Romans 8:24

For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? (Romans 8:24 NRSV)

This coming Sunday our Second Reading is Romans 8:12-25. It’s unendingly frustrating to me that the Lectionary takes little bits and pieces out of a whole text and designates them to be read out of context. But on a given Sunday morning we aren’t likely to read the whole of Paul’s letter to the Romans at one sitting as it was meant to be, and as it would have been read to and heard by Paul’s original audience. Romans is a long letter, and today’s congregation wouldn’t sit still for it, much less stand for it. The practical alternatives are either to read none of it or to read bits and pieces.

Many of us memorized Bible verses as children: my mother grew up Southern Baptist and taught me many, many verses. And it’s not unusual for a preacher to select one verse of Scripture and preach on that. Although our usual custom in The Episcopal Church is to preach on one of the Lectionary readings for the Sunday. But the reading from Romans has a verse that stirs a preachable recollection. (my spell checker thinks “preachable” is not a word, but if “singable” is a word, “preachable” can dee well be a word too). The verse is Romans 8:24.

For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen?

In one of my favorite books, The Great Divorce by C. S. Lewis, we wander a strange, miserable place, in a chill drizzle, through empty streets and past vacant buildings, in the unchanging half light of what might be dusk or dawn. Coming upon a queue, we get in line and wait. In due course a bus arrives, and with the others, most of whom who have been waiting impatiently, disagreeably, squabbling, we board the bus, having no idea where it’s headed.

It turns out to be an overnight bus ride from hell to heaven. Arriving in heaven with the dawn, we disembark. Each of the souls on the bus is met by someone we knew in life. Not necessarily a relative or loved one, more likely someone whose presence there may surprise us. Each greeter has come a very long way, from the magnificent distant mountains of heaven, to meet us.

One bus passenger, the most interesting one to me, is the “Ghost in Gaiters,” obviously a late bishop of the Church of England (obvious because of the quaint old custom for Anglican bishops to wear gaiters, a boot covering. I think it must have held a man’s knickers closely against the leg, but I don’t know. It was a mark of distinction for a bishop, like the nutty clergy collar that I wear on Sundays). 

Met by an old acquaintance from his younger years, the Ghost in Gaiters is haughty, arrogant, can’t believe that he has been in hell and can’t believe that he is now in a realm where God (“whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not as a stranger” Job 19:26-27) -- where God truly is and even may be seen. In fact, he believes that God does not actually exist at all, but is “a beautiful idea,” and that God and heaven are “something to hope for,” but not actually real. He scoffs at the naivete of his greeter for being so simple as to believe that God is real and that one may actually see God. 

As his greeter tries to explain, the Ghost in Gaiters continues to scoff. He thinks the place he has come from, with its eternal half-light, is a place of hope. The greeter tells him that in heaven there is no hope, because there is no need for hope, for heaven is the realization and fulfillment of hope. 

The idea is a little startling, brings one up short: in heaven, there is no hope. But it's totally scriptural: For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen?

The Ghost in Gaiters never gets it, never ceases to scoff. In the end he tells his greeter that he might agree to stay on in heaven if he can be assured that he is needed, can be useful in some way. The greeter tries to explain that no one in heaven is “needed,” rather that everyone in heaven is there because of God’s lovingkindness. Still scoffing, the Ghost says, “Bless my soul,” remembering that he has written a paper to read to his little study group, and heads back to the bus for the return trip to hell.

Before returning to the bus he asks his greeter, “Aren’t you going to ask me what my paper is about?” His “paper” for his little study group in hell, his “place of hope,” is about how much better things could have turned out for Jesus if he had been more sensible instead of so impetuous, and had lived to grow into a practical maturity.

For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen?

Though not what is called a Bible literalist, inerrantist, I cling hopefully to the promise of Job:

I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though this body be destroyed, yet shall I see God; whom I shall see for myself and mine eyes shall behold, and not as a stranger.

I believe ...
TW+