"By Your Endurance" (Luke 21:5-19, 34-36)

When the World Is Turned Upside Down

As many of you know, I moved into a new home just a few months ago. On the day of the big move, the very first delivery that I made into my new home—was my two cats, Poe and Etty. I locked them in one of the bedrooms, so that they wouldn’t get in the way. Once the bedroom door was closed, the movers, some friends, and I began unloading: boxes and boxes of books and kitchenware, suitcases packed with clothes, furniture, and so on. My nephews were there for part of the time, so the house echoed not only with the heavy footsteps and grunting of the movers but also with the excited exclamations and squeals of two seven-year-olds. At the end of the day, when the furniture was set more or less in its right place, and the essential items had been removed from the boxes, and everyone had left, I opened the bedroom door. Poe and Etty were out of sight. As you might guess, they were both hunched under the bed in the far corner, their eyes wide open, their bodies stock-still.

I tried to coax them out, but they wouldn’t budge. I could understand. Without warning, their whole world had been turned upside down. They had endured a full day of strangers’ voices and loud noises and the occasional rumbling of the floors and walls. And worst of all, they were in an entirely new place. For them, it was a strange, new world.

Of course, they eventually wandered out. And it wasn’t just for food or the litterbox. I had gotten out some of their favorite toys: pipe cleaners, stuffed mice, wands with thick ribbon. A few waves of the wand, and I could tell that the lure of play, of the chase, was eclipsing their fear. Their eyes got big, despite themselves, and they couldn’t help but jump out from under the bed and play with their favorite toys. Once they were out, they saw their cat trees and perches around the new home. Soon they had hopped up into their favorite resting places, where they could survey their new world from on high and in relative safety. That night, they discovered the bed, and they took their respective places there, relishing the comfort of a night’s sleep on a familiar surface.

Reflecting on their experience, I’ve concluded that what helped them to survive the end of the world—because it really was the end of their world—was remembering and returning to what brought them life in the first place. What filled them with life in the past, is what fills them with life today. Even as the whole world changed in ways they would never have asked for or desired, there was something that didn’t change. Namely, their way of life. What makes their tails swish with excitement, what makes their eyes big with anticipation, what makes them purr with contentment—none of these things changed in the new world, in their new home.

“But Just Not Yet”?

Today’s scripture has been dubbed by some commentators as Jesus’ “mini-apocalypse.” Jesus does not use all the fantastic symbols and imagery that John employs in the book of Revelation, but his message is largely the same here. The world as you know it, he says, will crumble under its own weight, and this is good news because what remains will be even better than all that is lost. What endures is God’s kingdom. “When you see these things taking place,” he says, “you know that the kingdom of God is near. … Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words”—which is to say, the good news of God’s kingdom—“my words will not pass away” (Luke 21:31, 33).

Chances are, many people in Jesus’ audience did not hear this as good news. Or at least, it made them scratch their heads and raise an eyebrow. Notice how our scripture begins today. People are talking about how big and beautiful the temple is (Luke 21:5). For many Judeans, the temple stood as a monument to their faith, to their God. While the world around them changed, the temple stood firm. They knew they could go there and be reminded of God’s presence. Many of them believed that the Roman empire would indeed crumble one day but the temple would remain standing. But Jesus makes a scandalous—and true—prediction: “The days will come when not one stone will be left upon another” (Luke 21:6). On the one hand, Jesus’ prophecy here may be targeting the temple for its corruption. He may be indicating that the religious leaders will indeed reap as they have sown. Just as they have taken away what little resources the poor have, so the temple will be taken away. On the other hand, Jesus’ prophecy may have a larger point, namely the truth that even the most cherished things in our world will ultimately pass away. His larger point may be that change is the norm, the pattern, the way of things in our world. [We all know this on a deep level. The age-old joke, “Man makes plans; God laughs,” certainly gets at this truth. And you only have to live a few years on this earth to discover it yourself. What else is growing up and growing old than a process of change?]

Before Augustine, an influential church leader in the fourth and fifth centuries, became a follower of Christ, he famously prayed to God: “Grant me chastity…but just not yet.” He knew the way of life, but a part of him was unwilling to let go of his old way of living. Liberation theologian Justo Gonzalez suggests that many of us who live comfortably in the developed western world might make a similar prayer. He suggests that we are secretly satisfied with the present order of the world, that we’re reasonably content with the way things are for us, even as many across the globe struggle for the basic necessities of life. And so when we pray “thy kingdom come,” Justo Gonzalez wonders whether we might not sometimes add, “but just not yet.” We know God’s reign is better than our own, but just as my cats would never have asked for or desired their new home (which I happen to think is better than their old world!), so too we hesitate.

“Don’t Be Terrified,” but “Shine Bright”

But even as Jesus prophesies doom for the temple and trouble for his own followers—such as imprisonment and high-profile trials before kings and governors, all of which we see fulfilled in the sequel to Luke, which is the book of Acts—even as Jesus prophesies hard times ahead, he like John in Revelation insists that these unwanted changes are an opening, an opportunity for God’s kingdom. I want to highlight two things he says, which I think summarize his message well. First, he says, “Do not be terrified” when nation rises against nation, when earthquakes and famines and plagues hit (Luke 21:9). Instead of fear, Jesus advises faithfulness. “This,” he says, “will give you an opportunity to testify” (Luke 21:13). Which is another way to say, the darkness is where the light shines brightest. Difficult circumstances offer a stark background against which to show the beauty and grace of God’s love. It is no coincidence that the cross is where we see God’s love most clearly.

Not an Answer, but a Response

I remember one of my last hospital visits with Bubba. As I was getting ready to leave, I found myself lost for words. I wanted so badly to say something that would fix things. But in times like those, when death seems nearer than usual, when the world is about to change in an unwanted way, many of our faithful sentiments and many of the truths in which we trust—such as “God is with you,” “You’re in good hands,” “I’ll be praying for you,” etc.—sometimes seem to ring empty or hollow when spoken aloud. But as I struggled for words, Bubba looked up at me, and in his easy-going manner, he smiled and said, “I love you.”

There are some things in our world, in our lives, to which there is no adequate answer, no explanation that can make sense of things in a satisfying way. There’s the problem of suffering, of illness that is not cured. There are problems of oppression and injustice. There are hurtful habits and addictions so deeply ingrained. These are the kinds of things in which we might join Jesus on the cross, and very honestly utter, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

What Jesus suggests in today’s passage is not an answer…but a response. Some questions have no adequate answers. But there is always a good response. Some difficult circumstances have no immediate solution. But there is always a good response. And that response is simple: love.

My guess is that when we reflect on the lives of our saints—our loved ones who have passed but who live still to God and to us—the reason that we remember them, the pull that we feel toward them still, has little to do with the clothes they wore or the food they ate or the jokes they told (even though we may well remember all these things fondly, even though we may smile when we remember their various idiosyncrasies). My guess is that they are still alive to us because, underneath all those trappings of life, they loved us. In their own unique, broken, imperfect way—they loved us. And we loved them. And as we’re told again and again throughout scripture, in the Old Testament and the Psalms as well as in the gospel and the letters, God’s love endures forever (e.g., Jer 33:11; Ps 136:1; John 13:1; 1 Cor 13:7-8).

The hard truth that my cats learned a few months ago, is the hard truth that we all learn from time to time. As Jesus puts it in our scripture today, the end of the world “will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth” (Luke 21:35). There’s no escaping it. The things in our world are destined to pass away—to crumble, to decay, to change. But as my cats learned, what filled us with life in the past, may yet fill us with life today. The way of life—which is the way of Christ—which is the way of love—never changes. If there is a saint on your heart this morning, you might take a moment to ponder what they mean to you. You might ponder specifically how they loved you…and how you loved them. Because what you are pondering is not just an artefact behind sealed glass in a museum. It’s not just a thing of the past. It is something alive. It is part of God’s eternal dance. It is part of the Song of love to which we are all still dancing, and it is leading us, step by step, closer and closer, to God’s kingdom.

Perhaps it is true that we sometimes whisper in our heart of hearts, “Thy kingdom come…but just not yet.” Perhaps it is true that we are reasonably content with the present order of things. If that is so, the call that I hear in today’s scripture is to remember that what truly fills us with life, what truly makes this life good and beautiful, has nothing to do with things, which are passing. It has to do with love, which endures forever. The witness of our saints invites us not to fight change, but to love in the midst of change. That is how we endure. And that is how we find ourselves—wherever we are—in the kingdom of God.

Prayer

Lord Christ,
Of the cross and of the empty tomb,
Who shines bright
Amid the darkness
…
Inspire us today
By the love
Of our saints—
Which is with us still—
That we might endure
Even the end of the world
With the faith
That we are safe in your kingdom.
Amen.

"Everyone Who Is Thirsty" (Rev 21:1-6; 22:1-2, 17, 20-21)

God Never Gives Up

A friend and I were swapping stories about our experience growing up, and he shared an anecdote about sneaking out of the house at night. (I imagine more of us have similar stories of our own than would be willing to admit it!) In the latter years of high school, my friend Reed would wait until his parents were asleep and then quietly open his bedroom window, slip outside, and go meet up with his friends to play videogames. It was harmless fun, he explained, but he was still breaking his parents’ rules, and he knew that was wrong. One night, when he returned home and slipped inside into the dark of his bedroom, he heard a low voice: “Welcome home, Reed.” It was his dad.

Reed feared the worst. Getting grounded for months. Not being able to hang out with his friends or do the things he loved. So he was stunned when his dad did not punish him. Instead, he simply said, “Your mother and I were both worried sick when we realized you were sneaking out. We thought you might be doing something dangerous. Please…just be honest with us from now on and let us know the choices you are making. We’ve made the rules we’ve made because we care about you.”

“Is there anyone among you,” Jesus asks us, “who, if your child asks for bread, will give a stone? Or if the child asks for a fish, will give a snake?” (Matt 7:9-11). His point is clear. God is not out to get us. God is not making a list, checking it twice. God is out to help us, to care for us, to provide for our needs. Jesus invites us to think about God as a loving parent. If God is love, as John tells us, then surely God would be at least as loving as a loving parent.

When Peter asks Jesus how many times we should forgive someone—“as many as seven times?” he proposes, thinking he’s pushed this thought experiment to the limit—Jesus responds, “Not seven times, but…seven times seventy,” practically blowing the roof off forgiveness, removing any limits we might put on it. He effectively says, “Forgive beyond what you can count. Forgive without end.” Now…if that is what Christ instructs us to do, then how much more so can we expect God to practice this kind of behavior?

Jesus tells a story about a prodigal son to make this point about God’s love and forgiveness crystal clear. You know the story. I won’t rehash it. I’ll just ask this: do you think there would ever come a time when the father would stop looking out on the horizon for the return of his son, a time when his love would expire, so that if his son did come home he would receive not an embrace but a cold shoulder, not a homecoming party but a pile of punishments intended to teach him a lesson? Do you think the father would ever finally give up on his son? “Forgive beyond what you can count. Forgive without end,” Jesus says. Because that’s what God does. Like the loving father in the story, God never gives up on us.

Or Does He? (The Brutal Finality of Revelation)

Or does he?

Revelation is perhaps best known for its depiction of “Armageddon” (cf. Rev 16:16)—which is to say, a final climactic battle between God and Satan, between good and evil, in which God finally vanquishes the devil and his forces once and for all, forever and ever, amen. They are all thrown into a lake of fire, John says, where “they will be tormented day and night forever and ever” (Rev 20:10). John later insists that the faithless will join them in this fiery lake: the murderers, the idolaters, the liars, and so on (Rev 21:8).

It would seem, then, that there is a limit to God’s forgiveness, an expiration date on God’s love. That there is a point in time at which the heavenly father turns his back on his children, giving up on them, consigning them to eternal hellfire. How else could we understand this clear depiction of a brutal finality, of eternal torment in a lake of fire?

Well, I think it’s worth pausing and remembering that much of Revelation traffics in extravagant symbols and imagery. For example: “Locusts that look like horses with human faces, women’s hair, and lion’s teeth. A red dragon with seven heads in the heavens that sweeps away a third of the stars with its tail. An angel in the sky with a giant sickle who reaps all the grapes of the earth and puts them in a winepress that generates a river of blood for two hundred miles.”^[1] Is John’s vision of these things a direct report from the future, an exact resemblance of what will happen? Does Jesus really shapeshift to a slaughtered lamb as he approaches the throne of God? Or…could it be that John’s vision employs these rich, illustrative symbols as a way of communicating what mere propositions or abstract statements cannot?

I am convinced that the way of Jesus does not change. That the one who said, “I am the way and the truth and the life” does not suddenly exchange his way of forgiving-without-end and loving-the-enemy for the way of vengeance and retribution. I am convinced that the father of the prodigal son does not give up on him—and that God does not give up on us. The scandalous thing about the gospel is that our God is not fair, does not treat us as our deeds deserve. Rather, our God is faithful. To the end.

And so I am led to reconsider the brutal finality of Revelation as an artful and impactful depiction not of the reality of God’s punishment but of the reality of our freedom and our choice. God never gives up on us. The danger—and it is so real a danger, that John speaks in deadly serious symbol and metaphor—the danger is that we might give up on God. We might effectively choose the fiery torment rather than the embrace of God.

John’s Final Vision

It is a curious thing to me that popular interpretations of the Bible often cut out the very beginning and the very end. (Which happen to be some of the most hopeful parts of the Bible! Why would we cut these out? It’s almost like we’re addicted to sin and suffering.)

Consider the idea of original sin. Many Christians—and many people who are not Christians but are familiar enough with it—believe that we are fundamentally flawed and sinful creatures. As opposed to the idea that we inhabit a fallen environment. As opposed to the idea that our world is polluted by sin. Consider this alternative picture of sin: just as a fish swimming in a polluted lake cannot escape the toxic effects of the pollution, so too we live in sin. Not because that is fundamentally who we are, but because that is fundamentally what we are swimming in. 

What many folks miss out on is that before sin enters the picture, God looks out on all that God has created and sees that it is all “good.” At the end of every day, God looks out and sees that it is “good.” After humans have been created, God sees that it is all “very good.” The very beginning of the story, then, is not original sin, but original goodness.

In a similar manner, popular interpretations of the Bible’s end fixate on Revelation’s bombastic imagery of famine, death, pestilence, and war, the dragon and the beasts waging a battle against heaven and earth. But these images—which rightly convey the seriousness and magnitude of our world’s sin, of the fact that we reap what we sow, and if we sow injustice and violence we can expect plenty more of that—these striking images are not the end of the story. They give way to a final scene that is perhaps as surprising or scandalous as the opening scene of our original goodness.

Remember how when Jesus taught us to pray, he said, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven” (Matt 6:10)? Well, that’s actually what we see in our scripture today. A fulfillment of our Lord’s prayer. At the end, the faithful do not teleport up to heaven. Listen again to John’s vision: “I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God…and I heard a loud voice from the throne, saying, ‘See, the home of God is among mortals’” (Rev 21:3). God’s kingdom come…on earth as it is in heaven.

The voice from heaven elaborates: “Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more…. See, I am making all things new” (Rev 21:4-5). What catches my attention here is that all of the goodness described here is actually goodness that many of us have already known. Even that first declaration—“See, the home of God is among mortals”—recalls what John tells us in his gospel, namely that in Jesus Christ God took on flesh and made his home among us (cf. John 1:14). And the end of death—that is assured to us in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. And the tears wiped from our eyes and the end of mourning and pain—these are things that many of us have tasted, even if only in a temporary way. Who among us has not felt the comfort and strength and healing that comes when a loved one gives us a genuine embrace and stays by our side in a time of need? Who among us has not felt the comfort and strength and healing that comes, unexpectedly, in a quiet moment when, by some small sign or perhaps simply in the very emptiness of our souls, we sense the steady, faithful presence of God with us?

“See, I am making all things new,” intones the voice from the throne (Rev 21:4-5). “Am making…” Not “will make…” Present tense, not future tense. The good news of this final scene is not something that will happen later. It is something happening now, here, in you and me and the world around us. God is the One who is “at work” in us, as Paul says in Philippians (Phil 2:13). The limitations of storytelling mean that there has to be an end, there has to be a sense of finality in what is being told. But this language—“I am making all things new”—suggests to me that the reality of God’s kingdom coming is that it comes not at the instantaneous click of God’s fingers but rather as a process in which God’s “steadfast love,” which “endures forever,” permeates our lives and our world to the point that God is in all and all is in God.

No Condition but Our Thirst

The early church leader, Origen of Alexandria of the third century, wrote: “Jesus Christ is the kingdom of God in person.” Christ has inaugurated the reality of God’s kingdom in the flesh and invited us to step into it. To receive it as a gift. Indeed, I can’t help but notice that John repeatedly hears an invitation for all who are thirsty to receive the gift of living water (Rev 21:6; 22:17).^[2]

John’s final vision of God’s kingdom coming down to earth has several peculiarities. For one, there is no sea—which is likely meant to symbolize the absence of chaos, for in the ancient near east the sea represented disorder and confusion. Another oddity is that God’s kingdom has walls and gates, except—“its gates will never be shut” (Rev 21:25). The gates are open for all eternity. It is a beautiful symbol that aligns perfectly with what Jesus shows us about God, namely that God never gives up on us. The father of the prodigal son never stops hoping, looking out on the horizon for his child. And so the invitation to drink from the water of life is presented explicitly without condition or qualification. The only condition is that a person be thirsty enough to receive the gift. “Let everyone who is thirsty come.” God never shuts the gate on us. The only danger is that we—thinking we are self-sufficient, thinking we can do it on our own, thinking we can find joy and fulfillment in the way of control rather than in the open-handed way of care—the only danger is that we might shut the gate on God.

What parent, if their “child asks for bread, will give a stone? Or if the child asks for a fish, will give a snake?” How much more so does God desire to give us what is good, what we need, what will nourish us and help us to grow?

Friends, we already know the good news. We have experienced it—in flashes, in glimpses, in bits and pieces. We know enough in Christ to know what matters: God loves us and does not give up on us. If we are thirsty, there is water to quench our souls. Not just in some other place or time called “heaven,” but in the here and now. For see, God “is making all things new.”

Catherine of Siena, a Christian mystic of the 14^th-century, put it better six hundred years ago than anyone else I could find. So I’ll close the book on this final book of the Bible with her words. Contending against the idea that the gospel is about anything other than this life, right here, right now, she writes: “It is hell all the way to hell. And it is heaven all the way to heaven.”

Prayer

Compassionate Christ,
Who looks upon us with tender eye,
With a heart that is broken and eternally open
…
Grant that we might know our deepest thirst,
For union with you (and thereby also with your creation).
May our thirsty souls find fulfillment
In your way of love and forgiveness.
May we, by your grace,
Find heaven here on earth.
Amen.

---

[1] Brian Zahnd, “War of the Lamb,” https://brianzahnd.com/2016/05/war-of-the-lamb/, accessed October 19, 2026. This quotation collapses the sentences into a single paragraph. Originally each sentence stood as its own paragraph.

[2] “To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life” (Rev 21:6) and “Let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes takes the water of life as a gift” (Rev 22:17).

Rejoicing on Doomsday (Rev 18:1-24)

Sadness and Joy—at the Same Thing

When my nephews Nathan and Matthew were younger, they loved building towers with blocks. For Nathan, the game was seeing how high he could build the tower. With sound engineering instincts, he’d construct a wide foundation and then build a progressively narrower tower. The taller the tower, the bigger his smile. For Matthew, the game was waiting for a spectacular collapse. The more the tower wobbled, the more his eyes sparkled with excitement.

Needless to say, when Nathan and Matthew embarked on a joint construction project, their building experience was a study in contradiction. Particularly at its conclusion…. As the tower began to wobble, fear filled Nathan’s eyes, as he frantically (and tragically) fought against gravity to keep the tower upright. Meanwhile Matthew was bouncing with glee, the heavy thuds of his jumping undoubtedly hastening the tower’s imminent demise. When the tower finally fell, there were simultaneous cries of sadness and joy. One nephew’s disappointment was the other nephew’s delight. One nephew saw the demise of something great, the other nephew saw the triumph of something even greater—namely, gravity.

The World in Lamentation

Today’s scripture opens right as the proverbial tower is beginning to wobble. John hears several voices from (or about) the immediate future—voices reacting to the imminent downfall of Babylon. As with my nephews, some are cries of sadness, some are cries of joy.

Of course, John’s not actually talking about Babylon, an empire that disappeared from the face of the earth roughly five centuries before Revelation was written. For John, the name “Babylon” is code for the Roman empire—which he assures his oppressed audience will not last forever. Babylon is a perfect comparison. In the Old Testament, Babylon conquered Judah and destroyed the first temple (much as Rome has recently demolished Jerusalem and destroyed the second temple). Babylon set the standard for what an empire is: militarily it dominates its weaker neighbors, politically it oppresses its residents into submission, economically it exploits the poor and extracts resources from neighboring territories, and religiously it sings its own praise and legitimates its deeds as the will of the gods.

Why would there be cries of sadness for the end of an oppressive society like Babylon (or in John’s world, Rome)? John explains: “All the nations have drunk of [her] wine” (Rev 18:3). Today we’d say that all the nations have drunk her Kool-Aid. In other words, as much as Rome’s immediate victims might cry out in protest, everyone else (and perhaps even the victims themselves) actually aspires to be what Rome is. Every nation dreams of becoming an empire, of controlling the world and its wealth the way that Rome did. John’s vision focuses specifically on kings and merchants, people who would have ridden on Rome’s coattails, who would have enjoyed the scraps from her table. “The kings of the earth,” he says, “who…lived in luxury with her, will weep and wail over her when they see the smoke of her burning…and [they will] say, ‘Alas, alas, the great city, Babylon the mighty city!’” (Rev 18:9-10). “The merchants of the earth,” John continues, “weep and mourn for her [too], since no one buys their cargo anymore…. The merchants…, who gained their wealth from her, will stand far off…weeping and mourning aloud, ‘Alas, alas, the great city…all this wealth has been laid to waste!’”

“Come Out!”

But these tears are only part of today’s scripture.

As you may well know, names are significant in the Bible. They’re not just identifiers. They contain stories.

By calling Rome “Babylon,” John is quietly suggesting that the power and riches of Rome might not be all that great. For Babylon harkens back to the birthplace of empire (cf. Gen 10:10), the city of Babel and its infamous tower. The name “Babel” tells the story of every empire, of what happens when humanity tries to rule in God’s place. The Hebrew word Babel means nearly the same thing as the English word “babble”: it means confusion and chaos. Thus Babylon becomes a biblical catchword for the ultimate fate of any empire. Just as the tower of Babel fell, so too all empires will fall (cf. Dan 2:44). One of our early Disciples leaders, David Lipscomb, masterfully interprets other passages of scripture to expound upon this truth, to explain that empires always fall under their own weight and hubris, under the influence of their own confusion and chaos, their own strife and bloodshed. He specifically cites Galatians 6:7: they will ultimately reap what they sow.

Hence the urgent cry that John hears in today’s scripture: “Then I heard another voice from heaven saying, ‘Come out of her, my people, so that you do not take part in her sins, and so that you do not share in her plagues’” (Rev 18:4). This voice from heaven elaborates that Babylon—Rome, in this case, but any empire, really—Babylon will suffer what she has rendered unto others. That is, she will reap as she sowed. (As Jesus eloquently put it, to live by the sword, is to die by the sword.) Accordingly, the voice from heaven urges people to leave Babylon. To break ties with her, to dissociate from her projects, to reinvest instead in God’s kingdom. “Come out of her, my people!”

One of our Disciples founders, Barton Stone, lived out this calling to “come out” of Babylon in a striking, almost surreal way. Listen to this journal entry from when he was 25 and visiting some islands outside Charleston, South Carolina:

Before I reached Charleston, I passed over Stone river into John’s and Wadmalaw islands. There I remained some days, and received the most friendly attention of gentlemen professing religion, living in splendid palaces, surrounded with a rich profusion of luxuries, and of every thing desirable…

“Splendid palaces,” “a rich profusion of luxuries,” “every thing desirable”—sort of sounds like the greatness of Babylon, doesn’t it? He continues:

 

[T]hese pleasures were heightened by free, humble, and pious conversation. But in the midst of all this glory, my soul sickened at the sight of slavery in more horrid forms than I had ever seen it before; poor [people]! Some chained to their work—some wearing iron collars—all half naked, and followed and driven by the merciless lash of a gentleman overseer—distress appeared scowling in every face. … This was the exciting cause of my abandonment of slavery.

Barton Stone sees through the “greatness” of the world he lives in—what some would call an empire—and perceives its corrupt foundation. Violence. Greed. Pride. And so he leaves. We don’t have time for a full history lesson on Barton Stone, but it is worth noting that his disillusionment with slavery ultimately led him to withdraw entirely from active participation in the government. He saw human government as antagonistic to the kingdom of God, as a human project that employed the ungodly means of force and violence to achieve its own will. He came to understand that his calling was not at all to change the world, but to bear witness to the world already changed—that is, to God’s kingdom here on earth.

Heaven Rejoices at Doomsday

In a very real sense, today’s scripture is about the legendary “doomsday.” It is a “doomsday” prophecy. For the original audience, it promised the fall of Rome, which was good news. For us today, it promises the fall of the empires in which we live…which may seem like less than good news.

Do you know where the word “doom” comes from? It actually comes from an Old English word “dom,” that simply means “law” or “judgment.” (A “kingdom” was the territory of a king’s “law” or “judgment.”) You can see how the meaning evolved into the terrible connotations of our word “doom.” When a person has received their sentence, when the law decreed its judgment or “dom,” that person was “doomed” to their fate. There was no escape.

Today, people are increasingly worried about a planetary “doomsday.” Pastor and theologian Brian McLaren insists that our planet is under a sentence “based on laws: not laws made by kings, congresses, parliaments, or courts, but deep laws written into the fabric of the cosmos, set in motion at the dawn of time…the laws of physics…of complex systems….of cause and effect. The Earth’s judgment will not be expressed in decrees, but in degrees of rising temperature, in numbers and intensity of storms, famines, droughts, and fire.”^[1] We might wonder whether this judgment might be expanded to include a sense of economic doom, where our world’s worship of money has sentenced us to a game of rising stakes and the winners are fewer and fewer; or a sense of geopolitical doom too, where our world’s worship of power has sentenced us to a tournament of nations and parties, endlessly dividing us up into competitors and enemies over increasingly scarce resources.

How jarring, then, to hear the final voice in today’s scripture, in which heaven celebrates this doom: “Rejoice over her, O heaven, you saints and apostles and prophets! … With such violence Babylon the great city will be thrown down, and will be found no more….” (Rev 18:20). Immediately following this sentence, this “dom,” this expression of “doom,” we hear at the beginning of Revelation 19 a heavenly chorus sing, “Hallelujah! Salvation and glory and power to our God…” (Rev 19:1).

Here is the remarkable claim of Revelation, the remarkable insight of John’s vision: the fall of Babylon is one and the same with God’s salvation. The fall of human empire is part and parcel of God’s salvation. When I think of “doomsday,” I see markets crashing, economies collapsing, technologies failing, buildings burning, nations crumbling. But heaven sees God’s salvation. Heaven sees the end of slavery. Heaven sees the end of war. Heaven sees the end of economic exploitation, of people divided into rich and poor. Heaven sees the end of the earth’s suffering.

I think back to my nephews Nathan and Matthew, their mixed cries of horror and happiness, their shrieks of dismay and delight, as the tower of blocks began to fall. And I wonder if that’s not Revelation’s image of God’s salvation, when the world’s empires fall under their own weight and the witness of Christ endures, leading us into a better way.

I know these are not comforting images. It is difficult, even, to call this “good news.” But Revelation suggests that it is—that somewhere in the inevitable collapse of our human systems of government and control, there is good news. The downfall of something that is purportedly “great”—“fallen, fallen, is Babylon the great!” (Rev 18:1)—in fact marks the victory of something greater, namely God’s kingdom. It is not that God’s kingdom has triumphed by force, by violence, but that God’s kingdom has endured while everything else has fallen away.

Leaving Babylon Before It Falls

For Barton Stone, leaving Babylon behind before it fell meant leaving behind the quest to change the world—even to change the world for the better. Leaving Babylon behind meant not changing the world but living in God’s kingdom, bearing witness to the rest of the world that things could be different. For Barton Stone, leaving Babylon for God’s kingdom entailed a loss by worldly standards. He released slaves that he had inherited and relinquished what he called an “abundant salary” from a pastorate in the Presbyterian church so that he could instead live in and witness to the freedom of God’s grace.

What might coming out of Babylon mean for me? For us? In light of the doomsdays that lie on our horizon, I would suggest that coming out of Babylon means transferring our hopes and our allegiance from human systems to God’s kingdom. This past week, I found helpful these words from Brian McLaren, the pastor and theologian whom I cited earlier:

 

It’s time to withdraw emotional attachment from the collapsing human system, Jesus implies [when he talks about the lilies of the field and the ravens of the air]. It’s time to transfer attachment to the ecosystem of God, the sacred web of life that ravens and wildflowers thrive within, free of barns and bank accounts, free of worry and stress.

 

Every system of self-centered civilization with its barns and banks for hoarding will inevitably collapse, the story of the rich fool reminds us. Meanwhile, the divine economy…the divine ecosystem of interdependence and sharing, the holy and harmonious arrangement of life in which wildflowers and ravens live and thrive…it goes on. That’s where to put your heart….

 

So, Jesus says liquidate your capitol in the fragile, failing human system. Reinvest your energies in the larger-than-human system of life. That’s why loving your neighbors, especially your poor neighbors, is so important. Better to have less stored in your bank account and more given to those in need. Better to be poor in money and rich in generous relationships….

 

People often link the word ‘doom’ with the word ‘gloom.’ I can see why. If your heart is fully invested in the rich fools’ economy, the judgment that is passed upon that system is passed upon you. If the system in which your life has meaning is doomed, then your life feels meaningless. But if you withdraw your consent from the rich man’s human system of wealth, if you transfer your trust to the larger system, if you seek first and foremost the divine ecosystem, you will end up with everything you need. You won’t have to worry. You won’t have to be afraid. Your life has meaning because of its place in the divine ecosystem.

 

That’s true now, whatever happens tomorrow.

 

If I’m being honest, I don’t know that it is feasible at this moment for me—or any of us—to fully join the heavenly chorus that rejoices at the fall of Babylon. I suspect we all bear lingering ties, in some form or fashion, to Babylon. But today’s text invites us, at the very least, to hear the heavenly chorus. To consider the story of our world from a larger perspective than the smaller stories we live in—whether those be the story of a nation’s history, or the story of our free market economy, or the story of our technology and its progress. Those stories will come to an end. And when they do, even as the world cries in lamentation, heaven will be heard to rejoice…for an even greater story is coming to fruition, where slavery will be no more, swords and guns will be twisted into plowshares, and not a needy person will be found among us.  “Hallelujah!” heaven will sing. “Salvation and glory and power to our God, for his judgments are true and just” (Rev 19:1-2). 

Prayer

Courageous Christ
Whose good news heralds the end
Of the present order of things
…
Loosen our attachment to Babylon,
The bonds that bind us
In fear of what might be lost.
Grant us courage to invest instead
In your kingdom,
In love and relationship,
Which are eternal and boundless.
Amen.

 

---

[1] Brian McLaren, Life After Doom: Wisdom and Courage for a World Falling Apart (New York: St. Martin’s, 2024), 232.

"The Nature of the Beast" (Revelation 13:1-18)

From Do-Gooder to Tyrant

I remember a boy from fourth grade, Kevin, who was something of a teacher’s pet. When the teacher needed a volunteer to run an errand, Kevin was always first to raise his hand. When the class reviewed the answers to a test or an assignment, Kevin rocked in his seat with excitement, like a soda bottle about to explode, doing all he could to keep himself from blurting out the answers before the teacher called on him. As much as I might poke fun at Kevin in these memories, the truth is, he was a great student and a kind, responsible human being.

And then one day…he was assigned the role of Hall Monitor. Suddenly, the Kevin we all knew and loved (and poked fun at), disappeared. Gone was the do-gooder. In his place stood a tyrant. As a Hall Monitor, Kevin terrorized the school, writing up his fellow students for the most minor of infractions. He watched the halls like a hawk, and his cry was heard constantly: “Walk, don’t run—walk!” And, “On the right side—I said, ON THE RIGHT!” And, “Do that again, and I’ll call the principal!”

Needless to say, Kevin didn’t last long in the role. Doubtless he had noble intentions of ridding the hallway of all violations and misbehavior. But that bright orange Hall Monitor’s belt-and-sash had transformed him. The power had gone to his head. No longer did he treat his classmates as fellow humans, culpable of things like forgetting the rules or impatience or youthful excitement. Now he treated them as objects of his control, elements of a chaotic world that needed to be brought under his iron fist. 

Good Intentions, Bad Outcomes

What is it, exactly, that transformed Kevin from do-gooder to tyrant, from kind to controlling?

What is it that leads people with good intentions to do bad or harmful things?

You’ve probably heard about Facebook’s and Google’s recent legal troubles. Despite having internal research that suggested their products are addictive and potentially harmful, especially to teenagers and children, they brushed this evidence under the carpet and didn’t make any changes to address the issue. Later, internal documents were leaked, showing that Facebook and Google were well aware of the potential harm their products could cause. One internal report plainly concludes: “We make body image issues worse for one in three girls.”

Many Facebook and Google employees are proud of the work they do for their companies. As pioneers on the frontier of technology, they create new ways for people to connect with one another—that’s a noble venture, right? And yet many of these employees remained tight-lipped and said nothing when they learned about the addictive and potentially harmful effects of their products. Why? In a word: money. They were so wrapped up in the pursuits of their companies, who were so wrapped up in the pursuit of profit, that they chose to ignore these mental health concerns in order to maximize the bottom line. And the employees who initially indicated qualms or concerns were routinely bullied or pressured into silence, threatened with exclusion and termination.

The circumstances in this case are a bit more complicated than in the case of Kevin, but the dynamic is ultimately the same. Just as that bright orange belt-and-sash transformed Kevin from a do-gooder into a tyrant, so a Meta or Google name-badge transformed many conscientious employees from concerned to complicit, from honest and principled to silent and passive. 

But what, exactly, accounts for this transformation? According to our scripture today, it’s just “the nature of the beast” to make good people do bad things. Let’s read on to learn more….

The First Beast

1 And I saw a beast rising out of the sea, having ten horns and seven heads; and on its horns were ten diadems, and on its heads were blasphemous names.

Last week John shared a vision in which the collective martyrdom of the church—represented by two “witnesses” who were killed and then raised to life—led to the repentance of the world and the kingdom of the world being transformed into the kingdom of God (Rev 11). Right after that, however, John begins to share a different vision. And in my opinion, this point is crucial. Revelation is a compendium of visions. Some commentators have likened it to one of those Russian dolls, where smaller and smaller figurines are nestled inside one another. In other words, the visions of Revelations circle back on one another, providing more and more detail on the same event—and this event is the world being transformed into the kingdom of God.

In John’s current vision (which begins in Revelation 12), a dragon that represents Satan makes war against God in heaven. And remember, heaven here represents ultimate reality—what is real and true, despite any appearance to the contrary here on earth. Satan loses this war in heaven—and in a way that might surprise you. It is the martyrs, the Christ-followers who “did not cling to life even in the face of death,” who defeat Satan by “the blood of the lamb” (Rev 12:11). The message is loud and clear. The blood that wins the war for Christ is not the blood of the enemy, but the blood of the one who insists on loving others to the end. Put simply: Love wins. Not violence. Not power. Love.

But the vision continues in today’s scripture, because Satan falls from heaven to earth. Which is to say, now we’re seeing things not as they really are, but as they appear in our world. And the vision of things here on earth begins with a beast of ten horns and seven heads. We’ll find out more about this beast momentarily, so let’s read on….

 2 And the beast that I saw was like a leopard, its feet were like a bear’s, and its mouth was like a lion’s mouth. And the dragon gave it his power and his throne and great authority.

The imagery of a leopard and a bear and a lion are a clear allusion to a vision that Daniel has in Babylon, where a lion, bear, leopard, and fourth beast emerge from the sea, one after the other. In Daniel’s vision, the four beasts represent four different empires—probably Babylon, Persia, Greece, and Rome (Dan 7). In John’s vision here in Revelation, the four beasts are combined into one, perhaps signifying that Rome is the fulfillment of what an empire is. It is, to date, the empire par excellence. And John explains that its power derives the dragon, which is to say, Satan. Which is another way of saying, Rome is not the true enemy. The emperor, the senators, the centurions—they are not evil or bad people themselves; they are under the spell of the dragon.

 3 One of its heads seemed to have received a death-blow, but its mortal wound had been healed. 

Each head of the beast represents a Roman emperor, we’re told later in the vision (Rev 17:9-10). Many scholars point out that, because of other clear references to Nero that we see in Revelation, this mention of a death-blow to one of the heads, which has since been healed, may refer to an ancient Roman urban myth that Nero did not really die when he appeared to die. (Sort of the ancient equivalent to our mythology of Elvis today.) Whispers and rumors circulated for some time after Nero’s death that, actually, he was still alive and would come back to reclaim the throne before long. Some scholars go further to say that this death-blow imagery is meant as a parody—a purposefully poor imitation—of Jesus, the slaughtered-yet-victorious Lamb. In other words, Nero is but a poor pretender to the throne on which Jesus actually sits.

In amazement the whole earth followed the beast—that is, the Roman empire. 4 They worshiped the dragon, for he had given his authority to the beast, and they worshiped the beast, saying, “Who is like the beast, and who can fight against it?”

To be clear, when John says that the whole earth worships the dragon, he does not mean that they literally worship Satan. They do not bow down before carved idols of Satan or anything like that. Think instead of Jesus in the desert, when he is tempted by Satan. Satan shows him the kingdoms of the world and says, “all this authority…has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours” (Luke 4:8).  This temptation that Jesus resists, is the very same temptation to which the world falls, again and again and again. Every empire that has been and every empire that will be, falls for this temptation. It is the temptation toward power, toward control, toward getting your way no matter what. Notice the words of the world when they worship the beast: “Who can fight against it?” Who, in other words, is as powerful, as controlling, as dominating as this beast? This worship of the beast—this worship of Rome—was ubiquitous in the Roman empire, where coins featured a picture of the emperor and the words “son of God,” where sacrifices to the emperor were routinely required to enter the marketplace to buy and sell, where people regularly declared the greatness of Roman engineers, where people often trembled before the might of the the Roman military. (I wonder whether people don’t worship a similar beast today…?)

Has Satan actually been granted authority, as he has claimed? While this idea is theologically worrisome for many people, one of our Disciples forebears, David Lipscomb, argues that it is true. He says Satan’s authority goes all the way back to the garden of Eden. For when God created humanity, he charged them with responsibility and stewardship over the earth, which is to say, he granted them a portion of his own authority. But when the humans put their trust in the serpent, they gave away their authority. And so Satan’s authority is indeed genuine—not because God has given it to him, but because humanity has. What we worship, is what we give power to. When we worship the satanic fantasy of control and domination—we do not actually get the power that Satan promises. Rather we give it away. 

5 The beast—which is to say, the Roman Empire—was given a mouth uttering haughty and blasphemous words, and it was allowed to exercise authority for forty-two months. 6 It opened its mouth to utter blasphemies against God, blaspheming his name and his dwelling, that is, those who dwell in heaven. 7 Also it was allowed to make war on the saints and to conquer them. It was given authority over every tribe and people and language and nation, 8 and all the inhabitants of the earth will worship it, everyone whose name has not been written from the foundation of the world in the book of life of the Lamb that was slaughtered.

John’s vision here paints a bleak picture. Nearly everyone worships the beast—and so gives it power to wreak havoc on the earth, especially against God and “the saints” (which is to say, followers of Christ). It is crucial at this point to remember John’s preceding vision in chapter 12. Remember that, in heaven, John saw Satan defeated. That is the ultimate truth, despite the appearance of Satan’s victory here on earth.

9 Let anyone who has an ear listen:

10 If you are to be taken captive,
    into captivity you go;
if you kill with the sword,
    with the sword you must be killed.

Here is a call for the endurance and faith of the saints.

John doesn’t pull any punches here. He acknowledges the most difficult realities that a Christ-follower might face. He’s not saying that everyone will endure these painful consequences, but rather encouraging everyone to resist worshiping the beast—the giant machine of the Roman empire—no matter the consequences. 

The Second Beast

11 Then I saw another beast that rose out of the earth; it had two horns like a lamb and it spoke like a dragon. 

Just as the wounded but revived head (symbolizing Nero) may have provided a parody—a purposefully poor imitation—of Christ crucified and risen, we see here another beast that bears a superficial resemblance to Jesus. For this second beast has two horns “like a lamb.” But that resemblance is a lie. For it speaks with the voice of the dragon—which is to say, the voice of Satan.

12 It exercises all the authority of the first beast on its behalf, and it makes the earth and its inhabitants worship the first beast, whose mortal wound had been healed. 13 It performs great signs, even making fire come down from heaven to earth in the sight of all; 14 and by the signs that it is allowed to perform on behalf of the beast, it deceives the inhabitants of earth, telling them to make an image for the beast that had been wounded by the sword and yet lived; 15 and it was allowed to give breath to the image of the beast so that the image of the beast could even speak and cause those who would not worship the image of the beast to be killed.

Think of this second beast as something of a cheerleader for the first beast, which is the Roman empire. The second beast is not the empire itself, but the adjacent institutions that glorify the empire and declare its glory and might. The second beast includes all the grand temples that host elaborate ceremonies for the Roman gods; and all the coliseums where gladiators fight and where the Roman army is honored and where the emperor is praised; and all the great technological accomplishments of the Roman empire, such as aqueducts and the extensive network of roads; and the Roman military, which can indeed rain fire from the heavens in the form of its archers and ballistics. All of these things inspire awe and wonder from the people, so that they take their hat off to the Roman empire, so that they pledge allegiance to the Roman empire, so that their holidays and their sacred songs and their most revered stories are all in honor of the Roman empire.

And yet notice the dark underbelly of the beasts. All those who do not get on board, who do not worship the beast, who do not feeds its insatiable appetite for power and money, are targeted, even to the point of death.

One historical point illuminates this dual dynamic of Roman glory and Roman terror. Many rulers in the Roman empire celebrated what they called the pax Romana, the “peace of Rome.” And yet, as one of Rome’s own military generals said, “If you want peace, then get ready for war.” In other words, Rome’s famous peace was just the flipside to Rome’s violence. Its glory was just a flipside to its reign of terror. As John puts it, the second beast—Rome’s cheerleader—“deceives the inhabitants of earth” (13:14). It promises peace…even as it makes war; glory…even as it brings terror on all who will not worship it; riches and luxury…even as it treats as expendable the last and the least.

 16 Also it causes all, both small and great, both rich and poor, both free and slave, to be marked on the right hand or the forehead, 17 so that no one can buy or sell who does not have the mark, that is, the name of the beast or the number of its name. 

This seems to be a specific reference to a common practice throughout the Roman empire. Whenever you went to the market to buy or sell products, you would first have to offer incense at an altar to the emperor. If you did, you would receive a mark indicating you were free to buy and sell. If you did not, you could not enter the marketplace.

18 This calls for wisdom: let anyone with understanding calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a person. Its number is six hundred sixty-six.

This is one of the most famous lines in Revelation. Many scholars point out that when you spell out the name “Nero Caesar” using Hebrew letters, the number value of those letters adds up to “666.” Therefore, John seems to be linking the emperor Nero, who was known for his wanton cruelty and excessive indulgences, with the beast of the Roman empire—as though to say, here is how the empire shapes us, remakes us. We become what we worship. If you worship the beast, you will become beastly, just like Nero: selfish, short-sighted, impulsive, violent. 

The Beast and the Son of Man

Today’s scripture is a dense text. Personally, reading it and interpreting it has felt a little bit like trudging through mud and brambles and bushes. It’s been slow going, and there’s some slipping, and getting turned around….

So to end, I want to offer two simple conclusions that I draw from today’s scripture.

First, please note that the beast is not a person. I cannot emphasize this enough. Paul said it earlier: “Our struggle is not against flesh and blood”—which means our struggle is not against Democrats or Republicans, not against liberals or conservatives, not against Russians or Iranians, and so on, and so on—“but against…the cosmic powers of this present darkness” (Eph 6:12), which is to say, the unseen spiritual forces that grip our world and shape us and remake us. For John of Patmos, the beast’s identity is clear; the beast is empire and all the institutions that are entangled with empire. The beast is this dark gravitational pull toward power and profit, toward the promise of control. Today, we might say the beast is nations, institutions, corporations, workplace cultures, and so on. Again, the beast is not identifiable with any one person involved in these various institutions, but these collective identities all exercise power over us—luring us to worship them, to serve them in their pursuit of more, more, more.

And when we worship any of these things, when we render our faith and allegiance to them rather than to God, we give them power over us. It is for this reason that good people—and we are all fundamentally good people created by a good God, as Genesis says at the very beginning of the story—it is for this reason that good people can help build a potentially harmful platform like Facebook and Instagram; that a do-gooder like Kevin can become a tyrant; that good, law-abiding citizens can endorse a violent, terror-inducing nation like Nazi Germany. (One early Disciples leader, David Lipscomb, remarked that national identity lures Christ-followers into a very unChristlike attitude and practice, namely causing them to view other humans as enemies—as happened in the Civil War. Lipscomb contended, on the contrary, that God’s kingdom is global and knows no borders.)

The second conclusion I draw is this. The beast makes us less than human. The beast remakes us in its image: selfish, short-sighted, impulsive, violent. It is no coincidence that the counterpoint to the beast in Revelation, Jesus Christ, more than once appears “like the son of man” (Rev 1:13). Which is to say, Jesus is the true human, the one who invites us back into our full humanity. If worshiping the beast makes us beastly, then the antidote is worshiping Jesus Christ and following him. To follow Christ is to divest ourselves of all the beastly influences that might get in the way of serving God and others—whether that be a bright orange sash-and-belt or a flag or corporate name tag.

Prayer

Patient and enduring Christ,

Who loves us to death and beyond,

And whose kingdom is without end

…

Open our eyes to see 

Where the beast still prowls

In our world,

Where it hardens our hearts

And makes us think only of ourselves;

Inspire us to give our faith and allegiance

To you 

And to walk with patient endurance

In your way.

Amen.