NEWBURYPORT, Mass. – Every year, as many as 1,000 pilgrims journey to this seaside town from as far away as England and South Korea, just to be near a preacher who never says a word.
Pastor Rob John at the crypt of George Whitefield.
Their destination is First Presbyterian “Old South” Church, a 91-member Presbyterian Church (USA) congregation led by Pastor Rob John. He admits he’s not the big draw.
“They’re not coming for worship,” Rev. John says with a laugh. “They’re coming to see the crypt.”
He’s referring to the tomb of Rev. George Whitefield (pronounced “Wit’-field”) – the “Great Itinerant” preacher who led the First Great Awakening in the colonial era and made exuberant, open-air revival meetings a staple of American religion. Whitefield, who died when passing through Newburyport in 1770, is buried here beneath the pulpit. That makes Old South eternally blessed and also burdened, according to the people of the church.
Internally, members celebrate their Whitefield connection. A sanctuary plaque acknowledges Whitefield as the congregation’s founder: The church formed in response to his 1742 visit to town. A hulking cenotaph near the pulpit honors him as a preacher of unparalleled influence who was at once “bold, fervent, pungent and popular.” Two glass display cases in the narthex exhibit Whitefield memorabilia, such as a bust, a signed letter and a hymn he wrote for his own funeral. Every Sunday’s coffee hour includes a guided tour of the tomb.
‘The Whitefield Church’
But publicly, the place known to evangelicals near and far as “The Whitefield Church” intentionally maintains a low-profile vis-à-vis its founder. No signs outside the church or anywhere else in town suggest a towering figure in the history of Christianity is buried there. The crypt receives no public promotion apart from a mention on the church’s Web site: www.oldsouthnbpt.org.
“Sometimes it’s a burden [to have Whitefield’s remains] because we concentrate too much on history and not enough on how God is working in our lives,” says church member Jean Hansen. “I don’t want [the relics] to interfere with my relationship with God.”
Rev. John has studied Whitefield, visited local sites associated with his ministry and prepared sermons “while he’s looking down” from a portrait above John’s office door. Still, John believes the church must not actively promote the crypt as a site of interest because doing so might jeopardize the church’s ministries in the community.
“I could spend all day every day showing people around here,” John says. “That would definitely happen if we were to advertise or promote it.”
Despite the crypt’s low public profile, legions of Whitefield admirers learn about it from his biographies, John says. Then they beat their way to Old South. Over the past two years, crypt visitors have come from 41 states and 22 countries. One out of every six church members is trained to give tomb tours in order to accommodate daily requests in summer. Many come from evangelicals who regard Whitefield as a hero.
“I get this phone call or one like it probably three times a month: ‘Rev. John, this is Rev. Smith from Beaufort, South Carolina,’” John says. “‘I’m a student of Rev. George Whitefield. I understand he’s buried beneath the pulpit of your church. I’m visiting New England next month, and I’d like to make an appointment to come by and see the crypt.’”
Such foot traffic keeps Rev. John and volunteer tour guides especially busy during the warm months, when other area congregations are all but closed for vacation. It’s also given the church a selling point for Rev. John to use when petitioning city councilors for grant money to repair a water-damaged steeple atop the 1756 building.
Travelers come from far and wide to pay homage because they see Whitefield as God’s chosen messenger in a formative period when flames of faith needed kindling. Skepticism had reigned in this area for some 50 years after the Salem Witch Trials of 1692, but Whitefield in dramatic fashion convicted tens of thousands of their sins and their need for divine mercy. He brought masses to teary repentance and to a passionate new faith in Jesus Christ. In the view of Yale University historian Harry Stout, Whitefield set the stage for the rise of modern evangelicalism.
A virtual Protestant shrine
Ever since his death 239 years ago, Whitefield’s tomb has been a place of pilgrimage – a virtual Protestant shrine – according to historian Robert Cray Jr. News of Whitefield’s death traveled fast. Church delegations from as far away as Boston, Portsmouth and Georgia traveled to Newburyport to take possession of his remains, but members of Old South refused.
During the Revolution and the Republic’s early days, thousands came to pay homage and view Whitefield’s uncovered body. Many, perceiving holiness in their midst, left with snippets of his clothing in order to take a piece of the holy with them. In 1829, someone stole a forearm bone, triggering local outrage and demands for it to be returned. Twenty years later, an Englishman repented of the crime. Thousands proceeded to the church in an 1849 ceremony to return the bone and restore the holy man’s bodily integrity. The tomb remained open until 1933, when custodians feared it was becoming for some visitors a macabre freak show and ordered it closed.
Content to wait
Today, visitors descend a short staircase to a seemingly ordinary basement, where an oil-burning furnace churns and folding chairs await the next big function. But there the ordinary ends. Under glass, open guest books contain signatures dating to 1869. Signatories came even then from the likes of Indiana and Ohio, even though such a trip was at the time a multi-day ordeal. To the side, a gold-plated plaque features a Whitefield quote, about his controversial reputation: “I am content to wait till the Day of Judgment for the clearing of my character.” Inside a covered alcove, a white plaster skull replica sits atop a plaster replica of the Bible. There beneath a black marble slab, Whitefield is buried alongside the remains of two of the church’s early pastors.
“We realize many people come here because of [Whitefield],” John says. “But we’re a living, breathing church. We want to be missional, which means reaching out, rather than just having people coming in. But it’s hard because people are drawn to us… It’s a challenge.”
Having Whitefield buried on site makes some in the church eager to know more about him. Churchgoer Nancy Burke, for instance, is reading a Whitefield biography this winter. Others repeat a disputed legend, which says Whitefield had always wanted to be buried at Old South, when in fact he’s likely there only because he died in a neighboring house. Others are still trying to figure out what his connection to the congregation really was.
Meanwhile, churchgoers at Old South continue to wrestle with how much to focus on what Rev. John calls “our world-famous basement” and the man who made it so.
“I think it’s sort of energizing” for the church to be custodian of Whitefield’s remains, says Kara Peters, a new church member who grew up in western Pennsylvania. “But I want this to be a living church, not a museum.”