It can be argued, with small fear of refutation, that open-air preaching is as old as preaching itself. We are at full liberty to believe that Enoch, “the seventh from Adam,” when he prophesied, asked for no better pulpit than the hillside, and that Noah, as a preacher of righteousness, was willing to reason with his contemporaries in the ship-yard wherein his marvellous ark was built. Certainly, Moses and Joshua found their most convenient place for addressing vast assemblies beneath the unpillared arch of heaven. Samuel closed a sermon in the field at Gilgal amid thunder and rain, by which the Lord rebuked the people, and drove them to their knees. Elijah stood on Carmel, and challenged the vacillating nation with the question, “How long halt ye between two opinions?” Jonah, whose spirit was somewhat similar, lifted up his cry of warning in the streets of Nineveh, and in all her places of concourse gave forth the warning utterance, “Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!” To hear Ezra and Nehemiah, “all the people gathered themselves together as one man into the street that was before the water gate.” Indeed, we find examples of open-air preaching everywhere around us in the records of the Old Testament.
It may suffice us, however, to go back as far as the origin of our own holy faith, and there we hear the forerunner of the Saviour crying in the wilderness, and lifting up his voice from the river’s bank. Our Lord Himself, who is yet more our Pattern, delivered the larger proportion of His sermons on the mountain’s side, or by the sea-shore, or in the streets. He was, to all intents and purposes, an open-air preacher. He did not remain silent in the synagogue, but He was equally at home in the field. We have no discourse of His on record delivered in the Chapel Royal, but we have the sermon on the mount, and the sermon in the plain; so that the very earliest and most Divine kind of preaching was practised out of doors by Him who “spake as never man spake.” There were gatherings of His disciples, after His decease, within walls, especially that in the upper room; but the preaching was even then most frequently in the court of the temple, or in such other open spaces as were available.—C. H. S., in Lectures to my Students.
IF I had my choice of a place for preaching out of doors, I should prefer to front a rising ground, or an open spot bounded at some little distance by a wall. Of course, there must be sufficient space to allow of the congregation assembling between the pulpit and the limiting object in front; but I like to see an end, and not to shout into boundless space. I do not know a prettier site for a sermon than the one which I have many times occupied in the grounds of my friend, Mr. Duncan, at “Benmore.” It was a level sweep of lawn, backed by rising terraces covered with fir trees. The people could either occupy the seats below, or drop down upon the grassy banks, as best comported with their comfort; and thus I had part of my congregation in rising galleries above me, and the rest in the area around me. My voice readily ascended, and I conceive that, if the people had been seated up the hill for half-a-mile, they would have been able to hear me with ease. I should suppose that Wesley’s favourite spot at Gwennap Pit must be somewhat after the same order. Amphitheatres and hillsides are always favourite spots with preachers in the fields, and their advantages will be at once evident.
Fresh air, and plenty of it, is a grand thing for every mortal man, woman, and child. I have preached twice, on a Sabbath day, at “Blairmore,” not far from “Benmore,” on a little height by the side of the sea; and, after discoursing with all my might to large congregations, to be counted by thousands, I have not felt one-half so much exhausted as I often am when addressing a few hundreds in some horrible “black hole of Calcutta,” called a chapel. I trace my freshness and freedom from lassitude at “Blairmore” to the fact that the windows could not be shut down by persons afraid of draughts, and that the roof was as high as the heavens are above the earth. My conviction is, that a man could preach three or four times on a Sabbath, out of doors, with less fatigue than would be occasioned by one discourse delivered in an impure atmosphere, heated and poisoned by human breath, and carefully preserved from every refreshing infusion of natural air.
I am persuaded that, the more of open-air preaching there is in London, the better. If it should become a nuisance to some people, it will be a blessing to others, if properly conducted. If it be the gospel, which is spoken, and if the spirit of the preacher be one of love and truth, the results cannot be doubted: the bread cast upon the waters will be found again after many days. The truth must, however, be preached in a manner worth the hearing, for mere noise-making is an evil rather than a benefit. I know a family almost driven out of their senses by the hideous shouting of monotonous exhortations, and the howling of “Safe in the arms of Jesus,” near their door every Sabbath afternoon by the year together. They are zealous Christians, and would willingly help their tormentors if they saw the slightest probability of usefulness from the violent bawling; but, as they seldom see a hearer, and do not think that what is spoken would do any good if it were heard, they complain that they are compelled to lose their few hours of quiet because two good men think it their duty to perform a noisy but perfectly useless service. I once saw a man preaching with no hearer but a dog, which sat upon its tail, and looked up very reverently while its master orated. There were no people at the windows, nor passing by; but the brother and his dog were at their post, whether the people would hear or whether they would forbear. Once, also, I passed an earnest declaimer, whose hat was on the ground before him, filled with papers, and there was not even a dog for an audience, nor anyone within hearing, yet did he “waste his sweetness on the desert air.” I hope it relieved his own mind. Really, it must be viewed as an essential part of a sermon that somebody should hear it; it cannot be a great benefit to the world to have sermons preached in vacuo.
Many years ago, I preached to enormous assemblies in King Edward’s Road, Hackney (see Vol. II., page 92), which was then open fields. On those occasions, the rush was perilous to life and limb, and there seemed no limit to the throngs. Half the number would have been safer. That open space has vanished, and it is the same with fields at Brixton, where, in years gone by, it was delightful to see the assembled crowds listening to the Word. Burdened with the rare trouble of drawing too many together, I have been compelled to abstain from these exercises in London, but not from any lessened sense of their importance. With the Tabernacle always full, I have as large a congregation as I desire at home, and therefore do not preach outside except in the country; but for those ministers whose area under cover is but small, and whose congregations are thin, the open air is the remedy, whether in London or in the provinces.
My friend, Mr. Abraham, once produced for me a grand cathedral in Oxfordshire. The remains of it are still called “Spurgeon’s Tabernacle,” and may be seen near Minster Lovell, in the form of a quadrilateral of oaks. Originally, it was the beau ideal of a preaching-place, for it was a cleared spot in the thick forest of Wychwood, and was reached by roads cut through the dense underwood. I shall never forget those “alleys green” and the verdant walls which shut them in. When you reached the inner temple, it consisted of a large square, out of which the underwood and smaller trees had been cut away, while a sufficient number of young oaks had been left to rise to a considerable height, and then overshadow us with their branches. Here was a really magnificent cathedral, with pillars and arches: a temple not made with hands, of which we might truly say,—
“Father, Thy hand
Hath reared these venerable columns, Thou
Didst weave this verdant roof.”
I have never, either at home or on the Continent, seen architecture which could rival my cathedral. “Lo, we heard of it at Ephratah: we found it in the fields of the wood.” The blue sky was visible through our clerestory, and from the great window at the further end, the sun smiled upon us toward evening. It was grand, indeed, to worship thus beneath the vaulted firmament, beyond the sound of city hum, where everything around us ministered to quiet fellowship with God. That spot is now cleared, and the place of our assembly has been selected at a little distance from it. It is of much the same character, only that my boundary walls of forest growth have disappeared, to give place to an open expanse of ploughed fields. Only the pillars and the roof of my temple remain; but I am still glad, like the Druids, to worship among the oak trees. One year, a dove had built her nest just above my head; and she continued flying to and fro, to feed her young, while the sermon proceeded. Why not? Where should she be more at home than where the Lord of love and Prince of peace was adored? It is true, my arched cathedral is not waterproof, and other showers besides those of grace have sometimes descended upon the congregation; but this has its advantages, for it makes us the more grateful when the day is propitious, and the very precariousness of the weather excites a large amount of earnest prayer.
I once preached a sermon, in the open air, in haying time, during a violent storm of rain. The text was, “He shall come down like rain upon the mown grass: as showers that water the earth,” and surely we had the blessing as well as the inconvenience. I was sufficiently wet, and my congregation must have been drenched; but they stood it out, and I never heard that anybody was the worse in health, though, I thank God, I have heard of souls brought to Jesus under that discourse. Once in a while, and under strong excitement, such things do no one any harm; but we are not to expect miracles, nor wantonly venture upon a course of procedure which might kill the sickly, and lay the foundations of disease in the strong.
I well remember preaching between the Cheddar Cliffs. What a noble position! What beauty and sublimity! But there was great danger from falling pieces of stone, moved by the people who sat upon the higher portions of the cliff, and hence I would not choose such a spot again. Concluding a discourse in that place, I called upon those mighty rocks to bear witness that I had preached the gospel to the people, and to be a testimony against them at the last great day, if they rejected the message. Many years afterwards, I heard of a person to whom that appeal was made useful by the Holy Spirit.
Pastor T. B. Field, now of Crewe, has kindly furnished the following particulars relating to that memorable visit to Cheddar, on September 10, 1862. The spot chosen for the afternoon service was a natural amphitheatre at the entrance to the cliffs, and it was estimated that at least ten thousand persons were present. A temporary platform had been erected for the preacher, and Mr. Spurgeon commenced the service by saying, “Let us make these old rocks resound to the praise of God.” The first hymn was,—”All people that on earth do dwell;” and another that was sung was,—”Rock of ages, cleft for me.”
The text—John xiv. 6, “I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by Me;”—was written on a great scroll, and fastened to the side of a house, so that the whole congregation could see it. About fifteen hundred persons remained to tea in the Baptist Chapel and burial-ground; and, at the evening service, held in a tent on Bridge Hill just above the cliffs, there was again an enormous crowd. The sermon was upon “The lifting up of the bowed down,” the text being taken from Luke xiii. 11—13. One sentence in the discourse has been remembered even to the present day:—”All the devils in hell could not make the woman crooked again after the Lord had made her straight.”
Mr. Field closes his account of the notable day by saying, “Such crowds have never been seen in Cheddar since; and the good folks of that little town consider that they have been favoured above many, for the prince of preachers has been there. Mr. Spurgeon’s visit has had great influence upon the place; and from that time the Baptist community there has been and still is the most influential church for miles round.”
It would be very easy to prove that revivals of religion have usually been accompanied, if not caused, by a considerable amount of preaching out of doors, or in unusual places. The first avowed proclamation of Protestant doctrine was almost necessarily in the open air, or in buildings which were not dedicated to worship, for these were in the hands of the Papacy. True, Wycliffe for a while preached the gospel in the church of Lutterworth; and Huss, and Jerome, and Savonarola for a time delivered semi-gospel addresses in connection with the ecclesiastical arrangements around them; but when they began more fully to know the gospel, and to publish it abroad, they were driven to find other platforms. The Reformation, when yet a babe, was like the newborn Christ, and had not where to lay its head; but a company of men, comparable to the heavenly host, proclaimed it under the open heavens, where shepherds and common people heard them gladly. Throughout England, we have several trees still remaining, which are called “gospel oaks.” I have myself preached at Addlestone, in Surrey, under the far-spreading boughs of an ancient oak, beneath which John Knox is said to have proclaimed the gospel during his sojourn in England.
Concerning the proceedings on the occasion of Mr. Spurgeon’s visit to Addlestone, Pastor R. Shindler writes:—”It was on July 12, 1872. Mr. Edward Leach was then Pastor of the Baptist Church there, and a larger chapel was needed for his increasing congregation. In the afternoon, Mr. Spurgeon laid the memorial stone, and gave an address upon ‘The Romeward tendency of the Established Church, and the duty of Nonconformists in relation thereto.’ The force, point, and pungency of his remarks on this important theme can well be perceived by those who knew him, and they would be even more pertinent at the present time. In the evening, Mr. Spurgeon preached, under the Crouch Oak, from Matt. ix. 36, his theme being, ‘The tenderness of the Lord Jesus.’ The old oak had not then, we believe, been enclosed.
It now stands within the grounds of Crouch Oak House, the residence of Mr. F. J. Marnham, J.P., who kindly supplied the photograph from which the artwork on page 368 has been made.
The tree was once within the bounds of Windsor Forest, and various traditions and legends associate with it the names of Wycliffe, Whitefield, and Wesley, who are all said to have preached beneath its wide-spreading branches. Mr. Spurgeon’s audience was gathered from many miles around, and his visit marks an era in the history of this growing suburb of the town of Chertsey.”
I preached at Bristol, many years ago, in the open air; and the service was specially interesting to me from the fact that I had a repetition in my own experience of the scene which Mr. Whitefield had there witnessed long before. He said, concerning one of his sermons to the colliers at Kingswood:—’The first discovery of their being affected was, seeing the white gutters made by their tears, which plentifully fell down their black cheeks, for they had come to the service straight from the coal-pits.’ I also had a crowd of sailors and colliers—men with black faces—to listen to me, and when I began to talk to them about Christ’s redeeming work, I saw the tears streaming down their cheeks; they put up their hands, as if to brush away something from their faces, but really it was in order to hide their tears. It was an affecting sight to behold those rough men broken down under the preaching of the gospel, and I could fully sympathize with what Mr. Whitefield wrote, concerning similar services:—’The open firmament above me, the prospect of the adjacent fields, with the sight of thousands and thousands of people, some in coaches, some on horseback, and some in the trees, and, often, all melted to tears,—to which sometimes was added the solemnity of the approaching evening,—this was almost too much for me to bear; and, occasionally, it quite overcame me.’
Supplementing Mr. Spurgeon’s own records of preaching in the open air, many friends, in various parts of the country, have supplied reminiscences of services which they are never likely to forget; but only a few of these can be inserted here. One enthusiastic Welsh brother has compiled a list of the outdoor gatherings in Wales addressed by the dear Pastor. Many of them must have been very notable occasions; the congregations were so large that there was great difficulty in reckoning, with exactness, the number of hearers. Of one assembly, it is said that “Mr. Spurgeon calculated that 28,000 persons were present;” and of another, “the people estimated the crowd at 30,000 to 35,000; Mr. Spurgeon said 25,000.”
A memorable incident, connected with an open-air service at Rowland’s Castle, near Havant, has only recently been reported by Rev. D. A. Doudney, the Editor of The Gospel Magazine , although it occurred forty years ago. On July 12, 1859, Mr. Spurgeon preached twice, in a beautiful valley, to large congregations; and, towards the end of the evening sermon, he made a powerful appeal to his hearers in the manner that Mr. Doudney thus describes:—”The valley in which we were assembled was a lovely one. It was surrounded by hills clothed with woods and verdure, and on that evening the atmosphere was perfectly calm and still. The sun, which had been shining brightly all day, was sinking in the West; and the large concourse of people, listening with fixed attention to the earnest pleadings of the young preacher, made altogether a scene which one could not easily forget; but although Mr. Spurgeon had spoken with considerable force and energy during the day, and used his noble voice so that every one of his auditors must have heard him distinctly, I, for one, had not noticed that there was a remarkable echo at the spot. The preacher, however, had evidently observed it, and he used the fact in a most effective way. When he came to the close of his last appeal, he exclaimed, with great deliberation and impressiveness, ‘Yea, even Nature herself confirms and repeats these gracious invitations, for she too says, again and again,’—here he raised his voice to its highest pitch, and shouted with wonderful power the words—’Come,—Come,—Come.’ And, instantly, amidst the breathless silence of the congregation, the words were echoed from the hills around, again and again, until they softly died away in the distance,—’Come,—Come,—Come,—Come,—Come.’ A thrill, like an electric shock, passed through the audience, and probably most of those who were present will remember the circumstance as long as they live.”
Pastor W. Cuff writes, as follows, concerning a service in a meadow at Naunton, on the Cotswold Hills:—”I rode from Cheltenham, on horseback, to hear dear Mr. Spurgeon. I had not then long been converted, and had only just begun to—
Tell to sinners round
What a dear Saviour I had found.
“It was in 1864, in the midst of his abounding labours and unparalleled popularity. There were thousands of people present, inside and outside the huge tent. A farm-waggon was his rustic pulpit, and his text was, Acts xiv. 9, 10. The dear man was in one of his happiest moods, and all the wheels of his mind and heart were oiled. Oh, how he did preach! His rich, melodious voice seemed more mellow and musical than ever as it sounded and swelled over the audience in sweetest cadences, rising and falling in rousing and melting tones. It swayed and moved the mass of people, and rang round the meadow, and echoed back from the little hills above the valley with majesty and power both human and Divine, for the Lord was there, speaking through His beloved servant. It was Heaven on earth to be there. Ah, me! It is only a memory now; but it is very vivid, and it abides amongst the most precious treasures of my life. It stirred my soul to its very depths, and I there and then vowed that I would preach Jesus Christ as he did if that could be possible to me. Sinners must have been converted on the spot, and I know that saints were blessed.
“Mr. Harrald will remember the truly wonderful open-air service at Stowmarket, in Suffolk. It was held in the garden grounds of Mr. Manning Prentice. The trees were full of people; and they looked like big birds roosting on the branches. I think it was in 1868, and I know the text was, ‘With His stripes we are healed.’ It was a marvellous sermon.
“I could not help writing the letter, as my heart is full. I loved our glorified President from the first time I met him, and I have always said that, under God, I owe to him everything I have done in the Lord’s work. The Shoreditch Tabernacle is his far more than it is mine, for it would never have been built but for C. H. Spurgeon. What could I have been, or done, but for the Pastors’ College? Those who knew me in my early days know best what the College did for me. I can only lovingly and gratefully revere the memory of Mr. Spurgeon, and bless the Lord that I ever knew him.”
One other notable open-air service just comes within the period covered by the present volume; it is specially memorable because of the very tender way in which Mr. Spurgeon’s large Scotch congregation bade him farewell.
The print artwork on page 372 is reproduced from the photograph presented by the dear Pastor to his private secretary on his return from Scotland.
And the incident is described by Pastor A. G. Short, now of Herne Hill, who writes:—”I was at Rothesay, spending a brief holiday, when our ever-beloved President preached there in 1878. The mere fact that Mr. Spurgeon was announced to preach, created great interest all along the Clyde; and in Rothesay, as the day fixed on (Sunday, July 28,) drew near, every scrap of information concerning the proposed service was greedily devoured. On the Saturday, Bute’s bright little capital received a large temporary addition to its summer population. Many yachts, too, came and anchored in the bay. Mr. Duncan’s yacht, with Mr. Spurgeon on board, arrived about 3 p.m.; and in a few minutes the word had gone all over Rothesay, ‘Mr. Spurgeon is in the bay.’ Directly on his arrival, our dear Brother Crabb (who is still the respected Pastor of the Rothesay Baptist Church) and I went off in a boat to greet our President, and to tell him what preparations had been made for the morrow.
“The next evening, Mr. Spurgeon preached, with marvellous power, to a congregation supposed to number from fifteen to twenty thousand persons. I need hardly say that the service was greatly enjoyed by the great company of worshippers. When it was over, the dear preacher rested for a while in the Provost’s garden, to allow the crowds to disperse; but they evidently did not intend to leave him quite in that fashion. As they knew that he would have to go in a boat to reach the yacht, they gathered in thousands along the sea-wall. When Mr. Spurgeon stepped into the boat, and the sailors began to ply their oars, as one looked along the crescent-shaped front, it seemed as if every person in that vast gathering had brought a white handkerchief for the special purpose of waving it in his honour. I have witnessed many touching scenes in my day, but I do not think I ever saw anything more impressive than the sight of those thousands of true-hearted Scotch people saying, by their silent action, better than they could have said it in words,—’Accept our heartiest thanks for your sermon, and may God bless you at all times!’ That was Scotland’s way of bidding a Sabbath adieu to the great and good man she loved so well; and not until he was on board the yacht did the farewell signals cease to flutter in the evening breeze.”