Andrew Murray: From Spark to Flame

By Olea Nel

Did you know that Andrew Murray was not always loving, humble, and gentle but was once described as a Christian Minister whose pastoral visitation carried terror in the hearts of his parishioners? This story traces his journey to transformation.

 

In 1860, thirty-two-year-old Andrew Murray unexpectedly becomes the key leader in a revival that spreads throughout the Cape and beyond. But barely two years later, he discovers that he has lost the blessings gained during the revival and has started to strive in his own strength again. Although he consecrates his life anew, the desired experience of the filling with the Holy Spirit fails to eventuate.

 

He nevertheless hangs on in faith through bitter court battles with liberals plus notable missionary endeavors and educational projects, ever wondering when God will seal his consecration with the desired experience. But it is only when God finally intervenes by stopping him in his tracks that he is forced to confront the barriers that are blocking the blessing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clairvaux House
• Release date: Feb 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9780987642752

Book preview

Andrew Murray: From Spark to Flame

A Biographical Novel

by

Olea Nel

Clairvaux House

© Olea Nel 2021

Published by Clairvaux House

16/43 Clyde Street, Batemans Bay

Australia

Unless otherwise indicated, Bible quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version 1611.

All rights reserved solely by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author.

ISBN 978-0-9876427-5-2 (e-book)

ISBN 978-0-9876427-6-9 (paperback)

Table of Contents

Maps

Part I: Revival

Worcester

Catharina van Blerk

A visit to Henry Sutherland

Trying to maintain order

Aan de Doorns

Learning the ropes

Hessie Bosman

Catharina helps out

Consecrating myself anew

Waiting for an open door

Part 2: The Backlash of the Enemy

First day of Synod

The Moderamen

The battle begins in earnest

An error of judgment

Question 60 of the Catechism

Forced to adjourn

The ups and downs of ministry

Advocate Frederick Watermeyer

A challenging year

A call to the Groote Kerk

Devastating news

Standing in for Advocate Watermeyer

Devising a different strategy

Cape Town: the storm center

The battle intensifies

Ominous clouds approaching

The call to Wellington

Part 3: Through heartache and tribulation to victory

In the valley of affliction

Recalling God’s faithfulness through heartbreak

Recalling God’s faithfulness in opening doors

During the two years of silence

In search of healing

The Keswick Convention

Epilogue

Author’s note

A list of Andrew and Emma’s Children

Glossary of Terms

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

Other books by Olea Nel

About the Author

***

Maps

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Part I: Revival

Worcester

(Thursday, 28 June 1860)

The howl of the wind was adding to my feelings of disquiet and general inadequacy. I glanced up from my book to try to gauge its strength from the sway of the trees across the road from the parsonage. The problem was that the movement of their branches, or lack thereof, was misleading—a fact I hadn’t been aware of until earlier that day. The trees had been planted in such close proximity to each other that their branches had become intertwined to form a hedge-like canopy. This not only hindered their sway, but also blocked my view of Church Square beyond.

Contrary to the picture one might conjure up of a quaint square with cobbled stones, which one might find in England or Scotland, this square was a large grassed area that resembled a village green, albeit with sharp right angles. In fact, the whole town had been laid out in a patchwork quilt of squares, the streets running both equidistant and at right-angles to each other.

At the founding of the town in 1820, Governor Lord Charles Somerset had named it Worcester, after his eldest nephew, the Marquis of Worcester. The town, therefore, bore no resemblance to its namesake in England. While the latter could boast a beautiful cathedral dating back to the seventh century, Worcester, in the Western Cape, could nevertheless boast being surrounded by lofty mountain ranges—so much so, that I was still learning which range was which.

The town itself was only around a hundred and ten miles from Cape Town. And because of this close proximity to the mother city, the initial plan was for it to be the last staging post in the Western Cape before the long trek east through the vast semi-desert area known as the Great Karoo. But in spite of Worcester’s importance as an outspan place for weary travelers, it was still scarcely more than a village, with a population of around two thousand souls. Nevertheless, this number was regularly boosted by large families on surrounding farms when they came into town to replenish their supplies or attend church services.

MY THOUGHTS TRAVELED back to when I was pastor of Bloemfontein in the Orange Free State. I had traveled through Worcester on many an occasion to and from Cape Town. And each time my wagon had rumbled down High Street, at the far end of Church Square, I had asked my driver to slow down in order to admire the pearl white Dutch Reformed Church that glistened in the sun, its white façade accentuated by the green expanse of grass in front, and the majestic range of mountains beyond.

As for the parsonage, in which I now sat, it was an imposing building in its own right. It flanked the left side of the church, when viewed from the trees across the road. It was a seven-bay Dutch homestead, which meant that it had three windows on either side of the front door, the latter counting as the seventh bay. Very conveniently, my study was situated at the far end of the house away from the church building. It led into a small vestibule that boasted its own side entrance leading on to Adderley Street. This meant that church members who needed to speak with me privately could use this entrance without disturbing the rest of the family.

SO HERE I WAS, THE newly inducted pastor of Worcester, looking out of my study window at the stand of trees across the street from the parsonage. I should have been overcome with joy that God had given me my heart’s desire to be able to serve Him in this picturesque town. But no, I was feeling frustrated and out of sorts.

One of the problems was that I wanted to view what was happening beyond the tree line. Being a tree-lover myself, I would never contemplate felling a tree. But lopping off a few branches—well, that was another matter entirely. In fact, I had a good mind to do so once the wind had subsided.

The trees, I realized, had obviously been planted to provide shade for the carts and horses during the hot summer months while their owners attended church. But why not prune them? Perhaps my predecessor, dear old Henry Sutherland, had purposely requested that this not be done to preserve the privacy of the parsonage. But now that I and my family were the new occupants, I would remedy the situation forthwith—well, as soon as the wind had subsided.

Although this decision was helping to quell my frustration at not being able to see beyond the tree line, it had done nothing to relieve my restlessness. The problem was that I was rearing to go like a racehorse at the starting block, only to be led back to its stall because the race had been cancelled. In my case, it was because I was being hampered from visiting my congregation due to the wind and icy cold.

I knew, nevertheless, that this was far from the whole story. Last week, I’d at least been able to visit a few church members with Elder Johannes Rabie. But the only thing which that visitation round had accomplished was to make me feel totally dismayed by the stilted conversations, the forced smiles, and the downright caginess of my hosts when I touched upon spiritual matters. I’d come away with the sad impression that these families were Christian in name only.

When I’d expressed this view to Elder Rabie, he had shaken his head. ‘You have to remember, Dominee, that you are a virtual stranger in our midst. You also have to take into consideration that they’ve never been shepherded by anyone else but Dominee Henry Sutherland. And his style was so gentle and Christ-like that he earned the sobriquet, Father Sutherland.’ Rabie looked my way, his brows knitting together. ‘I’m afraid, your direct approach intimidates them. You will need to befriend them first to put them at their ease before they will open up to you.’

He had then flashed an encouraging smile my way as though I were a neophyte on my first visitation round. ‘Don’t try to rush matters, Dominee,’ he’d added, after a pause. ‘They’ll open up to you soon enough. What I’d advise is that you try to be less formal and perhaps leave the spiritual questions for another occasion when they have come to know you better.’

I had bristled at these words. After all, I was a pastor with eleven years’ experience. Had I not crisscrossed the vast territories beyond the Orange and Vaal Rivers on visitation rounds and preaching tours? And never had there been an occasion when the humble Boer hadn’t welcomed me with open arms. And never had there been an occasion when they had not been willing to discuss spiritual matters openly and honestly with me. The only difference I could discern was that we’d always been sitting around a kitchen table after enjoying a hearty meal. By contrast, the Worcester Burghers had been more intent on impressing me with their front parlors filled with antique Dutch furniture that had obviously been handed down over the years.

On realizing the difference between the two situations, I had thought-up a strategy to get the Worcester Boers and Burghers to entertain me while sitting around a kitchen or dining room table. Having explained my strategy to Elder Rabie, we had decided to put this plan to the test by visiting some nearby farms earlier that day. But this plan was unexpectedly knocked on the head when I had received a note from him shortly after breakfast. In it, he had informed me that it was ill-advised to venture out in a Cape cart due to the cold snap and icy winds. Much to my chagrin, he had added that it was best to resume our visitation rounds in August, when there would be an improvement in the weather.

I had worked off my frustration after hearing this news by conducting a raucous play session with my little girls Emmie and Mary. Emmie was already three, while Mary was just one-and-a-half. Then, after lunch, I had gone to my study while Emma had put the children down for their afternoon nap. It was then that I had decided to confront what was causing my restlessness, head on.

AT FIRST, I HAD REVELED in the silence. But as it had deepened, the disquiet and angst I’d been feeling earlier in the day came to the fore again. And with the clarity that comes from spiritual examination and honesty with oneself, I knew that these feelings had nothing to do with the trees opposite, nor my ineptness during my visitation round last week. It had all to do with the book I’d been reading. Quite unexpectedly, it had made me realize that I was still a spiritual pauper, striding headlong down the low road.

It was not as if I’d been unaware of my low spiritual state over the past eleven years. I certainly had. But for the most part, I’d been able to hide it from myself by always being on the go and forever thinking up some strategy or other to serve the Lord. But now that I was far away from my support network in Bloemfontein, and forced to stay home, I knew that I had to do something about it.

I opened the book I had been reading, and located the first of a series of bookmarks I had placed within its pages. To my surprise, I was peering at the title page. I scratched my neck absentmindedly to try to recall why I had placed a bookmark there. Then it came to me. The title had not only expressed my deepest spiritual longing, but had also alerted me to where I stood spiritually at that moment.

THE TITLE READ: The Higher Christian Life by W.E. Boardman. The book had been a gift from Dr. Adamson, who had recently visited our shores from America. He had given it to me to mark my acceptance of the call to the Worcester congregation.

I turned to the next bookmark, and studied that page with a mixture of misgiving and longing. Misgiving—because I doubted a good deal of what was written there. Longing—because I ached for my name to be added to the list of illustrious men who had claimed to have gained the abiding presence of the Lord via the fullness of the Spirit.

Boardman had mentioned, among others: Luther, Baxter, Edwards, Hewitson, and McCheyne. According to him, these men had all given up their own way and had taken Jesus as the way. Hewitson had apparently described a long and severe struggle after his conversion, which had finally ended when he was filled to overflowing with heavenly consolation that had stayed with him forever after.

While this assertion was sufficiently confronting to make me sigh in despair, it was Boardman’s main contention that I was really wrestling with. For he had argued that there was a second experience, distinct from one’s conversion, that sometimes occurred years afterwards. Could this really be true? And if so, how did it affect one’s spiritual walk?

I paged to the next bookmark. The text there dealt with the way in which we obtained God’s abiding presence—or full salvation, as Boardman liked to put it. It was nothing less than an entire surrender of heart and soul yielded to God’s will. I could certainly accept that. The only problem was that I had already consecrated my life to the Lord on multiple occasions. So what was I doing wrong?

I sighed heavily as I located the following bookmark. Here the text dealt with the spiritual journey of a typical pastor. It was the section that unsettled me most, because it forced me to admit that I was the personification of what was described there.

Although fictitious, this pastor would seek the Holy Spirit through prayer, taking for granted that God would be present in his life and preaching. But time had passed, and the Spirit had not fallen on either pastor or congregation.

I thought back to my time in Bloemfontein, and how I’d been unable to light even the faintest spark of the Spirit through my preaching there over eleven years. But then again, quite inexplicably, I had been able to do so during my preaching tours through the Transvaal and while visiting the various Boer laagers during the Basuto War.

So how did one explain that?

I resumed reading the text once more. According to Boardman, this fictitious pastor had then decided to inquire of the Lord as to what he should do about his lack of power, begging his Savior to show him the way. Rising from before the Lord, he had opened his Bible to the oft-read passage of Romans 7:24. The reason was that he wanted to read again the spiritual struggles he was experiencing, as mirrored in the words of the Apostle Paul: ‘O wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?’

That was me exactly, I thought. That was how I felt at that moment. I was scraping the barrel both physically and spiritually, and the reason was obvious. I was so intent on working for the Lord that I rarely had time to wait upon Him in order to seek His presence.

I thought back to the six-week period prior to my induction on 27 May that year. I had wanted to spend that time in preparation for my new charge here in Worcester, but had instead, gone on a collection tour to raise funds to send Dr. William Robertson to Scotland, Holland, and other parts of Europe. The reason for his trip was to obtain men willing to serve our Dutch Reformed Church as pastors and missionaries.

But surely my collection tour was essential? What other option was there?

I found my place again in Boardman’s book, and read what this fictitious pastor did next. He had apparently read and reread the passage in Romans 7:24, before reading the answer in the next verse: ‘I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord.’ At this point, the light had supposedly flashed through the pastor’s soul. He had seen that it was Jesus who was the deliverer from sin, just as He had been the deliverer from condemnation. The pastor now went on to page through his Bible, everywhere seeing confirmation of the fact that sanctification, just like justification, was by faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. As a result, he could scarce restrain himself from leaping for joy.

Happy pastor, I thought. How I wished it could be me. Nevertheless, in my view, Boardman had made it far too simplistic. I looked again at the text. Yes, there it was—the crucial point that Boardman had so glibly skimmed over: ‘The light flashed through his soul.’ In other words, God had opened this pastor’s eyes to reveal that Jesus was the way to obtaining spiritual power.

But why, in my case was the Holy Spirit present on some occasions and not on others?

I turned to the next section I’d bookmarked. At last we were arriving at the crux of the matter. In my opinion, Boardman should have dealt with the answer nearer to the beginning. As he had correctly indicated, Christ clearly provides the answer by commanding us to abide in Him. For it is only when we return to Jesus as the fountain that supplies the waters of the river of life that the stream will begin to flow into our hearts.

I saw that clearly, and knew it to be true. But it was putting it into practice that was the problem. And more to the point, it seemed to me that when we accept a truth in Scripture, we often regard it as being present in our own lives—as a fait accompli, so to speak—when it is obviously not the case. That was the great danger which was proving to be my undoing.

I snapped the book shut, set it to one side on my desk, and got up to place another log on the fire to calm my restless spirit. I then stood there ruminating over what I had just read. Oh, how I wanted to experience this second blessing of God’s abiding presence, just as Richard Baxter, Jonathan Edwards and the others had done!

I’M NOT SURE HOW LONG I‘d been standing there like that, when I was brought back to earth by the sound of a couple of horses cantering past the parsonage and turning into Adderley Street, where they came to a halt.

I immediately sprang into action by making my way around the settee, stumbling, as I did so, in my haste to peer out of the side window. A young woman was dismounting from her horse while her Colored groom—for want of a better term—tried to calm the snorting horses. She looked for all the world like a brigand, with a woolen cap sitting low over her forehead, and a scarf, which had been deftly pinned to one side, covering the lower half of her face. I also noticed that the hem of her blue-checked dress was covered in mud, a sign that she had ridden a considerable distance.

Whoever she was, she was obviously used to using the side entrance to the parsonage because she was now gesticulating to her groom to lead the horses into our back yard. As he was doing this, she was trying to make herself presentable by unpinning her scarf and smoothing down her dress. But each attempt at the latter proved futile because of the wind. So without further ado, she hitched up her dress and dashed to the door, her maroon cape ballooning behind her, and her scarf blowing aloft like a flag.

‘Come in out of the wind,’ I said, hurriedly opening the vestibule door to her.

‘Oe! It’s cold, it’s cold,’ she muttered while nodding my way. ‘I had to come, Dominee, because I couldn’t cope.’

I ushered her into the study, where she went to stand with her back to the fireplace, her breath coming in tiny gasps. Without the slightest hint of embarrassment, she pulled off her leather gloves and threw them casually on the settee before whisking off her woolen cap. Because strands of silky, black hair had escaped from beneath her hairnet, she deftly tucked them in before looking my way with large, luminous, black eyes that were framed with long, black eyelashes.

While her clothes were those of a young lady, her actions were those of a girl around sixteen or seventeen, very much at home in the parsonage setting. I was waiting for her breathing to settle, and while I did so, I couldn’t help noticing that she was strikingly pretty, with fawn-colored skin, straight nose, and even features.

But why was I detecting a glint of fear in those luminous eyes? And what on earth could have happened to force her to ride a considerable way in this bitter cold?

‘I’M SORRY TO HAVE KEPT you waiting, Dominee, but I had to catch my breath. I’m Catharina van Blerk from Aan de Doorns farm.’

Noticing my gaze veer towards the map depicting the farms of Worcester on the far wall next to the door, she hastily flounced over and pointed to the spot where Aan de Doorns was situated in the Breede Valley ward.

‘So what happened there, Juffrou Van Blerk?’ I asked, in a soothing tone to help calm her anxiety. ‘It must have been something frightening to cause you to gallop all this way in the wind and cold.’

She didn’t answer immediately, but made her way back to the hearth to stand once more with her back to the fire. After what seemed an age, she raised her troubled eyes to meet mine, and sighed. ‘We desperately need your help, Dominee. You see, revival has broken out on the farm.’

I looked at her non-plussed. I didn’t know what I had expected her to say, but it was certainly not that revival had broken out. Hadn’t she just said that she had come because she couldn’t cope? I now found myself having to smother a smile—not only out of sheer relief, but because the notion of revival simply did not fit with the anguish she was displaying.

Catharina van Blerk

(Thursday, 28 June 1860)

‘R evival?’ I repeated . ‘Are you sure?’

She responded with a series of little nods, her gaze not leaving mine. ‘Die Profeet, Saul Pieterse, said it was so.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, not really seeing at all. In fact the mention of a ‘prophet’ had raised my suspicions that whatever had occurred at Aan de Doorns could well be the Devil’s counterfeit action.

‘This Saul Pieterse is a prophet, you say?’

‘Ja Dominee. He definitely has a prophetic gift, just like Dominee Gottlieb van der Lingen of Paarl.’

I certainly couldn’t gainsay Van der Lingen’s gift, although I suspected that it only related to his interest in biblical prophesies. But being careful to hide my skepticism, I said, ‘Listen, Juffrou van Blerk—'

‘Catharina, please.’

‘Catharina, then. I would like Mevrou Murray to hear this story as well. So while you warm yourself by the fire, I’ll go and fetch her. I won’t be a minute.’

Because the bedrooms were on the opposite side of the house, I made my way through our formal dining and sitting room, across our central parlor, then down the passage leading to the children’s bedroom. Once there, I gently opened the door and tiptoed to where Emma was dozing on the spare bed. She was seven months pregnant, and looked a picture of peace and beauty as she lay there. She had been gifted with a peaches and cream complexion, which was set off by rich, chocolate brown hair that she arranged in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Having gained her attention via a gentle shake of the shoulder, I beckoned to her to follow me.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked as she closed the bedroom door behind her.

‘We have a visitor . . . a Miss Catharina van Blerk from Aan de Doorns farm. She says that revival has broken out there.’

Emma’s lovely brown eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise as she took in this news. ‘Really? How wonderful, Andrew!’ She grabbed my arm and shook it with excitement. When I didn’t respond, she studied my face more closely. ‘What’s wrong? You don’t seem too happy about it.’

‘I’m afraid not,