Scott Adams—yes, Scott Adams, the Dilbert creator—recently said something that has been circulating among Christians with a strange mix of hope and relief. It sounds like movement. It sounds like openness. It sounds like someone inching toward belief.

But when you actually listen to his words carefully, what you hear isn’t repentance at all. It’s sadness. Deep, quiet, self-protective sadness. The kind of sadness that misconstrues religious hedging for faith and calls it wisdom.

Here’s what Adams said, in his own words:

“Whenever…I talk about my own impending death, many of my Christian friends and Christian followers say to me, Scott, you still have time. You should convert to Christianity.

And I usually just let that sit because that’s not an argument I want to have. I’ve not been a believer. But I also have respect for any Christian who goes out of their way to try to convert me. Because how would I believe you believe your own religion if you’re not trying to convert me?”

That part is actually an indictment of modern Christianity. On this point, Adams is right. A Christianity that never speaks, never warns, never pleads, never confronts, is a Christianity that doesn’t believe its own claims. Silence only makes sense if hell isn’t real. If it is, then quiet “faith” is cruelty dressed up as politeness.

But then Adams continues:

“So I have great respect for people who care enough that they want me to convert and then go out of their way to try to convince me. So you’re going to hear for the first time today that it is my plan to convert.”

And this is where the tragedy begins.

Because what Adams calls “conversion” has nothing to do with the gospel.

He explains:

“So I still have time, but my understanding is you’re never too late. And on top of that, any skepticism I have about reality would certainly be instantly answered if I wake up in heaven. I do believe that the dominant Christian theory is that I would wake up in heaven if I have a good life.”

Read that again. Slowly.

That is not Christianity. That is not the gospel. That is not even a confused version of biblical faith. It’s pure moralism—the oldest lie in human history. It is the Galatian heresy baptized with Christian vocabulary and neutered of every offensive truth.

“I would wake up in heaven if I have a good life.”

That sentence alone should stop every Christian cold. The Bible explicitly, repeatedly, relentlessly denies that claim. If “having a good life” were enough, Christ did not need to die. If morality saved, the cross was unnecessary brutality. If decency reconciled sinners to God, then repentance is pointless and grace is a myth.

Adams goes on:

“I don’t necessarily have to state something in advance. And so, to my Christian friends, yes, it’s coming. So you don’t need to talk me into it. I am now convinced that the risk reward is completely smart.

If it turns out that there’s nothing there, I’ve lost nothing… If it turns out there is something there, and the Christian model is the closest to it, I win.”

This is not faith. It is a wager. A hedge. A metaphysical insurance policy.

Christianity does not present itself as a probability game where clever people wait until the odds are clearer. It confronts you with a King and demands a response now. It does not ask whether belief is “smart.” It asks whether Jesus Christ is Lord—and whether you will bow.

What Adams is doing is preserving control. He remains the evaluator, the decider, the judge of whether Christianity deserves his eventual assent. He promises conversion later, on his terms, without repentance, without confession, without submission. He imagines himself “waking up in heaven,” still autonomous, still skeptical, still having lost nothing.

That fantasy collides head-on with Jesus’ own words.

“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven,” Jesus says in Matthew 7. “Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not…’ And then will I declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.’”

Notice what condemns these people. Not atheism. Not ignorance. Not lack of religious language. Yes, those things condemn, but for these people who say “Lord, Lord,” it’s false assurance that condemns them. It’s confidence without obedience. Proximity without submission. A belief that familiarity with religious concepts is the same thing as knowing Christ.

Scott Adams is not neutral. Delaying Christ is not harmless. Promising future repentance is not wisdom. It is rebellion wrapped in calm language. It is pride that refuses to relinquish the throne.

The gospel does not say, “Live well and hope for the best.”
The gospel says, “You are not good. You are dead in sin. And God, in mercy, sent His Son to bear the wrath you deserve.”

The gospel is not that Jesus improves your odds.
It is that Jesus saves sinners who have no odds left.

It is not about waking up somewhere pleasant after death.
It is about being reconciled to God before it’s too late.

Repentance is not a future intention. Faith is not a delayed option. Christ is not waiting patiently for smart people to run the numbers. He commands all people everywhere to repent. Not because He needs them, but because time is short and judgment is real.

What makes Adams’ words so sad is not hostility. It’s complacency. He is close enough to hear the truth and still far enough to dismiss its urgency. He respects Christianity just enough to misunderstand it completely.

And if he continues down this path—convinced that goodness saves, delay is safe, and conversion can be penciled in later—there will be no “waking up in heaven.”

There will only be the words Christ Himself promised to say.

“I never knew you.”