The Awakening, 1848-51.
He more earnestly I wrought among the people, and the better I knew
them, the more I saw that the mere attachment to the Church, and
punctual attendance at the services or frequency of Communion, was not
sufficient. I wanted something deeper. I wanted to reach their hearts in
order to do them good.
Whether this desire sprang up in the ordinary progress by which God was
imperceptibly leading me, or from a story I heard at a clerical meeting,
I know not--perhaps from both. My mind was evidently as ground prepared
to receive the warning. The story was about a dream a clergyman had. He
thought the Judgment day was come, and that there was, as it were, a
great visitation--greater than the Bishop's. The clergy were mustering,
and appeared in their gowns, but instead of being alone, they had part
of their congregations with them. Some had a few followers, others had
more, and some a great many; and ail these received a gracious smile
from the Judge when their names were called. The clergyman who dreamed
was waiting, as he supposed, with a large number of people at his back
When his turn came he went forward; but, as he approached, he saw that
the Judge's countenance was sad and dark. In a sudden impulse of
suspicion he looked back; and lo! there was no one behind him. He
stopped, not daring to go any further, and turning to look at the Judge,
saw that His countenance was full of wrath. This dream had such an
effect upon him that he began to attend to his parish and care for the
souls of his people.
I also was beginning to see that I ought to care for the souls of my
people-at least, as much as I did for the services Of the Church. As a
priest, I had the power (so I thought) to give them absolution; and yet
none, alas! availed themselves of the opportunity. How could they have
forgiveness if they did not come to me? This absolution I believed to be
needful before coming to Holy Communion, and that it was, indeed, the
true preparation for that sacred ordinance. I used to speak privately to
the members of the Church Guild about this, and persuaded some of them
to come to me for confession and absolution: but I was restless, and
felt that I was doing good by stealth. Besides this, those whom I thus
absolved were not satisfied, for they said they could not rejoice in the
forgiveness of their sins as the Methodists did, or say that they were
pardoned. In this respect I was working upon most tender ground, but I
did not know what else to do.
I used to spend hours and hours in my church alone in meditation and
prayer; and, while thinking, employed my hands in writing texts over the
windows and on the walls, and in painting ornamental borders above the
arches. I remember writing over the chancel arch, with much interest and
exultation, "Now is come salvation, and strength, and the kingdom of our
God, and the power of His Christ." (Rev. 12:10).
I imagined, in my sanguine hope, that the kingdom of Christ was come,
and that the "accuser of the brethren" was cast down. I thought I saw,
in the power of Christ given to His priests, such victory that nothing
could stand against it. So much for dwelling on a theory, right or
wrong, till it fills the mind. Yet I cannot say that all this was
without prayer. I did wait upon God, and thought my answers were from
Him; but I see now that I went to the Lord with an idol in my heart, and
that He answered me according to it (Ezek. 14:3).
One day I saw a picture in a friend's house which attracted me during
the time I was waiting for him. It was nothing artistic, nor was it over
well drawn, but still it engaged my attention in a way for which I could
not account. When my friend came down we talked about other things; but
even after I left the house this picture haunted me. At night I lay
awake thinking about it--so much so, that I rose early the next morning,
and went to a bookseller's shop, where I bought a large sheet of
tracing-paper and pencil, and sent them out by the postman, with a note
to my friend, begging him to give me a tracing of the picture in
question.
I had to wait for more than a fortnight before it arrived, and then how
great was my joy! I remember spreading a white cloth on my table, and
opening out the tracing-paper upon it; and there was the veritable
picture of the Good Shepherd! His countenance was loving and kind. With
one hand He was pushing aside the branch of a tree, though a great thorn
went right through it; and with the other He was extricating a sheep
which was entangled in the thorns. The poor thing was looking up in
helplessness, all spotted over with marks of its own blood, for it was
wounded in struggling to escape. Another thing which struck me in this
picture was that the tree was growing on the edge of a precipice, and
had it not been for it (the tree), with all the cruel wounds it
inflicted, the sheep would have gone over and perished.
After considering this picture for a long time, I painted it in a larger
size on the wall of my church, just opposite the entrance door, so that
every one who came in might see it. I cannot describe the interest with
which I employed myself about this work; and when it was done, finding
that it wanted a good bold foreground, I selected a short text-"He came
to seek and to save that which was lost."
God was speaking to me all this time about the Good Shepherd who gave
His life for me; but I did not hear Him, or suspect that I was lost, or
caught in any thorns, or hanging over a precipice; therefore, I did not
apply the subject to myself. Certainly, I remember that my thoughts
dwelt very much on forgiveness and salvation, but I preached that these
were to be had in and by the Church, which was as the Ark in which Noah
was saved. Baptism was the door of this Ark, and Holy Communion the
token of abiding in it; and all who were not inside were lost. What
would become of those outside the Church was a matter which greatly
perplexed me. I could not dare to say they would be lost forever; but
where could they be now? and what would become of them hereafter? I
longed to save John Bunyan; but he was such a determined schismatic that
it was impossible to make out a hope for him! Sometimes I was cheered by
the thought that he had been duly baptized in infancy, and that his
after-life was one of ignorance; but this opened the door too wide, and
made my theory of salvation by the Church a very vague and uncertain
thing. So deeply was the thought ingrained in my mind that one day I
baptized myself conditionally in the Church, for fear that I had not
been properly baptized in infancy, and consequently should be lost
hereafter. I had no idea that I was lost now; far from that, I thought I
was as safe as the Church herself, and that the gates of hell could not
prevail against me.
I had many conversations with the earnest people in my parish, but they
were evidently resting, not where I was, but on something I did not
know. One very happy woman told me, "Ah! you went to college to larn the
Latin; but though I don't know a letter in the Book, yet I can read my
title clear to mansions in the skies." Another woman, whenever I went to
see her, made me read the story of her conversion, which was written out
in a copy-book. Several other, men and women, talked to me continually
about their "conversion." I often wondered what that was; but, as I did
not see much self-denial among these converted ones, and observed that
they did not attend God's House nor ever come to the Lord's table. I
thought conversion could not be of much consequence, or anything to be
desired.
I little knew that I was the cause of their remaining away from church,
and from the Lord's table. One thoughtful man told me, "Cornish people
are too enlightened to go to church! A man must give up religion to go
there; only unconverted people and backsliders go to such a place!" Yet
this was a prayerful man. What did he mean? At various clerical meetings
I used to repeat these things, but still obtained no information or
satisfaction.
I made it a rule to visit every house in my parish once a week, taking
from twelve to twenty each day, when I sought to enlighten the people by
leaving Church tracts, and even wrote some myself; but they would not
do. I found that the Religious Tract Society's publications were more
acceptable. To my great disappointment, I discovered too, that
Evangelical sermons drew the people, while sacramental topics did not
interest them. So, in my ardent desire to reach and do them good, I
procured several volumes of Evangelical sermons, and copied them,
putting in sometimes a negative to their statements, to make them, as I
thought, right.
Now I began to see and feel that there was some good in preaching, and
used the pulpit intentionally, in order to communicate with my people,
carefully writing or compiling my sermons. But I must confess that I was
very nervous in my delivery, and frequently lost my place--sometimes
even myself; and this to the great confusion of the congregation.
I will tell how it pleased the Lord to deliver me from this bondage of
nervousness, and enable me to open my lips so as to plainly speak out my
meaning.
One day, a friend with whom I was staying was very late in coming down
to breakfast; so, while I was waiting, I employed myself in reading the
"Life of Bishop Shirley," of Sodor and Man. My eyes happened to fall on
a passage, describing a difficulty into which he fell by losing his
sermon on his way to a country church. When the prayers were over, and
the psalm was nearly sung, he put his hand into his pocket for his
manuscript, and, to his dismay, it was gone. There was no time to
continue his search; so he gave out a text, and preached, as he said, in
dependence upon God, and never wrote a sermon afterwards.
When my friend came to breakfast, he asked me what I had been doing all
the morning. I told him. "Ah!" he said, quietly. "Why do you not preach
in dependence upon God and go without a book like that good man? .... I
preach like that!" I said in amazement, terrified at the very thought.
"Yes." he answered, mischievously, "You. Who needs to depend upon God
for this more than you do?" Seeing that I was perturbed at his
suggestion, he went on teasing me all breakfast time, and at last said,
"Well, what is your decision? Do you mean to preach in future in
dependence upon God?" I said, "Yes; I have made up my mind to begin next
Sunday." Now it was his turn to be terrified, and he did all he could to
dissuade me, saying, "You will make a fool of yourself!" "No fear of
that," I replied; "I do it already; I cannot be worse. No; I will begin
next Sunday!"
I came back with the determination to keep my promise, but must confess
that I grew more and more uneasy as the time approached. However, on
Sunday, I went up into the pulpit, and spoke as well as I could, without
any notes, and found it far easier than I had feared. In the evening it
was still easier; and so I continued, week by week, gaining more
confidence, and have never written a sermon since that day--that is, to
preach it. Once I was tempted to take a book up into the pulpit, feeling
I had nothing to say, when something said to me, "Is that the way you
depend upon God?" Immediately I put the volume on the floor, and
standing on it, gave out my text, and preached without hesitation. This
going forward in dependence upon God has been a deliverance to me from
many a difficulty besides this one, and that through many years.
One day I went, in my cassock and cap, to the shop of a man whom I
regarded as a dreadful schismatic. He sold the publications of the
Religious Tract Society. On entering, he appeared greatly pleased to see
me, and took unusual interest and pains in selecting tracts, giving me a
double portion for my money. His kindness was very embarrassing; and
when, on leaving, he followed me to the door, and said "God bless you!"
it gave me a great turn. A schismatic blessing a priest! This, indeed,
was an anomaly. I was ashamed to be seen coming out of the shop, and the
more so, because I had this large Evangelical parcel in my hand, I felt
as though everybody was looking at me. However, the tracts were very
acceptable at home, and in the parish. I even began to think there was
something good in them. So I cent for more.
Three men, one after another, told me that they had been converted
through reading them. One of these said that "the tract I had given him
ought to be written in letters of gold;" and a few months after this
same man died most happily, rejoicing in the Lord, and leaving a bright
testimony behind. I mentioned the conversion of these three men to many
of my friends, and asked them for some explanation, but got none. Still,
the thought continually haunted me---What can this "conversion" be?
I had made it a custom to pray about what I had to do, and anything I
could not understand; therefore I prayed about this. Just then (I
believe, in answer to prayer) a friend offered to lend me Southey's
"Life of Wesley," and said, "You will find it all about conversion;" and
a few days after came a tract, "John Berridge's Great Error Detected."
This tract was carefully marked in pencil, and had several questions
written in the margin. I found out that it came from a person to whom I
had given it, and who was anxious to know its meaning.
I read it with much interest, for I saw that the first portion of the
history of Berridge corresponded with mine; but as I went on reading, I
wondered what he could mean by "Justification." What was that wonderful
thing which God did for him and for the souls of his people? What could
he mean by having his eyes opened to see himself a wretched, lost man?
What was "seeing the way of salvation"? He said that he had preached for
six years, and never brought a single soul to Christ; and for two years
more in another place, and had no success; but now, when he preached
Christ instead of the Church, people came from all parts, far and near,
to hear the sound of the glorious Gospel; and believers were added to
the Church continually. I grappled with this subject; but I could not,
by searching, find out anything, for I was in the dark, and knew not as
yet that I was blind, and needed the power of the Holy Spirit to awaken
and bring me to see myself a lost sinner. My soul was now all a stir on
this subject; but, as far as I can remember, I wanted the
information-not for myself; but because I thought I should then get hold
of the secret by which the Wesleyans and others caught and kept their
people, or rather my people.
Soon after, my gardener, a good Churchman, and duly despised by his
neighbours for attaching himself to me and my teaching, fell seriously
ill. I sent him at once to the doctor, who pronounced him to be in a
miner's consumption, and gave no hope of his recovery. No sooner did he
realize his position, and see eternity before him, than all the Church
teaching I had given him failed to console or satisfy, and his heart
sank within him at the near prospect of death. In his distress of mind,
he did not send for me to come and pray with him, but actually sent for
a converted man, who lived in the next row of cottages. This man,
instead of building him up as I had done, went to work in the opposite
direction-to break him down; that was, to show my servant that he was a
lost sinner, and needed to come to Jesus just as he was, for pardon and
salvation. He was brought under deep conviction of sin, and eventually
found peace through the precious blood of Jesus.
Immediately it spread all over the parish that "the parson's servant was
converted." The news soon reached me, but, instead of giving joy,
brought the most bitter disappointment and sorrow to my heart. Such was
the profound ignorance I was in!
The poor man sent for me several times, but I could not make up my mind
to go near him. I felt far too much hurt to think that after all I had
taught him against schism, he should fall into so great an error.
However, he sent again and again, till at last his entreaties prevailed,
and I went. Instead of lying on his bed, a dying man, as I expected to
find him, he was walking about the room in a most joyful and ecstatic
state. "Oh, dear master!" he exclaimed, "I am so glad you are come! I am
so happy! My soul is saved, glory be to God!" "Come, John," I said, "sit
down and be quiet, and I will have a talk with you, and tell you what I
think." But John knew my thoughts quite well enough, so he burst out,
"Oh master! I am sure you do not know about this, or you would have told
me. I am quite sure you love me, and I love you--that I do! but, dear
master, you do not know this--I am praying for the Lord to show it to
you. I mean to pray till I die, and after that if I can, till you are
converted." He looked at me so lovingly, and seemed so truly happy, that
it was more than I could stand. Almost involuntarily, I made for the
door, and escaped before he could stop me.
I went home greatly disturbed in my mind--altogether disappointed and
disgusted with my work among these Cornish people. "It is no use; they
never will be Churchmen!" I was as hopeless and miserable as I could be.
I felt that my superior teaching and practice had failed, and that the
inferior and, as I believed, unscriptural dogmas had prevailed. My
favourite and most promising Churchman had fallen, and was happy in his
fall; more than that, he was actually praying that I might fall too!
I felt very jealous for the Church, and therefore felt deeply the
conversion of my gardener. Like the elder brother of the Prodigal Son, I
was grieved, and even angry, because he was restored to favour and joy.
The remonstrance of the father prevailed nothing to mollify his
feelings; in like manner, nothing seemed to give me any rest in this
crisis of my parochial work. I thought I would give up my parish and
church, and go and work in some more congenial soil; or else that I
would preach a set of sermons on the subject of schism, for perhaps I
had not sufficiently taught my people the danger of this great sin!
Every parishioner I passed seemed to look at me as if he said, "So much
for your teaching! You will never convince us!"