“The child of God has two great marks about him . . .” So writes J.C. Ryle in his classic book Holiness. How would you finish the sentence?

Faith and repentance? Love and hope? Praise and thanksgiving? Humility and joy? I’m not sure what I would have said before reading Ryle, but I know I would not have finished the sentence as he does:

The child of God has two great marks about him. . . . He may be known by his inward warfare, as well as by his inward peace. (72)

Warfare and peace. Combat and rest. The clash of armies and the calm of treaties. The Christian may have more marks about him than these two, but never less. He is a child in the Father’s home, and he is a soldier in the Savior’s war.

That sentence would play no small role in saving me from despair.

Parachuting into War

When I entered the Christian life, I had no idea I was walking into war. I felt, at first, like a man parachuting over the glories of salvation — finally awake to Christ, finally safe from sin, finally headed for heaven. But soon I landed in a country I didn’t recognize, amid a fight I wasn’t ready for.

The conflict, of course, was within me. I had never felt such inner division: my soul, which for a few months had felt like a land of peace, became a field of war — trenches dug, battle lines drawn. I found myself assailed by doubts I hadn’t faced before: How do you know the Bible is true? How do you know God is even real? The more I killed sin, the more I seemed to discover hidden pockets of sin — subtle, camouflaged sins crawling through forests of tangled flesh: self-flattering fantasies, knee-jerk judgments against others, unruly and sometimes wicked thoughts, fickle affections for God. I still enjoyed a measure of peace in Jesus, but it felt now like peace under siege.

“The same gospel that brings peace with God brings war with sin.”

Something must be wrong, I thought. Surely a Christian wouldn’t face darkness this black, division this deep. Surely, then, I’m not a Christian. For a season, I no longer called God Father, fearful of presuming that such an embattled one as I might belong to him.

Christianity Fights

Then came Ryle. In a chapter simply and aptly titled “The Fight,” he proved to me, with arresting intensity, that “true Christianity is a fight” (66), and every saint a soldier. “Where there is grace, there will be conflict,” he wrote with his manly matter-of-factness. “There is no holiness without a warfare. Saved souls will always be found to have fought a fight” (70).

A battery of biblical texts followed — texts I had known on some level, yet clearly hadn’t known on another.

“Fight the good fight of the faith” (1 Timothy 6:12).
“Put to death the deeds of the body” (Romans 8:13; see also Colossians 3:5).
“Put on the whole armor of God” (Ephesians 6:11).
“Abstain from the passions of your flesh, which wage war against your soul” (1 Peter 2:11).
“Watch and pray” (Matthew 26:41).
“Share in suffering as a good soldier of Christ Jesus” (2 Timothy 2:3).
“Wage the good warfare” (1 Timothy 1:18).

The same gospel that brings peace with God brings war with sin. For to say, “Jesus is Lord” is also to say, “And sin is not” — and to follow Jesus is to walk in high-handed rebellion against the devil. So, the same Spirit who wraps us with heavenly comfort also clads us with the armor of God.

Ryle’s chapter filled me with strange comfort. For months, I had felt like a civilian who had somehow walked into battle; now I felt like a soldier deployed. My war was a normal war — and more than that, a good one.

Normal War

If “the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh” (Galatians 5:17), then what could be more normal than for Christians to feel divided, split, torn asunder in our inner being — or as Ryle says, to feel that we have “two principles within us, contending for the mastery” (72)? As long as we carry both Spirit and flesh, war will be normal.

We should not be surprised, then, when we find within us a dreadfully strong pull not to pray when we know we need to pray. Or an aching longing to satisfy some craving — for food, sleep, drink, sex, entertainment — that we know we should refuse. Or a heavy lethargy when the Spirit bids us to share the gospel or serve our family. Or a fickle forgetfulness that dulls the morning’s zeal by early afternoon. Or a driving compulsion to lean on our own understanding rather than the revealed word of God.

“The presence of inner division and opposition does not mean we’ve lost; it means the war has begun.”

We should not be surprised in such moments, any more than an army should be surprised by enemy fire. Rather, we should take courage. “We are evidently no friends of Satan,” Ryle writes. “Like the kings of this world, he wars not against his own subjects” (72). The presence of inner division and opposition does not mean we’ve lost; it means the war has begun.

Good War

The Christian fight is not just any war, but the best war the world has ever known. “Let us settle it in our minds that the Christian fight is a good fight — really good, truly good, emphatically good,” says Ryle (80). Yes, the war is fierce. The battle sometimes beats and bloodies us. At our lowest, we can feel tempted to despair. Even still, oh how good is the Christian fight.

Good, because God assures us that he will tread down our foes (Micah 7:19). Good, because he has promised to strengthen us in the thickest parts of the battle (Isaiah 41:10). Good, because all who fall can find forgiveness (1 John 1:9). Good, because we slay only sins and devils, not men (Romans 8:13). Good, because this war restores rather than ruins our humanity (Colossians 3:5, 9–10).

And most of all, good, because we fight under, with, and for Christ. He is our great Captain and our fellow Soldier, who won us to himself by dying for us, and who vows now never to leave our side (Matthew 28:20). “Would anyone live the life of the Christian soldier?” Ryle asks. “Let him abide in Christ, get closer to Christ, tighten his hold on Christ every day that he lives” (76).

Today, then, we march forth under the banner “Christ is better,” unsurprised and undaunted by battle, swords drawn against everything within us unlike him. And we look to the day when “the two great marks” of the Christian become one, and war gives way to Jesus’s endless peace.

Audio Transcript

Back in October of last year, we looked at the shipwrecked faith. Specifically, how do people make shipwreck of their faith? What causes it? And there in APJ 1849, Pastor John, you defined the shipwrecked faith as a person who makes a beginning in the Christian life, but who drifts away as their heart increasingly prefers sin over Christ. It’s a heart-preference issue. The heart falls in love with riches, or the heart falls in love with this present world and its approval, and so it rejects a good conscience and becomes defiled by the world’s sin. Basically, a shipwrecked faith is the heart’s desires corrupted.

But sometimes when we speak of the shipwrecked faith, we assume this state is one of final undoing — like, there’s no hope for return. It’s over. You shipwrecked, or you don’t shipwreck. Which leads to today’s email from a listener named Jacob. “Pastor John, thank you for all your service and for your passion in the gospel! My question is this: Is there hope for those who have shipwrecked their faith? I believe I have done this as 1 Timothy 1:19 describes what has happened to those who have rejected a good conscience. I feel my communion with the Lord has been dry and blocked for almost six months now due to my personal sin. Can a shipwrecked faith be undone?”

I think it would be unbiblical and unwarranted and unhelpful for me to say to Jacob that he is beyond hope. Those six months of sin and disobedience and distance from God are no sure sign that Jacob is beyond hope. So let me try to give four encouraging reasons from the Bible for why I say this for Jacob’s sake — and also for others who no doubt share his condition — and then we’ll close with a sober warning and a hopeful exhortation.

Handed Over for Discipline

First, let’s just pay attention to the context that he’s referring to in 1 Timothy 1:19–20. It’s a very hopeful context, not a despairing one, when he talks about the shipwreck. He says, “[Hold] faith and a good conscience. By rejecting this [the good conscience], some have made shipwreck of their faith, among whom are Hymenaeus and Alexander, whom I have handed over to Satan that they may learn not to blaspheme.”

So Paul knows these two men. He knows them, and he says that they’ve made shipwreck of their faith by rejecting conscience, and that he has handed them over to Satan. But why? Why did he hand them over? It does not say he handed them over for final punishment. It says he handed them over to Satan to “learn.” The word is paideuō, which means “to give instruction, to train, to discipline.” So he handed them over to be instructed, to be trained, to be disciplined. This is not a word for final judgment or damnation. This is a word for remediation, improvement, and hope.

“Making shipwreck of your faith need not mean final loss. There is hope for a turnaround.”

And supporting that interpretation that I just gave is the fact that there’s one other place in the writings of Paul where he speaks about people being handed over to Satan because they’ve sinned in an egregious way. In 1 Corinthians 5:5, he says, “You are to deliver this man [who’s committed this terrible sexual sin] to Satan for the destruction of his flesh, so that his spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord.” Again, the aim of handing him over to Satan is salvation, not damnation, which means that making shipwreck of your faith in 1 Timothy need not be final loss. There is hope for a turnaround. That’s my hopeful argument number one.

Surviving a Shipwreck

Number two, why did Paul use the image of shipwreck? He could have used so many other images for the destruction of faith or the damage of faith. Why did he use that? They rejected conscience; they’ve chosen to live against their conscience, in sin. They’ve therefore left the faith — at least it looks like they’ve left it — and they’ve turned away. What did shipwreck mean in Paul’s experience?

Well, he tells us. It’s quite amazing. I didn’t quite realize this until thinking about it for this question. Here’s 2 Corinthians 11:25: “Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I was stoned. Three times I was shipwrecked.” Are you kidding me? “Three times I was shipwrecked.” Now that’s before the one in the book of Acts (see Acts 27). So we can say he was shipwrecked at least four times. “Three times I was shipwrecked; a night and a day I was adrift at sea.” Paul must have thought, “Lord, I’ve got to be persecuted in every city, and every third time I get on a boat, you’re going to make it go down?”

That’s a lot of shipwrecks for a life as short as Paul’s. Paul had experienced three shipwrecks even before the one in the book of Acts, and one of them evidently left him drifting in the water, holding onto some wreckage for a day and a night before he was, what — picked up by some other boat or got to shore? I don’t know. Amazing, three shipwrecks! As if it were not enough that he was persecuted everywhere and had every other manner of trouble.

But here’s the relevant thing for Jacob’s question. Shipwreck in Paul’s experience did not mean death. It didn’t mean judgment and death; it meant loss and suffering. It was not final, at least not in Paul’s experience. It wasn’t final. Three times he had come through it alive. He knew people survived shipwrecks. He had three times. So there’s no warrant to think that when it says “shipwreck of faith” in 1 Timothy, he meant, “That’s the end of faith. It’ll never come back. It can’t survive. It’s not holding on for a day and a night in the water. No hope for Hymenaeus and Alexander. No hope for Jacob.” No way. That’s not what it implies necessarily. You can’t argue that from the word shipwreck.

From Useless to Useful

Third, one of the most beautiful sentences in Paul’s letters is 2 Timothy 4:11, where he says to Timothy, “Luke alone is with me [this is Paul’s last letter; he’s soon to be killed]. Get Mark and bring him with you, for he is very useful to me in ministry.” That’s beautiful. Now, I know that when John Mark left Paul and Barnabas and refused to go on the missionary-journey work, we are not told why. We were not told that it was a crisis of faith, a little mini-shipwreck or something like that. We’re not told. We don’t know why he turned back.

What we do know is that Paul was really angry. He was so displeased by Mark’s behavior, he refused — absolutely refused, at the expense of his own friendship with his close friend Barnabas — to take John Mark with him on his second missionary journey. Luke says it caused “a sharp disagreement” between Barnabas and Paul. (Acts 15:39) And Mark must have felt a deep sting from the great apostle. Picture it: your favorite Christian leader says, “I’m not going to work with you. You’re a quitter.” Oh my goodness. What a shaming thing to happen to John Mark.

Now, that may be what Jacob feels right now in asking us this question. Maybe he feels like, “I’ve just so badly deserted, like John Mark did, that I could never be useful again.” But the encouraging thing is that here, at the end of Paul’s life, either he or Mark (probably Mark) has changed. Something’s changed. Mark has become not just useful, but very useful. “Get Mark and bring him, Timothy, because he’s very useful to me for ministry.” And I mentioned this simply to show that there have been, and there can be now, dramatic changes in people’s lives so that being rejected and useless can turn around and become accepted and useful. So that’s number three.

Denier No Longer

Here’s number four. Picture the night that Peter denied the Lord Jesus three times. Jesus had warned him that this was coming. And Peter, instead of humbling himself with trembling and pleading for help — “Oh, don’t let that happen to me, Jesus. Please, don’t let that happen to me!” — was instead cocksure it would never happen. “I’m not going to deny you — I’m ready to die with you” (see Luke 22:33). And here’s Luke’s description of that final moment after the third denial of Peter. This is just so moving.

Immediately, while he was still speaking, the rooster crowed. And the Lord turned and looked at Peter. Peter remembered the saying of the Lord, how he had said to him, “Before the rooster crows today, you will deny me three times.” And he went out and wept bitterly. (Luke 22:60–62)

Surely this was a shipwreck if ever there were one. Three times he denies the Lord of glory after three years of experiencing his glory and beauty and love and patience — three times in the hour of his greatest suffering and loneliness. And Peter knew the Lord saw it. He saw it happen. There was just no question. “Jesus knows what I’ve just done. He saw me, and he knows what I’ve done.” And therefore, his guilt must have been horrible. The shame he must have felt as he wept must have been absolutely overwhelming.

“Peter’s ship of faith wrecked. It really did. But it didn’t wreck utterly, not finally. And Jesus welcomed him back.”

And then, as we know from the Gospel of John, the Lord met him after the resurrection and three times — no accident — asked him, “Do you love me?” And after he heard yes after each of those three times, he said, “Feed my sheep” (John 21:15–17). You’re back Peter — you’re back. Amazing. Absolutely amazing. The ship of faith wrecked. It really did. But it didn’t wreck utterly, not finally. And Jesus welcomed him back.

He Welcomes All Who Come

My fifth statement, which I said would be a sober warning and an exhortation of hope, comes from Hebrews 12. It’s about Esau. It says, “See to it . . . that no one is sexually immoral or unholy like Esau, who sold his birthright for a single meal. For you know that afterward, when he desired to inherit the blessing, he was rejected . . .” Let me say that again, because that’s sober. “You know that afterward, when he desired to inherit the blessing, he was rejected, for he found no place of repentance, though he sought it [namely, repentance] with tears” (Hebrews 12:15–17). Now here’s the sober warning: it is possible to make shipwreck of your faith like Esau and never be saved. That’s a sober warning.

But here’s the hopeful truth and my exhortation: the text does not say, “Even though he repented, God withheld the blessing.” That’s not what it says. It says he sought repentance with tears, and he couldn’t find it. He couldn’t do it. This is the final shipwreck from which there is no salvation: we sin so long or so deeply that we can’t repent. We can’t. Our hearts have become too hard.

But the hope is obvious, right? It’s obvious: if you repent — if by God’s grace you can turn and renounce your sin and come to Christ and take him afresh as your Savior and Lord and treasure — he will receive you. “All who call upon the name of the Lord will be saved” (Romans 10:13). So the exhortation, Jacob — and every other person listening in Jacob’s situation — is to come to Christ. Come back. If you can come, he will have you.

http://rss.desiringgod.org/link/10732/15122034/the-purpose-of-election-is-a-church-beautified