When Mr. Whiteside finished his five hours’ oration on Kars, Lord Palmerston replied, that the honourable gentleman’s speech was highly creditable to his physical powers. A similar reply would be suitable to Mr. Spurgeon. You come away, having gained nothing except it may be a deeper disgust for the class of preachers of which Mr. Spurgeon is a type. We have heard somewhat too much of Negative Theology—it is time we protest against the Positive Theology of such men as Mr. Spurgeon. There are no doubts or difficulties in his path. The last time I heard the reverend gentleman, he had the audacity to assure us that the reason God allowed wicked men to live was, that as he knew they were to be damned, he thought they might have a little pleasure first. Mr. Spurgeon is one of the elect. His flock are in the same happy condition. God chooses them out of the ruins of the fall, and makes them heirs of everlasting life, while he suffers the rest of the
world to continue in sin, and consummate their guilt by well-deserved punishment. If he sins, it matters little; ‘for that vengeance incurred by me has already fallen upon Christ my substitute, and only the chastisement shall remain for me.’ Mr. Spurgeon has heard people represent ‘God as the Father of the whole universe. It surprises me that any readers of the Bible should so talk.’ To the higher regions of thought Mr. Spurgeon seems an utter stranger—all his ideas are physical; when he speaks of the Master, it is not of his holy life or divine teaching, but his death. ‘Christians,’ he exclaims, ‘you have here your Saviour. See his Father’s vengeful sword sheathed in his heart—behold his death-agonies—see the clammy sweat upon his brow—mark his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth—hear his sighs and groans upon the cross.’ Again, he exclaims, ‘Make light of thee, sweet Jesus! Oh, when I see thee with thy shirt of gore, wrestling in Gethsemane—when I behold him with a river of blood rolling down his shoulders,’ &c. All his sermons abound with similar instances of exaggerated misconception.
Mr. Spurgeon steps on the very threshold of great and glorious thoughts, and stops there.
Of God he speaks as irreverently as of Christ. ‘Oh!’ cries the sinner, ‘I will not have thee for a God.’ ‘Wilt thou not?’ says he, and he gives him over to the hand of Moses; Moses takes him a little and applies the club of the law, drags him to Sinai, where the mountain totters over his head, the lightnings flash, and thunders bellow, and then the sinner cries, ‘O God, save me!’ ‘Ah! I thought thou wouldst not have me for a God.’ ‘O Lord, thou shalt be my God,’ says the poor trembling sinner; ‘I have put away my ornaments from me. O Lord, what wilt thou do unto me? Save me! I will give myself to thee. Oh! take me!’ ‘Ay,’ says the Lord, ‘I knew it; I said that I will be their God; and I have made thee willing in the day of my power.’ ‘I will be their God, and they shall be my people.’ Here is another passage. Preaching at Shipley, near Leeds, our young divine alluded to Dr. Dick’s wish, that he might spend an eternity in wandering from star to star. ‘For me,’ exclaims Mr. Spurgeon, ‘let it be my lot to pursue a more glorious study. My choice shall be this: I shall spend 5000 years in looking into the wound in the left foot of Christ, and 5000 years in looking into the wound in the
right foot of Christ, and 10,000 years in looking into the wound in the right hand of Christ, and 10,000 years more in looking into the wound in the left hand of Christ, and 20,000 years in looking into the wound in his side.’ Is this religion? Are such representations, in an intellectual age, fitted to claim the homage of reflective men? Will not Mr. Spurgeon’s very converts, as they become older—as they understand Christianity better—as the excitement produced by dramatic dialogues in the midst of feverish audiences dies away—feel this themselves? And yet this man actually got nearly 24,000 to hear him on the Day of Humiliation. Such a thing seems marvellous. If popularity means anything, which, however, it does not, Mr. Spurgeon is one of our greatest orators.
It is true it is not difficult to collect a crowd in London. If I simply stand stock still in Cheapside in the middle of the day, a crowd is immediately collected. The upper class of society requires finer weapons than any Mr. Spurgeon wields; but he preaches to the people in a homely style—and they like it, for he is always plain, and never dull. Then his voice is wonderful, of itself a thing worth going
to hear, and he has a readiness rare in the pulpit, and which is invaluable to an orator. Then, again, the matter of his discourses commends itself to uneducated hearers. We have done with the old miracle plays, wherein God the Father appears upon the stage in a blue coat, and wherein the devil has very visible hoofs and tail; but the principle to which they appealed—the love of man for dramatic representations rather than abstract truths—remains, and Mr. Spurgeon avails himself of it successfully. Another singular fact—Mr. Spurgeon would quote it as a proof of its truth—is that what is called high doctrine—the doctrine Mr. Spurgeon preaches—the doctrine which lays down all human pride—which teaches us we are villains by necessity, and fools by a divine thrusting on—is always popular, and, singular as it may seem, especially on the Surrey side of the water.
In conclusion, let me not be understood as blaming Mr. Spurgeon. We do not blame Stephani when Caliban falls at his feet and swears that he’s ‘a brave god and bears celestial liquor.’ Few ministers get people to hear
them. Mr. Spurgeon has succeeded in doing so. It may be a pity that the people will not go and hear better preachers; but in the meanwhile no one can blame Mr. Spurgeon that he fearlessly and honestly preaches what he deems the truth.