Lament for Spurgeon’s College
Spurgeon’s College Announces Closure After 169 Years of Service on 31 July 2025
Et teneo et teneor – I hold and am held
Our heavenly Father, God of our story,
A great flame has flickered and gone.
A lighthouse that once cast gospel light to the ends of the earth
Now stands dark in the mist.
We lift our eyes to you, but the sky is thick with sorrow.
We do not understand.
We cannot understand.
Father, I hold this ache in my hands, and find I am still held in yours.
Spirit of God, why has this well of wisdom run dry?
Why have the gates of Spurgeon’s College closed after 169 faithful years?
This was your vineyard.
A place where truth was tended and souls were trained for mission and ministry.
From brick to pulpit, from classroom to chapel, this was a holy ground.
Spirit of God, I hold the loss like a sacred weight, and you hold me through it.
Jesus, here we meditated on your Word,
Our hearts were pierced,
Our hands were lifted in prayer,
And our lips were trained to speak good news.
Here, callings were confirmed.
Here, tears were shed for the lost.
Here, lives were poured out like offerings on your altar.
And now?
Now the rooms echo only with memory.
The lights are out. The books are untouched.
The voices that once rang with fire and joy are silent.
Jesus, I carry the silence, and you carry me.
Lord, you called Charles Spurgeon to dream this dream.
You sustained it through three centuries and many wars,
Through doubt and uncertainty, through confusion and despair.
You brought tutors who were passionate about your Word,
Students who came trembling but left bold.
And now the doors have closed, not with ceremony, but with sorrow.
Lord, I hold the history, but you hold the future.
We are left holding the pieces.
Plans abandoned. Prayers unanswered.
Why now, Lord, when hope was rising?
When partnerships were forming?
When the gospel is more urgent than ever in our weary, wandering world?
Lord, I hold my confusion, but am held by your mystery.
What of the prayers whispered in lecture rooms?
What of the commitments made in the chapel?
The tears. The laughter. The fire?
Was it all in vain?
No. We believe you have not forgotten.
Jesus, you are the Word made flesh. You see. You remember.
The Word sown in this place for 169 years will not return void.
Not one sermon, not one soul, not one sacrifice has escaped your notice.
Jesus, I hold the harvest unseen, and am held by your promise.
So we come not with answers, but with ashes.
We weep, as Hannah wept.
We cry out, as Jeremiah cried.
We lament, as Christ lamented over Jerusalem.
This is our lament, and it is our worship.
Lord, I hold the sorrow, and you hold my soul.
And yet
We will not let go of hope.
You are still God.
You are still good.
You are still writing the story.
Father, I hold to hope by a thread, and find your hands are the net.
So from these broken ruins, raise up new voices.
From these scattered seeds, bring forth a greater harvest.
May Spurgeon’s legacy not end, but multiply.
Let the silence of these rooms echo into a thousand places of worship.
Let the sorrow of this moment sow joy in the fields we cannot yet see.
Until then, we lament.
Until then, we remember.
Until then, we wait in hope.
I hold the ache that lingers, and I am held by the hope that lives.
I hold the ashes of what was, and I am held by the flame that still burns.
I hold the waiting in my chest, and I am held in the arms of eternity.
I hold the ‘not yet’ with trembling hands, and I am held by the One who holds tomorrow.
Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, For his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; Great is your faithfulness — Lam. 3:21–23
