Pyromaniacs: Critic to Spurgeon: "You are a prodigious quack."

Posted by Phil Johnson

Charles Spurgeon had critics who absolutely loathed him, and they spoke über-harshly to him—and about him—with such relentless ill-will that their words make most of the snark in today's social-media forums sound almost genial by comparison.
     Here is one such example, from an anonymous correspondent who evidently labored for hours to inject as much venom as possible into an open letter. This was published in London's Sunday Times—and carried in newspapers worldwide. This copy is from Melbourne, Australia.
     The year was 1861. Construction on Spurgeon's Metropolitan Tabernacle was finally complete and the congregation had moved into their new home with its famous 5,600-seat auditorium. (Standing room pushed the capacity to 6,000, and it was packed full from the very first service.) Spurgeon had been pastoring in London only seven years, and he was barely twenty-seven years old. His style of preaching was deemed too colloquial and too passionate compared to the stodgy vestment-wearing clergy who dominated the Church of England. When the following letter was published, Spurgeon had not yet preached his famous sermon against the doctrine of baptismal regeneration. That sermon would further—and permanently—elevate the ire of the Anglican establishment. But as this letter shows, there was already an undercurrent of contempt and condescension against Spurgeon from Englanders who equated religiosity with true religion.
     In short, Spurgeon's critics preferred the pomposity and pretentiousness of high-church formalism—and they tended to be rather ill-tempered about it. Spurgeon was regularly drawing capacity crowds of 9,000 or more to the Surrey Gardens Music Hall. Hundreds of converts were leaving the Church of England and attending worship services in non-conformist chapels. One suspects that underlying all this vitriol from Spurgeon's critics was a bitter strain of jealously that someone so youthful could preach with such power and see that kind of success.

THE BORDER WATCH, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1861

A DOSE FOR SPURGEON

A late writer in the "Sunday Times," under the signature of "Warder," addresses the Rev. Charles Spurgeon in the following terms, the style and power of which remind us of the classical Philippics of Junius:—

You are, I am told, to preach in your new monster Tabernacle this very evening. The huge place is built and paid for. I congratulate you. The achievement, considering your youth and your ignorance, is certainly astonishing. Some people predicted that you would fail in this gigantic undertaking: you have disappointed them. Some people predict that you will not be able to fill your chapel now that it is erected: I beg you will not listen to their croakings. Depend upon it: they badly over-estimate the intelligence, wisdom, and common sense of the generation! For years and years to come you may assure yourself there will be fools vast enough in London to make you a congregation vast as your vanity and mighty as your tongue.
For your chapel itself, it is ugly enough in all conscience! Big, to be sure, it is; but more unclassical it could hardly be. It has cost an enormous sum of money; but, then, deformity is always as expensive as beauty in this world. It will suit your worshippers admirably; and I suppose the devotions paid to you will be the chief carried on within its walls. There is nothing akin to religious taste in its aspect; it is a big, ugly staring vulgar profane place; and as such it will harmonize only, and too happily, with the kind of services over which you usually preside. Sir, your chapel is worthy of your genius and your fame.
I frequently meet with people who profess to be amazed at your popularity. Why should they? You work hard. You have an unlimited supply of tongue always at command. You never puzzle the brains of your hearers. Your sermons are well spiced. You are flippant, familiar, and, in a certain fashion, jocose. You are intolerant, dogmatic, and common-place. You revel in judgments. You are precise in all the details of perdition. You have scaled the heights of Heaven. You have fathomed the depths of Hell. You talk with Satan as a man talks with his friend. You talk with the Almighty as no man talks with his friend. You are the munificent patron of the Redeemer. You are the merry playmate of the Holy Ghost.
You are a wholesale and retail dealer in that famous and much sought after article—damnation. Your pulpit is a big brimstone warehouse.
You are one of the Clowns of the church, addressing immortal souls in a "here we are" sort of style. You never pause for a word, because words, in your estimation, are not sacred, and are very cheap. You have no care about religious properties. You own immeasurable quantities of brass. You are a prodigious quack. As you boast of having been told by a gentleman in the street, "you are a great humbug."
Now, these are all elements of popularity. Your gospel is a nostrum which you unlimitedly puff, and it has accordingly an unlimited sale. I see about the street every day, an ugly carriage, blazing with paint, brass and gold, in shape like a teapot; in decoration like a bawd; in character like a child's plaything. On it is the inscription "The Elixir of Life." I dare say you know it. It is a small-headed, big-bellied cannister on a truck.
I can well imagine the elevated complacency with which you gaze upon that carriage. For that carriage you are an impersonation. Your doctrines, you maintain, are the elixir of life. You drive about the street, a self-advertising medium. Children, women, and foolish men stop, stare at you as you go by, give a chuckle, as though they had beheld something very funny and pass on. But the elixir pays. The advertisement, however impudent, is not thrown away. Thousands go and buy the miserable compounds that you proclaim to be medicine of the soul, they give a good price for the article. To be sure it does not cure them of their moral infirmities; but you make the profit; and why should not all mankind be satisfied?
Illustrations cadger! I almost adore you. The facility with which you convert brass into tin is something to be admired in this age of money-hunting. You bring Omnipotence itself into your shop, and set it up behind the counter as chief salesman.
You beg and pray in the same holy name—the same unholy spirit. You sell your blessings as the priests of another sect used to sell their indulgences. You are the cheap-jack of the religious world; and you drive a roaring trade.
"So many Divine grains for so much! A dose of damnation and a pun for so much. Here you have a poke in the ribs of Ineffable for so much. What shall be the next article gentlemen? I will dance a heavenly hornpipe for so much! Jigs of grace are going at so much! The irresistible burlesque of redemption is now offered—who bids? The devices of the devil denounced for so much! Babylon exposed in a screech of bigotry for the smallest possible consideration! The doctrine of Salvation discounted at so much percent! Dishonored bills of conscience bought in to any amount! A case against any man's soul granted on the lowest possible terms! Sacred sneers by the dozen! Jibes of spiritual joy by the gross! Pay up stiff and prompt and I will pray for you! Whoso giveth unto Spurgeon lendeth unto the Lord: whoso giveth not unto Spurgeon shall be given over to the wicked one. Gentlemen, the chapel is paid for, and now it belongs to my friend Jesus."
Such, sir, is your boast one night. The next, you blow up your guests because the collection is a small one. Your congratulations are in God's name: so are your censures. You are like an Irish beggar in this respect. Give; and no benediction can be too gracious: deny; and no denunciation can be too withering! If you receive a donation, the promises of Heaven fall from your lips. If you do not, you find the threats of Hades just as easy!
To my mind, sir, your assumption of personal identity with the Great Jehovah is the most offensive feature in your entire character. With the zealots of your sect this vice is frequently too apparent, though I believe it is often most unconsciously indulged. In you it assumes most horrible proportions.
It is not the complacency of assured faith; but the swagger of egotism without culture—of audacity without conscience. Were it not for this, you would be a harmless amusement for ignorant people; as it is, I fear your influence must tend powerfully to bring religion into the contempt of all thoughtless minds.
The gospel is not a vulgar joke. Christianity is not a burlesque extravaganza. Faith is not a farce. Hell and heaven are not the words to be made the stock-in-trade of a vulgar punster. Salvation is not a quack remedy. Apostleship is not a merry-Adrewism. The sanctuary is not a play-house. But your prayers are profane gossip with God. Your comments on Scripture are the paltry gag of a low comedian. Your preaching is the religious nonsense of an improvisator. Your earnestness is impudence.
Your success is a national scandal.