Apocalyptic literature is not just about disaster, but also about hope. And Advent provides the greatest hope of all.
By John Lee
A
pocalypse is a favorite word for down markets, economic meltdowns, and disaster. When oil tumbled in March, Bloomberg stated: “Oil’s apocalyptic April could reverberate for years to come.” When the markets crashed in 2008, the word—and the four horsemen of the book of Revelation—found its way into The New York Times. Bad news equals the apocalypse in popular imagination. But apocalyptic literature does not only presage disaster; it also offers profound hope.
Dr. John Collins, a professor at Yale Divinity School, offers a needed perspective: “The function of apocalyptic literature is to shape one’s imaginative perspective of a situation and so lay the basis for whatever course of action it exhorts.”
The book of Revelation, the apocalypse par excellence, offers a picture of what is seen and, more importantly, what is unseen. It is a sacramental delight for the imagination. If sacraments are visible signs and seals of invisible grace, the book of Revelation fulfills that definition because its perspective penetrates situations and contexts with prescient encouragement. It shows us what is happening behind the scenes and what will happen in the days to come.
The outcome: those who read the apocalypse of John can see with new eyes and be empowered for new works. This Advent, we need an apocalyptic reading of 2020.
Seeing Anew with Philadelphians
I will not rehash the sufferings of 2020, as we are still living through them. Instead, I want to offer a vision that comes from the apostle John to the church of Philadelphia in their suffering (Rev. 3:7-13).
Through John, God reminds the believers at Philadelphia that he sees them. He sees their trials and many hardships. In 17 AD, they suffered a massive earthquake, which destroyed their beautiful, thriving city. According to Tacitus, Philadelphia sat near the epicenter of the earthquake, receiving much of its destructive force. The city experienced tremors for years thereafter, further destabilizing society. Many people moved out of the city to live in the open fields where greater safety could be had.
The earthquake inflicted such devastation that Tiberius, the Roman Emperor, aided the city and canceled all tributes for five years. In gratitude, the city temporarily renamed itself Neocaesarea to honor its patron. Coins were even struck with the words: Civitatibus Asiae Restitutis (Cities of Asia Restored).
Life, however, did not improve. Famine hit the city. Epigraphical evidence speaks of food shortages and hunger among the citizenry. Moreover, the new Roman emperor, Domitian, curtailed the cultivation of grapes, the main produce of the people. He decreed that half of all vineyards be razed to grow grain. The new situation left the people with few resources and even fewer economic prospects. So much for imperial aid. Worldly help only comes when it is convenient or benefits the giver. Philadelphians found themselves outside, alone, and broken.
Followers of Christ had it worse. Most Christians refused to join trade guilds, where business was often conducted, because these guilds had patron deities and gave assent to imperial worship. Their monotheism made them the objects of scorn, misunderstanding, and ostracism.
John acknowledges this point when he writes, “I know that you have little strength” (Rev. 3:8, NIV). Believers became consummate outsiders: outsiders of the city, outsiders of the citizenry, and outsiders of their own kin because of their faith in Christ. What they needed was a new revelation, a fresh way of seeing the world, which they received in a short letter of a few hundred words.
John reminds them that an open door awaits them, most likely a reference to a season of effective ministry (1 Cor. 16:9. 2 Cor. 2:12, Col. 4:3). He also reminds them that God loves them, a particularly profound point in a period of prolonged exclusion. He tells them they will be pillars in the temple of God, another poignant reminder for people who have been so shaken. Finally, God’s name will be written on them, signifying intimacy with God.
In short, God identifies with them.
At this point, John doesn’t spell out what these blessings will look like for the church. Where is this open door? What will happen? Where is this security that is like a pillar? None of these questions are answered. John is calling them to reimagine what life could be like. He is giving them a way to transcend their circumstances. He is giving them revelation, the Spirit’s eyes to see, and the ability to hope against hope. Revelation is exactly what the church needed, and it’s what the angel of the Lord showed John and the Philadelphians.
The Greatest Reversal in Human History
Now we come to the other side of the equation: advent. E. P. Sanders, the great New Testament scholar, states that there is an architectonic principle in apocalyptic literature. Apocalypses reveal and bring reversals.
Advent, for believers ancient and modern, begins that reversal. Jesus’s first coming took place in the fullness of time, says Paul (Gal. 4:4), but it was hidden under the long shadow of Rome’s greatness. No one could have expected the birth of a Jewish baby from Bethlehem to change the world. Compared to Caesar Augustus, this baby was insignificant. Augustus was the savior of the Roman world who brought about the Pax Romana, two hundred years of stability; Jesus was born to poor parents in a poor manger in a poor land.
Herein lies the reversal. Nothing is as it seems in God’s economy. Simeon, a “just and devout” man who has been promised that he will see the Messiah before his death, speaks these words when he beholds the baby Jesus:
Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you may now dismiss your servant in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all nations:
a light for revelation to the Gentiles,
and the glory of your people Israel. (Luke 2:29-32, NIV)
The advent of Jesus is the long-awaited promise that sets in motion the plan of God to deliver humanity from sin and death. Augustus, for all his achievements, is nothing but a counterfeit, a pseudo-savior who confers blessings that inevitably fade to black.
This reversal is particularly startling because of how Jesus accomplishes salvation for his people: through his perfect obedience, death on the cross, and resurrection. In these acts, God reverses the destiny of his people. Those who were once far are now near; those who were objects of God’s wrath are now sons and daughters; those who were once dead are now alive. An eschatological reversal of the grandest scale takes place through Christ. And his birth, his advent was the first step toward this salvation.
But there will be a second advent because he will come again. Then, he will not come as a babe but as a conquering king who will vindicate his own and establish justice and righteousness in an eternal kingdom. A world that has been flipped upside down in a perpetual hedonistic carnival will be set right side up. The Philadelphians were waiting for this day, as has every believer since.
Dare to Hope
This has been a year for the books. But this year the church can deepen in a hope that does not disappoint. In Romans 5, the links in Paul’s logic are unexpected and remarkable. He writes:
Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us. (Romans 5:3-5, NIV)
If Paul is correct, a global pandemic should cause the church to glory in its suffering, grow in its perseverance, mature in its character, and flourish in its hope. If any can hope this year, it is the church. God has been preparing us, since the beginning of the pandemic, to rise up in hope: for a better world, for the good news to spread, for an expansion in world missions, and for an increase in justice and mercy. Especially in 2020, we are walking into an advent of hope, one we can share with the world.
No matter where you are or what you have endured, let us deepen our hope for what lies ahead and reimagine our world. God calls us to write the final chapters of the church’s story, and that content starts with an imagination enflamed by the biblical narrative. We imbibe that story and let that grace transform us. We superimpose that vision upon a broken world, as we step out in faith. We see boarded buildings with new eyes, empty lots with vision, conflicts with enlarged hearts, and challenges with courage.
All the while, we refuse to let the world give us a narrative to control the course of our lives. Instead, we follow a savior who has come and will come again. It is a narrative of hope and reversals, rooted in an apocalyptic story of two advents.
John Lee is an ordained minister at City Grace Church, a Christian Reformed congregation in the East Village. He is also an administrator of a Classical Christian School in New York City. He also writes for The Banner, the denominational magazine for the Christian Reformed Church.