R.C. Sproul

This is simple—until something else happens. Recently, I was in a meeting. This man, who was on the board of trustees of a Christian institution, explained to me that as a member of that board he was not allowed to participate in the drinking of wine. I thought, "If he comes to Saint Andrew's Chapel on Sunday morning during the Lord's Supper, he would be happy that we have grape juice for someone bound by this particular scruple." This man said to me, "What do you think about that?" I said, "I think it's ghastly." He said, "Why?" I said: "Because that Christian institution has elevated a preference that they have and made it a law. They've legislated where God has left men free." He replied, "Yes, but they're concerned that we differ from the culture and that we not be involved in drunkenness," and so on. I said: "Do you realize that Jesus could not serve on the board of this institution? That not one of the Apostles would qualify for this institution? I appreciate their concern. They want to keep that institution unspotted from the world. But their position is one of weakness, and now they've made it law."

How old are you? Let me ask another question: How old were you ten years ago? I can answer that for you. You were ten years younger than you are now. How old will you be ten years from now? Again, you can do the simple math, given your age at the moment. But the deeper question is: Where will you be ten years from now? Where will you be twenty years from now? Do you ever think about it, or wonder how long you are going to live? I have never done that so much in my whole life as I have been doing it now. I say: "Lord, please, I can't wait to get home, but give me ten to twenty more years in this pulpit. Get this church built. Hurry up." I say to Vesta, "I wish I were forty-five." Do you ever do that? I do not know whether I will still be standing right here in this pulpit twenty years from now—and we still may not be done with Romans. That is a real possibility. But let me cut the Gordian knot here and ask, "Where will I be in fifty years?" There is no doubt about that. I am not going to be in this pulpit fifty years from now. Where will you be? Some of you young people, God willing, will still be here. Where will you be in one hundred years? In the fullness of time, one hundred years is not that long, and fifty years is only half of that. Ten years is only a tenth of it. I do not care how old you are. It is time to wake up because the day is approaching. The end of our lives is approaching. That is what I think Paul is talking about here.

I mentioned earlier how I was converted to Christ and began to read the Bible for the first time. I started reading through the Old Testament, beginning at Genesis 1 like it was a novel. I was reading day and night for two weeks to read through the Bible. I remember walking the halls of my dormitory in college at three o'clock in the morning. Everybody else was sound asleep. There was no sound in the building. I could not sleep. I was walking back and forth like a caged lion, haunted by what I was reading in the Old Testament. I read about the flood, the destruction of Korah because of his rebellion, God killing Nadab and Abihu, God killing Uzzah when he touched the ark of the covenant, and God instituting the herem against the Canaanites, killing men, women, and children. I walked, thinking: "This God plays for keeps. If I'm going to be a Christian, I've got to be all in or get out of here." That was my maiden impression of the revelation of the person, character, and nature of almighty God—He plays for keeps.

I do not think that most anger arises out of pain. I think it all does. If somebody punches you, it makes you mad. If somebody disappoints you, it makes you mad. If somebody frustrates you, it makes you mad. Look at a little baby, with his little tinker toy, his little board with square pegs and round holes. You see this baby, seemingly infinitely patient, taking the mallet and trying to pound the square peg into the round hole. He does it and does it, he smiles and smiles, and after about a minute of that, he throws the mallet, kicks the stool over, gives into his frustration, and starts screaming. It hurts him to fail. Failure, pain, disappointment, and frustration give rise to anger.

Another question is this: Will people in heaven be able to look down on those still on earth and know what's going on in their lives? If so, will they be subjected to pain and anguish by what they watch taking place before their heavenly gaze? I remember hearing a particularly wicked sermon in a seminary chapel when I was a student. I walked out to the parking lot with my mentor, Dr. John Gerstner, and I said to Dr. Gerstner, "John Calvin would have rolled over in his grave if he listened to that sermon." He stopped mid-stride, turned around, looked at me, and said: "What? Don't you know that nothing could possibly disturb the felicity that John Calvin enjoys at this very moment?" I said, "Yes, sir. I stand corrected." Look at the parable of Dives and Lazarus. Parabolically speaking, that text suggests people can look down and see what is happening. But these are just little glimpses that we get about our heavenly state. For the most part, we must wait and see. We are now in a state where we look into the glass darkly. We know in part, but our knowledge will be so much greater when we arrive in that place.

Around the time of the fall of the Soviet Union, I was invited to give a series of lectures in Eastern Europe, including the Czech Republic, Romania, and a week of lectures at a Reformed seminary in Budapest, Hungary. I heard a little bit of the background of this seminary. It was called a Reformed seminary, but during the entirety of their occupation by the Soviet powers, the people there had no exposure to Reformed theology. This Reformed group in Hungary was ruled by bishops, and one of the first things the communists did when they conquered the nation was to undermine the clergy and get them in their pockets. By way of collaboration, virtually every one of the bishops bowed down before the communist rulers and surrendered their faith. Not only did they surrender their faith, but they also expelled anybody in their midst who was faithful to biblical theology. One of the professors who defended the authority of the Bible was summarily expelled from the faculty because the communist rulers did not want to hear that, and the bishops played right into their hands. In a short time, the whole faculty of the seminary was under the thumb of the communist rulers and their regime.

I remember in seminary, my professor talked about the doctrine of hell that tormented us all. He pointed out that Jesus spoke more about hell than heaven. He mused and speculated at this point and said, "I wonder why it is that almost everything we know about hell in the New Testament comes from Jesus." His best guess was that we probably could not bear it from anybody else's lips but Jesus Himself.

One of my favorite hymns ever written was by Augustus Toplady. You know the hymn: "Rock of Ages cleft for me, let me hide myself in Thee." In that hymn, there is a line that gets me every time I hear it.

In 1966, I was teaching college in the North Shore of Boston, Massachusetts. I was teaching Introduction to the Old Testament to the freshman class of 250 students. The only room big enough for the class was the college chapel. So, they gathered there that first day, all 250 of them. I went over the syllabus and the reading requirements, told them when the midterm and final exams would be, and so on. I said: "In addition, we have three small papers due of eight to ten pages. The first one is due September 30th; the second one, October 30th; the third one, November 30th. They must be turned in that morning at the time of class." Having had some experience teaching college, I knew that every freshman is a Philadelphia lawyer, so I had to spell out in detail what the exceptions might be. I said: "Unless you are physically confined to the infirmary or have a death in the immediate family, if you fail to turn those papers in, you will get an F for that assignment. Does everybody understand?" Everybody said they understood it, at least until September 30th, when 225 students came with their papers. At the back of the chapel were twenty-five freshmen students experiencing abject fear and terror. Their knees were knocking as they trembled. They said: "Professor Sproul, we failed to make the adjustment from high school to college. We didn't budget our time the way we should have, so we don't have our papers done yet. Please, give us some more time." I responded, "I'll give you two more days this time, but don't ever do it again." They were grateful. Everything was great until October 30th. On October 30th, 200 students came with their papers, and fifty of them did not have their papers. I asked, "Where are your papers?" Once again, they were repenting in dust and ashes: "Professor, it was midterm, and we had assignments from all the other courses. Plus, it was homecoming, and we engaged in building floats and all the rest of the activities. We're so sorry. Give us one more chance, please." I said, "Okay." In response—this really happened—they spontaneously started to sing, "We love you Prof. Sproul, oh yes we do." For thirty days, I was the most popular professor on the campus—until November 30th, when 150 students came with their papers. A hundred of them strolled in as casually as you can imagine. I watched them walk in the back. I said: "Where are your papers? Johnson, where's your paper?" I got the response: "Hey, Prof, no sweat. I'll have it for you in a couple of days." I said, "You don't have it today?" He said, "No." I took out the ubiquitous black book and opened it up to Johnson, and I said, "Johnson, F." Johnson became livid. He looked at me with a red face and shouted, "That's not fair." I said, "What did you say?" He said, "I said, 'That's not fair.'" I said: "Oh, it's justice that you want, Mr. Johnson? Don't I recall that last month you failed to have your paper, and I gave you an extension? Isn't that correct?" He said, "Yes, sir." I said: "Okay, I'm going back to give you justice: F for that one." I said, "Who else wants justice?" You could hear a pin drop. The clamoring had ceased. No one else wanted justice.

D. James Kennedy had a passion for evangelism. He used to tell his students, "If you are in ministry, find every way you can to multiply ministry. Use the radio, television, books, whatever you can do to make the message wider and stronger. Whatever you do as a Christian in the service of Christ, do with all your might and strength, that you might multiply your ministry."

Many of you have had the same experience. When I was first converted and wrote to my fiancé to explain it to her, she thought I had lost my mind. I trembled at the thought of whether we could become husband and wife if she remained in that posture. But again, by the grace of God, her heart was changed. She too was converted and acquiesced to my marriage proposal.

What is Jesus' statement here about? When the marketplace was empty and the kids had a bit of space to play, they'd go in and create games. We used to play in the street in front of my house. We'd play four-man touch football, and we had to watch for cars coming down the street. We could only play if the cars were not on the street. As soon as the car went by, we used to throw the ball over the car, then we would continue our game. Kids are great at inventing games. We used to dress up and say: "Let's play Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. No, let's play pirate. Let's play cowboys and Indians, or cops and robbers." The girls would say: "Let's say play dolls. No, let's play dress up." The kids would fight among themselves as to what they should do with their games. This is how Jesus described the children in the marketplace. They play the flute saying, "We're going to have a happy time of dancing." Some of the kids say, "We're not dancing; we don't want to play the flute game" so they play the funeral dirge and say, "Let's play funeral." Then the others say, "No, we're not going to play funeral. We're not going to mourn." This is the way children behave.