Unspeakably awful is Christ’s description, in Luke 16, of the future of the lost. In language not to be misunderstood the Son of God declares the truth concerning the condition of the unsaved dead.
A rich man who lived but for himself, with no thought of eternity or care for his soul, engrossed in the pleasures of this life, was overtaken with death (perhaps when he least expected it) and was buried. His earthly life was ended, his fine apparel and sumptuous feasting were gone forever. But was that the end of him? Ah! no; though the body, the earthen vessel, was dead and buried, the man still lived. But where? In hell. Jesus says, “In hell he lifted up his eyes.”
There can be no mistake about this. All the reasoning in the world will not make this scripture mean that when the rich man died he ceased to exist, or that he awoke in heaven. He closed his eyes on earth and opened them in hell. What is hell? A place of torment. “In hell he lifted up his eyes, being in torments.”
The first minute after death! Ah, this is a perfect and instantaneous cure for infidelity. The rich man closed his eyes upon the pleasures of this world, and opened them to behold the fire of hell. What an awakening!
What a change! What unutterable despair seized upon his soul! He is in possession of full consciousness—never to lose it. What does he learn? That the joys of earth are forever fled, and torment for eternity is begun.
He lifts up his eyes, and what does he see?
Another in bliss. Lazarus in Abraham’s besom. Yes, there are two places in eternity, heaven and hell— a place of happiness and a place of torment. The man in hell sees Lazarus in a place of bliss. The sight of his joy augments the lost man’s agony. Where is heaven to him? “Afar off.”
While on earth it was near within his reach, the mercy of God offering him a place there. Now it is beyond his reach—it is “afar off.”
In the previous chapter the prodigal is seen “a great way off”, but that scene is enacted on earth in time, while grace is reigning, and the distance is quickly covered. The Father runs to meet the returning sinner. The arms of love are soon around his neck, the kiss of peace upon his brow, and he is brought with joy into the Father’s house.
The scene in Luke 16 takes place in eternity, where everything is fixed and unalterable. To the man in hell, heaven is “afar off,” separated by a distance that will never be compassed. No arms of love can ever deliver him from the torment. No kiss of forgiving mercy can be imprinted on his brow. Neglecting it in time, he has lost it for eternity.
What is the first thing the rich man does when he finds himself in hell? He cries for mercy. The man who, when on earth, slighted God’s offered mercy, calls lustily for it when in hell.
But what is the extent of the mercy for which he prays? Does he ask to be let out?
Ah, no; he knows better than to do that.
The rich man of Luke 16 is wiser than the wise men of today, who teach that those who go to hell will some day have their sufferings terminated. He knew that once in hell meant always in hell.
For what then did he pray? Just this, that Lazarus might bring to him just as much water as would cleave to the tip of his finger.
It was not a great request, was it? Not a great mercy? It would not have assuaged his sufferings for long. But oh, reader, notice that, small as it was, it was denied him! There will be no mercy in hell.
A young lady was dying. Her life had been devoted to the pleasures of this world, but the time had come when she must leave them. Her friends were gathered round her bed. Raising herself up, she stretched her hand towards a glass of water that was by her side and with her finger touched the water, then let the drop that trembled on it fall upon her tongue. “That,” said the dying one, “is the last drop of water I shall ever have here or in eternity; I shall want it, but I shall not have it.”
Since creation the devil has been man’s enemy. He crept into Eden, and ruined Adam and Eve by telling them a daring lie. He promised them life, and equality with God; whereas they got death, and became lost sinners instead. Having got man in his fatal grasp, he has devised a thousand and one ways to keep him there, and to frustrate God’s gracious design for his deliverance.
Latterly, in the very teeth of the revelation given by God to man, he has adopted a new scheme. He has taken up the question of judgment, and is persuading man that it is not eternal, that although God may send him to hell for his sins, He is too merciful to keep him there forever, and that sooner or later He will release him; the fire shall only purge away the dross.
The lie has succeeded; the soul-damning delusion spreads rapidly, and thousands grasp it readily. If there is salvation in hell, why seek it on earth? Enjoy life with its many pleasures; a few ages of suffering are endurable if at the end there is release.
Reader, have you listened to the “father of lies”? Be warned that you do so at your peril. His name is “deceiver.” Jesus came from heaven to tell man the truth about his prospects; with a firm hand He grasped the veil of the future and drew it aside. Look!
What do you see? A man in hell, in torment, praying for the smallest conceivable mercy, a drop of water to cool his tongue, and it refused him.
Christ is teaching that if man wishes for mercy he must find it in this world, or he will never find it.
Where would you go—if you died this moment, to heaven or hell?
Do you know what will insure your going to hell? You have only to die without Christ.
It matters not what you may have been in this world, if you die without Christ no power on earth or in heaven can save you from going to the place to which the rich man went.
Do you ask, What is meant by dying without Christ? Simply this: to leave the world without possessing Him as a Savior; dying, it may be, clad in the vesture of human righteousness, but not clothed with Christ, who “of God is made unto us ... righteousness”; dying perchance clinging to the rotten reed of a moral life, but with no grip on Christ the Savior of the lost; dying in the very atmosphere of seeming sanctity, it may be, but unwashed in Jesus’ blood; dying perhaps at peace with self and all men, but un-possessed of peace with God, the peace that Christ made by the blood of His cross.
Ponder it well—what is Christ to you? In the changeless Word of God He stands forth in all His majesty as the sinner’s only Savior, the sinner’s only refuge. Search the universe, if you will; you will not find another. Ordinances, religiousness, human merit, works of righteousness, all fade before the light of the glory of His peerless person and work. Jesus stands revealed as the only way of escape from eternal torment.
“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”
Reader, what is Christ to you?
From deepest hell to highest heaven rang the lost man’s wail, “Have mercy on me... I am tormented in this flame.”
From the highest heaven to the lowest hell came the answer, “Son, remember.”
Fearful words. There will be memory in hell; not only the ever-burning, never-consuming flame, but memory that reaches back into time and brings into the eternal present all the neglected opportunities of the past—a mother’s pleadings—a friend’s counsel—the beseeching of the Gospel preacher—the Spirit’s strivings the serious thoughts concerning the future, thoughts that were hastily put away. Poor heart, tortured with wild regrets, rent with a hopeless and an everlasting despair, where, oh, where shall it turn for relief? Relief!
Vain thought! The place is hell, and relief never enters there.
And then, as if to close every door of hope, and to make plain the eternity of his sufferings, the voice continues, “Beside all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed: so that they which would pass from hence to you cannot; neither can they pass to us, that would come from thence.”
Between us and you, between the saved and the damned, between the glory and the fire, between the bliss and the pain, between the singing and the weeping, between Christ and the Christ-less, is the great gulf fixed.
If any in heaven were disposed to help the unsaved dead, they could not. An impassable gulf divides them; none can cross it, either from heaven to hell, or from hell to heaven.
None in heaven can succor those in hell. None in hell can join the blest in heaven. Mark it well. “Neither can they pass to us, that would come from thence.” All would if they could, but none can.
All hope of receiving mercy dies within the lost man’s breast; he ceases to plead for himself. What does he do? Upbraid God for injustice? No, he pleads for others. “I have five brethren; send Lazarus to them.” Wherefore? To ask them to pray for his release from hell? Nay; “that he may testify unto them, lest they also come into this place of torment.”
You say, It is only a figure. A figure!
Well, of what is it a figure? If the figure is so appalling, what must the reality be?
Listen, ye careless ones. From a soul past redemption, from a damned soul in hell, is borne to us this cry of awful warning—“I am tormented in this flame!”
Un-hushed by the open derision of the confessed infidel, or the plausible objections of the teachers of the “larger hope,” this cry is heard still, not a note changed. Through the hoary centuries it comes up to us laden with the same agony as when it first burst from the heart of the suffering sinner: “I am tormented in this flame!”