If you have read Charles Spurgeon at all, you know that he was a bitter and outspoken critic of the Church of England. Believing in a free gathering of saints, he denied legitimacy to any communion "established by law". And, as a Baptist, he excoriated the sprinkling of infants in his sermon "Children, brought to Christ, not to the font". As an Evangelical, he opposed the semi-catholic ritual that was so often found in the Episcopal Church. And, as an honest man, he accused the Anglicans of deceit, in teaching both baptismal regeneration and its opposite, the "new birth", at the same time. And this was his fixed opinion from childhood. To illustrate: as a boy he knew an old woman who was "mighty in Scripture and fervent in spirit". But this dear sister was unable to attend a like-minded church. Yet she wanted to go somewhere, and so attended the Episcopal service. When Spurgeon asked how she bore with such heresy and nonsense, the old lady replied, "To whatever the preacher says, I always add a `not'"!

This shows you what the great Baptist thought of the Anglican Church of his day. But oddly enough, the man he may have most admired was an Anglican. And a "bishop" no less.

About his books, Spurgeon would write: "We prize these volumes". But more--the fervent dissenter kindly corresponded with the good bishop, heard him preach, and encouraged others to do the same.

Who was this man Spurgeon thought so highly of? J.C. Ryle. And--for whatever it's worth--he's my favorite author, too. Never have I read one of his sermons (except on Infant Baptism) that did not prove a blessing. But more than that: whenever I am blocked about a sermon--and have no idea what to preach on--I open up Ryle, and always find something to say. I don't believe in reading other men's sermons in public. But if I did--I would turn to Ryle every time.

It is his story that I now tell. And, as best I can, I will let him do most of the talking.

First a short biography. J.C. Ryle was born, 1816, in Macclesfield, England. This bustling town was then center to the silk weaving business. And in that trade, Ryle's grandfather had struck it rich. But this material prosperity did not distract him from "the one thing needful". For the older Ryle was an ardent Christian.

His son, however, was not. Although he Church member and "read family prayers", J.C.'s father was a man of the world. Thus, the future Bishop would know nothing about "a felt religion" till he was away from the family estate.

About these early years, Ryle would recall: "The Sunday sermons were mumbled and jumbled by old men with weak and smothered voices". The only pleasure he found in Church was of the accidental variety, as when the bald preacher called out for his text: "My sins are more than the hairs of my head".

At twelve, he left for Eton College, where he excelled in his studies--and especially sports, cricket being his favorite. There, he would remain four years and learn one lesson that would come in handy in later years: "It does good to young boys who have been petted and spoiled. They learn not to have things their own way".

Four years later, he moved from his college to Oxford University, where he found the company much to his dislike. His classmates were snobs, and too "aristocratic" for their own good. Thus, young Ryle avoided them like the plague. And this solitude gave him time to think about himself and his standing with God. But, for the moment, no change occurred. Then a classmate was killed in a hunting accident. This sobered up the young man more still. For he liked hunting, too. And--he thought "it might have been I who lay dead this morning". Finally, on a Sunday afternoon, some three years after coming to Oxford, he attended church and heard a very forgettable sermon. But what struck him was "the second lesson" (or Scripture reading). The chapter was Ephesians 2. When the reader came to v.8, "a light came on"--and for the first time in his life, Ryle understood the way of salvation: "by grace, through faith, a gift of God".

As simple as that, J.C. Ryle was a "new creature". But his early Christian experience was anything but hopeful. He could find no spiritual friends. It seems that no one at Oxford had known the new birth. This drove poor Ryle "ad font"--back to the source. He eagerly read his Bible and the 39 Articles of the Church of England. From the former he learned the truth; from the latter, he found that system of theology we call "Calvinism". And from these paths, he would never deviate. For the next sixty years he would preach, defend, and practice "the faith that was once delivered to the saints".

About his conversion, he would later write: "nothing to this day appeared to me so clear and distinct as my own sinfulness, Christ's presence, the value of the Bible, the absolute necessity of coming out of the world, the need of being born again, and the enormous folly of the whole doctrine of Baptismal Regeneration".

All the grace that Ryle had received would soon be put to "the refiner's fire". And "come forth as gold".

For, in 1838, Ryle's father declared bankruptcy. And now, the man who had enjoyed the cushioned life of a country squire would learn "how the other half lives".

The young graduate was wiped out. But more than that: he was in debt, L200,000 worth.

And so, what do you think he did? Go into law or medicine or some other high paying occupation? No; he entered the ministry of the Word, as a lowly curate (sort of the assistant to the assistant to the assistant of the minister).

And to the ministry he would give himself till his death some 59 years later.

He served first in Winchester, where he engraved on his pulpit (and heart) the words of I Corinthians 9:16: "Woe is me if I preach not the Gospel".

And this was a novelty. A leading gentleman of that parish dismissed the young minister as "an enthusiastic, fanatical, mad dog". And Ryle himself would complain "the whole place is in a very dead state...worldliness reigned supreme...and even the evangelical clergy are cautious, fearful men, with no life in them". One man, in particular galled him. When he came to the pastor's house in the afternoon, Ryle found the good Reverend, "dressed in slippers and a dressing-gown" (i.e., pajamas!)

Ryle, though didn't think it the preacher's job to complain, but to preach. And this he did with vigor. At church, of course. But also during the week, he would hold a Bible-study. And, more than that, he would visit his people in their own homes! And soon, his efforts paid off: the church which seated 600 was filled to overflowing.

But then, due to ill health, Ryle quit his place in Winchester for the better climes of East Anglia. And similar success followed him in the heartland of Puritanism, too. He described his own preaching thusly:

One reporter wrote of the young preacher as "speaking to a crowd of 4,000 with a force and earnestness, which have rarely been equalled, and which riveted the attention of the vast audience from commencement to finish".

And here, too, he began his marvelous writing career. For the earth style he sought, he looked to John Bunyan and William Shakespeare for help. But for the content, he looked to the Puritans, especially Robert Traill, Thomas Brooks, Richard Baxter, and William Gurnall. The tracts and books were received with enthusiasm and a wide readership of Christians of every church.

In East Anglia he served from 1844 to 1880. And though now a man nearing retirement age, his work was only beginning. At 64 he was called to be first Bishop of Liverpool, responsible for the welfare of 1,100,000 souls.

So he went to work in the usual way: preaching, writing, and visiting the homes of his parishioners. But no one man could personally touch so many people. So Ryle called for young men to submit to God and equip themselves for the ministry. Many gave heed. But this, too, was insufficient. And so, finally the Good Bishop returned to the Bible and urged all Christians to "watch over" one another and "minister to one another as good stewards of the manifold grace of God".

He called these lay workers, "Living agents". And about them he wrote: "If the Established Church of this country claims to be the Church of the people, it is her bounden duty to see that no part of the people are left like sheep without a shepherd. If she claims to be a territorial and not a congregational church, she should never rest until there is neither a street, nor a lane, nor a house, nor a garret, nor a cellar, nor a family, which is not regularly looked after, and provided with the offer of the means of grace..."

In the Bishopric, J.C. Ryle served for almost twenty years, before retiring just weeks before his death in 1900. And so, the Good Bishop died, like Abraham, "full of years; and was gathered to his people". "To the general assembly and church of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven".

At his funeral, Canon Hobson spoke: "Few men in the nineteenth century did so much for God, for truth, and for righteousness among the English speaking race, and in the world, as our late Bishop". Or, more simply, his successor, Bishop Chavasse, described him as a "man who lived so as to be missed".

This is, in short, the life of John Charles Ryle. But the man's lasting import lay, not in his biography, but in the writings he left behind. J.C. Ryle was a great Christian, a great pastor, and a great preacher. But he was an even greater author.

An almost random sampling of his works will more than prove my point.

Ryle was capable of a strong polemic. Truth mattered to him and he would defend it against all challengers and--more--demolish the strongholds of heresy and superstition.

The first of which is Baptismal Regeneration: "Once for all, let me entreat every reader of this paper to hold no doctrine of baptism which is not plainly taught in God's Word. Let him beware of maintaining any theory, no matter how plausible, which cannot be supported by Scripture. In religion, it matters nothing who says a thing, or how beautifully he says it. The only question we ought to ask it--`Is it written in the Bible? What saith the Lord?'...For another thing, I wish to urge on many of my fellow Churchmen the dangerous tendency of extravagantly high views of the efficacy of baptism...

A second dispute concerns the question of Confessionals. "Why should we confess our sins to angels and dead saints, when we have Christ for a High Priest? There is no need for such a confession...There is no warrant of Scripture for such a confession...The man who turns away from Christ to confess to saints and angels is a deluded robber of his own soul. He is following a shadow and forsaking the substance; he is rejecting the bread of life and trying to satisfy his spiritual hunger with sand. Finally, is any good likely to result from confessing to priests or ministers? I boldly answer, there is none. Those who confess to them will never feel their consciences really satisfied..."

But Ryle was more than a controversialist. He was also a heart-searcher. Even his sermon titles are sobering:

And the titles don't mislead. The content is equally searching. In his sermon "Self-Inquiry", he asked the following questions: "Do we ever think about our souls at all?" "Do we ever do anything about our souls?" "Are we trying to satisfy our consciences with a mere formal religion?" "Have we received the forgiveness of our sins?" "Do we know anything by experience of conversion to God?" "Do we know anything of living the life of habitual communion with Christ?"

But better still, J.C. Ryle was a great Gospel-preacher. He preached, not only man's danger, but also his hope in Jesus Christ. In a sermon titled "Christ's Greatest Trophy", the Good Bishop wrote,

Ryle was also a great reader and lover of Church History. He wrote heroic sketches of the English Reformers and men of the Great Awakening. But more than this. He learned from them. With the example of Wycliffe and Baxter and Toplady always before him, it's no wonder that Ryle was "always zealous in a good thing".

But more than a preacher or Bishop or historian or popular writer, J.C. Ryle was a humble student of the Bible. In an age when respectable men were beginning to doubt the authenticity of Scripture, Ryle affirmed it with a vengeance: "The Bible was given by inspiration of God. In this respect, it is utterly unlike all other writings. God taught the writers of it what to say. God put into their minds thoughts and ideas. God guided their pens in setting down those thoughts and ideas. When you read it, you are not reading the self-taught compositions of poor, imperfect men like yourself, but the words of the eternal God. When you hear it, you are not listening to the erring opinions of short-lived mortals, but to the unchanging mind of the King of kings. All other books in the world, however good and useful in their way, are more or less defective. The more you look at them the more you see their defects. The Bible alone is absolutely perfect. From beginning to end, it is the Word of God".

Yet Ryle's strength did not lie in a mere respect for the Bible, but in reading it. "I have no doubt that there are more Bibles in Great Britain at this moment than there ever were since the world began. We see Bibles in every bookseller's shop--Bibles great and Bibles small--Bibles for the rich and Bibles for the poor. There are Bibles in almost every house in the land. But all this time I fear we are in danger of forgetting, that to have the Bible is one thing, and to read it quite another".

And then, in advising others how to read the Bible, he veers into his own practice:

J.C. Ryle was a Man of One Book. This Book gave him life, fed him every day, gave him something to preach for sixty years, and went with him into the grave. But his was not a unique experience. For the Word of God is for everyone and will work its wonders of anyone who will but pick it up and read with humility, faith and a willingness to do God's will.