A Covenant Witness Concerning Scott Adams

Scott Adams 1957-2026 Rest In Peace Brother

On January 13, 2026, Scott Adams departed this world. His ex-wife Shelly read his final letter to those who had gathered in his digital community, people who had found, in his daily broadcasts, something they needed: connection, humor, a voice that made them feel less alone. In that letter, written on New Year's Day as his body failed, Scott did something that surprised many: he professed faith in Jesus Christ.

The responses have been predictable. Some celebrated. Others mocked. A few appointed themselves judges, parsing his words for theological adequacy, measuring his deathbed confession against doctrinal checklists. One commentator sneered that Adams was "only a thief, not the thief on the cross", as if mercy were rationed by credential.

But those of us who understand covenant know better. We know that salvation is the work of God, not the achievement of man. We know that only the Almighty sees the heart. And we know that in the shadowland between this life and the next, only two figures truly understand what passes between them: the One who saves and the one who reaches.

Scott Adams was reaching.

Consider Saul, king of Israel. By nearly every metric we might construct, Saul failed. He disobeyed the prophet's word. He offered unauthorized sacrifice. He spared what should have been devoted to destruction. He consulted a witch at Endor, an act explicitly forbidden. He spent his final years hunting David, the man after God's own heart, driven by jealousy and madness.

And yet, when Samuel's shade appeared at Endor, what did the prophet say? "Tomorrow you and your sons will be with me" (1 Samuel 28:19). With me. Not cast into outer darkness. Not annihilated. With Samuel, in Abraham's bosom, gathered to his fathers.

If Saul, disobedient, tormented, consulting the forbidden dead on the eve of his death, could hear those words, then who are we to stand at the gate measuring the adequacy of Scott Adams' vocabulary?

The Calvinist joke cuts precisely here: ask a strict predestinarian how many will be saved, and the honest answer is "three, myself and two others I'm not entirely sure about." We laugh because it exposes the absurdity of claiming grace alone while hoarding that grace behind our own theological credentials. The gatekeepers of grace become the very Pharisees grace was meant to circumvent.

What did Scott actually say? Let us read it again without the sneer:

"I accept Jesus Christ as my lord and savior, and I look forward to spending an eternity with him. The part about me not being a believer should be quickly resolved if I wake up in heaven."

Some have fixated on his framing, the "risk-reward calculation," the conditional "if I wake up." They hear hedging. They hear Pascal's wager rather than genuine faith. But consider the context: a man whose body had failed, whose legs no longer worked, whose heart was giving out, writing his final words to a watching world. He used the language he had. He moved toward the light he could see.

The thief on the cross said, "Remember me when you come into your kingdom." Thirteen words. No systematic theology. No confession of the Trinity. No renunciation of specific sins. Just recognition of the King and a request to be remembered. And Yeshua's response? "Today you will be with me in paradise."

Scott's words were not fewer. His recognition was not less. He named the Name. He expressed hope. He walked toward the light.

In the shadowland of death, walking toward the light is everything. It is all any of us will have when that hour comes. No one crosses that threshold reciting the Westminster Confession. No one presents credentials at the gate. There is only the reaching, and the One who reaches back.

From a covenant perspective, we understand that the Bridegroom pursues His bride. He does not wait passively at the altar for those who have perfected their vows. The father in Yeshua's parable sees the prodigal "while he was still far off" and runs to meet him. The shepherd leaves the ninety-nine to find the one. The woman lights a lamp and sweeps the house for a single coin.

This is the character of the God we serve: relentless in mercy, prodigal in grace.

Scott Adams spent decades making people laugh, helping them endure the absurdity of corporate life, giving voice to the quiet frustrations of cubicle workers everywhere. In his later years, he built a community for people who felt voiceless, lonely, disconnected. Whatever we think of his politics or his controversies, he spent his final chapter trying to be useful, trying to add something to people's lives.

"Be useful," he wrote in his final words. "Please know I loved you all to the very end."

These are not the words of a hardened heart. These are the words of a man who cared, in his way, about others. And in his final hours, he turned his face toward the Light of the World.

We who remain have a choice. We can stand at the gate with clipboards, scrutinizing the dying for theological precision. Or we can trust that the One who sees all hearts saw Scott's, and that the mercy extended to Saul, to the thief, to every stumbling soul who ever reached toward grace, was extended also to him.

I choose mercy. I choose to believe that Scott Adams, our brother, is exactly where he hoped to be, with the Lord he named in his final letter, discovering that the risk-reward calculation was never really a gamble at all, but a door that opens to everyone who knocks.

The Bridegroom does not measure the eloquence of the knock. He simply opens.

Rest well, Scott. You walked toward the light. That was enough. It always is.

Soli Deo Gloria