Where Art Thou? by J. C. Ryle

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Sep 26, 1865

"Where Art Thou?"

By J. C. Ryle

ThE following article is abridged and altered from a little volume called, STARTLING QUESTIONS, by J. C. Ryle, B. A., a Second Adventist, we believe, of England. This selection is appropriate to saint and sinner, and we present it to the reader in earnest hope that it may startle the dreamy reveries of the lukewarm, and lead those who are out of the ark of safety to the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world, before it is everlastingly too late.

Reader,—the question before your eyes is the first which God asked of man after the fall. It is the question he put to Adam in the day that he ate the forbidden fruit, and became a sinner.

In vain did Adam and his wife hide themselves among the trees of the garden of Eden. In vain did they try to escape the eye of the all-seeing God. They heard the voice of the Lord God, walking in the cool of the day. "And the Lord God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art thou?" (Gen. iii, 9.) Think, for a moment, how awful those words must have sounded! Think what the feelings of Adam and Eve must have been!

Reader, 6000 years have well-nigh passed away, since this question was first asked. Millions of Adam's children have lived and died, and gone to their own place. Millions are yet upon earth, and every one of them has a Heaven to gain or lose. But no question ever has been, or ever can be asked more solemn than that which is before you:—Where art thou? Where art thou in the sight of thy God? Come, now, and give me your attention, while I tell you a few things which may throw light upon this question.

I know not who you are,—whether you are a Churchman or a Dissenter;—whether you are learned or unlearned;—whether you are rich or poor;—whether you are old or young: about all this I know nothing. But I do know that you have eternal interests at stake. I do know that you have got to stand before the judgment seat of God, and I want you to be prepared for it. I do know that you will be lost or saved, and I want you to escape hell, and reach Heaven. I do know that the Bible contains most solemn things about the inhabitants of the earth, and I want every man, woman, and child, in the world to hear them. I believe every word in the Bible; and because I believe it, I ask every reader of this paper, "Where art thou in the sight of God?"

I. In the first place, there are many people, about whom the Bible shows me I ought to be exceedingly afraid. Reader, art thou one of them?

There are those, who, if Bible words mean anything, have not yet been converted and born again. They are not justified. They are not sanctified. They have not the Spirit. They have no faith. They have no grace. Their sins are not forgiven. Their hearts are not changed. They are not ready to die. They are not meet for Heaven. They are neither godly, nor righteous, nor saints. If they are, Bible words mean nothing at all.

Some of these persons, to all appearance, think no more about the future life than the beasts that perish. There is nothing to show that they think of the life to come any more than the horse and ox, which have no understanding. Their treasure is evidently all on earth. Their good things are plainly all on this side of the grave. Their attention is swallowed up by the perishable things of time. Meat, drink, and clothing,—money, houses, and land,—business, pleasure, or politics,—marrying, reading, or company;—these are the kind of things which fill their hearts. They live as if there were no such book as the Bible. They go on as if resurrection and eternal judgment were not true, but a lie. As to grace, and conversion, and justification, and holiness,—they are things which, like Gallio, they care not for;—they are words and names they are either ignorant of, or despise. They are all going to die. They are all going to be judged. And yet they seem to be even more hardened than the Devil, for they appear neither to believe nor tremble. Alas! what a state this is for a candidate of eternity to be in! But oh, how common!

Some of the persons I speak of have got a form of religion, but after all, it is nothing but a form. They profess, and call themselves, Christians. They go to a place of worship on the Sabbath. But when you have said that, you have said all. Where is the religion of the New Testament to be seen in their lives? Nowhere at all! Sin is plainly not considered their worst enemy, nor the Lord Jesus their best friend, nor the will of God their rule of life, nor salvation the great end of their existence. The spirit of slumber keeps possession of their hearts, and they are at ease, self-satisfied, and content. They are in a Laodicean frame of mind, and fancy they have enough religion.

God speaks to them continually, by mercies, by afflictions, by Sabbaths, by sermons; but they will not hear. Jesus knocks at the door of their hearts, but they will not open. They are told of death and eternity, and remain unconcerned. They are warned against the love of the world, and plunge into it week after week without shame. They hear of Christ coming upon earth to die for sinners, and go away unmoved. There seems a place in their hearts for everything but God;—room for business,—room for pleasures,—room for trifling,—room for sin,—room for the Devil,—room for the world; but, like the inn at Bethlehem, no room for Him who made them,—no admission for Jesus, the Spirit, and the Word. Alas! what a condition of things this is! But alas! how common!

Reader, I put it solemnly to your conscience, as in the sight of God, are you one of those persons whom I have just described? There are thousands of such people in our land,—thousands in Great Britain,—thousands in Ireland,—thousands in country parishes,—thousands in our towns,—thousands among Churchmen,—thousands among Dissenters,—thousands among rich,—thousands among poor. Now, are you one of them? If you are, I fear for you,—I tremble for you,—I am alarmed for you,—I am exceedingly afraid.

What is it that I fear for you? I fear everything. I fear lest you should persist in rejecting Christ, till you have sinned away your own soul. I fear lest you be given over to a reprobate mind, and awake no more. I fear lest you come to such deadness and hardness of heart, that nothing but the voice of the archangel and the trump of God will break your sleep. I fear lest you cling to this vain world so closely, that nothing but death will part it and you. I fear lest you should live without Christ, die without pardon, rise again with hope, receive judgment without mercy, and sink into hell without remedy.

Reader, I must warn you, though I may seem, like Lot, as one that mocks. I do solemnly warn you to flee from the wrath to come. I entreat you to remember that the Bible is all true, and must be fulfilled,—that the end of your present ways is misery and sorrow,—that without holiness no man shall see the Lord,—that the wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the people that forget God,—that God shall one day take account of all your doings, and that Christless sinners like yourself can never stand in his sight, for he is holy, and a consuming fire. Oh, that you would consider these things! Where is the man that can hold his finger for one minute in the flame of a candle? Who then can endure the flames of God's wrath?

I know well the thoughts that Satan will put into your heart, as you read these words. I know well the excuses that you are going to make. You will tell me, "religion is all very well, but a man must live." I answer, "it is quite true that man must live, but it

is none the less true that he must also die." You may tell me, "a man cannot starve." I answer that "I do not want any one to starve, but neither also do I want any one to burn in hell." You may tell me, "a man must mind his business first in this world." I answer, "Yes! and the first business a man should mind, is his eternal business,—the business of his soul."

Reader, I beseech you in all affection to break off your sins,—to repent and be converted. I beseech you to change your course,—to alter your ways about religion,—to turn from your present carelessness about your soul, and become a new man. I offer to you through Jesus Christ, the forgiveness of all past sins,—free and complete forgiveness,—ready, present, everlasting, forgiveness. I tell you in my Master's name, that if you will turn to the Lord Jesus Christ, this forgiveness shall at once be your own. Oh, do not refuse so gracious an invitation. Do not hear of Christ dying for you,—Christ shedding his own blood for you,—Christ stretching out his hands to you, and yet remain unmoved. Do not love this poor perishing world better than eternal life. Dare to be bold and decided. Resolve to come out from the broad way which leads to destruction. Arise and escape for your life, while it is called to-day. Repent, believe, pray, and be saved.

Reader, I fear for you in your present state. My heart's desire and prayer is, that God may make you fear for yourself.

II. In the second place, there are many people about whom the Bible shows me I ought to stand in doubt. Reader, art thou one of these?

There are many whom I must call almost Christians, for I know no other expression in the Bible which so exactly describes their state. They have many things about them which are right, and good, and praiseworthy in the sight of God. They are regular and moral in their lives. They are free from glaring, outward sins. They keep up many decent and proper habits. They are usually diligent in their attendance on means of grace. They appear to love the preaching of the gospel. They are not offended at the truth as it is in Jesus, however plainly it may be spoken. They have no objection to religious company, religious books, and religious talk. They agree to all you say when you speak to them about their soul. And all this is well.

But still there is no movement in the hearts of these people, that even a microscope can detect. They are like those who stand still. Weeks after weeks, years after years, roll over their heads, and they are just where they were. They sit under our pulpits. They approve of our sermons. And yet, like Pharaoh's lean kine, they are nothing the better apparently for all they receive. There is always the same regularity about them,—the same constant attendance on means of grace,—the same wishing and hoping,—the same way of talking about religion; but there is nothing more. There is no going forward in their Christianity. There is no life, and heat, and reality in it. Their souls seem to be at a dead lock. And all this is sadly wrong.

Reader, are you one of these people? There are thousands of them in this day,—thousands in our churches, and thousands in our chapels. I ask you to give an honest answer to the question: Is this the state of your soul in the sight of God? If it is, I can only say, your condition is most unsatisfactory. As the apostle said to the Galatians, so I say to you, "I stand in doubt of you."

How can I feel otherwise about you? There are but two sides in the world,—the side of Christ, and the side of the Devil; and yet you make it doubtful on which side you ought to be placed. I dare not say you are altogether careless about religion, but I cannot call you decided. I shrink from numbering you among the ungodly, but I may not place you among the Lord's children. You have some light; but is it saving knowledge? You have some feeling; but is it grace? You are not profane; but are you a man of God? You may possibly be one of the Lord's people; but you dwell so near the borders, that I cannot discern to what nation you belong. You may not perhaps be spiritually dead; but, like a sickly tree in winter, I hardly know whether you are alive. And thus you live on without satisfactory evidences. I cannot help doubting about you. Surely there is a cause.

I cannot read the secrets of your hearts. Perhaps there is some pet bosom sin, which you are holding fast, and will not give up. This is a disease which checks the growth of many a professing Christian. Perhaps you are kept back by the fear of man: you are afraid of the blame or laughter of your fellow creatures. This is an iron chain that fetters many a soul. Perhaps you are careless about private prayer and communion with God. This is one reason why multitudes are weak and sickly in spirit. But whatever your reason be, I warn you in all affection to take care what you are doing. Your state is neither satisfactory nor safe. Like the Gibeonites, you are found in the train of Israel, but like them you have no title to Israel's portion, Israel's consolations, and Israel's rewards. Oh! awake to a sense of your danger! Strive to enter in.

III. In the third place, there are some people about whom the Bible tells me I ought to feel a good hope. Reader, art thou one of these?

The people I speak of have found out that they are guilty sinners, and have fled to Christ by faith for salvation. They have found out that sin is a miserable and unhappy thing, and they hate it, and long to be free from its presence altogether. In themselves they see nothing but weakness and corruption, but in the Lord Jesus they see the very things their souls require;—pardon, peace, light, comfort, and strength. Christ's blood, Christ's cross, Christ's righteousness, Christ's intercession,—these are the things on which their minds love to dwell. Their affections are now set on things above. They care for nothing so much as pleasing God. While they live, their chief desire is to live for the Lord. When they die, their only desire is to die in the Lord. After the judgment, their hope is that they shall be with the Lord.

Reader, is this the state of your heart? Do you know anything of the faith and hope, and affections and experience, which I have just described? Do you find anything in your heart which answers to the account I have just given?—If you do, I thank God for it,—I congratulate you in your condition,—I feel a good hope about your spiritual state.

I know well that you live in a world full of trials. You are yet in the wilderness; you are not at home. I know well that pride, and unbelief, and sloth are continually struggling for the mastery within you. You have fightings without and fears within. I doubt not your heart is so treacherous and deceitful that you are often sick of yourself, and say, "Never was heart like mine." But notwithstanding all this, I will hope in your case.

I hope, because I believe that God has begun a work in you which he will never allow to be overthrown. Who taught you to hate sin and love Christ? Who made you come out from the world and delight in God's service? These things do not come from your own heart. Nature bears no such fruit. These things are the work of God, who, where he begins, always finishes; who, where he gives grace, will also give glory. Surely, here is ground for hope.

I hope, because I believe you have an interest in an everlasting covenant, a covenant ordered in all things, and sure. The stamp of Heaven is upon you. The marks of the Lord Jesus are on your heart. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, have all engaged to carry out your salvation. There is a threefold cord around you, which never yet was broken. Surely, here is ground for hope.

I hope, because you have a Saviour, whose blood can cleanse from all sin,—a Saviour who invites all, and casts out none that come to him,—a Saviour who will not break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax,—a Saviour who can be touched with the feeling of your infirmities, and is not ashamed to call you brethren,—a Saviour who never alters, but is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever, always able to save to the uttermost, always mighty to save. Surely, here is ground for hope.

I hope, because the love of Christ is a love that passeth knowledge. So free and undeserved! So costly, even unto death! So powerful and all-conquering! So unchanging and enduring! So patient and forbearing! So tender and sympathizing! Truly, our sins pass knowledge, and this is the very love our souls need. Surely, here is ground for hope.

I hope, because God has given to you exceeding great and precious promises,—promises of being kept unto the end,—promises of grace for every time of need, and strength according to your day,—promises that never yet were broken, all yea and amen in Christ Jesus. Surely, here is ground for hope.

Oh! reader, if you are a believer, these things are a strong foundation. If God be for you, who shall be against you? There is no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus. Nothing shall ever separate them from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Come now, and let me tell you what I want you and every true Christian to aim at. I want you to seek more hope. I want you not to rest satisfied with that little mite of confidence which forms the whole stock of many of God's children. I want you to seek the full assurance of hope,—that lively hope which makes a man never ashamed.

If we want to grow in grace, and have more hope, we must seek more holiness in life and conversation. This is a humbling lesson to dwell upon, but one that cannot be dwelt upon too much. There is an inseparable connection between a close walk with God and comfort in our religion. Let this never be forgotten. Truly the vessels in the Lord's house are many of them very dull and dingy. When I look around, I see many things missing amongst us which Jesus loves. I miss the meekness and gentleness of our Master: many of us are harsh, rough-tempered, and censorious, and we flatter ourselves that we are faithful. I miss real holiness in confessing Christ before men: we often think much more of the time to be silent than the time to speak. I miss real humility: not many of us like to take the lowest place, and esteem every one better than ourselves, and our own strength perfect weakness. I miss real charity: few of us have that unselfish spirit which seeketh not its own: there are few who are not more taken up with their own feelings and their own happiness than that of others. I miss real thankfulness of spirit: we complain, and murmur, and fret, and brood over the things we have not, and forget the things we have. We are seldom content; there is generally a Mordecai at our gate. I miss decided separation from the world: the line of distinction is often rubbed out. Many of us, like the chameleon, are often taking the color of our company; we become so like the ungodly, that it strains a man's eyes to see the difference. Reader, these things ought not so to be. If we want more hope, let us be more zealous of good works.

If we would grow in grace, and have a more lively hope, we must seek more preparedness for Christ's second coming. I know no doctrine more sanctifying and quickening than the doctrine of Christ's second advent. I know none more calculated to draw us from the world, and make us single-eyed, whole hearted, and joyful Christians. But alas! how few believers live like men who wait for their Master's return! Who that narrowly observes the ways of many believers would ever think that they loved and longed for their Lord's appearing? Is it not true that there are many hearts among God's children which are not quite ready to receive Jesus? He would find the window barred,—the door shut,—the fires almost out;—it would be a cold and comfortless reception. Oh! believing reader, it ought not so to be. We want more of a pilgrim's spirit:—we ought to be ever looking for, and hastening to our home. The day of the Lord's advent is the day of rest, the day of complete redemption, the day when the family of God shall at last be all gathered together. It is the day when we shall no longer walk by faith, but by sight:—we shall see the land that is far off,—we shall behold the King in his beauty. Surely, we ought to be saying daily, "Come, Lord Jesus, let thy kingdom come." Oh, let us set Christ's advent continually before our eyes. Let us say to ourselves every morning, "The Lord will soon return," and it will be good for our souls.

We live in strange times! The world seems getting old and shaking. The shadows are long drawn. The evening appears to be coming on. The night will

soon be upon us, when no man can work. Oh, that every reader of this tract would turn in upon himself while it is called to-day, and consider his own ways. Oh, that each would ask himself the question, Where am I? What am I? Where am I going? What will be the end of my present course?

Time is fast ebbing away. Life is a vast uncertainty. Death is drawing nearer and nearer. Judgment is sure to come. Reader, where art thou? Where art thou in the sight of God?—J. C. Ryle.