Two years passed by, and John determined to go back to England. He felt he was doing no good, and that all his labors, both for himself and for others, had been in vain. He was sad and discouraged.
On December 22nd, 1737, he sailed from Charlestown, leaving Mr. Delamotte behind in America. He was now without any friends, and had plenty of time to think over the past years of his life. The more he thought, the more unhappy he became. How was it that he had for so many years tried hard to be a Christian, and yet after all he could see no sign that he was “nearer to being one,” as he says in his journal?
On the 8th of January, 1738, whilst still in the ship, he wrote down that he was now convinced of unbelief and of pride, and he adds, “Lord, save, or I perish!” He tried still to make himself happier by teaching the cabin-boy and some Negroes who were on board, and for a little while felt more cheerful. But this was not the peace of God which fills the heart of those who believe, whether they have work to do or not. John Wesley was like the lawyer in Luke 10, who was inquiring for the neighbor to whom he might do good, and the Lord had to show him the humbling lesson, that what he needed was a neighbor who would do good to him. The Lord did not say to the lawyer, when He had told him the story of the Samaritan, “Who thinkest thou was the neighbor of the Samaritan?” but “Who thinkest thou was the neighbor of him who fell among the thieves?” That is to say, He did not in this story put the lawyer in as the Samaritan, but as the poor, helpless, penniless man, who could do nothing and pay nothing. Perhaps the lawyer never understood this. But it was a truth which poor John Wesley was now at last to learn.
On January 24th he wrote in his journal the following words, over which we can well believe there was joy in the presence of the angels of God—“I went to America to convert the Indians! But, oh! who shall convert me? Who, what is he that will deliver me from this evil heart of unbelief? I can talk well—nay, and believe myself, while no danger is near, but let death look me in the face, and my spirit is troubled.
“‘I have a sin of fear that, when I’ve spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore.’“
And yet again he tried to take comfort in the thought that he had given and did give all his goods to feed the poor, and that he “followed after charity.” But that thought could give him no comfort when he thought of death. “Oh! who will deliver me,” he writes, “from this fear of death? What shall I do? Where shall I fly from it?”
A day or two later a ship bound for Georgia passed in sight. John Wesley did not know that on board that ship was his old friend George Whitefield. On the 1st of February John Wesley landed at Deal, and wrote in his journal—“It is now two years and almost four months since I left my native country, in order to teach the Georgian Indians the nature of Christianity—but what have I learned myself in the meantime? Why (what I the least of all suspected), that I, who went to America to convert others, was never myself converted to God. I am not mad, though I thus speak, but I speak the words of truth and soberness, if haply some of those who still dream may awake, and see, that as I am, so are they. Are they read in philosophy? So was I. In ancient or modern tongues? So was I also. Are they versed in the science of divinity? I too have studied it many years. Can they talk fluently upon spiritual things? The very same could I do. Are they plenteous in alms? Behold I gave all my goods to feed the poor. Do they give of their labor as well as of their substance? I have labored more abundantly than they all. Are they willing to suffer for their brethren? I have thrown up my friends, reputation, ease, country. I have put my life in my hand, wandering into strange lands; I have given my body to be devoured by the deep, parched up with heat, consumed by toil and weariness, or whatsoever God should please to bring upon me. But does all this (be it more or less, it matters not,) make me acceptable to God? Does all I ever did or can know, say, give, do, or suffer, justify me in His sight? Yea, or the constant use of all the means of grace? Or that I know nothing of myself, that I am as touching outward, moral righteousness, blameless? Or to come closer yet, the having a rational conviction of all the truths of Christianity? Does all this give me a claim to the holy, heavenly, divine character of a Christian? By no means. If the oracles of God are true, if we are still to abide by the law and the testimony, all these things, though when ennobled by faith in Christ, they are holy and just, and good, yet without it are dung and dross, meet only to be purged away by the fire that never shall be quenched. This, then, have I learned in the ends of the earth; that I am fallen short of the glory of God, that my whole heart is altogether corrupt and abominable, and consequently my whole life; seeing it cannot be that an evil tree should bring forth good fruit; that alienated as I am from the life of God, I am a child of wrath, an heir of hell; that my own works, my own sufferings, my own righteousness, are so far from making any atonement for the least of those sins, which are more in number than the hairs of my head, that the best of them need an atonement themselves, or they cannot abide His righteous judgment; that, having the sentence of death in my heart, and having nothing in or of myself to plead, I have no hope but that of being justified freely through the redemption that is in Jesus, I have no hope but that if I seek, I shall find Christ,” (he did not then see that it was Christ who was seeking him) “and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of God by faith. If it be said that I have faith (for many such things have I heard from many miserable comforters) I answer, so have the devils, a sort of faith, but still they are strangers to the covenant of promise...the faith I want is, a sure trust and confidence in God, that, through the merits of Christ, my sins are forgiven, and I reconciled to the favor of God. I want that faith which St. Paul recommends to all the world, especially in his epistle to the Romans; that faith which enables every one that hath it to cry out, ‘I live not, but Christ liveth in me—and the life which I now live, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.’”
You will see from this that God in His great mercy had now opened John Wesley’s eyes to see that he was nothing but a poor lost sinner. He now knew that he was, as the Lord Jesus says of the Laodiceans, wretched and miserable, and poor and blind and naked, and this, too, whilst he, like the Laodiceans, had been thinking himself rich and increased with goods, and needing nothing. It was a great step to know this much. But there are some who go thus far, and no further, and it is not by knowing ourselves as sinners, but by knowing Jesus as our own precious Saviour that we have eternal life. This second step John had not yet learned, but he was now longing thus to know Christ, and was ready to listen to anyone who would teach him the simple gospel of God. But of all his friends in England, there does not seem to have been one from whom he could have learned it. He might, no doubt, have learned it from the Bible, but in most cases, almost in every case, God is pleased to make use of His people in saving the souls of others. Faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God. A messenger of the good tidings was ready in God’s good time to tell John Wesley the words whereby he might be saved. As man would say, this happened by chance. I will tell you how. After Wesley landed at Deal, he went on to London. I told you that he landed on the 1st of February. On the 5th of February, which was Sunday, he preached at a church in London, on the text “If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature.” Though he did not yet understand the gospel, and therefore could not have preached it fully, there was something about this sermon quite different from his former preaching. He was now himself awakened, and there was such a reality in what he said that the people who heard him were much offended, and he was told he must preach in that church no more.
On Monday and Tuesday he went to visit his old friends in London, and it was on Tuesday that he first saw the servant of God who was to speak to him the words of grace and peace. This was, again, a German Moravian