It was in the year 1757 that another clergyman was added to the number. He was a man so remarkable that I must tell you something of his history. John Berridge was the son of a grazier in Nottinghamshire. He was born in the year 1716. His father was very anxious that John, his eldest son, should be a grazier too. He therefore took him about to markets and fairs, to learn the price of cattle, but John made such terrible mistakes in these matters that his father got into despair. He told John at last he was good for nothing but to go to college. It was true that the boy was fond of reading, and was also what people call “very religious.” One day a boy met John on his way from school, and asked him to come home with him, that he might read the Bible to him. John’s religion was of a different sort from that, but he was afraid he would not be thought good if he refused. He therefore went whenever the boy asked him to these little Bible readings, which he much disliked. As he came home one evening from a fair, he tried to avoid the turn by the boy’s house, for he dreaded being asked to come in. The boy, however, was on the watch, and asked him to come in and pray. For the first time John began to feel he was a sinner. He said to himself, “Why did I enjoy the fair, and do not enjoy praying?” To quiet his conscience he began himself to pray with his schoolfellows. Soon after he made acquaintance with a tailor, who was a believer in the Lord Jesus. But all he gained, either from the boy or the tailor, was a sad knowledge that he had never been born again. He became unhappy, and more religious than before, but he did not turn to the Lord Jesus for salvation. At last he was old enough to go to college, and was sent to Clare Hall, at Cambridge. Here all his religion fled away. It was not worth keeping, for there was no faith nor love to God in it. But, alas, instead of finding anything better, John Berridge lived in sin and open unbelief. He left off even “saying his prayers” for ten long years. He was not ashamed to own that he did not believe that Jesus is God. Sometimes the truth that he had learned from the boy at Nottingham, and from the tailor, came back to his mind, and then he would weep bitterly; but again he forgot the good resolutions he would make at such moments. He was much admired for his wit and cleverness, and when he found that his company was sought after, and that his jokes were delighted in, it became more and more true of him, that “God was not in all his thoughts.” But he was in God’s thoughts all the while. By degrees, he knew not how, he began to see, through God’s great mercy, that Christ is indeed God Himself.
John Berridge now determined to be a clergyman, and for eight years he labored as a preacher in country places. Six years he was curate of Stapleford, near Cambridge; two years vicar of Everton, also not far from Cambridge. All this time he worked hard, and preached earnestly. He hoped to see the wicked people in the village become good, or at least repent of their sins. But he went on preaching, and they went on sinning, just as before. He thought the reason was they were so very bad. At last, at the end of these eight weary years, John Berridge became very miserable. Could it be that the fault was in himself? “Oh Lord,” he said, “if I am right, keep me so; if I am not, make me so; lead me to the knowledge of the truth as it is in Jesus.” None but God the Holy Ghost could have led him thus to pray. If you have never prayed in this way, I hope you will soon become as miserable as John Berridge, for I fear, if such has never been your prayer, your heart has never turned to God; you have seen no beauty in Christ that you should desire Him.
God, I need not tell you, answered this prayer; He always answers such a prayer as that. One morning, these words came into Berridge’s mind: “Cease from thine own works: only believe.”
This was something new to him. It was true he had preached to his people that they were to believe; but then he had told them they would be saved by faith and works put together. Only believe was quite another matter. But could it be true? If you wish to know whether “only believe” is really the truth, I advise you to do what John Berridge immediately did. He got a Concordance (a book which everybody ought to have), where you can find all the texts put together about any one thing you want to learn. Berridge looked for all the texts about faith—about believing. He wanted to see what God said about it. Shall I tell you one text of the many that he found? “To him that worketh not, but believeth on Him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness.” And one more: “A man is justified by faith, without the deeds of the law.”
He was very much surprised at the texts he found, and at the great number of them. And all, too, were alike in proving to him that a man must be saved by faith alone. Berridge knew that there were people who said St. James spoke of these matters in quite another way, but when he looked into the Epistle of St. James, he found, as he says, that “St. James is sturdy in this matter, and declares that if a man should keep the whole law, except in one point, he is yet guilty of all.” That is to say, so far is St. James from saying that works can help in the smallest degree in putting away sin, that he speaks of it as an entire impossibility. He puts before us the case of a man, who had only committed one single sin, and he tells us that if for the whole of his life besides, he did nothing but perfectly good works, he would have to appear before God, not as a saved man, but just as much guilty as if he had broken all the commandments of God every day of his life. Therefore Berridge saw, that when St. James speaks, as he does in the 2nd chapter, of people being justified by works, he is very far from meaning that their works save, or help to save them. He speaks of works as a proof of faith. He says “I will show thee my faith, by my works.” The faith is the matter which has to be proved, and the works prove it. “Now” said Berridge with tears of repentance, “I will preach salvation by Jesus only.” After two or three Sundays of such preaching, a poor woman from the village came to see him, looking very disconsolate. “What is the matter, Sarah?” said he. “I don’t know what’s the matter!” replied Sarah. “Those new sermons keep me from eating, drinking, or sleeping, they make me so miserable, why it seems we’re all lost sinners!” The same week several more came to the parsonage, all as unhappy as Sarah. How fervently did Mr. Berridge thank God that what the preaching of the law had not done, the preaching of the gospel now did; that by it sinners were thus awakened, and made to feel their need of a Saviour. How humbled, too, did he feel, to think that he had spent so many years of his life in misleading others. He piled up all his old sermons, and looked on with tears of joy as he saw them consumed in the fire. He now began to preach all over the neighborhood, indoors or out of doors, as he found opportunity. People would come many miles to listen—sometimes to the number of 10,000 or 15,000. He would preach three or four times a day, and wherever he preached the blessing of God followed.
During the first year after his conversion a neighboring clergyman, Mr. Hicks, was saved through his preaching, and began himself to preach the gospel. During the year that followed, it would seem that about 4,000 persons were brought to repentance through the labors of Mr. Berridge and Mr. Hicks. Both of them journeyed about the country preaching everywhere. “Long rides,” wrote Berridge to Lady Huntingdon, “miry roads, and sharp weather!” For Lady Huntingdon wanted Berridge to find someone to take his place for a time, that he might come to her at Bath; and Berridge thus describes what any preacher who would take his place must make up his mind to endure—“long rides, miry roads, sharp weather! Cold houses to sit in, with very moderate fuel, and three or four children roaring or rocking about you; coarse food, and meager liquor; lumpy beds to lie on, and too short for the feet; stiff blankets, like boards, for a covering; rise at five in the morning to preach; at seven, breakfast on tea, made with dirty water; at eight, mount a horse, with boots never cleaned, and then ride home, praising God for all mercies.”
Berridge, however, does not mention here what may really be called “enduring hardness.” Of these little hardships he thought nothing, but there were others less easy to endure. To be hated, ill-treated, to have his name cast out as evil, to have every possible hindrance put in the way of his preaching, were the real sufferings he had now to rejoice in for Christ’s sake. The only name by which he was to be known for nearly thirty years amongst the neighboring gentry, was “the Old Devil.” Christ has said, “If they call the Master of the house Beelzebub, much more will they call so them of His household.”
Very soon the Bishop of Ely sent for him to tell him what he thought of his strange doings. “Berridge,” he said, “they tell me you go about preaching out of your own parish. Did I appoint you to the parishes of A——, or E——, or P——?
“No, my lord,” said Berridge, “neither do I claim any of those livings, the clergymen enjoy them, undisturbed by me.”
“But you go and preach in other men’s parishes, which you have no right to do.”
“It is true, my lord,” said Berridge, “I have admonished people in other parishes to repent of their sins, and believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. When I was doing so one day at E—— I remember seeing five or six clergymen, all out of their parishes, playing bowls on the green.”
“I tell you,” said the bishop, “you have no right to preach out of your own parish, and if you persist in it you will very likely be sent to Huntingdon Gaol.”
“As to that, my lord,” replied Berridge, “I have no greater liking to Huntingdon Gaol than other people, but I had rather go there with a good conscience than live at my liberty without one.”
“Here,” Berridge says, “the bishop looked at me very hard, and said gravely, that I was beside myself, and that in a few months time I should either be better or worse. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘my lord, you may be quite happy about it, for if I should be better, you suppose I shall leave off preaching of my own accord, and if worse, you need not send me to Huntingdon Gaol, as I shall be provided with accommodation in Bedlam.’”
The bishop saw it was no use to threaten, so he began to entreat. He told Berridge he would bring down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave—that he would give him an hour or two to think it over at the inn, and he would expect him at dinner time with an answer to his entreaties.
At dinner nothing was said, but Berridge says “the other gentlemen who dined there, sometimes cast their eyes towards me in some such manner as one would glance at a monster.”
After dinner the bishop took Berridge into the garden, and said, “Have you considered my request?”
“I have, my lord,” said Berridge, “and I have been on my knees about it; but I dare not desist from preaching. I would comply with your lordship’s request if I could with a clear conscience.”
“But why should you wish to interfere with the business of other men?” said the bishop.
“If they would preach the gospel themselves to their people,” said Berridge, “I need not do it, but as they do not, I must. And I would say further, that I think it were hard if I were not allowed the pleasure of preaching the gospel, whilst they are freely allowed such pleasures as attending cock-fights in the alehouse.”
“But you preach,” said the bishop, “on all days and at all hours.”
“My lord,” replied Berridge, “I preach only at two times.”
“What times?” asked the bishop.
“In season and out of season,” replied Berridge. “Such are my orders, and my Master has also said, preach the gospel to every creature.”
What was the bishop to do with such a man, but turn him out of his living! And this therefore he determined to do. He was however stopped in his designs in a way he little expected. A nobleman to whom the bishop was under great obligations, called upon him one day, and said, “There is an honest fellow, Berridge, who is unjustly disliked and slandered by some of his neighbors, who would like him to be turned out of his parish, you will much oblige me by preventing anything of the sort, and by turning a deaf ear to all the complaints you may hear against him.”
This nobleman had been persuaded to speak a word for Berridge, by Pitt, who was then at the head of the English Government. Pitt had done this to please an old college friend, who, though he disliked the Methodists, had been fond of Berridge in the old times when he amused his fellow students by his jokes and cleverness. After this Berridge was threatened no more, and year after year, like good Mr. Grimshaw, he preached the gospel in churches, barns, houses, fields, and anywhere else, and it would seem that thousands, through his preaching believed and were saved.
Thus God raised up fresh preachers, as from time to time He took to Himself those who had been making His gospel known. Just as Berridge began to preach, Thomas Walsh died, worn out with his ceaseless labors. He had preached and studied by night and by day, till a terrible illness came upon him, which caused him much suffering in mind, as well as in body. But just at the last, with a look of brightest joy, he called to his friends, and said: “He is come! He is come! My beloved is mine, and I am His! His forever!” Thus Thomas Walsh died, at the age of twenty-eight. Wesley said of him, “wherever that blessed man preached, the Word was sharper than a two-edged sword. I do not remember ever to have known a preacher who in so few years as he remained on earth, was an instrument of converting so many sinners.”