Chapter 32: "A Contradictory Gospel"

Chapter 32.
"A Contradictory Gospel" The Strict Baptists again—James Wells refuses to Preach with Spurgeon—Various Opinions—"The Saint and his Saviour"—Sample Extracts—A Prophecy.

During the year 1857 the doctrines preached by Mr. Spurgeon were again subjected to the criticisms of the Strict Baptists, who were also extreme Calvinists. The leader of the attack was no other than James Wells himself, who, as the ablest man of his denomination, was the recognised champion of his party. The veneration this eloquent preacher inspired was extraordinary; the influence he exercised was that of an apostle. "James Wells is sent of God to bring His people out of bondage," remarked one of his disciples; "this is his peculiar work; and where is there a man that can knock down a 'duty-faith' fabric and wheel away the rubbish like him?" In the spring of 1857 Mr. Wells had engaged to preach for a brother minister at Brighton, but when he learned that Mr. Spurgeon was invited to preach in the same building, the Strict Baptist teacher declined. He disavowed harbouring any unkind feelings towards Mr. Spurgeon, some things in whose ministry were right enough, although on the whole his teaching was "divided against itself." Hence, it would be more comfortable to keep "at an honest distance," as that was better than hypocritically professing to receive his message, and then to do as many had done, go and backbite the preacher. The man who could speak thus had no manner of sympathy with "the reproachful things said in the public papers of Mr. Spurgeon's ministry;" for he believed such things arose "from ignorance, envy, and prejudice." After all, the New Park Street pastor was honest and outspoken in uttering what he believed to be the truth. Mr. Wells then showed in brief in what sense he understood Mr. Spurgeon's preaching to be faulty when tested by the touchstone of Scripture. "Mr. Spurgeon informs us that he cannot reconcile Mat 11:20-21; Mat 11:23-24, with verses 25, 26, or with verses 28, 29, 30; so that by exalting mere Ninevite repentance (first five verses) into that repentance which God alone can bestow, he hereby makes the Holy Ghost a self-contradictory witness. He thus preaches a suicidal Gospel, a Gospel divided against itself. This is that piece of delusion which softens the great truths of the Gospel down to the taste of the carnal mind; and from such a Gospel I do most solemnly and conscientiously differ; and however this may tend to my unpopularity, a good conscience before God is with me a greater treasure than all the world can give."

Mr. Wilkins, the pastor at Brighton, to whom this was addressed, protested that he had no more sympathy with anything short of "a full, free, and effectual Gospel" than Mr. Wells himself. He might not agree with all that was taught at New Park Street, but there was too much of sovereign grace in the young pastor's teaching to allow of its being altogether rejected. "Seeing the many thousands in this metropolis regardless of God, the Bible, or the Sabbath, as I saw them yesterday in Whitechapel and elsewhere, I could say, 'Would to God a thousand Spurgeons were raised up to attract the multitude to hear the Word of Life.'"

Mr. Wells, however, was deaf to all entreaty to visit Brighton; he could have no fellowship with one who believed in duty-faith, or who held that men perished because they refused to believe in Christ. "Though I receive not the mark of error in my forehead so as openly to avow that error, yet if I give the right hand of fellowship to it, I do hereby receive the mark of error, though not in my forehead, yet I receive it in my hand." To talk about "a thousand Spurgeons" to preach to the crowds of East London was of no avail. Popularity counts for very little; it was "the hugeness of Popery, Church of Englandism, Wesleyanism, Mahometanism," which had awed so many into submission. Beyond that, "the nearer the counterfeit is in weight and appearance to the real coin the greater the danger, and the more complete the deception." The publication of the letters which were written by Mr. Wells and Mr. Wilkins produced many others which showed in what light Mr. Spurgeon was viewed by the straitest section of the Strict Baptists. One representative writer said:—"It may suit the giddy million to make sport with the bewitching philosophy of dramatic display, and to riot in the amusing freaks of art's airy-footed lore; but are the 'children of light' to be caught in the snare of popular talents and to be cheated by mere pulpit eloquence? Are dreams and delusions to captivate Zion?... I have not a particle of prejudice against the young and amiable aspirant after pulpit fame; but I have read his sermons, heard his preaching, and closely observed the profession and conduct of his followers; and upon the face of these things I see not the lively features of a healthy child." A number of letters having appeared, Mr. Wells returned to the subject; and after an examination of several sermons, the statements of which were compared with Scripture, the conclusion arrived at was, "Mr. Spurgeon belongs to the duty-faith class of preachers.... He preaches a self-contradictory Gospel." Mr. Wells then adds:—"Poison is generally given in something good; or else who that wished not to be poisoned could be so deceived as to take it? Duty-faith is a doctrine which secretly and in a most deadly manner poisons the mind against the very truths in connection with which it is preached. Some of the old duty-faith churches have become the greatest enemies to the truth which the truth has ever known; and yet because Mr. Spurgeon unconsciously throws this poison into the food, or that he does not believe it to be poison, I am to be hated because I will not join in partnership with such unscriptural trading. Be it so; I am content with my lot; and hope to my latest breath to prove the sincerity of my decision."

It would be a mistake to suppose, however, that the whole of the Strict Baptist denomination agreed with Mr. Wells. Many had their prejudices strengthened by what he said; but others honestly believed him to be altogether mistaken. Mr. C. W. Banks, as preacher and editor, had cordially welcomed Spurgeon to London in 1854, and he was still the young pastor's friend. "We have bidden him God-speed in all that was godlike, and of a true Gospel character," wrote Mr. Banks. "In these things we have had an advantage, perhaps, over Mr. Wells, who has, we believe, never either seen or heard Mr. Spurgeon."

It was towards the end of the year 1857 that Mr. Spurgeon's first book, apart from the published sermons, appeared. The work consisted of twelve chapters, and was entitled, "The Saint and his Saviour: the Progress of the Soul in the Knowledge of Jesus." The copyright, which was far more valuable than the author suspected, was sold for £50, and notwithstanding the extensive sale of the work, that modest honorarium was never supplemented. I could never quite understand how such a bargain came to be made at a time when the writer was already phenomenally popular. Being in the study at Helensburgh House, some years ago, I ventured to ask for some explanation, and the answer was, "At that time I thought £50 to be a good deal of money." More than twenty years after its production, Mr. Spurgeon had the opportunity of buying back the copyright for £80; but he refused the offer, with the remark that he preferred writing a new book to giving that amount for an old one.

Although, as he tells us, Mr. Spurgeon prepared his work "chiefly for the Lord's family," there are passages in it addressed specially to unconverted readers. Taken altogether, the book is of great interest; for not only have the pages the freshness of youth upon them, but one may see who were the authors who had attraction for the preacher at the age of twenty-three. He gives attention to Byron and Thomson, Tennyson and Herbert, among poets; Seneca also has some share of attention; while among divines, Gill and Charnock, Udall and Chandler, are referred to. Like some of the early sermons, the book might have been the production of a man of long and wide Christian experience; and hence we find one reviewer saying that the book excites surprise when the author's age is remembered. There are also many passages in it which extreme Calvinists would have said were the offspring of duty-faith. The success of the book was immediate, and a steady sale appears to have continued until the present time. A passage or two may be given as examples of Mr. Spurgeon's early written style. This passage on the duty of not neglecting to look after penitent sinners shows his wide sympathy:—

"We find an excuse for inaction in the fancied hopelessness of sinners; while fastidious delicacy, by the fear of pollution, seeks to mask at once our indolence and pride. If we had right views of ourselves, we should judge none too base to be reclaimed, and should count it no dishonour to bear upon the shoulders of our sympathy the most wandering of the flock. We have amongst us too much of the spirit of 'Stand by, for I am holier than thou.' Those whom Jesus would have grasped by the hand, we will scarcely touch with a pair of tongs; such is the pride of many professors that they need but the name to be recognised at once as the true successors of the ancient Pharisees. If we were more like Christ, we should be more ready to hope for the hopeless, to value the worthless, and to love the depraved. The following anecdote, which the writer received from the lips of an esteemed minister of the Church of England, may perhaps, as a fact, plead more forcibly than words. A clergyman of a parish in Ireland, in the course of his visitations, had called upon everyone of his flock with but one exception. This was a woman of most abandoned character, and he feared that by entering her house he might give occasion of offence to gainsayers, and bring dishonour upon his profession. One Sabbath he observed her among the frequenters of his church, and for weeks after he noticed her attention to the Word of Life. He thought, too, that amid the sound of the responses he could detect one sweet and earnest voice, solemnly confessing sin, and imploring mercy. The bowels of his pity yearned over this fallen daughter of Eve; he longed to ask her if her heart were indeed broken on account of sin; and he intensely desired to speak with her concerning the abounding grace which, he hoped, had plucked her from the burning. Still, the same delicacy of feeling forbade him to enter the house; time after time he passed her door with longing look, anxious for her salvation, but jealous of his own honour. This lasted for a length of time, but at last it ended. One day, she called him to her, and with overflowing tears which well betrayed her bursting heart, she said, 'Oh, sir! if your Master had been in this village half as long as you have, He would have called to see me long ago! for surely I am the chief of sinners, and therefore have most need of His mercy.' We may conceive the melting of the pastor's heart, when he saw his conduct thus gently condemned by a comparison with his loving Master. From that time forth he resolved to neglect none, but to gather even the 'outcasts of Israel.'"

He refers in one place to the friend at Newmarket from whom he learned much of his theology:—"The writer confesses his eternal obligations to an old cook, who was despised as an Antinomian, but who in her kitchen taught him many of the deep things of God, and removed many a doubt from his youthful mind." The following refers to losses by death:—

"We remember to have heard a preacher at a funeral most beautifully setting forth this truth in parable. He spoke thus:—'A certain nobleman had a spacious garden, which he left to the care of a faithful servant, whose delight it was to train the creepers along the trellis, to water the seeds in the time of drought, to support the stalks of the tender plants, and to do every work which could render the garden a Paradise of flowers. One morning he rose with joy, expecting to tend his beloved flowers, and hoping to find his favourites increased in beauty. To his surprise, he found one of his choicest beauties rent from its stem, and, looking around him, he missed from every bed the pride of his garden, the most precious of his blooming flowers. Full of grief and anger he hurried to his fellow-servants, and demanded who had thus robbed him of his treasures. They had not done it, and he did not charge them with it; but he found no solace for his grief till one of them remarked:—"My lord was walking in the garden this morning, and I saw him pluck the flowers and carry them away." Then truly he found he had no cause for his trouble. He felt it was well that his master had been pleased to take his own, and he went away smiling at his loss, because his lord had taken them. So,' said the preacher, turning to the mourners, 'you have lost one whom you regarded with much tender affection. The bonds of endearment have not availed for her retention upon earth. I know your wounded feelings when, instead of the lovely form which was the embodiment of all that is excellent and amiable, you behold nothing but ashes and corruption. But remember, my beloved, the Lord hath done it; He hath removed the tender mother, the affectionate wife, the inestimable friend. I say again, remember your own Lord hath done it; therefore do not murmur, or yield yourselves to an excess of grief.' There was much force as well as beauty in the simple allegory: it were well if all the Lord's family had grace to practise its heavenly lesson, in all times of bereavement and affliction."

One notable passage is really autobiographical; for it refers to that distressing time, just after the Surrey Gardens catastrophe, when the preacher was unable to continue his daily work, and when to his friends it seemed that reason herself would be dethroned. I have heard Mr. Spurgeon refer to that time, and whenever he spoke of what he then passed through, he would vividly picture his experience. Here are the passages relating to this period as given in his first book:—

"On a night which time will never erase from my memory, large numbers of my congregation were scattered, many of them wounded and some killed, by the malicious act of wicked men. Strong amid danger, I battled the storm, nor did my spirit yield to the overwhelming pressure while my courage could reassure the wavering or confirm the bold. But when, like a whirlwind, the destruction had overpast, when the whole of its devastation was visible to my eye, who can conceive the anguish of my spirit? I refused to be comforted; tears were my meat by day, and dreams my terror by night. I felt as I had never felt before. 'My thoughts were all a case of knives,' cutting my heart in pieces, until a kind of stupor of grief ministered a mournful medicine to me. I could have truly said, 'I am not mad, but surely I have had enough to madden me, if I should indulge in meditation on it.' I sought and found a solitude which seemed congenial to me. I could tell my grief to the flowers, and the dews could weep with me. Here my mind lay, like a wreck upon the sand, incapable of its usual motion. My Bible, once my daily food, was but a hand to lift the sluices of my woe. Prayer yielded no balm to me; in fact, my soul was like an infant's soul, and I could not rise to the dignity of supplication.... Then came the 'slander of many'—barefaced fabrications, libellous slanders, and barbarous accusations. These alone might have scooped out the last drop of consolation from my cup of happiness, but the worst had come to the worst, and the utmost malice of the enemy could do no more. Lower they cannot sink who are already in the nethermost depths. Misery itself is the guardian of the miserable. All things combined to keep me for a season in the darkness where neither sun nor moon appeared. I had hoped for a gradual return to peaceful consciousness, and patiently did I wait for the dawning light. But it came not as I had desired, for He who doeth for us exceeding abundantly above what we can ask or think, sent me a happier answer to my requests. I had striven to think of the immeasurable love of Jehovah, as displayed in the sacrifice of Calvary; I had endeavoured to muse upon the glorious character of the exalted Jesus; but I found it impossible to collect my thoughts in the quiver of meditation, or, indeed, to place them anywhere but with their points in my wounded spirit, or else at my feet, trodden down in an almost childish thoughtlessness. On a sudden, like a flash of lightning from the sky, my soul returned unto me. The burning lava of my brain cooled in an instant. The throbbings of my brow were still; the cool wind of comfort cooled my cheek, which had been scorched in the furnace. I was free, the iron fetter was broken in pieces, my prison door was open, I leaped for joy of heart. On wings of a dove my spirit mounted to the stars—yea, beyond them. Whither did it wing its flight? and where did it sing its song of gratitude? It was at the feet of Jesus, whose name had charmed its fears, and placed an end to its mourning. The name—the precious name of Jesus—was like Ithuriel's spear, bringing back my soul to its own right and happy state. I was a man again, and what is more, a believer. The garden in which I stood became an Eden to me, and the spot was then most solemnly consecrated in my most grateful memory. Happy hour, thrice blessed Lord, who thus in an instant delivered me from the rock of my de pair, and slew the vulture of my grief! Before I told to others the glad news of my recovery, my heart was melodious with song, and my tongue endeavoured tardily to express the music. Then did I give to my Well-Beloved a song touching my Well-Beloved; and oh! with what rapture did my soul flash forth His praises! but all—all were to the honour of Him, the first and the last, the Brother born for adversity, the Deliverer of the captive, the Breaker of my fetters, the Restorer of my soul. Then did I cast my burden upon the Lord; I left my ashes and did array myself in the garments of praise, while He did anoint me with fresh oil. I could have riven the very firmament to get at Him, to cast myself at His feet, and lay there bathed in the tears of joy and love. Never since the day of my conversion had I known so much of His infinite excellence, never had my spirit leaped with such unutterable delight. Scorn, tumult, and woe seemed less than nothing for His sake. I girded up my loins to run before His chariot, and shout forth His glory, for my soul was absorbed in the one idea of His glorious exaltation and divine compassion." This shows that the young pastor's mind was near upon being unhinged by the experience he passed through during this season. He was never quite the same after the catastrophe that he had been previously. Until the age of twenty-two he had hardly known the meaning of illness; but after the year 1856, his ailments were many and frequently severe. When it appeared at this time, the book struck certain critics as being a curious production. "It is not a didactic treatise," remarked one reviewer, "it is, in fact, not a treatise at all, but a leviathan sermon, addressed to a mixed congregation, comprising a variety of classes, between whom there is an intimate relation.... The thunder and lightning, the rant and rapture, by which he rules supreme over a mixed audience of any magnitude, have no place here. All is calm and gentle and tender. To attain the success which, in this respect, marks the effort, has doubtless been no easy matter; the work may be designated Mr. Spurgeon's penance volume. His talents, tastes, and habits all look in an opposite direction, and go some way to unfit him for literary effort in solitude."

While confessing that the work had been composed amid other incessant toils, and that writing was to him the work of a slave, the author still expressed the hope that he might serve his Master with the pen as well as the voice, but he was told by the critic just quoted "to moderate his expectations in this quarter;" and then it was shown how small was the number of eminent men who had succeeded with both tongue and pen. It was not likely that the eloquent pastor of New Park Street would be any exception as a mere orator to a number of illustrious men who were named. "Their indisposition to use the pen increased with time; and so will his," we find it remarked; "and to such a length did their self-created incapacity grow on them that they became almost incapable of correspondence; and so will he. We believe he is well-nigh so now." Probably, a prophecy more wide of the mark was never made. The truth is that the love of authorship grew on Mr. Spurgeon as he advanced in life; and the number of his books and magazine articles, apart from sermons, would represent quite a respectable lifework had he been nothing more than a littérateur. He also wrote a larger number of private letters than any great man I ever heard of, or than one might have thought possible in the case of a public servant who constantly had a thousand other calls on his time and energy.