Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go into this city, and spend a year there, and trade, and get gain”: whereas you know not what shall be tomorrow. What is your life? For you are a vapor, that appears for a little time, and then vanishes away. Instead, you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we shall both live, and do this or that” (James 4:13-15).
James’ epistle has been called the “gospel of practicality.” It is so down-to-earth in relating the teaching of Jesus Christ to the affairs of daily life.
In the fourth chapter of his letter, James (almost certainly the half-brother of Christ) addresses overconfidence in those who are spiritually short-sighted and so this-world oriented.
Life is a precious gift. Let us pause a moment and consider the value of the blessing of life.
In the immediate context, the thrust of James’ question is to emphasize the brevity of human life to those whose thoughts were riveted in time rather than in eternity. Relatively speaking, our existence upon this planet is a fleeting thing. How seriously, then, ought it to be viewed; how desperately its moments should be treasured.
Robert Ingersoll (1833-99) was a mediocre Illinois lawyer whose flair for oratory thrust him into fame in the latter portion of the nineteenth century. He crisscrossed the nation lecturing to large crowds with vitriolic tirades against the Bible. He charged that the Scriptures contain “a great deal of error, considerable barbarism and a most plentiful lack of good sense” (Ferrell 1900, 8:1). When Ingersoll turned against the Bible (he had been raised in a religious home), he abandoned any hope of eternal bliss. Strangely, though, the “hope” jargon occasionally wormed its way into his vocabulary.
Once when asked to deliver an address at a little boy’s grave, the infidel said: “We, too, have our religion, and it is this: Help for the living, hope for the dead.” What was the basis for such hope? In a eulogy delivered at the funeral of his beloved brother, Ingersoll poured out his soul in anguish.
Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud—and the only murmur is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word. But in the night of Death, Hope sees a star, and listening Love can hear the rustle of a wing (Farrell, 12:391).
When adversaries confronted him with the implications of this expression of “hope,” he rationalized by suggesting that his words were simply spontaneous eruptions of affection; literally speaking, he said, he was “agnostic” regarding the immortality of the soul.
I have long had in my library a copy of Ingersoll’s pathetic little volume, Some Mistakes of Moses (1879). Each time I see it I cannot but be reminded of the quip by William Jennings Bryan, five-time Democratic nominee for the U.S. Presidency: “I would much prefer to hear Moses on ‘The mistakes of Ingersoll.’” Ingersoll opened his noxious tirade as follows:
I want to do what little I can to make my country truly free [and little it was], to broaden the intellectual horizon of our people, to destroy the prejudices born of ignorance and fear, to do away with blind worship of the ignoble past, with the idea that all the great and good are dead, that the living are totally depraved, that all pleasures are sins, that sighs and groans are alone pleasing, that thought is dangerous, that intellectual courage is a crime, that cowardice is a virtue, that a certain belief is necessary to secure salvation (13).
The sectarian notion that it is impossible for a child of God to so sin as to be lost eternally is widely believed by a host of sincere people. But the idea is fallacious. It was first vocalized in the Garden of Eden by Satan, who lied to Eve by telling her that disobedience to God would not result in death (Genesis 3:4; cf. John 8:44). Human history has demonstrated the devastating consequences of believing that error. In later ages, the dogma of the impossibility of apostasy was popularized by John Calvin (1509-64). It is, however, without biblical support.
That apostasy from the true faith is possible may be demonstrated in several ways.
(1) An individual disciple may depart from the truth. Simon, a sorcerer of Samaria, heard the gospel of Christ, believed it, and was immersed, just as others in that region had been (Acts 8:12-13). When he observed that the apostles had the ability to confer miraculous gifts, he was intrigued by the prospect of possessing this power for himself; and so he sought to bribe the apostles into bestowing the gift upon him. He was seriously in error on this matter, both in disposition (v. 21) and in the act itself. Accordingly, Peter sternly rebuked the wayward disciple, warning him that he could “perish” (v. 20), which is the equivalent of being lost (cf. Luke 13:3). The apostle urged Simon to pray that he might obtain forgiveness (v. 22).
(2) The Scriptures indicate that a congregation of God’s people may fall away from the faith. On his third missionary journey, Paul came to the city of Ephesus (ca. A.D. 52). There he taught the gospel and baptized a dozen
men. The members of that congregation had been saved by grace through faith when they were immersed into Christ (cf. Ephesians 2:8-9; 5:25-26; Acts 19:5; cf. 2:38). Paul labored in this great city some three years, and the church prospered (Acts 19:8, 10; 20:31).
Some four decades later, however, the scene was very different. On the isle of Patmos (ca. A.D. 96), the Lord Jesus Christ, through the apostle John, dispatched a series of letters to seven congregations in Asia, one of
which was the Ephesian church (Revelation 2:1-7). To that group Christ presented this indictment: “You have left your first love” (v. 4, NASB). “First love” seems to be an allusion to the passionate love for the Savior that these brethren entertained at the commencement of their Christian lives (Alford n.d.; cf. Jeremiah 2:2). The Lord promised that unless they repented and returned to their “first works,” i.e., those of the earlier days of their discipleship (Danker et al. 2000, 892-893), their “lampstand” would be removed. Since the lampstand represented the church itself (cf. 1:20), this was the equivalent of a threat of disinheritance (cf. Numbers 14:12). A church can depart from the faith.
“Did I not tell you, ‘Do not sin against the child’; and you would not listen?” The foregoing question of accusation was framed by Reuben, the oldest of Jacob’s sons, when the disguised Joseph, then a ruler in Pharaoh’s court, demanded that their younger brother, Benjamin, be brought into the land of Egypt (Genesis 42:22). The question reflected the fear that perhaps the hand of Providence finally had caught up with those Israelite men on account of their harsh treatment of Joseph in his tender years.
Sin always is wrong—at any time, at any place, and when perpetrated upon anyone. Somehow, though, we are especially incensed when innocent children are assaulted. There is a great cry these days against child abuse. And yet society sins against youngsters in so many ways in today’s cruel world, and much of it is calculated and headstrong.
More than a million babies are slaughtered each year in America before they ever see the light of day. Since Roe vs. Wade (1973), nearly fifty million children have been murdered in the womb. That is more loss of life than combined U.S. deaths in all of the wars in the previous two centuries of our country’s existence. Adolf Hitler’s death camps were tame compared to our abortion chambers.
The infanticide problem has been rationalized by the allegation that the fetus is not a human. Rather, it is but an expendable appendage of the female’s body. Such a position is indefensible, either biblically or scientifically. A pamphlet issued several years ago by Planned Parenthood stated: “An abortion requires an operation. It kills the life of the baby after it has begun” (1963). It could not have been stated better—and from such an unlikely source.
From the earliest days of their intellectual perception, the youth of this nation are bombarded with evolutionary propaganda which argues the following premises: (1) Humanity has evolved from inanimate sources, hence, there is no need to believe in the idea of a supernatural creation (i.e., the existence of a Creator). (2) Since God does not exist, appropriate human conduct is not regulated by some supreme Being. Rather, man, as his own “god,” operates by a moral code that is both autonomous and situational (see Kurtz and Wilson). This means he does what he wants, when he wants, accountable to no one but himself.
In his informative book, Understanding the New Age, Russell Chandler notes that nearly half (42%) of America’s adult population believe they have been in contact with someone who has died (1988). This was up 15% from a survey conducted in 1977. Of course there is nothing new about necromancy (attempting to communicate with the dead); it is almost as old as death itself. It has, however, received a resurgence of interest lately with the advent of “New Age” philosophy under the influence of such notables as Shirley MacLaine (1983).
Necromancy was practiced in ancient Babylon and also in Egypt (which was known as the “mother of the occult”). There is considerable evidence in the Old Testament that even the Hebrews became involved in the practice. During the time of the wicked Manasseh’s reign over Judah, it is said that the king “practiced augury, and used enchantments, and dealt with them that had familiar spirits, and with wizards” (2 Kings 21:6).
One who sought to communicate with the dead was called a necromancer; hence, the term refers to one who attempts to obtain supernatural knowledge from beyond the grave. Such a person was said to have a “familiar spirit” (modern spirit mediums call them “controls”) who could convey the desired information. Thus, Moses wrote: “There shall not be found with you . . . a consulter with a familiar spirit, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For whosoever doeth these things is an abomination unto Jehovah” (Deuteronomy 18:10-12). Again: “Turn you not unto them that have familiar spirits” (Leviticus 19:31), for “the soul that turns unto them that have familiar spirits, and unto wizards, to play the harlot after them, I will set my face against that soul, and will cut him off from among the people” (20:6). That, of course, implied the death penalty (v. 27).
Could certain perverse persons actually communicate with the dead in those ancient times? And what of today? Some contend that during the Mosaic economy there were actually people who could contact the dead and thus, by supernatural knowledge obtained from them, they could predict the future. They argue that capital punishment would hardly have been legislated against mere pretenders.
We feel, however, that his argument is invalid. Baal and the other gods of ancient heathenism actually were “no gods” (Galatians 4:8; cf. 1 Corinthians 8:5, 6), yet there were laws (buttressed by capital punishment) against worshipping such. Even some today, who are strongly opposed to the practice of necromancy, feel that messages are being conveyed from the realm of the dead. Chandler remarks:
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