The Accidental Revolutionary : George Whitefield and the Creation of America [1 ed.] 9781602583924, 9781602583917

Citation preview

The Accidental Revolutionary

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The Accidental Revolutionary George Whitefield and the Creation of America

Jerome Dean Mahaffey

BAYLOR UNIVERSITY PRESS

© 2011 by Baylor University Press Waco, Texas 76798-7363 All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of Baylor University Press. Cover Design by Andrew Brozyna, AJB Design, Inc. Cover Image: George Whitefield preaching by John Collet (c.1725–80) Private Collection/ The Bridgeman Art Library Nationality / copyright status: English / out of copyright. flag: ©istockphoto: Nic Taylor

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Mahaffey, Jerome Dean. The accidental revolutionary : George Whitefield and the creation of America / Jerome Dean Mahaffey. p. cm. Includes index. ISBN 978-1-60258-391-7 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Whitefield, George, 1714-1770. 2. Whitefield, George, 1714–1770--Influence. 3. United States--History--Revolution, 1775–1783--Religious aspects. I. Title. II. Title: George Whitefield and the creation of America. BX9225.W4M33 2011 269’.2092--dc22 [B] 2011004658

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper with a minimum of 30% pcw recycled content.

Contents

Acknowledgments vii Foreword ix I Beginnings II Launching the Ministry III A New Birth of Freedom IV A Revolutionary Message V Controversy: “I’m just getting started” VI Bishop Bashing VII New England: Overthrow or Unify? VIII Between Two Extremes IX Good King, Bad King X Church and State XI France, Rome, and Hell XII Reprisal from the Church of England XIII The Deep Laid Plot XIV Preaching Himself to Death XV Whitefield’s Legacy XVI A Political Man

1 15 29 41 59 71 83 95 105 117 127 141 153 165 175 185

Notes Index

193 199

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Acknowledgments

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am forever indebted to a multitude of researchers on colonial American history, British history, and especially those who have studied and written about George Whitefield. Without these inspiring books and essays, containing details and original ideas, my own scholarship would not have the shoulders to stand upon to discover anything new. Thank you.

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Foreword

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any people have heard of George Whitefield, and some might even know that he was a preacher from the colonial American period involved in the Great Awakening. But few can say more. Many history books don’t mention him, and those that do often only give him a paragraph. Yet I believe that Whitefield held as much influence on Americans as any other figure in history when placed in the proper perspective. A leading American media personality recently made the statement, “No Whitefield, no revolution!”1 This was a bold statement that deserves a closer look. If indeed this priest from the Church of England was instrumental in “awakening” Americans from the religious doldrums; and if he influenced the way an entire generation understood itself; and if he steered these people toward a certain flavor of religion that embraced the idea of being independent from an overbearing official state church; and if he consistently—over a thirty-year period—told Americans how they ought to respond to political issues; and if a majority of Americans were indeed “religious” at the time of the Declaration of Independence, then connecting Whitefield to the Revolution is a very reasonable idea. While George Whitefield may indeed be a forgotten founder, we can still wonder if it even matters. If America was not “religious” in the decade leading up to the war for independence, and if the war for independence was, as one historian claims, a “thoroughly secular event,” then why should we even care if a certain priest was a political activist? It matters because modern Americans are in the midst of ix

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a culture war in 2010 where each side argues about what the “founders” believed. There were about thirty leaders we now recognize as founders. Currently historians are divided, with some arguing for a secular, enlightened, deistic America, while others argue for a highly religious America. Although our founders were certainly educated and enlightened, only a few wore the label “deist.” New research is showing that a majority of them were highly religious, and that some of the well-known deists converted back to mainline religion prior to their deaths.2 The issues are deeper than simply correcting a footnote in the history books. It matters because the Supreme Court of the United States routinely cites the intentions of the founding fathers when making landmark decisions that affect all Americans. So it is essential to have accurate ideas of what kind of people these were. The intriguing life of George Whitefield can shed some light. The following story takes on great significance as we seek to understand what Americans thought they were fighting about in two wars, from 1756 to 1763 and from 1775 to 1789. Historians agree that Whitefield had a unique gift in oratory. They also agree that he was a central figure in the Great Awakening (1739–1742). And they agree that he became the first international celebrity. But the debate begins when considering the impact of any religious figure of the colonial period on wider American society. Some historians are hesitant to include Whitefield as a founder or admit that religion played a central role in motivating Americans to make war with France and then declare independence from England. A modern idea, which we have to discard, is the idea that there was a separation of church and state in the American colonies. There was a good reason that the American founders included this clause in the Bill of Rights—church and state were not separate! Each year, Americans see court cases and legislative efforts to further limit the ways in which government-funded organizations are restricted from “endorsing” a particular religion, such as an elementary school nativity play. But if we travel into the past decades, we can visualize that government and religion were increasingly blended as we move back in time. And if we imagine a colonial America where this concept of separation has not been introduced yet, we will see a society where church membership was required for public office and presidents called for national days of fasting, prayer, and thanksgiving. In fact, colonial leaders like Charles Chauncy called New England

Foreword

a “Church-State.” The first amendment to the Constitution, which merely sought to stop federal government funding of “preferred” churches, was not even ratified until the Revolutionary War was over. From 1740 through 1776 there was a marriage between the two institutions that continued at the state level well into the 1800s. I want to tell Whitefield’s story in this book with special attention to British and American politics and Whitefield’s involvement in the public sphere. We will look at the message he preached to the degree to which he held political influence. (I plan to publish another book that fully explores his preaching style and the content of his evangelistic messages.) The claim this book makes is this: Whitefield had a great deal of influence upon a large number of American colonists, and he prescribed political beliefs for those who listened to him, beliefs that were essential for people to recognize British oppression when they saw it and conclude that independence was their best option. Ultimately, Whitefield helped to unite the colonies in spirit—literally. He prepared the minds of people for whom declaring independence from England seemed like a sensible thing and the right thing to do. Without George Whitefield, this author argues, American independence would have come much later, if at all. Let’s keep in mind that a person can do or say something without realizing where it could lead. Ultimately, I believe that Whitefield did not realize his messages would lead America to a separation from England. He simply sought to oppose corruption, highlight the abuse of power, and preserve the right of colonists to worship at the church of their choice. Whitefield was a reformer, not necessarily a revolutionary. But of all the colonial leaders and their ideas, if you remove Whitefield and his contribution, no one else had the message, popularity, and influence to shape American colonists into people who could declare independence. Indeed, I believe Whitefield converted the colonists not just to Christianity. In a larger sense, his ideas converted the colonies into a unified America from the diverse ethnic and religious-based communities all over the eastern seaboard. The concept for this work came to me as I realized that the ideas in my prior book, Preaching Politics (Baylor University Press, 2007), were written in a more scholarly tone. So I wanted to tell the story in a way that everyone could enjoy. Along the way, I have learned more about Whitefield and American history, and I also received some

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wonderful suggestions from colleagues and friends. I have included these missing puzzle pieces in the story. I have incorporated many lengthy quotes to help readers gain a feel for the thinking of the period, leaving in the italics, faulty spelling, and other peculiar (to us today) features of that era’s writing. In the interest of simplicity, I have left out references for quotes from people who lived in the colonial period but have used them where I am quoting modern historians. I meticulously footnoted and argued out the nuances of Whitefield’s story in my prior book Preaching Politics, which I recommend for any scholar of Whitefield who wishes to reference the citations.3 I am deeply indebted to several people for this work: Carey Newman, the director of Baylor University Press, who liked the original idea and encouraged me to move forward with this project; Lainey Mahaffey, my wife, who believes in me and edited the manuscript, pointing out confusing sentences; and Diane Shriver, a colleague, who edited the manuscript for grammatical consistency and helped me to add color and imagery to the story. For those who wish to mine new information about George Whitefield’s life, I suggest scanning the newspapers of the period in America, England, and Scotland or digging through the letters and memoirs of Whitefield’s friends and acquaintances. Since other able authors have written fine biographies about Whitefield’s early life and religious ministry, I will focus this account on his persuasive abilities and political activism. For those who want to learn more about Whitefield’s life, I heartily recommend the books of Harry Stout and Stephen Mansfield. Scholarly works that have influenced me are by authors Frank Lambert, Mark Noll, and Thomas Kidd. Enjoy the story, knowing that the history of America and the intentions of our founding fathers—and the implications this knowledge holds for modern Americans—hangs in the balance.

CHAPTER

I

Beginnings

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rom the moment of birth on December 16, 1714, in Gloucester England, Elizabeth Whitefield sensed a destiny for her youngest son George. After suffering weeks of illness following his birth, she remarked that he would bring her more comfort than all her other six children. No doubt she noticed the child could cry. What a set of lungs! During his childhood years, we might imagine her telling him, “Quiet down, Georgie! You will wake our guests.” The Whitefields, including Thomas, Elizabeth and their seven children, owned and ran the Bell Inn in Gloucester. It wasn’t the prestigious life of some of their ancestors, but it kept the family from poverty. Although Elizabeth’s older sons helped run the establishment, she did not want George to work there. She wanted a more esteemed career for him than being an innkeeper and did what she could to propel him upward in England’s society of rigid class structure. The death of his father when Whitefield was two left a void that he perhaps did not recognize as a youngster. His childhood was typical of a fatherless child, as he experienced self-doubt and strove to find his place in the world. Whitefield would often act out in the absence of a watchful eye, describing his tendency for “impudent” and “brutish” behavior in his journal: Lying, filthy talking, and foolish jesting I was much addicted to. Sometimes I used to curse, if not swear. Stealing from my mother I thought no theft at all, and used to make no scruple of taking money out of her pocket before she was up.

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In his journal, Whitefield depicts Jekyll and Hyde personality traits, describing urges toward both good and evil that later grew into a fullfledged identity crisis. On one hand Whitefield declared, “It would be endless to recount the sins . . . of my younger days,” but on the other he said that in his playtime he would pretend to be a minister. After he pilfered coins from the pockets of his dozing mother to buy his favorite fruit and tarts, he would turn around and give some to the poor. He would also steal books about Christianity. Whitefield, struggled between good and evil impulses until at last he purged himself of his darker nature through his conversion in college. Perhaps the most ironic twist of fate was a childhood bout with measles. The disease left George with permanent muscle damage in his face, which caused a squint in his left eye and a cross-eyed condition that is obvious in every portrait. However, his cross-eyed squint only added to the natural talent he was already developing. The “commoners” of England and America in the 1700s believed that a cross-eyed person had a “divine blessing”—literally a direct connection with God. That squint was so well known it earned him the nickname “Dr. Squintum” in a play written in the 1750s by Samuel Foote. In addition to common beliefs about his “hotline to God,” the squint fueled his performances with an impact that a “normal” speaker could hardly match. With pupils aimed in different directions, his eyes gave the impression that George was staring directly at you as he performed or preached. All the while, that old superstition reminded you that he was connected! For a “sinner” in his audience, his inescapable gaze, the divine blessing, and his claim that you were “damned” could have strong and obvious effects. George soon found an outlet for his gift—and an audience of his own—on the stage. His keen memory, clear delivery, and an ability to take on another character made him a natural theatrical actor. He also loved acting to the point of obsession. But in the 1700s, church people called the stage the “devil’s playground” and a “haven for sin.” However, George would not be discouraged. By age fifteen, he found a niche and an outlet for his more unruly side as a child actor in Gloucester. A career on stage proved to be a reasonable choice, the theater being the central form of social entertainment. But betraying a deeper calling, Whitefield wrote, “I was always fond of being a clergyman, used frequently to imitate the ministers reading prayers.”

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Nevertheless, Whitefield became preoccupied with acting, receiving the desperate attention and praise he lacked with no father in his life. As a young man living in the city, undoubtedly with time on his hands, Whitefield spent his money either attending plays or purchasing scripts. He often skipped school to practice: “During the time of my being at school, I was very fond of reading plays, and have kept from school for days together to prepare myself for acting them.” Whitefield would rehearse by giving private performances to his older sister Elisabeth. With his talent for mimicry, we might imagine him reading every part, skillfully taking on each character’s voice and demeanor as he shifted between both male and female characters. Drama consumed George’s free time until he later enrolled at Oxford University. Since the Greeks and Romans began teaching the art of oratory, it has been well understood that students learn best by mimicking those with experience. By imitating the other seasoned actors he worked with, Whitefield was primed for preaching and public speaking. A youth has few bad habits to unlearn, and with good mentors excellence comes quickly. While one is young the body is ready and able to learn, and the practice time required for mastery is available. Whitefield had a drama tutor, owned acting manuals, and devoted his time to practicing eloquence, studying action, gestures, and expressions that communicated emotions. Later in life, his preaching caught the eye of the professional drama community in London, who admired his theatrical skills, were jealous of his talent, and hated the competition for audiences. Interestingly, Whitefield never gave credit for his preaching skill to drama. But neither did he attribute that skill to a supernatural gift, like his admiring religious biographers did. Perhaps, considering acting a “sinful” activity, he hesitated to acknowledge its role in developing his preaching skills. But wishing to enlighten the rest of us about the source of his talent, Whitefield describes his experience with acting in his autobiographical journal, for those who can read between the lines. By age fifteen, after three years of studying Latin and the classical writings in grammar school, hard times crept up on George’s family. He was forced to quit school to work in the family business, cleaning rooms, doing laundry, and serving food and drinks to the guests. But aware of his own unique talent, he told his sister about his desire to attend Oxford: “God intends something for me which we know

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not of.” George’s mother shared the same feelings about his fate and was not content to see her son’s gift go to waste in common labor. Perhaps coincidentally, an old friend stopped by their home one day and explained to his mother how George could attend Oxford University as a “servitor,” cooking and cleaning for the “gentlemen” in return for a scholarship with room and board. George was already good at those tasks. His mother immediately turned to George and asked if he was willing to become a minister. No doubt, with all his dramatic ability, he replied, “With all my heart!” and she arranged a position for him through the help of friends. Although George had never been a dedicated student, he immediately reentered grammar school to complete his studies. However, by sixteen, Whitefield reported making a “great pro­ ficiency in the school of the Devil,” surrounding himself with “debauched, abandoned, atheistical youths,” working hard to fit into the crowd: “I affected to look rakish, and was in a fair way of being as infamous as the worst of them.” But Whitefield was never completely comfortable with the wild life as he struggled with his internal conflict—one impulse nourishing his “secret and darling sin” (as he described it) pitted against another impulse calling him to the ministry. Whitefield suggested that the nature of this secret sin was sexual: “I began to ask why God had given me passions, and not permitted me to gratify them?” With Oxford and the ministry in his future, George’s conscience steered him back to the church, and he distanced himself from his questionable friends. Whitefield never did anything halfway. After rejecting the “rakish” life, he became obsessed with religion, believing the extreme perfomance of duty was what he needed to master his sin and find himself: I began now to be more and more watchful over my thoughts, words and actions. I kept the following Lent, fasting Wednesday and Friday thirty-six hours together. My evenings . . . were generally spent in acts of devotion, reading . . . practical books and I constantly went to public worship twice a day.

To be a Christian in the British Empire before the Awakening revivals meant that a person inherited their religion via family tradition and intellectually agreed with church doctrines. Seldom was any sense of personal connection to God part of the process. Whitefield made himself worthy of his calling in the only way he knew how, by

Beginnings

dedicating himself to every aspect of religious duty available to him. Yet his performance of duty did not resolve the inner conflict or help him develop an identity. In fact, it only heightened the conflict between his youthful impulses and spiritual calling. In the midst of his struggle, George completed his grammar education, which further developed his oratorical skills. He thanked his schoolmaster “for the great pains he took with me and his other scholars, in teaching us to speak and write correctly.” He also studied Latin and Greek, which would later enable him to grasp classical manuscripts in the art of persuasion and oratory. After completing grammar school, he entered the venerable Pembroke College of Oxford University to study to be a priest for the Church of England. At Oxford, Whitefield became one of the favorite servitors due to his skills learned while working at his family inn. He wrote, “I ingratiated myself into the gentlemen’s favour so far, that many, who had it in their power, chose me to be their servitor. By this favor, he earned extra money that made his life in college a bit easier. Still a boy searching for himself, pinched between a call to ministry and the passions of youth, he merely changed his means of rebellion from the “tough guy” in grammar school to the “oddfellow” in college. He hated to study (perhaps because he was crosseyed and had problems with reading), so he became a loner. Yet, Whitefield still wrestled within himself. He renounced the stage and stopped playing cards with the other students. Disgusted with the pleasure-seeking life of his dorm mates, Whitefield moved even deeper into religion: I began to pray and sing psalms thrice every day, besides morning and evening and to fast every Friday and to receive the Sacrament at a parish church near our college.

He was no longer the corrupt youth of his teen years but had turned completely around to become zealously religious, so much in fact that it gave him an excuse to neglect his studies. Yet Whitefield said that “hypocrisy crept into every action.” The struggle between conflicting impulses moved from his actions to his heart.

Whitefield’s Conversion Soon after starting school at Oxford, Whitefield became aware of the Holy Club, a small society of students led by Charles and John

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Wesley, who met regularly for prayer, study, and mutual encouragement. Their club was dedicated to promoting a virtuous life. Sensing that perhaps they had solved their own identity struggles, Whitefield “longed to be acquainted with some of them.” However twelve months would pass before this acquaintance would happen, and in the meantime, he began to idolize these early “methodists,” following them around, taking sacraments at the same church, and copying their dedicated lifestyle. The methodists were young, excited ministry students so named for their “method” of cultivating a righteous lifestyle, which included rigorous schedules of prayer, singing psalms, meeting for mutual encouragement, helping the poor, and attending all official Church of England functions. George Whitefield and John and Charles Wesley remained loyal priests their entire lives, but they started a popular movement within the Church of England. Throughout the book (as well as in historical documents), I refer to “methodists” (small “m”) as these groups inspired by Whitefield, Wesley, and other leaders. They established the grass roots movement that would become the formal Methodist denomination in 1795. Whitefield’s personal crisis peaked in his second year at Oxford as he still sensed the futility of following rules to resolve the clash between his call to the ministry and his sinful desires. He started acting out his internal conflict through the neglect of his appearance and personal health. Whitefield wrote, “As once I affected to look more rakish, I now strove to appear more grave than I really was.” Whitefield deepened his dedication to religious works, becoming even more of an outcast: I soon found what a slave I had been to my sensual appetite, and now resolved to get the mastery over it by the help of Jesus Christ. Accordingly, by degrees, I began to leave off eating fruits and such like, and gave the money I usually spent in that way to the poor. Afterward, I always chose the worst sort of food . . . My apparel was mean. I thought it unbecoming a penitent to have his hair powdered. I wore woollen gloves, a patched gown and dirty shoes . . . I resolutely persisted in these voluntary acts of self denial, because I found them great promoters of the spiritual life . . . For many months, I went on in this state.

Finally, Charles Wesley answered Whitefield’s wish to become acquainted with the methodists when he knocked on his dorm room door one evening and pointed George toward a “conversion

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experience.” Wesley provided one book in particular that helped Whitefield see the light. The Life of God in the Soul of Man, written by the Puritan Henry Scougal, touched his soul deeply. Upon reading it Whitefield wrote: Though I had fasted, watched and prayed, and received the Sacrament so long, yet I never knew what true religion was . . . At my first reading it I wondered what the author meant by saying, “That some falsely placed religion in going to church, doing hurt to no one, being constant in the duties of the closet” . . . “Alas!” thought I, “If this be not true religion, what is?” God soon showed me; for in reading a few lines further, that “true religion was union of the soul with God and Christ formed within us,” a ray of Divine light was instantaneously darted in upon my soul and from that moment, but not till then, did I know that I must be a new creature.

For Whitefield, becoming a new creature, would require a “conversion experience,” a doctrine that was not being taught in the Church of England (although its theology allowed for it), but was more closely associated with the Puritans. Now aware that conversion was the key to “true religion,” Whitefield began to seek it.

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Charles Wesley invited Whitefield to be part of the Holy Club at this point. Whitefield responded with an even more radical devotion to religious works in a period that he called his “temptation.” A conversion in the 1730s was not an instantaneous event like in many modern evangelical denominations where you simply “make a decision for Christ.” In the Puritan tradition that the Wesley brothers were promoting, recognizing the need and desiring to be converted was only the beginning point. True conversion was a longer process that involved a deep inner struggle as a person “wrestled” with God to learn if they had been “predestined.” After a period of intense self-analysis, prayer, and reflection, Puritans would respond that they sensed a physical assurance that they were finally converted. They kept diaries where they wrote tediously about their inner thoughts and struggles, which would be read later by the church elders to verify a true conversion. In this Puritan tradition, Whitefield wrote a full account of his experience in his journal.

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After several months of this intense spiritual wrestling, Whitefield had fasted so much that he had grown thin and weak, unable to fend off common viruses. Amidst continuous illness his crisis deepened, affecting his studies and catching the eye of his teachers: I constantly walked out in the cold mornings till part of one of my hands was quite black. This, with my continued abstinence, and inward conflicts, at length so emaciated my body, that, at Passion-week, finding I could scarce creep upstairs, I was obliged to inform my kind tutor of my condition, who immediately sent for a physician to me.

Whitefield broke down physically and emotionally. The college sent him home to Gloucester to recuperate. It was here that Whitefield experienced a sequence of temptation, persecution, physical affliction, spiritual oppression, mourning, and finally his conversion. At long last, Whitefield reached the Puritan-like breakthrough and assurance of his conversion that he had been so desperately seeking: Soon after this, I found and felt in myself that I was delivered from the burden that had so heavily oppressed me. The spirit of mourning was taken from me, and I knew what it was truly to rejoice in God my Saviour; and, for some time, could not avoid singing psalms wherever I was; but my joy gradually became more settled, and, blessed be God, has abode and increased in my soul, saving a few casual intermissions, ever since. Thus were the days of my mourning ended. After a long night of desertion and temptation, the Star, which I had seen at a distance before, began to appear again, and the Day Star arose in my heart. Now did the Spirit of God take possession of my soul, and, as I humbly hope, seal me unto the day of redemption.

Whitefield had achieved the new birth. He had resolved his lifelong identity search. He now believed and felt himself to be on the inside what he strove to appear on the outside. His external works were now motivated from purity within as his conversion into true religion drove out his hypocrisy. For Whitefield this was a rite of passage into manhood. He displayed increased maturity from that point forward. After conversion, he regained his health. But before returning to Oxford, Whitefield devoted much of his time to studying the Bible and Christian theology. He visited old friends and encouraged them,

Beginnings

with some success, to seek conversion. By the time he returned to Oxford, he was ready to approach his classical studies with vigor. Whitefield wrote of his transformed self: From the time I knew what was true and undefiled Christianity, I entertained high thoughts of the importance of the ministerial office and was not solicitous what place should be prepared for me, but how I should be prepared for a place.

What a real change: from seeking the status and a steady job of being a priest, to focusing on being the best he could be for whatever the future would bring. To prepare himself, Whitefield seriously considered the biblical qualifications for ministry and examined his motives for wanting a ministerial position. As a new man, the conversion experience, or the “new birth” as he called it, formed the heart of Whitefield’s theology and preaching for the rest of his life. He jumped right back into his place as an energetic member of the Holy Club where he developed deep and lasting relationships with the Wesley brothers. Whitefield’s own identity and a sense of destiny were solidified by the combination of his conversion and his participation in the Holy Club. His identity crisis was over, and he now had a strong sense of purpose for his life’s work. In addition to Whitefield’s desire to see everyone experience the new birth, he also wanted all believers to join a “religious society,” an informal, small, home meeting of believers modeled after the Holy Club. Whitefield understood firsthand how friends can encourage one another to make genuine long-term change a reality. One can perhaps see the underlying ideas in these two aspects of his ministry—that a person is “born” into a community and then reshapes her or his social activities around this new community. This pattern of conversion and participation served the church well, but it also provided a model for converting and participating in other areas of life. From these two actions, experiencing the new birth and joining a religious society, Whitefield began to build an intercolonial movement with an elegant and profound structure. Whitefield’s spiritual struggle and conversion provided a touchstone for him to evaluate the condition of other ministers, churches, and parishioners. He was compelled to insist upon conversion and participation in church and religious societies before he would accept others as spiritual equals. His developing ideas would settle out into a focused message that

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invited anyone with an unsettled identity into a Christian community through conversion (and America was filled with people who fit that description). Converts became “new” people, their new natures re-formed by participating in a community of like-minded believers, connected to one another and setting themselves apart from people who merely attended church out of a sense of tradition. From his own experience, Whitefield recognized the futility of the outward performance without the inward change of heart. It was only natural that he felt compelled to overthrow the religious establishment and its membership by works or birth wherever he found it—be it England or America. The story in his autobiography, George Whitefield’s Journals, reveals much about the man. Within their pages Whitefield bared his soul. Written when he was twenty-five, he carefully revealed himself as called by God to a great destiny. From its opening line where Whitefield was “born in an inn,” to his unusually young ordination (age twenty-one), Whitefield let the reader conclude that a greater force orchestrated his life and led him into this high-profile ministry. Whitefield’s story in the Journals was told in light of his vision for ministry and intended to show God’s approval and divine guidance of his life.

Whitefield’s Studies at Oxford from 1734 to 1736 After his new birth, Whitefield’s health improved and he returned to Oxford. In his own writings, he credited the development of his mind to his study of spiritual books. But reading between the lines and examining what young people studied at Oxford shows that his education provided the tools essential to his success. Oxford required classes in “rhetoric” (the art of persuasion) and “dialectic” (the science of logic) as core subjects. Although his journal credits spiritual activities for his preaching skills, it also reveals educational benefits, providing examples of what students were studying at the time. Whitefield learned logic, persuasive strategies, and artistic language during his time at Oxford, all of which energized his sermons. The British colleges in the early eighteenth century had not yet converted to teaching science the way other European schools had. Instead, they maintained an older tradition that focused on learning to argue effectively. Academic leaders at Oxford stayed with a

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classical Roman education and temporarily downplayed the new scientific methods. The Enlightenment came late to Pembroke College where Oxford’s ministers were prepared. Unlike education today, where students prove their learning through written essays and papers, Oxford required a series of oral exams during which students stood up and demonstrated their knowledge by giving speeches. Whitefield also participated in public debates where both debaters were guided by a “senior sophister” who helped them sharpen their argumentation tactics. Oxford assigned students to a mentor in both logic and rhetoric to guarantee the integrity of the degree program. Freshman lectures engaged the works of Aristotle, Cicero, Quintilian, and Hermogenes—all masters of persuasion. Students studied logic and moral philosophy in their second year. Whitefield also attended lectures on Homer, Demosthenes, Isocrates, and Euripides, from whom he learned the artful use of language. Quotes from Greek and Roman authors spiced up Whitefield’s writings, showing his familiarity with classical texts. In fact, quoting the classical Greek stories was a sign to others that one was well educated. While George Whitefield received ample opportunities to train and discipline his voice, becoming an orator involves more than just possessing talent and listening to lectures. It also requires a longrecognized element of skill in composition. As the great Roman orator Cicero wrote, “The pen is more eloquent than the tongue.” In his Journals, Whitefield describes writing sermons as assignments. Many of his early sermons clearly follow a textbook pattern undoubtedly influenced by the writing style of his college essays. In addition to the written exercises required of the Oxford student body, students also were expected to participate in “declamations of themes, both oral and written,” presented in a public forum to fellow students and faculty members. These exercises consisted of written essays that were delivered orally to the class. The declamations were corrected, sharpened, and resubmitted, usually in Latin, so students would learn from their mistakes. Whitefield reported his regular participation in the declamations. Prior to college, Whitefield had developed his abilities from his acting tutors, but after renouncing acting, he continued the oral rehearsal by reading to the poor. Whitefield explained:

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I was, from time to time, engaged to visit the sick and the prisoners, and to read to poor people, till I made it a custom, as most of us did, to spend an hour everyday in doing acts of charity.

He regularly read at the prison, increasing the number of his visits as he approached graduation. He was aware of how such readings were helping him improve his speaking skill. After preaching his first sermon he exclaimed, “Oh the unspeakable benefit of reading to the poor, and exercising our talents while students at the University!” For Whitefield, these readings replaced the vocal exercise he had formerly gained from the theater, further sharpening his vocal skill through practice. Whitefield gave much of the credit to his regular participation in the declamations for the development of his unique preaching ability, and he encouraged other ministers to do likewise, specifically in the form of charity readings: Would the Heads and Tutors of our Universities but follow His [Christ’s] example, and, instead of discouraging their pupils from doing anything of this nature, send them to visit the sick and the prisoners, and to pray with, and read practical books of religion to the poor, they would find such exercises of more service to them, and to the Church of God, than all their private and public lectures put together.

Whitefield continued to praise his experience with declamation, crediting it in no preparation, claiming that he spoke “with as much freedom as though I had been a preacher for some years.” Whitefield had a fast start as far as his oratorical ability was concerned. Whitefield cultivated his natural talent for oratory with an education immersed in classical teachings about persuasion. He then improved his oratorical skills through public practice. Recognizing his future as a preacher, undoubtedly Whitefield took his preparation seriously. Those who claim that his eloquence and persuasive skills were simply a natural talent have overlooked Whitefield’s mastery of vocal excellence, study of artful language use, and his grasp of the psychology of persuasion—all learned through an education far more rigorous than modern colleges provide. The combination of talent, study, and practice make up the three essential ingredients of fine oratory that teachers have emphasized since before the days of Aristotle. Whitefield’s education began early with competent actors and preachers to imitate. He honed his nonverbal delivery

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Beginnings

13

skills through an obsession with acting, and received a complete education at Oxford, strengthened his voice through declamation. Even his crossed and squinted eye became an unexpected asset.

Whitefield’s Identity George Whitefield discovered himself and his purpose in the world due to the friendship and guidance of Charles Wesley and the Oxford Holy Club. His conversion straightened out his attitude, and he graduated from Oxford in the spring of 1736. Ordained as a deacon at age twenty-one, Whitefield recalled that “The next morning, waiting upon God in prayer to know what He would have me to do, these words, ‘Speak out, Paul,’ came with great power to my soul. Immediately my heart was enlarged.” Whitefield described the identity shift “from a servitor to a Bachelor of Arts—from a common drawer to a clergyman.” Whitefield’s former false identities as the young rake and the odd fellow are perhaps connected to his acting gift where he could change characters at will. But as Whitefield found himself in his conversion experience, a genuine identity emerged as a “Man for God.” He became convinced of his destiny and took practical steps to achieve it. This new identity was permanent as he increasingly strove to become the man for God for the rest of his life. One biographer records a revealing story about his identity. During an outdoor sermon in London, Whitefield lost heart and was about to stop: Hairy chests, cauliflower ears and broken noses were not pretty sights to a man timid at heart. Hearing ferocious and horrid imprecations and menaces, his courage began to fail. He felt a tug on his gown and looked down. Elizabeth [Whitefield’s wife] had her eyes firm upon him. “George,” she called. “Play the Man for God!”

Whitefield had to act the part of a preacher until he overcame his fears. Even as a married man in his late twenties, he still relied on his old acting skills to steady himself in challenging situations.

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Initially, perhaps, Whitefield made the pulpit his stage, but it went beyond mere acting as the years passed. He was playing a real role as the man for God in a real world with real consequences. He faced mob violence, personal assaults, and a few assassination attempts.

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The minister did not disappear when the sermon was over; rather he counseled new converts in his so-called spare time. As his career progressed, he acted until it was no longer acting and he was the real thing. As Francis McConnell writes, “People like the Americans of the eighteenth century cannot be mistaken in their judgment of a religious leader through a stretch of thirty years.”1 Whitefield viewed acting as a tool to be employed in the pursuit of his calling. A bit of acting can be found in almost every one of his sermons, but it appears as a carefully selected tool rather than a general approach. Whitefield’s published sermons, including those taken in shorthand, contain little dramatized scripting of biblical characters. Even in the sermon “Abraham’s Offering Up His Son Isaac,” which is quoted by every writer who discusses his pulpit acting, Whitefield limits the sections where he was playing various parts. If drama was his chief selling point, one would expect to see much more of it in the printed sermons. His enemies would have scolded him for acting instead of using standard preaching methods. But they never did— they criticized him for other things. If his acting brought him a sense of personal fulfillment, any such benefit was secondary. Whitefield relied on commonsense arguments, figures of speech, and classical persuasion strategies to move people. When emotion and a dazzling performance alone persuade a person to an action, the change is usually short lived. “Buyer’s remorse” sets in as the mind eventually sees past the performance and examines the logic of the decision. Whitefield understood, as all good persuaders do, that without solid logic, the mind cannot embrace the new idea. But he also understood that without stirring people’s emotions, they would not take action and make decisions that will change their lives. It seems that Whitefield may have taken Francis Bacon’s advice seriously, that the good persuader “applies reason to the imagination” so that the audience will decide and act.

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Launching the Ministry

A

crowded sanctuary, filled with people moved by the curiosity to hear one of their own sons, greeted George Whitefield when, at age twenty-one, he ascended to the pulpit at his home church in Gloucester to deliver his very first formal sermon. With the sounding board above his head, the congregation in pews at all sides, his voice rang out clearly and beautifully as he spoke from experience on the “benefits of a religious society.” It was a night to remember and hinted at things to come: Curiosity drew a large congregation together. The sight, at first, a little awed me. . . . As I proceeded, I perceived the fire kindled, till at last . . . I was enabled to speak with some degree of Gospel authority. Some few mocked; but most for the present seemed struck: and I have since heard, that a complaint had been made to the Bishop, that I drove fifteen mad.

That bishop responded with approval, hoping that “the madness might not be forgotten, before next Sunday.” The outrageous reaction of the audience mirrors the larger reaction of people about his ministry throughout his early years: some would mock, most would be impacted, and some would go mad. But as Whitefield matured, he met the challenges of the mocking and madness, convincing with logical arguments and keeping audience emotions under control. Soon after his first sermon, a friend set up Whitefield at the chapel in the Tower of London while its regular minister was out of town. In London, people stepped out of their shops to gawk at such a young man in a minister’s gown. One person shouted out, “There’s 15

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a boy parson!” A large, curious congregation showed up the first Sunday, and he got their attention. Whitefield preached there for two months until the regular minister returned. He had still not found his permanent niche in the world, but letters from the Wesley brothers who were in America inspired him: “Their accounts fired my soul, and made me even long to go abroad for God too.”

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Charles Wesley returned to London and contacted Whitefield to “procure labourers” for the work in America in the colony of Georgia. Whitefield also received a letter from John Wesley, still in Georgia, informing him of the need for a minister. Wesley concluded with, “What if thou art the man, Mr. Whitefield?” Whitefield responded strongly, saying, “my heart leaped within me, and, as it were, echoed to the call.” Whitefield returned to Gloucester to say goodbye to friends and relatives, but found that he “began to grow a little popular.” When Whitefield said his farewells to family in Bristol, the minister of their church asked him if he would deliver the sermon. His preaching startled the community. An impromptu revival broke out as he started preaching every day and twice on Sundays to crowded churches throughout the locale. The people of that parish made him a lucrative offer to stay as their regular minister, but he declined. Whitefield moved on to London as the Georgia trip approached, and he preached regularly for three weeks to larger crowds than ever before. He was invited back to Gloucester and Bristol, by popular demand, where the crowds increased even further. This is when Whitefield started publishing his sermons—a prudent public relations tactic that helped spread his fame across the countryside. He may at this point have begun to recognize the effectiveness of returning to preach in a location after a short absence, giving the grapevine the opportunity to spread the news. Whitefield wrote, “Persons of all ranks, not only publicly attended my ministry, but gave me private invitations to their houses.” While waiting to depart for Georgia, Whitefield’s ministry evolved from simply filling in for a vacationing minister into a true revival enterprise. Pesky friends “prevailed upon” him to print more of his sermons. He also started collecting money for the poor in Georgia.

Launching the Ministry

He seized invitations to preach, and ministered regularly to growing masses without hesitation. Crowds grew larger and increased in passion. Whitefield often scheduled additional meetings to appease the throngs of people because they would not all fit in the English church buildings during a single service. Within a year of graduating, Whitefield was regular news in the London papers. He developed the basic strategies of his revival enterprise, preaching whenever he could, publishing sermons, and promoting his meetings with advertisements. He learned how to stay in the news, and sermon sales were so brisk that counterfeiters were hawking black market versions. But from the view of the church and government officials who were keeping a suspicious eye on him, Whitefield’s popularity may have reminded them of earlier revolutionary times where the power of mobs was inspired by charismatic speakers. No doubt, it was the political possibilities of such mobs that caused fear, not the religious revival. An increasing number of ministers, angry with Whitefield over doctrinal issues (or simply jealous), closed their churches to him. Inevitably, a London minister intending to silence him complained to the local bishop. On the surface, he complained about arrogance on Whitefield’s part, yet at a deeper level, perhaps he and the other ministers sensed danger from Whitefield’s ability to draw and manipulate crowds. To make things worse, Whitefield was scolding unconverted ministers, using them as “whipping-boys” to highlight the conversion experience. England, like the rest of the world, had a long history of connecting religious theology to the political parties. This was the case in the Glorious Revolution of 1688 when Protestants overthrew the Roman Catholic king. In those years, the bishops, ministers, and politicians were passionate young men overthrowing their government. A generation later, they could see themselves in Whitefield, stirring up revolution all over again, fearing that these young popular methodists might overthrow the politicians backed by the Church of England. They were right in some ways, and British politics would feel the impact. But the struggle would be conducted in the churches rather than the streets for the time being. In spite of their opposition, Whitefield had enough friends to continue his promising ministry. At this point, he defended himself in an effort to keep church doors open to him. As he matured, he used the opposition as a publicity tool.

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He continued preaching in London until January of 1738, when he finally left for Georgia. On his way out of town, Whitefield ran into John Wesley just returning to London. After facing sharp condemnation for denouncing slavery and insisting that everyone conform to their strict “methodist practices,” the Wesleys made few friends, became disillusioned, and left Georgia forever. John begged Whitefield not to go, but to stay in London. He had been attacked by a woman who charged at him with scissors and a pistol and bit his arm before he was able to escape. However, Whitefield only became more resolved to go. He now saw Georgians without a shepherd and believed it was his destiny to fill that position.

The First American Visit Whitefield arrived in Georgia after his voyage was delayed due to bad weather. He did not stay long. As the Wesley’s methodism was rejected by the Georgian settlers, they were suspicious of Whitefield upon his arrival. He soon won them over. As the newly appointed minister to the Georgia colony, he planned to establish the first parish in Savannah and eventually to erect a meetinghouse. Whitefield spent most of his time visiting the neighboring areas, even where Wesley was attacked, preaching regularly and performing other duties for the villages of only three to five families each. By his account, the people of Georgia and South Carolina loved him, and today Whitefield is counted as one of Georgia’s founders and leading early citizens. In Georgia, Whitefield found many orphans who could become “useful members of the Colony” if only someone would take them in. As he traveled through the region, he was further convinced of the need for the orphanage project—a project that would be a major aspect of his life and enterprise. Whitefield also had a nice talk with Alexander Garden, who oversaw the Church of England in the region from Charleston. Then he departed for England (to be ordained as a priest because there was no Church of England bishop in America), intending to return and begin work on the orphanage. His desire to found the orphanage may have been rooted in his own fatherless childhood, which produced a compassion for the children whose parents had succumbed to Georgia’s hot climate. The orphanage project also provided Whitefield a cause worthy of charity, which he effectively wielded in his fundraising.

Launching the Ministry

Further hardening his resolve to continue the revival when they arrived in England, Whitefield suffered a particularly grueling journey back, which he attributed to opposition from Satan. The wind stopped, and the ship drifted for many days while the crew and passengers consumed the dwindling supplies. After the rations and their hope were gone, they spotted land and came to a port in Ireland. Whitefield, writing in retrospect, believed the devil was attempting to kill him and thwart the coming revival. If my friends ask me, why I arrived no sooner, I may truly answer, Satan hindered us. For I believe it is he who is permitted to do this; but this still gives me greater hopes, that a more effectual door than ever, will be opened in England for preaching the everlasting Gospel.

In his promotional materials he used the difficult journey as “evidence” that a supernatural force was against him. His London critics were offended by his claim in two ways. First, most enlightened church leaders did not believe that God, or the devil, intervened in the affairs of men in this manner. The Enlightenment period of philosophical history was already exerting its influence on theology, and supernatural acts were being increasingly explained by science. Second, his claim that the devil himself took notice suggested that whoever else might oppose him was inspired by the devil. His critics could not accept that without finding themselves in a tight spot. Because of such statements, they either had to support or oppose him. Arriving in London for ordination, Whitefield’s popularity and his desire to preach caused him to stay in England instead of returning to Georgia immediately. While in England, he continued building his revival enterprise and used this opportunity to raise money for the orphanage. Whitefield spent the next year in England filling vacant pulpits in Gloucester, Bristol, and London, improving his already spellbind­ing preaching style, perfecting the business of revivals, and continuing his rise as a preaching sensation. At this time, he committed to being a traveling preacher. Whitefield believed that “a [single] sermon from a stranger may do more good than many from those the people are constantly used to.”

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Refining His Methods During his six-month stay in England, in between his first and second American tours, Whitefield became a purpose-driven, dedicated young man. He had a dream to “preach the Gospel . . . in every Province in America belonging to the English.” To accomplish this monumental task, he developed an efficient organizational machine, complete with a public relations team that made advance arrangements and publicized his meetings. Whitefield expressed a vision of having the whole world as his parish. Founded on the conversion experience, he sparked an international movement that crossed all denominational boundaries within the British Empire. Whitefield’s first step would be to establish a national “parish” in England, where he met growing opposition from the Church of England. But people were as eager to hear him as ever, as Whitefield noted: Preached nine times this week and expounded near eighteen times with great power and enlargement. I am every moment employed from morning till midnight. There is no end of people coming and sending to me.

As he traveled around southern England, Whitefield collected money for the orphanage and began to perfect the strategies he would use in his revivals. He fine-tuned his preaching style, increasingly used the print media, and added a team of friends to assist him. Impressive as it was, Whitefield’s preaching was still developing, and he would shortly employ two more tactics that would lift his enterprise to an even higher level: extemporaneous sermons and outdoor preaching. As was customary for British ministers, Whitefield still took a full manuscript of the sermon to the pulpit and read it (declamation). But after returning from America, he tried preaching from memory, without the notes or a manuscript. Whitefield commented about this significant shift: “This is the first time I have preached without notes . . . but I find myself now, as it were, constrained to do it.” To deflect criticism from jealous ministers who scrutinized anything different about him, Whitefield credited God with this shift to extemporaneous preaching, claiming that he would hinder God’s work if he used notes. Abandoning the manuscripts gave his preaching a sense of naturalness that enhanced his messages even further. Unchained from paper notes, Whitefield could more effectively act out biblical players

Launching the Ministry

in his sermons, moving, gesturing, punctuating and underscoring his words with vigorous action. But more profoundly, it shifted his mental processes from the left side of the brain (analytical and logical) to the right side, where his creativity and performance were energized. His style did not look “acted” and was supported behind the scenes with memorized themes composed with artful language, which he could recall and deliver word for word. The naturalness of his preaching came from his belief that he was telling people the truth. Without a manuscript, he was also free to adapt his sermons to the special situation of each audience as his relationship with them unfolded in the performance. He could change directions as he sensed a need. Whitefield could now genuinely interact with people who were accustomed to listening to a sermon, not participating in one. If an audience became too emotional, Whitefield knew how to calm them so they did not miss an important point. Armed with his theatrical skills, carefully composed ideas, and the freedom to have a conversation with his listeners, Whitefield spoke in a way people had never experienced. The second innovation took him out of the small church buildings (there were no mega-churches in that day) and moved his revivals outdoors where the force of his powerful voice and his public relations abilities could reach even more people. Whitefield’s shift to preaching outdoors was his response to the organized opposition from a group of bishops who were locking him out of the churches. As his vision expanded, opposition increased. In the summer of 1739, the bishop of Gloucester ordered Whitefield to preach only in the parish to which he had been assigned. Whitefield refused, replying, “But, my lord, if you and the rest of the Bishops cast us out, our great and common Master will take us up.” In this response, the leaders saw an independent spirit that caused concern. Whitefield’s conflict with the Church of England’s bishops peaked when he was invited to preach at St. Margaret’s Parish where, unbeknownst to him, someone locked the regular minister into a closet, while another person, purporting to be a church officer, gave Whitefield permission to preach. But the minister did not stay locked up forever. News of the malicious incident caused many churches to close their doors to Whitefield as they accused him of masterminding the scheme. Whitefield denied any knowledge of it, but the closing of churches gave him the excuse to move his ministry outdoors.

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Whitefield’s first outdoor sermon took place on February 17, 1739. He had been encouraged by stories from Howell Harris, a Welsh evangelist with whom he had been exchanging letters. Whitefield preached in a field at Kingswood to an audience of two hundred, and afterward exclaimed, “Blessed be God that I have now broken the ice!” Whitefield immediately recognized that people who would not come to a church would go to a park. Within a week, ten thousand people were gathering to hear him. One can only imagine the reaction of his critics! Although he was not the first to preach outdoors, Whitefield’s talents and the excitement surrounding him drew hordes of people to his meetings. His ability to attract a crowd, combined with his incredibly loud voice and a willingness to travel, provided the means to reach people face-to-face as never before. It was a mass-media innovation that equaled the introduction of radio, TV, or the Internet in the twentieth century. In addition to increasing crowd size, outdoor preaching emphasized the nondenominational nature of his enterprise. To him there was but one church—his parish—in which all members equally shared in the family. His acceptance of all Christian denominations sent a strong message about unity. Members of groups that broke away from the Church of England—commonly called “dissenters” in history books—who would not set foot inside a Church of England building, would come to a field or park to hear Whitefield with no qualms. He moved his message to neutral ground, bypassing any bias people had about the Church of England. The outdoor sermons also soothed people’s misgivings about entering a sacred place while in a state of sin. He took his message to them. Whitefield claimed that God was confirming these controversial changes by his improved health after preaching, by the success of his message, and by God’s hand of judgment on his enemies. A few days after he began preaching without notes, he was so ill that he was almost unable to speak, but upon entering a pulpit he claimed, “God gave me courage to begin, and before I had done, I waxed warm and strong in the Spirit.” Whitefield attributed this upturn in his health to God’s miraculous touch and interpreted it as divine approval of his extemporaneous preaching. Whitefield said to his critics, “See ye not, ye opposers, how you prevail nothing? Why do you not believe that it would not be thus unless God was with me?” Conversely,

Launching the Ministry

God’s blessing on Whitefield meant judgment upon his most relentless opponents. Upon hearing that one of them was given only a few days to live by physicians, Whitefield took the opportunity to say, “Alas poor man! . . . We all prayed most heartily for him, knowing how shortly he must give an account of what he had most unjustly said and written against me.” Within one month of beginning outdoor, extempore preaching, Whitefield was attracting crowds of over twenty thousand people. Now the Church of England and political leaders had something they could really fear. But before they could take action, Whitefield returned to America. Through the first half of 1739, Whitefield traveled across southern England, perfecting his new techniques, preaching everywhere he could to immense audiences, and successfully raising money for the orphanage. As the tour progressed, he fine-tuned two additional strategies to reach England’s masses. The first has been labeled “print and preach.”1 Whitefield’s publications were already being circulated by this time, and he was keeping his name in the news with the help of media-savvy colleagues like William Seward. The publicity generated by the printed sermons and Seward’s public relations work fueled his popularity, drawing the crowds to his revival meetings. Secondly, Whitefield employed a “preach and return” strategy.2 After preaching in one location, he would leave and preach elsewhere, returning when he sensed his popularity had peaked and another visit would have an even greater effect. Whitefield’s travels would not follow a straight line through an area but would include backtracking before moving on to another region. No politician or minister before him had ever developed and employed such advanced (and modern) promotional methods. Seeing his ministry the way a farmer would see his fields helped Whitefield to understand the nature of evangelization. The new birth did not happen instantly in Whitefield’s view. It took some time as God predestined, called, and justified the convert. Yet a person could prepare their own heart by seeking God and forsaking sin, making the salvation process easier. Whitefield believed that the ground (human hearts) must be “plowed and broken up” before the “seed” (God’s word) could be planted. Whitefield and others used “terror” sermons to do the plowing and then preached on conversion for the “planting.” Then, after a time of “germination,”

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and “cultivation,” Whitefield could return and claim a harvest. The prepared heart would have time to receive grace as the conversion progressed. Upon returning to an area where he had already performed these tasks, Whitefiled would preach cultivation sermons on the need for religious societies, or he would preach lifestyle sermons that condemned certain sins or practices and encouraged virtue. At this point the new believers could begin to receive teachings and connections with other believers, both of which were essential to a healthy Christian life. An “enterprise,” as Frank Lambert has labeled it, is by far the most accurate term to describe Whitefield’s revival ministry. He took great pains to manage his public image, promote his meetings, satisfy the demand for his published sermons, and collect funds for his orphanage as well as his travel expenses. Understanding the role of his appearance in the formation of a public image, Whitefield made extensive efforts to prepare his clothes and wig for preaching events. To counter charges that he was fanatical or radical, he always appeared in public in his official preacher’s robe and wig to reinforce his commitment to the Church of England and look like any other respectable minister. Because he was criticized for smiling too much, he even sat for a portrait with a somber expression on his face to foil perceptions that he was the “radical enthusiast” portrayed in London political cartoons. For six months in 1739, Whitefield matured as a businessman, promoter, and preacher. His second trip to America would bring a tested and smooth enterprise to the task of reaching everyone in the British colonies.

Whitefield the Orator The famous philosopher David Hume said that Whitefield “was worth going twenty miles to hear.” Precisely what was it about his preaching that drew people to hear him? Certainly any short drama routines he incorporated into his sermons were new and interesting. Since we have no electronic record of Whitefield’s eloquence, and since the firsthand witnesses who imitated him (Patrick Henry was one) are deceased, the only chance we have to visualize his manner of delivery is through the writings of friends and antagonists. Oratorical delivery is hard to grasp in writing. The subtle combinations of voice inflection, facial expression, and gesture are exceedingly

Launching the Ministry

difficult to capture and describe in a meaningful way. Nevertheless many have put their impressions of Whitefield’s style into words, and these form the only available image of Whitefield’s preaching. John Gillies, a traveling companion and Whitefield’s earliest biographer, described Whitefield’s appearance in some detail: “His person was graceful and well proportioned; his stature rather above the middle size. His complexion was very fair. His eyes were dark blue in color, and small, but sprightly . . . His features were in general good and regular. His countenance was manly.” Most portraits of Whitefield show a portly figure of a man, but Gillies insisted that “in his youth he was very slender, and moved his body with great agility to action, suitable to his discourse,” projecting an energetic, dynamic manner. In addition to Whitefield’s insistence on being well dressed, his “deportment was decent and easy,” observed Gillies, “without the least stiffness of formality; and his engaging, polite manner, made his company universally agreeable.” Thus, in appearance and polite manner he charmed his audiences. The texture of his enchanting voice may be forever lost, but several people attempted to capture it in words. Gillies provided the most extensive evaluation of his vocal skills, which others confirmed: He had a strong and musical voice, and a wonderful command of it. His pronunciation was not only proper, but manly and graceful. Nor was he ever at a loss for the most natural and strong expressions. Yet these in him were but lower qualities. The grand sources of his eloquence were, an exceeding lively imagination, which made people think they saw what he described; an action still more lively, if possible, by which, while every accent of his voice spoke to the ear, every feature of his face, every motion of his hands and body, spoke to the eye; so that the most dissipated and thoughtless found their attention involuntarily fixed, and the dullest and most ignorant could not but understand.

According to Joseph Beaumont Wakely, a later biographer, Whitefield’s voice was “smooth, variable, and could express the gentlest emotions.” Yet he could also raise his voice into “thunderpeals” that caused ears to tingle and hearts to tremble. His voice could carry for a mile if the weather conditions were right. One account reports a range of up to two miles! Whitefield’s natural speaking style stands as a thread of continuity in various descriptions from friends to enemies. The term “fake” was

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never used—not even by his enemies. Gillies asserted that Whitefield failed to offer any appearance of falsehood in his discourse, seemingly genuine in both his thundering accusations and emotional pleadings, recalling his voice as “exceeding strong; yet . . . softened by an uncommon degree of sweetness,” and that his demeanor “was utterly devoid of all appearance of affectation.” When faced with an indifferent audience, Whitefield would stamp his foot for attention and ask “Where’s your contrition! Where’s your tears! Nobody weeps! No meltings amongst you! Come, my friends, I will weep with you and for you.” And Whitefield himself regularly wept while preaching. For him the consequences of the audience’s response to his message was of ultimate importance and deserved his unrestrained emotional investment: “Would weeping, would tears prevail on you, I could wish my head were waters, and my eyes fountains of tears, that I might weep out every argument, and melt you into love.” In addition to his emotion-laden voice, one biographer records an account of a witness who recalled that Whitefield’s impact “was owing to his voice in part, but more to his expressive face. That face, said he, was like a canvas, and the preacher painted on it every passion that stirs in the human breast.” Whitefield’s theater training undoubtedly sharpened a natural skill in communicating with facial expressions. Some people’s faces display every emotion freely and clearly, in contrast to people who control and mask what they are feeling. On one occasion, when Whitefield was preaching in Philadelphia, a German woman who spoke no English commented after the sermon that “never in all her life had she had such a quickening, awakening, and edifying experience.” The emotion and messages carried in his voice and upon his face gave her a deep satisfaction. This experience is supported by present-day experts who routinely assert that 93 percent of communication takes place through tone, gesture, and facial expression. His audiences, for the most part, believed him and responded with self-concern. Every biography of Whitefield records the white furrows cut by tears in the coal-stained cheeks of miners in England as they listened to him preach after a day in the mines. The human voice, according to modern researchers, has the ability to carry emotion and implant it in those who are listening. Psychologists call this

Launching the Ministry

effect the “emotional contagion,” and it can have a powerful impact on listeners as the emotions felt by the speaker are transferred into the hearers through vocal inflection and facial expression.3 The emotion with which Whitefield could clothe words was observed by the actor David Garrick, famous for introducing a “natural style” of drama to the British stage: “Whitefield could make his audiences weep or tremble merely by varying his pronunciation of the word Mesopotamia.” On another occasion Garrick said (or quipped), “I would give a hundred guineas if I could only say ‘O’ like Mr. Whitefield.” A Whitefield biographer commented on the reception he received from notable members of London’s theater community: Oratory so perfect and so exciting could not fail to bring some actors among the motley throng that listened to him. [Samuel] Foote and Garrick might sometimes be seen side by side; their opinion was that the sermon was preached best when preached for the fortieth time.

In an oratorical age of flat and stale preaching, Whitefield provided a contrast that few people could resist. Whitefield’s style was also unique enough that people recognized it when mimicked. He had a West Country accent with a curious pronunciation of particular words. He pronounced “Lord God” as “Lurd Gud.” Samuel Foote’s comedy play would open with Foote mimicking Whitefield in his monologue. Patrick Henry, widely acclaimed as a fine orator, and who said “Give me liberty or give me death,” owed much to Whitefield’s preaching style. A striking story came from a drinking club in Delaware. The club employed a “negro boy [sic]” to clean up and serve drinks, and on occasion he would mimic famous people. One night they asked him to imitate Whitefield. He refused for a while but then gave in, jumped up on a table and exclaimed, “I speak the truth in Christ. I lie not. Unless ye repent, you will all be damned.” He captured Whitefield perfectly and brought him right into the room, where the club’s patrons were doing exactly what Whitefield regularly condemned. The stunned men broke up their party and closed the club. Not all of Whitefield’s contemporaries were so flattering, and instead found flaws in his style that countered his strengths. Henry Angelo, a prominent London citizen, contrasted Whitefield’s “energy, feeling, and pathos” with other instances of “extravagant ravings,

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and pious rhodomontade [vainglorious boasting].” Samuel Foote explained that “like the cow, after giving a good pailful of milk, he was apt to kick it down again.” Angelo and Foote were among the many in the British upper classes who would attend Whitefield’s events for their appreciation of his oratorical skill. However, expressing a more balanced view of Whitefield’s ability, historian Alan Heimert explains that those who called him “a fulminating and flailing declaimer” were overzealous in their observations, and that “less partial observers suggest that there was in fact nothing extravagant in Whitefield’s manner.”4 Even Whitefield’s friend John Gillies offered an honest portrayal: “Had his natural talents for oratory been . . . somewhat more improved by the refinements of art and the embellishments of erudition, it is possible they would soon have advanced him to distinguished wealth and renown.” These sober reflections by his biographer and a noted historian suggest that Whitefield’s effect was not simply due to emotion, as we will see in later chapters. As Whitefield left England in August of 1739, his London popularity had been reported across the Atlantic in colonial newspapers and created widespread curiosity. In fact, detailed news of his enterprise was just hitting the American press as Whitefield arrived in Philadelphia, providing an ideal environment and perfect timing for his debut. The next fifteen months would see him in every colony and alter the face of the continent as the Great Awakening followed in his footsteps. His tour would shake up the American colonists, challenging not just their standing before God, but their personal identities. Whitefield would call them into his expanding unified parish through a message of conversion.

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A New Birth of Freedom

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magine yourself living on a farm outside of Philadelphia, working from dawn to dusk clearing trees, tending crops, and doing whatever you are told as an “indentured servant” to a wealthy landowner. You sold seven years of your life for your ticket out of England, a place on this farm, and the promise of your own land on the frontier. While life is tough, it beats the poverty and despair of London, where other family members are still struggling to survive. The words “America” and “freedom” are so completely intertwined today that it is difficult to imagine a time when freedom was limited. Many early settlers came to America to escape religious persecution. Others came for adventure or career opportunities. For each of these, America offered freedom and opportunity. On the other hand, about half of the colonial immigrants were indentured servants—Europeans who sold themselves into seven years of slavery to pay for their passage. With some luck, these people would serve their time without being convicted of a petty crime for which they would be punished with another seven years. And of course there were African slaves with little hope of freedom. For these two groups, America could be an oppressive place. Somewhere in the middle were fifty thousand convicted criminals deported from the British Isles to America. Benjamin Franklin called the practice “the most cruel insult that perhaps was ever offered by one people to another.” As the revolutionary period approached, the colonies increasingly took on the character of England with its class distinctions and unequal distribution of wealth. 29

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While the American colonies provided religious freedom, everyone living there was subject to the British government. Many settlers understood themselves as English, yet many did not. Colonists, whether they were free or not, had no sense of national community beyond their town, and there was nothing that had imposed an English identity on settlers from other nations. The thirteen colonies were physically distant and politically separate from one another. Frontier challenges dissolved European ways and offered “American” ways. As this chapter moves forward, we will examine America, to which Whitefield brought his message, in terms of identity, life challenges, and religion. From this vantage point, we can then look into how Whitefield’s message reinforced the idea of religious freedom and began to extend the concept of freedom beyond religion and into the sphere of politics.

Welcome to America! Everyone in America was forced to reconsider who they were after their arrival, creating a continuous pressure that would regularly remind them that they were foreigners. Historian Michael Warner explains that American colonists were trying to negotiate two national identities: being English and being something else; living far from England and the concerns of London, yet trying to retain their English self-understandings. For example, Benjamin Franklin would shift back and forth between wearing a powdered wig to wearing long unruly locks, as in his most popular depictions—the image he settled upon later in his life. Warner describes it this way: Many lived in local worlds of less moment, relatively indifferent to markets, wars, printing, and other venues of the English Atlantic . . . as soon as we stop looking for Americanness we see that none is aptly described as American. Most have conflicted transitional identities.1

The usual sources of identity were overturned. Farming traditions were at odds with a strange land that required different techniques and crops; communities and farms were separated by wilderness; prosperity provided new experiences for many poor immigrants; churches were threatened by the indifference of youth. But in the midst of these challenges, financial prosperity told the colonists that they really were somebody and they now had the “goods” to prove it.

A New Birth of Freedom

Whitefield’s message provided the needed element for a new identity for the settlers who had found a prosperous and good life and now desired to figure out who they were. In addition to being “foreign,” several other things that hindered American identity are obvious upon a close reading of history. On one hand, America lacked a single shared experience that would set an American apart from other cultures and nationalities. On the other hand, obstacles to identity emerged from six sources: ethnic diversity, new farming methods, physical isolation, an expanding frontier, financial prosperity, and diversity in religion. Each of these aspects of life conspired against European identity. Americans were also committed to education, which made them open to Whitefield and his message. The early Awakening revivals that flared intermittently from 1728 until 1736 provide striking evidence that America was ripe for something—a place where colonists’ personal and group identities were up in the air and open to influence. The international flavor of the colonies remained a leading feature of America well into the late eighteenth century. Not only did colonists live and work with “foreigners,” but foreigners became part of one’s family. The early historian Crèvecoeur wrote: He is either an European or the descendant of an European; hence that strange mixture of blood which you will find in no other country. I could point out to you a family whose grandfather was an Englishman, whose wife was Dutch, whose son married a French woman, and whose present four sons have now four wives of different nations.2

American-born children, torn between dual backgrounds, continued to fuel the sense of unsettled identity through the “normal” search for one’s place in life that is common in youth.

The New Birth and Protestant Currents As noted, religious diversity was a major feature of colonial life. While a historical emphasis has traditionally been placed on the Puritans (called the “Congregationalists” in America), and not without reason, there existed other reformed groups that came to America from all over Europe. These were Protestants who were escaping the oppression of the Roman Catholics in continental Europe as well as the Church of England. The central issue of debate between

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these denominations was “what does it mean to be a genuine Christian?” Although there were several theological schools of thought that guided the reformed churches, perhaps the most influential was the theology of John Calvin. Calvinism’s defining feature, as many understood it, was “predestination.” Generally speaking, “predestination meant that God is in charge of salvation from start to finish, that God chooses who gets saved, appoints the time of their conversion, and holds their salvation secure. For churches, such as those of the Puritans, salvation typically required a lengthy time period and did not occur until one was on the threshold of adulthood. Charles Cohen summarized, “Those whom God elected to salvation passed through a protracted experience of desperation and relief.” A person could do nothing to affect the outcome, a depressing situation for someone desiring conversion. Although each of the major colonial churches had their own beliefs about salvation, the Calvinist idea of predestination as an expression of God’s sovereignty was a well-understood doctrine and widely accepted.3 Calvinism had a competitor in the theological marketplace: Arminianism, which was based on the writings of Jacob Arminius. This competing theology rejected the pessimistic predestination beliefs of Calvinism that had been growing in popularity. Its central difference was that God’s grace was available to all who would believe, that predestination meant that God simply “knew” beforehand who the believers would be. In the Arminian system, people had some control through their response of faith to God’s offer of salvation. In the Calvinist world, faith to believe was God’s gift to the believer. But in the Arminian world, faith was a response from the believer to God’s offer. While both theological systems taught that conversion was essential, it was achieved by different means. In churches where the conversion experience was not taught (typically the traditional large denominations run by older, well-educated ministers), one’s Christianity was assured by rejecting sin, devoting oneself to religious activities, and partaking of the sacraments. In essence, you were a Christian because it was the family religion and you were born into it. There was not a conversion experience. If you were a church member there were certain obligations, including taking the sacraments, maintaining private morality, practicing public virtue, giving to the poor, and generally being a good person.

A New Birth of Freedom

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To understand how Whitefield shook up American religion in ways that could lead to thoughts of independence, we must delve a bit deeper into the theologies of the day. Calvinism and Arminianism formed the bedrock of England’s two main political parties. Remember, that there was no separation of church and state in British society.4 While colonial theologians debated their views about Calvinism, ministers perhaps had the more exasperating task. Working with people in their parish, they were forced to grapple with an impractical system in their churches. What is the point in preaching the gospel if the preaching doesn’t call people to conversion? For the preacher, Calvinism was counterproductive. Norman Pettit sums up their problem: “As spiritual preachers, physicians of the soul, and builders of faith, how could they urge on all men the biblical question, What must I do to be saved? (emphasis in original) without violating this rigid discipline?”5 Even if a person desired conversion, in a Calvinist church where predestination was taught, salvation was up to God. As a result, church memberships declined from the settling of America in the 1620s up through 1735. The Puritan’s best solution was what they called “preparation of the heart” for salvation. Although one could not pressure God in the process, Puritans prepared their members to receive salvation, even though there was no guarantee that it would come. Preparation of the heart became a widespread doctrine in Puritan churches, allowing a degree of human effort to sneak into the salvation process, yet conversion itself was still up to God with the prepared sinner anxiously awaiting God’s action. As might be expected, controversy erupted over these changes between frustrated ministers and armchair theologians who demanded pure Calvinism. Yet the ministers of churches continued this move toward “preparation” and away from pure predestination. The point is that rigid Calvinism just did not work that well and faced challenges from ministers who wanted to see more people converted. One such minister was Jonathan Edwards, who believed the heart held the key to salvation. Edwards taught that preparation of the heart aided in conversion. But after leading parishioners through preparation, Edwards could say little more due to his Calvinist belief about God’s control of the process. In his famous sermon, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry

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God,” in which he skillfully wove a view of sinners as being on the brink of hell with nothing but God’s grace withholding destruction—like a spider dangling by a thread over a fire—Edwards found himself dangling by the same thread, as he could move his audience to the heights of emotional preparedness but could not swoop down and capture their hearts. Ernest Bormann wrote, “When the time came to speak of hope and outline the plan for salvation, Edward’s artistry stumbled and he could not reach the rhetorical peak that he had scaled minutes before.”6 The challenge was that salvation, for Calvinists, was still God’s choice to give to a person, not the person’s choice to reach out and take. God’s “grace” was an unearned benefit that you hoped he would extend to you. A person could prepare all they wanted and stand before God, but it did not mean that God predestined them for salvation, only that if he did, the salvation might come a bit sooner. But Edwards brought in a critical shift in the religious conversion process. He had extended a degree of control for the preconvert without crossing the predestination line. There was something that people could do now rather than just wait and see. And if you felt remorse for your sin and terror that you might be damned, then it was a pretty good indicator that maybe, just maybe, God would grant salvation to you. Inspired by the philosopher John Locke and his belief that one’s feelings can be a reasonable way of knowing truth, Edwards taught that the emotions provided a legitimate way to verify that God was close to you. As Edwards vividly portrayed the terror of damnation, he relied on the imaginings of his audience to summon within themselves emotions such as fear, anxiety, and guilt. For these individuals, experiencing such strong reactions was proof that God was drawing near. But Edwards did not take it further at this point. The actual moment of conversion remained cloaked. Once it did happen, whatever it was, a person could be sure they had it. The “sweetness” of salvation counted as evidence for the successful conversion experience (as Edwards described in his own life). But for most preachers of that time, the problem remained. The emotional nature of conversion resisted the preacher’s attempts to portray it in a compelling manner, prompting those without the experience to question its existence. Edwards described conversion in his book entitled A Treatise Concerning Religious Affections, one of the best attempts to explain and characterize it. Edwards used various terms throughout his

A New Birth of Freedom

writings to characterize conversion, including “conversion,” “a new nature,” “a state of acceptance,” “justification,” “redemption,” and “holiness of heart.” Yet Edwards also complained about the difficulties of conveying the concept to others accurately. And indeed it appears very plainly in some of them, that before their conversion they had very imperfect ideas what conversion was. It is all new and strange . . . the expressions used to describe conversion . . . such as a spiritual sight of Christ, faith in Christ, poverty of spirit, trust in God, &c.—did not convey those distinct ideas to their minds which they were intended to signify. Perhaps to some of them it was but little more than the names of colours are to convey the ideas to one that is blind from birth.

Of Edwards, and others like him, John Corrigan writes, “Conversion remained for them, as it did for other New Englanders, somewhat mysterious.”7 The abstract message, as they taught it, required consistent teaching to cultivate understanding. Consequently, the revivals in the decade before Whitefield were limited to areas where people had the benefit of repeated explanations from a patient minister like Edwards. Edwards’ rigorous theology eventually settled into a friendlier version of Calvinism known as “evangelicalism,” a moderate Calvinism that prized a warm heart, valued reason as a way to know God, and required obedience to God’s moral law. Edwards and a number of other ministers, including Gilbert Tennent and Theodorus Frelinghuysen had been leading revivals in their congregations and neighboring locales. Their focus was on the heart and a person’s personal relationship with God. They insisted upon a conversion experience for every believer and sought public virtue and private morality rooted in a genuine inward change of heart, not just following the rules for the sake of appearance. The conversion experience reached into a person’s very core, altering his or her identity. This combination of feelings, reason, and morals gave the revival theology a staying power that was missing in the traditional Calvinistic theological system.

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Congregations that embraced the revivals and their evangelical teachings became known as New Lights. These revivalists almost always

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were from the lower classes, emphasized personal equality, and had ministers who were less educated but excelled in oral public discourse. But many people did not accept the revivals. The antirevival faction, known as Old Lights, generally represented the rich who supported the class structure of British society, had ministers who were well educated, and relied primarily on writing to promote their ideas and agenda. New Lights outnumbered Old Lights by four to one as the youth and lower-class masses attended and affirmed the prorevival churches. While Edwards may have extended the believer’s control through the practice of preparation, Whitefield took matters a step further by implying that the prepared heart had a choice, and this choice gave more control to the believer over the conversion process. Yet Whitefield dodged charges of a drift into Arminianism by constantly citing the Calvinist Thirty-nine Articles of the Church of England as his bedrock of theology. Nevertheless, Whitefield introduced a subtle grammatical shift in his message that resolved the challenge that Edwards faced. Ernest Bormann has highlighted the choice as a critical feature of Whitefield’s preaching: Whitefield often spoke in such a way that his listeners could easily assume that, by an act of faith on their part, they would be saved. Such phrases as “come poor, lost, undone sinner, come just as you are to Christ . . . ” easily suggest that the listener can make a decision and receive the “new birth.”8

In fact, nearly every surviving sermon of Whitefield’s includes a section addressed to sinners encouraging them to take action. Notice the verbs in these quotes: “Fly to him then by faith; say unto him, as the poor leper did, ‘Lord, if thou wilt,’ thou canst make me willing.” This example from “Marriage of Cana” shows Whitefield’s addition of human control alongside God’s. Whitefield rearranges his sentence structure in order to make the listener the subject—the one taking action instead of being the object— the one being acted upon. Normally in Calvinism, God would be the one enacting the salvation. But in Whitefield’s version, the audience takes center stage and becomes the one who must enact its own salvation. Whitefield tells the audience to do something, and in so doing, it gains some control over its own salvation. In the example above, Whitefield cleverly uses the story of the leper who wanted to believe but was having trouble.

A New Birth of Freedom

He is told that as a sinner he must fly after God, and that this action will make him a willing subject worthy of being saved in God’s eyes. Moreover, Whitefield described the conversion experience, not with big theological words like Edwards and others, but with a simple metaphor: the new birth. Within months, this metaphor ignited the Awakening vocabulary, providing an exciting and memorable descriptor that captured the essence of revival theology. New birth was a term vague enough to avoid theological debates, yet precise enough to convey both the trials and joys of the experience. But most importantly, the new birth operated as a noun, a “thing” you could take action toward, rather than some indescribable, abstract experience that descends upon you like in Edward’s descriptions. Whitefield’s preaching stimulated the child-like impulse of “I want one too!” as he encouraged the sinners in his audience to take action, instead of waiting to see, and get the same new birth that others were already enjoying. In addition, this approach to evangelism was rather easy to copy, and numerous preachers began following suit after hearing Whitefield. In choosing the new birth, his audiences were choosing a personal identity. Up to this point, it had been a Calvinist God’s choice whether or not one was converted. The people had no choice in the matter, prepare as they might. The religious aspect of their identity was chosen for them despite their hopes. And as Whitefield traveled and saturated the colonies with his message, he confronted everybody with the necessity of making a personal choice about the new birth—a choice of a new identity that was a perfect fit with the new American land. As will be argued below, introducing choices in religion paved the road for republican politics, a political system of self-government through representatives chosen by the people. If one had a choice in matters as weighty as salvation, where could personal choice be denied? As historian Mark Noll stated, “Republican instincts prized human self-sufficiency more highly than dependence upon God.”9 In a later chapter we will discuss how Calvinism and Arminianism were connected to the two major political parties in the British Empire, the Tories and the Whigs. In addition to establishing an identity, the new birth encouraged people to have a personal relationship with God, to pray without an official prayer book, to even converse with God. Roman Catholicism had provided priestly mediators, and after the Church of England

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broke away during the Reformation period, their priests continued to mediate the relationship between God and a community. The new birth had a profound influence on the development of colonial culture. As Fukuyama concludes, “In the long run, the individual’s ability to have a direct relationship with God had extremely subversive consequences for all social relationships, because it gave individuals a moral ground to rebel against even the most broadly established traditions and social conventions.”10 Eventually, the new birth came to embody the “pursuit of happiness,” a republican theme that would play an expanded role in coming decades.11 Whitefield simplified the theology of the conversion into this metaphor of the new birth. The term was clear, precise, and easily grasped by anyone. Whitefield understood revival theology and was able to explain it to uneducated people whom he respected and valued. In addition, Whitefield had a reputation for being “divinely anointed,” causing people to take him seriously (remember the squint). The term new birth was the critical factor in the spread of revival. Whitefield employed other terms that simplified previously difficult ideas. He promoted terms like “regeneration” and “common privilege,” as well as the means to tell who was converted and who was not by traveling everywhere and preaching consistent messages. Unlike people’s experience with Edwards and other revivalists, Whitefield’s audiences did not need multiple sermons to hear and recall the salvation message. He effectively communicated everything in the few sermons he would deliver in a town before moving on. But Whitefield supplied a far more dynamic and powerful tool than simply a vocabulary and grammar that launched the revival. The fundamental beliefs from the Awakening set up logical templates— models of belief and behavior—that would be applied to tough political issues of the Revolutionary generation. As we will see, Whitefield promoted several templates that paved the way for the advancement of republican thought in the colonies. These templates helped the founders find the logic to support their objections to rising British oppression. If the new birth stood as a central revival belief, the template from which it was drawn held the greater significance. This model suggested that there was a community that a person could choose to

A New Birth of Freedom

enter while the rest remained outside. The Puritans divided life into matters of spirit and of flesh, into worlds of light and of darkness, of the host of God and the hosts of the devil, of the elect and of the damned, of saints and of sinners. From here, we find categories of “us or them,” with ideas of “in/out,” “good/evil,” and “liberty/ slavery.” These categories found expression in spheres other than religion through the template that simplified one’s choices, whether applied to religion, social problems, or political questions.

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A Revolutionary Message

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s George Whitefield leaned on the rail of the ship watching the American coast grow larger, he could hardly wait to get to the people and begin preaching. He had learned a few things back in England about revivals and was ready to bring his message to America. It was into a prosperous, stable American land that George Whitefield introduced himself with his focus on the spiritual condition of people. In November of 1739, George Whitefield, now twenty-five, arrived in Philadelphia to begin his tour. His challenge was to reach as many colonists as possible and then hold their attention long enough to let his message sink in. In addition to printing sermons and journals, he aggressively took his message to the public with ample opportunities for colonists to hear him in person. On the tour, Whitefield preached over 350 times while traveling 2,000 miles on horseback and 3,000 miles by boat, visiting over 75 cities and towns. In his spare time he gave several hundred exhortations to smaller groups. He was constantly on the move, never staying put for more than a week. Under the impact of this tour, Americans were exposed to his message. A large number participated in a religious revival, if not led by Whitefield, then by one of the copycats who quickly followed, inspired by his successes. As Whitefield addressed each township, he attempted to lead them to the new birth as Charles Wesley had done for him. His message was consistent in every colony and town that he visited. For the first time in American history, a specific and powerful message spread throughout every colony, inviting everyone who heard it to adopt a new identity and join the community of believers 41

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who embraced the new birth. Just as he had in London, Whitefield found success in America at capturing and maintaining his people’s attention. The new birth and revival were the words of the day.

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He arrived in Philadelphia in November of 1739 with an agenda and a message. In the first nine days, Whitefield preached at least eleven times in various places to crowds of up to eight thousand people and rubbed shoulders with every religious group in town. People from all churches attended his events. Whitefield’s outdoor events dissolved denominational walls and encouraged the development of an all-encompassing Christian community. In Philadelphia, as was likely in each colony, he met privately with several local ministers to discuss theology and even had dinner with the governor. The following account by Nathan Cole, a Connecticut farmer, vividly shows the excitement that surrounded Whitefield’s tour: Now it pleased God to send Mr. Whitefield into this land; and my hearing of his preaching at Philadelphia, like one of the Old apostles . . . I felt the Spirit of God drawing me by conviction; I longed to see and hear him, and wished he would come this way. I heard he was come to New York and the Jerseys and . . . next I heard he was at long Island; then at Boston and next at Northampton. Then on a Sudden, in the morning about 8 or 9 of the Clock there came a messenger and said Mr. Whitfield preached at Hartford and Weathersfield yesterday and is to preach at Middletown this morning at ten of the Clock, I was in my field at Work, I dropt my tool that I had in my hand and ran home to my wife telling her to make ready quickly to go and hear Mr. Whitfield preach at Middletown, then run to my pasture for my horse with all my might; fearing that I should be too late; having my horse I with my wife soon mounted the horse and went forward as fast as I thought the horse could bear, and when my horse got much out of breath I would get down and put my wife on the Saddle and bid her ride as fast as she could and not Stop or Slack for me except I bade her and so I would run until I was much out of breath; and then mount my horse again, and so I did several times to favour my horse; we improved every moment to get along as if we were fleeing for our lives; all the while fearing we should be too late to hear the Sermon, for we had twelve miles to ride double in little more than an hour.

A Revolutionary Message

Cole left the meeting convinced that he needed the new birth. The account also shows the effectiveness of Whitefield’s public relations team, who kept his whereabouts in the news and sent out riders to advertise the meetings along all the country roads. Cole goes on to describe Whitefield as “angelic, bold, clothed with authority and a sweet solemnity.” Yet Cole says little about the message itself. Many writers of his day talk about Whitefield’s eloquence, but comment little on what he actually preached, implying that he was all style and no substance. But understanding his substance is essential to determining how his messages shaped American politics. To show how Whitefield resolved identity issues, built a wider sense of community, and aroused suspicions of the local leaders, we need to look at the content of his sermons. We need to see exactly how Whitefield called people to be something different from what they currently were. We must also examine the worldview to which Whitefield hoped to convert his audiences. Whitefield was convinced that most church attendees were not genuine Christians but merely performed an “outward Christ,” as Nathan Cole describes himself, saying prayers and performing good deeds. He wrote in his journal of his disappointment with the Quakers, “that they would talk of . . . an inward Christ,” but they really did not live out the practice in their daily lives. As Whitefield understood it, the outward Christ—evidenced by good deeds and morality—could be faked by anyone, as Whitefield himself had done before his conversion. Therefore, he felt his duty to preach about conversion to everyone he encountered, even active church members, and they did not like his insinuations.

The New Birth and Regeneration Whitefield’s first published sermon, “The Nature and Necessity of Our New Birth in Christ Jesus,” 1737, was being sold in America before his arrival. It was rereleased by Benjamin Franklin under a new title, “On Regeneration,” which sounded better for his public relations efforts. Here, Whitefield introduces the new birth and explains how to tell who has it and who doesn’t. He makes a blunt appeal for his listeners to choose the new birth as a rite of passage from sinner to saint, from “out” to “in.” He shows the new birth in the Scriptures and then provides several “common sense” reasons to make his case airtight. The sermon introduces an agricultural

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metaphor—“regeneration”— to help explain how one changes his or her nature after receiving the new birth, like new growth on a dead plant, which confirms the life within. Whitefield opens the sermon by pointing out that the new birth should be at the center of Christianity, but that most Christians don’t have it. He says that an unholy religion exists, populated by a “generality of believers,” and it stands in direct opposition to a “holy religion,” of “sincere Christians, of every denomination.” Whitefield divides people into two camps, “us” and “them.” The denomination a person belongs to is irrelevant. In its various forms, this division appears throughout his sermons as “us/them,” “saved/damned,” “saints/sinners,” “regenerate/unregenerate,” “sincere/insincere,” and “almost/altogether” Christians. He continues by explaining that many who call themselves Christians neglect this fundamental doctrine. Not only do they neglect it, they do not even understand it. Whitefield calls their denial a “fatal mistake,” and his sermon provides the remedy. Following his introductory remarks, Whitefield formally previews the sermon. His argument unfolds step-by-step, closing with his call to action. Whitefield’s first phase defines the new birth and explains how one can know whether or not it has been experienced. He highlights two phrases in the Scriptures, “in Christ” and “new creature,” granting that many people may be said to be “in Christ,” but that does not mean they are new creatures: “Comparatively but few of those that are ‘born of water,’ are ‘born of the Spirit’ . . . many are baptized with water, which were never baptized with the Holy Ghost.” One must have the new birth to become “in Christ,” and experience regeneration to become a “new creature.” Whitefield complains that water baptism can be performed without a new birth or regeneration. True conversion, Whitefield insists, is best evidenced by the “baptism of the Holy Ghost,” as shown in a regenerated lifestyle. After completing these explanations, he defines precisely what he means by a new creature. This section of the sermon acts as a measuring stick by which members of the audience can judge whether or not they have passed through the door via the new birth. He uses three different metaphors (all biblical illustrations) to describe the transformation to a new creature. These include refining gold, polishing glass, and being healed of disease. The transformation from old to new occurs as part of the regeneration process. People “are

A Revolutionary Message

so purged, purified and cleansed from their natural dross, filth and leprosy, by the blessed influences of the Holy Spirit, that they may be properly said to be made anew.” The Holy Spirit does the hard work, not the person. In the third section of his sermon, Whitefield offers arguments in favor of his view—an assertion from Scripture and three natural reasons that his well-educated critics would require. Proceeding with the assertion, Whitefield muses “one would think it sufficient to affirm . . . that God himself, in His holy word, has told us so.” He explains the meaning of the doctrine of original sin as described in selected scriptural passages as “being derived from carnal parents, and consequently receiving the seeds of all manner of sin and corruption from them.” Whitefield’s claim is founded entirely upon a biblical quote, evidence persuasive only to those who respect the Bible. Aware that some in the audience might interpret the Scripture differently, Whitefield offers three rational arguments. First, he contrasts the purity of God with the impurity of man and the difficulty of the two dwelling together. Can any one conceive how a filthy, corrupted, polluted wretch can dwell with an infinitely pure and holy God, before he is changed, and rendered, in some measure, like him? Can he, who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity, dwell with it? Can he, in whose sight the heavens are not clean, delight to dwell with uncleanness itself? No, we might as well suppose light to have communion with darkness, or Christ to have concord with Belial.

In other words, incongruent things cannot coexist. This is a clear use of reasoned logic by Whitefield, in which he extends the Calvinist belief that people are depraved from birth. The second argument does not even cite the Bible: It is founded in the very nature of things, that unless we have dispositions wrought in us suitable to the objects that are to entertain us, we can take no . . . satisfaction in them. For instance; what delight can the most harmonious music afford to a deaf, or what pleasure can the most excellent picture give to a blind man? Can a tasteless palate relish the richest dainties, or a filthy swine be pleased with the finest garden of flowers? No.

In Whitefield’s view, a person must be regenerated in order to enjoy the delights of heaven. Moving to his third, and strongest argument, Whitefield extends what it means to be “in Christ”:

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But then, if the benefits of our dear Redeemer’s death were to extend no farther than barely to procure forgiveness of our sins, we should have as little reason to rejoice in it, as a poor condemned criminal that is ready to perish by some fatal disease, would have in receiving a pardon from his judge.

His touching image of a dying prisoner getting a reprieve shows the effects of sin, and suggests you need your health restored or the pardon is in vain. Certainly a rational God would pardon sin and assist the believer in the regeneration process. For those familiar with the theological debates of the day, Whitefield had to convince people he held his beliefs from an informed perspective. Here Whitefield is “inoculating” his audience against the teachings of revival critics, which he knew from experience in England were soon to follow his tour. Whitefield addresses both “us” and “them,” the regenerated and the unregenerate, providing only two choices for people. The lack of inward change stands as damning evidence that one is not regenerated and still needs to get the new birth: A little acquaintance with the world will furnish us with instances, of no small number of persons, who, perhaps, were before openly profane; but seeing the ill consequences of their vices, and the many worldly inconveniencies it has reduced them to, on a sudden, as it were, grow civilized; and thereupon flatter themselves that they are very religious, because they differ a little from their former selves, and are not so scandalously wicked as once they were: whereas, at the same time, they shall have some secret darling sin or other, some beloved Delilah or Herodias, which they will not part with; some hidden lust, which they will not mortify; some vicious habit, which they will not take pains to root out. But wouldst thou know, O vain man! whoever thou art, what the LORD thy GOD requires of thee? Thou must be informed, that nothing short of a thorough sound conversion will fit thee for the kingdom of heaven. It is not enough to turn from profaneness to civility; but thou must turn from civility to godliness. Not only some, but “all things must become new” in thy soul. It will profit thee but little to do many things, if yet some one thing thou lackest. In short, thou must not only be an almost, but altogether a new creature, or in vain thou boasteth that thou art a Christian.

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Whitefield argues that ethical behavior is insufficient, that even a reformation to good behavior still allows the heart to harbor a “hidden lust” or “some vicious habit.” I quote this passage at length to provide some of the flavor of Whitefield’s preaching. To fully appreciate it, we must keep in mind that it does not have the same impact when read as it does when heard. For the full effect, one should read it aloud, slowly and with feeling. It is difficult to pull sound bites out of Whitefield’s sermons because he chains together ideas and phrases into lengthy utterances that are best appreciated when experienced by the ear, rather than the eye. As a basis of comparison, when reading Ben Franklin’s pithy sayings of wisdom, the silent reader can relish them, turn them over in the mind, reread and derive their full meaning, and appreciate the artistic elegance of their wording. With Whitefield, the reception is oral, the pleasure is in the sweet sound and flowing rhythms of his voice. The mind needs a bit of time for the meaning to sink in, so he stretches out the ideas, with clauses such as, “on a sudden,” or “as it were.” He repeats his ideas two, even three times, with parallel phrases so the meaning is not missed. The phrases themselves are rhythmic and short enough for him to breathe properly as he speaks, providing natural pauses as in poetry. These are all common methods explained in classical teachings on the art of public speaking. Additionally, Whitefield embellished the climax of each sermon with artistic language, sneaking in the highly structured phrasing as he begins, increasing near the end, but never so much as to seem overdone. With a device called “antithesis,” holding up two contrasting ideas for comparison, he contrasts “many things” a person does against the “one thing” left undone—achieving the new birth. He also holds up the “altogether” and the “almost” Christian to distinguish between those who have the new birth and those who do not. As he closes the sermon, Whitefield announces the new birth to be an “infallible rule” (employing the educated vocabulary of the day) by which any person might judge her or his life. He lists the actions that signify the new birth, implying that if one lacks these, then he or she is one of the almost Christians yet in need of conversion: Let each of us therefore seriously put this question to our hearts: Have we received the Holy Ghost since we believed? . . . Do we constantly and conscientiously use all the means of grace required

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thereto? Do we fast, watch and pray? Do we, not lazily seek, but laboriously strive to enter in at the strait gate? In short, do we renounce our own righteousness, take up our crosses and follow Christ?

In a passage spiced with antithesis and alliteration, Whitefield points his finger and thumps on the chest of the almost Christian. With a direct gaze and a squinted eye, he challenges people who cannot answer yes to all of his questions—a difficult task for anyone. Whitefield confronts his listeners and urges them to become one of “us” and to enter “in.” Should the audience member answer no to these questions, Whitefield pronounces them “strangers, nay enemies to the cross of Christ,” that their “lives of worldly-mindedness, and sensual pleasure” will cause other genuine seekers to “think, that Christianity is but an empty name, a bare formal profession.” Whitefield invites the audience to embrace and to seek the new birth, to become one of us and belong to the in-group. He suggests action for people who want conversion. Whitefield exhorts his audience “not simply to believe something, but to be something.”1 He closes the sermon with a highly poetic section, eloquently composed, rhythmically punctuated, employing multiple figures of speech, and contrasting the destiny of the “unrenewed sinner” with those who are “regenerate and born again”: Methinks, every one that has but the least concern for the salvation of his precious and immortal soul, having such promises, such an hope, such an eternity of happiness set before him, should never cease watching, praying, and striving, till he find a real, inward, saving change wrought in his heart, and thereby doth know of a truth, that he dwells in Christ, and Christ in him; that he is a new creature, therefore a child of God; that he is already an inheritor, and will ere long be an actual possessor of the kingdom of heaven.

Finally, these Calvinist colonists were hearing that they could do something to assist in getting the new birth—watch, pray, and strive. And as Whitefield adds, “many thousands of happy souls have been assisted by a divine power to bring it about.” Whitefield attached human effort to God’s assistance in the conversion process, not completely rejecting Calvinism, but neatly resolving the conversion problem that the Puritans had struggled with for over a hundred years.

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True conversion is an identity-establishing process that changes the very core of the person from that day forward. The new birth was not metaphorical for Whitefield and his converts, but rather, it brought family membership and, with that, the right to an inheritance. The logic template, us/them and in/out, provided unmistakable structure to his entire sermon.

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Regardless of the labels Whitefield uses, the meaning is clear. While many people responded favorably, including unconverted church regulars, and embraced the new birth, the Old Light ministers and many others took great offense at the suggestion that they were not genuine Christians—not to mention that Whitefield labeled them as outsiders: You are strangers to the truth of grace in your hearts, and are unacquainted with the new-birth; you do not know what it is to have your natures changed; and till you do experience these things, you can never enter into the kingdom of GOD.

As Whitefield insisted, to be a stranger, or outsider, constituted a fatal error. It does not take a prophet to foresee the coming conflict. Philadelphia’s response to Whitefield mirrored the response in London with increasing crowds coming out to hear him. Just as Charles Wesley led Whitefield to conversion, Whitefield was leading colonists to conversions. He recorded some of his impressions of Philadelphians’ response to his message: Most wept at the preaching of faith . . . Even in London, I never observed so profound a silence . . . At present they seem most gladly to receive the Word . . . Many to my knowledge, have been quickened and awakened to see that religion does not consist in outward things.

Regarding Philadelphians, Benjamin Franklin was amazed by “how much they admir’d and respected him, in spite of his common abuse of them, by assuring them that they were naturally half beasts and half devils.” The effects of Whitefield’s preaching did not wear off after his departure. Even six months later Franklin described the differences: It was wonderful to see the change soon made in the manners of our inhabitants. From being thoughtless or indifferent about

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religion, it seem’d as if all the world were growing religious, so that one could not walk thro’ the town in an evening without hearing psalms sung in different families of every street.

Philadelphia’s citizens contributed enough money to build an interdenominational meetinghouse with a ministerial group with representatives from each church to oversee its administration. The interdenominational flavor of Whitefield’s message was already drawing colonists together. Whitefield’s message was embraced by enough citizens to change the city, even as viewed through discriminating eyes. Although other ministers were teaching about conversion, Whitefield was the person who popularized the term new birth and gave it a wide circulation. No other minister clarified the nature of conversion like Whitefield. By providing this compact, powerful, phrase that solved the problem of effectively explaining conversion, any minister could explain it in the language of the common people and be more likely to bring conversion in one or two hearings. The terms new birth and regeneration were incredibly effective, breaking down barriers of theological ignorance while sidestepping theological nitpicking through the power of metaphor. Whitefield also had to battle misconceptions about the new birth. A classic objection from unbelievers was that they were not willing to give up their fun. But Whitefield would reply: Do not let the devil deceive you, by telling you, that then all your delights and pleasures will be over: No; this is so far from depriving you of all pleasure, that it is an inlet unto unspeakable delights, peculiar to all who are truly regenerated. The new birth is the very beginning of a life of peace and comfort; and the greatest pleasantness is to be found in the ways of holiness.

Once accepted, the term new birth shaped people’s understanding of identity as a member of a family. Nationality and religious heritage faded in importance in the genuine Christian community.

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For Whitefield and his Christian followers, the new birth and regeneration held a meaning that modern societies may not fully appreciate. His idea of regeneration connected powerfully with farmers who immediately grasped the meaning as they had seen it in their

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orchards, gardens, and fields. Also, the travail of birth occurred at home with a midwife, who provided guidance and encouragement, and where the entire family would participate in the experience one way or another. Perhaps the notion of a spiritual midwife is not far removed from the actual role the ministers preached on the new birth. A sarcastic writer for the Anglican Weekly Miscellany said: Hark! He talks of a Sensible New Birth—then belike he is in Labour, and the good Women around him are come to his assistance. He dilates himself, cries out [and] is at last delivered.2

This was certainly a joke not missed by his audiences. Perhaps there was more to the midwife humor than merely trying to discredit Whitefield. Many of Whitefield’s converts were women, enough that cartoonists and playwrights could lampoon his relationship with them. Charles Chauncy pointed out that young women were especially attendant to Whitefield on both sides of the Atlantic. The methodist movement was largely empowered by active women. Whitefield was introducing a feminine style of preaching that especially connected with women. Sarah Edwards (Jonathan’s wife) recalled, “You have already heard of his deep-toned, yet clear melodious voice. It is perfect music . . . He speaks from a heart all aglow with love and pours out a torrent of eloquence which is almost irresistible.” Whitefield often cried during his preaching, and his tears set up a sympathetic response in his listeners. His biographer Gillies was perhaps too careful to point out that Whitefield’s manner of speaking was manly. Was Gillies trying to counter a perception of effeminacy in Whitefield’s preaching that fueled the satire in the Anglican Weekly Miscellany? Whitefield’s crying was not a manly thing to do. Whitefield was raised without a father, he did not get along with his older brother, and he spent many hours in the company of his older sister. He married a woman ten years his elder. After 1748, his employer was a woman. Whitefield used “women’s language” to bridge the gap between male and female, so his message was easily accepted by women in his audience. This would contrast with a manly style of logic-driven preaching that suppressed feelings. As the methodist movement expanded, it relied upon women for leadership in the religious societies the movement founded for new converts. Sarah Crosby was one of many women who forcefully preached in the movement, downplaying sexuality and emphasizing a

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motherly role for methodist women. Modern researchers have begun to uncover more of this tradition. Catherine Brekus explains how against the odds, female preachers began in earnest in 1740, a history that was all but erased from church records by later evangelicals.3 Michael Casey writes that “by undercutting the authority of the church, Whitefield let the genie out of the bottle—now anyone, who felt called by God, could preach even if any and all churches disagreed.”4 The message of the new birth began to alter the thinking of people in the revival movement, inadvertently taking them in a direction that could be called rebellious by established authorities. By accepting Whitefield’s new birth, a person became a “babe in Christ” (as the Apostle Paul describes). The idea of a growth process into Christian maturity then, made the new birth repulsive to older Old Light ministers as it called into question their qualification to hold their positions. Other revival ministers, such as Edwards, Frelinghuysen, Tennent, Wesley, and Davenport, had experienced the new birth earlier in their careers and were perceived as mature Christians. Thus they were immune to accusations that they were unqualified. In fact, a number of American ministers did embrace the new birth, and their leadership position was never questioned. Ministers who denied the new birth were to face direct challenges to their authority to minister, first from Whitefield and then more forcefully from Gilbert Tennent. A critical side effect that perhaps Whitefield did not foresee gave rise to even more controversy. In Massachusetts, where the church and state were intertwined in the “glorious New England tradition,” labeling political leaders as outsiders to God’s kingdom directly challenged their right to govern. Colonial governors and other civic leaders tended to side with the Old Light ministers regarding the new birth and rejected it. But most importantly, the new birth implied that one was genuinely born into God’s family. Denomination no longer mattered. Nationality no longer mattered. What mattered was whether or not the new convert would remain with their Old Light church or join one of the New Light churches. One could easily argue that the Anglican Old Lights were closely connected with England, and other Old Light denominations were allied with their country of origin

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(like Dutch Reformed, Scottish Presbyterian, French Huguenots, and German Baptists). But the New Lights were those who had begun to see themselves as American. This situation was intensified by the connections between church and state throughout Europe. Old Lights preferred a strong top-down society led by a king and lords, while the New Lights favored strong, grass-roots, parliamentary selfrule, with loyalty to the king as symbolic of their devotion to the British Empire.

The Spirit and Common Privileges After leaving Philadelphia, Whitefield toured New Jersey, Maryland, Virginia, and the Carolinas, all on horseback, preaching wherever he could find an audience. It is important to note that Whitefield’s pattern was to preach the same messages in each new location, beginning with the new birth and the indwelling of the spirit. Then he would follow up with a return visit where he preached against various practices and called people to join religious societies similar to the Holy Club. Whitefield preferred to travel by horse instead of a carriage or coach. At one point, he tried a lengthy coach ride between cities but was rattled to his bones on the poor roads. He would also get bored simply holding the reins of a carriage. Traveling thousands of miles by horseback indicates that he was an excellent rider. He and his companions would be seen riding from town to town, singing and enjoying the outdoors. Whitefield felt that a good ride would help restore his health by shaking off whatever physical problem he was experiencing. When Whitefield reached Charleston, he found that Alexander Garden had closed the pulpit to him, so he preached three sermons to most of the town in one of the other churches. In Charleston, Whitefield included his sermon, “The Indwelling of the Spirit, the Common Privilege of All Believers.” Garden must have slipped in to listen. Shortly thereafter he published a scathing pamphlet challenging Whitefield’s doctrine on the new birth and the role of God’s spirit in the life of a new believer. Within this sermon Whitefield had scolded unconverted ministers, undercut their authority, and called into question their motives and qualifications to hold their ministerial positions. It is no wonder Garden was livid.

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“Indwelling” extended what it meant to have the new identity Whitefield promoted in “On Regeneration.” It was the responsibility of the Spirit to conform the mind and heart of each person to Christian principles so that they would fit into the community of believers. Whitefield’s main tasks in the sermon were to confront the unconverted ministers and to strengthen the Christian community. But the way that he blended religious and political ideas through an interchangeable vocabulary is the more interesting feature, a feature that slips past the attention of a reader focused solely on theology. Whitefield’s main point is clear and has profound implications as soon as one begins to consider what his claim actually means for everyday life: The Holy Spirit is the common privilege and portion of all believers in all ages; and that we as well as the first Christians, must receive the Holy Ghost, before we can be truly called the children of God.

Whitefield defines the Spirit in a way his critics would accept: “the Holy Ghost, the third person in the ever-blessed Trinity, consubstantial and co-eternal with the Father and the Son, proceeding from, yet equal to them both.” He then cites three biblical passages to support that view, and indeed nearly all mainstream theologians of that day accepted his definition. He expects assent from all Christians, believing the definition to be a “self-evident” issue. Following his definition, Whitefield seeks to establish that “all believers” are entitled to receive this Spirit. By asserting that the indwelling is a “common privilege,” Whitefield draws upon the political tradition of the English people. The rights of Englishmen were an integral feature of their society, providing the heritage of individual rights that modern Americans so well understand. Certain rights were common to all people, and references to such rights can be seen throughout the writings of influential theorists such as John Locke. Traces of Locke’s ideas populate Whitefield’s writings, as his use of the term common privilege indicates.5 Using this vocabulary, Whitefield borrows a political belief to explain a religious idea. He replaces the term “right” with “privilege,” for theological reasons. His Calvinist beliefs would never support the notion that humans have a right to salvation, but upon being chosen, the benefits of God indeed become a privilege for that individual. These benefits

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could not be reserved for any special class of people since all are equal in the sight of God. By using political vocabulary to explain a religious idea, Whitefield makes it very easy to use religious concepts to explain political beliefs. He begins to set up a pattern of logic that lets ideas flow freely between the two spheres. Whitefield points out that he does not perform miracles, as others were claiming to do, dodging the accusation of radical enthusiasm. Instead he takes a moderate approach. For Whitefield, the real work of the Spirit was on the heart, not the body. It is clear that his definition of enthusiasm differs from that of his critics, who distrusted emotional expressions. The New Light preachers, including Jonathan Edwards, were being labeled as “enthusiasts.” The central complaint was summed up by the Boston Puritan Charles Chauncy, who wrote that the enthusiast would: mistake the workings of his own passions for divine communications, and fancies himself immediately inspired by the Spirit of God, when all the while, he is under no other influence than that of an over-heated imagination.

In response, Whitefield replaced the notion of “enthusiasm” with the softer idea of the “indwelling of the Spirit,” which attributes the “enthusiastic” responses to God. While his definition did not immediately catch on, it likely deflected some criticism upon his return in 1745. Indwelling develops as a confrontation of definitions over the term “enthusiasm.” Whitefield promoted the more moderate meaning to counter the writings of his critics who were exaggerating it. After establishing their common ground, Whitefield clarified their differences: Indeed, I will not say, all our letter-learned preachers deny this doctrine in express words; but however, they do in effect; for they talk professedly against inward feelings, and say, we may have God’s Spirit without feeling it, which is in reality to deny the thing itself. And had I a mind to hinder the progress of the gospel, and to establish the kingdom of darkness, I would go about, telling people, they might have the Spirit of God, and yet not feel it.

In other words, Whitefield was calling them hypocrites. Moreover, he defined them as dupes who serve the “kingdom of darkness” instead of Christ, reinforcing his logic pattern of in/out and insisting

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that they were out. Having established his definitions to his own satisfaction, he continued the attack on the Old Light ministers with his sharpest barbs yet: But you are the schismatics, you are the bane of the church of England . . . feeding [the people] only with the dry husks of dead morality, and not bringing out to them the fatted calf; I mean, the doctrines of the operations of the blessed Spirit of God.

His food metaphors, which compared the malnutrition of the Old Light churches against the nutritious doctrine of the revivalists, may have struck a resonant chord in a society that understood the meaning of famine. Whitefield pressed the attack further, echoing Jesus’ scolding of Jewish Pharisees: Woe be unto such blind leaders of the blind! How can you escape the damnation of hell? . . . Jesus Christ, the great Shepherd and Bishop of souls, shall determine who are the false prophets; who are the wolves in sheep’s clothing. Those who say, that we must now receive and feel the Holy Ghost, or those who exclaim against it, as the doctrine of devils.

Pause a moment and imagine the context and meaning of this statement. He is saying directly, to whichever Old Light ministers were certainly attending his sermon, “How can you escape the damnation of hell?” Even several centuries later, one can imagine the Old Lights turning red, gritting their teeth, and walking out on him—if they could get through the crowd. Whitefield apologizes for the necessity of his criticisms but insists, “If I could bear to see people perish for lack of knowledge, and yet be silent towards those who keep from them the key of true knowledge, the very stones would cry out.” His words in these sections demand emotion and energy, otherwise there would be a sin against good form that an orator such as Whitefield could never commit. As Whitefield continues, he returns to the idea that the unpurified sinner cannot enter heaven. He sees the indwelling as the critical component that allows purification to happen, and he argues forcefully that the process is a must. Using a vibrant metaphor that compares the idea of an unpurified sinner in heaven to having a barn animal in your house, Whitefield says,

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And if creatures, with only our degree of goodness, cannot bear even the thought of dwelling with beasts or devils, to whose nature we are so nearly allied, how do we imagine God, who is infinite goodness, and purity itself, can dwell with us, while we are partakers of both their natures? We might as well think to reconcile heaven and hell.

Whitefield believed that the sinner was not fit to enter heaven but required purification via the process of regeneration from original sin before communion with God was possible. His “dwelling with beasts” metaphor fits with the colonists’ everyday experience and is another example of how Whitefield used ordinary illustrations to connect with people. Winding up the sermon, he says, “If I have wounded you, be not afraid; behold, I now bring a remedy for all your wounds.” Perhaps many came to hear out of curiosity. But Whitefield created an interest in his message by first attacking the Old Light ministers and then turning against the audience itself, first by offending them, then by trying to convince them that their offended feelings stood as evidence to support his case (a genuine, regenerated Christian would not have taken offense). Watching the audience response, Whitefield asks, “Is not this driving people into despair?” Of course his remedy is the new birth, which Whitefield explains as a choice between life and death. He empowers his audience, saying “Come then, my guilty brethren, come and believe on the Lord that bought you with his precious blood.” He repeatedly uses the verb “come,” urging people to action. He then eloquently exhorts people to receive the indwelling of the Spirit through the new birth. His call to sinners is not manipulative. Rather, he invites people and relies upon their desires for the impelling force. Most importantly, he is offering a choice to the sinners and urging them to act. As in “On Regeneration,” Whitefield argued with critics (and everyone knew who they were) in front of an audience that was asked to choose between the two sides: should one support the Old Lights, the “letter-learned” ministers whom Whitefield accused of being negligent, or support the revivalists who claim to offer a genuine form of Christianity? With this sermon, Whitefield intensified the conflict between New Lights and Old Lights and would not back off his position for another five years. He threw down the

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gauntlet, calling them false prophets and wolves in sheep’s clothing. He unmistakably challenged their authority to govern the church, and in colonies that blended religion and politics, where there was no separation of church and state, this challenge questioned the legitimacy of appointed and elected officials who were immersed in the Old Light churches. Once the meaning of his attack became clear, and after other ministers such as Gilbert Tennent began to echo Whitefield’s charges, the Old Lights rose up in united opposition against him and counterattacked. In 1740 many colonists were hungry for meaningful religion and open to the identity brought by the new birth. By spreading the revival to all the colonies, Whitefield supplied the first uniquely American collective experience. Whitefield did not invent a new view of self-understanding in the new birth; what he did was take an existing view, simplify it, and disseminate it throughout the colonies. Through published sermons, news articles, broadsides, journals, infomercials, as well as through instigating controversy and preaching widely, Whitefield’s enterprise was the first event that all colonists shared, an event that became a cornerstone of American culture. Within fifteen months, most colonists from Massachusetts to Georgia knew about Whitefield and his message and would fall over themselves to go hear him preach.

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V

Controversy “I’m just getting started”

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eorge Whitefield may have been timid by nature, but when it came to God and the freedom to worship, he didn’t back down from anyone. When Alexander Garden turned against him, the issue was about Whitefield’s condemnation of Old Lights. He challenged Whitefield to prove they were unconverted. Whitefield wrote: He charged me with enthusiasm and pride, for speaking against the generality of the clergy, and desired I would make my charge good. I told him, I thought I had already; though as yet I had scarce begun with them.

Garden threw Whitefield out of his house and warned him not to preach in his jurisdiction under threat of suspension. But since Garden had no authority to suspend him, Whitefield ignored him. Garden then took his case to the people, publishing his complaints just after Whitefield’s American tour ended—a bit too late to stop Whitefield’s message. Garden’s pamphlet warned the people that Whitefield’s influence came from the power in his voice, not from any reasonable content in his messages. Garden asked readers to compare portions of a printed Whitefield sermon with their memory of hearing it, and if they felt nothing, then their emotional response in person must be illegitimate. And if that was the case, its power was of questionable origin: Thus, I say, you heard the Contents of the following Pages from the pulpit, ’midst that enchanting Sound in your Ears, exciting your Passions, and foreclosing your Understandings against 59

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them. They opposed and breathed only Persecution and Slaughter against that Angel! that Seraphim! the wondrous WHITEFIELD!— And therefore away with them; they must be unregenerate words.

In addition to arguing that the force of the sermon was due to some magical power in his voice, Garden accused Whitefield of not even being a real Christian, and his attack signaled the coming conflict. As Whitefield’s tour continued, Garden was still writing and getting his pamphlet to the printer. Although Garden and Whitefield agreed upon many things, their differences were critical since they determined a person’s membership in God’s kingdom—in or out. Garden’s obsessive attack is out of proportion with typical religious squabbling. He insightfully sensed beneath the surface of the religious debate that Whitefield’s message threatened not just the church organization but political and social organizations as well. It did not help that Whitefield ignored his orders to stop preaching. Whitefield had been inspired by the renowned philosopher John Locke who held the view that people had the right to choose their form of government. The Awakening preachers extended the principle from politics to religion. Whitefield stated that some ministers are unconverted and unfit to lead a church. He implied that people ought to leave that church and worship at one where the minister is converted. Gilbert Tennent and James Davenport did not imply this; they stated it bluntly. Due to their influence, people began defecting from Old Light churches in droves. When church and state are not separate, choosing to worship differently means changes for the government. Garden recognized that this logic could undermine his own power base as well as the local magistrates and colonial governor. Just like Whitefield was dismissing Garden, even though Garden was his elder and held a higher position within the Church of England, Whitefield’s message could instigate a similar rebellion. But, since Whitefield himself was not preaching up a rebellion against the king or governors, Garden was forced to criticize him on church issues. For the time being, the debate was over religion, and Garden represented the antirevival clergy. But as the next several years passed, Charles Chauncy, a welleducated and respected Boston Puritan, stepped up for the second phase of opposition. As the revival continued, Chauncy was able to show the connection between doctrinal positions and political beliefs and directly charge Whitefield with rebellion.

Controversy: “I’m just getting started”

Back North to Boston If London was the key to England, then likewise Boston was the key to America. If Whitefield could awaken the tough crowd of Boston, then the revival would truly extend throughout the British colonies, as Whitefield had intended. Whitefield’s reception in New England and Boston was indeed passionate, but here the controversy became the most heated. The stakes were much higher for the Old Light ministers in Massachusetts’ church-state society, where a portion of one’s taxes was used to subsidize the Puritan church. The papers had been publicizing Whitefield’s tour, so when he arrived on September 19, 1740, four thousand people showed up to hear him. The next day, six thousand attended the morning service, and eight thousand that afternoon. On Sunday, fifteen thousand came to hear him preach. Whitefield wrote, “To see people ready to hear, makes me forget myself . . . Most wept for a considerable time.” But what Whitefield and the New Lights saw as a marvelous response to the preaching of “God’s Word,” the Old Light ministers saw as a mob with all of its implications. Nobody else, especially politicians, had been able to draw such large crowds to hear a speech. As Whitefield was preparing to preach in a meeting house the next day, people crowded in, standing in the aisles until it was filled beyond capacity. Upon hearing the sound of a board cracking, people feared the balcony was collapsing and jumped down, rushing for doors and windows. Five people were killed in the stampede (the air forced from their lungs as they were squeezed between the masses of pressing bodies), and many others were injured. Whitefield quickly announced that he would preach outside, and several thousand stood in the rain to hear him as they tended to the dead and injured. The tragedy symbolically foreshadowed trouble. Those who were suspicious about the revivals were convinced that Whitefield was dangerous. No longer were these meetings “peaceful,” the crowds could get out of control. What if the enthusiasm Whitefield was so good at creating was aimed at government leaders instead of unconverted ministers? What if the crowds took a political turn and turned against the Old Light traditional power structure? The connection to such fears was rooted in the recognition that Whitefield was indeed providing an alternative identity through his call to genuine Christianity. Two days later, any such suspicions were

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further exacerbated as Whitefield visited Harvard where he offended its faculty by saying: Discipline is at a low ebb. Bad books are becoming fashionable among the tutors and students. Tillotson and Clark are read, instead of Sheppard, Stoddard and such-like evangelical writers.

Harvard was the institution that trained all of Massachusetts’ ministers and political leaders. These and other such comments fueled more criticism and provided the verification Whitefield’s critics needed to make a political case against the revival. After preaching for several weeks in the vicinity of Boston, Whitefield traveled west to Northampton, where he befriended Jonathan Edwards and reignited the revival Edwards oversaw a few years earlier. Swinging further south into New Jersey, Whitefield encouraged Gilbert Tennent to visit Boston and continue preaching to people there as Whitefield prepared to go back to England. Tennent stepped out of his usual pastoral role and traveled for much of 1741, preaching fiery revival sermons that especially attacked unconverted ministers. James Davenport, inspired by Whitefield’s and Tennent’s success, journeyed to New England to continue the revival the following year, attacking Old Lights and their ministers even more forcefully. After Davenport, numerous ministers, inspired by Whitefield and the others, began to travel and preach throughout the colonies. After feeling that his revival tour was completed, George Whitefield departed for England in January of 1741 and set about spreading the revival to Wales and Scotland. His vision of having the whole world as his parish was becoming fully manifest, with followers in the British Isles and now in America. Just as a country minister assigned to several churches would travel between towns, Whitefield traveled between his self-created parishes within the British Empire. He maintained his new friendships by continuously sending letters. He now had publishing connections on both sides of the Atlantic, which he used to reinforce his ideas. In addition, he created an official position as the head of the Georgia orphanage, which required him to raise money and supplied him with a legitimate reason to travel and preach. In view of Whitefield’s groundbreaking work, the Great Awakening can be attributed to his efforts. Whitefield brought the energy and leadership needed to spread the message of the new birth to

Controversy: “I’m just getting started”

other colonies. Edwards and Tennent traveled little before 1740, remaining in or near their local areas. Moreover, there was no plan to spread the revival to other locations, nor was there anyone for the task, until Whitefield began his preaching tour. The revival’s intercolonial scope emerged during and after Whitefield’s tour, after which, as Sydney Ahlstrom points out, “Whitefield, Tennent, and Edwards— Anglican, Presbyterian, and Congregationalist—felt themselves to be of one mind in their great undertaking.”1 Alan Heimert explains that “the revival and the evangelical impulse pressed to the goal of a more beautiful social order—which meant, in the New World, a union of Americans, freed from the covenant relationships of the parochial past and united by the love which God’s American children bore for one another.”2 In retrospect, the final result of revival for both Old Lights and New Lights was positive. The revival served to strengthen the glorious New England religious tradition as well as spread it to the middle and southern colonies. Both camps wanted the same thing—a community of believers who maintained moral lives, peaceful relationships, and public virtue. And both ultimately benefited from the Awakening, as their churches were crowded again. But religion and politics were highly intertwined in colonial America, and comparisons between unconverted ministers and corrupt political leaders rang true with many colonists. Whitefield’s arguments about the ministers provided a logic template that bred opposition to political authority if it could be accused of corruption, negligence, or abuse of power.

Whitefield’s Reception in America Whitefield’s message of identity and a Christian community encouraged a return to morality and virtue. For the first time, members of different churches and different nationalities viewed themselves as part of an intercolonial Christian community. But such change is practically meaningless if confined to Boston and Philadelphia. Was the awakening truly “great”? Historians have been debating the question. One such historian is Jon Butler, who does not believe that the revival was as extensive as claimed. He says that later writers focused on particular places and invented the Great Awakening.3 However historian Frank Lambert recently dedicated an entire book

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to challenging Butler, demonstrating that the revivals were indeed extensive, and everybody living in America at the time knew it.4 Another historian, Patricia Bonomi concurred, writing that “churches were being built or enlarged everywhere.”5 As we learn more about the period, more historians are agreeing with the greatness of the awakening period. John Gillies writes of Whitefield that “wherever he went, prodigious numbers flocked to hear him. His audiences often consisted of four or five thousand; and in populous places . . . the concourse was so great that they have been computed to be from twenty to thirty thousand.” News of his arrival traveled fast in the colonies. Upon preaching to two thousand people in Neshaminy, Pennsylvania, in 1739 Whitefield wrote in his journal, “It is surprising how such bodies of people, so scattered abroad, can be gathered at so short a warning.” Crowds easily expanded to eight thousand in Philadelphia or New York and reached twenty thousand in Boston. Nathan Cole’s account of his frenzied and hurried journey to hear Whitefield shows Whitefield’s ability to draw a crowd on short notice. Why would anyone miss him when he came to town in 1740? His meetings were the place to be. Making the case for Whitefield’s impact does not have to rely on his friends. Evidence can also be drawn from the writings and opinions of his critics. Charles Chauncy cynically wrote: Accordingly, about two years since, he was received as though he had been an Angel of God; yea, a God come down in the likeness of Man. He was strangely flocked after by all Sorts of Persons, and that much admired by the Vulgar, both great and small . . . The grand subject of conversation was Mr. Whitefield, and the whole Business of the Town to run, from Place to Place, to hear him preach.

Edward Wigglesworth, who called Whitefield’s effect “more extensive and pernicious than any man could have imagined,” also said, “Perhaps there is not now a single town in this province, and, probably not in Connecticut, in which there are not numbers of people whose minds are under strong prejudices against their ministers.” Whitefield’s opponents would not have spent the money or dedicated the time to oppose him if his influence had been confined to mere corners of colonial society. The “good old boy” network must

Controversy: “I’m just getting started”

have been asking themselves, “where might this movement lead,” as they considered the political fallout of what was shaping up to be a significant shift in colonial religion. The widespread publication and sale of his printed materials also testifies to Whitefield’s popularity. By the end of his American tour, his writings were circulating throughout the colonies: He had 133 American publications in the 1740s, consisting of 64 sermon editions or collections, 31 journal editions, 34 publications defending his doctrine, and 4 works accounting for his ministry finances. If only 1,000 copies of each edition were released, that makes 133,000 individual works—1 for approximately every 5 adult colonists! This does not include the newspaper reprints of interesting passages—a common practice in the 1740s. This was an age with public reading houses, where books were shared, and newspapers were passed from house to house instead of being used to light the fireplace. At Whitefield’s request, Gilbert Tennent traveled to New England in 1742 for a brief period, generating increasing excitement about the revival and further provoking the Old Lights with his thundering denunciations. His now famous sermon “The Danger of an Unconverted Ministry” was published in 1741 and was inspired by Whitefield’s teachings. Without really intending it, Tennent’s sermon caused members of Old Light churches to defect to New Light congregations, a situation that greatly alarmed the New England Old Lights, whose misgivings about Whitefield’s teachings were being spectacularly confirmed. Shortly thereafter, James Davenport also found popularity in Boston preaching similar messages, but his excessive enthusiasm caused many Boston clergy and finally city officials to cry “enough!” Davenport was jailed a couple of times, judged as mentally incompetent, forced to write a retraction for encouraging enthusiastic excesses, and sent back to his congregation in Connecticut. Later, Davenport admitted that his actions hurt the revival by providing examples that critics could cite as evidence in their attacks. Tragically, Davenport passed away “believing that the cause of Christ would have been stronger if he had never been born.”6 As a result of Davenport’s excessive antics (not to mention the other newly inspired traveling preachers), the revival came under fire from a group of Boston ministers led by Charles Chauncy. Alexander

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Garden’s charges against Whitefield had already been reprinted in Boston by 1741, and Chauncy, after a time of careful consideration, joined the criticism wholeheartedly in 1742 with the publication of his sermon “Enthusiasm Described and Caution’d Against.” Here, Chauncy claims that the New Light preachers were mistaking their “own passions for divine communications” and that personal responses they supposed were inspired by God’s spirit were actually due to an “over-heated imagination.” Chauncy took full advantage of Davenport’s theatrics, which justified his point that the revival enthusiasm was destructive, divisive, and irrational. Chauncy listed the wild events of the Awakening, publishing them in September of 1743 in a book entitled Seasonable Thoughts on the State of Religion in New England. Centered in Boston, the antirevival group wrote and preached against the Awakening, supporting their claims with the excessive enthusiasm of Davenport. In the face of consistent criticism, the revival cooled off. Most colonists had already heard and responded to the message of the new birth one way or another. The intense period of the Awakening subsided by 1743, and the war of words over what the revival meant began. In Seasonable Thoughts, Chauncy singled out Whitefield as the instigator of all the excesses and divisions and as the root of the social disorder in New England. He piled on the complaints against the traveling New Light preachers, of whom he viewed Whitefield as the chief. He demonstrated how every negative aspect of the revival originated with Whitefield, was reinforced by Tennent, stretched to its limits by Davenport, and then placed in widespread practice by other traveling ministers. Chauncy loudly expressed the suspicions and misgivings of many Old Light ministers against the revival movement. He developed his case into a seemingly airtight argument, backed by Scripture, Puritan tradition, and the respected opinions of American and British religious leaders. The widespread criticism of the revival forced ministers and people across the colonies to reconsider their support of the movement and take a public stand. Even though the respected Jonathan Edwards competently defended the revival theology against Old Light ministers, and even though the New Lights had a large majority, the Old Lights voiced their position forcefully in print, effectively creating a social division through the newly emerging public media of newspapers.

Controversy: “I’m just getting started”

The controversy over the revival divided American churches into two distinct groups after the Great Awakening, one supporting and one opposing the revival, New Lights and Old Lights. For the sake of understanding, I have simplified a very complex situation, but Whitefield pushed people to make a choice about conversion. Though America itself was religiously, intellectually, and socially divided, the public controversy goaded everyone to choose one side or the other, causing the mosaic of churches to align behind one view or the other.

Social Effects of Whitefield’s Message Whitefield brought to America the concept that there was indeed such a thing as a false religion and that a person obtained citizenship in a true Christian community through the new birth. From this point, a person was regenerated into a moral lifestyle through the power of God’s spirit, which was the believer’s privilege. For all practical purposes, Whitefield also presented the new birth as a choice to “come to Christ”—a choice that empowered the individual. Whitefield had rebuked the Old Lights for denying these truths to the people. For English colonists, the idea of a common privilege made sense from their experience of the natural rights of English citizenship. For other Europeans, conceiving of something like a common privilege in religion helped them to understand English natural rights as they made a new life under British rule. But most important was the interdenominational, intercolonial Christian community in which Whitefield urged them to take membership. It was a community that provided a new identity based in “genuine Christianity.” Whitefield’s message provided the foundation people needed to transform their previous conflicted identities into new ones. As Francis Fukuyama notes, “American culture is very different from European cultures, which are firmly wedded to ‘blood and soil.’”7 Whitefield’s message moved beyond the blood and soil, shaping personal identities to match the opportunities in America. Once a community of awakened believers adopted this new aspect of identity, it provided beliefs that operated as unquestioned logic templates to guide ideas in every area of life, including politics. As a result, people from various nationalities and churches who threw

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their lots in with the New Lights developed similar political beliefs to accompany their newly adopted self-understanding. Physically, Whitefield brought people together. Living in their own communities and neighborhoods, the colonists did not have a cause that would call them to one location. While leaders often met together for colonial governmental business, the citizens did not. Whitefield changed all that by providing a place where people came on equal footing to consider his message. The importance of breaking down the physical and social class barriers between people must not be overlooked. People tend to trust those with whom they spend time and share beliefs. In Whitefield’s events, people of diverse national and religious origins had the opportunity to worship together, and this encouraged the development of other public meetings. In addition to promoting a sense of community based on closeness, the new relationships among colonists also helped fuel the explosion of commercialism in the latter 1700s. As Fukuyama explains, “A people’s ability to maintain a shared ‘language of good and evil’ is critical to the creation of trust, social capital, and all other positive economic benefits.” Fukuyama goes on to say that “when membership in a church extracts a high price in terms of emotional commitment and changes in lifestyle, it creates a strong sense of moral community among its members.”8 Whitefield’s role in this process was to draw people into these religious organizations and instill in them a common vocabulary, sense of morality, and a system of thought that assisted in the growth of trust. Promoting a message of equality for all people at public meetings threatened the colonial political leadership. Remember that British society was divided into “lords” and “commoners,” along with several other class distinctions that are foreign to modern Americans. If the meetings remained religious, local civic leaders had no jurisdiction. They could neither prevent nor control the content of the revival meetings, even though they tried. Here was a giant rising up in society that was beginning to break out of civil and rational constraints. Commoners were beginning to reject the authority of their religious leaders. Already several people had died at a meeting, and Whitefield routinely moved people to passionate tears as well as to what the leaders called “unreasonable behavior.” As a result of the revivals, the class distinction between ministers and parishioners dissolved as

Controversy: “I’m just getting started”

people came to believe that many ministers were corrupt. Whitefield elevated the status of the common people, pushing against the boundaries of the social class system. The usual things that previously elevated an individual in the social order—birth, education, and wealth—were suddenly secondary to the conversion experience. Political boundaries were stretched as well. Religion has always been a means to control the masses (as has been oft stated by many philosophers and notable atheists). In other words, a society’s religion makes the rules about who gets power and who has to obey. So we should not be surprised to find religious conflict at the heart of most civil wars. Authoritarian rulers must have an authoritarian religion to instill a respect for leadership. Thus, the rigid Church of England practices found a nice fit with politics that supported the king and class structure. But the other Protestant churches could not afford to have their destiny in the hands of a king who could turn against them by converting to Roman Catholicism, as did King James a hundred years earlier. So the dissenting churches set up organizations that allowed for self-rule without the need for bishops. By and large, each New Light group chose their own pastor and made their own decisions. They embraced the democratic principles of parliamentary rule—just one step away from republicanism. Even though New England had distanced itself from daily English politics, it felt the effects of shifting policies. As emigration rates rose and war between England and France approached, the political turmoil of Europe quickly crossed the Atlantic to shape events in the colonies. Within a democratic society, any religious group that focuses on a single issue, and claims exclusive possession of the truth is eventually pushed aside. But the New Lights focused on legitimate issues, and the spread of revival made a majority of them. The Old Lights could not ignore or ridicule them out of the mainstream. For the Old Light power structure, everything was at stake. Would the equality of the New Lights overrun the authoritarian world of the Old Lights? The popularity of revival beliefs and their direct assault on the social order pushed the Old Lights into a corner where they were forced to fight back. Underneath the religious debate we find political views motivating groups to support or oppose the revivals. To be sure, ministers on both sides were genuinely concerned for the church and true

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doctrine, but changes in an entire society do not come without political reverberations, especially when empowered by a message that sets up simple categories of “us” and “them.” Recognizing these categories as founded and popularized in the revival, Old Lights could see clearly where Whitefield’s message was leading. As the New Lights became more politically active, their public debates focused on an identity of “us,” which undermined American authority structures by portraying those in power as “them.” A situation was developing that can only be seen as explosive. In the final analysis, the New Light teachings nurtured the evolving republican ideals that sought to take local control of civil affairs, gaining freedom from an oppressive monarchy.

CHAPTER

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I

f you asked Whitefield about his American tour, I believe he would have replied that everything was wonderful. He was certainly aware of disagreements over doctrine and the complaints about enthusiasm, but nothing in his journals or letters indicates an awareness of the deeper political fears. In fact, Whitefield would not be aware of the depth and stakes of the growing controversy in America until his return in late 1744. But similar uproar commenced as he toured Scotland and England, and it forced him to shift his views and practice. As the leader of the revival movement in America, these changes in Whitefield’s ministry would impact the Christian community in the colonies as soon as he returned. Whitefield held far more influence there than anyone realized. As opposition to the methodist revival deepened in England, Whitefield finally recognized that the message he and the other revivalists were bringing had a deep political aftermath. Consequently, Whitefield decided to become a political man. He never fully resolved all the disagreements with some of his antagonists, but if progress is measured by retaining his hold on the public mind, he succeeded. Whitefield’s unmistakable and irreversible shift from a pure religious focus to including moderate political ideals would eventually prod the New Light community in America to move a significant step closer to embracing republican politics.

Staying in the Public Eye Having left the Awakening in the capable hands of Tennent and Edwards, Whitefield continued establishing parishes throughout the 71

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British Isles. In his mind, to maintain the growth of his American parish, he needed to ensure he was not forgotten while away in England. Whitefield used two types of publications to accomplish the task—journals and letters. For Americans who did not live in Boston, Savannah, Philadelphia, or other places where Whitefield regularly preached, the most effective way to know him was through his writings. His intent in publications of sermons, letters of doctrinal defense, and journal editions was to build upon the foundation he established in the 1740 tour. Recall that it took Whitefield nearly six months from the time Charles Wesley told him about the new birth until he felt he had achieved it. Even though Whitefield empowered people to choose the new birth, he still understood conversion as a process. Knowing that many people struggled through the conversion and that many others were purifying their lives from secret sins, Whitefield wanted to encourage them to keep the faith. His Journals would provide examples of his own successful conversion and regeneration. Just before returning to England, Whitefield contracted to have his autobiography published throughout America and issued in editions from 1738 to 1744. These were not accounts of his current ministry in England after the second American tour (1741–1744), but of his childhood, education, early ministry, and the story of his coming to America. Eight editions released in chronological order provided the story of his travels and experiences, explained his motives, showed his character, and argued for his divine anointing. The American public interpreted his writings according to their biases toward him. As one author puts it, Whitefield “became more beloved to his friends and more despised by his foes.”1 A self-promotional tone permeates George Whitefield’s Journals to an unmistakable extent. If one were to take it at face value, to oppose Whitefield would be to oppose God. But his critics were skeptical and, of course, viewed these claims as absurd. The release of his journal, as well as the publication of his sermons and other works, kept Whitefield in public view during his physical absence, preparing American colonists for his next tour in 1745. Whitefield was no longer a stranger to the American colonies as he was in 1740. The 1745 tour should have been simply a continuation of the prior one. However, before Whitefield was able to return, conflict in England demanded his participation in politics.

Bishop Bashing

Whitefield’s Political Turn In preparation for his Scottish tour, Whitefield began corresponding with Ralph Erskine, a Presbyterian minister in Edinburgh, to schedule a visit to Scotland after his return from America (Presbyterianism was the national religion of Scotland). Not fully welcome in London because of a doctrinal disagreement with John Wesley, Whitefield decided to go to Scotland immediately and found more popularity there than anywhere else. However, a serious misunderstanding developed as the Scottish tour neared. Based on what they had read about him, Erskine and others believed that Whitefield was as religiously and politically radical as they were and expected Whitefield to join their ranks. Erskine asked Whitefield to become a formal member of their group, which had broken away from the other Scottish Presbyterians. As a member, Whitefield would be required to leave the Church of England and only preach in their pulpits. Whitefield recognized the religious and political fallout, both short and long term, of joining the Scots and politely declined their request. He wrote back, simply asking to use their churches to support his ministry. On the night Whitefield arrived in Scotland, he preached to a large thrilled audience but afterward was immediately hauled into a meeting with the group’s leaders. Here they grilled him about doctrine and asked him to renounce his Church of England ordination and become a member of their “Associate Presbytery.” He again declined. Whitefield knew that joining them would mean a move away from the mainstream of British Christianity and would ultimately reduce his audience sizes. Also, he could foresee the political message it would send if he were to join a splinter group in Scotland, which had been a political hotspot for centuries, and had provided men and arms for a recent overthrow of the British monarchy. He would be viewed as a political radical with rebellion lurking in the wings of his ministry. Erskine respected Whitefield’s loyalty to the Church of England, but members of their Associate Presbytery in Scotland began to oppose him, perhaps due to anti-British feelings. In response, Whitefield allied himself with the established Scottish Presbytery, who opened their pulpits and helped him schedule meetings. After clarifying his position with regard to Erskine and his Associate Presbytery, Whitefield

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continued the Scottish tour, with results that surpassed his popularity and effectiveness in either England or America. If we may digress a bit and take note of some origins of religious groups in Europe it will help us to understand why Whitefield aligned with some groups and not others. Throughout European history, the Roman Catholic Church was the central organization of Christianity and had supported and propped up kings for centuries. In 1534 Henry VIII wanted a marriage annulment from his Spanish wife so he could marry his mistress Anne Boleyn, but the pope would not grant it. So Henry declared himself the head of the English church, resulting in the Church of England, which was born by breaking away from the Roman Catholics. The move effectively removed England from Rome’s power structure and set the nation against other Catholic Europeans. Numerous wars and several attempts to replace the Protestant king with a Catholic one ensued from 1534 up to 1763. The king, the lords, and any other person in power needed to remain in good standing with God, and the Church of England provided this favor. As a result, the Church of England became allied with pro-king politicians—a political group that wanted more power in the hands of the king and supported England’s class system. As British society evolved, England provided a sanctuary for other Christian groups that broke away from the Roman Catholics during the Protestant Reformation (1517 to 1648). The Church of England was sympathetic to these later groups and offered a degree of toleration in England as long as their political power was not threatened. But these other Protestants tended to align with politicians who desired more parliamentary control of the nation—government by the people, with a king as more of a figurehead. The two political groups eventually evolved into the Tories (pro-king) and the Whigs (pro-Parliament). The Act of Toleration, which ensured that the new Protestant groups would not be persecuted, was passed by a Whigcontrolled Parliament in 1689. In Whitefield’s view, loyalty to the British king depended upon the king’s commitment to Protestantism and religious toleration. Fears of Catholic plots to conquer England were rampant after Henry VIII’s split with Rome, and another attempt was made before Whitefield went back to America in 1745. Whitefield finally left Scotland and continued preaching throughout England but had been thinking seriously about marriage. He had previously proposed to a young woman in America, but she declined

Bishop Bashing

his rather loveless offer to marry and run the orphanage while he traveled around the world. In England Whitefield met Elizabeth James, but she was in love with Howell Harris, Whitefield’s Welsh evangelist friend. Harris wished to remain single, and knowing that Whitefield was thinking of marriage, he introduced Elizabeth to him, hoping George would win her affection. After four days of negotiation they decided to marry.2 They tied the knot two weeks later. By the end of the year, Elizabeth and George had a son for whom George held high hopes of one day inheriting his own ministry, but their son died at only four months of age. It was a significant blow to Whitefield, who wrote: And then, as he died in the house wherein I was born, he was taken and laid in the church where I was baptized, first communicated, and first preached. All this you may easily guess threw me into every solemn and deep reflection, and I hope deep humiliation . . . yet I hope what happened before his birth, and since at his death, hath taught me such lessons, as, if duly improved, may render his mistaken parent more cautious, more sober-minded, more experienced in Satan’s devices, and consequently more useful in his future labours to the church of God.

They never had another child, although four miscarriages indicated their desire for one. Elizabeth accompanied him on his 1745 trip to America but remained in England thereafter due to her permanently weakened health after a final miscarriage. If Whitefield did learn lessons from this, he soon put them to good use. Opposition to the revival turned violent. Whitefield, Wesley, and other methodist preachers were taking their lives in their hands to go out and preach. Unruly groups regularly gathered on the outskirts of Whitefield’s outdoor preaching events and disrupted the services. People threw stones and pieces of dead cats. A man climbed a tree above him and tried to urinate on Whitefield—an event he would use to make a point about the brutish nature of someone without the new birth. Whitefield describes the first attempt on his life: As I was passing from the pulpit to the coach I felt my wig and hat to be almost off. I turned about, and observed a sword just touching my temples. A young rake, as I afterward found, was determined to stab me; but a gentleman, seeing the sword thrust near me, struck it up with his cane.

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More than once, violent crowds gathered at the house where he was staying and demanded that he come out. Passively submitting to the persecution, as he supposed the apostles did, he turned himself over, usually talking his way out of it. But on one occasion he was thrown into a lime pit—a life-threatening event—and then taken and thrown into a creek to wash off the lime to save his skin from serious chemical burns. In addition to the threats on his own life, Whitefield’s chief publicist and financial supporter, William Seward, was killed by a stone-throwing mob. To make things worse, the Church of England’s bishops turned a blind eye and were even suspected of conspiring with the mobs to silence the methodist preachers. But a month after the death of his son, Whitefield struck back and took several men to court. After a particularly nasty encounter at an outdoor event, he obtained the names of some ringleaders and pressed charges. During the trial it became clear that political motivations were at the heart of the persecution. The defending lawyer argued that Whitefield and the methodists would infect and hurt the people. He claimed that it was right for any private person to try to stop them, and whoever did so was a friend to his country. Whitefield’s lawyer countered, “Rioters were not to be reformers; and that his Majesty had no where put the reins of government into the hands of mobbers, or made them judge or jury.” The judge ruled for Whitefield, reminding the defendants “of the dreadful ill consequences of rioting at any time, much more at such a critical time as this; that rioting was the fore-runner of, and might end in, rebellion.” By saying “critical time,” the judge was referring to the rumors of war with France and the challenge to claim the British throne by a Catholic heir from the Stuart lineage who had been ousted in the Glorious Revolution of 1688. Although some minor harassment continued, the judge’s ruling, combined with Whitefield’s publicizing of it, put an effective end to violent persecutions. After winning the case and letting the mob leaders sweat over a fine of two hundred pounds, Whitefield graciously dropped the charges with an eye toward enhancing his public image. He wrote a pamphlet describing the trial to publicize the methodist victory and thwart violence in other places. This aggressive response, contrasting with Whitefield’s prior passivity, shows his resolve to be more soberminded in managing his ministry. After forgiving the rioters, the

Bishop Bashing

now forceful Whitefield turned his attention to the suspected source of the persecution: a cabal of Church of England bishops.

Opposition to Whitefield The Church of England felt threatened by the growing methodist movement for any number of reasons—jealousy, doctrinal differences, resentment at being charged as unconverted, political differences, fears of rebellion—and took actions to frustrate it by connecting the methodists to rebellious movements of the past. The Church of England also resented the preaching, the prayers, and the new hymns of the methodists. Through the memory power of repetition, the Anglican liturgy, approved prayers, and hymns, all worked to shape the minds of the people. The bishops understood this and recognized the risk from new forms of liturgy, prayer, and music. With their strong ties to Tory interests in British politics, their motive for opposing the methodists was rooted in the fear of another civil war, since many citizens felt that the Stuart claim on the monarchy was legitimate. An anonymous pamphlet that specifically attacked Whitefield was circulated among the upper classes in 1744. The pamphlet speculated that his brand of religion would lead to trouble like Britain experienced when Charles I was beheaded in 1644. But Whitefield counterpunched with a publicly released letter to the bishop of London, which supplied evidence that one or more local bishops authored the pamphlet. Whitefield pointed out that the document “had been read in the societies of London and Westminster, and handed about in a private manner to particular friends, with strict orders to part with [it] to no one” (meaning keep it in the hands of the upper classes). He explained that its purpose was “to represent the proceedings of the methodists as dangerous to the church and state, in order to procure an act of parliament against them.” Such fears were founded in reality. Charles Edward Stuart, the descendant of the beheaded king Charles I (mentioned above), waited in France (a Catholic nation) as an army of ten thousand was being outfitted and moved north for an invasion. “Bonnie Prince Charles,” as he was known, had been groomed in the military arts from his youth to reclaim the British throne for his aging father, who was still officially recognized by Rome as the rightful heir. Spies and plots

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were everywhere. Roman Catholics wanted England back under their power and were working with the French government to reinstall a Catholic king (England and France had been at war more often than not since the mid-1300s). There were still many people in the British Isles who would declare allegiance to Stuart, including a group of powerful lords, if the deposed heir arrived in the country and attempted a coup. With the nation on edge over an impending war, Whitefield understood the severity of the charges—that more rioting could break out if paranoid people believed the methodists would support the French invasion. As a public figure and spokesperson for the methodist movement, Whitefield finally took a public stand. Finding himself accused of being subversive when he really held a genuine loyalty to the current king, Whitefield claimed the right to hold outdoor meetings and insisted that he was loyal to King George II. To refute the Church of England propaganda, Whitefield published three pamphlets in 1744. First, Whitefield pointed out that the methodists had not broken away from the Church of England, declaring them to be “orthodox, well-meaning ministers, and members of the church of England, and loyal subjects to his Majesty King George.” Countering any claim of personal disloyalty, Whitefield wrote: I profess myself a zealous friend to his present Majesty King George, and the present administration. Where-ever I go, I think it my duty to pray for, and to preach up obedience to him, and all that are set in authority under him, in the most explicit manner . . . And I believe, should it ever come to the trial, the poor despised Methodists, who love his Majesty out of principle, would cleave close to him in the most imminent danger, when others that adhere to him, only for preferments, perhaps might not appear altogether so hearty.

Here is a direct jab aimed at Tory sycophants (one who wins favor from powerful people through flattery). Whitefield points out that he and the methodists had never been arrested: “My Lords, I know of no law of the state that we have broken, and therefore we have not incurred the displeasure of the civil power.” Then he maintains that they had no intentions of establishing a separate sect: “As yet, we see no sufficient reason to leave the Church of England, and turn dissenters; neither will we do it till we are thrust out.” He underscored

Bishop Bashing

their loyalty to the Church of England with a metaphor, “When a ship is leaky, prudent sailors, that value the cargo, will not leave it to sink, but rather continue in it so long as they can, to help pump out the water.” Whitefield squanders no words in explaining the purpose of the bishop’s pamphlet, showing that it called the methodists “seditious sectaries, disloyal persons, who, under pretence of tender consciences, have, or may contrive insurrections.” He then states that the author may as well “tax the Methodists with high treason.” Next, in light of the Act of Toleration, Whitefield points out that Quakers were persecuted less under Charles I: May not the loyal ministers and members of the Church of England, nay, Protestant Dissenting teachers also, expect under the more gentle and moderate reign of his present Majesty King George, who, as I have been informed, has declared, “there shall be no persecution in his days.”

Throughout the heart of his response, Whitefield carefully dissects the arguments in the bishop’s pamphlet, showing inconsistencies in logic and offering evidence that refutes the writer’s claims. In closing, Whitefield directly confronts the charge that methodists were turning the lower classes against the king: I think it my duty to invite, and preach to this rabble in all places where providence shall send me, at this season; that I may warn them against the dreadful effects of popish principles, and exhort them to exert their utmost endeavors to keep out a popish Pretender from ever sitting upon the English throne.

Rather than simply arguing that they were not seditious, he assures the readers that he and the methodists are working on behalf of King George II to keep people from siding with Bonnie Prince Charlie, should he invade England. In Whitefield, the bishops faced a skilled debater who knew enough history and politics to highlight the hypocrisy of their claims and shed light on their motives for opposing the methodist movement. When Prince Charles did invade from France in 1745 to make a bid for the throne, one can wonder if more people might have backed the rebellion had Whitefield and the methodists not been encouraging their loyalty to King George II. Whitefield’s open support

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of the British king would continue until the death of George II and until his son George III took over—the king who would become the villain in the war for American independence.

Assassination After the court case, as the paper battle between Whitefield and the bishops went to press, there was an attempt on his life, perhaps to silence him once and for all. In a pub one evening, while drinking with friends, a would-be assassin boasted that he would kill Whitefield, and had his friends not taken his sword from him on the spot, he might have succeeded in the task. The man came to see Whitefield at his rented room later that evening asking for spiritual guidance. Whitefield let him in and they talked awhile. But the man soon began to swear and violently beat Whitefield with a brass-headed cane. An accomplice quickly arrived to assist in the murder, but Whitefield’s cries, and the cries of the landlady and her daughter, scared them off. Whitefield took a severe beating, and it was several months before he recovered. While publicly Whitefield blamed the attempted murder on the devil, perhaps it confirmed in his mind the wisdom of staying in the mainstream and supporting the king. If we examine the assassination attempt in the context of the summer of 1744, an interesting picture emerges. The crowd violence was generally intended to intimidate and injure, but not to kill. If a methodist was killed, as was William Seward when a stone struck his head, that was not necessarily part of the plan. A mob could easily dispatch its victim if desired, and any intent to murder would not be made a public spectacle in broad daylight, with a crowd following to witness. Generally, Whitefield was loved by commoners when there was nobody to rouse them with false accusations. It is difficult to support the idea that the assassin was just an offended sinner who didn’t like Whitefield’s preaching. The murder attempt was different. It was premeditated. The perpetrator had gone to a pub, likely to get drunk and steel his resolve. He was carrying his sword. Perhaps his guilty conscience, wishing to be foiled, let his tongue slip after a few drinks, and his friends did not like his idea. One has to wonder what the man’s motive was. There was an accomplice who showed up at the crime scene in time to assist with the attempt. This is evidence of conspiracy. Who might have been behind it? Whitefield

Bishop Bashing

had already dropped the charges against the mob ringleaders, so presumably, neither they, nor their friends, would have had a motive to harm him. The attempt occurred just after Whitefield published his first letter attacking the bishops while defending the methodists. The compelling evidence and arguments Whitefield presented made the bishops look foolish, and he rubbed it in with a persuasive force they could not match. Moreover, he published his letter nationwide and across the Atlantic, while their anonymous pamphlet only received a limited hand-to-hand distribution. Could a small cabal of Church of England loyalists have conspired to silence Whitefield and cripple the movement before the second pamphlet refuting the Church of England’s accusations was released? Any case against the Church of England is clearly circumstantial and has never been proven. But since this incident so clearly breaks the pattern of previous violence, since the leaders had already been exposed for inciting mob violence, and since its timing was in the midst of public controversy, historians have grounds to suspect a conspiracy to assassinate Whitefield, perhaps with a bishop leading it. As the arguments in Whitefield’s court case against his attackers clearly demonstrate, his struggle with the Church of England was not about religious practice, but influence over the public mind. Whitefield’s letters directly address the civil and political implications of the methodist movement. He champions their right to meet publicly and assures his readers their intentions are not seditious. But at this critical point in British history, as Charles prepared to lead the Jacobite rebellion of 1745, the Church of England had a difficult time believing the methodists were not a threat. The sum of these events—Whitefield’s recognition of where the radical road led, his marriage to Elizabeth James, his son’s death, the mob and Church of England opposition, the need to support the current political establishment, and the attempt on his life— all contributed to Whitefield’s move away from the radical end of religion toward the mainstream of British society. Whitefield had no wish to become a martyr. At this point in his ministry, his goal was to have the largest audiences possible and the highest degree of acceptance among denominations and churches. Such a goal would not be achieved if he were connected to radicals, much less if he

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were murdered. His choice to move to the mainstream was practical and did not require compromise. He could still call for reform and encourage other denominations to teach the new birth. But some things changed. Whitefield stopped accusing entire denominations of being unconverted. He no longer publicly attacked unconverted ministers, but only criticized particular threatening teachings of specific ministers. Most importantly, Whitefield would be a vocal supporter of George II and the current government, which, incidentally, was controlled by a Whig majority in Parliament. Whitefield unwaveringly defended the right of any religious group to hold meetings outside the control of the Church of England or other Old Light denominations in America. These shifts in his enterprise would serve him well as his future unfolded, but as he returned to America, the colonists were unaware of the “new Whitefield,” and they braced for more controversy.

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ew England had just settled down a bit by late 1744 when Whitefield was crossing the Atlantic to visit again. The revival fires had cooled. Davenport had been run out of town, Tennent was home in New Jersey, and the people of New England had largely taken sides. Colonial society was negotiating the shifts in its power structures in church and state as people were leaving the Old Light churches and joining the New Light congregations. Whitefield’s announcement of a third tour exposed the rift by forcing ministers to welcome or oppose his coming. Whitefield had changed. He had distanced himself from the radicals, married Elizabeth, lost his firstborn, was nearly murdered, fought with English bishops for the right to preach outdoors, and took a political stand. But the Boston Old Lights did not know all this. They braced themselves and began turning out propaganda even before he arrived. Among their fears, the Old Lights assumed Whitefield was coming to overthrow their church-state society. As the controversy hit the press, the Boston Evening-Post took a decidedly antirevival angle and printed tabloid-like stories attacking him, providing a platform for any writer who would oppose Whitefield. As soon as he arrived in Boston, Whitefield recognized the antirevival faction and complained to a friend that a group of ministers, citizens, and publishers banded together in opposition of his tour: TEMPORA mutantur; a confederacy, a confederacy! The clergy, amongst whom are a few mistaken, misinformed good old men, are publishing halfpenny testimonials against me. Even the president, 83

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professors, and tutors at Hartford College, where I was received with so much uncommon respect, have joined the confederacy. Some good friends on my side of the question are publishing testimonials in my favour. Thus you see what a militant state we are in at present.

Old Light churches feared for the future of their denominations and their influence in the community. Rumors of a plot to subvert New England’s authority structure quickly burst forth from these fears. Upon Whitefield’s return, to offer him a pulpit made a statement about the revival. It affirmed the enthusiasm of the revivalists, championed their theology, and revealed one’s position with regard to political order. Whitefield became the focal point for the upheaval in New England society, threatening the glorious New England tradition in either one of two ways: first, as a British priest who might encourage the advancement of the Church of England in the colonies, or second, as one who promoted the New Light denominations. He couldn’t do both at the same time, but his critics were throwing anything they could at him to see what would stick. At one point, Whitefield was even accused of helping the plot to get the Stuarts and Catholics back in power. The ensuing struggle between Old Lights and New Lights spilled from the pulpits, flowed from the colonial newspapers, filled numerous pamphlets, and became a contest for the mind and commitment of the American colonists. The issues were profound, and the changes sent tremors through society. The Old Lights, with a tendency to view all matters with a political eye, clearly recognized where the changes could lead. Since Whitefield generated the symbols that defined and sustained the Awakening, the most direct way to meet the challenge was to attack him. Whitefield adjusted to the challenge in two ways: (1) by adopting a middle-of-the-road political stance to stay out of trouble with local authorities, and (2) by promoting a view of religion that was acceptable to as many listeners as possible. To construct a worldwide parish, he had to support a political view that would maintain stability. Historically, a nation guided by Parliament provided the best environment for the smaller religious groups. A government run by a king was too risky, especially with “popish plots” afoot and a Catholic pretender waiting in France for an opportune moment.

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An approaching French-backed rebellion originated in Scotland, and one can wonder if it might have had more support from Scottish lowlanders if not for the revival. All of the propaganda would create a situation demanding a public defense of Whitefield’s character and ministry.

The Public Trial of Whitefield Whitefield and his wife Elizabeth arrived in the colonies to a cool reception, whereupon Charles Chauncy bluntly told him to get out of town. But the returning Whitefield was not the same rash innovator that blazed through the colonies in 1740. His experiences in England prepared him for his defense. Having just answered similar charges of enthusiasm, factionalism, and sedition from the Church of England, he quickly sized up the situation and took quick action to salvage his reputation. Whitefield’s “parish” was divided, and he saw it as his responsibility to suppress the conspiracy propaganda and heal relationships between “his” parishioners. Perhaps most importantly, the controversy over the revival had drifted squarely into the politics, and Whitefield would leave it there as he restored his tarnished image. Whitefield’s public image in America was not so connected with methodism as it was in England, but he was associated with groups that had splintered away from the Old Light American churches. He wished to completely shed that image, embrace the Old Lights as brothers, and step back into the mainstream of American culture and politics. His plan was to apologize to the offended ministers and then back up his apology with practical support of their political system. His chief persuasive strategy was to adorn himself with what he termed “another spirit” to sever his association with radical enthusiasts like Davenport. This move constituted a shift away from either pole of the debate and created a new moderate position. A cynical writer for the Boston Evening-Post showed that the term “another spirit” was circulating immediately after his arrival: It was industriously spread abroad, that Mr. Whitefield was now come in another Spirit, in the Spirit of Meekness, Love and Peace; that he declared against Disorders and Separations, and would preach against them, and endeavour to heal our Divisions!

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A key word in this passage is “industrious,” which indicates great efforts on Whitefield’s part. Helping Whitefield to show another spirit, and evidencing general change in his ministry, was Elizabeth Whitefield. The Boston newspapers mention her, and undoubtedly her presence altered perceptions of Whitefield in a positive way. Charges of immorality against him were never taken seriously in America and did not enter the respectable side of the debate. For the most part, Whitefield gave his critics nothing new to use against him. In addition to executing his own agenda for another spirit, Whitefield faced an overwhelming series of accusations, some true and some false. While the Boston Evening-Post was the place for anonymous writers to challenge Whitefield and the revivalists, the Boston Gazette voiced the opinions of revival supporters. Arguments in the public debate appeared in these two newspapers or were published in pamphlets and thrust upon the public for consideration. Appropriately, the public would be the judge in this “trial” of Whitefield’s character, and attendance at his events after 1745 would indicate his level of public support. The EveningPost came out squarely against Whitefield, with front-page articles belittling his character, doctrine, and practice. But the Gazette published occasional articles in support, along with a regular feature about where Whitefield had preached, what the response to his preaching had been, and where he would preach next. The debate between the two papers kept score of who was for or against Whitefield, each one listing the names of ministers as they took a public stand. On January 8, 1745, the pro-Whitefield Gazette published a list of 141 ministers from all over New England and the middle colonies who supported the revival (though not necessarily Whitefield). The Evening-Post, trying to make the count look more equal, countered with a list of eight ministers against Whitefield (including two from Charlestown) versus eight from the Boston area who were for him. Eventually, fifty ministers from New England signed their names to pamphlets denying Whitefield admission to their churches. The conflict orbited around three clusters of accusations directed at Whitefield: (1) attacks upon his character, (2) charges that he promoted doctrinal error, and (3) accusations that his ministry promoted political rebellion. The single issue that bound each cluster of

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accusations together was Whitefield’s criticism of unconverted ministers. To the antirevivalists this criticism indicated that Whitefield was “uncharitable.” It exposed his theological shortcomings, and it caused people to leave the “state church,” a move with political implications. Charles Chauncy became the main spokesperson for the antirevivalists. Leading the accusations against Whitefield, he accused him of “too high an Opinion of his own Gifts and Graces.” Furthermore, Chauncy raised the question of whether the large collections Whitefield solicited to support his Bethesda Orphanage had been appropriately managed. In the Boston Evening-Post, an anonymous writer using the name “Publicola” accused Whitefield of pilfering orphanage collections for his personal use. But without doubt, “uncharitable” was the most frequent term used to rebuke him. Chauncy wrote that: The next Thing that is amiss, and very much so, in these Times, is that Spirit of rash, censorious and uncharitable Judging, which has been so prevalent in the Land. This appear’d first of all, in Mr. W----D, who seldom preach’d, but he has something or other, in his Sermon, against unconverted Ministers.

To back up this charge, Chauncy points out that Whitefield said an archbishop “knew no more of religion than Mahomet.” If a respected Old Light archbishop could not meet Whitefield’s standard for conversion, then who could? Additionally, Whitefield expected others to attend his sermons, but he would not bother to show up when the Boston ministers preached. Leaders at Harvard were also upset and said Whitefield was “habitually . . . uncharitable, censorious and slanderous” because he questioned their Christian character saying, “Their Light is now become Darkness, Darkness that may be felt.” The second cluster of accusations—a “Spirit of Errors”—addressed Whitefield’s religious practice. Chauncy said Whitefields misinterpretation of Scripture resulted in heretical practices. He also asserted that the enthusiastic practices in the New Light meetings were excessively impassioned and ventured beyond reasonable scriptural examples: Screamings, convulsion like tremblings and Agitations, Strugglings and Tumblings, which in some instances, have been attended with Indecencies I shan’t mention.

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Moreover, Chauncy insisted that Whitefield and others claimed to receive revelations directly from God. But Chauncy asserted that these revelations actually came out of their own imaginations. The actions of Whitefield and others could be misdirected acts of piety and genuine service, Chauncy confessed, but he shows how, in each case, the enthusiasts go well beyond what he considered sensible. Here, Chauncy graciously offered Whitefield and the revivalists a chance to save face and make peace if they would apologize. But what if this kind of enthusiasm made its way into political activism? The extremity of the emotional displays and their widespread occurrences made leaders nervous that it could spread. Another writer echoed Chauncy in the Boston Evening-Post: “As you have enter’d in the present Paper War, I doubt not you are prepar’d for all Encounters.” This anonymous author employed eleven war metaphors in the first paragraph alone. Chauncy interpreted Whitefield’s sermons as calling Old Lights “uncapable of being Instruments of spiritual good to Men’s Souls.” Chauncy countered that New England ministers were converted, “a Set of Men, as found in the Faith, and of as good a Life, as any part of the Christian World are favoured with.” He argued that Whitefield’s position was unbiblical, and “indeed a downright popish Principal.” Here, he invoked the Protestants’ traditional enemy, as well as England’s struggle with the French to attack Whitefield, further hinting at the political fears that lay beneath the surface of the debate. The third cluster of accusations completely unmasked the political fears, asserting that Whitefield was a wandering, divisive, seditious conspirator who would overturn New England society. American religious leaders had witnessed the splintering of their churches as the New Lights grew in number and moved beyond their control. Responsibility was cast upon Whitefield, not merely as a symbol of disorder, but as the prime mover of the drift into radical religion and politics. Thomas Clap, the president of Yale, exclaimed that people everywhere “set you up for their Oracle, Pattern and Patron.” Whitefield was the clear leader of the movement in the mind of the Old Lights. Old Light clergy and others who decided to oppose the revivals viewed traveling preachers as an “engine of social upheaval.” Chauncy attributed church splintering to the traveling ministers, claiming that those who minister outside of an assigned parish “introduce

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Disorder and Confusion into the Church of GOD.” Chauncy accused Whitefield of neglecting his own parish in Georgia with his travels and complained that the “entire Dissolution of our Church State” would occur should this practice become more generalized. Chauncy finally pronounced that there had been a conspiracy, “It is very just to infer, that there is a Design carrying on to subvert and eject the standing settled Ministers.” But even here, Chauncy again provided Whitefield a means of saving face, hinting that such rash judgments may be due to Whitefield’s youth, and that he may mature and his opinions change, “as he has been in some other Instances.” And, by and large, Whitefield took advantage of Chauncy’s provisions. Whitefield’s hypothetical plot, according to Thomas Clap, called for ministers from Scotland, Ireland, and even those trained at Bethesda Orphanage to replace the so-called unconverted Old Light ministers. Supposedly then, once the ministers had been replaced, the civil authorities would be next on the list. A rumor had circulated that several students of Yale, expelled for enthusiasm, were told “that there was no Danger in disobeying their present Governours, because there would in a short Time be a great Change in the civil Government, and so in the Governours of the College.” Clap even implicated Jonathan Edwards in the plot, an accusation that Edwards quickly denied. When Whitefield led the “Lord’s Supper” at Dr. Benjamin Colman’s church in Boston in December of 1744, his critics sounded the alarm because they felt that this was direct and explicit evidence of the plot. In their view, to have a priest from the Church of England administer the sacraments in a Puritan Congregationalist church symbolized an attempt to establish dominance—a blatant crossing of boundaries far more serious than simply being a guest preacher. In Britain’s past, taking the sacraments in a specific church had been a means of publicly identifying with a certain political ideology. Church of England bishops held several positions in the House of Lords and used the church as a direct means of controlling the people. But Puritan Congregationalism was the state religion in most of New England. Whitefield’s administration of the sacraments appeared as an attempt to assert a Church of England presence in New England, a supposed encroachment of English influence within the arena of religion. The antirevival faction believed the security of their hard-won colonial privileges and the order of New England

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politics were at risk, and thus their most vigorous response was deemed necessary—no holds barred.

Whitefield’s Defense Whitefield wasted no time in acting once the stakes became clear to him. He met with a group of influential Boston ministers who were concerned about the charges but remained undecided, including Dr. Sewall, Dr. Colman, Mr. Foxcroft, and Mr. Prince. Whitefield won over several respected clergymen, who then calmed down other undecided New Englanders. Whitefield described the meeting: They were apprehensive . . . that I would promote or encourage separations . . . I said, I was sorry if anything I wrote had been a means of promoting separations for I was of no separating principles . . . We talked freely and friendly . . . by which their jealousies they had entertained concerning me seemed to be in a great measure ended.

“Another spirit” was on display in these meetings, and the ministers were convinced. It is likely that Whitefield’s charismatic personality also helped to smooth these relationships as much as his responses to their concerns. These ministers then became the core of a group that faithfully supported him during his stay in Boston, even to the point of having their own characters maligned—and they were absolutely necessary for Whitefield’s continued success. Whitefield supplied public responses to the allegations as fast as the presses could produce them. He promptly reprinted a pamphlet he had on hand that defended his ministry against charges of sedition in England. Then he printed the account of the recent trial in England to show the confederacy that he would not tolerate violence, and that the British courts would back him. Next, he wrote two largely overlapping letters, one to Charles Chauncy and one to Harvard that addressed each accusation, line by line. He also continued to preach almost daily wherever he was offered a pulpit. He wisely stayed out of the fields for a while where “mobs and rabble” might have rallied to him. Whitefield answered all three clusters of accusations. Regarding the criticism that he was arrogant, he responded to Chauncy with repentance, his own countercharge, and a veiled plea for mercy: “All this, Reverend Sir, might possible have been true concerning me—but have you not prejudged me?” Whitefield complained that

New England: Overthrow or Unify?

he had promised to explain and defend his traveling enterprise, but Chauncy did not wait for the explanation before publishing, and that was unfair. Regarding his own attitude, Whitefield insisted that he should not be held to a standard of “sinless Perfection,” and that God led him from his former attitude into a new one—a clear reference to another spirit. Whitefield published an accounting of the Bethesda Orphanage budget before the end of 1744. He flatly denied extorting money, claimed that the orphanage was in good hands, and stated that his contributors were satisfied with his management of the money. Additionally, Whitefield argued that he could have “made what the World calls a fortune, and set down and nestled quietly” but instead he lived in voluntary poverty. Since everyone could see the truth in this claim, questions regarding the Bethesda finances quickly subsided as his critics turned to exploit more fruitful issues. Whitefield defended his conduct against the charge that he was uncharitable by suggesting their opinion of him was too harsh: “But, Gentlemen, does it follow that Peter could properly be styled a cursing, swearing man, because with oaths and curses he denied his LORD?” Whitefield claimed that one must be “habitually uncharitable” to deserve the name, not just guilty of a few infractions. Whitefield apologized with regard to specific uncharitable comments about the state of New England colleges and for the remark about the archbishop: “I had no idea of representing the Colleges in such a deplorable state of immorality and irreligion.” He admitted that he should have limited his criticism of the archbishop to his theology and not implicated his character. Regarding the second cluster of charges—the “Spirit of Errors”— Whitefield did not deny the evidence used against him, especially since they had quoted his own journal. Rather, he asserted that Chauncy and others had a weak case: “And is there any Thing, Reverend Sir, in this that may justly be stiled Chimerical or Enthusiastical?” Whitefield countered that he was not led by “sudden impulses,” but “acted cautiously” and “took time to consider” what he would do in the particular case that leaders at Harvard had criticized. He also claimed that it was not “enthusiasm” to interpret dreams and other such instances as God’s attempts to lead his people. Overall, Whitefield agreed to disagree, letting God be the judge. Yet on the unconverted minister issue, he acquiesced as much as he could

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without totally losing face, backing off his absolute claim and replacing it with a conditional one: My settled Sentiments concerning them are these,—That they are seldom made Use of to convert others I verily believe: but if I have any where said what may be construed to imply, that it is impossible that unconverted Ministers should be Instrumental in converting others, or that their Administrations in the visible Church are invalid, as it was not my intention, I would revoke it.

Whitefield validates the ministry of the Old Lights. Here then is a significant concession from his hard-line position that shows his desire to heal the breach between religious factions. To the third cluster of allegations, that he was a traveling divisive conspirator, Whitefield responded by defending his itinerancy and denying that he desired people to leave their churches. He also flatly denied that he was part of a conspiracy to replace the ministers. Whitefield counterattacked, stating that few nonresident ministers in England could give as good an account of their parishes as he, that many led a duplicitous life, while he worked hard at preaching the gospel. Additionally, he constantly exhorted the people to attend Old Light churches rather than encouraging the separations that occurred while he was absent. Whitefield’s strategy worked. His apologies, retractions, and gracious responses displayed another spirit. In his reply to Harvard, he unequivocally denied any intent to undermine New England’s religious structure: I am come to New-England, with no intention to meddle with, much less to destroy the order of the New-England churches, or turn out the generality of their ministers, or re-settle them with ministers from England, Scotland, and Ireland . . . such a thought never entered my heart; neither, as I know of, has my preaching the least tendency thereunto . . . I have no intention of setting up a party for myself, or to stir up people against their Pastors.

As for being the leader and cause of all the trouble in general, Whitefield said they could only hold him accountable for his own wrongdoing, not the sins of others. For speaking against ministers without personally knowing them, Whitefield admitted he was wrong and apologized, “I thank you, Reverend Sir, for pointing out this Fault unto me.—But that I had a Design either in preaching or

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writing to alienate People’s Minds from their standing Ministers, I utterly disavow.” But perhaps the most monumental concession that Whitefield made during this debate was the following statement from his published reply to Chauncy: That I spake of unconverted Ministers in the Lump, as Pharisees, Enemies of Christ Jesus, and the worst Enemies I had, I believe is true; but that I spake of the Ministers of New England in this Way, I utterly deny.

Whitefield was not one to appease his enemies when he believed he was right. In this statement, he maintained a difference between converted and unconverted ministers, but confessed that the New England ministers were indeed converted. Here Whitefield’s care to only name Church of England clergy in his sermonic attacks paid off. He never publicly named the New England clergy, and while Alexander Garden still had a complaint against him, the New England Puritans could not make this charge stick. So then, Chauncy and many others who denied the role of feelings in conversion had experienced a legitimate conversion and were indeed genuine Christians after all. Whitefield had admitted that the emotional style of the new birth was not the sole means of obtaining salvation. One could have a conversion experience within the Old Light scheme as well. In one sermon, Whitefield explained his new perspective: This moral change is what some call repentance, some conversion, some regeneration; choose what name you please, I only pray GOD that we all may have the thing. The scriptures call it holiness, sanctification, the new creature, and our LORD calls it a “new birth.”

Whitefield still insisted that a person’s good works were ineffectual in securing pardon for sins. But by enlarging his definition of how conversion occurs, he began the reconciliation between the New and Old Lights. Whitefield had moved to the middle, and as the “Oracle, Pattern and Patron” of the other revivalists, this move would set the example for others. It would take another eight months before ministers from the two factions in Boston would actually meet and try to reconcile their differences, well after Whitefield left New England.

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But they did meet, and with some communication and the passing of time, the religious division began to heal. In effect, Whitefield began paving the road for political cooperation between the two sides by conceding that the Old Lights were not out of but actually in God’s kingdom—genuine members of the Christian community. In order to repair the rift, he expanded the community to include the Old Lights and their congregations, who he was now willing to define as converted. After 1745, the sharp rift between New Lights and Old Lights began to close as initiated by Whitefield’s apologies and extended hand. Their shared desire for increased virtue among the citizens eventually provided ground for peace as the Old Lights also awoke from their slumber and focused their rhetoric away from the revivals and toward the increasing French threat. Though some others still debated the meaning and purpose of the revivals, Whitefield moved on to more important issues by including Old Lights in the community, making the controversy a moot point in regard to his own enterprise. New challenges to Whitefield’s parish were emerging and a more mature, sober Whitefield prepared to meet them.

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o his advantage, Whitefield found a unified contingency of ministers to which he could appeal, en masse, for reconciliation and thus initiate a cautious blending process between the New and Old Lights. After Whitefield gained the support of Dr. Sewall, Dr. Colman, Mr. Foxcroft, Mr. Prince, and others with whom Whitefield met in November, other ministers were won over, if not through Whitefield’s responses (outlined in the previous chapter), then by the pamphlets written on his behalf. Thomas Foxcroft and William Hobby both published in Whitefield’s favor, defending him at the expense of their own public images, which were subsequently subjected to ridicule by Boston editorialists who were maintaining the controversy. Whitefield’s actions that displayed another spirit helped him more than all his arguments and apologizing. The activity of French and Spanish pirates had been increasing, and the impending war with the French displaced the revival controversy from the Boston news. Massachusetts governor William Shirley proposed an expedition to capture the fortified French military port at Cape Breton on the coast of Nova Scotia, just six hundred miles northeast of Boston. The port offered French-government-approved pirates a safe haven that was too close for Boston’s comfort. But New Englanders did not want to sign on after Governor Shirley’s announcement of a campaign in the spring of 1745. Frankly, the political leaders of Boston and New England were having difficulty persuading farmers to enlist in the military for what seemed a remote and uncertain cause. 95

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So General Pepperell, who was assigned the command of the Cape Breton expedition, appealed to Whitefield to support the enlistment effort by providing a motto for his flag. After some initial hesitation, Whitefield coined the phrase “Nil Desperandum, Christo Duce” (If Christ be Captain, no fear of a defeat). Then Whitefield preached a sermon that spiritualized the story of David, exhorting potential enlistees that, as soldiers of Christ, they were like David’s men who found success in their battle against God’s enemies. He did, however, turn down a request to go to Louisbourg as the expedition’s military chaplain. Whitefield played the loyal subject and encouraged loyalty to the British authorities. In so doing, he committed colonists’ blood to the war effort and began redirecting the us/them thinking away from the New versus Old Light controversy and toward Protestants versus Roman Catholics, casting the unified American church community as “good” and the French Catholics as “evil.” After Whitefield pronounced God’s blessing upon the Louisbourg expedition, the men signed up in droves. The fortress fell in six weeks to the delight and encouragement of the New Englanders. Thanksgiving sermons by both New and Old Light ministers responding to the victory displayed a significant unanimity, revealing that the rift between New and Old Lights was healing. Whitefield’s support of the New England governor was out of character with being a conspirator and contradicted accusations of sedition. From 1745 through the rest of his life, Whitefield maintained his voice in public rhetoric regarding war. Shortly thereafter, he did perhaps the best thing he could to cool the religious controversy in Boston: he left town and did not return to New England for two years. Chauncy, Clap, and the other antirevival leaders stopped publishing complaints and went back to their normal business. After Cape Breton was captured, the New England forces settled in for a hard winter in which hundreds of men died from disease. Had Whitefield with his weak health joined the expedition, he likely would have succumbed to the harsh conditions. Hearing about the struggles, he wrote to the commanding general: I heartily condole with you on the account of the death of that beloved physician Doctor Bullman, and the other dear souls who are lately hurried away into Eternity. A sad symptom this for poor

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Cape-Breton, because we have reason to think many of them were good soldiers of JESUS CHRIST, as well as of his present Majesty our precious King George. But what shall we say? GOD’S judgments are like the great deep.

Fortunately for Whitefield, he was more associated with the successful enlistment and victory than he was with the loss of life that occurred during the garrisoning of the fort through the winter. For this, the French got the blame. The loss was the first tragedy at the hands of the French for New England, and would surely be remembered as ministers began to connect the French with satanic designs to conquer the British colonies. In Whitefield’s absence, the religious controversy found more resolution. William Shurtleff, a respected Boston Puritan, issued a pamphlet that voiced a reasonable view, one that promoted the moderate position and promised harmony to the factions. In late May of 1745, Shurtleff, without explicitly supporting Whitefield, reasoned that the revival, despite its controversy, had not worsened, but actually improved the state of religion in New England. Shurtleff reminded his readers how New Englanders had abandoned the church before the revival, and contrasted it with the religious zeal that now abounded—the churches were filled, and ministers were again excited. Perhaps Shurtleff’s perspective supplied the rationale for a meeting of Boston’s ministers, scheduled for September 19, 1745, which was convened to resolve the divided state of affairs. Issues of newspapers that might describe the proceedings are missing from the historical record, but one editorial mentioned the meeting, “which has occasioned so much talk and writing,” and noted that a number of troublemakers tried to disrupt it. Out of the meeting a statement was published entitled “Convention of New England Ministers,” which charted out the doctrinal positions of a moderate group of ministers. The twenty-four signers rejected excessive enthusiastic practices and staked out what they felt was a reasonable position toward the revivals. Chauncy did not sign the statement, though he had to feel vindicated. Clearly the Old Lights and New Lights had more in common than not. As a 1745 sermon by Samuel Quincy shows us, many Old Lights actually held doctrinal positions almost identical to Whitefield’s regarding the new birth and regeneration. In his sermon,

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entitled “Regeneration,” Quincy declares the new birth as a necessity and defines it as a spiritual transformation, requiring a season of growth, authored by the Holy Ghost. He only differed with Whitefield’s position regarding the role of the emotions in conversion and whether a person could approach God on their own or had to wait for the “calling.” Whitefield had conceded this much to Chauncy. Though Whitefield affirmed predestination and calling in his writings, he was less likely to force it on his audiences in person. In practical terms, Whitefield judged any emotional impulse leading toward conversion as evidence of God’s calling, impulses he was skilled in evoking through his persuasive preaching. Clearly, Quincy’s sermon was responding to the radical enthusiasts rather than Whitefield, revealing the middle ground from the Old Light perspective. It was on this middle ground that the New Light moderates could be reconciled with Old Lights, who were recognizing that they indeed benefited from the revival, just as Shurtleff had claimed. The gap between the two groups was more talk than substance, and in time this fact became evident to all. Whitefield aligned himself with a growing group of moderate ministers who promoted a doctrinal and practical middle ground— ministers who initially embraced the revival but backed off as they saw its enthusiastic abuses. This was a middle ground shared with the Old Lights like Shurtleff and Quincy, although some were slow to admit it. Giving advice to a friend, Whitefield wrote, “Moderate Calvinism I take to be a medium between two extremes.” There would always remain radicals who continued to emphasize enthusiasm and never settle the differences. Whitefield would continue polite relationships with these, as he did with everyone. But in principle, he was a moderate, and he recognized the need for peace with the Old Lights to maintain his popularity as well as social stability. Before 1740, the people of New England had lost sight of their original vision for their communities, but the revivals had renewed their hope and placed the issue of who was in or out of God’s kingdom on the table of public discussion. Shurtleff was right. The Awakening was good for everyone; through forcing people to take sides, each side was unified within itself. Then, through Whitefield’s example and the “Convention of New England Ministers,” both sides were able to focus on their shared beliefs, as they realized conflict was destructive, and their differences could be successfully managed.

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With Whitefield gone and the war with France developing an American theater, the ministers of Boston resolved their issues then worked together against the threat of a common enemy. Now, the entire New England religious community could be counted as “us” facing the threat of “them”—French forces in pursuit of conquest and the Roman Catholic religious system. The popish plots of 1678 and 1715 were back. With the growing reconciliation of Old Lights and moderate New Lights, the Catholic French were transformed into the new them, an enemy with evil intentions in both religion and politics. As Whitefield’s tour progressed from 1745 to 1747, he led the transformation of the colonial mind in casting the French as the new enemy through the delivery and publication of his war sermons. Other American ministers soon followed his lead, but nothing was published earlier than Whitefield’s “Britain’s Mercies and Britain’s Duties.” Before long, the unified New and Old Lights turned their full attention to the threat of conquest, with their sermons empowered by the residual zeal of the Awakening.

A Political Turn toward National Community While religion and politics in colonial America had always been married, the peaceful, prosperous society had not demanded activism from the church. Normally, the two existed in a quiet partnership, with the ministers busy with the needs of their flock until political issues called for sermons and persuasion on public issues. The Awakening emphasized the political-religious connection as it challenged the traditional authority structures. Just as the religious factions were reforming the balance of power and dropping charges of conspiracy and heresy, Britain’s war with France supplied a threat that brought them together. Historian Nathan Hatch explains, “In the minds of Old Lights, images of Antichrist shifted from ‘enthusiasm’ to the French menace, and New Lights ceased to be preoccupied with the dangers of an unconverted ministry.”1 There is nothing like a common enemy to align squabbling neighbors, and Whitefield’s return was uncannily timed to help them get past their differences. It would take a few more months for the middle ground to solidify completely, but the “Convention of New England Ministers” had suggested a blueprint. It was only a matter of time before harsh feelings

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faded and colonies would see the beginning of a “Christian Union” (the title of an influential sermon in 1760). If there was any lingering doubt among Old Lights about Whitefield’s designs to overthrow New England, he erased it by aligning solidly behind political leaders and lending his persuasive talent as the war with the French commenced. Securing the support of the Christian community would require the demonization of the secular enemy. This was easy considering the French and Catholics had supported the Inquisition, inspired the persecutions of Protestants, and had been plotting to conquer England and reinstall Catholicism as the state religion. Whitefield played upon fears of French conquest and Roman Catholic dominance, which he believed were evil and represented a serious threat to Protestant freedom—and in 1745 it did. Whitefield had been employing war metaphors in his sermons as early as 1740. He viewed the Christian community as “soldiers lifted under the banner of Christ,” who have “proclaimed open war at our baptism, against the world, the flesh, and the devil.” After Whitefield’s enlistment sermon brought the people to back the Massachusetts governor, Whitefield’s response to the Jacobite rebellion of 1745 further showed the depth of his loyalty to the king and traditional authority structure. As Whitefield’s 1745–1748 tour progressed, he displayed another spirit wherever he preached. With political connections throughout the colonies, he stayed near the conflict and occasionally stepped into the fray as needed. Great Britain was getting deeper into war with France in Europe, which did not have a particularly large impact on colonial Americans yet, although its news filled pages of the press. By mid-1745, Whitefield toured the southern colonies and described in his letters to friends how he enjoyed “hunting in the woods after the lost sheep” while traveling through North Carolina and Maryland. When Whitefield arranged a meeting near a town, he wrote of “preaching to thousands, generally twice a day,” showing a continued passionate response among the people. Now he was finally preaching to those he was unable to visit during his 1740 tour. Wherever Whitefield went, almost without exception, large crowds came out for his sermons, and he would not make the same mistakes he made in 1740. The mature Whitefield took care to set his feet on the middle ground between the kind of enthusiasm to which

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Chauncy objected and a genuine outpouring of God’s spirit as Jonathan Edwards described. Whitefield confessed that “there was much smoke, yet every day I had more and more convincing proof, that a blessed Gospel-fire had been kindled in the hearts both of ministers and people.” By the end of his tour in1746, he declared “the harvest is great in many places.” Whitefield showed people how to find a middle position in religion and make peace with their enemies. In England, to thwart violence, Whitefield used the court system to stop the mobs and then challenged the origin of the violence with a public exposure of the bishops. His persuasive skill served him in the courtroom, where he did not deny the methodist enthusiasm, but he argued forcefully that their practice was not seditious, keeping the argument in a sphere where he could win. In writing against the bishops who were persecuting methodism, Whitefield used carefully reasoned arguments that were powerfully worded and then published to hold the bishops accountable for their actions. Likewise in America, he apologized for his mistakes and then challenged the doctrinal accusations with solid reasoning. He always appeared reasonable, rational, willing to own up to his faults, and he always published. Whitefield recognized that religious conflicts were not settled in the courts or secret meetings with authorities but in the public sphere, where image was crucial, and public opinion provided the more powerful judgment. He was a man ahead of his time. Whitefield effectively showed how differences could be reconciled. A walking enigma, he was a priest from the Church of England, representing traditional authority on one hand, yet on the other, he thought and acted like the other Protestant ministers, supporting the people. He was the Calvinist who invited everyone to Christ. He was a Whig, fighting against a powerful and oppressive Church of England for the rights of people to worship as they wished. He praised George II while supporting the parliamentary power of the people. Throughout his life and enterprise we see the reconciliation of opposites. His positions required a personal touch to win over those who opposed him as well as a heavy persuasive hand when charm would not work. He showed the political and religious world how the strategy of taking the best of both positions to fashion a third one moved above mere compromise to form

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a program of action. As his life progressed, Whitefield evolved into a spiritual statesman for the republican ideology, championing the privileges of the people within the bounds of monarchial authority. From 1736 to 1744, George Whitefield focused on spreading the new birth to the entire world. But events in Great Britain and America forced him to extend his goals. Expressing these changes directly, Whitefield said: I hope I shall always think it my bounded duty, next to inviting sinners to the blessed Jesus, to exhort my hearers to exert themselves against the first approaches of Popish tyranny and arbitrary power.

Political maneuverings and war had spawned fears of a Catholic king taking over the throne of England—a king who could be controlled by the pope. Whitefield feared that such a situation could mean that the Catholic Church might severely limit the ability of Protestants to worship freely, or they might even openly oppress them. He was also concerned that public officials, even a king, might use their office to oppress the citizens. The phrase “arbitrary power” circulated widely throughout the colonies and England in the 1700s. It referred to the practices of an official abusing his power to advance his personal goals or their political ideals. Foremost in Whitefield’s mind was the privilege he had to worship as he saw fit. Whitefield felt a call to protect Protestant freedoms as well as British civil liberties: “Alas! alas! what a condition would this land be in, was the protestant interest not to prevail?” In efforts to “exhort his hearers,” he bluntly criticized the French, and even the Church of England, for their violations of religious freedoms. Because of his experience in England with the attempted assassination and the court case, he could envision the Church of England becoming as oppressive as the Catholics. Over the course of the next fifteen years, Whitefield aimed his persuasive arsenal at the French Roman Catholics, as England waged war on two continents (the Seven Years War in Europe and the French and Indian War in the colonies). Then, after the war, he turned his attention to Church of England bishops who continued to arbitrarily limit the religious freedoms of non-Anglican denominations. Unmistakable republican ideas punctuated Whitefield’s writings from this point until his death. While some historians insist that

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republicanism began in politics and spread to religion, historian Mark Noll argues that republican ideas also flowed from religion into politics: “Rather than a rhetoric or republican civic humanism spreading out into the religious backwaters of colonial society, the religious backwaters may have been rising to carry republicanism where its leading theorists had not intended it to go.”2 Being an opinion leader, Whitefield was instrumental in merging republican and religious language use, whichever way it tended to flow. Of course, Whitefield was a product of his times and expressed clear Whig and republican tendencies. But since ideologies are founded in religion and then flow into politics (as many historians teach), Whitefield’s influence was clearly established. As this book has shown, Whitefield’s role was more squarely in the spread of ideas rather than as the originator. The next chapter will discuss Whitefield’s increasing use of republican language and how he blended it with theology in his celebrated sermon “Britain’s Mercies and Britain’s Duties.” In his desire to preserve religious freedoms, Whitefield began to include the idea of “liberty” in his messages. The Revolution was still thirtyone years away, so the audiences hearing his messages were the parents of those who actually fought in the Revolution, making Whitefield’s direct influence one step removed. But his teachings held incredible power as parents taught their children the difference between right and wrong, good and evil.

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CHAPTER

IX

Good King, Bad King

I

n February of 1745, the French-backed effort to conquer England and restore the Stuarts to the throne began. But as the French invasion with ten thousand troops crossed the English Channel to land at Essex, a powerful storm blew in and swamped the fleet. One ship sank with all hands, and the others were turned back to France. Support for the coup cooled in France due to the disaster, but Bonnie Prince Charles was determined to gain the throne with or without French backing. The second Jacobite rebellion commenced when Charles Edward landed on Eriskay Island in Scotland on July 23, 1745, with a supply of friends, money, and arms. The Stuarts originally gained power when James I (from a daughter of Henry VII through the Scottish line) inherited the British throne, making Scotland the logical point of departure of Charles Edward for the invasion (the Jacobites took their name from “Jacobus,” the Latin form of James). Joined by discontented Scottish Highlanders, Charles Edward began the invasion, wresting Scottish cities away from British control and demanding supplies from every city he conquered. By October he commanded a force of forty-five hundred with four hundred horsemen, and moved south into England with the hope that the English citizens would welcome the return of the Stuarts and follow him to London. Upon reaching Derby in December, only one hundred miles from London, his Scottish officers began quarrelling about their ability to take and hold the capital. Had they known that George II was preparing to flee London, they might have pressed their advantage. 105

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For a brief moment, the future of England and America hung by a thread. The Jacobites chose to retreat and regroup instead. After a disorderly return to Scotland, Charles Edward’s army reorganized and gained strength through reinforcement from other clans, as well as with a group of French artillery and engineering experts—much less French support than sank in the channel ten months earlier. But their hesitation offered the British a chance to counterattack. On April 15, 1746, a pursuing British force led by the Duke of Cumberland, George II’s son, struck the Jacobite army at Nairn, inflicting heavy losses that scattered them. British forces ruthlessly pursued Jacobite rebels and leaders, executing them on the spot and committing other atrocities in the aftermath of their victory. But Charles got away and was hidden by various people still loyal to him in Scotland. After five months of fugitive wanderings, he escaped back to France despite the price of £30,000 on his head offered by the British government. Later, a Scottish lord was put on trial for harboring him. Many Jacobite supporters were quickly deported to the colonies and others emigrated on their own to begin an anonymous life free from the immediate hostility of England. .

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After a trip down to the Bethesda Orphanage in Georgia, Whitefield returned north to Philadelphia, whereupon hearing about the failed Jacobite rebellion in England, he prepared a sermon for a national day of thanksgiving. Whitefield preached “Britain’s Mercies and Britain’s Duties” in Philadelphia on August 24, 1746, and had it immediately published. As the topic was time sensitive, the sermon probably was included in his repertoire for just the length of his preaching tour. But within it were themes he would echo in numerous sermons throughout the war years. Eager buyers quickly gobbled up at least four editions in Philadelphia and Boston. No other American sermon by any writer in 1746 went through more than one edition, showing Whitefield to be the most popular religious figure in the colonies three years after the revival. Recognizing that a growing body of Scots in America still harbored resentment and hostility, Whitefield wished to disarm any potential for trouble in America from new immigrants and deportees who were not loyal to the British crown. He had just completed

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a tour of Scotland in 1744, where he aligned himself solidly with the Scottish Presbyterians, giving New England conspiracy theorists plenty of ammunition for attacking him. Additionally, still smarting from Chauncy’s charges of sedition, Whitefield might be accused of being a Jacobite sympathizer himself if he did not make a strong statement. It is likely that shiploads of the deported Jacobites were arriving in colonial ports, along with less rebellious Scotch-Irish immigrants, as the news of the final battle crossed the Atlantic. In America, their discontent might ignite renewed fears of rebellion against the New England authorities. But Whitefield’s efforts to warn people about arbitrary power were genuine, and he wished to continue his open support of the British authorities. Since the Jacobites believed that kings were authorized to rule by hereditary succession rather than qualifications, they had opposed the rule of George II and still might be viewed as a threat in the colonies. Whitefield’s challenge was to steer Scottish and Jacobite allegiance (as well as foreign immigrants) to King George. If he could do this publicly, his image of another spirit would benefit from the evidence supplied by his open support of the British authority structure. So to silence criticism, Whitefield seized the opportunity to declare publicly his loyalty to the king and further disarm accusations that his ministry was seditious.

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In “Britain’s Mercies and Britain’s Duties,” Whitefield built upon the connection between religion and politics and warned of the ramifications of supporting the Stuarts. Whitefield’s sermon promoted the idea of religious liberty by speculating about life under a Roman Catholic-controlled government. While affirming the Protestant and British protection of religious and civil liberties, Whitefield’s supportive actions would define him as loyal to King George II once and for all. So, with just the right sermon, he could kill two birds with one stone. Moving quickly, he had the sermon published and advertised for sale in Boston within three weeks of its initial oration. In the analysis of the sermon that follows, the reader will see how Whitefield built upon the same logic templates he had been promoting for seven years and how he extended his notions of virtue, as expressed in “good versus evil” terms, from individual religious status

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to national religious status. This shift led Americans directly toward a national political belief system grounded in religion. To achieve his ends, Whitefield structured the sermons from the past, into the present, and looking to the future. He argued that knowing the past helps one to place the present situation in perspective and suggest a future response. Knowing about God’s past mercies allowed one to be thankful to God, which in turn would promote virtue in the future. After Whitefield explained this principle, as drawn from biblical stories, he suggested that it applied to Great Britain in the aftermath of the Jacobite rebellion. For him, the averted rebellion constituted deliverance from a real threat, for which thanks must be offered to God to ensure God’s continued favor. Thus the sermon is divided into three major movements. First, Whitefield emphasized the stability in Great Britain after the Glorious Revolution of 1688, which ushered in a wave of religious freedom. Next, he painted a portrait of the political instability that could have resulted from a successful Jacobite rebellion, describing both civil and religious atrocities that would have resulted. Finally, Whitefield praised the heroes of the battle and argued that if they deserve praise, then God deserves more. Britain’s stability would depend upon recognizing God as their protector and the people fulfilling religious duty. Whitefield’s flowery style contrasts strikingly with other sermons. He says nothing in a blunt direct manner, but employs the “high style” of oratory, loaded with poetry and passion, traditionally reserved for the most formal of occasions. Whitefield begins by asserting that Great Britain has enjoyed a “gentle mild administration” under George II, in which political and religious oppression have been nonexistent and Britain has prospered. He lavishes praise upon George II for his prudent rule, filled with justice and civil freedom: By thee we enjoy great quietness, and very worthy deeds have been done unto our nation by thy providence. He has been indeed Pater Patriæ, a father to our country, and though old and grayheaded, has jeopardized his precious life for us in the high places of the field. Nor has he less deserved the great and glorious title . . . “a nursing father of the church” . . . As there has been no authorized oppression in the state, so there has been no publicly allowed persecution in the church. We breathe indeed in free air.

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Whitefield appeals to the observations of anyone tuned into politics, as a matter of fact, that George II is “one of the best.” Not offering specific examples but general assessments, he extols the state of peace, resulting in both civil and religious liberty, owing to the wise leadership of the king. Whitefield ultimately gives credit for the king’s solid leadership to God and concludes by declaring that “Happy art thou, O England! Happy art thou, O America, who on every side art thus highly favored!” Abruptly shifting his tone as he enters the second movement of the sermon, Whitefield demonizes Charles Edward with a scathing sequence of imagined possibilities had the rebellion been successful: But, alas! How soon would this happy scene have shifted, and a melancholy gloomy prospect have succeeded in its room, had the rebels gained their point, and a popish abjured pretender been forced upon the British throne!

Whitefield projects a slippery slope that compares Charles Edward to the mythological Greek character Phaeton, Apollo’s son who “was to guide the chariot of the sun; and had he succeeded in his attempt, like him, would only have set the world on fire.” Having fanned anti-Catholic feelings into a flame with the term “popish,” he further characterizes the rebellion as a “horrid plot, first hatched in hell, and afterwards nursed at Rome.” Supplying evidence for the evil intent of the rebels, Whitefield accuses Charles Edward of ordering his officers to “give no quarters to the Elector’s troops”—that is to say, take no prisoners. Had Charles Edward successfully gained control of the country, Whitefield speculates that Parliament would have soon been impotent, as it had been in previous times, and that the “popish pretender” would have shortly ruined the British economy. Whitefield also employs the term “arbitrary” to describe the rule of the Stuart kings in previous generations. He reminds his audience that “for his arbitrary and tyrannical government, both in church and state,” the Stuart Dynasty “was justly obliged to abdicate the throne” in 1688 “by the assertors of British liberty.” In these phrases, Whitefield links together images of “arbitrary” and “tyrannical,” held aloft and compared to “liberty,” all within a church/state context. He asserts a hereditary succession of evil to Bonnie Prince Charles, claiming that his family line taught him to be an oppressive ruler, saying, “Arbitrary principles he has sucked in with his mother’s milk.”

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But Whitefield is far from finished with Charles Edward. Moving from political fears to religious ones, he presses the accusations forward: “But, alas! What an inundation of spiritual mischiefs would soon have overflowed the Church.” Then Whitefield lists his fears in a picturesque, eloquent, climaxing portrayal: How soon would whole swarms of monks, dominicans, and friars, like so many locusts, have overspread and plagued the nation; with what winged speed would foreign titular bishops have posted over, in order to take possession of their respective sees? How quickly would our universities have been filled with youths who have been sent abroad by their Popish parents, in order to drink in all the superstitions of the Church of Rome? What a speedy period would have been put to societies of all kinds, for promoting Christian knowledge, and propagating the gospel in foreign parts? How soon would our pulpits everywhere have been filled with those old antichristian doctrines, free-will, meriting by works, transubstantiation, purgatory, works of supererogation, passive obedience, non-resistance, and all other abominations of the whore of Babylon? How soon would our protestant charity-schools in England, Scotland, and Ireland, have been pulled down, our Bibles forcibly taken from us, and ignorance everywhere set up as the mother of devotion! How soon should we have been deprived of that invaluable blessing, liberty of conscience, and been obliged to commence (what they falsely call) catholics, or submit to all the tortures which a bigoted zeal, guided by the most cruel principles, could possibly invent! How soon would that mother of harlots have made herself once more drunk with the blood of the saints!

Notice how Whitefield employs the words “our” and “we” in the passage, indicating that he viewed himself as part of the colonial society. The reader can easily imagine how Whitefield might have clothed the passage with indignation and anger through his tone and bodily action. Imagine, by adding a voice to those words above, how they would sound when delivered with a pure, clear voice, increasing emotion, building to a near-shouting climax at the end—yet under complete control of the speaker as he moves out of the pulpit and toward the audience, raising a single hand aloft as he looks directly into the eyes of every person listening. Something of Whitefield’s power is still embedded in this passage for those with the imagination to hear it.

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These fears he describes held great power for the community of Protestant Christians, as the Jacobite bloodletting reminded them of England’s previous periods of revolutionary and religious turmoil. Moreover, the violence and war of the past two hundred years in Europe—usually resulting from or attributed to religious conflict— made these fears far more potent than they might seem today. Whitefield ends the section giving thanks to God for preventing such horrors. Notably here, Whitefield condemns the notions of “passive obedience” and “non-resistance” as “abominations of the whore of Babylon.” These were practices that had been debated in British politics for the past century. The successful refutation of these practices empowered the 1645 revolution and the Glorious Revolution of 1688. Yet Jacobites and other Stuart supporters continued to invoke these practices in their efforts to put the Stuarts back on England’s throne. Passive obedience and nonresistance were resurrected within British rhetoric against the move for independence prior to the American Revolution. They were condemned by Jonathan Mayhew in his sermon that John Adams called the “morning gun of the revolution,” and they were addressed head on in Thomas Paine’s pamphlet Common Sense. Religion was political for Whitefield, and he became increasingly political when religious freedoms were threatened. Whether Whitefield was or was not exaggerating the extent of a French victory, he believed he was not, and wanted his audience to believe the same. The community of Christian converts that grew out of the Awakening held genuine political interests that, as their minister, he felt obligated to defend. His purpose was to solidify public support of the current British government to protect the free practice of Protestant religion. The Scots were largely Presbyterians with whom Whitefield could build a bridge founded on their common Protestant faith. Whitefield created a deeper sense of unity among the more recent immigrants by arguing that Jacobite sympathizers should support George II based on their religious heritage. In addition, most of the European groups who immigrated to America were Protestant and could respect his arguments. By employing John Knox’s idea that obligation to God should come first, Whitefield protected religious liberty, even if it meant rejecting a rightful heir to the throne. A

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change in the king could have replaced the Church of England with Roman Catholicism as the state-supported religion. This was a situation Whitefield wanted to clarify for everyone. But most importantly, Whitefield provided definitions of a good king and a bad one. On one hand, he portrayed George II in glowing terms with general examples of his justice and wisdom. On the other, he depicted Charles Edward as a servant of the antichrist and speculated on the results of a successful invasion with examples of past atrocities. While his speculations may have been rooted in personal fears, his portrayal of the situation was realistic. Indeed, had the weather cooperated in the first attempt, or if Charles Edward had been given better advice, unified leadership within the Scots, and a stronger base of support from the people of Scotland and England, the rebellion might have succeeded. Whitefield distinguished between good and evil leadership in the practical republican terms of action, whether arbitrary and tyrannous or protective of liberty. And while his definition was intended to draw people closer to God, it supplied, for those who heard it, a plumb line for leadership in all contexts. In so doing, these definitions would begin to operate as a new perspective for revolutionary era patriots—that “the people” have a duty to oppose tyrannous leaders who would threaten their freedoms. In the sermon’s final movement, Whitefield attributes the victory to God’s mercy, giving God full credit for Charles Edward’s retreat from Derby back into Scotland. He compares Charles Edward’s advisors to the biblical character Ahithophel, whose rebellious yet prudent advice to a monarchial usurper was thwarted by God’s divine intervention. Whitefield points out that because of Charles Edward’s retreat to the Highlands and the union of all the rebels into one army, Cumberland was able completely and decisively to defeat the rebel threat. Whitefield even argues that it was best for the rebellion to go as far as it did because the king learned who his friends were, the people had an occasion to express their loyalty, France was humbled, and an “effectual stop” was put to “any such further popish plot to rob us of all that is near and dear to us.” The “instrument of this victory” deserves notice, and Whitefield personally names and extols people key to Britain’s success. He describes William, Duke of Cumberland, a younger son of George II, with the terms “nobleness of mind,” “courage,” “surprising bravery,”

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and “magnanimity,” eloquently acclaiming eight aspects of his character or deeds. Also, he lauds others involved in the battle: And shall we not say “Blessed above men let his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland be; for through his instrumentality, the great and glorious Jehovah hath brought mighty things to pass?” Should not our hearts be towards the worthy Archbishop of Tirk, the Royal Hunters, and those other English heroes who offered themselves so willingly? Let the names of Blakeney, Bland and Rea, and all those who waxed valiant in fight on this important occasion, live forever in the British annals. And let the name of that great, that incomparable brave soldier of the king, and a good soldier of Jesus Christ, Colonel Gardiner, (excuse me if I here drop a tear; he was my intimate friend) let his name, I say, be had in everlasting remembrance.

He links tyranny with Catholicism in his praise of the battle’s victors, who “delivered three kingdoms from the dread of popish cruelty, and arbitrary power.” By defending English liberty and opposing the threatened tyranny of Charles Edward, these men have earned great praise. One can only imagine the vocal punctuation and emotion with which Whitefield was able to adorn the above passage, especially in light of the high style of oratory, laden with artful language and even rhyme. The passage is somewhere between poetry and prose. If one reads it aloud with attention to its internal metering, pacing, alliteration, and rhyme, it comes alive. Undoubtedly, Whitefield was at his oratorical and theatrical best. In a Boston Gazette editorial published a few weeks later, an eyewitness praised Whitefield and the sermon: “I should have been well pleased that all Men had heard it from the Preacher . . . he was in an Extasy, and every pause was so natural, that the Congregation were charmed with Silence that spoke, and Eloquence of Eyes.” Whitefield follows his praise of men with a call for the praise of God. He demands consistency from people; if men deserve honor, God deserves more honor, and such honor can best be provided through public and private virtue. For Whitefield, a system of civic/ religious ordinances, as set down in Scripture and practiced in New England, was far superior to a legal code of any secular origination, and its superiority is self-evident: “Is not the divine image and superscription written upon every precept of the gospel? Do they not shine with a native intrinsic luster?” He wraps up the sermon by

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providing a repetition of his argument that God is the agent of their blessings and deserves honor. Finally, Whitefield concludes with a warning for the future, insisting that the danger from the rebels has not ended, that they may be instruments of God intended to scourge England for the neglect of her citizens toward God’s law. He argues that as God “dealt with the Egyptians,” God might also deal with Britain, and perhaps already has, citing recent epidemics. Whitefield’s political sentiments (an aspect of another spirit) were manifested by addressing a significant military and political event and prescribing a set of political beliefs for his auditors. Surprisingly, there is no invitation to the new birth, which climaxes almost all of his other sermons, showing that his goal for the sermon was primarily political. For one such as Whitefield, this absence of a persuasive invitation to the new birth is significant and must not be overlooked in interpreting his intention for the sermon. One can presume that audience members, for whom Whitefield’s version of events was legitimate, might embrace his definitions and interpretations. These were definitions that were grounded in common sense, eloquent, and widely circulated in print, giving them the potential of being influential to open minds. Even his slippery-slope portrait of life under a tyrannical “Popish government” was common in European history. The descriptions of tyrannical rule in general created a vivid definition of a tyrant to which future rulers might be compared. Moreover, Whitefield praised the opposition to potential tyranny, even though Charles Edward had a legal claim to the throne according to the practice of hereditary succession. He lauded the individuals who fought in the battles and popularized the notion that “opposition to tyranny is just.” Whitefield was drawing upon an older tradition to vilify the Catholic French. Anti-Catholic rhetoric had been employed for at least a century in English politics as a “coded language for constitutional fears of over-powerful monarchy.”1 But according to Nathan Hatch, this tradition was not grounded in “fears that Rome pulled the strings for Stuart puppets.” Nor did the anti-Catholic fears originate from Enlightenment thinkers who accused Rome of keeping people ignorant that they might be more easily controlled. Instead this tradition was derived, according to Hatch, from a “view of history that had come to define the struggle between Protestant and Catholics as one battle in the larger war between liberty and arbitrary power.”2

Good King, Bad King

By portraying the Catholic French as “them,” the enemy of genuine religion and liberty, and by blending the religious vocabulary with political terms, Whitefield showed how deeply religious activism was intertwined with American politics. He prescribed a political ideology—support of the British Crown—to the religious community, and they accepted it and became involved in the war effort. This political view set a precedent for American religion and politics: that the church should support (with blood) the kind of government that will ensure liberty and oppose the government that would oppress people through arbitrary power. Whitefield reiterated and reinforced this view for the rest of his career. As Whitefield’s tour progressed, he was acutely aware of the political message in “Britain’s Mercies” and was interested to know how well his publication was being received. In a letter to the Welsh evangelist Howell Harris, Whitefield confided that he wished to “know what effect my sermon on the rebellion has had” back in England. Calling it “much blessed in these parts,” Whitefield also hoped that the sermon would make a definitive public statement regarding his own loyalties and contribute to the rehabilitation of his public image. To another friend Whitefield later wrote, “My State Sermon has gone through two editions. They have also my five last sermons, which have convinced my friends that I am firm to my principles.” His efforts seemed to work. The Boston Gazette dedicated the front page of September 23, 1746, to an editorial penned by “Methodistus” supporting Whitefield: The Gentlemen at the Head of the Administration . . . have given it as their Opinion, that the Methodists in general and Mr. Whitefield in particular, are great Friends to his Majesty, and all that are set in Authority under him.

The writer went on to say, I DOUBT NOT but everybody in the British Dominions will, upon reading that Sermon, be convinced (if anyone ever stood in need of such a Conviction) that Mr. Whitefield is as zealous a Protestant, as a warm a Friend to Liberty, and therefore as dutiful a Subject to his present Majesty, as any Man living.

Whitefield’s public image was well on the way to recovery. His politics were public, and his friends did not hesitate to point it out to the public.

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onathan Edwards, and most of the other leaders in the colonies believed that Christ would one day return from heaven and destroy those who do evil. Then, Christ would reign on earth over a kingdom of saints for a thousand years until the final judgment and the creation of a “new earth.” In light of this belief, colonial religious leaders interpreted the Great Awakening as a final outpouring of God’s grace onto society to prepare for Christ’s impending return. As Whitefield wrote recalling the revivals of 1741: The awakening greatly increased in various places, till, at length, the work so advanced every where, that many thought the latterday glory was indeed come, and that a nation was to be born in a day.

The Puritan vision for America of a “city upon a hill” was still alive for the Americans. But Christ had not returned, creating a delay that pressured ministers to rethink their doctrine. To resolve the problem, the ministers wondered whether “perhaps Christ is already at work, setting up his kingdom and making war on evil by more visible means. Perhaps Christ and the devil are already at war with one another through existing governments.” If they were right about the delay, the spread of Whitefield’s religious/political ideas could further shape the New Light community of believers and persuade them to trust the traditional colonial governments. Thus began a blending of religion and politics into what Nathan Hatch has called “civil millennialism,” an “amalgam of traditional Puritan apocalyptic rhetoric and eighteenth-century political discourse.” This blending 117

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of ideas forged a stubborn link between religious virtue and liberty.1 As Hatch explains: In picturing the struggle of liberty versus tyranny as nothing less than the conflict between heaven and hell, the clergy found their political commitments energized with the force of a divine imperative and their political goals translated into the very principles which would initiate the kingdom of God on earth.2

The expectations of the New Light theologians had to be changed when the Awakening failed to usher in the millennial reign of Christ. Hatch placed the full development of civil millennialism between 1744 and 1754, setting it in place just in time to empower the French and Indian War rhetoric. Yet Hatch sheds little light on the intellectual origins of civil millennialism, merely pointing out that it could not have directly evolved from post-Awakening theology, and that it first appeared in sermons by New Light ministers after the Louisbourg expedition. By the mid-1750s, ministers, including the Old Lights, were preaching that “an extensive French-Catholic conspiracy” was “linked directly to an apocalyptic interpretation of history in which the French were accomplices in Satan’s plot to subjugate God’s elect in New England.”3 According to Hatch, this initial form of civil millennialism was developed and expressed by Jonathan Mayhew and other ministers. But Mayhew’s sermon in 1750 was a publishing flop and did not become popular until the 1770s when people began to reapply his ideas to George III. Prior to Mayhew’s publication, Whitefield’s sermon “Britain’s Mercies” explicitly connected the French, Roman Catholicism, and the antichrist in the “horrid plot, first hatched in hell, and afterwards nursed at Rome” that he believed inspired Charles Edward’s attempted coup. His connection of virtue with liberty predates Hatch’s first examples of the apocalyptic plot by eight years. Again we find Whitefield resurrecting and modifying arguments from Britain’s political past, inserting them into the leading edge of an intellectual transformation and spreading the ideas throughout the colonies. Whitefield was the person most able to publicize the concept of civil millennialism. Few ministers of the period had sufficient popularity to sell their published sermons beyond their immediate locale in the same way that Whitefield could. Whitefield provided an eloquent rhetoric and a network of

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dissemination that helped the spread of civil millennialism throughout the colonies. In practical terms, civil millennialism resulted from taking a logic template from the New versus Old Lights in religion and reapplying it to British Christians and French Roman Catholics. This shift was perfectly timed to help Whitefield rebuild his influence, which had been reduced during the post-Awakening conflict. Having distanced himself from the radical enthusiasm of other Protestants, Whitefield’s emphasis upon substantial threats to the American Christian community refocused colonial eyes upon politics, thus easing criticism against him.

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New England probably was not ready for Whitefield to return, perhaps due to the heavy loss of life while the troops were stationed at Louisbourg for the winter after their victory. He did not yet sense a welcome mat laid out for him, writing, “I am afraid that many ministers and the heads of the people would not bear it.” But since thousands in the South had not yet heard him, he decided to continue his traveling there, “Nobody goes out scarcely but myself.” Whitefield was back in Maryland in 1747 continuing to range the woods for sinners, but was prevented from going into Virginia by a recently passed law that forbade traveling preachers. In spite of his published defenses of traveling to preach, Whitefield did not challenge the law as he usually did. He did not want to stir up more controversy. So he continued his touring of the middle and southern colonies throughout 1746 and early 1747. During this time, the message of the new birth fully permeated the South and most middle colonies as it had New England seven years earlier. By June of 1747, Whitefield was planning a return to Boston in order to say good-bye to his friends there, and he was optimistic that New Englanders would be more hospitable than they had been two years earlier. He was not to be disappointed. The Boston Gazette began reporting Whitefield’s whereabouts as his tour neared New England again. Every week through the early summer the paper reported where he had last preached and speculated on when he would arrive. After hearing that Whitefield was becoming increasingly ill in New York and had cancelled his trip, the

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paper ceased its reports. But in early August, Whitefield announced that his health would permit a trip up to Boston after all, and the paper began running the progress reports again. He arrived two weeks later and immediately began preaching all over Boston. Colman’s church was first, then he preached at various other places— Presbyterian, Puritan, and Baptist. Within a week, he preached his farewell sermon, outdoors on a cemetery hill at the edge of town, something he dared not try two years earlier. According to the newspaper, “the Hill with its Avenues were covered with People; and some tho’t there were Twenty Thousand.” In a letter to Gilbert Tennent, Whitefield summarized his reception: “I can now send you good news from the Northward. My reception at Boston, and elsewhere in New-England, was like unto the first . . . Congregations were rather larger than ever, and opposers’ mouths were stopped.” Whitefield was so encouraged, that he was reminded of the revival in 1740 before all the trouble started: “The gathering of the people, and the power that attended the word seemed to be near the same as when the work begun seven years ago.” In a request that would have been foolhardy had there remained any controversy, Whitefield invited Tennent to come up to Boston and continue the revival as he had in 1741, saying, “Will you now take another trip? I believe it would be blessed to the good of your own and many other souls.” The conflict appeared to be over. The “Convention of New England Ministers” had apparently initiated a shift in the majority of attitudes. Fears about Whitefield and conspiracies ended, and radical enthusiasts such as Davenport had been pushed aside, leaving Edwards, Whitefield, and Tennent in the mainstream of the Christian community. Tennent would help to repair the split among Presbyterians in the next decade. Although the New and Old Light clergy still held some doctrinal and practical differences, they had ironed out a working partnership that would be called to duty throughout the next two decades.

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Whitefield traveled south after leaving Boston, describing his visit as a “pleasant journey,” and spent much of the fall and winter in Georgia before he set sail for Bermuda, where he stayed several months recovering his health. The traveling for the past few years had worn

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down his health and also his wife’s. For people accustomed to England’s climate, American summers could be brutally hot and humid, made even worse when traveling by horseback. Elizabeth Whitefield seemed especially susceptible and never came to America again. Instead of getting some rest while in Bermuda, Whitefield traveled all over the island and to nearby islands preaching and visiting. Perhaps this was rest for him since the daily trips were much shorter than his traveling all over the Carolinas and Georgia. Whitefield was given a large sum of money that had been collected to help with his expenses. Some of this he gave to his wife, as he explained, to “keep her from being embarrassed, or too much beholden in my absence.” Whitefield himself was feeling the embarrassment of continually being in debt, praising the generosity of people in Bermuda who made contributions for his orphanage project. While recuperating, he records that he was tempted to stay with his wife in the American colonies and finish his life there, ministering and traveling, never to return to England. But he did go back to England, and perhaps it was only his appointment to be the chaplain for a countess that tipped the scale in favor of staying connected to England. Not wanting to face the heat of a Georgia summer, and feeling the call of obligations in England, the Whitefields’ decided to return to London. They departed in June of 1748, and Whitefield employed his hand at revising his journals. He revised portions that Old Lights used against him in the newspaper war of New England three years earlier. Reflecting on the last several years, Whitefield honestly regretted the trouble attributed to him and accepted responsibility for his role. In a letter to a minister friend in England, he lamented: Alas! alas! In how many things have I judged and acted wrong.—I have been too rash and hasty in giving characters, both of places and persons. Being fond of scripture language, I have often used a style too apostolical, and at the same time I have been too bitter in my zeal. Wild-fire has been mixed with it, and I find that I frequently wrote and spoke in my own spirit, when I thought I was writing and speaking by the assistance of the spirit of GOD. I have likewise too much made inward impressions my rule of acting, and too soon and too explicitly published what had been better kept in longer, or told after my death. By these things I have . . . hurt the blessed cause I would defend, and also stirred up needless opposition . . . I bless him for ripening my judgment

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a little more, for giving me to see and confess, and I hope in some degree to correct and amend, some of my mistakes.

Whitefield arrived in England in July of 1748. Having attended to his American parish, it was time to visit his parishes in Scotland, Wales, and England. He had been absent from the British Isles for four years by the time of his return.

Chaplain of a Countess A couple of months after his arrival in England, Lady Selina, the Countess of Huntingdon, recently widowed and now in command of great wealth, invited Whitefield to deliver a sermon at her home to members of England’s upper class. Duly impressed, she asked Whitefield to be one of her private chaplains. Recognizing the financial freedom the appointment would create and knowing that it is wise to say “yes” to a countess, Whitefield accepted. Whitefield held the position and diligently worked for her methodist causes until the end of his life. Lady Huntingdon solved his financial problems and would prove to be a powerful ally against the oppression of the Church of England. He regularly preached in her home to Britain’s upper classes, including several lords and other luminaries. Though many of these London elite appreciated Whitefield for his oratorical skill, open conversion did not often occur. Yet, more than once a bishop attended a sermon at Lady Huntingdon’s home, hidden in a curtained bishop’s seat dubbed “Nicodemus’ corner” by a woman who used to help them sneak in to listen, although everyone knew they were there. Through these parlor sermons and after-dinner conversations, Whitefield nurtured strong connections with British political leaders. After one parlor sermon Whitefield wrote: On Tuesday I preached twice at Lady Huntingdon’s to several of the nobility. In the morning the Earl of Chesterfield was present. In the evening Lord Bolingbroke. All behaved quite well, and were in some degree affected. Lord Chesterfield thanked me, and said, “Sir, I will not tell you what I shall tell others, how I approve of you,” or words to this purpose. He conversed with me freely afterwards. Lord Bolingbroke was much moved, and desired I would come and see him the next morning. I did; and his Lordship behaved with great candour and frankness.

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These friendships with British aristocrats of a Whig temperament attest to Whitefield’s genuine shift into the mainstream of British society. Bolingbroke had been known for his own oratorical abilities early in his career. A Jacobite at the time of the first attempted coup in 1715, he lost his position and subsequently regained it. Afterward, an apparent conversion to Whig sentiments was evidenced by his publication The Patriot King in 1740, as well by his unsympathetic response to the 1745 rebellion. No doubt, he was closely watched during that period. Though Bolingbroke died in 1751, Whitefield maintained relationships with his peers. Information he later shared with American ministers regarding the Parliamentary designs for the colonies and the efforts to establish an American bishop show that Whitefield discussed political matters with British Whig leaders. He also called upon some of his new friends for help and advice when a new oppression arose against him in 1756. His contact with the ruling class certainly kept Whitefield abreast of London’s political currents. Whitefield’s appointment as chaplain to the Countess of Huntingdon points to the balance of his ministry and is a tribute to his ability to connect and work with parties from both ends of the political spectrum. Although he was proud to be a methodist who publicly tried to reform Church of England leaders and policies, bishops were sneaking in to hear him preach. Whitefield revolutionized public communication in the British Empire, a move that began to break down class barriers in the American colonies. His teachings were irreversibly shaping the American mind into one capable of rebelling against leaders who might limit their privileges. In spite of this, he was now financially subsidized and approved of by the British aristocracy. This paradoxical situation could not be due to ignorance. British leaders had recognized the threat of Whitefield’s ministry to the social structure since its early years. But Whitefield’s ability to maintain and repair relationships, as well as his ingenuity in constructing political positions, enabled him to continue his ministry while soothing the fears of the established order. Maintaining such a balance required great political skill. One can view examples of his skill in the genuine humble tone of his letters to the Countess of Huntingdon, the bishop of London, and others who held a higher

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social position. This example is from a letter to Lady Huntingdon in 1755: Ever-honoured Madam, YOUR Ladyship’s kind and condescending letter, found me just returned from Chatham, and led me (as your Ladyship’s letters always do) to a throne of grace. I immediately threw myself prostrate before GOD, and earnestly prayed, in my poor feeble manner, that grace, mercy, and peace might be multiplied upon your Ladyship, and your happy family.

He uses polite language that honors those with a higher status. He admits his faults and thanks his critics for pointing them out, yet he argues confidently about issues where he has expertise. The balancing act of his ministry demonstrates the art of “reconciling opposites,” of inventing middle ground, of fine-tuning one’s position in response to blows that would shatter less flexible thinkers. Whitefield remained in the British Isles preaching regularly from July of 1748 until September of 1751 when he traveled to Georgia with several orphans. He did not stay long, but immediately returned to England to secure the renewal of Bethesda’s charter from officials in London as its expiration neared. Most Americans never knew he was in the country. A year later, Gilbert Tennent and Samuel Davies visited London to raise money for the New Jersey College, which would later become Princeton University, and they likely turned Whitefield’s attention back to America as he entertained them for dinner one evening. He arranged a fifth trip, which began in May of 1754 and lasted about a year. The purpose of the trip was to take twenty-two additional children with him to the orphanage. His return to Boston would be the first visit since 1747, and the controversy was all but forgotten. Time and talk had healed the wounds of the Awakening conflict as far as Whitefield’s enterprise was concerned. Gillies wrote, “Prejudices subsided; some of the rich and great began to think favourable of his ministrations.” Whitefield made further headway into Virginia and Maryland on this trip. Samuel Morris had introduced Whitefield to Virginians by reading his sermons publicly and founding a church based on his teachings. Other ministers—Gilbert Tennent, William Robinson, John Blair, and Samuel Finley—visited Virginia as well, spreading the new birth

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and the logic templates that accompanied the Awakening teachings. Whitefield was enthusiastically welcomed in these two colonies, and large crowds turned out at his revival meetings. While other itinerant preachers settled down to tend local parishes, Whitefield continued to travel and preach from 1748 to 1756 to vast crowds as if the revival was ongoing. As far as Whitefield was concerned, the revival never really ended. After an uneventful fifth tour, about which Whitefield says little, he left America, feeling it was God’s will for him to return to England. Perhaps the approaching war caused the forty-two-year-old Whitefield to long for the safety of home.

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he English and French, traditional enemies for centuries, were at it again in Europe in the mid-1750s. Although various and complex issues drew other countries into the war, from 1756 to 1763 these two nations, in their efforts to dominate Europe and America, engaged in what many historians refer to as the first genuine world war. Whitefield worried about protecting his parish—the whole world—as it faced renewed threats of French-Catholic control. As the tit-for-tat conflict with the French spiraled down into outright war, Whitefield dug out his notes on anti-Catholic sermons and declared his concern for the welfare of the colonists, “O America, how near dost thou lie upon my heart! GOD preserve it from popish tyranny and arbitrary power!” In this and other such statements, Whitefield reveals his own civil millennialism—a theology that connected the natural world with a spiritual dimension. For Whitefield, evil political ambitions were manifestations of the antichrist in the hearts of leaders. In light of his self-proclaimed duty to preach against arbitrary power, Whitefield wrote, “O that we may be enabled to watch and pray against all the opposition of Antichrist in our hearts. Whitefield viewed arbitrary power as the central indication that the antichrist was influencing the heart of a religious or political leader. Roman Catholicism was its religion, and the nation of France was its political face. So thoroughly did Whitefield believe that Roman Catholicism should be resisted that he made a point of it in his will. He created a list of speech topics for his orphan school at Bethesda, entitled “Subjects for Annual Prizes at the Orphan-house.” Among 127

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these oratorical contests for the students, Whitefield rewarded the best “oration on the glorious Revolution, and the infinite Mercy of GOD, in delivering Great Britain from Popish Tyranny and Arbitrary Power.” He wished the children in his care to learn British history, develop a strong connection between the politics and religion, and to understand the evils of arbitrary power. In 1754 George Washington led a failed attempt to capture a French fort at Pittsburgh, opening the American theater of the conflict. In the colonies, historians have labeled the conflict the “French and Indian Wars,” but it was actually part of the larger global struggle. By 1756 both nations, England and France, were aggressively executing their war plans on both sides of the Atlantic, but not many American colonists were passionate about the war effort. Since all the fighting up to that point had been out in western Pennsylvania, New Englanders did not get involved, and Presbyterians of the middle and southern colonies seemed to care even less. Washington had a tough time securing supplies for his expedition. The colonial governors had a sizable problem trying to find recruits to man the armies.

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In 1756 Whitefield again lent his hand to the government and went to work as a propagandist in the war effort. The work was not simply as a public relations mercenary. Whitefield genuinely was concerned for America and the stability of the British Empire: What shall I say? Had I wings, how gladly would I fly to my dear America? But alas! the glittering sword is now unsheathed, and I fear it would not be proper for me to cross the water now. However, all the provinces are continually upon my heart: night and day do I remember them before GOD.

He published an enlistment sermon, which was released concurrently in Boston, Philadelphia, New York, Edinburgh, and London in 1756. Since Whitefield had granted General Pepperell’s request for an enlistment sermon a decade earlier to promote the Louisburg expedition, it is not unreasonable to suggest that his noble acquaintances in London may have persuaded him to preach for the country once again. Whitefield’s sermon, “A Short Address to Persons of all Denominations, Occasioned by the Alarm of an Intended Invasion, in the Year 1756,” played an essential role in motivating the

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Christian community to make the war their business. The sermon went through five editions and was the number two best-seller in the American colonies. The top-selling colonial publication was William and Elizabeth Fleming’s gripping account of their capture by a Native American “regiment” in service of the French, describing their escape and flight back to civilization. This book was also clearly intended to promote the war effort by publicizing the atrocities of the French and Native American coalition. Whitefield opens “A Short Address” with a humble request to add his voice to public discourse concerning the recently declared war with France. He applauds the calling of a public day of prayer and defends it as a reasonable response to the French military threat. The first section of the sermon points to the biblical example of how a plot against the Jews was thwarted by a public fast. Appealing to the consistency of God, Whitefield reasons that if the Jewish public fast brought God to their cause in ancient times, then a public fast would do the same for Great Britain today. Next, Whitefield lays responsibility for the war at the feet of the French for breaking a treaty. He reminds his listeners that God once honored the prayer of a Turkish general who fought against the Crusaders after the Christians broke a treaty. How much more would God support a Christian nation after their evil enemy broke a treaty? This is followed by examples of other famous people who prayed and fasted before battle to ensure their success. Recognizing that many Christians in his audience do not support the war effort, Whitefield counters “pacifism” by asserting that God is no pacifist and that people who oppose war must view the situation from the perspective of a court of law: For if God himself is pleased to stile himself a Man of War, surely in a just and righteous Cause (such as the British War at present is) we may as lawfully draw our Swords, in order to defend ourselves against our common and public Enemy, as a civil Magistrate may sit on a Bench, and condemn a public Robber to Death.

Whitefield attempts to recast the terms of the war with the magistrate/robber metaphor. If he could convince his audience that indeed the French were acting illegally, then the metaphor would call for action. He reminds his audience of the Church of England pronouncement that Christians may serve in wars at the command of

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the king. Moreover, he warns of the consequences of neglecting to serve: if the French are not engaged in battle, they may steal Pennsylvania from Britain’s dominion. Since the French started the war, and since, as Whitefield says, “civil and religious liberties are all . . . lying at Stake,” Christians are obligated to defend their country and would incur the “curse of Meroz” should they fail to embrace the war effort. Here Whitefield launches into a fascinating line of argument. The curse of Meroz refers to a biblical curse pronounced by the prophetess Deborah upon the residents of the Hebrew town of Meroz, whose men refused to fulfill their duty to join in battle against the enemies of Israel: Curse ye Meroz, saith the angel of the Lord, curse ye bitterly the inhabitants thereof: because they came not to the help of the Lord against the mighty.

The curse served many purposes in American history, and its use here further points to Whitefield as a leader in shifts in public patterns of thought. In 1742 Jonathan Edwards introduced the curse to eighteenth-century Americans by invoking it against Old Light ministers and their followers. He used it metaphorically to criticize so-called Christians who failed to support the Awakening revival. But here, Whitefield invokes the curse literally, viewing the British as God’s chosen people and the French as God’s enemies. He applies the curse to would-be pacifists. Whitefield’s use of it during the eighteenth century appears to be the curse’s first application to support war and inspired a series of sermons by other notable ministers. Samuel Finley, a Log College minister, made the curse the theme of an entire sermon, published a year later in 1757. Samuel Davies, another Presbyterian, drew upon it as well. Both of these men were friends of Whitefield and likely had his sermon in their libraries. Eventually, in 1774, the curse of Meroz would resound to empower the rhetoric of American revolutionaries. As one historian concludes, “When fighting on the side of God against the devil, even the most extreme measures of defense are not only sanctioned but mandated in the appeal to natural law or God’s law.”1 Whitefield’s use of the curse appears to be the first instance in which it was employed as a literal appeal to fight the French. Certainly, he was the first to publish and widely disseminate what became one of the favored Bible passages of ministers during the Revolutionary War.

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“A Short Address” depends upon the curse of Meroz, as Whitefield holds it over the head of his audience and explains the Christian’s obligation to fight God’s enemies. As he continues, Whitefield further justifies the war with France by reminding his audience of its political links to Roman Catholicism. He repeats his arguments from “Britain’s Mercies” that the Roman Catholic’s elevation of the pope to world religious leadership was really the earthly manifestation of antichrist. Whitefield exclaims that dying in battle would be a better fate than “hearing that a French Army, accompanied with a Popish Pretender, and Thousands of Romish Priests” had conquered Britain. Whitefield launches into the next part of the sermon pointing out the liberty and freedom enjoyed by British subjects: But surely we must have eyes that see not, and ears that hear not, as well as hearts that do not understand, if we do not know, and see, and feel, that in respect to our civil and religious liberties, we are undoubtedly the freest people under heaven. And I dare appeal to the most ungrateful and malicious male-content, to produce any æra in the British annals, wherein we have enjoyed such a continued series of civil and religious liberty, as we have been favoured with for these twenty-eight years last past, under the mild and gentle administration of our dread and rightful Sovereign King George.

Whitefield calls George II a “Nursing Father to People of all Denominations.” He claims that George II deserves the title “GEORGE THE GREAT” for creating such a friendly environment for religious freedom. Whitefield’s portrait of a good king is contrasted with those practicing arbitrary power. He condemns “men of lax Principles, loose Lives, and broken Fortunes,” who would “break through all Restraints of Gratitude, Loyalty and Religion” to support any shift in power that would advance their own wealth or social standing. From this point, Whitefield illuminates the evil designs of the Roman Catholics he accused of motivating the French government to war. With graphic language he continues: “savage Popish Priests,” a “cruel Popish Queen,” “cruel Papists,” “voracious Popish Priests,” and phrases such as “Rome, glutted, as it were, with Protestant Blood,” “ravenous Wolves pursuing the harmless and innocent Flocks of Sheep,” and “their bloodthirsty and cruel Hands.” Whitefield finally binds them all together in a full expression of civil

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millennialism at the end of the sermon, saying, “We need not fear what France and Rome, and Hell, with all its united Force, can do unto, or plot against us.” Finally, Whitefield appeals to his audiences to place their trust in God, to fear not “the malicious Efforts and Designs of Men and Devils.” Military sermons became an essential part of his ministry. “Britain’s Mercies” and “A Short Address” were his two best-selling sermons after 1742. Whitefield’s messages were just right for the situation, as their popularity testified. Once again, he had powerfully reinforced the us versus them logic template that judged the Catholics and Protestants, French and English. He shared his ideas with the entire nation through publishing and a national preaching tour.

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In spite of the French activity in the colonies, the political situation for Americans was solidifying as moderates from both New and Old Light factions worked together to back the governors in the war effort. The colonists remained largely satisfied under British rule until after the death of George II. Talk of the radicals overturning the glorious New England tradition had ceased, and instead ministers exhorted their people to support the war effort. Whitefield’s promotion of the war was critical to American development due to his role as an opinion leader. French conquest of America was simply unacceptable, and many American ministers, following Whitefield’s lead, threw their weight into the effort as a chance to bring down the “papal” antichrist and to serve the “Publick Good.” Gilbert Tennent exhorted people to “Let the WELFARE of so many of your fellow subjects, the welfare of the PROTESTANT INTEREST, the welfare of the church of Christ, animate your hearts.” Not only among the Protestants did the war tend to unite the British colonies against the French, but other public networks had begun to promote colonial unification as well. In 1754 Benjamin Franklin published a famous editorial cartoon depicting a snake chopped into sections, each section representing a colony or region, and with the caption “JOIN, or DIE.” We should recall Whitefield’s close friendship with Franklin as we notice Franklin’s steady move from business into American politics as his career progressed. Franklin likely appreciated the political involvement that he saw in Whitefield’s ministry.

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Ben Franklin and George Whitefield became very good friends as the years passed. Their relationship began as Whitefield employed Franklin, a Philadelphia printer at the time, to publish sermon editions for sale in America. Franklin’s early comments about the sound and strength of Whitefield’s voice, as well as his persuasive power in asking for donations, shows Franklin’s early fascination with him. Whitefield stayed at Franklin’s home when he came through Philadelphia over the years, and presumably Whitefield returned the favor in England. The idea that formed their common interest, aside from publishing, was the nature of true Christianity. Franklin saw the real thing in Whitefield. His letters to Whitefield lamented the lack of charitable action among professing Christians: Your great master thought much less of these outward appearances and professions, than many of his modern disciples. He preferred the doers of the word, to the mere hearers; the son that seemingly refused to obey his father, and yet performed his commands, to him that professed his readiness, but neglected the work.

Franklin recognized a man who backed up his words with actions, dedicating himself to public causes rather than to his own private gain. He stated that Whitefield “was in all his Conduct a perfectly honest Man.” Throughout their lives, Whitefield encouraged Franklin to profess his brand of Christianity, writing, “I do not despair of your seeing the reasonableness of Christianity.” Later Whitefield wrote: I would now humbly recommend to your diligent unprejudiced pursuit and study the mystery of the new-birth. It is a most important, interesting study, and when mastered, will richly answer and repay you for all your pains.

But Franklin typically responded that he did not doubt that a fair and just God would accept him into heaven. He never converted to Christianity to Whitefield’s public satisfaction, though it is likely Whitefield was privately assured his friend would join him in heaven one day. Their friendship was such that as each man grew older, Franklin expressed his wish that the two could begin the American experiment anew, starting a colony in Ohio with a contingent of religious and industrious settlers. Franklin’s dream did not materialize. Whitefield had been calling for unity among churches in America for seventeen years at this point. He understood how deep divisions

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between believers would ultimately hurt the cause of Christ. Franklin translated these same ideas directly into political appeals. The famous saying, “We must all hang together or we will all hang separately” also reveals the “us/them” logic template in Franklin’s mind as the Revolution neared. It is safe to speculate that Franklin and Whitefield found much to talk about as Whitefield’s connections with British nobility and his involvement in British public opinion deepened. After 1756, Whitefield devoted himself to his duties in London for a time. He established a chapel at the Moorfields, funded by Lady Huntingdon, and continued preaching sermons to England’s elite. The Bethesda Orphanage in Georgia was on secure financial ground for the first time due to his purchase of slaves to work on the plantation grounds connected to the orphanage. With its trustworthy manager, the orphanage did not need Whitefield’s close attention any longer. He also made preaching tours throughout Scotland, Wales, and England over the next few years and opened a second chapel in London on Tottingham Court Road, also funded by Lady Huntingdon.

The Long Acre Affair In early 1756, a Church of England bishop applied some pressure to Whitefield to limit where he could preach. Whitefield had accepted an invitation to preach in a London meeting house called Long Acre. But Dr. Zachary Pearce, the bishop of Bangor, wrote Whitefield and forbade him to minister at Long Acre, claiming he was not licensed to preach there. Whitefield could expertly handle such Church of England harassment, as he had been doing for years, and sent a letter back to the bishop arguing for the legality of his preaching. But Pearce held firm, and their debate took an ugly turn. In light of escalating hostilities with France, Whitefield wrote to the bishop: Controversy, my Lord, is what I abhor, and as raising popular clamours, and ecclesiastical dissentions must be quite unseasonable, especially at this juncture, when France and Rome and hell ought to be the common butt of our resentment . . . I trust the irregularity I am charged with, will appear justifiable to every true lover of English liberty.

Whitefield pressed the issue, casting Pearce’s actions as unpatriotic and repressive of civil liberties. He argued vigorously, explaining that

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he was within his rights to preach at Long Acre. In each written exchange, he mentions patriotic issues and shows the hypocrisy of the bishop: I am glad, my Lord, of an opportunity of preaching, though it should be in a meeting-house; and I think it discovers a good and moderate spirit in the Dissenters, who will quietly attend on the church service, as many have done, and continue to do at Long-Acre chapel, while many, who I suppose style themselves her faithful sons, by very improper instruments of reformation, have endeavoured to disturb and molest us.

Here Whitefield is contrasting the “moderate spirit in the Dissenters” with the Church of England, whose members “disturb and molest” worshippers at a licensed meeting house. But Whitefield goes deeper in the next letter, using language that parallels arguments made by Thomas Jefferson about the right of citizens to break oppressive or unjust laws. Your Lordship knows full well, that canons and other church laws are . . . agreeable to the liberties of a free people; but when invented and compiled by men of little hearts and bigoted principles, on purpose to hinder persons of more enlarged souls from doing good, or being more extensively useful, they become mere bruta fulmina; and when made use of only as cords to bind up the hands of a zealous few, that honestly appear for their King, their country, and their GOD . . . in my opinion, they may very legally be broken.

Whitefield had been escalating his argument, making the bishop look foolish for opposing him. But when Whitefield threatened to take the entire matter public, things got downright nasty. Since the bishop could not argue Whitefield into silence, he hired some thugs to disrupt the meetings. During the next worship service, Whitefield reported that people were hired to make an “unhallowed noise” to interfere with the meetings. Since the perpetrators were members of the bishop’s vestry, Whitefield requested that he put a stop to the commotions during their services. But the next night, the noise was even worse, and a large stone was cast through a window, injuring a person. Whitefield wrote to the bishop again asking them to stop. The next night, the disturbance and stone throwing escalated further. Whitefield describes it:

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It deserves no milder a name than premeditated rioting. Drummers, soldiers, and many of the baser sort, have been hired by subscription.—A copper-furnace, bells, drums, clappers, marrowbones and cleavers, and such like instruments of reformation, have been provided for, and made use of, by them repeatedly, from the moment I have begun preaching, to the end of my sermon. By these horrid noises, many women have been almost frightened to death, and mobbers encouraged thereby to come and riot at the chapel door during the time of divine service, and then insult and abuse me and the congregation after it hath been over. Not content with this, the chapel windows, while I have been preaching, have repeatedly been broken by large stones of almost a pound weight (some now lying by me) which though levelled at, providentially missed me, but at the same time sadly wounded some of my hearers.

Whitefield threatens to publish the matter and take the rioters to court. Bishop Pearce cited his upper-class right as a “peer”—a member of the House of Lords—that none of the letters could be publicly released. Privately, the bishop’s response was increased intimidation. An exasperated Whitefield wrote to the Countess of Huntingdon and at least two other persons in the upper classes to acquaint them with the matter: “I have had three anonymous letters sent me, threatening a certain, sudden, and unavoidable stroke, unless I desist from preaching, and pursuing the offenders by law.” Apparently, his friends intervened. As they prepared to go to court, a judicial pardon was offered to anyone who would ferret out the author of the threat. The fear of the justice system put a stop to the harassment, and at least one of the perpetrators repented and began attending services at the chapel. With pressure applied to him from above, Bishop Pearce presumably called off his dogs. At the resolution of the conflict, Whitefield mused to a friend about the deeper issue involved and the depth of his commitment to it: Our cause, in my opinion, is the cause of GOD, and the cause of civil and religious liberty; and if death itself should be permitted to befall me for defending it, I hope, through CHRIST strengthening me, it would be gratefully received.

Within his letters, and as evidenced by his choices on political issues, Whitefield shows that he sincerely added a mission to defend liberty

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to his priestly calling to preach the new birth. He was willing to die in the cause, if need be.

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After the Long Acre affair settled down, the Countess of Huntingdon financed the construction of a chapel near the London theater district. Whitefield began preaching regularly at the new Tottingham Court chapel, which aggravated the carnival entertainers and the theater community, who viewed him as competition. Whitefield competed for their audiences and solicited donations from them— money that would likely have gone to entertainment. A conflict broke out when Whitefield warned against the evil of attending plays and when members of the theater community regularly disrupted his meetings. Whitefield was not going to win this one. The theater community did not use violence. Instead, they employed the art of comedy. Samuel Foote, the comic playwright, wrote The Minor, which lampooned Whitefield and his followers. In response, Whitefield proudly remarked, “Satan is angry. I am now mimicked and burlesqued upon the public stage. All hail such contempt!” But Foote had begun an effectual campaign of satire that eventually caused Whitefield to close the Tottingham Court chapel. Whitefield then began another preaching tour. Moving on to Scotland, he found audiences receptive to his political admonishments. Whitefield continued his political preaching as he began to tour England and Scotland in 1756, frequently and explicitly preaching his war message. As his biographer and friend John Gillies recalled, Whitefield unmasked “the miseries of Popish tyranny, and arbitrary power . . . exhorting his hearers to loyalty and courage at home, and . . . stirring them up to pray for the success of his Majesty’s forces, both by sea and land abroad.” This was a radically different message than the new birth, regeneration, and common privileges of the Holy Spirit that he preached in the 1740s. He returned to Ireland in 1757, and so many people were responsive that Whitefield felt a great work was commencing. But he also preached his political messages, and the Roman Catholics took offense at his warnings against France, Rome, and hell. Whitefield stirred up so much antagonism among the Catholics that a mob attempted to murder him after one outdoor meeting by stoning

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him as he returned to his lodgings. The act occurred after a sermon where he encouraged loyalty to King George. After escaping into the home of a sympathetic family with the mob pressing in upon him, he had his wounds bandaged, whereupon he was safe for the moment. But he had to sneak out in disguise to make his escape. The year had been a tough one for Whitefield. War had broken out. His health was beginning its descent with the onset of angina, the disease that biographers say led to his weight gain and an early death. The paintings after 1757 depict a heavy Whitefield instead of the fit, active orator who had dazzled audiences with eloquence and dramatizations. His preaching events would typically be preceded by a feeling of illness—probably due to stress. Then he would gain a burst of energy as the service would begin, followed by active, energetic preaching, which would undoubtedly leave him feeling euphoric. Whitefield would often assure his friends that he needed to work up a good “pulpit sweat,” and he would feel fine again. For the next several years, while the war ravaged Europe and America, Whitefield and the methodists made themselves busy with transforming England and setting the foundation for the formal Methodist church that was to emerge out of the Church of England in 1795. Whitefield preached often in his usual places throughout London, leaving for preaching tours to Wales, Scotland, and the country around London. During this period, his illness left him bedridden for weeks to months at a time, and on several occasions he was restricted to preaching once per day and “thrice on Sundays.” Normally he preached two to three times a day. Combined with the construction costs of enlarging his London chapel, money problems began to encroach a bit with the manager of the Bethesda Orphanage requesting a large sum—a request that frustrated him since he thought the orphanage was self-sustaining with the purchase of slaves. Regarding the management skills of his Bethesda steward, he remarked to a friend, “GOD keep us from that prosperity which destroyeth!” A young woman from Scotland offered him her entire estate, worth £7,000, an offer he refused to take. This offer was enormous—when a minister’s annual salary might be £100 plus a parsonage and other favors like a delivery of firewood. But his critics would have mercilessly tormented him and perhaps done real damage to his public image had he accepted it. In all this time, he desired to go back to America:

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I am talking every day of coming over; but how to do it in war time, or how to get the chapel in Tottenham-court-road, or the Tabernacle in Moorfields supplied, I cannot, as yet, be clear in. Strange that nobody will relieve me, that I may once more flee to America.

While his time in England became a routine of preaching, traveling, recuperating from too much activity, and then beginning all over again, Whitefield was learning of other concerns. As the war ended, the British government was in debt and worried that the colonial situation was not as stable or loyal as they would have liked. George Whitefield was listening.

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CHAPTER

XII

Reprisal from the Church of England

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n October 25 of 1760, George II, king of England, collapsed from an aneurysm while sitting in his water closet and died within minutes. Whitefield had praised this king as the “nursing father of the church.” His reign had empowered Parliament to a large extent and provided a stable climate in which Whig interests influenced British politics. His support of religious freedoms had allowed Protestant denominations in the British Empire to flourish, unmolested by Church of England actions against them. His twenty-two-year-old son George III succeeded him to the throne, the same King George from whom the colonists would declare their independence in 1776. Over the next decade, the young George instituted sweeping changes in the government’s management of both America and Britain. Determined to regain control of the country from Parliament and the Whigs, George III instigated division within the Whig ranks and bought off key people through appointments and pensions. He also cultivated and used a class of administrators lovingly called “sycophants”—self-seeking, parasitic yes-men, who often abused the powers of their offices. The “reform” efforts of George III were successful, and Whig influence in the nation declined. The American colonists, who had grown used to managing their own affairs under a Whig-run system, began to suspect the new Tory-led administration of plotting to undermine their liberties. But to extend power over the colonies, the Tories needed the Church of England to regain supremacy from the other denominations, which 141

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were increasing their numbers through the series of revivals. The mind of the people was the grand prize. By regaining supremacy in religion, Tory leaders felt they could increase their influence in the larger society. Whitefield stayed loyal to George III, but flattering acclamations and praise he had declared for his father George II were conspicuously absent. He spoke of loyalty to George III out of obligation, rather than love. By 1764 he would be opposing the Tory plots against liberty, especially where the church was involved. He had plenty of opportunities as the Church of England tried to slow methodism in England and increase their presence and power in the colonies. Up to this point, the Church of England missionary organization, known as the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, or the SPG, focused its missionary efforts on settlers of the American frontiers and toward converting Native Americans. They largely steered clear of the towns founded by New England Puritans and areas settled by other Protestant groups. The Church of England’s desire to bolster membership in America was hampered by the lack of leadership— namely, an American bishop with the power to ordain new ministers and make other high-level decisions. Talented young men seeking ministry positions within the Church of England had to travel to England for ordination. Occasionally, aspiring priests were lost at sea. All important decisions had to be made in England as well. The distance and time to send letters back and forth slowed down everything they tried to accomplish. The SPG was seriously handcuffed. After George III ascended to the throne, Thomas Secker, the powerful archbishop of Canterbury, decided the time was right to bolster their formal organization in America. The Church of England began to press the issue of appointing an American bishop. By design, the SPG turned its efforts increasingly away from the Native Americans and back toward established areas, welcoming excommunicated Puritans and converting people from all denominations to the Church of England. Understandably, the Puritan ministers became alarmed.

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The Church of England arrived in America a bit later than the others church groups. They had been tolerated in the colonies as long as the institution was weak. Puritans and other groups had originally

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immigrated to the colonies to escape their oppression. But these new aggressive actions brought back bad memories of England before the Act of Toleration was put into law. The Church of England intruded into the colonial world with SPG missionary activity right in their midst. Colonists feared the establishment of an Episcopal system. Their chief objection was that the church would become empowered through a marriage with the colonial governments. American ministers from all denominations believed that the Church of England was grasping for control of colonial affairs in both civil and religious spheres. The bishop became the focal point. Just as the Old Lights had suspected a New Light plot to take civil control in 1745, fifteen years later, the Christian community of Old and New Lights suspected another conspiracy. They feared that ecclesiastical courts, mandatory tithing, and Anglican political appointees would follow the bishop. Each of these practices were standard fare in England and smelled like “arbitrary power” for the colonial leaders. To Whitefield’s satisfaction, the moderates among American ministers continued to define themselves by seeking an increasing degree of colonial unity between New and Old Lights. A dedicated Old Light Whig from Rhode Island, Ezra Stiles, called for the Protestant churches of America to form a voluntary “consociation” to protect religious liberties of all Americans. Stiles published an influential sermon entitled “A Discourse on the Christian Union,” which spelled out his ideas for the construction of an organization of ministers to oppose the Church of England. He appealed for unity by pointing out that the enthusiasm of the Awakening was “honestly intended, and proceeded from a zeal for the cause of God.” Additionally, the Awakening brought 150 new churches to New England, born from the conversion of new believers rather than people moving from old churches to new ones. Stiles argued that most doctrinal disputes were founded more upon “jealousies” and “mistake” than practical differences. Whitefield had to be delighted to see such ideas coming out of New England. This was the kind of unity he sought throughout all denominations. His ideas had been taken up by others and found their own legs to travel through the colonies. As republican ideas about self-rule continued to grow in the colonists, no distinction was made between civil and religious liberties. The American churches started a public controversy that dwarfed the arguments about the Awakening fifteen years earlier. Jonathan

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Mayhew, a young Boston Old Light, emerged as the leader against the establishment of the Church of England’s efforts to build an episcopacy in America. He spearheaded resistance to the church’s schemes throughout the period, urging American colonists to watch for encroachments on their civil and religious liberties. In America, the fear that the Church of England might wrest control from colonial churches was not viewed as just an encroachment on religious liberty, but on liberty in general. The church wanted colonial taxes going to them rather than the Puritans of New England. Middle and southern colonies had an assortment of denominations, so the establishment of religions there was more complicated. But they too feared that the Church of England would move in and take over, getting a share of the tax money from every colony. To digress for a moment, the first amendment to the Constitution of the United States was intended to address this issue of a state-supported church: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.” This amendment was no big deal to colonists. In the colonial period, the term “establishment” was commonly taken to mean “financial support through taxes.” Religion had not been “disestablished” yet in America in the 1760s, meaning that the colonial state governments gave tax money to their preferred churches. After dodging a bullet with regard to an episcopacy in America in the 1760s, the founders chose to ensure that no church would ever become as powerful as the Church of England. To ensure a genuine freedom of religion, the financial advantage enjoyed by establishing the Anglicans in England could not be allowed in America. Even the churches that received government funding were willing to support the amendment if it meant that there could never be a national church of any denomination. Today, supporting any preferred church with taxes would require the passage of a law by Congress. The first amendment neatly prohibits this possibility since “Congress shall pass no law . . .” All churches were disestablished, forcing them to compete with one another for the financial contributions of colonists. Even though several state governments did support specific churches with state tax money long after 1776, like the Puritans in Massachusetts, all state-level support was eventually ended. After the Treaty of Paris had been signed in 1763 ending the French and Indian War, Archbishop Secker stepped up efforts by

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the Church of England to establish the American episcopacy. But Mayhew and his New England associates effectively frustrated them at every turn by informing the citizens of their plans and organizing public resistance. They published pamphlets, penned newspaper articles, and generally made sure that everyone knew what was going on and what the stakes were. When an agent of the Church of England began building a large home in Boston that he hinted would house the coming bishop, Mayhew sounded off, dubbing it the “Bishop’s mansion” to anger the public over the extravagance the church would provide, through New England tax dollars, to the new bishop of Boston. The Tory and Church of England bids for increased power were two sides of the same coin. As colonists recognized the menace posed by the plans for a bishop, and as Ezra Stiles was calling for a Christian union, politically minded writers endeavored to expose initial instances of arbitrary power and tyranny in America in the political realm. The barrage of criticisms against England by colonial writers flourished as the decade wore on. The suspicion of British leadership was energized by the new perspectives of the Awakening—that corrupt or unqualified leadership isn’t just a bad idea, it is a plot from hell to enslave the people of America. Tellingly, these writers employed arguments invented by Whitefield and empowered by the us/them logic template of the Awakening. Both New and Old Lights had been arguing for two decades that ministers who were appointed by friends in high places rather than called by God, or ministers who abused the privileges of their office, were unqualified to lead a church. This logic—that one’s qualifications for office depended upon one’s ability and faithfulness in the execution of duty to the people—empowered anyone who wished to lambast political leaders who were suspected of being corrupt. Arguments generated by this template sought to uncover all sorts of corruption, not just among unconverted ministers, but public servants as well.

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As both Whitefield and Mayhew had argued, even a king was subject to the duties of his office, and arbitrary power on his part was condemned. Immediately, the new perspectives made possible by this logic template pointed out problems in politics. In particular, the behavior of colonial judges emerged as the initial issue that inflamed

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Americans to call for justice. Officeholders who abused their power would eventually be identified as the enemy, one of the tyrants, along with all the spiritual meaning that this derisive label carried. Writing to enlighten the Americans was Joseph Galloway in 1760. Galloway, a Philadelphia lawyer and a friend of Franklin and Whitefield, published a pamphlet entitled A Letter To the People of Pennsylvania, in which he accused Parliament of undermining the judicial system. Galloway was the first to explain why real freedom required a state to elect, rather than appoint, judges. The issue was Parliament’s overturning of a Pennsylvania law that required judges to serve as long as their conduct was proper, rather than at the king’s pleasure. Pennsylvanians were incensed. Parliament was guilty of a double standard. Judges in England were elected but colonial judges were appointed, which made the colonists feel cheated. Galloway points out the hypocrisy between “us” the Pennsylvanians and “them” the British, a use of pronouns that shows increasing selfawareness as a people. The elements of Galloway’s argument extend the logic that Whitefield had been using lately. George III, Parliament, and judges who limit freedom go hand-in-hand with the pope, Roman Catholicism, and their bishops who oppressed Christians. The patterns were clear and showing up everywhere. The Church of England had been appointing unconverted ministers who misused their office and imposed religious tyranny. The king was appointing corrupt judges, guilty of exercising arbitrary power. Pennsylvania wanted elected judges who would be virtuous (converted), leading the nation toward liberty (freedom from sin). Just as the Holy Spirit was the common privilege of all believers for Whitefield, the rights of Englishmen were to be common to all British subjects. Galloway argued that anyone who claimed that the colonists were British subjects, but that they did not possess the same rights as natural born Englishmen, were guilty of arbitrary power and were enemies to English liberty. In his effort to protect civil liberty, Galloway was simply echoing fifteen years of continuous New Light preaching, plugging in new people to the old logic template. Whether we are talking about judges or bishops, the root issue was always liberty or oppression. The criticism aimed at Parliamentary meddling and the Church of England aggression was propagated to the public through pamphlets displayed side by side at booksellers. Excerpts of the most insightful writing were reprinted in the

Reprisal from the Church of England

colonial papers. Whitefield’s publications would be among the best sellers, reinforcing the logic that was now finding widespread usage. John Adams later emphasized the connection between Parliamentary aggression and the fear of the episcopacy: If any gentleman supposes this controversy to be nothing to the present purpose, he is grossly mistaken. It spread an universal alarm against the authority of Parliament. It excited a general and just apprehension, that bishops, and dioceses, and churches, and priests, and tithes, were to be imposed on us by Parliament. It was known that neither king, nor ministry, nor archbishops, could appoint bishops in America, without an act of Parliament; and if Parliament could tax us, they could establish the Church of England, with all its creeds, articles, tests, ceremonies, and tithes, and prohibit all other churches, as conventicles and schism shops.

Although it was still too dangerous to criticize the king openly, politicians were warning about Parliament, and the ministers exposed the plots of the Church of England. With strong friendships, partnerships, and dinner parties among the church and political leaders, there was no confusion on their part that the political and religious plots were connected. As the decade progressed, the “judge issue” quieted down, but the possibility of an American bishop continued to be a bone of contention. Historian Carl Bridenbaugh explains that a long string of events carried out by Church of England missionaries were rightly seen as part of the conspiracy by the suspicious colonists. This string of events led to the Stamp Act. While connections between religion and politics in this conspiracy were clear to the colonists, modern historians have tended to overlook the connection. But the fact that thirteen Church of England bishops were members of the House of Lords who pushed for passage of the Stamp Act sheds light on their shared interests. Although he had remained rather silent (in print) for several years, very soon, Whitefield was on his way back to America with a renewed mission.

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As the French and Indian War came to a close in 1763, George III’s administration sought to raise funds from the colonies to ease the national debt. George replaced the Earl of Bute with George Grenville as the new prime minister. To bolster the national budget,

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Grenville promptly began a program of taxation known as the Grenville Program. England hoped to recover the costs of the war from the colonists, whom they viewed as the central beneficiaries of the victory. Soon, the colonists faced a two-headed threat that challenged colonial self-rule in both the religious and civil spheres, a threat that quickly ushered in social unrest. As Carl Bridenbaugh explains, “To long-standing religious grievances fresh civil ones were now added, and it was the conjunction that produced the crisis.”1 Colonists, who had been struggling against the Church of England, saw the new taxes as further violations of their freedom. In their view, liberty was simultaneously assaulted on at least three fronts: by power-hungry bishops, by a faulty judicial system with a Parliament who refused to allow Americans to fix it, and by the Grenville Program that levied new taxes without the consent of colonial legislatures. In a land where civil millennialism influenced thinking, and where republican ideas of self-rule were strengthening, the assault took on Armageddon-like proportions. After the war, Whitefield recognized the renewed threat to religious liberty from his own denomination. The threat was not just to the colonies where the Church of England was active. Persecution had largely ceased in 1744 after the trial and Whitefield’s two pamphlets, with the exception of the Long Acre affair. But once George III took the throne, the Church of England resurrected efforts to stamp out the methodist movement in London as they were trying to appoint an American bishop. While still in England, Whitefield joined in the struggle. His next move was what got the attention of the American activists. Whitefield directly opposed his own denomination. Whitefield claimed that the Church of England’s efforts to suppress the methodists in England would cross the Atlantic and oppress all other churches of America if a bishop were appointed. He defined the Church of England as the new “them” who would impinge on religious freedoms. For the Americans, his redefinition of the enemy from Roman Catholics to the Church of England, served as an essential step in the progression that led to the Revolution. The trouble in England started when William Warburton, bishop of Gloucester, published a pamphlet accusing the methodists of spiritual error and political subversion. Warburton claimed that the Holy Spirit did not operate among men today the same way that it did

Reprisal from the Church of England

in the book of Acts. Instead, he claimed that the Spirit had been withdrawn. Taking the role of an advocate, Whitefield faced off with Bishop Warburton, first on theology, next on politics. Whitefield’s opinions were already influential in America, and since he was a Church of England priest with well-known connections in England, many Americans believed that he had inside information regarding British designs—and he did. Whitefield had to express himself carefully to keep out of trouble with the Church of England leaders in Britain, but he wished to take a public stand. He cleverly accomplished this by opposing Warburton, his own local bishop, on theological and practical grounds. Whitefield published his views in a pamphlet entitled Observations on Some Fatal Mistakes, and he had it promptly printed in London, Edinburgh, Philadelphia, and Boston. Whitefield described himself as a reformer whose interest was in promoting “true Christianity” and resisting those who were not genuine Christians, even if they were Church of England leaders. Whitefield applies the us/them distinction directly to his own denomination, identifying those who suppressed religious freedom as out of God’s kingdom. As usual, he opens by justifying the need for his publication, pointing out that as Paul and Jesus opposed the Pharisees, professors of a dead religion, the same should be opposed today: Hence it is, that when they come to touch upon the internals and vitals of Christianity, they are quite grappled, and write so unguardedly of the all-powerful influences of the Holy Ghost, as to sink us into a state of downright formality; which, if the Apostle Paul may be our judge, we have need as much to be cautioned against, as of fanaticism, superstition, or infidelity itself.

Here Whitefield says the dead “formality” of the Church of England was every bit as dangerous as infidelity. Evidencing his moderate theology, the mature Whitefield does not promote the enthusiastic version of the Holy Spirit, of which he approved during the Awakening, but describes a version much closer to that explained by the Old Light Samuel Quincy. He establishes the nature of a true Christian, that it is defined by one’s belief regarding the Holy Spirit. Whitefield excludes from God’s kingdom the so-called Christians who have not had a conversion, making them members of the devil’s kingdom. He echoes Paul in accusing leaders such as Warburton of “Having a

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form of godliness, but denying the power thereof,” and warns true believers: From such, turn away; and to use the words of our LORD, Publicans and harlots enter into the kingdom of GOD before them.

He could not have more explicitly declared that the bishop was unconverted! Whitefield further clarifies the spiritual condition of the bishop: Surely, was the Apostle Paul to rise from the dead, and read over, or hear of such strange positions, his spirit, as once at Athens, would again be stirred in him; to see a writer thus attempting to erect an altar for the public worship of an unknown GOD: I say, an unknown GOD.

Here Whitefield forcefully emphasizes that in his view Warburton does not even know God. He goes on to declare that “he is not a real Christian, who is only one outwardly; but he alone is a true Christian, who is one inwardly.” Next, Whitefield points out Warburton’s inconsistency—that the bishop relies on God’s spirit to discern that the Spirit has been withdrawn from man. Whitefield asks sarcastically, since human reason (in Warburton’s view) is all you need to understand spiritual matters, why, in all the oaths of ordination, does the Church of England call upon God’s spirit for wisdom and guidance if it is no longer needed? He criticizes Warburton for establishing an “external rule of faith” to replace an internal indwelling of the Spirit. His consistent use of phrasing that contrasted his theology with Warburton’s endows the pamphlet with an eloquent and powerful voice. Turning to attack Warburton’s character, Whitefield quotes the bishop, “truth is never so grossly injured, or its advocates so dishonoured, as when they employ the foolish arts of sophistry, buffoonery, and personal abuse in its defence.” Then he exclaims, “By thy own pen thou shalt be tried, thou hapless, mistaken advocate of the Christian cause.” Referring to Warburton’s attempt to connect the methodists with the Puritan-backed revolution of 1644, Whitefield compares the bishop to the “witch of Endor.” He describes how Warburton falsely accused the “good old Puritans,” of being subversive rebels. Whitefield also charges the bishop with spreading “heraldic, genealogical fiction” and asserts that he would prefer the

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zeal of the Puritans to the current Church of England leadership. In a subsequent letter to an American friend, Whitefield points out that he defended the Puritan tradition in this pamphlet, indicating that he mentioned the good old Puritans to appeal to his American readers. Next, Whitefield accuses the bishop of two-faced motives, saying, “The design our author had in view in drawing such a parallel, is easily seen through. Doubtless, to expose the present Methodists to the jealousy of the civil government.” Whitefield’s countermove is to assure the British government that methodists and other nonAnglican church members are not seditious, and that they should be allowed to practice their religion without restraint. These were the same arguments he used in the controversy in 1744. Finally, in classic polemical fashion, he judges Warburton, “My dear friend, if this is not gibetting2 [sic] up names with unregenerate malice, to everlasting infamy, I know not what is.” Not coincidentally, Warburton was active in the Church of England’s effort for the American bishop and was accused of misrepresenting the history of America to justify the need for an American episcopacy. To discerning readers abreast of the bishop issue, Whitefield aligned himself with Mayhew and the Americans, and he would directly state his views upon his arrival in America. Perhaps recalling the assassination attempt last time he published a pamphlet against the Church of England’s leadership, Whitefield wisely slipped out of England as his pamphlet against Bishop Warburton was going to press. Concerning the appointment of an American bishop, Whitefield’s name was actually under consideration. Ironically, it was a post for which Whitefield was perhaps best qualified, and one for which many Americans supported his appointment, even though the suggestion irritated the Church of England in America. However, Whitefield makes no mention of desiring the post in his own writings, and from this point on in his ministry, he continually argued with various Church of England leaders and worked to advance American political interests. Understandably, being an Anglican himself who always made public appearances in his priest’s attire, Whitefield was not the opinion leader on the bishop issue in America. Yet by siding with the Americans, he encouraged a bandwagon effect and confirmed colonial

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suspicions of what the Church of England was really planning. By attacking Bishop Warburton as a representative of Archbishop Secker and tyranny in general, Whitefield damaged the church’s public image by implying that the American plan really would serve to oppress churches in the colonies. Here was a Church of England priest with friends in high places accusing the Church of England of what American writers had suspected all along. Fighting to protect the liberties of churches was essential to maintaining the Whig’s ability to increase the spread of republican politics. Warburton was not the only Tory to dredge up memories of the 1644 revolution to rebuke the Whigs. Samuel Adams reveled in being called names like “Roundhead” by Tory propagandists later in the decade. As the bishop issue led to another conflict, Whitefield defined the sides in unequivocal terms by providing evidence that the highest Church of England leaders could and were exercising arbitrary power, which by now was equivalent to manifesting the antichrist. But while the uproar raised at the establishment of an American bishop was intensifying, forthcoming Parliamentary legislation overshadowed the issue. George III and George Grenville, began implementing their taxation program with the first of several new taxes. When the Grenville program began to unfold, Whitefield, who had his finger on England’s political pulse, became even more deeply involved in opposing British domination of Americans. He landed in America in 1763 and promptly published his critique of Bishop Warburton in Philadelphia and Boston, letting British Americans know exactly how he felt about anyone who would challenge liberty. In a church-state society, even the casual reader could not miss the deeper political meaning of the religious conflict.

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eorge Whitefield was troubled. He knew what the thinking was behind the Grenville program and must have paced the deck of the ship deciding how to approach the matter when he arrived back in America. The historical record has some missing puzzle pieces in this period, but we can presume that Whitefield did what he usually did. He brought the message that was in his heart everywhere he preached or conversed with friends throughout America. What we know for sure is this: Whitefield met in the spring of 1764 with Dr. Samuel Langdon and with Samuel Haven, Puritan ministers in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Both men actively opposed the bishop and later would be Whig revolutionary leaders. Whitefield directly informed them of the Tory intentions: I can’t in good conscience leave the town without acquainting you with a secret. My heart bleeds for America. O poor New England! There is a deep laid plot against both your civil and religious liberties, and they will be lost. Your golden days are at an end. You have nothing but trouble before you. My information comes from the best authority in Great Britain. I was allowed to speak of the affair in general, but enjoined not to mention particulars.

Whitefield had spent his life delivering the same messages wherever he traveled. He likely met with political leaders throughout America where the plot would exert an impact and told them at least as much as he told Langdon and Haven. Here we see strong evidence of a growing division between America and Great Britain entering Whitefield’s own thought. Undoubtedly, he still conceived of the 153

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empire as a whole, but his repeated use of the pronouns “your” and “you” betray the budding division. His struggles at Long Acre and with the bishops convinced him much earlier that “civil and religious liberties” were under siege back in England. But now he sees the same struggle in America and shows his increasing loyalty to his American friends. Dr. Langdon publicized to the New Hampshire General Assembly what Whitefield had told him. Without doubt, news like this would travel fast in New England—probably faster than Whitefield could. As Langdon considered Whitefield’s warning, he believed the “deep laid plot” included such provisions as: general taxation of the colonies alteration of the chartered governments the introduction of Church of England bishops tithes for the support of the Church of England clergy public offices only for Church of England members The last item here was particularly revolting. The church-state society of New England would be reorganized with the Church of England at the head instead of the Puritan Congregationalists. Each of these provisions constituted an act of arbitrary power, from either a republican or a civil millennial perspective, and thus could be resoundingly condemned by ministers and political leaders. Parliamentary passage of the Sugar Act in 1764 and the Stamp Act in 1765 provided sufficient evidence of the plot needed to push the colonies into an uproar. The Sugar Act taxed various goods imported into the colonies via England. Parliament’s goals were threefold: (1) to recover the costs of supporting an army defending colonial frontiers, (2) to have noncompetitive trade with the colonies, and (3) to help control smuggling. The Stamp Act was a thirteen-thousand-word document requiring a tax (with an accompanying stamp to prove the tax had been paid) on almost any imaginable legal, religious, or business document that authorized or recorded public and private transactions. At one level or another, nearly all goods and services were affected, including donations to charity and college diplomas. Even the sale of cards and dice now required a stamp. The item which may have been most damaging was a tax (and stamp) on every copy of a pamphlet or newspaper. In essence, all public communication was being taxed.

The Deep Laid Plot

In response, American writers filled the newspapers with letters and articles denouncing the Acts and calling for their repeal. In the colonial mind, liberty faced an unprecedented assault through the internal taxation levied without the consent of colonial legislatures. Two particular writers summed up the Americans’ official responses to the acts. First, Oxenbridge Thacher, in The Sentiments of a British American (1764), investigated the oppression of rights and privileges through the passage of the Sugar Act. Even though Thacher used a family metaphor to characterize British and American relations, the pamphlet expressed an anxiety over civil identity because of being ostracized from the British family. For Thacher, inherited British citizenship was no longer guaranteeing liberty, bringing the issue of civic identity to the front of the conflict. Political activists could no longer presume genuine English identity as did earlier authors. This assumption raised some interesting questions. Who changed? Who switched sides? Who was on God’s side in the matter? The second important response to the Stamp Act was Stephen Hopkins’ essay “The Rights of Colonies Examined” (1765), which supported and extended Thacher’s claim. Hopkins asserted that if British Americans are not granted their inherited “family” privileges, they must be deemed slaves. Hopkins knew that Americans would not accept slavery. In this way he placed the issue of British American identity squarely in the public sphere for consideration and redefinition. James Darsey explains the crux of the matter underlying Hopkins’ pamphlet. According to Whig activists: There is no incremental freedom; one is either free or one is not . . . “Freedom” and “Slavery” . . . functioned . . . as “God terms” and “devil terms,” radically dividing the world into good and evil, between them a great yawning void.1

From this all-or-nothing perspective, which was sharpened by Parliament’s deaf ear, Americans viewed themselves as out of the British family, even while Hopkins futilely asserted that they should still be part of it. By this time, British identity in England had been increasingly associated with George III as the icon of national identity. But a free people with a love of liberty cannot accept the condition of slavery, and it was at that point that their experience during the Great Awakening led them to reconsider their situation and suggest an appropriate response—a declaration of independence. Just as

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New Lights left the Old Light churches and established their own denominations, colonists could do the same. But in 1765 very few people were willing to go that far. It was not that Hopkins and other political writers promoted the new birth in national terms, but they pointed out a need for something. Because of an assaulted British identity in America, and the need to figure out who they were, a vacuum was created, and the most widely spread idea available to fill that void was the new birth. The widespread New Light teaching about identity in Christ furnished a convenient solution. All that was needed was to secularize the spiritual concept into republican terms, as colonists had already been doing regarding war and political leadership.

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Shortly after his arrival in Boston, with contributions of money and books, Whitefield assisted Harvard in rebuilding its library, which had burned down. New England publicly thanked Whitefield—a far cry from the Awakening-era squabbling. On one occasion, the students of Yale begged their president to let him preach for another fifteen minutes, a request approved by none other than Thomas Clap, Whitefield’s nemesis of 1745, who accused him of the plot to replace the governors of the colonies. As the Stamp Act commenced and while the colonial activists flexed their muscles in the press, Whitefield felt it was time to return to England. He had discharged his task of warning the colonists about the impending plot and completed another preaching tour. He commented on the state of American affairs as he left: I fear I must embark for England. Well may I say I fear; for indeed words cannot well express what a scene of action I leave behind. Alas! my American work seems as yet scarce begun.

Other than a few glimpses into conversations with people like Dr. Langdon, history has buried any news of what Whitefield was up to during his sixth American tour. This is not surprising. Whitefield knew how to keep a confidence and would not betray any secrets that his upper-class friends in London may have entrusted to him. Since he had been so successful at converting colonists, and since he specifically mentions the colonial turmoil, we can conclude that his “American work” referred to opposing arbitrary power in whatever

The Deep Laid Plot

form it took. Probably owing to his interdenominational spirit and his strong connections to England, Whitefield never completely distinguished between Americans and British in the same way that American activists did after 1770. Yet a few references to Americans that differentiated them from the British began to pop up in his writings as early as 1749, as he referred to his “English or American work.” By 1766 Whitefield referred to “Americans” and the “American church” as opposed to the British. These distinctions indicate that Whitefield sensed a widening gulf after his visit to America in 1765. His death would prevent the complete division between Britons and Americans in his mind. Whitefield left America in June of 1765 to be present in Bath for the opening of a chapel financed by Lady Huntingdon, but he left with more on his mind than religious duties in England. In November of 1765, Samuel Adams, the prolific New England activist, along with Thomas Cushing, wrote two letters to Whitefield pleading with him to take advantage of his connections with British nobility on behalf of the colonies. Here was an opportunity to continue his American work while in England where it could make the most difference. Adams opened a rather formal letter to Whitefield stating: Our good friend Mr. Jonathan Mason has communicated to us in a Letter which he receiv’d from you, wherein you very kindly express your Regard for the People of New England, & your Desires to serve our civil as well as religious Interests—We need not inform you that we are the Descendents of Ancestors remarkeable for their Zeal for true Religion & Liberty.

In these lines, Samuel Adams reveals part of the letter-writing network of people working on behalf of the colonies. It also shows Adams’ clear awareness of Whitefield’s mission to further religious and civil interests. Adams shows his common ground with that mission. Whitefield’s duty to oppose arbitrary power was common knowledge. The lion’s share of the letter is spent convincing Whitefield that New England and the colonies are indeed loyal, affectionate subjects of the king, but that the Stamp and Sugar Acts will harm the trade of the colonies, ruining them financially and ultimately harming the entire empire. Adams concluded: Money is the very support of Trade; & if the Trade of the Colonys is beneficial to Great Britain, she must herself very soon feel the

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ill Effects of a measure, which will consume the very Vitals of that Trade.

Adams closes with a request: “It would add very great Weight to the Cause of the distressed American Subjects if their Circumstances could be fully known to a nobleman of his Lordships’ great Integrity & Understanding.” Adams decided to spell out his request more directly in a second letter written a few days later. Adams and Cushing wrote, “The free access which I am informed you have with some eminent Personages, may put it in your Power to do us Offices of singular kindness.” The second letter was more direct. Referring to the Earl of Dartmouth, Adams writes, “We stand in great Need of some such Advocate in England,” politely asking that Whitefield persuade him to join America’s side. Within the two letters, Adams summarizes the American perspective of the crisis. He also provides important information and lists the most effective arguments one would need for speaking against the Stamp Act, were they inclined to do so. Moreover, Adams hints that the colonies might be forced to pursue independence if England “shall exert her power to destroy their Libertys.” History does not record whether or not Whitefield quoted or used Adams’ views to win a nobleman to their cause or whether he might have testified before Parliament, but he did, by numerous accounts, lend his hand to the cause. The issue was not simply a matter of “taxation without representation” as one might conclude by only reading the letters and accounts of Ben Franklin or Sam Adams. While the taxation issue was certainly a part, colonists viewed the acts in the larger context of a religious war. Groups of New Lights in America decided that they would take action regarding the Stamp Act. Using the terms “marked or stamped” repeatedly, the Act generously lent itself to a literal interpretation as the “mark of the beast.” It fulfilled a biblical prophecy that predicted that nobody in the “end times” could buy or sell without having the mark. The Stamp Act really did fill the bill. Consequently, associating the Stamp Act with the antichrist and perceiving the stamps literally as the mark of the beast, inspired protests against it throughout the colonies. For the religious community, the stakes were as high as they could get. Leading the popular opposition to the Stamp Act, according to Joseph Galloway, was a united

The Deep Laid Plot

group of Puritans and Presbyterians. He described the appointment of a “standing committee of correspondence” that transformed the separate congregations “of little significance” into a body with some real influence. Recalling the events fifteen years later after he fled to England, Galloway labeled the body a “dangerous combination of men whose principles of religion and polity were equally adverse to those of the established Church and Government.” Armed with the organization and means of communication to wage their war, this body began systematic opposition to the Stamp Act. A Connecticut New Light crowd burned a model of the Stamp Act (portrayed as the antichrist), demonstrating the depth to which they believed that satanic forces were behind the Grenville program. Also, in August of 1765, a Massachusetts mob (known as the Sons of Liberty) hung a dummy from a tree that was intended to represent Andrew Oliver, the man appointed distributor of stamps for Massachusetts. The name they chose for their activist group implies a new birth—the “Sons” of Liberty. Alongside the dummy hung a boot from which protruded a devil’s head. These symbols linked the Stamp Act, the British government, Oliver, and the devil together to inflame the Sons of Liberty to violence. The boot/devil symbol specifically referenced, through a play on words, the previous prime minister, John Stuart, the Earl of Bute (pronounced “boot”). The icon’s continued use beyond 1763, after Bute resigned, indicates that it had become a widely recognized symbol of the prime minister’s office. The devil inside the boot suggested that the prime minister was inspired by demonic voices. By the end of the evening, the aggressive mob (led by Ebenezer Mackintosh) destroyed a business property owned by Oliver and then went over to his home and completely demolished it. These destructive acts were not stopped by the local authorities. A few months later, in the tradition of field preaching, an orator at the Liberty Tree in Boston encouraged a boycott of stamped goods and directly accused Grenville of manifesting the antichrist: He has ordained that none amongst us shall buy or sell a piece of land, except his mark be put upon the deed and when it is delivered, the hands of both buyer and seller must infallibly become branded with the odious impression: I beseech you then to beware as good Christians and lovers of your country, lest by touching any paper with this impression, you receive the mark of the beast.

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We notice here that the mark of the beast could be acquired by merely “touching” a document with a stamp affixed. If resistance to the Stamp Act was solely due to objection to taxation without representation, then arguments about “the beast” to persuade the public would be ludicrous and ineffective. In reality, the Sons of Liberty, and New Lights in general, viewed the prime minister’s office as one through which the antichrist was operating, so much so that a boot/devil icon could conveniently symbolize it, and so much so that they believed they could earn “damnation by touching” one of the stamped documents. As Gordon Wood confirms: There is simply too much fanatical and millennial thinking even by the best minds that must be explained before we can characterize the American’s ideas as peculiarly rational and legalistic and thus view the Revolution as merely a conservative defense of constitutional liberties.2

Clearly, the writings of educated thinkers like Galloway, Thacher, and Hopkins served a different purpose and did not accurately represent the heart of most colonists.

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These New Light “mobs” that roamed New England burning effigies and harassing stamp duty officials were not the kind of society that Whitefield promoted or with which he participated. But he undeniably had a hand shaping their members. With his move to the mainstream, Whitefield participated in the American cause in more respectable ways. Benjamin Franklin along with Whitefield, who had received Adams’ letters by this time, led the American diplomatic effort for repeal. Taxes were nothing new to British Americans. They had been paying tax on all sorts of items imported from Great Britain for decades. However, in testimony before the House of Commons in 1766, Franklin explained American opposition to the new taxes on legal and rational grounds: An external tax is a duty laid on commodities imported; that duty is added to the first cost and other charges on the commodity, and when it is offered for sale, makes it part of the price. If the people do not like it at that price, they refuse it; they are not obliged to pay it. But an internal tax is forced from the people without their consent if not laid by their own representatives. The Stamp Act

The Deep Laid Plot

says we shall have no commerce, make no exchange of property with each other, neither purchase nor grant, nor recover our debts; we shall neither marry nor make our wills, unless we pay such and such sums; and thus it is intended to extort our money from us or ruin us by the consequence of refusing to pay it.

Obviously any argument that the Stamp Act constituted the mark of the beast would not be taken seriously by Parliament, and Franklin probably did not believe this anyway. So he founded his case on republican notions of freedom and slavery. Whitefield accompanied Franklin to London on this diplomatic effort, though no record has been published of precisely what Whitefield said or to whom. Perhaps Samuel Adams’ letters and Franklin’s friendship inspired whatever assistance he lent. Whitefield was a persuasive man, and with a list of arguments at his fingertips (as provided by Adams), undoubtedly he could encourage open minds to pause and reconsider. Since Whitefield was not a member of Parliament and did not officially represent the American colonies, he likely limited his oratorical skills to private discussions with British nobility. However, his presence with Franklin before Parliament made an unmistakable statement: Whitefield, a symbol of the public mind in America, had embraced the cause of the colonists. The Stamp Act was overturned in 1766, causing Whitefield to write, “March 16, 1766, Stamp Act repealed, Gloria Deo.” Nathaniel Whitaker, a colonial leader who visited Whitefield in London shortly thereafter, recalled that Whitefield “was greatly concerned for the liberties of America and . . . it was in no small measure owing to him, that the Stamp Act [was] repealed.” The Stamp Act issue revealed the blending of religious and civil beliefs that united American civic leaders, ministers, and mobs of citizens under a common cause. One historian points out that “the experience of working together, the ideas that were inculcated during the movement and the sense of accomplishment resulting from united efforts were indispensable. The agitation of each period, in fact, made easier the work of the next.”3 Lawyers, politicians, and uneducated church members all joined together to oppose the acts. Respected citizens worked through the press, while the mobs operated in the streets. Colonial political leaders opposed the acts through the legal and diplomatic channels. During the Stamp Act conflict, organizational cooperation was established that continued

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to operate to oppose the Townshend Acts, the Quebec Act, and a string of arbitrary assaults on American liberties. Whitefield also helped Franklin address public criticism after his testimony before Parliament. Many colonists felt that Franklin did not faithfully represent their interests. He compromised in his testimony by distinguishing between internal and external taxes, when most people thought that both were illegal. Franklin’s critics complained loudly in America over Franklin’s testimony quoted above. But at Joseph Galloway’s request, Whitefield helped to rehabilitate Franklin’s image by employing his letter-writing and publicity network on his behalf, praising Franklin’s efforts in England. Whitefield’s popularity provided a strong influence as criticism of Franklin soon faded out. In the American colonies, just when one crisis seemed to be over, another would quickly replace it. Although repeal of the Stamp Act calmed the colonists somewhat, the SPG started pushing the bishop issue again and roused Americans once more. It did not help the SPG that eleven of the thirteen bishops in the House of Lords opposed the repeal of the Stamp Act. By 1766 many Americans made no distinction between religious and civil liberties; “LIBERTY itself faced extinction” according to Charles Chauncy, and colonial ministers marshaled a defense through renewed opposition to the bishop and every Church of England plan in America. Jonathan Mayhew’s untimely death in 1766 left a void in leadership in the bishop struggle that Charles Chauncy stepped in to fill. Now, Chauncy and Whitefield, old theological enemies, were working on the same side. Chauncy published no fewer than 710 pages, in three documents, arguing against establishment of the bishop. Chauncy and others characterized Church of England supporters as “High-Church men and Jacobites, not always averse to alliances with the greatly feared Church of Rome.”4 As the debate continued, the American activists connected the SPG missionaries to the “Tories,” and the name stuck. Chauncy and others persuaded many American colonists that increased tyranny would accompany a bishop, and they began successfully to tie Roman Catholic plots to the Grenville program and the American bishop issue. Aggravating the situation, Parliamentary acts extending freedom and favor to Canada infuriated American colonial leaders. The

The Deep Laid Plot

Canadian provinces had been settled by the French with a strong Roman Catholic presence. Contrasting with the strong hand Britain was using to manage the seaboard colonies, Quebec, won from the French in 1763, found the British government indulging their wishes. Before Americans had time to adjust to the repeal of the Stamp Act, they heard that Britain was allowing a Roman Catholic bishop to be installed in Canada. No news could have enraged the Sons of Liberty or the Christian community more. Coupled with amplified labors to establish the American bishop, colonists interpreted the Quebec Act as direct evidence of a “popish plot.” They believed that after the establishment of an American bishop, Britain would allow Roman Catholicism to infiltrate America. An editorial from 1768 in the Boston press, signed by “The Puritan,” exclaimed, “To say the truth, I have from long observation been apprehensive, that what we have above all else to fear is POPERY.” A verse printed in the Boston Gazette a month later summed up the sentiments of many people: But if he from Rome greater Profit had hop’d He who now is be-bishop’d, would have been be-pop’d And equally run, to avoid being Poor, To the arms of the church, or of Babylon’s Whore.

Since many southerners, where the Church of England was strong, supported the idea of an American bishop, the threat of a Roman Catholic presence brought them to the “cause.” The anxiety over Roman Catholic plots served to provide Americans in all the colonies—New England, middle, and southern—a common complaint against Great Britain. Colonial writers increasingly warned colonists of “POPERY” as the crisis deepened.

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hitefield managed a fascinating relationship with the Church of England. He was too popular for them to throw him out, and he never gave them the excuse to do so. He had learned how to manage his public image in the 1740s and was far more sophisticated at media relations than anyone of his time. Although Whitefield spoke frankly regarding the Roman Catholic threat in sermons such as “Britain’s Mercies” and “A Short Address,” still having a loyalty to the Church of England, he treaded carefully on the American bishop issue. He struggled with the denomination indirectly. He showed loyalty to liberty by wrestling with bishops to preserve his right to preach freely and run his ministry the way he wanted, as an upstanding member of the Church of England. Whitefield squared off against Archbishop Secker in London as he sought to expand his orphanage school in Georgia with a college and seminary for ministers. Whitefield’s intent was to educate his orphans and train them to be leaders in the colony. He had already secured permission from Georgia’s governor to establish a college and had obtained land as well as the financing to erect buildings. Now, he only needed official permission from London to move forward. But seeing the opportunity to strengthen the Church of England cause, the archbishop required that the new college be controlled by them. Whitefield was unwilling to comply. Due to the broad-based financial support of Bethesda from his interdenominational community, Whitefield promised them that neither the Church of England nor the Georgian government would control the college. He argued to Secker that the headmaster 165

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of the college would likely be from the Church of England anyway, since that was the dominant organization in Georgia, but he wanted the college to have the power to choose, not the archbishop in London. The point was about freedom. The issue dragged on. By November of 1767, Whitefield was at an impasse with the Church of England and he became pessimistic, “NONE but GOD knows what a concern lies upon me now, in respect to Bethesda . . . At present, as to this particular, I walk in darkness, and have no light.” In the winter of 1767 Whitefield took his request over Secker’s head to King George III, who promptly sent it back to the Church of England bishops for their recommendation. Archbishop Secker suggested to the king that the college’s head should be appointed by the Church of England and that extempore prayers should be disallowed. Defeated in his attempt to trump Secker and unwilling to give the Church of England any control, Whitefield decided to withdraw his request. Instead of a college, he established a “public academy,” or grammar school, to serve all of the people of Georgia. Insinuating that the archbishop may have too much influence on the king, Whitefield wrote Secker one last time announcing his change of plan, “And as your grace’s and his lordship’s influence will undoubtedly extend itself to others . . . I intend troubling your grace and his lordship no more about this so long depending concern.” Whitefield had abandoned his personal dream to establish a college rather than submit to the Church of England’s control. In its place, he built a school to teach the public to read and write, rather than a seminary to train ministers. Stinging over his defeat and wishing his donors throughout America to know the details, Whitefield published his correspondence with Archbishop Secker. The publications strengthened revolutionary efforts against the British. The American press recognized that the struggle between Whitefield and the Church of England was part of their own. Understanding that common enemies indicate an alliance, colonial newspapers reprinted select portions of Whitefield’s letters to show the colonists how they had exercised arbitrary power over Whitefield and the supporters of the Bethesda college project. His struggle with Archbishop Secker demonstrated the depth to which Whitefield chose liberty over tyranny. Ultimately, colonists saw Whitefield’s clash with Secker over control of Bethesda college

Preaching Himself to Death

as just another instance of the Church of England’s plots to control colonial religion in general. The following year, Whitefield again blew the whistle on arbitrary practices by the Church of England by publicizing the case of six students from Oxford University. According to the college administration, the students were guilty of extempore prayer and singing, so they were kicked out. The students could not just enroll in another college. Their dreams of education and a call to the ministry were dashed by the decision. Whitefield pointed out that they were really expelled for being methodists. Essentially, Oxford was squelching another “Holy Club” of the kind that nurtured Whitefield and the Wesleys in the 1730s. Whitefield published a letter to Dr. Durell, the vice-chancellor of Oxford, blasting him for the unjust decision, denouncing the unfairness of the official hearing, and warning of the negative publicity that Oxford and the Church of England would soon experience. In “A Letter to the Reverend Dr Durell,” Whitefield considers the charges against the youths and systematically refutes those charges with scriptural examples and natural reasoning, citing examples of honored Anglicans and biblical characters guilty of the same “offences.” Whitefield, and all of London for that matter, was well aware of the bad habits of Oxford students and many of its teachers. So he opens the letter by pointing to the hypocrisy of expelling the students for prayer: It is to be hoped, that as some have been expelled for extempore praying, we shall hear of some few others of a contrary stamp, being expelled for extempore swearing, which by all impartial judges must undoubtedly be acknowledged to be the greater crime of the two.

The Church of England was especially fearful of extempore prayer, recognizing that their liturgy powerfully shaped the public mind. The liturgy ensured that official views were consistently and repeatedly spoken aloud during times of prayer and worship. Extempore prayer and the singing of hymns, most likely hymns written by methodists, embodied other doctrinal ideas. The Church of England wished to stamp out these ideas in their ongoing war against methodism. Whitefield asserted that their hearing was unfair, that the students were hissed at in the hall outside where their appeal was heard,

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and were treated worse than common criminals in London’s courts. Though he took great care to note the hypocrisy of Oxford’s decision and undermined their reasons for the expulsion, he did not speculate on their motive for doing so. There was no need to mention the obvious. Rather, Whitefield speculated on how news of the expulsion would harm the efforts to establish a bishop in America: I fear it will follow, that a society, which since its first institution hath been looked upon as a society for propagating the Gospel, hath been all the while rather a society for propagating episcopacy in foreign parts: and if so, and if it ever should appear, that our Right Reverend Archbishops and Bishops do in the least countenance and encourage the unscriptural proceedings at EdmundHall, how must it increase the prejudices of our colonists, both in the islands and on the continent, against the establishment of episcopacy!

Again, Whitefield accuses his own denomination that their missionary branch’s sole purpose is to settle an American bishop. This added fuel to the fire in America. In Whitefield’s view, the SPG had evolved into a tyrannical group working to advance arbitrary Tory plots through the Church of England instead of being an honorable organization to further the Christian cause. The letter was reprinted in Boston immediately, and portions were reprinted in newspapers throughout America. For the colonists, Whitefield confirmed the Church of England’s true colors, providing evidence of their continued oppression of religious liberties. Yet Whitefield skillfully avoids any accusations of disloyalty to his denomination, appearing to serve long-term Church of England interests by asking them to change, to cease their hypocrisy, and to stop acting arbitrarily. Whitefield has again found a position that walks the line between rebelling against his denomination and supporting it by playing the the reformer. His writings affirm his loyalty, giving his enemies nothing with which to hang him. But his stand against their oppression endeared him to the American churches. The careful Whitefield provided no statements that could be used as evidence to accuse him of betraying the Church of England, but Americans could read between the lines. The fact that he made the issue public, both in England and America, and the fact that he connected it with the American bishop, makes it a direct confrontation to the Church of England’s arbitrary actions.

Preaching Himself to Death

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From 1760 to 1767, George III had labored to minimize Whig power in the British administration and set his own people in the House of Commons through the implementation of unreasonable methods of election. The Tories had regained control of England and desired to extend that control to the colonies, a fortress of Whig ideology. John Dickinson, an American revolutionary writer, helped colonists understand the imbalance of power between Parliament and the king, and he argued that the lion’s share should abide in Parliament. As long as the nature and distribution of power remained ambiguous, the various governmental entities of the empire had tolerated each other. But Dickinson brought open opposition by pointing out an uncomfortable fact: the arbitrary acts of George III’s Parliament were mismatched with American desires to protect liberty. Dickinson characterized the British Parliament and king as “radical innovators” in terms of interpreting and implementing the British legislative system, while he simultaneously argued that Americans were defending the tradition of liberty.” Colonial leaders had once viewed themselves not as Americans, but as British citizens, members of the British “family.” Before 1765, to suggest they were not was radical and unnatural. This was a family that had provided a haven for true Christianity and fought wars against Rome and hell to retain religious freedom. But the arbitrary acts of the current British administration had irreparably damaged the relationship, causing colonists to feel like rejected children. From their perspective, this situation was unacceptable. How could the colonists who had so vigorously defended religious and civil liberty be out of God’s British family? The answer was simple, serious, and hard to swallow. George III, Parliament, and the Church of England were betraying God’s kingdom. Their oppressive and arbitrary acts were the proof. No matter from what view they argued—economic, legal, natural rights, or the duties of leadership—each American writer and orator drew upon the Awakening logic. The Awakening had identified certain groups as in or out of God’s family and promoted conversion into that family by one’s attitude toward religious liberty. As a result, writers like Dickinson were able to draw upon two decades of family rhetoric. Each argument was derived from templates set in place

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a generation before, ready for logical action. Dickinson’s important writings held no exceptions that surpassed the logic established by the Awakening movement. The Awakening allowed Americans to judge certain actions as good or evil as colonial revolutionaries called upon deep beliefs embedded in the colonial mind to make their case.

Whitefield Burns Out After fighting for repeal of the Stamp Act, after publishing the account of his struggle with the archbishop regarding his dream for a college, and after accusing Church of England leaders of arbitrary power, Whitefield, now 54, turned his attention toward his duties at his London chapel, where he often described the pulpit as his throne. In between bouts of illness that would leave him bedridden, Whitefield continued to preach on a regular schedule throughout England. In letters to friends he often wrote of death and his anticipation of a promotion to heaven. His wife died in August of 1768, about which he remarked, “I feel the loss of my right hand daily.” Whitefield made one last American tour in 1769–1770, his seventh, which pushed his worn-out body too far. He arrived in Charleston, then traveled down to Bethesda where he began construction of two additional buildings for the public academy. His letters revealed an awareness of the deteriorating political situation, “O for a spirit of love and moderation on all sides, and on both sides the water!” Other than a few similar comments that show his desire for reconciliation, Whitefield did not publish anything that would stir the colonial crisis. Perhaps the necessity of taking sides at this point in the conflict was too difficult a decision for him, causing him to focus his efforts upon his first calling of winning sinners to Christ. After spending the winter in the South and feeling better than he had in years, Whitefield departed for the North, arriving in Philadelphia in May. He planned to travel from town to town in the North throughout the summer and then return to Georgia in the fall, dodging the harsh weather in both areas. All the American churches welcomed him, even the Church of England, with no closed pulpits: “So many new as well as old doors are open, and so many invitations sent from various quarters, that I know not which way to turn myself.” Even thirty years after the Great Awakening, Whitefield was as popular as ever, drawing large crowds wherever he went. For him, the revival had never ended.

Preaching Himself to Death

Since his health was temporarily strong, Whitefield began several rigorous preaching circuits, one of which was five hundred miles. He slowly worked his way further north, arriving in Boston in September of 1770, where he commented on the desire of New Englanders for him to stay there, “Never was the word received with greater eagerness than now.” But Whitefield also commented on the political unrest, writing, “The season is critical as to outward circumstances.” Whitefield attracted crowds in Boston equal to those of 1740, as both Tories and Whigs listened between the lines of his preaching to find support for their side of the political debate. Tories applauded Whitefield’s call to the Sons of Liberty and other such groups for submission to authority, while Whigs stressed his support of liberty. Although his events were well attended, his visit in 1770 did not generate much editorial comment in the newspapers because Whitefield just was not controversial anymore. In the final letter before his death, he commented on the British government’s move to dissolve the Massachusetts charter: “Poor New-England is much to be pitied; Boston people most of all. How falsely misrepresented! What a mercy, that our Christian charter cannot be dissolved!” These were among the last published words of Whitefield.

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During the early morning hours of September 30, 1770, an asthma attack ended George Whitefield’s life at age fifty-six in the home of a minister friend, Jonathan Parsons. His final act was exhorting believers as he stood on a staircase holding a candle. Speaking until the candle, a foreshadowing metaphor, burned down to the socket, he then retired to bed and suffered his attack at about five in the morning. Refusing to turn Whitefield’s body over to anyone else, Parsons entombed Whitefield in a chamber beneath his pulpit in the Presbyterian Church in Newburyport, Massachusetts. As news of his death spread, the public mourning across America was incredible. His funeral train was over a mile long with six thousand people following. Town criers went around calling out “Whitefield is dead.” Memorial services, attended by thousands, were conducted throughout the colonies as well as Great Britain. Numerous ministers wrote and published their memorial sermons. American papers suspended their coverage of political events to eulogize Whitefield.

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Although Whitefield himself had longed for death, the tragic loss was especially painful for Americans. They had lost an agent of the Awakening and a person who offered an identity for an evolving society. But perhaps more significantly, they had lost a voice that had shaped America’s response to religious conflict, war with the French, arbitrary oppression, and power struggles with the powerful Church of England. Although Whitefield expressed his apprehensions about the struggle between the British and Americans, he consistently and tirelessly worked on behalf of the colonies, causing later Americans to claim him as a true patriot. Compelling and fascinating evidence of his widespread, cultic following is revealed by accounts of visits to his crypt after his death. In 1775 a Revolutionary chaplain and several officers opened Whitefield’s casket in Newburyport to view his body. They removed his clerical collar and wristbands, cut them into strips, and passed them out to their soldiers, who were preparing for a Revolutionary battle. The soldiers tucked them into their clothing to take Whitefield into battle with them. As the years passed, ministers were the usual visitors to his tomb, making “pilgrimages” to view him. They would touch him before his body decomposed and handle his bones in later years. These viewings continued well into the nineteenth century. In 1789 Jesse Lee, a next-generation Methodist preacher of the Revolutionary period, visited Whitefield’s remains: [Mr. Lee] descended into the vault, and removing the coffin lid, beheld the awful ravages of “the last enemy of man.” How quiet the repose, how changed the featuress of the man whose impassioned eloquence had moved multitudes to tears of penitence, and the impulses of a new-born zeal for God! His face had lost its comeliness; the fire of his eye was extinct, and he lay like a mighty warrior quietly reposing after the strife of conquest and the shout of victory. Death was gradually reducing his corporeal substance to its primitive dust. His soul was gone, and his flesh, in the midst of decay, was resting in hope of a resurrection unto life—to find its complete and perfect satisfaction when it awakes in the likeness of Christ. Silently they gazed on the fallen warrior of Christ, and fervently did Mr. Lee pray that the inspiration that made Whitefield an ornament of the Church and a blessing to the world, might dwell in his heart, and consecrate and give direction and energy to the talents with which God had intrusted him.1

Preaching Himself to Death

Abel Stevens, another Methodist minister of the 1820s, wrote that he “took his skull . . . and examined it with great interest.” A Freewill Baptist minister, David Marks, who visited the tomb in 1834, described that “the coffin was about one third full of black earth, out of which projected a few bones. The skull bone was detached from the rest and was turned over.”2 At one point, his skull was temporarily removed, and two hundred replicas were made and sold, one of which is in a London museum even today. Along with Whitefield’s death, 1770 saw the climax of the agitation regarding the American bishop. As in the debate over the revival in 1740, what appeared on the surface to be religious haggling over territorial control between colonial ministers and the Church of England was, in effect, a struggle for social control in general. The fight was equally about politics as religion. Indeed, all parties involved realized that the key to the public mind was to shape the dominant religious institution. American leaders understood, at least implicitly, that “forms, not spirit, sustained them in their own position of authority and determined the course of their society.”3 American ministers recognized the threat to civil freedoms that a bishop and strengthening of the Church of England in America could bring and fought against it tooth and nail. The struggle continued until colonial independence made it a moot issue, and the American Anglicans who sided with the Revolution changed their name to the Episcopal Church. The bishop was a central facet of the Revolution. New Englanders recognized the depth of the connection to the point that cartoonists could draw upon it. A news article after the war pointed out a tax levied by Massachusetts and the appointment of Samuel Seabury as the first Episcopal bishop: “TWO WONDERS OF THE WORLD—a Stamp Act in Boston and a Bishop in Connecticut.” The independent New Englanders of 1785 were willing to have both a Stamp Act and a bishop as long as they made the choice rather than Parliament and the Church of England. Religion and politics in colonial America, as well as in Great Britain, were glued together, and nobody saw a reason to separate them. Two central religious theologies, Calvinism and Arminianism, provided the intellectual foundation for Tory and Whig political beliefs. Resisting the Church of England for threatening religious freedom was to resist the Tory-led British administration. Whitefield was too connected and dependent upon the British aristocracy for

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the support of his ministry to join the American cause fully, nor did he have a reason to do so before his death. His desire was to be accepted and loved by all denominations. But he did communicate his political positions symbolically, which exerted a greater public relations force than direct statements. Perhaps better than any of his contemporaries, Whitefield understood how to establish public positions through symbolic actions that spoke louder than words ever could. By condemning arbitrary power in whichever sphere it manifested, Whitefield showed, rather than told, Americans how to resist as a reformer, not as a rebel. This is the strategy that colonial activists were using until 1774 as they tried to reconcile the colonies with the mother country. By instituting a belief system that demanded honesty from a person’s very core, Whitefield nudged American society down a path that could only lead to revolution once the British turned to violence. The revolutionary writers would continue leading America toward independence by following this path blazed by thirty years of Whitefield’s religious and social teachings. America’s founders would draw their most powerful arguments for independence from the logic Whitefield and the other Awakening ministers introduced and promoted, organizing their world with choices between us and them, good and evil.

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Whitefield’s Legacy

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s 1770 drew to a close and George Whitefield was laid to rest in Newburyport, Massachusetts, whether colonists had recognized it or not, Whitefield’s influence upon them had been profound. Whitefield offered and persuaded colonists to an American identity birthed in conversion. He prescribed beliefs connecting France, Rome, and hell. Finally, he encouraged people to adopt political beliefs about arbitrary power and civil liberties. Whitefield had established and promoted the ideas that gave them a worldview. In the prior chapters, we traced the evolution of that worldview and observed how it shaped and influenced both religious and legal arguments against arbitrary power. In large part Whitefield’s influence depended upon his popularity. He was truly the world’s first international pop idol. One could not have lived in colonial America (except perhaps on its furthest frontier) without being exposed to him. Even there, you would have heard about him and had access to his publications. Anyone born and raised in America inherited the worldview of the Awakening to one degree or another. Even people like Jonathan Mayhew or Charles Chauncy, who rejected the revivals, found themselves with no other good choice for a worldview once Britain began oppressing the colonies. They could either adapt themselves to some form of the Awakening view or side with the British. Many did stay with the British and returned to England when war commenced. People who helped the independence cause figured out the Awakening worldview quickly enough. 175

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During the revolutionary era one was not born American, but British, Scottish, German, Dutch or something else and required conversion from a Tory to a Whig. Alan Heimert explains that in the decades leading up to the Revolution, ministers “increasingly confused civic virtue with piety and, finally, political enthusiasm with the joy of conversion,” and colonists were “converted” from Tories to Whigs as they aligned themselves in defense of liberty.1 Ebenezer Cleaveland depicted a good example of such a conversion in 1774, as he preached on the “conversion and call of Matthew the Publican” and gave “application in terms of the delight experienced by a Crown revenue officer who joined the Sons of Liberty.” What an astounding story! So intertwined were the deep structures of religious belief and republican ideas that the tables had completely turned. Here a minister is attempting to explain religious conversion by comparing it to something he felt his audience understood better: a political conversion from Tory to Whig. The man converted from the most hated profession in America to the most radical activist group. Indeed, political conversions had become more commonplace than religious ones. With conversion from a Tory to Whig came the spirit of liberty to regenerate one into a kingdom of freedom. Americans demanded that public officials be guiltless of corruption, that they be virtuous defenders of liberty, and that they earned their office based on qualifications rather than connections. By 1776 genuine “patriots” were sickened by the sycophants of George III’s court. Instead, they embraced the promise of a free, self-governing society that would preserve “American liberties.” Such patriots viewed reconciliation with Great Britain as a compromise with evil. With the help of the new identity brought about by the Awakening worldview, Whitefield created a place in the mind where republican political ideas could be easily grasped. Explanations for the colonial conflict that made the most sense to people were those that cast Americans and Britons in a millennial struggle between good and evil, with the stakes being slavery or freedom. From 1770 to 1776, colonists could not have viewed the conflict on any other terms. They simply had no other frame of reference. Deism and science slowly displaced the church as the mother of the intellect among the educated classes, but this transformation did not fully

Whitefield’s Legacy

mature among the wider population until long after the Revolutionary War. For persuasion to have any chance of being successful, you must begin with truths that “the people” already accept. Deism did not have that advantage in 1776. Political activists had to construct their arguments upon the foundations of thought that were currently in widespread use and with precast logic templates into which people could place the new problems. Up through the 1760s, the activists’ writings showed respect for Parliament and the king. For fear of being arrested and tried for rebellion, activists kept their political arguments polite, always implying that British leaders were acting “arbitrarily,” knowing that blunt accusations, like the kind they made about the Church of England, might get them in trouble. Recall that Patrick Henry’s speech before the Virginia legislature in 1765 brought charges of treason. But Parliament continued to pass laws undermining colonial freedoms and by their actions further aggravated the British-American identity question. Who were these Americans now if they were not members of the British family? Their parents, George III and the Parliament, were pushing them out of the family and spending their inheritance. John Adams plainly discusses the family problem between England and the colonies: The people of America had been educated in an habitual affection for England, as their mother country; and while they thought her a kind and tender parent, (erroneously enough, however, for she never was such a mother,) no affection could be more sincere. But when they found her a cruel beldam, willing like Lady Macbeth, to “dash their brains out,” it is no wonder if their filial affections ceased, and were changed into indignation and horror.

As I noted earlier, the family metaphor forms a common theme in almost every activist discourse of the period. The American identity tension was clearly at the heart of the Revolution in Adams’ mind. The solution to this problem was to reject England and accept American nationalism. This was the best course of action to ensure both civil and religious freedoms. The decision to embrace the rebellion was a personal choice that each person would have to make. That personal choice to adopt an American identity made each convert a member of a new civic community, sometimes demanding their blood through membership in a colonial militia.

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Public opposition to the British government was a line Whitefield never crossed, but his friends, followers, and colleagues quickly did. Shortly after his death, the colonists naturally began speaking of “evil” Tory oppression with “good” Whig protection of natural rights. Next, the king himself was cast into the “them” category because of his “evil” failure to protect the rights and privileges of American citizens.

The Papists Are Coming! With the firm linkage in place between civil and religious liberties in the minds of colonial Americans, to argue that Parliament was guilty of arbitrary power meant that they meddled not just in civil affairs but in religion as well. Even writers like Samuel Adams, in The Rights of the Colonists, blended religion and republican ideas in his discussion of colonial rights. Setting up a foundation for his argument, Adams asserted in 1772: “Just and true liberty, equal and impartial liberty” in matters spiritual and temporal, is a thing that all Men are clearly entitled to, by the eternal and immutable laws of God and nature, as well as by the law of Nations, & all well grounded municipal laws, which must have their foundation in the former.

Samuel Adams continues by arguing that Catholicism cannot be considered a religion that is either tolerant or compatible with liberty. Thus, one of America’s most respected revolutionary activists included central religious themes in his most formal writings. Whitefield provided a volatile formula that would eventually prompt Americans to react aggressively against England. His messages defined American identity as rooted in a new birth into a community that prized virtue, liberty, and freedom. He warned of the Catholic threat, through France, that would oppress religious liberty. He blew the whistle on arbitrary power, explaining what it was and where it was operating. Finally, he showed how the Church of England could no longer be trusted to preserve religious freedom. The only thing left was to link the British government back to the “horrid plot” that believed the devil was working through the Roman Catholics to subjugate the world. Americans had turned against the French when that plot was revealed. After 1770, such a plot was manifested as colonial activists interpreted Parliamentary actions as an invasion by Roman Catholicism.

Whitefield’s Legacy

After the defeat of the French, colonial fears of papal plots subsided for a time, but the assault led by Samuel Adams was quick to reintroduce these fears. Adams worked to align American churches with staunch American Anglicans against a perceived common threat. Not all Church of England ministers were oppressing other Protestants.

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The Roman Catholic presence in Canada had been strong under French rule, and Britain did not try to oust them after taking over in 1763. But when Parliament passed the Quebec Act in 1774, it stoked colonial fears of Catholic infiltration into the colonies. The Quebec Act provided a civil government for the French Roman Catholics of the Quebec province, and extended their territory to include present day Michigan, Wisconsin, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. It effectively blocked the needed westward expansion of the northern and middle colonies. The Act also granted political privileges to Roman Catholics. Since 1764, colonial papers had published articles warning of the plot that caused Americans to be suspicious of any act by Parliament. The Quebec Act reignited colonial propagandists. They claimed that the highest leaders in Britain were working to steadily undermine American liberties. Allegations abounded that the newest prime minister, Lord North, embraced Catholicism and that the Parliament and the king intended to establish Roman Catholicism over the entire American continent.2 Whitefield’s sermons against the Roman Catholics never linked the Church of England or British leaders to such plots, but the Quebec Act did. Whitefield brought Americans one short step of that link. The fear of Roman Catholic power over the Protestants provided a convenient foundation for arguments of colonial activists. Paul Revere skillfully played on these fears with an engraving entitled The Mitred Minuet. His famous drawing portrayed the devil hovering behind and whispering in the ear of the Quebec Act’s author while four Church of England bishops danced around a copy of the bill wearing mitres (the traditional ceremonial hat worn by the pope and Catholic bishops). In this instance, the mitres upon the bishops’ heads served as a symbol for Roman Catholic supremacy. The Quebec Act drew public responses just as hostile as those engendered by the Stamp Act. The people feared that it was the

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first step in establishing Roman Catholicism across all the colonies, but why? The French had been decisively defeated and the military threat of “Papists” ended, so why would any rational colonist fear that the English government would promote the Catholic Church in the colonies? Nathan Hatch explains that it was not because Roman Catholicism was powerful, but because it was weak: “Revolutionary ministers were afraid that . . . power-hungry ministers would exploit the papal hierarchy for their own designs.”3 What they feared was a power structure that could encourage the rise of sycophants and tyrannous ministers. The Quebec Act and fears of Roman Catholic infiltration, whether they were valid or not, were added to an already combustible America, in a generation that had personally fought or lost immediate family members in the French and Indian Wars. The religious rhetoric that condemned Roman Catholics and the French was aimed at England herself, and America’s civil millennialism perceived its old adversary manifest in Parliament and the king. Now even colonists from the middle and southern colonies joined the cause, as the Catholic threat unified American Anglicans with the American churches. England increasingly became demonized as the adversary as colonial activists called for unity against this supreme enemy. Whether Lord North and the king were actually closet Catholics was irrelevant. American activists claimed that they were and cited the Quebec Act as evidence.

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By 1774 a variety of strong reasons to resist Great Britain motivated Americans: (1) the genuine fear of the Church of England bishop and power structure, (2) Roman Catholic domination, (3) economic oppression through a series of various acts, (4) the insult of increased liberties for Canadian colonies, and (5) an increasing perception that Parliament and the king were initiating the changes illegally. Added to this was outright violence against Americans in Boston. The Boston Massacre, an incident in 1774 where British soldiers shot and killed citizens who were demonstrating, was publicized widely and used to call for resistance to the British everywhere. But while the popular press was disseminating political conspiracy theories—warning of popery and calling citizens to arms against Britain—respectable thinkers were further exploring Parliament’s illegal legislation.

Whitefield’s Legacy

Viewing the series of legislation through “republican glasses,” these writers produced American literature remembered by our history books. It’s easy to find evidence of the Awakening worldview in the activist writings we have been examining, but an evaluation of the more formal writings reveals that same worldview at a deep level. Americans, in spite of their religious, educational, and class differences, shared the same mind. (Those who did not share it chose the British side and left for England or Canada immediately after independence was declared.) For the shrewd activist who desired to write a successful message, the Awakening worldview was the best place to start. The effective pamphleteer understood that many Americans held strong, specific religious beliefs and also understood which arguments would be persuasive. As the crisis continued, Americans were willing take up arms to defend religious and civil liberties. Since violence had already sporadically erupted in various locations, ministers and civil leaders began to mobilize militias to fight the British. The idea of civil millennialism was never healthier. It was nourished by the Protestant belief in the prophesied Armageddon, just as it had been during the wars with the French. One British official complained that the people of rural Connecticut were “all politicians and Scripture learnt.” Explaining the public opinion that led to violence, the British sympathizer Peter Oliver blamed it on “Mr. Otis’s black regiment, the dissenting clergy.” In Connecticut, the Awakening worldview and civil millennialism flooded the colonial mind to an incredible degree. In 1774 Joseph Bellamy and Israel Putnam received a letter mistakenly declaring that “Admiral Graves had burnt Boston, and that General Gage was murdering old and young.” Putnam and Bellamy hastily called together an army of forty thousand New Lights (excluding Presbyterians) that began marching to Boston the same day. Connecticut’s total male population in 1774 (ages ten through seventy) numbered sixty-three thousand, thus the army must have been composed of every ablebodied man and many from neighboring colonies, especially since no Presbyterians joined them. Even if the person who numbered this “army” was a poor judge of crowd size, it still must have been an astoundingly large group. Bellamy called this huge army to arms with the curse of Meroz. They believed they were going to fight the battle of Armageddon. The next day, on the road to Boston,

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the marching army received word, of course, that there had been no attack, so they returned home and disbanded. This account evidences the incredible depth and power of the Awakening worldview among the general population—at least in New England. The historian, J. C. D. Clark wrote that such a quick mobilization of colonial forces in a time of crisis proves that “religious imagery” was not just “mere rhetoric.”4 No doubt many of these recruits were not entirely motivated by religious reasons, but Bellamy, knowing his audience, effectively chose this particular biblical text to rouse what he believed to be the majority. Bellamy’s application of the curse of Meroz shows the depth of belief in the colonial mind. The British became them—the enemies of God—while the colonists represented the new us. In Massachusetts, Nathaniel Whitaker called upon the curse of Meroz in 1777 to rouse Bostonians against the British and attempt to convert American Tories into Whigs. Mark Noll concludes that “in their shared efforts, both political and religious figures were tailoring the project of republican independence to fit the language to traditional Protestant religion.”5 James Darsey notes that “the Whigs were able to present rebellion as an act of virtue, meaning not only that the act was praiseworthy, but that failure to act would constitute moral degeneracy.”6 Whitefield was the first person in a century to apply the curse of Meroz to a military campaign. He had a hand in shaping the thought that permitted its existence, and he first voiced the precise arguments that were used to energize rebellion. The curse’s use against Tories, the British Parliament, and the crown was unavoidable, as was the transformation of the British into God’s enemies.

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The depth of religious belief that determined one’s political views extended well beyond New England, especially into areas further inland. While several of the more famous of America’s founders may have been genuinely motivated to support independence for “secular” reasons, they did not speak for the majority. Numerous historians are beginning to question Jon Butler’s famous claim that “at its heart, the Revolution was a profoundly secular event.”7 Gordon Wood insists that a strictly secular view of the revolution is an

Whitefield’s Legacy

“optical illusion” caused by looking for religion in the wrong places. He claims that republican political beliefs did not displace the religious beliefs from which “ordinary people explained the world and made it meaningful,” reasoning that After all, the period preceding the Revolution experienced such a vast outpouring of religious passion that later commentators could only call it a Great Awakening, and the period following the Revolution outdid even that initial explosion of evangelical religious feeling to become the Second Great Awakening. Could religion during the Revolutionary decades have simply dropped out of sight? Was popular religion like a raging river that suddenly went underground only to reemerge downstream with more force and vigor than ever?8

Wood introduces the idea of “popular Christianity.” It was an expression of faith that evolved out of the Awakening, combining traditional doctrine with popular beliefs. This version of Christianity increasingly met the spiritual needs of many colonists. New Light-inspired groups experienced a phenomenal growth in the decades immediately prior to the Revolution. These communities of believers had been splintered and physically separated from the authority structures of traditional denominations, establishing new congregations led by Yale and Harvard graduates from lower-class backgrounds. They formed casual organizations among the expanding inland populations. Wood concludes that “one kind of American religion may have declined during the revolution, but it was more than replaced by another kind.”9 The simple raising of taxes, even to extremes, has never been the central reason that a population rebels against a leader. Powerful religious ideas are always involved. Shrewd political leaders of the revolutionary period understood the importance religion held for the people, and they employed it in the most effective ways they could. Likewise, the religious communities clearly saw their best chance at religious liberty in supporting independence from Great Britain. Politics and religion had always been connected in the British Empire. Now the two spheres increasingly merged, for a time, as religious and republican vocabularies—as well as beliefs—came together in a perfect storm. Leaders favoring independence over reconciliation openly worked hand-in-hand with ministers. As the Revolution drew near, colonial leaders called on

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the likes of William Tennent and William Henry Drayton to travel around the backcountry preaching up republican and Whig ideas in order to “break the hold of the Tories.”10 If one were to follow classical advice regarding the art of persuasion, the best arguments are those the majority of the audience is most likely to believe, not necessarily the most logical ones. From first to last, successful persuasion is “audience centered,” seeking to influence the perceived “majority” to a decision. Departing from what people already believe to be true, the persuader builds a case in a logical direction that those preexisting beliefs will support. Reading the revolutionary era literature shows arguments founded upon religious beliefs, even from the writings of America’s foremost revolutionary activists. Most colonists were law-abiding by nature, so all that remained for independence to be declared was to justify rebelling against Parliament and the king for moral and legal reasons. Thomas Paine completed the justification with his pamphlet, Common Sense, as he came full circle to religion, revealing an audience highly motivated by biblically based arguments.11 If there is any suspicion that the Awakening’s influence on the colonial mind had faded in the decade before the Revolution, Paine’s demonstration that God would reject an oppressive king and remove him from office shows us that religious motivations saturated American society. Paine wrote: That the Almighty hath here entered his protest against monarchial government is true, or the scripture is false. And a man hath good reason to believe that there is as much of kingcraft, as priestcraft in withholding the scripture from the public in Popish countries. For monarchy in every instance is the Popery of government.

This is not a conclusion that persuades a deist. But it was precisely what New Lights, their followers, popular Christians, the Sons of Liberty, or any other group that recognizes the church-state connection wants to hear.

CHAPTER

XVI

A Political Man

D

uring his final days in America, Whitefield could clearly see the writing on the wall—Americans would go to war for their liberties. He sympathized with the colonists. He had been “warring” with his bishops over the right to preach outdoors since his public ministry began in 1738. His war included two assassination attempts, one more averted plot on his life, and countless instances of abuse at the hands of crowds. All of this occurred in England, and each time, Whitefield knew that a bishop was behind the scenes. In America, during the most heated conflicts in 1744, there was never any violence or abuse, and religious leaders who opposed him did it publicly and honorably. Whitefield distanced himself from radicals who had encouraged church splits and defections of members. He aligned himself with moderate New Lights and reaffirmed the value of current colonial leaders and the Old Light denominations. In the end, it was the cooperation of groups within the New Light and Old Light camps that enabled a successful revolution. As Perry Miller observes, the “pure rationalism” of the Liberal [Old Light] clergy contributed to the intellectual notion of American independence, “but it could never have inspired them to fight for it.”1 As we have seen, people holding to the “popular Christianity” enthusiastically stepped forward when called to arms. Inspiring the people to fight was a task taken up by preachers like Israel Putnam and Joseph Bellamy in Connecticut, who traveled the trails blazed by Whitefield, adopting his messages with his promotion of unity, and then preaching themes like the curse of Meroz. 185

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As Americans chose sides in 1776, with many Tories fleeing to England or Canada and most Whigs staying in America, Whitefield was spared from making a difficult choice. He loved all the groups and had spent his life working for unity, trying to reform his own denomination. Perhaps one of his most famous pulpit stories best reveals the spirit of unity he tried to share. While preaching, Whitefield would look toward heaven and call out, beginning a short “play” to make his point: “Father Abraham, whom have you in heaven? Any Episcopalians?” “No.” “Any Presbyterians?” “No.” “Have you any Independents or Seceders?” “No.” “Have you any Methodists there?” “No, no, no.” “Whom have you there?” “We don’t know those names here. All who are here are Christians—believers in Christ—men who have overcome by the blood of the Lamb and the word of his testimony.” “O, is this the case?” said Whitefield; “then God help me, God help us all, to forget party names, and to become Christians in deed and in truth!”

If we look past the predictable simplicity of the story we can see the structural principle inside it. Whitefield promoted unity his entire life. It is what made him so loved throughout the British Empire. If unity can be achieved in religion, then where can you not achieve it with some effort? The meaning within this story was not missed by the colonists. The unification of the American colonies against the British oppression would be their only chance to survive a conflict—an idea bluntly pointed out by Ben Franklin in his “join or die” cartoon. Regarding the “side” of the colonial crisis Whitefield promoted throughout his life, Gledstone, one of his early biographers wrote, “there can be no doubt which side his converts were on and which part they played. One of the men whom [Whitefield] greatly influenced was the Rev. Alexander Craighead, and he again is said to have aroused the Presbyterian patriots who framed the Mecklenburg Declaration, which was copied only one year later by the Philadelphia Declaration of Independence.”2 The company he kept, and especially the ideas he spread throughout the colonies, leave no question as to the practical role that he played in the move to independence. The similarities between foundational ideas in Whitefield’s sermons of the 1740s and the political arguments of the 1770s are

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striking. Not all of the revolutionary activists employed specific ideas from New Light theology, as did those who cited the curse of Meroz, but they did draw upon the Awakening worldview to separate Americans from the British and to condemn injustice and tyranny. The arguments of the activists reveal what their audiences found to be persuasive. Those arguments go far beyond a rational defense of civil liberties. They invite the audiences to be something, birthed out of deeply held religious beliefs, extending those beliefs from a new religious identity to a new political identity. With no separation of church and state in 1776, the two identities were the same. Without the Awakening worldview in place enabling colonists to interpret accurately what the activists were trying to say, the activists’ assertions regarding us versus them would not have made sense, and indeed, the activists could not have produced these arguments. They, with a few exceptions, were as enmeshed in the Awakening worldview as their audiences and had to argue within the limits of what they understood as well as what their audiences understood. The Awakening worldview did not overturn the American churches; it worked from within them for reform, splitting the existing groups into New Light and Old Light factions that, beginning in 1745, made peace and reunited. After the aggressive Whitefield of 1740 pushed ministers into either the New Light or the Old Light camp, the mature peacemaking Whitefield of 1745, through another spirit, reached out, asked for a pardon, and included all in the community of genuine believers.

*

*

*

This book has examined the multiple communities that existed in the colonies prior to 1740 and has argued that American colonists had an identity problem. You cannot call a people into a new identity unless they are nearly there already.3 So I ask the question: How did American colonists become sufficiently unified so Jefferson’s famous utterance, “We the people . . .” would resonate? Whitefield’s messages told people exactly who they were and who they ought to be, supplying a religious answer to their identity problem. Upon his arrival into this identity vacuum, Whitefield displayed a spellbinding preaching style and a vigorous deployment of the mass media to spread his messages to everyone. Historians have agreed that the

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Great Awakening was a key part of the unification process. They have labeled Whitefield as the key figure of the Awakening. In this book, I have sketched out the means by which foreign settlers and colonists were transformed into Americans. George Whitefield was the central figure. He brought the identity messages, earned the respect of people everywhere, and spread those messages throughout the colonies. Whitefield successfully promoted a common worldview among the colonists, establishing their unity within a community of revived religious converts. It was these believers who would most easily take sides against anyone oppressing their liberties. Whitefield promoted this message with eloquence and passion, arguing within the guidelines of the Enlightenment, backing his claims with Scripture, “natural reason,” and plain old common sense. His message soaked deeply into the colonial culture, allowing his followers and even his enemies (especially after he made peace) to embrace his beliefs about how the world was. Whitefield’s messages simplified the lofty ideas of people like John Locke and Jonathan Edwards, providing a vocabulary everyone could understand. The Awakening passions cooled off, and political problems displaced revival stories from the newspapers. But the Awakening had already provided a convenient way to understand oppression and liberty. Out of the religious debates emerged a vocabulary about qualified ministers, genuine Christianity, freedom, and war with the devil. By merely changing whom the dialogue of reform was directed at, that vocabulary was fit for duty in the Revolution. Activists debated unqualified leadership, genuine British citizenship, arbitrary power, and war with France and England itself. The worldview and its vocabulary empowered the possibility of republican government, as people supported the Whig politics in the colonies. From the research of Alan Heimert, Perry Miller, Carl Bridenbaugh, Nathan Hatch, Gordon Wood, Patricia Bonomi, Mark Noll, Thomas Kidd, and others, we have learned that religion indeed played an essential role in the development of American nationalism, not a peripheral one. Only after Thomas Jefferson continued to direct the ideological development of Americans did the notion of liberty begin to find additional places to nest. Yet, as Alan Heimert writes, “Whether the enlightened sage of Monticello knew it or not, he had inherited the mantle of George Whitefield.”4

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My argument in this book is that one’s identity and the rules about Americanness originated from the Awakening worldview as sowed by George Whitefield. This worldview is the source of John Adams’ infamous observations: But what do we mean by the American Revolution? Do we mean the American war? The Revolution was affected before the war commenced. The Revolution was in the minds and hearts of the people; a change in their religious sentiments of their duties and obligations.

The possibility that Whitefield’s messages could impact the colonies so intensely is justified by his patriarchal relationship to the society. One writer has asserted that Whitefield was the “Forgotten Founding Father.”5 But it might be more accurate to say that Whitefield personified an idea and promoted a message. He produced a message that outlived him, as all good ideas should. That message had a life and a reach far beyond any individual. It is this message that helped bridge the gulf between the Awakening generation and the Revolutionary generation. While not possessing the same degree of religious fervor as their forbears, the revolutionaries became the founding fathers of our nation with their religious identities resolved, but showing a political fervor equal to the day. Their sense of mission was similarly profound, but that zeal was directed primarily at the faces of arbitrary power that threatened their society in contrast to the religious apathy that threatened their parents. Lastly, we have filled some gaps about George Whitefield and his enterprise. The historical record clearly shows his public and private participation in colonial political affairs. He provided assistance and guidance through public controversy from 1744 to his death. Though he may have been reluctant to join a revolution, Whitefield contributed as much to American’s birth on the political front as many of our other founders. But his role went far beyond simply writing public pamphlets that addressed oppression or persuading Parliament to repeal the Stamp Act. His ministry and messages shaped American thought. By introducing and promoting central elements of the Awakening worldview, Whitefield’s ideas provided a central force for change. Only an effective, energetic, committed person, able to live with differences, able to survive public criticism, with a willingness to live in the saddle, and possessing the

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personality to maintain friendships with multiple communities could have succeeded. His was an overwhelming task of shaping the mind of an emerging people. Whitefield, by persistent travel and reinforcement of the Awakening worldview among the colonists, was a father to the American spirit. In time, Whitefield, the public man, was transformed into an icon of the American experience around which developed an intercolonial identity founded in the new birth. An idea requires circulation, in one form or another, to saturate a culture. Some historians mistakenly divorce the notion of the new birth from Whitefield, as if it possessed and controlled the Awakening ministers without his efforts. Although the term did find its own legs, the new birth required Whitefield’s promotion as much as Whitefield relied upon it for his powerful messages. Moreover, scholars tend to overlook Whitefield’s other contributions: regeneration, indwelling, common privilege, almost and altogether Christians, his prescriptions for judging and responding to leadership, his whistle-blowing about the danger of arbitrary power, the curse of Meroz, and his conflict with Church of England leaders. Without his traveling and popularity, these concepts would have remained local, circulating throughout the colonial society at a much slower rate, if at all. Without his travel, oratorical skill, and marketing savvy, these important ideas could never have coaxed people into the Awakening worldview. We have also learned something about George Whitefield’s “secret,” which has been ascribed to several different sources by modern scholars, including his uncompromising character, his ability to bring drama into the pulpit, and his unprecedented marketing skills. We must add to these accounts another aspect of Whitefield’s enterprise and personality. Whitefield could see both sides of issues and produce positions that could shift without contradicting himself. He operated chiefly in the oral sphere, where he argued using common sense, making claims and supporting them with reasons he felt would most likely persuade his immediate audience, reasons that would change depending on the nature of the audience, and reasons that they would remember owing to his mastery of rhetoric. Whitefield was flexible enough to alter his views in response to challenges; he could negotiate a fine line between opposing ideas. He could speak in the “market language” of British commoners, or he could battle with bishops in the cultured vocabulary of the upper

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class. Whitefield was the Anglican who ministered to everyone but Anglicans. He was funded by aristocrats, but struggled for the rights of common people. As a chaplain to the upper classes, he ultimately promoted ideas that loosened the upper-class hold on power. The man had a finesse that was astounding. He attracted the commoners to field sermons by day and spoke to Britain’s elites in Lady Huntingdon’s drawing room by night, with bishops—some of whom he publicly attacked—sneaking in to hear him. It is simply amazing that Whitefield was able to humiliate his own bishop of Gloucester, as well as the archbishop of Canterbury, in print and retain his priesthood. If nothing else, this accomplishment alone is a tribute to his political skill founded in a common sense that emerged from his “common” upbringing and was refined by an Oxford education. In appreciating Whitefield as a political man, we can add a missing puzzle piece to his story. This view provides a framework for his character, dramatic skills, marketing skills, eloquence, passion-laden sermons, political involvement, and public conflicts—in short, every aspect of his enterprise finds its place to form the larger picture. When the American founding fathers opened the Constitution of the United States with “We the people,” they were talking about a people who had been in various stages of existence for nearly three decades. To claim that the Revolution was motivated solely by economic interests ignores much in the historical record. Although Whitefield was almost six years dead by the time independence was declared, his ideas awakened a new religious and political spirit and helped unite the colonial world—a unification that proceeded from a transformation in identity through the new birth. Throughout his life, and in every context, the new birth was the center of Whitefield’s message and ministry: But what shall I write to you about? Why, of our common salvation, of that one thing needful, of that new birth in CHRIST JESUS, that ineffable change which must pass upon our hearts, before we can see GOD, and of which you have heard me discourse so often.

But the concept of the new birth was larger than religious conversion. It came to symbolize a transformation in secular identity—from sinner to saint, European to American. As Whitefield had portrayed, travel across the Atlantic was a metaphor for the birthing process.

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Ministers and revolutionary orators became the midwives. The reconstruction of American identity, in an American family, was enabled by familiarity with religious conversion. Out of George Whitefield’s ministry was birthed the deep structures of thought that became so entrenched in American culture that Abraham Lincoln would say a hundred years later that “this nation shall have a new birth of freedom.”

Notes

Foreword 1 2 3

Glenn Beck said this on his national program, Founder’s Fridays, which aired May 14, 2010. Daniel L. Dreisbach, Mark David Hall, and Jeffry H. Morrison, eds., The Forgotten Founders on Religion and Public Life (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2009). The majority of the quotes from Whitefield and his colleagues are from the following three works: The Works of the Rev. George Whitefield (Meadow View, U.K.: Quinta Press, 2000); George Whitefield’s Journals (Meadow View, U.K.: Quinta Press, 2000), and John Gillies, Memoirs of the Life of the Reverend George Whitefield (Meadow View, U.K.: Quinta Press, 2000). Anyone desiring access to original Whitefield writings should contact Quinta Press; the Press maintains a website through which all electronic publishing products are available for purchase. Paper copies of Whitefield’s works are rare and expensive, when they can be found. Moreover, many eighteenth-century works are completely cataloged on Google Books, and a simple word search will lead the researcher directly to a primary source. Chapter I

1

Francis John McConnell, Evangelicals, Revolutionists, and Idealists: Six English Contributors to American Thought and Action (London: Kennikat Press, 1942), 79. Chapter II

1

Frank Lambert, Pedlar in Divinity: George Whitefield and the Transatlantic Revivals, 1737–1770 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 97. 193

Notes to pp. 23–52

194

2 3 4

Stephen Mansfield, Forgotten Founding Father: The Heroic Legacy of George Whitefield (Nashville: Cumberland House, 2001), 79. E. Hatfield, J. T. Cacioppo, and R. L. Rapson, “Emotional Contagion,” Current Directions in Psychological Science, no. 2 (1993): 96–99. Alan Heimert, Religion and the American Mind (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1966), 288. Chapter III

1

Michael Warner, “What’s Colonial About Colonial America?” in Possible Pasts: Becoming Colonial in Early America, ed. Robert St. George (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2000), 58, 64–67. 2 J. Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur, Letters from an American Farmer and Sketches of Eighteenth-Century America (New York: Penguin Books,1981), 69-70. 3 Mark A. Noll, America’s God: From Jonathan Edwards to Abraham Lincoln (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 7–8. 4 Of the noted historians and religion scholars who have reviewed my previous work, Preaching Politics, not even my critics faulted the research on doctrine and theological explanations. My explanations may seem oversimplified, so I ask the theologian to read my prior book, where I footnote the claims below, before dismissing the arguments. 5 Norman Pettit, The Heart Prepared: Grace and Conversion in Puritan Spiritual Life (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966), 17. 6 Ernest G. Bormann, The Force of Fantasy: Restoring the American Dream (Carbondale, Ill.: Southern Illinois University Press, 1985), 67. 7 John Corrigan, The Prism of Piety (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 89. 8 Bormann, Force of Fantasy, 73. 9 Noll, America’s God, 57. 10 Francis Fukuyama, Trust: The Social Virtues and the Creation of Prosperity (New York: Free Press, 1995), 286. 11 Alan Heimert, Religion and the American Mind (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1966), 43. Chapter IV 1 2 3

Edwin Black, “The Second Persona,” Quarterly Journal of Speech 56 (1970): 119, emphasis in original. Recorded in Harry Stout, The Divine Dramatist: George Whitefield and the Rise of Modern Evangelicalism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 40. Catherine A. Brekus, Strangers and Pilgrims: Female Preaching in America, 1740–1845 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1998).

Notes to pp. 52–64

4

Michael Casey, “The First Female Public Speakers in America (1630– 1840): Searching for Egalitarian Christian Primitivism,” Journal of Communication and Religion 23 (2002): 10–11. 5 Throughout The Second Treatise of Civil Government, John Locke employs the terms “common” and “rights” (e.g., IV sec. 22, V sec. 26, V sec. 27) as he constructs his foundation for a governmental system. These common rights are granted to humans, in Locke’s view, by “God, who hath given the world to men in common” (V sec. 26). In The First Treatise of Civil Government, Locke contends that humans form governments by voluntary submission to a chosen political system that meets their own interests, and that people are willing freely to give up certain rights to protect others. In fact, according to Thomas Cook, Locke wrote his two treatises in defense of the 1688 English revolution. Locke argued in these treatises that the revolution “freed the people of England from tyranny and safe guarded the natural rights which belonged to them as individuals.” See John Locke, Two Treatises of Government, ed. Thomas I. Cook (New York: Hafner Publishing, 1947), ix. Whitefield clearly promoted “equality of the believers” by his ecumenical and tolerant approach to Christianity. Providing the rationale for Whitefield’s view, which was definitely not typically Anglican, John Locke argued in “A Letter Concerning Toleration” that no religion is better or more orthodox than another. Within this treatise, Locke applied his utilitarian system to establish equality among Protestant religions, demonstrated the impossibility of proving other religions heretical before God, and delineated the appropriate roles of government and religion in administrating the behavior of citizens. Locke provided the argument formulas Whitefield needed and used to defend the infant methodism against Anglican hegemony. Chapter V 1 2 3

4 5

Sydney Ahlstrom, A Religious History of the American People (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1972), 293. Alan Heimert, Religion and the American Mind (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1966), 95. Jon Butler, Awash in a Sea of Faith: Christianizing the American People (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990). See also Jon Butler, “Enthusiasm Described and Decried: The Great Awakening as Interpretive Fiction,” Journal of American History 69 (1982–1983): 305–25. See Frank Lambert, Inventing the Great Awakening (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999). Patricia U. Bonomi, Under the Cope of Heaven: Religion, Society,

195

Notes to pp. 65–130

196

and Politics in Colonial America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 85. 6 Richard Owen Roberts, Whitefield in Print (Wheaton, Ill.: Richard Owen Roberts Publishers, 1988), 203. 7 Francis Fukuyama, Trust: The Social Virtues and the Creation of Prosperity (New York: Free Press, 1995), 270. 8 Fukuyama, Trust, 270, 289. Chapter VI 1 2

Harry Stout, “Religion, Communications, and the Career of George Whitefield,” in Communication and Change in American Religious History, ed. Leonard I. Sweet (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993), 116. See Stephen Mansfield, Forgotten Founding Father: The Heroic Legacy of George Whitefield (Nashville: Cumberland House, 2001), 99–100. Stout provides a fuller account characterizing their marriage as a practical matter, so that both George and Elizabeth might be more effective in the methodist movement. See Harry Stout, The Divine Dramatist: George Whitefield and the Rise of Modern Evangelicalism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 168–70. Chapter VIII

1 2

Nathan O. Hatch, The Sacred Cause of Liberty: Republican Thought and the Millennium in Revolutionary New England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 40. Mark A. Noll, America’s God: From Jonathan Edwards to Abraham Lincoln (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 83. Chapter IX

1 2

See J. C. D. Clark, English Society, 1660–1832: Religion, Ideology, and Politics During the Ancien Regime (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 47. Nathan O. Hatch, The Sacred Cause of Liberty: Republican Thought and the Millennium in Revolutionary New England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 76. Chapter X

1

Nathan O. Hatch, The Sacred Cause of Liberty: Republican Thought and the Millennium in Revolutionary New England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 22–23. 2 Hatch, Sacred Cause, 54. 3 Hatch, Sacred Cause, 46–47. Chapter XI 1

James Darsey, The Prophetic Tradition and Radical Rhetoric in America (New York: New York University Press, 1997), 47.

Notes to pp. 148–182

Chapter XII 1 2

Carl Bridenbaugh, Mitre and Sceptre; Transatlantic Faiths, Ideas, Personalities, and Politics, 1689–1775 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1962), 230. The “gibbet” was a spiked iron basket in which political enemies of a lord or king would be placed and hung on a castle wall for a slow tortuous death. Chapter XIII

1 2 3 4

James Darsey, The Prophetic Tradition and Radical Rhetoric in America (New York: New York University Press, 1997), 46. Gordon S. Wood, “Rhetoric and Reality in the American Revolution,” William and Mary Quarterly 23 (1966): 25. Philip Davidson, Propaganda and the American Revolution 1763– 1783 (New York: W.W. Norton), 41. Carl Bridenbaugh, Mitre and Sceptre; Transatlantic Faiths, Ideas, Personalities, and Politics, 1689–1775 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1962), 305. Chapter XIV

1 2 3

Leroy M. Lee, The Life and Times of Jesse Lee (Louisville, Ky.: John Early, 1848), 246. Jon Butler, Awash in a Sea of Faith: Christianizing the American People (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990), 188. Alan Heimert, Religion and the American Mind (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1966), 362. Chapter XV

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Alan Heimert, Religion and the American Mind (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1966), 354. Philip Davidson, Propaganda and the American Revolution 1763– 1783 (New York: W.W. Norton), 128. Nathan O. Hatch, The Sacred Cause of Liberty: Republican Thought and the Millennium in Revolutionary New England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 75. J. C. D. Clark, The Language of Liberty, 1660–1832: Political Discourse and Social Dynamics in the Anglo-American World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 276. Mark A. Noll, America’s God: From Jonathan Edwards to Abraham Lincoln (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 85. James Darsey, The Prophetic Tradition and Radical Rhetoric in America (New York: New York University Press, 1997), 49. Jon Butler, Awash in a Sea of Faith: Christianizing the American People (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990), 195.

197

Notes to pp. 183–189

198

8

Gordon S. Wood, “Religion and the American Revolution” in New Directions in American Religious History, eds. Harry S. Stout and D. G. Hart (London: Oxford University Press, 1997), 175. 9 Wood, “Religion,” 177. 10 Davidson, Propaganda, 25. 11 Jerome Mahaffey, “Converting Tories to Whigs: Religion and Imagined Authorship in Thomas Paine’s Common Sense,” Southern Communication Journal 75 (2010), (5) 488–504. Chapter XVI 1

2 3 4 5

Perry Miller, “From the Covenant to the Revival,” in The Shaping of American Religion, Religion in American Life, vol. 1, eds. James W. Smith and A. Leland Jamison (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961), 343. James Gledstone, George Whitefield: Field Preacher (Meadow View, U.K.: Quinta Press, 2000), 303. Maurice Charland, “Constitutive Rhetoric: The Case of the Peuple Québécois,” Quarterly Journal of Speech (1987): 134. Alan Heimert, Religion and the American Mind (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1966), 148. I am referring to the title of Stephen Mansfield’s book, Forgotten Founding Father: The Heroic Legacy of George Whitefield (Nashville: Cumberland House, 2001).

Index

A Letter to the People of Pennsylvania, 146 Adams, John, 111, 147, 189 Adams, Samuel, 152, 157–58, 161, 178–79 American Bishop, 123, 142, 147–48, 151–52, 162–63, 165, 168, 173 American Revolution, 111, 148, 173, 183, 185, 188–89 Angelo, Henry, 27–28 Anglican Weekly Miscellany, 151 Anglican, arbitrary power, 102, 143; British political influence, 143; conflict with Methodists, 76–79; episcopacy in America, 173; power of liturgy, 77; support of monarchy, 36, 69, 74 Antirevivalists, 87 arbitrary power, 102, 107, 113–14, 127–28, 131, 137, 143, 145–46, 152, 154, 156–57, 166, 170, 174–75, 178, 188–90 Arminianism, 32–33, 36–37, 173 Bellamy, Joseph, 181–82, 185 Bethesda, college, 166; orphanage, 87, 89, 91, 106, 124, 127, 134, 138, 165–66, 170 Boston Evening-Post, 83, 85–88

Boston Gazette, 86, 113, 115, 119, 163 Calvin, John, 32 Calvinism, 32–37, 45, 48, 54, 98, 101, 173 Catholicism, 17, 31, 37, 69, 74, 76–78, 84, 96, 99–100, 102, 107, 109–10, 112–15, 118–19, 127, 131–32, 137, 146, 148, 162–63, 165, 178–80 Chauncy, Charles, x, 51, 55, 60, 64–66, 85, 87–91, 93, 96–98, 101, 107, 162, 175 Civil millennialism, 117–19, 127, 132, 148, 180–81 Clap, Thomas, 88–89, 96, 156 Cleaveland, Ebenezer, 176 Cole, Nathan, 42–43, 64 commercialism, 68 Common Sense, 111, 184 Congregationalism, 89 Convention of New England Ministers, 97–99, 120 conversion experience, 2, 5–9, 13, 17, 20, 23–24, 28, 32–38, 43–44, 46–50, 67, 69, 72, 87, 93, 98, 122–23, 143, 149, 169, 175–76, 191, 192

199

Index

200

Countess of Huntingdon, 121–23, 136–37 Curse of Meroz, 130–31, 181–82, 185, 187, 190 Cushing, Thomas, 157–58 Davenport, James, 52, 60, 62, 65–66, 83, 85, 120 Davies, Samuel, 124, 130 Declaration of Independence, 155, 186 Dickinson, John, 169–70 Dissenters, 22, 78, 135 Drayton, William Henry, 184 Edward, Charles, 120, 148–49, 152, 154–57, 160, 166, 168 Edwards, Jonathan, 33–38, 52, 55, 62, 63, 66, 71, 89, 101, 117, 120, 130, 188 Edwards, Sarah, 51 English Civil War, 77 Enlightenment, 11, 19, 114, 188 enthusiasm, 55, 59, 61, 65–66, 71, 84–85, 88–89, 91, 98–101, 119, 143, 176 Enthusiasm Described and Caution’d Against, 66 Erskine, Ralph, 73 Finley, Samuel, 124, 130 Foote, Samuel, 2, 27–28, 137 Franklin, Benjamin, 29–30, 43, 47, 49, 132–34, 146, 158, 160–62, 186 Frelinghuysen, Theodorus, 35, 52 French and Indian War, 102, 118, 128, 144, 147, 180 Galloway, Joseph, 146, 158–60, 162 Garden, Alexander, 18, 53, 59–60, 66, 93 Garrick, David, 27

George II, 78–82, 101, 105–9, 111–12, 118, 131–32 George III, 80, 118, 141–42, 146– 48, 152, 155, 166, 169, 176–77 Great Awakening, 28, 62–63, 67, 117, 155, 170, 183, 188 Grenville, George, 147–48, 152, 159 Grenville Program, 148, 153, 159, 162 Harris, Howell, 22, 75, 115 Harvard University, 62, 87, 90–92, 156, 183 Haven, Samuel, 153 Henry, Patrick, 24, 27, 177 Holy Club, 5, 7, 9, 13, 53, 167 Hopkins, Stephen, 155–56, 160 Hume, David, 24 Jacobites, 81, 100, 105–8, 111, 123, 162 James, Elizabeth, 13, 75, 81, 83, 85–86, 121 Jefferson, Thomas, 135, 187–88 Journals, 10–11, 41, 58, 71–72, 121 Knox, John, 111 Langdon, Samuel, 153–54 Locke, John, 34, 54, 60, 188, 195 Louisburg, 128 Mayhew, Jonathan, 111, 118, 144–45, 151, 162, 175 Methodism, 18, 85, 101, 142, 167, 195 Morris, Samuel, 124 natural reason, 45, 167, 188 New Birth, 8–10, 23, 29, 31, 36–39, 41–44, 46–53, 57–58, 62, 66–67, 72, 75, 82, 93, 97–98,

Index

102, 114, 119, 124, 133, 137, 156, 159, 178, 190–92 New Lights, 35–36, 53, 57, 61, 63, 66–70, 84, 88, 94, 97, 99, 143, 156, 158, 160, 181, 184–85 Old Lights, 36, 52–53, 56–59, 62–63, 88, 92–100, 118–19, 121, 143, 145 Oliver, Peter, 181 Otis, James, 181 Oxford University, 3–8, 167, 194, 196–98 Paine, Thomas, 111, 184, 198 Parsons, Jonathan, 171 passive obedience, 110–11 popular Christianity, 183, 185 preach and return 23 Presbyterians, 73, 107, 111, 120, 128, 159, 181, 186 Prince, 90, 95 print and preach, 23 Public relations, 16, 20–21, 23, 43, 128, 174; public opinion, 101, 134, 181 Putnam, Israel, 181, 185

Seward, William, 23, 76, 88; death of, 76 Shirley, William, 95 Shurtleff, William, 97–98 Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, 142 Sons of liberty, 159–60, 163, 174, 176 St. Margaret’s Parish, 21 Stamp Act, 147, 154–56, 158–63, 170, 173, 179, 189 Stiles, Ezra, 143, 145 Stoddard, Solomon, 62 Sugar Act, 154–55, 157

rationalism, 185; see Enlightenment Reformation, 38, 74 religious toleration, 74 republicanism, 69, 102–3 Revere, Paul, 179

taxation, 148, 152, 154–55, 158, 160 Tennent, Gilbert, 35, 52, 58, 60, 62–63, 65–66, 71, 83, 120, 124, 132, 184 Thacher, Oxenbridge, 155, 160 The Danger of an Unconverted Ministry, 65 The Life of God in the Soul of Man, 7 The Minor, 137 The Rights of Colonies Examined, 155 The Rights of the Colonists, 178 The Sentiments of a British American, 155 Tillotson, John, 62 Tory, 77–78, 141–42, 145, 152–53, 168, 173, 176, 178 Townshend Acts, 162 Treatise Concerning Religious Affections, 34

Scougal, Henry, 7 Seasonable Thoughts on the State of Religion, 66 Secker, Thomas, 142, 144, 152, 165–66 separation of church and state, x–xi

Warburton, William, 148–52 Wesley, Charles, 5–7, 9, 13, 16, 18, 41, 49–50, 72, 167 Wesley, John, 5–7, 9, 16, 18, 52, 73, 75, 167 Whig, 37, 74, 82, 101, 103, 123,

Quakers, 43, 79 Quebec Act, 162–63, 179–80 Quincy, Samuel, 97–98, 149

201

202

Index

141, 143, 152–53, 155, 169, ordination of, 10, 19, 73, 142, 171, 173, 176, 178, 182, 184, 150; outdoor preaching, 20, 22, 186, 188, 198 75; powerful voice, 21, 150; pubWhitaker, Nathaniel, 161, 182, 198 lic controversy, 67, 81, 143, 189; Whitefield, George, another spirit, stampede, 61; violent persecu85–86, 90–92, 95, 100, 107, 114, tion, 76 Whitefield’s Journals, 10, 72, 193, 187, 197; assassination attempt, 198 13, 80, 151, 185, 197; dream, 20, 166, 170, 194; extempore Wigglesworth, Edward, 64, 198 preaching, 23; cross-eyed, 2; Forgotten Founding Father, 194; Yale University, 194–97 marriage to Elizabeth James, 81;