How he came to be placed in a crypt beneath the sanctuary of the Old South Church is a story well-told and easily found elsewhere. It’s the scene of the crypt itself I want to reflect on, as it has never ceased to entertain my pastoral imagination when I think of it.
The church itself doesn’t look much different from countless other historic New England village churches—dingy white clapboard ornamented by a dingy white cupola and clock tower. (The steeple was damaged in a 1938 hurricane and never replaced.) It’s a little bigger than most, the sanctuary spacious and high-ceilinged with an ascendant altar and pulpit set in front of a dramatic arrangement of gold and white curtains and overlooking the many rows of boxed pews below. It’s the Old South Church in Newburyport, Massachusetts, and what it lacks in architectural uniqueness it more than makes up for in historical notoriety.
For one, the bell in the tower was hung by Paul Revere. And down in the bowels of the church, almost literally “buried beneath the pulpit,” is perhaps the greatest American preacher of the late 18th century and one of the leading figures—if not the leading figure—in the first Great Awakening, George Whitefield.
How he came to be placed in a crypt beneath the sanctuary of the Old South Church is a story well-told and easily found elsewhere. It’s the scene of the crypt itself I want to reflect on, as it has never ceased to entertain my pastoral imagination when I think of it.
I was never able to visit Whitefield’s final resting place when I was pastoring in New England, though I always wanted to. I have now visited the scene twice, both as part of the Midwestern Seminary New England study tour (occurring in the spring on odd years). The first time you see it, you may be a little underwhelmed. The crypt itself is nice enough, though it resembles a bit too much an old-world brick oven. If it weren’t for the replica of Whitefield’s white skull cast on top of a Bible, you might want to slide a pizza in there.
Do I sound irreverent? Well, picture this, then: You and maybe seven others (the space is small) make your way down a narrow, rickety staircase into the church furnace room. You and your fellow pilgrims must bow when you approach, not because of some penitent’s custom but because the ceiling is so low. It’s dark. It’s a little dank. There are cobwebs about, and the faint smell of mold in the cold subterranean air strikes the one accustomed to New England basements as utterly familiar.
