and the greater part found rest to their souls.”
These extraordinary manifestations startled and disquieted even Wesley’s comrades. Whitefield wrote to him on June 25, blaming Wesley for “giving so much encouragement to these convulsions. Were I to do so,” he said, “how many would cry out every night.” Twelve days later Whitetield was in Bristol, and found that the same scenes attended his own service: —
“In the application of his sermon, four persons sank down close to him almost in the same moment. One of them lay without either sense or motion. A second trembled exceedingly. The third had strong convulsions all over his body, but made no noise unless by groans. The fourth, equally convulsed, called upon God with strong cries and tears.”
These outbreaks of physical anguish were not confined to public services and to crowds; they seized individuals in their homes. Here is one terrible story which Wesley records in his Journal: —
“October 23. — I was pressed to visit a young woman at Kingswood. I found her on the bed, two or three persons holding her. Anguish, horror, and despair, above all description, appeared in her pale face. The thousand distortions of her whole body showed how the dogs of hell were gnawing at her heart. The shrieks intermixed were scare to be endured. She creamed out, ‘I am damned, damned; lost for ever! Six days ago you might have helped me. But it is past. I am the devil’s now, I have given myself to him; his I am, him I must serve, with him I must go to hell; I will be his, I will serve him, I will go with him to hell; I cannot be saved, I will not be saved. I must, I will, I will be damned!’ She then began praying to the devil. We began to sing, ‘Arm of the Lord, awake! awake!’ She immediately sank down as asleep; but, as soon as we left off, broke out again, with inexpressible vehemence: ‘Stony hearts, break! I am a warning to you. Break, break, poor stony hearts! I am damned that you may be saved. You need not be damned, though I must’ She then fixed her eyes on a corner of the ceiling, and said, ‘There he is. Come, good devil, come. You said you would dash my brains out; come, do it quickly. I am yours, I will be yours.’ We interrupted her by calling again upon God; on which she sank down as before.”
A similar instance took place a few days afterwards: —
“October 27. — I was sent for to Kingswood again, to one of those who had been so ill before. A violent rain began just as I set out. Just at that time, the woman (then three miles off) cried out, ‘Yonder comes Wesley, galloping as fast as he can!’ When I was come she burst into a horrid laughter, and said, ‘No power, no power; no faith, no faith. She is mine, her soul is mine. I have her, and will not let her go.’ We begged of God to increase our faith. Meanwhile her pangs increased more and more; so that one would have imagined, by the violence of her throes, her body must have been shattered to pieces. One, who was clearly convinced this was no natural disorder, said, ‘I think Satan is let loose. I fear he will not stop here,’ and added, ‘I command thee, in the name of the Lord Jesus, to tell if thou hast commission to torment any other soul.’ It was immediately answered — ‘I have. L y C r, and S h J s.’ We betook ourselves to prayer again; and ceased not till she began, with a clear voice, and composed, cheerful look, to sing, ‘Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.’”
The persons named in this case lived at some distance; they were at the moment in perfect health; but a day afterwards they were affected in exactly the same way as the unfortunate woman whose case has been described.
Many explanations of these curious phenomena are offered. Southey resolves them into mere animal magnetism and the contagion of excitement. “There are passions,” he says truly enough, “which are as infectious as the plague, and fear itself is not more so than fanaticism.” But the sensibilities and emotions to which Wesley was making his appeal when these scenes broke out certainly cannot be placed under the category of “fanaticism”; nor was there anything being said or done at the moment to awaken “fear.” Isaac Taylor finds in these scenes a reproduction in modern terms of the demoniacal possessions recorded in the New Testament. To the purely secular mind they perhaps recall the dancing mania of the fourteenth century, or the convulsionnaircs of France in the sixteenth century. Only in Wesley’s case the subject of these manifestations wei*e solid Englishmen, and not excitable French women and children.
As a matter of fact similar phenomena have made their appearance at widely remote points of time and under very unlike circumstances. Exactly such scenes occurred in Scotland under Erskine’s preaching, and in America under the preaching of Jonathan Edwards. But Edwards undoubtedly preached a terrifying gospel, and preached it in a terrifying way. Wesley’s methods were parted by a very wide interval indeed from those of the great New England evangelist.
Wonder is often expressed that these manifestations began, not under the preaching of Wbitefield, with his lion-like voice and dramatic powers; nor yet under that of Charles Wesley, with his concentrated and overwhelming appeal to the emotions. They occurred while John Wesley, with his grave brow, his composed look, his clear and level voice, his appeal to reason and conscience, was preaching. And yet it is intelligible why these phenomena began under the preaching of John Wesley rather than under that of either of his comrades. Whitefield appealed to the senses and to the imagination, Charles Wesley to the emotions. But John Wesley, for all his strange calmness, struck a deeper note, and moved his hearers with mightier forces. Thei’e was something in him — in his look, in the cadences of his voice, in his solemn and transparent earnestness — which brought irresistibly home to those who looked on him and listened to him a sense of eternal things. Wesley, says Miss Wedgwood, “wrought in his hearers such a sense of the horror of evil, of its mysterious closeness to the human soul, and of the need of a miracle for the separation of the two, that no one perhaps could suddenly receive without some violent physical effect.”
But this does not cover the whole case. The truth is, Wesley saw with Dante-like vision, and had the power to make others see, that supreme fact of the spiritual world, the close relation in which the human soul stands to God; how near God is to man; in what relation man’s sin stands to God’s purity, man’s need to God’s pity, and all man’s acts to God’s judgment. So from the dim, remote, far-off spaces of the heavens, God appeared to Wesley’s hearers, a Figure loving and awful, and above all, at the very touch I And as Wesley preached, and there suddenly broke upon his hearers this sense of the eternal world with its tremendous issues, of sin and its infinite guilt, of God and the relation of the soul to Him — what wonder that the shaken souls of his hearers not seldom communicated their tremors to the bodies that held them!
Many human elements were, no doubt, amongst the forces which produced these scenes: imposture, hysteria, the contagion of strong emotions, the fire of excitement burning in the senses. But when allowance has been made for these there is a residuum of strange fact which they do not explain. All that can be said is that body and soul are strangely interknitted; their boundaries cannot be exactly defined; they act and react on each other. A wasting disease affects every mood of the mind.
The wine of a strong and deep emotion, poured through the feelings, thrills every physical organ. And spiritual emotions, since they awaken at a greater depth, and beat with a stronger pulse than any other of which the human soul is capable, may well, when once they are aroused, affect with strange force the body itself. Only those will doubt this who have never felt the awe of deep spiritual feeling.
It can be easily understood how these strange phenomena supplied those who hated the whole movement with new arguments against it. They constituted a loud, widespread, and clamorous scandal. But at least they advertised the revival. They filled all minds with wonder and all lips with gossip. A strange force seemed to have broken out of the unseen world on mankind. It was easy to suspect the new movement, to vehemently dislike it, to argue loudly against it. It was not possible to ignore it!