Day: December 7, 2025

“Remember then what you received and heard; keep that and repent”

I am tempted to call this sermon, ‘Why we need hell’. The answer is not to have a place to put our enemies and those who trouble us, nor is it meant to scare us into heaven, as it were, in contrast to the usual and depressing parade of human miseries. The reason, paradoxically, has more to do with the reality of hope itself and the redemption of the truth of our desires. As the poet/theologian Dante so clearly teaches, hell is about getting exactly what you want which is not the same thing as what you think it is. Hell is for those who have lost, as he puts it, “the good of intellect”, for those who have not remembered or better yet, have not wanted to remember what we have “received and heard” and so have not “kept the word” and thus, have not repented, as the letter to the Church in Sardis in Revelation puts it. They have, Dante suggests, “abandoned all hope.” The key word is abandoned; it is a matter of our will and our reason.

Our text from The Book of the Revelation of St. John the Divine, which we read in the Evening Offices from the week of the Sunday Next Before Advent through the following three weeks of Advent, and which is from this morning’s second lesson at Matins, complements the eucharistic readings and echoes Matthew’s Apocalypse, his wake-call to what abides and ever is. “Heaven and earth shall pass away; but my words shall not pass away.” We find our hope and joy in that ever-abiding and eternal word of God paradoxically in the experience of the passing away of all things finite considered in themselves. Such finite realities are not nothing: they have their truth and meaning in the abiding and eternal word of God whose “words shall not pass away.”

It is not just about the catastrophes and impending senses of endism whether in the various forms of eco-apocalyptism or global social, economic, political, and psychological distresses – all wonderfully contracted in Matthew’s “distress of nations, with perplexity, the sea and the waves roaring; men’s hearts failing them for fear.” This is an aspect of our world, a world of fears, of troubles and tribulations rather fully comprehended and catalogued in the Litany. But whether in good times or bad, we are bidden to “look up and lift up our heads for our redemption draweth nigh”. That is of a different nature and order than our immediate and worldly idolatries of the practical and the technological, ourselves in our presumptions and now in our fears. Rather it is about looking to God in the motions of his Word towards us.

That Word is, inescapably, a word of judgment, a word calling us to account, a word that convinces our hearts of the reality of God and his kingdom by which our lives are measured and, inescapably, found wanting. Hope comes into play precisely at this point. In the awareness of an objective measure and standard to which we are accountable, we are brought before the absolute goodness of God. At the point where human desires discover their limitations, something more is opened out to us that is beyond ourselves and our doings.

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