Sarah Anne Cooke had recently immigrated from England. Just ten years older than Dwight, she seemed wise in the ways of God and attended numerous religious meetings with regularity. A Free Methodist, Mrs. Cooke, as a friend described her, “spoke only in the language of Zion, was full of good works, and buttonholed the unwary to exhort them to flee from the wrath to come.”
Attending a camp meeting in June 1871, Mrs. Cooke said reverently, “A burden came on me for Mr. Moody, that the Lord would give him the baptism of the Holy Ghost and of fire.” Soon she solicited her friend Mrs. Hawxhurst, who was a widow, to pray with her.
The two women seated themselves in the front row of Dwight’s church, and while he preached, they prayed.
After the service they would say to him, “We have been praying for you.”
Unnerved, Dwight responded, “Why don’t you pray for the people?”
The ladies: “Because you need the power of the Spirit.”
Disgusted, Dwight muttered through his beard, “I need the power?”
They paid him no attention but just continued praying and, as they had opportunity, they spoke to him.
He resented them sitting in the front row, and it became increasingly difficult to preach. The women persisted. At first they found “little conviction of his need,” but as they continued to pray, Dwight asked them to come to his home and talk with him.
While there, the ladies poured out their hearts in prayer, asking God to fill Dwight with the power of the Holy Spirit. Unexpectedly, a great hunger began to form in Dwight’s soul. He said later, “I did not know what it was, and I began to cry out as I never did before. I really felt that I did not want to live if I could not have this power for service.”
UNEXPECTEDLY, A GREAT HUNGER BEGAN TO FORM IN DWIGHT’S SOUL.
But the power would not come, perhaps because Dwight refused to heed the call “to go out all over the land.”
In September, Dwight invited Mrs. Cooke, whom he called “Auntie,” and Mrs. Hawxhurst to pray with him each Friday afternoon in his room at Farwell Hall. They all prayed aloud in turn. On Friday, October 6, as Mrs. Cooke said later, “Mr. Moody’s agony was so great that he rolled on the floor and in the midst of many tears and groans cried to God to be baptized with the Holy Ghost and with fire.”
Silence reigned—the heavens were as brass with no answer forthcoming from heaven.
Dwight’s inner struggle refused to resolve—he would not place himself on the altar, would not yield to God in his determination to stay in Chicago. How could he leave the thriving mission building on Illinois Street? Who else could hold sway in that great monument to his organizing zeal, Farwell Hall, with its two hundred gas jets, its monstrous reflectors, its seats for 2,500, its splendid organ? Nothing should move him from these two dear buildings…but still Dwight heard the still small voice whispering to his spirit: “Go out and preach the Gospel all over the land.” Surely God couldn’t be telling him to leave everything he had worked for!
That Sunday evening, October 8, a capacity crowd filled Far-well Hall. Dwight’s message went forth supercharged, and Sankey sang “Today the Savior Calls” like an angel. As Sankey reached the closing words of the third verse—“and death is night”—the loud noise of fire engines rushing past the hall drowned out his voice. Then, the deep, sonorous tones of the great city bell in the old courthouse steeple pealed forth their warning alarm.
Confusion reigned in the street as people rushed by, and Dwight decided to close the meeting at once because of the audience’s restlessness and growing anxiety.
As Dwight and Sankey sprinted out the back door, they glimpsed an angry red smudge in the southwest part of the sky. Immediately, they separated, Sankey to help at the scene, and Dwight to cross the river for home to reassure Emma and the children. As he hurried along, the southwest wind rose almost to hurricane force, and the sky became bright with a fireworks display as sparks blew and house after house caught fire from the hungry flames. Bursting into his house, Dwight cried out to Emma, “The city’s doomed!”
By midnight the ravenous flames had engulfed much of Chicago. Crashing buildings, wild neighing of terrified horses, and shouts of firefighters and refugees combined in an ominous cacophony. Sankey ran back to Farwell Hall, all the while shaking falling embers from his coat. Hastily, he grabbed a few of his belongings and headed for Lake Michigan.
BY MIDNIGHT THE RAVENOUS FLAMES HAD ENGULFED MUCH OF CHICAGO.
The Moody home, temporarily thought to be secure, was quickly roused to action when police knocked on their door at midnight. As he speedily gathered some Bibles and a few valuables, Dwight arranged for a neighbor who owned a horse and buggy to take the children to friends in a northern suburb.
Emma begged Dwight to save the Healy portrait. Laughingly, Dwight exclaimed, “Take my own picture! That would be a joke. Suppose I meet some friends in the same trouble as ourselves and they say, ‘Hullo, Moody, glad you have escaped. What’s that you’ve saved and cling to so affectionately?’ Wouldn’t it sound great to reply, ‘Oh, I’ve got my own portrait!’ ” Just then, looters entered their home, and one of them politely cut the portrait loose from its ornate frame and handed it to a grateful Emma.
The fire raged throughout the next day. Thousands of homeless poured out of the city in an endless stream, thieves looted, martial law was proclaimed, and buildings were blown up to make a fire break. For twenty-four hours Dwight and Emma had no idea whether their children had been trapped or saved, and Emma’s hair started to turn gray. They hoped and prayed that Sankey had not been burned to death. Later they discovered that he had spent the night at lakeside with his little bundle of belongings. The next day, he took refuge in a boat on the lake.
By Wednesday the fire had burned out, but Chicago lay in ruins. Neighboring states provided some relief, much of it badly organized.
Everything he had labored for lay in shambles, so Dwight began to build again. Much of his ability resided in the area of solicitation, so he contacted all those who could possibly help in rebuilding. In Philadelphia, George H. Stuart and John Wanamaker contributed generously. Then Dwight traveled to New York to meet with several wealthy prospects.
EVERYTHING HE HAD LABORED FOR LAY IN SHAMBLES, SO DWIGHT BEGAN TO BUILD AGAIN.
Writing to a would-be benefactor in New York on November 24, 1871, Dwight stated:
My dear Sir, you know something of the sad state of things in Chicago so far as the spiritual work is concerned. Fifty churches and missions are in ashes and the thousands of men, women and children are without any Sabbath home. The temporal wants of the people are well supplied but there is no money to rebuild the churches and missions. The churches in the part of the city that was spared can do nothing. Their moneyed men are either bankrupt or as badly crippled as to prevent them from helping outside enterprises. My mission school and Free Church, on the north Side, went with the rest….My plan is to raise $50,000 and put up a Tabernacle to accommodate seven or eight burnt out Missions….Will you help us?
Yours respectfully, D. L. Moody
The response to Dwight’s efforts proved to be generous, but he could scarcely face the prospect of rebuilding. To be reduced almost to begging for funds disgusted him. Inwardly, he puzzled over his attitude. Didn’t he believe in the work anymore? His heart certainly wasn’t in pleading with others to give him money for these projects. He had done this so many times! No, his heart cried out for the filling of the Holy Spirit. That desire overwhelmed him and ruled over all others.
As he walked the streets of New York, he reviewed the situation. Farwell Hall and Illinois Street were in ashes, the ten or dozen committees had scattered like dying embers, nor could he face the exhaustion of reorganization. Had God burned him out that he should go all over the country, perhaps the world? But Dwight still said no. All the chains binding him to Chicago had snapped except one: his own will.
Dwight’s inner turmoil continued unabated. He craved power! He began to march around New York streets at night, wrestling, panting for a Pentecost.
In broad daylight he walked down one of New York’s busiest streets, Broadway or Fifth Avenue, he scarcely remembered which, while crowds jostled and pushed by and carriages and cabs jingled in the streets and newsboys shouted in his ears. The last chain snapped. Quietly, without a struggle, he surrendered.
Immediately an overpowering sense of God’s presence flooded his soul. He felt as though Almighty God Himself had come to him. He needed to be alone in some private place. Quickly he hurried to the house of a nearby friend, disregarding an invitation to “come and have some food.” Dwight told his friend softly, “I wish to be alone. Let me have a room where I can lock myself in.”
His understanding host led him to a private room in the rear of the house. Dwight locked the door and sat on the sofa. The room seemed ablaze with God. He stretched out on the floor and lay bathing his soul in the Divine. Of this communion, this mountaintop experience, he wrote later, “I can only say that God revealed Himself to me, and I had such an experience of His love that I had to ask Him to stay His hand.”
The former turmoil vanished, conquered by an overwhelming sense of God’s peace. Dwight’s resolute will and determination suddenly came under new management as God remolded him and left him as gentle and tender as a baby.
No more would he choose his path. It was up to God to do that. He would lead, He would supply; Dwight need thirst no more. The dead, dry days were gone. Thankfully, Dwight thought, I was all the time tugging and carrying water. But now I have a river that carries me.
Nearby a church clock chimed the quarter, the half, three quarters, the hour, and the hour again. Dwight lay still, hardly daring to move. Crazy Moody had become Moody, the man of God.