The Political Thought of The Book of Revelation

THE TYNDALE ETHICS LECTURE, 1985
THE POLITICAL THOUGHT OF THE BOOK OF REVELATION

By Oliver O'Donovan
Something rather curious occurs in the final

chapter of John Howard Yoder's deservedly celebrated book
The Politics of Jesus. The chapter is entitled 'The War
of the Lamb'; and in it the author, having dealt
extensively in the rest of the book with the foundations
for Christian political thought in the Gospels and Paul,
proposes to 'characterise briefly' the political stance of
the Book of Revelation in the course of drawing some
conclusions for the whole. The characterisation is
indeed brief. It occupies one and a half out of the
eighteen pages of the chapter, and attends solely to the
image of the slain Lamb in chapter 5. Then, on the
concluding page (having found space in the meantime for a
four-page exposition of Phil. 2:6) the author returns to
Revelation once more, to deplore, with some indignation,
what he calls 'the beginning assumption of the
irrelevance of apocalyptic, which has so often made it
hard to see social meaning in the book of the Apocalypse,
even though its entire message has to do with kingdoms
and empires'. And finally, like the reluctant schoolboy
athlete who breaks into a trot a few yards from the
finishing-line, Yoder concludes his book with a rousing
Latin quotation: Vicit agnus noster, eum sequamur. 1
We may well sympathise with Yoder's ambivalence. On

the one hand it appears that the Book of Revelation must
be important for Christian political thought; on the
other, the universal prejugice of church and scholarship
is against it. The close scholarly attention paid to the
general field of apocalyptic during the last quarter-
century has elevated a long-standing instinct of caution
into an academic orthodoxy. Apocalyptic, we are told, is
1. John H. Yoder, The Politics of Jesus (Grand Rapids:

Eerdmans, 1972) 250. As though sensing the
ambivalence in the author's mind, an editor at
Eerdmans, with conscious or unconscious irony, decreed
that the little Latin peroration should appear in
reduced type-face!
https://tyndalebulletin.org | https://doi.org/10.53751/001c.30567
62 TYNDALE BULLETIN 37 (1986)
a flight from the realities of society and history. As

Bans Dieter Betz wrote in 1969: 'To the apocalypticist
"world history" in its entirety is identical with the
"evil eon" and thus falls under that absolutely negative
judgment ••• The apocalyptic view of history is indeed
"indicative of a great loss of historical sensitivity"
and has, in fact, dispensed with historical thinking.
Accordingly, history cannot in this view possess any
revelatory character.' 2 One response to this orthodoxy,
which might prove attractive to someone who was
interested not in apocalyptic in general but in this one
New Testament example of it, would be to stress the
distinctiveness of John of Patmos's book and the many
ways in which it defies the generalisations which
apocalyptic commonly invites. But this short way with
the scholars is not necessarily the best. For the
current orthodoxy, in my judgment, gives expression to
certain prevalent conceptions which do in fact impede the
reading of Revelation and exercise unacknowledged
constraints upon what is commonly seen there. Of these
I will identify two, taking as a representative sample
of the consensus the 1971 article by Paul D. Hanson,
'Old Testament Apocalyptic Reexamined'. 3
Hanson opposes two views of the world, the

mythopoeic and the prophetic. The prophetic view
'recognised ••• divine activity as involving a movement
from promise to fulfilment' and 'embraces the flux and
movement of history as the arena of divine activity';
whereas myth 'offers escape from the change of the
historical process' (p. 40). The birth of apocalyptic
occurs when Deutero-Isaiah reintroduces mythic elements
into the prophetic view of history, thereby resolving a
difficulty in which the Deuteronomic tradition had
become ensnared in the apparent hopelessness of the
situation after the fall of Jerusalem. Subsequently
apocalyptic moves more and more towards the mythic pole,
draws man 'above the flux of the mundane sphere' to 'a
salvation won on a timeless, cosmic level ••. The
2. 'The Concept of Apocalyptic in the Theology of the

Pannenberg Group' in R. w. Funk (ed.), Apocalypticism
(New York: Herder & Herder, 1969) 201-202. Betz's
quotation is from von Rad.
3. In Paul D. Hanson (ed.), Visionaries and their
Apocalypses (London: SPCK, 1983) 37-60.
O'DONOVAN: Political Thought of Revelation 63
dialectic between vision and reality began to break

down' (p. 50). In classical prophecy, Hanson
concludes, 'the realm of human history was the realm
within which the covenant relationship between Yahweh
and his people was being carried out; historical events
were carriers of cosmic significance'. But in
apocalyptic events are 'bound to an inevitable
progression towards a predetermined end ••• The dynamic
of ••• history ••• yields to the inflexibility of a history
which becomes a timetable of cosmic events' (p. 57).
The first conception I draw attention to is the

opposition of the categories 'mythic' and 'historical',
upon which the effectiveness of Hanson's analysis
depends. The success of classical prophecy lay in its
ability to keep a perfect balance between them; but
confronted with the fall of Jerusalem the tradition
collapsed into pure history. Deutero-Isaiah tried to
restore the balance, but his successors collapsed it in
the other direction into pure cosmic myth. Now, it is
not a sufficient objection to these categories that they
are so plainly a modern version of the idealist polarity
of a timeless world of ideas and a changing world of
phenomena (a provenance which is strongly underlined
when Hanson interchanges the categories of 'myth' and
'history' with those of 'vision' and 'reality'). For
the interpretation of texts will always involve the use
of concepts foreign to them. But it is important that
the text should command the concepts and not the
concepts the text; and here, it would seem, the
conceptual apparatus has taken over completely. How
else could Hanson fail to admit that for apocalypticists,
too, 'historical events were the carriers of cosmic
significance'? 4 Biblical apocalyptic inherits (though
it treats in a different way) the prophetic problematic
of rendering events intelligible in terms of the
purposes of God. The justification of history is its
recurrent theme. It would seem undeniable, for
instance, that the seer of Daniel was fascinated by the
meaning of the succession of empires in world-history;
4. I welcome the recognition of this by Christopher

Rowland (The Open Heaven [London: SPCK, 1982] 38).
Rowland seems to me to be on less secure ground when
he argues his point from a supposed literal
millennium in Revelation 20 (p. 435).
but Hansen's way with that undeniable fact is to deny

it. The succession of empires, he thinks, 'serves one
function only in the vision, that of indicating the
point when the cosmic event at the center of the vision
would occur' (p. 55).
In Hansen's article we can detect also a second

conception, which he has not clearly differentiated from
the first though it is in fact quite distinct. History
is characterised as 'flux', not only in opposition to
the supposedly 'timeless' character of myth but also in
opposition to the 'predetermined' character of events
in apocalyptic. It is not at all clear to me that one
can consistently accuse apocalyptic both of a
determinist view of history and of a belief that
salvation is timeless. The two charges would seem to
exclude each other. But one can certainly maintain
together the contradictory of both these positions,
and insist both that history is the vehicle of salvation
and that it is contingent and directionless. SUch a
view is easily recognisable, and belongs within the
Augustinian mainstream of Western political thought,
which, dominated by the image of the two cities, has
drawn a clear line between secular and sacred history.
Secular history, conforming to no shape and subject to
no laws save those which follow from the perennially
repeated clash between good and evil, is the locus of
those sacred events which reveal the goal of man's
existence; but it derives no perspicuous purposiveness
from them. This distinction explains what sometimes
appears to be almost a self-contradiction in the
orthodox criticism of apocalyptic: its insistence both
upon the meaningfulness of history as the bearer of
cosmic significance and upon its character as
undetermined flux. There is to be no evading the
distinction between the revelatory character of the
Christ-event, which declares the purposes of God, and
the concealing character of all other events, which
leave God's purpose a mystery.
The German scholars who have maintained views

similar to Hansen's in the discussion of apocalyptic
have been rather more aware than their English-speaking
colleagues that their view bespeaks a definite position
within a contemporary systematic debate. They are, in
fact, acknowledged anti-Hegelians, opposed to the
revival of the notion of an embracing world-historical
purposiveness, a notion which they see as fundamental to
apocalyptic though absent from classical prophecy. Hans
Dieter Betz's article from which I quoted above was

written as a shot across the bows of the Hegelian
revival led by Pannenberg. An article early in the
debate (1961) by Gerhard Ebeling contained an
extraordinary four-page quotation from Kierkegaard (a
sure sign that Hegel is under fire!) and included the
following revealing summary of the position. 'The
ground on which we are authorised to think God and
history together in the right way (that is,
differentiatingly) lies not in apocalyptic, but in the
unapocalyptic fact of Jesus •.• Thinking God and history
together in the name of Jesus leads of necessity to a
criticism of apocalyptic, certainly not in the sense of
a reinterpretation of apocalyptic in terms of a concept
of revelation and universal history that is of Hegelian
provenance, but in the sense that through his word God
manifests his power over history by putting an end to the
power of history.' 5 Ebeling brings out as clearly as
anyone could the Augustinian secularist terrain on which
the objectors stand - the right way to relate God and
history is to differentiate them, not permitting history
to pose as the messenger of the covenant. The one and
only place at which history becomes such a messenger is
the unapocalyptic fact of Jesus - unapocalyptic in that
he does not communicate a general cosmic teleology. The
import of the Christ-event for history is not positive
but negative, in that it puts an end to its power. The
mistake of apocalyptic is to think that it can resolve
the opposition of God and history dialectically, and so
tame history as God tamed Leviathan, creating a construct
of world-historical order which is an 'escape from
history' in a different sense - that is to say, that it
does not face the scandal which history poses for faith.
'Canst thou' , we may imagine Ebeling demanding of John of
Patmos, 'draw out Leviathan with an hook?'
The association of Hegel and apocalyptic is

instructive. For Hegel is usually seen as the only-begetter
of the modern concept of history·, which has famously been
responsible for the doctrines of Marxism but which also
deserves credit for transforming Western liberalism into
a creed of progress. But behind Hegel some observers
have thought to discern a subterranean channel running
back through radical Protestantism, and through the
millenarianism of the late middle-ages, to the seminal
5. 'The Ground of Christian Theology' in Funk (ed.),

Apocalypticism 64.
doctrine of Three Ages promoted by Joachim of Fiore; and

Joachim thought that he was interpreting the Book of
Revelation. 6 Are we, then, to believe in a counter-
cultural tradition of political thought within
Christendom, historicist in character, taking its root
from John of Patmos and bursting into belated
prominence in the nineteenth century, an alternative to
the orthodox Augustinian secularism of the West which
takes its root from Paul? It is an appealing hypothesis
at first glance; but the truth is more complicated.
Augustinian secularism, too, is founded on a philosophy
of history, albeit a philosophy of sacred history.
Furthermore, the two-cities concept on which Augustinian
political thought rests has no New Testament source more
immediately striking than the Apocalypse of John. We
should rather say that the two-cities concept gives rise
to two different streams of interpretation - a secularist
one which emphasises its negative implications for the
teleology of secular history, and an apocalyptic one
which understands world-history in terms of the ultimate
disclosure of the mystery of evil. But both streams are
differentiated from the monist interpretation of society
revived by Thomas Aquinas as a result of his rediscovery
of Aristotle. The two-cities concept does have a
commitment to understand the human good as social, and
in this respect stands apart from pure Neo-Platonism;
but it is only eschatologically social, and sociality is
only eschatologically an unambiguous good, and in this
respect it stands apart from Thomist Aristotelianism.
Augustine severed the link between historical society and
human virtue almost as self-consciously as Thomas
stitched the two together again. 7 Placed against this
grid, Hegel appears as a historicist variant of the
Aristotelian-Thomist tradition. Are we, then, left with
a parallelogram of possibilities: John of Patmos sharing
historicism with Hegel and the two-cities view with
Augustine; Augustine sharing a non-teleological,
secularist view of history with Thomas, while Thomas in
turn shares a monist optimism with Hegel? Such a schema
will serve merely as a hypothesis, to focus the
questions.
6. See Erich Voegelin, 'Ersatz Religion' in his Science,

Politics & Gnosticism (Chicago: Regnery, 1968) 81-114.
7. See R. A. Markus, Saeculum (Cambridge: CUP, 1970)
211-230.
Within modern Christian political thought the

Augustinian secularist stream has yielded a policy of
involvement in social and political tasks, which
presumes upon the opacity of secular history to ultimate
values and hence upon the neutrality, in moral and
spiritual terms, of the political realm. For the
mainstream Western thinkers politics has been, as it
were, an open space, ready to be occupied equally by
those who would do evil and those who would do good to
mankind. They have developed, therefore, a concept of
practical Christian cooperation in the political arena
which neither hopes for too much nor fears for too much.
In distinction from this we find not only the
'ideological' idolisation of the political realm, of
Hegelian inspiration, which understands public history in
semi-religious terms, but also the apocalyptic conception
of public history as a manifestation of evil. This
conception invites the objection, from secularist
thinkers who regard themselves as taking history
seriously, that it is antihistorical in its stance. It
is at least arguable, in reply, that it is to take
history no less seriously, and possibly more seriously,
if one reckons with its inbuilt structural commitments.
But if such a reply is to be made good, there has to be
an alternative way of engaging with public affairs which
does something better than simply cooperate on the one
hand and avert the eyes on the other. Criticism is the
form of political engagement which emerges as normative
within the apocalyptic perspective. Criticism has the
advantage, as its proponents see it, of illuminating the
course of history by the word of God, yet without
pretending to master history or even exploit its supposed
neutrality, but pointing to the mystery of the ultimate
triumph of the divine word as the object of its hope.
The apocalyptic political thinker calls into question
that busy enthusiasm for cooperative endeavour under the
shadow of Leviathan, returning the challenge which the
Augustinian addressed to him before. 'Wilt thou play
with him as with a bird?' The issue between the two
approaches can be brought down to this: Is criticism a
valid engagement with the public realm, and is any other
engagement realistically possible? It is not surprising
that where the claims of criticism against cooperation
are advanced most strongly, John of Patmos is deemed to
be politically significant. This conviction unites such

otherwise irreconcilable points of view as those of
Jacques Ellul and the liberation theologians of Latin
America. 8
One thing must be made clear, and that is that

John's interest in history is by no means simply an
interest in particular events that are occurring around
him. In my opinion, the number of particular historical
references in the Book of Revelation is two. They are
found at 13:18 (the number of the beast) and at 17:9-11
(the meaning of its seven heads). If these references
were removed, the surrounding material would require
little or no editing to preserve its sense, which
simply goes to show how little structural weight they
carry. John's unfolding of the mystery of evil proceeds
not by journalistic documentation but by theological
principle. These two definite identifications arise as
illustrations of the principle. Compare John's
reference to Nero (as I take it to be) with Hegel's
famous remark that the universal and homogeneous state
would come first into being in America. If that
particular prophecy were falsified (or should we say, if
it had not been verified?) it would not invalidate
Hegel's general reading of political development; the
identification merely added to the verisimilitude of the
general construction. This is not to deny, of course,
that John's understanding of history was influenced by
what he saw happening before his eyes. Biblical
historians have accumulated a mass of examples,
plausible and implausible, of how John's imagery may have
been shaped by first-century events. To take an old
example: the activity of the false prophet, the beast
from the land in chapter 13, may indeed have been
suggested by the activities of the Commune of Asia, as
commentators, following Sir William Ramsay, have united
in affirming. But it would be quite wrong to conclude
that the beast from the land represents the Commune of
Asia. John has nothing definite to say about that body;
8. J. Ellul, L'Apocalypse: architecture en mouvement

(Paris: Desclee, 1975). For the use of Revelation in
the liberationist tradition, see Juan B. Stam, 'El
Apocalipsis y el imperialismo', in Capitalismo
violencia y Anti-vida, ed. E. Tamez and s. Trinidad
(San Jose: Dei-Educa, 1978). I am indebted for
this reference to Thomas Hanks.
but he has a great deal to say about the way evil

propagates itself as false worship. 9
Before I embark upon exposition, a word is in place

about how I judge the Book of Revelation should be read.
In recent generations commentators have learned to take
John of Patmos seriously as a theological spokesman for
first-century Christianity, whose apocalyptic imagery is
a disciplined and intelligible theological language. 0
Two features of this language have sometimes proved
troublesome to interpreters. One is the use of sequence
to achieve theological analysis, so that the same
phenomenon is presented more than once, each time from a
new angle. The core of John's Apocalypse is a sequence
of three cycles of seven disasters. Each of these
cycles shows us the same thing, the degenerating course
of history; but they show us it from different points of
view, so that in the last cycle we have come to see how
history manifests divine judgment. 11 Another example
concerns the notorious 'millennium' of 20:4. John has
two last battles, two resurrections, two acts of
judgment, the one culminating in the thousand year reign
of the saints, the other in the judgment of the great
white throne. The first series shows the victory of the
true Messiah oyer the false, the second the victory of
the Father over the aboriginal dragon. Everything is
9. This distinction, not always well understood by

Biblical historians, is nicely made in some lines by
Robert Frost:-
Samoa, Russia, Ireland I complain of,
No less than England, France and Italy.
Because I wrote my novels in New Hampshire
Is no proof that I aimed them at New Hampshire.
10. Among those who taught us this lesson, I, like
others, must confess a special debt of gratitude to
the late George B. Caird, whose commentary (The
Revelation of St. John the Divine [London: A. & c.
Black, 1966]} taught me how to read the Apocalypse.
11. John M. Court (Myth and History in the Book of
Revelation [London: SPCK, 1979] 48} invites us to
choose between a 'recapitulation theory' which
'asserts that the seven bowls reflect exactly the
same events as the seven seals' and a 'chronological
theory', in which there is 'a clear distinction
between sequences'. I confess that I do not know how
to make this choice, since the prophet's concern, as
it appears to me, is not with 'events' so much as
with the shape of history as a whole.
shown twice because we must understand that the kingdom

of Christ is the kingdom of the Father. It is a kind of
reflection on the resumption of the Messianic authority
suggested at 1 Corinthians 15:28. I do not believe that
John intends to prophesy a this-worldly millennium which
is distinct from the reign of God in the new heaven and
the new earth; rather he intends to say that the
vindication of this-worldly justice and the fulfilment of
this-worldly history are included in the reign of God in
the new heaven and the new earth. 12 Lest we should
conclude that the exercise of Messianic authority is
actually confined to a stated number of years, John
complements this sequential presentation with another, in
which the throne of God and the Lamb is one throne, and
in which the servants of God, who were earlier said to
reign for a thousand years, now reign 'for ever and ever'
12. It is conventional, and not unjustified, to see the

origins of the millennium in the need to reconcile
two traditional pictures of the end. Thus H. Kraft
writes: 'Im apokalyptischen Judentum bestanden
nebeneinander zwei Enderwartungen: die nationale, die
ein messianisches Reich nach siegreichem
Glaubenskrieg erhoffte, und die universale, die meist
mit einer Rettung der Gerechten durch Weltuntergang
und Neuschopfung hindurch rechnete. Obwohl diese
beiden Auffassungen miteinander und mit der
Eschatologie nichtjudischer Religionen in jeder
erdenklichen Weise Verknupft wurden, empfand man sie
doch als grundsatzlich verschieden. Es gehort zur
Methode der spateren Prophetie in solchem Fall nicht
kritisch zu sichten, sondern zu addieren, und so
wurde das Zwischenreich der universalen Auffassung
vorgeschaltet' ('Chiliasmus', RGG 3 1.1651). What
this account fails to register, however, is that the
millennium in Rev. 20:4 is more than a palaeological
deposit from a past conflict of apocalyptic
expectations, but continues to mediate between two
complementary visions, both of which have living
significance for the prophet, and which converge in
his Christian understanding of the Messianic kingdom
as one with God's.
(22:5). This illustrates the second feature of John's

language of imagery which can prove puzzling: images are
dialectically superimposed upon one another, without
resolution of the tensions that they generate.
With these introductory observations I shall

venture upon an account of the political thought of the
Book of Revelation.
We begin from the question which the prophet

articulates decisively at the beginning of his
apocalypse proper: why and how does history impugn the
excellence of creation? In chapters 4 and 5 he shows us
a tableau of creation, in which the throne of God is
surrounded by the symbolic representatives of the
created order, ceaselessly offering their praise. But
their hymns are interrupted by the discovery of a sealed
scroll in the hand of the Most High. As a scroll, it
represents a history; as a sealed scroll, its contents
are unintelligible to us. So the prophet poses his
problem: how can the created order which declares the
beauty and splendour of its Creator, be the subject of
a world-history, the events of which are directionless
and contradictory? The goodness of creation is
impugned by the meaninglessness of events. Only if
history can be shown to have a purpose, can the
prophet's tears be wiped away and the praise of the
creation be resumed. We can all repeat the words in
which the consolation of the Gospel is announced to him:
'Weep not; lo, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root
of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll
and its seven seals.' And then, as the prophet tells
us unforgettably: 'I saw a Lamb standing, as though it
had been slain' (5:5-6). The sacrificial death of God's
Messiah is the event to interpret all events, which
alone can offer human existence the cosmic meaning which
it demands. It provides the justification of creation
in history, and the justification of history in new
creation.
With this announcement of his theme the prophet

launches into the first of his three cycles of seven:
the seven seals, the seven trumpets and the seven bowls,
which, as I have said, show us the whole course of
history, seen as tragic necessity, three times over, each
time from a more profound perspective. In between the

second and the third of these cycles John places the
central episode of his book, around which all turns, the
encounter between the two Christs, the false and the
true. The cycles of seven follow a common formal
pattern: the Lamb breaks the seven seals, the angel
blows the seven trumpets or pours out the seven bowls;
and after each something happens. In the first four of
each cycle it is always a natural or political disaster.
With the fifth and sixth of each cycle the character of
the event changes, to expose some aspect of moral or
spiritual evil. The seventh of each cycle represents
the victory of God over the evils of historical necessity
- yet the victory is at the same time the climax of all
the evils, because it is the exercise of divine judgment,
in which divine wrath overwhelms human wrath (cf. 11:18).
However, it is not until the third cycle, the cycle of
the bowls, that John is ready to show us divine victory
emerging immediately out of the historical process, for
not until then has he shown us how the course of
historical necessity has itself from the beginning been
an expression of the divine battle against the emissaries
of the primaeval serpent, the devil. In the first two
cycles, then, the concluding item of victory has to be
presented as it were, through a mirror, as visible only
indirectly to faith and not yet fully disclosed. And
this is done by a simple structural device which has
caused confusion among John's readers, commentators, and
even among editors of the biblical text. The content of
the seventh seal and the seventh trumpet is placed
before, not after, the actual breaking of the seal and
sounding of the trumpet. So the cycle of the seals ends
mysteriously: 'When the Lamb opened the seventh seal,
there was silence in heaven for about half an hour'
(8:1). And with that silence, the silence of history
held back from its tumultuous rush, the silence of a
pause imposed before the end should come, the cycle ends.
(Not only the traditional chapter division, but also the
paragraph divisions of our modern Bibles show how little
John's impressive effect has been appreciated!) But that
is because the content of that mysterious silence has
already been shown to us, in a long vision placed
immediately before the breaking of the seventh seal which
seemed to interrupt the sequence. The content of that
vision explained the form: the four winds were held back,
the command was given to restrain the forces of judgment
until the servants of God should be sealed on their
foreheads (7:1-3). The first cycle, then, shows history

concluding in an ambiguous and unearthly hush which
(secretly, and as though in a mirror) we are told is the
suspension of historical necessity which God has willed
for the gathering of the elect. Something similar occurs
at the end of the cycle of trumpets.
So much for the common structure of the three cycles

of historical necessity. What does John mean to show us
through them? And why does history take the form of
tragic necessity? Each cycle offers a different answer
to this question, of which the first, the answer of the
seals, is the most sceptical and the least profound. As
each of the first four seals is opened, a horse and
rider gallop across the scene: the first horseman carries
a bow, and wears a crown of victory; he goes forth, we
are told, 'conquering and to conquer' (6:2). The second
holds a hasta longa and has the power to remove peace
from the earth 'so that men should slay one another'
(6:4). The third carries in his hand the yoke of
slavery, and is accompanied by a voice which complains
about the shortage and expense of necessary commodities -
'but do not harm', it adds ironically, 'oil and wine',
the luxuries (6:6)! The fourth is named Death and Hades,
and causes devastation in the earth through slaughter,
famine and plagues of wild beasts. Clearly this sequence
of disasters is a progressive sequence, the catastrophe
growing worse at each step. And clearly it is intended
to be a sequence of events which are politically
initiated. War is its starting-point, the confident
knightly enterprise of ambitious conquest, for which war
is a means of glory and renown; but in its train comes
the unleashing of recrimination, civil strife, shortage
of supplies, and finally the imperilling of social
existence by depopulation and starvation.
One may learn a lot about the character of any

tradition of political thought by identifying the
activity which it sees as the central paradigm of
politics. For Thomas Aquinas it is the founding of
cities; for St. Paul and Augustine it is the punishing of
wrongdoing. For the prophet John, at this stage of his
analysis at least, it is conquest in war. From the
adventures of the first horseman who wears the crown
there springs an inexorable chain of political and
social evil. The fifth seal takes the sequence into the
realm of justice by disclosing the unsatisfied cry for
vindication whiCh goes up to God from the afflicted

righteous; and the sixth evokes the atmosphere of dread
and impending disaster whiCh characterises international
politics (of the twentieth as well as the first century) :
kings, potentates and commanders cowering in fear before
the judgment that their own ambitions have unloosed,
trembling under the weight of responsibility. Yet we
would misunderstand John's intentions if we were to
think of him as offering us a theodicy of an
Augustinian type founded in the fall of the human will.
The chain of historical necessity is also a chain of
natural necessity. The four horsemen are summoned, not
only by the Lamb's breaking of the seal, but by a summons
from one of the four living creatures out of the vision
of creation. That is to say: it is the forces of nature
which have produced this deteriorating spiral of human
political strife. The enterprise of conquest,
destructive both to nature and to society, has itself
arisen from natural impulses and energies. That is the
puzzle of nature and history as the prophet conceives it.
Nature seems to carry within itself the seeds of its own
destruction; and political strife is the fatal overspill-
ing of natural energy which must disrupt nature and
bring it to nothing. 3 ·
13. OUr understanding of the sequence of seven seals

departs from the more common interpretation of it as
a development of the tradition of 'signs of the end'
found also in the synoptic apocalypses (Mk. 13 and
par.) (See Court, Myth 43-81.) This yields a more
Church-oriented reading than the one we have
followed. The horsemen of the first four seals
represent events from the turbulent first-century
background of the church's life, the martyrs of the
fifth seal become the early Christian martyrs, of
whom the synoptic apocalypses speak. Without wishing
to deny a measure of formal dependence of John's
material upon that of the synoptic tradition, I would
pose two questions to those who find this an adequate
account of what we read in the sixth chapter of
Revelation. Does it do justice to chapter 5, with
its carefully delineated setting of the sequence of
seals in the context of a cosmic problem? For it is
not enough to say, with Court (Myth 55), that 'the
seer expresses very precisely the fact that his
perspective begins with the crucifixion of Christ',
when the scroll of history was held in the hand of
the enthroned King, and was already a source of
In the cycle of seals, therefore, we are left with

a simple demonstration of the problem of creation and
history: the final stage, the vision of the elect before
the heavenly throne, appears rather as a suspension of
historical necessity than as a reconciliation of it.
But in the cycle of trumpets a new perspective is added:
the initiation of the chain of evils lies not with the
forces of nature, but with the prayers of the saints
which ascend from the altar of sacrifice. The disasters
- which in this cycle are natural, not political - are
called forth by the demand of outraged justice given
voice through the prayers of the righteous. And then in
the cycle of bowls the initiative is transferred again:
it comes from God himself, speaking out of his heavenly
temple, so that the disasters, which remind us of the
plagues of Egypt, are imposed directly by the activity
of divine providence. Through the three successive
cycles, then, we come progressively to see how divine
initiative lies behind the degenerating horrors of
history, which appear, at first blush, to be a failure of
the created order of nature.
Let us pause over the term 'necessity', which I

have used to characterise the tragic history which the
cycles of seven disclose to us. Necessity is an
appropriate term, because it has traditionally been used
by philosophers in an ambivalent way, to point to a
distinctive coincidence of good and evil. Necessity is,
on the one hand, constraint, which deprives us of tbe
freedom in which our fulfilment in the good is achieved.
On the other hand, it is order, which ensures the
sovereignty of the good by ruling out randomness and
arbitrary meaninglessness. Thus the sequence of cycles
contains a part of the answer to the problem posed by
the sealed scroll. We are invited to read the
inscrutable legend of history by conceiving its tragedy
as inexorable constraint; but even in inexorable
constraint we can learn to see justice and the hand of
13. (contd.)
anxiety to mortal men befo"re ever the Lamb appeared
to open it. And in the second place: has it given a
satisfactory account of the climax of the sequence
in the vision of the seventh chapter, where the
redeemed are carefully identified, first of all, as
the faithful of the Old Covenant, drawn from the
twelve tribes of Israel?
God. Already in this conception the threat of sheer

arbitrariness is set at a distance, and the good,
distinctly, if not unqualifiedly, is present.
This, however, can only be a partial answer. For

although order (and so goodness) is vindicated in the
act of judgment - so that we can speak of 'satisfaction'
in judgment, and can be aware of an existential need for
it - nevertheless, where order is imposed at the cost of
freedom, then the good of creation is vindicated only
negatively: it is not vindicated positively in flourish-
ing and perfection. A universe in which sinful existence
is cancelled out by the divine wrath has a kind of formal
rightness1 yet it is not worthy of a creator to accept
such a vindication. (Here, of course, we touch upon the
famous 'divine dilemma' which drives the theology of
atonement as it was worked out by Athanasius and Anselm.)
What place, then, is allowed for freedom in this
presentation of historical necessity as divine justice?
In the first place we see freedom exercised in

prayer. The afflicted righteous who, at the fifth stage
of the first cycle, cry out from beneath the altar, 'How
long before thou wilt judge?' (6:10), are told to wait,
not merely for the maturation of divine purposes which
concern others than themselves, but that their own
freedom may be realised in the activity of prayer
itself. When·we first hear that prayer we hear it only
as a cry of impotence. But at the start of the next
cycle, we are shown that it is a prayer of power1 for it
is this prayer, and no other, which the angel mingles
with the incense on the altar, so that it rises in the
smoke of the incense before God (8:3)1 and so it is this
prayer which, when cast as fire from the altar upon the
earth, sets loose the thunder, lightning and earthquake
of the seven trumpets. In the second place, freedom is
exercised in prophecy. Here we touch on a theme close
to John's heart, for it is the theme of his own vocation.
The seventh stage of the second cycle - the stage which
tells of divine victory, and which precedes, but belongs
to, the seventh trumpet - is a vision of two witnesses
who prophesy in God's name with great authority, are
slain, and are raised to life again by the power of God.
The believer, then, exercises freedom in speech: the
speech of prayer which addresses God from the affliction
of historical necessity and the speech of prophecy which
addresses mankind in the authority of God's word and
which triumphs over necessity.
Creation is vindicated in two ways, we conclude: by

the immanent judgment of God worked out in the course of
historical necessity, and by the overcoming of necessity
by the power of the believer's true speech. so much of
an answer to the initial question has been given us by
the end of chapter 11, the climax of the cycle of seven
trumpets. But it is a dialectical answer, which has not
been resolved; necessity and freedom have not been
reconciled. The realm of politics has been associated
with the sphere of necessity, and freedom has been
represented in an anti-political way. This impression
is reinforced in the vision of the two witnesses by the
use John makes of the 'great city, which is allegorically
called Sodom and Egypt, where their Lord was crucified'
(11:8). The city- that pregnant symbol, which we here
meet for the first time in the Apocalypse - is the
concrete definition of the human urge to conquer when
confronted by the prophetic rebuke of the Word of God.
Conquest has assumed a permanent form; it has embodied
itself in a political institution, which is opposed to
the freedom of the word of truth. Politics is power-
against-the-Word. Yet John has not neglected to drop a
hint for us (who have not yet reached the conclusion of
his vision) that another view of the city is possible.
The vision of the two witnesses began with the solemn
measurement of the temple of God, which was to be kept
safe by divine protection while the city around it, 'the
holy city' (11:2), was trampled underfoot by the
nations. This 'holy city' is the same as that which is
called Sodom and Babylon, and (though John will not
grant it the dignity of the name Jerusalem) is the city
in which Christ was put to death. The political
institution which appears as the embodiment of
opposition to the truth may be something else: it may
be the holy city given over to desecration. Beneath the
phenomenon of power-against-the-Word there is the
deeper political reality of a community consecrated to
the Word. We are at least permitted to anticipate that
the politics of conquest may be countered at the last by
an alternative politics of worship.
II
At the beginning of chapter 12, introducing the

great central section of the Apocalypse, John presents
an allegorical narrative of the birth and triumph of
Christ. This is of great importance for our understand-
ing both of what has gone before and of what is to come
after. The content of the first two cycles has been

enacted, as it were, ante Christum natum, or at least
remota Christo. The souls of the righteous under the
altar were not necessarily the souls of the Christian
faithful, but simply the souls of righteous mankind;
the two witnesses who prophesied in the great city were
not presented as Christian witnesses, but as figures
from the Old Testament, the olive-trees and lampstand
of Zechariah, 'the two anointed who stand by the Lord of
the whole earth' (Zc. 4:14), slain in the appropriate
city where every prophet must perish. Of course, it
goes without saying that the course of history as seen
in these two cycles reaches its climax in 'the kingdom
of our Lord and of his Christ' (11:15). We could
expect nothing less since it was the Lamb who opened the
seals. But only at the seventh stage of each cycle is a
distinct reference to Christ introduced - the gentile
multitude who 'have washed their robes and made them
white in the blood of the Lamb' (7:14), the two prophets
slain in the city 'where their Lord was crucified'
(11:8). It is the dawning of the kingdom that reveals
how the righteous have, in fact, been serving Christ all
through the vicissitudes of an oppressive and apparently
meaningless history.
But it is equally important that what follows

should be understood to belong post Christum, in the
Messianic age. John's vision proceeds from the taking-up
of the Messiah into heaven, to the expulsion and fall of
Satan, the persecution of the church, and then to the
memorable passage which is most often alluded to by those
who wish to characterise his political outlook with a
single stroke of the brush, the summoning of the beasts
from the sea and the land, which herald the oppressive
and idolatrous totalitarian order described in chapter
chapter 13.
We should reflect on John's intentions in situating

this passage of political criticism at this point.
Initially it may surprise us that he should conceive
political theory in relation to salvation history. The
Western tradition derived from Augustine do~s not do
this: it understands politics in terms of the
providential dispensation post lapsum, in the light of
the covenant with Noah (and, of course, John does not
propose to contest a relation between politics and
providence, as the cycles of seals and trumpets can
verify). But he wishes to identify something

distinctive about the shape of politics in the Messianic
age, between the Ascension and the Parousia of Christ.
In this respect his approach will bear comparison with
the account of governing authorities given in Romans,
1 Timothy and 1 Peter. For although these passages are
important sources for the Augustinian view, they also
display (of Romans and 1 Peter at least this can be
said) a marked eschatological emphasis. If we are
inclined to say that John's interpretation of politics
is apocalyptic, while that of the Pauline strand in the
New Testament is self-consciously secular, we may do so
innocuously - provided that we add that even the
secular approach ('every human institution', 1 Pet.
2:13) takes its rise from the expected 'day of
visitation' (2:12). The Pauline tradition, too, knows
that we stand between the Ascension and the Parousia of
Christ, that 'the night is far gone, the day is at
hand' (Rom. 13:12), and that our thought about politics
begins with the admission that the claim of lordship has
been appropriated to himself by the ascended Christ.
The implication of this is that believers pray for 'a
quiet and peaceable life' under their kings (1 Tim. 2:2)~
whereas John expects those same prayers to let loose an
idolatrous this-worldly empire.
John's image of blasphemous empire is that which

was common to Jewish apocalyptic writing from the Book
of Daniel onwards. There arises a beast from the sea~
the sea, here as elsewhere, represents the abyss of
chaos and disorder which was overcome in the divine act
of creation. The changes that John introduces into the
picture of Daniel chapter 7 are as important as the
points of resemblance. John's one beast combines the
characteristics of Daniel's four. He is not, like
Daniel, propounding a world-history of empires, in which
each of the successive great powers, past and present,
has a place. He is aware that there is such a history
(and will draw upon it later in his treatment of the
Great Whore) but he is not concerned to trace it. His
interest, rather, is in empire as an eschatological
phenomenon, evoked by the diabolical fall which follows
upon the triumph of Christ. The order of events in
Daniel 7 has thus been turned significantly upon its
head. Where the Old Testament prophet saw a sequence of
historical empires being brought to a close by the
exaltation of the Son of Man, the New Testament prophet
sees demonic empire as evoked in a new, though

temporarily limited, form precisely by the exaltation of
the Son of Man.
John's beast differs from Daniel also in its

relation to the dragon, 'that ancient serpent, who is
called the Devil and Satan' (12:9). Daniel's four
empires emerge in sequence from the abyss of their own
accord, whereas John's beast is summoned by a force more
primaeval and fundamental than itself, which it resembles
not only in the possession of ten horns (which they both
share with Daniel's fourth beast) but in the possession
of seven heads. The native element of the dragon was
heaven. Cast down by the triumph of the Christ, he looks
for an earthly form in which to operate, and that form is
empire. In various ways the prophet suggests that the
relation between the dragon and the beast is a parodic
reflection of the relation between God the Father and the
Son. The dragon confers upon him 'his power and his
throne and great authority' (13:2) in an imitation of the
enthronement of the Messiah. We have already remarked
that at the end of the Apocalypse evil is overthrown in
two stages: the beast by the victorious Messiah and the
dragon by the all-judging Fa~er. And now we may also
notice the feature of the healed wound, by which the
beast parodies the death and resurrection of Christ; it
is a symbol of his Messianic status. And we need not
invoke Nero Redivivus to explain it; we need look no
further than the phenomenon of empire itself, which looks
as though it brings life out of death. By imposing
order upon chaos empire seems to introduce the promise of
resurrection into human affairs. Throughout John's
presentation of the beast and its empire we find him
absorbed in the pretensions of evil to provide a positive
focus for social unity and cohesion. At heart, he
believes, evil is simply self-destructive and provides no
ontologically secure basis for social life. Yet in the
phenomenon of empire it appears to provide a secure
basis. And John's criticism of that appearance is that
it is parodic and derivative. It achieves what it
appears to achieve only by crude imitation and
distortion of the good. Thus the authority of the beast
is established by the names of blasphemy which it bears,
a parody of the one who has authority by bearing the
divine name before mankind. The divinity of empire is a
borrowed divinity.
Parodic imitation is carried further with the

appearance of a second beast, the beast from the land,
who is also called the 'false prophet', accompanying the
false Christ in literal fulfilment of Mark 13:22.
Although the second beast is described in details from
Daniel 8:3, its immediate source is in the later
apocalyptic tradition (cf. 2 Esdras 6:49ff., 1 Enoch
60:7-8, 2 Baruch 29:4) which speaks of two beasts,
Leviathan and Behemoth, one from the sea and one from the
land. But John's real interest is in developing a
trinitarian account of empire as idolatry. His
enlargement of the Father-Son relation into a trinitarian
one is quite self-conscious. Although the person of the
Holy Spirit is not explicitly mentioned in the Apocalypse
proper until almost the last verse, John is continually
alluding to the Spirit's role by stressing the place of
true prophecy in the church's witness. As he wrote in
his introductory letters: 'He who has an ear, let him
hear what the Spirit says to the churches' (2:7 etc.).
The beast from the land is also the false prophet.
Unlike Daniel's he-goat, he speaks. It is his essential
raison d'etre to speak, to act as the ideologist of the
empire and to support his speech with miraculous signs,
so becoming the prophetic voice which maintains the
empire's legitimacy and persuades mankind to adhere to
it. John knows that though the essence of empire may be
conquest and the denial of true speech, that empire which
is falsely Messianic must depend upon the concealment of
its essence with a plausible appearance of true speech,
which is in fact false speech. The authority of false-
hood is of critical importance to the Antichrist's
regime; but the only authority which falsehood has, is
that which it has borrowed from truth.
The false-prophet maintains the claim of the

Antichrist to possess his subjects wholly, as Christ
possesses his saints, by a parody of the baptismal seal.
In the light of twentieth-century experience, we are
fond of seeing here a description of what we call
'totalitarianism', and this is not mistaken.
Totalitarianism is the assumption of all independent
authority, natural or spiritual, the authority of the
parent, of the teacher, of the priest, of the artist,
into one authority of the state. But underneath the evil
of totalitarianism, as John would show it to us, lies the
more fundamental evil of Messianic ideology, the claim to
ultimate allegiance. By presenting itself as the
emissary of God, and demanding of its members the

adherence appropriate only to the church, the empire
brings the final condition of Hell into history. It
provides a concrete form in which mankind can give
himself heart and soul to a community of evil. Thus the
mystery of evil serves the divine purpose of final
separation.
Here we can only underline the contrast with the

Pauline tradition. The state of government for which
Christians are commanded to pray is one in which there
is space, 'a quiet and peaceable life' (1 Tim. 2:2),
space for the question of ultimate allegiance to be
raised and answered in the preaching of the Gospel.
Such a state is neutral at the ultimate level, however
committed it may be at the penultimate. John does not
challenge the suggestion that we ought to pray for such
a space of freedom and neutrality. Yet he does not
expect that prayer to be granted in the form in which it
is made, not, at least, for more than intermittent
periods. Under the force of the Gospel and of the
allegiance to Christ which it evokes, the state comes to
demand an opposite and ultimate allegiance. The mutual
exclusiveness of the separation of good and evil begins
to assume a shape within history. Those who do not
worship the beast are thrust out from the market, which
(for the first century as for the nineteenth) is the
place of morally neutral political relations, the place
of commerce without commitment. The closure of the
market on ideological lines is a sign of the separation
of the communities. Yet even that development, John
would tell us, the very opposite of what we have prayed
for, the failure of the liberal market to sustain itself
under the clash of ultimate claims let loose upon the
world by the ascension of Christ, is, though we could
never bring ourselves to pray for it as such, God's
most direct route towards that day when all our prayers
for justice receive their truest answer.
III
It is one of those prima facie puzzles with which

John confronts his interpreters that he has two dominant
images for empire and not just one. After the reign of
the beast from the sea and the false prophet, who
represent the Messianic pretensions of empire in the
Messianic age, we meet in chapter 17, in the first of
three major concluding visions of judgment and triumph,
the Great Whore. And as though to prevent his
interpreters from evading the puzzle which he has set

for them, John sets the Whore riding upon a beast which
(as we are meant to have no doubt) is precisely the same
beast that we have already encountered, still rising
from the abyss (17:8), despite the curious feature that
it has now acquired a scarlet coloration.
My own suggestion for understanding this dual

imagery is that the beast represents empire quite
specifically as a phenomenon of the Messianic age,
evoked by the triumph of the true Messiah and the limited
dominion of the devil upon the earth. But empire as such
had been a longstanding feature of the Mediterranean
world. The prophet had, therefore, to admit a
distinction between empire as a permanent feature of
world politics and the eschatological heightening of
empire - we might say, its demonisation - which marked
the age of the church. The representative of world
empire in the Old Testament was Babylon; and in
introducing the figure of the Whore, whose name is
Babylon, John intends to emphasise the continuity between
the ancient prophets' experience of empire and the
contemporary experience of Christians under the dominion
of Rome. It is, of course, absurd to suppose that the
name Babylon was merely a device for concealment. When
John points out that this Babylon sits upon seven hills,
the hint he drops is so heavy that it would surely be
sufficient to earn him a further spell on Patmos if it
were to come to official notice! The name is theological:
it recalls the prophetic understanding of the
Mesopotamian empires, and John uses it as an interpreta-
tive key to the rise of the Roman empire. Thus the Whore
is not Rome stricto sensu. She is human empire as such,
which is presently situated at Rome, on the seven hills.
Or, more concretely, she is Babylon transferred to Rome.
She is an old familiar figure, well known to the reader
of the prophets, who has been brought out of retirement
by a new patron (of whose demonic origins she is
blissfully unaware) and has been set up in a new home, to
be used for ends which she cannot begin to understand.
Thus John is able to study the political situation of his
day from another angle, examining the general features
that it shares with the empires of the past, without
withdrawing from the part~cular claims he has made for
the apocalyptic character. of empire in the Messianic age.
And of course he wishes to stress that empire, simply as
a secular phenomenon in human politics, has a fate that
is due to it, as the prophets of old had said long

before. The Great Whore is to be destroyed by her
lovers. For the beast himself, however, there is a very
different end in store.
Already in chapter 14 John has heard some words

recalled from the Isaianic apocalypse (Is. 21:9),
proclaimed by one of the three angels entrusted with
preaching the 'eternal Gospel' to the earth: 'Fallen,
fallen is Babylon!' The fulfilment of the prophets'
hope for the end of imperial bondage is already a part of
the Gospel which the coming of Christ preaches to the
world. The particular form of the prophetic quotation
at 14:8 deserves close scrutiny. Nowhere is John more
careful and subtle in his use of Old Testament material
than in his presentation of Babylon. The words from
Isaiah 21, 'Fallen, fallen is Babylon!' are immediately
followed by others from the Babylon oracle in Jeremiah
51: 'who has made all nations drunk with her wine'.
But into this quotation again John weaves some further
words, describing the wine as 'the wine of the wrath of
her fornication'. Now, when we first hear these words,
their bearing seems evident enough. The wrath is the
wrath of God, manifest in the sudden growth of the
Chaldaean empire, and all nations have been made to
experience the impact of divine wrath through Babylon's
'fornication', that is, her indiscriminate conquests.
But when the words return, slightly amplified, at 17:2,
the reader suddenly awakes to what the author has done.
He has woven into the tissue of Babylon quotations an
allusion to the prophecy against Tyre at Isaiah 23:17.
'At the end of seventy years, the Lord will visit Tyre,
and she will return to her hire, and will play the harlot
with all the kingdoms of the world upon the face of the
earth.' But this immediately puts a very different
complexion upon that 'fornication'. For the fornication
of Tyre is not indiscriminate conquest, but promiscuous
trade. And as we read John's mighty lament over
Babylon-Rome which occupies chapter 18 of the Apocalypse,
we find that it is composed in about equal parts of
allusions to prophetic oracles against conquering
Babylon and against trading Tyre. The two major sources
are Jeremiah 51 against Babylon and Ezekiel 27 against
Tyre. Details of the Babylon prophecy take on a new
significance as they are associated with Tyre: the
'many waters' on which the harlot sits, for example,
were (in Je. 51:13) a reference to Babylon's elaborate
canal system; but now they are evidently intended to

represent the Mediterranean Sea, on which the great
commercial city plies her trade.
What are we to make of this? It is possible to see

it merely as a happy use of diverse materials in order
to characterise more precisely the hold which Rome has
upon the nations of her empire, a hold very much rooted
in commercial and cultural exchange and by no means
merely a matter of military force majeure. I cannot
help thinking, however, that this would be to under-
estimate our author. It is not for him a purely
circumstantial matter that the new Babylon has learned
the arts of old Tyre; nor is his use of the image from
Isaiah 23, describing trade as 'fornication', merely
decorative. The significance of this marriage of Tyre-
and Babylon-motifs is that trade, too, as much as
conquest, violates the integrity of communities which
become dominated by the cultural influences of the
stronger trading power. We have to recall that the
tyranny of the beast in chapter 13 was exercised through
control of the market. In that sense trade is
'fornication'. It is a cultural promiscuity by which one
power exploits and drains the resources from many others.
John stands preeminent among those who have seen mercan-
tile enterprise as a tool of empire. He reserves for the
very conclusion of his lament on Babylon-Rome a
quotation from the Tyre oracle, Isaiah 23:8, to which he
gives great prominence: 'Thy merchants were the great
men of the earth' (18:22). Less striking to us, perhaps,
than to the ancient world is the thought of a society in
which the rulers are merchants and the merchants rulers
- the paradoxical scene which confronted the astonished
Israelite prophet when he looked upon Tyre. Yet he saw
nothing so paradoxical as a world empire in which this
was so. But for John this paradox was the key to the
power of the world-empire in which he lived. It ruled
over the multitude of nations by exercising commercial
and cultural monopoly.
In Ezekiel's lament over Tyre the seafaring classes,

who have become rich by Tyre's greatness, wail and weep
at her fall; while the 'merchants among the peoples', on
the other hand, rather unexpectedly 'hiss' (Ezk. 27:36),
presumably because the dominance of international trade
by this one power has excluded them from the share of the
market to which they felt they had a right. John allows
no such division of op~n~on over the fall of his

Babylon-Rome. Without her there would be no commercial
endeavour at all; therefore the merchants as well as
the seafarers weep at her destruction. Her end means
the end of all cultural endeavour: harpists, minstrels,
flute-players and trumpeters fall silent. It means the
cessation of crafts, and of basic cultural activities
such as the grinding of the millstone and the lighting of
the lamp. It means (echoing Jeremiah's word of judgment
on Jerusalem) the silencing of the voice of the
bridegroom and the voice of the bride (18:22-23). But to
the list of those who lament the loss of human social
culture John adds the 'kings of the earth', the very
figures whose independence has been drained away by the
fornication which they have committed with this
monopolistic cultural force. And this is a point on
which we must linger; for the relation between the
empire and its client kingdoms is central to the
prophet's view of how empire comes to destroy itself.
The beast from the abyss, you will recall, boasts of

seven heads and ten horns - a detail which poses an
insoluble problem of distribution to the artists of each
generation who attempt to depict the mulier sedens - and
they are explained in chapter 17 as follows. The seven
heads represent both the seven hills of Rome and an
unfinished series of emperors, of which (John tells us
unambiguously) the sixth is now reigning. Beyond this
series of seven emperors, the beast is to have a final
manifestation as an 'eighth'. The ten horns are ten
kings - not, as in the model in Daniel, a series of ten,
for they all act together in concert. They must, then,
represent the kings of the earth who have committed
fornication with the harlot and over whom she exercises
dominion. They are the constituent powers on which her
extensive empire of trade and conquest is founded.
These ten kings, John predicts, are to receive authority
for one hour together with the beast (7:12). We are
presumably to assume that this one hour is the
eschatological climax of the mystery of evil - we see
this moment in closer perspective at 19:19 when the two
Messiahs meet in battle - the same hour as that in which
the beast takes form as the eighth emperor. At this
point they will do two things: they will unite with the
beast to make war against the Lamb (17:13), and they will
turn against the Whore and devour her flesh and burn her
up with fire (17:16). And this will be according to the
purposes of God, who has 'put it into their hearts to

carry out his purpose by being of one mind and g~v~ng
over their royal power to the beast, until the words of
God shall be fulfilled' (17:17).
This is a confusing scenario. The ten kings

receive their royal power at the end of history,
renounce it to the beast in an act of unanimity, turn
upon the empire which has nurtured them, lament the fall
which they have themselves encompassed, and then turn
blindly and self-destructively against the Lamb. What
coherence can we detect in this sequence of acts?
First, we remember that John is offering an analysis

of empire which understands it as 'fornication', that is
to say, the surrendering of individual integrity in an
undisciplined and destructive form of commerce. Empire
is not simply an extensive form of unified rule, but one
which drains the integrity from all other powers and
leaves them improperly dependent and impotent. Thus the
ten kings are at once the dependents of empire and the
victims of its capacity to arrogate all authority to
itself. Their relation to it is that mixture of
resentment and need which is characteristic of
dependents. Now, the climax of the career of empire, as
John sees it, is its dissolution under the force of the
resentment which it has engendered. It may appear to
have conferred unity on the constituent parts of which it
is composed, and so it has. But that unity achieves its
paradoxical height in the 'one mind' which unites its
dependents in rebellion against the source of their own
strength. This final paroxysm of self-destruction is the
most complete disclosure of the unity which has been
engendered by these means.
But this general thesis about the end of empire is

woven together, in John's prediction, with an eschato-
logical view of the end of the Messianic pretender. For
the beast itself is destined to turn against the empire
it has promoted - which is to say that the mystery of
evil, though it has taken provisional and penultimate
form in an apparently unified, coherent political
structure, can achieve its ultimate self-disclosure only
as every positive element, borrowed from created
goodness, is strained out. The goal of the self-
revelation of evil is the vanishing point of unity in
pure negativity. The logic of the beast's end and the
logic of the whore's end is the same: predatory power

collapses in upon itself. And so it is that the two
ends are coordinated. It is as the client kings
discover and express their unity in turning against its
source that they offer the purest worship to the beast;
and it is at that point, with the collapse of empire in
a furiously united tumult of self-destruction, that the
beast can make his final thrqw of outright war against
the Lamb, carrying the force of united negativity
against the throne of God himself. But of course it is
in vain; for the 'one mind' with which the resentful
powers unite to serve the beast and destroy their
mistress is also borrowed from the mind of God himself.
Its unity is a borrowed unity; the purposefulness of its
evil was always a sign of its predatory dependence upon
the good which it suppressed. The diabolical project of
claiming the throne of lordship was from the beginning a
self-contradictory project. The collapse of empire,
then, reveals the operation of divine providence; and
the future collapse of this Messianic empire will be a
revelation of the final rule of God's Messiah over
history. The disclosure of the mystery of evil was
always at the service of divine providence for the
overcoming of evil.
IV
Almost everything we have observed so far has been

by way of criticism of political phenomena, suggesting
that the stance of the believer must be essentially anti-
political. The paradigm of political activity has been
imperial conquest; the permanent political institution,
the city, has merely served to sustain and develop the
exploitation of imperial dominion by commercial means.
The exercise of human freedom in response to the Word of
God has thrown the believer into irresoluble conflict
with the organised community. And in these last days
empire has taken on a new significance as the form in
which the Antichrist lays claim to wrest mankind's
ultimate allegiance from God. Not even in the church can
we see a form of social life which qualifies this
negative judgment. The faithful believer appears in
history as an individual ('him who conquers') or as a
pair ('the two witnesses') standing against organised
society. The very word 'church' is used by John only to
designate the local communities which he addresses in
his introductory letters. There is no place for the
church catholic on earth. Only when we have lifted our

eyes to heaven have we been allowed to see, at the end
of history, the reality of a worshipping community: the
Jewish and gentile faithful in chapter 7 and the
community of first fruits in chapter 14.
For all this there is a reason. The root of any

true social order, in which human beings relate to God
and to each other lovingly, is the revelation of the
conspicuous justice of God. We cannot comprehend how we
are to live together until we know that God has shown us
his judgments. For tne good of social order is founded
upon a judgment (dikaioma), a declarative act which
establishes righteousness (dikaiosune). In divine
judgment the paradoxical conflict between the freedom of
the Word of God and the necessity of immanent justice in
history is resolved. God's word becomes 'judgment'; its
freedom creates the order of a concrete society. And the
the necessity of history becomes 'judgment' too; its
tragedy is turned into the freedom of the saints'
obedience. It is quite clear at what point in the
Apocalypse we are permitted to see this coming together
of necessity and freedom in divine judgment. It happens
in the third cycle of seven, which is introduced by the
words of those who have obeyed and conquered the beast,
'Thy judgments have been revealed!' (15:4), and is
accompanied by a confession of God's justice from the
afflicted innocent beneath the altar, 'Yea, Lord God the
Almighty, true and just are thy judgments!' (16:7). And
it happens at precisely this point because in the
preceding section, chapters 12-14, we have seen the
Christ revealed and exalted and have heard the angels
proclaiming the eternal Gospel, concluding with the
vision of the Son of Man coming upon the cloud to judge.
we may, then, expect that in the concluding sections of
the Apocalypse we shall be shown the outline of a new
social existence which is founded upon the judgments of
God. This, of course, cannot be a product of history,
because it is brought about by the judgment of God upon
history. It is given from heaven, descending like a
bride prepared for the bridegroom.
We have observed already that the v1s1on of divine

conquest, the central section of the three concluding
sections (19:11- 20:15), presents the victory over evil
twice over in two pictures, first as a battle, then as
an act of jurisdiction. The Messiah rides out to
conquer the beast, and then there is a scene of judgment.
Gag and Magog are gathered for battle, and then there is
the judgment of the white throne. In the case of the

first victory, the victory of the Messiah, the faithful
share his judgment, seated on thrones with him, and
reign with him for a thousand years (20:4). Those terms
'judgment' (krima this time, not dikaioma, which is
reserved for the aboriginal constitutive act of God) and
'reign' invite us to consider the promise of an
eschatological just order, a sharing in the authority
and sovereignty which is given to all members of a true
and well-founded community. Such a promise can be
realised only by the victory of the true Messiah over the
false. The word of truth has first to take form as a
sword, issuing from the Messiah's mouth, to defeat those
who live by the sword, in order for it then to take form
as a judgment, to ennoble and give dignity to those
whose social hope has been founded upon it alone. There
is, of course, as has been often observed, something
highly paradoxical about the picture of the Prince of
Martyrs constituting himself the head of an army of
conquest. It is an image which negates itself,
cancelling, rather than confirming, the significance of
the political categories on which it draws. It is what
Aquinas called the merely 'symbolic predication of
proportional analogy'. What is less often observed is
that the analogy of judgment is not merely symbolic, and
that here the political imagery does not negate itself.
The idea of an ordered social existence under the
authority of divine dikaioma, participating in that
authority by the activity of human krima, is not a purely
formal one. It conveys to us a hope that in the life
which we are summoned to live with Christ we may
experience, as a social reality, that authority of truth
and righteousness which our experience of political
society on earth has consistently denied us.
We must not fail to observe the implications of

this. If it is right to say that the basis for a new
order of society is God's word of judgment pronounced in
Christ, then it follows that the witnesses who proclaimed
that word to challenge the prevailing political order,
were not acting anti-politically at all, but were
confronting a false political order with the foundation
of a true one. We must claim John for the point of view
which sees criticism, when founded in truth, as genuine
political engagement.
A right ordering of society is realised when mankind

in Christ participates in the exercise of the Messiah's
authority. But the judgment of the saints cannot be the
last word about true judgment. When John turns from the
triumph of the Messiah to the triumph of the Father, we
are shown another act of jurisdiction, which belongs
exclusively to God. To be part of an ordered community
is to share in the exercise of its proper authority,
yes; but more profoundly it is to be subject to the
divine authority. For God's authority is not in
competition with man's. From God's true speech flows
all man's possibility of true speech; from God's judgment
flows all man's possibility of judging. Not until we
have stood before the great white throne and found
ourselves judged there, can we possibly see, enter, or
exercise our role in the Holy City, the new Jerusalem.
(This is an example of how John's ordering of events is
analytical rather than sequential: he proceeds from the
judgment of the saints to the judgment of the Father as
from an effect to its cause.) We would be well advised,
we who love that ecstatic chapter with which John's
Apocalypse closes, to remember how carefully and by what
steps he has led us up to it.
Part of the impact of this astonishing chapter

arises from the fact that we have come all this way,
observing nations, races, armies, empires, kings,
princes and merchants, simply to see a city - which we
might have thought of as the primal fo~ of human
society. We have, of course, seen one city before this.
Babylon-Rome was the Great City - the epithet
distinguishing her from the New Jerusalem, who is the
Holy City. John underlines the parallel between the two
cities by repeating 17:1 almost verbatim at 21:9. In
the tension between these two political symbols the whole
conflict between good and evil is worked out: the city is
the bride, and the city is the whore. But behind this
opposition we will recall that there was a hint of their
fundamental identity. In chapter 11 John was commanded
to measure the temple but leave the outer court
unmeasured, since it was given over to the gentiles who
'will trample over the holy city [note the epithet] for
forty-two months' (11:2). In this same city, apparently,
God appointed his two witnesses to prophesy and be
slain, and their bodies to lie 'in the street of the
great city [note the epithet] which is allegorically
called Sodom and Egypt, where their Lord was crucified'
(11:8). Here, then, the two epithets are assigned to the
one city, which is given on this occasion neither the
name Babylon nor the name Jerusalem, though it is

associated with the historical Jerusalem by the
reference to Jesus' death and by the presence of the
temple. What are we to conclude from this? That the
city is aboriginally the 'holy city', but has lost its
name and its sanctity (apart from the temple in its
midst) and is corrupted into a denial of itself? Here
is the clearest statement of the aboriginal unity of
the human community to set against the recurrent
emphasis on its division. What we see as the two cities
is in fact the corruption, and the hope of redemption,
of the aboriginal one city.
The details of John's heavenly Jerusalem are drawn

primarily from the vision of temple and city which
occupies the concluding nine chapters of Ezekiel; but
there are significant revisions. Ezekiel's holy city is
built around a temple, and is set in the midst of a
reorganised Holy Land. John's is a city without a ·
temple, and is set in the midst of a redeemed earth. In
a highly significant qualification of Ezekiel 47:12 John
says that the leaves of the trees which grow beside the
river are for the healing o£ the nations. Thus John
points to a universal restoration of the human community
as Ezekiel never did. In the light of this we may wonder
why, in equipping his guide with a measuring-rod, John
did not follow through the implication of Zechariah
2:1-5 (to which he alluded in chapter 11) and declare
that the eschatological city should be without walls,
since it is protected by God's immediate presence (a
logic he will not hesitate to follow when it suggests
the abolition of the temple) • The answer is, apparently,
that he saw the city's walls not simply as a protection,
but as a definition. The gates and walls are there not
to exclude but to give form: their twelvefold structure
confirms the city's continuity both with Israel (of the
twelve tribes) and with the church (of the twelve
apostles); but the ever-open gates show the elect
community in its appointed openness to the world,
providing the light by which the nations walk and the
shrine to which the kings of the earth bring their glory
(21:24).
To the reader who is not attuned to John's

dialectical use of images this is an astonishing moment.
He is unprepared to entertain the thought of a humanity
living and thriving outside of the redeemed Jerusalem.
Yet it is highly characteristic of our author to balance

complementary aspects of his understanding in this way.
As the city of the faithful, the community of the
redeemed, the heavenly Jerusalem contains universality
in itself. It is restored humanity, and 'outside' it
there is nothing but rejection (22:15). Yet it is also
the elect people, whose destiny it is to shed God's
light into the whole world. This aspect, too, must be
present in the imagery of the final state, especially as
it balances and corrects the resentful and destructive
relation of the client kings to the imperial city. In
this vision of human completeness there must be a symbol
of the mutuality which was destroyed by empire, which is
yet compatible, John believes, with the exclusion of all
that is in the service of evil. To ask him to do more
than set these two images, the one of universal
homogeneity the other of mutuality, alongside one
another, is to ask him to be more theoretical than his
vision allows him to be - or else to resolve the
dialectic of election and universality improperly, by
denying one side or the other.
At the heart of the city is the throne of God,

which is now also, and eternally, the throne of the Lamb.
John's city, like Ezekiel's, is the place where the Lord
dwells. But whereas Ezekiel expresses this by making
the temple dominate the city, John disposes of the
cultic image apophatically: 'I saw no temple' (21:22).
He shows himself in this way to be a Hellenistic
Christian eschatological thinker, following the lead of
the author to the Hebrews, for whom the cultic is the
shadow of good things to come, dispelled by the actual
form of them in Christ. The presence of God in
community is unmediated; it is sheer presence. Therefore
the temple ' is ' the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb. The
temple has been absorbed, we may say, into the throne.
But to this observation we must add another: that the
throne has become a place of divine speech. At 16:17 we
heard God speak 'out of the temple, from the throne,
saying, "It is done!"'; but now the voice which was
heard through the mediation of the temple speaks
immediately, no longer in secret communion with men, but
in open settlement of the affairs of the universe. Its
words form the goal of the whole Apocalypse, giving a
decisive interpretation to the final vision, which is
itself the interpretation of all the other visions.
These final words of God are found at 21:3-8. They

consist of a declaration of reconciliation, 'Behold, the
dwelling of God is with men ••• ', and a declaration of
judgment, 'To the thirsty I will give from the fountain
of the water of life •.• but as for the cowardly etc.'.
And these two declarations flank three short utterances
about the beginning and end of all things: 'Behold, I
make all things new.' 'Write this, for these words are
trustworthy and true.' 'It is done! I am the Alpha and
the Omega, the beginning and the end.' With these three
words we stand in the sanctum sanctorum of history.
Everything is stripped away; even judgment and
reconciliation stand to one side. We confront the sheer
act and being of God. He who by his mere decision
created the heaven and the earth, now by his mere
decision makes all things new, conferring upon creation
a 'history' and a fulfilment. The words 'I make' and
'All is accomplished' complement one another: there is
no futurity about the first, no preterity about the
second. History is summoned into being by God's ever-
present declarative act, and there and then it is
accomplished, reflecting back the glory of the one who
summoned it, who can now be known as Alpha and Omega,
its source and end.
But in between 'I make' and 'All is accomplished',

at the centre of the three utterances, which are the
centre of God's final speech, which is from the throne
at the centre of the heavenly city, there stands the
command to the prophet 'Write!'. An astonishing thing,
that the prophet should find his own task at the very
heart of the ineffable being and act of God! But in the
sovereign decision of God to constitute history, there
is implied a decision that history should make him
known. He who can declare himself Alpha and Omega, does
declare himself so in order to make that declaration
heard. At the heart of God's self-announcement is the
announcement that he is the self-announcing God, not
merely self-subsisting but self-communicating. 'In the
beginning was the Word; and the Word was with God, and
the Word was God.' On that self-communication, mediated
to us by prophetic speech, the holy city is founded. At
the heart of politics is true speech, d~vine speech,
entering into conflict with the false orders of history,
the guarantor of the only true order that the universe
can ever attain.

The Political Thought of The Book of Revelation

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The Political Thought of The Book of Revelation

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THE TYNDALE ETHICS LECTURE, 1985

THE POLITICAL THOUGHT OF THE BOOK OF REVELATION

Something rather curious occurs in the final

We may well sympathise with Yoder's ambivalence. On

1. John H. Yoder, The Politics of Jesus (Grand Rapids:

a flight from the realities of society and history. As

Hanson opposes two views of the world, the

2. 'The Concept of Apocalyptic in the Theology of the

dialectic between vision and reality began to break

The first conception I draw attention to is the

4. I welcome the recognition of this by Christopher

but Hansen's way with that undeniable fact is to deny

In Hansen's article we can detect also a second

The German scholars who have maintained views

Dieter Betz's article from which I quoted above was

The association of Hegel and apocalyptic is

5. 'The Ground of Christian Theology' in Funk (ed.),

doctrine of Three Ages promoted by Joachim of Fiore; and

6. See Erich Voegelin, 'Ersatz Religion' in his Science,

Within modern Christian political thought the

be politically significant. This conviction unites such

One thing must be made clear, and that is that

8. J. Ellul, L'Apocalypse: architecture en mouvement

but he has a great deal to say about the way evil

Before I embark upon exposition, a word is in place

9. This distinction, not always well understood by

shown twice because we must understand that the kingdom

12. It is conventional, and not unjustified, to see the

(22:5). This illustrates the second feature of John's

With these introductory observations I shall

We begin from the question which the prophet

With this announcement of his theme the prophet

time from a more profound perspective. In between the

foreheads (7:1-3). The first cycle, then, shows history

So much for the common structure of the three cycles

One may learn a lot about the character of any

vindication whiCh goes up to God from the afflicted

13. OUr understanding of the sequence of seven seals

In the cycle of seals, therefore, we are left with

Let us pause over the term 'necessity', which I

God. Already in this conception the threat of sheer

This, however, can only be a partial answer. For

In the first place we see freedom exercised in

Creation is vindicated in two ways, we conclude: by

At the beginning of chapter 12, introducing the

after. The content of the first two cycles has been

But it is equally important that what follows

We should reflect on John's intentions in situating

verify). But he wishes to identify something

John's image of blasphemous empire is that which

sees demonic empire as evoked in a new, though

John's beast differs from Daniel also in its

Parodic imitation is carried further with the

The false-prophet maintains the claim of the

emissary of God, and demanding of its members the

Here we can only underline the contrast with the

It is one of those prima facie puzzles with which

interpreters from evading the puzzle which he has set

My own suggestion for understanding this dual