Yesterday, I shared a reflection on Scott Adams’ final words. But I missed something.
I quoted only part of his farewell, the part where he said, “I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.” At first glance, it sounded like surrender. A confession of faith at the edge of eternity. And for a moment, I let myself feel relief. Maybe this brilliant, stubborn, skeptical man had come home to Christ in his final breath.
But then I went back and read the whole thing after seeing some of the comments on the article. And the full context leaves questions. Serious ones.
He admits he wasn’t a believer. He references “risk and reward.” He says his uncertainty “should be quickly resolved if I wake up in heaven.” He wonders aloud if he’s still “qualified for entry.”
That doesn’t sound like a man resting in the finished work of Christ. It sounds like a man hedging his bets.
Now let me be clear: I don’t know his heart. I won’t pretend to. I won’t write final sentences God alone has the right to write. But his words do what words often do…they reveal something of the man. They reflect what he believed or wanted to believe when the veil between this life and the next began to thin.
And so today, I want to return to that moment. Not to analyze Scott, but to examine the one question his statement forces on all of us:
How do you know if you’re truly saved?
Not how do you feel. Not what you once prayed. Not what you hoped at thirteen. But now. Today.
Some men cry out in their final hour and are received. But most die the way they lived. The screen will go dark. The voice will fall silent. And the life we’ve lived will reveal what we truly believed.
Let’s take this seriously. Let’s walk through it.
It’s an awful thing to think you’re on the right train and discover, too late, that the tracks led somewhere else.
Some board early. They sit quietly, certain of the destination. Others jump on halfway, eyes open, hands shaking. But some hold a crumpled ticket from long ago where a childhood decision, a sinner’s prayer, a youth camp memory and they believe that piece of paper guarantees arrival.
They believe it because they want to believe it. They believe it because someone told them they could. They believe it because they never stopped to ask what the conductor is actually looking for.
But Scripture does.
“Examine yourselves, to see whether you are in the faith. Test yourselves.”
(2 Corinthians 13:5)
The testing is not cruel. It is mercy. It is the voice of the Savior before the doors close.
There’s a man in the Book of Acts who was already on the road, riding in a chariot, Isaiah’s scroll open across his lap. A eunuch, foreign, wealthy, religious. He had traveled to Jerusalem to worship. He was reading aloud, stumbling over phrases about a man led like a lamb to the slaughter.
Philip ran beside him. The road was long, sunbaked. Breathless, Philip asked, “Do you understand what you are reading?”
And the man, powerful and educated, said, “How can I, unless someone guides me?”
That chariot rolled forward. A man climbed in. A conversation began. The scroll was still open when the water appeared, unexpected, off the path and the eunuch’s voice broke through: “What prevents me from being baptized?”
Philip didn’t ask for a testimony.
He said, “If you believe with all your heart, you may.”
The man did.
He stepped into the water, heart full, sins washed clean in the name of Christ.
Then the chariot rolled on, and Scripture says the man “went on his way rejoicing.”
That’s salvation.
Not dependent on emotion or the water or because a preacher was there at the right time.
Because something real had happened. A heart had turned. A soul had laid down its striving and looked to the One who had bled for him.
That’s what saving faith looks like.
It doesn’t hedge or whisper, “Just in case.” It doesn’t do math on eternity like it’s a poker table.
It surrenders.
Scott Adams’ words do not sound like surrender. They sound like someone reaching for a hand he’s not sure will take his.
“The part about me not being a believer should be quite quickly resolved…”
“I hope I’m still qualified for entry…”
It’s haunting because it’s honest. He was a man staring death in the face, and he wanted what Christ offered. But the words leave us cold, unsure if he ever handed Christ his full weight.
And that brings us to you.
You, with your old ticket stub. You, who stood at the front once. You, who were baptized and haven’t thought much of it since. You, who believe in grace and live like there’s no cost. You, who are afraid to ask the question out loud:
Am I truly saved?
You know what a Christian looks like. You’ve seen it in others. You’ve heard it preached.
A Christian doesn’t merely confess once. He confesses daily.
A Christian doesn’t just agree with God. He turns toward Him.
A Christian doesn’t just remember a day when things felt different. He wakes up today, this morning, with trembling hands and believes again.
The Christian life runs on two rails: repentance and faith.
Repentance is not a tear. It’s a turn.
Faith is not mental assent. It’s trust that moves your weight off yourself and onto Christ every single hour.
It starts this way. And it continues this way. Every step.
Paul told the Colossians:
“As you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in him.”
(Colossians 2:6)
The way in is the way on. The doorway and the hallway are the same.
Repent. Believe.
Repent. Believe.
Cornelius was a religious man. He prayed. He gave generously. He feared God. He had a good reputation.
And yet, God arranged a preacher for him.
Peter came, not to congratulate him, but to confront him with the gospel. Cornelius needed more than reverence. He needed Christ.
Peter preached the cross and resurrection. Before he could finish, the Holy Spirit fell. Hearts opened. Mouths declared. Lives were changed. Cornelius didn’t just admire the gospel. He received it.
How long did it take? A lifetime?
A moment.
Just like the eunuch. Just like every story of real salvation.
So, again. You.
Where are you looking?
Some of you are looking inward to a prayer you once prayed, to a feeling you once had, to a card you signed or a baptism certificate you’ve kept in a drawer. That’s not assurance. That’s memory.
Others are looking around to church friends, to a spouse’s faith, to religious activity. That’s not assurance. That’s proximity.
The gospel calls you to look upward. Outward. To a cross on a hill and a Savior who bled for your sin. To a tomb that cracked open and a King who now sits enthroned, interceding for those who are His.
If you are repenting today and if you see your sin as unbearable, your efforts as insufficient, your only hope in the blood of Christ and if you are believing today by resting all your weight on Jesus as Lord and Savior…you are His.
Right now.
If your faith no longer hungers for righteousness, no longer wars with sin, no longer loves Christ and if it has stopped walking the tracks of repentance and faith altogether then your assurance is not built on Christ. It’s built on memory. And that’s not the train to heaven.
There are only two destinations.
The chariot road, soaked with joy.
Or the long track that ends in silence…the silence of being cast out, the silence where Christ will not speak your name.
That is why Scott Adams matters. Not because we know where he stood. We don’t. Only God knows the condition of his soul when the final breath left his lungs.
But we do know what kind of faith leaves men wondering if they’ll “qualify.”
We do know what saving faith sounds like.
It sounds like the tax collector, beating his chest: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
It sounds like the thief on the cross, whispering: “Lord, remember me…”
It sounds like the Ethiopian saying: “I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God.”
It sounds like Cornelius’ household as the Spirit fell and the gospel was believed.
And it sounds like this:
“I’m done bargaining. I’m done hedging. I turn from my sin. I trust Christ with everything I am.”
In the end, there will be only two kinds of people:
Those who hoped they’d be accepted.
And those who came to Jesus and were.
A man once stood at a platform with a suitcase in his hand. The train pulled in. Doors hissed open. He paused. He looked down the track. Then he stepped on.
The train moved.
Far down the line, a conductor came through.
“Ticket, sir?”
The man reached into his coat pocket. Empty. He checked the suitcase. Nothing. Panic rose.
The conductor waited.
The man’s face changed.
“I thought—”
“I assumed—”
“I remember once—”
But the train didn’t stop. And the conductor had moved on.
Friend, don’t wait for the tracks to end.
Repent. Believe. Step off now.
And walk.
“Whoever comes to me, I will never cast out.”
(John 6:37)