Charismata

On hearing the words “canon addition,” we are likely to think of the addition of books, such as the apocrypha, to the Bible. We might think of the canonization of tradition by Roman Catholicism. R. C. Sproul writes of the claims of characters like Pat Robertson and Oral Roberts of receiving “words of knowledge,” alleged supernatural revelation from God, and laments the credulity of people who swallow these claims apparently without thought. We might look critically on such people, wondering how they can be so foolish. But many of those who ridicule such gullibility fall for a subtler form of the same kind of canon addition. Sproul writes:

   But it gets more subtle. We hear respected Christian leaders claiming that God has “spoken to them” and given special guidance and instructions upon which they are duty bound and to act and obey. They are careful to note that that this divine speech was not in audible form and there is a disclaimer that this is not a new “revelation.” yet the message which is “laid on the heart” is so clear and powerful that to disobey is to disobey the voice of God. I am not speaking here of the work of the Holy Spirit by which he illuminates the text of scripture in such a sharp manner as to bring us under conviction or direct our paths. But here the Spirit works in the Word and through the Word. I am speaking of the speaking of the Spirit that men claim is working apart from the Word and in addition to the Word.
   Through such claims are more often that not attended by the disclaimer that they are not revelation, the way they function is as revelation so that the distinction between them and bona fide revelation is, in actuality, a distinction without a difference.

—R. C. Sproul, Scripture Alone (P&R Publishing Company, 2005), 60.

I post the following quote in reply to some folks who insist that the gospel, unaccompanied by signs, lacks power, or that signs and wonders add power to the Word. It comes from Ryle’s commentary on John 11:47–57.

   We should observe, for one thing, in these verses, the desperate wickedness of man’s natural heart. A mighty miracle was wrought within an easy walk of Jerusalem. A man four days dead was raised to life, in the sight of many witnesses. The fact was unmistakable, and could not be denied; and yet the chief priests and Pharisees would not believe that He who did this miracle ought to be received as the Messiah. In the face of overwhelming evidence they shut their eyes, and refused to be convinced. “This man,” they admitted, “does many miracles.” But so far from yielding to this testimony, they only plunged into further wickedness, and “took counsel to put Him to death.” Great, indeed, is the power of unbelief!
   Let us beware of supposing that miracles alone have any power to convert men’s souls, and to make them Christians. The idea is a complete delusion. To fancy, as some do, that if they saw something wonderful done before their eyes in confirmation of the Gospel, they would at once cast off all indecision and serve Christ, is a mere idle dream. It is the grace of the Spirit in our hearts, and not miracles, that our souls require. The Jews of our Lord’s day are a standing proof to mankind that men may see signs and wonders, and yet remain hard as stone. It is a deep and true saying, “If men believe not Moses and the Prophets, neither would they be persuaded though one rose from the dead.” (Luke xvi. 31.)

—J. C. Ryle, Expository Thoughts on the Gospels (Baker Books, 2007) [Westminster (PB) | Amazon (HC)].

Furthermore,

19 For it is written,
   “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise,
   and the cleverness of the clever I will set aside.”
20 Where is the wise man? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? 21 For since in the wisdom of God the world through its wisdom did not come to know God, God was well-pleased through the foolishness of the message preached to save those who believe. 22 For indeed Jews ask for signs and Greeks search for wisdom; 23 but we preach Christ crucified, to Jews a stumbling block and to Gentiles foolishness, 24 but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.

—1 Corinthians 1

I’ve gotten some push-back (thanks to Tim Challies) on yesterday’s posting of John MacArthur’s comments on the charismatic movement. The content of the comments is no surprise, nor is what is conspicuously absent from them. This post is your opportunity to remedy that, and set me straight once and for all.

The cessationist argument — my argument — begins with the fact that, according to Scripture, tongues will cease; that’s not debatable. The question is, when? Assuming (erroneously) that Scripture gives us no clue, how would we know? What if, like Noah, we were told of a coming event, but not told when it would happen, how would we know that it had? Well, it was easy for Noah: the flood came; he knew it had, and consequently, he didn’t lose any sleep about it as a future event thereafter. Cessationists believe the cessation has come, and that it came at or before the end of the apostolic age. We offer as evidence the only evidence there could be, the only evidence that should be necessary:

Tongues are absent from church history.

This post offers you an opportunity to refute that. This is not the place for philosophy or personal anecdotes. Your refutation must come in the form of citations from the Fathers, Reformers, Puritans, or similar sources demonstrating that tongues were an issue among them. I am not asking for their opinions on the subject, or their treatment of any biblical text; I am not asking for your opinions; I am asking for historical evidence that they were actually experiencing these things.

No anecdotes or opinions, only actual documentation from cited sources. Anything less will be deleted.

I may never get another chance to contradict Iain Murray, so I’m not going to waste this one. He writes:

No evangelical preachers in revivals in the three centuries following the Reformation believed that they possessed the charismata of the New Testament; on the contrary they constantly disavowed any such claims. Church of England opponents of Wesley and Whitefield claimed that preaching in ‘the demonstration of the Spirit’ was unique to the long-past age of miraculous gifts. The eighteenth-century awakenings proved them wrong. Yet there were false claimants to apostolic power as there are today and we have therefore to consider how the ministry of the Holy Spirit is to be recognized.

—Iain Murray, Pentecost Today? (Banner of Truth, 1998), 86.

This is an odd passage.

If preaching “in the demonstration of the Spirit” means Spirit-baptized men, continually being filled with the Spirit,* preaching the Word as the Spirit enlightens them, in their studies, through the Scriptures, I fully agree that such preaching continues.

If it means, as Murray seems to say, that Spirit empowered preachers today are inspired in the same way as the apostles, he is dead wrong. He is right to say, because of the many frauds behind pulpits, that “we have therefore to consider how the ministry of the Holy Spirit is to be recognized,” but he is wrong to equate “the ministry of the Spirit” with “apostolic power.” The apostolic gift was certainly a ministry of the Spirit, but all ministry of the Spirit is not apostolic. There are no Apostles today. There were twelve, and they are gone. If we are to judge ministry today by apostolic standards, we must expect preachers to bring an infallible word by divine inspiration, i.e., Scripture, and to authenticate that word by performing miracles.

I don’t think Murray intended to say that, but that is the logical conclusion when Spirit-filled ministry is attributed to “apostolic power.”

* Don’t be confused: the baptism of the Spirit and the filling of the Spirit are two different things, as John MacArthur explains here and here.

Iain Murray dedicates a chapter of Pentecost Today? to the problem of evangelical fanaticism.

There is no modern word which is suitable to describe the issue to which I am referring. It used to be called ‘enthusiasm’. ‘Enthusiasm’ came into the English language from the Greek word enthousiansmous. Enthousiastes was a person indwelt or possessed by a god. So enthusiasm, as the word became popularly used in the seventeenth century, was descriptive of the unbalanced religious emotion of those who supposed they had some special nearness to God. Today, however, enthusiasm has entirely lost its original derogatory connotation and it would be very confusing to re-introduce it in that sense. The word ‘fanaticism’ is equally old, and it also arose in England out of seventeenth-century controversies, but is has held its meaning better. I shall therefore term what I am discussing as fanaticism, although this term too has a defect. It is commonly used in such a broad and ugly sense that it scarcely seems applicable to any who profess evangelical Christianity. But I do not know a more suitable alternative. It is important to explain what I mean.

Fanaticism is the opposite of cold intellectualism. Fanaticism usually pays little attention to books, its great interest is in experiences. Fanaticism may be orthodox in belief but it is more concerned with emotion and with results than it is with objective truth and teaching. While fanaticism may believe what the Bible says about he the Holy Spirit, it talks chiefly about Holy Spirit speaking within us – revealing things to us in ways which people who only have the Bible cannot enjoy. Fanaticism thinks it has a blessedness above anything known by ordinary Christians. Fanaticism is zealous for a kind of ultra-supernatural Christianity to which it wants to make everyone a proselyte. Fanaticism is often proclaiming that a revival has begun or is about to begin. But there are things which fanaticism cannot do: it cannot distinguish between fire and wildfire and it cannot see the danger of confusing imagination with truth.

. . .

Fanaticism may appear as nothing more than an excess of what is good. Zeal is good. If we are true Christians we want more zeal; we are opposed to deadness, indifference and apathy. We deplore religious stagnation. We are shocked that we can be so clod and unmoved in a lost and unbelieving world. Consequently we are prone to regard anything as an ally which brings excitement and warmth into the situation. We are so convinced of the danger of coldness that we suppose any kind of fire is to be welcomed. So again we may suspect no danger until it is too late.

—Iain Murray, Pentecost Today? (Banner of Truth, 1998), 135–136, 139.

My own experience, for what it’s worth, corroborates that final paragraph. The desire to feel something is a dangerous thing, and can lead to all kinds of error.