Abstract
The Apocalypse of John, as strange and foreboding and filled with terror as it seems, was not designed to frighten believers, but to remind them that present troubles would not last forever, and to comfort them with images of a new age. Readers can better appreciate the book of Revelation when they recognize the highly symbolic nature of apocalyptic literature and look for its meaning, not in a literal reading, but in its underlying message. Revelation 7:1–17 offers assurance that believers, however severe their trials, need not fear, for God is here: the promise of a new age is a reminder that God is eternally present and in control.
Do you ever worry about the end of the world? Many of us rarely give it a thought, while others obsess over the end times. Some people give no thought to conserving energy, pollution, or escalating greenhouse gases because they expect Jesus to return before we run out of resources. Hardly a year goes by without some self-appointed prophecy expert predicting that the world will come to a fiery end in short order. Does that scare you?
As if horror movies and the frequent stories of terrorism in the news are not enough to feed our penchant for fear and gore, the popularity of Hal Lindsey’s Late Great Planet Earth and the Left Behind series of novels by Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins—all wildly speculative but based on a literal reading of books like Daniel and Revelation 1 —suggest that many people are fascinated by thoughts of the world coming to an end, not when the sun burns out billions of years from now, but when God decides to unleash a series of horrors upon the earth, punish the wicked, and reward the righteous.
A horror story?
Revelation can be a scary book, no doubt about it. That is why many people would rather ignore it altogether. Neither of the Reformers Luther nor Calvin liked it or paid it much attention. The Greek Orthodox lectionary never mentions it. Catholic and Protestant lectionaries rarely include readings from Revelation. While some find the Apocalypse to be fascinating, others find it distasteful, troublesome, or just plain weird. 2
New Testament scholar Charles Talbert suggested that Revelation is largely ignored because many Christians believe they cannot understand it, and that it does not apply to their lives. The book is also subject to abuse by improper interpretation, leading many readers to avoid it altogether. 3
Talbert contended, however, that Revelation is understandable when read in the light of similar documents from antiquity, and that when read properly it does have relevance to the contemporary church. It stands to reason that if more of us read it and interpret it responsibly, it is less subject to abuse than if mainstream Christians ignore the book and leave it to fringe folk and their reckless approach to hermeneutics.
So that is why it is worth our time to read and study the book. The “Apocalypse of John” is in our Bibles. If we believe the Scriptures are important, then even Revelation must have something to say to us—but if we are going to learn what that is, we need to try hearing it in the way it was intended to be heard.
The first thing to be aware of is that Revelation belongs to a special type of writing known as “apocalyptic literature.”
Apocalyptic writings are a particular type of “crisis literature” that emerged during desperate times when traditional beliefs ran afoul of present reality and a new worldview was needed to make sense of life. Apocalyptic writings were especially popular in the last two centuries before Christ and the first two centuries after his birth—a tumultuous period of religious and political upheaval in which both Jews and Christians faced drastic threats to survival.
When one has always believed that God is both all-powerful and always concerned for God’s people—but the horrifying situation on the ground leads one to think God has gone missing—one hopeful explanation is that the present age is crashing to an end so that God can bring in a new age in which enemies will be vanquished and those who currently suffer will be vindicated. That is the impetus for apocalyptic literature.
The latter half of Daniel, which probably emerged in response to the programs of Antiochus IV Epiphanes in the second century BCE, is an example of apocalyptic writings. In addition to Daniel 7–12, Isaiah 24–27, Ezekiel 38–39, and Zechariah 9–14 also have apocalyptic characteristics. More than a dozen other writings, such as the Apocalypse of Adam, the Apocalypse of Abraham, and the Apocalypse of Elijah, were known, but not accepted as part of the Old Testament canon. 4
Later on, during times of persecution against the early church, writers from various Christian sects adopted the form of the apocalypse to “forecast” the present and to predict better days. Most of these writings did not make it into Scripture, though many are known, including apocalypses claiming to have been written by Peter, Paul, James, Thomas, and others. Mark 13 and its parallels in Matthew 24 and Luke 21 have apocalyptic tendencies, but Revelation is the only full-blown apocalypse found in the New Testament. Even then, it is not typical, because it begins with a series of letters to seven churches in Asia Minor before launching into the author’s evocative visions.
John’s Apocalypse was apparently written during a time of severe trial, probably during the latter decades of the first century, and circulated among the churches in the western part of the Roman province of Asia, known today as Turkey. It fits neatly into the apocalyptic pattern, with the exception that its author does not write in the name of a former hero of the faith, but identifies himself as a man named “John.”
Properly interpreting apocalyptic literature requires that we appreciate its symbolic and highly metaphorical nature. Taking a look at one of the more troubling texts from Revelation might offer a window into understanding John’s approach.
We will consider Rev 7:1–17, which comes as an interlude in a section of Revelation so filled with terror that both John’s hearers and modern readers need a break from the horror just to find hope enough to continue. The first thing we note is that this text describes a vision, and it is filled with symbolism. It was never meant to be taken literally: we are not to imagine that these bloody visions will take place as real events. Rather, they are metaphors and symbols designed to bring words of both encouragement and warning to John’s readers—and maybe to us.
In Rev 5:1–14, John had described a vision of the heavenly throne room, where a special scroll bearing seven seals was revealed, and a search was undertaken for someone worthy to break the seals and reveal its contents. Christ was introduced, first as a lion, then as a slaughtered-but-living Lamb, as the only one qualified for the task. The image of Jesus as a seven-eyed and seven-horned sheep with a slit throat is disturbing in itself, and it comes before the scary parts. Seven was considered a number of completeness, and it is likely that the eyes and the horns were intended to portray the Lamb’s all-seeing and all-powerful nature. The section closed with uncountable angels praising God the creator and Christ the redeemer.
That happy note ends with the breaking of the first seal and the awareness that opening the scroll would unleash terrible judgments upon the earth, ranging from famine to pestilence to war and cosmic catastrophes. This is where we read of the famous “Four Horsemen,” who emerge with the breaking of the first four seals: a white horse and rider with power to conquer all, a red horse whose rider has a sword that steals peace and instigates wars, a black horse that brings famine, and a pale green horse that brings death through sword, pestilence, famine, including even wild animals of the earth, so that a fourth of all living things perish (6:1–8).
The four initial judgments were followed by the breaking of the fifth seal, which revealed a vision of martyrs crying for vengeance from beneath the heavenly altar, but the author being told to wait a little longer, until the number of those to be killed for their faith would be complete (6:9–11). The sixth seal then led to catastrophic events symbolizing divine wrath in which John saw the earth quake as the sun turned black, the moon became bloody red, the stars of the heaven fell to the earth, the sky rolled up like a scroll, and mountains were moved, leading everyone from kings to peasants to hide in caves and among the rocks—as if anyone would still be alive if the sun burned out, the sky rolled up, and the stars crashed to the earth (6:12–17).
While modern readers can hardly find such things to be cheerful or encouraging, John’s initial audience would have found comfort in the thought that the present age was ending—however bloody it might be—so that God could bring in a new age. Even so, careful readers who absorb such horrors may find themselves emotionally exhausted, hardly able to bear any more. The interlude, then, is welcome.
A vision on earth (7:1–8)
Between the sixth seal and the seventh one—which introduces even greater horrors—John relates two parenthetical accounts, each introduced by “After this I saw … ,” which is John’s way of indicating separate visions (see also 4:1; 7:1; 15:5; 18:1). The first vision is set on earth (7:1–8), and the second in heaven (7:9–17).
The earthly vision declares that God will halt the devastating horrors on earth, which is envisioned as both flat and square, with angels standing at the four corners and holding back destructive winds until another angel came, bearing a seal with which to mark 144,000 persons, 12,000 each from the twelve tribes of Israel.
What do we make of this? Jehovah’s Witnesses use this text to contend that only 144,000 people will be allowed into heaven, and fundamentalist-dispensationalists employ it to argue that 144,000 Jews will be marked for a special evangelistic purpose during a time of “tribulation” in the last days.
Both of those interpretations require a literalist manipulation of the texts that is not informed or supported by an understanding of the apocalyptic and thus highly metaphorical nature of John’s writing.
John’s word pictures were probably designed to indicate a large but not necessarily specific number of believers who would be “sealed” during the time of tribulation, which he believed had already begun. The reference by name to the eponymous twelve tribes of Israel could indicate an understanding of the church as the “New Israel,” and does not necessarily refer to Jewish persons only. The Christian letter of James, for example, is addressed to “the twelve tribes in the dispersion” (Jas 1:1). 5
The act of being “sealed” did not protect the 144,000 from suffering, as some contend, but marked them as belonging to Christ. It is likely that the number refers to martyrs who would die for Christ, a number that was still incomplete in 6:11. As a multiple of both ten and twelve, the 144,000 may have symbolized the complete (but not literal) number of those who would die in the time of trial.
This is effectively John’s way of saying to his readers that times are indeed hard and people will actually die for their faith. Early believers whose faith put them in danger of losing their lives could have found comfort in believing that their potential sacrifice was a part of God’s epoch-changing plan. Even so, there would be an end to the killing. One day the number of martyrs would be complete.
A vision in heaven (7:9–12)
The second parenthetical vision shifts John’s focus from earthly tribulation to heavenly splendor. As in chapter 4, John is shown the heavenly court where God sits on a great throne, accompanied by Christ in the form of a lamb, presumably still bearing seven horns, seven eyes, and the marks of slaughter. Four supernatural “living creatures” guard and serve the throne and twenty-four crowned elders on lesser thrones surround it. Countless angels united in singing praise to God and the Lamb joined them.
Now John sees before the throne “a great multitude that no one could count.” He emphasizes the crowd’s inclusive nature: people in the throng come “from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages” (v 9a). This recalls God’s promise to Abraham that all nations of the earth would be blessed through him and his descendants (Gen 12:1–3), and Isaiah’s prediction that the Servant to come would be “a light to the nations, that my salvation might reach to the ends of the earth” (Isa 49:6).
Some interpreters think of the multitude as an image of the entire church through the ages, but John probably saw the crowd as an uncountable host of martyrs. They wear white robes and bear palm branches as symbols of victory, though, as Eugene Boring has put it, “they have ‘won’ only from the heavenly perspective of the Lamb’s definition of winning; on earth they have been killed.” 6
Although the mass of martyrs had given their lives for Christ, even those sacrificial acts did not earn them salvation. Crying aloud in unison, members of the multitude testified: “Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!” (Rev 7:10).
As in chapter 5, where a host of angels joined the song of the living creatures and the elders, the cry of the martyrs swelled with the addition of all the inhabitants of heaven singing a seven-fold blessing to God.
In biblical thought, and particularly in John’s apocalypse, seven is an especially significant number, and the heavenly hosts celebrated seven specific attributes that belong to God: blessing, glory, wisdom, thanksgiving, honor, power, and might. The same list is found in 5:12, and serves as a sort of doxology.
Well and good, the reader may think, but what does it have to do with me? Let us consider two things. First, John’s glimpse of glory—from a life-situation of uncertainty and potential horror—leads us to imagine what it might be like to dwell eternally in the presence of God. It is an image of security and perfect harmony with God and all who stand before the throne.
Secondly, the picture may also suggest how God would have believers to live while on this earth: how the church of the present ought to look. We are familiar with a multitude of churches that cater to different preferences with regard to denomination, theology, worship style, or culture. Church growth specialists used to encourage pastors to seek homogeneity in their congregations—to attract only like-minded (and like-colored) people from the same social and cultural strata.
In our world, some may believe that is the best we can do, but the text suggests a day will come when all that separates us now is overcome by the common desire to glorify the God who created all things and who saved us all in Christ Jesus. We do not have to wait until we get to heaven to embrace the ideal of Christian unity that transcends ethnic, cultural, and theological boundaries.
The people in this text are marked by the white robes they wear and the palm branches they bear. This may press modern believers to ponder whether there is anything distinctive about us—anything that sets us apart from those who do not claim to follow Christ.
A question and a hymn (7:13–17)
After painting this beautiful scene of the multitude singing together God’s praise, the account moves to a question, as one of the elders asked John to identify the white-robed multitude. This was a typical way for apocalyptic writers to introduce something new. Like Ezekiel before him (Ezek 37:3), John responded by confessing his ignorance: “Sir, you are the one that knows.”
The elder offered a seemingly paradoxical statement: the people in the multitude were persons who had come through time of struggle, having “washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb” (Rev 7:14). A variety of Christian hymn writers have reveled in this imagery: recall older hymns like “There Is Power in the Blood,” “There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood,” “Nothing but the Blood,” “The Blood Will Never Lose its Power,” and “Are You Washed in the Blood?”
In a former church, I once overheard a racist-minded Sunday School teacher (now deceased) explain to his class that there would be no black people in heaven, “Because they’ll be washed by the blood, and they’ll be white.” In doing so, he turned John’s inclusive message inside out: it is not the skin of those persons from every nation that is white, but their clothing. “They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb” (v 14).
And yet, anyone who has tried to wash bloodstains from a white shirt knows that blood is not a bleach: it does not turn things white. Again, it is obvious that John is speaking metaphorically. The people have trusted in Christ, whose atoning death—in some mysterious way connected with the shedding of his blood—effectively cleansed the stains of their human failings and set them right with God, no longer tarnished or torn or twisted by the world.
In modern churches, persons being baptized often wear white robes, typically during a very brief interlude in worship. In the early church, baptism was often a major, solemn ceremony. In some traditions, candidates engaged in a long period of preparation prior to baptism, usually on Easter. In ceremonies separated by gender, they would remove their old clothes and step naked before God into the baptismal waters. When they emerged from the water, they were given new white robes to wear as a symbol of their new life.
In John’s vision, the people dressed in white were those who had trusted Christ for forgiveness, and who had remained faithful through the trials, tribulations, and temptations of this world, even though it cost them their lives.
The elder went on to describe the lives of those who worship and serve before the throne of God. They will be secure in God’s protection and free from hunger, thirst, and the desert sun, he said.
In another paradox, he portrays the Lamb as becoming the shepherd of a human flock, those whom he has redeemed. “He will guide them to the springs of the water of life,” John says, “and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes” (v 17). The absence of tears now indicates the absence of fears: in God’s new age, there will be no one to make them afraid.
The last three verses of the text appear as three three-line stanzas designed to celebrate the vision of a life without fear of want or peril. It sounds hymnic, echoing the hopeful preaching of Hebrew prophets. Verses 16–17 bear a striking resemblance to the promises of Isa 49:10, offered to those who had endured the tribulation of exile in Babylon. Isaiah had declared: … they shall not hunger or thirst, neither scorching wind nor sun shall strike them down, for he who has pity on them will lead them, and by springs of water will guide them. (Isa 49:10)
Now John’s angelic guide declares: They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes. (Rev 7:16–17)
John’s vision offers the assurance of a time and a realm where God is at home with his people, dwelling with them, caring for all their needs. This includes thoughts of physical needs—those who are gathered around God’s throne will “hunger no more, and thirst no more” (v 16). It also covers spiritual needs: The Lamb of God will lead believers to “springs of the water of life” as sustenance for the soul. Finally, the text asserts that God will fulfill all emotional needs. God will “wipe away every tear from their eyes.”
So it is that a text replete with scary imagery can tell us we do not need to be scared. A day will come when those who trust in Christ will shed no more tears, and have no more fears.
The author did not write this passage for the sole purpose of promising pie in the sky, however. The imagery, strange as it is, holds not only the hope that lies before us, but a challenge to the life that lies around us. When the church rises up to offer shelter to the needy, proclaim good news to the hopeless, and wipe away tears from the fearful, we might just catch a glimpse of heaven on earth.