The Oxford Handbook of the Book of Revelation 9780190655433, 0190655437

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T h e Ox f o r d H a n d b o o k o f

T H E BO OK OF R E V E L AT ION

The Oxford Handbook of

THE BOOK OF REVELATION Edited by

CRAIG R. KOESTER

1

1 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2020 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Control Number: 2020943628 ISBN 978–0–19–065543–3 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America.

Contents

Preface ix List of Contributors xi Abbreviations xvii

1. Introduction to Revelation’s Social Setting, Theological Perspective, and Literary Design Craig R. Koester

1

PA RT   I   L I T E R A RY F E AT U R E S OF T H E B O OK OF R E V E L AT ION 2. The Genre of the Book of Revelation Mitchell G. Reddish

21

3. Narrative Features of the Book of Revelation James L. Resseguie

37

4. Imagery in the Book of Revelation Konrad Huber

53

5. Rhetorical Features of the Book of Revelation David A. deSilva

69

6. The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation Steve Moyise

85

7. Revelation’s Use of the Greek Language David L. Mathewson

101

8. The Hymns in Revelation Justin P. Jeffcoat Schedtler

115

vi   contents



PA RT I I   S O C IA L SE T T I N G

9. Revelation and Roman Rule in First-Century Asia Minor Warren Carter 10. Relationships among Christ-Believers and Jewish Communities in First-Century Asia Minor Mikael Tellbe

133

153

11. Greco-Roman Religions and the Context of the Book of Revelation 169 Richard S. Ascough 12. John’s Apocalypse in Relation to Johannine, Pauline, and Other Forms of Christianity in Asia Minor Paul Trebilco



185

PA RT I I I   T H E OL O G Y A N D E T H IC S

13. God in the Book of Revelation Martin Karrer

205

14. Jesus in the Book of Revelation Loren L. Johns

223

15. The Spirit in the Book of Revelation John Christopher Thomas

241

16. Creation and New Creation in the Book of Revelation Mark B. Stephens

257

17. Perspectives on Evil in the Book of Revelation Gregory Stevenson

275

18. Violence in the Apocalypse of John David L. Barr

291

19. The City-Women Babylon and New Jerusalem in Revelation Lynn R. Huber

307

20. The People of God in the Book of Revelation Peter S. Perry

325

contents   vii



PA RT I V   H I STORY OF R E C E P T ION A N D I N F LU E N C E

21. The Greek Text of Revelation Juan Hernández Jr.

343

22. Revelation and the New Testament Canon Tobias Nicklas

361

23. Reception History and the Interpretation of Revelation Ian Boxall

377

24. The Interpretation of the Book of Revelation in Early Christianity Charles E. Hill

395

25. The Interpretation of John’s Apocalypse in the Medieval Period Julia Eva Wannenmacher

413

26. The Book of Revelation in Music and Liturgy Paul Westermeyer

431

27. Forms of Futuristic Interpretation of Revelation in the Modern Period Joshua T. Searle with Kenneth G. C. Newport



447

PA RT   V   C U R R E N T S I N I N T E R P R E TAT ION

28. Feminist Interpretation of Revelation Susan E. Hylen

467

29. Interpreting Revelation through African American Cultural Studies 483 Thomas B. Slater 30. Post-Colonial Interpretation of the Book of Revelation Harry O. Maier Index

499

517

Preface

The book of Revelation or Apocalypse of John has generated wide interest in the academy and popular culture. Its evocative imagery has engaged the imaginations of biblical interpreters, historians, and artists. The cultural impact of the book has been profound; it has inspired musical compositions such as Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus, and fueled sensationalistic theories about the imminent end of the world. Some are intrigued by Revelation’s kaleidoscopic visions, which culminate in a new heaven and a new earth; others are repelled by the violent scenes of cosmic conflict. The chapters of this volume reflect a wide spectrum of approaches that are used to interpret the book and assess its influence. Recent studies have considered Revelation’s literary qualities and rhetorical force, theological perspectives, and relationship to social patterns in early Christianity. Reception history, cultural studies, and feminist and postcolonial interpretation all play a role. The contributors orient readers to the many interpretive possibilities, and provide their own distinctive contributions to current research. I am grateful to Steve Wiggins of Oxford University Press for initiating development of this volume, and to the staff at the press for their careful work throughout the process. Craig R. Koester

List of Contributors

Richard S. Ascough is a Professor in the School of Religion at Queen’s University in Kingston, Canada. His research focuses on the formation early Christ groups and Greco-Roman religious culture, with particular attention to various types of associations. He is the author of Associations in the Greco-Roman World (with John Kloppenborg and Philip Harland, 2012) and 1 and 2 Thessalonians: Encountering the Christ Group at Thessalonike (2014). David L. Barr is Emeritus Professor of Religion and former chair of the Departments of Religion, Philosophy, and Classics at Wright State University in Dayton, Ohio. His primary research areas include Jewish and Christian apocalypticism, the book of Revelation, and stories as told in the New Testament writings. He is author of Tales of the End: A Narrative Commentary on the Book of Revelation (2012) and New Testament Story: An Introduction (2009), and editor of Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students (2003) and The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation (2006). Ian Boxall is Associate Professor of New Testament at the Catholic University of America in Washington, DC. His primary research areas are the Gospel of Matthew, the book of Revelation, and reception history. He is the author of Matthew through the Centuries in the Wiley Blackwell Bible Commentaries series (2019), Patmos in the Reception History of the Apocalypse (2013), and The Revelation of St. John in the Black’s New Testament Commentary series (2006). Warren Carter is LaDonna Kraemer Meinders Professor of New Testament at Phillips Theological Seminary in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and formerly Professor of New Testament at Brite Divinity School at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth, Texas. His primary research areas are the New Testament Gospels, how the early Jesus movement negotiated Roman power, and the book of Revelation. Major publications include Telling Tales about Jesus: An Introduction to the New Testament Gospels (2016), John and Empire (2008), and Matthew and the Margins (2000). David A. deSilva is Trustees’ Distinguished Professor of New Testament and Greek at Ashland Theological Seminary. His primary research areas are Second Temple Judaism, the Letter to the Hebrews, and the book of Revelation. He is the author of Galatians in the New International Commentary on the New Testament (2018), Introducing the Apocrypha: Message, Context, and Significance, rev. ed. (2018), and Seeing Things John’s Way: The Rhetoric of the Book of Revelation (2009).

xii   list of contributors Juan Hernández Jr. is Professor of New Testament and Early Christianity at Bethel University in St. Paul, Minnesota. His primary research areas are the textual history of the book of Revelation and New Testament textual criticism. He is author of Scribal Habits and Theological Influences in the Apocalypse (2006), co-editor of Studies on the Text of the New Testament and Early Christianity (2015), and lead translator of Josef Schmid’s landmark Studies in the History of the Greek Text of the Apocalypse (2018). Charles E. Hill is John R. Richardson Professor of New Testament and Early Christianity at Reformed Theological Seminary in Orlando, Florida. His primary research areas are Johannine literature, the early Christian manuscript tradition, and early Christian eschatology. He is the author of Regnum Caelorum: Patterns of Millennial Thought in the Early Church (2001) and The Johannine Corpus in the Early Church (2004), and coeditor of The Early Text of the New Testament (2012). Konrad Huber is Professor of New Testament Studies at the Faculty of Catholic Theology of the Johannes Gutenberg University in Mainz, Germany. His primary research areas are the book of Revelation and its reception, narrative criticism, and apocryphal gospels. He is co-editor of Studien zum Neuen Testament und seiner Umwelt and author of Einer gleich einem Menschensohn. Die Christusvisionen in Offb 1,9–20 und Offb 14,14–20 und die Christologie der Johannesoffenbarung (2007). Lynn  R.  Huber is Professor of Religious Studies at Elon University in Elon, North Carolina. Her primary research area is the book of Revelation, especially its gendered imagery, ancient Mediterranean context, and history of reception by visionaries and visual artists. She employs metaphor theory along with feminist and queer critical lenses. She is the author of “Like a Bride Adorned”: Reading Metaphor in John’s Apocalypse (2007) and Thinking and Seeing with Women in Revelation (2013), and is currently writing a feminist commentary on Revelation for Liturgical Press. Susan E. Hylen is associate professor of New Testament at Emory University’s Candler School of Theology in Atlanta, Georgia. Her research interests include Johannine literature and the social history of the early Roman period. Among her publications are A Modest Apostle: Thecla and the History of Women in the Early Church (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015) and Women in the New Testament World (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018). Justin  P.  Jeffcoat Schedtler is Assistant Professor of Religion, Wartburg College in Waverly, Iowa. His research interests include the book of Revelation, apocalypticism, and messianic ideologies. He is author of A Heavenly Chorus: The Dramatic Function of Revelation’s Hymns (2014) and co-editor of Apocalypses in Context: Apocalyptic Currents through History (2016). Loren L. Johns is Professor of New Testament at Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary in Elkhart, Indiana. His primary research areas are the book of Revelation, canon criticism, and Anabaptist approaches to Scripture. He is author of The Lamb Christology of the Apocalypse of John: An Investigation into Its Origins and Rhetorical Force (2014).

list of contributors   xiii Martin Karrer is Professor of New Testament at the Kirchliche Hochschule Wuppertal/ Bethel, Germany. His primary research areas are the book of Revelation, the Epistle to the Hebrews, Christology, and Septuagint. He is one of the editors of Septuaginta Deutsch (2009/2011) and author of Der Brief an die Hebräer in the Ökumenischer Taschenbuchkommentar series (2002/2008) and Johannesesoffenbarung in the Evangelisch-Katholischer Kommentar series (vol. 1, 2017). Craig R. Koester is Asher O. and Carrie Nasby Professor of New Testament at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota, and a research associate at the University of the Free State, Bloemfontein, South Africa. His primary research areas are the Gospel of John, the book of Revelation, and Epistle to the Hebrews. He is author of Revelation in the Anchor Yale Bible commentary series (2014), Revelation and the End of All Things (2018), and Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel: Meaning, Mystery, Community (2003). Harry O. Maier is Professor of New Testament and Early Christian Studies at Vancouver School of Theology and Fellow of the Max Weber Center for Advanced Cultural and Social Studies at the University of Erfurt. He works at the intersection of social history and emergent Christianity, with an interdisciplinary focus. His most recent books include, Picturing Paul in Empire: Imperial Image, Text, and Persuasion in Colossians, Ephesians and the Pastoral Epistles (2013) and New Testament Christianity in the Roman World (2018). Apocalypse Recalled: The Book of Revelation after Christendom (2002) is his chief contribution the study of the Apocalypse. David L. Mathewson is Associate Professor of New Testament at Denver Seminary in Denver, Colorado. His main areas of research interest are the book of Revelation and Greek and Linguistics. He has authored Intermediate Greek Grammar: A Syntax for Students of the New Testament (Baker, 2016), and Revelation: A Handbook on the Greek Text (Baylor, 2016). Steve Moyise is Visiting Professor at Newman University at Birmingham, United Kingdom. His primary research areas are the book of Revelation and the use of the Old Testament in the New Testament. He is author of Evoking Scripture: Seeing the Old Testament in the New (2008) and Was the Birth of Jesus According to Scripture? (2013). Kenneth  G.  C.  Newport is Deputy Vice-Chancellor and Professor of Theology at Liverpool Hope University. His research interests include apocalypticism and millennialism. He is the author of The Branch Davidians of Waco (2006) and has published extensively on the life and work of Charles Wesley. Tobias Nicklas is Professor of New Testament, Universität Regensburg in Germany, Adjunct Ordinary Professor at Catholic University of America in Washington, DC, and a research associate at the University of the Free State, Bloemfontein, South Africa. His main research interests are Johannine literature (including Revelation), Christian Apocrypha, and reception history of the New Testament. Recent publications include Jews and Christians? Second Century “Christian” Perspectives on the Parting of the Ways (2014) and Der zweite Thessalonicherbrief (2019).

xiv   list of contributors Peter  S.  Perry is Affiliate Associate Professor, New Testament, at Fuller Theological Seminary and Pastor of St. John’s Lutheran Church in Glendale, Arizona. His primary research areas are the book of Revelation, biblical performance criticism, and relevance theory. He is the author of Insights from Performance Criticism (2016) and The Rhetoric of Digressions: Ancient Communication and Revelation 7:1–17 and 10:1–11:13 (2009). Mitchell G. Reddish is O. Lafayette Walker Professor of Christian Studies and Chair, Department of Religious Studies at Stetson University in Florida. His primary research interests are apocalyptic literature, the book of Revelation, and the Gospels. He is the author of Lost Treasures of the Bible (2008; coauthored with Clyde Fant), Revelation in the Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary series (2001), and Apocalyptic Literature: A Reader (1990). James  L.  Resseguie is Distinguished Professor of New Testament Emeritus as Winebrenner Theological Seminary in Findlay, Ohio. His primary research areas are narrative criticism, the book of Revelation, and the Gospel of John. He is author of Revelation of John: A Narrative Commentary (2009) and Narrative Criticism of the New Testament: An Introduction (2005), which has been translated into Italian (2008) and French (2009). Joshua T. Searle is Lecturer of Theology and Public Thought at Spurgeon’s College in London. His research areas are millennial studies and the social theology of evangelical Christians, especially in Eastern Europe. He is author of Theology after Christendom: Forming Prophets for a Post-Christian World (2018), The Scarlet Woman and the Red Hand: Apocalyptic Belief in the Northern Ireland Troubles (2014), and coauthor (with Mykhailo Cherenkov) of A Future and a Hope: Mission, Theological Education and the Transformation of Post-Soviet Society (2014). Thomas B. Slater is Professor of New Testament Studies Emeritus, McAfee School of Theology, Mercer University, Atlanta, Georgia. His primary research areas are Second Temple Judaism, the Captivity Letters (Colossians, Ephesians, Philippians, and Philemon) and the book of Revelation. He is the author of Christ and Community: A Sociohistorical Study of the Christology of Revelation in the Library of New Testament Studies series (1999), Ephesians in the Smyth & Helwys Commentary series (2012), and The Son of Man in Second Temple Judaism: Reviewing and Advancing the Scholarly Debate (2017). Mark B. Stephens is Director of Integrative Studies and Research at Excelsia College in New South Wales, Australia. His primary research areas are the book of Revelation, the practice of Christian higher education, and the intersection of theology and popular culture. He is the author of Annihilation and Renewal: The Meaning and Function of New Creation in the Book of Revelation (2011). Gregory Stevenson is Professor of New Testament at Rochester University in Rochester Hills, Michigan. His primary research areas are the book of Revelation, Greco-Roman culture, and religion and popular culture. He is author of A Slaughtered Lamb: Revelation

list of contributors   xv and the Apocalyptic Response to Evil and Suffering (2013), Power and Place: Temple and Identity in the Book of Revelation (2001), and editor of the forthcoming Theology and the Marvel Universe. Mikael Tellbe is Associate Professor of New Testament Exegesis at Lund University and Lecturer in New Testament Studies at Örebro School of Theology, Sweden. His primary research areas are the Pauline letters and theology, and issues relating to the formation of early Christian identity. He is author of Paul between Synagogue and State: Christians, Jews, and Civic Authorities in 1 Thessalonians, Romans, and Philippians (2001), ChristBelievers in Ephesus: A Textual Analysis of Early Christian Identity Formation in a Local Perspective (2009), and several books in Swedish. John Christopher Thomas is Clarence J. Abbott Professor of Biblical Studies at Pentecostal Theological Seminary in Cleveland, Tennessee, and Director of the Centre for Pentecostal and Charismatic Studies at Bangor University, Wales. His primary research areas include Gospel according to John, the book of Revelation, Pentecostal theology, and the Book of Mormon. He is the author (with Frank D. Macchia) of Revelation in the Two Horizons Commentary series (2016), Footwashing in John 13 and the Johannine Community (1991, 2014), and A Pentecostal Reads the Book of Mormon (2016). Paul Trebilco is Professor of New Testament in the Theology Programme, University of Otago at Dunedin, New Zealand. His primary research interests are diaspora Judaism, early Christianity in Asia Minor, and the Johannine Epistles. He is the author of The Early Christians in Ephesus from Paul to Ignatius (2004), Self-Designations and Group Identity in the New Testament (2011), and Outsider Designations and Boundary Construction in the New Testament (2017). Julia Eva Wannenmacher†, Dr. theol., worked at Humboldt University of Berlin, Friedrich Alexander University at Erlangen-Nürnberg, and the University of Berne. Her research interests included Joachim of Fiore and his reception by later interpreters, medieval exegesis, apocalyptic thought, and political prophecy from the twelfth to twentieth centuries. Her publications include Hermeneutik der Heilsgeschichte: De septem sigillis und das Motiv der Sieben Siegel im Werk Joachims von Fiore (2005), and “Das Geheimnis des roten Drachen: Weltliche Macht und apokalyptische Verfolger in der Exegese Joachims von Fiore,” in Geschichte vom Ende her denken: Endzeitentwürfe und ihre Historisierung im Mittelalter (2019). Dr. Wannenmacher died in 2019. Paul Westermeyer is Professor Emeritus of Church Music at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota, where he taught courses in church music and served as Cantor and Director of the Master of Sacred Music degree with St. Olaf College. His primary research area is at the intersections of music, theology, and worship. He has written The Church Musician (1997), Te Deum: The Church and Music (1998), and the Hymnal Companion to Evangelical Lutheran Worship (2010).

Abbreviations

AARSR AB ABD ABG ABRL ACNT AGJU AJEC AJT AThR ANRW ANTC ANTF AUSS AYB BBB BBC BBR BECNT BETL BI Bib BibInt BIS BJS BNTC BR BT BTS BWANT BZNW CBET CBQ CBW

American Academy of Religion Studies in Religion Anchor Bible Anchor Bible Dictionary Arbeiten zur Bibel und ihrer Geschichte Anchor Bible Reference Library Augsburg Commentary on the New Testament Arbeiten zur Geschichte des antiken Judentums und des Urchristentums Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity American Journal of Theology Anglican Theological Review Aufsteig und Niedergang der römischen Welt Abingdon New Testament Commentaries Arbeiten zur neutestamentlichen Textforschung Andrews University Seminary Studies Anchor Yale Bible Bonner biblische Beiträge Blackwell Bible Commentaries Bulletin for Biblical Research Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament Biblotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium Biblical Interpretation Biblica Biblical Interpretation Biblical Interpretation Series Brown Judaic Studies Black’s New Testament Commentaries Biblical Research Bible Translator Biblical Tools and Studies Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology Catholic Biblical Quarterly Conversations with the Biblical World

xviii   abbreviations CC CCCM CCSL ConBNT CP CSCT CurBR CurBS CurTM CW DAEM Did EKK ESCJ ETL EvQ EvT ExpT FAT FC FRLANT FS Gn HBT HDR HNT HNTC HTR HTS IBT ICC Int ITSRS JAAR JBT JBL JECH JES JETS JFSR

Continental Commentaries Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalia Corpus Christianorum Series Latina Coniectanea biblica: New Testament Series Classical Philology Columbia Studies in the Classical Tradition Currents in Biblical Research Currents in Research: Biblical Studies Currents in Theology and Mission Classical World Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters Didaskalia Evangelisch-Katholischer Kommentar Studies in Christianity and Judaism / Études sur le christianisme et le judaïsm Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses Evangelical Quarterly Evangelische Theologie Expository Times Forschungen zum Alten Testament Fathers of the Church Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Franciscan Studies Gnomon Horizons in Biblical Theology Harvard Dissertations in Religion Handbuch zum Neuen Testament Harper’s New Testament Commentaries Harvard Theological Review Harvard Theological Studies Interpreting Biblical Texts International Critical Commentary Interpretation Italian Texts and Studies on Religion and Society Journal of the American Academy of Religion Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Early Christian History Journal of Ecumenical Studies Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion

abbreviations   xix JJS JMMS JPT JPTSup JR JRS JSJSup JSNT JSNTSup JSPSup JTS KEK LBS MGH MNTC NCB NCBC Neot NIB NIBC NICNT NIDB NIGTC NIV NovT NovTSup NTAbh NTD NTL NTOA NTS NTTSD ÖTK PL PRST PTMS PzB QD RAC RB RBS REA

Journal of Jewish Studies Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality Journal of Pentecostal Theology Journal of Pentecostal Theology Supplement Series Journal of Religion Journal of Roman Studies Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha: Supplement Series Journal of Theological Studies Kritisch-exegetischer Kommentar über das Neue Testament Linguistic Biblical Studies Monumenta Germaniae Historica Moffatt New Testament Commentary New Century Bible New Cambridge Bible Commentary Neotestamentica New Interpreter’s Bible New International Biblical Commentary New International Commentary on the New Testament New Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible New International Greek Testament Commentary New International Version Novum Testamentum Novum Testamentum Supplements Neutestamentliche Abhandlungen Das Neue Testament Deutsch New Testament Library Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus New Testament Studies New Testament Tools, Studies, and Documents Ökumenischer Taschenbuch-Kommentar Patrologia Latina, ed. Jean Paul Migne Perspectives in Religious Studies Pittsburgh Theological Monograph Series Protokolle zur Bibel Quaestiones Disputatae Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum. Revue biblique Resources for Biblical Study Revue des Etudes Augustiniennes

xx   abbreviations RevExp RGRW RNT RTL SABH SBB SBLSP SBS SC Semeia SemeiaSt SHBC SHCT SHR SJLA SJT SNTSMS SNTSU SR STAC SNT STR SUNT SymS TANZ TBN TC TDNT TF ThBT ThTo TPINTC TRu TU TZ VC VCSup VT VTSup WBC WGRW

Review and Expositor Religions in the Graeco-Roman World Regensburger Neues Testament Revue theologique de Louvain Studies in American Biblical Hermeneutics Stuttgarter biblische Beiträge Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers Stuttgarter Bibelstudien Sources Chrétienne Semeia Semeia Studies Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary Studies in the History of Christian Thought Studies in the History of Religions Studies in Judaism in Late Antiquity Scottish Journal of Theology Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series Studien zum Neuen Testament und seiner Umwelt Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum / Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity Studien zum Neuen Testament Studies in Theology and Religion Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments Symposium Series Texte und Arbeiten zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter Themes in Biblical Narrative Textual Criticism Theological Dictionary of the New Testament Theologische Forschung Theologsische Bibliothek Töpelmann Theology Today Trinity Press International New Testament Commentaries Theologische Rundschau Texte und Untersuchungen Theologische Zeitschrift Vigiliae christianae Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum Supplements Word Biblical Commentary Writings from the Greco-Roman World

abbreviations   xxi WMANT WUNT WW ZNW ZPE ZTK

Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Word & World Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

chapter 1

I n troduction to R ev el ation ’s Soci a l Set ti ng, Theol ogica l Perspecti v e , a n d Liter a ry Design Craig R. Koester

The book of Revelation depicts a cosmic drama in which the Creator, the Lamb, and their allies engage in conflict with the destroyers of the earth. There are scenes of heavenly splendor in which festive worshipers gather around God’s throne, along with visions of fire, hail, and demonic hordes set loose on the world. A seven-headed dragon and tyrannical beast persecute the faithful and oppress the nations, and their city is called “Babylon,” the center of a vast political and economic empire. Yet in the end the destroyers are vanquished, and God makes all things new. God’s city is new Jerusalem, which descends in the final vision, and there the redeemed see God’s face and the leaves on the tree of life offer healing to the nations. This drama is introduced with messages addressing readers in the Roman province of Asia Minor. Before depicting the cities of Babylon and new Jerusalem, the writer speaks of issues facing the readers in the cities where they live. Some are threatened by hostility from those outside their community; others deal with internal disputes over accommodating Greco-Roman religious practice; and still others are wealthy and complacent. These messages are the entry point into the cosmic drama, and they provide a sense of the social context that it addresses. Exploring the interplay between the settings reflected in the messages to readers in the opening chapters and the images of conflict later in the book provides a way to conceive of Revelation as a whole.

2   Craig R. Koester

1.  The Writer’s Identity and Social Setting “I John, your Brother” (Rev 1:9)

Revelation begins and ends by identifying the writer as “John” (1:1, 4, 9; 22:8). From the second century onward, many interpreters thought he was John the apostle, the son of Zebedee (Justin Martyr, Dial. 81.4), and often assumed that he also wrote the Fourth Gospel and Johannine Epistles (Irenaeus, Haer. 3.11.1; 3.16.5; 5.30.3). Elements from all these texts were creatively woven into legendary accounts of the apostle’s life and career (Culpepper 2000). But the writer of Revelation never claims to be an apostle or to have accompanied Jesus during his ministry. John simply calls himself “brother” (Rev 1:9), and Revelation’s distinctive style and content make it highly unlikely that he composed John’s Gospel or Epistles (Koester 2014, 80–83). Some interpreters propose that “John” was a pseudonym or penname, since that was a common practice for apocalyptic writings (Frey 1993, 425–27; Witulski 2007, 344–45). If that were the case, however, we would expect Revelation to identify “John” as an apostle, in order to emphasize the book’s authority; but the book does not do so. John portrays himself as an early Christian prophet, who calls his book a “prophecy” and recounts his divine commission to “prophesy” (1:3; 10:11; 22:7, 10, 18, 19). Studies of prophecy in the early church indicate that a prophet was understood to deliver messages from God, the risen Jesus, or the Spirit (Boring 1991, 38). As a prophet, John is said to receive his message while “in the Spirit” (1:10), and he sometimes uses the first-person singular when speaking for God (1:8; 21:5), the risen Jesus, and the Spirit (2:1–3:22; 14:13; 22:17). Scenes in which he is commissioned to prophesy are patterned after visions in Dan 10 (Rev 1:9–20), Isa 6 (Rev 4:1–11), and Ezek 1–2 (Rev 10:1–11). Revelation locates John within a group of prophets, whom he calls “brothers” and who presumably share his views (22:9). Other sources indicate that there were prophets in various early Christian communities (Acts 13:1; 1 Cor 14:29; Aune 1983, 189–217), and in some cases there was rivalry between prophets. According to Revelation, John and the woman he calls “Jezebel” both claimed prophetic status, and the woman had her own circle of associates; yet John differed sharply with her over the extent to which Jesus’s followers could accommodate aspects of Greco-Roman religious practice (Rev 2:20–22; Duff 2001). Visions later in the book contrast the true prophets, who bear witness to the lordship of Israel’s God (11:3–10), and the false prophet or beast from the land, who promotes idolatry (13:11–18; 16:13; 19:10). Through such contrasts, the visionary images challenge readers to discern whether someone claiming to be a prophet in their contexts promotes or undermines what the writer understands to be true worship of God.

Introduction to Revelation   3

The Writer’s Social Setting and Time Frame The writer says, “I John, your brother and companion in the affliction and the kingdom and the endurance that we have in Jesus, was on the island called Patmos because of the word of God and the witness of Jesus” (1:9). These brief comments have generated various ways of filling in the details (Boxall 2013; Karrer 2017, 244–49). Some propose that John went to the island to preach there (Thompson 1990, 173) or perhaps to escape difficulty on the mainland (Horn 2005, 153), but the most common approach is to assume that the authorities banished him to the island because of his preaching. Forms of this view have been common since antiquity, often with the added assumption that John wrote around 95 ce, near the end of Domitian’s reign, and that it was a time when the threat of imperial persecution of the church was especially high (e.g., Mounce 1998, 15–21). Near the end of his reign Domitian apparently did initiate violence toward those he suspected of disloyalty, and Roman writers charged that he made excessive claims about his own divinity, demanding that people call him “lord and god” (Suetonius, Dom. 13). Many interpreters found it plausible to read Revelation against that background, since the book depicts a tyrannical beast, whose agent pressures people into participating in the ruler cult, or face execution if they refused (Rev 13:1–18). Nevertheless, this scenario has undergone major revision in recent decades. Historians have found little evidence of imperial persecution of Christians under Domitian or at other times in the late first century (Yarbro Collins  1984, 69–72; Thompson 1990, 95–115). When there was violence against Jesus’s followers, it was instigated locally. Nero did persecute Christians around 64 ce, but the threat was apparently confined to Rome and did not extend to the provinces (Tacitus, Ann. 15.44). We do well to posit a general time frame in the final decades of the first century rather than a specific date of composition, and to consider a more varied range of issues that were factors throughout that period (Friesen 2001, 150–51). The way John depicts his own situation may, in part, reflect conflict with authority. It seems likely that his prophetic activity led to his being banished to Patmos for a time. He says he was there “because of the word of God and the witness of Jesus,” the expression he uses for people who suffer for their faith, adding that his “affliction” required “endurance” (1:9; cf. 6:9; 20:4). In Roman practice, a sentence of relegation to an island (relegatio ad insulum) could be imposed on those who spread “superstition,” a term for religious beliefs and practices that the Romans considered threatening to the social order, including Christianity (Pliny the Younger, Ep. 10.96.8–9; Tacitus, Ann. 15.44; Suetonius, Nero 16.2; Justinian, Digest 48.19.30). Accordingly, what John regarded as “word of God” and his message of “the kingdom” (Rev 1:9) could be seen by others as pernicious “superstition” (Yarbro Collins 1984, 102). By depicting his situation as one of “affliction,” John positions himself as a figure with the moral authority to call others to endure challenges for the faith (deSilva 2009, 133).

4   Craig R. Koester At the same time, John’s situation on Patmos also had affinities with broader aspects of the reader’s contexts. Literary and archaeological sources indicate that Patmos had a typical community, where people lived by small-scale farming and herding, and catering to the needs of the ships that stopped there on the trade routes across the Aegean Sea. Local festivals honored Artemis and other deities, as they did in the cities of Asia Minor (Koester  2014, 239–42; Manganaro  1963–64). On Patmos John had to support himself in a social setting where most others did not share his religious views, and the same was true for the readers addressed in Rev 2–3.

2.  Social Patterns and the Readers of Revelation The seven churches or “assemblies” (ekklēsiai) addressed by Revelation are located in urban contexts in the Roman province of Asia Minor (1:4, 11). As noted, the issues facing the readers range from conflict with outsiders, to internal disputes over accommodating Greco-Roman religious practice, to wealth and complacency. By keeping that range of issues in mind, interpreters are positioned to ask how the visions in the rest of the book might address multiple situations, not just one, and how the same book can both challenge and encourage readers, depending on their situation.

Conflict with Those Outside the Community First, the readers at Smyrna and Philadelphia are pictured as being threatened by those outside the circle of the Jesus followers (2:8–11; 3:7–13). The messages to these assemblies show several levels of threat, which fit the patterns of local and sporadic persecution attested in other sources (e.g., Acts 14:19; 17:5–9; 1 Pet 4:4, 14, 16). The first level involved verbal harassment, in this case from local synagogues (Rev 2:9; 3:9). It is important to know that there were Jewish communities in at least six and perhaps all seven of the cities mentioned in Rev 2–3, but nothing is said about their being in conflict with Jesus’s followers in most places. Where there were conflicts, they were local. A source of tension might have been disputes over the status of Jesus. Revelation uses the terms “Alpha” and “Omega” for Jesus and for God, and pictures Jesus sharing God’s throne and being worshiped (1:8; 5:13–14; 22:3, 13). Moreover, the followers of Jesus probably claimed a Jewish identity for themselves, whereas others in the synagogue argued that it was illegitimate for them to do so while ascribing divine traits to Jesus, which seemed blasphemous. At Philadelphia there was apparently verbal pressure for Jesus’s followers to stop making such claims about Jesus or be socially shut out of the Jewish community. Accordingly, the message commends readers for not denying Jesus’s name, while assuring them that in Jesus they will not be shut out (3:7–9).

Introduction to Revelation   5 The message to Smyrna depicts a second level of conflict, involving the civic or provincial authorities, who could imprison the followers of Jesus and perhaps put them to death (2:10). The Romans typically did not initiate action against Christians in the first century, but they would take action when others denounced the followers of Jesus as a threat to the social order (Acts 16:16–24; 18:12–17; Pliny the Younger, Ep. 10.96.3–6). Specific charges could be that those who declared Jesus to be sovereign showed disloyalty to the emperor (Rev 1:5; 19:16; cf. Acts 17:7) or that they promoted “superstition,” the term discussed earlier (cf. Acts 16:21). The threat of imprisonment and perhaps death is included in only the message to Smyrna (2:10). Although the message to Pergamum recalls that a witness to Jesus had lost his life there in the past, the threat at Pergamum seems to have abated by the time Revelation was composed (2:13). Visions later in the book shape the readers’ perspectives by depicting violence against the church on a far more massive scale. There the faithful face pressure to worship the beastly head of state or be put to death (13:7–10, 15). The city that rules the world is drunk with the blood of the saints and witnesses to Jesus (17:6), and the martyrs cry out for justice (6:9–11). One way to relate the widespread violence in these scenes to the situations depicted in Rev 2–3, where the threats are localized, is to assume that the writer is predicting that a massive outbreak of state-sponsored persecution will soon occur (Mounce 1998, 17–18). But an alternative is that the visions magnify the threat of violence in order to portray the empire’s true character. Whereas some of the readers felt threatened, many others did not. From the writer’s perspective, they all too readily accommodated the economic and religious practices of an empire that was created through violent conquest and could use its violence against the followers of Jesus. By magnifying the threat, the writer challenges readers to see that imperial rule is not benign but brutal and inherently opposed to what John understands to be the kingdom of God.

Internal Disputes over Accommodation of Greco-Roman Religious Practices A second issue concerned differences among the Jesus followers over the extent to which they could accommodate Greco-Roman religious practice. The specific issue was whether they could eat food that had been offered to Greco-Roman deities, or eidōlothyta—that is, food offered to an idol. On the one hand, those who thought that Jesus followers could legitimately eat such food included the prophetess Jezebel and her adherents at Thyatira (2:21), and those associated with the teaching of “Balaam” at Pergamum (2:14), as well as those called Nicolaitans, whose views were accepted by some at Pergamum (2:15). On the other hand, John categorically rejected the practice, as did those at Ephesus, who opposed the Nicolaitans (2:6). The issue arose because public events in the cities of Asia Minor included festivals honoring traditional deities such as Artemis, Athena, Zeus, and Dionysus, as well as

6   Craig R. Koester festivals dedicated to the emperors. A typical scene was that animals to be offered were paraded through crowds of onlookers to the place of sacrifice. After the religious rites in which the animals were slaughtered, the wealthy patrons and officials who sponsored the festival hosted banquets and sometimes made public distributions of meat. Such occasions created complex social situations for Jesus’s followers. Since they did not worship Greco-Roman deities, they should presumably not take part in the festival banquets, yet their refusal would be seen as antisocial and offensive by family members, friends, and business associates in the wider society—and many Christians would not want to damage those relationships (Aune 1997–1998, 1:191–94; Trebilco 2004, 312–27). Similarly, private social gatherings could also include religious aspects. Greco-Roman temples sometimes had dining areas where people could share meals that included meat from sacrifices. Such spaces could be used for meals among friends and for family gatherings celebrating a child’s birth or coming of age (P. Oxy. 1484; 2791). People in the same trade or business often belonged to a professional association, such as those for textile workers, leather workers, bakers, and silversmiths (Harland 2003). The groups provided valuable opportunities for social networking, yet their meetings often included aspects showing devotion to a Greco-Roman deity or emperor. By attending such gatherings, the Jesus followers could give the impression that they honored gods in whom they did not believe; but by refusing to attend they would alienate people socially and endanger important business relationships. Finally, meat left over from sacrifices was often sold in the public market and eaten in people’s homes (1 Cor 10:25–28; Pliny the Younger, Ep. 10.96.10). When Christians were guests in the homes of non-Christians, they had to decide whether to simply eat the meat or refuse to do so and thereby offend the host. John consistently rejected religious accommodation, whereas others did not. Visions later in Revelation press the writer’s concern for exclusive loyalty to God and Jesus by focusing on one specific issue: the ruler cult. The vision of the beasts in Rev 13 depicts people making a statue of the ruler and worshiping it. Cults of the Roman emperors had been widely accepted in Asia Minor for generations. The cults were not imposed by the emperors from above but flourished through local and regional support. In 29 bce provincial authorities had asked Augustus for permission to dedicate sacred precincts to him, and then built an imperial temple at Pergamum. In 23 ce cities competed for the privilege of building a provincial temple to Tiberius, and the honor was given to Smyrna. A temple to the Flavian emperors was built at Ephesus in the 80s ce, and local cults flourished in many communities. Moreover, divine honors to the emperors were incorporated into the cults of various Greco-Roman deities, so that the imperial cults and traditional cults were intertwined (Friesen 2001; Price 1984). Through scathing satire, Revelation depicts the ruler cult as veneration of a sevenheaded monster. The iconography and rhetoric associated with the cults emphasized Rome’s invincible military power, but Revelation counters that the cults should be seen as an appalling celebration of tyrannical brutality (Rev 13). The vision also draws on Jewish traditions that lampooned the use of cultic statues as absurd (Isa 44:9–20; Bel 1–22). By using images aimed at subverting any accommodation of the ruler cult, Revelation also critiques the broader patterns of traditional polytheism that supported it.

Introduction to Revelation   7

Wealth and Complacency A third issue was that readers in two cities seemed self-satisfied and complacent. The messages to Sardis and Laodicea make no mention of any external threats or internal disputes. Instead, the writer charges that the congregation at Sardis has a reputation for being alive but is spiritually dead (3:1–6). The congregation at Laodicea is pictured as complacent because of its wealth. Its members may say, “I am rich and have become wealthy and do not need anything,” but the writer counters that they are actually “miserable and pitiable and poor and blind and naked” (3:16–17). The quest to obtain security and status through wealth was critiqued, not only by Revelation, but by other writers of the period. They note that wealth was displayed by the clothing one wore, by the servants who attended one’s family, and by the opulence of one’s home. Banquets were occasions at which the upper classes sought to impress their guests. Using tableware of gold, reclining on scarlet cushions, and serving many courses of fine food and wine were established marks of success in Rome and the provinces of its empire (Lewis and Reinhold 1990, 2.155–62; Perry 2007; Royalty 1998, 208–9). Visions later in the book critique wealth by depicting the city that rules the world as a whore, who revels in ostentation (17:1–6). The city’s commercial networks are vast, and it attracts support through dazzling promises of wealth (18:1–24). But the visions will also depict the relentless pursuit of wealth as degrading and destructive, challenging readers to follow a different path, centered on fidelity to God and Jesus (19:6–8). Taken together, the messages to the churches depict a range of issues facing the readers. At the same time, they assume that readers are alike in that factors in each situation work against their faith commitments and the cohesion of their communities. The visionary imagery is evocative and can engage readers in different ways, depending on their situations. Imagery can embolden those who are overtly threatened, but confront and challenge those who are accommodating and complacent. In each case, the book calls readers to exhibit a faith commitment that will set them at odds with dominant social, religious, and economic patterns (deSilva 2009, 14–27; Harland 2003, 353–56).

3.  Revelation’s Theological Perspectives and Imagery Revelation’s visionary world centers on the question, “Who is the true Lord of the world?” (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 58). The book presses the question of the readers’ ultimate loyalties, since those inform the way they respond to issues in their contexts. The writer shapes their perspectives by portraying the world as the scene of a cosmic struggle between God and his opponents. The main figures are pairs of opposites: God is the Creator, and Satan is the destroyer; Jesus is the Lamb, and his counterpart is the tyrannical beast. The faithful are prophetic witnesses, and the false prophet promotes

8   Craig R. Koester the ruler cult. God’s designs culminate in life in new Jerusalem, and the beast’s regime is as Babylon, characterized by brutality and obsession with wealth. Some readers would already see themselves in situations of sharp conflict, but others did not see things that way. For them, Revelation’s contrasting images are a visionary challenge to see issues the world through a different lens.

God, the Lamb, the Witnesses, and New Jerusalem God is the sovereign Creator, who “was and is and is to come” (1:4). God is the Alpha, who was present at the beginning and made all things (1:8; 4:11; 10:6; 14:7). He is also the Omega, who in the end makes all things new (1:8; 21:1–6). The vision of the heavenly throne hall in Rev 4 identifies God the Creator as the one who has a rightful claim to the throne. Elements from older prophetic texts enable readers to recognize that the one enthroned is Israel’s God (Ezek 1; Isa 6). His role as Creator is suggested by the rainbow and the crystalline sea. The four living beings around the throne have the faces of a lion, an ox, a human being, and an eagle. Although they resemble the figures who attend God in Ezek 1:10, the imagery is recontextualized in Rev 4, so that they serve as representatives of the created order (Bauckham 1993b, 32–33). In the Greco-Roman world, delegations (presbeiai) sometimes offered crowns to rulers, including the emperor, in recognition of his authority. Here, however, the twenty-four elders (presbyteroi) throw their crowns before the throne of God, who is uniquely worthy of honor, because God alone can claim to have made all things (4:10–11). Therefore, in a rightly ordered universe, all creation acknowledges God’s legitimate power (5:13; Aune 2008, 99–119). Jesus the Lamb enacts God’s reign through his faithful suffering and death (5:6). The aspect of power is apparent in passages that recall the heir to David’s throne as a lion-like figure, who could be called Son of God (2:18; 5:5; cf. Gen 49:9–10; 2 Sam 7:13b–14; Ps 2:7; Collins 1995, 154–72). In a social context in which the emperors, too, could be called “son of God” and exercise dominion over other vassal kings, Revelation depicts Jesus as Son of God, who shares God’s throne, is included in the true worship of God, and reigns as King of kings (Rev 3:21; 7:17; 19:16; 22:3, 13; Bauckham 1993b, 54–65; Koester 2014, 297–98). The startling shift is that Roman rulers were honored for having “conquered” in the usual military sense (Friesen 2001, 86, 204). But Jesus has “conquered” in the manner of a slaughtered Lamb, whose blood builds God’s kingdom by redeeming people from every nation (5:9–10; 7:9–14). The paradox is that Jesus is depicted as both Lion and Lamb. His power is expressed in self-sacrifice, and, conversely, his self-sacrifice is an act of love that is redemptive power (1:5–6; Johns 2003, 150–205; Slater 1999, 162–208). The community of faith is pictured in a prophetic role as two witnesses, who wear sackcloth as a visible call for repentance (11:3–13). The vision has a parabolic quality in which these figures encompass the traits of prophets from many times and places (Barr 1998, 91–92; Bauckham 1993a, 273–74). Like Elijah they can shut the heavens so that rain will not fall (1 Kgs 17:1), and like Moses they can turn water to blood and bring plagues (Exod 17:17–21). Like Jeremiah their witness is like fire from the mouth (Jer 5:14),

Introduction to Revelation   9 and like Joshua the priest and Zerubbabel the governor, who led Israel’s renewal under Persian domination, they are pictured as olive trees (Zech 3:1–4:14). Yet God’s witnesses are rejected and slain, like Jesus “the faithful witness” (Rev 1:5–6). The vision shows that Jesus was not exempted from unjust suffering, and neither are his followers. Rather, the path of witness moves through suffering with the prospect that, just as God raised Jesus, he will bring others into life through resurrection (2:7, 11, 17; 7:9–17; 11:3–12; 12:11; 15:2; 20:4). New Jerusalem is the city to which the faithful belong. It descends in the future, when the God who made all things finally makes all things new (21:1–6). The city’s personal quality is apparent in being called the bride of the Lamb. Its gold, jewels, and pearls are reminiscent of what a bride wears on her wedding day (Rev 21:18–21; Ezek 16:10–13; Jos. Asen. 3:6–4:1; 18:5–6; T. Jud. 13:5; Pliny the Younger, Ep. 5.16.7). From this perspective, the followers of Jesus are like those betrothed to him, who now live faithfully in anticipation of the day when they will live with him forever, resisting the social pressures to compromise or abandon their relationship to Christ, the bridegroom (Rev 19:7–8; Zimmermann 2003). Revelation begins by naming the cities of Asia Minor in which the readers lived. In their social context, urban development featured stone gates, paved streets, and aqueducts inscribed with the names of Roman emperors, administrators, and wealthy patrons. These urban structures showed the majesty of the ruling power (Suetonius, Aug. 28.3; Vitruvius, Arch. 1.pref.2). But the book ends with new Jerusalem, which presents an alternative vision, in which the throne of the Creator and the Lamb are central (22:3). The description of the city fulfills prophetic hopes for the restoration of Jerusalem and renewal of creation, for here the water of life and tree of life are found (Rev 22:1–2; cf. Gen 2:9–10; Ezek 47:1–12; Zech 14:8). Yet its immense size and gemlike appearance beggar the imagination (Rev 21:9–17). The vision shows that no earthly city can be equated with God’s city; no social or political order can claim to be the final one. God’s reign is of another order and claims the readers’ ultimate loyalty (Rossing 1999).

Satan, the Beast, the False Prophet, and Babylon Satan is the principal opponent of God. Where God is the Creator, Satan is the foremost of “those who destroy the earth” (11:18). He is pictured as a red serpentine dragon with seven heads and ten horns, and he wears seven diadems, which show his aspiration to rule (12:3). Dragon imagery was a traditional way to depict threatening powers (e.g., Ps 74:13–14; Isa 27:1; Hyginus, Fabulae 140; Aune 1997–98, 2:672–74; Yarbro Collins 1976, 63–67). In Revelation, Satan operates through deception and violence, which threaten those who are loyal to God, the wider society, and the created order itself. In the messages to the assemblies, Satan is said to work through those who wrongly accuse Jesus’s followers, threaten them with imprisonment or death, and promote the acceptance of idolatry (Rev 2:9–10, 13, 24). The destructive power of evil takes political form in the beast from the sea, who is the opposite of the Lamb (13:1). The beast’s features are those of a lion, leopard, bear, and

10   Craig R. Koester ten-horned monster, all of which represent empires in Dan 7:3–7. Where the Lamb “conquered” by enduring death, the beast conquers by inflicting death on others, and where the Lamb redeems people of every tribe and nation, the beast oppresses them (Rev 13:7). Revelation weaves traits of the emperor Nero into the portrait of the beast, depicting it as the persecutor of Jesus’s followers, and saying that, like the Lamb, the beast had been “slaughtered” and yet was alive (13:3, 12, 14; cf. 5:6). That detail probably likens the beast to Nero, who committed suicide in 68 ce but was thereafter sometimes reputed to be alive (Bauckham 1993b, 407–52). The imagery makes the point that many may consider imperial rule benign, but it is not; in the brutality of Nero the empire shows its true face (Boring 1989, 164). In the religious and economic spheres, the ally of the beast from the sea is the false prophet, depicted as a beast from the land (13:10–18; cf. 16:13; 19:20). Where true prophets call for worship of God, the false prophet uses deception and economic coercion to promote the ruler cult (11:4; 13:11–18). Where true prophets suffer death as part of their witness, the false prophet inflicts death on those who resist him (11:7–8; 13:15). Although some interpreters have tried to identify the false prophet with a specific group in Asia Minor, the image is evocative enough to encompass the varied social and economic pressures surrounding the imperial cults (Koester 2017a). To counter such pressures, the vision uses satire to make support for the cults seem as ludicrous as believing that a statue could breathe and even talk (13:15). Such a cult could be seen as bogus (Bel 1–26; Reddish 2001, 259) or as a form of sorcery (Thomas 2010, 68–81), but in either case, any notion of participation is to be rejected. Finally, the vision of Babylon the whore is the counterpart to new Jerusalem the bride, and it indicts a society driven by the quest for pleasure and profit (Rev 17–18). The portrayal of the city includes aspects of Rome, the city set on seven hills, which rules the world (17:9, 15, 18), yet it is called “Babylon,” recalling an empire that was economically powerful and ruthless in oppressing other nations, including Israel. The personified city might seem alluring, as she is clothed in opulent purple, scarlet, gold, and jewels. Those in the empire’s sprawling trade networks do brisk business in luxury goods and human trafficking, selling slaves to meet the city’s insatiable demand (Bauckham 1993a, 338–83; Koester 2014, 716–23). If readers at Laodicea found status in wealth (3:17), Revelation counters that obsession with wealth draws people into degrading moral compromise with systems that ravage the earth and its peoples (Kraybill 1996, 102–41; Rossing 1999).

4.  The Literary Structure and Movement of Revelation Revelation weaves the images described in section 3 into its overall literary design, which can be understood as a series of six vision cycles framed by an introduction and conclusion (Yarbro Collins  1976, 5–55; Murphy  1998, 47–56).1 The introduction and conclusion to the book include epistolary elements, like those found in other early

Introduction to Revelation   11 Christian letters. The opening identifies the sender and recipients, and gives the greeting, “Grace to you and peace” (1:4; cf. 1 Thess 1:1); the conclusion says, “The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints” (22:21; cf. 1 Thess 5:28). These sections also make similar points by stating that the message comes from God and Jesus through an angel (Rev 1:1; 22:6, 16), that it is prophecy (1:3; 22:7, 10, 18–19), and that those who keep it are blessed (1:3; 22:7). The framing shows that the book in its final form is to be read as a whole.2 The body of the work has two main parts with three vision cycles in each part. Four of the cycles have explicitly numbered groups of scenes: seven messages, seven seals, seven trumpets, and seven bowls of wrath. These sections are cyclical in that they begin in the presence of God or the risen Christ, then move through a series of threats, and return to the presence of God again. The remaining groups of unnumbered visions follow the same pattern, moving through scenes of conflict and into scenes of worship in God’s presence. The book of Revelation can be outlined as follows: Introduction (1:1–8) 1.  Christ and the Seven Assemblies (1:9–3:22) 2.  The Seven Seals (4:1–8:5) 3.  The Seven Trumpets (8:2–11:18) 4.  The Dragon, the Beasts, and the Faithful (11:19–15:4) 5.  The Seven Bowls and the Fall of Babylon (15:1–19:10) 6.  From the Beast’s Demise to New Jerusalem (19:11–22:5) Conclusion (22:6–21) This design can be described as a forward moving spiral that combines repetition with movement toward a final goal. The scenes of heavenly worship at the culmination of each cycle are defining elements (4:1–5:14; 7:1–8:5; 11:15–18; 15:2–4; 19:1–10; 22:1–5). By placing these scenes at transition points throughout the book, the writer repeatedly communicates that the action revolves around the lordship of God. The groups of threatening visions that unfold in between also have a repetitive quality. There are multiple visions of war and death, darkness, hail, and bloody water, which intensify from afflicting a quarter to a third and then all of the earth (8:2–9:21; 16:1–21; cf. 6:1–17). Yet the repetitions also create non-sequiturs, such as the sun becoming dark, the stars falling, and the sky vanishing in one cycle, yet reappearing in a later cycle, so that the heavens can become dark all over again (6:12–14; 8:12). Rhetorically, the cycles give repeated warnings of judgment, which culminate in visions of hope, but the non-sequiturs show that the advancing movement cannot be regarded as a linear outline of events that will unfold in the future.

The First Three Cycles (Rev 1:9–11:18) If the central question in Revelation is, “Who is the Lord of the world?” then the corollary is, “Why would the sovereign God allow injustice to occur?” The first three vision

12   Craig R. Koester cycles begin to address this issue. The introduction to the book states that God is the one who is and was and is to come (1:4, 8; 4:8). Since God’s existence spans all of time, the readers are to see their own present and future in relation to God. As the Alpha, God created all things, and as the Omega he will bring all things to completion in the new creation (1:8; 21:5–6). God is almighty, the sovereign ruler of the world, whose throne is the center of legitimate power. Since he created all things, he has a rightful claim over the world he has made (1:8). The problem is that if God is eternal, powerful, and just, then it seems inexplicable that those who profess faith in him should suffer harassment, poverty, and death, as is the case in some for the communities depicted in the series of seven messages (2:9–10, 13; 3:8–10). For readers who either prosper in the current order (3:17) or compromise with its beliefs and practices to maintain their social position (2:14, 20), there would seem to be little reason to show greater rigor in their commitment, since that would involve social risk. So the transition to the next series of visions occurs when readers are given a glimpse of God’s heavenly throne room and learn that God’s purposes are carried out through the slaughtered and now living Lamb (4:1–5:13). What follows is a series of seven visions, which appear when the Lamb opens the seven seals on God’s scroll. These scenes challenge the assumption that the current order can ultimately provide security. The images of four horsemen counter imperial claims to have provided peace, security, and prosperity, which were common themes in Roman oratory (Vellius Paterculus, Rom. Hist. 2.126.3). Visions of warriors, scenes of violence, food shortages, and death from various causes were vivid reminders of forces that threatened human wellbeing, imperial claims notwithstanding. Then the martyrs under the heavenly altar give voice to the victims of injustice, demanding to know how long God will allow the perpetrators to continue (Rev 6:9–11). It would seem that God takes action and that judgment will fall on the world when the sky becomes dark and the earth trembles, so that people cry out in fear, “Who is able to stand (stathēnai)” in the presence of divine wrath (6:12–17)? In response to that question, however, the movement toward judgment is interrupted, as angels restrain the destructive forces in order that people may be sealed and protected (7:1–3). Readers initially hear that the sealed come from twelve tribes of Israel, but what they finally see is a countless multitude from every tribe and nation, “standing” (estōtes) in the presence of God and the Lamb who save (7:9–10). The impression is that the will of God is for humanity’s salvation and not its destruction (Bauckham  1993b, 76–88; Perry 2009). The pattern of interrupted judgment is then repeated in the cycle of the seven trumpets (8:2–11:18). Initially the prayers of the saints rise from the altar, recalling their earlier demand that God bring justice against the unrepentant world (8:3–4; cf. 6:9–10). Yet the visions that follow raise an implicit question: What if God responds by sending wrath upon the world? What will that accomplish? Readers are shown the horror of pitiless wrath as disasters strike earth, sea, and sky, and demonic hordes of locusts and cavalry torment humanity. But wrath accomplishes nothing. People do not repent (9:20–21). Again readers might expect the catastrophic judgment to occur, but it does not.

Introduction to Revelation   13 As before, an angel interrupts the movement toward judgment and John is c­ ommissioned to prophesy yet again (10:1–11). His next vision is of the two prophetic figures, who represent the faithful as they bear witness to an unrepentant world (11:3–13). When read in context, the vision responds to the underlying question of divine justice by showing that God has delayed final judgment to allow more time for witness to be given (Bauckham 1993b, 80–83). Repentance, not destruction, is what God desires, and the faithful—including readers—are part of the community that is called to bear witness, even when it evokes opposition from the wider society. Eventually an earthquake does occur as a form of judgment, and a tenth of a city falls, but the rest of the people finally give glory to God, as the world is called to do (11:13; cf. 14:6–7; 15:3–4; 21:26). Only then does the seventh trumpet sound, and the cycle again culminates in a worship and celebration (11:15–18). Revelation’s response to injustice has been to show that wrath alone would not lead the world to repent. For change to occur, witness is needed. Now the concluding words of the cycle go a step further, indicating that God will not delay final judgment indefinitely. Justice will come, and knowing that is essential for readers remain loyal to God, the Lamb, and their community. The point is made by the heavenly chorus, which declares that the time has come “to destroy those who destroy the earth,” leading into a drama that unfolds in the second half of the book (11:18).

The Last Three Cycles (11:19–22:5) The vision cycles in chapters 12–22 follow the same basic pattern as those in those in chapters 1–11, with each cycle moving through threatening scenes and into celebration. But these chapters also move forward by successively introducing each of the major powers that destroy the earth and then showing each agent of destruction being overcome in reverse order. The progression is depicted in a highly stylized manner: Satan is thrown from heaven to earth (Rev 12)   Beast and false prophet conquer (Rev 13)    Harlot rides on the beast (Rev 17)    Harlot destroyed by the beast (Rev 17)   Beast and false prophet are conquered (Rev 19) Satan is thrown from earth into the abyss (Rev 20) The theological conviction that underlies this literary sequence is that God is the Creator (4:11; 10:6) and evil is a destructive power that works within God’s world as cancer does within a body. Cancer cells are malignant, and as they grow, they destroy the healthy tissue around them. As the disease spreads, life is diminished, and if the cancer is left unchecked, death results. Accordingly, treating the disease means destroying the malignant cells that destroy life—and the goal is that life might thrive. This pattern unfolds on

14   Craig R. Koester a cosmic scale in the last half of Revelation, where the Creator and his allies set out to “destroy those who destroy the earth,” so that victory will be life for the world (11:18). Revelation’s fourth vision cycle (11:19–15:4) begins when Satan and his allies threaten the Messiah and his followers, yet it concludes with a song of victory, sung by the faithful who “conquer” by faithful resistance. The vision of the woman and the dragon recalls how Satan’s plot to destroy the Messiah was foiled in the past when Jesus was delivered from death and exalted to God’s throne in heaven (12:1–6). Although tradition said that Satan once was able to enter into God’s presence to accuse people (Job 1–2; Zech 3:1), Jesus’s exaltation led to a war in heaven with the result that Satan was banished from heaven to earth, where he now rages like a wounded and caged animal, seeking to do as much damage as possible in the time that remains for him (Rev 12:7–17). The vision of the beasts from sea and land then shows Satan’s destructive power operating in the political, religious, and commercial spheres (13:1–18). Many hold the beast in awe because it seems invincible (13:4). Nevertheless, these scenes urge the readers not to be deceived. The writer previously depicted Satan working through those who threaten Jesus’s followers (2:9–10, 13) or try to deceive them into accommodating idolatry (2:20, 24). Now the vision of Satan’s expulsion from heaven insists that the devil works intensely on earth not because he is so powerful but because he is losing and desperate. Therefore, readers have good reason to resist opposition, knowing that the faithful share in the victory of the Lamb (15:2–4; Bauckham 1993b, 90; Koester 2018, 120–24). The fifth cycle (15:1–19:10) moves through further plague scenes into visions that portray both the height of Babylon’s power and its coming downfall. Initially, Babylon the whore sits on the imperial beast, showing how the city—with its wealth, cruelty, and moral corruption—depended on imperial power to support it (17:1–6). Yet here the force of destruction comes full circle, when the beast destroys Babylon. The city that relied on violence to subjugate others (17:6; 18:24) is finally destroyed by that violence (17:16a). The urban center that devoured the produce of the world finally suffers the fate of being devoured (17:16b). For readers who flourished in the imperial era economy, while turning a blind eye to its cruelty (3:17–19), the vision is a warning that they should distance themselves, because the system is destructive. Revelation challenges them to see the current order through the eyes of those who are oppressed by it, who will not grieve its downfall but celebrate the demise of its destructive power (19:1–10). The sixth and final cycle (19:11–22:5) shows the outworking of God’s justice through two overlapping themes: ridding the earth of its destroyers and bringing life through resurrection, making all things new. The defeat of the destroyers began when Babylon was destroyed by the beast in the previous cycle, and now continues as the beast and false prophet are overcome by the beast’s opposite, Christ the Lamb. Here Christ is portrayed as a warrior, yet he comes in a robe already covered with blood—recalling scenes in which the Lamb’s blood redeems people from every nation (19:13; cf. 5:9–10; 7:9–14).3 Christ’s only weapon is the sword in his mouth, an image for his word, showing that the system based on falsehood is ultimately defeated by the power of truth (19:15, 21). Finally, Satan is confined to the abyss for a thousand years and then relegated to the lake of fire, permanently removing his destructive influence from God’s world. The positive side of

Introduction to Revelation   15 the Creator’s justice emerges when those who have unjustly lost their lives because of their witness are resurrected to reign with Christ for a thousand years (20:4–6) and that trajectory continues when all people are raised for judgment, and death and Hades are relegated to the lake of fire. In God’s new creation death is gone, the water of life flows, and the tree of life brings healing (20:11–15; 21:1–5; 22:1–5).

5. Conclusion Revelation’s images of cosmic conflict are designed to shape the readers’ perspectives and manner of life in the contexts where they live. By depicting sharply contrasting figures, the writer challenges readers to see themselves in a world of contending powers, where no one has the luxury of neutral space. The central question is which forms of authority will most influence people and their responses to the issues before them. Will it be the claims of the Creator, who brings all things into being, or will it be the authority of a society that deifies its rulers? Will the image of the Lamb, who redeemed or “purchased” (ēgorasas) people through his blood (5:9), foster a willingness to resist commercial practices like those associated with “Babylon,” or will the drive to “purchase” (agorasai) in the market be the dominant value, even when it requires the surrender of moral and religious integrity (13:16–17)? Revelation does not offer a specific series of steps that readers are to follow when working out the implications of its visions. Instead, the evocative word pictures press the issue of what the readers’ most basic commitments will be, leaving them to discern what that will mean in practice (Koester 2017b). Since the readers depicted in the opening chapters face different issues, their responses to the later visions would also differ. Yet across the reading spectrum the overall direction is the same, namely, that readers live out their commitments to God, Christ, and their community of faith, and to resist the overt and subtle pressures to do otherwise.

Notes 1. For other proposals concerning the structure of Revelation, see Aune  1997–98, 1.xc–cv; Bauckham 1993a, 1–37; Giesen 1997, 48–53; Schüssler Fiorenza 1985, 159–80. 2. Revelation could have been composed and revised over a period of time (Aune 1997–98, cx–cxxiv), but there is no consensus about what the stages of development might have been. Most current interpretation works with the text in its final form. 3. Some maintain that Christ’s robes are smeared with the blood of his enemies, anticipating the slaughter that is to come (e.g., Aune 1997–98, 3:1057; Mounce 1998, 354; cf, Isa 63:1–3). Others insist—rightly in my judgment—that just as Rev 5:5–6 shows the power of the messianic lion being exercised through slaughter of the Lamb, the bloodstained robe in 19:13 makes Christ’s prior self-sacrifice the hallmark of his identity (Giesen  1997, 422; Maier 2002, 189).

16   Craig R. Koester

References Aune, David E. 1983. Prophecy in Early Christianity and in the Ancient Mediterranean World. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Aune, David E. 1997–98. Revelation. 3 vols. WBC 52. Dallas, TX: Word. Aune, David E. 2008. Apocalypticism, Prophecy, and Magic in Early Christianity. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Barr, David L. 1998. Tales of the End: A Narrative Commentary on the Book of Revelation. Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge. Bauckham, Richard. 1993a. Climax of Prophecy: Studies in the Book of Revelation. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Bauckham, Richard. 1993b. The Theology of the Book of Revelation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Boring, M. Eugene. 1989. Revelation. Interpretation. Louisville, KY: John Knox. Boring, M.  Eugene. 1991. The Continuing Voice of Jesus: Christian Prophecy and the Gospel Tradition. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Boxall, Ian. 2013. Patmos in the Reception History of the Apocalypse. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Collins, John J. 1995. The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature. New York: Doubleday. Culpepper, R. Alan. 2000. John, the Son of Zebedee: The Life of a Legend. Minneapolis: Fortress. deSilva, David  A. 2009. Seeing Things John’s Way: The Rhetoric of the Book of Revelation. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Duff, Paul B. 2001. Who Rides the Beast? Prophetic Rivalry and the Rhetoric of Crisis in the Churches of the Apocalypse. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frey, Jörg. 1993. “Erwägungen zum Verhältnis der Johannesapokalypse zu den übrigen Schriften des Corpus Johanneum.” In Die johanneischen Frage: Ein Lösungsversuch, edited by Martin Hengel, pp. 326–429. WUNT 67. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Friesen, Steven J. 2001. Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John: Reading Revelation in the Ruins. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Giesen, Heinz. 1997. Die Offenbarung des Johannes. RNT. Regensburg: Pustet. Harland, Philip  A. 2003. Associations, Synagogues, and Congregations: Claiming a Place in Ancient Mediterranean Society. Minneapolis: Fortress. Horn, Friedrich Wilhelm. 2005. “Johannes auf Patmos.” In Studien zur Johannesoffenbarung und ihrer Auslegung: Festschrift für Otto Böcher zum 70, Geburtstag. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener. Johns, Loren L. 2003. The Lamb Christology of the Apocalypse of John: An Investigation into Its Origins and Rhetorical Force. II/167. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Karrer, Martin. 2017. Johannesoffenbarung (Offb. 1,1–5,14). EKK XXIV/1. Ostfildern: Patmos and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Koester, Craig R. 2017a. “The Image of the Beast from the Land (Rev 13:11–18): A Study in Incongruity.” In New Perspectives on the Book of Revelation, edited by Adela Yarbro Collins, pp. 333–52. BETL 291. Leuven: Peeters. Koester, Craig R. 2017b. “Babylon and New Jerusalem in the Book of Revelation: Imagery and Ethical Discernment.” In New Testament Ethics and Application: Purview, Validity, and

Introduction to Revelation   17 Relevance of Biblical Texts in Ethical Discourse, edited by Ruben Zimmermann and Stephan Joubert, pp. 353–70. Contexts and Norms of New Testament Ethics. WUNT 384. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Koester, Craig  R. 2018. Revelation and the End of All Things. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids. MI: Eerdmans. Kraybill, J.  Nelson. 1996. Imperial Cult and Commerce in John’s Apocalypse. JSNTSup 132. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press. Lewis, Naphtali, and Meyer Reinhold, eds. 1990. Roman Civilization: Selected Readings. 2 vols. 3rd ed. New York: Columbia University Press. Maier, Harry  O. 2002. Apocalypse Recalled: The Book of Revelation after Christendom. Minneapolis: Fortress. Manganaro, Giacomo. 1963–64. “Le iscrizioni delle isole Milesie.” Annuario della scuola archaolgica di Atene 46–47: 293–349. Mounce, Robert  H. 1998. The Book of Revelation. Rev. ed. NICNT. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Murphy, Frederick J. 1998. Fallen Is Babylon: The Revelation to John. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International. Perry, Peter S. 2007. “Critiquing the Excess of Empire: A Synkrisis of John of Patmos and Dio of Prusa.” JSNT 29: 473–96. Perry, Peter S. 2009. The Rhetoric of Digressions: Revelation 7:1–17 and 10:1–11:13 and Ancient Communication. WUNT II/268. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Price, Simon R. F. 1984. Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reddish, Mitchell G. 2001. Revelation. SHBC. Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys. Rossing, Barbara  R. 1999. The Choice between Two Cities: Whore, Bride, and Empire in the Apocalypse. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International. Royalty, Robert M. 1998. The Streets of Heaven: The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1985. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. Philadelphia: Fortress. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1991. Revelation: Vision of a Just World. Minneapolis: Fortress. Slater, Thomas B. 1999. Christ and Community: A Socio-Historical Study of the Christology of Revelation. JSNTSup 178. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic. Thomas, Rodney Lawrence. 2010. Magical Motifs in the Book of Revelation. Library of New Testament Studies 416. London: Continuum. Thompson, Leonard  L. 1990. The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire. New York: Oxford University Press. Trebilco, Paul. 2004. The Early Christians in Ephesus from Paul to Ignatius. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Witulski, Thomas. 2007. Die Offenbarung und Kaiser Hadrian: Studien zur Datierung der neutestamentlichen Apokalypse. FRLANT 221. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1976. The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation. HDR 9. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1984. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Zimmermann, Ruben. 2003. “Nuptial Imagery in the Book of Revelation.” Bib 84: 153–83.

pa rt I

L I T E R A RY F E AT U R E S OF T H E BO OK OF R E V E L AT ION

chapter 2

The Gen r e of th e Book of R ev el ation Mitchell G. Reddish

Attempting to ascertain the literary genre of a text is not merely an academic exercise. The recognition of the genre of a literary work contributes to a reader’s creating meaning from the text. One of the problems that readers often have in understanding the book of Revelation is discerning its genre. The three most frequently proposed genres for Revelation are an apocalypse, a letter, or a prophecy, although scholars have occasionally suggested other genres (For example, some scholars propose Greek drama as the appropriate genre. See Bowman 1955, 1962; and Blevins, 1980, 1984).

Revelation as an Apocalypse In 1979, John J. Collins and other members of the Genres Project of the Apocalypse Group of the Society of Biblical Literature defined an “apocalypse” as “a genre of revelatory literature with a narrative framework, in which a revelation is mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient, disclosing a transcendent reality that is both temporal, insofar as it envisages eschatological salvation, and spatial insofar as it involves another, supernatural world” (Collins, 1979, 9). One of the criticisms of this definition was that it failed to include a reference to the function of apocalypses (Aune 1986; Hartman 1983; Hellholm 1986). As a result, the Early Christian Apocalypse Group of the Society of Biblical Literature in 1986 expanded the definition by adding the following language: “intended to interpret present, earthly circumstances in light of the supernatural world and of the future, and to influence both the understanding and the behavior of the audience by means of divine authority” (Yarbro Collins 1986, 7). Although scholars have offered other definitions or descriptions of an apocalypse (Aune 1986, 86–87; Carmignac 1983, 165; Cook 1995, 20–25; Rowland 1982, 70–72; Sanders 1983, 458), this definition, in either its original or its expanded form, has become the standard definition and is the one followed here.

22   Mitchell G. Reddish Collins identified two types of apocalypses based on their contents: apocalypses without an otherworldly journey (sometimes called historical apocalypses) and apocalypses with an otherworldly journey (Collins 1979, 12–19). In apocalypses of the first type, the focus is more temporal than spatial, divulging eschatological events. Historical apocalypses often make use of ex eventu prophecy, or prophecy “after the fact.” By seeming to write from the distant past, the author “predicts” events yet to come. In apocalypses of the second type, the author describes an experience of being taken on a journey to otherworldly realms, such as to the throne room of God, to places for punishment or reward in the afterlife, or to other places outside the realm of usual human experiences. The opening words of Revelation state that the work is an apokalypsis, a “revelation.” Even though this statement eventually provided the name for the genre, the author of Revelation was probably using the term “apocalypse” to describe the contents of his writing as divine disclosure, not to designate a specific literary genre. In line with the standard definition in the previous section, Revelation is clearly a narrative, for John begins the story with a description of how this revelation came to him (“I was on the island called Patmos . . . on the Lord’s day”); he then proceeds to describe the content of the revelation in vivid detail and brings the story to its eschatological conclusion. Even though readers may have a hard time following the plot development in the book, the overall narrative moves in a nonlinear fashion from John’s present situation to a culmination of God’s purpose for the world in which evil is defeated and God reigns supreme. In terms of the form of the work, Revelation clearly belongs to the category of revelatory literature. Not only does the work assert that it is a revelation (1:1), but the message of the work purports to be heavenly visual and auditory information conveyed to John. The author claims that he was “in the spirit” when the message came to him, which indicates that “his normal sensory experience was replaced by visions and auditions given him by the Spirit” (Bauckham, 1993, 152). In a sense, the book is for the most part one large vision, from 1:9 to 22:5 or 22:9. (Scholars disagree over the ending of the vision.) This overarching vision, however, contains numerous shorter, often interlocking visions, many of which are introduced by the formulaic phrase “and I saw” (kai eidon). The first of these is of the Son of Man figure, who delivers messages to John that are directed to seven churches of Asia Minor. This vision is followed by John’s vision of the heavenly throne room, which becomes the setting for even more visions. Among these are visions of the Lamb, the one hundred forty-four thousand, the great multitude, the seven seals, the seven trumpets, the seven bowl plagues, the angel with the little scroll, the woman and the dragon, the two beasts, the great whore, and the new Jerusalem. The use of visions to convey the divine revelation is one of the dominant characteristics of John’s writing. Whether these visions were real events or only literary devices, though debated, is immaterial to discerning the genre. In addition to visions, auditory revelations are also common in Revelation. Not only does John see what is revealed, but he also hears the revelation, again often indicated by a set phrase, in this case “and I heard” (kai ēkousa). Boring notes that there are ninetyone occasions “in which John hears and reports the voice of Jesus or some other heavenly being as a member of the cast, a voice which remains contained in the vision and is

The Genre of the Book of Revelation   23 not directed immediately to the churches of Asia Minor” (Boring 1991, 337). He hears the one like the Son of Man, the voice of God, the living creatures and the twenty-four elders around the throne, and various angels speaking and singing, as well as unidentified heavenly voices. These characters are the otherworldly mediators who convey the heavenly revelation to John. The opening verse of the book delineates the mediated aspect of what John receives: “The revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave him . . . he made it known by sending his angel to his servant John” (1:1). Although there are a few occasions in the work where God or Christ speaks directly to John, most of the message is mediated by an otherworldly figure. In some places the audition is an angel’s voice interpreting what John has seen in his vision; in some places, what John hears is a part of what takes place in the vision itself; and in other places the audition does not appear to be connected to a visionary segment. In many apocalypses, otherworldly journeys are one of the major ways in which the revelation is transmitted to the recipient. In the Testament of Abraham, the archangel Michael takes Abraham to the first gate of heaven, where he watches the judgment of individuals after death. In the Book of the Watchers (1 En. 1–36), Enoch is transported to heaven to the throne room of God to intercede (unsuccessfully) on behalf of the evil Watchers. Later, he is taken on cosmic journeys to the outermost parts of the earth, where he sees the prison for the disobedient stars and angels, the storehouse of the winds, the Garden of Eden, and the place where the souls of the dead are kept until the day of judgment. The Greek Apocalypse of Baruch (3 Baruch) describes Baruch’s journey through the five levels of heaven, where he views scenes of eschatological reward and punishment. Similarly, Revelation contains the beginning of an otherworldly journey in 4:1–2, which describes John’s seeing an open door in heaven and hearing a voice tell him, “Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this.” The implication is that John obeys the voice and goes to the heavenly realm, for he describes the scene of God seated on the throne surrounded by elders, beasts, and angels and, soon, the appearance of the Lamb. The journey motif is not followed through, however, for John never describes an earthly return. Even though elsewhere in the vision scenes he sometimes speaks of being carried or taken to other locations, these locations appear to be on earth, not in otherworldly regions (17:1–18 and 21:9–22:9). The human recipient in Revelation is clearly indicated in several places at the beginning and the ending of the book (1:1, 4, 9; 22:8). The author describes himself as a serv­ ant, as “your brother who share with you in Jesus the persecution and the kingdom and the patient endurance.” He was on the island of Patmos “because of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus,” a description usually understood to mean that John had been banished or exiled to Patmos because of his Christian faith. Even though the identity of John is not known to modern readers, he was apparently well-known to his original audience in Asia Minor. He speaks to them with both authority and comradery, as a respected leader but also one of them. One of the ways that Revelation does not follow the pattern of Jewish apocalypses is in the identity of its author. All extant Jewish and Christian apocalypses (with the exception of Revelation and the Shepherd of Hermas) were written pseudonymously in the name of some important figure of the past, a

24   Mitchell G. Reddish practice that was likely intended to grant the works more authority and prestige. The author of Revelation is an otherwise unknown “John,” almost certainly not John the apostle (Reddish 2001, 17–19). Some scholars have argued that the lack of pseudonymity disqualifies Revelation from being an apocalypse (Mazzaferri  2010, 226–29, 377; Roloff 1993, 7). However, even though pseudonymous authorship was the standard way to create an apocalypse, it is not a necessary component of the genre. The preceding discussion has focused on elements of form, or the way the revelation is conveyed. In addition to its form, the content of Revelation also coheres with the definition of an apocalypse, for the work discloses “a transcendent reality which is both temporal, insofar as it envisages eschatological salvation, and spatial insofar as it involves another, supernatural world.” Like other apocalyptic writers, John believed that there is more to this world than meets the eye. His intent was to disclose that other reality, not only to reveal the God who is Alpha and Omega but also to disclose God’s sovereignty over a world that at times seemed under the control of the powers of evil. The temporal aspect of transcendence in Revelation is seen in its eschatological elements. John pictures the ultimate defeat of evil, in all its manifestations, and the ultimate triumph of God: a new heaven and new earth, resurrection of the dead, the final judgment, punishment for the wicked, and rewards for the faithful. This focus on the ultimate future underlies John’s confidence and hope. Because God is not only the one who is and the one who was but is also the one who will come, John was certain that the political, social, and economic forces would not be the ultimate victors. Their power is limited. Viewing his world from that eschatological perspective, John was able to offer his readers/hearers a different way of understanding reality. John looked to the eschaton and saw not defeat or loss, but God’s completed kingdom. Whereas to the Christians in Asia Minor the powers of Rome and the larger forces of evil might have appeared dominant and superior, John presented them with an alternative worldview in which God and God’s way of justice and righteousness ultimately prevail; the eschatological judgment is proof of that reality. Apocalypses whose dominant emphasis is more temporal than spatial often contain a review of history, frequently with a periodization of it in which history is divided into a predetermined number of periods. The present age is usually located near the end of history, and the history of the world is about to draw to a close. This literary device imparted a sense of urgency to the message—the end is near—but it was also a way of fostering hope by suggesting that the current situation of the world would not last much longer. Ex eventu predictions were a frequent component of the review of history. The book of Revelation does not make use of this technique, but it, too, sees the eschatological events as occurring soon. The book opens with the declaration that the events revealed “must soon take place” (1:1) and then ends with Christ affirming (twice) “I am coming soon” (22:12, 20). The imminence of the eschaton was both good news and bad news—good news to those who would enjoy eschatological salvation and bad news to those who would receive eschatological punishment. Concerning the spatial dimension of apocalypses, Christopher Rowland states, “One of the most distinctive features of the apocalyptic literature is the conviction that the seer

The Genre of the Book of Revelation   25 could pierce the vault of heaven and look upon the glorious world of God and his angels” (Rowland 1982, 78). John’s entrée into the heavenly places was through an open door and a voice that invited him to come up. His heavenly vision includes the heavenly court, with God seated on the throne surrounded by a variety of otherworldly beings, as well as God’s temple in heaven and the golden altar upon which the prayers of the saints were offered. Whereas some Jewish and Christian apocalypses present a multitiered heaven containing numerous levels, and describe the contents of each of the levels, or heavens, John’s heaven is not multilayered. He describes the location only of God’s throne and the heavenly temple. In his final visions, in chapters 21 and 22, John sees “a new heaven and a new earth,” along with the new Jerusalem, coming down from heaven. In addition to the heavenly realm, John’s visions also mention or reveal places of torment and evil. Death and Hades, the abode of the dead under the earth, have no place in God’s ultimate kingdom, for “Death will be no more” (21:4). After giving up the dead that are in them, they meet their ultimate fate in the lake of fire (20:13–14). The bottomless pit, or the abyss (abyssos), is the place from which the beast who kills the two witnesses arises (11:7) and also the place from which the tormenting locust-demons swarm (9:1–11), as well as the place where Satan is bound for a thousand years (20:1–3). The lake of fire and sulfur is the final place of punishment for Satan, the beast, the false prophet, Death, Hades (20:10, 13), and “anyone whose name was not found written in the book of life” (20:15). Numerous otherworldly beings, both good and evil, populate apocalypses, and John’s apocalypse is no different. In addition to God, John sees the Lamb, the twenty-four elders, the four living creatures, and angels too many to count (“myriads of myriads and thousands of thousands”; 5:11). Angels in John’s visions play numerous roles: singing praises to God and the Lamb, holding back the four winds on the earth, initiating the series of plagues, holding the little scroll that John takes and eats, and proclaiming words of warning, judgment, and blessing. An angel also serves as a guide and interpreter for John in some of the scenes, and even corrects John when he attempts to worship the angel. The only named angel in Revelation is Michael, who along with his angelic force defeats Satan and casts him and his angels from heaven and onto the earth (12:7–9). Evil otherworldly figures in Revelation include Satan (the great red dragon); the locustdemons who arise from the bottomless pit to attack the earth; and Abaddon or Apollyon, the ruling angel of the bottomless pit. As noted, the original definition of an apocalypse was expanded to include elements of not just form and content but also function. Since the actual sociohistorical setting that prompted the writing of most apocalypses, including Revelation, cannot be precisely determined, one must use caution in describing the function of the works. Function must be described in broad terms that arise from a study of the works themselves. In the case of Revelation, the work has often been identified as crisis literature, specifically in reference to emperor worship and major persecution of Christians in Asia Minor by the Roman government. More recent studies, however, have challenged that understanding of the sociohistorical context of the book, pointing out that the evidence for widespread official persecution, as well as for enforced emperor worship, is minimal.

26   Mitchell G. Reddish What one can surmise from a reading of the text itself is that John was concerned about both internal and external pressures on the church (Koester 2014, 96–103). He was disturbed by some Christian leaders whom he viewed as false teachers and prophets (2:12–25), by complacency among some of the believers, and by dangers of acquiescence to the allure of wealth. In addition, he was concerned about accommodation by some Christians to unacceptable practices of Roman society, including eating meat sacrificed to idols and giving ultimate loyalty and worship to the dragon and his representatives, whether that involved actual participation in emperor worship or not. Conflict with outsiders was also an issue, conflict both from Jewish neighbors (2:9; 3:8–9) and from some of the Roman authorities (2:9–11). In light of John’s eschatological perspective and his view that God is the ultimate power in the universe, John wrote his apocalypse to present his readers with an alternate understanding of their world and to exhort them to faithfulness to God. Revelation attempts to give its readers a transcendent way to view the world, one that is viewed from above (spatially) and from the end (temporally). This alternate way of understanding reality could bring comfort to some readers who felt discouraged, oppressed, or overwhelmed and, at the same time, functioned as exhortation and confrontation to readers whose complacency and accommodation threatened to undermine their loyalty to God.

Revelation as a Letter One of the major literary genres in the New Testament is that of the letter. Of the twentyseven New Testament letters, all but the four Gospels, the book of Acts, and 1 John contain at least a typical epistolary opening and/or closing. The letter genre continued to be popular among early Christian writers, as evidenced by the array of letters that were produced (most notably, the Martyrdom of Polycarp and the letters of Clement of Rome, Polycarp, and Ignatius). Stanley Stowers notes that “we possess more than nine thousand letters written by Christians in antiquity” (Stowers 1986, 15). The popularity of the letter genre among early Christian writers should be no surprise, for letters were widely used in antiquity by people of various social classes, backgrounds, and educational levels. Although different letter types exhibit certain variations, the usual form of GrecoRoman letters included (1) the opening, with the name of the sender listed first, followed by the name of the recipient, a brief greeting, and sometimes a wish for good health and/ or a word of thanksgiving to a god; (2) the body of the letter; and (3) the closing, which may include greetings to additional individuals other than the specific recipients of the letter, greetings from others besides the sender, and a farewell or closing wish for health. Early Christian writers adopted and adapted this literary form of communication, as is evident when one compares the letters of Paul to the traditional Greco-Roman letter. Whereas the opening section of ancient letters was often very succinct (A to B, greetings), Paul modified this opening formula in a variety of ways. Rather than a simple

The Genre of the Book of Revelation   27 listing of his name as the sender, Paul usually provided a fuller description of himself as an apostle, a servant, or a prisoner of Christ, the identifications in Romans and Galatians being even more expansive. Paul’s identification of himself as an apostle in the opening of his letters was a way of informing or reminding his readers (sometimes not subtly!) of his apostolic authority. Stating his apostolic credentials provided the rationale for Paul’s freedom to scold, exhort, encourage, and instruct his readers. It was a pre-emptive strike against any opponents who might challenge his right to correct or make demands of them or who would question the correctness of his teaching. Paul normally embellished the simple identification of the addressees, calling them saints (Rom 1:7; 1 Cor 1:2; 2 Cor 1:1; Phil 1:1), dear friend and co-worker (Phlm 1:1), sister (Phlm 1:2), and fellow-soldier (Phlm 1:2); this is somewhat analogous to the indication of family relationships in Greek letters between family members and friends (White 1986, 200). Paul also modified the greeting from the typical chairein (greetings) to the more theologically rich charis (grace), expanding it even more by stating, “Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.” Instead of making a brief thanksgiving to a god, as was common in ancient letters, Paul’s thanksgivings were often lengthy, warm expressions of gratitude for specific characteristics or activities of his readers. Paul also used the thanksgiving to preview the themes or issues that he developed in the ensuing letter. Paul’s grace greeting, along with the thanksgiving, was the religious equivalent of the customary wish for health that is missing from Paul’s opening section (White 1988, 98). The closings of Paul’s letters also demonstrate the freedom with which he modified the traditional letter format. The Pauline letters often have lengthy greetings to or from third parties (especially Rom 16), a grace benediction (“Grace to you . . . ”), a wish for peace, and sometimes a doxology and/or a holy kiss. Third-party greetings were often a component of Greco-Roman family letters (especially from the time of Augustus; White 1986, 202), so this element in Paul’s letters should not be seen as a novel variation by him, although he certainly made extensive use of it. As was the case in the openings, Paul’s benedictions in the closings of the letters served as a replacement for the wish for health. The epistolary features of Revelation have frequently been overlooked or downplayed, which led Jürgen Roloff to exclaim, “The research of the last two hundred years has so one-sidedly focused on the relationships between Revelation and Jewish apocalypses that it completely neglected another aspect: the epistolary character of Revelation” (Roloff 1993, 7). The most extensive treatment of Revelation as a letter is that of Martin Karrer, who argues at length that Revelation belongs not to the apocalypse genre but to that of the letter (Karrer 1986). The book of Revelation does contain several features in common with Greco-Roman letters, including some modifications that are similar to those found in Paul’s letters. In Rev 1:4–5a the author states, “John to the seven churches that are in Asia: Grace to you and peace from him who is and who was and who is to come, and from the seven spirits who are before his throne, and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of earth.” This statement bears obvious similarities to the letter form: identifications of sender and

28   Mitchell G. Reddish recipients and a greeting. The identification of the sender is not an expanded version, as is the case in Paul’s letters. However, a fuller identification is provided a few verses later: “I, John, your brother who share with you in Jesus the persecution and the kingdom and the patient endurance” (1:9). Likewise, the identification of the recipients is brief, although more details about the recipients are given in chapters 2 and 3. John intended this letter to be a public letter, carried from one congregation to the other and read aloud (1:3, 11). As such, all the congregations would hear the criticisms and praises of each individual congregation found in chapters 2 and 3. As in the letters of Paul, the salutation is different from what occurs in typical GrecoRoman letters. John uses the same combination of grace and peace that Paul does, along with a description of the sources of that grace and peace. Paul’s letters and the book of Revelation name God and Christ as the sources, although they describe them in different ways. Furthermore, in distinction to what is found in Paul’s letters, Revelation names a third source of grace and peace: “the seven spirits before the throne” (Rev 1:4). As in Gal 1:5, the opening in Revelation also includes a doxology, although in Revelation it is addressed to Christ rather than to God. Not only does Revelation contain an epistolary opening, but it also contains a brief letter closing, consisting of only a grace benediction (“The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints”); and in some manuscripts, a final “Amen” (22:21). The benediction consists of three elements that are common to Paul’s benedictions: the word “grace” (charis), an identification of the source of that grace (“the Lord Jesus”), and the recipients of the word grace (“all the saints”). There are no personal greetings from John to any of the recipients of his writing, as are often found in Paul’s letters and other early Christian letters. The similarities between the epistolary openings and closings in the book of Revelation and the letters of Paul raise the question of whether Paul’s style influenced John. Because the openings and closings of ancient letters show little variation (Doty 1973, 29, 39–40; Stowers 1992, 291), and because Paul’s writings are the earliest examples we possess of ancient Christian letters, it is a reasonable assumption that Paul is likely the source for the creative variations in the openings and closings of letters within the Christian community. Paul’s influence is evident in the pseudo-Pauline New Testament writings, which were likely intentionally modeled after Paul’s letters. But Paul’s influence, whether direct or indirect, can also be seen in other early Christian writings, including the book of Revelation. The change in the greeting from chairein to charis, especially, argues for Pauline influence, as well as the addition of “peace” to the greeting. It is likely no coincidence that many of the early Christian letters that show Pauline influence originated in the areas of Asia Minor that had a connection to Paul or Pauline traditions. If Revelation is a letter, then the body of the letter is 1:9–22:20. This is where insisting on the epistolary character of Revelation becomes highly problematic. Whereas the body sections of other early Christian letters have some of the forms and contents of various ancient letter types (such as those found in family letters and letters of

The Genre of the Book of Revelation   29 instruction, exhortation, and recommendation), the contents of the main section of Revelation do not cohere well with the epistolary genre. As Schüssler Fiorenza states, Revelation “does not read like a letter” (1998, 166). The major part of Revelation is a sustained visionary report. Whereas Paul could include visions in his letters (see 2 Cor 12:1–10), visions do not constitute the primary form or content of the body of Paul’s writings. Another connection between Revelation and the epistolary genre is the way the book functions. As the benediction in Rev 1:3 makes clear, John intended the work to be read and heard in a communal setting. As such, John addressed the writing to specific recipients (the members of the seven churches mentioned in chapters 2 and 3) whom the author knows and who know him. Both John and his readers/hearers have a mental picture of each other (Boring 1992, 349). This function of Revelation is clearly analogous to the way the letters of Paul functioned. An individual, likely the messenger delivering the letter from Paul, would read the letter to the congregation as it gathered for worship. The letter, as read and perhaps elaborated upon by the reader, would serve as a substitute for Paul personally being present with the Christian community. The text of the letter became the voice of Paul speaking to the recipients. This is why the opening sections of Paul’s letters are so important. Through them Paul’s “epistolary presence” is conveyed in both authoritarian language (Paul as apostle) and in egalitarian/familial terms (“saints,” “friend,” “beloved,” “sister”). Paul writes both as their spiritual leader and as one who, like them, is a child of God (White 1988, 98; 1986, 219–220). Likewise, John’s epistolary presence also is twofold. Even though he does not identify himself by any authoritative title, his opening statement in 1:1–2 describes his message as a revelation that originated with God, which was a way of establishing his authority. Furthermore, his additional description of himself in 1:9 as “your brother who shares with you in Jesus the persecution and the kingdom and the patient endurance” imbues his epistolary presence with an emotional warmth. As the preceding analysis has shown, any discussion of the genre of Revelation must take the epistolary characteristics of this work seriously. Revelation clearly contains the elements of Greco-Roman epistolary openings and closings. Recognition of the quasiletter form of Revelation is important for interpreting John’s writing. It is not a general treatise unconnected to any specific situation. The work was written to specific communities in Asia Minor, well-known to the author, and it addressed specific theological, historical, and sociological concerns. John could speak with an authoritative voice to them because the recipients already knew him and presumably in most cases respected him, in much the same way that Paul was able to use the letter as an authoritative substitute for his physical presence with the communities. Despite these similarities between Revelation and ancient letters, however, classifying the work as a letter is unsatisfactory. As Yarbro Collins notes, “Whoever tries to read it as a letter will be severely frustrated” (Yarbro Collins 1979a, x), and “it would be an error of misplaced emphasis to say that the book of Revelation is primarily a letter in form. The epistolary form is subordinated to and in service of the book’s revelatory character” (Yarbro Collins 1979b, 70).

30   Mitchell G. Reddish

Revelation as a Prophecy In the first and last chapters of Revelation, John claims that his message is a prophecy (1:3; 22:7, 10, 18, 19), and in one of his visions hears a heavenly command to prophesy (10:11). In 22:9, John’s angel guide seems to consider John one of the prophets when he says, “I am a fellow servant with you and your comrades the prophets.” Boring argues that in 11:18 and 22:9 “servant” and “prophet” are equated, which “means that ‘servant’ in 1:1 was probably understood by John to be the same as ‘prophet’ so that the revelation was given ‘to his servant John,’ precisely ‘to his prophet John’ ” (Boring 1991, 79–80). Furthermore, even if John does not explicitly appropriate the title prophet to himself, he implicitly associates himself with the Hebrew prophets. In 10:8–11, his taking the little scroll from the angel and eating it emulates the action of Ezekiel (Ezek 2:8–3:3). The scene serves as a second commissioning scene, following the first commissioning in Rev 1:9–20. Aune (1997, liv) describes these scenes as “functionally analogous to the prophetic call narratives in OT prophetic books and early Jewish apocalypses (Jer 1:4–10; Isa 6:1–13; Ezek 1:1–3:11; Isa 40:1–11; see 1 En. 14:8–25).” Various aspects of Revelation are similar to components in literary works associated with the Hebrew prophets. As already mentioned, Revelation describes in two scenes the call or commissioning of John as God’s mouthpiece, and this is similar to commission descriptions of the Hebrew prophets. The second of those scenes (10:8–10) describes John’s symbolic act of eating the scroll. A report of a symbolic act is a literary form that appears frequently in the works of the Hebrew prophets (Hos 1 and 3; Isa 7:3; 8:1–4; 20:1–6; Jer 13:1–11; 16:1–4, 5–7, 8–9; 32:1–15; March 1974, 172). Another type of material found in the prophetic literature that appears several times in Revelation is the vision report in which the prophet describes a revelatory vision, frequently including an audition. The book of Revelation also makes use of various oracles, or messages from God, that are similar in form to the oracles that characterize the speech of the Hebrew prophets (March  1974, 157–77; Tucker  1971, 61–65; 1978; Westermann  1967, 94–98). Revelation presents the oracles as words from God, from Jesus, or from angels. The seven messages in chapters 2 and 3 are often identified as oracles. Each of the messages claims divine origin using the formulaic expression, “thus says . . . ” (tade legei), which is the same expression used repeatedly by many of the prophets, especially in Amos, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Zechariah. The Greek words used by John (tade legei) are the same ones normally used in the Septuagint translation of these passages for this messenger-formula in the Hebrew Bible. Some scholars, however, argue that the tade legei formula derives from royal and imperial decrees of Persian kings and Roman magistrates and emperors. (See Aune 1997, 119–29, who identifies their primary literary form as royal or imperial edict and their secondary form as the parenetic salvation-judgment oracle of prophetic speech.) Among other passages that have been compared to the oracles of the prophets are Rev 1:7–8, 17–20; 13:9–10; 14:13; 16:15; 19:9; 21:3–4, 5–8; 22:7, 12–14, 18–20 (Aune 1983, 275–88). These oracles fit several of the forms of prophetic speech in

The Genre of the Book of Revelation   31 the Hebrew Bible, including announcement of judgment, announcement of salvation, and salvation-judgment oracle. In addition, Rev 8:13 and 12:12 are similar to prophetic woe-oracles. One of the problems in differentiating prophetic writings from apocalypses is that both are examples of revelatory literature. They divulge to their readers divine or heavenly information imparted to the prophet or apocalypticist. Furthermore, both types of writings make use of some of the same literary forms, especially visions, dialogues, divine oracles, announcements of salvation, and announcements of judgment (see the helpful discussion in Aune 1983, 114–21). However, even with the use of similar literary forms, the way in which these forms are used typically differs. In apocalypses, the mediated aspect of the message is dominant, whereas in Jewish prophetic writings direct address is the primary mode of communication of the message. God speaks directly to the prophet, “thus says the Lord” or “the word of the Lord came to me, saying.” In apocalypses an otherworldly mediator, often an angelic figure, mediates the message to the recipient. Apocalypses usually rely on an interpreting angel to explain the contents of visions that are given to the recipient, whereas interpreting angels are not characteristic of prophetic visions (although within some later prophetic writings the divine message is mediated or interpreted by an otherworldly being, such as sometimes in Ezekiel and in Zechariah). The content of the revealed message also differs between prophetic works and apocalypses. The prophetic message focuses on events of this age and this world. The message may be future-oriented, but the future is still within the bounds of ordinary history. God will bring judgment or salvation within history. Thus, one could describe the eschatology of the prophets as “historical” or this-worldly. Eventually, whether in the near or distant future, God will bring about a destruction of Israel’s enemies and a restoration of Israel (Collins 2003a, 76; Hanson 1979, 10–12). Apocalypses, on the other hand, exhibit a transcendent, otherworldly eschatology “that looks for retribution beyond the bounds of history” (Collins 1998, 11). As Stephen Cook states, “Whereas in prophetic texts the language of the march of the Divine Warrior is Semitic hyperbole, the writers of apocalyptic literature expected a concrete, physical undoing of earthly reality. They expected not merely the historical defeat of Israel’s enemies but earth’s literal, divine re-creation” (Cook 2003, 38). That does not mean that all apocalypses focus on cosmic eschatology— that is, on the end of the world—as do the “historical apocalypses.” In some works, the eschatological dimension is a personal eschatology, which “takes the form of judgment of individuals after death” (Collins 1998, 11). For example, in the Testament of Abraham, the major focus is on the heavenly judgment scene Abraham observes. In 3 Baruch, an angel guides Baruch through the five levels of heaven in which Baruch sees the places of punishment for the wicked and places of reward for the righteous. Collins goes so far as to argue that “the distinctive feature of apocalyptic eschatology over against that of the prophets is the expectation of the postmortem judgment of individuals” (Collins 2003b, 49–50). The content of the book of Revelation involves both cosmic eschatology and personal eschatology.

32   Mitchell G. Reddish Clearly, similarities exist between Revelation and prophetic literature. Furthermore, the boundary between certain prophetic writings (particularly later works such as Ezekiel and Zechariah) and apocalypses is somewhat blurry. However, when the book of Revelation is compared to Jewish prophetic literature and to Jewish and Christian apocalypses, Revelation more closely resembles the genre of an apocalypse than of Hebrew prophecy (contra Mazzaferri 2010). If Revelation does not belong to the genre of the Hebrew prophets, is it an example of Christian prophecy? Several studies have examined the phenomenon of prophecy in early Christianity (Aune 1983; Boring 1974, 1991, 1992; Hill 1979). The conclusion of all these studies is that John of Patmos is one of the major examples of an early Christian prophet. He spoke and wrote with a clear awareness of being an “immediately inspired spokesperson for the risen Jesus, who received intelligible messages that he felt impelled to deliver to the Christian community” (slightly modified definition from Boring 1991, 38). There is a difference, however, between identifying John as a Christian prophet and identifying his writing as belonging to the genre of prophetic writing (a prophet could use any of several literary genres). A major problem in identifying John’s work as an example of Christian prophecy is in defining the genre of Christian prophetic literature. Even though scholars such as Boring and Aune attempt to do so, one of the major sources for their studies is the book of Revelation itself. Granted, they have utilized evidence of prophetic speech forms gleaned from other works, such as the Gospels, the writings of Paul, the Didache, and the Shepherd of Hermas, but the only likely extant candidate for an entire work that could be considered Christian prophetic writing is the book of Revelation (and maybe the Shepherd of Hermas, but even Boring [1991, 84–85] admits that “we may expect to glean only a minimum of material for our purposes from Hermas”). Thus the claim that the genre of Revelation is Christian prophecy becomes a circular argument since Revelation provides the primary data for defining the genre.

Conclusion So, is Revelation an apocalypse, a letter, or a prophecy? One is tempted to answer simply, “yes.” Revelation certainly has affinities with each of these literary genres and contains elements that are found in these and other types of writings. Thus, scholars frequently identify the work as being a mixed genre, describing it by a combination of terms: a ­prophetic-apocalyptic writing, a prophetic letter, an apocalyptic letter, an apocalyptic prophecy, or a prophetic apocalypse. Clearly, the work begins and ends like a letter. John likely encased his message in an epistolary framework because he intended his work to be carried to each of the seven churches and read aloud to them, in much the same way that Paul’s letters would have been read to the churches to which they were addressed. On the other hand, Revelation contains many of the literary forms and terms used by the Hebrew prophets, and John spoke of his work as a prophecy. He was an inspired Christian prophet who had an apocalyptic message to share with the churches in Asia

The Genre of the Book of Revelation   33 Minor. Viewed in terms of form, content, and function, however, Revelation closely matches the widely used definition of an apocalypse given in the first section of this chapter. While it contains traits of several genres, Revelation bears a stronger resemblance to an apocalypse than to any other genre. Gregory Linton, after noting the way the book does not precisely fit within any genre, concludes, “Some surplus will always be unaccounted for by the generic choice, and the text will refuse to fit completely and neatly into any generic identification. This text constantly overruns any boundaries placed around it. It refuses to stay in bounds” (Linton 2006, 40). Perhaps the best that one can conclude is that Revelation is an apocalypse, written by a Christian prophet, sent as a quasi-letter to the churches of Asia Minor.

References Aune, David E. 1986. “The Apocalypse of John and the Problem of Genre.” In Early Christian Apocalypticism: Genre and Social Setting, edited by Adela Yarbro Collins, pp. 65–96. Semeia 36. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Aune, David  E. 1983. Prophecy in Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean World. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Aune, David E. 1997. Revelation 1–5. WBC 52A. Dallas: Word. Bauckham, Richard. 1993. The Climax of Prophecy: Studies on the Book of Revelation. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Blevins, James L. 1980. “The Genre of Revelation.” RevExp 77: 393–408. Blevins, James L. 1984. Revelation as Drama. Nashville: Broadman. Boring, M. Eugene. 1974. “The Apocalypse as Christian Prophecy: A Discussion of the Issues Raised by the Book of Revelation for the Study of Early Christian Prophecy.” SBLSP 2: 43–62. Boring, M.  Eugene. 1991. The Continuing Voice of Jesus: Christian Prophecy and the Gospel Tradition. Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox. Boring, M. Eugene. 1992. “The Voice of Jesus in the Apocalypse of John.” NovT 34: 334–59. Bowman, John Wick. 1955. The Drama of the Book of Revelation. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Bowman, John Wick. 1962. “Revelation, Book of.” In The Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, edited by George A. Buttrick, vol. 4, pp. 58–71. Nashville: Abingdon. Carmignac, Jean. 1983. “Description du phénomène de l’Apocalyptique dans l’Ancien Testament.” In Apocalypticism in the Mediterranean World and the Near East: Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Apocalypticism, Uppsala, August 12–17, 1979, edited by David Hellholm, pp. 163–70. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Collins, John J. 1979. “Introduction: Towards the Morphology of a Genre.” In Apocalypse: The Morphology of a Genre, edited by John J. Collins, pp. 1–20. Semeia 14. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Collins, John  J. 1998. The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Collins, John J. 2003a. “The Eschatology of Zechariah.” In Knowing the End from the Beginning: The Prophetic, the Apocalyptic and Their Relationships, edited by Lester  L.  Grabbe and Robert D. Haak, pp. 74–84. London: T & T Clark. Collins, John J. 2003b. “Prophecy, Apocalypse and Eschatology: Reflections on the Proposals of Lester Grabbe.” In Knowing the End from the Beginning: The Prophetic, the Apocalyptic

34   Mitchell G. Reddish and Their Relationships, edited by Lester L. Grabbe and Robert D. Haak, pp. 44–52. London: T & T Clark. Cook, Stephen L. 1995. Prophecy and Apocalypticism: The Postexilic Social Setting. Minneapolis: Fortress. Cook, Stephen L. 2003. The Apocalyptic Literature. IBT. Nashville: Abingdon. Doty, William G. 1973. Letters in Primitive Christianity. Philadelphia: Fortress. Hanson, Paul  D. 1976. “Apocalypse, Genre.” In The Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible: Supplementary Volume, edited by Keith Crim, pp. 27–28. Nashville: Abingdon. Hanson, Paul D. 1979. The Dawn of Apocalyptic. Rev. ed. Philadelphia: Fortress. Hartman, Lars. 1983. “Survey of the Problem of Apocalyptic Genre.” In Apocalypticism in the Mediterranean World and the Near East: Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Apocalypticism, Uppsala, August 12–17, 1979, edited by David Hellholm, pp. 329–43. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hellholm, David. 1986. “The Problem of Apocalyptic Genre and the Apocalypse of John.” In Early Christian Apocalypticism: Genre and Social Setting, edited by Adela Yarbro Collins, pp. 13–64. Semeia 36. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Hill, David. 1979. New Testament Prophecy. Atlanta, GA: John Knox. Karrer, Martin. 1986. Die Johannesoffenbarung als Brief: Studien zu ihrem literarischen historischen und theologischen Ort. FRLANT 140. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Linton, Gregory L. 2006. “Reading the Apocalypse as Apocalypse: The Limits of Genre.” In The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 9–41. SBLSymS 39. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. March, W. Eugene. 1974. “Prophecy.” In Old Testament Form Criticism, edited by John H. Hayes, pp. 141–77. San Antonio, TX: Trinity University Press. Mazzaferri, Frederick David. 2010. The Genre of the Book of Revelation from a Source-Critical Perspective. Berlin: de Gruyter. Reddish, Mitchell G. 2001. Revelation. SHBC. Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys. Roloff, Jürgen. 1993. The Revelation of John. Translated by John E. Alsup. Minneapolis: Fortress. Rowland, Christopher. 1982. The Open Heaven: A Study of Apocalyptic in Judaism and Early Christianity. New York: Crossroad. Sanders, E. P. 1983. “The Genre of Palestinian Jewish Apocalypses.” In Apocalypticism in the Mediterranean World and the Near East: Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Apocalypticism, Uppsala, August 12–17, 1979, edited by David Hellholm, pp. 447–59. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1998. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: Fortress. Stowers, Stanley K. 1986. Letter Writing in Greco-Roman Antiquity. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Stowers, Stanley K. 1992. “Letters (Greek and Latin).” In The Anchor Bible Dictionary, vol. 4, K–N, edited by David Noel Freedman, pp. 290–93. New York: Doubleday. Tucker, Gene M. 1971. Form Criticism of the Old Testament. Philadelphia: Fortress. Tucker, Gene M. 1978. “Prophetic Speech.” Int 32: 31–45. Westermann, Claus. 1967. Basic Forms of Prophetic Speech. Translated by Hugh Clayton White. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. White, John L. 1986. Light from Ancient Letters. Foundations and Facets. Philadelphia: Fortress.

The Genre of the Book of Revelation   35 White, John  L. 1988. “Ancient Greek Letters.” In Greco-Roman Literature and the New Testament: Selected Forms and Genres, edited by David  E.  Aune, pp. 85–105. Society of Biblical Literature Resources for Biblical Study 21. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1979a. The Apocalypse. New Testament Message 22. Wilmington, DE: Michael Glazier. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1979b. “The Early Christian Apocalypses.” In Apocalypse: The Morphology of a Genre, edited by John J. Collins, pp. 61–103. Semeia 14. Atlanta, GA. Society of Biblical Literature. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1986. Introduction to Early Christian Apocalypticism: Genre and Social Setting, edited by Adela Yarbro Collins, pp. 1–11. Semeia 36. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature.

chapter 3

Na r r ati v e Fe at u r e s of the Book of R ev el ation James L. Resseguie

A narrative analysis of the book of Revelation focuses on how the narrative constructs its meaning and the way diverse narrative features—such as masterplot, character, setting, and rhetoric—coalesce to form an indivisible whole. Some of the questions that amplify the literariness of Revelation are as follows: How does the older biblical masterplot of a people being enslaved in Egypt, pursued by a bloodthirsty pharaoh, wandering in the wilderness, and journeying to the new promised land, clarify Revelation’s plot? In what ways do John’s bizarre hybrid characters that merge traits from the world below and from this world, or the human with the inhuman, intensify plot conflicts and complicate the quest for the new Jerusalem? How do the fierce landscapes of desert and sea accent peril and solace on the journey to the new Jerusalem? In what ways is Babylon the archetypal city of oppression and captivity that the exodus-people—the followers of the Lamb—must flee to realize their quest for the new promised land? And how do symbolic threes, three-and-a-halves, sixes, sevens, and twelves serve as signs of solace and peril for the exodus-people? Four narrative features of Revelation are the focus of this chapter: (a) masterplot, (b) characters and characterization, (c) architectural and topographical settings, and (d) numerical symbolism.1

Revelation’s Masterplot Masterplots are “recurrent skeletal stories, belonging to cultures and individuals that play a powerful role in questions of identity, values, and the understanding of life” (Abbott 2008, 236). They explore the quest for life’s meaning or build upon questions of origins: the quest for identity (Who are we?); the quest for meaning (Where are we going?); the quest for reconciliation (How do we find our way back home?), and so on.

38   James L. Resseguie For example, the masterplot of Sophocles’s Oedipus narrative is a story of conflict between free will and fate’s subversion of the individual will. Oedipus seeks to find a future that is free from the constraints placed upon him by his heritage and environment. Can he escape his fate and determine his direction in life? Or is his life determined by events and circumstances beyond his control? Oedipus sought to avoid his fate of murdering his father, Laius, the king of Thebes, and marrying his mother, Jocasta. But his flight from Corinth fulfills his destiny. On the road he meets an unknown man whom he kills, and then he marries his widow, assuring that fate triumphs over individual will. The man he killed was his father and the widow he married turned out to be his mother (cf. Abbott 2008, 195–97; Resseguie 2005, 203–4). Revelation’s masterplot is a quest story of the people of God in search of the new promised land—a quest for a vanished Eden that the new Jerusalem, with its fecund tree of life, offers (Rev 22:2). Allusions to Israel’s exodus and exile provide the literary background for this quest (Deut 2:7; 8:15–16; 29:5; 32:10; Beale 1999, 643–45; Ulfgard 1989, 35–41). Just as the Israelites faced obstacles and received divine protection on the journey to the promised land, so, too, the exodus-people—the followers of the resurrected Lamb—face peril and receive divine solace on their journey to the new Jerusalem. The narrative features of Revelation—especially characters, settings, and numerical symbolism—­play a supporting role in the development and advancement of the masterplot. The characters, for instance, either aid or hinder the sojourners in their quest. The phar­aoh of Revelation—a bloodthirsty dragon with seven heads and ten horns—­pursues the woman clothed with the sun and attempts to destroy her with a flood from his mouth (Rev 12:3, 13, 15). But she is given two wings of a great eagle to escape to the wilderness, where the earth comes to her aid by swallowing the pharaoh’s torrent (12:14, 16). All this is reminiscent of Israel’s arduous trek in the wilderness on its way to the promised land: the Pharaoh who pursues the escaping Israelites to the Red Sea (Exod 14–15); eagles’ wings that carry a persecuted people to safety (Exod 19:4; cf. Deut 32:11–12); and the earth that swallows Pharaoh’s army (Exod 15:12). An important subplot supplements the masterplot of Revelation: the urgent need of a messianic repair of a broken world. The beasts and other evil characters of the Apocalypse have destroyed the earth, requiring a complete overhaul of the cosmos that will put everyone and everything into its proper place (cf. Rev 11:18). For example, the demonic locusts wander out of their proper place in the abyss below and wreak havoc on this world (Rev 9). Before the exodus-people arrive at the new promised land, these demonic locusts must be put in their proper place, along with the beast from the sea, the beast from the land, the dragon, death, and Hades.

Characters and Characterization Two important techniques of characterization are “showing,” or indirect presentation, and “telling,” or direct presentation. In showing, the narrator reveals traits through characters’ speech, actions, clothing, physical description, posture, affect, gender, and

Narrative Features of the Book of Revelation   39 socioeconomic status. What characters say, what they wear, what they do, how they relate to others, and how they appear, reveal defining traits (Resseguie 2009, 38–42; 2005, 121–30). What others say about them and how they respond enhance characterization. In telling, the narrator comments on characters or adds commentary for the benefit of the readers. Sobriquets, epithets, and narrative descriptions enlarge the traits of characters while proper names are “saturated with meaning” (Hochman 1985, 37). In Revelation, for example, Abaddon means “destruction,” Apollyon means “Destroyer,” and the beast’s name in 13:18 is a number “saturated with meaning.” In addition, literary foils amplify character traits and symbolic settings magnify characters’ speech and actions. Another aspect of telling occurs when omniscient/intrusive narrators peer inside characters’ minds and reveal their thinking, feelings, and motives (inside views). John usually prefers to show rather than tell. But as with all excellent writers, everything he shows, tells. John describes bizarre hybrids, which merge character traits from the world below with characteristics of this world, or the human with the inhuman, to accentuate the conflicted and divided nature of humanity. As the sphinx has the face of a human and the body of a lion, so do John’s hybrids combine the beast and the human to emphasize humanity’s divided and conflicted nature. John’s odd hybrids also clarify the deceptive nature of evil, its perversion of good, and its inversion of the created order. The beast/ human hybrids of the Apocalypse are (a) the locusts from the abyss (9:1–11), (b) the beast from the sea (13:1–10, 18), and (c) the beast from the land (13:11–17). In Rev 9, the locusts are released from their proper place in the world below to wreak havoc on this world. Their origin is the abyss, the demonic underworld, but they have human features, underscoring the collusion of this world with the world below. Although they come from another world, they are like something from this world. They are like horses equipped for battle with something akin to gold crowns on their heads and faces like humans (9:7). Their hair is like women’s hair; their teeth are like lions’ teeth; and their scales, like iron breastplates (9:8–9). Their wings make a sound like the sound of chariots charging into battle, and their tails have stingers that are like scorpion tails (9:9–10). These hybrids represent the world turned upside down and inside out. They are the reverse side of the world above and portray what the world would be like if God allowed demonic powers to have free, unrestrained reign in this world (Koester 2018, 102). Their bizarre appearance, unnatural actions, and demonic torment attest to the inversion of the created order. In the natural order, locusts eat grass and other kinds of vegetation; but these insects torture the earth’s inhabitants and leave the vegetation untouched (9:4–6). Locusts in nature have no leader (Prov 30:27), but this horde from the deep has a satanic leader in Abaddon or Apollyon (9:11). Locusts in nature use their voracious jaws to devour vegetation, but the hybrids from the abyss use scorpion-like tails to torture humans (9:5, 10). The hybrid locusts represent the collaboration of this world with the world below, a consortium of terror in which demonic/ human creatures upend the created order. The beast from the sea (11:7; 13:1–10, 18; 17:8) and the beast from the earth (13:11–17; 16:13; 19:20; 20:10) also combine human and inhuman traits. The ominous setting of the

40   James L. Resseguie first beast, which comes up from the sea (13:1), a realm identified with the abyss or the underworld in Rev 11:7, signals its destructive nature. The terrifying dragon Leviathan lives in the sea (Ps 74:13–14 [73:13–14 LXX]; Isa 27:1), and in the new order the sea is nowhere to be found (Rev 21:1). The beast’s appearance is likened to that of some of the most ferocious and frightening animals of this world—the leopard. bear, and lion—yet it has a human side that the grammar reveals. John generally uses the neuter gender to describe the beast and its actions; however, on one occasion, he uses the masculine gender to underscore the beast’s human side: “all the inhabitants of the earth will worship him” (13:8). (The NRSV obscures the beast’s human side when the translators use “it” instead of “him.”) However, the clearest expression of the beast’s human side is in 13:18: John uses a symbolic number, 666, to reveal the beast’s identity and to accent its perverse nature (see section 4). The third member of John’s evil hybrids is the beast from the earth (13:11–17). The land beast’s deceptive nature is seen in its lamblike appearance with two horns. Yet its voice is like the dragon’s (13:11). John uses a masculine participle for “beast” (not a neuter as expected) to underscore the monster’s humanity: “He told (legōn) them [the inhabitants of the earth] to make an image for the beast that had been wounded by the sword and it lived” (13:14b, my translation). Moreover, the narrator uses a rhetorical device to highlight the beast’s deceptive character. What John sees is contrasted with what he hears. Although there is no simple pattern to what the prophet sees, on the one hand, and what he hears, on the other (e.g., Rev 5:5–6; 7:4, 9), the hearing/seeing sequence can point to the disjunction between characters’ outward appearances and their inner natures (Sweet 1990, 125). This is the case in 13:11. John sees a beast with two horns like a lamb rise from the earth, but he hears the voice of a dragon. The land beast’s outward appearance is a mirage; its true nature is only revealed when it speaks—like a dragon. John’s hybrids are not all evil creatures that combine characteristics of the world below with this world. The four strange creatures of Rev 4: 6b–8 are good hybrids that merge characteristics of the world above (e.g., six wings, cf. Isa 6:2–3; eyes in front and behind and around and inside) with this world (e.g., lion, ox, human, eagle). They are the heavenly counterpart to the demonic locusts. The hybrids reveal what the cosmos is like when the Creator is at the center of creation. If the tormenting locusts represent the world below in collusion with this world, then the four living creatures represent the world above in perfect harmony with this world. And if the vision of the horde from the deep portrays a world without messianic repairs, then the vision of the four living creatures paints a picture of a world restored, with the Creator at the center. While the beasts from the sea and the earth hinder the progress of the exodus-people to the new promised land, other characters aid them in their quest. The mighty angel of Rev 10 has characteristics reminiscent of the mysterious cloud and pillar of fire that guided the Israelites on their journey to the promised land (Beale  1999, 524–25; Kiddle  1940, 169; Mazzaferri  1989, 265; Resseguie  2009, 152; Smalley  2005, 257–58; Sweet 1990, 177). As Yahweh or an angel guided the Israelites by night with a pillar of fire (cf. Exod 13:21–22), so the angel of the new exodus proffers a MacGuffin-scroll to orient the exodus-people on the next phase of their journey (Rev 10:2). A “MacGuffin,” a term

Narrative Features of the Book of Revelation   41 popularized by Alfred Hitchcock in 1939, is an object, event, or character that serves as a motivator for the plot (cf. Chatman 1978, 140). A MacGuffin may be arresting or simply puzzling, but it is important for the advancement of the plot. Although MacGuffins are frequently mysterious or unexplained, they are something the characters care about (e.g., the falcon in The Maltese Falcon). The significance of the angel’s MacGuffin-scroll is debated by critics, which is a measure of its intrinsic value as a plot device (see Koester 2014, 476–77, for suggestions). In Rev 10, John is the typical character in a suspense novel who pursues a MacGuffin: when given the MacGuffin-scroll, he eats it without demurring but then experiences unexplained, even mysterious results (cf. 10:9–10). Several commentators conclude that the MacGuffin-scroll is the subject of Rev 11, a parable-like story that clarifies the role of the Christian community during the ­in-­between times—the period between Christ’s ascension to heaven and his return to complete the messianic repairs of the cosmos (Charles 1920, 1:260; Koester 2014, 505; Mazzaferri 1989, 267–69; Mounce 1998, 210). The two witnesses of Rev 11, who represent the entire Christian community on their exodus journey to the new promised land, accomplish what the plagues could not do (Bauckham 1993b, 86). Despite the terror of the devastating trumpet plagues, “the rest” of humanity that remained untouched by the disasters continued in their insouciance and refused to repent of their idolatry and unjust acts (cf. 9:20–21). The exodus-people, however, move the plot forward through their witness, death, and vindication (11:7–13). After their opprobrium and suffering, the remainder of the stolid, the unrepentant who were spared the judgment of an earthquake, “were terrified and gave glory to the God of heaven” (11:13)—that is, they abandoned their disastrous ways (see Blount 2009, 218; Caird 1996, 140; Koester 2014, 507–12; Osborne 2002, 433–34; Resseguie 2009, 161–67; Smalley 2005, 286; Sweet 1990, 189). Thus, the MacGuffin—the sweet/bitter scroll—allows the stalled plot to advance to its denouement.

Architectural and Topographical Settings The settings of Revelation are more than colorful details used to support the narrative: They are spiritual and symbolic markers that recall important landmarks in Israel’s past. Mountain, wilderness, river, abyss, sea, and lake of fire are part of Revelation’s spiritual topography of peril and solace, and architectural settings, such as Babylon and the new Jerusalem, are symbolic cities that offer two distinct choices for the peoples of the earth (Rossing 1999). Will the people of the earth assimilate to the dominant culture and settle down in the city of this world that is doomed to destruction? Or will they follow the Lamb on a perilous journey to the new promised land (cf. Rossing 1999, 161–65)? Babylon is the archetypal city of this world that symbolizes humanity in complete rebellion against God. The city is first mentioned in Rev 11:8, where it is called “the great

42   James L. Resseguie city,” “Sodom,” “Egypt,” and the place “where also their Lord was crucified.” Although some argue that “the great city” must be Jerusalem, since Jesus was crucified there (Aune 1997–98, 619; Blount 2009, 214; Osborne 2002, 426; Swete 1911, 137–38; Thompson 1990, 127), the epithet is not to be taken literally. Just as “wilderness” (12:6, 14) and the “lake of fire and sulfur” (20:10) are spiritual places that cannot be found on a physical map, so, too, the place where the Lord was crucified is symbolic geography (Beale  1999, 592; Resseguie 2009, 164; Smalley 2005, 282). It is a spiritual reference to every and any place that denigrates the Lamb and uplifts the beast as a counterfeit surrogate. Babylon’s reputation as “the great city,” a euphemism for both its might and splendor, is repeatedly hammered into the reader’s head in 18:10, 16, 18, 19, 21; cf. also 16:19; 17:18. Its identification with well-known places of infamy such as Sodom and Egypt solidify its reputation as a city of oppression and ill repute. If Sodom is a symbol of wickedness (Gen 19:1–25; Deut 29:22–23; Isa 1:9–15; 3:9; Jer 23:14–15), Egypt is a cipher for alienation and slavery (Exod 2:23; 5:1–21). Babylon and biblical Egypt are identical places of captivity and oppression in Revelation’s masterplot. Those who live in Babylon are like the Israelites who dwelled in the “house of slavery” in Egypt (Exod 20:2). Only by fleeing the city of oppression will the exodus-people enter the new promised land (“Come out of her, my people,” Rev 18:4). To underscore the peril of assimilation to Babylon’s evil ways, John uses the metaphor of sexual boundary-crossing. In contrast to the bridal imagery of the new Jerusalem (21:2), Babylon is a whore (17:1, 15, 16) and a consort of the scarlet beast from the sea (17:3). She fornicates with the kings of the earth and gets the “inhabitants of the earth” drunk on her fornication (17:2), while she herself is intoxicated with “the blood of the saints and the blood of the witnesses to Jesus” (17:6). The stark sexual imagery intensifies the danger of crossing boundaries that are established through covenant relationships and applies not only to illicit sexual relations but also to all areas of life that are marred by desire, transgression, confused boundaries, and compromise. Prostitution and fornication are metaphors for economic exploitation, social tyranny, political compromise, and religious assimilation into the dominant culture (Koester  2014, 671–95; Resseguie 2009, 218). For example, harlotry is a metaphor for the idolatrous practices of Israel that violate the covenant between God and Israel in Hosea (2:5). Isaiah employs sexual relations to indict Tyre with unjust trade practices and economic exploitation (Isa 23:15–18). Nahum charges Nineveh with economic prostitution (Nah 3:4), and Ezekiel accuses Jerusalem of being an unfaithful wife in accommodating to the corrupt culture (Ezek 16). In Revelation, Jezebel is a religious prostitute who seduces some at Thyatira to practice idolatry (Rev 2:20). Thus, John stands in a long line of prophets who rely on illicit sexual congress to amplify the peril of compromise with the prevailing culture. Most commentators identify Babylon as first-century Rome (Aune 1997–98, 830–31; Barr 2012, 129; Beasley-Murray 1974, 225; Koester 2014, 675; Krodel 1989, 268; Kuhn 1964, 516; Osborne 2002, 538; Resseguie 2009, 221; Roloff 1993, 175; Witherington 2003, 191). Yet Babylon is more than ancient Rome (Johns  2003, 117; Koester  2014, 506, 684; Resseguie  2009, 221). She is the mother of whores or of all things ungodly (17:5;

Narrative Features of the Book of Revelation   43 Koester 2014, 675), a city representative of all cities and powers that lure people to participate in illicit relationships—whether economic tyranny, political injustice, social and racial repression, political compromise, or religious assimilation. Stephen Smalley goes so far to say that Babylon symbolizes “the secular and unjust spirit of humanity” (2005, 364) while Gregory Beale concludes that the city of Babylon is representative of “all wicked world systems” (1999, 755). In terms of Revelation’s masterplot, Babylon is the anticity to the new Jerusalem, a satanic parody of God’s perfect city and represents any place and every place that rises heavenward to deify itself. Babylon is the symbolic city of this world that replicates the primal act of human overreach in the building of the Tower of Babel (Gen 11:4; cf. Rev 18:5, 7; Isa 14:13–14; Ezek 31:3, 10; Resseguie 2009, 199).2 Yet the people of the exodus must dwell in the city of captivity and oppression and endure its atrocities. Although God’s people are called to come out of “the great city” (Rev 18:4), their only recourse is to depart figuratively, for “the great city” is where God’s people are exiled in the in-between times. Departure from Babylon is a metaphor for separation from the city’s norms, values, and beliefs (Boxall 2006, 257; Boring 1998, 189; Koester 2014, 715–16; Resseguie 2009, 229; Smalley 2005, 446–47). The metaphor does not require a geographical relocation; it demands an “inner reorientation” (Boring 1998, 189). The trek to the new Jerusalem is a continuous journey of dissociation from the city of this world—a spiritual, political, and socioeconomic rebellion against the norms of unjust and corrupt cultures. If Babylon is the ill-fated city that all who follow the Lamb are to flee, then the new Jerusalem is everything that Babylon strives to be but fails to achieve. Like the Tower of Babel, Babylon strives heavenward. Yet its attempts at deification are doomed to failure (18:4–8). The distinguishing feature of the new Jerusalem, however, is that it does not rise heavenward but comes down from heaven, a gift from God (21:2, 10). Whereas Babylon is a whore (17:1–6), the new Jerusalem is a bride beautifully dressed for her husband (21:2). The imagery establishes the singular trait of the new promised land: It is pure and unblemished in character. Unlike Babylon’s streets that are strewn with blood and littered with all sorts of filth and abominations—fit only for demons and other foul creatures (17:5–6; 18:2)—the new Jerusalem has clean streets, unpolluted water, an Edenic garden, towering walls, a solid gold boulevard, bejeweled gates, and unlocked doors (21:9–22:5). Whereas disorder, death, and destruction characterize the old creation, purity characterizes the new creation. Repetition of the word “pure” or “clear” signifies the spotless, unblemished character of the new Jerusalem and is the primary metaphor for the city’s moral, spiritual, and ideological purity (Royalty  1998, 239). Jerusalem is pure gold, clear [or pure] as glass” (21:18) and the main street of the city is “pure gold, transparent as glass” (21:21). Other settings accentuate peril and solace on the exodus to the new promised land. In the Hebrew scriptures, wilderness is in-between space, the harsh landscape between the Israelites’ captivity in Egypt, on the one hand, and their freedom in the promised land, on the other (Cohn 1981, 14; Lane 1998). Wilderness space is neither here nor there, neither biblical Egypt nor the promised land. It is stark, barren landscape—life at the edges of society that are distant from the securities of human structures. Desert life is nomadic,

44   James L. Resseguie unsettled, and rootless. Yet it is where divine solace thrives on the Israelites’ journey to the promised land: the supernatural presence of a cloud to lead them by day, fire to guide them by night, and manna to sustain them daily. In Revelation, the word for wilderness or desert (erēmos) occurs three times (12:6, 14; 17:3). It is a place of divine rescue for the woman in Rev 12, an image of the people of God who are persecuted by the dragon (Resseguie 2009, 171; Roloff 1993, 145). Pursued and attacked by Revelation’s pharaoh, she receives asylum for the symbolic period of 1,260 days (12:6; cf. 12:14). As the Israelites lived in the wilderness on their sojourn to the promised land, so the followers of the Lamb live figuratively in wilderness/in-between space until they arrive at the new Jerusalem. The sea is fierce, terrifying landscape, where monsters of the deep such as Leviathan lurk (Ps 74:13–14 [73: 13–14 LXX]; Isa 27:1). G. B. Caird suggests that the sea is a metonym “for everything that is recalcitrant to the will of God” (Caird 1996, 197). Yet the sea is not always threatening landscape. A glassy sea mixed with fire is the setting for the most “complete and systematic” development of a persecuted people who are delivered from the pursuing pharaoh (Rev 15; Caird 1996, 197). The followers of the Lamb (i.e., the exodus-people) stand by a crystal sea, the heavenly analogue to the Red Sea, and sing a song of the Lamb’s victory, recalling the song of Moses and the Israelites’ deliverance from Pharaoh at the Red Sea (cf. Exod 15:1–18). Having conquered the beast, the people of the exodus cross to the other side, where God’s throne is, and sing a song of deliverance (15:3; Koester 2014, 633–35). The sea is thus an ambiguous landscape: threatening space but also a passageway to safety.

Numerical Symbolism Symbolic numbers orient the exodus-people and help them navigate the perilous terrain on their journey to the new Jerusalem. As stars guide sailors and help them negotiate the seas, so numbers help the sojourners navigate their journey. Numbers are diverse and important markers in Revelation. They serve as danger signs to warn the exoduspeople of poseurs with divine pretentions; they alert the travelers to the impending difficulties on this journey; and they reinforce the presence of divine protection. Numbers also define the character of the in-between times and elaborate the suffering vocation of the exodus-people. Finally, numbers, especially twelves, are a welcomed sign that the new promised land is at hand. Threes not only characterize the divine but also warn the sojourners of evil’s pretensions to divinity. A danger on the journey to the promised land is that some may mistake the counterfeit for the real and the fraudulent for the genuine. For instance, God is given the threefold title, the one “who is and who was and who is to come” (1:4, 8; cf. 4:8). But the beast from the earth is recognized as a potent poseur with claims to the divine prerogative; it is therefore given a threefold title to underscore its aspirations to divinity (who “was and is not and is to come”; 17:8c; cf. 17:8a, 11).

Narrative Features of the Book of Revelation   45 Three and a half is the most important temporal road sign for the people of God on the journey itself. Four versions of three and a half occur in Revelation: (a) a time, and times, and half a time (= three-and-a-half times or years, Rev 12:14); (b) one thousand two hundred and sixty days (= three-and-a-half years, Rev 11:3; 12:6); (c) forty-two months (= three-and-a-half years or forty-two months of thirty days, Rev 11:2; 13:5); and (d) three-and-a-half days (Rev 11:9, 11). Three and a half is the perfect number seven broken in half, representing a complete week “arrested midway in its normal course” (Ford [1975] 1995, 176). It is derived from Dan 7:25 and 12:7, where “a time, two times, and half a time” or “time, times, and a half ” designates a period of oppression and corresponds approximately to the temple’s desecration under Antiochus IV Epiphanes (167–64 bce). The broken seven not only represents a limited yet intense period of affliction for God’s people; it is a temporal marker to designate the period between Christ’s ascension to heaven and his return to complete the messianic repairs of the cosmos. The broken seven is thus symbolic of the in-between times: a fractured period that will be made whole when the messiah comes to repair the cosmos and put everyone and everything into the proper place (Koester 2014, 498; Resseguie 2009, 30). The broken seven is also a temporal guidepost that corresponds to the significance of wilderness landscape in Revelation. As wilderness is in-between space—oppression in Babylon, on the one hand, and freedom in the new promised land, on the other—so three-and-a-half times/years/ days represent in-between times that are marked by peril and solace for the sojourners. Time and times and half a time is the figurative time in which the woman clothed with celestial garments receives nourishment and asylum in the wilderness (Rev 12:1, 14). As the Israelites were nourished on their wilderness trek to the promised land, so the new Israel receives divine protection and succor on their journey. The period of divine protection is also represented by one thousand two hundred and sixty days (12:6). In 12:6, the woman with the sun flees to the wilderness for one thousand two hundred and sixty days, where “a place” is prepared for her by God. One thousand two hundred and sixty days not only represent a period of divine protection and solace; it develops and elaborates the role of the church’s vocation during the in-between times (11:3). In Rev 11, two witnesses, who represent the whole Christian community during the in-between times, endure suffering and opprobrium for their witness that ends in death—yet results in vindication (Bauckham 1993a, 274; Koester 2014, 497, 505; Resseguie 2009, 161–66). In Rev 11:2 and 13:5, forty-two months is a period of affliction and oppression for God’s people. In 11:2, nations trample the “holy city” for forty-two months. The affliction and protection the people of God experience during this period is illustrated with the im­agery of the outer court of the temple unmeasured and the enclosed temple measured. While the unmeasured court symbolizes the community of faith subject to physical harm, the measured temple is the same community spiritually protected (Koester 2014, 485; Resseguie 2009, 159–61). Forty-two months occurs a second time in 13:5, where it designates the period of the beast’s autarchy and its war upon those who resist its ways. Although forty-two months and one thousand two hundred and sixty days are identical periods, they serve an important function as numerical cordons that separate the

46   James L. Resseguie period of the beast’s tyranny, on the one hand, from the time of the church’s protection and vocation, on the other. Forty-two months represents the beast’s reign of terror; one thousand two hundred and sixty days is the period of the church’s protection and the time of its vocation. The two separate yet identical periods amplify the stringent limits placed upon the beast, who is powerless to overstep its boundaries and gain the upper hand on God’s people. The numerical cordons lay out distinct perimeters for the beast’s vocation: it cannot subvert, diminish, or nullify the role of God’s people as suffering witnesses, and indeed, the beast enables and advances the mission of the church. Three and a half days (11:9, 11) is an alternative expression for forty-two months, one thousand two hundred and sixty days, and time and times and half a time. The symbolism of times in Revelation does not lie in the unit of measurement (days, weeks, months, years, cubits, stadia, etc.), but in the numerical value attached to the measurement (onehalf, three and a half, seven, ten, twelve, one thousand, etc.; Lupieri 2006, 154). In 11:9, the beast makes war on the two witnesses who represent the church in its vocational role as suffering witness and kills them. As they lie exposed in the street of “the great city” of Babylon for three and a half days, the earth’s inhabitants “gloat over them and celebrate and exchange presents” (11:10). Then they are resurrected (11:11). Three-and-a-half days is not only a guidepost that warns of the dangers God’s people face on their journey; it is also a positive sign to describe the essential character of the Christian community in the in-between times. It is beaten down, trod upon, and killed, yet it is an authoritative and powerful voice within society that is unstoppable. Six is one step away from seven, the penultimate in a complete series of seven, where seven represents the ultimate or the end. The sixth seal, sixth trumpet, and sixth bowl are penultimate judgments that have the hallmarks of the end. Yet they are not the end. John and the church also stand in the penultimate space in Revelation, between the sixth and seventh trumpet. In this in-between space, John is commissioned to prophesy (10:1–10), and the church is called to witness with their words and deeds (11:3–13). John’s preference for symbolic numbers also suggests that there may be more to six hundred sixty-six than a coded message for the imperious ruler Nero (13:18). Even if the Greek name Neron Caesar is six hundred sixty-six in Hebrew (Koester 2014, 597–99, for arguments), the number is multivocal and has significance beyond identification with this Caesar. The number also characterizes humanity that was created on the sixth day (Gen  1:26–31), and “read this way, the number represents the humanity of the beast whose claim is divinity” (Barr 2012, 108). The call for wisdom in 13:18 is to understand the deceptive and beastly nature of evil that mimics seven but is six, that parodies the ultimate but is penultimate. The symbolic meaning of six hundred sixty-six is that it looks messianic; yet it is the penultimate in the guise of ultimacy. Thus, as one step removed from ultimacy, six has “most of the hallmarks of truth, and so it can easily deceive” (Rowland  1998, 659; see also Barr  2012, 108; Blount  2009, 262–63; Resseguie 2009, 31, 188–91; Smalley 2005, 352). And as a guidepost on the way to the promised land, six arms the exodus-people with the knowledge of the beast’s primary trait of deception. Although it appears ultimate, and therefore worthy of following, it is merely a poseur of the divine.3

Narrative Features of the Book of Revelation   47 The number seven, which occurs fifty-five times in Revelation out of the total of eighty-eight times it is used in the New Testament, symbolizes completeness, plenitude, or perfection (Rengstorf 1964, 2:627–35). The seven-day week and seven days of creation mark a complete period. There are seven letters to the seven churches (2:1–3:22), seven seals (6:1–8:1), seven trumpets (8:2–11:18), and seven bowls (15:5–16:21). Each series of sevens is a complete set. There are seven spirits (1:4; 5:6), seven stars (1:20), seven lampstands (1:20), and seven kings (17:9–10). The Lamb has seven eyes and seven horns in 5:6, representative of his complete vision and power. (Horns suggest power in Deut 33:17; 1 Kings 22:11; Pss 75:4–5; 89:17.) Seven is also the hallmark of the counterfeit divine. The dragon, for instance, has seven heads (Rev 12:3; 13:1; 17:3) and wears seven diadems on its head (12:3). Seven may also be symbolic in the description of the whore who sits on seven mountains (17:9), although most commentators see it as an unambiguous reference to Rome’s seven hills (Blount 2009, 319; Boring 1998, 183; Caird 1996, 218–19; Charles 1920, 2:69; Koester  2014, 677; Krodel  1989, 296; Swete  1911, 220; Talbert  1994, 77–78; Witherington 2003, 223). Yet seven is also multivocal in this instance. As Babylon is symbolic geography that is not limited to Rome, so the seven mountains have a meaning greater than a reference to the imperious city.4 “Seven” has its usual meaning of completeness, while “mountains” represent the meeting place between heaven and earth or the earth reaching toward the heavens (Malbon 1986, 84). For example, the symbolic meaning of mountain occurs in the eschatological battle between good and evil. It takes place on a mountain, Harmagedon (more familiarly, Armageddon), which is found only on John’s spiritual map, and, as symbolic space between heaven and earth, the mountain is an appropriate place for a battle between good and evil (16:16; Day 1994; Paulien 1992; Resseguie 2009, 213–14). Mountain symbolism also occurs in the reference to Mount Zion. Mount Zion is “nowhere and everywhere” at the same time (Boxall 2006, 200) and is the symbolic mountain-sanctuary of the one hundred forty-four thousand who have the name of the Lamb and the Father written on their foreheads (14:1). Similarly, the seven mountains of Rev 17 are not merely a signifier for the ancient city that sits on seven hills. Seven has its usual meaning of completeness while mountains signify the earth reaching heavenward. As the city built on seven mountains, Rome represents the earth striving heavenward. It is the symbolic city of this world that replicates the primal act of human overreach that occurs in the building of the Tower of Babel (Gen 11:1–9). Seven is thus an ambiguous road sign that requires keen discernment. On the one hand, it represents the divine as in the portrayal of the Lamb (Rev 5:6) or, on the other, it signifies the counterfeit divine as in the description of the dragon (12:3) and the beast from the earth (13:1; 17:3, 7). Seven also requires discernment to recognize the unrelenting ambition of human institutions to overreach their God-limited boundaries (cf. Rev 17:9). Twelve represents completeness—the fulfillment of all expectations. Of the seventyfive occurrences of twelve in the New Testament, twenty-three are found in Revelation. There are twelve months in a year, twelve signs of the zodiac, and twelve tribes of Israel. Like seven, twelve implies completeness or perfection. But unlike seven, which describes both the divine and the counterfeit divine, twelve is associated with the people of God.

48   James L. Resseguie Twelve is lengthened to one hundred forty-four thousand or twelve thousand sealed from each of the twelve tribes, which signifies the complete number of God’s Israel (7:4; 14:1, 3; Koester 2014, 417, 426–27; Smith 1990; Resseguie 2009, 137). The woman’s crown has twelve stars (12:1), and the new Jerusalem is an architectural marvel constructed with twelves. The multiple of three times four describes the twelve gates of the city (three on each of its four sides). There are twelve angels at the twelve gates, and the names of the twelve tribes are inscribed on its gates (21:12). The twelve foundations of the city wall have the twelve names of the twelve apostles (21:14). The wall is twelve squared, one hundred forty-four cubits (21:17), and the city measures twelve thousand stadia on each side, a perfect cube (21:16). Twelve jewels adorn the foundations; each of the twelve gates is made of a single pearl for a total of twelve pearls (21:19–21). At the city center is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit (22:2). The heaping up of twelves describes a perfect city, complete in every way, from top to bottom. Thus, twelve is the most assuring and welcoming road sign for God’s people. It signals that the long quest is completed, and they have now arrived at their destination, the new promised land.

Conclusion The narrative features of Revelation are not stand-alone components that can be analyzed separately—although character, plot, settings, and point of view are often evaluated individually. Rather, Revelation’s constitutive features are intertwined and reveal their complexity and nuance only when seen as integral parts of an indivisible, organic whole. Despite its role as the organizing principle in Revelation, masterplot, which explores the deep structures of a narrative and answers questions of identity, values, and understanding of life, remains an underdeveloped feature of narrative analysis. The masterplot of Revelation is a quest story about where we are going, and though it takes place in an ancient theater involving a bloodthirsty pharaoh, a well-known Roman ruler of the first century ce, it reveals more than this renowned period of infamy. It tells the story of the people of God’s quest to find a homeland that is free from all tyranny and from potent poseurs that offer the fraudulent for the genuine and the ephemeral for a vanished Eden. In sum, the masterplot of Revelation is the quest story of the people of God in search of a new promised land, the new Jerusalem. Narrative features such as hybrid characters, narrative settings, and numerical symbolism enlarge and expand Revelation’s masterplot. Hybrid characters—the Greek sphinx, centaur, and manticore, for example—play an important role in ancient masterplots (e.g., the Greek sphinx in Sophocles’s Oedipus narratives. This sphinx has the head of a woman, the body of a lion, and the wings of an eagle. Other mythological hybrids have the body of a horse and the head, arms, and trunk of a man (the centaur), or a human face with three rows of teeth, a lion’s body, and a scorpion-like tail (the manticore). Hybrids represent the divided and conflicted nature of humanity, capturing

Narrative Features of the Book of Revelation   49 humanity’s unbridled nature (centaur), its cunning/trickster personality (the Greek sphinx), and its beastly side (the manticore). Like these hybrids, Revelation’s hybrids— the locusts from the abyss, the beast from the sea, and the beast from the land—combine the human with the inhuman and the monstrous with human characteristics. Too often, however, the hybrids of the Apocalypse are interpreted only as bizarre representations of a first-century ruler (the beast from the sea) or as an avatar of the political, economic, and religious system of the Roman world (the beast from the land). But the important question in a narrative analysis of hybrids is not what they represent; rather, it is, “What is their narrative function that separates them from other non-hybrid characters?” The narrative setting of the desert or wilderness amplifies Revelation’s masterplot of an arduous journey to a new land. Wilderness is in-between space, the landscape between the Israelites’ captivity in Egypt and their freedom in the promised land. It is neither here nor there, neither biblical Egypt nor the promised land. In Revelation, wilderness is also in-between space, neither bondage in Babylon nor freedom in the new promised land, the new Jerusalem. It is liminal space where the followers of the Lamb escape the pharaoh of Revelation and receive asylum and divine succor on their journey to the new Jerusalem. Numerical symbols serve as signposts for the exodus-people on their journey to the new promised land. As stars guide sailors and help them negotiate the seas, so numbers help the people of God navigate the journey to the new Jerusalem. Numbers serve as danger signs to warn the exodus-people of poseurs with divine pretentions (threes, sixes, and sevens); they alert the travelers to the impending difficulties on this journey (forty-two months; three-and-a-half days); and they reinforce the presence of divine protection (time and times and half a time; one thousand two hundred and sixty days). Numbers also define the character of the in-between times and elaborate the suffering vocation of the exodus-people (three and a half days). A welcomed sign that the new promised land is at hand is signaled by an overabundance of twelves. If Revelation is seen only as a veiled account of past events, then its complexity and nuance are lost. It is foremost a narrative that embodies the universal story of peoples’ enslavement, their quest for freedom, and the peril and solace on a journey to a new land.

Notes 1. I have limited my discussion to four narrative features. Other aspects of a narrative, which are not developed here, include genre, implied reader, implied author, point of view or focalization, style, narrator, imagery, space, time, closure, and gender. For these see Estes and Sheridan (2016). See also the online resource by Peter Hühn et al., eds., The Living Handbook of Narratology (Hamburg: Hamburg University), http://www.lhn.unihamburg.de. 2. Frye (1990, 163) defines the Tower of Babel as “the demonic tower [that] signifies the aspect of human history known as imperialism, the human effort to unite human resources by force that organizes larger and larger social units, and eventually exalts some king into a world ruler, a parody representative of God.”

50   James L. Resseguie 3. Adela Yarbro Collins (1996, 118) argues that six does not represent imperfection or “evil because it persistently falls short of the perfect number seven.” Yarbro Collins, however, overlooks the role of six in the seals, trumpets, and bowls. More than once, six appears ultimate—that is, the end—yet it is not. 4. John uses oros, “mountain,” seven other times in Revelation. In the other occurrences, it is never translated as “hill” but always as “mountain.” John does not use the word for “hills” (lophoi) or the composite (heptalophos), although the words were available in Greek literature at the time and were the usual designations for Rome’s seven hills. See Lupieri (2006, 271); Thompson (1990, 161); Beale (1999, 868–69); Resseguie (2009, 220 n. 11).

References Abbott, H.  Porter. 2008. The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative. 2nd ed. Cambridge Introductions to Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Aune, David E. 1997–98. Revelation. 3 vols. WBC 52. Nashville: Nelson. Barr, David L. 2012. Tales of the End: A Narrative Commentary on the Book of Revelation. 2nd ed. Salem, OR: Polebridge. Bauckham, Richard. 1993a. The Climax of Prophecy: Studies on the Book of Revelation. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Bauckham, Richard. 1993b. The Theology of the Book of Revelation. New Testament Theology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Beale, Gregory K. 1999. The Book of Revelation: A Commentary on the Greek Text. NIGTC. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Beasley-Murray, G. R. 1974. The Book of Revelation. NCBC. London: Oliphants. Blount, Brian  K. 2009. Revelation: A Commentary. NTL. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Boring, M. Eugene. 1998. Revelation. Interpretation. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Boxall, Ian. 2006. The Revelation of Saint John. BNTC. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Caird, G. B. 1996. A Commentary on the Revelation of St. John the Divine. HNTC. New York: Harper & Row. Charles, R. H. 1920. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Revelation of St. John. 2 vols. ICC. New York: Scribner’s. Chatman, Seymour. 1978. Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Cohn, Robert L. 1981. The Shape of Sacred Space: Four Biblical Studies. AARSR 23. Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Day, J. 1994. “The Origin of Armageddon: Revelation 16:16 as an Interpretation of Zechariah 12:11.” In Crossing the Boundaries: Essays in Biblical Interpretation in Honour of Michael D. Goulder, edited by S. E. Porter, P. M. Joyce, and D. E. Orton, pp. 315–26. Leiden: Brill. Estes, Douglas, and Ruth Sheridan, eds. 2016. How John Works: Storytelling in the Fourth Gospel. RBS 86. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature Press. Ford, J. Massyngberde. [1975] 1995. Revelation. AYB 38. New York: Doubleday. Frye, Northrop. 1990. Words with Power: Being a Second Study of “The Bible and Literature.” New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Hochman, Baruch. 1985. Character in Literature. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

Narrative Features of the Book of Revelation   51 Hühn, Peter, et al. The Living Handbook of Narratology. Hamburg: Hamburg University, URL http://www.lhn.uni-hamburg.de. Johns, Loren L. 2003. The Lamb Christology of the Apocalypse of John: An Investigation into Its Origins and Rhetorical Force. WUNT 167. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Kiddle, Martin. 1940. The Revelation of St. John. MNTC. London: Hodder and Stoughton. Koester, Craig R. 2014. Revelation. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Koester, Craig  R. 2018. Revelation and the End of All Things. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Krodel, Gerhard A. 1989. Revelation. ACNT. Minneapolis: Augsburg. Kuhn, K. 1964. “Βαβυλών.” In TDNT, vol. 1, edited by Gerhard Kittel and Geoffrey Bromiley; translated by Geoffrey Bromiley, pp. 514–17. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Lane, Belden C. 1998. Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality. New York: Oxford University Press. Lupieri, Edmundo  F. 2006. A Commentary on the Apocalypse of John. Translated by Maria Poggi Johnson and Adam Kamesar. ITSRS. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Malbon, Elizabeth Struthers. 1986. Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark. New Voices in Biblical Studies. San Francisco: Harper & Row. Mazzaferri, Frederick David. 1989. The Genre of the Book of Revelation from a Source-Critical Perspective. BZNW 54. Berlin: de Gruyter. Mounce, Robert  H. 1998. The Book of Revelation. Rev. ed. NICNT. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Osborne, Grant R. 2002. Revelation. BECNT. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Paulien, Jon. 1992. “Armageddon.” In ABD, vol. 11, edited by D. N. Freedman, pp. 394–95. New York: Doubleday. Rengstorf, K. H. 1964. “ἑπτά.” In TDNT , vol. 2, edited by Gerhard Kittel and Geoffrey Bromiley, translated by Geoffrey Bromiley, pp. 627–35. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Resseguie, James L. 2005. Narrative Criticism of the New Testament. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Resseguie, James  L. 2009. Revelation: A Narrative Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Roloff, Jürgen. 1993. The Revelation of John. Translated by John E. Alsup. CC. Minneapolis: Fortress. Rossing, Barbara  R. 1999. The Choice between Two Cities: Whore, Bride, and Empire in the Apocalypse. HTS 48. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International. Rowland, Christopher  C. 1998. “The Book of Revelation.” In NIDB, vol. 12, edited by Leander E. Keck, pp. 501–743. Nashville: Abingdon. Royalty, Robert M., Jr. 1998. The Streets of Heaven: The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Smalley, Stephen  S. 2005. The Revelation to John: A Commentary on the Greek Text of the Apocalypse. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Smith, Christopher R. 1990. “The Portrayal of the Church as the New Israel in the Names and Order of the Tribes in Revelation 7.5–8.” JSNT 39: 111–18. Sweet, John P. M. 1990. Revelation. TPINTC. Philadelphia: Trinity Press International. First publication in 1979. Swete, Henry Barclay. 1911. The Apocalypse of Saint John: The Greek Text with Introduction, Notes and Indexes. 3rd ed. London: Macmillan.

52   James L. Resseguie Talbert, Charles H. 1994. The Apocalypse: A Reading of the Revelation of John. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Thompson, Leonard  L. 1990. The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire. New York: Oxford University Press. Ulfgard, Håkan. 1989. Feast and Future: Revelation 7:9–17 and the Feast of Tabernacles. ConBNT 22. Lund, Sweden: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Witherington, Ben, III. 2003. Revelation. NCBC. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1996. Cosmology and Eschatology in Jewish and Christian Apocalypticism. Leiden: Brill.

chapter 4

I m agery i n th e Book of R ev el ation Konrad Huber

The book of Revelation is a “picture book,” as Johann Gottfried Herder had already noticed in 1778 (cf. Wellhausen 1907, 3); moreover, it can be understood as a “symphony of images” (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 26–38). Nowhere else among the New Testament writings do pictures, symbols, and metaphors appear as frequently and extensively, and in Revelation they are not mere illustrations but essential means of conveying the theological message of the book. Nearly all the images appear within the interconnected sequence of narrated visions, which covers almost the whole book from 1:9 onward. The author, John, describes what he “has seen” (eiden; 1:2), and by doing so, he creates dense “word pictures” (Koester 2014, 138–39), which evoke corresponding images in the mind of the readers or hearers of the text. The theology of the book of Revelation, then, is basically an “eidetic theology” (Backhaus 2001, 37–43). For the most part, the text itself offers no explanation of the pictures, and even when an interpretation is provided by an angelus interpres (7:13–17; 17:7–18; cf. 1:20) or by a brief comment from the narrator (4:5; 5:6, 8) it often remains puzzling. Even though disclosure (apokalypsis; 1:1) is the main purpose of the text, wisdom (sophia) and understanding (nous) are required to unravel the secret of the pictures, symbols and numbers (13:18; 17:9). Nonetheless, their function as figurative speech is essential for the message of this book, and the intrinsic characteristics of images are directly relevant for its theological purpose. The imagery of Revelation is multicolored, diverse, and ambivalent: powerful, impressive, fascinating, and captivating on the one hand; opaque, bizarre, offensive, and threatening on the other. The pictures drawn in the narration elude full terminological or conceptual explication, and for the most part they encompass manifold senses. At the end of the fourth century, Jerome attests that Revelation includes as many mysteries as there are words (“Apocalypsis Johannis tot habet sacramenta quot verba,” Ep. 53). The inherent difficulties for understanding, especially with regard to central issues like Christology, contributed significantly to the restrained acceptance of the book during the process of canonization and throughout the history of interpretation. The ambiguity

54   Konrad Huber of its imagery does not allow one to derive clear assertions and instructions from it, which was one of the main reasons Martin Luther initially disparaged Revelation in his first preface to the book, from 1522 (cf. Schmidt 1947, 164–65). Accordingly, developing appropriate ways to interpret the imagery is important for understanding Revelation’s message and theology.

Different Types of Figurative Speech Using the term “imagery” for what we find in Revelation is generally accepted. The fact that John says he will report what he “saw” (1:2) points readers to expect word pictures. Seeing is the dominant mode of communication throughout the book. The frequent use of idou (see) as form of direct address (1:7; 4:1, 2, etc.) and that the purpose is “to show” (deiknymi) something (1:1; 22:6) underscore the importance of the visual aspect. When the term sēmeion (sign) is used to introduce the contents of a vision, as is in 12:1, 3 and 15:1, it becomes clear that the hermeneutical key is to approach the text as imagery (cf. homoiōma in 9:7). Moreover, the choice of sēmainō (signify) in 1:1 can be understood as intentionally referring to symbolic communication as the basic means of communication, indicating the predominantly symbolic genre of Revelation (Beale 1999, 50–52). At the same time, the imagery includes a broad spectrum of figurative speech, and some distinctions are needed to determine the extent and types of imagery that occur in the text and whether a figurative meaning is indicated by a particular term at all. It is useful to differentiate between three types of images or figurative speech: simile or metaphor, symbol, and narrative image (cf. Zimmermann 2006, 15–27). Many similes and single metaphors are found throughout Revelation, although in some cases it is not easy to decide whether something should or should not be identified as a metaphor. As is the case for similes, metaphors can be defined as expressions that transfer semantic aspects from one domain of meaning to another. Most clearly, metaphoric language is given when the text speaks in the mode of comparison, explicitly using the comparative particle hōs (total of 71 times; cf. Frey 1993, 351) or the adjective homoios (21 times). A voice that sounds like a trumpet (1:10; 4:1), a sound that is like many waters (1:15; 14:2; 19:6), hair that is white as wool and snow (1:14), feet like burnished bronze (1:15, 18), one like a Son of Man (1:13; 14:14), living creatures like a lion, an ox, or an eagle (4:7) are just a few examples that illustrate the pervasive use of metaphoric expressions in the form of similes. Many others function as real metaphors in the sense of abbreviated similes without the explicit comparative: In 3:12, those who conquer have the promise of being “a pillar in the temple of my God”; in 11:3–4, the two witnesses are called “the two olive trees and the two lampstands that stand before the Lord,” etc. The particular textual element characterized in such a metaphorical way has prima facie no figurative meaning of its own: The voice is still meant to be a real voice, the living creatures, as well as the one like a Son of Man, are understood as real figures within the narrative framework. But many of these visionary elements gain a figurative

Imagery in the Book of Revelation   55 meaning as well, functioning then as a symbol—that is, as a signifier that stands for another item, whereby the relationship between both items is not necessarily as apparent as with a metaphor. Whether a symbol is actually given or not can only be clarified by considering the available traditional conventions and the plausibility within the textual and contextual evidence (cf. Beale  1999, 55–58; Paul  2001, 139–42, referring to Ricoeur’s “semantic impertinence” of metaphors). In this sense, the two-edged sword (1:16) or God’s throne (4:2) as well as the lamb (5:6), the dragon (12:3), and the two beasts (13:1, 11) can be understood as symbols. But contrary to the two-edged sword representing one’s speech (cf. Karrer 2003, 111–14), the lamb, for example, is not a priori to be considered a symbol for someone or something else. Certain aspects of its further description and actions, however, as well as specific correlations to Old Testament and Jewish traditions, lead the reader to realize that there must be more than the literal meaning, the vision of an animal, alone. Bizarre and absurd elements as part of the presentation of the image in particular support these processes for conveying meaning and thinking of symbolic representation. This leads to the third type of image, the narrative image. Speaking of narrative images refers to instances where the symbolic meaning is not restricted to a single term but also draws on various aspects of the surrounding narrative more broadly or the particular narrative sequence as a whole. This leads to an understanding of the vision report itself as a figurative item. Each vision within Revelation contains a variety of elements that contribute to the image as a whole and suggest multiple aspects of meaning (PezzoliOlgiati 1997, 190–201). These pictures emerge not only from the description of certain aspects of an image but also from the report of actions and interactions that take place within the vision-narrative and may even involve the seer himself (e.g., 1:17–20; 5:5; 7:13–17; 10:8–11). Dynamic pictures are portrayed, not static images. The one like a Son of Man is first depicted by his appearance (1:13–16), but then comes the action of putting his right hand upon the seer and addressing a lengthy speech to him (1:17–3:22). The description of the heavenly throne room includes not only the objects and figures around God’s throne and God sitting on it but also a dynamic scene in which there is motion and constant worship, and dramatic occurrences (4:1–5:14). The opening of the seven seals (6:1–8:1), the blowing of the seven trumpets (8:2–11:19), as well as the pouring out of the seven bowls (15:1–16:21) release a series of cosmic events, catastrophes, and plagues and a wide range of different reactions. Similarly, the description of the great red dragon (12:3–4) does not merely present him as a figure but aims at revealing the character of his present activities, interrelationships, and future fate (20:1–3, 7–10). This is also the case regarding the great whore Babylon (17:1–6) as the text pictures her total destruction by means of proclamation, lament, and exultation (18:1–19:8). When the text deals with the heavenly Jerusalem (21:2; 21:9–22:5), this is not exclusively confined to the description of the city and its extraordinary architectural features; it also includes statements about dynamic actions such as the nations’ walking by its light, the kings’ of the earth bringing their glory into it, and the servants’ worshiping God (21:23–27; 22:3, 5), thus qualifying the living conditions within this city in a particular way.

56   Konrad Huber

From Word Pictures to a Symphony of Images Every image in the book of Revelation is used to convey meaning, but it is not possible to know the correct or intended meaning in every case, nor is it necessary to limit an image to only one meaning. When God is introduced as sitting on the heavenly throne in 4:3, John describes the radiant aura of God’s presence by comparing it to the brightness of the gemstones jasper and carnelian, and through a rainbow that looks like an emerald. Here there is no need to identify every element or color as a symbol. The image as a whole, combined with the fact that the author avoids any direct description or anthropomorphic expression for God’s appearance, conveys the sense of God’s transcendence, his total otherness and unfathomable mysteriousness (cf. Giesen 1997, 149). Within the wider narrative, it is important to notice that the radiance of the heavenly Jerusalem, its wall, and its first foundation are also compared to jasper (21:11, 18, 19), which shows that the entire city shares in the character of God. It would be as needless to ascribe specific meaning to each of the building materials of the heavenly Jerusalem as it would be to interpret the individual aspects of the garments and ornamentation of the woman sitting on the beast in 17:3 in a symbolic way. Apart from the need, however, to consider the details as a whole, rather than ascribe special significance to each one separately, one should be aware that in some cases there might be more significance to them than we realize, because we lack full background information. We also find that some images in the text convey multiple meanings simultaneously. For example, Craig  R.  Koester mentions, among others, the image of the “whore” (pornē), which “signifies sexual immorality, but . . . could also portray commercial dealings as immoral” and “characterize . . . religious infidelity.” Similarly, the image of the “seal” (sphragis) that the redeemed receive on their foreheads “suggests both protection and belonging” (Koester 2014, 138–39). The list of such images could be extended, particularly when the sociocultural context, role of tradition, and religious-historical backgrounds are taken into consideration. When a visionary item is described in a detailed way that includes a number of figurative elements, the sense of meaning attributed to the item increases exponentially, and the characterization proves to be denser in the end. Tensions at the pictorial level frequently result, creating incongruous and ambiguous images, which encompass bizarre, unrealistic, and even contradictory elements. As a result, it is anything but easy to imagine the one like a Son of Man holding seven stars in his right hand as a two-edged sharp sword comes out from his mouth (1:16; cf. 19:15), yet the imagery of the hand symbolizes his extraordinary strength, authority, and protection, and the sword points to the power of his speech. Later, the heavenly city is presented as a gigantic cube, which is peculiar enough, and the low height of the wall (144 cubits, or less than 300 meters), which is out of all proportion to the city’s enormous height itself (12,000 stadia, or 2200 kilometers;

Imagery in the Book of Revelation   57 21:16–17), surpasses ordinary imagination. It also appears to be contradictory to envision a lamb that is standing as having been slaughtered (hestēkos hōs esphagmenon), both victim and conqueror at the same time (5:6), especially when immediately beforehand one of the elders introduced a lion, not a lamb (5:5). Nevertheless, the bizarre and challenging features of the images are essential for Revelation’s fundamental message. The abrupt paradoxical change from a symbol of strength and power (lion) to a symbol of powerlessness and defenselessness (lamb) can be understood as a corrective reinterpretation, a reassessment of values, and a clarification of content regarding the nature of power, just as the description of the lamb itself makes a clear and unambiguous reference to Jesus’s death and resurrection (cf. Huber  2012, 457–61). When interpreting ­symbols, then, “the ideas, not the individual pictures, can be put together into a conceptual, not visual, mosaic” (Beale 1999, 66). Finally, single images, visionary scene, and sequences of visions should not be taken on their own but interpreted through their interconnection within the literary context. They lead from the particular word pictures to what can be called the symphony of images as a whole. The impact and force of the visionary images in Revelation, like a musical composition, only unfold in a full sense on this level (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 26–38; Frey 2001, 177–82). What applies to the vision-narratives on their own applies all the more to their combination, sequence, and context within the entire book. Variations, modulations, extensions, extrapolations, dramatic intensifications, contrasts, and reinterpretations are to be found when the whole framework is taken into consideration. Details of the description of heaven as the sphere of God are added throughout the book (5:6, 11; 6:9; 7:9; 8:3, 5, etc.), and it gradually evolves from a throne room (4:2, 4) into a celestial temple (7:15; 11:19; 14:7; 15:5–8). Insight into the real significance of Babylon, the great whore (Rev 17–18), and the heavenly Jerusalem, the bride (21:9–22:5), is deepened when the two symbolic entities are considered as contrasting images. This helps readers to see more clearly the contrasting values associated with each image: the one as a cipher for imperial power and its seductive yet ruinous, arrogant, violent, and blasphemous nature, which is deeply related to evil, as it is realized in Rome in the readers’ time, but it actually extends far beyond Rome; the other as a cipher for the redeemed people of God in God-centered harmony and lively eschatological fulfillment (cf. Huber 2017, 119–30; Koester 2014, 682–84). Counterimagery in the sense of antithetic parallelization can also be attested to the vision of the beast rising out of the sea in 13:1–10 (cf. 17:1–18), since in many of its details the portrayal reveals the beast to be a poor imitation of Christ (cf. 5:6–14) (cf. Huber 2011, 60–62). In doing so, readers are again faced with values or forms of power that are different in kind, origin, and impact: the authority of the beast is characterized as demonic, coming not from God but from Satan; its social and political practices are perceived as leading not to life but to tyranny, destruction, and death. The arrangement of the visionary sequences generally runs toward the final vision and culminates in the image of the new heaven and the new earth and the new Jerusalem. However, when one is trying to put all the visions into a logical sequence, it is hard to see how the dragon can sweep down a third of the stars with its tail in 12:4, because all the stars have already fallen to

58   Konrad Huber the earth at the opening of the sixth seal in 6:13, or how the sky can exist anymore (cf. 8:10), since it has vanished like a scroll rolling itself up (6:14; cf. Biguzzi 2003). Within the visionary cycles, Jesus Christ is depicted in three different ways: as one like a Son of Man, in 1:9–20 and 14:14–20; as Lamb, in 5:6–14; and as a rider on a white horse, in 19:11–21. While the first and the last image predominantly convey aspects of power and majesty, the Lamb first and foremost indicates defenselessness and suffering through violent death. Power and majesty, however, are associated with the Lamb as well. The opposite is also true, since Revelation connects the powerful images of the one like a Son of Man and the rider with the suffering of death (cf. 1:18; 19:13). Though the images of the Son of Man, the Lamb, and the rider are closely connected by many structural and content-related features, which create an inner coherence and show their fundamental importance for the overall composition, it is only the figure of the lamb that appears frequently in other contexts throughout the book. The Lamb is mentioned a total of twenty-eight times; it is the central and most relevant image of Christ in the book of Revelation, and thus shapes the reader’s understanding of its Christological message. A similar variety of different images for the same entity only comes across in the portrayal of the people of God, whether pointing to their identity as heirs of the promises to Israel and yet consisting of people from every national background and language group, whether it points to its present situation as a persecuted church under the protection of God or to its eschatological determination and existence as a faithful Christian community in the final consummation. It is visualized as the one hundred forty-four thousand sealed out of every tribe of the people of Israel (7:1–8; cf. 14:1, 3) and as the great multitude of those who had conquered standing before the heavenly throne (7:9–17; cf. 15:2); by the great heavenly sign, the woman clothed with the sun (12:1–6, 13–18), which is threatened by Satan; as lampstands (1:20) and above all as the bride of the lamb (19:7; 21:2, 9) and the new Jerusalem in the end (21:9–22:5). Using a variety of images turns out to be the author’s principle of presenting his message, and one should not give too much weight to the logic, the consistency, and the progressive linearity of the portrayal throughout the book but rather pay attention to the level of meaning and its interrelations. What Ruben Zimmermann has said about the imagery in John’s Gospel also applies to the book of Revelation: The author “is less committed to the logic of discourse than the ‘logic of aesthetic’ ” (Zimmermann 2006, 34). In the end, the whole book is to be understood as one single symbolic narrative portraying the real forces at work in the world and the salvific purpose of God and Christ for their people.

The Multifaceted Background of the Images The pictorial motifs in the book of Revelation are drawn from different sources, traditions, and sociocultural backgrounds (Böcher 1998b, 611–27). Images of nature, animals,

Imagery in the Book of Revelation   59 and human life are most common (Böcher 1998a, 88–90); they engage the senses, from seeing and hearing to taste and smell (Backhaus 2004, 432–33). Apart from their semantic dimensions, many of them bear an archetypal aspect as well (Drewermann  1985, 436–591; cf. Raguse 1993), and some might even have been chosen because of or in reference to contemporary local and sociocultural circumstances (Worth 1999). However, it is the sources that are used that fundamentally enrich their specific meaning. The most important sources for the imagery in Revelation are the writings of the Old Testament and Jewish apocalyptic literature. Echoes, allusions, and more direct references are found throughout the text, although there are no verbatim quotations. The books of Daniel, Ezekiel, and Isaiah are used most often, and motifs and phrases from the Psalms, Genesis, and Exodus are also common (cf. Moyise in this book). Before their inclusion in Revelation, many of these motifs were already shaped by their role in Jewish apocalyptic writings of the second temple period and its aftermath, such as 1 and 2 Enoch, 4 Ezra, and 2 Baruch. This broader background and tradition-historical development must be taken into account in order to discern the nuances of meaning suggested by their use in Revelation. This is the case, for instance, when the risen Christ is introduced as “one like a Son of Man” (1:13; 14:14), recalling Dan 7:13, while including the horizon of understanding opened up through the traditions in 1 En. 37–71 or 4 Ezra 13. While Dan 7 leaves the identity of the figure receiving everlasting power somehow ambiguous and most probably speaks of a collective symbol representing God’s people, in these later apocalyptic traditions the Son of Man evolves into an individual messianic figure with divine traits, who was preexistent and acts as celestial ruler, who will one day defeat or judge the wicked and rescue the righteous (Huber 2007, 126–45; cf. Collins 1995, 210–12). The presentation of the new Jerusalem in Rev 21–22 draws from such Old Testament texts as Isa 60–62; 65:17–19; Ezek 40–48; and Exod 28:17–21, but when read against the background of later texts like 1 En. 90; 3 Bar. 4; 4 Ezra 9:26–10:59; Sib. Or. 5; and 4Q554, we can find elements from wider Jewish speculations about the hope that one day Jerusalem would be eschatologically renewed and about Jerusalem as a heavenly and preexistent city, transcendent in the present and appearing or coming down on earth in the end times (cf. Müller-Fieberg 2003; Söllner 1998). Although John uses motifs from these sources, the depiction presented in Rev 21–22, above all the unimaginable size of the city and the absence of the temple, also indicates how different this vision is from Jewish expectations of the period and it shows that his vision is not of the renewal of the earthly Jerusalem but of a city that is of another order. Revelation fashions new images from the earlier traditions by using a collage or patchwork technique (Pezzoli-Olgiati  1997, 188). For example, the author introduces Christ as one like a Son of Man in Rev 1:13 by drawing on Dan 7:13, yet the description that follows in Rev 1:13–16 is largely based on the angelophany in Dan 10:5–6, while the figure’s head and hair recall the vision of God in Dan 7:9; the voice that sounds like rushing water is reminiscent of God’s coming in Ezek 1:24; 43:2; and the sword from his mouth employs a metaphor from Isa 11:4; 29:2 (Frey 2001, 170–73; Huber 2007, 145–73). By transferring attributes that were originally predicated of God in Dan 7:9 to the figure

60   Konrad Huber of the Son of Man in Rev 1:14, the writer shows that the risen Christ is not to be understood merely as an angel but as the one who exercises the sovereignty of God. Another mosaic of motifs from an Old Testament text is the vision of the beast from the sea in Rev 13:1–2. The description brings together the key features of each of the four terrible beasts arising out of the sea in Dan 7:2–8. Since all these traits are now included in one beast, the vision shows the unsurpassable brutality of this single beast, thus revealing the tyrannical qualities of many empires as part of the same reality. Recasting his source in this way, the author discloses vividly the cruel, threatening, and even demonic character of Roman rule at work. Such deliberate modifications of older materials, as well as the creative and to some extent unconventional interrelationships formed between elements in the descriptions of the Son of Man and the beast, show that this collage technique fits the author’s theological intention. The full meaning and force of the new image arises from the entire combination, even as every single motif contributes essential aspects to the whole from its former context. From this perspective, it is essential to learn more about the context in which the motif was originally used, to ask about the extent to which alterations have taken place (McComiskey 1993), and to investigate how the use of significant attributes in the new context points to a new understanding of what the image means. Beyond the Old Testament and early Jewish writings, some of the pictures and narrated sequences of actions have affinities with ancient Near Eastern and Greek myths, with Greco-Roman practices and concepts, especially from the imperial cult, and with popular apocalyptic ideas of communal religious life. The vision in Rev 12 of the woman surrounded by cosmic elements and the dragon threatening her and her newborn child, together with the vision of the dragon’s combat and expulsion from heaven, is perhaps the most obvious example of Revelation’s use of ancient mythic and astral-mythological patterns. The text draws on mythic traditions as found in different forms in the Egyptian story of the pregnant goddess Isis being pursued by the serpent Seth in which her son Horus fights against Seth and beats him to death, as well as in the Greco-Roman version in which Leto flees from the dragon Python and her child Apollo kills Python four days after his birth. Combat myths telling the conflict between good and evil are also common in ancient traditions, for example in Babylonian texts about the fight of the god Marduk against the dragon Tiamat. Apart from the biblical evidence of individual components of the visionary narrative (cf. Gen 3:1–5, 15–16; Exod 19:4; Deut 8:3, etc.) one has to admit that there are some similarities to the story of Rev 12 in these pagan sources as well, even though the specifics may vary at many points. There are also certain elements like the child’s rapture to heaven, the woman’s refuge in the desert, and the pursuit of the rest of her children by the dragon that are entirely new and yet are particularly relevant for Revelation’s theological point concerning earthly conflict, the deliverance of God’s people, and God’s final victory over evil. The composition of Rev 12 can best be characterized as “the creative use of multiple traditions” (Koester  2014, 528, cf. 555–60). Debates about specific details regarding nature and extent of relationship is ongoing (Busch  1996; Halver  1964; Kalms  2001; cf. Malina  1995; Yarbro Collins  1976). But Revelation draws on multiple mythic traditions from Babylonian, Egyptian and

Imagery in the Book of Revelation   61 Greco-Roman sources in a flexible way, just as the imagery itself is fluid. “It is also important to note that the origins of mythic images do not determine their meanings. Authors could shape the mythic images to make different, even contradictory, points in different contexts” (Koester 2014, 528; cf. Giesen 1990, 266–76). With regard to the influence of rites and religious actions of the Roman imperial cult on Revelation’s imagery, the heavenly throne-room scene in Rev 4–5 can be named as an example. The liturgy of worship performed in heaven together with the figural constellation and the spatial accessories in Rev 4–5 show some striking analogies to the Roman imperial court ceremonial, which is known from ancient sources and was probably familiar to the recipients of the text (cf. Aune 1983; Ebner 2011). The throne, the attendants, acclamations such as “worthy,” and the gestures of falling down and throwing down the wreaths before God can be correlated with Greek and Roman patterns of publicly honoring the ruler. Yet the purpose is to build up an implicit contrast between the absolute sovereignty of the Creator and the earthly rulers who claim divine honors, and thus subtly contributes to John’s critique of imperial power by disclosing the Roman court ceremonial as an improper presumption of what happens in God’s realm. While God’s claims are true, the emperor’s claims are not true. Some pictorial elements in the vision of the two beasts that represent the Imperium Romanum and its social and religious claims as being condensed in the imperial cult and its propaganda in Rev 13 may serve as another vivid example. The request to worship the first beast and its performance, and the attempts to deceive and coerce people from all over the world into this worship by erecting, inter alia, a statue to the deified beast (13:4, 8, 12–14) point in precisely this direction. On a broader and more general level, a “mythology of imperial cults” (Friesen 2004, esp. 309–10), which includes motifs of military victory, peace, and plenty, is depicted in Roman iconography and (temple-)architecture. These elements can be identified in Rev 13 as a possible point of reference used by the author in order to rhetorically emphasize his evaluative intention. In addition, allusions to legends of Nero’s survival of death and possible return by depicting one of the heads of the first beast as mortally wounded, but healed (13:3, 12, 14), should also be mentioned here. Apart from some general influence on the imagery used in the text, the author’s particular aim is to develop so-called ironic or polemical parallelisms (cf.  Aune  1983; Barnett  1989), mirroring, satirizing, and unmasking imperial ideology, the ruling emperor, and the imperium as a whole. By arranging the visionary narrative this way, John makes the beast in Rev 13 a mirror image and demonic counterpart of the lamb (5:6–14), just as he uncovers the personified Rome seated on seven hills in a deterring and repelling way as a lush and drunken whore sitting on a seven-headed satanic monster (17:1–18). Revelation’s visual imagery comes to life with such antagonisms and thereby affects the reader’s perception of reality in a subtle, yet effective way. Overall, the multiple backgrounds of the images require a multifaceted approach, or rather, a synopsis and blending of different levels of access and meaning. Revelation’s imagery operates simultaneously on many different and overlapping levels of presentation in order to reveal its deep insight into the true nature of reality as impressively as possible. As far as it brings together ancient mythic, Greco-Roman, and Hebrew

62   Konrad Huber traditions, so that Revelation can be considered a “syncretic book” in a particular sense (Whitaker  2015b, 228). It should be noted, however, that tradition- and religious­historical investigations, whether on Old Testament, early Jewish, ancient oriental, or Greco-Roman backgrounds, must not confine themselves to the reconstruction of sources and traditions and the surveying of their origins and modifications. The quest for the meaning and rhetorical function of the newly created image and narration adapting those prior traditions within their own context and the inherent logic and theological intent of the book as a whole should receive the main emphasis in the end (cf. Frenschkowski 2015, 195–96).

Function and Effect of the Imagery Like the images themselves, their function within the book of Revelation has multiple dimensions. Recent studies have approached the visions by using the category of ekphrasis, which is the vivid portrayal of an object or a scene and as a technique used in Greco-Roman rhetoric (cf. Neumann 2015; Whitaker 2015a, 2015b; Weissenrieder 2015). The category is useful because of the imaginative nature of the apocalyptic language. The visions are understood to be literary devices that are integral to the author’s rhetorical strategy; in other words, they are an essential feature of John’s persuasive argument. Through the use of vivid description, words become iconographic, and something visual is conveyed through words. When a speaker uses the descriptive language associated with ekphrasis, the effect is to transform the hearers into spectators. Moreover, the rhetorical force does not simply lie in presenting realities to the mind but to touch readers or hearers emotionally and to involve them in the epiphanic experience. When they are “moved” by the evocative language they come to see and accept the author’s alternative point of view and question the common way of seeing the world. Whether or not one considers ekphrasis to be an appropriate rhetorical tool for Revelation, it seems clear that the visionary imagery in Revelation is designed to be evocative and to have a persuasive function. Attention to the rhetorical dimension is helpful when considering individual images in the text, although the argumentative force of the vision becomes even clearer when it is placed in the context of the wider narrative. Rhetorical analysis recognizes that the readers’ thoughts, attitudes, and feelings are skillfully directed “by the use of effective symbols and a narrative plot that invites imaginative participation” (Yarbro Collins 1984, 145, cf. 141–63; cf. Ulland 1997, 9–12). One may speak of the author’s intention to create and even heighten the tension between what is and what ought to be, and then to overcome the tension through an act of imagination that has a cathartic effect. The text becomes particularly effective by using a wealth of images, so that its message is not only depicted on a cognitive level, but it is reinforced on the emotional level (Glonner 1999; Koester 2014, 134–36). Just as the vision of the two beasts (Rev 13) evokes fear, the image of the whore (Rev 17) not only gives insight but evokes revulsion.

Imagery in the Book of Revelation   63 Conversely, the images of the one hundred forty-four thousand sealed and the great multitude in heaven (Rev 7) evoke hope and confidence, just as the images of the slaughtered lamb (Rev 5) and the threatened woman (Rev 12) are expected to provide not only understanding but a response of sympathy. It is the emotions affected that shape people’s commitments and actions and encourage faithfulness to God, Christ, and the Christian community. Together with its rhetorical and emotional qualities, then, Revelation’s imagery has a strong parenetic and comforting function. Presenting God, the heavenly realm, or the risen Christ so vividly, repeatedly placing prospects of the eschatological completion of God’s people throughout the narrative, especially in the midst of plagues and catastrophes (cf. Rev 7; 14:1–5; 15:2–4), or portraying the opposing powers in such a repulsive way and thus revealing their true nature is meant to give courage and comfort to the readers and to motivate them to stay steadfast in their faith and to endure in spite of their current besetting situation. Contrary to the apparent impression, so goes the message, the oppressing ungodly powers are already definitively doomed and God together with Christ will be victorious in the end, while all the Christians who conquer in the way Christ himself has conquered (cf. 5:5; 21:7, etc.) will participate in this ultimate victory. This is to transform the perspective of the readers in order to elicit resistance against the tyranny of the factual by creativity and imagination (cf. Trummer  1997, 385) and to change not only the perception of the world by passing through the sequence of images, but also to initiate a transformation of the world in a symbolic way (Barr  1984; cf. Backhaus 2004, 433–35). Moreover, the use of narrative pictures, symbols, metaphors, and comparative phrases convey meaning and yet retain a persistent sense of mystery. When the author attempts to describe the indescribable, he uses images that are familiar, and yet he shows his awareness of the limitations of descriptions. This is particularly true whenever he expresses himself using “like” or “as.” The images give an impression of the meaning, yet they do not provide full disclosure. In the end, they can provide only an approximation. Frequently, more than one picture is needed to communicate ideas about transcendent truth, as is the case with the heavenly realm, life in the completion, or God and Christ themselves. The evocative quality of Revelation’s images enables them to address a specific situation and yet convey something generally valid at the same time. The use of symbolic names like Babylon (14:8; 16:19; 17:5; 18:2, 10, 21) highlights this intention. These names are not actually understood as a code designed to hide the author’s intention from all but a few selected insiders in order to protect them from persecution. The comment that the great whore Babylon sits on seven hills (17:9), for instance, is all too clearly a link to Rome, which would be apparent to most ancient readers. Instead of naming Rome directly, using the biblical Babylon invites the readers first to think of more than Rome, of something that goes beyond the immediate imperial context and conveys a general truth about empires. Second, using a name from the biblical past recommends them to discover analogies between classic situations in Israel’s history and their own situation, and it calls upon thinking in a typological way about its meaning for the present and the

64   Konrad Huber future (cf. Yarbro Collins 1984, 146–47). Like an attempted “view of the essence” (cf. Trummer 1997, 385), the mythopoetic use of symbolic names can be classified as an indication that what is meant to be the true nature of reality cannot be limited to a particular contemporary entity or situation, but is to designate and denounce characteristics and negative degeneracy of imperial powers in a prophetic perspective. As Ian Paul states, the apocalyptic image is “the product of the fusion of an adapted image from the traditional ‘storehouse’ of imagery with a simplified and stereotyped version of social and political realities” (Paul 2001, 144). However, symbols have a timeless meaning of their own. John uses “true symbols meant to evoke complex intellectual and psychological responses” (Barr 1984, 41).

Impacts on the History of Reception Imagery from Revelation has had a profound impact on Christian art, church architecture, piety, and liturgy, as well as on modern literature and film. The generative power of the images is also apparent in the way various religious groups have equated the images in Revelation with figures or events of their own time. Probably no other biblical book has exerted this kind of influence through the use of such colorful and powerful images (Böcher 1998a, esp. 90–105; 2010; Schiller 1990–91). The broad reception history vividly shows the evocative power of these images and the way they stimulate people’s imagination. While initially being a way of describing Roman imperialism or excessive imperial claims as a whole, in the Middle Ages the whore of Babylon (Rev 17), for instance, was pictured as an example of vice as opposed to virtue, and during the Reformation illustrations equated the whore—and also the dragon itself (Rev 12)—with the Roman papacy, thus placing the papal tiara on her head. Likewise, beginning in the Middle Ages artistic portrayals of the woman clothed with the sun (12:1–6) strongly supported the identification of the woman and her newborn child with Mary and Christ. Furthermore, depicting the first horseman (6:2) as a threatening warrior within Albrecht Dürer’s cycle of woodcuts (1498) has influenced the exegesis of this vision until today. Generally speaking, numerous pictures from the book of Revelation have long become an integral part and common property of today’s cultural repertoire of images, and this not only in distinctive apocalyptic discourses.

Conclusion To explore the meaning and the theological message of the book of Revelation means to deal with its fascinating, challenging, and often unsettling yet omnipresent imagery. In order to approach this task appropriately, it is necessary to take into consideration the

Imagery in the Book of Revelation   65 nature and kind of the metaphoric language used in the text, its interplay within the narrow and wider context, and the literary techniques of its creative application. The analysis of the multiple background and sources of the images depicted especially contributes to reveal their deeper sense and common understanding. Furthermore, it is in­dis­pen­sa­ble to examine the rhetorical function and intended effect of their specific use. Finally, reception history can also provide insights not only into potential dimensions of its meaning but also into how Revelation’s imagery shapes people’s conduct, commitments, and Christian faith.

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66   Konrad Huber Frey, Jörg. 2001. “Die Bildersprache der Johannesapokalypse.” ZTK 98: 161–85. Friesen, Steven J. 2004. “Myth and Symbolic Resistance in Revelation 13.” JBL 123: 281–313. Giesen, Heinz. 1990. “Symbole und mythische Aussagen in der Johannesapokalypse und ihre theologische Bedeutung.” In Metaphorik und Mythos im Neuen Testament, edited by Karl Kertelge, pp. 255–77. QD 126. Freiburg: Herder. Giesen, Heinz. 1997. Die Offenbarung des Johannes. RNT. Regensburg: Pustet. Glonner, Georg. 1999. Zur Bildersprache des Johannes von Patmos: Untersuchung der Johannesapokalypse anhand einer um Elemente der Bildinterpretation erweiterten historischkritischen Methode. NTAbh 34. Münster: Aschendorff. Halver, Rudolf. 1964. Der Mythos im letzten Buch der Bibel: Eine Untersuchung der Bildersprache der Johannes-Apokalypse. TF 32. Hamburg: Reich. Huber, Konrad. 2007. Einer gleich einem Menschensohn: Die Christusvisionen in Offb 1,9–20 und Offb 14,14–20 und die Christologie der Johannesoffenbarung. NTAbh 51. Münster: Aschendorff. Huber, Konrad. 2011. “In der Vollmacht des Satans: Antirömische Herrschaftskritik in der Vision des ‘Tieres aus dem Meer’ in Offb 13, 1–10.” In Kult und Macht: Religion und Herrschaft im syro-palästinischen Raum: Studien zu ihrer Wechselbeziehung in hellenistischrömischer Zeit, edited by Anne Lykke and Friedrich T. Schipper, pp. 49–68. WUNT II/319. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Huber, Konrad. 2012. “Jesus Christus—der Erste und der Letzte: Zur Christologie der Johannesapokalypse.” In Die Johannesapokalypse: Kontexte—Konzepte—Rezeption, edited by Jörg Frey, James A. Kelhoffer, and Franz Tóth, pp. 435–72. WUNT 287. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Huber, Konrad. 2017. “Kontrastierung und Überblendung: Strategien der Rauminszenierung in der Narration der Johannesoffenbarung.” PzB 26: 115–35. Kalms, Jürgen U. 2001. Der Sturz des Gottesfeindes: Traditionsgeschichtliche Studien zu Apokalypse 12. WMANT 93. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener. Karrer, Martin. 2003. “Sprechende Bilder: Zur Christologie der Johannesapokalypse.” In Metaphorik und Christologie, edited by Jörg Frey, Jan Rohls, and Ruben Zimmermann, pp. 111–29. ThBT 120. Berlin: de Gruyter. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Malina, Bruce J. 1995. On the Genre and Message of Revelation: Star Visions and Sky Journeys. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. McComiskey, Thomas Edward. 1993. “Alteration of OT Imagery in the Book of Revelation: Its Hermeneutical and Theological Significance.” JETS 36: 307–16. Müller-Fieberg, Rita. 2003. Das “neue Jerusalem”—Vision für alle Herzen und Zeiten? Eine Auslegung von Offb 21,1–22,5 im Kontext von alttestamentlich-frühjüdischer Tradition und literarischer Rezeption. BBB 144. Berlin: Philo. Neumann, Nils. 2015. Hören und Sehen: Die Rhetorik der Anschaulichkeit in den GottesthronSzenen der Johannesoffenbarung. ABG 49. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Paul, Ian. 2001. “The Book of Revelation: Image, Symbol and Metaphor.” In Studies in the Book of Revelation, edited by Steve Moyise, pp. 131–47. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Pezzoli-Olgiati, Daria. 1997. Täuschung und Klarheit: Zur Wechselwirkung zwischen Vision und Geschichte in der Johannesoffenbarung. FRLANT 175. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Raguse, Hartmut. 1993. Psychoanalyse und biblische Interpretation: Eine Auseinandersetzung mit Eugen Drewermanns Auslegung der Johannes-Apokalypse. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer.

Imagery in the Book of Revelation   67 Schiller, Gertrud. 1990–91. Ikonographie der christlichen Kunst. Band 5: Die Apokalypse des Johannes. 2 vols. Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn. Schmidt, Karl Ludwig. 1947. “Die Bildersprache in der Johannes-Apokalypse.” TZ 3: 161–77. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1991. Revelation: Vision of a Just World. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. Söllner, Peter. 1998. Jerusalem, die hochgebaute Stadt: Eschatologisches und Himmlisches Jerusalem im Frühjudentum und im frühen Christentum. TANZ 25. Tübingen: Francke. Trummer, Peter. 1997. “Offenbarung in Bildern—Die Bilder der Offenbarung.” In Gott-Bild: Gebrochen durch die Moderne?, edited by Gerhard Larcher, pp. 384–93. Graz: Styria. Ulland, Harald. 1997. Die Vision als Radikalisierung der Wirklichkeit in der Apokalypse des Johannes: Das Verhältnis der sieben Sendschreiben zu Apokalypse 12–13. TANZ 21. Tübingen: Francke. Weissenrieder, Annette. 2015. “Bilder zum Sehen—Bilder zum Hören? Über die Grenzen von visuellem Bild und Sprache als Ekphrasis in Apk  17.” In Poetik und Intertextualität der Johannesapokalypse, edited by Stefan Alkier, Thomas Hieke, and Tobias Nicklas, pp. 241–68. WUNT 346. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Wellhausen, Julius. 1907. Analyse der Offenbarung Johannis. Abhandlungen der Königlichen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen. Philologisch-historische Klasse IX/4. Berlin: Weidmann. Whitaker, Robyn J. 2015a. Ekphrasis, Vision, and Persuasion in the Book of Revelation. WUNT II/410. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Whitaker, Robyn J. 2015b. “The Poetics of Ekphrasis: Vivid Description and Rhetoric in the Apocalypse.” In Poetik und Intertextualität der Johannesapokalypse, edited by Stefan Alkier, Thomas Hieke, and Tobias Nicklas, pp. 227–40. WUNT 346. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Worth, Roland H. 1999. The Seven Cities of the Apocalypse and Greco-Asian Culture. New York, NY: Paulist Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1976. The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation. HDR 9. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1984. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press. Zimmermann, Ruben. 2006. “Imagery in John: Opening up Paths into the Tangled Thicket of John’s Figurative World.” In Imagery in the Gospel of John: Terms, Forms, Themes, and Theology of Johannine Figurative Language, edited by Jörg Frey, Jan G. Van der Watt, and Ruben Zimmermann, with Gabi Kern, pp. 1–43. WUNT 200. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

chapter 5

R hetor ica l Fe at u r e s of the Book of R ev el ation David A. deSilva

Introduction: Revelation as a “Rhetorical” Text The premise behind this chapter is that John is writing not to entertain, but to persuade. He wants to see a number of things happen among the congregations to which he sends his text, and the book of Revelation is the primary means by which he hopes to promote those outcomes. The seven oracles that confront the hearers in Rev 2–3 appear to bear out this premise as the glorified Christ identifies allegiances, outlooks, and practices that must change (or must continue) if the congregations are to enjoy his unmitigated approval and its healthful consequences. The visions that follow depict a number of behaviors in such a way as to promote some and repress others. The first and last pronouncements about “the lucky ones” (those who are makarioi, who are privileged and blessed in God’s sight) identify them as those who “keep the things written in” or “keep the words of ” Revelation, that is, align their lives with those commitments and practices that this text promotes (Rev 1:3; 22:7). There is thus every indication in the text itself that John is trying to win audiences over to particular perspectives, to particular allegiances, to particular actions and avoidances of actions—and that he is doing so in a setting of competing voices vying for these audiences’ assent and allegiance. The rhetorical features of Revelation can be explored from a variety of approaches. A number of scholars continue to look for guidance to the handbooks on rhetorical practice that were written during the Greco-Roman period. Classical rhetorical theory provides a vocabulary for talking about John’s persuasive strategies that corresponds to the contemporary analysis of public discourse in John’s own time (Royalty 1997, 601). While the distance between Revelation and a speech by Dio Chrysostom is vast, classical

70   David A. deSilva rhetorical theory nevertheless still raises the incisive, guiding questions and offers the “tools for analyzing the persuasive power” of the former text, in terms of both John’s desired outcomes for his discourse and the “literary means by which they are achieved” (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 22; see also deSilva 2009, 25–27). Others look instead to, or combine the insights of classical rhetoric with, narrative theory or modern theories of rhetoric to achieve the same ends. Whatever one’s methodological bases, it is widely recognized that the genre of “apocalypse” itself offers its own distinctive strategies for persuasion. Writings in this genre typically open broad vistas that lie outside normal, lived experience—the spaces and activities around God’s throne in heaven and other realms beyond the visible sky, infernal regions and their inhabitants and works, and the like. They also create a timeline that extends well beyond normal, lived history, often both in the direction of a mythic prehistory and eschatological expectation (Aune 1998, lxxvii–xc). The “bigger picture” that an apocalypse paints in terms of both space and time sets the hearers’ own space and time within a broader interpretative frame, changing or confirming their perspectives on their own situations and their inclinations in regard to responding to the challenges of their situations. The word “apocalypse” means “an unveiling,” and a great deal of the rhetorical force of an apocalypse like Revelation comes from its power to interpret facets of the lived experience of its audiences, “revealing” the spiritual dimensions of, the “true” nature of, and the consequences of alignment with those facets of their situation. Any assessment of the rhetorical features of Revelation needs to explore how the visions of chapters 4–22 construct an interpretative framework for the everyday situations—as well as an interpretation of specific features of the lived landscape—encountered by John’s audiences that will support the rhetorical goals of the seven oracles, as well as other implicit and explicit exhortations throughout the text (deSilva  2009, 12–14, 93–116).

John’s Principal Rhetorical Goals Classical rhetorical theory focused on oral discourses that had one or more of three primary goals. In deliberative speeches, a speaker primarily sought to persuade the audience to take or avoid a course of action in the immediate future. In forensic or judicial speeches, a speaker primarily sought from the hearers a verdict of condemnation or acquittal. In epideictic speeches, a speaker sought primarily to win assent to a proposition, a celebration of some virtue, or a denunciation of vice. Although there were and are myriad other possible goals for oral discourse, such that the analysis of an author’s or speaker’s potential goals ought not to be limited to these three options, Revelation’s topics and goals do appear to fall largely within the realms of deliberative and epideictic rhetoric (deSilva 2009, 9–11, 82–83; Koester 2014, 135; Yarbro Collins 1984, 144). Deliberative elements emerge throughout the seven oracles, which seek to drive the congregations addressed to particular courses of action in their immediate or

Rhetorical Features of the Book of Revelation   71 near-immediate futures (Kirby 1988, 200), among them: remember how “love” formerly characterized your community and get back on track (Rev 2:4–5); despite an imminent increase in hostile opposition, remain steadfast in your witness even to the point of death (2:10); stop giving a platform to the speakers who want to move your congregation in the direction of greater concessions to the idolatrous practices around you (2:14–16, 20–23), and so forth. The glorified Christ “advises” the Christians in Laodicea (symbouleuō soi, 3:18), using the verb that gave deliberative rhetoric its name (symbouleutikon, Aristotle, Rhet. 1.3.3). In support of these calls to action, moreover, John offers “considerations of the consequences,” which is a common deliberative topic (Rhet. Her. 3.17.4), in the form both of warnings concerning the negative consequences of failure to act as the glorified Christ advises (Rev 2:5b, 16, 22–23; 3:3b, 16b, 18b) and of promises of the positive consequences that will come from embracing the recommended course of action (2:7b, 10b, 11b, 17b, 26–28; 3:4b–5, 9b, 12, 18a, 18c, 20–21). Explicit calls to action and supportive appeals occur throughout the visions of chapters 4 to 22 (e.g., 14:7, 9–11; 18:4–8), though a great deal more attention is given to tracing out in narrative form the consequences of competing courses of action, with a view to engaging the hearers’ internal deliberations about the wisest courses of action to take in their own situations. John’s degree of success in this regard will depend largely on the degree to which he succeeds in making his narrative of these future consequences forceful and, above all, plausible (deSilva 2009, 82–85). Revelation also displays significant affinities with epideictic rhetoric. The seven oracles include the glorified Christ’s praise for and blame of each community as the starting point for his advice (Royalty 1997, 611). John also holds up positive models of praiseworthy action for his hearers to emulate (e.g., the two witnesses, 11:3–13; the one hundred forty-four thousand standing beside the Lamb, 14:1–5; those whose loyalty in the face of death wins them a place in the first resurrection, 20:4–6), as well as censurable models whose actions lead to disgrace, stimulating his hearers’ aversion to following suit (21:8; 22:15; deSilva  1998, 79). Seven macarisms further elevate particular alignments and actions as praiseworthy and, thus, engender the hearers’ commitment to the same (deSilva  2009, 274–84). John creates portraits of cities, such as the commendatory description of new Jerusalem and the censure of Babylon, which utilize recognizable epideictic topics and forms such as the monody (Royalty 1997, 615–16), as well as the devices of amplification (ergasia), vivid description (ekphrasis), and comparison (synkrisis), which are frequently woven into the fabric of epideictic speeches (Royalty 1997, 601; Witherington 2003, 216–17). John’s praise of God and the Lamb (4:11; 5:9–10, 12; 15:3–4; 16:5–7; 19:2, 6–8) and his invectives against rival teachers (2:14–15, 20–21) and hostile powers (13:1–18; 17:1–18:24) are also examples of epideictic discourse. These epideictic elements are woven together with the deliberative elements throughout Revelation, the former portraying the ideal, the latter steering the audience more directly to choose (or to persevere in) the path that leads to the ideal (deSilva 1998, 108–9). John also employs forensic topics, though it is unlikely that he is pursuing forensic goals (contra Schüssler Fiorenza  1991, 26; Witherington  2003, 15). John’s interest in

72   David A. deSilva divine judgment throughout reflects, not his desire to win a verdict, but instead to shape his hearers’ practices based on the projected consequences. John’s indictment of “Babylon” establishes the certainty of God’s judgments against Rome and thus the domination system’s future demise. This serves John’s goals for how his audience will discern advantage in the present, moving them to align with the courses of action John promotes as the most reasonable and advantageous (e.g., divesting themselves of involvement in the oppressive Roman imperial economy, 18:4)—a deliberative goal (deSilva 1998, 99–101). John does not indict his audiences in the seven oracles because he is pursuing forensic goals (contra Witherington 2003, 15), but because the indictments show his congregations where they have hitherto participated in an unjust course of action, specifically so that they may “repent” (2:5, 15, 22; 3:3, 19) and adopt some particular (different) course of action for the future.

John’s Construction of Authority (Ethos) Classical rhetorical theorists laid particular emphasis on the importance of a speaker’s establishing his or her credibility in the eyes of the audience, typically by communicating expertise in the subject under discussion, good will toward the audience, and good moral character. The goal was to render each audience member attentive and receptive to his or her discourse. A major element in John’s construction of authority for his message is his presentation of it as an “apocalypse” or “revelation,” from a divine source, and as a word of “prophecy,” again, an utterance whose origins are to be found in the divine. Aristotle had advised that a speaker might sometimes find it strategic to “make another speak in our place” (Rhet. 3.17.16). John takes this advice to the extreme: his primary strategy for investing his word with authority is to present it as, essentially, not his word at all, but a divinely revealed word from God. John’s own voice is submerged as his audiences hear the voices of the glorified Christ, angels, the Spirit, other supernatural beings, and even God’s own self—for whom John is merely the mouthpiece and scribe— addressing them whether directly or indirectly.1 John sustains this strategy from beginning to end, reinforcing it with every “I saw” or “I heard.” To the extent that John is accepted as a genuine prophet, his word will be accepted as authoritative at a level that can hardly be challenged. By largely avoiding addressing his audiences directly, John also avoids confronting and challenging them directly, leaving this to the more authoritative, superhuman characters to do, thus diminishing his own risk of alienating them (Carey 1998, 758–59). Since Jesus’s voice principally confronts the congregations, John gives attention to establishing Jesus’s ethos in the opening paragraphs of the discourse. Jesus’s good will toward the hearers is evident: he is identified as the one “who loved us and released us from our sins by his blood” (Rev 1:5–6). The superhuman majesty and power of the glorified Jesus is displayed for the congregations as John describes his own encounter with

Rhetorical Features of the Book of Revelation   73 him on Patmos (1:12–16). It is this Jesus whose authority and power stand behind the words to the congregations, both to shore them up in the face of hostility and to take them down should they prove disloyal and ungrateful. The voices of the authors of the Hebrew Scriptures and other authoritative traditions (deSilva 2009, 148–53; Royalty 1997, 605) could be added as an additional chorus that John draws in as a harmonious witness to, and legitimating foundation for, his own word. Revelation is perhaps the New Testament text with the thickest weave of ­intertexture—that is, the most concentrated incorporation of material from older, authoritative prophetic books, from the liturgical texts of the Psalms, and from other recognizable resources from the Scriptures. John incorporates many of these at such length and with such transparency that one can readily imagine that many among his hearers would have recognized the source texts, whose authoritative support John claims for his own discourse even as he allows those older voices to speak afresh into his hearers’ situations (deSilva 2009, 148–53). John does not, however, fail to attend to his own authority. Not one, but two commissioning scenes present John as the duly authorized spokesperson of this message and of the Lord whose message it is. The first of these comes in conjunction with his encounter with the glorified Christ in Rev 1:11–20, in which Christ commissions John to write down the present vision, the forthcoming oracles, and the visions to follow for the benefit of the seven congregations he will address. The second falls just before the midpoint of the book, when an awe-inspiring angel descends to the earth to renew John’s commission in a manner that is sufficiently reminiscent of Ezekiel’s commissioning to appear familiar and authentic (i.e., this is the way prophets get commissioned), but is not so similar as to appear derivative (10:1–11; cf. Ezek 2:8–3:6). John may subtly remind his hearers of his indispensable status as the mediator of divine revelation when he admits that he heard things that, though his first inclination was to write them down so that he could share them, he was forbidden to communicate (Rev 10:4). His frequent use of “as” and “like” as he attempts to put into words what he saw or heard also reminds the hearers, subtly, that even though John’s words allow them to imagine what his experience was, it remains his experience, and its substance is not perfectly communicable. He will always know more than his congregations (deSilva 2009, 133–34). Among the things John communicates are some stellar endorsements by superhuman figures of what he writes. The assertion and macarism of 22:6–7 is a case in point: “[H]e said to me, ‘These words are reliable and true, and the Lord, the God of the spirits of the prophets, sent his angel to show his slaves what must soon come to pass. And look! I am coming soon! Favored (makarios) is the one who lives out the words of the prophecy of his scroll.” John’s angelic guide endorses John’s words, which have become the written representation of the “reliable and true” things the angel has shown John in the vision of 21:1–22:5 and of things related throughout Revelation from beginning to end, given the resonances here with 1:3 (deSilva 2009, 134–37). Jesus’s voice clearly cuts in with the “I” of “I am coming soon,” and he pronounces the person who “keeps” what John has written—that is, who moves forward now in line with what John’s discourse has recommended — to be privileged and honored. Without sacrificing his authority as

74   David A. deSilva a genuine prophet, John also establishes connections with his hearers by speaking of himself as a fellow slave, brother, and partner (1:9; Royalty  1998, 144; Schüssler Fiorenza 1985, 196) and by admitting occasional weakness, errors, and confusion (1:17; 5:4–5; 7:13–17; 17:7–8; 19:10; 22:8). The other side of appeals to ethos, or establishing one’s own credibility, is undermining the credibility of opposing voices that seek to sway the same audience in contrary directions (Schüssler Fiorenza  1991, 137; see esp. Carey  1999, 137–63). The Christian prophetess whom John labels “Jezebel” is one such voice, but it is equally important that John neutralize the voices of the Christians’ idolatrous neighbors and fellow citizens (deSilva 1998, 94–97) and of representatives of Roman power (Schüssler Fiorenza 1985, 192) to keep his congregations, or get them back, on track with where he believes they need to be. John rarely denounces these opposing speakers in his own voice; rather, he brings other authoritative voices to bear against his rivals. We hear the glorified Christ denounce the rival Christian prophets (2:14–15, 20–23). Christ’s murdered witnesses cry out for justice against Rome and its enforcers (6:9–11; 16:5–7). Voices from heaven accuse and sentence “Babylon,” undermining the credibility of the spokespersons for the public discourse about Roman rule and its benefits (18:1–8, 21–24). John thus distances himself from appearing self-serving or hateful; those whose ethos is above suspicion undermine the rival speakers to whom John’s congregations are, in varying degrees, tempted to give a hearing. The case of John’s rival Christian prophets commands particular interest among rhetorical critics. John (or, as John would prefer, the glorified Christ) associates his opponents with negative characters from the scriptural tradition—Jezebel and Balaam—whose status as notorious false prophets will adversely color the congregations’ perception of their living counterparts. Jezebel is further “debased” by the application of the language of sexual misconduct and wantonness to her activity as a leader and teacher (Carey 1999, 157–58), though such metaphorical language applied to deviations from covenant loyalty has a long her­it­age in the Jewish tradition. John’s deployment of the stereotype of the “out-of-control female” arouses revulsion and undermines her authority in the Thyatiran congregation (Duff 2001, 98–111). His depiction of Jezebel, the beast from the land, and Babylon using similar language links the acceptance of Jezebel’s teaching with deception by Satan and his lackeys and with the crimes of the Roman order (Duff 2001, 75). It seems unlikely, however, that John was categorically opposed to any other prophet having influence among these congregations in the interest of establishing his unique and exclusive authority (contra Duff 2001, 49), or that John regarded his message as the “only revelation of Jesus Christ” (Carey 1999, 133); John presents his work simply as “a revelation of Jesus Christ” (1:1). The same angel who affirms John’s work also affirms the voices and activity of other prophets (22:9, 16). Since the “testing” of prophets was a wellestablished, even expected, practice within Christian culture (1 Thess 5:20; 1 John 4:3; Did. 11–13), particularly the testing of a prophet’s word by other prophets (1 Cor 14:29), John could be seen here to act in an anti-authoritarian manner, submitting his word to those other prophets for their confirmation of his message. Indeed, John commends the Christians in Ephesus for attending to this practice (Rev 2:2).

Rhetorical Features of the Book of Revelation   75 One important but often overlooked element of John’s construction of his authority is the degree to which he has presented his word as congruent with the scriptural heritage and the Jesus tradition that he and his congregations regard as the ultimate measure of authority, and by which they have committed themselves to be guided (deSilva 2009, 158–74). His faithfulness to this heritage, his speaking quite fully in alignment with it, would be one important indication to his addressees that he was a genuine prophet and that his word was therefore to be heeded, as it spoke from and for that heritage, giving new life to the ancient revelations of the One God and that God’s values in the face of new challenges to faithful obedience.

John’s Appeals to the Emotions (Pathos) Revelation has consistently evoked strong emotional responses from its readers in every generation, and some of this, at least, is by John’s design. While it is indeed difficult to assess how an ancient text would have affected its ancient audiences (Carey 2008, 175)— let alone which of those emotional evocations were in line with the author’s hopes for his or her discourse—several classical rhetorical handbooks do give us an insider’s perspective on how to provoke the desired emotions in the Greco-Roman world. Aristotle’s Art of Rhetoric is especially helpful in this regard, as Aristotle provides a taxonomy of eleven emotional responses together with a wide sampling of situations, conditions, and persons that typically elicit each response (Rhet. 2.1–11). Two important emotional responses that John appears to seek to elicit throughout Revelation are fear and confidence. The former tends to be evoked in connection with whatever course of action from which John would dissuade his hearers—most notably, any course of action that falls in line with the culturally promoted practices of idolatrous cult and emperor worship and thus fails to give God and the Lamb the honor that is uniquely their due. The latter, conversely, tends to be evoked in connection with the path of faithful obedience to the One God’s commandments, and bold witness to the same and to the Lamb. Foundational to evoking either emotion is impressing upon the hearers the threat of some imminent harm (fear; Aristotle, Rhet. 2.5.1) or the assurance of imminent help and deliverance (confidence; Rhet. 2.5.16). John’s sustained emphasis on the imminence or suddenness of the intervention of God and God’s Messiah in human affairs (Rev 1:1, 3, 4, 7, 8; 2:1, 16; 3:11; 16:15; 22:6, 7, 10, 12, 20) provides this necessary precondition for these emotional appeals. Although Aristotle did not discuss the formulae for arousing awe in the ancient world, since awe is not an emotion commonly called for in effective deliberative, forensic, or epideictic oratory, evocations of awe were certainly a desired goal in many cultic settings in Roman Asia Minor. The colossal cultic representations of the gods—­ including the emperors, whether dead and deified or still living—in their towering

76   David A. deSilva temples, the carefully choreographed ceremonies in those sacred spaces, and the attention to special effects, from lighting to ventriloquism, were all calculated to induce in the worshipers feelings of awe toward their gods and rulers. John does no less with his Revelation, crafting literary liturgies and carving verbal images of the One God and his Christ with a view to allowing his audiences to enter into those inaccessible worship spaces of heaven through their imaginations and to experience the exponentially greater awe that their God and the Lamb inspire (see esp. 1:12–20 and 4:1–5:14).2 John already capitalizes on these initial investments throughout the seven oracles, and the awesomeness of this Christ and the imminence of his interventions in the lives of his congregations undergird appeals to both fear (2:5, 12, 16, 18, 22–23; 3:3, 16) and confidence (2:10–11, 24–25; 3:4, 8–10, 19–20; deSilva 2009, 182–85). At the same time, Christ’s words of commendation for the churches (2:2, 3, 9, 13, 19; 3:8) are likely to evoke feelings of friendship, as people are well disposed toward those “who praise our good qualities, especially those which we ourselves are afraid we do not possess” (Aristotle, Rhet. 2.4.14), whereas his words of censure are not likely to arouse the opposite feelings, for a number of reasons. First, the hearers are mindful of how much Christ has invested in them (1:5–6), establishing an overarching framework of friendship. Second, Christ enacts a well-established pattern in prophetic utterances, diagnosing what needs to be set right among the people of God, and he does so in such a way as suggests his confidence that the hearers can rise to the challenge, even promising generous benefits to all who do (2:7, 11, 17, 26–28; 3:5, 12, 21). John also nurtures feelings of enmity throughout the oracles, especially toward the prophets who would lead their congregations in directions that John does not recognize as faithful (2:14–15, 20, 24–25) and toward other social bodies, such as the synagogues in Smyrna and Philadelphia and the general population of Pergamum, which are associated with Satan, the primeval enemy of God (2:9, 13; 3:9). John potentially arouses the emotion of shame (see Aristotle, Rhet. 2.6) as well throughout the oracles. What is said to each congregation is said in front of all the congregations: the circle of churches is made witness to the achievements and to the failures of each, and the various audiences are made to imagine the supralocal Christian community bearing witness to the glorified Christ’s praise and censure, and continuing to bear witness to each church’s response after hearing this word delivered, whether or not each would repair its reputation, to the extent that it was impugned. Thus the Laodicean Christians’ general failure to discern their actual spiritual state is laid bare not only to their eyes but to all the churches’ gaze, allowing their “nakedness” indeed to become visible (3:18). If they have not become shameless in this regard, these awkward feelings will drive them to reform and, thus, to the rehabilitation of their reputation, and the same applies to the Christians at Sardis, whose reputation does not reflect their reality (3:1b). The visionary material of Revelation is even more overt in its appeals to the emotions of the audiences. The visions of the heavenly worship that occupies the concentric spheres of angelic orders around the throne of God and the Lamb both arouses awe, as stated above, and feelings of gratitude as the causes for worship are explicated—God’s creation of all that is (and all who are) for God’s own pleasure, the Lamb’s ransoming

Rhetorical Features of the Book of Revelation   77 back for God with his life blood those who had alienated themselves from God, ennobling them to become a priestly kingdom for God (4:11; 5:9–10; deSilva 2009, 196–98). These scenes prepare the hearers, in turn, to encounter their emperors and imperial cult—a locally sponsored attempt to evoke awe and gratitude toward the emperors among the residents of the cities there—in a very different light and guise (13:1–18). As Whitaker (2015, 168) rightly discerns, “Rhetoric that moves hearers to worship . . . functions specifically as a form of argumentation about who rightly deserves worship . . . and who holds true power over humanity’s fate.” John seeks to arouse indignation against the emperors and their local cult organizers as figures who steal from the One God the worship and adulation due God alone (deSilva 2009, 198–203). As Greg Carey (1999, 154) insightfully observes, “John uses parody to unmask imperial hybris,” parody being a particularly useful tool “where appearances are deceptive . . . for revealing imperial pretensions.” The arousal of indignation, now, at this counterfeit deity and cult supports John’s call for critical distance from and witness against the mechanisms of imperial legitimation. John also rouses indignation extensively against the figure of “Babylon,” a transparent refiguration of the goddess Roma Aeterna, the hypostatization of the city of Rome and its ascendancy over the circum-Mediterranean region. Redressing the goddess as a prostitute and presenting her wealth as the ill-gotten gains of economic rapine—the wealth and resources leached from the known world by violent conquest, suppression of dissent, and organized piracy, all to satisfy the insatiable cravings of the debauched imperial center and its inhabitants—John has crafted one of the most memorable and provocative images of Roman power. All that she has she does not deserve; what she truly deserves she has not yet received (i.e., God’s punishment for her violence, economic oppression, and self-glorification), the easy-bake recipe for indignation (deSilva 2009, 203–15; see also Yarbro Collins 1984, 152–53). Again, feelings of indignation would facilitate the socioeconomic detachment that John counsels. Particularly in regard to John’s portrait of Babylon and her fate, it is appropriate to acknowledge that a major source of Revelation’s rhetorical force—and especially its evocative power where the hearers’/readers’ emotions are concerned—resides in John’s ability to bring scenes vividly before the mental eyes of his audiences. The use of “vivid description” (ekphrasis) to this end, stimulating emotion by enhancing visualization (phantasia) and turning “hearers into spectators” (Nicolaus, Progymnasmata 68), was well-established in classical rhetorical theory (Koester  2014, 135; Rossing  1999, 24–25; Stewart  2017, 229; Whitaker 2015, 58–59). As in the seven oracles so also in the visions, evocations of fear and confidence play a large role. As but one example we may consider John’s description of the consequences of the Lamb’s opening of the sixth seal. The arrival of the Day of the wrath of God and of the Lamb, with its cosmological prodigies, evokes abject terror not only from “the kings of the earth and the magnates and the generals and the rich and the powerful” but from “everyone, slave and free” (6:15). The fear is so unbearable that the people call for landslides and sinkholes to remove them from the terrible spectacle. John has universalized this experience such that his own hearers must imagine themselves in the scene and

78   David A. deSilva allow the terror to penetrate their own souls. However, the rhetorical question with which this tableau ends—“Who is able to stand?” (6:17, borrowed from Mal 3:2)—is answered in a subsequent scene, wherein the “innumerable crowd from every nation” that had successfully met the challenges to faithful obedience and witness in their circumstances (i.e., “conquered”) now “stand before the throne and the Lamb” as celebrated and celebrating victors (Rev 7:9–17). The prospect of standing confidently before God (and the assurance of the feasibility, indeed, of remaining faithful through to the other side of “great tribulation,” 7:14)—and the desirability of experiencing this feeling as opposed to the feeling of terror—once again supports John’s pastoral agenda for his congregations.3 John also appears to seek to arouse feelings of “emulation,” the desire to obtain the honor and other goods obtained by others like oneself, such that enjoying the same rewards for the same virtues and pursuits is an attainable goal (Aristotle, Rhet. 2.11.1). In the honor-sensitive and honor-acquisitive culture of the first-century Roman world, hearing another acclaimed might quite naturally prompt feelings of emulation as something of a knee-jerk reaction, though of course, it would remain for the individual to sort out his or her degree of commitment to such emulation. This emotion is potentially aroused by the seven macarisms that punctuate the book (1:3; 14:13; 16:15; 19:9; 20:6; 22:7, 14; deSilva 2009, 274–84), by the narrative of the career of the two witnesses, and by the martyrs of Rev 20:4–6, who are declared “privileged” or “blessed” (makarios) on account of participating in the first resurrection and, thus, are free from the power of the second death (Carey  2008, 167–73; deSilva  2009, 222–27; Perry  2009, 226–30; Yarbro Collins 1984, 151). The arousal of emulation helps to position John’s hearers to consider, as the path to ultimate honor and advantage, a course of action that would entail obloquy and marginalization in the “short run” of this life.

Appeals to Rational Argument (Logos) in Revelation Although John’s Revelation is clearly not as dependent upon sustained argumentation as are other New Testament texts, especially the epistolary literature, the book is hardly devoid of rational argumentation. There is explicit argumentation throughout the oracles and the visions, though the preponderance of the argument is carried by implicit argumentation as the narrative develops and runs its course. The seven oracles are punctuated with inferential particles such as hoti (Rev 2:14; 3:8, 10, 16) and gar (3:2), which introduce rationales in support of a premise, and oun (2:5, 16; 3:19), which draws an inference from one or more explicated premises. These are explicit signals of deductive reasoning (Kirby 1988, 202–3) drawing upon the most basic strategies known from classical rhetorical handbooks and the more rudimentary progymnasmata. The glorified Christ sometimes makes bald assertions, particularly in identifying

Rhetorical Features of the Book of Revelation   79 what is amiss in a congregation (2:4; 3:1), but more usually supplies supporting argumentation for both his diagnosis and prognosis. One encounters arguments from analogy (3:15–16), from the consequences (2:10; 3:18), from the contrary (normally also involving the topic of the consequences; 2:5b, 16b, 22–23; 3:3b), from historical example (2:14–15), and from exposing contradictions (2:13, 15; 2:20). Rationales for advice, projected consequences, and the like are grounded in topics of courage (2:10), the just (particularly in terms of reciprocity; 3:8–10), the feasible (3:8, 11), the expedient or inexpedient (2:5, 16, 22–23; 3:11), and relative expediency (2:11). The oracles also provide positive examples for imitation, elaborating the course of action that leads to advantage (2:13, 24–25; 3:4; deSilva 2009, 229–55). The argumentation of the oracles, and indeed, all of Revelation, depends upon the hearers’ prior acceptance of certain premises derived from the distinctive cultural knowledge of the Christian group, sometimes shared with the Jewish subculture; for example, that Jesus is available to intervene personally in the congregation’s future, that the words spoken reflect the glorified Christ’s intentions in this regard, that love is a primary value to be pursued, and that Christ’s story provides a paradigm for the ante- and postmortem lives of his followers. These appeals to reason would thus only work within Christian culture and would be likely to be dismissed, even ridiculed, outside early Christian congregations. Explicit argumentation emerges throughout John’s visions as well, though in lower concentrations. The hymns and acclamations embedded in the scenes of worship that appear throughout the visions typically exhibit basic enthymematic structure, with rationales for the praise being supplied (4:11; 5:9–10; 7:15–17; 11:15–18; 12:10-12; 15:2–4; 19:1–8; see deSilva 1998, 90; Humphrey 2007, 164–69, 186–87). Where angelic figures call for action or pronounce indictments, they provide rationales, cite evidence, or project consequences (14:6–11; 18:2–8, 21–24).4 The first angel’s summons in 14:6–7 provides a good example: “Revere God and give God honor, because the hour of God’s judgment came, and worship the One who made heaven and earth and sea and springs of water.” The course of honoring the One God and showing reverence—which would manifest itself in observing God’s commandments, since these are consistently linked in the Hebrew Scriptures—is recommended here on the basis of two rationales. The first is explicit: “because the hour of God’s judgment came.” The rationale invokes a topic of “safety” or “security” (Rhet. Her. 3.2.3): God’s commitment to hold human beings accountable in judgment poses potentially grave danger to all, and acting in a way that shows reverence for God is a path to survival through that crisis. The second rationale is presented indirectly in an elaboration of the identity of this God who is to be feared, invoking the topic of the “just” (Rhet. Her. 3.2.3): as the Creator of the cosmos, God— and God alone—merits the honor and obedience of all who have received the gift of life and enjoy the bounty of creation (deSilva 1998, 90). By means of the surrounding narrative, however, John is able to push his argument in favor of this course of action considerably further in a more implicit mode. In Rev 13:11–18, John announced the admittedly grievous consequences of refusing to “worship the beast” and its image, so as to reserve for God the distinctive honor of worship; in 14:9–11,

80   David A. deSilva another angel will announce the even more dreadful consequences of refusing to reserve for God that distinctive honor and yielding to the pressures or enticements to “worship the beast and its image”—consequences that one will see played out in the apocalyptic landscape (19:17–21). The narrative invites John’s hearers into a deliberative arena in which they are led to see and to weigh the relative advantages and disadvantages of the courses of action before them, with John aggressively promoting the course of exclusive worship (deSilva 1998, 89, 101–3). The nature of John’s narrative is quite unlike anything Aristotle had envisaged for persuasive discourse. As a Christian prophet who believes himself to enjoy access to divinely revealed information, John stunningly attempts to “narrate” the future (1:1, 19; 4:1; 22:6), which Aristotle did not regard as a viable possibility, and therefore gave narration little place in deliberative oratory “since no one can narrate the future” (Rhet. 3.16.11; deSilva 2009, 286). By narrating the future, John is able to trace out and graphically depict the consequences of future courses of action and also display the resulting ascriptions of honor and disgrace upon those who pursue those courses (Stewart 2017, 238; Witherington 2003, 15, 69). The challenge becomes, then, to frame a narrative of the future that is sufficiently plausible to make hearers accept the consequences displayed as reliable projections on the basis of which to make decisions in the present (deSilva 2009, 296–97). John’s engagement with intertexture goes a long way toward helping him meet this challenge. First, his saturation of the narrative with details from the texts that he and his hearers regard as authoritative makes his narrative more plausible, because the events and figures he describes are seen to align with what is already known and valued as reliable information about God, about the forces that conspire against God’s realization of God’s vision for the human sphere, and about God’s future intervention to overcome the conspiracy. Because the depiction resonates with older authoritative pictures of God’s judgment, the detailed images are also rendered plausible rather than fantastic. Second, he reaches into the authoritative tradition to find those shared premises about God’s actions in God’s cosmos that John will go on to narrate. The assertions made in the Psalms and prophets about God’s character and commitments—for example, that God is just and intervenes to bring justice to the human sphere—are adopted and recited as foundational premises that render the narrativization of the working out of those premises more plausible (deSilva 2009, 300–305). Third, John weaves in material from the Hebrew Scriptures as a means of implicitly recalling historical examples and precedents, which classical rhetorical theorists elevated as the primary means by which an orator might render plausible the consequences he or she alleged to follow upon a course of action. John’s extensive recollections of the Exodus invoke that narrative as a historical precedent. Since God had worked terrible and innovative plagues once before to deliver God’s people, God could plausibly do so again on a much grander scale. Referring to Rome as “Babylon” serves to recall a historical precedent that will achieve several rhetorical goals. The fate of historical Babylon functions as a legal precedent (Aristotle, Rhet. 2.23.12), a reliable predictor of God’s forthcoming verdict on Babylon’s newest

Rhetorical Features of the Book of Revelation   81 manifestation, guilty of the same crimes. It also serves as an historical example that promotes the future John portrays for Rome as more plausible, since “similar results naturally rise from similar causes” (Aristotle, Rhet. 1.4.9). As John, or, rather the otherworldly beings whose speech John channels, discovers the same acts of injustice and oppression being committed under Roman rule as characterized the rule of historic Babylon, Tyre, and other seats of empire at one time condemned and overthrown by God, he can plausibly predict the same results for Rome (deSilva 2009, 305–12). John’s re-presentation of otherwise identifiable figures from the sociopolitical landscape of Roman Asia Minor—the sometimes extreme makeovers of the same vis-à-vis the public discourse about those figures, such as Roma, the goddess who is now figured as a prostitute, and the emperors, deified heads of state who are now the heads of a monstrous beast—is another form of implicit argumentation (see Koester 2014, 138). John’s hearers must juxtapose his characterizations of these figures with the representations of the same figures in the civic ceremonies and religious discourse of their city, and become John’s argumentative partners in connecting the dots behind his refutation of the public discourse. It has also been suggested that John’s creation and disruption of narrative patterns serves a discursive purpose. Koester (2014, 141) observes “patterns of regularity and disruption,” particularly in the delay of the seventh seal and the seventh trumpet in the otherwise inexorable progress of those judgments of God. The delays are created by the introduction of “digressions”—a technical rhetorical term that seems to belie the central importance of the material in those “digressions” for the message and impact of the work.5 The pattern itself communicates a message, giving John’s audiences “a way to manage the chaos in their own lives by reinterpreting delay in justice as a time for protection, worship, prophecy [qua proclamation], and witness” (Perry 2009, 239). Another highly significant contribution to the analysis of Revelation’s implicit argumentation is Barbara Rossing’s study of John’s use of the “two women” topos, a rhetorical commonplace found in literature from both the historic Jewish milieu (e.g., the options of Lady Wisdom and Dame Folly in Prov 1–8) and the contemporary Greco-Roman milieu (especially in the story of the choice of Herakles). The topos involves (1) the personification (prosopopoiia) of the options in some either/or choice (whether to pursue virtue or vice, whether to pursue one career or another, and the like) as two female figures; (2) an elaboration of the physical appearance and bearing of these figures (ekphrasis and syncrisis) designed to steer the audience’s assessment of the options; and (3) an ethical appeal to choose one and reject the other (Rossing  1999, 18–25; see also Aune 1998, 923–28). In and of itself, the topos implicitly evokes a framework of decision and the preferential weighting of one choice (Rossing 1999, 39). For John, this topos allows him to hold before his hearers a choice between two cities—­two seats of empire—and the webs of allegiances and the practices that characterize each one. The tendency in the ancient world to personify cities as women or goddesses sets him up well to take advantage of this topos. Here, of course, Babylon is the vice-ridden female and new Jerusalem the virtuous potential consort. The topos itself communicates the need to make a choice (and, notably, asserts an “either/or”

82   David A. deSilva framework that is itself a point of dispute between John and other Christian prophets among the churches), here between participation in the Roman imperial economy and in the counter-community called into being around the commandments of God and testimony of Jesus.

Conclusion More could be said about the rhetorical features of John’s language, his use of “peculiar grammatical forms for emphasis” (Koester 2014, 140), and subversion of the normal rules of Greek as a linguistic reflection of his nonconformist message (Callahan 1995; Koester 2014, 141). That John’s language is a result of rhetorical practice and not grammatical deficiency is further suggested by his mastery of a wide array of figures of speech and figures of thought, including hyperbole (Rev 1:16; 5:11, 13; 9:6, 16; 20:8), oxymoron (1:18; 2:9; 3:1; 10:9), paradox (2:7, 8; 7:14; see also Kirby 1988, 208, on paradox in 2:9, 10; 3:9, 17); rhetorical questions (5:2; 6:17; 13:4; 15:4; 18;18), irony (16:6; 22:11), antistrophe (2:26), chiasmus (3:7), and paronomasia (11:18; 14:2; 22:18). These rhetorical figures are, moreover, used to emphasize contents carefully and strategically, not accidentally or gratuitously (Nikolakopoulos 2001, 178; see also Koester 2014, 141–43). The foregoing, however, will hopefully be a sufficient orientation to John’s principal persuasive goals and strategies. Collectively, our observations concerning the pervasiveness of appeals to ethos, pathos, and logos throughout Revelation—all within the framework of primarily deliberative discourse aimed to affect choices immediately ahead of an audience—suggest that Revelation is not primarily an informational prognostication concerning a distant future, but a text whose author was deeply concerned to shape his hearers’ perception of and responses within their present moment, directing them to challenge key aspects of Roman imperialism from the perspective of the core convictions of a subaltern culture and, more particularly, of the sect that had been born thereof.

Notes 1. So, e.g., Yarbro Collins (1984, 145); (Kirby (1988, 199); Schüssler Fiorenza (1991, 115, 137–38); Royalty (1997, 607–10); Carey (1999, 99–132); deSilva (2009, 124–29). 2. On Rev 1:9–20, see Whitaker (2015, 71–103), though she treats this vision more as a straightforward evocation of “fear.” On Rev 4:1–5:14, see deSilva (2009, 194–96); Whitaker (2015, 105–68). 3. Scenes evocative of fear and confidence are indeed too plentiful to explore here. See, further, deSilva (2009, 215–222); Whitaker (2015, 71–103); Stewart (2017). 4. On Rev 5:9–10, see Schüssler Fiorenza (1991, 61–62); more fully on enthymematic argument throughout John’s visions, see deSilva (2009, 257–84). 5. The digression is “both unessential to the narrative logic and yet essential to the rhetorical effect” (Perry 2009, 211).

Rhetorical Features of the Book of Revelation   83

References Aune, David E. 1998. Revelation. 3 vols. WBC 52. Nashville: Thomas Nelson. Callahan, Allan D. 1995. “The Language of the Apocalypse.” HTR 88: 453–70. Carey, Greg. 2008. “Moving an Audience: One Aspect of Pathos in the Book of Revelation.” In Words Well Spoken: George Kennedy’s Rhetoric of the New Testament, edited by C. Clifton Black and Duane F. Watson, pp. 163–78. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Carey, Greg. 1999. Elusive Apocalypse: Reading Authority in the Revelation to John. SABH 15. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Carey, Greg. 1998. “Apocalyptic Ethos.” In SBLSP Seminar Papers 1998, vol. 2, pp. 731–61. SBL Seminar Papers 37; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. deSilva, David  A. 2009. Seeing Things John’s Way: The Rhetoric of the Book of Revelation. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. deSilva, David A. 2008a. “What Has Athens to Do with Patmos? Rhetorical Criticism of the Revelation of John (1980–2005).” CurBR 6: 256–289. deSilva, David  A. 2008b. “X Marks the Spot? A Critique of the Use of Chiasm in MacroStructural Analyses of Revelation to John.” JSNT 30: 343–71. deSilva, David A. 1998. “Honor Discourse and the Rhetorical Strategy of the Apocalypse of John.” JSNT 71: 79–110. Duff, Paul B. 2001. Who Rides the Beast? Prophetic Rivalry and the Rhetoric of Crisis in the Churches of the Apocalypse. New York: Oxford University Press. Humphrey, Edith M. 2007. And I Turned to See the Voice: The Rhetoric of Vision in the New Testament. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Kirby, John T. 1988. “The Rhetorical Situations of Revelation 1–3.” NTS 34: 197–207. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Nikolakopoulos, Constantin. 2001. “Rhetorische Auslegungsaspekte der Theologie in der Johannesoffenbarung.” In “. . . Was ihr auf dem Weg verhandelt haben”: Beiträge zur Exegese und Theologie des Neuen Testaments, edited by C.  Gerber, T.  Knoppler, and P.  Muller, pp. 166–80. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Perry, Peter S. 2009. The Rhetoric of Digressions: Revelation 7:1–17 and 10:1–11:13 and Ancient Communications. WUNT II/268. Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck. Rossing, Barbara  R. 1999. The Choice between Two Cities: Whore, Bride, and Empire in the Apocalypse. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International. Royalty, Robert. 1998. The Streets of Heaven: The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Royalty, Robert. 1997. “The Rhetoric of Revelation.” In SBL Seminar Papers 36, pp. 596–617. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elizabeth. 1991. Revelation: Vision of a Just World. Minneapolis: Fortress. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elizabeth. 1985. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. Philadelphia: Fortress. Stewart, Alexander E. 2017. “Ekphrasis, Fear, and Motivation in the Apocalypse of John.” BBR 27: 227–40. Whitaker, Robyn J. 2015. Ekphrasis, Vision, and Persuasion in the Book of Revelation. WUNT II/410. Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck. Witherington, Ben, III. 2003. Revelation. NCBC. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1984. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Westminster Press.

chapter 6

The Old Te sta m en t i n the Book of R ev el ation Steve Moyise

Although there are no formal quotations from the Old Testament in the book of Revelation, there are more allusions and echoes to it than in any other New Testament book. The actual number depends on the criteria used to establish them, but estimates range from several hundred to over a thousand. One is constantly being reminded of previous biblical visions (God, angels, beasts), events (exodus plagues, fall of Babylon), places (Egypt, Sodom), and institutions (temple, priesthood). In terms of the number of allusions, John’s favorite books are the prophets Isaiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel, along with the Psalms. The sheer density of allusions and echoes has led some scholars to call it a “midrash” (Beale 1984), though others do not think this does justice to the originality of John’s composition (Ruiz 1989). We will begin with the question of the language of the allusions and echoes and then move on to John’s use of particular books (Ezekiel, Daniel, Isaiah), his fusion of allusions and echoes in particular passages (Rev 1:12–16; 5:5–6; 12:1–18; 15:3–5), and his use of common Old Testament themes.

The Language of John’s Allusions Since they were writing in Greek, the New Testament authors generally made use of a Greek translation when quoting the Old Testament. However, what used to be called the Septuagint (LXX) is now known to have been subject to a number of revisions, as evidenced by the Minor Prophets scroll discovered at Naḥal Ḥ ever and various fragments found at Qumran. Thus the question of the language of the quotations is more

86   Steve Moyise complicated than was once thought, though a Greek text is still the most likely source of the majority of OT quotations in the NT as a whole (though see Matt 8:17; John 19:37; Rom 12:19; 1 Cor 3:19). The book of Revelation is generally thought to be an exception to this. For example, it contains a number of allusions that can be detected by comparing Revelation to a Hebrew OT passage and discerning the similarities; whereas in the LXX some key words are missing or are quite different. For example, the reference to David in Rev 3:7, along with the phrase, “who opens and no one will shut, who shuts and no one opens” makes it virtually certain that the writer alludes to Isa 22:22. Indeed, the majority of LXX manuscripts have something similar, but the evidence of manuscript Q suggests that the reference to opening and closing was only added later, so that the LXX could not, therefore, be the source of John’s allusion. Similarly, the vision of the tree of life producing leaves for the “healing of the nations” (Rev 22:2) obviously draws on Ezek 47:12, but most LXX manuscripts have anabasis (ascent) rather than the “leaves” of the Hebrew text. There are also a few cases where an allusion agrees with an Aramaic targum against both the Hebrew and Greek traditions. For example, Rev 18:22 (“the sound of harpists and minstrels and of flutists and trumpeters will be heard in you no more”) alludes to Ezek 26:13, but the Hebrew and Greek both refer to the instrument (“harps”) rather than those who play them (“harpists”), as the targum does. Second, John’s peculiar Greek has been a matter of debate ever since Dionysius of Alexandria (c. 250 ce) called it barbaric and full of solecisms (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 7.25.26). R. H. Charles, however, argued that the solecisms become understandable if the author was a native Semitic speaker, who thought in Hebrew but wrote in Greek (1920, 1:cxliii). He also noted a number of examples where John appears to assume that a particular Greek word has the same range of meanings as a particular Hebrew word. For example, the angel in Rev 10:1 is said to have “legs like pillars of fire,” but this translation disguises the fact that John uses the word podes (feet), making the comparison of feet to pillars somewhat odd. The answer, Charles says, is that the Hebrew word regel can refer to both “feet” and “legs” and that John has (wrongly) assumed that the same is true of the Greek word pous (foot). On the other hand, John’s allusion to 2 Kgs 1:10 (“Then fire came down from heaven, and consumed him and his fifty”) in Rev 20:9 (“And fire came down from heaven and consumed them”) agrees exactly with the first eight words of the majority of LXX manuscripts, and the allusion to Ps 2:9 (“You shall break them with a rod of iron, and dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel”) in Rev 2:27 (“to rule them with an iron rod, as when clay pots are shattered”) agrees in the first six words of the LXX. Of course, this could be coincidence but John’s use of the Greek poimainō (“to shepherd/lead,” as in Rev 7:17) to render the Hebrew c (to break/smash) would be unlikely apart from ­knowledge of the LXX, as Charles himself acknowledges (1920, 1:76). The same could be said of certain distinctive phrases, such as ha dei genesthai (the things which must happen) in Rev 1:1 (cf., Dan 2:28, 45) and paradeisos (paradise) in Rev 2:7 for the garden of Eden in Gen 2:9.

The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation   87 It would appear then that John made use of both Greek and Hebrew/Aramaic texts, perhaps with a preference for the latter. However, the more significant conclusion from even this small sample of texts is that John’s visionary approach is not bound by the wording of particular OT texts. Daniel’s “what will happen at the end of days” (Dan 2:28) has become “what must soon take place” (Rev 1:1), and Ezekiel’s plural “trees” on either side of the river (Ezek 47:12) has become the singular “tree of life” (cf. Gen 2:9), paradoxically, also said to be on “either side of the river” (Rev 22:2). Two points can be inferred from this. First, we have in the book of Revelation more than just descriptions of what John saw. The use of “soon” in Rev 1:1 is clearly theologically motivated. Daniel is told to “seal up the vision, for it refers to many days from now” (8:26), but John is claiming that the time of fulfillment is at hand, as in other NT texts (Mark 1:15; Acts 2:17; 1 Thess 4:15). Similarly, the change from multiple trees in Ezekiel’s vision to the singular “tree of life” is part of a “return to Eden” theology, as found in such texts as 1 En 24:3–12 and 4 Ezra 8:51–52. Even if he was in a trance-like state (Rev 1:10), it is hard to imagine John seeing a single tree on both sides of a river! Second, even though much of Revelation is written in scriptural language, this does not mean that John is bound by the meaning of the original texts. Isaiah’s words about opening and closing refer to the calling of the royal steward Eliakim (Isa 22:20), whereas in Rev 3:7–8, the “open door” is the pathway or opportunity that the risen Christ is making possible to the Christians in Philadelphia (for a possible typological link, see Beale 1998, 116–22).

John’s Use of Particular Old Testament Books Ezekiel According to The Greek New Testament (UBS5), there are allusions to one hundred of Ezekiel’s verses in the New Testament and fifty-seven of them come from the book of Revelation. It is the only New Testament writing that shows a significant interest in this great prophet. Of these fifty-seven allusions, sixteen are taken from Ezekiel’s inaugural vision and call narrative (Ezek 1–3), ten from the lament over Tyre (Ezek 26–27) and ten from the restoration of the dry bones and battle with Gog and Magog (Ezek 37–39). There are a further ten from the New Jerusalem chapters (Ezek 40–48), including three from its final chapter (see Kowalski 2004).

Ezekiel’s Throne Vision and Call Narrative What is of particular interest in John’s use of Ezekiel’s throne vision and call narrative (Ezek 1–3) is the way the material is divided between Rev 4–5 and Rev 10. In the

88   Steve Moyise throne vision of Rev 4, there are general similarities to Ezek 1, such as the imagery of precious stones, a rainbow, and a crystal sea (Ezek 1:22, 26, 28 / Rev 4:3, 6), but John also refers specifically to four living creatures with the faces of a man, a lion, an ox, and an eagle (Ezek 1:10 / Rev 4:7), and he uses the curious expression, “full of eyes” (Ezek 1:18 / Rev 4:6). John continues in Rev 5:1 to describe a scroll “written on the inside and on the back,” as in Ezek 2:9–10 (“a hand was stretched out to me, and a written scroll was in it . . . it had writing on the front and on the back”). But it is not until Rev 10 that John is commanded to eat the scroll that will be as sweet as honey in his mouth, as in Ezek 3:3. A case could be made that John is no longer following Ezekiel, since the book is in the hands of an angel (Rev 10:1) rather than the one seated on the throne (5:1), and it is called a biblaridion (“little scroll,” 10:2), rather than a biblion, as in 5:1 (so Charles 1920; Mounce 1997). However, Bauckham (1993, 257–66) has argued strongly that the two scrolls are identical, and it is probable that we should think of John’s creative adaptation of Ezekiel rather than dependence on a different tradition. Other differences point in the same direction. For example, each of Ezekiel’s ­creatures had four faces (human, lion, ox, eagle), but John’s creatures have one face, either lion, ox, human, or eagle (note also the different order). Further, the expression “full of eyes” refers to the creatures in John (Rev 4:6), but in Ezekiel, it refers to the wheels of what appears to be a heavenly chariot (Ezek 1:15–18). This sense of motion (“when the living creatures rose from the earth, the wheels rose,” Ezek 1:19), which was subject to much speculation at Qumran (4Q400–4Q407; 11Q17) has been eliminated by John. It should also be noted that the main point about the scroll that John sees in Rev 5:1 is that it is sealed with seven seals, which will be removed one by one in the chapters that follow. This is not a feature of Ezekiel’s scroll and may be an allusion to the sealed document in Isa 29:11, which cannot be read, or perhaps Dan 8:26, where Daniel is told to seal up the vision because it pertains to “many days from now”.

Lament over Tyre (Ezek 26–27) In contrast to John’s use of Ezek 1–3, all ten allusions to Ezek 26–27 occur in the lament over Babylon in Rev 18. Verbal parallels include people weeping and throwing dust on their heads (Ezek 27:30 / Rev 18:19), the end of music and dancing (Ezek 26:13 / Rev 18:22) and the cry of amazement: “Who was ever destroyed like Tyre” (Ezek 27:32); “What city was like the great city?” (Rev 18:18). But the major parallel is that each contains a trading list of luxury goods, and it is this that is being condemned. Among the goods mentioned (gold, silver, bronze, fine linen, ivory, wine, and oil), both speak of psychas anthrōpōn (souls of human beings), in other words, “slaves”. Bauckham (1993, 350–71) argues that the two lists are different because John has updated it to refer to the imports of contemporary Rome.

The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation   89

Establishment of the New Jerusalem The account of the New Jerusalem involves a complex network of allusions, but many commentators have been impressed by the way it corresponds to the broad sequence of visions in Ezek 37–48: Ezekiel

Revelation

Revival of dry bones (37:10) Reunited kingdom (37:21) Gog of Magog battle (38:2) Gorging of the birds (39:4) Taken to high mountain (40:2) Temple is measured (40:5) Temple full of God’s glory (43:2) River flowing from temple (47:1) Trees with leaves for healing (47:12)

First resurrection (20:5) Saints rule for 1,000 years (20:4) Gog and Magog battle (20:8) Gorging of the birds (19:21) Taken to high mountain (21:10) City is measured (21:15) City full of God’s glory (21:23) River flowing from throne (22:1) Tree with leaves for healing (22:2)

In addition to these parallels, one of the main arguments for John’s use of Ezekiel here is that it explains why John envisages a resurgence of evil after the millennial kingdom. Other New Testament writers expect a final battle with evil (Mark 13:14–19; 2 Thess 2:3–8) but not the defeat of evil, followed by its resurgence and then a further battle. This has been a controversial feature of Revelation right from the start. Justin Martyr (c. 150 ce) was one of many who took it literally: “I and others, who are right-minded Christians at all points, are assured that there will be a resurrection of the dead, and a thousand years in Jerusalem, which will then be built and adorned and enlarged as the prophets Ezekiel and Isaiah and others declare” (Dial. 80). However, what is just as surprising is that having borrowed so much from Ezek 37–48, John denies the very thing that these chapters are all about: “I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb” (Rev 21:22). Here John is more influenced by traditions like Isa 60:20 (“Your sun shall no more go down, or your moon withdraw itself; for the LORD will be your everlasting light”), but his adaptation of Ezekiel seems theologically motivated. Thus when Ezekiel speaks of measuring the temple (Ezek 40:5), John speaks of measuring the city (Rev 21:15), and when Ezekiel speaks of God’s glory filling the temple (Ezek 43:2), John speaks of it filling the city (Rev 21:23). The city, with its colossal dimensions (Rev 21:16), is clearly intended to be a more inclusive image for God’s presence than a temple. Interestingly, John earlier spoke of measuring the temple (Rev 11:1–2), as Ezekiel did, but John’s point concerns the protection of the true worshipping community, not the anticipation of a restored temple (even if the language is taken in a symbolic fashion). Two further episodes are probably to be traced to Ezekiel, though they depend on only a couple of allusions. Before the demonic beasts are allowed to deceive the world

90   Steve Moyise into false worship (Rev 13), the one hundred forty-four thousand (12 × 12 × 1000, probably a symbol for the whole church) receive a seal on their foreheads (Rev 7:3). This is reminiscent of the blood on the doorposts on the night of the Passover but since the sealing is followed by the hurling of fire onto the earth (Rev 8:5), Ezek 9–10 is the more likely influence since it also has such a sequence. Ezekiel is told that because the “land is full of bloodshed and the city full of perversity” (Ezek 9:9), God will send judgement in the form of six agents of destruction, but not before he has given the command: “Go through the city, through Jerusalem, and put a mark on the foreheads of those who sigh and groan over all the abominations that are committed in it” (Ezek 9:4). There then follows another vision in which the command is given: “[F]ill your hands with burning coals from among the cherubim, and scatter them over the city” (Ezek 10:2). Second, the description of the “great whore who is seated on many waters” (Rev 17:1) is based on a number of passages (Jer 51:7; Isa 23:17), but the words of destruction in Rev 17:16 (hated, stripped naked, flesh devoured, burnt by fire) draw on Ezek 23:25–29, where hated, stripped naked, and burnt by fire occur (flesh devoured most likely comes from Isa 49:26). The context in Ezekiel is apostate Jerusalem and some have argued from this that the city being condemned in Rev 18 is not Rome but Jerusalem (Gentry  1989). However, the majority of scholars think the list of imports is much too grandiose for Jerusalem and that Rome or Roman power is John’s target.

Daniel Greg Beale makes the point that relative to its size, there are more allusions to the book of Revelation than to any other portion of scripture. Since nearly half these allusions come from Daniel’s seventh chapter, a good case can be made for regarding this as one of John’s most important influences. This is signaled at the very beginning of the book, where after the greeting, John says, “Look! He is coming with the clouds” (Rev 1:7 / Dan 7:13). He then describes his vision of “one like a son of man” (ESV), whose hair was “as white wool, white as snow” (a description of God in Dan 7:9). The chapter has also contributed to John’s description of the throne scene, particularly in Rev 5, with its mention of the scroll, the saints reigning in an everlasting kingdom, and the myriads of worshipping angels. Correspondingly, the throne scene at the end of Revelation has books being opened and judgment pronounced in favor of the saints (Rev 20:12), a parallel to Dan 7:10. In addition to the use of throne imagery, John models his description of the beast from the sea (Rev 13:1–8) on the four beasts in Dan 7. Verbal parallels include their rising from the sea, their appearance, making war with the saints, speaking haughty words, and the time of their reign (variously given as three-and-a-half years, forty-two months, or 1260 days). The major difference is that instead of having a succession of beasts coming from the sea (lion, bear, leopard, beast with ten horns) representing a succession of empires, John combines all these features into a single beast. The result is an intensification (“the mother of all evils”), perhaps as a way of emphasizing the evil of Rome or

The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation   91 perhaps as way of speaking about the presence of evil throughout time. It is interesting that combining the four beasts is the opposite of what he did with Ezekiel’s four-faced creatures, where John kept the same four faces but pictured each creature with only one face (lion, ox, human, eagle; Ezek 1:5–25; Rev 4:7). This shows how difficult it is to discern a single pattern to explain John’s use of scripture. Also important to John is the Nebuchadnezzar material in Dan 2–4. In Dan 2, the king has a dream that no one can interpret. Daniel is therefore brought in and declares that God has revealed to Nebuchadnezzar “what will happen at the end of days”. As we have already noted, the phrase ha dei genesthai (what must happen) is used in John’s opening sentence with the addition “soon,” as well as in Rev 4:1 and 22:6 (the similar ha mellei genesthai occurs in Rev 1:19). Beale argues that this expression divides the book into four sections and that John’s replacement of “end of days” with “soon” means that “what Daniel expected to occur in the distant future, the defeat of cosmic evil and ushering in of the kingdom, John expects to begin in his own generation, and perhaps has already been inaugurated” (1998, 115).

Isaiah The highest number of allusions in total come from Isaiah, though they have attracted less attention than John’s use of Ezekiel and Daniel. This is perhaps because they are often combined with other texts. Thus in the visionary descriptions of Christ in Rev 1:12–16 and 19:11–16, the sharp sword that comes from his mouth is almost certainly an allusion to Isa 49:2 (“He made my mouth like a sharp sword”), but there is no suggestion that John’s descriptions are based primarily on that passage. Similarly, the four living creatures in Rev 4:8 have six wings and sing, “Holy, holy, holy,” a clear reference to Isa 6:2–3, but the vision as a whole (Rev 4–5) is based on Ezek 1 and Dan 7. John’s description of the New Jerusalem in Rev 21:1–22:5 draws on Isaiah more than any other source. The passage opens with the statement, “I saw a new heaven and a new earth,” a reference to Isa 65:17. It is described as “the holy city” (Isa 52:1). It is a place where there will be no more tears (Isa 25:8). The thirsty will be invited to drink from the water of life (Isa 55:1). It is adorned with every precious jewel (Isa 54:11–12), its gates are left open (Isa 60:11), and the nations will bring their glory/wealth into it (Isa 60:3, 5, 11). Indeed, the one who sits on the throne says, “See, I am making all things new” (Rev 21:5), a parallel to Isa 43:19 (“I am about to do a new thing”). The parallel with Isa 60:19 is particularly interesting:

Isa 60:19

Rev 21:23

The sun shall no longer be your light by day, nor for brightness shall the moon give light to you by night; but the LORD will be your everlasting light, and your God will be your glory.

And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb.

92   Steve Moyise The first two clauses about sun and moon are summarized, but instead of the parallelism between “the LORD” and “your God” being “light” and “glory,” John speaks of “God” and the “Lamb” being “light” and “lamp”. David Mathewson (2003, 159–60) suggests that “lamp” might have been suggested by Ps 132:17b (“I have prepared a lamp for my anointed one”), but the introduction of a “second luminary” alongside God/LORD is clearly motivated by the author’s Christology, where the Lamb is consistently portrayed as sharing in God’s authority (cf. Rev 5:13; 6:16; 7:10; 22:1, 3). Jan Fekkes claims that John’s use of Isaiah shows considerable contextual awareness and that he “expected his readers to appreciate the exegetical foundation of his visions” (1994: 290). To my mind, this says too much and risks turning John into a scribe rather than a visionary prophet. As Michelle Fletcher (2017, 75–98) observes, studies on the use of particular books in Revelation are naturally disposed to find coherence, but when we look at individual passages, a rather different picture emerges, and to this we now turn.

Selected Passages The Inaugural Vision (Rev 1:12–16) Matthew, Luke, and John all record appearances of the risen Christ, but they are nothing like John’s description in Rev 1:12–16. Whatever it was that John saw, what he has written down is an amalgam of Old Testament phrases, taken from descriptions of angels (Dan 10:5–6), the one like a son of man (Dan 7:13), the branch of Jesse (Isa 11:4), God (Dan 7:9), and the brilliance of the sun (Judg 5:31). Several explanations have been offered to account for this: (1) John’s mind was so full of scripture that his vision naturally took its form in scriptural imagery; (2) John is trying to give the reader an impression of his vision by referring to other well-known visions; (3) John’s vision was actually the result of a scriptural meditation; (4) The inaugural vision is a literary composition and an expression of John’s Christology: Then I turned to see whose voice it was that spoke to me, and on turning I saw seven golden lampstands, and in the midst of the lampstands I saw one like the Son of Man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash across his chest. His head and his hair were white as white wool, white as snow; his eyes were like a flame of fire, his feet were like burnished bronze, refined as in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of many waters. In his right hand he held seven stars, and from his mouth came a sharp, two-edged sword, and his face was like the sun shining with full force. (Rev 1:12–16)

If we are looking for a dominant biblical influence for this passage, Dan 10:5–6 is the most likely candidate, with its description of the angel’s face (like lightening), eyes (like flaming torches), arms and legs (like the gleam of burnished bronze), and voice (like the

The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation   93 roar of a multitude). It is not difficult to imagine how this vision might have been linked in John’s mind with Dan 7, which appears to have provided the image of “wool / snow” for his hair and “flames of fire” for his eyes. Thus an attractive theory is that when portraying Christ in Rev 1:12–16, John began with Dan 10:5–6 and augmented it with other texts through common wording or associations. However, as Fletcher notes, this might be imposing harmony and coherence on what is supposed to be a series of discordant images. Thus it is interesting that none of the comparisons found in Dan 10:5–6 (lightening, flaming torches, burnished bronze, the roar of a multitude) are reproduced exactly. John’s vision of Christ is both like and unlike Dan 10:5–6, and the same is true of the other texts he uses. Thus the description of his hair as “white as white wool, white as snow” (Rev 1:14) would appear to come from Dan 7:9 or texts based on it, such as Apoc. Abr. 11:1–3, but Dan 7:9 is referring to the clothing of the Ancient of Days and makes no mention of hair. The term “rainbow” is often used to describe the multilayered nature of John’s visions but we should beware of allowing this to unduly “color” what we find in Revelation. Fletcher (2017, 96) prefers to talk of John’s visions as a “pastiche” of earlier visions, drawing attention to the differences as well as the similarities. Whether the differences are more striking than the similarities is perhaps a personal judgment, but she is surely correct that we must account for both. John’s vision of the risen Christ is both like and unlike previous visions, presumably to account for his “uniqueness,” as well as his similarity to past figures.

The Lion and the Lamb (Rev 5:5–6) This has been a key passage for the interpretation of Revelation. In Rev 4, John has a vision of God on his throne, which he describes in language drawn from Ezek 1, Dan 7, and Isa 6. In Rev 5, he sees a scroll written on both sides (Ezek 2:10), and the question is asked, “Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?” (Rev 5:2). He is then told: “Do not weep. See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals.” Then I saw between the throne and the four living creatures and among the elders a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered, having seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven spirits of God sent out into all the earth. He went and took the scroll from the right hand of the one who was seated on the throne. (Rev 5:5–7)

In this extraordinary passage, we are first told that the “Lion of the tribe of Judah” can open the scroll. This is most likely an allusion to Gen 49:10, where Jacob prophesies a ruling dynasty for his son Judah (“The sceptre shall not depart from Judah, nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet, until tribute comes to him; and the obedience of the peoples is his”). There then follows a description of a “Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered,” who takes the scroll from the “right hand of the one who was seated on the throne” (Rev 5:6–7). There is debate as to whether this is an allusion to the Passover lamb

94   Steve Moyise (Exod 12:5–6) or to Isaiah’s “lamb led to the slaughter” (Isa 53:7), but what is noteworthy is that it is the lamb rather than the lion who takes the scroll (Rev 5:7) and opens its seals (6:1). The lion is not mentioned again, and this has suggested to many scholars that what we have here is a deliberate hermeneutical principle: “[T]he Lion of Judah, the traditional messianic expectation, is reinterpreted by the slain Lamb: God’s power and victory lie in self-sacrifice” (Sweet 1990, 125). This is an attractive position as it allows the violence of Revelation to be reinterpreted as symbolic of Christ’s self-sacrifice. However, it may be more complicated than that. The Lamb of Revelation is not a gentle figure. Even in this passage, the Lamb has seven horns, a symbol of power, and seven eyes, a symbol of omniscience (see Zech 4:10). In the following chapter, the destruction brought about by opening the seals causes the people to seek death rather than face the “wrath of the Lamb” (Rev 6:16). In Rev 17:14, the kings of the earth make war on the Lamb, but he conquers them, for he is “Lord of lords and King of kings”. It would appear that as well as the Lion undergoing reinterpretation by being juxtaposed with a Lamb, the Lamb has also picked up characteristics of the powerful Lion (Moyise 2008, 96–110). As James Resseguie says: “The Lion of the tribe of Judah interprets what John sees: death on the cross (the Lamb) is not defeat but is the way to power and victory (the Lion) . . . the Lamb, though not in nature a strong animal, is a being of incontrovertible might in this book” (1998, 34, 129).

War in Heaven (Rev 12:7–12) Although Gen 3 lays the blame for the first temptation on the serpent, there is very little in the rest of the Old Testament to suggest that human sin is incited by external forces. However, by the time we get to the New Testament period there is a considerable literature on the influence of angels and demons on human affairs. Indeed, in the Gospels, the devil or Satan is seen as the force behind temptation (Matt 4:1–11), demon possession (Mark 3:20–30), certain types of illness (Luke 13:16), unbelief (Luke 8:12), and betrayal (John 13:2). John offers an explanation for it: And war broke out in heaven; Michael and his angels fought against the dragon. The dragon and his angels fought back, but they were defeated, and there was no longer any place for them in heaven. The great dragon was thrown down, that ancient ­serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him. (Rev 12:7–9)

There are two main interpretations of this difficult text. The first emerged in antiquity and was popularized in Milton’s Paradise Lost. It suggests that John is offering an explanation for the presence of evil in the garden of Eden. Prior to creation, there was a “fall from heaven,” which is alluded to in texts such as Isa 14:12 (“How you are fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of Dawn!”) and Ezek 28:16 (“you were filled with violence, and

The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation   95 you sinned; so I cast you as a profane thing from the mountain of God”). Historically, these texts are referring to the kings of Babylon and Tyre respectively, but the extreme language could suggest that they are modeled on a far greater “fall from grace”. Grant Osborne (2002, 468–73) is a modern advocate of this position, and he cites a number of parallel texts (1 En. 1–6; 2 En. 29:4–5 (J); Sib. Or. 5:528–29) to support his position. On this view, John is offering an explanation not only of the serpent in the garden of Eden but also of the presence of evil throughout world history. On the other hand, the literary context of the episode makes the dragon’s fall appear to be the result of Christ’s victory (Rev 12:5–6), so that its purpose in the narrative is to explain how it is that the church is being persecuted in this time after Christ’s death and exaltation. This is first expressed by saying that having been expelled from heaven, the dragon goes in pursuit of the “woman who had given birth to the male child” (Rev 12:13) and then that it “went off to make war on the rest of her children, those who keep the commandments of God and hold the testimony of Jesus” (Rev 12:17). The latter phrase is almost certainly a reference to the church at large and not simply to Jesus’s siblings. Thus on this interpretation, John’s point is not to provide an explanation for the presence of evil in the Garden of Eden but to explain the persecution of Christians that resulted from Christ’s death and exaltation. Of course, if Christ’s death is understood as affecting the whole of history and not just what historically followed, then it may be that both interpretations are true.

The Song of Moses and the Lamb (Rev 15:3–5) Before John begins three chapters of judgment in Rev 16 (seven bowls), Rev 17 (destruction of the harlot and the beast), and Rev 18 (fall of Babylon), he narrates a vision of the saints in heaven singing “the song of Moses, the servant of God, and the song of the Lamb” (Rev 15:3). What is puzzling about the song that follows is that it bears no similarity to the song of Moses in Exod 15 but, in the words of David Aune (1998, 874), is a “pastiche of stereotypical hymnic phrases gathered primarily from the Psalms”: Great and amazing are your deeds, Lord God the Almighty! Just and true are your ways, King of the nations! Lord, who will not fear and glorify your name? For you alone are holy. All nations will come and worship before you, for your judgments have been revealed. (Rev 15:3–4)

Other scholars, however, are unhappy with the word “pastiche” and try to offer a ration­ ale for the hymn’s composition. Thus Bauckham thinks that John did have Exod 15 in mind

96   Steve Moyise but was led by verbal association from Exod 15:11 (“who is like you, O LORD, among the gods?”) to three other texts, namely, Ps 86:8–10, Ps 98:1–2, and Jer 10:7. From these three texts, by the “skilful use of recognized exegetical methods” (1993: 306), John has discerned the content of the song to be sung in the new age. On the other hand, Beale (1999: 792–800) thinks that more emphasis should be placed on the song of Moses found in Deut 32, especially because Deut 32:4 (“his work is perfect, and all his ways are just. A faithful God, without deceit, just and upright is he”) has close verbal links to the song in Rev 15:3–4 (alēthina, hodoi, dikaios, hosios). A third suggestion is that John began with Ps 86, which proclaims the incomparability of God (“There is none like you among the gods . . . you alone are God”), the greatness of his works (“For you are great and do wondrous things”), and the universality of his salvation (“All the nations you have made shall come and bow down before you, O Lord, and shall glorify your name”). The advantage of this suggestion is that it contains the words that form the climax of the song (Moyise 2008, 111–24).

Common Themes Worship God Alone The demand for covenant loyalty and the consequent denunciation of idols is a regular feature of the Old Testament and enshrined in the Ten Commandments (“I am the LORD your God . . . you shall have no other gods before me,” Exod 20:2–3). It is also a regular feature of Revelation (Rev 2:14, 20; 9:20; 14:6–7) and is highlighted in two incidents when John attempts to worship his angelic interpreter and is roundly rebuffed: “You must not do that! I am a fellow servant with you . . . Worship God!” (Rev 19:10; 22:9). It is thus all the more startling that John envisages Jesus sharing God’s throne and receiving universal worship and adoration (5:13; 7:10). He may have been aided in this transformation by texts like Ps 2:2 (“The kings of the earth . . . and the rulers take counsel together, against the LORD and his anointed”) and the subsequent promise that this “anointed one” will “break them with a rod of iron, and dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel” (Ps 2:9). This latter text is alluded to on no fewer than three occasions in Revelation (2:26–27; 12:5; 19:15).

New Exodus God’s rescue of Israel from Egypt was celebrated throughout the Old Testament (Exod 15:1–18; Pss 78, 105, 106; Ezek 20:3–26), and it became the pattern for future deliverances (Isa 40:3–5; 43:16–19; 52:1–6). John follows this pilgrimage theme, calling God’s people to leave “Babylon” (“Come out of her, my people, so that you do not take part in her sins, and so that you do not share in her plagues,” Rev 18:4) and enter the New Jerusalem

The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation   97 (21:24–26). The startling thing here is that John says that the “nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it” (21:24; cf. Isa 60:3, 5), though he does add the proviso that “nothing unclean will enter it, nor anyone who practices abomination or falsehood” (Rev 21:27). The sequence of disasters associated with the seven seals, trumpets, and bowls are largely modeled on the Egyptian plagues and have the same result: “The rest of humankind, who were not killed by these plagues, did not repent of the works of their hands” (Rev 9:20; cf. Exod 8:15, 19, 32). Salvation in Revelation follows a “New Exodus” pattern (deSilva 2009, 162–64).

God’s Abiding Presence After John sees the New Jerusalem coming down from heaven, he hears a voice saying: “See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them” (Rev 21:3). Many Old Testament passages are alluded to here, the most prominent being Lev 26:12 (“And I will walk among you, and will be your God, and you shall be my people”), Ezek 37:27 (“My dwelling place shall be with them; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people”), and Zech 2:11 (“Many nations shall join themselves to the LORD on that day, and shall be my people; and I will dwell in your midst”). This is followed in Rev 21:7 by the words: “I will be their God (kai esomai autō theos) and they will be my children (kai autos estai moi huios)”. The Greek phraseology makes it clear that 2 Sam 7:14 is in mind: “I will be a father to him (esomai autō eis patera), and he shall be a son to me (estai moi eis huion)”. Here the dynastic promise to David is extended to all God’s people.

Conclusion The use of the Old Testament in Revelation has many unique features. It is the only book in the New Testament to incorporate numerous allusions, while never explicitly quoting scripture. It is the only book to make significant use of Ezekiel and, indeed, to draw on the Prophets more than the Torah (Moyise 1995, 15–16). Its picture of Jesus seems to owe more to Old Testament theophanies (appearances of God) and angelophanies (appearances of angels) than the resurrection stories in the Gospels. There are some parallels with the so-called apocalyptic discourse in Mark 13, and it may be that both draw on a common source (perhaps a midrash on Dan 7). It also shares characteristics with Jude and 2 Peter, such as in its focus on angels and demons. Richard Bauckham calls his collection of studies on Revelation The Climax of Prophecy (1993). As the last book of the Bible, Revelation certainly calls to mind the rich heritage of Israel’s scriptures, but others would suggest that this emphasis on fulfillment does not do justice to the discontinuities between the language and imagery of the older texts and John’s recasting of biblical language in the visions in Revelation (e.g., Fletcher).

98   Steve Moyise Did John have a vision of the future (and present) and use scripture to describe it (a rhetorical model), or did his vision come from scripture, either by exegesis (a scribal model) or meditation (a mystical model)? Those who are impressed by the similarities between Revelation and particular OT texts opt for a scribal/exegetical model, concluding that John’s careful study of scripture has enabled him to offer a theological synthesis that captures the true intent of the biblical authors (Bauckham, Fekkes, Beale). From John’s close reading of the prophets, David deSilva says, “John has discerned what the response of the God of the prophets would be to a new, grander, more overtly self-deifying, and more violently expansive domination system” (2009, 161; ­cf. Kraybill 1996). On the other hand, those who are more struck by the differences between Revelation and particular texts opt for either a rhetorical or mystical model. The former begins with an analysis of John’s rhetorical purposes and seeks to show how he uses scripture to support his case (Hemer 1986). This applies both to his choice of scripture—he only alludes to those texts that support the point he is trying to make—and what he does with them. George Caird offers a good example of this approach, where the fact of Christ’s death and resurrection causes John to reinterpret the biblical texts: “Wherever the Old Testament speaks of the victory of the Messiah or the overthrow of the enemies of God, we are to remember that the gospel recognizes no other way of achieving these ends than the way of the Cross” (1984, 75). Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza is also an advocate of a “rhetorical” model; she writes that John “does not interpret the OT but uses its words, images, phrases, and patterns as a language arsenal in order to make his own theological statement or express his own prophetic vision” (1985, 135). An important advocate of the “mystical” model is Christopher Rowland (1993). He recognizes that a degree of planning has gone into the structure of the book and that John is certainly harnessing key images from the scriptures to make his point. But Rowland wants to do justice to John’s claim to be “in the spirit” (Rev 1:10; 4:2) and a receiver of visions. Texts and images have come together in John’s mind but not through exegesis or attention to original context. They are more like dreams, which jump about without any apparent logic, and yet reveal some of our most basic hopes and fears. Before he comments on the text of Revelation in his commentary (Rowland 1993), he invites us to contemplate some contemporary pictures to prepare us for what we will face. As with Revelation, modern art only works if one has some familiarity with the images (as in political cartoons) but such contexts do not determine the meaning for each and every viewer. Indeed, Rowland questions whether pursuing authorial intention is the appropriate goal for a work like Revelation. If he had been asked why he has combined images from Isaiah, Daniel and Ezekiel in his inaugural vision, John would most likely have replied, “I was in the spirit”. My own view lies somewhere between the rhetorical and mystical. John clearly has an overall purpose for writing down his visions in the order and manner that he did, but I do not think this has much to do with exegesis. His choice of scripture is governed by the rhetorical needs of his recipients (Rev 1:4—it is a letter), but those scriptures had already exerted a spiritual/mystical influence on his psyche. I have elsewhere referred to this as a

The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation   99 “dialogical” relationship (Moyise  2008, 96–141), as in the juxtaposition of Lion and Lamb in Rev 5. Although the tendency has been to allow the Lamb imagery to absorb and transform the Lion imagery, the Lamb also has gained some Lion-like qualities. A dialogical approach resists the temptation to resolve this tension and seeks to do justice to both voices. The Old Testament still speaks through Revelation but in a transformed way.

References Aune, David. 1998. WBC 52B. Revelation 6–16. Nashville: Thomas Nelson. Bauckham, Richard. 1993. The Climax of Prophecy: Studies on the Book of Revelation. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Beale, Gregory K. 1984. The Use of Daniel in Jewish Apocalyptic Literature and in the Revelation of St John. Lanham MD: University Press of America. Beale, Gregory K. 1998. John’s Use of the Old Testament in Revelation. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press. Beale, Gregory K. 1999. The Book of Revelation. NIGTC. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Caird, George B. 1984. The Revelation of St. John the Divine. 2nd ed. BNTC. London: Black. Charles, R. H. 1920. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Revelation of St. John. 2 vols. ICC. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. deSilva, David  A. 2009. Seeing Things John’s Way: The Rhetoric of the Book of Revelation. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Fekkes, Jan III. 1994. Isaiah and Prophetic Traditions in the Book of Revelation. JSNTSup 93. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press. Fletcher, Michelle. 2017. Reading Revelation as Pastiche: Imitating the Past. London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark. Gentry, Kenneth  L. 1989. Before Jerusalem Fell: Dating the Book of Revelation. Tyler, TX: Institute for Christian Economics. Hemer, Colin J. 1986. The Letters to the Seven Churches of Asia in Their Local Setting. Sheffield, UK: JSOT Press. Kowalski, Beate. 2004. Die Rezeption des Propheten Ezechiel in der Offenbarung des Johannes. Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwek. Kraybill, Nelson. 1996. Imperial Cult and Commerce in John’s Apocalypse. JSNTSup 132. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press. Mathewson, David. 2003. A New Heaven and a New Earth: The Meaning and Function of the Old Testament in Revelation 21.1–22.5. JSNTSup 238. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press. Mounce, Robert H. 1997. The Book of Revelation. 2nd ed. NICNT. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Moyise, Steve. 1995. The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation. JSNTSup 115. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press. Moyise, Steve. 2008. Evoking Scripture: Seeing the Old Testament in the New. London: T & T Clark. Osborne, Grant R. 2002. Revelation. BECNT. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Resseguie, James  L. 1998. Revelation Unsealed: A Narrative Critical Approach to John’s Apocalypse. BIS 32. Leiden: Brill. Rowland, Christopher. 1993. Revelation. London: Epworth.

100   Steve Moyise Ruiz, Jean-Pierre. 1989. Ezekiel in the Apocalypse: The Transformation of Prophetic Language in Revelation 16.17–19.10. European University Studies. Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1985. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. Philadelphia: Fortress. Sweet, John. 1990. Revelation. Philadelphia: Trinity Press International.

chapter 7

R ev el ation ’s Use of the Gr eek L a nguage David L. Mathewson

Introduction Revelation’s “Unique” Grammar One of the more perplexing features of the book of Revelation is the author’s use of the Greek language. Scholars have consistently drawn attention to John’s “strange Greek” in comparison to what they often deem a more standardized form of the language in the New Testament and elsewhere. This observation reflects two important issues that have occupied scholarly attention regarding Revelation’s use of the Greek language: the issue of Revelation’s grammatical irregularities and the issue of the nature of Revelation’s Greek. First, scholars have long noted and provided various explanations for the book of Revelation’s so-called grammatical solecisms—grammatical incongruities of various types that depart from “acceptable” grammatical rules and usage of the language. The observation goes back at least as far as the third century, when Dionysius of Alexandria, in comparing Revelation’s Greek with that of the Fourth Gospel and 1 John, observed the misuse of Greek in Revelation: I do not deny that the other writer saw a revelation and received knowledge and prophecy. I perceive, however, that his dialect and language are not accurate Greek, but that he uses barbarous idioms, and, in some places, solecisms. (cited in Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 7.25.26)

To give an example, the most famous solecism confronts the attentive reader immediately, only a few verses into the book. In the epistolary introduction, Rev 1:4 issues a

102   David L. Mathewson grace and peace wish from ho ōn kai ho ēn kai ho erchomenos (the one who is and who was and who is coming). The difficulty is that though the expression is in the nominative case in Greek, it follows the preposition apo (from), which normally takes a genitive case, not the nominative. How do we explain such incongruities? And how extensive are the grammatical irregularities in Revelation?

The Relationship of Revelation’s Greek to First-Century Culture This leads to a second, closely related issue, the relationship of the Greek of Revelation to its first-century cultural context. What do the numerous grammatical incongruities say about the kind of Greek that John was writing? How does Revelation’s language relate to the Greek of the first century? Was it a unique language, or did it fall within the registers of first-century Koine Greek? Many scholars are convinced that Revelation’s Greek is anomalous. R. H. Charles described John’s Greek as “absolutely unique” (Charles 1913, 81). Some think that Revelation’s Greek is sloppy and substandard in comparison with Classical Greek standards. This has led to what is by far the most common approach to explaining Revelation’s so-called deviant Greek, which is to see its language as constituting some degree of Semitized Greek. David Aune summarizes this persistent approach: “The Greek of Revelation is the most peculiar Greek in the NT, in part because it exhibits interference from Semitic languages, perhaps both Hebrew and Aramaic” (Aune 1997, clxii). Some go as far as to posit a hybrid “Jewish Greek” to account for Revelation’s Greek (Thompson 1985, 108; Turner 1963, 9). This chapter addresses these two related issues. It argues that the grammatical irregularities in Revelation are not as extensive as usually thought, that most of them have plausible explanations, and that Revelation’s Greek fits into the language of the first-century Greek culture.

Revelation’s Grammatical Incongruities and Interpretation of Their Significance Overview of Apparent Grammatical Incongruities We have already noted a grammatical incongruity related to case usage in Rev 1:4. In the very next verse (1:5) we encounter another incongruity in case usage—another series of expressions in the nominative case, ho martys, ho pistos, ho prōtotokos (the witness, the faithful, the firstborn). This threefold expression stands in apposition to Iēsou Christou

Revelation’s Use of the Greek Language   103 (Jesus Christ). However, the name Iēsou Christou is, again, in the genitive case. Normally, we would expect two nouns in apposition to be in the same case; that is, the we would expect the expression “the witness, the faithful one, the firstborn” to be in the genitive case as is “Jesus Christ,” with which it stands in apposition, and not in the nominative case. This is the most common irregularity in Revelation’s case usage, to find nominatives modifying oblique case forms. In addition to case mismatches, Laurentiu Florentin Mot highlighted five categories of syntactical and morphological irregularities: (1) disagreements in case, gender, and number; (2) incongruities involving tense, voice, and mood; (3) prepositional irregularities; (4) omissions; (5) redundancies, such as redundant pronouns (Florentin Mot 2015, 107). 1. Disagreements in Case, Gender, and Number. In this first category, in addition to case discrepancies, subjects frequently do not agree with their verb in number. Beyond the common use of singular verbs with a neuter plural noun, there are numerous examples of mismatches with number. For example, in Rev 8:7 two nouns, chalaza kai pyr (hail and fire) are preceded and followed by singular verbs, egeneto (was) and eblēthē (was thrown), where we would expect plural verbs. A more common incongruity is to find disagreement in gender between a word and the noun it modifies, or between two nouns that stand in apposition or refer to the same thing. In 4:1, the feminine phōnē (voice) is modified by the masculine participle legōn (saying). 2. Incongruities in Tense, Voice, and Mood. One ostensible, conspicuous incongruity many scholars have noted is the use of Greek verb tenses outside their “normal” temporal spheres of expression. Some visions shift between all the major Greek tense forms (aorist, imperfect, present, perfect, future) without an apparent corresponding shift in temporal references (all describe a past vision that John had). In 19:11–21 John shifts between all the major tense forms in the indicative. Frequently, one finds the participle being used where one would expect to find a finite verb, and vice versa. In 1:16, the present participle echōn (having) is apparently used in place of a finite verb. In 1:5–6, two participle forms agapōnti . . . lysanti (loved . . . released) are resolved into a finite verb epoiēsen (made). 3. Prepositional Incongruities. Florentin Mot notes three prepositional usages that stand out in Revelation as peculiar. First, the preposition meta is used with the sense of “against” rather than “with” or “after.” Second, en can behave like eis. And third, is the preposition ek after the verb conquer or overcome (Florentin Mot 2015, 201–5). 4. Omissions and Redundancies. Finally, Revelation exhibits a number of redundancies in its use of pronouns. Most of these occur in relative clauses. In 3:8 John mentions a “door . . . which (hēn) no one is able to shut it (autēn).” It would appear that the pronoun autēn is redundant and unnecessary following the relative pronoun hēn.

104   David L. Mathewson

Theories about the Cultural Location of Revelation’s Greek There has been no shortage of explanations for John’s grammatical solecisms. This section summarizes some of the more important explanations for the incongruities and cultural significance of Revelation’s Greek. These explanations are not mutually exclusive. 1. Semitic Influence on John’s Greek. By far the most common explanation is that the solecisms in Revelation can be accounted for by some degree of Semitic influence or interference. The roots of this view go back to at least the eighteenth century. But the approach persists to the present day and has gained considerable popularity. Entire monographs have argued that significant Semitic influence explains John’s so-called grammatical atrocities. G. Mussies argued for Semitic influence, but from Mishnaic Hebrew or Aramaic (Mussies 1971). One of the most significant monographs is that of S. Thompson, who sees interference from the Hebrew language as the explanation for John’s irregular grammar at every turn (Thompson 1985). Hence, underlying John’s use of the Greek language semantically is the Hebrew language. A long line of commentaries has reiterated some form of this perspective. R. H. Charles draws attention to the Hebraic style of the Apocalypse. Though the statement probably goes back much farther (to the eighteenth-century German textual critic Johann Albrecht Bengel), Charles is well-known for the famous dictum “[W]hile he writes in Greek, he thinks in Hebrew” (Charles  1913, 82). H. B. Swete notes the more striking examples of solecisms, which he attributes to “the habit which he may have retained from early years of thinking in a Semitic language,” though he thinks there were other causes as well (Swete  1911, cxxv). Mussies has argued that the influence comes more from Mishnaic Hebrew or Aramaic (Mussies 1971). More recently, Aune has stated that Revelation’s Greek is most peculiar, and he attributes this state of affairs to Semitic influence (Aune 1997, clxii). Grant Osborne concludes that the solecisms in Revelation are due more to Septuagintal influence, and sometimes also betray Semitic influence (Osborne 2002, 24–25). Thus the overwhelming conclusion is that John’s grammatical aberrations are the result of Semitic interference to some degree. Thompson reiterated this perspective when he concluded that “at least in the Apc., the Greek language was little more than a membrane, stretched tightly over a Semitic framework, showing many essential contours beneath” (Thompson 1985, 108). Jürgen Roloff used a different metaphor in his commentary, concluding: “Nowhere is the Greek ‘ground cover’ over Semitic ‘subsoil’ as thin as it is here” (Roloff  1993, 12). Or, if we can use John’s own hear/see dialectic, the reader of Revelation “sees” Greek, but should “hear” Hebrew (Mathewson  2010, 177). Brian K. Blount likewise surmised that John “writes in a kind of Semitized Greek” (Blount 2009, 8).

Revelation’s Use of the Greek Language   105 Thompson and others have gone so far as to hypothesize the presence of an extant Jewish Greek that John wrote in: “The Apc. can accurately be described . . . and with no hesitancy be categorised as ‘Jewish Greek’, to the fullest extent of the term” (Thompson 1985, 108). According to Turner, during the time of the New Testament, “there was a distinguishable dialect of spoken and written Jewish Greek” (Turner 1965, 183). Similar assessments are fairly widespread in the literature on the book of Revelation, so that the perspective persists that John’s use of Greek exhibits some level of Semitic interference, and even is evidence of a kind of extant Jewish Greek. What this theory argues is that there was a dialect, or subdialect, of Greek in the first century that John (and presumably his readers) were familiar with. This Greek can only be understood accurately in light of the underlying Hebrew language system. However, G. H. R. Horsley has argued that the notion of an extant “Jewish Greek” is a fiction that (1) relies on overly vague terminology and (2) is inconsistent with linguistic research, particularly in the area of bilingualism (Horsley 1989, 5–40). As will be shown, the Semitic approach to Revelation’s Greek has come under significant criticism in light of recent linguistic insights. 2. Signals for Old Testament Allusions. Perhaps to be seen as a further category of Semitic influence, Gregory K. Beale has argued that the grammatical solecisms were deliberate attempts on John’s part to draw attention to OT allusions (Beale 1998, 318–55). The grammatical solecisms in most cases create a “grammatical dissonance” and signal to the reader the presence of an OT allusion (in the absence of quotation formulae), since the grammatical form of the OT allusion has been carried over into Revelation without grammatical alteration. For example, Beale argues that in 1:5, the syntactical dissonance created by the nominative ho martys, ho pistos, ho prōtotokos in apposition to the genitive Iēsou Christou is due to John’s desire to signal an allusion to Psalm 89:27–37 (88:27–37 LXX; Beale 1998, 329–30). Yet one could ask whether this accounts for all of the grammatical irregularities in Revelation. 3. Countercultural Language. Others think that John’s liberty with Greek is a deliberate attempt to flaunt grammatical convention as a means of protest against the Roman Empire. A. D. Callahan saw the departures from standard grammar as a deliberate transgression of grammar as part of John’s anti-imperial stance (Callahan 1995; see also Koester 2014, 141). A. Yarbro Collins concluded that John’s Greek constituted a “protest against the higher forms of Hellenistic culture” (Yarbro Collins 1984, 47). However, if this were the case, one might expect the grammatical departures to be far more extensive than they are and to be more widespread in the types of violations of correct grammar. 4. Careless Use of Greek. Finally, some have argued that John’s so-called deviant Greek is the result of John’s incompetence with the Greek language, which results in bad, sloppy Greek, especially in comparison with classical standards or even other NT authors (e.g., Dionysius of Alexandria, just quoted). However, many of the grammatical departures fall into distinct patterns or reflect intentional changes, making it unlikely that all the incongruities can be explained as bad or sloppy Greek.

106   David L. Mathewson

The Coherence of Revelation’s Greek In response to these theories for explaining Revelation’s Greek, some significant work has been done, primarily based on recent linguistic research, that has pushed the discussion forward. This work provides new avenues for exploring the issue, calling into question some of the previous explanations for the grammatical “irregularities”.

Developments in Method 1. Stanley E. Porter: Three significant works have challenged these perspectives by providing needed developments in methodology. In one of the most important challenges to the Semitic perspective, Stanley E. Porter examines the language of the Apocalypse in light of a number of important linguistic issues (Porter 1989a), and makes a number of important observations. According to him, the burden of proof lies with those who argue for appreciable Semitic influence, since Revelation is a Greek document produced in a Greek milieu (Porter 1989a, 587). Further, it must be shown that grammatical constructions in Revelation could not be paralleled in secular Greek literature; Porter finds many of the constructions that are often used to argue for Semitic influence to have examples, however uncommon, in secular Greek. Porter therefore distinguishes three kinds of influence: (1) translation, from Hebrew (or Aramaic); (2) interference, where a Hebrew grammatical construction has intruded into the Greek language; (3) enhancement, where the frequency of a construction that is rare in Greek has been enhanced by its presence in Hebrew. According to him, only the second can be considered a true Semitism, of which he finds few or no examples in Revelation. Rather, examples of Semitic influence fall under the third category, enhancement. Porter further argues that we cannot hold up the classical period as more normative for grammar than any other period, so that Revelation’s Greek is seen as sloppy and hence Semitically influenced. Influences on a language take place at the level of style, not code. The code of a language refers to its essential meaning and structure, whereas style refers to individual variations and the range of the ways that the code is manifested. Finally, he demonstrates that any interference between two languages has no lasting effect on either the native language or the acquired language. Porter concludes that “the language of the Apocalypse can be understood as falling within the range of possible registers of Greek usage in the 1st century” (Porter 1989a, 603). 2. Iwan Whitely: In another important article, Iwan Whitely challenged the prevailing Semitic-influence hypothesis and suggested that John’s use of language should be seen from a pragmatic perspective, that is, according to what language is attempting to accomplish or its effect (Whiteley 2007). Whiteley prefers the term “anacolutha” to “solecism,” since the latter designation suggests that John’s gram-

Revelation’s Use of the Greek Language   107 matical “deviations” are unintentional and incorrect. According to him, John uses anacolutha (what others calls solecisms) to introduce concepts and then extrapolate on them later in the broader context. “The primary strategy of that John employs that leads to the presence of anacolutha is that he highlights a section of text that is manipulated later in the work” (Whiteley  2007, 50). Whiteley also notes that John’s grammatical constructions appear consistently and repetitively throughout the work, implying that they are deliberate. The point is that John’s grammar and its irregularities can be accounted for within the Greek language itself, not from an outside force, such as Semitic language. 3. Laurentiu Florentin Mot: Most recently and most importantly, in a significant monograph, Laurentiu Florentin Mot has argued that the irregularities in the syntax of Revelation must be understood from the perspective of the Greek language itself rather than from a Semitic perspective (Florentin Mot 2015). He argues that grammar should be understood from a functional, descriptive approach rather than a prescriptive approach that emphasizes correct grammar and rules. John’s grammatical deviations are not to be seen as “bad grammar that breaks the rules,” but as expressing freedom in the pragmatic use of language, which may at times be intentional on John’s part. Recent research into error analysis and second language acquisition shows that not all grammatical irregularities go back to the mother tongue. There is not a one-to-one correspondence between the influence of the native language on the acquired language. There are different causes for grammatical errors, many of them intralingual. Furthermore, most morphsyntactical errors are not generated by the mother tongue, but rather by phonology and vocabulary. Florentin Mot then analyzes the grammatical irregularities in Revelation and provides reasonable explanations for them. For example, he counts twenty-seven examples of the nominative case in nouns and participles modifying an oblique case. Some of these may be due to the author’s desire to draw attention to a particular construction, to highlight an OT allusion; or they may be due to the titular function of a word or phrase. But he observes that John follows the “correct” construction (nominative modifying a nominate) much more frequently that he departs from it. Florentin Mot draws a number of important conclusions from his analysis. First, he observes that there are 221 solecisms in Revelation, which can be divided into three types: alleged, explicable, and actual. Only forty-five of the 221 fit that last category; these have no apparent explanation, according to him, and thus are true solecisms. Furthermore, John’s grammatical irregularities exhibit clear patterns and consistencies. For example, it is common to find the nominative case used where one would expect another case form. At least three important conclusions result from this. First, it is inaccurate to conclude that Revelation is full of grammatical mistakes and errors. This is surely an overstatement. Second, it is no longer acceptable to attribute most of John’s solecisms to Semitic influence. Third, like Porter, Florentin Mot concludes that John’s Greek falls well within the range of acceptable Koine Greek. John writes “in a Greek that

108   David L. Mathewson made sense to non-Hebrew speaking Jews and Gentile Christians alike” (Florentin Mot 2015, 230).

From Grammatical Incongruities to Common Linguistic Forms This is not the place to give an exhaustive account of all the solecisms (see Florentin Mot 2015, 95–216). However, many of the so-called solecisms in Revelation are explicable by various means within John’s use of the Greek language. At times, John may alter the grammar to highlight the titular nature of a word or phrase. This is probably the best explanation for the use of the nominative case in 1:4–5, where one would expect the genitive following apo in verse 4, and the nominatives in apposition to the genitive Iēsou Christou in verse 5. That John is intentional here seems to be suggested by the fact that he does know how to use the genitive in verse 5 (Iēsou Christou). It is also possible that Beale is correct that the grammatical irregularity causes some dissonance and signals the presence of an OT allusion (Exod 3:14; Beale 1998, 329–30). Something similar could be said about the nominative ho ophis ho archaios (the ancient serpent) in apposition to the accusative ton drakonta (dragon) in Rev 20:2. In 10:2 the nominative participle echōn (having) modifies the accusative angelon (angel) from verse 1. It is likely that here, however, the participle is functioning as a finite verb (the angel . . . had . . . ), indicated by placing it in the nominative case. One particularly problematic use of the nominative case where one would expect another case is in 12:7: ho Michaēl kai hoi angeloi autou tou polemēsai. The phrase ho Michaēl kai hoi angeloi (Michael and his angels) is in the nominative, but could be expected to be in the accusative case since it is the subject of the following infinitive polemēsai (to make war). Although most posit influence from a Hebrew idiom (subject + le with the infinitive; Thompson 1985, 62–63), this is not the most likely explanation. It is possible that a verb such as egeneto has been elided, so that the sense is “Michael and his angels came to make war.” Another option is that the articular infinitive tou polemēsai is epexegetical to the noun polemos (war), and that the nominative ho Michaēl kai hoi angeloi names and draws attention to those who will defeat Satan. Most of the incongruities surrounding gender in Revelation can be explained as constructions according to sense or perhaps as drawing attention to the construction. In 4:1 John hears “a voice speaking to him,” phōnē (voice), a feminine noun, which is modified by a masculine participle legōn. What is interesting is that before using the masculine participle legōn, the author uses the expected feminine participle lalousēs (speaking) in a relative clause to modify phōnē. Part of the explanation may be that the voice here is identified as “the first voice which I heard as a trumpet speaking with me.” This phrase points back to the voice in 1:17, introduced by legōn, which is Jesus speaking (Florentin Mot 2015, 161). The masculine participle, then, may function to link 4:1 to 1:17, and recall that it is Jesus who is speaking in 4:1. Masculine modifiers are used in a number of

Revelation’s Use of the Greek Language   109 instances where the reader would expect a neuter. In 5:6 the neuter arnion (lamb) is modified by a masculine participle echōn (having). It is also nominative, whereas arnion is accusative. This should probably not be seen as a construction according to sense, since the first two participles that modify arnion are neuter—hestēkos (standing) and esphagmenon (slaughtered). The nominative masculine echōn may function to draw attention to an important descriptive feature of the Lamb: his seven horns and eyes! (Mathewson 2016, 74). The masculine participle echōn in 4:7 is probably also a construction according to sense; the neuter to triton zōon (the third living creature) most likely refers to a human being, as the following hōs anthrōpou may suggest. Another example is the neuter noun therion (beast), which is sometimes modified by masculine words. In 13:14 both the masculine participle legōn and the masculine relative pronoun hos modify the neuter therion. This may be an example of construction according to sense, where the beast symbolizes a human ruler. In 17:3 the masculine participle echōn (having) modifies the neuter therion again. This could be a grammatical slip, but more likely, it draws attention to these features of the beast (its heads and horns) to link it back to the beast’s same description in 13:1. Lack of agreement in number is frequently found in the Apocalypse. In 8:7 two nouns, chalaza kai pyr occur with two singular verbs, egeneto . . . eblēthē (was . . . was thrown), where we would expect to find plural verbs. Yet grammars frequently note that when the verb comes before more than one subject it is common for a verb to agree in number with the first subject (Turner 1963, 313). Hence the singular egeneto agrees in number with the first subject chalaza. But the verb that follows, eblēthē, requires a different explanation. It is possible that the author simply continued the pattern of the singular egeneto, or perhaps treated both chalaza (feminine) and pyr (neuter) as neuter plural, which in Greek frequently takes singular verbs. It is also possible that John simply treated both as a single entity (Mathewson 2016, 110). Another feature that appears anomalous, which Florentin Mot thinks is one of the only two grammatical features that exhibit Semitic interference (Florentin Mot 2015, 222), is the redundant use of the pronoun in relative clauses. The reader is confronted with an example in 3:8: thyran ēneōgmenēn, hēn oudeis dunatai kleisai autēn (an open door, which no one is able to shut it). The pronoun autēn at the end of the relative clause appears redundant or superfluous after the relative pronoun hēn. This construction could be attributed to Semitic influence, since it is rare outside of Revelation and abundant in the LXX, translating the Hebrew indeclinable relative asher, which is followed by a pronoun for clarity, though examples of the construction can be found in Hellenistic Greek (Robertson 1934, 722). In any case, John may deliberately utilize this construction in order to place further emphasis on the antecedent: in 3:9, the open door. This construction occurs also in 7:2, 9; 13:8, 12; 17:9; 20:8. When it comes to modal forms, Revelation reveals a number of interesting participle usages. Though the typical adverbial and attributive participles appear regularly in Revelation (Mathewson 2016, xxviii–xxix), to be noticed is not only the usage of the participle as a main verb, but also the occurrence of a main verb where one would expect to

110   David L. Mathewson see a participle. Although the use of a participle for a main verb is sometimes attributed to Semitic influence (Thompson  1985, 68), examples in extrabiblical Greek make a Semitic explanation unnecessary and unlikely (Moulton  1908, 222–24). The first instance that confronts the reader is 1:16. Here the echōn (having) seems to function as a finite verb. This would explain its appearance in the nominative case. There are other examples of participles that may function as finite verbs in the text of Revelation, usually with echōn (4:8; 10:2; 21:14). The reverse is also found in Revelation, the occurrence of a finite verb where one would expect a participle. Again, this feature is often attributed to Semitic influence, where one finds the resolution of a participle into a finite verb (Charles 1920, cxliv–cxlvi; Thompson 1985, 66–67). However, as Florentin Mot shows, Semitic influence on this construction in Revelation is unlikely, since there were at least three ways this construction was translated into the LXX: literally, as two participles, and as two finite verbs (Florentin Mot 2015, 195). Furthermore, Porter shows that this construction has ample precedence in extrabiblical Greek (Porter 1989b, 140). The clearest example is found in 1:5–6, where the two participles agapōnti (loved) and lysanti (released) are continued with a finite verb epoiēsen (made). It is possible that this is a parenthetical construction, or is meant to draw attention to the description of the people of God and an OT allusion (Exod 19:6). To be excluded from treatment as a solecism or grammatical irregularity is Revelation’s use of Greek tenses. It is probably incorrect to treat the verb-tense usages in Revelation as an example of “Verbal Incongruities” (Florentin Mot 2015, 191). Revelation is well-known for using Greek verb-tense forms that are out of concord with their assumed temporal values in the author’s narration of his vision. At times, John shifts between all the major tense forms in his vision, without making any apparent switch in temporal orientation (a record of a past vision). John’s “deviant” use of tenses outside their normal temporal values is often attributed to Semitic influence (Charles  1920, cxxiii–v; Mussies 1971, 330–49; Thompson 1985, 29–53). For example, in Rev 11:1–13 the author shifts between aorist-, present-, and future-tense forms, which Charles called “confused” (Charles 1920, cxxiii n. 1). However, recent research into the linguistic concept of verbal aspect calls this into serious question (Porter 1989b). Verbal aspect indicates the author’s perspective on the action, not the time (or kind) of action it is. That is, it concerns how the author chooses to view the action, rather than when the action took place. If this is the case, then John’s use of verb tenses in different temporal contexts cannot be attributed to Semitic influence or to a misuse of Greek tenses, but it is consistent with the semantics of the verb tense forms themselves, which communicate verbal aspect, and not absolute temporal reference (Mathewson 2010). Often the tense shifts function to indicate how the author chooses to structure the discourse, or, to indicate discourse prominence (Mathewson 2010; 2016, xxv–xxviii). Hence it is clear that John uses verb tenses consistently with their semantic value, once we understand that aspect rather than temporal reference is the semantic property communicated by Greek verbtense forms. We should look to John’s use of the Greek language itself for our primary source of explanation for John’s grammatical irregularities. It is difficult to determine whether all

Revelation’s Use of the Greek Language   111 of John’s grammatical solecisms are intentional or unintentional. But the fact that many of them follow consistent patterns in his work suggests that many are intentional (Whiteley  2007), and not the result of bad Greek or underlying Semitic influence. Florentin Mot has concluded that of the different kinds of irregularities making up the forty-five actual departures from correct grammar, “4 [kinds of departures] are systematic and occur often” (Florentin Mot 2015, 233). These four patterns are the nominative case in place of oblique cases, gender disagreements, participles in place of finite verbs, and resumptive pronouns. This makes it more likely that John’s grammatical departures are sometimes, or often, intentional. Many solecisms have plausible explanations within their context, as we have seen. It appears that John may at times deliberately alter the syntax in order to highlight a construction by departing from the “normal” grammar. At other times (see Beale 1998), the grammatical solecisms may function to signal an OT allusion. John may also create cohesion between different parts of his text using the same kinds of grammatical departure in different contexts. John’s grammar often reflects the sense of the construction rather than strict adherence to grammatical rules. At other times, a construction may be enhanced by Semitic influence, though it is still an attested Greek construction. An example of this may be the use of the participle legön/legontes (saying) to introduce quotations in the text (e.g., 4:10–11). It is probably wise to examine each of the grammatical solecisms individually, on their own terms and in their own contexts, to determine an explanation for each one. Overall, it is helpful to take a pragmatic rather than a rule-based approach to John’s grammar, asking what purpose it is accomplishing.

Revelation’s Language as Common First-Century Greek Based on the discussion here; the strength of the alternative approach argued for by Porter, Whiteley, and Florentin Mot; and recent insights from linguistics, such as bilingualism and second-language acquisition, it is time to rethink how we approach the Greek of the book of Revelation. This discussion argues for the view that John’s Greek falls within the range of acceptable first-century Greek. First, most of the grammatical anomalies, or solecisms, have explanations outside of Semitic influence; they are often intralingual and can be explained by other means. That is, there is seldom a need to look outside John’s use of Greek itself to explain the grammatical irregularities (Florentin Mot 2015, 85–89; Porter 1989a, 602; see also Horsley 1989, 5–40). Second, it is important to keep in mind an essential distinction that Porter made. He argued for the need to distinguish three levels when it comes to thinking about Semitic influence on Revelation: (1) direct translation, (2) direct intervention, and (3) enhancement (Porter 1989a, 587). According to Porter, only number 2 can legitimately be considered a Semitism, since only here has the Hebrew language intruded into Greek, so that a linguistic

112   David L. Mathewson phenomenon cannot be accounted for within the Greek language itself (Porter 1989a, 587). Porter concludes that in Revelation, “The most that can be argued for is Semitic enhancement at points” (Porter 1989a, 599). Third, this raises the issue of the distinction between code (the essential meaning and structure of a language) and style (individual variation; Porter 1989a; Silva 1980). Any influence on the Greek language from outside forces would likely have affected it at the level of style, rather than at the level of the very code of the language. That is, any influence from Hebrew might have affected the style, but would not have interfered with or had a lasting impact on the language system itself. This is consistent with some of the insights noted by Florentin Mot on error analysis and second-language acquisition, which have questioned to what extent grammatical categories or errors transfer from one language to another (e.g., from the native language to the acquired language). This does not mean that there has been no outside influence at all on Revelation’s Greek, but that any influence will be at the level of style or enhancement, not at the level of grammar or code. Fourth, it is important to examine John’s grammar in light of recent emphasis on descriptive and functional approaches to grammar. Such approaches are more concerned with describing how an author uses language and grammar and what they do, than with whether they conform to a “correct” grammar. This makes it difficult to conclude that John’s Greek was sloppy, careless, or bad, especially in comparison with some other time period (classical, Attic). Thus, “the Greek of Revelation is not inferior to any of the other NT books [or I would add, classical or Attic Greek]. It is only different.” (Florentin Mot 2015, 234). It is important, therefore, to consider the communicative function of John’s language. Fifth, if we can assume that John was at least bilingual, then the interpreter must finally come to grips with the fact that he chose to write in Greek, the dominant language of the empire. Hence, “since the NT documents are extant Greek documents in a Greek linguistic milieu . . . the burden of proof must lie with those who argue for Semitic influence” (Porter 1989a, 587). Even if a Semitic Greek did exist, Thompson and others would presumably have to argue that the readers of John’s Apocalypse were privy to this specialized Greek language. If this was not the case, one must wonder why John bothered to write in Greek at all and how he could have written in such a Jewish Greek without confusing or even misleading his Greek speaking/reading readers. As the messages to the seven church in Rev 2–3 clearly demonstrate, John’s text was produced in a thoroughly Greco-Roman milieu in the heart of imperial Roman domination. In other words, the author’s “text came to life in a Greco-Roman context. John chose to write in Greek, idiosyncratic as his may be, because it was the language of the eastern empire and of the early Christian communities” (Royalty 1998, 81). Finally, Greek can be divided into a broad spectrum of various levels according to style. Porter mentions vulgar, nonliterary, literary, and Atticistic (Porter  1989a, 598). Where does the Greek of Revelation fit in? Porter concludes that there is “no compelling reason to see the language of the Apocalypse as anything other than in many places vulgar Greek of the 1st century” (Porter 1989a, 600). Florentin Mot also seems to place the Greek of Revelation into vernacular or vulgar Greek (Florentin Mot 2015, 230–33).

Revelation’s Use of the Greek Language   113 In other words, Revelation falls within the range of registers of first-century Greek. Given modern advances in linguistic analysis as summarized by Porter, Whitely, and Florentin Mot, and given the fact that John chose to write in the language of GrecoRoman world of which he and his churches were a part, there is no reason to conclude that John thought he was writing in, and his readers thought they were reading, anything other than standard first-century Greek. As different as his Greek may be in comparison to other registers, or at whatever skill level the author has achieved in Greek, Revelation’s Greek needs to be treated as an example of common first-century Greek. Or, to conclude with the words of Porter, “there is little chance anyone thought he [John] was using anything other than the Hellenistic Greek of the day” (Porter 1989a, 603).

References Aune, David E. 1997. Revelation 1–5. WBC 52A. Dallas: Word. Beale, Gregory K. 1998. John’s Use of the Old Testament in Revelation. JSNTSup 166. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press. Blount, Brian K. 2009. Revelation. NTL. Louisville, KY: John Knox Press. Callahan, A. D. 1995. “The Language of the Apocalypse.” HTR 88: 453–70. Charles, R. H. 1913. Studies in the Apocalypse. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Charles, R. H. 1920. The Revelation of St. John. Vol. 1. ICC. New York: Scribner’s. Florentin Mot, Laurentiu. 2015. Morphological and Syntactical Irregularities in the Book of Revelation: A Greek Hypothesis. LBS 11. Leiden: Brill. Horsley, G. H. R., ed. 1989. New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity. Vol. 5. Marrickville, AUS: Macquarie University. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Mathewson, David L. 2010. Verbal Aspect in the Book of Revelation: The Function of Greek Verb Tenses in John’s Apocalypse. LBS 4. Leiden: Brill. Mathewson, David  L. 2016. Revelation: A Handbook on the Greek Text. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Moulton, James H. 1908. A Grammar of New Testament Greek. Vol. 1: Prolegomena. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Mussies, G. 1971. The Morphology of Koine Greek as Used in the Apocalypse of John: A Study in Bilingualism. NovTSup 27. Leiden: Brill. Osborne, Grant R. 2002. Revelation. BECNT. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Porter, Stanley E. 1989a. “The Language of the Apocalypse in Recent Discussion.” NT Studies 35: 582–603. Porter, Stanley E. 1989b. Verbal Aspect in the Greek of the New Testament, with Reference to Tense and Mood. SBG 1. New York: Peter Lang. Robertson, A.  T. 1934. A Grammar of the Greek New Testament in the Light of Historical Research. Nashville: Broadman Press. Roloff, Jürgen. 1993. The Revelation of John. Translated by John E. Alsop. CC. Minneapolis: Fortress. Royalty, Robert W., Jr. 1998. The Streets of Heaven: The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press.

114   David L. Mathewson Silva, Moises. 1980. “Bilingualism and the Character of Palestinian Greek.” Bib 61: 198–219. Swete, H. B. 1911. The Apocalypse of St. John. London: Macmillan. Thompson, Stephen. 1985. The Apocalypse and Semitic Syntax. SNTSMS 52. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Turner, Nigel. 1963. A Grammar of New Testament Greek. Vol. 3: Syntax. Edited by J. H. Moulton. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Turner, Nigel. 1965. Grammatical Insights into the New Testament. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Whiteley, Iwan  M. 2007. “An Explanation for the Anacolutha in the Book of Revelation.” Filologia Neotestmentaria 20: 33–50. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1984. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Westminster Press.

chapter 8

The H ym ns i n R ev el ation Justin P. Jeffcoat Schedtler

Revelation’s hymns have not always been thought to contribute meaningfully to the Apocalypse, and accordingly, they are often given scant treatment in the history of scholarship on the book.1 Yet hymns are one of the primary vehicles through which the author of the Apocalypse makes theological, Christological, and soteriological claims. This ought not to come as a surprise given the extent to which hymns elsewhere in the New Testament—especially in the Pauline corpus—function in this regard, and in light of the prevalence of hymns and hymn-singing in worship contexts in early Judaism and Christianity. This essay explores generic elements of hymnody in antiquity, as well as various aspects of hymnic form and performance in early Judaism and Christianity, as a means of situating the particular forms of Revelation’s hymns, as well as their essential function, within the Apocalypse as a whole.

Hymnic Genre Notions of what constituted a “hymn” varied in antiquity. In its earliest attestations, hymnos sometimes implies general singing or song, whereas in other contexts it more specifically denotes praise of gods and/or human beings.2 Plato defined hymns as praise of gods—distinct from praise of men (Grk: encomia)—a definition that has been operative ever since.3 So pervasive was the definition that, a millennium later, Augustine would similarly claim of Christian hymns: Hymns are praises of God accompanied with singing: hymns are songs containing the praise of God. If there be praise, and it be not of God, it is no hymn. (Expositions on Psalm 73 1).

116   Justin P. Jeffcoat Schedtler While praise of the divine is the sine qua non of ancient hymnody, certain formal features are often associated with the genre, including (1) invocation of the deity in the second or third person, often including divine epithets, genealogies, and/or places of worship of the deity, and an exhortation to sing the hymn; (2) praise of the deity, including accounts of past exploits, as well as essential traits, powers, or privileges; and (3) closing prayer consisting of an appeal for help, a wish for well-being, or a summons, or all three, for the deity to appear at a particular place and time (Furley and Bremer 2001, 1:52–63). On these formal and functional grounds, several hymnic units can be identified in Revelation: 4:9–11; 5:9–13; 7:10–13; 11:15–18; 12:10–12; 15:3–4; 16:5–7; 19:1–8.4 Moreover, many of the attending performative features of the hymns as they are presented in Revelation reflect conventions of hymnody in the ancient world. The hymns were sung, as indicated by various introductory formulae (e.g., 5:9, 12; 7:10; 11:15; 15:3), and accompanied by a kithara (5:8; 15:2). Moreover, with the exception of the hymn in 15:3–4, each of the hymns is antiphonal. Finally, the context of their performance in a cultic setting—that is, in the heavenly throne room of God and the Lamb—makes sense in light of the presumed cultic contexts of many hymns in the ancient Mediterranean world.

Connections with Hymnic Forms in Early Judaism/Christianity Institutions from the wider Greek and Roman world may have provided conceptual resources for the context(s) of performance, contents, and formal elements of Revelation’s hymns, including especially the Roman Imperial court (Aune 1983, 5–26; Nelson Kraybill 2010, 82–107) and the choruses of Greek and Roman tragedy (Jeffcoat Schedtler 2014, 1–2, 14–21). The setting of the hymns in the heavenly temple, as well as a number of seemingly liturgical elements in the hymns themselves, suggest that liturgical contexts may have provided conceptual resources for the presentation of the hymns in Revelation (Smith 2011, 61–165). The breaking of the seals and opening the scroll may represent reading from the Torah in the synagogue (Mowry 1952, 79–83), while the order of events in the daily Minchah service in the Jerusalem temple may provide a blueprint for the depiction of the Christological hymn in Revelation 5 (Thompson 1990, 75–77). The hymns also may have derived language and imagery from the Passover liturgy (O’Rourke 1968, 399–409, 75–97). Comparisons with antecedent Jewish liturgical contexts and liturgies leads naturally to the question of whether or not Revelation’s hymns, and the attending depictions of heavenly worship, reflect the liturgical practices of the communities among whom Revelation first circulated. The claim that Revelation’s visions were revealed to John “on the Lord’s day” (1:10) may suggest as much. Based on form-critical assessments, some

The Hymns in Revelation   117 have supposed that the hymns themselves echo nascent Christian hymnic forms, and that Revelation’s hymns can be profitably compared with hymns woven into the narrative structure of other New Testament texts.5 However, while certain formulaic elements, for example, “Amen” (5:14; 7:12; 19:4), or “We gave thanks to you because . . . ” (11:17), reflect known hymnic forms from later Christian texts, it is much more difficult to identify further resonances. It seems just as likely that Revelation’s hymns were original creations of the author (Hurtado 1985, 105–24). The prevalence of hymns in Revelation (and in the New Testament generally) appears to reflect the popularity of hymn-singing in early Christian worship, a practice attested with both passing and specific references in the New Testament (Acts 16:25; 1 Cor 14:15, 26; Eph 5:19; Col 3:16; Jas 5:13). References to singing in the Odes of Solomon (7:22–23; 16:1–2; 36:2; 41:1–2), along with figurative language in the letters of Ignatius (Mag. 1:2; Eph. 4:1–2; 5:1; 19:2; Rom. 2:2), testify to the continuing prevalence of singing in the second century (Smith 2011, 176–77).6 The practice of singing among early Christians was conspicuous enough that Pliny included its description in his brief characterization of Christians in Bithynia, who “were in the habit of meeting on a certain fixed day before it was light, when they sang in alternate verses a hymn to Christ, as to a god” (Ep. 10.96). Little more can be said about the specific forms and contents of early Christian hymns on account of the use of relatively generic terms to denote the contents of hymnic singing (e.g., Gk: psalmos, hymnos, ōdē; Lat.: carmen), along with a dearth of contextual information about the singing and the contents of the songs. It is a matter of debate as to whether or not extant hymnic material tells us much about the practice of hymn-singing in the early church. The prevalence of hymns in the New Testament and evidence of hymn-singing belies strong resistance to the practice of hymn singing (or particular aspects of hymn singing) by some in the early church. John Chrysostom was wary of the supreme power of music to engender both good and evil in humankind, such that he characterized “non-spiritual” (i.e., nonbiblical) hymns, as well as the instrumentation and dancing that often accompanied them, as the “devil’s garbage” (John Chrysostom, Exposition of Psalm 41). Many others highlight what they perceive to be the detrimental influence of “Greek” elements in early Christian hymnody (McKinnon 1987; Smith 2011, 178–82).

Contents of Hymns Each hymn issues from the heavenly throne room, the setting for much of what transpires in Revelation. The throne itself stands at the geographic and conceptual center of the room, and it is surrounded by an assortment of heavenly creatures, all of which variously offer hymns of praise to God and the Lamb throughout the vision sequences in Revelation. The four “living creatures” (4:4–6), who recall the heavenly entities described in the throne visions of Isa 6 and Ezek 1, offer endless praise to God (4:8), often along with other heavenly entities (4:8; 5:9–13; 11:15; 12:10–12; 19:1–8; Hall 1990,

118   Justin P. Jeffcoat Schedtler 609–13). So, too, the primary function of the twenty-four elders depicted in a circle around the throne seems to consist of their heavenly praise of God and the Lamb, because it is explicitly stated that the elders worship whenever the living creatures “give glory, honor, and thanks” (4:9–10; Aune 1997, 1:287–92). Mention of “many angels . . . number[ing] myriads of myriads and thousands of thousands” (5:11) rounds out the description of those who occupy the throne room. Recalling images of angels surrounding the throne of God in antecedent Jewish literature, especially those in apocalyptic texts, the angels offer hymns of praise specifically to the Lamb (5:12; 7:11).7 As are the descriptions of those who sing the hymns, the hymns themselves are replete with echoes of its language, imagery, and symbolism, though they rarely include explicit citations from the Hebrew Bible or other antecedent Jewish literature. In one instance, Rev 4:8, a hymnic allusion to an antecedent text can be determined with certainty, where the appearance of the Trisagion (“Holy, holy, holy”) signals dependence on Isa 6:3. Even in this case, however, the acclamation in Revelation clearly differs from Isaiah’s: Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts (kurios sabaoth); the whole earth is full of his glory (Isa. 6:3). Holy, holy, holy, the Lord God the Almighty (kyrios ho theos ho pantokratōr), who was and is and is to come (Rev 4:8).

The author of Revelation seems to have adapted traditional material by replacing the static description of God with an apocalyptic image of a God who is “coming.” This betrays the broader tendency of the author of Revelation to adapt traditional material to suit his own exigencies, which most often occurs in highly allusive ways (Moyise 1995, 13–23). This is evident in the description of the hymn to the Lamb as the “new song” (5:9), which recalls the song sung by Moses and the Israelites after crossing the Red Sea (Exod 15:1–18), and which likewise revolves around the redemptive power of God. In the very same hymn, the claim that Jesus’s death will create a “kingdom and priests” (5:10) would likely have evoked God’s promise to Moses that the children of Israel would become a “kingdom of priests” (Exod 19:6). Such imagery (e.g., “nations raging” in Rev 11:18 [Pss 2:1–5; 99:1], the “marriage of the Lamb” in Rev 19:7 [Isa 54:6; Hos 2; Ezek 16:8–14]) is only loosely connected, but clearly dependent upon, figurative language and imagery in the Hebrew Bible. The language, imagery, and settings of the hymns in Revelation can also be traced to broader conventions in the non-Jewish worlds of Greek and Roman antiquity. For example, the description of the twenty-four elders casting down their crowns before the throne of God (Rev 4:10) may reflect the practice of Roman subjects presenting golden crowns to emperors at their adventus (Aune 1997, 1:172–75, 308–9; Stevenson 1995, 257–72). The claims that God and the Lamb were “worthy” to receive various prerogatives (4:11; 5:9, 11) may derive from acclamations for Roman emperors. Josephus recorded the shouts of the crowds to Vespasian upon his ascension to the throne in 70 ce: “Benefactor, savior, and only worthy ruler of Rome” (Jewish War 7.71).

The Hymns in Revelation   119 Insofar as much of the contents of Revelation’s hymns are drawn from various texts in the Hebrew Bible, Second Temple Judaism, and broader currents in the ancient Mediterranean world, there exist many planes of intertextuality between these antecedent contexts and Revelation’s hymns. Although these contexts provide valuable lenses through which to begin to understand the theological, Christological, and soteriological claims being made in the hymns, it is important to appreciate the extent to which the author of Revelation has reshaped source material to fit his own exigencies. That is, conceptual resources from various antecedent and contemporaneous contexts become the raw material with which the author of Revelation paints his own unique picture of the sovereignty of God, the vicegerency of the Lamb, the salvation of the people of God, and the total conquest of every adversary in the coming eschatological age.

Functions of Hymns In modern scholarship, Revelation’s hymns have often been subordinated to other elements in the text, either explicitly insofar as they are characterized as “interludes” or “interruptions” vis-à-vis the surrounding vision sequences, or implicitly inasmuch as their contents are given minimal attention relative to other elements in the text. At other times, they are ignored altogether, a regrettable phenomenon in the history of scholarship on the Apocalypse given the sheer number of hymns in the text and their prominence therein. Increasingly, however, scholars have come to recognize the value of the hymns insofar as they provide structural landmarks in the text, and insofar as they help to convey central theological, Christological, and soteriological tenets in the Apocalypse.

Structural Value At a structural level, the hymns sometimes appear to delineate vision sequences—or elements within vision sequences—from one another. For example, the hymns at the end of chapter 4 function as a transition from the vision of the one seated upon the throne to the vision of the slaughtered Lamb in chapter 5. Likewise, the hymns to the Lamb at the end of chapter 5 function as a transition from the descriptions of God and the Lamb to the visions of destruction heralded by the opening of the seven seals in the chapters that immediately follow. Of course, the way that one conceives of the structure of the text as a whole determines in large part one’s sense of the structural function(s) and value(s) of the hymns (Carnegie 1982, 250–54; Jörns 1971, 167–70). Recognition of the structural value of the hymns is precisely what has led to their characterization as “interludes” between other elements thought to be more critical to the text. At the same time, some have recognized their value as a theological and/or Christological “climax” to a vision (Thompson  1990, 66–68). The recognition of the

120   Justin P. Jeffcoat Schedtler value of the hymns vis-à-vis surrounding elements has had the positive effect of sparking a much more robust exploration of the value of the hymns themselves in conveying principal themes in the Apocalypse.

Sovereignty of God The hymns to the “one seated upon throne” convey primarily the notion of the sovereignty of God. This is demonstrated both by the contents of the hymns and the context of their performance. In the first hymn (4:8), God is designated Lord (kyrios) and Almighty (pantokratōr). The primacy of this designation can be inferred from its prevalence in the text, but confirmed based on their use as part of hymnic acclamations. That is, ancient rhetoricians claim that hymns functioned at their core to extol the essential nature of the gods to whom they are sung (Quintilian, Inst. 3.7.7; Alexander Numenius; Gordley 2007, 112–24). Thus, the designation of the one seated upon the throne as “Lord God Almighty” is an indication of what is believed to be an essential aspect of God’s nature. This theme continues in the following antiphonal hymn (Rev 4:11), and in every subsequent hymn, in which various epithets denoting sovereignty (e.g., “glory,” “honor,” “power,” etc.) are ascribed to God. In addition to designations and epithets in the hymns that connote as much (e.g., “King of the nations” [15:3], “kingdom/reign” of God [11:15, 17; 12:10; 19:6]), the sovereignty of God is conveyed by various contexts of hymnic performance throughout the text. For example, the hymns to God in chapter 4 take place in the context of the twentyfour elders falling down before the throne of God while worshipping and laying down their crowns (4:10). The act of prostration signals the subordination of those who perform the act (Matt 2:11; cf. 4:9), as does the offering of crowns, which conjures up scenes of subjugated kings presenting their crowns to their conquerors (2 Sam 1:10; 12:30; 1 Chr 20:2; Tacitus, Ann. 15.29). Several prominent hymnic themes serve to convey the sovereignty of God, including especially notions that God “judges” and destroys God’s enemies in order to inaugurate the reign of God on earth.8 Others push back on the notion that sovereignty constitutes the primary theological theme in the Apocalypse (Schüssler-Fiorenza 1985, 35–67; Yarbro Collins 1993, 20–33).

Vice-Regency of the Lamb The fact that the Lamb is praised with hymns at all (i.e., in terms usually reserved for gods) can be understood in terms of the widespread practice of assimilating renowned individuals with gods in the Hellenistic and Roman world. The practice of hymning individuals “as to a god” was part and parcel of the conferral of other divine honors (sacrifices, processionals, offerings, etc.), which functioned to confer a kind of divine status (if not divinity in ontological terms) upon the individual. For example, Appian claims that Marc Antony composed a eulogy to Julius Caesar, whom he hymned “as a god in

The Hymns in Revelation   121 heaven,” while Antony himself is said to have been the recipient of similar hymnic praise (Appian, Bell.- civ. 146; Plutarch, Ant. 24). In the imperial period, conferral of divine honors became the sole prerogative of the emperor and his family, and the practice of hymning emperors appears to have taken place with greater frequency and on a much larger scale. For example, professional singers may have accompanied the emperor and his family regularly in public in order to sing hymns of praise to them. Tacitus suggests as much in his report of five thousand equestrian men who constantly shadowed Nero in order to offer hymnic praise (Tacitus, Ann. 14.15). Hymnic praise also likely occurred in more spontaneous settings, as Suetonius suggests in his account of the crew of an Alexandrian ship who “sang praises” to Augustus when his ship passed (Suetonius, Aug. 98). Although they were much less prevalent than in the wider Mediterranean world, similar hymnic acclamations for humans are attested in the Hebrew Bible and in various early Jewish texts (Jipp 2015, 93–99). The Psalms often include praise of the king in terms that recall praise for God, and King David and Solomon are depicted receiving divine praise in Chronicles (Lynch 2014, 209–43). Divine honors for mortals are even more conspicuous in noncanonical literature. Artapanus tells of the Egyptian priests who conferred “god-like honors” upon Moses (Eusebius, Praep. ev. 9.27.4–6), while Josephus interprets Nebuchadnezzar’s praise of Daniel to be worship “as to a god” (Josephus, Ant. 10.211–12). Even Philo, who vigorously rejected the conferral of god-like honors upon Caligula, seems to accept that such honors could be granted to exceptional mortals such as Moses (Philo, Legat. 81–86; Mos. 158). This broad pattern of praise of mortals “as to a god” in the ancient Mediterranean world provides a general context for interpreting praise of Jesus throughout Revelation, while hymnic praise of Jesus alongside God and in terms otherwise used for God further reflect more specific patterns of divine praise modeled primarily on Greek and Roman antecedents. To wit, the crucified and exalted Jesus receives obeisance from the selfsame heavenly creatures who praise God, and the Lamb, together with God, is addressed as the c­ o-recipient of hymnic praise in several hymns (Rev 5:13; 7:10; 12:10). Moreover, the hymns to the Lamb closely resemble the hymns to God, both in formal terms and in terms of specific contents. Most conspicuous in this regard are divine prerogatives accorded to the Lamb—that is, prerogatives that are elsewhere accorded to God, such as “glory” and “honor.” Insofar as the hymns to the crucified Jesus follow these patterns of divine praise, they project the image of Jesus as the Messiah, the anointed vicegerent of God, an image that is reflected variously throughout the text insofar as the Lamb acts on God’s behalf to enact punishment upon God’s enemies and to grant salvation for God’s elect (Jeffcoat Schedtler 2018, 162–82).

Anti-imperial Theology and Christology While hymnic praise of God and the Lamb throughout Revelation functions to proclaim the sovereignty of God and the vicegerency of the Lamb, it functions simultaneously to

122   Justin P. Jeffcoat Schedtler delegitimize worship of various elements of the Roman imperial apparatus, especially the emperor himself. On one hand, appropriating for God (and the Lamb) honorifics that signaled the sovereignty of Roman emperors constitutes an implicit rejection of any competing claims of the emperor(s). The designation of the one seated upon the throne as “Lord and Our God” (4:11) is a conspicuous example of this. Suetonius claims that Domitian appropriated this very title for himself (Suetonius, Dom. 13.2), and this claim is repeated by subsequent authors (Dio Cassius, Rom. Hist. 67.5.7; 67.13.4; Dio Chrysostom, Or. 45.1). While Domitian may or may not have actually appropriated this title for himself, it is clear that emperors before and after him received similar divine honorifics in a way that signaled and legitimated their own sovereignty (Thompson 1990, 95–115). Appropriating for God (and the Lamb) the vocabulary and symbolism that functioned to legitimate the worship of the emperor may have functioned to persuade those who heard (and sung) the hymns to conclude that it is the ones who sit on the heavenly throne who are the rightful sovereigns, not the one who sits on the throne in Rome (Charles 1993, 85–97). On the other hand, various contexts of the performance of the heavenly hymns further direct the reader (or hearer) of Revelation’s hymns to reconsider the legitimacy of the worship of the Roman emperor and other elements of the Roman imperial ap­pa­ratus. The obeisance represented in the twenty-four elders’ act of throwing down their crowns before the heavenly throne, and the very act of hymning God and the Lamb, further reflects the belief that this constitutes true worship over and against any earthly counterparts. This sentiment is conveyed explicitly insofar as worship of the Roman imperial apparatus is depicted and presented in wholly negative terms as the unholy antithesis of praise of God and the Lamb. For example, Rev 13 depicts a beast “from the sea,” who is under the control of Satan (12:9; 13:4), blasphemes God (13:5–6), wages war against “God’s holy people” (13:7), and is worshiped by “all the inhabitants of the earth—all whose names are not written in the Lamb’s Book of Life” (13:8). Here the hymns for the beast are imagined: “Who is like the beast? Who can wage war against it?” (13:4). Considered alongside visions of God and the Lamb in which they are deemed “worthy” to receive acclamations of divine praise (4:11; 5:12), this caricature of worship functions ultimately to delegitimize worship of the Roman emperor and the Roman imperial apparatus. What Schüssler-Fiorenza concludes about the rhetoric of Revelation generally is certainly reflected in the depiction of contrasting depictions of hymnic worship in particular: “Revelation’s symbolic rhetoric is absolute: one decides either for God or Satan, for the Lamb or the monster, for Christ or Antichrist. No compromise is possible” (Schüssler-Fiorenza 1991, 84).

Casting the Surrounding Visions into a Theological and/or Christological Context Having now examined the extent to which the hymns convey Revelation’s central theological, Christological, and soteriological themes, it remains to explore the relationship

The Hymns in Revelation   123 between the hymns and the surrounding contents of the vision sequences. A brief survey of each of the hymns in relation to this material will demonstrate that the hymns interact purposefully and dynamically in relation to the surrounding action, by explicitly framing the allusive vision sequences in precise theological and/or Christological terms. Recalling depictions of God from the LXX and other early Jewish literature (e.g., Isa 6; Ezek 1–3; Dan 7; T. Levi 5:1), chapter 4 depicts the sovereign majesty of God: seated upon the heavenly throne, with a sea of glass in front of it and a rainbow encircling it, with thunder and lightning indicating divine heavenly presence (Rev 4:1–11). If this vision provides a graphic depiction of the cosmic sovereignty of God, the antiphonal hymns offer an explicit theological framework for justifying it. The terms used to characterize God (“holy,” “Lord,” and “Almighty”) confirm God’s status as sovereign, while the end of the clause proclaims God’s eternal nature (“the one who was, is, and is to come”). The hymn then confirms that it is appropriate to accord to God (“You are worthy to receive”) three prerogatives (“glory, honor, and power”), each of which connote the superior status of God as divine sovereign based on the fact that God has “created all things.” Thus, the hymn sets the visual representation of God as the eternal, cosmic sovereign into a precise theological context: it is forever justified on the basis that God has created the world. The hymns in chapter 5 perform a similar function with respect to the vision of the Lamb ascending to the role of God’s chosen vicegerent. That is, Revelation 5 depicts the slaughtered Lamb taking a “scroll with writing on both sides and sealed with seven seals” from the one seated on the throne (5:1–7). The significance of the scroll lies in the fact that the opening of its seals unleashes the destructive power of God upon God’s enemies. For example, the opening of the first seal corresponds with the unleashing of the rider on the white horse (6:1–2), while the opening of the second seal corresponds with the coming of the rider on the red horse with a great sword 6:2). Ultimately, the depiction of the Lamb receiving the scroll represents the notion that the Lamb has been granted the authority of God to act uniquely on God’s behalf—that is, to become God’s vicegerent. The hymns that follow this scene provide an explicit justification of this event. The Lamb is said to be “worthy to take the scroll” because the Lamb was “slaughtered” so as to redeem people from “every tribe, tongue, people and nation” thereby making them a “kingdom and priests” who will “rule upon the earth” (5:9–10). Thus, the Christological hymn concludes that Jesus’s death on the cross has legitimated his reception of the authority to rule on God’s behalf as God’s chosen vicegerent. Accordingly, the hymn concludes with the claim that Jesus is legitimately accorded the prerogatives of someone of high standing: power, wealth, wisdom, etc. As noted earlier, insofar as some of these prerogatives (i.e., “glory,” “honor,” and “power”) are precisely those associated with God in chapter  4 and elsewhere in Revelation, this hymnic acclamation reconfirms that Jesus has received divine status as God’s chosen vicegerent. Following the Lamb’s opening of six of the seven seals (6:1–17), and the sealing of the one hundred forty-four thousand (7:1–8), the vision of the Great Multitude (7:9–17) provides the context for the soteriological hymns in 7:10–12. The identity of the Great

124   Justin P. Jeffcoat Schedtler Multitude, and their situation “before the throne,” is critical to an understanding of the soteriological value of the hymns. Identified as those “who have come out of the great tribulation” (7:14), the Great Multitude appears to consist of those who have died during a great eschatological war. So much can be concluded based on their association with “tribulation,” a term that denotes eschatological conflict in apocalyptic literature (Aune 1997, 2:474).9 It can reasonably be inferred that those who have died in the conflict were killed as martyrs on account of their testimony of Jesus, especially in light of the fact that “great multitude” denotes Christian martyrs in Tacitus (Ann. 15.44) and in 1 Clem. 6:11 (Bauckham 1993a, 210–37). This depiction of martyrs in heaven provides the context for their hymnic claim that “salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb” (Rev 7:10). Insofar as “salvation” denotes rescue from a perilous situation in Christian literature, especially in situations of eschatological conflict (e.g., 1 Cor 3:15; 5:5; Rom 10:9, 13; 11:11, 26), the hymnic claim can be understood to represent an appraisal of the current predicament of the martyrs. That is, the hymn constitutes a soteriological claim that God and the Lamb have delivered them from death—and ultimately, through their death—to everlasting life before the heavenly throne. Though the specific mechanism by which salvation is achieved is not explicitly stated here, it would seem to depend upon the earlier hymnic claim that Jesus’s death “redeemed” people for God (Rev 5:9–10). As such, the hymn provides a soteriological commentary on the vision of the Great Multitude, as well as a concluding acclamation to God for achieving this (7:12). The vision of the Great Multitude is followed by the opening of the seventh seal (8:1–5) and the sounding of the seven trumpets, which inaugurates further destruction upon the earth and its inhabitants (8:7–9:21; 11:15). Visions of the Little Scroll (10:1–11) and the Two Witnesses (11:1–14) occur just before the seventh trumpet blast, which immediately precedes the hymn “sung by loud voices in heaven”: The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of His Messiah, and He will reign forever and ever (11:15).

As in previous hymnic acclamations, this hymn provides a theological and Christological framework for considering the events narrated in the preceding vision sequences. The key to this understanding rests in an understanding of the “kingdom of the world” as referring to those entities which stand in opposition to God and God’s kingdom. So much might be inferred from a comparison with Matt 4:8, in which Satan refers to the land under his control as the “kingdom of the world.” At any rate, the destruction unleashed upon the earth is clearly directed at those (mortal and mythic) entities who stand in opposition to God and the Lamb, and who are imagined to have thrived under the authority of Satan (Rev 12:9), whereas those who have been “sealed” (7:1–8) and “purchased” (5:9–10; cf. 7:9–17) are spared. Thus, if the preceding visions depict the destruction leveled by God and God’s Messiah upon their enemies as part of an eschatological war, the hymn makes clear that the enemies are being defeated, and that their kingdom is coming under the control of God and God’s chosen vicegerent. Moreover, unlike the rule of their adversaries, which is temporal, the rule of God and God’s

The Hymns in Revelation   125 anointed king will be eternal. As has been noted, these earthly adversaries very often represent elements of the Roman imperial apparatus, and this identification provides critical context for understanding the antiphonal hymnic response of the twenty-four elders that “you [Lord God Almighty] have taken your great power and begun to reign. The nations raged, but your wrath has come” (11:17–18). The first claim derives from investiture scenes in the Hebrew Bible, wherein an earthly king is enthroned by God’s authority, or in which God is pronounced king.10 The claim that “nations” have “raged” can be understood in light of apocalyptic characterizations of the earthly enemies of God whose actions warrant God’s wrathful judgment.11 Thus, the antiphonal hymn ­provides an additional framework for considering the destruction unleashed upon God’s adversaries in the form of the trumpet blasts: the elimination of the God’s earthly enemies—that is, the Roman imperial apparatus—can be understood in terms of a long history of God’s righteous judgment upon unholy nations that inaugurates the rule of God on earth. The hymn in chapter 12 functions similarly to the hymns in chapter 11 inasmuch as it confirms the rule of God and the vicegerency of his anointed king: “Now has come the salvation and the authority of his Messiah” (12:10). However, in the context of the events that transpire in chapter 12, the hymnic claim takes on cosmic implications. Whereas the events preceding the hymns in chapter 11 concerned the earthly opposition to God and God’s people on earth (e.g., the “inhabitants of the earth” [8:13], “those people who did not have the seal of God on their foreheads [9:4], and the two witnesses [11:1–10], etc.), and ultimately their destruction, the conflict in chapter 12 involves mythic adversaries, the “woman clothed with the sun” and the dragon (12:1–9, 13–17). Drawn from a mythic sequence well-attested in Ancient Near Eastern, Greek, and Roman literature, the scene depicts a goddess who gives birth to a male child, who is immediately pursued by a mythical adversary, and who ultimately evades danger to assume his position as  rightful heir (Yarbro Collins  1976). In this iteration, the mythic structure is ­re-­appropriated so as to portray the ascension of Jesus to the right hand of God, and the plight of his followers, as part and parcel of an age-old cosmic drama. Just as the reign of Jesus is threatened by the ultimate adversary, “the great dragon . . . that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan” (12:9), so, too, the people of God (i.e., “those who maintain the testimony of Jesus” [12:17]) find themselves in peril. What is revealed through this mythic re-enactment of the “Combat Myth” is made explicit in the hymn: as in times past, the salvation of God and the rule of God’s Messiah has overcome these threats, while the remaining part of the hymn summarizes specific mechanism by which this occurs, namely, through the “blood of the Lamb” and the “word of the testimony” of those who “did not love their lives so much as to shrink from death” (12:11). Thus, here again the hymn puts into specific Christological and martyrological contexts the events described in the prior vision sequence(s). In the following chapter, the reader is formally introduced to Satan’s earthly entourage, the beast from the sea (13:1–10) and the beast from the land (13:11–18). Caricatured as wholly corrupt and ravenous entities, the beasts depict Roman imperial authority in no uncertain terms, in complete opposition to God and the Lamb (Carey 2008, 157–76;

126   Justin P. Jeffcoat Schedtler Yarbro Collins 1977, 241–56). Chapter 14 provides the author’s view of the consequences for those who participate in imperial systems, as well as the benefits conferred upon those who resist them. On one hand are visions of angels forecasting the demise of “Babylon” (read: Rome) and gruesome depictions of the calamities that befall those who “worship the beast” (14:6–11, 14–20). On the other hand is a vision of those who have been marked with the names of the Lamb and the Father (14:1), who represent the antithesis of those who have received the “mark of the beast” (13:16), and who, “blameless and undefiled” stand in heaven singing hymns of praise (14:4–5). It is these rewarded martyrs who sing the hymn in chapter 15: Great and marvelous are your works, Lord God Almighty; righteous and true are your ways, O King of the Nations. Lord, who will not fear and glorify your name? For you alone are just, and all nations will come and worship before you, for your righteous judgments have been revealed. (Rev 15:3–4)

The hymn frames the accomplishments of the sovereign God to eliminate all oppositional forces, including especially here the unnamed “beasts” who represent Roman imperial authority and those who worship them, and God’s reward for those who have resisted the beasts—even to the point of death—as “great and marvelous works” and “righteous and true ways.” This functions not only to characterize the events depicted in the previous chapters in wholly positive terms, but to associate these acts of God within a much larger trajectory of history of God’s punishments and salvific work characterized in similar terms.12 The identification of this hymn as a “song of Moses” (15:3) links it more specifically with those events following the Exodus as summarized in Exod 15:1–21 and Deut 32:1–43: salvation for God’s people in the form of escape from the Pharaoh and arrival in the promised land, as well as vengeance for any who oppose God and God’s people. Here, again, the hymn functions not as a general reflection on the nature of God; rather, it contextualizes the events narrated in the vision sequences in very specific theological and soteriological terms. The penultimate series of hymns occurs in the midst of the pouring of the “seven bowls of God’s wrath” (Rev 16:1–21), which coincides with still further destruction upon the earth of those (Roman imperial entities) who stand in opposition to God and God’s Messiah (e.g., those who worship the image of the beast [16:2], the throne of the beast and its kingdom [16:10], and the “kings of the world” [16:14]). As in chapter 15, the hymns function to characterize this destruction in wholly positive terms as the deeds of the “righteous” and “Just One” (16:5). The hymn offers an additional reflection on these actions as “true and just . . . judgments” (16:7; cf. 16:5). The hymn thus affirms that the sovereign God is indeed responsible for the destruction of God’s adversaries, while legitimating it on the basis of the notion of lex talionis: “because they shed the blood of saints and prophets, you have given them blood to drink. They deserve it!” (16:6). Drawing upon euphemistic notions of “shedding blood” as unrighteous killing,13 the hymn presents an impression of the community suffering at the hands of Roman forces, and a judgment that is “just” insofar as it

The Hymns in Revelation   127 equals the crime. Such an explanation can be understood as a response to the earlier cry of the martyrs under the altar: “How long, sovereign Lord, holy and true, until you judge the inhabitants of the earth and avenge our blood?” (6:10). The last hymns follow the judgment of the “whore of Babylon,” which represents Rome generally, as well as specific aspects of Roman religiopolitics (Jeffcoat Schedtler 2017, 52–70). Insofar as Babylon is said to have been “repaid double for her deeds” (18:6), the punishment depicted represents an enactment of the judgment proclaimed in the previous hymn. In the final hymns in chapter 19, this act is again confirmed to be the “true and righteous” judgments of a sovereign God who ultimately avenges those who have been harmed by unrighteous forces upon the earth (19:1–2). In this way, the hymn captures one of the most prominent theological themes of apocalyptic literature generally, and in Revelation particularly: the present suffering of God’s people on earth, imagined to be result of gross misdeeds of earthly and cosmic enemies, will be avenged by God in an eschatological age. After a hymnic celebration of the vision of smoke rising from the ashes of the destroyed city, and praise to God for it (19:3–5), the hymn looks forward to the denouement of the Apocalypse itself, the beginning of the rule of God and the “marriage” of the Lamb (19:6–8). Here, the patronal gift to God’s people, New Jerusalem, is imagined to be a bride (cf. 21:2, 9; 22:17), presented to the exalted Christ, the Lamb, the bridegroom.14 The hymnic description of the “bright and pure” linens worn by the bride (19:8) confirms the purity of the inhabitants of the new city, who are none other than those who have resisted temptations to participate in Roman imperial religiopolitical-economic systems (e.g., to “worship the beast” [13:8] or to “have become drunk” on the wine of fornication of the Whore of Babylon” [17:2]). In this way, the hymnic proclamation of the impending marriage looks forward to the final acts of God to establish God’s kingdom upon the renewed earth (Rev 20–22), and offers a glimpse of the promises granted to the faithful of God through Jesus’s salvific death on the cross at the dawn of the eschatological age. Revelation’s hymns reveal themselves to be essential elements of the apocalyptic imagination of John of Patmos. The hymns are not only integrally connected to the surrounding visions but also provide them with more precise theological and Christological dimensions. If the action sequences depict the eschatological conquest of God and the Lamb over their heavenly and earthly adversaries, the hymns give explicit expression to these events, connecting the present circumstances of those to whom the Apocalypse was directed to those of generations past, and the acts of God in the audience’s own time with those of the God of Israel’s past. In these ways, the value of the hymns within the text and as early Christian expression can hardly be overestimated.

Notes 1. Many commentaries on Revelation say next to nothing about the hymns, e.g., Boring (1989) and Beasley-Murray (1974). Likewise, general treatments of hymnody often neglect to say anything substantive about the hymns in Revelation, e.g., Gloer (1984), Deichgräber (1967), Sanders (1971).

128   Justin P. Jeffcoat Schedtler 2. Singing: Pindar, Pyth. 6.7; Nem. 8.50; Homer, Od. 8.429; Hesiod, [Scut.] 205. Praise of gods and/or men: Pindar, Ol. 1.8; 2.1; 7.14; Pyth. 10.53; Hymn. Hom. 9.9; 5.293; 18.11. 3. E.g., Progymnasmata of Theon; Alexander son of Numenius; Hermogenes; Aphthonius; Menander Rhetor. See Furley and Bremer (2001, 1:1–4). 4. The same formal criteria exclude other material that is sometimes identified as hymnic, including Rev 1:5–6, 8; 13:4; 21:3–4. 5. E.g., Luke 1:46–55, 67–79; 2:29–32; Phil 2:5–11; Col 1:15–20; 1 Tim 3:16; Heb 1:1–3; 1 Pet 2:21–25. 6. See also the Acts of Paul, which refers to “the singing of psalms of David” (Acts Paul 9), and Tertullian’s reports of congregations “sing[ing] to God, either from the sacred scriptures or from his own invention” (Apol. 39:19) and “psalms being sung” (On the Soul 9:4; cf. Apos. Trad. 25). 7. Cf. Dan 7:10; 1 En. 14:22; 40:1; 60:1; 71:8; Apoc. Zeph. 4:1; 8:1; 2 Bar. 48:10. 8. The destruction of God’s adversaries to inaugurate God’s reign on earth is linked with antecedent Israelite and Jewish traditions in which God is imagined as a king. See esp. Exod 15:1–18; 1 Sam 12:12; Pss 145:11; 146:10; Isa 24:21–23; 33:22; Mic 4:6–8; Zeph 3:15; Pss. Sol. 17:2. See Jörns (1971, 93–94). 9. 1QM 1:11–12; 15:1; Mark 13:19, 24; Matt 24:21, 29, etc. 10. In the LXX: 2 Sam 5:10; 2 Kgs 9:6, 13; Pss 46:9; 47:8; 92:1; 95:10; 96:1; 98:1. 11. Psalms 2; 46:6; 65:7; 1 En. 55:5–6; 99:4; Sib. Or. 3.660–8; 4 Ezra 13:30–39; Jub. 23. 12. Pss 92:5; 111:2; 139:14; [LXX] 144:17; Tob 12:22; Job 42:3. 13. Gen 9:6; Deut 19:10; Jer 7:6; 1 En. 9:1; T. Levi 16:3; T. Zeb. 2:2; Pss. Sol. 14. This draws upon widespread notions that the relationship between God and God’s people constitutes a marriage: Hos 2:14–20; Isa 49:18; 54:1–6; 62:5; Jer 2:2; 3:20; Ezek 16:8–14; Mark 2:19–20; Matt 25:1–13; John 3:29; 2 Cor 11:2, etc.

References Aune, David. 1983. “The Influence of Roman Court Ceremonial on the Apocalypse of John.” BR 29: 5–26. Aune, David. 1997. Revelation. 3 vols. WBC 52. Dallas: Word. Bauckham, Richard. 1993a. The Climax of Prophecy: Studies in the Book of Revelation. London: T & T Clark. Beasley-Murray, George R. 1974. The Book of Revelation. NCBC. New York: Harper Collins. Boring, M. Eugene. 1989. Revelation. Interpretation. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Carey, Greg. 2008. “The Book of Revelation as Counter-Imperial Script.” In In the Shadow of Empire, edited by Richard Horsley, pp. 157–76. London: Westminster. Carnegie, David R. 1982. “Worthy Is the Lamb: The Hymns in Revelation.” In Christ the Lord: Studies in Christology Presented to Donald Guthrie, edited by Harold H. Rowdon, pp. 243–56. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Charles, J. Daryl. 1993. “Imperial Pretensions and the Throne-Vision of the Lamb: Observations on the Function of Revelation 5.” CTR 7: 85–97. Deichgräber, Reinhard. 1967. Gotteshymnus und Christushymnus in der frühen Christenheit: Untersuchungen zu Form, Sprache und Stil der frühchristlichen Hymnen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Furley, William  D., and Jan  M.  Bremer, 2001. Greek Hymns: Selected Cult Songs from the Archaic to the Hellenistic Period. 2 vols. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

The Hymns in Revelation   129 Gloer, Hulitt  W. 1984, Summer. “Homologies and Hymns in the New Testament: Form, Content and Criteria for Identification.” PRST 11: 115–32. Gordley, Matthew E. 2007. The Colossian Hymn in Context. WUNT II/228. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hall, Robert G. 1990. “Living Creatures in the Midst of the Throne.” NTS 36: 609–13. Hurtado, Larry. 1985. “Revelation 4–5 in the Light of Jewish Apocalyptic Analogies.” JSNT 25: 105–24. Jeffcoat Schedtler, Justin. 2014. A Heavenly Chorus: The Dramatic Function of Revelation’s Hymns. WUNT II/381. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Jeffcoat Schedtler, Justin. 2017. “Mother of Gods, Mother of Harlots: The Image of the Mother Goddess behind the Depiction of the ‘Whore of Babylon’ in Rev 17.” NovT 59: 52–70. Jeffcoat Schedtler, Justin. 2018. “Praising Christ the King: Royal Discourse and Ideology in Rev 5.” NovT 60: 162–82. Jipp, Joshua W. 2015. Christ Is King: Paul’s Royal Ideology. Minneapolis: Fortress. Jörns, Klaus-Peter. 1971. Das hymnische Evangelium: Untersuchungen zu Aufbau, Funktion und Herkunft der hymnischen Stücke in der Johannesoffenbarung. SNT 5. Gütersloh: Mohn. Kraybill, Nelson. 2010. Apocalypse and Allegiance: Worship, Politics, and Devotion in the Book of Revelation. Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos. Lynch, Matthew. 2014. Monotheism and Institutions in the Book of Chronicles: Temple, Priesthood, and Kingship in Post-Exilic Perspective. FAT II/64. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. McKinnon, James  W. 1987. Music in Early Christian Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mowry, Lucetta. 1952. “Revelation 4–5 and Early Christian Liturgical Usage.” JBL 71: 75–84. Moyise, Steve. 1995. The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation. JSNTSup 115. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic. O’Rourke, John J. 1968. “The Hymns of the Apocalypse.” CBQ 30: 399–409. Sanders, Jack  T. 1971. The New Testament Christological Hymns: Their Historical Religious Background. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schüssler-Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1985. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. Philadelphia: Fortress. Schüssler-Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1991. Revelation: Vision of a Just World. Minneapolis: Fortress. Smith, John Arthur. 2011. Music in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity. Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Stevenson, Gregory M. 1995. “Conceptual Background to the Golden Crown Imagery in the Apocalypse of John.” JBL 114: 257–72. Thompson, Leonard. 1990. The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1976. The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation. HDR 9. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1977. “The Political Perspective of the Revelation to John.” JBL 96: 241–56. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1993. “Feminine Symbolism in the Book of Revelation.” Bib Int 1: 20–33.

Further Reading Grabiner, Steven. 2015. Revelation’s Hymns: Commentary on the Cosmic Conflict. London: T & T Clark.

130   Justin P. Jeffcoat Schedtler Hengel, Martin. 2006. “Hymnus und Christologie.” In Studien zur Christologie. Kleine Schriften IV, edited by Claus-Jürgen Thornton, pp. 185–204. WUNT 201. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Massyngbaerde Ford, Josephine. 1998. “The Christological Function of the Hymns in the Apocalypse of John.” AUSS 36: 207–29. Ruiz, Jean-Pierre. 1995. “Revelation 4:8–11; 5:9–14: Hymns of the Heavenly Liturgy.” In SBL Seminar Papers 34, 216–20. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Schimanowski, Gottfried. 2002. Die himmlische Liturgie in der Apokalypse der Johannes. WUNT II/154. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Thompson, Leonard. 1968. “The Form and Function of Hymns in the New Testament: A Study in Cultic History.” PhD diss. University of Chicago. Valentine, Kendra Haloviak. 2015. Worlds at War, Nations in Song: Dialogic Imagination and Moral Vision in the Hymns of the Book of Revelation. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock.

Pa rt I I

S O C I A L SET T I NG

chapter 9

R ev el ation a n d Rom a n Ru l e i n First- Cen tu ry Asi a Mi nor Warren Carter

Scholarly constructions of the interactions between Revelation and Roman rule in first-century Asia Minor have often focused on the former’s date and location of composition (provenance), supposed contexts of persecution, and imagined mandatory participation in the imperial cult. Yet as I will show in the first section, these approaches have proven unsatisfactory owing to a lack of evidence and too restricted a focus. In the second section, I expand the discussion of interactions to argue that attention to cultural accommodation, socioeconomic participation, gender presentations, and environmental discussions identify more multifaceted and convincing ways to identify Revelation’s interactions with its imperial world. My argument is that the work’s author seeks to disrupt what she or he claims to be unacceptable levels of cultural and economic accommodation among (many) Jesus followers. In so doing she or he imitates or mimics imperial gender constructs and reinscribes its destructive impact on the environment (Wood 2016, 1–27).

Approaches Focused on Emperors, Persecution, and Imperial Cult Attempts to establish connections with particular Roman emperors, especially Nero and Domitian, have been central in efforts to establish the provenance for Revelation’s writing.

134   Warren Carter Most nineteenth-century interpreters “favored a pre-70 dating . . . shortly after Nero’s death during the half year reign of Galba” (J. Wilson 1993, 587; Wood 2016, 110–85). The early twentieth-century English commentaries of Charles, Swete, and Beckwith, along with some German scholarship, challenged this consensus by proposing a scenario of persecution under Domitian. Although dating Revelation’s authorship to the time of Domitian’s rule is the current dominant scholarly position (Koester 2014, 78–79), this is not without vulnerabilities, especially since support for Domitianic persecution is lacking. Accordingly, support for a link between Revelation and Nero’s reign has grown (Bell 1979; Slater 2003; van Kooten 2007; J. Wilson 1993; Mark Wilson 2005). The debates involve extra- and intratextual factors. Extratextual factors concern assessments of early church claims linking Revelation and Domitian (e.g., Irenaeus, Haer. 5.30.3), debates about the existence of Domitianic persecution, expectations of Nero redivivus, and the nature of Nero’s attacks on Christians after the fire in Rome of 64 ce. Intratextual factors have focused on the Babylon/Rome references (Rev 14:8; 16:19; 17:5; 18:2, 10, 21) and on three significant passages: 1. Chapter 11:1–2 are commonly read in reference to the pre-70 Jerusalem temple. Advocates of authorship during Nero’s reign argue that it is a genuine prophecy rather than a vaticinium ex eventu because its details—only the outer court destroyed and a forty-two months’ time period—do not match the events of 70 ce. Those who advocate authorship during Domitian’s rule appeal to the use of earlier traditions. 2. In 13:1–10, 18, the first beast is commonly identified as Nero, and verses 3 and 8 refer to Nero’s suicide and the myth of Nero redivivus (Bauckham 1993a, 384–452; Frenschkowski  2015). The number of the beast (six hundred sixty-six; 13:18) is widely understood to be a gematria on the Hebrew letters of the name “Neron Kaisar.” The focus on Nero is interpreted to reflect the time of authorship. Advocates for Domitian’s reign identify Domitian as Nero redivivus (van Kooten 2007, 208; Marcus Wilson 2003, 598–99). 3. Interpreters have debated the references to seven kings/emperors in 7:9 and ten kings in 17:12. Does one begin counting with Julius Caesar (Suetonius), or Augustus (Tacitus; Bell 1979, 98)? To begin with Julius Caesar means the five fallen kings end with Claudius, making Nero the emperor who “is” in 17:10 when Revelation was written. Counting from Augustus means Revelation is written during the reigns of Galba (Bell 1979, 100; J. Wilson 1993) or of Vitellius (June 68–Jan 69; Slater 2003, 258); Nero still “is” with rumors he is still alive. Verses 11–12 focus on the eighth of ten emperors. Scholars resort to various strategies to identify this eighth and tenth emperor. Some arrive at Domitian as the eighth by beginning with Augustus and omitting the short reigns of Galba, Otho, and Vitellius. Marcus Wilson (2003, 603–4), arguing for authorship under Nero, and van Kooten (2007, 209–15), arguing for authorship during Galba-Otho-Vitellius, insist on their inclusion and propose that verses 11–12 be read as “genuine prophecies” that do not correspond to historical events.

Revelation and Roman Rule in First-Century Asia Minor   135 None of these interpretive options can claim to have made a compelling case, and it is not evident as to what difference one date or another (60s or 80s–90s ce) might make for reading Revelation. Discussions of the possible location of Revelation’s writing have also involved factors related to Roman power. Revelation’s author claims that he writes on the island of Patmos off the coast of the province of Asia (1:9). Across two millennia, interpreters have constructed the significance of Patmos along two dominant lines: a place of revelation from the heavenly world and, more commonly, a place of exile and persecution (Boxall 2013, 31–49). Boxall argues that patristic scholars perceived parallels between John’s circumstances under the “persecuting emperor” Domitian and “their own experience of dislocation and persecution” (2013, 4, 31–45). This interpretation dominated medieval Latin traditions (2013, 58–62, 76–104) as well as post-1517 western interpreters who used the exiled/ martyred/mine-working John to interpret their own persecution, flight, and exile by papal leaders (2013, 135–38, 152–56). Claims that Patmos was a place of exile countered Catholic appeals to Patmos’s isolation to justify monasteries. Claims about the significance of Patmos said more about the circumstances of the interpreters than the author of Revelation. Boxall’s discussion of twentieth- and twenty-first-century scholarship shows that the political-persecutory, rather than revelatory or kerygmatic, construction of Patmos continues to dominate. If Boxall’s link between persecuted interpreters and interpretations of persecutions stands, one wonders why this claim of John’s exile and construction of Christianity against the empire continues to endure when many contemporary interpreters do not experience persecution. Certainly, the construction’s continuing power attests the constraints of scholarly traditions and “acceptable readings” among scholarly interpreters. For instance, William Ramsay declared that (a) John’s banishment was a (b) common harsh penalty for (c) “the crime of Christianity” under (d) Domitian, where (e) John suffered “scourging . . . perpetual fetters, scanty clothing, insufficient food, sleep on the bare ground in a dark prison, and work under the lash of military overseer” (1905, 82–92). For these five claims there is not a shred of evidence, though some interpreters have continued to repeat them. Some contemporary interpreters construct Patmos as a site of oppression analogous to the contemporary struggles that contextualize their readings (Rhoads 2005). Boesak’s reading emerges from the South African struggle against white apartheid policies and structures (1987, 36–39, 48–50). Schüssler Fiorenza’s feminist reading evokes oppressive experiences for women (1991, 50). The Chilean priest Pablo Richard argues for Revelation’s significance for Latin-American base communities and for “movements . . . among the poor, the oppressed, and the excluded (both women and men)” (1995, 173). Wes Howard-Brook and Anthony Gwyther align with other “first world political readings” that particularly unveil American empire and call for “a more human way of life” (1999, 43–45). Brian Blount reads “through African American culture” shaped by and resistant to racism and committed “to social and political

136   Warren Carter l­iberation” (2005, 41–45). In these approaches, constructing Patmos in terms of ­suffering and oppression functions to connect Revelation with the struggles of contemporary audiences. Yet while this connection facilitates communication, it is not to be misinterpreted as a historically sustainable claim concerning Revelation’s interaction with Roman power.

Persecution A second factor in attempts to understand the interaction between Revelation and Roman power has claimed persecution of Christians by Nero or Domitian (1:9; D. Jones 1980, 1033; Hemer 1986, 9; Ramsay 1905, 93–113; Stauffer 1955, 175). Intratextually, appeals are made to references such as imprisonment (2:10), the martyred Antipas (2:13), an hour of trial (3:10), “the great ordeal” (7:14), the slaughtered martyrs under the altar (6:9; 18:24), the killed witness-prophets (11:3–10), the dragon who attacks the mother and son (chap. 12), more martyrs (17:6), those beheaded in 20:4. Contextually, the appeal is to traditions that present Domitian as persecutor (Keresztes 1973, 23–28). The influential Ramsay constructs Flavian persecutory efforts “to exterminate the Christians” with tests of loyalty (1905, 108). McFayden, relying on Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 3.17–18), Suetonius (Dom. 15.1), and Dio Cassius (Rom. Hist. 67.14.1–2), sees empire-wide persecution emerging in 95 ce when Christians refuse to participate in the Domitian-promoted “observance of the imperial cult” (1920, 46, 57–58, 65; Keresztes 1973, 23–24). Smallwood argues that while claims of Domitianic persecution might be “exaggerated, [they are] probably founded on fact” (1956, 1–2). D. Jones appeals to 1 Clem 1:1; 59.4–60, and several chapters in Revelation (4:11; 13; 17) and an antithesis of “Kyrios Caesar and Kyrios Christos” to posit Domitianic persecution and Christian protest against emperor worship (1980, 1033–35). In the second half of the twentieth-century, however, claims of Domitianic persecution and apparent Christian refusal to worship the emperor have been rightly deconstructed in the face of a lack of evidence. Sweet, for example, finds no reliable evidence for Domitian’s persecution of those not honoring the emperor (1979, 24–26). Barnes finds no “mention of any legal ordinance against the Christians” (1968, 36). Others challenge the picture of Domitian as a persecuting tyrant (Canfield 1913, 74–76, 162; B. Jones 1992, 114–17; Pleket 1961; Thompson 1990, 95–115; Urban 1971; Water 1964; J. Wilson 1993, 587–97; Yarbro Collins 1984, 71–73). Southern concludes that “the tales [about persecuting Domitian] can be dismissed as inventions of Christian martyrdom,” and that claims of Domitian’s degeneration into extreme cruelty after 89 or 93 are unsupported (1997, 114–17; Moss 2013). Negative presentations of Domitian’s reign in Tacitus, Suetonius, Juvenal, Pliny, and Dio have shaped this persecution scenario. Thompson has demonstrated that these sources are not disinterested and historically accurate but rely on rhetoric that denigrates the deceased Domitian to elevate the new emperor Trajan and gain influence with him (1990, 95–115; Ramage 1983). Pliny in his Panegyricus; Tacitus in his biography of his

Revelation and Roman Rule in First-Century Asia Minor   137 father-in-law, Agricola; Suetonius in his biography Domitian; and Juvenal in the Satires employ the same “kind of denigration” against Domitian (Ramage  1989, 641). They present Domitian as evil, cruel, mad, tyrannical in killing opponents, suspicious, and greedy, with unbridled passions, and demanding honor. Terror, disorder, economic overspending, and repression mark his reign. This harsh picture differs from the positive flattering depictions by writers during Domitian’s reign (Martial, Statius, Silius Italicus). One disputed item concerns whether Domitian demanded to be addressed as “our lord and god” (dominus et deus; Stauffer  1955, 149). The matter is significant since Revelation uses similar terminology (in Greek) for God (Rev 1:8; 4:8, 11), suggesting to some that this conflict reflects persecution as Revelation counters Domitian’s claim for divinity by attributing the terms exclusively to God. Are claims of Domitian’s demand historically sustainable and of relevance for Revelation’s interaction with Roman power? Griffin recognizes in the sources both invective and panegyric but argues that Martial, Suetonius, Pliny, and Dio reveal something of “the imperial image that Domitian wished to project” (2000, 55–56). She accepts the essential reliability of their testimony to argue that Domitian asserted his pre-eminence over senators by accepting the title “Dominus,” but increased both his standing and offensiveness by adding “Deus” (2000, 80–83). M. Wilson takes a similar approach (2003). Others argue, more convincingly, that it is unlikely Domitian made such demands. While Suetonius claims that Domitian referred to himself as “Our Master and our God” (Dom. 13.2) and Pliny claims that Domitian asserted his divinity (Pan. 33.4; 49.1; 52), coins and writers from Domitian’s reign (Statius, Quintilian) do not attest these demands (Thompson 1990, 95–115). One exception that in fact seems to confirm the point, involves Martial, who, seeking Domitian’s favor to advance his own prestige, refers to Domitian by these terms (Epig. 5.8.1; 7.34.8; 8.2.6; 9.66.3), but subsequently disavows the flattery by declaring Trajan to be “most just of all” (iustissimus omnium; Epig 10.72; Nauta 2002, 382–87). Nauta doubts that Domitian demanded the address but claims he may have “allowed it” (2002, 383). Thompson likewise argues that the sources do not provide reliable evidence that Domitian demanded divine titles, sought divinization, or ruled as a savage tyrant. This does not mean that Domitian’s rule was always benign. He was regarded as being aloof, lacking civilitas, interested in asserting his superiority, and able to remove those he perceived to be enemies—as did other emperors. The hierarchical imperial system was dominated by a small ruling elite who competed for and benefited from imperial alliances and benefactions, power, wealth, and status, while most of the empire’s inhabitants lived in varying degrees of poverty and hardship (Friesen 2004; Longenecker 2009). But this situation was not particular to Domitian’s reign; it resulted from imperial structures that preceded and followed his reign, and no evidence establishes an empire-wide demand for such honoring of the emperor. If there is no credible historical support for persecution as the primary dynamic for the interaction of Revelation and the Roman Empire, what are we to make of the repeated references to martyrdom in Revelation and the focus on persecution in scholarship? Two approaches can be noted.

138   Warren Carter Without much success, some have attempted to reconcile Revelation, martyrdom, and persecution by positing future persecution. Yarbro Collins positions Christians under threat from Jewish neighbors as well as Gentiles who despised them and Roman magistrates who viewed them with disfavor (1984, 98–99). Yeatts also asserts persecution as imminent because of “the fundamental opposition between the [ecclesial] community and Rome and between Christ and the emperor” (2003, 22). Much more insightful are approaches that attend to the perspectival nature of Revelation’s rhetoric and that trouble an easy one-on-one correlation between text and historical situation (see the discussion of Imperial Cult Observances below). Some scholarship argues that Revelation inscribes and/or parodies imperial cult practices, notably chapters 4–5 (Aune 1983) and 13 (Scherrer 1984). More fundamental is the issue of whether Revelation’s language is referential or evocative in function. Is it transparent of an extratextual situation or constructive of an alternative world? Does it mirror historical realities or imagine possible experiences? Yarbro Collins argues persuasively that visionary rhetoric does not correlate with actual historical events (1984, 70–71). Rather, Revelation constructs a binary between worlds of threat and evil, and divine reign and justice. Yarbro Collins argues that though apocalyptic literature is frequently associated with crisis, crisis is a matter of perception. What is determinative is “not so much whether one is actually oppressed as whether one feels oppressed” (1984, 84). Revelation’s author, then, is the one experiencing a crisis, and he attempts to create a crisis among his audience. Yarbro Collins locates Revelation’s apocalyptic rhetoric in tensions between this perceived oppressive experience of powerlessness and fear under Roman rule on one hand, and hopes and expectations for God’s rule to change this imperial world order on the other (1984, 84–107). Revelation’s rhetoric intensifies fears in its presentation of Roman power, yet provides catharsis through condemning it, envisioning its demise, anticipating an inevitable divine victory over suffering and Roman rule, and envisioning new life under God’s cosmic control. This expectation relieves the tensions between expectations and the perceived social reality (Yarbro Collins 1984, 141–61). How, then, might we interpret the references to persecution and martyrs in Revelation? Claims that they mirror historical experiences of persecution associated with demands of honoring emperors lack historical evidence. More convincing is to understand their rhetorical function as part of the author’s perceptions of a crisis of overaccommodation and his attempts to disturb his audience by constructing or revealing a world of threat and evil that they must resist faithfully. I will return to this scenario.

Imperial Cult While many scholars reject Domitianic-initiated persecution, some have located Revelation in relation to obligatory participation in the imperial cult (Beale 1999, 5–16; Naylor 2010; Osborne 2002, 7–9; Witherington 2003, 5–8). Older scholarship framed the cult largely as a political phenomenon intent on increasing provincial loyalties to

Revelation and Roman Rule in First-Century Asia Minor   139 Rome. It was “practical politics . . . [not] religion” (Taylor 1931, 35, 237–38), “fundamentally a secular institution” marked by insincerity (Liebeschuetz  1979, 75–78, 89), flattery (Tacitus, Ann 6.18), and impiety (Suetonius, Vesp. 23.4; Seneca [?], Apol.; Scott, 1932; 1936, 1–39). It was not “genuine” religion because it lacked (Christian!) religious features such as answered prayer and appropriate religious emotions (Bowersock 1982, 172–73, 180–82). Both claims about the imperial cult, that it required participation and that it was not “genuine” religion, are erroneous. Simon Price’s (1984) influential work on the imperial cult in Asia rejected these approaches and offered a new perspective. Rome did not impose the cult on provincials and demand its observance. It was a system of honors in which provincials positioned the ruler “within the framework of traditional cults of the gods” and represented “to themselves the ruling power” (1984, 1, 8). The cult comprised public rituals that constituted a web of power of religion and politics, a “cognitive system” that constituted “a way of conceptualizing the world” and defined “the position of the emperor” in it (1984, 7–8). Imperial temples, images and rituals/sacrifices created “a relationship of power between subject and ruler,” addressed the tension between local emphases on civic autonomy and foreign Roman authority, and positioned the emperor in relation to the divine and the human (1984, 247–48). While Price’s work on the imperial cult was groundbreaking, he unsuccessfully rehearses attempts to link Revelation with the imperial cult. He argues that “the visual representation of the emperor provided the crucial focus for the expression of attitudes to the imperial cult and to the emperor” (Price 1984, 198–99). In view is the late firstcentury ce “establishment of the provincial cult of Domitian at Ephesus, with its colossal cult statue” in the temple of the Sebastoi (the Flavians; Friesen 1993, 35–36). Ephesus’s prestige among the cities of Asia was announced with the term “neokoros” (“warden of a provincial imperial temple”; Burrell  2004; Friesen  1993, 29–75; 1995, 229–50; 2001, 43–55). The second beast of 13:11–18 that advocates worship of the image of the first beast, says Price, represents the provincial cult priesthood. This cult establishment “led to unusually great pressure on the Christians for conformity. John might well be worried about his flock” (1984, 198; Biguzzi 1998). In drawing connections with Rev 13, Price reiterates a century of scholarship that sees Domitian’s advocacy of the imperial cult as central for Revelation. Claims about the intensity, imposition, observance, and punishments for not meeting the cult’s demands, however, have varied considerably. Attending to literary interactions, for example, Deissmann posited Revelation’s “strongly pronounced tone of protest against the worship of the Caesar” (1923, 338). He does not claim Christians borrowed divine predicates (“Lord,” “son of God”) from the imperial cult, but says that cult practice established “polemical parallelism” and intensified conflict with this language (1923, 343–44, 349; Barnett 1989; Stauffer 1955, 169–91). Cuss argued that Christian refusal to worship the emperor in the imperial cult expressed the understanding that there “was no compromise between Christ and Caesar” and was viewed as disloyalty by persecuting “imperial authorities” (1974, 50–95, 145–18; Roloff 1993, 9–11; Scott 1936, 130–32).

140   Warren Carter Although Schüssler Fiorenza recognizes no “legally sanctioned persecution,” she nevertheless insists that with Domitian’s promotion of the cult, “persecution and harassment” existed and that John anticipates increased persecution (1991, 55–56). She employs rhetorical criticism to articulate John’s “fitting” response to the increased pressures and threat of death in the context of ecclesial disagreements over appropriate responses. She elaborates these disagreements; while some acquiesced to political demands (presumably participating in imperial honoring), John’s rhetoric “advocates an uncompromising theological stance,” building a symbolic cosmic universe that mitigates the terror of death by asserting God’s just and powerful rule over the world, Satan and Rome (1985, 192–99). Pliny’s correspondence with Trajan is often evoked to support the claim of punishment for nonparticipation in the cult (Ep. 10.96–97). Pliny, however, was governor of Pontus, not Asia Minor, post-dates Revelation by several decades, and there was no uniform practice across the empire. Slater claims that “many Christians lived in an environment that was generally unfriendly, where the very names ‘Christ’ or ‘Christian’ aroused ill feelings among their neighbors” (1999, 18). Drawing on 1 Peter because it originates “in the same general area of the Roman Empire,” he argues that Revelation similarly addressed spasmodic “harassment by local Asian community leaders” associated with the imperial cult in which they “experienced ridicule, harassment, and opposition” (1999, 18–22, 26–46, 239–45). Slater argues that Revelation’s Christological images (“one like a son of man,” “the Lamb,” “the Divine Warrior”) comforted, protected, corrected, and vindicated afflicted Christian communities (1999, 236–45). Slater does not, however, specify the processes of this local or regional harassment nor allow for 1 Peter’s often accommodationist ethic, which encourages honoring the emperor (1 Peter 2:17; Carter 2004). There is no evidence for a policy or practice of enforced participation in the imperial cult in Asia, or of punishment for those who refused to participate. In addition to the lack of evidence, advocates of this unsupported scenario fail to elucidate its mechanics of enforcement and persecution. Were there officials checking names for mandatory sacrifices? Were there sufficient numbers of imperial agents available to do so? How did residents identify themselves? Was there a sliding scale of punishments (of what sort?) or a “one strike” policy of instant martyrdom for those who failed to comply? Why are there no surviving records of such practices if they existed? And the pervasive assumption that the imperial cult involved only or focused particularly on sacrifices to imperial images at a fixed time and place is quite erroneous. Recent work has shown that there is no evidence to support these common assertions (Friesen 1993). Classical scholarship has noted that there was “no such thing as the imperial cult” (Beard, North, and Smith, 1998, 1.348; 2.252–59; Galinsky 2011, 3). Some prefer the plural “imperial cults” (Friesen 2011, 24). Galinsky emphasizes that it was not a centrally driven phenomenon but was locally constituted and often intertwined with voluntary observances of other divinities (Galinsky 2011, 4–9; Price 1984,146–56; Rives 2007, 148–56). Friesen observes that the Ephesian temple of the Sebastoi included some ­thirty-five to forty “gods and goddesses from east and west” (1993, 72–75). Price observes that in Asia Minor imperial cult observances were “widespread but not ubiquitous” and largely absent from rural areas (1984, 78–100). Participation was not enforced; politics

Revelation and Roman Rule in First-Century Asia Minor   141 and religion were intertwined in everyday life and constituted a “vast panorama of variegated local practices” (Galinsky  2011, 3–5). This panorama included sacrifices, offerings, altars, temples, images, and statues in various locations (gymnasia, baths, porticoes, theaters); garlanded statues, processions, festivals, games and spectacles (gladiatorial displays, horse racing, athletic contests); oaths for the emperor’s well-­being, dedications, inscriptions, prayers, hymns, and feasts, whose participants ranged from elites (functioning as patronal priests and priestesses) to non-elites, both women and men (Carter  2004, 16–23; Friesen  1993, 50–141; Frilingos  2004; Price  1984, 78–23). Practice was not confined to sacrifice and idols. Nor is the common assumption that Christians universally rejected participation in imperial cult activities sustainable: “Emperor worship by Christians continued” (Bauckham  1993b, 14–17; Carter  2004, 23–33; Galinsky 2011, 15). The harsh attack on “Jezebel” of Thyatira in Rev 2:18–29, for example, suggests that this leader and her followers participated in some of these honoring activities and imperial structures (Carter 2009).

Broadening the Focus to More Complex Modes of Interaction: Cultural Accommodation and Socioeconomic Participation Given a lack of evidence for oppositional interactions between Revelation and Rome that centered on persecution and mandatory observance of imperial cults, a more sustainable line of interpretation has posited diverse and multivalent interactions between the seven churches and the empire, along with internal disputes involving the author and other Jesus followers over ways of negotiating imperial society and practices (Aune 1997, 1.lxvii–lxx, 183, 191–195; Carter 2009; Darden 2015; Koester 2014, 85–103; van Kooten 2007, 231–42). Fundamental to this approach is attention to Revelation’s rhetoric and a recognition that the author of Revelation constructs and advocates an analysis of the evil of Roman power that is significantly at odds with the participationist daily experiences of many in the seven churches. Sweet, for example, rejected scenarios of persecution and elite-focused imperial cult observances to argue that the author of Revelation opposed complacency and compromise among Christ believers (1979, 21–35). Sweet identified disputes over participation in idolatry and meals involving meat from temple sacrifices, and challenges for members of trade guilds, whose regular meetings involved some expression of imperial honoring. The author John regards these situations as luring some or many into a compromised participation in imperial society that threatens their loyalty to God and Jesus. John demands separation and distance (Rev 2–3). Sweet sees the central concerns as the complex and divisive question of the relations of church and imperial world.

142   Warren Carter Thompson similarly argues that John is the one having the crisis, over what he perceives to be compromised sociocultural participation. Thompson does not think Domitian demanded anything more from imperial religion than did his predecessors. Christians were not compelled to participate, and had been successfully negotiating imperial observances in their cities for decades (Thompson 1990, 116–32, 156–67). Revelation’s language reflects not coerced observances and persecution by imperial forces, but the author John’s view “that church and world belong to antithetical forces” and that “John encourages his audience to see themselves in conflict with society.” Crisis and conflict “derive from John’s perspective on Roman society rather than from significant hostilities in the social environment” (1990, 174–75). Thompson sees John constructing an oppositional stance toward Roman power in an attempt to disrupt comfortable Christian involvement in what he considers to be a devil-controlled world (1990, 74, 184–85). This approach convincingly moves attention beyond a narrow focus on religious matters (the imperial cult) and persecution to daily participation in the much broader societal structures of the imperial world. Accordingly, some scholarship has foregrounded John’s harsh denunciation of the economic structures and practices of the empire in which, much to John’s abhorrence, members of the churches participated to earn their daily living. Bauckham argues that chapter 18 condemns “Rome’s economic exploitation of her empire” in that “Pax Romana is really a system of economic exploitation” (1993a, 338, 346). Bauckham examines the nearly thirty luxury trade items—including slaves— catalogued in 18:12–13 as an attack on the “concrete political and economic realities of the empire” (1993a, 351). His discussion shows the extensive commercial networks whereby Rome enacted its tributary economy and power in securing resources for its wealthy elites from its provinces (1993a, 350–71). Royalty emphasizes the contrasts and similarities between this critique of imperial wealth and the depiction of the bejeweled new Jerusalem. He observes that Revelation/ John’s opposition to Roman imperial/economic culture does not seek its redemption but its replacement with “a Christianized version of the same thing . . . [it] mimics the dominant ideology; only the names and labels have changed” (Royalty  1998, 246). Callahan also highlights the rhetorical strategies that “reveal the relation of Roman wealth to Roman rule,” condemn the imperial-political economy, and seek the intervention of divine justice and sovereignty (1999, 50, 61–65; Darden 2015; Macaskill 2009, 243–52). Kraybill examines the personnel involved in commercial and cultural imperial structures, especially attending to the laments of merchants, shipmasters, and sailors concerning Babylon/Rome’s downfall (Rev 18). He establishes Christian involvement in commercial networks as traders, entrepreneurs, and business people and emphasizes John’s opposition to economic and, particularly, cultic participation. Highlighting the call in 18:4 to “Come out of her, my people,” Kraybill argues that John urges “Christians to sever or to avoid economic and political ties with Rome because institutions and structures of the Roman Empire were saturated with unholy (idolatrous) allegiance to an Emperor who claimed to be divine (or was treated as such)” (1996, 17).

Revelation and Roman Rule in First-Century Asia Minor   143 Several studies have, then, recognized that Christians participated in and benefited from the economic injustices that Revelation’s author reveals and resists by calling his readers to dissociate from Rome’s practices (Bauckham, 1993a, 376–77; Callahan 1999, 57–58; Kraybill, 1996, 100–101). Foregrounding an extensive Ephesian marble economy, Bowden (2019) highlights the impracticality and life-threatening consequences of the call in Rev 18:4 for any Ephesian, Christian, marble workers to withdraw from this imperially related economic activity. Other workers involved in economic and commercial activity would face the same impractical and life-threatening circumstances from nonparticipation since John offers no alternative program. Howard-Brook and Gwyther recognize that some/many Christians were accommodated and assimilated in imperial society, which John (and his supporters) viewed as complacent and unacceptable compromise and sought to overturn. “Revelation casts a critical eye on Rome’s economic exploitation, its politics of seduction, its violence, and its imperial hubris” (Howard-Brook and Gwyther 1999, 116). John resists the “web of myths” that legitimized Roman power: the myth of Rome’s empire countered by the myth of “the empire of our God”; “Victoria” countered by “The Victory of the Lamb and His Followers;”; “Faith” countered by “Keeping the Faith of Jesus”; “Eternity” countered by God’s forever reign (1999, 223–35). Howard-Brook and Gwyther argue that John’s rejection of Roman power and opposition to imperial society, if adopted and followed, would lead to both serious socioeconomic repercussions (ostracism, boycotts, hostility etc.) and local harassments (1999, 117–18). Philip Harland foregrounds another arena of societal participation, namely memberships of occupational associations. While John (and his supporters) “disapproves of Christians participating in social, religious, and economic practices . . . a significant number of Christians . . . were more open towards participating in some aspects of the polis including . . . honours for the emperors and affiliations with fellow-workers in occupational associations” (Harland  2000, 101, 113). John’s advocacy of distance and anti-imperial stance is a minority sectarian position directed against those actively participating in civic imperial society including eating sacrificial meat in “market-places, temple dining-halls, private dinners, and . . . associations or guilds” (Carter,  2009; Harland 2000,119; 2003). Frey builds on Harland’s work, particularly identifying the temptations of eating meat in the context of association meetings of craftsmen and merchants. Revelation’s author wants his audience to “leave those guilds, limit their social and business contacts or even abandon their professional and economic status in order to avoid being ‘polluted’ or fornicated by ‘Babylon’ and its idolatry” (Frey 2006, 254). Recent works, both the scholarly (Koester 2014) and thoughtful, more ecclesial discussions (Carter 2009; Gorman 2011, 31–60; Koester 2009; Kraybill 2010), recognize John’s opposition to various expressions of and participations in imperial cultural­economic structures. It has also recognized that John’s opposition and call for distance “to come out from her” (18:4) is made precisely because it is not the stance and practice of many societally, culturally and economically-embedded Jesus-believers in the seven cities Revelation addresses. While Revelation’s author advocates opposition toward the

144   Warren Carter empire, the document also attests more complex and multivalent interactions including participation in imperial systems, along with distance from yet mimicry and cooption of imperial practices and ideology in constructing God as the one who out-powers Roman power (Carter  2011; Darden  2015). Some discussions also draw connections between Revelation’s critique of the Roman Empire and contemporary questions about empires, particularly the claims and roles of the United States in the contemporary world (Carter 2011, 119–31; Gorman 2011, 44–56; Howard-Brooks and Gwyther 1999, 236–77; Kraybill 2010).

Gender Presentations: Imitating Rome to Condemn Rome As part of the recognition that Revelation’s engagement with Roman power is broad in its focus, scholars have examined the integral role that gender constructions, both male and female, play in Revelation’s negotiation of Roman power. Perceptive analyses have argued that Revelation opposes and shames Roman power even as it imitates and reinscribes imperial gender paradigms to do so. Tina Pippin’s pioneering gender exploration of Revelation employed “general ideological/­political readings” along with “Marxist-feminist reading” and “studies in the fantastic” (1992, 23). Her “gynocritical” discussion exposes Revelation’s patriarchal systems, its use of female archetypes of whore and virgin, and the displacement of women in Revelation’s ideology of death; “Jezebel” and her followers will die (2:22–23). The whore of Rev 17 has seductive power, yet this object of male desire—whore/­goddess/ queen/Babylon—is murdered (1992, 57–68). The heroine-mother-woman clothed with the sun is banished (12:14). In 14:4, women are displaced by defining faithful men as those who “have not defiled themselves with women, for they are virgins” (1992, 70). These constructions indicate that Revelation imitates and reinscribes Roman patriarchal structures which devalue women. Barbara Rossing examines the gendered choice Revelation offers between Babylon/ Rome and (new) Jerusalem in Rev 17–22. She names the gender-imperial representations of the two cities as “whore and bride . . . the decay of empire and the ultimate blessing of God’s people” (Rossing 1999, 1). She particularly attends to Revelation’s rhetorical strategy of employing an ethical topos of the evil-woman and good-woman to script the evil city-empire of Babylon/Rome and the good city Jerusalem/God’s empire. In using these female figures to contrast the two cities-empires, the text creates political critique of Rome as the evil woman (chaps. 17–18). It accordingly exhorts the (male) audience to reject Rome’s empire and participate in God’s alternative rule (chaps. 19–22). Stephen Moore and Jennifer Knust develop the gender analyses by recognizing complex multivalent strategies at work. In one article, they examine Revelation’s polemical presentation of Babylon/Rome as a low-level brothel-slave in chapter 17 (Moore and Knust 2014). They argue that Rome’s representation “as a prostitute mimics a pattern of gender-based derision characteristic of coeval Roman writings . . . [that] . . . characterize imperial figures as pimps and whores” (Moore and Knust 2014, 104). They set aside pre-

Revelation and Roman Rule in First-Century Asia Minor   145 vious appeals to the literary figures of hetaira/courtesans associated with celebrated men, and to Septuagint depictions of harlots to focus on brothel-slaves who had multiple sexual partners (17:2), flashy clothing (17:4), tattooed heads (17:5), and were associated with drunkenness and taverns (17:4b). Moore and Knust emphasize the discourse of contempt that attacked imperial women such as Augustus’ daughter Julia, and Claudius’ wife Messalina (“the whore-empress”) as symbols of uncontrolled and excessive female sexuality, or the emperor Caligula as a sexually depraved pimp. Such “sexual invective was standard fare in Roman political discourse” (2014, 116). Revelation 17 employs similar political critique, coding Rome’s dominating, masculine, destructive excess as feminine: “absolute imperial power—which is hyperbolic masculine power—is represented as a promiscuous, voracious and violent feminine desire. The monstrous spectacle of a sexualized woman utterly out of control serves as a trope for imperial autocracy—absolute power exercised to excess, entirely without restraint” (2014, 120). And her self-magnification and luxurious living leads to violent destruction (17:16). Revelation reinscribes imperial modes of discourse to condemn Rome. In another insightful essay, Moore (2014c) observes that before chapter 17’s woman was a brothel-slave, she was the goddess Roma. He argues that chapter  17 parodies Rome’s hypermasculine military identity and might that exhibit manly virtues of domination and strength. The “goddess Roma is Roman imperial patriarchy paradoxically embodied as a woman in the trappings of an invincible warrior . . . hegemonic Roman manhood encased in female flesh that is clad in hypermasculine garb . . . Babylon would be Rome in triple drag” (2014c, 144). The chapter presents the masculine dress of the warrior Rome as a woman humiliated as a drunken prostitute who exhibits feminine vices of sexual excess and a weakness for appearance—who is then destroyed. This figure emphasizes not military might but Rome’s seductive culture from which Revelation’s readers must, in John’s view, disengage. Jesus conquers this empire by an act of sexual violence, but he troubles the gender binary as an androgyne. He is the superwarrior son of man (1:12–16) yet with breasts (1:13), thereby eliding the masculine and feminine, and subsequently, in becoming a quadraped/lamb (5:6), he elides the human and the animal. The result is a vicious, derisive mocking of a dangerous and seductive Roman power from which, according to John, faithful Christians must withdraw. A further essay employs masculinity studies to examine Revelation’s construction of the hypermasculine deity who outpowers Roman rule (Moore 2014b). In her masculinity approach, Colleen Conway examines images of Jesus as a complex gendered figure who participates in the text’s tension “between the imitation of ideal imperial masculinity and the mirroring of Roman imperial violence” (2008, 159). God and Christ are ruling powerful figures, worthy of honor and worship as ideal Roman figures. Yet they are marked by unmanly conduct of excessive uncontrolled emotions— rage, vengeance, and imperial violence. They are successful in war—classic displays of hegemonic masculine power that dominates others—yet without the mercy or pardon exhibited by imperial rulers like Augustus. So as a powerful, angelic Son of man, Jesus threatens (imperially imitative) violent judgment (1:13–16; 2:1–3:22). As a violent warrior on a white horse (19:11–21), he tramples God’s enemies “with the fury of the wrath of

146   Warren Carter God the Almighty” (19:15), splashing their blood on his robe, wielding a sharp sword, ruling the nations with an iron rod, and providing carrion for “the great supper of God” (19:17) in a display of imperially imitative divine violence (2008, 165). Conway rejects analyses of the Lamb “standing as if it had been slaughtered” (5:6) as a “broken/effeminate lamb” that subverts violence. She finds a “manly lamb” marked by wrath (6:15–17), torture (14:10) and conquest (17:14). Revelation’s opposition to Roman power, she concludes, imitates and magnifies imperial practice with God and allies ruling over all the nations with an iron rod. Discussions of the ways in which Revelation employs gender constructions highlight multivalent dynamics at work in the document’s negotiation of Roman power. Imperial gender constructions are used to oppose and mock effeminate and emasculated Rome, but the gender constructions are borrowed from and imitate imperial constructions of dominant, violent, manly power that subordinate women. God and Jesus emerge as the most powerful rulers who imitate and exceed condemned Roman power.

Ecological Readings Ecological readings focus on the interaction between Rome and the earth in Revelation. Classical scholars have investigated the environmental impacts of Roman rule (Harris  2013; Horden and Purcell  2000; Hughes  1994; Shipley and Salmon  1996); Revelation participates in this discourse, depicting and condemning Roman violence against the earth. Space permits brief attention to two contrasting ecological evaluations of Revelation’s participation in this discourse. Barbara Rossing argues that Revelation speaks to the contemporary “global environmental justice crisis” (2005, 165), whereby violence against both the poor and ecosystems sustains the growing gap between the poor and the rich. Linking the environment and human justice, she sees Revelation, especially the depiction of Babylon/Rome in chapters 17 and 18, as revealing and attacking the practices, structures, and appetites of the Roman empire “that led to injustices against humans and to devastations of the earth” (2005, 166). Yet she argues that vision of the new Jerusalem in chapters 21 and 22 as a “renewed urban paradise” with life-giving water, perpetually fruit-bearing tree, and a God who “dwells in and with creation and desires to wipe away its tears” renders Revelation a “profoundly hopeful and earth-healing book” (2005, 165–66). She understands the “woe” statements over the earth (8:13; 12:12) not as curses but as God’s pained laments for “the devastating conquest of earth by the unjust Roman empire” (2005, 168). Revelation does not anticipate the earth’s destruction but the end of the earth’s exploiters (11:18), namely, Roman military, political, economic and ideological domination of the inhabited earth (Rossing 2008, 28, 33–34). In the final contrasting visions of the two cities in chapters 17–22, Revelation envisions not escape but healing, justice and renewal for the earth. Stephen Moore also recognizes Rome’s threat to the environment but is not positive in evaluating Revelation’s ecological footprint and especially its vision of a future world. Moore discusses Revelation’s array of unusual animals including the two paradoxical protagonists, the multi-horned lamb and the beast (2014a). He describes the lamb’s hab-

Revelation and Roman Rule in First-Century Asia Minor   147 itation from which the beast is excluded, the massive new Jerusalem, as a shopping malllike megalopolis that dominates landscape and people including the tribute-bearing kings of the earth. Moore is not persuaded by Rossing’s attempts to “extract positive ecological visions from the blighted landscape of this disaster-ridden book” (2014a, 235). The new Jerusalem is an outsized city of wrong proportions “but uncannily right if a dystopian vision” of contemporary urban hyper-development is in view (2014a, 237), inhabited by one named animal, one stream, one tree, and no dogs—hardly in Moore’s view an ecological paradise. These two examples highlight differing evaluations of Revelation’s presentation of the created order and the need for further exploration of this dimension of Roman power. These issues, together with those considered earlier, make it evident that discussion of Revelation and Rome has moved from a restricted, monolithic dynamic of opposition and hostility, to a recognition of multivalent, simultaneous negotiations of various complex imperial structures and multiple local issues.

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Revelation and Roman Rule in First-Century Asia Minor   149 Griffin, Miriam. 2000. “The Flavians.” In The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 11: The High Empire A. D. 70–192, edited by Alan K. Bowman, Peter Garnsey, and D. W. Rathbone, 2nd ed., pp. 1–83. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harland, Philip. 2000. “Honouring the Emperor or Assailing the Beast: Participation in Civic Life among Associations (Jewish, Christian and Other) in Asia Minor and the Apocalypse of John.” JSNT 77: 99–121. Harland, Philip. 2003. Associations, Synagogues, and Congregations: Claiming a Place in Ancient Mediterranean Society. Minneapolis: Fortress. Harris, W. V., ed. 2013. The Ancient Mediterranean Environment between Science and History. CSCT 39. Leiden: Brill. Hemer, C. J. 1986. The Letters to the Seven Churches of Asia in Their Local Setting. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Horden, Peregrine, and Nicholas Purcell. 2000. The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Howard-Brook, Wes, and Anthony Gwyther. 1999. Unveiling Empire: Reading Revelation Then and Now. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Hughes, J.  Donald. 1994. Pan’s Travail: Environmental Problems of the Ancient Greeks and Romans. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Jones, Brian W. 1992. The Emperor Domitian. London: Routledge. Jones, Donald  L. 1980. “Christianity and the Roman Imperial Cult.” In ANRW II.23.2, pp. 1023–54. Berlin: de Gruyter. Keresztes, Paul. 1973. “The Jews, the Christians, and Emperor Domitian.” VC 27: 1–28. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Koester, Craig R. 2009. “Revelation’s Visionary Challenge to Ordinary Empire.” Int 63: 5–18. Kraybill, J.  Nelson. 1996. Imperial Cult and Commerce in John’s Apocalypse. JSNTSup 132. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic. Kraybill, J.  Nelson. 2010. Apocalypse and Allegiance: Worship, Politics, and Devotion in the Book of Revelation. Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos. Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G. 1979. Continuity and Change in Roman Religion. Oxford: Clarendon. Longenecker, Bruce W. 2009. “Exposing the Economic Middle: A Revised Economy Scale for the Study of Early Urban Christianity.” JSNT 31: 243–78. Macaskill, Grant. 2009. “Critiquing Rome’s Economy: Revelation and Its Reception in the Apostolic Fathers.” In Engaging Economics: New Testament Scenarios and Early Christian Reception, edited by Bruce  W.  Longenecker and Kelly Liebengood, pp. 243–59. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. McFayden, D. 1920. “The Occasion of the Domitianic Persecution.” AJT 24: 46–66. Moore, Stephen. 2014a. “Ecotherology.” In Untold Tales from the Book of Revelation: Sex and Gender, Empire and Ecology, by Stephen Moore, pp. 225–43. SBLRBS 79. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Moore, Stephen. 2014b. “Hypermasculinity and Divinity.” In Untold Tales from the Book of Revelation: Sex and Gender, Empire and Ecology, by Stephen Moore, pp. 75–102. SBLRBS 79. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Moore, Stephen. 2014c. “Raping Rome.” In Untold Tales from the Book of Revelation: Sex and Gender, Empire and Ecology, by Stephen Moore, pp. 125–54. SBLRBS 79. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Moore, Stephen D., and Jennifer Knust. 2014. “The Empress and the Brothel Slave.” In Untold Tales from the Book of Revelation: Sex and Gender, Empire and Ecology, by Stephen Moore, pp. 103–23. SBLRBS 79. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature.

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Revelation and Roman Rule in First-Century Asia Minor   151 Sweet, J. P. M. 1979. Revelation. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Taylor, Lily Ross. 1931. The Divinity of the Roman Emperor. Middletown, CT: American Philological Association. Thompson, Leonard L. 1990. The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Urban, Ralf. 1971. Historische Untersuchungen zum Domitianbild des Tacitus. InauguralDissertation zur Erlangung des Doktorgrades des Philosophischen Fakultät. Universität zu München. van Kooten, George H. 2007. “The Year of the Four Emperors and the Revelation of John: The ‘Pro-Neronian’ Emperors Otho and Vitellius, and the Images and Colossus of Nero in Rome.” JSNT 30: 205–48. Water, K. H. 1964. “The Character of Domitian.” Phoenix 18: 49–77. Wilson, John Christian. 1993. “The Problem of the Domitianic Date of Revelation.” NTS 39: 587–605. Wilson, Marcus. 2003. “After the Silence: Tacitus, Suetonius, Juvenal.” In Flavian Rome: Culture, Image, Text, edited by Anthony  J.  Boyle and William  J.  Dominik, pp. 523–42. Leiden: Brill. Wilson, Mark. 2005. “The Early Christians in Ephesus and the Date of Revelation, Again.” Neotestamentica 39: 163–193. Wood, Shane J. 2016. The Alter-Imperial Paradigm: Empire Studies and the Book of Revelation. BIS 140. Leiden: Brill, 2016. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1984. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Yeatts, John R. 2003. Revelation. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press.

chapter 10

R el ationships a mong Chr ist-Believ ers a n d J ew ish Com m u n itie s i n First- Cen t u ry Asi a Mi nor Mikael Tellbe

Introduction The book of Revelation raises several intriguing questions concerning the relationship among Christ-believers and local Jewish communities. In particular, in both the letter to the church in Smyrna and the letter to the church in Philadelphia, we are told that there were “those who say that they are Jews and are not, but are a synagogue of Satan” (Rev 2:9; cf. 3:9, NRSV). Furthermore, in 7:4–8 the author hears about “every tribe of the people of Israel,” and in 21:9 he sees “the holy city Jerusalem” with “the names of the twelve tribes of the Israelites” inscribed on its gates. Who and what do these sayings refer to? What can be said about interactions between Christ-believers and Jewish communities in Asia Minor in the first century ce? There is a relative abundance of material—textual, archaeological, and inscriptional— that gives evidence of strong local Jewish communities in first-century Asia Minor (Barclay 1996, 259–81; Blanchetière  1974; Gruen  2002, 84–104; Horst  2014; Kraabel 1968; Harland 2000, 107–10; Stebnicka 2015, 109–57; Trebilco 1991). Concerning the seven cities of the book of Revelation, we know of local Jewish communities in each city and, in particular, of the influential Jewish communities in Ephesus, Smyrna, and Sardis. Our primary source for this knowledge is the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, in particular, the documentary material in the Antiquities that relates to Roman decrees

154   Mikael Tellbe and edicts concerning Jewish rights and privileges. This material provides a wide and representative collection of decrees of the senate and of emperors, rescripts of provincial governors, and resolutions of cities—all dating from the time of Julius Caesar to that of Claudius. The endeavor to defend the Jewish traditions before the imperial courts and Greco-Roman society constantly gave him reason to articulate and reinforce Jewish self-understanding (e.g., Josephus, Ant. 14.186–88; 16.174–75). Josephus used his material primarily for the sake of historical and apologetic effect, evidently colored by his own objectives. Despite these flaws, contemporary scholars of the last twenty years or so have generally argued for the authenticity of both the genre and the period of these documents (cf. Barclay 1996, 262–64; Pucci Ben Zeev 1998, 6–11, 357–73, 405–8; Tellbe 2001, 24–25, 38–39). The overall impression we get from the sources is that the Jewish communities in Asia Minor in the first century ce were influential, that many of the members of these communities interacted regularly with gentiles and were involved to a significant degree in city life, being part of the social networks of the city and sharing in many of the aspects of everyday life: “[I]t is as business-partners, litigants, market users, even potential ‘liturgists’ that the Jews are noticed, and their peculiarities resented” (Barclay 1996, 277; Harland 2000, 107–10; cf. Trebilco 1991, 186–90; Williams 2013, 209–88, 363–88). This is also confirmed by indications from later centuries, where we can picture members of strong and respected Jewish communities in Asia Minor, who made significant social contributions without compromising their Jewish identity (Barclay 1996, 281). Josephus’s documents also show that Jews locally, for example in Ephesus, possessed Roman citizenship (Ant. 14.228, 234, 240). In Asia Minor, the Jews comprised between 5 and 10 percent of the total population (Ameling 1993, 30; Trebilco 2018, 101–2). The common pattern during the Hellenistic period, which also became the rule under the Romans, was that the Jewish communities in the Greek cities continued to function rather autonomously, both socially and religiously, and managed their own judicial and religious affairs in order to keep their own identity distinct (Ep. Arist. 35–38, 44–45). Through efficient diplomacy during the period of early emperors, Jewish leaders had managed to establish several vital privileges for the diaspora Jews (Tellbe 2001, 46–62). These privileges included permission to assemble (Josephus, Ant. 14.260 [Sardis ca. 47 bce]; cf. 14.257, 235), permission to observe the Sabbath and Jewish festivals (Ant. 14.226 [Ephesus]; 14.242 [Laodicea]; 14.261 [Sardis]; 14.263–64 [Ephesus]; 16.163, 168 [Asia Minor]), permission to collect and send the temple tax (Ant. 14.227 [Ephesus]; 16.163–65 [Asia Minor]), permission to observe dietary laws (Ant. 14.226 [Ephesus 43 bce]; 14.261 [Sardis ca. 47 bce]), exemption from military service for Jews who were Roman citizens (Ant. 14.226 [Ephesus 43 bce]; cf. 14.223–40), and exemption from participation in the imperial cult (Ant. 19.280–85; cf. 19.304–6). Tacitly included in the right to assemble was the right to form autonomous administrative organizations, including the Jewish right to manage their own finances and, locally and in specific cases, the privilege of exercising civil and criminal jurisdiction over the members of their own community (14.235 [Sardis ca. 49 bce]; cf. 14.260)—as long as it did not infringe on Roman law and interests.

Christ-Believers and Jewish Communities   155 The Jews never claimed that there was any general Roman law granting them Jewish rights and privileges, but they appealed to their ancient traditions and the protection that they had previously enjoyed under Greek and Roman rule (Josephus, Ant. 16.58–60). While not all Jewish rights were explicitly articulated or legally definable (Rajak 1984), the Jewish rights and privileges repeatedly affirmed by the Roman authorities throughout the Empire were not without legal force (cf. Claudius’s edict “to the rest of the world,” Ant. 19.287–291). As a matter of fact, the Roman measures contributed to the creation of a sort of “official” Judaism that was generally recognized throughout the empire (Linder 2006; Pucci Ben Zeev 1995, 31–37; 1998, 412–429; 439–50; Tellbe 2001, 62–67). Our first-century evidence of Christ-believing communities in Asia Minor outside the book of Revelation comes primarily from Luke’s account in the book of Acts and from Paul’s letters (Johnson 1958, 1975; Mitchell 1993; Schnabel 2008). In particular, we know of Christ-believing communities in and around Ephesus, which by the end of the first century consisted of several well-established communities in the leading center of the emerging Christ-believing movement (Harrison and Welborn 2018; Witetschek 2008; Tellbe 2009; Trebilco 2004). Christ-believing communities in Laodicea and Smyrna are also attested (Col 2:1; 4:13, 15; Ign. Smyr. pref.; Ign. Pol. pref.). It is important to keep in mind that many of the early Christ-believers in these communities were ethnically Jewish. All the evidence we have for relationships among Christ-believers and Jewish communities in first-century Asia Minor comes from Christian sources. In fact, interactions between Christ-believers and local Jewish communities are only mentioned when Jewish opposition is involved, for example, in Pisidian Antioch (Acts 13:14–51), Iconium (14:1–6), Lystra (14:8–20), Ephesus (19:1–20:1), Smyrna (Rev 2:8–11), and Philadelphia (3:7–13), the three latter cities playing a role in the book of Revelation. Luke also mentions that opposition from “Jews from Asia” caused the arrest of Paul in Jerusalem (Acts 21:27–28, ca. 57 ce). This generally hostile Jewish attitude toward Christ-believers is also depicted in early patristic sources. At the same time, these sources demonstrate that Judaism had a significant influence on non-Jewish Christ-believers (Ign. Phld. 6.1–2; Ign. Mag. 8.1; 9.1–2; 10.1, 3; Mart. Pol. 12.2; 13.2; 17.2–18.1). It is important to point out that for several cities where we know of the presence of local Jewish communities, as well as of Christ-believers, there is no textual evidence of Jewish opposition against Christ-believers, for example, in Derbe (Acts 14:20–21), Perge (Acts 14:25), Troas (2 Cor 2:12, Acts 20:6–12), Laodicea (Col 2:1; 4:13, 15; Rev 3:14–22), Hierapolis (Col 4:12–13), Colossae (Col 1:1, 7; 4:12–13), Sardis (Rev 3:1–6), Pergamum (Rev 2:12–17), and Thyatira (Rev 2:18–29). This does not mean that there were no conflicts, although in Revelation it would have been natural to mention them along with the opposition at Smyrna and Philadelphia. Here we have to acknowledge the diversity of both Judaism and the early Christ-believing movement; there were likely different levels of interaction where some Christ-believing groups had little or no interaction with Jewish communities, while other groups had a more significant interaction, as was the case in Ephesus (Tellbe 2009, 57–136; Trebilco 2018, 102–21).

156   Mikael Tellbe We must, of course, consider the possibility that the New Testament writers stylized their accounts, so that they do not reflect the actual relations between Christ-believers and Jews (e.g., Duff 2001, 50). There is also a continuing debate concerning the historical reliability of Luke’s depiction of Jews in Acts (e.g., Slingerland 1986), although on a general level, it can be argued that Luke gives a reliable portrayal that matches the historiographical standards of the Greco-Roman period (e.g., Byrskog  1999; Hemer  1989; Riesner 1997). We must also keep in mind that all the available texts reflect a Christian perspective. What does seem clear is that early Christ-believers perceived and presented themselves as opposed or persecuted by Jews (Lieu 1998, 279–80). I will present some of the most likely reasons for tensions between Jews and Christbelievers in Asia Minor in the first century ce. I will then turn to the conflicts depicted in the letters to the churches in Smyrna and Philadelphia (Rev 2:8–11; 3:7–13). Finally, I will relate these tensions to the process of identity formation, focusing on the definition and redefinition of the people of God in the book of Revelation.

Tensions and Conflicts between Jews and Christ-Believers in First-Century Asia Minor The reasons for Jewish opposition to early Christ-believers in Asia Minor were a complex mix of various factors, and among the most important were theological, sociopolitical, and financial factors. Theological factors. The most apparent reasons for Jewish opposition to early Christbelievers were theological. The first recorded martyr, Stephen, was accused before the Sanhedrin for speaking “blasphemous words against Moses and against God . . . saying things against this holy place and the law” (Acts 6:11, 13). This critique of the law and the temple is also picked up in Acts 21:27–28, when Luke recounts the accusation against Paul by “the Jews from Asia” as Paul enters the temple area in the company of some presumed gentiles: “This is the man who is teaching everyone everywhere against our people, our law, and this place; more than that, he has actually brought Greeks into the temple and has defiled this holy place.” According to Luke, the explicit reason for the opposition among the local Jews to the apostles Paul and Barnabas in Pisidian Antioch is “jealousy” or “zeal” (zēlos): “[W]hen the Jews saw the crowds, they were filled with jealousy” (Acts 13:45). The Greek word zēlos has been variously interpreted by commentators, but most interpret the word in connection to Jewish “zeal” for the law, circumcision, and cultic commandments or/and in connection to Jewish “jealousy” over the missionary success of Paul and Barnabas, drawing the attention of gentile sympathizers to the message of the apostles away from the synagogue (Schnabel 2008, 240–42). The explicit reason for the Jewish hostility toward early Christ-believers in the Pauline letters was the proclamation that a crucified Messiah was “a stumbling block

Christ-Believers and Jewish Communities   157 (skandalon) to Jews” (1 Cor. 1:23). In light of Deut 21:23, a belief in and commitment to a crucified Messiah, who had been opposed by the Jewish leadership in Jerusalem, was likely regarded as unacceptable by most diaspora Jews. Christian worship of a crucified criminal as the godlike Messiah was most likely considered blasphemy (cf. Acts 26:9–11). Whether the issue of early Christ-devotion was also involved in Jewish antagonism to early Christ-believers is debated (Hurtado 1999, 50–57). It was clearly involved in late first-century and second-century controversies (e.g., Justin, Dial. 48; 64; 87), but explicit evidence of such involvement earlier in the first century is rather scarce. Rabbinic texts mentioning Jesus primarily accuse him of practicing magic and leading people astray (b. San. 43a; 107b; b. Shabb. 104b). This is most likely the reason behind the strong negative Jewish reactions to Christ-believers expressed in the so-called Birkat haMinim, the twelfth of the Eighteen Benedictions (Shemoneh ‘Esreh), which, according to the Babylonian Talmud (b. Ber. 28b–29a) was formulated by Samuel the Small under Rabbi Gamaliel II at Yavneh at ca. 90 ce. This saying functioned as a curse against Jewish heretics: “And may the notsrim [i.e., Nazarenes or Christ-believers] and the minim [i.e., the heretics] perish quickly; and may they be erased from the Book of Life and may they not be inscribed with the righteous” (Palestinian recension, taken from Horst 1994, 99). There is an extensive discussion concerning the origin and meaning of this curse (e.g., Horbury 1982; Horst 1994; Langer 2011; Mayo 2006; Teppler 2007). While the Birkat haMinim may not originally have been constructed as an anti-Christian benediction, it must have had repercussions for Christ-believers in the synagogue, who were perceived as minim. The retrospective mentioning of the Birkat haMinim suggests that it may have locally been in use already in the 80s—that is, in the period following the turbulent aftermaths of the destruction of the temple, when the rabbis began to urge greater unity among the Jews (Katz 1984; Olsson 2005, 216–17). As a result, some Christ-believing Jews returned to Judaism while others, who confessed Jesus as the Messiah, were forced to leave the synagogue community—at least locally (Justin, Dial. 96.2; cf. 16.4; 47.4; 93.4; 95.4; 108.3; 123.6; 133.6). Sociopolitical factors. The ancient texts demonstrate that Jews of Asia Minor were concerned about preserving the social and political rights and privileges that they had enjoyed since Julius Caesar, which had come under pressure in different places at different times. The privileges diaspora Jews enjoyed through Roman protection became a recurring source of irritation to their gentile neighbors, who contested Jewish social and religious rights. There is evidence that Greeks tried to prevent the Jews from living according to their traditional laws in Asia Minor, for example, in Sardis (Josephus, Ant. 14.235), Laodicea (Ant. 14.241–43), and Ephesus (Ant. 14.252–54, 262–64). The Greeks seem to have frequently reacted when Jewish communities, being both wealthy and influential, failed to contribute enough to the welfare of the city (e.g., Ant. 16.41, 45). In Sardis (49 bce) the Greeks disputed the Jewish entitlement to have their own “association” and place where “they decide their affairs and controversies with one another” (Ant. 14.235). On some occasions, issues relating to the privileges of possessing Roman citizenship and exemption from military service appear to have contributed to the problem (e.g., in Ephesus and Sardis; Ant. 14.228–40). In addition, the Jews sent significant amounts of money out from the Greek cities and regions at times of local ­economic hardships.

158   Mikael Tellbe Under the surface, the civic pride of the Greeks had been wounded by the political, social, and economic circumstances of Roman rule. The fact that a foreign ethnic group, whom the Greeks disdained as “barbarians,” was granted favored status by Roman intervention within the Greek cities, served as a reminder of the subjection of the Greeks to Rome. In certain aspects this status was superior even to that of the Greek citizens themselves. The frequent appeals by the Jews, for example in Ephesus and Smyrna, indicate that their privileges were not routinely upheld and that they had to be regularly confirmed by the officials. Josephus speaks of several occasions when the Jews in Ephesus were granted their rights because of their “friendship with the Romans” (Ant. 14.262–67). When their status and privileges were threatened, the Jews did not hesitate to engage the Roman authorities at the highest level. With respect to the tensions relating to the sociopolitical privileges of Jewish diaspora communities, Schnabel (2008, 259) concludes: “[I]t is to be expected that local Jewish communities, eager to at least maintain the political and social status quo, would be willing to move against anyone who threatened to endanger the existing rights and privileges in their city.” There are therefore reasons to believe that Jewish opposition to early Christ-believers was also caused by the concern of the Jewish communities to maintain their religious and ethnic identity, including their privileges. On several occasions, Luke reports about Jews’ accusations against Christ-believers for upsetting the peace of the status quo (Acts 17:5–7; 18:12–17; 25:1–8). Their missionary activities among the Godfearers may easily have diminished the Jewish standing and protection within the Greek communities. In turn, this led to local disturbances that potentially jeopardized the Jewish legal status and thus became a critical factor to Jewish antagonism against Christbelievers (Dunn 1996, 183; Rapske 1998, 247 n. 2; Schnabel 2008, 270). Financial factors. Disputes about the temple tax, which dominate in Josephus’s documents, became “the chief bone of contention” between the Jews and the Greek civic authorities in the East (Linder 2006, 137; Smallwood 1981, 143; cf. Tellbe 2005, 20–25). The amounts collected for the temple tax were of such considerable size that the collections caused strong reactions from the Greeks. Josephus reports that they seized this money on several occasions and that the Roman authorities answered by repeatedly reasserting the Jewish rights (Josephus, Ant. 16.28, 45, 160–68). As a result, the temple tax was on occasion classified as “sacred money” (16.169–70; cf. 163–64), and the Romans protected the transport of it, for example, from Ephesus to Jerusalem (16.172; ca. 4 bce). Anyone who stole the tax was declared “sacrilegious” (16.164) and became subject to Roman or even Jewish criminal jurisdiction (16.164–65, 168). For example, the city of Ephesus was directed by the governor of the province of Asia to allow the Jewish community “to make offerings for their sacrifices” (14.227; cf. Philo, Legat. 315). In a similar way, the proconsul of the province of Asia directed the city of Sardis in 12 bce to permit the Jews to send their sacred monies to Jerusalem, implementing the order of Augustus (Josephus, Ant. 16.171). From this we may deduce that Jewish privilege concerning the temple tax was another potential factor causing tensions and conflicts between Christ-believers and Jewish communities in first-century Asia Minor. Christian missionary activities and the conversion of Jews, proselytes, and God-fearers could easily have caused fear of the loss of

Christ-Believers and Jewish Communities   159 financial contributions. Hence, motivated by concerns regarding the financial strength of their community, diaspora Jews may have considered that a rival “Jewish” group would eventually upset their right to send the temple tax to Jerusalem (Schnabel 2008, 267, 270). Besides this, early Jewish Christ-believers started their own collections that potentially threatened loyal participation in one of the most important Jewish identity markers in the diaspora (Tellbe 2005, 42–44). Another financial factor that was causing distress in the relationships between Christbelievers and Jewish communities by the end of the first century was the so-called “Jewish tax,” the fiscus Iudaicus. After the fall of Jerusalem in 70 ce, the Jews reacted strongly when the half-shekel temple tax was turned into a Roman tax of two denarii (didrachmon) and handed over for the rebuilding of the temple to Jupiter Capitolinus in Rome (Josephus, J. W. 7.218; Cassius Dio, Rom. Hist. 66.7). However, since the temple tax enabled Jews to continue their distinctive religious practices, most Jews accepted it. Yet the tax created a social stigma, especially because it defined the Jews as a defeated and punished ethnic minority and because it associated all Jews with the rebellion in Judaea and distinguished them from their Roman and Greek neighbors as a group of people who owed extra dues to Rome, it reminded them of Roman political, economic, and religious sovereignty (Barclay 1996, 76). Since paying or not paying the temple tax distinguished the Jew from the non-Jew, the fiscus Iudaicus came to function as a distinct identity marker. According to Cassius Dio (Rom. Hist. 66.7.2), this tax was only required of those who followed the ancestral customs of the Jews. So to avoid the tax, some Jews sought to keep their Jewish identity a secret. Suetonius (Dom. 12.2) reports that Domitian’s agents collected the tax “with the utmost rigor,” especially as they acted against, not only Jews by birth who kept their Jewish identity secret (lit. “those who concealed their origin”), but also against non-Jews who lived a Judaizing lifestyle (who “lived as Jews”) without professing Judaism (Hemstra 2010; Keresztes 1973, 2–15; Smallwood 1981, 371–85; Stebnicka 2015, 129–31; Williams 1990). Since this tax was required of those who bore the mark of circumcision, regardless of their religious loyalties, it put uncircumcised Christ-believers, who sought protection under Jewish identity and sought to enjoy the social and political advantages of the Jews, in a precarious position: “Any Christian incidentally denounced to the fiscus for ‘living Jewish life’ or concealing their Jewish origin could confess their Christian religion or chose to pay for ‘tax-evasion’ ” (Keresztes 1973, 9). This may also have been the chief point of contention between Jews and Christ-believers in two of the cities in the book of Revelation: Smyrna and Philadelphia.

Relationships among Jews and Christ-Believers in the Book of Revelation When it comes to interactions between Jews and Christ-believers in the letters to the seven churches, there is little to be said about the letters to the churches in Ephesus,

160   Mikael Tellbe Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, and Laodicea. For example, the letter to the church in Ephesus (Rev 2:1–7) reveals very little about the author’s relationship to Judaism, although we know of the existence of a strong local Jewish community in Ephesus toward the end of the first century ce (Tellbe 2009, 65–75; Trebilco 2018, 93–102). The warning that the lampstand or menorah could be removed from Ephesus (2:5), may support the conclusion that the Christ-believing community in Ephesus was of Jewish origin (Strelan 1996, 194). Although this conclusion is probably generally correct, at least according to evidence drawn from Acts 18–19, it is not prompted by the text itself. A minority of scholars argue that “the Nicolaitans” (Rev 2:6, 15) were Jewish in origin. For example, Helmut Koester (1965, 310) suggests that this group was the same as “those who say that they are Jews” in Smyrna and Philadelphia (2:9; 3:9), suggesting that the Nicolaitans were “a hostile Judaizing group” with a developed Docetic Christology. In the letters to the churches in Smyrna and Philadelphia we are informed about those “who say that they are Jews and are not.” The author condemns them with the strong derogatory phrase “a synagogue of Satan” (2:9; 3:9). There are three main suggestions about the identity of this group. First, as has been mentioned, some scholars (e.g., H. Koester 1965, 310; Kraft 1974, 60–61) connect this group to the Nicolaitans, suggesting that they were syncretistic Jewish Christ-believers who compromised with the state and the pagan cults. However, there is nothing to suggest that the group of “Jews” in Smyrna and Philadelphia should be connected with the Nicolaitans. “Those who say that they are Jews” were apparently not members of the Christ-believing communities but were endangering them from the outside, which makes it unlikely that they were Christbelieving Jews. According to 2:14–15, the Nicolaitans, who as a group also operated within the believing community in Pergamum, promoted “eating food sacrificed to idols and committing immorality.” This description is hardly typical for people who are “Judaizing.” Thus, the conflict with the Nicolaitans was not only about eating meat and indulging in (spiritual) fornication, but was also about the general response to cultural and religious accommodations these practices symbolized. Finally, the fact that the Nicolaitans are identified with “the teaching of Balaam” (2:14) is not sufficient proof for the claim that they were of Jewish origin or that they were Judaizers, especially since the author of Revelation regularly applies Old Testament epithets and titles without necessarily claiming anything Jewish in an ethnic sense. Second, other scholars argue that the phrase “those who say that they are Jews and are not” should be interpreted literally as a reference to a group who claimed a Jewish identity without actually being of Jewish origin (e.g., Cohen  1993, 3; Gager  1983, 132; Johnson 1975, 111; Wilson 1995, 163; Zetterholm 2003, 206). Hence, it is suggested that they were gentile Christian Judaizers similar to those whom Ignatius opposed (Phld. 6.1; Magn. 8.1; 9.1; 10.3), who identified themselves with the Jewish community in order to claim Jewish rights and privileges, and to avoid any official harassment and persecution. Ignatius evidently says that “it is better to hear Christianity from the circumcised than Judaism from the uncircumcised” (Phld. 6.1), which must be a reference to gentile Judaizers. Although it is possible that one group of Christ-believers could have caused serious problems for another such group in Greco-Roman society, it is improbable that

Christ-Believers and Jewish Communities   161 they would have sought to “slander” and resolve their differences by seeking recourse from the civic authorities. Furthermore, the designation “synagogue” for this group is odd. As pointed out by Craig Koester (2014, 275), “[I]ndividuals might affiliate with a synagogue, but they would not constitute a synagogue” (original italics). Third, “those who say that they are Jews and are not” may be interpreted as a reference to a group of non-Christian ethnic Jews who opposed the Christ-believers. There are several arguments in favor of this more traditional reading. First, “a synagogue of Satan” is a curious nomenclature for any group other than Jews. Further, we hear of several occasions when Jews were causing explicit problems for Christ-believers in GrecoRoman society by engaging in “slander” or “blasphemy” (Rev 2:9); or more specifically, we hear of denunciation of Christ-believers before the Roman or other civic authorities, as suggested by 2:10 and other sources from the period (e.g., John 9:22; Acts 13:50; 14:2; 17:5; 18:12–13; 25:7; 1 Thess. 2:14–16; Justin, Dial. 47.4; 93.4; 96.2; Mart. Pol. 12.2; 13.1; 17.2). Moreover, the author reacts strongly against these Jewish opponents and says polemically that those who claim “we are Jews” are not, implying that the Ioudaios (“a Jew” or “Judean”) should not be defined in terms of ethnicity but as a reference to the true or faithful believer—that is, to the Christ-believer. According to Yarbro Collins (1986, 314), Jews and early Christ-believers in the communities of western Asia Minor were engaged in a struggle over values: “They shared a common Scripture and messianic tradition, but disagreed over their interpretation and application . . . the two groups competed for status in the eyes of the authorities as the legitimate heirs to the heritage of Israel.” Therefore, the vilification in Rev 2:9 and 3:9 has a social function—casting doubt on the legitimacy of the rival group and demarcating and defining the group of “insiders.” The author of Revelation assumes that the real Ioudaioi are those who believe in Jesus Christ. He views belief in Jesus Christ as the true kind of Judaism, and Judaism without belief in Jesus Christ as a false kind. This radical redefinition of the people of God is clearly in line with what is taking place elsewhere in Revelation (see below Identity Formation in the Book of Revelation). Hence, together with the majority of commentators (e.g., Aune 1997, 162–63; Beale  1999, 240–41; Hemer 1986, 7–9; C. Koester 2014, 275–76; Trebilco 2018, 112–13), I find it most likely that “the Jews” in 2:9 and 3:9 refers to ethnic Jews who caused problems for Christ-believers by officially slandering or denouncing them. The reason for Jewish opposition to Christ-believers in Smyrna and Philadelphia is not explicitly stated. However, two issues that have been mentioned here may partly account for John’s harsh stance toward Jews who “slander” Christ-believers. As was pointed out, the curse Birkat haMinim against the heretics (the minim) in the Eighteen Benedictions may have contributed to the exclusion of Jewish Christ-believers and of gentile Christ-believers who had sought protection in the synagogues. This exclusion would have left them in a precarious sociopolitical position in the Roman society. Another factor behind the Jewish reaction to Christ-believing gentiles who “lived like Jews” could have been strained relations between Jews and civic authorities in connection with the collection of the fiscus Iudaicus under Domitian. The background to the strong phrase “a synagogue of Satan” could have been conflicts between ethnic Jews and

162   Mikael Tellbe Christ-believers that resulted in official actions against Christ-believers who, under the Jewish umbrella, payed the tax and sought protection from participation in the civic cults. The fiscus Iudaicus thus added to the tensions, not only between Jews and Christbelievers in general, but also between Jewish and gentile Christ-believers, on whom the situation impinged in a different way. As for the situation of the churches in Smyrna and Philadelphia, the author of Revelation refuses to acknowledge Jews who oppose or even persecute Christ-believers as true Jews, and, accordingly, to regard non-Christian-opposing Judaism as true Judaism. It is not so clear, however, what the author thinks about non-Christian Judaism as a whole. Would the author totally reject any use of the term “Jew” for the Jewish groups in the other cities, and would he say that they all belong to “a synagogue of Satan,” even if they are not openly hostile to Christ-believers? As has been pointed out, there were Jewish communities in all of the seven cities—including rather large Jewish groups in Ephesus, Smyrna, and Sardis. Since nothing is said about Jews besides those who are mentioned in the letters to Smyrna and Philadelphia, this may indicate that the author is not speaking about non-Christian Jews in general as false Jews but is specifically referring to non-Christian Jews who opposed Christ-believers and cooperated with Roman authorities (cf. C. Koester 2014, 330). We should also keep in mind that we are dealing with a conflict that was in part still an intra-Jewish dispute: Jews who did not believe in Jesus as the Messiah were slandering Christ-believing Jews and gentiles. It is unlikely that a definite separation between them had yet taken place, and we may suspect that the Christ-believers—at least, the Jewish ones and the former God-fearers—lived socially close to the synagogues. In this process, the designation of “those who call themselves Jews” ultimately served to form the readers’ self-identity, drawing boundaries between the in-group and the out-group. Of course, we have to consider that this kind of labeling may have been part of the author’s deliberate polemical strategy to sharpen the distinction between Christ-believers and Jews (Malina and Pilch 2000, 54; Thompson 1990, 125–27). In any case, we see here something that is continually going on in the book of Revelation—namely, the process of defining and redefining the true people of God (Tellbe 2009, 100–101).

Identity Formation in the Book of Revelation: Redefining the People of God The author of the book of Revelation was most likely of Jewish origin. His language and imagery continuously draw from Old Testament prophecies and Jewish apocalyptic literature, and his self-understanding is that of a prophet of the Lord (Beale 1999, 76–99; C.  Koester  2014, 68–69; Yarbro Collins  1984, 34–50). However, there is a complete

Christ-Believers and Jewish Communities   163 absence of controversial Jewish issues and terms in his writing, such as the law, the covenant, circumcision, the Sabbath, the festival observances, fasting, and the legitimacy of sacrifices. Although the Feast of Tabernacles plays a crucial role in his imagery (Ulfgard 1989), it is primarily a symbolic and theological motif, not a festival that the readers are expected to celebrate. None of these issues is discussed, which suggests that the author operated outside the synagogue setting and without the typical framework of Jewish boundary markers. This impression is strengthened by the observation that the author frequently redefines the people of God. For example, in the letter to the church in Philadelphia, “those who claim to be Jews though they are not” (3:9) are defined as false Jews, which implies that the Christ-believers are the true bearers of this title. This is also highlighted in the description of Jesus Christ in the address of the letter: Christ is presented to the Philadelphians as the one “who has the key of David, who opens and no one will shut, who shuts and no one opens” (3:7). The “key of David” refers to the story of Eliakim, who controlled the entry to the house of David in Jerusalem (Isa 22:22). Christ is thus presented as the one who holds the key to the new Jerusalem, the city of the true people of God (Rev 21:9–22:5). Such an assurance would be profoundly relevant to Christbelievers who were faced with hostility and expulsion from the synagogue: Christ’s opening involves admission of the gentiles, despite Jewish resistance, and his closing would be the exclusion of the church’s opponents, despite their Jewish parentage and privileges. In 7:1–8, the author hears about a multitude on earth that is marked with “the seal of the living God.” This multitude consists of “one hundred forty-four thousand from all the tribes of Israel,” who are described as prepared for war. In the next sequence (7:9–17), the vision is expanded, and the prophet sees “a great multitude that no one can count” in heaven. This is most probably a reference to the same multitude, but it is now expanded to consist of people “from every nation, tribe, people and language.” Ethnic Israel has now been redefined in universal terms as the people of God, which no longer consists of one single nation but of many different nations. Furthermore, the literal city of Jerusalem, the city in which “their Lord was crucified,” is renamed for the apostate locations of “Sodom and Egypt” (11:8), and the coming “new Jerusalem” implies that the old Jerusalem no longer exists (21:9–22:5). The new Jerusalem is defined as the city of the nations (21:24–26), made up of the peoples of the twelve tribes of Israel and of the twelve apostles of the Lamb (21:12–14). Hence, ethnic Israel will no longer be the only people with whom God dwells (21:3). The book of Revelation is full of universalistic language. The true people of God are portrayed as multiethnic, multicultural, and multilingual, and they are made up of all the different peoples of the earth. Bauckham, in particular, has demonstrated that the theme of the conversion of the nations—the transfer of the sovereignty of the whole world from the dragon and the beast to God the Almighty—stands “at the center of the prophetic message of Revelation” (1993, 238). This theme is first introduced in 1:7 by the phrase “all the peoples of the earth,” which literally picks up the promise made to Abraham in Gen 12:3 (LXX). The immediate effect of the Lamb’s victory in Rev 5:1–10 is

164   Mikael Tellbe the redemption by his bloody sacrifice of a universal people for God, a people made up from “every tribe and language and people and nation” (5:9). This fourfold formula occurs throughout Revelation a total of seven times (5:9; 7:9; 10:11; 11:9; 13:7; 14:6; 17:15), stressing the ethnic and cultural diversity of the people gathered around the throne of God. The song of Moses and the image of the new exodus in 15:2–4, should also be interpreted in line with the most universalistic strains of the Old Testament hope: all the nations will come to acknowledge the God of Israel and to worship him (e.g., Exod 15:11; Jer 10:6–7; Pss 86:8–10; 98:1–2). The redefinition of the people of God is also elaborated in the titles and designations used to address and to describe the community of believers in Revelation. The prophet addresses the true people of God primarily in two terms, “the saints” and “the servants,” and both terms relate to the vertical dimension of the relationship of the readers to God. The typical designation of Israel, “the saints” (hoi hagioi; Rev 5:8; 8:3, 4; 11:18; 13:7, 10; 14:12; 16:6; 17:6; 18:20, 24; 19:8; 20:9), is used as an inclusive term for all Christ-believers. By addressing his readers as the saints or “holy ones” the author underlines the continuity between the people of God in the Old Testament and the new people of God redeemed by the Lamb. Moreover, the author addresses his readers as “slaves” or “servants” (douloi), a term that is used at least seven times for the Christbelievers (2:20; 7:3; 10:7; 19:5; 22:3–4, 9). The slave-master relationship was an exclusive one that implied ownership; like the people of God in the Old Testament, the true people of God in Revelation are called God’s own people, his “servants” (Trebilco 2004, 579, 581–82). The overall purpose of Revelation is to shape a new and different imaginative world of the addressees in order to give meaning to their prevailing conflicts and hardships. Within this context, Yarbro Collins (1986, 319–20) properly notes: “John’s polemic was part of the struggle of Christians in western Asia Minor to survive physically and to establish an identity as legitimate heirs to the heritage of Israel.” Being cut off from the Jewish community with its long-standing religious traditions and sociopolitical privileges and gradually being more marginalized in the wider society, John’s readers needed an understanding of their role within the plan of God, as well as in society at large. The overall message of Revelation demonstrates that the author wants to warn hostile ethnic Jews and encourage Christ-believers—whether of Jewish or gentile o ­ rigin—to stand firmly in their faith by redefining the basic meaning of Judaism and of being a “Jew.” This fundamental redefinition of the people of God in Revelation, which consists of both Old Testament believers (the tribes) and New Testament believers (the apostles) brought together in one (Rev 21:12–14), serves to create and portray a different worldview and to articulate a new identity for the readers. The Christ-believers stand in continuity with the people of God and should understand themselves as genuine Jews and as the new Jerusalem—that is, as a people made up of all the nations of the world. Hostile ethnic Jews, who cause affliction to the Christ-believers, no longer belong to the true community of God, the in-group, but to the “synagogue of Satan,” the out-group. Thus, the true people of God are no longer “those who say that they are Jews” but those who worship the almighty God as revealed in the Lamb that was slain.

Christ-Believers and Jewish Communities   165

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166   Mikael Tellbe Johnson, Sherman E. 1975. “Asia Minor and Early Christianity.” In Christianity, Judaism, and Other Greco-Roman Cults: Studies for Morton Smith at Sixty, edited by Jacob Neusner, pp. 77–145. SJLA 122. Leiden: Brill. Katz, Steven  T. 1984. “Issues in the Separation of Judaism and Christianity after 70 ce: A Reconsideration.” JBL 103: 43–76. Keresztes, Paul. 1973. “The Jews, the Christians, and Emperor Domitian.” VC 27: 1–28. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Koester, Helmut. 1965. “gnomai diaphoroi: The Origin and Nature of Diversification in the History of Early Christianity.” HTR 58: 279–318. Kraabel, A.  T. 1968. “Judaism in Western Asia Minor under the Roman Empire with a Preliminary Study of the Jewish Community at Sardis.” PhD diss. Harvard University. Kraft, Heinrich. 1974. Die Offenbarung des Johannes. HNT 16a. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Langer, Ruth. 2011. Cursing Christians? A History of the Birkat HaMinim. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lieu, Judith  M. 1998. “Accusations of Jewish Persecution in Early Christian Sources, with Particular Reference to Justin Martyr and the Martyrdom of Polycarp.” In Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Christianity, edited by Graham  N.  Stanton and G. G. Stroumsa, pp. 279–95. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Linder, Amnon. 2006. “The Legal Status of the Jews in the Roman Empire.” In The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 4: The Late Roman-Rabbinic Period, edited by Steven  T.  Katz, pp. 128–73. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Malina, Bruce J., and John J. Pilch. 2000. Social-Science Commentary on the Book of Revelation. Minneapolis: Fortress. Mayo, Philip L. 2006. “The Role of the Birkath Haminim in Early Jewish-Christian Relations: A Reexamination of the Evidence.” BBR 16: 325–44. Mitchell, Stephen. 1993. Anatolia: Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Olsson, Birger. 2005. “ ‘All My Teaching Was Done in Synagogues’ (John 18, 20).” In Theology and Christology in the Fourth Gospel: Essays by the Members of the SNTS Johannine Writings Seminar, edited by Gilbert van Belle, Jan G. van der Watt, and P. Maritz, pp. 203–24. BETL 184. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Pucci Ben Zeev, Miriam. 1998. Jewish Rights in the Roman World: The Greek and Roman Documents Quoted by Josephus Flavius. TSAJ 74. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Pucci Ben Zeev, Miriam. 1995. “Caesar and Jewish Law.” RB 102: 28–37. Rajak, Tessa. 1984. “Was There a Roman Charter for the Jews?” JRS 74: 107–23. Rapske, Brian. 1998. “Opposition to the Plan of God and Persecution.” In Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, edited by I.  Howard Marshall and D.  Peterson, pp. 235–56. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Riesner, Rainer. 1997. “Lukas (1. Jh. n.Chr.).” In Hauptwerke der Geschichtsschreibung, edited by Volker Reinhardt, pp. 391–94. Stuttgart: Kröner. Schnabel, Eckhard  J. 2008. “Jewish Opposition to Christians in Asia Minor in the First Century.” BBR 18: 233−70. Slingerland, H. Dixon. 1986. “ ‘The Jews’ in the Pauline Portion of Acts.” JAAR 54: 305–21. Smallwood, E. Mary. 1981. The Jews under Roman Rule: From Pompey to Diocletian, a Study in Political Relations. 2nd ed. SJLA 20. Leiden: Brill. First edition published in 1976. Stebnicka, Krystyna. 2015. Identity of the Diaspora: Jews in Asia Minor in the Imperial Period. Journal of Juristic Papyrology Supplement 26. Warsaw: University of Warsaw.

Christ-Believers and Jewish Communities   167 Strelan, Rick. 1996. Paul, Artemis and the Jews in Ephesus. BZNW 80. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Tellbe, Mikael. 2009. Christ-Believers in Ephesus: A Textual Analysis of Early Christian Identity Formation in a Local Perspective. WUNT 242. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Tellbe, Mikael. 2005. “The Temple Tax as a Pre-70 ce Identity Marker.” In The Formation of the Early Church, edited by Jostein Ådna, pp. 19–44. WUNT 183. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Tellbe, Mikael. 2001. Paul between Synagogue and State: Christians, Jews, and Civic Authorities in 1 Thessalonians, Romans and Philippians. ConBNT 34. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Teppler, Yakoov Yanki. 2007. Birkat haMinim: Jews and Christians in Conflict in the Ancient World. TSAJ 120. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Thompson, Leonard L. 1990. The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Trebilco, Paul. 2018. “The Jewish Community in Ephesus and Its Interaction with ChristBelievers in the First Century ce and Beyond.” In The First Urban Churches, vol. 3: Ephesus, edited by James R. Harrison and L. L. Welborn, pp. 93–126. WGRW 9. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press. Trebilco, Paul. 2004. The Early Christians in Ephesus from Paul to Ignatius. WUNT 166. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Trebilco, Paul. 1991. Jewish Communities in Asia Minor. SNTSMS 69. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ulfgard, Håkan. 1989. Feast and Future: Revelation 7:9–17 and the Feast of Tabernacles, ConBNT 22. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Williams, Margaret  H. 2013. Jews in a Graeco-Roman Environment. WUNT 312. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Williams, Margaret  H. 1990. “Domitian, the Jews and the ‘Judaizers’: A Simple Matter of Cupiditas and Maiestas.” Historia 39: 196–211. Wilson, Stephen G. 1995. Related Strangers: Jews and Christians 70–170 ce. Minneapolis: Fortress. Witetschek, Stephan. 2008. Ephesische Enthüllungen 1: Frühe Christen in einer antiken Großstadt zugleich ein Beitrag zur Frage nach den Kontexten der Johannesapokalypse. BTS 6. Leuven: Peeters. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1984. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Fortress. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1986. “Vilification and Self-Definition in the Book of Revelation.” HTR 79: 308–20. Zetterholm, Magnus. 2003. The Formation of Christianity in Antioch: A Social-Scientific Approach to the Separation between Judaism and Christianity. London: Routledge.

chapter 11

Gr eco -Rom a n R eligions a n d th e Con text of th e Book of R ev el ation Richard S. Ascough

Religio and the Ties That Bind Defining “religion” in the Greek and Roman periods is no easier than defining what it is today. As Jonathan Z. Smith rightly notes, it is a “scholarly category,” a heuristic that scholars use as a way to talk about a constellation of phenomena within human behavior that can be observed and categorized together under a particular taxon (Smith 1998, 281–82). It seems, then, not profitable to talk generally about Greek and Roman “religion(s)” as the context for the book of Revelation, because we would spend much of our time trying to define or defend particular categorizations of religion (Nongbri 2015). An alternative approach would be to describe the backgrounds of various gods that have already been identified as part of the constellation of the ancient world, but this would simply redo much good work that has already been done in the vein of “background” to the development of early Christ groups (e.g., Ferguson 1987). What is of more interest is to examine how the writer of the book of Revelation conceives and constructs what scholars might construe as the religious context in which the early Christ adherents found themselves. Framed this way, a fascinating picture emerges, one in which the writer sees Christ adherents assailed on every side by threats that come from groups who advocate cult practices and beliefs different from their own. For the writer, these groups are the consummate “other.” They are not defined the way we might define them—by their participation in cult activities focused on a deity such as Artemis or the Great Mother—but are presented as contrary to what he thinks the Christ groups should hold to. As we shall see, there are instances in which it may be possible to identify

170   Richard S. Ascough particular deities, practices, or beliefs in the writer’s rhetoric, but doing so should not cause us to lose sight of his overall characterization of all those he deems “other.” Feasting and fornicating—these are the main characteristics of those in Asia Minor whose cult practices focus on any deity except the God of the risen Jesus—at least, according to the writer of the Revelation. They are considered idolaters who have aligned themselves with the devil and Satan; they use magic and will even resort to murder to perpetuate their ways. Thus, the writer paints a bleak picture in which Christ adherents residing in the seven cities to which Revelation is addressed are threatened and tempted on all sides. In stark contrast, there is a utopian polis—a heavenly Jerusalem—that awaits those who endure to the end, who remain faithful to God even as those around them succumb to the enticements of their surroundings: “Outside [the gates] are the dogs and sorcerers and fornicators and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood” (Rev 22:15). This uninviting and disturbing picture of the religious context of Revelation is one factor that has contributed to the historical development of the pejorative use of “paganism” as the contrast to the purity of what will come to be called Christianity. That is, when one sees “pagan” used by later Christians, the frame of reference is most likely idolatry, with its attendant feasting, drinking, and fornication. Yet even within Revelation, no one particular religion is singled out; no deities are named directly in the book, save for Death and Hades (6:8), although others, such as Zeus and the emperor, are certainly implicated. Instead, the writer of Revelation pulls together distinct, and at times quite disparate, cult practices of a variety of groups into one amorphous whole in order to easily and readily contrast them with his vision of true worship. Thus, Revelation’s characterization of what might precariously be termed “religion” is a factor contributing to the vilification of any practice that was deemed aberrant as Christ adherents gained ascendency in the Roman Empire. In this chapter, we examine cult practices in the region of western Asia Minor, the locale of the seven assemblies addressed in Revelation, in order to examine how it is that the writer of Revelation might have been able to misrepresent them with such vehemence. We begin with a brief description of the geographical setting and then discuss the dominant deities in each of the seven cities, drawing attention to their cult practices. In the final section, we examine how the writer uses the metaphoric frame of feasting and fornication in Revelation as a means to characterize these cult practices and the conflicts they engender for the Christ adherents in Asia Minor.

Cult, Commerce, and Culture in the Temple The book of Revelation is written in the context of Asia Minor, and Christ groups located in seven urban centers are singled out, not only as the recipients of the book as a whole,

Greco-Roman Religions   171 but each also receives a personalized message (1:4). The imagined audience is larger than this this—“Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches” (2:7, 29; 3:6, 22)—but at the very least, the immediate context for understanding the writer’s message remains focused on these seven cities. The messages appear in an order that follows the Roman roads, which are the likely route as John’s writing was carried to each group: proceeding north along the coast from Ephesus through Smyrna to Pergamum, then turning east to Thyatira, before moving southeast toward Laodicea after passing through Sardis and Philadelphia. In attempting to interpret Revelation’s messages to the seven cities, commentators tend to draw heavily on the work of two particularly influential biblical scholars, William Ramsay (1994) and Colin Hemer (1986). Steve Friesen (1995), however, has demonstrated that their correlation of literary, numismatic, and archaeological sources with the text is highly flawed and largely implausible. The realia must be interpreted on its own, without being filtered through the text of Revelation. Although religion is difficult to define conceptually, the location of behaviors that would be categorized as religious is easier to identify in the cities, as it involved “the proper performance of the rites in veneration of the gods” (Ando 2008, 126). Rituals are thus repetitive acts that bind (legio) participants to the divine objects of their cults. In the cities of the Greek and Roman periods, temples were the clearest and most obvious place for such religious activity. In the larger civic temples, appointed priests carried out daily rituals on behalf of the well-being of the city, and smaller temples provided cult activity for individuals and various groups. At the same time, gods and goddesses are everywhere, as Friesen notes, “painted on walls and carved into furniture,” adorning private and public buildings, guiding the cycle of festivals, and basically overseeing “gov­ ern­ance, education, family life, commerce, and worship” (Friesen 1995, 345). Each of the seven cities named in Revelation officially recognized a constellation of deities, although the predominance of one god or another varied among them. For example, at Ephesus, the temple of Artemis played a dominant role. Begun sometime in the fourth century bce, by the time of the writing of Revelation, the fifth rebuilding on the sacred site was the largest religious building of the time. Artemis—or in her Roman form, Diana—was generally affiliated with the hunt, often depicted holding a bow and arrow and accompanied by hunting dogs. At Ephesus she took on other characteristics that also brought her into affiliation with the Anatolian Mother Goddess (who herself came to be affiliated with Cybele; see Thomas 2004, 249). Many statues have been found that depict her with what seem to be rows of breasts, or perhaps bull testes, either one of which might suggest a strong link to a fertility cult. Such statues, at least in miniature form, might have been the purview of the silversmiths who protested that Paul’s preaching impinged on their economic livelihood (Acts 19:23–41). The cult of the Mother Goddess, Cybele, dominated the religious landscape of Smyrna from its founding, and she functioned as the patron and guardian of the city (Cadoux 1938, 215–16). Although she took on many forms in her long history, by the Roman period, the erection of a temple to her in Rome in the early second century bce eventually brought respectability to her cult. By the imperial period, she was seen as an

172   Richard S. Ascough idealization of feminine virtue. At the same time, the frenzied devotion of some of her adherents and the self-castration of those who became her priests (the Galli) aroused suspicion or caution for many. The temple of Cybele in Smyrna was situated adjacent to the forum on which there was also a temple dedicated to Zeus, who went by a number of names in the city (Cadoux 1938, 202–4), including “protector” (Aelius Aristides, Oration 20.20) and “savior” (I.Smyrna 680). Pergamum was well-known for a healing center dedicated to the healing god Asclepius, built around a temple at the base of the acropolis on which the city itself was constructed, whose fame was second only to that of Epidaurus in Greece (cf. Hoffmann 1998; Radt 1999, 220–42 on the second-century remodeling of the site initiated under Hadrian after reputed miraculous cures took place there). The Asklepion itself was connected to the lower city by a one-kilometer-long sacred way. Asclepius was one of four patron deities recognized by the city, the others being Dionysus, Zeus, and Athena. Of these, Athena stood out in her form as Nikephoros or “Victory-Bearer,” both for her antiquity, since her temple was the oldest in the city, and for her presumed role in helping Eumenes II defeat his enemies in the second century bce. However, it was the great altar of Zeus that dominated the upper city. Also built by Eumenes II, this massive marble altar was covered with a frieze depicting the struggle between gods and giants, and smoke from its sacrifices billowed into the air daily. In the message of Revelation addressed to the Christ adherents of Pergamum, the writer locates them as “where Satan’s throne is” (2:12), likely a reference to this throne-shaped great altar (Kästner 1998, 143), although the imperial cult may be likewise implicated in the reference (but see Friesen 2005, 356–67). Continuing along the geographic arc of Revelation’s messages brings us to Thyatira, a city founded under the Attalid dynasty that ruled much of Asia Minor through the third and second centuries bce. A pair of inscriptions from the city attest to an official cult of Dionysos Kathegemon, an epithet that the god received in Pergamum as a dynastic deity, suggesting that the Attalids introduced this deity to Thyatira (Hoz 1999, 66 and nos. 15.2 and 15.3). The weather god Zeus Keraunios is attested in Thyatira, at times depicted with lightning bolts, and was likely introduced to the city from Pergamum (Hoz 1999, 62, and nos. 61.34 and 61.36), as may also be the case for Asclepius Soter and the cult of Heracles (Hoz 1999, 68, 70). The patron deity of Thyatira, however, was Apollo Tyrimnos (TAM 5/2 nos. 882–83; 946; 956; 960), although his sister, in the form Artemis Boreitene, was also recognized as protector of the city (TAM 5/2 nos. 995–96; see Hoz 1999, 34, 53). Mention should also be made of the many occupational associations attested in Thyatira from the first through third centuries ce, particularly dyers guilds, each of which had their own patron deities, most often linking themselves to the civic elite (Harland 2014, 226–27). Artemis played an important role in Sardis. She was considered the primary protector of the city and inhabited a massive temple (Hanfmann 1983, 129), where she was joined by Zeus Polieus, his epithet also indicating that he too is a “protector of the city,” with the erection of a colossal statue of him, likely balancing an equally large statue of Artemis herself (cf. Hanfmann  1983, 131; Ramage  1987, 31). An earthquake in 17 ce

Greco-Roman Religions   173 destroyed a major part of the city and seemed to shift the attention away from these two gods for the remainder of the first century ce, when the temple lay in ruins, likely since they were no longer considered able to protect the city (Hanfmann 1983, 135). “Not unnaturally,” Hanfmann notes, “from gods that had failed them, they turned to the praesens divus, the ‘present god,’ the emperor who was the first to help them in their dire plight. And they waivered in their allegiance, shifting from Artemis to Demeter, Kore, and the ‘Lydian Zeus’ ” (1983, 135). This latter figure is somewhat enigmatic, though reflective of a broader revival of local Lydian, along with Persian, deities that extended into the second century (Hanfmann 1983, 135). Nevertheless, even with this it seems that Artemis remained the primary deity at Sardis through into the second century ce (see Hoz 2016). Evidence from coins and inscriptions indicate that the patron deity of Philadelphia was Anaitis, whose Persian roots seem mostly to be mooted, and who at times seems to be blended with Artemis or the Great Mother (Hoz 1999, 74–75). Other deities in the city include Mēn, Zeus Helios (Hoz 1999, 69), and Dionysus Kathegemon, who took on an increasingly important role in the city in the second and third centuries ce, although it remains unclear whether his mysteries “were performed within a more official civic cult, within associations, or perhaps in both settings” (Harland 2014, 183). As was the case with Thyatira, Dionysus Kathegemon was likely introduced to the city from Pergamum under the Attalids (Hoz  1999, 66 and nos. 15.26 and 15.27). Of particular note from Philadelphia is an inscription, from around 100 bce, set up by the founder of a household association devoted to Dionysus (Ascough, Harland, and Kloppenborg 2012, no. 121), which mentions the presence of altars to at least ten deities along with “the other savior gods.” Instructions for cult activities such as purifications and the mysteries were provided both by Dionysus and by Zeus, although “in accordance with ancestral custom,” and were “stored” before the household guardian Agdistis, a Phrygian form of the Great Mother. What is particularly illustrative about this inscription—although it is dated some two hundred years before the writing of Revelation—is the high degree of moral discourse it contains that pertains to magic and sexual intercourse (Batten 2007). This is a contrast to the negative judgmental rhetoric the writer of Revelation has concerning behaviors outside the Christ cult, as we shall see. The final city directly addressed in Revelation is Laodicea, in the Lycus Valley. Laodicea’s primary deity was Zeus, who is attested in the region from even before the founding of the city (Corsten 1997, no. 1; Huttner 2013, 42). In the imperial period he was prominent on coins and inscriptions, and the city held an eight-day annual festival in his honor (Huttner 2013, 43). An honorific late first-century dedicatory inscription above the city gate ascribes to Zeus the title “Savior” and places him alongside Domitian, the emperor at the time: For Zeus the greatest savior and Imperator Domitianus Caesar Augustus Germanicus, pontifex maximus, invested for the fourth time with the tribunician authority, consul for the twelfth time, father of the fatherland, Tiberius Claudius Tryphon, the freedman of the emperor, built the towers and the triple-arched

174   Richard S. Ascough gateway; Sextus Iulius Frontinus, the proconsul, dedicated the entire structure. (Corsten 1997, no. 24b; trans. in Huttner 2013, 161)

Zeus also seems to have been worshipped with local epithets, particularly “Zeus Aseis” (Huttner 2013, 44), although there was a consistency in the overall presentation of the god; “The Zeus of Laodicea always remained the same; his rigid attitude, visible on innumerable coins, was a guarantee of reliability” (Huttner 2013, 66). Other deities are evidenced at Laodicea, such as Hestia, Dionysus, Herakles, and Artemis (Corsten 1997, nos. 65, 65A, 66; Huttner 2013, 55), and the cult of Apollo seems to have gained increasing attention toward the end of the first century and beyond, when the city was sending annual embassies to his oracle at Clarus in Ionia (Huttner 2013, 45). And not far to the west of Laodicea was the sanctuary of the Phrygian god Men Karou, which seems to have served also as a healing center and perhaps even a medical school (Huttner 2013, 52, 171; Strabo, Geography, 12.8.20). In all the civic temples of these cities, but particularly in the larger civic temples, daily rituals were important, and periodic festivals required full civic participation, and processions, music, sacrifices, feasts, and athletic contests dominated the days of celebration. Yet cult activities were not the sole activity of temples. They were also sites of much more than what we might refer to as religion or spirituality. The temples functioned as financial institutions (e.g., making loans and mortgages to individuals, but also serving as civic treasuries), marketplaces (which included the selling of meat), and meeting places (Howard-Brook and Gwyther  1999, 103). In fact, the Artemesion at Ephesus served as the financial center for the entire Roman province of Asia Minor. Many temples opened onto the central gathering space in the city, the agora or forum, where merchants would set up stalls to hawk their wares. After the temple priests had made ritual sacrifices, particularly of swine, sheep, or, in some cases, cattle, the meat that remained after the requisite portions had been offered to the god(s) through full burning or ritual consumption would be sold to the general public in the marketplace. Although this meat was too expensive for many inhabitants of the city, those who could afford it enjoyed some choice cuts. However, this “meat sacrificed to idols” did present challenges for early Christ followers, as we can see from some of the letters of Paul, the book of Acts, and Revelation. While cult practices abounded in the city and the household, the other primary sites where acts of veneration could take place on a regular basis were at the meetings of various associations such as trade guilds, neighborhood organizations, immigrant groups, and groups that were formed for specific purposes, such as social interaction or devotion to a god or gods. All these groups were generally small, ranging from ten to thirty members, usually of lower socioeconomic status. Although members might pay dues, these groups relied heavily on elite patronage to fund their activities. All such groups had one or more deity that they honored, although equally important were the social dimension of their regular meetings and, in some cases, the guarantee of a decent burial. As noted earlier, occupational associations are well attested at Thyatira, where inscriptions were set up by businessmen, bakers, wool-workers, and dyers (Ascough, Harland,

Greco-Roman Religions   175 and Kloppenborg 2012, nos. 128–44). Evidence is prevalent for a range of associations in the other six cities of Revelation as well, and it is difficult to imagine that members of Christ groups were not in regular daily contact with these groups and even had been, or in some cases still were, members of them (Ascough 2016). Of particular note are the meal practices of the groups, which are well-attested in inscriptions that delineate when, how, and why banquets might take place, which were usually held in honor of a god or patron. Some groups were even formed for the specific purpose of banqueting or drinking or both, as can be seen in the “hall of benches” found at Pergamum, which belonged to a group who members called themselves “cowherds” dedicated to Dionysus (Ascough, Harland, and Kloppenborg 2012, no. B6). The hall was first constructed in the early first century ce, at the latest, as a stone triclinium that could accommodate seventeen to twenty reclining banqueters, a strong indication that banqueting was the association’s primary activity. Given the social and political capital that was gained through membership and by networking in the associations, particularly at meal times, it would be difficult for Christ adherents to avoid the eating of sacrificial meat and liberal drinking that accompanied the gatherings. Yet, as we shall see, avoidance is what the author of Revelation advocates.

Imperial Cult Although we have only been able to touch on a few of the major deities present in the seven cities addressed in Revelation, there was one cult that took on an increasingly important role under Roman rule: the imperial cult. Some form of worship of the emperor, along with the cult of Roma (the deified personification of Rome), figures prominently in Revelation, albeit often in somewhat veiled references. Established under Augustus in the late first century bce, recognition of the divine sanction for a ruling emperor developed into the granting of divine status to the emperor, and sometimes to members of his family, in death and even in life (Friesen 2001; Price 1984). Early on Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, and Sardis took turns in hosting an annual spring festival honoring the deified Augustus. By the end of the first century, cities vied to gain the Roman Senate’s approval to build temples to the emperor or his family, and thus be granted the title neokoros, or “temple warden of the imperial cult (Tacitus, Annals 4.15, 55–56). Ephesus was the first city to be granted the title when the city dedicated the Temple of Sebastoi around 89/90 ce during the reign of Domitian; Pergamum followed a decade or so later (Friesen 2001, 43–53, esp. 46, 53). To that point, however, in the many temples that were spread throughout the empire, but particularly in the region of Asia Minor, “the emperor was regularly associated with the gods and sometimes presented as a god himself,” and “many of the coins in use carried the portrait of the emperor, often depicted as Zeus, Apollo, or Hercules” (Yarbro Collins 2000, 396; cf. Huttner 2013, 60). By the end of the first century, the imperial cult was present in each of the seven cities addressed in Revelation, either as a temple or an altar (de Jonge 2002, 132; Price 1984, 250–65).

176   Richard S. Ascough As were other temples, “imperial cult temples and their precincts were strategically located in the public domain in or near the agora, the place where inhabitants engaged . . . in commercial, cultural, judicial, administrative activities” (Winter 2015, 11). This prominence reinforced the importance of not only the temple itself but also the rule of Rome over the city, and inscriptions spelled out the divine honors granted to the emperors, alongside “an ideological and political message to be absorbed by the city’s inhabitants” (Winter 2015, 11). That said, there was no monolithic imperial cult but a range of activities that varied across location and time. Nevertheless, as Winter adroitly demonstrates, there was “a trilogy of imperial cultic acts”: prayers to the emperor, sacrifices for him, and a response by him to intercede with the gods on behalf of the empire (2015, 49). The significance of the imperial cult in a civic center is nicely illustrated in a first-century ce inscription from Thyatira in which the city’s citizen body (dēmos) dedicates a hero shrine to a benefactor who was a high priest of Augustus and Roma and had an association of devotees: The People (dēmos) dedicated the sanctuary for Xenon and the hewn stone to Gaius Julius Xenon son of Apollonides, hero and benefactor, who had become high-priest of Caesar Augustus and goddess Roma and who had made the greatest benefactions for all of Asia. He was a savior, benefactor and founder in relation to all and became father of the fatherland, foremost among the Greeks. The Julius-devotees (Iouliastai) prepared this monument. (Harland 2014, no. 124)

Participation in the imperial cults was not required, but significant social pressure to do so would be felt: “[S]ince the imperial cult was a significant part of civic life in Asia Minor, it would have been difficult to resist joining in” (Yarbro Collins  2000, 397). Failure to participate could be perceived by others as a lack of commitment, not only to the empire but also to the protective powers of the imperial leader (Howard-Brook and Gwyther 1999, 103). The writer of Revelation, however, recasts the experience of social pressure in the image of a beast forcing people to give divine honors to the emperor to be able to buy and sell at the daily markets. The beast places a mark on a person’s right hand or forehead to identify those who have complied (Rev 13:16–17; Winter 2015, 286–87). The writer, however, urges resistance, a functional denial not only of the emperor’s divine status but also of the gods of Rome. Beale (1999, 276) suggests that Christ adherents were maintaining a low profile in the cities and even “paying token acknowledgement to the pagan gods (whether to Caesar or the patron gods of the guilds)” out of fear of “persecution, particularly economic ostracism.” The writer of Revelation has little tolerance for this and wants both bold proclamation and active resistance. Revelation’s stance, then, with regard to Christian participation in the regular civic life of Roman Asia—exemplified by participation in the many cultic and semi-cultic meals that constituted an important ingredient of the “social glue” of the province— is strenuously anti-assimilationist. (Moore 2006, 116)

Greco-Roman Religions   177 This, in turn, likely resulted in resisters’ prosecution as social malcontents, “who threatened the pax deorum” (Stephens 2011, 151; cf. Winter 2015, 306), and in the case of at least one person at Pergamum, death: “you did not deny your faith in me even in the days of Antipas my witness, my faithful one, who was killed among you” (2:13). For the writer of Revelation there is to be no compromise. The Christ cult exclusively is the proper bond among the people, one to another and to God. All other manifestations of religion are false and must be resisted.

Feasting, Fornicating, and Fighting As we have seen, the Roman period reflects a rich and diverse religious culture, with its local manifestations and empire-wide connections, but none of this is reflected in the book of Revelation, which presents a rather one-dimensional view of religious life outside the Christ groups, one that vilifies all other practices as aberrant. The writer of Revelation seems particularly concerned with the consumption of “food sacrificed to idols” (often linked to “fornication”), although he only mentions it directly twice. He uses the term eidōlothyta, which literally means “idol offerings,” and it occurs only within the messages at 2:14 (Pergamum) and 2:20 (Thyatira), in both cases prefaced with phagein (“to eat”). Such food was common in the Roman world and could include bread, oil, wine, and vegetables, although it is most often thought to indicate meat, since much of the meat sold in the marketplaces had its origins on the altars of the various temples in any given city or would be fresh, having been sacrificed before the meal at an association meeting (see Faas 1994, 244–51). For Judeans, and for some Christ adherents, restrictions were placed on eating any such food (Acts 15:29; 21:25), and yet there are indications in early Christian texts that at various times and places, some members of the Christ groups were not willing to give up meat, even that originating from sacrifices (1 Cor 8:1–8; 10:19–21), albeit likely for a variety of social, political, and/or theological reasons. Thus, what is of interest is the manner of theological framing by our writer when he invokes such restrictions. For example, although the Christ group at Pergamum is on the whole faithful to God, the writer identifies some among them who “hold to the teachings of the Nicolaitans” (Rev 2:15), as did some in Ephesus (2:6). Little is known about this particular teaching, which has led to much speculation, although Stephen Moore is able to conclude: The Nicolaitans are best seen as Christian “assimilationists,” who . . . took a relaxed or pragmatic view of Christian accommodation to certain cultural norms, specifically (to cite the practice that elicits the seer’s censure), eating meat in assorted socio-religious settings, whether public settings, such as regular calendric festivals, including those of the imperial cult; or (semi-)private settings, such as banquets or other meals hosted by trade guilds or other voluntary associations or social clubs; or

178   Richard S. Ascough simply eating temple “leftovers”—meat that has been sold in the marketplace after having been sacrificed and partially consumed in the temple cults. (2006, 115–16)

For the writer, the teaching of the Nicolaitans at Pergamum is similar to that of “Balaam, who taught Balak to put a stumbling block before the people of Israel” (2:14). In that antecedent story, found in Num 22–24, Balaam is contracted by the Moabite king Balak to curse the people of Israel, but Balaam resists and only blesses the people. So it is unclear how Balaam himself is responsible for the ensuing apostasy of the Israelites when they yoked themselves to “Baal of Peor” (Num 25:1–3). Nonetheless, later in the text he is indicted for leading the women astray (31:16), an indictment the writer of Revelation follows in accusing the Nicolaitans at Pergamum of advocating religious apostacy and infidelity. To the Christ group at Thyatira, the words of the risen Christ are at first affirming, until he points to their tolerance of “that woman Jezebel,” whose prophetic teachings are “beguiling my servants to practice fornication and to eat food sacrificed to idols” (Rev 2:20). In this case, however, there is perhaps more scriptural warrant for the analogy. In the earlier tradition in Kings, Jezebel, a non-Israelite, is the catalyst that causes King Ahab to worship the Semitic deity Baal (1 Kgs 16:31). She murders God’s prophets (1 Kgs 18:4, 13), along with Naboth in order to seize his vineyard (1 Kgs 21:1–14). While it is well within the imagination to think that consumption of meat sacrificed to idols took place as part of Baal worship, this is not explicitly stated in Jezebel’s story. In fact, it is Jezebel herself who is threatened with such by God: “The dogs shall eat Jezebel within the bounds of Jezreel” (1 Kgs 21:23; 2 Kgs 9:10, 36), which comes to pass at Jezreel (2 Kgs 9:33–36). Although food plays an important part in any banquet, equally important is the wine, and thus we need to also examine how the writer evokes drink and drinking elsewhere in Revelation. Probably the best known reference occurs in the message to the Christ adherents at Laodicea, who are chided for their lukewarmness and are to be spit or vomited (emeō) out of the risen Jesus’s mouth (Rev 3:15–16). This critique is aimed directly at the rich and their failure to provide for those of low socioeconomic status (“the wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked”; 3:17) and suggests a critique of the banqueting practices in the Roman period, which were the purview of the wealthy elite. Such banquets often included ostentatious displays of exotic foods, drinking games that involved the spilling of wine, and provision of sexual favors by the hired entertainers, which gave them a reputation for drunkenness and excess (Ascough 2018, 213–14). The negative image of drink is intensified later, when God’s wrath is likened to the unmixed wine that is to be drunk by those who worship the beast and receive his mark on their foreheads or hands (14:9–10), a stark contrast to the positive image of banqueting with the risen Christ in the message to the group at Laodicea (3:20). The cautions around feasting and fornication given to the seven assemblies seem to come to a head in the final fight narrated later in Revelation, when the angel shows the author the judgment upon “Babylon the great, mother of whores and of earth’s abominations” (17:5), clearly a cipher for Rome, albeit with links to the Great Mother, whose cult was flourishing in the city at the time (Jeffcoat Schedtler 2017, 66–67). The city itself

Greco-Roman Religions   179 is depicted as “the great whore” who has committed “fornication” “with the inhabitants of the earth” (17:1–2). The negative sexual connotations could not be clearer, but lest the point is missed, she is further depicted as wearing “purple and scarlet,” symbolizing luxury and sexual license, and the cup in her hand, golden, of course, as a sign of excess, is “full of abominations and the impurities of her fornication” (17:4). Her drunkenness is apparent, though it is not caused by alcohol per se but by the “blood of the saints and the blood of the witnesses to Jesus” (17:6). Yet she is not alone in her debauchery; the inhabitants of earth are themselves drunk with the wine of her “fornication” (17:2). The impact of Rome’s libidinous proclivities and intoxicated state are encapsulated by the next angel, who proclaims, “For all the nations have drunk of the wine of the wrath of her fornication, and the kings of the earth have committed fornication with her, and the merchants of the earth have grown rich from the power of her luxury” (18:3). And like some of the seven assemblies themselves who are fighting with their enemies, God is taking on and will defeat Rome: “And the kings of the earth, who committed fornication and lived in luxury with her, will weep and wail over her when they see the smoke of her burning; they will stand far off, in fear of her torment, and say, ‘Alas, alas, the great city, Babylon, the mighty city! For in one hour your judgment has come’ ” (18:9–10). Feasting and fornication result in this case in the consummate fight, which Rome herself loses to the righteous powers of God. Food and drink are not always bad in the book of Revelation, although their positive properties go beyond mere nutrition. A vision might come through ingestion, as with the case of the “little scroll” that is sweet in the mouth but bitter to the stomach when eaten by the Seer (10:9–11), the juxtaposition signaling the combination of rewards and judgments that are laid out in the succeeding section on the Jerusalem temple and the two witnesses (Rev 11). Nevertheless, as Ulfgard points out, in Revelation food and drink are presented in contrasting imagery (2017, 690–92). While the meals of the righteous are inviting and sumptuous, the unrighteous eat food “sacrificed to idols” or are themselves consumed as part of the meal in which the birds of heaven eat the flesh of the elite, in grotesque imitation of the wedding supper of the Lamb in 19:17–18. And whereas the unrighteous get drunk on wine and fall into fornication, the righteous consume the pure “water of life,” and abstain completely, it seems, from wine. “The absence of any mention of wine in a positive context in Revelation—and even more: the preponderant negative connotations in every instance where wine is mentioned—is noteworthy, even when the blessed and joyful eschatological future is depicted” (2017, 692). Ulfgard suggests that this might reflect a disassociation from the usual patterns of drinking at cultic banquets, or even a move toward early Jewish-Christian asceticism. Perhaps more importantly, those in the city who properly welcome the risen Jesus through correct cult practice and right belief are rewarded with a place beside Christ and shared banqueting fellowship. Thus, there is no need for the Christ adherents in any of the seven cities addressed in the messages, or elsewhere in the book for that matter, to be swayed by aberrant teachers or tempted by somatic experiences of food and drink, for faithfulness will bring about its own banquet (3:20). This is extended toward the end of the book with the beatitude “Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of

180   Richard S. Ascough the Lamb” (19:9). In contrast to the feasting, often involving idol-meat, which takes place in the outsider groups, the writer of Revelation holds up the promise to the faithful of partaking in the “tree of life that is in the paradise of God” (2:7), which is later described as spanning both sides of a river and producing twelve kinds of fruit alongside leaves with healing powers for the nations (22:2). Although overindulgence in food and drink is a clear concern, particularly when it involves “idol-meat,” as we have seen, the writer sometimes pairs such excess with sexual license. The connection between polluted meat and fornication is made early in the book, by Balaam in the message to Pergamum and by Jezebel in the message immediately following, addressed to Thyatira. In the latter, the fornication is emphasized, drawing upon the reputation of Jezebel as a “beguiling” (planaō, lit. “deceiving,” Rev 2:20) seductress, whose reputation for “whoredoms and sorceries” did not serve her well when she “painted her eyes and adorned her head” in an attempt to seduce Jehu but ended up being thrown from a window to her death (2 Kgs 9:22, 30). Jezebel’s reincarnation as a prophetess at Thyatira is cause both for temptation and damnation. She has been given time to repent, but she refuses, and in a curious twist, it is Jesus who, pimp-like, makes Jezebel sexually available, declaring, “I am throwing her on a bed, and those who commit adultery with her I am throwing into great distress, unless they repent of her doings” (Rev 2:22). The sexual imagery is stark and striking, yet clearly metaphoric, standing in for the worship of deities other than the God of Israel. Thus, for the writer, participation in cult acts in honor of any deity other than the one true God is akin to the social stigma of sexual pollution, though, most egregiously, it is experienced by those initiated into “the deep things of Satan” (2:24). Such teachings are seductive, like Jezebel herself, drawing the participants toward their own damnation, which the faithful not only resist but must actively “conquer” (2:26, 28). In contrast to those who fall prey to fornication with foreign deities, the image of sexual, and thus cultic, purity in Revelation is borne by the one hundred and forty-four thousand who stand before God on Mount Zion to sing a song of worship known only to them: “It is these who have not defiled themselves with women, for they are virgins” (14:4). This figurative number is explicated earlier as coming from the twelve tribes of Israel (7:4–8), but reflects “the totality of God’s people throughout the ages, viewed as true Israelites” (Beale 1999, 733). In a previous study on Greek and Roman religions in the cities of Sardis and Smyrna, I concluded that among the broad range of religious groups there that were typical of most urban centers in antiquity, there was little antagonism between them (Ascough 2005). Coexistence and even some cooperation seem to have been the norm, although competition and conflict could arise, albeit often internally in a group or at least between like groups (e.g., rivalry between different Zeus associations). This makes it all the more striking, then, that the tone of at least five of the seven messages in Revelation reflects language of competition and conflict (Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, and Philadelphia). That said, closer examination demonstrates that those who stand in the way of the writer’s perception of true commitment to God are not other religions but, in fact, other types of Christ adherents, as we saw earlier.

Greco-Roman Religions   181 This does not, however, extend to the remainder of the book, where other gods are seen as rivals and competitors, and worthy of God’s ire and ultimately God’s wrath. In particular, the writer imagines Roma and the deified emperor as opponents, although other deities seem also to play their part. For example, behind the images of beasts and monsters and harlots in Rev 12–13 is an amalgam of “Babylonian or Greco-Roman myths about chaos monsters and the divine warrior who destroyed them” that the writer has “adapted and incorporated” (Henten 2006, 182). In the time in which Revelation was composed, this myth was circulating widely in Asia Minor in two primary forms: (1) Apollo, as the one who slays the dragon Python, and (2) the Egyptian deity Seth, who murdered Isis’s husband Osiris and whom the Greek tradition associated with the monster Typhon. Adela Yarbro Collins argues that the visions of chapter  12, in which a mother and her newly born son are given divine aid to save them from the threat of a great monster, bear similarities to other ancient stories, but particularly to that of Leto giving birth to Apollo while being pursued by the monstrous Python (Yarbro Collins 2000, 394). That this myth was well known in the region is seen in “coins depicting Leto fleeing from Python while her children Artemis and Apollo shoot their arrows” (Henten 2006, 186). Such coins were minted at Ephesus and nearby Magnesia on the Meander during the time of Hadrian (117–138 ce), and thus are both geographically and temporally proximate to Revelation. In light of such evidence, Yarbro Collins concludes, “Roman rule was likened to the golden age of Apollo, and various emperors were identified as Apollo manifest or incarnate,” an image John has co-opted for his own argument that Christ will bring about the true golden age (2000, 394; cf. Henten 2006, 201).

Conclusion From cult practices and “food sacrificed to idols” to cosmic combat myths, the book of Revelation contains both clear and oblique references to the deities and the religious practices of the broader sociocultural context in which its readers are embedded. Some of these deities can be identified from the Greek and Roman pantheon, albeit often with local epithets, when we examine how the writer of Revelation imagines Christ adherents engaging with them. Yet the writer of Revelation does not much delineate between Judeans, “pagans,” and Christians when it comes to describing aberrant cult practices and beliefs that he thinks do not cohere with what God wants. Everyone with whom the writer disagrees—individually and collectively—is placed by him into the category of “other” and thus lies outside those who are, in his view, authentically aligned with God through Christ. The faithful Christ adherents are assailed on all sides. Thus, it is difficult to separate out the Greco-Roman religious context of the book of Revelation from the constructed context of the writer himself. There are no hard and fast distinctions in the mind of the author that allow for it within the text. Rather, the hard and fast distinction is between insiders and outsiders, the latter including any and all who participate in cult acts in honor of any other deities, particularly through eating. Such acts are presented as

182   Richard S. Ascough fornication, a betrayal of the true God, yet they are caricatures of the rich and diverse practices of the various cult groups extant in Asia Minor at that time.

References Ando, Clifford. 2008. The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the Roman Empire. Berkeley: University of California Press. Ascough, Richard  S. 2005. “Greco-Roman Religions in Sardis and Smyrna.” In Religious Rivalries and the Struggle for Success in Sardis and Smyrna, edited by Richard S. Ascough, pp. 25–39. ESCJ 14. Waterloo, CAN: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Ascough, Richard S. (2016). “Paul and Associations.” In Paul in the Greco-Roman World: A Handbook, edited by J. Paul Sampley, vol. 1, pp. 68–89. London: Bloomsbury. Ascough, Richard S. (2018). “Communal Meals.” In The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Ritual, ed. Risto Uro, Juliette Day, Rikard Roitto, and Richard DeMaris, 204–219. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ascough, Richard S., Philip A. Harland, and John S. Kloppenborg. 2012. Associations in the Greco-Roman World: A Sourcebook. Waco TX: Baylor University Press. Batten, Alicia. 2007. “The Moral World of Greco-Roman Associations.” SR 36: 135–51. Beale, G. K. 1999. The Book of Revelation. NIGTC. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Cadoux, Cecil J. 1938. Ancient Smyrna: A History of the City from the Earliest Times to 324 ad. Oxford: Blackwell. Corsten, Thomas, ed. 1997. Die Inscriften von Laodikeia am Lykos. Inschriften grieschischer Städte aus Kleinasien 49. Bonn: Habelt. de Jonge, Henk Jan. 2002. “The Apocalypse of John and the Imperial Cult.” In Kykeon: Studies in Honour of H. S. Versnell, edited by H. F. J. Horstmanshoff, H. W. Singor, F. T. van Straten, and J. H. M. Strubbe, pp. 127–41. RGRW 142. Leiden: Brill. Faas, Patrick. 1994. Around the Roman Table: Food and Feasting in Ancient Rome. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ferguson, Everett. 1987. Backgrounds of Early Christianity. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Friesen, Steven J. 1995. “Revelation, Realia, and Religion.” HTR 88: 291–314. Friesen, Steven J. 2001. Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John: Reading Revelation in the Ruins. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Friesen, Steven J. (2005). “Satan’s Throne, Imperial Cults, and the Social Settings of Revelation.” JSNT 27: 351–73. Hanfmann, G. M. A. 1983. Sardis from Prehistoric to Roman Times: Results of the Archaeological Exploration of Sardis 1958–1975. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Harland, Philip  A. 2014. Greco-Roman Associations: Texts, Translations and Commentary. Vol. 2: North Coast of the Black Sea, Asia Minor. BZNW 204. Berlin: de Gruyter. Hemer, Colin J. 1986. The Letters to the Seven Churches of Asia in Their Local Setting. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Henten, Jan Willem van. 2006. “Dragon Myth and Imperial Ideology in Revelation 12–13.” In The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 181–203. SymS 39. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Hoffmann, Adolf. 1998. “The Roman Remodeling of the Asklepieion.” InPergamon: Citadel of the Gods, edited by Helmut Koester, pp. 41–59. HTS 46. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Greco-Roman Religions   183 Hoz, María-Paz de. 2016. “The Goddess of Sardis: Artemis, Demeter or Kore?” In Between Tarhuntas and Zeus Polieus: Cultural Crossroads in the Temples and Cults of Graeco-Roman Anatolia, edited by María-Paz de Hoz, Juan Pablo Sánchez Hernández, and Carlos Molina Valero, pp. 185–224. Colloquia Antiqua 17. Leiden: Peeters. Hoz, María-Paz de. 1999. Die lydischen Kulte im Lichte der griechischen Inschriften. Asia Minor Studien 36. Bonn: Habelt. Howard-Brook, Wes and Anthony Gwyther. 1999. Unveiling Empire: Reading Revelation Then and Now. Bible and Liberation Series. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Huttner, Ulrich. 2013. Early Christians in the Lycus Valley. Early Christianity in Asia Minor 1/AJEC 85. Leiden: Brill. Jeffcoat Schedtler, Justin. 2017. “Mother of Gods, Mother of Harlots: The Image of the Mother Goddess Behind the Description of the ‘Whore of Babylon’ in Revelation 17.” NovT 59: 52–70. Kästner, Volker. 1998. “The Architecture of the Great Altar of Pergamon.” In Pergamon: Citadel of the Gods, edited by Helmut Koester, pp. 137–61. HTS 46. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Moore, Stephen  D. 2006. Empire and Apocalypse: Postcolonialism and the New Testament. Bible in the Modern World 12. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Nongbri, Brent. 2015. Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Price, Simon R. F. 1984. Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Radt, Wolfgang. 1999. Pergamon: Geschichte und Bauten einer antiken Metropole. Darmstadt, Germany: Primus. Ramage, Nancy  H. 1987. “The Arts at Sardis.” In Sardis: Twenty-Seven Years of Discovery, edited by Eleanor Guralnick, pp. 26–35. Chicago: Chicago Society of the Archaeological Institute of America. Ramsay, William  M. 1994. The Letters to the Seven Churches. Edited by Mark  W.  Wilson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Smith, Jonathan  Z. 1998. “Religion, Religions, Religious.” In Critical Terms for Religious Studies, edited by Mark C. Taylor, pp. 269–84. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Stephens, Mark B. 2011. Annihilation or Renewal? The Meaning and Function of New Creation in the Book of Revelation. WUNT II/307. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Thomas, Christine  M. 2004. “The ‘Mountain Mother’: The Other Anatolian Goddess at Ephesos.” In Les cultes locaux dans les mondes grec et romain, edited by Guy Labarre, pp. 249–62. Paris: de Boccard. Ulfgard, Håkan. 2017. “Sharing with the Divine in the Apocalypse: Meals as Metaphors— Concepts and Contexts.” In The Eucharist: Its Origins and Contexts, vol. 1, edited by David Hellholm and Dieter Sänger, pp. 673–95. WUNT 376. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Winter, Bruce W. 2015. Divine Honours for the Caesars: The First Christians’ Responses. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 2000. “The Book of Revelation.” In The Encyclopedia of Apocalypticism, vol. 1: The Origins of Apocalypticism in Judaism and Christianity, edited by John J. Collins, 384–414. New York: Continuum.

chapter 12

John’s Apocalypse in Relation to Johannine, Pauline, and Other Forms of Christianity in Asia Minor Paul Trebilco

Christianity in Asia Minor Revelation was written to Christians in seven churches in western Asia Minor (Rev 1:11; 2:1–3:22) toward the end of the first century (C. Koester 2014, 71–79) and reveals a good deal about the life of the Christians in those cities, including some details about a group that John calls the Nicolaitans. By the end of the first century, western Asia Minor was one of the most significant regions for the development of the early Christ-believing movement. Paul had founded churches there, and it seems likely that John’s Gospel and 1–2–3 John were written in Ephesus (Trebilco 2004, 241–63). A number of Christian communities quickly became established and flourished in the region. Does Revelation show any knowledge of or relationship with these other writings and movements? What is the relationship between the author of Revelation and these other forms of Christianity in the wider region?

Revelation and the Seven Congregations From the way John writes in Rev 2–3, it is clear that he was aware of the situation of each of the seven churches. It seems likely that John was an itinerant prophet who traveled around a number of Christian assemblies (1:3; 22:7, 9; Müller 1993, 318).

186   Paul Trebilco

Differing Viewpoints within the Seven Congregations In what he writes, John shows that there are differing viewpoints within the seven congregations. There are some Christians in the seven churches who agree with John theologically. These are readers whom he commends in various ways in Ephesus (2:2–3, 6), Smyrna (about whom John is entirely positive; 2:8–11), Pergamum (2:13), Thyatira (2:19, 24–25), Sardis (3:4), and Philadelphia (about whom John is again entirely positive; 3:7–13). There are other readers with whom John disagrees. This includes the Nicolaitans, but he is opposed to other readers as well. This is seen in the tone of the seven proclamations. John often states: “But I have this against you” (2:4, 14, 20), or “Remember then from what you have fallen” (2:5), or “Remember then what you received and heard” (3:3), or he writes some form of accusation against the community (3:1, 15). This is followed up by a call to “Repent” (2:5, 16, 21–22; 3:3, 19) and then the threat:, “If not, I will come to you” in an act of judgment (2:5, 16, 22–23; 3:3, 16). Notably, John is entirely negative in what he writes to the church in Laodicea (3:14–22). Clearly, much is happening in the life of the seven churches with which John does not agree (Friesen 2005, 353–56). It is very unlikely then that John is writing to “John the Seer groups” of like-minded Christ-believers in each of the seven cities or to some small “prophetic conventicles” that were separate from other Christian groups in their cities, as has been suggested (H. Koester 1971, 155; 1995, 133; Satake 1966, 193; cf. Witetschek 2008, 309–10, 411–14). Rather, he is writing to a whole range of readers in the churches and is aware of the ex­ist­ ence of widely diverse perspectives (Roloff 1993, 8–9; Tellbe 2009, 42; Trebilco 2004, 335–42). There are also those whom John regards as “false apostles” in Ephesus (2:2). It seems likely that they were itinerants, since John’s language suggests that they arrived in Ephesus and were then tested (Aune 1997, 144; Müller 1984, 101–2). We do not know the criteria that John and the Ephesians used to determine that, in their view, they were not apostles. While some scholars have connected these apostles with the Nicolaitans of 2:6 (e.g., Thompson 1990, 123), this is unlikely since John makes no connection between the apostles and the Nicolaitans, and he writes of the testing of apostles being in the past, while the Nicolaitans are presented as an ongoing threat (Aune 1997, 143).

The Nicolaitans John singles out the Nicolaitans as one group with whom he is in particular disagreement. He mentions the Nicolaitans in 2:6 in his letter to Ephesus. In writing to Pergamum, he speaks of “the teaching of Balaam” regarding eating food sacrificed to idols and practicing fornication, and ends by saying, “So you also have some who hold to the teaching of the Nicolaitans” (2:14–15). In the writing to the church in Thyatira, we again hear of “practicing fornication” and “eating food sacrificed to idols,” this time in connection with the teaching of Jezebel, “who calls herself a prophet” (2:20–23).

Johannine, Pauline, and Other Forms of Christianity   187 John closely associates these teachers or sets of teaching: Nicolaitans are mentioned in relation to Ephesus and Pergamum, and food sacrificed to idols and practicing fornication are mentioned in relation to Pergamum and Thyatira. This suggests that one movement is being spoken of here and that Balaam and Jezebel were leaders within the one Nicolaitan group (Blount 2009, 59, 63; Räisänen 1995, 1606–7, 1632; Trebilco 2004, 308–11; cf.; Royalty 1998, 28–34; who thinks different groups are involved). It seems clear that “Balaam” and “Jezebel” are not the real names of the people involved, but are nicknames John uses for them (Räisänen  1995, 1608). A feature of John’s polemic is renaming these opponents with nicknames that allude to Old Testament traditions about figures who are judged by God. In Num 25:1–9, Balaam is linked with idolatry in connection with Baal of Peor and with Israelite men marrying Midianite women (cf. Num 24:14; 31:16; Henten 2008, 247–64). Jezebel is associated with idolatry and with false prophets (1 Kgs 16:31–34; 18:4, 13; 19:1–3; 21:23–25; 2 Kgs 9:22, 30–37). This renaming presents these opponents as condemned by God for their actions and beliefs (Carter 2009, 33–34). It seems likely that the Nicolaitans have not gained a following among the Christians addressed in Ephesus, since the Ephesian Church is said to share in John’s hatred of the Nicolaitans (Rev 2:6). However, at Pergamum some “hold to the teaching of Balaam” (2:14), while in Thyatira the church is said to “tolerate that woman Jezebel” (2:20), and “those who commit adultery with her” will be judged (2:22). However, “the rest of you” in Thyatira are said not to hold to her teaching (2:24). Clearly, some Nicolaitans are within rather than outside the assembly of the addressees in both Pergamum and Thyatira. Although John regards Balaam and Jezebel as entirely wrong, he does call the Nicolaitans in Pergamum to repent (2:15–16), and in the past, he has given Jezebel time to repent but she has refused to do so (2:21). This shows that John regards them as erring Christians who can repent, and not Christians who are entirely beyond hope. As far as John is concerned, the Nicolaitans are a rival Christian group (Thimmes  2009, 72–82). They have at least one teacher (Balaam) and one prophet (Jezebel), and they probably justify their teaching through prophecy (MüllerFieberg 2009, 92–93). They have followers (2:15, 22–23), who are described as Jezebel’s “children” (2:22–23). They have been active (but rejected) in one church (Ephesus) and are represented within two other churches (Pergamum and Thyatira), which suggests that they are itinerant, or at least mobile. John clearly regards them as a rival group that poses a very serious threat. John’s charge against the Nicolaitans was that they ate food sacrificed to idols and practiced fornication (2:14, 20), both actions with which John totally disagrees. “Fornication” in Revelation is almost always to be understood metaphorically as a reference to idolatry (e.g., 17:2, 4; 18:3), which is its most likely meaning here (Boxall 1998, 207–8; Müller-Fieberg 2009, 91–92). The Nicolaitans probably participated in some way in the actual worship of idols. This could have been during meetings of associations or trade guilds. Or they may have participated in cultic meals in pagan temples; or perhaps they took part in festivals for various deities, as well as in the imperial cult (Friesen 2001,

188   Paul Trebilco 157). The charge that in addition to this they were eating food sacrificed to idols suggests that they were also involved in consuming idol-meat in one or more of these contexts, or in their own homes. Why would the Nicolaitans have been involved in situations that John regarded as idolatrous, and why would they have eaten idol-meat? In the context of the all-pervasive cultic worship of the Greco-Roman city, in which dimensions of religion permeated all aspects of social and cultural life, the Nicolaitans could no doubt point to many advantages that accrued to Christians who participated in pagan worship and in festivities in their cities. They could then advocate full involvement in social, political, economic, and religious life, with positive consequences for the church’s reputation and for evangelism. By contrast, non-participation would certainly lead to severe economic, social, and political disadvantages (Boxall 2004, 147–51). In response, John rules against idolatry and eating idol-meat in any situation and so argues for no accommodation with the life of the Greco-Roman city (Barr 2011, 3–4; cf. Carter 2009, 34–39). The call in 18:4 in relation to Babylon, which is Rome, to “Come out of her, my people, so that you do not take part in her sins” is also John’s call to his readers to separate from idolatry and hence to distance themselves, in ways that are not made explicit, from the life of the Greco-Roman city. Further, the polemic in Rev 4–22 against idolatry and the imperial cult can be seen as John’s continued argument against the Nicolaitans.

Pauline and Johannine Christianity Both Pauline and Johannine Christian communities became established in western Asia Minor prior to Revelation being written. We will discuss this evidence in turn.

Pauline Churches in Asia Minor and Revelation Paul founded churches in Asia Minor, and Pauline texts and Acts give evidence for the activities of Paul and his associates in Ephesus, Colossae, Hierapolis, Laodicea, Troas, and elsewhere in western Asia Minor (1 Cor 15:32; 16:8–9, 19–20; 2 Cor 1:8–10; 2:12; Col 2:1; 4:13–16; Phlm 1–25; Acts 13:13–14:25; 16:1–10; 18:24–20:38; cf. Ephesians). It is almost certain that 1–2 Timothy were written to readers in Ephesus (1 Tim 1:3; 2 Tim 1:18; 4:12), probably by a Pauline disciple, between 80–100 ce (Trebilco 2004, 197–209). They show that the Pauline tradition continued to have an impact in the area. Ignatius writes to Ephesian Christians around 110–115 ce and in Eph. 12:2 he states that the members of the community to which he wrote in Ephesus were “fellow initiates of Paul,” making it clear that the memory of Paul and his ministry remained alive in the area (cf. Ign. Rom. 4:3 and the Apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla, which almost certainly

Johannine, Pauline, and Other Forms of Christianity   189 originated in Asia Minor; Barrier 2009, 21–22). This leads us to ask whether there is any discernible relationship between Revelation and Paul’s letters. There are possible connections between Revelation and Pauline tradition. The epistolary introduction in Revelation resembles the introductions to Paul’s letters; the exact wording of Rev 1:4 (charis hymin kai eirēnē apo; “grace to you and peace from . . . ”), for example, is found in Paul (Rom 1:7b; 1 Cor 1:3; 2 Cor 1:2; Gal 1:3; Eph 1:2; Phil 1:2; Col 1:2b; 2 Thess 1:2; Phlm 3). Similarly, the concluding greeting of “grace” in Rev 22:21 resembles formulas in Paul’s writings (1 Cor 16:21–24; Gal 6:18; cf. 2 John 13; 3 John 15). In both cases, Revelation may be reflecting standard practice among Christian letter writers (which may go back to Paul as the originator of the now-customary formulae), and so John may be dependent on Christian tradition or contemporary practice rather than influenced by Paul himself. There are a number of other similarities of thought or expression between Revelation and Paul, such as the phrase “in the Lord (en kyriō),” found in Rev 14:13 and forty-seven times in the Pauline corpus (e.g., Rom 14:14; 16:2; 1 Cor 4:17), but never elsewhere in the New Testament. An important difference between Paul and Revelation is that, whereas Paul saw himself as an apostle (Rom 1:1; 1 Cor 1:1; 9:1–2), John wrote of “the twelve apostles of the Lamb” (Rev 21:14), clearly referring to the twelve as a closed circle (cf. Rev 18:20; Lohse 1991, 360; Taeger 1998, 188; Tellbe 2009, 195). Given the lack of any direct quotation of or allusion to Paul’s letters we cannot argue for direct dependence of John on Paul or that John was consciously influenced by Paul (Goulder 1994, 89–90; Schüssler Fiorenza 1985, 122–25, argues that Revelation is within the Pauline stream, but this is highly unlikely; see Boxall 1998, 198–205). But the similarities do suggest that John may well have been familiar with the Pauline tradition, which was clearly influential in Asia Minor (C. Koester 2014, 83; Schüssler Fiorenza 1985, 94–95, 114–56). There is a possible connection between the Nicolaitans and Pauline tradition. The issue of food offered to idols emerges in 1 Corinthians. This has led to the suggestion that the Nicolaitans may have had some connection to Pauline Christianity, perhaps as those who were similar to the Corinthian “strong,” who seem to have regarded eating idolmeat as acceptable in most circumstances, and with whom Paul reasons in 1 Cor 8 and 10 (e.g., Müller-Fieberg 2009, 93–95; Räisänen 1995, 1627–31). Paul argues that Christians can eat idol-meat provided they do not offend weaker brothers and sisters (8:7–13). Further, he argues that if the meat is not clearly linked with idolatry, it is acceptable to eat it, unless it offends someone’s conscience (10:23–30), and that, although the gods represented by idols do not exist, idolatry is demonic and eating meat in a Greco-Roman temple would therefore condone the worship of demons (10:14–22). It is possible, then, that the Nicolaitans might have had some connection with Pauline tradition, and perhaps distorted or radicalized Paul’s teaching. If the Nicolaitans did have some connection with Paul, and if their involvement in “idolatry” included some form of participation in the imperial cult (as well as other Greco-Roman cults), then we also note that in Rom 13:1–7, Paul states that Christians

190   Paul Trebilco should be subject to governing authorities because these were established by God, and that 1 Tim 2:1–2 calls for prayer for the emperor. Written to readers across western Asia Minor, 1 Pet 2:13–17 also exhorts them to accept the emperor’s authority (Carter 2009, 37–39). Perhaps arguments similar to those presented by these texts were used by the Nicolaitans to justify their involvement in “idolatry.” This leads me to suggest a tentative answer to the question of why Paul’s theology and Pauline tradition are not more evident in Revelation. If John’s opponents, the Nicolaitans, saw themselves as heirs of Pauline theology or were an offshoot of Pauline Christianity (Boxall 1998, 215–18), and if they perhaps used Paul’s writing to support and justify their accommodationist stance in the Greco-Roman city, then we can understand why John does not more clearly allude to Pauline tradition. To do so would be to play into the hands of John’s opponents, who could well use such allusions to argue that their approach to idolatry and idol-food had Paul’s support. It seems reasonable to suggest then that John avoided referring to Paul because Paul was influential among John’s opponents (Trebilco 2004, 621–25). John’s general reserve about the Pauline tradition would then be entirely understandable (Schüssler Fiorenza 1985, 122; Taeger 1998, 195–98). This suggestion is also in keeping with the continuing influence of Paul in Asia Minor.

Johannine Christianity and Revelation A strong case can be made that John’s Gospel and the Johannine letters were written in Ephesus. The external evidence from Papias, Irenaeus, Polycrates, The Acts of John, and Montanism favors Ephesus as the place where John’s Gospel was written (Trebilco 2004, 241–63). Given the very strong connections between the Gospel and the Johannine letters, it seems most likely that 1–2–3 John were also written in Ephesus to Christians in the area. Further, in his Epistle to the Philippians 7:1–2, probably written around 115–120 (Trebilco 2004, 263–71), Polycarp of Smyrna shows his knowledge of 1 John 4:2–3 and 2 John 7. This is the oldest clear allusion to 1–2 John for which we have evidence and shows that before 115–120, the Johannine letters are known near Ephesus, which supports an Ephesian provenance. There are a number of similarities and differences between Revelation and John’s Gospel and letters and the relationship between these documents has been much debated (Frey in Hengel 1993, 326–429; C. Koester 2014, 80–83; Prigent 2001, 36–50). For example, Jesus is called the Logos in John 1:1, 14; 1 John 1:1; and Rev 19:13, and John’s Gospel and Revelation share particular phraseology such as to “prepare a place” (John 14:2–3; Rev 12:6). However, there are also significant differences, such as the use of the verb “to believe” (pisteuein) over one hundred times in John’s Gospel but no occurrences in Revelation, whereas Revelation has four occurrences of “faith” (pistis), which the Gospel never uses. Given this situation, it seems most likely that there is no direct or special relationship between the Gospel and 1–2–3 John on the one hand, and Revelation on the other. Craig Koester (2014, 81) argues that these “different authors developed biblical and early

Johannine, Pauline, and Other Forms of Christianity   191 Christian traditions independently of one another,” and that we should think of “independent developments of traditional motifs.” But equally, given the similarities between the Gospel and Revelation, it is unlikely that John the author of Revelation was totally unaware of John’s Gospel or, given the probable dating of the different documents, at least of the Johannine tradition that became part of the Gospel and Letters. While there is no direct “family” relationship between Revelation and the Gospel, and John in writing Revelation was not directly influenced by the Gospel, this does not mean the author of Revelation was totally ignorant of the content of Johannine Gospel tradition. That he had some familiarity with it seems most likely.

The Spectrum of Christian Readers Envisioned by Revelation I have noted that it is clear from Rev 2–3 that John knows there are differing viewpoints within the seven congregations. He is not simply writing to like-minded Christians. Now I will develop this argument and will show that as he writes the whole of the book of Revelation, John is aware of some readers who will agree and some who will disagree with his theological stance. This is compatible with the view that John is aware that there is a broad range of perspectives among his readers, and that he is familiar with a wide range of Christian traditions. In particular, I suggest that in Revelation, John is addressing all Christians in western Asia Minor, including those in both the Pauline and Johannine traditions (see the section Acculturation, Assimilation, Accommodation). Further evidence of John’s attitude to his readers is found in Rev 4–22 when what John says is occasionally addressed directly to his readers in the seven churches (13:9–10; 14:12; 16:15; 18:4). In these passages, John calls for his readers to “listen,” “endure,” and “hold fast”; he thinks some are in danger of going to sleep, or going about naked, and that they need to “[c]ome out of her,” with reference to Rome. John also stresses that his book is a prophecy (prophēteia) in 1:3; 22:7, 10, 18, 19. Although he does not explicitly claim to be a prophet, he does so implicitly when he calls other prophets his “brothers” (22:9) and in the very fact that he writes a “prophecy.” In addition, through the two call narratives included in the book (1:9–20; 10:8–11:2), John claims to mediate divine revelation from Jesus Christ to the seven churches. These narratives legitimate John as the receiver of revelation and show that he wanted his readers to accept his book as a revelation from Jesus Christ. In view here is probably the fact that one of his key opponents, Jezebel, calls herself a prophetess (2:20). Further, John regularly refers to what he sees or hears in visions and auditions from various heavenly sources (e.g., 1:1, 10–13; 4:1), and John’s message contains the words of Christ (Rev 2–3; 22:16) and is declared to be reliable by God (21:5; 22:6; Müller 1993, 313–14; Nicklas 2010, 309–26). This emphasis on mediating divine authority (cf. 22:18–19) and on legitimating his message can be seen to counter opponents and to be designed to convince a variety of readers of the veracity of what John says (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 138). To quite some extent then, John stands over against a whole group of his readers, as did the prophets of Israel, although he does so not on his own authority but as the bearer

192   Paul Trebilco of divine revelation. He has known opposition in the past (2:14–15, 20–23), and he does not now anticipate an easy hearing. Ongoing conflict is clearly apparent (Aune 2006, 187). In conjunction with our discussion of Pauline and Johannine traditions, this evidence supports the view that John addresses a whole range of Christians who belong to differing traditions.

Acculturation, Assimilation, Accommodation As I have noted, Revelation was written to churches in western Asia Minor toward the end of the first century, a time when 1–2 Timothy, representing Pauline tradition, and 1–2–3 John, representing Johannine tradition, were also written to Christians in the same geographical area. Accordingly, Revelation, 1–2 Timothy, and 1–2–3 John can be usefully compared on a range of topics. This will help us to understand how Revelation stands in relation to Pauline and Johannine forms of Christianity in the area. Building on what I have already said, I will argue that Revelation expresses different attitudes to both the Pauline and Johannine traditions on a number of matters, and that Revelation can be seen to be addressed to all Christians in the areas to which it is sent. This also explains why John can be seen to write to readers having a range of views, and why he anticipates that many readers will disagree with him on a variety of topics, and hence emphasizes so strongly that he mediates divine revelation. Comparisons between Revelation, 1–2 Timothy, and 1–2–3 John can be made with regard to the issues of acculturation, assimilation, and accommodation. Acculturation refers to “the linguistic, educational and ideological aspects of a given cultural matrix” (Barclay 1996, 92). This includes matters of language, values, intellectual traditions, and cultural ideals. Assimilation refers to the level of social integration, and it includes social interactions and practices and points to the degree to which a group is integrated into, or holds apart from, its wider context. Accommodation refers to the use a group makes of “cultural tools,” such as language and frameworks of thought, and relates to whether a group seeks to build bridges with the wider culture or defensive walls against that culture (Trebilco 2004, 351–53). I will draw on 1–2–3 John here rather than John’s Gospel, since I do not think features of the life of a particular community can be read from the Gospel, which I take to be written to all Christians, and not just to one community (Bauckham 1998).

Disputed Questions In order to compare 1–2 Timothy, 1–2–3 John and Revelation with regard to the issues of acculturation, assimilation, and accommodation, two disputed issues will be con-

Johannine, Pauline, and Other Forms of Christianity   193 sidered here: the attitude to food that had been offered to idols, and the attitude to imperial rule.

Whether It Was Acceptable to Eat Food Sacrificed to Idols In 1–2 Timothy, the Pastor (as I will call the author of these letters) says nothing directly about the issue of idolatry or eating idol-meat, which do not seem to be matters of concern. The Pastor is, however, quite acculturated, to the extent that he uses language that is very much at home in the wider world, such as eusebeia (“godliness, piety”; cf. Hoklotubbe 2017) and epiphany language, which is used to express his Christology, and he emphasizes some of the same virtues (such as the sōphrōn, “self-control,” word group) and leadership qualities as the wider culture (Goodrich 2013, 77–97). The Pastor is also involved in the wider society to the extent that he is concerned about what outsiders think of the group, and he is anxious not to cause offense (1 Tim 3:7; 6:1). He seems predominantly, though not exclusively, to use acculturation in integrative ways (cf. Maier 2013, 143–95; Trebilco 2004, 354–84). With regard to 1–2–3 John, although 2–3 John closely follow the form of the Hellenistic private letter, the communities seem quite cut off from the world and use their own inhouse language. The very last sentence in 1 John (5:21), may be a reference to real idols, which may suggest that at least some of the readers were currently involved in such idolatry or that the author thought they might be tempted to revert to paganism. This could suggest a degree of assimilation on the part of the addressees, but it would be the only indication of such assimilation. In Revelation, John accepts no participation in idolatry, nor any eating of meat that has been offered to idols. John does demonstrate some acculturation, in that he knows some of the wider cultural myths, such as the combat myth, used in Rev 12. However, he argues for no involvement in Greco-Roman paganism and so shows a very low level of assimilation; he uses acculturation to build defensive walls. As has been noted, the Nicolaitans regarded it as acceptable to eat idol-meat. They are both acculturated and assimilated to quite an extent, since they are involved in actual pagan worship, and they have been using their acculturation to build bridges with the wider society. With regard to attitudes to the wider society, we can see from Revelation that many of the communities appear, from John’s perspective, to be made up of two or three “tendencies.” Behind the issues of eating idol-meat and “practicing immorality” is the wider issue of the attitude toward cultural and religious accommodation. John represents a “non-accommodationist stance” while the Nicolaitans represent the opposite attitude. Where do the communities addressed in Revelation stand on this issue? The Nicolaitans have their strongest influence in Pergamum and Thyatira but have been much less successful in Ephesus, where the Nicolaitans may have existed as a separate group. Judging by the tone of the proclamations, and as noted previously, John has allies

194   Paul Trebilco in Ephesus (2–3, 6), Smyrna (2:8–11), and Philadelphia (3:7–13); some in Thyatira (2:19, 24–25); a few in Pergamum (2:13) and Sardis (3:4), and none in Laodicea (3:14–20). This spectrum, which consists of active opponents of John, active supporters and those in between, is highly revealing. In light of this, Aune (2006, 188) writes with regard to “those in between”: The majority of Christians, however, seem to belong to a centrist tendency or party, which has not yet moved into the camp of the Nicolaitans, but which (from John’s perspective) has departed from the works done at first (2:5), or whose works are imperfect in God’s sight (3:2), or who are neither cold nor hot (3:15f.). If this centrist party dominated most of the churches of Asia Minor, these congregations would clearly have provided a battleground for the divinely-legitimated movements led by John on the one hand and “Jezebel” and the Nicolaitans on the other.

This “centrist tendency,” which espouses neither cultural accommodation nor strict nonconformist behavior, is probably in the majority, or at the least, is a very significant presence, in most of the churches. What this means is that John has a battle on his hands as he tries to convince his readers about issues like not eating idol-meat. This situation makes sense of the fact that John cannot presume that he will receive a positive hearing, but rather presents his message so carefully as having divine authority. It also means that we cannot equate John’s attitudes on a whole range of matters with the attitudes to these matters to be found among his readers. In fact, John’s attitudes are likely to be quite different from the attitudes of some of his readers (Harland 2000, 116–20; Friedrich 2002, 189). All this again suggests that John addresses a wide spectrum of Christian readers in western Asia Minor. He is in a deeply conflictual situation with the rival group of Nicolaitans, but among his readers are also a very significant number of Christians who disagree with him or do not see things as he does, as well as some whom he can wholeheartedly commend. This evidence of a spectrum of responses from strong disagreement to strong agreement, with a number of readers in-between these extremes, can be seen to testify to a diversity of Christian groups in western Asia Minor, including, we may suggest, those in both the Pauline and Johannine traditions, who can be seen to have some attitudes that are different to John’s, as I have argued here. John writes to readers of different persuasions because he wants to convince them about idolatry, about his view of the wider culture and about the dangers that culture poses.

Attitudes toward Imperial Rule Another disputed question concerns attitudes toward imperial rule. What attitudes to imperial rule do we see in 1–2 Timothy, 1–2–3 John, and Revelation? In 1–2 Timothy, we hear nothing directly about the imperial cult. However, in 2 Tim 2:1–4, the Pastor calls for prayers to be made for “everyone,” but then calls for prayer especially “for kings and all who are in high positions” (Hoklotubbe 2017, 68–79). Clearly, prayers are

Johannine, Pauline, and Other Forms of Christianity   195 to be offered to God for the emperor, particularly that he may have an impact for peace, not for unrest or worse. By contrast, there is no mention of the empire or of kings in 1–2–3 John, and nothing in the three letters gives us any hint of the attitude of the author to imperial rule. In Revelation, John is strongly opposed to imperial rule and to the imperial cult (e.g., Barr 2009, 20–30; Frey 2006, 231–55; Friesen 2005, 367–73). In Rev 9:20–21 judgment is pronounced on idolatry and “fornication,” and the beast who is said to be worshipped in 13:4, 8, 12, and who represents imperial power, is later judged (19:19–20). In 14:9–11, judgment is announced on those involved in the imperial cult, and one reason for the judgment of Babylon/Rome in Rev 17–18 is her idolatry. It is also said that behind the first beast stands the great dragon or serpent, who is Satan (12:9; 13:2; 20:2). So when people worship the beast they are, in reality, worshipping Satan. This makes another connection with Jezebel, who is said to teach “the deep things of Satan” in Thyatira (2:24). Clearly then, John is implacably opposed to the imperial cult, and can rightly be seen as anti-empire. Accordingly, there is a strong contrast between the attitude to imperial rule shown in 1–2 Timothy and Revelation. As with eating meat offered to idols, there is a spectrum of attitudes, and the Pastor and John the Seer represent quite different views. This again suggests that John addresses a wide spectrum of Christian readers in western Asia Minor.

Community Life There are contrasting attitudes to a range of features of community life in 1–2 Timothy, 1–2–3 John, and Revelation. I have argued that John anticipates that a number of his readers will disagree with him. The evidence of a range of views on the features of community life discussed here further substantiates the suggestion that John’s addressees include readers in the Pauline and Johannine traditions as they are represented by 1–2 Timothy and 1–2–3 John respectively, as well as other readers. In addition, these discussions seek to outline what we can say about some of the features of community life of these different stands of early Christianity in western Asia Minor.

Material Possessions Significant stratification with regard to wealth is clear in 1–2 Timothy (Hoag 2015; Malherbe 2014, 507–57; Trebilco 2004, 404–45;). Some among the addressees are rich (1 Tim 2:9; 6:17–19); a few are potentially destitute (“real widows”; 1 Tim 5:3, 5 16); and some are in-between, such as those who can support family members (1 Tim 5:4), heads of households (1 Tim 3:4–5, 12), and those who want to be rich (1 Tim 6:9–10). The community also has some funds for the support of widows and elders (1 Tim 5:9–13, 17–18). This would have had the effect of increasing the solidarity of the group, since the community could make a real difference for some of its members through its financial resources. If it had been unable to support widows in particular, a situation that the Pastor was

196   Paul Trebilco concerned about, then this would have been an embarrassment for the group and would have undermined its self-confidence. Wealth functioned positively in the group to enhance the sense of belonging and of group identity and to reinforce the boundaries of the group. When in 1 Tim 6:18 the Pastor instructed the wealthy to do “good works,” it is likely that this included financial help for people outside the group, since the community is very open to outsiders and to what outsiders think (1 Tim 3:7; 5:7, 14; 6:1), and the Pastor speaks in very general terms of “good works” (2 Tim 2:21; 3:17). This would have had the effect of opening the group to the interests and needs of those on the outside. While the communal fund enhanced the group’s solidarity, wealth was not only used to reinforce group boundaries then. In some ways, wealth reinforced the boundaries of the group; in other ways, its use countered internal boundaries by opening the group up to the needs of outsiders. We cannot say much about the stratification of the community addressed in the Johannine Letters, apart from the fact that some in this community were in need and others were able to supply that need (1 John 3:16–18), and some could also provide hospitality (2 John 10–11; 3 John 5–8). In these cases, people need be neither wealthy nor actually destitute. The author also advocates detachment from possessions (1 John 2:15–17). Material possessions seem to be used within the community, and so for boundary reinforcement (3:16–18) and in-group boundary definition (2 John 10–11; 3 John 5–8). This contrasts with the wealth we see among the readers of 1–2 Timothy and the use of material possession beyond the group in those letters. There are indications that some of the readers of Revelation were economically wealthy (Rev 3:17–18, Laodicea), while others were poor (2:9, Smyrna; Mathews 2013). Revelation 18, with its pronouncement of judgment on Rome, suggests that some Christians among the addressees may have been involved in trade with Rome, and so Rev 18 is a call for them to sever all economic and political ties with the empire (Kraybill 1996, 14, 23). John himself sees an unavoidable connection between economic activity and idolatry (Rev 13:16–17). John’s fervent condemnation of wealth (13:16–17; 18:1–24) and his call to withdraw from the present economic system (18:4) suggests that many of his readers did not see wealth or the economy as linked directly to idolatry and empire, and John wants to convince readers that wealth and involvement in the economy is an issue, and thus change their views (Frey 2006, 253–55). If John is writing to all the Christians in western Asia Minor, as I have suggested, and is aware of Christians in the Pauline and Johannine traditions and other Christians too, some of whom have some wealth, then we can understand why John would so vehemently address the issue of wealth and its link with idolatry.

Leadership and Authority Another issue on which we can compare 1–2 Timothy, 1–2–3 John, and Revelation is the leadership structure of the addressees, and how they understood the locus of authority (Trebilco 2004, 446–506).

Johannine, Pauline, and Other Forms of Christianity   197 In 1–2 Timothy, we see established church offices of presbyter-overseers (which is probably one office rather than two; see 1 Tim 3:1–7; 4:14; 5:17–25; Tit 1:5–9), and of deacons (1 Tim 3:8–13). There is a significant degree of institutionalization in the community, in that there are established and formal leadership positions and office holders who fulfill particular functions by virtue of being in an office (5:17). Further, someone can “aspire to the office of overseer” (3:1); there are lists of qualifications for those who would hold a particular office (3:1–13); a potential office holder is tested prior to taking office (3:10; 5:22); and there is a form of ordination (4:14; 2 Tim 1:6). The locus of authority among the addressees resides primarily in “sound” or “healthy teaching” (1 Tim 1:9–11; 4:6; 2 Tim 1:13), which is itself connected to Paul (1 Tim 1:12–13; 2:7; 2 Tim 1:11), and it is envisaged that this teaching is passed on from one authoritative tradition-bearer to another (1 Tim 6:20; 2 Tim 1:13; 2:2; cf. 2:24; 3:14). These authoritative teachers have been carefully selected, taught, and commissioned; they have a crucial role in maintaining the integrity of the community (Stepp 2005, 111–207; Zamfir 2013, 138–51). In 1 John, no leadership position of any form is mentioned. In 1 John 2:26 we read that “the anointing that you received from him abides in you, and so you do not need anyone to teach you,” which dovetails well with the fact that there is no evidence in 1 John for anyone holding the position of “teacher.” The locus of authority in 1 John is, first of all, in God and the Christ-event (1:1–4). There is some sense of the authority of the author, who calls his readers “little children” (2:1, 12) and “children” (2:14, 18), but often the author places himself within the community by writing about “we” and “us” (e.g., 2:1, 7–8, 12–14; 4:7). The author does not stand above the community but sees his place as alongside other members. The primary locus of authority is the community, as is made clear in what the author writes about witness, generally borne not by a group but by the whole community (4:14, 16; the only exception is 1:1–5), about the anointing (2:20–21, 26–27), and about knowledge of what was “from the beginning,” which is shared by all in the community, who are all tradition bearers (2:7; 3:11). The predominant sense of the locus of authority that we gain from 1 John is thus of the collective authority of the community, with the individual authority of the author of 1 John being very much a subsidiary factor. In 2–3 John, “the elder” has a sense of his own authority and has authority in some spheres (e.g., with Gaius; 3 John 1), but it is not an authority based in an institution or appointed office. This is demonstrated by the dispute between the elder and Diotrephes in 3 John, a dispute in which the elder clearly lacks institutional authority, even though Diotrephes is in some sense within the elder’s personal sphere of influence, or at least so the Elder hopes (3 John 10). This is probably because the form of personal authority on which the elder relies—tradition-bearing, and thus something relating to him ­personally—is easily disregarded. The locus of authority in 2–3 John is in the “tradition” (2 John 5–6, 9–10; 3 John 1, 3–4, 8, 12), and although the elder seems to have significant responsibility for the tradition, the community also has some responsibility for its maintenance and so to some extent continues to be a locus of authority, as was the case in 1 John.

198   Paul Trebilco In Revelation, John the seer does not refer to any local and resident office holders, such as bishops or deacons, and the “elders” (presbyters) who are mentioned are heavenly beings, who seem to have no relationship to leadership structures in the churches (Rev 4:4, 10; 5:5–8). The apostles who are mentioned are not residential leaders of churches in Asia Minor, while prophets seem to be active in the seven churches (11:18; 16:6). It seems most likely that John intentionally did not mention local, residential church officials, since his role as a prophet transcended local community concerns and his message was directed to the whole church and not just to its leaders. John tells us very little about local church structures, not because these were not present, but because he emphasized the supralocal character of saints, apostles, and prophets and chose not to articulates with whatever form of leadership existed among his addressees (Witulski 2015, 55–86). The locus of authority in Revelation is focused on the divine revelation that the book presents, described as the revelation that God gave to Jesus Christ (1:1–2), or the words of the risen Christ (e.g., 2:1, 8, 12), as well as the communication of the Spirit (1:10; 4:2) and what John sees and hears (1:19; 21:5). As I have noted, the strong emphasis on the divine authority of the book (1:3; 22:18; Nicklas  2010, 309–26) suggests that some of John’s readers may have rejected its authority, probably because they valued some other form of authority, such as that of office, community, or tradition. Overall, then, we see very significant differences in both the form of leadership and the locus of authority in 1–2 Timothy and 1–2–3 John; we cannot discern details of actual leaders “on the ground” in Revelation, and so the book may well be addressing a range of different leadership structures. That the locus of authority in Revelation is found in divine revelation also does not mean this is the only form of authority found among readers, particularly since the way John emphasizes the divine authority of his work suggests that precisely this form of authority will be contested by some readers. Again, then, it is quite likely that some of the readers of Revelation valued other forms of authority and included readers in both the Pauline and Johannine traditions.

Conclusions I have suggested that, as he writes, John is aware of Christians from the Pauline and Johannine traditions, as well as other Christians, such as the Nicolaitans. We cannot say that John is directly influenced by Pauline and Johannine traditions, but there is sufficient evidence to suggest that John was aware of and familiar with these varied traditions. In Revelation, John does not directly quote such traditions, but it seems likely that he adapts them in his own distinctive way. While it is possible that John in Revelation wrote to “John-the-Seer-communities,” the evidence that John knows that many of his readers will disagree with him, and his call for many to “repent,” and so on, strongly suggests that John is writing to all Christians in western Asia Minor. Some readers will agree with him, while others,

Johannine, Pauline, and Other Forms of Christianity   199 including the Nicolaitans, will definitely not agree, and there are still others whom he is seeking to persuade. This view is reinforced by our discussion of features of early Christian life evident in 1–2 Timothy, 1–2–3 John, and Revelation: the attitudes to idolatry and imperial rule, material possessions, leadership, and the locus of authority. In all these areas, the evidence available to us is compatible with the view that John writes to people who either have a range of views on these matters or to people who see things differently from himself. Hence, we can suggest that John writes to some readers who are in the Pauline tradition, as it is represented by 1–2 Timothy, and others who are in the Johannine tradition as it is represented by 1–2–3 John, as well as writing to others, such as the Nicolaitans, who have different views again. The way in which John underlines the source of his revelation in God, Jesus Christ, and the Spirit and the way in which he emphasizes the importance of heeding what is written in the book can be understood against this background.

References Aune, David. E. 1997. Revelation 1–5. Word Biblical Commentary. Dallas: Word. Aune, David. E. 2006. “The Social Matrix of the Apocalypse of John.” In Apocalypticism, Prophecy and Magic in Early Christianity: Collected Essays, edited by David Aune, pp. 175–89. WUNT 199. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Barclay, John M. G. 1996. Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora from Alexander to Trajan (323 Bce–117 ce). Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Barr, David. 2009. “John’s Ironic Empire.” Int 63: 20–30. Barr, David. 2011. “Idol Meat and Satanic Synagogues: From Imagery to History in John’s Apocalypse.” In Imagery in the Book of Revelation, edited by Michael Labahn and Outi Lehtipuu, pp. 1–10. CBET 60. Leuven: Peeters. Barrier, Jeremy W. 2009. The Acts of Paul and Thecla: A Critical Introduction and Commentary. WUNT II/270. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Bauckham, Richard, ed. 1998. The Gospels for All Christians: Rethinking the Gospel Audiences. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Blount, Brian K. 2009. Revelation: A Commentary. NTL. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Boxall, Ian. 1998. “ ‘For Paul’ or ‘For Cephas’? The Book of Revelation and Early Asian Christianity.” In Understanding, Studying and Reading. New Testament Essays in Honour of John Ashton, edited by Christopher Rowland and Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis, pp. 198–218. JSNTSup 153 Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press. Boxall, Ian. 2004. “ ‘Jezebel’ of Thyatira to John of Patmos.” In Yours Faithfully: Virtual Letters from the Bible, edited by Philip R. Davies, pp. 147–51. London: Equinox. Carter, Warren. 2009. “Accommodating ‘Jezebel’ and Withdrawing John: Negotiating Empire in Revelation Then and Now.” Int 63: 32–47. Frey, Jörg. 2006. “The Relevance of the Roman Imperial Cult for the Book of Revelation: Exegetical and Hermeneutical Reflections on the Relation between the Seven Letters and the Visionary Main Part of the Book.” In The New Testament and Early Christian Literature in the Greco-Roman Context: Studies in Honor of David E Aune, edited by John Fotopoulos, pp. 231–55. NovTSup 122. Leiden: Brill.

200   Paul Trebilco Friedrich, Nestor P. 2002. “Adapt or Resist? A Socio-Political Reading of Revelation 2.18–29.” JSNT 25: 185–211. Friesen, Steven J. 2001. Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John: Reading Revelation in the Ruins. New York: Oxford University Press. Friesen, Steven J. 2005. “Satan’s Throne, Imperial Cults and the Social Settings of Revelation.” JSNT 27: 351–73. Goodrich, John K. 2013. “Overseers as Stewards and the Qualifications for Leadership in the Pastoral Epistles.” ZNW 104: 77–97. Goulder, Michael. 1994. A Tale of Two Missions. London: SCM Press. Harland, Philip  A. 2000. “Honouring the Emperor or Assailing the Beast: Participation in Civic Life among Associations (Jewish, Christian and Other) in Asia Minor and the Apocalypse of John.” JSNT 77: 99–121. Hengel, Martin. 1993. Die johanneische Frage: Ein Lösungversuch mit einem Beitrag zur Apokalypse von Jörg Frey. WUNT 67. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Henten, Jan Willem van. 2008. “Balaam in Revelation 2:14.” In The Prestige of the Pagan Prophet Balaam in Judaism, Early Christianity and Islam, edited by George H. van Kooten and Jacques van Ruiten, pp. 247–63. TBN 11. Leiden: Brill. Hoag Gary G. 2015. Wealth in Ancient Ephesus and the First Letter to Timothy: Fresh Insights from “Ephesiaca” by Xenophon of Ephesus. BBR Supplements 11. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Hoklotubbe, T.  Christopher. 2017. Civilized Piety: The Rhetoric of “Pietas” in the Pastoral Epistles and the Roman Empire. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Koester, Helmut. 1971. “gnomai diaphora: The Origin and Nature of Diversification in the History of Early Christianity.” In Trajectories through Early Christianity, edited by Helmut Koester and James M. Robinson, pp. 114–57. Philadelphia: Fortress. Koester, Helmut. 1995. “Ephesos in Early Christian Literature.” In Ephesos: Metropolis of Asia: An Interdisciplinary Approach to Its Archaeology, Religion, and Culture, edited by Helmut Koester, pp. 119–40. Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International. Kraybill, J.  Nelson. 1996. Imperial Cult and Commerce in John’s Apocalypse. JSNTSup 132. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press. Lohse, Eduard. 1991. “The Revelation of John and Pauline Theology.” In The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester, edited by B. A. Pearson in collaboration with A. Thomas Kraabel, George W. E. Nickelsburg, and Norman R. Petersen, pp. 358–66. Minneapolis: Fortress. Maier, Harry  O. 2013. Picturing Paul in Empire: Imperial Image, Text and Persuasion in Colossians, Ephesians and the Pastoral Epistles. London: Bloomsbury T & T Clark. Malherbe, Abraham. J. 2014. Light from the Gentiles: Hellenistic Philosophy and Early Christianity. Collected Essays, 1959–2012. 2 vols. Edited by C. R. Holladay, J. T. Fitzgerald, and J. W. Thompson, and G. E. Sterling. NovTSup 150. Leiden: Brill. Mathews, Mark D. 2013. Riches, Poverty and the Faithful: Perspectives on Wealth in the Second Temple Period and the Apocalypse of John. SNTSMS 154; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Müller, Ulrich B. 1984. Die Offenbarung des Johannes. ÖTK 19. Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn and Würzburg: Echter, 1984.

Johannine, Pauline, and Other Forms of Christianity   201 Müller, Ulrich B. 1993. “Apocalyptic Currents.” In Christian Beginnings: Word and Community from Jesus to Post-Apostolic Times, edited by Jürgen Becker, pp. 281–329. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Müller-Fieberg, Rita. 2009. “Paulusrezeption in der Johannesoffenbarung? Auf der Suche nach dem Erbe des Apostels im letzten Buch des biblischen Kanons,” NTS 55: 83–103. Nicklas, Tobias. 2010. “ ‘The Words of the Prophecy of This Book’: Playing with Scriptural Authority in the Book of Revelation.” In Authoritative Scriptures in Ancient Judaism, edited by Mladen Popovic, pp. 309–26. JSJSup 141. Leiden: Brill. Prigent, Pierre. 2001. Commentary on the Apocalypse of St. John. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Räisänen, Heikki. 1995. “The Nicolaitans: Apoc. 2; Acta 6.” In ANRW II/26.2: 1602–44. Roloff, Jürgen. 1993. The Revelation of John. CC. Minneapolis: Fortress. Royalty, Robert M. 1998. The Streets of Heaven: The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1998. Satake, Akira. 1966. Die Gemeindeordnung in der Johannesapokalypse. WMANT 21. Neukirchen-Vluyn, Germany: Neukirchener. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1985. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. Philadelphia: Fortress. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1991. Revelation: Vision of a Just World. Philadelphia: Augsburg Fortress. Stepp, Perry L. 2005. Leadership Succession in the World of the Pauline Circle. New Testament Monographs 5. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Phoenix. Taeger, Jens-W. 1998. “Begründetes Schweigen: Paulus und paulinische Tradition in der Johannesapokalypse.” In Paulus: Apostel Jesu Christi, Festschrift für Günter Klein, edited by Michael Trowitzsch, pp. 187–204. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Tellbe, Mikael. 2009. Christ-Believers in Ephesus. A Textual Analysis of Early Christian Identity Formation in a Local Perspective. WUNT 242. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Thimmes, Pamela. 2009. “ ‘Teaching and Beguiling My Servants’: The Letter to Thyatira (Rev. 2.18–29).” In A Feminist Companion to the Apocalypse of John, edited by Amy-Jill Levine, pp.  68–87. Feminist Companion to the New Testament and Early Christian Writings 13. London: T & T Clark International Thompson, Leonard  L. 1990. The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire. New York: Oxford University Press. Trebilco, Paul  R. 2004. The Early Christians in Ephesus from Paul to Ignatius. WUNT 166. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Witetschek, Stephan. 2008. Ephesische Enthüllungen 1: Frühe Christen in einer antiken Grosstadt Zugleich ein Beitrag zur Frage nach den Kontexten der Johannesapokalypse. BTS 6. Leuven: Peeters. Witulski, Thomas. 2015. “Bishof contra Prophet: Das kleinasiatische Christentum des 2. Jahrhunderts zwischen lokaler Verfaßtheit und universaler Freiheit.” ETL 91: 55–86. Zamfir, Korinna. 2013. Men and Women in the Household of God: A Contextual Approach to Roles and Ministries in the Pastoral Epistles. NTOA 103. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

Pa rt I I I

T H E OL O GY A N D ET H IC S

chapter 13

G od i n th e Book of R ev el ation Martin Karrer

I.  Who Is God? The Variety of Perspectives Who is God? The illustrious early Byzantine dictionary Suda, in the entry for theos, differentiates between Jewish-Christian tradition and Greek tradition (Adler 1931, 698–699 nr. Theta 178). It quotes Philo of Alexandria as an exponent of Jewish tradition. Philo, who lived some decades before the book of Revelation was composed, writes, “God is one” (heis esti ho theos; Philo, Spec. leg. 1.30; cf. Deut 6:4 LXX). According to the Suda, his theology allows tying up Christological and Trinitarian reflections. The Greeks, on the other hand, reflect upon their religious cults in terms of philosophical doctrine, according to the Suda. The Suda quotes an old Stoic summary as their position (Diogenes Laertius, Lives 7.147): “The Greeks think that God is an immortal living being, rational (zōion athanaton logikon) . . . the creator (dēmiourgos) of everything and like a father to all (patēr pantōôn) . . . he is called by many names (pollai prosēgoriai) according to his powers (dynameis).” Whoever utilizes the distinctions made in the Suda will locate Revelation’s understanding of God within the Jewish context (Bauckham 2003; Holtz 1980; McDonough 1999; Söding 2001; Stowasser 2015a; Vögtle 1976; Wengst 2010, 95–104). There are good reasons to do so: Revelation is deeply rooted in Jewish traditions. The writer argues theocentrically (Murphy 1994, 202–3) and introduces God explicitly as he “who is,” the God of Exod 3:14 (Rev 1:4). Revelation takes up images and visionary scenes from Jewish prophetic and apocalyptic traditions (Rösel 2017) and uses a variant of the ancient combat myth (Rev 12; Yarbro Collins 1976). It provides a contrast to Greco-Roman life and religion, and praises God for his acts of judgment against the whore of Babylon (e.g., Schüssler Fiorenza 1985, 181).

206   Martin Karrer Yet Revelation’s interaction with its religious and social context is complex. The author is responding more to a perceived crisis than to an objective, external crisis of Christianity (Yarbro Collins 1984; 1986, 239–41). He picks up various forms of religious interactions, and even his opposition against Greco-Roman conceptions presupposes contact. Hence, Revelation participates in the complex religious, cultural, and social history of the early imperial Roman period. It must be read in the context of its time, correlated with monotheistic and polytheistic developments (Mitchell and van Nuffelen 2010; Rüpke 2012), and related to the religious life of the era. The famous formula “he (God) is one” (heis esti), quoted by the Suda, may serve as an example. In general, Judaism and early Christianity use the formula as a distinctive concept. The New Testament scriptures, apart from Revelation, assume that the formula can be predicated of the one God of Israel and no one else: “He is one” (Mark 12:29, 32; Gal 3:20: Jas 2:19; 4:12). Revelation, however, does not use the formula in its description of God, and the author may react to Greek thought by that peculiarity, since the Greeks knew an equivalent to that confession. For centuries, they had handed down the formula, “one god, greatest among gods and human beings” (heis theos . . . megistos, Xenophanes frag. B 23). In imperial Roman times, pagan worshippers used the acclamation heis theos for the “one god” whom they revered in an actual situation (sources in the Addenda to Peterson by Markschies et al. 2012, 367–580). This god was their unique god in that situation; the goddess possessed individuality and imparted individuality to the worshippers in their prayer (e.g., Aelius Aristides, Hieroi Logoi 4.50–51). Many Christians will clear up the matter in the second and third centuries by adding a Christological formula to the acclamation heis theos (Staudt  2011, 304–6). They will reclaim “the one” as a monotheistic and Christian creed. Revelation, however, develops a special sense of religious competition. It uses the idiom ho heis estin (the one who is) in a critical way in the seventeenth chapter, where a beast with seven heads appears. The seven heads are seven kings; five have fallen, “the one is” (ho heis estin, 17:10). In our author’s view, the sixth king—probably the Roman emperor of his time—claims to be “the one,” which makes him analogous to figures of cultic veneration. He claims power and requires reverence similar to the gods of the Greeks. All in all, a classical formula describing God (ho heis, “the one”) proves to be part of wider patterns of religious and sociopolitical rivalries. These contexts shape the task of the present chapter: The book of Revelation expresses its thoughts about God in a way that is not only oriented internally to the community. It transfers the Jewish-Christian understanding of God from inner-Jewish and innerChristian use into a much wider interreligious struggle over meaning. Therefore, the following discussions will trace Revelation’s perspective on God in Jewish traditions and against the background of Greco-Roman life and religions. The author of Revelation is convinced that the Jewish-Christian God is distinctive by his names and his power (Tetragrammaton/IAO, Kyrios, Pantokratôr, the Enthroned One), even if aspects of his names (see sections II and III) and motifs of his narrative description (section IV) are familiar to other religions too.

God in the Book of Revelation   207

II.  The Name of God: Tetragrammaton and Kyrios Who is God? As we saw, the formula “he is the one” is not sufficient in the interreligious struggle over meaning. There is no doubt that in Revelation the one God of Israel demands an awe that is sui generis. His name in Hebrew and in Greek shows his uniqueness from the outset. That name is non-interchangeable and makes the highest claims to divine existence, creativity, and power: 1.  The name of God has four Hebrew letters: YHWH. Some Greek scribes wrote that Tetragrammaton in Hebrew letters even in Greek manuscripts of the sacred texts (8HevXII; P.Oxy L 3522; McDonough 1999, 58–122; cf. Wevers 2001). The early Christians knew of this convention up to the time of Origen (Comm. Psalms 2.2) and Jerome (Prol. Galeatus), but they themselves did not spell the name. They preserved the Hebrew sound only by the short form “Yah” (the theophoric element) in proper names and idioms. We find both aspects, the theophoric element in a proper name and a loanword, in Revelation. The importance of the theophoric name is debatable: The seer calls himself Joḥannēs (1:1.4.9; 22:8), that is, “Yah(we) is full of grace”, and discloses God’s grace up to the wish of 22:21 (grace may be to all humanity). Yet, he does not translate his name himself. It would be wrong to stress it. The loanword is the more important: The book of Revelation offers the earliest written documentation for the use of the “Hallelujah” in Christianity and it is the only source to do so in the New Testament. Rev 19:1–6 introduces this Hebraism after the fall of Babylon the Great (chap. 18). The author transliterates the Hebrew expression “HalleluJah,” “praise Yah(we).” Readers unacquainted with Semitic languages need help for understanding the word. Our author provides it by replacing the transliteration with the Greek imperative “praise (aineite) our God” in 19:5, which follows a precedent in the LXX (Jer 20:13 LXX). A marginal gloss in minuscule 2814 (the codex used by Erasmus for the first printing of the New Testament) shows the relevance of the impulse. In the Greek transmission of Revelation, the Hallelujah becomes an exclamation consisting of three terms. The glossator, therefore, writes the idiom “al ēlē ouia,” differing form the Hebrew root. But he adds that God speaks the Hallelujah parallel to the community in Hebrew language (fol 71r ad Rev 19:3; urn:nbn:de:bvb:384-uba003076-0143-3, used 2018/09/17). The remembrance of the Hebrew language preserves the old sense (“divine praise,” noted in the line of the manuscript besides the gloss). That means that the author of Revelation wrote in Greek for Greco-Roman readers, and yet he implicitly reminds them that through the centuries the God, whom they revere, has a Semitic name: Yah(we) is the God mighty in wrath and grace, deserving respect and praise.

208   Martin Karrer 2.  Greek-speaking Jews generally did not use the Semitic form of the name. They preferred a Greek equivalent, Kyrios (“Lord”), which corresponds to the word Adonai in the Hebrew Scriptures (Rösel 2000). The Greek Scriptures of Israel often combined this name and the designation “God” (theos, Hebrew ’elohim). Where Kyrios represented the Tetragrammaton, they wrote it without the definite article. The author of Revelation likes the resulting idiom. He writes Kyrios ho theos in 1:8; 4:8; 18:8; 19:6; 21:22; and 22:5. Most English translations transpose the article and render it as “the Lord God.” This is misleading, since “the Lord” becomes an apposition instead of a name. The phrase “Kyrios, the God” may sound strange but it is more correct. A paraphrase makes good sense: Revelation discloses that “Kyrios, the God,” whom we venerate, “speaks” (1:8), “is holy” (4:8), etc. At the same time, our author knows the semantics. He includes the definite article with Kyrios in 22:6, emphasizing that God is “the Lord” in a full sense, speaking through the prophets. Kyrios, the God is mighty and effective. 3.  The semantics of “Kyrios, the God” culminate in Rev 4:11. There, the twenty-four elders expand our phrase for the sake of rhythmic acclamation. They add the article to Kyrios, along with a connecting kai and a pronoun: “Worthy are you, the Lord and the God of us” (ho kyrios kai ho theos hēmōn; I imitate the Greek word order in the translation). That expanded text recalls the rhetorical question of Ps 18:32: “who is God, but the Lord (YHWH), and who a rock, except our God?” The author of Revelation, however, does not refer to the Hebrew Psalm text. He uses the old Greek translation (the Septuagint) of the Psalm, since he writes in Greek for Greek-speaking addressees. The translation avoids the image of the “rock” and reads “who is God, but the Lord (kyrios), / and who is God, except the God of us” (Ps 17:32 LXX)? The decisive elements of the Greek psalm (kyrios and theos hēmōn) and the word order (hēmōn after theos) have counterparts in the acclamation of Rev 4:11. A reader will conclude: Our God, Kyrios, alone is worthy; there is no other lord, and no other god. A reader born outside of Christianity and Judaism will have additional connotations when going on to line four of the acclamation. The line says that all is created “through” (dia) God’s will. Dia is a name of Zeus. That allowed for religious contacts; centuries earlier, the letter of Aristeas had already paralleled God “the creator”—the God of the Jews—and Zeus/Dia of the Greeks from a Jewish perspective (Zēna kai Dia; Ep. Arist. 16). But how should the connection and competition be construed? At the time of Revelation’s composition, the Roman writer Cornutus makes a word play in his compendium on the Greek gods using the name and the preposition dia: “We call him Dia (Zeus) since through (dia) him everything comes into being and is preserved (sozetai)” (Nat. d. 2.2). The author of Revelation presents a counter. He is convinced that Kyrios, the God of Israel and early Christianity, outcompetes Zeus by his creative will and power (Karrer  2015, 60). Later on, in the beginning of the great Hallelujah, he adds the motif of preservation (cf. sozein in Cornutus) and writes: “Hallelujah! The salvation / preservation (sōtēria) and the glory and the power (dynamis) belong to our God.” The Jewish-Christian God, Kyrios, is a God of power and universal importance, whose claims surpass those of Zeus. The correlation between name

God in the Book of Revelation   209 and power, articulated by the Suda for the Greek understanding of God (see § I), fits the comprehension of God in Revelation as well. 4.  A second contrast in the acclamation, “Worthy are you, the Lord and the God of us,” in 4:11 is more widely known. Greek documents used the widespread title “lord” for Roman emperors (e.g., documents of the “Fiscus Judaicus”: Vespasian CPJ 160; Titus CPJ 181; Domitian CPJ 189, 193). People acclaimed the emperors “worthy” (cf. Josephus, J. W. 7.71; Koester 2014, 371). The Romans honored them like gods after their death and apotheosis; and most of the provinces called them “god” even during their lifetimes. Hence, the socio-religious point of our verse engages imperial ideology. This contrast is secondary to the contrast with the Olympic Zeus in 4:11, but it is of considerable interest. Ancient authors criticized Domitian, who probably reigned at the time Revelation was composed, for his exaggerated imperial ambitions. The sources culminate in Suetonius, Dom. 13:2. There Suetonius charges that Domitian dictated a letter and sent it in the name of his procurators using the formula: “Our lord and god (i.e., Domitian) bids” (dominus et deus noster . . . iubet; Mucha 2015, 186–89; cf. Witulski 2010, 68–72 who dates Revelation later, under Hadrian). One may doubt the historicity of this letter and similar reports (Cassius Dio, Rom. Hist. 64, 4:7; Dio Chrysostom, Or. 45:1). The sources are somewhat later than Revelation and scholars have improved the image of Domitian in recent years. Yet the literary analogy cannot be ignored. Suetonius uses the phrase dominus et deus noster for his criticism of Domitian, corresponding exactly to the Greek text of “our Lord and God” in Rev 4:11. For a long time that observation was combined with the idea that John was an outlaw, who was stigmatized and persecuted. That opinion, however, can be challenged. John could have been on Patmos as a witness for the word without being persecuted (Rev 1: 9; cf. Karrer 2017, 243–47). If so, then, the literary observation is sociologically even more interesting: The author of Revelation writes his work at the margins of society but not outside of it. He is part of the complex anti-imperial opposition that existed in Rome and the provinces up to the second century. 5.  The connection of kyrios and motifs of kingly reign is widespread in antiquity; Cornutus uses it in his description of Zeus, who is said to reign/basileuein (Nat. d. 2.1). Philo elucidates “Lord” (kyrios) by “govern” (kratein) and “royal power” (basilikē dynamis) for the God of Israel (Abr. 121). Rev 15:3–4 underscores the motif by using language from Jer 10:7. The passage is missing in the Old Greek (LXX) of Jeremiah, but it appears in Hebrew and the Greek version of Theodotion, which is from about the time of Revelation: “Who will not fear (you), king of the peoples?” Theodotion goes on, “where is there anyone like you, Kyrios, among all the wise men and all the kings of the peoples?” This rhetorical question praises the God of Israel as the God who reigns universally and is important for all people in the world. Such universalism has a place in apocalyptic expectations, embedded in the question: what happens if the people in the world reject God’s reign? The usual apocalyptic response is to anticipate a turning point in time and hope for a new world. The author of Revelation transfers that idea into a Greek context. He frames a hymn that combines the

210   Martin Karrer quoted prophetic reminiscence and a psalm in the Greek language. A song he ascribes to Moses and Christ the Lamb (15:3a) confirms that “Kyrios, the God” is “the king of the peoples,” which includes the non-Jewish population in Asia Minor, where the addressees live, as well as “the nations” everywhere (15:3). When asking who will not fear him and praise his name (15:4), the details depend upon the Greek texts of Jer 10:7 and Ps 85:9 LXX (de Vries 2010; Hernández 2012, 95–98). Greek communication has prominence in Rev 15:3–4. As a consequence, the text sounds optimistic (“all the nations will come and worship,” 15:4). 6.  God is and will be the universal king. That counters everybody thinking that Zeus reigns (see Cornutus in the beginning of point 5). Indeed, Zeus sometimes bore the attribute “king” in the Greek world, as in the cult of Lebadeia. Besides, local cults revered indigenous “kingly” gods in many places. Thus, some inscriptions in Asia Minor are dedicated to a god called “king” (e.g., Inscr. Priene 186). It is not clear whether these gods were always identified with Zeus at the time Revelation was composed. A mythical local king might also be deified (e.g., Strabo, Geogr. 14.1.26; Inscr. Miletus 1384; Graf 2010, 74–77). When we consider the Roman Empire, there too people are familiar with kings in heaven and kings on earth. Even the Roman emperor is called “king” in Greek. But Revelation rejects venerating any of them by a religious cult. Instead, people are to praise “Kyrios, the God,” as King of the nations all over the world. 1–6 (Summary). The author of Revelation contours the profile of the Jewish-Christian God by the dint of his name: God’s name proofs that he is awful, mighty, and gracious. He is greater than the Greco-Roman gods, Zeus-Jupiter, and all heroic and political kings. This negates any claims about a human apotheosis.

III.  Designations of God: He who is, the Creator, Iaō and AŌ, Father, and Pantokratōr God has one name (YHWH, Kyrios), and yet, many designations. These designations (the Suda would say prosēgoriai; cf. § I) are elaborated in translations and transliterations of the name, in predicates and paraphrases: 1. The consonants of the Tetragrammaton (YHWH) recall the Hebrew verb hāyah, “to be”; God uses that verb when Moses asks him for his name (Exod 3:13). The Greek translation uses the corresponding verb (einai). The rendering of the name in Exod 3:14 was difficult, nevertheless, since the Hebrew form hāyah could be rendered as present or future tense: “I am who I am” or “I will be the one I will be.” Hellenistic Jews usually favored one interpretation or the other. The Old Greek translator chose the present tense with a durative aspect: “I am he who is” (egō eimi ho ōn) and the

God in the Book of Revelation   211 shorter form “he who is” (ho ōn) for the name of God (Exod 3:14 LXX). Later translations of Exodus, dating from about the time of Revelation, preferred the future tense: “I will be (the one) I will be” (esomai [hos] esomai; Aquila and Theodotion; ms. 64 Ra.). Both possibilities existed at the time of the first Christians. But neither Paul nor other authors before Revelation referred to them. Therefore, Revelation becomes very important for the Greek tradition of the name of God in Christianity. It holds the first occurrence of the solemn quotation in extant early Christian literature. Our author decides against the Aquila-Theodotion version of Exod 3:14 and opens with an allusion to the Old Greek version in order to name God programmatically as “He who is” (ho ōn) in Rev 1:4. Moreover, our author writes ho ōn in the nominative, as opposed to the normal Greek syntax, where the preposition apo (“from”) would demand the genitive case in 1:4. He uses the name indeclinably; that is comparable to the Hebrew use of names. The Greek name of God holds a Semitic background. Some exegetes imagine a dialogue in Rev 1:4–5 (cf. Vanni 1976). Then it conveys additional connotations. The reader of Revelation (anaginōskōn 1:3) says, “Grace and peace be with you from,” and the community answers, “He who is.” The community which lives in a Greek context (the Asia) is allowed to articulate a Greek understanding of God. Nevertheless, the present durative verb tense refers more to history than to ontology; it shows that the name is continuously relevant: God “is” now and always. 2.  The Greek participle ōn (“the one who is”/“he who is”) of Exod 3:14 LXX and Rev 1:4 is a personal predication written in the masculine. This gives a personal quality to the communication, which is important. Plato had made the neuter participle to on (“the being”), which is abstract and nonpersonal, a fundamental category in Greek philosophy. It is uncertain but possible that the Septuagint translator was acquainted with that philosophical tradition. Consciously or unconsciously, he deviated in favor of the personal sense. His version, the masculine ho ōn, shaped statements about the uniqueness of Israel’s God in the following centuries. The preference for the masculine continued indicating that Israel’s God is definitive for all that is and has “being” in the ontological sense, though, he himself is neither abstract nor neuter. He communicates personally, unlike the philosophical on (cf. Caquot 1978, 19–20; Rösel 1998, 55–56; McDonough 1999, 131–37). Philosophers of the first century ce were aware of the difference. Philo of Alexandria, as a Jew, preferred the masculine ho ōn (Abr. 121; Mos. 1.75), whereas the Roman philosopher Seneca used the neuter; he explained the meaning by referring to the Latin paraphrase “that which is” (quod est; Ep. 58,11–12.16–22). The author of Revelation follows the Jewish approach. He distances himself from an abstract ontology while keeping in contact with philosophical reflections. 3.  The author’s complex interaction with his environment continues as he expands the temporal aspect of the idiom ho ōn (“he who is”/“the one being”): The Greeks liked tripartite statements. They developed a “Drei-Zeiten-Formel,” since time embraces past, present, and future (McDonough 1999: 41–57). Our author conveys a significant variant of the formula in Rev 1:4: God is “He who is” (present participle) “and was” (ēn, imperfect finite verb), “and is coming” (erchomenos,

212   Martin Karrer present participle); there is nothing in the present or the past without him (“he was,” ēn; 1:4.8; 4:8; 11:17; 16:5). The structure of the formula is comparable to ontological reflections from Plato (Tim. 37e–38a) to Plutarch (E Delph. 19). At first glance, we are close to philosophical perspectives. On the other hand, our author knows of the biblical interest in God the creator (cf. Koester 2014: 116–17, 367–71). He quotes a great praise of the God who has created all what is in 4:11 (ektisas) and expands that idea Christologically (3:14; 5:13). One may note the difference of the verb used by him (ktizein) to Gen 1:1 (epoiēsen) and to Greek philosophy (cf. dēmiourgos in the Suda, § I). Read in Biblical contexts, his verb accentuates that God is “the creating founder of heaven and earth” (thus the first reference of ktizein [Hebrew qānah] in Israel’s scriptures, Gen. 14:19, 22, picked up in Rev 10:6). Compared to the Greek use of the verb, God lays the basis for life in past and present (ktizein e.g., means founding a city). He who was and is can go on to a new creation. 4.  The most interesting, however, is the third term of the formula in 1:4. Anyone knowing the translations of Exod 3:14 from about the time of Revelation would expect the future indicative “he will be” (esetai) or the future participle “the one who will be” (ho esomenos). The author of Revelation, however, avoids the future tense and thus differs from the most common form of the “Drei-Zeiten-Formel.” There may be religious competition in the background. Pausanias, Descr. 10.12.10 refers to the exclamation “Zeus was, Zeus is, Zeus will be, oh great Zeus” (Zeus ēn, Zeus estin, Zeus esetai, ō megale Zeus). The sense is that the highest god of the Greeks embraces the modes of being throughout all times. He, Zeus, will be. He will exist forever. In the formula the god’s “being” is not related to anyone else. Revelation differs: The personal God constitutes and dominates all times. But he does not persist in himself. He is “coming” personally and to others. Nonetheless, the wording in Revelation has philosophical implications: Aristotle used the tenses of the verb “to come” (hēkein) in his famous deliberations concerning time (Phys. 4.10–14, esp. § 222a). If we follow this line of thought, a real future must be expressed by the grammatical future: “he will come.” But Revelation does not use the future tense. Its use of the grammatical present highlights another aspect of the event. It presupposes that “the one who is coming” has departed. He is already on the way. In Revelation God is now coming to the addressees (1:4) and to the entire world (cf. 1:8; 4:8). This understanding of God touches the apocalyptic horizon of Revelation. The new heaven and the new earth are nearby in space and time (21:1–22:5). The coming break in time is so close that we can almost speak of a present eschatology in Revelation (Karrer 2015, 78–79; Karrer 2017, 198–99, 214–15). This has surprised commentators since the sixteenth century. Theodore Beza, therefore, proposed altering the text in his famous edition. He inserted the future “he who will be” (esomenos) into the text of Rev 16:5 to fit the “Drei-Zeiten-Formel.” Although lacking support from a manuscript of Revelation (but cf. Exod 3:14 Aquila/Theodotion), his text found its way into the King James Version, which reads, “O Lord, which art, and wast, and shalt be”—a charming expression of the temporal aspects of Exod 3:14 that is unique in the Bible, but is contrary to the original intention of Revelation.

God in the Book of Revelation   213 5.  Greek philosophers were not interested in the Semitic sound of the name YHWH, but some people liked it in kinds of popular religious life . The name spread from Judaism to non-Jewish contexts in the form that was spoken, that is, as a name consisting of vowels. Iaō, became the most common form. Jews utilized this spelling sometimes, as can be seen in the Greek Leviticus scroll found near Qumran (Lev 4:27 LXX in 4Q120, frg. 20; cf. Lev 3:12 in frg. 6 of the scroll = 4QLXXLevb; first cent. bce, fragmentary). Greeks were acquainted with the pronunciation and spelling from the first century bce onwards (Diodorus Siculus, Library 1.94.2). Romans knew it as well and related it to “Chaldean mysteries” from about the same time (Varro according to Johannes Lydus, Mens. 4.53.40). A name consisting only of vowels fascinated people. It looked very powerful. Hence, it was often used in magical incantations (PGrM IV, 593; XXXVI, 35–36; CVI,1–10 etc.; Fauth 2014: 5–36; McDonough 1999, 58–122). There is good evidence that the author of Revelation was aware of these practices. He himself associated the name, perhaps, with the seal that bears God’s name, of 7:2 (cf. 14:1; Aune 1998a, 452–54; 1996). Yet his interest was to ensure that Greeks would not incorporate Iaō into their magic and the pantheon of polytheism (IŌ evoked Seth; cf. Merkelbach 1996: 320–21). Rev 1:8 elucidates that matter. There God presents himself by saying “I am the Alpha and the Omega.” Given the way the vowels of God’s name are embedded in a sentence, speaking them in an incantation is not allowed. But the name is visible: see the three vowels of Iaō in italics. The initial iota is reflected in the “I am” (egō eimi), which is followed by the alpha and omega. That means that God alone “is” in the strict sense; every rival god and goddess is irrelevant. 6.  The letters Alpha and Omega are the beginning and end of the Greek alphabet and an abbreviation for all vowels (cf. Aune 1997, 57). By using them to identify God in 1:8, the writer emphasizes the breadth of God’s power. He brings to mind that the alphabet was used for writing, speaking, and counting in antiquity. Since the letters were used to form words and numerals, his implication is that every human thought, every communication, every reflection, and every numeric calculation involves God’s presence. God is the beginning and the end of human life, and he is equally the beginning and the end of wisdom and logic. The author of Revelation emphasizes that breadth of God’s influence by using the formula “Alpha and Omega” as a literary frame for the book around the visions. God presents himself as the Alpha and the Omega at the beginning in 1:8, where the formula follows the first visionary image (1:7). At the end of the book, God again calls himself the Alpha and Omega in 21:6, adding that he is “the beginning and the end” (Aune 1998b, 1126–1127). This verse then leads to the last vision, the heavenly Jerusalem (21:9–22:5). Thus, God covers the revelation reported in John’s book as well as all human comprehension. The name Iaō and the formula “Alpha and Omega” relate to one another. The name of God expresses his universality. The first and last letters of the Hebrew alphabet (aleph and taw) would also fit this interpretation, but that is of less importance (cf. du Rand 2009). 7.  The attribute “father” was widespread in ancient reflections on the highest god (cf. the Suda in I, Zeus as father, Dīs-pater etc.). The Greco-Roman culture might even have

214   Martin Karrer used it in a wordplay together with the “A and Ō.” A palindrome was excavated in Pompeii-Herculaneum speaking of Sator (Saturn?). This non-Christian “Sator-RotasSquare” can be read as “pater noster” (“our father”)/“A Ō” if one transposes the letters (Ernst 1991, 429–49). Revelation does not presuppose this palindrome (for recent examples, see the Internet s.v.). Nevertheless, a typological comparison to the palindrome and to the attribute of Zeus is worthwhile: Rev 1:6 remarks (two verses before the A and Ō) that God is the “father” (patēr) of Christ (cf. 2:28; 3:5, 21; 14:1; Huber 2015, 144–45.), and 22:13 (the end of the text) transfers the A and Ō to Christ. At the same time, Revelation avoids the expression “our father” throughout. Hence, Revelation combines the “A and Ō” with Christology rivalling ancient religions (Karrer 2015, 70–72). It reinforces the distinctiveness of the Jewish-Christian tradition Christologically, not via the famous prayer “Our Father.” 8.  The Hebrew Scriptures expanded the name of God to “Yahwe (Lord) Sabaoth” about 285 times. Some Jewish translators rendered the phrase as “Lord of the (heavenly) hosts” (Kyrios tōn dynameōn, 2 Kgdms [2 Sam] 6:18). Others combined Greek and Hebrew, creating Kyrios Sabaoth (Isa 45:13, 14 LXX). Still others preferred to paraphrase the idiom as Lord, the almighty God (Amos 3:13 and often in the Minor Prophets) or Lord Almighty (Kyrios pantokratōr, Hab 2:13). Some early Christians adopted the archaizing form Kyrios Sabaoth (Rom 9:29, Jas 5:4). The author of Revelation, however, favors the expression pantokratōr (cf. 2 Cor 6:18), enabling him to assert God’s uniqueness and power in Greek contexts: The Greeks had used the attribute pankratēs (“almighty”) for Zeus since Aeschylus (Eum. 918). Even the noun pantokratōr, “the Almighty,” was not totally strange to them, as some scholars thought earlier. The feminine form of the noun was used for Isis before the time Revelation was composed (SEG VIII 548,1–3), and the masculine form was later used for Zeus (I. Nikaia 1121; 1512). Thus, the author of Revelation competes with Greco-Roman cults by calling God “the Almighty one” (nine times). He is sure that Israel’s God alone has the powerful government. Moreover, he implicitly counters the Roman emperors; for they were called by a similar composite noun: autokratōr was the Greek equivalent for the Latin imperator (“emperor”; Plutarch, Galba 1–2), literally meaning that the emperor reigns “by himself ” (Greek autos). By way of contrast, the God of Israel and the early Christians reigns over “all” (Greek panta); the universal aspect of the title pantokratōr elevates him over the autokratōr (Zimmermann  2007, 238–40, 266–67; more cautiously Stowasser  2015b, 151–53). 9.  The attribute “Pantokratōr” (God the “Almighty”) is normally derived from kratein with a genitive object and designates the Almighty in a strong sense (omnipotens) that includes God’s ability to destroy (cf. the wrath of God in 16:14; 19:15). On the other hand, kratein can be constructed with an accusative object; that construction expresses also the power for conservation and giving good things (omnitenens). The latter sense is actualized in Ep. Aristeas 185, where a Jewish priest wishes that God the Almighty (pantokratōr) might bless someone with the good things he has created (ektisen). Revelation also includes those connotations (cf. Bauke-Ruegg 1998, 369–72), since 4:8

God in the Book of Revelation   215 designates God as “Almighty” and 4:11 praises him as creator (cf. § 3); no verse of the throne vision mentions God’s ability to destroy. However, our author does not fully integrate both meanings and constructions of kratein (with. gen. or acc.). He does not resolve the tension in his visions between God’s creative and destructive capacities, God’s graciousness and judgment. Rev 21:22, the last reference to pantokratōr, leads to a contradiction; 21:24–25 speak of open doors and invite to the heavenly Jerusalem, 21:27 however excludes everybody who is unclean. It seems that our author is torn between his hope for all humanity (cf. § II 1 concerning 22:21) and the shock that many people and powerful humans reject the God of Israel and his Christ. The pantokratōr is in his view, therefore, a warrior (cf. the tradition of Sabaoth/hosts) as well as a savior. The violent images serve the goal of removing all evil from the world (Bauckham/Hart 1999, 140; cf. Spilsbury 2007, 143). We can understand them against the background of the Greco-Roman interest in the powers of a great God (cf. the dynameis in the Suda § I); but for God the creator and preserver, the line of grace must win the priority, sometimes against our author (Bachmann 2002, 19–21, 182–92; cf. Karrer 2015, 73–75). 1–9 (Summary). The author of Revelation construes the name of God (IAŌ) and ­central predications (creator, father, almighty) in response to the challenges of his time. Some of his motives, the ho ōn as well as the IAŌ and AŌ are singular in the New Testament. Thus, our author’s idioms and images have an outstanding quality. In remembering the Suda (cf. I), we can say: he declares and clarifies the Jewish understanding of God within a Greco-Roman context.

IV.  God in the Narrative: The Enthroned One, Unique Against the Foreign Gods, Saving and Judging The book of Revelation narrates visions and auditions in a very complex way. The author combines the tradition of the vision report with the form of vivid image description, the ekphrasis (cf. Whitaker 2015). The first idou, “see” (1:7), of the ekphrasis even foregoes the first eidon, “I saw” (1:12), and the last idou, “see,” is spoken by Christ after all the visions (22:12; the last eidon, “I saw,” is found ex ante, in 21:22). As a result, a sequence of heavenly signs forms the body of the work in Rev 4–22. Such signs call for interpretation and reaction. Some aspects complete Revelation’s understanding of God: 1.  A thoroughgoing element of the narrative is the image of God’s throne. The author of Revelation draws on the motif from 1:4 onwards and discloses it in chapter 4. That chapter is built like a vision (eidon 4:1), but the sketch of the throne is formed as an ekphrasis (idou, see 4:2). The next eidon, “I saw,” does not follow until 5:1, the section of the  text speaking of the heavenly Christ. Theologically, the author of Revelation

216   Martin Karrer differentiates between the explication of God’s presence and Christology. Christ can be seen (chap. 5); God must be described in a vivid and yet abstract imagery, since he is personally invisible. That peculiarity in the descriptions allows for building up a soteriological suspense lasting to the last vision: The saved ones will see God personally, face to face; that is to be found in the sketch of the heavenly Jerusalem (22:4). Thus, the saved ones will see more than John on Patmos. They will encounter God on his throne and the lamb (arnion) immediately in a holy worship (image of the throne in 22:1.3). They will belong to God and Christ unreservedly, as shown by God’s name on their foreheads (22:4). The understanding of God has a soteriological aim and is joined by Christology. 2.  The description of chapter 4 (Gallusz 2014, 21–76, 95–141; Schimanowski 2002; Tóth 2006, 196–218) refers to the first chapter of Ezekiel (merkabah), that had influenced apocalyptic and mystical texts before (1 En. 14:18–23; QShirShabb). Therefore, Revelation is a part of that strand of Jewish literature. Our author combines other scriptural elements with that tradition. God’s designation as “the one sitting on the throne” (ho kathēmenos, 4:2–3, cf. 1 En. 14:20) opens a broad horizon for his power. In the prayer of Hezekiah, the enthroned one alone is God (theos monos) over the kingdoms of the world, since he created heaven and earth (4 Kgdms 19:15 LXX [2 Kgs 19:15 MT]); he is the “Almighty” (pantokratōr, 4Kgdms 19:15, Antiochian text, perhaps the oldest form of the Greek translation of 2 Kings.). And the Trisagion of Isa 6:3 (combined with Amos 3:13 LXX in Rev 4:8) evokes God’s holiness. As a result, God resides in heaven, possessing cultic holiness and power. 3.  Revelation develops the idea of the enthroned God against that background in the visionary corpus. Chapter  4 includes the topics of God’s overwhelming power (pantokratōr, 4:8) and God as creator (4:11). Rev 7:15 accentuates the veneration of the holy God; the “enthroned one” is revered in heaven day and night (that prepares for the image of salvation in chaps. 21–22). Rev 15:3–4 praises the Almighty, the Lord, who is king over the people of the world and “alone is holy” (monos hosios). Rev 21:5 refers to the creative power of God sitting on his throne; in his authority, he makes all things new. Earlier we noted the difficulties of Revelation calling God heis, “one,” within a GrecoRoman religious context (§ I). Now, we see a necessary complement: the attribute monos (“the only one”) characterizes God correctly. The God of Israel and early Christianity “alone is holy” (15:4). None of his rivals in heaven and on earth deserves awe as he does. 4.  Psalms and prophetic texts explained that “the enthroned one” sits “above the cherubim” (Ps 98:1 LXX; Od 4:54 = Dan 3:55 Θ; Isa 37:16). Ezekiel elaborated the picture and described “living beings” (zōa) surrounding and carrying the throne (Ezek 1:5–24). Drawing on the merkabah tradition of Ezek 1, the author of Revelation avoids the term “cherubim” throughout his work. Instead, he introduces the famous image of the four living beings or living creatures into Christianity. Rev 4 changes the order of the living creatures and other details that are found in Ezek 1. Yet taken as a whole, the scene of the zōa forms a Jewish-Christian counterpart to the Greek understanding of “God” as “living being” (zōon; see the Suda in § I): The God who alone is holy is invisible and therefore is not called a “living being” himself. As an

God in the Book of Revelation   217 alternative, he is accompanied by “living beings” and elevated above them; he is greater than any “living god” of the Greco-Roman world. 5.  This clarification is important since many elements in the description in Rev 4 have parallels in Greco-Roman religion. Throughout the Mediterranean region, people honor Zeus/Jupiter as the enthroned god par excellence. Pausanias, Descr. 5.11.1 describes the statue of Zeus at Olympia: Zeus sits on the throne; he can be seen, contrary to the God of Rev 4 but—but if we follow Revelation—inferior to Rev 22:3–4. Zeus wears a reposing eagle on his scepter; in Revelation the eagle of the heavenly God is flying (4:7). Zeus holds the figure of Victory in his right hand, whereas Revelation attributes all victory to its God, who achieves it through Christ (5:5–6; Karrer 2015, 58–59). Other elements augment the cultural parallels. The hymnic praises in Rev 4:11 and other passages evoke the hymns of the Greek chorus (Schedtler  2014). The precious stones mentioned in Rev 4:3 recall the view on earth in Plato’s Phaedo (sardis, jasper and emerald are highlighted there in 110d). The parallels are too extensive to be incidental. Revelation draws on the merkabah and Israel’s prophetic traditions in order to develop a view of worship supplanting the Greco-Roman devotion to the gods, including Zeus/Jupiter, the highest god of the Romans and Greeks. 6.  The same contrast holds true with regard to all Greco-Roman gods. People in antiquity differentiated between the gods of Olympus like Apollo and the gods of the Underworld like Hades. Revelation assumes that these gods are active in some way; our author argues from a monotheistic perspective without denying the existence of other transcendent beings. However, the foreign gods bring death. Revelation insists, in effect, that an Olympic god is no less dangerous than death—personified as Thanatos—and the god of the Underworld, Hades. Conversely, Death and Hades (cf. 6:8) are overwhelmed by the resurrection of Christ (1:17–18), and the Olympic gods are devalued through the narrative of Revelation. As an example, the Destroyer and angel of the abyss in Rev 9:11 is called Apollyon. That designation alludes to Apollo. He, the god preferred by Augustus and the god of the oracles from Delphi, Klaros, and Didyma, is the most confrontational of the Olympic gods in Revelation. Today Apollo is known as the god of the arts, but beginning with Homer (Il. 1.10), Apollo was also known for his power to destroy. A popular etymology connected his name and the verb apollynai (“destroy”; Archilochos, frag. 26.5–6; cf. Aeschylus, Ag. 1081–82; Macrobius, Sat. 1.17:9–10). Hence, Rev 9:11 poses a sharp challenge: Apollo is depicted as “Apollyon,” a destroyer, and the implication is that he cannot prevail against God and Christ (Karrer 2012, 228–30). 7.  The narrative makes a critical point. Revelation marks a great line to salvation, as we saw, and yet the narrative urges its readers to heed the warning signs that are sketched out in the visionary corpus. These signs are patterned after the Exodus tradition and prophetic predictions (Sommer 2015; Gallusz 2008). Moses warned the pharaoh once, and now God warns people again through the visions of the seven seals, the seven trumpets, and the seven bowls in Revelation. Whoever does not heed the warning will meet with the wrath and

218   Martin Karrer judgment of God (Rev 15–20). God does not hesitate in his righteousness (15:3–4). His wrath is coming (16:19; 19:15; cf. 11:18; 14:10). He will judge Babylon (18:10; 19:2) and his throne will be established for the judgment of all human beings according to their deeds (20:11–13). God, the judge, dominates parts of Revelation. This tendency influences even the depiction of the actions in the heavenly cult. Cultic bowls are in use there (e.g., for offering prayers; 5:8). But if the world refuses to join in worshiping God, the cultic bowls become a means of judgment (Aune 1998a, 879–80; Gallusz 2008, 29). The bowls are used, then, to pour plagues of God’s wrath on those who oppose him (15:7–16:21). One must ask if the author of Revelation succeeds in counterbalancing this line of God’s wrath and judgment with the line of his grace. The reception history was sometimes more fascinated by the dark motives. Against that, the grace of God must be given priority theologically and hermeneutically (cf. the hints of a wish for universal grace in 22:21 § II 1, the salvific perspective of the heavenly Jerusalem § IV 1 etc.). 1–7 (Summary). The author of Revelation actualizes Jewish traditions and rivals with ideas regarding the gods in the Greco-Roman religions throughout the visionary corpus of Revelation. One may ask if he thoroughly succeeds in balancing judgment and grace. But in his way, he shows the power, uniqueness, acts, and judgments of God impressively. His presentation of the heavenly God, enthroned and acting full of salvific as well as judging power strikes the nerve of his time.

V. Conclusions Older concepts of religious history strictly separated Jewish apocalypticism and Greek reflection. The book of Revelation was understood to be a witness to apocalyptic thought and Jewish-Christian theology, foreign to the environment of its addressees in the early Roman Empire. Matters have been considerably changed by new data: The Jewish-Christian character of Revelation is undoubted; its notion of God definitely draws on Jewish traditions, beginning with the name of God (§ II) and going on to his designations (§ III) and the development of the Merkabah tradition (§ IV). The author of Revelation, however, also engages the multifaceted society of the early Roman Empire and its variegated religious views. He combines the reception of Israel’s scriptures and apocalyptic ideas with a feeling for the actual questions, language, and interests of the world surrounding his addressees. That way, the author of Revelation is the first to give the understanding of God as “the one who is” (ho ōn) a place in Christianity (1:4). He actualizes the Greek Dreizeitenformel and dares to formulate the succinct paraphrase of God’s name that results in the famous “Alpha and Omega” (1:8; § III). He contrasts God, the “one who alone is holy” (monos hosios; 15:4), with the foreign gods of his time, the Olympic Zeus (cf. chap. 4) and Apollo (9:11), as well as the chthonic Hades and Thanatos (in 1:18). He narrates that God is father

God in the Book of Revelation   219 and creator (§ III), sitting on this throne, saving, and judging, in elaborate images (§ IV), deeply embedded into the Mediterranean world. The combination of reflections and visionary images looks strange to the modern reader. Our author builds a fascinating bridge between biblical and Greek traditions, e.g., from the name of God (ho ōn) to Greek thoughts and corrects an abstract ontology in favor of a personal theology. He is thus a great theologian. On the other hand, he narrates God in bold and sometimes ambiguous signs. He plays up the omnipotence of the almighty God and stresses his wrath besides his grace. Hermeneutics must take into consideration these theological tensions and look for a balance in the understanding of God by using the impulses of the book of Revelation beyond its ambiguities.1

Note 1. I thank Benjamin Blum, Maximilian Dietrich, Marybeth Hauffe, Patrick Krumm, and Solveig Reller for their help in the correction and translation of the manuscript.

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220   Martin Karrer Gallusz, Laszlo. 2014. The Throne Motif in the Book of Revelation. LNTS 487. London: Bloomsbury T & T Clark. Graf, Fritz. 2010. “Gods in Greek Inscriptions: Some Methodological Questions.” In The Gods of Ancient Greece: Identities and Transformations, edited by Jan  M.  Bremmer and Andrew Erskine, pp. 55–80. Edinburgh Leventis Studies 5. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Hernández, Juan. 2012. “Recensional Activity and the Transmission of the Septuagint in John’s Apocalypse: Codex Sinaiticus and Other Witnesses.” In Die Johannesoffenbarung: Ihr Text und ihre Auslegung, edited by Michael Labahn and Martin Karrer, pp. 83–98. ABG 38. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Holtz, Traugott. 1980. “Gott in der Apokalypse.” In L’Apocalypse Johannique et l’Apocalyptique dans le Nouveau Testament, edited by Jan Lambrecht, pp. 247–65. BETL 53. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Huber, Konrad. 2015. “Gott bete an! Christusbild und Gottesbild der Johannesoffenbarung im Spannungsfeld von wesensmäßiger und funktionaler Einheit und Differenz.” In Das Gottesbild in der Offenbarung des Johannes, edited by Martin Stowasser, pp. 129–47. WUNT II/397. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Karrer, Martin. 2012. “Apoll und die apokalyptischen Reiter.” In Die Johannesoffenbarung: Ihr Text und ihre Auslegung, edited by Michael Labahn and Martin Karrer, pp. 223–51. ABG 38. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Karrer, Martin. 2015. “Das Gottesbild der Offenbarung vor hellenistisch-frühkaiserzeitlichem Hintergrund.” In Das Gottesbild in der Offenbarung des Johannes, edited by Martin Stowasser, pp. 53–81. WUNT II/397. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Karrer, Martin. 2017. Johannesoffenbarung Part 1 Offb 1,1–5,14. EKK 24. Ostfildern: Patmos Verlag and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Koester, Craig. 2014. Revelation. AYB 38A. New York: Doubleday. McDonough, Sean  M. 1999. YHWH at Patmos. WUNT II/107. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Reprint, Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock (2011). Merkelbach, Reinhold. 1996. Hestia und Erigone. Vorträge und Aufsätze. Edited by Wolfgang Blümel et al. Leipzig: Teubner. Repr., Berlin: de Gruyter (2012). Mucha, Robert. 2015. Der apokalyptische Kaiser. Die Wahrnehmung Domitians in der apokalyptischen Literatur des Frühjudentums und Urchristentums. Frankfurt: PL Academic Research. Mitchell, Stephen, and Peter van Nuffelen, eds. 2010. One God: Pagan Monotheism in the Roman Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Murphy, Frederick J. 1994. “The Book of Revelation.” CRBS 2: 181–225. Peterson, Erik. 2012. Heis Theos: Epigraphische, formgeschichtliche und religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur antiken “Ein-Gott”-Akklamation (1926). Addenda by Christoph Markschies, Barbara Nichtweiss, Henrik Hildebrandt, et al., Christoph Markschies, ed. Würzburg: Echter. Rand, Jan A. Du. 2009. “Alpha and Omega. I. New Testament.” In Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception, vol. 1, pp. 850–52. Berlin: de Gruyter. Rösel, Martin. 1998. “Theo-Logie der griechischen Bibel: Zur Wiedergabe der Gottesaussagen im LXX-Pentateuch.” VT 48: 49–62. Rösel, Martin. 2000. Adonaj—warum Gott “Herr” genannt wird. FAT 29. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Rösel, Martin. 2017. “Gott in anderem Licht: Das Gottesbild der apokalyptischen Literatur im 3. und 2. Jahrhundert.” In Congress Volume Stellenbosch 2016, edited by Louis Jonker, Gideon Kotzé, and Christl M. Maier, pp. 345–77. VTSup 177. Leiden: Brill.

God in the Book of Revelation   221 Rüpke, Jörg. 2012. “Polytheismus und Monotheismus als Perspektiven auf die antike Religionsgeschichte.” In Gott–Götter–Götzen: XIV: Europäischer Kongress für Theologie, edited by Christoph Schwöbel, pp. 58–68. Veröffentlichungen der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft für Theologie 38. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Schedtler, Justin Jeffcoat. 2014. A Heavenly Chorus: The Dramatic Function of Revelation’s Hymns. WUNT II/381. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Schimanowski, Gottfried. 2002. Die himmlische Liturgie in der Apokalypse des Johannes: die frühjüdischen Traditionen in Offenbarung 4–5 unter Einschluss der Hekhalotliteratur. WUNT II/154. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1985. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. Philadelphia: Fortress. Söding, Thomas. 2001. “Gott und das Lamm: Theozentrik und Christologie in der Johannesapokalypse.” In Theologie als Vision, edited by Byes, Backhaus, pp. 77–120. SBS 191. Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk. Sommer, Michael. 2015. Der Tag der Plagen: Studien zur Verbindung der Rezeption von Exod 7–11 in den Posaunen- und Shalenvisionen in der Johannesoffenbarung und der Tag des Herrn-Tradition. WUNT II/387. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Spilsbury, Paul. 2007. “The Apocalypse.” In Redemption and Resistance: The Messianic Hopes of Jews and Christians in Antiquity, (2nd ed. 2008), edited by Markus Bockmuehl and James Carleton, pp. 136–46. London: T & T Clark. Staudt, Darina. 2011. Der eine und einzige Gott: Monotheistische Formeln im Urchristentum und ihre Vorgeschichte bei Griechen und Juden. NTOA 80. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Stowasser, Martin, ed. 2015a. Das Gottesbild in der Offenbarung des Johannes. WUNT II/397. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Stowasser, Martin. 2015b. “Gottesepitheta als Christusepitheta. Überlegungen zur Gottheit Gottes in der Offenbarung des Johannes.” In Das Gottesbild in der Offenbarung des Johannes, edited by Martin Stowasser, pp. 149–75. WUNT II/397. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Tóth, Franz. 2006. Der himmlische Kult. Wirklichkeitskonstruktion und Sinnbildung in der Johannesoffenbarung. ABG 22. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Vanni, Ugo. 1976. “Un Esempio di Dialogo liturgico in Ap 1,4–8.” Bib 57: 453–67. Vögtle, Anton. 1976. “Der Gott der Apokalypse.” In La notion biblique de Dieu: Le Dieu de la bible et le Dieu des philosophes, edited by Joseph Coppens, pp. 377–98. BETL 41. Gembloux: Duculot. Vries, Johannes de. 2010. “Ps 86MT / Ps 85LXX in Apk 15,4bß. Anmerkungen zum Text von Psalter und Johannesoffenbarung.” In Von der Septuaginta zum Neuen Testament: Textgeschichtliche Erörterungen, edited by Martin Karrer, Siegfried Kreuzer, and Marcus Sigismund, pp. 417–23. ANTF 43. Berlin: de Gruyter. Wengst, Klaus. 2010. “Wie lange noch?” Schreien nach Recht und Gerechtigkeit—eine Deutung der Apokalypse des Johannes. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Wevers, J.  W. 2001. “The Rendering of the Tetragram in the Psalter and Pentateuch: A Comparative Study.” In The Old Greek Psalter: Studies in Honour of Albert Pietersma, edited by Robert J. V. Hiebert, Claude E. Cox, and Peter J. Gentry, pp. 21–35. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic. Whitaker, Robyn J. 2015. Ekphrasis, Vision, and Persuasion in the Book of Revelation. WUNT II/410. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Witulski, Thomas. 2010. Kaiserkult in Kleinasien: Die Entwicklung der kultisch-religiösen Kaiserverehrung in der römischen Provinz Asia von Augustus bis Antonius Pius. 2nd ed. NTOA 63. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

222   Martin Karrer Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1986. “Reading the Book of Revelation in the Twentieth Century.” Int 40: 229–42. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1984. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1976. The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation. HDR 9. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zimmermann, Christiane. 2007. Die Namen des Vaters: Studien zu ausgewählten neutestamentlichen Gottesbezeichnungen. AGJU 69. Leiden: Brill.

chapter 14

J esus i n th e Book of R ev el ation Loren L. Johns

Many assume that the book of Revelation is, first and foremost, about the end of the world. But that is not the case; the book is primarily about Jesus. It is a revelation of Jesus . . . as lamb (Prévost  1993). The import of the book’s opening three words (apokalypsis Iēsou Christou) is debated. Is this an objective genitive (Jesus Christ is the object of the revelation; the revelation is about Jesus)? Or is it a subjective genitive (Jesus Christ is the mediator of the revelation from God)? The next six words in both Greek and English (“which God gave him to show”) make clear that it is at least in part a subjective genitive. However, numerous commentators rightly insist that sometimes both senses of the genitive are at play, and that this instance is one such example. Thus, whatever else we imagine this revelatory book to be revealing, the center of that revelation, both as subject and as object, is Jesus. Although Revelation shares with other New Testament writings the various Christological elements with which New Testament readers have become familiar, the figure of Jesus is distinctive in Revelation in several ways. First, Revelation is by far the richest New Testament book in terms of the sheer variety of descriptions and descriptors for Jesus. Second, Revelation is strongly anti-imperial in its Christology. Third, it is unique in the New Testament in applying the word arnion (lamb) to Jesus, using it as the controlling metaphor for the majority of the book. Fourth, Revelation’s understanding of Jesus’s death puts it at the exemplary end of the continuum that extends from exemplary to vicarious as ways of understanding Jesus’s death and its significance. Finally, the lamb Christology is what ultimately provides coherence for what many see as disparate, even clashing images of violence and power in Revelation.

Variety of Descriptors for Jesus Characterizations of Jesus through titles, names, and participial descriptors abound in the book of Revelation. The sheer variety of such descriptors in this “revelation of Jesus

224   Loren L. Johns Christ” makes this book by far the richest source of images for Jesus in the New Testament. Forty-some different words or participial descriptors appear in the book (Johns 2014, 217–21).1 Some Christological studies of the New Testament focus on “titles.” These studies can be reductionistic if they assume that the weight of an author’s Christology is carried by the titles an author uses. The Christology of Revelation is extensive and weighty. Although the lamb symbolism is the key to the Christology of Revelation,2 lamb is not really a title. It is a symbol, a controlling metaphor for Jesus. Traditionally weighty titles, such as “Son of God” or “Son of Man,” are used so infrequently and inconsequentially as to suggest their relative unimportance (Yarbro Collins 1992b, 568).3 Jesus (Iēsous) occurs twelve times (with christos in 1:1, 2, and 5); 1:9 [bis]; 12:17; 14:12; 17:6; 19:10 [bis]; 20:4; and 22:16. He is called “the faithful witness” (ho martys ho pistos) in 1:5.4 Jesus is the firstborn from the dead (1:5), the ruler of the kings of the earth (1:5), the one who loves us (1:5; cf. 3:9), and the one who has freed us from our sins with his blood (1:5). The full list of descriptions and descriptors of Jesus in Revelation is long (Johns 2014, 217–21). The use of many names and epithets in Revelation is part of the author’s rhetorical strategy to craft a vivid and convincing universe. Both heroes and villains are named, usually with symbolic names. The only true names in the book appear to be Jesus, John (the author), and Antipas.5 But dozens of characters, from the symbolic “woman clothed with the sun” (12:1) to the author’s prophetic rival “Jezebel” (2:20) to “the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the beginning of God’s creation” (3:14), “the one who holds the seven spirits of God and the seven stars” (3:1), “the great dragon, the ancient serpent, the one called Devil and Satan” (12:10)—all the author’s epithets form the rhetorical supports for the universe the author is crafting,6 even when it is not always clear whether a given substantive is simply descriptive or represents a more formal title.7 Revelation was written by a certain “John,” possibly from the island of Patmos (1:9). John had probably been banished to the island, perhaps for publicly condemning the emperor cult in Ephesus, where a massive new temple built in honor of the Roman emperors had been dedicated in 89 or 90 ce (Friesen 1993). Although Irenaeus’s claim that Revelation was written near the end of the reign of Domitian, around 95 ce, is contested, many current scholars continue to find it acceptable. A previous generation of Revelation scholars held that Domitian had launched an empire-wide persecution of Christians and that this was the most likely historical context for Revelation. However, it is more likely historically that Christians barely registered on the radar of the Roman Empire in the first century. Certainly leading families in some localities pressured nonconforming citizens to participate in the emperor cult as a civic duty. As Steve Friesen (1993 and 2001) has shown, this was true particularly in Asia (cf. Kraybill 1996). Unlike the author of Revelation, however, not all Christians in the Roman province of Asia thought such participation was a problem. The two primary crises behind the letters to the seven churches in Rev 2–3 are quite different from one another: (1) the author’s prophetic concern with what he perceives as an unfaithful accommodationism to the imperial cult; and (2) the pressures and persecutions directed toward those who were

Jesus in the Book of Revelation   225 resisting the imperial cult. Some of the pressures and persecutions were in the past; some are expected in the near future. Neither concern—one essentially internal, a prophetic crisis largely in the mind and spirit of the author, and the other essentially external—adequately accounts for the content of these chapters without the other. However banal or inconsequential the cult itself may have seemed to the average Roman, our author, a Jewish-Christian prophet, saw the question of who is worthy of worship as intensely important—a matter of life and death. Worthiness of worship is an important inclusio in Revelation. It is central to the opening scene in Rev 4–5, with God as the focus of worship in Rev 4 and Jesus as the focus of worship in Rev 5. Worthiness of worship is addressed specifically again in the last chapter of Revelation (22:8–9; cf. 13:8, 12, 15; 14:3, 7, 11; 15:3–4; 19:10). Furthermore, the many scenes and songs of worship are not peripheral to the book’s argumentation. Revelation enacts, illustrates, and performs what it argues through its songs and its scenes of worship. God and the lamb are repeatedly worshiped in this narrative.

Anti-imperial Christology in Revelation Jewish and/or Christian prophetic denunciation of the emperor cult forms an important part of the historical context for Revelation and informs Revelation’s Christology itself. Interestingly, there is little actual debate within the New Testament itself about what the term “messiah” (christos) means. The literature of late Second Temple Judaism reflects little consensus about the messiah. Expectations differed. Some expected a messiah; some did not. The Life of Adam and Eve, usually dated to the first century ce, includes a vision of a restored Israel in which the messiah does not play a role, or even make an appearance. Some expected a priestly messiah and a kingly messiah (1QS IX, 11). That the author intends a royal/political meaning in using the word christos (Christ or messiah) is not immediately clear in Rev 1:1, 2, and 5, where it is paired with Jesus and seems to function as a name. However, each of the other four uses of the term, in 11:15; 12:10; 20:4, 6, appears with explicit references to a kingdom or reigning, or both.8 Thus, when the author applies the word “messiah” to Jesus in the first verse of the book, we should understand him to be sparking the flames of anti-Roman sentiment for the average Jew, for whatever allegiance the messiah might demand would have been seen as a direct challenge to the Roman emperor. Here the author is drawing on traditional Jewish convictions that God is the true king and that God’s messiah is the one who will restore the fortunes of God’s people. The kingdom belongs to God and his messiah, not to the emperor (11:15). Salvation, power, and the kingdom belong to God and come from the authority of God’s messiah, not of the emperor (12:10). The martyrs (those who had been beheaded on account of the testimony [martyria] of Jesus [20:4]), not the emperor, are the ones who will reign for a thousand years with God’s messiah (20:4–6)!

226   Loren L. Johns The testimony (martyria) of Jesus is referred to already in Rev 1:2, where he is called “the faithful witness (martys)” in 1:5. The correspondence of Pliny the Younger with Emperor Trajan in 112 ce plausibly also constitutes a window on the historical context of Revelation, written to believers in the neighboring province some seventeen years earlier. If so, the word “witness” conjures up scenes of being called before the provincial governor on charges of being a Christian. Doing obeisance before a bust of the emperor could get you out of trouble with the governor; conversely, refusing to do obeisance to the emperor could get you killed. But Jesus is the firstborn from the dead (1:5), suggesting that even Rome’s executions are weak and powerless! If none of these descriptions of Jesus is sufficiently explicit, John makes things clear when he calls Jesus “the ruler of the kings of the earth” (1:5). Domitian may claim to be the emperor; he may be a king. But if so, he is no more than a vassal king to Jesus! The death of Jesus plays a distinctive role in the Apocalypse. Most scholars have rightly accepted the judgment of Trites that the word martys in Revelation means “witness,” as it does in classical Greek, not “martyr.” However, he understands Revelation as a significant landmark in the evolution of the word, which clearly has overtones of martyrdom by the time the Martyrdom of Polycarp was written (1973, 80). In Revelation, the word martys (witness) stands in a significant relationship with Jesus and with Jesus’s death, or execution. John writes to encourage faithful witness. The expression “faithful witness” refers to someone who has consistently borne faithful witness to God all the way up to and through his or her execution. Death is associated with witness each time it appears. Jesus is first introduced as the faithful witness in 1:5. Antipas, the one martyr we know about in Revelation, is called “my faithful witness” in 2:13. Jesus is portrayed as the “faithful and true witness” in 3:14. The two “witnesses” in Rev 11 bear witness and are killed. Finally, the woman Rome is portrayed in 17:6 as drunk from the blood of the saints and the blood of witnesses to Jesus. As Mark Bredin puts it, “Faithful witnesses are servants of God who suffer and die as a result of delivering God’s message” (2003, 170). Although “Son of God” appears only in 2:18, in the context of Roman Asia, soaked as it was in the Roman emperor cult, it constitutes a challenge to the emperor. Since Vespasian was deified by the Senate, the current emperor, Domitian, would have been a “son of god.” With some notable exceptions (Thompson 1990, 105–7; Yarbro Collins 1984, 71–72), most Revelation scholars are inclined to accept as historical Suetonius’s claim that Domitian demanded to be called “our Lord and our God” (Suetonius, Domitian 13.2). There is no reason to think that such exalted claims were unique to Domitian. Rather, they were part of a general pattern in the first-century emperor cult.9 In the words of Craig Koester (2014, 298), “Revelation critiques the ruler cult and assumes [or declares] that the true Son of God is Jesus. His followers will also be called ‘sons’ of God and inherit life in the New Jerusalem (Rev 21:7).” As Trites has observed, the phrase “testimony of Jesus” is likely intended to recall for the Asian Christians Jesus’s own faithful witness when he was summoned before Pilate (1973, 76), and thus encourage them to their own faithful anti-imperial witness if and when they are called before the governor. Many other passages in Revelation support this anti-imperial reading of the Christology of Revelation. In the flurry of recent attempts to read anti-imperial rhetoric

Jesus in the Book of Revelation   227 into almost every book of the New Testament, those on Revelation have the best support in the text itself. The “idea that Revelation is not merely an anti-imperial text but one that posits non-violent resistance to empire is gaining increasing currency” (Megoran 2013, 143). It is no coincidence that John repeatedly refers to God as “he who sits on the throne” in light of Domitian’s propensity for minting coins with him sitting on a throne (Abaecherli 1935). Even the many descriptions of Jesus as the one who overcomes death are primarily political in force if the author’s point is that Jesus’s authority and power supersedes that of the governor, whose hands seem to hold the power of death. Jesus is the “firstborn from the dead” (1:5), the first and the last (1:17; 2:8; 22:13); the living one (despite his execution; 1:18); the once-dead one who lives forever (1:18; cf. 2:8); the one who has the keys of Death and Hades (1:18), the “king of kings and lord of lords” (17:14).

Jesus as Lamb (Arnion) The most important designation for Jesus in Revelation is lamb. Jesus is consistently portrayed as a “lamb” in an extended metaphor. The symbol dominates the book. Jesus is called lamb twenty-eight times in Revelation—more than anything else. The word occurs in half the chapters. And although Jesus is called or compared to a lamb in several New Testament writings (John 1:29, 36; Acts 8:32; 1 Cor 5:7; 1 Pet 1:19), Revelation’s portrayal of Jesus as lamb differs in several ways. First, the image of Jesus as lamb in Revelation is not a passing comparison or simile. Once he has introduced it, the author sustains the metaphor throughout the book. As important as the image is, the author does not use it or even hint at it until the lamb’s dramatic entrance on the scene in 5:6. By then, the majority of the different titles or terms (including substantive participles) that appear in the book have already been used of Jesus. However, from 5:6 on, Jesus participates in the narrative primarily as lamb. The author carefully crafts the pivotal scene in which the lamb is revealed. The great drama in heaven is full of angst because no one has been found worthy of opening the scroll or looking inside it. However, the angel announces that one has been found worthy and announces the Lion of the Tribe of Judah, the Root of David (5:5). These two titles are rich in their allusion to royalty, specifically to Israel’s royal messianic expectations. On his deathbed, Jacob had called Judah “a lion’s whelp” with a royal future (Gen 49:9–10). Judas Maccabeus was portrayed as a lion (1 Macc 3:4; 2 Macc 11:11). The “root of David” characterizes the royal figure more specifically as in the dynasty of David. In late Second Temple Judaism, the lion became the prime symbol of the messiah (see esp. 2 Esdras 12:31–32). Thus, the Worthy One is introduced in terms that have long been associated with the hoped-for messianic redeemer of Israel. But what John sees is a lamb (arnion), standing as though executed (Rev 5:6). To call this a surprise would be an understatement. Of this surprising revelation David Barr (1984, 41) says, “A more complete reversal of value would be hard to imagine.” Donald

228   Loren L. Johns Guthrie (1987, 64) says, “There could hardly be a more striking or unexpected contrast,” while Eugene Boring (1992, 708) calls it “one of the most mind-wrenching and theologically pregnant transformations of imagery in literature.” This unexpected revelation of the lamb is the central unveiling of the book of Revelation. Revelation is filled with temple imagery. Right in front of the throne on which God sits is a golden altar (8:3; 9:13; cf. 6:9; 8:5; 11:1; 14:18; 16:7). Certainly, both Jews and GrecoRomans were familiar with the sacrificial slaughter of animals. Sacrifice was multifaceted in the ancient world. Expiation for sin was only one of its numerous functions. In the temple in Jerusalem, a lamb was slaughtered on the altar every morning and every evening (Num 28:9–10). Besides the fact that the word arnion is never used for a sacrificed lamb in the Septuagint, the verb used for the killing of the lamb in Revelation (sphazō) is the terminology of the slaughterhouse or of murder (Laws 1988, 30). Jesus was not “sacrificed” in the book of Revelation; he was executed or murdered (sphazō). In Rev 6:4, the same verb is used for the murder of others. Once it is used for one of the heads of the beast (13:3). Twice it refers to the execution of the elect in martyrdom (6:9; 18:24). So Jesus’s death in Revelation is more political than expiatory (Blount 2009, 115). Second, in contrast to other allusions or symbolic portrayals of Jesus as a “lamb” in the New Testament, Revelation is unique in applying the word arnion to Jesus. When John the Baptizer twice refers to Jesus with the words, “Behold the lamb of God” (John 1:29, 36), he uses the word amnos, which is the normal Septuagintal word for lamb used in the Pentateuch’s instructions for the sacrificial system. When the eunuch from Ethiopia reads the Suffering Servant hymn from Isa 53:7–8 in Acts 8:32, the author uses the word that appears in the Septuagint of Isaiah—namely, amnos. The author of 1 Pet 1:19 also uses amnos, the Pentateuch’s typical term for sacrificial lamb. When Paul refers to Jesus in 1 Cor 5:7 as “our Passover lamb,” he naturally uses pascha, which technically means a Passover victim and could be either a lamb or a kid (i.e., young goat). Only the Apocalypse applies arnion to Jesus, and it does so, as noted, twenty-eight times. Spitta (1907) famously suggested that arnion should be translated Widder (ram), since the arnion in the Apocalypse does not seem to act much like a lamb. However, Spitta’s speculation is weakened by the fact that no example of this phenomenon exists in the corpus of Greek literature (Hofius 1998; cf. Jeremias 1964). In the Septuagint, arnion never applies to real-life lambs, only to metaphorical ones. Furthermore, it seems to suggest vulnerability in the presence of a superior power. Although this semantic value for arnion does not hold in Josephus’s writings, the experts in Greek grammar that Josephus admits using were probably not well-attuned to the nuances of Hebrew thought, since fewer than 15% of the times that Josephus refers to lambs with a biblical parallel does he use the same word for lamb that appears in the Septuagint texts that we have today (Johns 2014, 34). Third, Revelation exhibits a high Christology. The relationship between Jesus, or the lamb, with God is intriguing. The author does not describe it in precise terms. Although Revelation’s Christology is among the highest in the New Testament, it is not Christomonist. God is the one who sits on the throne, though the lamb occasionally seems to share it (3:21; 5:6, 13; 7:9–10, 17; 22:1, 3). Revelation is distinctive for attributing

Jesus in the Book of Revelation   229 to Jesus certain descriptors traditionally applied to God. The Christophany in 1:9–20 famously attributes to the “one like a Son of Man” characteristics that adhere to the Ancient of Days in Dan 7. Furthermore, in Rev 3:14, Jesus is called the “Amen,” a title used only of God elsewhere in the Bible (Isa 65:16). Whereas God is the Alpha and the Omega in Rev 1:8 and 21:6, Jesus is the Alpha and Omega in 22:13. God is the one who is and who was and who is to come 1:8; Jesus is the coming one in 22:20. God is the beginning and the end in 21:6; Jesus is the beginning and the end in 22:13, the first and the last in 1:17; 2:8; and 22:13. Although 3:21 seems to imply that God and Jesus each has his own throne, the word thronos (throne) never appears in the plural in the dozens of times it appears in Revelation, while 22:1–3 implies that they share just the one throne. Finally, if Jesus is the key to understanding Revelation, and if the lamb symbolism the key to understanding Jesus, then Jesus’s faithful witness and conquering death may be the key to understanding the author’s purposes in consistently portraying Jesus and his significance through the lamb symbolism in the Apocalypse. After the dramatic introduction of the lamb in Rev 5, the lamb is worshiped as worthy to take the scroll specifically because he was executed. By means of that execution, he formed a kingdom, and priests, to serve God, drawn from every tribe, language, people, and nation on earth. The inaugural scene introduces the lamb as “standing as though executed” (5:6; hestēkos hōs esphagmenon), a rather odd image that is probably designed to keep Jesus’s execution and his resurrection together as one image. That is, Revelation treats the significance of Jesus’s death as inseparable from the significance of his resurrection, and vice versa, in a way that is reminiscent of Paul.

The Import of the Lamb’s Execution The central and pervasive symbol of the lamb signifies the crucified and resurrected Jesus in the book of Revelation, but to what end? What is the rhetorical force of the image of Christ’s death? What “work” does Jesus’s death do in this book? The evidence shows that in keeping with the anti-imperial Christology explored above, Jesus’s death is portrayed primarily in political rather than expiatory terms. If John had intended Jesus’s death to be understood as expiatory, he would have used other terminology. No arnion is sacrificed in the Old Testament. Furthermore, Jesus is not “sacrificed” in Revelation. Rather, he is executed, or murdered (sphazō). In Revelation, sphazō signifies murder or assassination (6:4, 9; 13:3; 18:24). While the author seems to accept Jesus’s death as expiatory (cf. 1:5), the numerous occurrences of the word blood in Revelation occur in contexts that suggests that the blood spilled in Revelation is the “result of combat, suffering, or both” (Blount 2009, 115 n. 114). Familiarity with other parts of the New Testament (or with the history of Christian theology) might cause some to think of the “atoning” power of Jesus’s death.10 Indeed, at least one passage seems to imply the author’s familiarity with and approval of traditional understandings of Jesus’s death as atoning for sin (e.g., 1:5b; less clearly, 5:9). Interestingly,

230   Loren L. Johns Carnegie (1982, 244–45) sees 1:5–6 as the only hymn the author has drawn from existing liturgical material, the other hymns having been written by the author himself (cf. Grabiner  2015, 3–4). In 5:9, the newly revealed lamb is praised as worthy precisely because he was slain, and because he “purchased” for God with his blood, persons from every tribe and language and people and nation. Although this sounds a little like penal substitutionary atonement language, it is not. After considering the possible implications of the lamb’s use of blood to “purchase” saints from every tribe and language and people and nation, Blount rightly concludes that this purchase is primarily political in force, rather than expiatory (2009, 115). Most of the references to the lamb in Revelation occur in life-threatening contexts that reflect conflict over allegiances (Kraybill 2010). Furthermore, as the firstborn from the dead, the lamb’s consistent resistance in his faithful witness energizes the readers of Revelation to emulate him in offering their own consistent resistance through faithful witness (cf. 3:21; 14:4). Conquering is both significant and significantly redefined in Revelation. To conquer is to maintain a faithful witness in resistance to forces and entities that pressure ­con­form­ity—especially when that witness is sealed in death. Conquering, whether an expression of staying the course or changing course, is the goal toward which Christ (and the author) urge each of the seven churches. Resistance to the forces of compromise is one of the key themes in the letters of the seven churches. However, comfort and encouragement form the other key theme in those letters, leading to the conclusion of some that both resistance and comfort are central to both the seven letters and the book as a whole (Boesak 1987; Schüssler Fiorenza 1985, 23; Stevenson 2013). Overcoming, or conquering, is what happens when one successfully resists those compromising forces to the end through faithful witness. So the one who conquers is the one who bears faithful witness to the end, who maintains that witness until one’s death. Thus, conquering— both for Jesus and for the followers of the lamb—is closely related to the death of a faithful witness. It is in the matrix of victory (conquering), faithful witness, and death that the Christology of Revelation intersects most directly with the ethics of Revelation. We have already seen that just as Jesus is a faithful witness (1:5), so is Antipas (2:13). Both sealed that witness through their deaths by execution. Just as Jesus “overcame” through his “consistent resistance” (Schüssler Fiorenza’s apt translation of hypomonē [1985: 182; cf.  Johns  2007]), just as Jesus maintained his faithful witness unto death, so the Laodiceans are encouraged to “overcome” in the same way (3:21). Revelation is resistance literature. It is a prophetic book advocating religious-political resistance to compromise of all sorts, including compromise with regard to the emperor cult. Its hero leader, Jesus, the executed lamb, leads the way for his followers. As they follow Jesus in their own consistent resistance, which is manifested as faithful testimony that could well result in their own executions, they will reap the same reward as the lamb they are following reaped. That is, they also will have a place with Jesus on his throne, just as Jesus’s own conquering resulted in his being given a place with the Father on the Father’s throne (3:21). The theology and Christology of Revelation thus undergird and cohere with the ethical message of the book.

Jesus in the Book of Revelation   231 This matrix of conquering, faithful witness, and death by execution unites Revelation’s Christology with its ethics. To be more precise, the lamb Christology of Revelation is developed specifically to support its ethical message: the hearers of this Revelation are being called to resist forces of compromise that are calling the people of the province of Asia to worship alternative gods. Revelation encourages them to do so by refusing false worship and bearing consistent testimony to the one true God of Israel, and Jesus, his emissary, even if that witness results in the execution of the faithful—and it probably will. The tale Revelation tells is a battle of allegiances (Kraybill 2010).

Is the Characterization of Jesus as Lamb Ethical? One problem with the book of Revelation is that there is at the heart of its rhetoric a “symbolic transformation of the world” (Barr 1984, 206). That is not in itself a problem. However, the redefinitions and reversals that make up the symbolic transformation of the world so central to the rhetoric of Revelation make it difficult to determine where or in what sense a traditional association is to be assumed and when something is being radically redefined. More specifically, does the apocalyptic violence of Rev 6–20 control, suppress, or redefine Revelation’s symbolism of the victorious executed lamb, as Crossan (2007, 218), Yarbro Collins (1992a), and others have argued, or does the symbolism of the victorious executed lamb control, suppress, or ultimately redefine the violence portrayed in Rev 6–20? What role should the central scene in chapter 5 and the presence of the lamb in Rev 6–20 play in interpreting Rev 6–20, and/or vice versa? Obviously, not everything can be redefined in a symbolic transformation of the world; otherwise, the reader would be completely disoriented in conceptual chaos. However, if a redefinition of power or violence is at the heart of that symbolic transformation, then the author of Revelation is making significant demands on the part of his readers/hearers to recognize and understand exactly what is being redefined, and how. Interestingly, Yarbro Collins herself apparently changed her mind on this matter between the time of her dissertation (1976) and her 1992 article on Revelation in the Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary (Yabro Collins 1992a). In her dissertation she had argued that the lamb Christology effectively subverted the combat myth in Revelation, but in the Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, she says it is the other way around. For Matthew Streett (2012), the matter is clear: the Jesus of Revelation is a violent avenger. The images of ­violence in the book control, suppress, or redefine the symbolism of the victorious ­executed lamb. David Neville (2013, 228) has said that “an interpretation of Revelation that does not place at its core John’s peculiar exposition of the identity and significance of Jesus can hardly comprise a faithful interpretation of Revelation.” The problem is all the more serious if that exposition is ambiguous. How are we to adjudicate competing readings of

232   Loren L. Johns that exposition? Barr (2003a, 165) suggests that “better readings are those that many different readers find convincing. . . . When a reading fails to convince a significant number of other readers of its worth it is at least a weak, and probably a wrong, reading.” Thus, if readers of Revelation today cannot agree on what is arguably the most important issue in the book, what are we to conclude? If the key to the book is an ambiguous Christology, does that ambiguity lie in the book itself, or in our own reading strategies? If it is the ­former, a flaw in the book itself, as Steve Moyise thinks and Greg Carey fears (cf. Carey 1999 and Carey 2006), we must conclude that the author of Revelation was conflicted, incoherent, schizophrenic, passive aggressive, or simply ineffective in his use of rhetoric. If it is the latter, if the problem lies more in how we are reading and what we are bringing from our own social locations, a more careful probing of that ambiguity could be fruitful. In 2001, Steve Moyise helped to clarify the issues in his provocative article “Does the Lion Lie Down with the Lamb?” Moyise notes that one entire school of interpretation has understood the lamb Christology to be determinative with regard to Revelation’s understanding of power. He credits G. B. Caird with being the first to articulate this perspective in a compelling way. Caird interpreted the introduction of the Lion of Judah in the form of an executed lamb in Rev 5:5–6 as “the key to all of John’s use of the Old Testament” (Moyise 2001a, 181). Thus, “Wherever the Old Testament says ‘Lion,’ read ‘Lamb.’ Wherever the Old Testament speaks of the victory of the Messiah or the overthrow of the enemies of God, we are to remember that the gospel recognizes no other way of achieving these ends than the way of the Cross” (Caird 1984, 75). Moyise cites J. P. M. Sweet (cf. Sweet 1990), M. Eugene Boring (cf. Boring 1989a and 1989b), Richard Bauckham (cf. Bauckham 1993), and G. K. Beale (cf. Beale 1999) as essentially following Caird in this reading of Revelation. Many others could be added to that list. For instance, Gregory Stevenson (2013, 101) has recently argued that the key to interpreting the ambiguities in the book is recognizing that Revelation redefines “victory not in terms of violence against one’s enemies but in terms of suffering witness that holds faithfully to the word of God and to the testimony of Jesus.” Mitchell Reddish (2001, 25) argues that Revelation’s militaristic, even violent imagery can be misleading. “One must distinguish between texts that use language and imagery to encourage or endorse violence and those that use traditional imagery to subvert violence. The Apocalypse belongs in the latter category.” Moyise appreciatively quotes Harold Bloom’s dismissive assessment of Revelation as lurid, inhumane, pernicious, and barbaric (Moyise 2001a, 183; cf. Bloom 1988, 4–5). In the words of John Dominic Crossan (2007, 218), “the Slaughtered becomes the Slaughterer.” Moyise accepts the judgments of C. H. Dodd (1953, 232), Raymond E. Brown (1981, 60), and Josephine Massyngberde Ford that the tradition of a militant apocalyptic lamb in late Second Temple Judaism ultimately makes the most sense of the lamb Christology, with all its violent, militaristic deeds of judgment, although Ford adds that the militant aspect “receded as the early Church fused the Lamb with the idea of the Passover, the Suffering Servant, and the Eucharist” (Ford 1975, 89). Unfortunately, the existence of a militant lamb tradition does not hold up to scrutiny (Johns 2014, 76–107).

Jesus in the Book of Revelation   233 Moyise had made the same claim in his earlier monograph, The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation (1995, 129–32). For Moyise, the book of Revelation simply cannot support any consistent interpretation with regard to Christology and ethics. He says that in the face of Revelation’s own ambiguities, deconstruction itself has taught us that consistency is attainable only by eliminating alternative readings and forcing one’s own interpretation (Moyise 2001a, 185–94). I agree with David Barr when he says, “In my view there are a great many and differing valid readings of a text like Revelation, but there are also misreadings, weak readings, and false readings” (Barr  2003a, 164). In support of that conclusion, Barr depends on the work of Paul B. Armstrong (1990) for help in thinking about how to legitimately adjudicate conflicting readings. Moyise (2001b, 129–32; 2001a, 194) has made much of the argument that the lamb does not “simply replace” the lion in the book of Revelation. He is right that Revelation’s lamb is not meek and mild. Some hope the mountains and rocks will fall on them to hide them from the wrath of the one seated on the throne and from the wrath of the lamb (6:16). Revelation’s lamb clearly does not simply lie down with its enemies in support of some idyllic picture in which eschatological peace is portrayed as ignorant bliss. Nevertheless, on the narrative level, the lamb does indeed “replace” the lion. The lion appears once and only once as a symbol for Jesus, in 5:5. Lions were a favorite symbol of royalty throughout the ancient Near East. Literarily, the shocking appearance of the lamb in 5:6 should be seen as the rhetorical fulcrum in the book. Significantly, the lion never again appears as a symbol for Jesus. The lamb has replaced the Lion. Moyise sees the lamb and the Lion as an ongoing juxtaposition in the book, but in terms of literary characters, no such juxtaposition exists. After 5:5, the victorious lamb serves out the rest of the book, out-appearing the Lion 28–0. As the last sentence in his essay in Studies in the Book of Revelation reveals, the real issue here may be theological: Moyise (2001b, 194) cannot accept Revelation’s redefinition of power: “Evil is much more complex than that.” As David Barr (2006, 209) puts it, “It is poor reading to overlook this inversion and to read as if the lamb has not replaced the Lion in this story.” Richard Bauckham (1993, 210–37) has treated as directly as anyone the question of what kind of battle believers are encouraged to take up in his essay, “The Apocalypse as a Christian War Scroll.” David Barr (1997, 2003b; cf. Boring 1989b, 112–19) has treated well the question about the ethics of violence in Revelation more broadly. Although several problems inhere in Bauckham’s characterization of Revelation as “a Christian war scroll” (Johns 2007, 268–76), Bauckham convincingly argues that Revelation reinterprets traditional expectations of messianic war, “substituting faithful witness to the point of martyrdom for armed violence as the means of victory” (Bauckham  1993, xv). So if the hypomonē enjoined upon believers can be thought of as “consistent resistance,” it might more precisely be thought of as “consistent nonviolent resistance.” Although a significant debate raged in the literature of Second Temple Judaism over the ethical propriety of human participation in violent conflict—especially eschatological conflict—the two canonical apocalypses of Daniel and Revelation both articulate a clear call to nonviolent resistance.

234   Loren L. Johns The book of Revelation is by no means an exercise in second-order discourse about the ethics of human violence. If Revelation is unambiguous about the impropriety of human violence, it is so in its own social and historical context, potentially limited by the realistic chances a small group of believers in the province of Asia might have had in rebelling against Rome. Just how broadly John’s understanding of human consistent nonviolent resistance might apply to life in the world of the twenty-first century is an interesting issue worthy of debate—one filled with its own ambiguities—but one that differs from the discourse about what John meant to say to his people in the first century. Simply pitting Rev 4–5 against Rev 6–20 will not do. If there is to be further genuine progress on the significance of the lamb Christology for the book as a whole, it will need to happen through the disciplined investigation of five interrelated issues: 1. Do the actions of the lamb in Rev 6–20 conform more to the logic of traditional retributive violence or the logic of a redefinition of victory? 2. What are the ethics of eschatological judgment itself? 3. Does the so-called matrix of victory (conquering), faithful witness, and death really exist in some meaningful interrelation in the book, or are they actually disparate themes? 4. Might further insight into the political and social realities of John’s first-century context shed further light on the symbols and rhetoric of Revelation? 5. Do other descriptors or titles of Jesus (other than lamb) suggest how we should interpret the central descriptor of Jesus as lamb (arnion)? Each of these questions is complicated. For instance, one of the goriest and most distasteful scenes of bloody judgment in which the lamb participates comes in Rev 14:14–20, with its scene of reaping the earth’s harvest. In dealing with this scene, G. B. Caird argued that the harvest described there is the harvest of faithful martyrs and that the only blood flowing in the deep and long rivers of blood was the blood of those very martyrs. This is an awful vision of the horror of martyrdom, not an awful (or wonderful) vision of God’s judgment on unbelievers at the hand of the lamb! Few commentators have followed Caird in this interpretation, however intriguing or attractive it might be for those who otherwise see the lamb Christology as crucial. Rev 14:14–20 is most likely a hopeful vision of bloody judgment on the powerful, a vision that comes from the underside of history, the underside of power, someone perhaps writing from a cave on Patmos. On the other hand, Rev 6–20 continues to make sense of the lamb Christology introduced in chapter 5. As David Barr puts it, “The violence attributed to the lamb is always equivocal. He slays all the wicked, but by the sword of his mouth (not his hand). He gathers an army but never leads a charge (Barr 2006, 208). If Rev 6–20 really does cohere with the revelation of the nonviolent conquering lamb in Rev 5, one would expect some kind of transformation of that violence, some reversal, some mitigation or cautionary nuance in the scenes of violence themselves in those later chapters. And this is indeed

Jesus in the Book of Revelation   235 what we have. Jesus shows up at the final eschatological battle in Rev 19 with robes already dipped in blood—his own. No actual battle is narrated because the decisive victory has already been won in his own death. It is over before it starts. “Careful reading will show that at every point where John introduces images of violence and conquest, he undermines the symbols with images of suffering and conquering testimony” (Barr 2006, 210). David J. Neville addresses the ethics of eschatological judgment itself in his book, A Peaceable Hope: Contesting Violent Eschatology in New Testament Narratives. Treating the New Testament as a whole, in chapter 7 Neville turns to the problem of the book of Revelation. Neville sees the lamb Christology as determinative with regard to the ethics of eschatological judgment. In his words, “the Christology of Revelation is in step with the peaceable mission of Jesus, despite John’s use of violent imagery . . . The means by which the crucified Jesus ‘conquered’ are the means by which God ‘conquers,’ without remainder” (Neville 2013, 241; emphasis original). In David Barr’s words (2006, 209), “I take it as absolutely fundamental to the Apocalypse that the violence through which Jesus is said to conquer evil is the violence done to him.” Ultimately, Neville (2013, 240) encourages us to imagine the possibility that God may be big enough and powerful enough to judge the earth in ways that are more restorative than retributive.

Conclusion In conclusion, no one challenges the distinctiveness or the pervasiveness of the lamb Christology in the book of Revelation. It is one of the most unusual and unexpected literary features in the book. The question, as Moyise helpfully clarified in 2001, has to do with the import of that Christology in the book and whether it serves as an organizing principle that is strong enough to direct how we read the book. In other words, does the lamb Christology ultimately provide clues about how to read the book that can provide a coherence to what otherwise looks incoherent? My argument here is that the pervasiveness of the symbol, the literarily strategic and dramatic unveiling of the lamb in Rev 5, along with the lamb Christology’s relationship with other significant themes in the book (e.g., Revelation’s redefinition of conquering and its focus on faithful witness in the context of mortal conflict), suggests that the lamb Christology should serve as the prism through which we read the rest of the narrative.

Notes 1. Words used of Jesus in some parts of the New Testament that are not so used in Revelation include savior (sōtēr), teacher (didaskalos), prophet (prophētēs), master (despotēs), servant (pais), and God (theos). 2. Revelation uses the word “lamb” twenty-eight times of Jesus—more than any other word, title, or descriptor for Jesus.

236   Loren L. Johns 3. The decision of the NRSV translators to add the article and capitalize Son of Man in Rev 1:13 as if it were a title is questionable. 4. Cf. Rev 3:14. The editorial decision to add a comma in 1:5 to demarcate two appositional substantives in Nestle-Aland is questionable given the author’s propensity for triadic formulas in Rev 1 (Minear 1968, 9–10). 5. One distinctive version of the listing of the twelve tribes includes Joseph’s son Manasseh, Joseph himself, and landless Levi, while omitting Dan and Joseph’s son Ephraim. Various attempts have been made to explain this odd listing. In any case, we do have twelve historical names here, though they function more as eponyms than personal names. 6. For more on naming as a rhetorical strategy, comparing the rhetoric of Revelation with those of the Dead Sea Scrolls, see Johns 2006, 271–4. 7. For instance, is “the voice” (hē phōnē) in 1:9 simply a descriptor, or is it a title, referring to a hypostatic being (Charlesworth 1986)? 8. The noun for kingdom (basileia) occurs twice in 11:15, as does the verb basileuō (to reign). “Kingdom” (basileia) also occurs in 12:10, as does authority (exousia). The verb reign (basileuō) occurs in 20:4 and 20:6, while the word throne (thronos) occurs in 20:4. Clearly Revelation’s messiah sits on the throne and has authority to reign and to judge—a direct challenge to the Roman emperor. 9. The historical record of the first century shows, however, that emperors who showed appropriate restraint and reluctance to be worship were divinized at death by the Senate, but those who too readily embraced or demanded worship had their memory officially damned. 10. The slippery ambiguity of seemingly straightforward words like atonement and sacrifice is part of the problem here (Johns 2008).

References Abaecherli, A. 1935. “Imperial Symbols on Certain Flavian Coins.” CP 30: 131–40. Armstrong, Paul B. 1990. Conflicting Readings: Variety and Validity in Interpretation. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Barr, David L. 1984. “The Apocalypse as a Symbolic Transformation of the World: A Literary Analysis.” Int 38: 39–50. Barr, David L. 1997. “Towards an Ethical Reading of the Apocalypse: Reflections on John’s Use of Power, Violence, and Misogyny.” In SBL Seminar Papers 36, pp. 358–73. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Barr, David L. 2003a. “Conclusion: Choosing between Readings: Questions and Criteria.” In Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 163–72. RBS 44. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Barr, David L. 2003b. “Doing Violence: Moral Issues in Reading John’s Apocalypse.” In Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 97–108. RBS 44. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Barr, David L. 2006. “The Lamb Who Looks like a Dragon? Characterizing Jesus in John’s Apocalypse.” In The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 205–20. SymS 39. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Bauckham, Richard. 1993. The Climax of Prophecy: Studies on the Book of Revelation. Edinburgh: T & T Clark.

Jesus in the Book of Revelation   237 Beale, G. K. 1999. The Book of Revelation: A Commentary on the Greek Text. NIGTC. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Bloom, Harold, ed. 1988. The Revelation of St. John the Divine. Modern Critical Interpretations. New York: Chelsea House. Blount, Brian  K. 2009. Revelation: A Commentary. NTL. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Boesak, Allan A. 1987. Comfort and Protest: Reflections on the Apocalypse of John of Patmos. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Boring, M. Eugene. 1989a. “Reflection: Interpreting Revelation’s Violent Imagery.” Excursus in Revelation, pp. 112–19. Interpretation. Louisville, KY: John Knox. Boring, M. Eugene. 1989b. Revelation. Interpretation. Louisville: John Knox. Boring, M. Eugene. 1992. “Narrative Christology in the Apocalypse.” CBQ 54: 702–23. Bredin, Mark R. 2003. Jesus, Revolutionary of Peace: A Nonviolent Christology in the Book of Revelation. Paternoster Biblical and Theological Monographs. Carlisle, PA: Paternoster. Brown, Raymond  E. 1981. The Gospel According to John, I–XII: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. 2nd ed. AYB 29. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Caird, George B. 1984. The Revelation of St. John the Divine. 2nd ed. BNTC. London: Black. Carey, Greg. 1999. Elusive Apocalypse: Reading Authority in the Revelation to John. Studies in American Biblical Hermeneutics. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Carey, Greg. 2006. “Symptoms of Resistance in the Book of Revelation.” In The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 169–80. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Carnegie, David R. 1982. “Worthy Is the Lamb: The Hymns in Revelation.” In Christ the Lord: Studies in Christology Presented to Donald Guthrie, edited by Harold H. Rowdon, pp. 243–56. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Charlesworth, James  H. 1986. “The Jewish Roots of Christology: The Discovery of the Hypostatic Voice.” SJT 39: 19–41. Crossan, John Dominic. 2007. God and Empire: Jesus against Rome, Then and Now. San Francisco: Harper San Francisco. Dodd, C. H. 1953. The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ford, J. Massyngberde. 1975. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Friesen, Steven  J. 1993. Twice Neokoros: Ephesus, Asia and the Cult of the Flavian Imperial Family. RGRW 116. Leiden: Brill. Friesen, Steven J. 2001. Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John: Reading Revelation in the Ruins. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Grabiner, Steven. 2015. Revelation’s Hymns: Commentary on the Cosmic Conflict. Library of New Testament Studies. London: Bloomsbury T & T Clark. Guthrie, Donald. 1987. “The Lamb in the Structure of the Book of Revelation.” Vox Evangelica 12: 64–71. Hofius, Otfried. 1998. “Ἀρνίον—Widder oder Lamm? Erwägungen zur Bedeutung des Wortes in der Johannesapokalypse.” ZNW 89: 272–81. Jeremias, Joachim. 1964. “ἀμνός, ἀρήν, ἀρνίον.” In TDNT, vol. 1, pp. 338–41. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Johns, Loren L. 2006. “The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Apocalypse of John.” In The Scrolls and Christian Origins, vol. 3 of The Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls, edited by James H. Charlesworth, pp. 255–79. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press.

238   Loren L. Johns Johns, Loren L. 2007. “Identity and Resistance: The Varieties of Competing Models in Early Judaism.” In Qumran Studies: New Approaches, New Questions, edited by Michael Thomas Davis and Brent A. Strawn, pp. 254–77. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Johns, Loren L. 2008. “Atonement and Sacrifice in the Book of Revelation.” In The Work of Jesus Christ in Anabaptist Perspective: Essays in Honor of J. Denny Weaver, edited by Alain Epp Weaver and Gerald J. Mast, pp. 124–46. Telford, PA: Cascadia. Johns, Loren L. 2014. The Lamb Christology of the Apocalypse of John: An Investigation into Its Origins and Rhetorical Force. 2003. WUNT II/167. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Kraybill, J.  Nelson. 1996. Imperial Cult and Commerce in John’s Apocalypse. JSNTSup 132. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic. Kraybill, J.  Nelson. 2010. Apocalypse and Allegiance: Worship, Politics, and Devotion in the Book of Revelation. Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos. Laws, Sophie. 1988. In the Light of the Lamb: Imagery, Parody, and Theology in the Apocalypse of John. Wilmington, DE: Glazier. Megoran, Nick. 2013. “Radical Politics and the Apocalypse: Activist Readings of Revelation.” Area 45: 141–47. Minear, Paul  S. 1968. I Saw a New Earth: An Introduction to the Visions of the Apocalypse. Washington, DC: Corpus Books. Moyise, Steve. 1995. The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Moyise, Steve. 2001a. “Does the Lion Lie Down with the Lamb?” In Studies in the Book of Revelation, edited by Steve Moyise, pp. 181–94. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Moyise, Steve. 2001b. The Old Testament in the New: An Introduction. Continuum Biblical Studies. New York: Continuum. Neville, David  J. 2013. A Peaceable Hope: Contesting Violent Eschatology in New Testament Narratives. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Prévost, Jean-Pierre. 1993. How to Read the Apocalypse. Translated by John Bowden and Margaret Lydamore. New York: Crossroad. Reddish, Mitchell G. 2001. Revelation. SHBC. Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1985. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. Philadelphia: Fortress. Spitta, Friedrich. 1907. “Christus das Lamm.” In Streitfragen der Geschichte Jesu, edited by Friedrich Spitta, pp. 172–224. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Stevenson, Gregory. 2013. A Slaughtered Lamb: Revelation and the Apocalyptic Response to Evil and Suffering. Abilene, TX: Abilene Christian University Press. Streett, Matthew  J. 2012. Here Comes the Judge: Violent Pacifism in the Book of Revelation. LNTS. London: T & T Clark. Sweet, John. 1990. Revelation. Philadelphia: Trinity Press International. Thompson, Leonard  L. 1990. The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire. New York: Oxford University Press. Trites, Allison A. 1973. “Martys and Martyrdom in the Apocalypse: A Semantic Study.” NovT 15: 80. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1976. The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation. HDR 9. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press.

Jesus in the Book of Revelation   239 Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1984. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Westminster. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1992a. “Book of Revelation.” In ABD, vol. 5, pp. 694–708. New York: Doubleday. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1992b. “The ‘Son of Man’ Tradition and the Book of Revelation.” In The Messiah: Developments in Earliest Judaism and Christianity, edited by James H. Charlesworth, pp. 536–68. Minneapolis: Fortress.

chapter 15

The Spir it i n th e Book of R ev el ation John Christopher Thomas

The role of the Spirit in the book of Revelation has not received the same level of scholarly attention as other areas of New Testament pneumatology; nonetheless, it has generated a significant amount of research. The major research foci have been the topics of “the seven spirits,” the phrases “in the Spirit” and the “Spirit of prophecy,” and the relationship between Jesus and the Spirit. Whether viewed in isolation from each other or as part of a synthetic whole, each of these topics contributes to an understanding of the role of the Spirit in the Apocalypse. This chapter examines each of these component elements within Revelation’s pneumatology.

“The Seven Spirits” (of God) On four occasions the book of Revelation refers to “the seven spirits” (1:4; 3:1; 4:5; and 5:6). In its inaugural mention (1:4) the seven spirits are described as being located before “his” throne, referring to “the one who is and the one who was and the one who is coming,” while in the remaining three occurrences they are identified as “the seven spirits of God” (3:1; 4:5; and 5:6). Though at one level the identity of the seven spirits appears to be rather straightforward, scholars have been divided over the exact background and meaning of this phrase (Waddell 2006, 9–21).

The Seven Spirits as Angelic Beings One of the ways in which the seven spirits have been identified is as actually seven angelic beings, an interpretation that can be traced back at least to the time of Oecumenius (sixth century ce), who states directly that the seven spirits are the seven

242   John Christopher Thomas angels. He quickly adds that these angels are not co-equal to, nor co-eternal with the other members of the Trinity, but are rather true assistants and faithful servants of God (Commentary on the Apocalypse 1:4). A number of arguments in modern scholarship have been put forward in support of the interpretation that the seven spirits are to be identified as the seven angels, arguments that draw on various forms of external and internal evidence. R. H. Charles argued that the seven spirits refer to the seven archangels, which were well-known in Jewish tradition. He considered the inclusion of these angels in the greeting to be an interpolation based on the erroneous idea that they represented the seven energies ascribed to the Messiah in Isa 11:2–3 (Charles 1920, 11–12). Though Eduard Schweizer was not persuaded that the phrase in Rev 1:4 originated as an interpolation, he, too, concluded that the seven spirits have reference to the seven archangels found within the history of religions background of Judaism and ancient Christianity (Schweizer 1968, 450). Similarly, David Aune mines the religious and historical background of the Apocalypse for clues to the meaning of the seven spirits and comes to the conclusion that they are indeed to be understood as the seven principal angels of God. Aune rejects the interpretation that the seven spirits have reference to the Spirit of God as artificial and unconvincing, in part because it reflects the later conceptualization of God along Trinitarian lines. Instead, Aune traces the background of this phrase in Judaism of the period. He acknowledges that “spirits of God” appears nowhere in the Old Testament, that the plural “spirits” is never used for angels in the Hebrew Bible, and that in much of the literature of the era, the term “spirits” only rarely functions as a synonym for “angels”—it normally is used for malevolent spirits. He therefore grounds his interpretation primarily in parallels from the Qumran literature, where he argues that the term “spirits” does in fact function as a synonym for “angels.” On this view, Aune contends that “the seven spirits” must be identified with “the seven angels who stand before God” in 8:2. He seeks to strengthen this interpretation by surveying various groups of seven entities in contemporary literature as a backdrop to this text in Revelation (Aune 1997, 1.33–35). Craig Koester has presented the most nuanced rationale for this understanding by seeking to integrate both the external and internal evidence for this interpretation. Connecting the seven spirits (1:4; 3:1; 4:5; 5:6) with the seven angels (8:2), which are both described as being before the throne, Koester points out that the seven stars in the hands of Christ (4:5) are referred to as both angels (1:20) and spirits (3:1). Further, he observes that the seven spirits are described as seven flaming torches (4:5), an idea found in the Hebrew Bible (Ps 104:4 [103:4 LXX]) as well as the New Testament (Heb 1:7, 14). After grounding his interpretation in the world of the text, Koester then draws on the relevant evidence from the Qumran literature (4Q405 23 I, 8–10; 1QM XII, 8–9), and suggests how such an understanding might be analogous in some ways to other royal depictions scattered through earlier and contemporaneous literature (Esth 1:14; Ezra 7:14; 1 En. 20:1–7; 37:2, 4; Tob 12:15; Koester 2014, 216). While Aune concludes that the interpretive option that sees the seven spirits in Revelation as the seven principal angels of Judaism is “very certainly the correct one,” Koester’s assessment leads to a more guarded

The Spirit in the Book of Revelation   243 conclusion, for he will later observe that the seven spirits before the throne are “probably” angelic spirits (Koester 2014, 226).

The Seven Spirits as the Singular Spirit of God Another major interpretive option, which appears to be even more ancient in its origins than the previous one—with adherents going back at least to the time of Victorinus of Pettau (died 304)—identifies the seven spirits before the throne as the singular Spirit of God. For Victorinus, who writes the earliest extant commentary on Revelation, the ground for this identification is the list of traits in Isa 11:2–3. Following the LXX version of the text, Victorinus identifies this sevenfold spirit as “the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, of knowledge and of piety, and the spirit of the fear of God” (Victorinus, Commentary on the Apocalypse 1:4). This line of interpretation would prove attractive to some interpreters who view it as providing a partial explanation for the meaning and origin of seven spirits, though not necessarily the origin of the number seven, in Rev 1:4 (Bruce 1973, 333; Hemer 1986, 142). However, the equation between the seven spirits and the sevenfold spirit of Isa 11:2 would be challenged on the basis that the Hebrew text contains only six clauses rather than the requisite seven, which seems to indicate that such an explanation falters at this point (Fekkes, 1994, 109). Yet newer methods of identifying and understanding intertextual connections maintain that an image in Revelation may draw associations from a variety of older texts, so that one need not assume that it is based on a single older source (Moyise, 1995, 18). For example, other scholars have identified Zech 4:4–14 as the interpretive key for understanding the identity of the seven spirits—especially their appearances, in Rev 4:5 and 5:6, with flaming lamps of fire (Zech 4:2) and the seven horns and seven eyes (Zech 4:10), respectively (Bauckham  1993b, 109–15; Bruce  1973, 333–44; Sorke  2009, 215–18; Thomas 2012, 329–31; Waddell 2006, 172–78). In addition to identifying intertexts that reveal something of the identity of the seven spirits, appeal has been made to literary contexts within Revelation where the seven spirits seem to function as the singular Spirit of God. First, the initial reference to the seven spirits comes in the book’s prologue, where it is part of the author’s greeting to the recipients, in which the blessings of grace and peace are extended from “the one who is and was and is coming and from the seven spirits that are before his throne and from Jesus Christ.” (1:4). Located in-between the references to God as “the one who is and was and is coming” and to “Jesus Christ,” the seven spirits appear by association to be part of this holy community, which suggests their divine identity (Contreras Molina 1987, 19). This identity is further informed by the order of this listing, since the seven spirits are mentioned after the reference to the “the one who is and was and is coming” but before the reference to “Jesus Christ,” indicating that the mention of the seven spirits is anything but perfunctory and that it prepares the hearers for the seven spirits’ divine activity as the narrative unfolds. The seven spirits’ location is “in the closest interactive working relationships” with the one who sits on the throne and Jesus Christ

244   John Christopher Thomas (Smidt 1999, 42). The attribution of grace and peace to the seven spirits is striking in that nowhere else in the NT are these qualities attributed to an apostle or angel; they appear instead to be divine prerogatives of God and Jesus (Schreiner 2010, 502). Moreover, relationships indicated by the greeting in 1:4 continue as the seven spirits are again linked to Jesus (3:1; 5:6) and to “the one who sits on the throne” (4:5), and calling them the seven spirits “of God” fits their divine identity (4:5; Bauckham 1993a, 109–15). The final reference is in Rev 5:6, where the seven eyes of the Lamb are “the seven spirits of God sent out into all the earth.” In this passage the connection is made in the following ways: (a) The context connects the seven spirits both to the one who sits on the throne (God) and to the Lamb (Jesus) in ways reminiscent of 1:4, which again suggests a divine identity. (b) In 5:6 the seven spirits are the eyes of the Lamb, so that they are effectively “embedded” in the Lamb, which gives the intimate relationship between the seven spirits and the Lamb in 1:4 and 3:1 a more concrete expression. This intimacy parallels the intimacy between Jesus and the Spirit in the seven prophetic messages (2:7, 11, 17, 29; 3:1, 6, 13, 22). (c) The seven spirits seem to have a divine function in 5:6, since they are “sent into all the earth,” a mission that appears to include divine knowledge. (d) Since the seven spirits of God are embedded as the seven eyes of the Lamb in 5:6, it would seem that they are an implied recipient when universal worship is rendered to the Lamb in 5:8–14, which again shows a divine identity and makes it plausible to interpret the seven spirits as a way to speak of God’s Spirit. If this is correct, then Rev 5:6 is perhaps the  only place in the NT where worship is rendered to the Spirit (Thomas and Macchia 2016, 492).

“I Was in the Spirit” The phrase “in the Spirit” occurs four times in the Apocalypse (1:10; 4:2; 17:3; 21:10), and its function and meaning have received a fair amount of scholarly attention.

“In the Spirit” as a Literary/Structural Marker While a variety of proposals have been offered with regard to the structure of Revelation, a growing number of scholars have concluded that whatever its other dimensions of meaning, the phrase “in the Spirit” plays a crucial role in the overall structure of the Apocalypse. Located between the book’s prologue (1:1–8) and its epilogue (22:6–21), the four “in the Spirit” phrases serve as literary and structural markers, assisting the hearers as they make their way through the narrative. Each occurrence of the phrase locates John in a different place—on Patmos, in heaven, in a wilderness, and on a great ­mountain—and these phrases also appear in two sets of pairs, in which there are similarities and contrasts. The first two occurrences are introduced by “a great voice” and the second pair is introduced by “one of the seven angels having the seven bowls.” Further,

The Spirit in the Book of Revelation   245 in the first pair there is a contrast between John’s physical location on Patmos and his visionary location in heaven, and in the second pair a contrast is offered between the cities of Babylon and the New Jerusalem—situated in the wilderness and on the mountain, respectively. Using these phrases in such a manner can hardly be accidental but forms the broad structure of the book (Tenney 1957, 33). The distribution of the phrase throughout the entire document testifies to its function as a major literary marker; each occurrence both indicates a distinct change of scene and is followed by a section that holds together in terms of thematic unity (Kempson 1982, 85–86). The phrase has even been identified as “a typical apocalyptic structural convention,” owing to the similarities of its function to other formulae found in contemporary apocalyptic works (Smith 1994, 385). Since the Apocalypse is to be heard (1:3), this thematic structure would convey to the hearer that the whole of the book is one singular visionary experience given “in the Spirit” on the Lord’s Day on Patmos (1:10). Subsequent appearances of the phrase (4:2; 17:3; 21:10) indicate transitions within the vision (Bauckham 1993a, 1–7), but they do not necessarily indicate additional visions, because throughout the book John is “in the Spirit.” This interpretation of the literary function of the “in the Spirit” phrases results in the following narrative structure: The Prologue (1:1–8) “In the Spirit” on the Lord’s Day (1:9–3:22) “In the Spirit” in Heaven (4:1–16:21) “In the Spirit” in the Wilderness (17:1–21:8) “In the Spirit” on a Great Mountain (21:9–22:5) Epilogue (22:6–21)

“In the Spirit” and John’s Experience of the Spirit This literary function does not exhaust the meaning of this phrase, however. Specifically, scholars have sought to understand what the phrase might reveal about John’s experience of the Spirit. “In the Spirit” as Ecstatic or Trance-like Experience. It is not uncommon for interpreters to take the phrase “in the Spirit” as a description of an ecstatic experience. For some, John’s experience is best understood as “falling into a trance,” not unlike what is described in other places in the NT (Acts 11:5; 22:17), since it was only after John was initially “in the Spirit” that he was addressed by Christ—though the use of the phrase later may imply something more than falling into a trance (Charles 1920, 1.22, 110). On this view, the phrase is an idiom indicating that John’s revelatory experience occurs in the Spirit, not in the body, and it is a vision trance (Aune 1997, 82–83). Others have used the term “ecstatic” to describe John’s experience without offering much by way of definition or meaning for the term. Significantly, the Greek word from which the English word “ecstatic” is translated never appears in Revelation, as it does in Acts. It seems likely that there is more to the phrase “in the Spirit” than the signaling of an ecstatic or trance-like experience on John’s part.

246   John Christopher Thomas “In the Spirit” as Spirit Possession. The phrase “in the Spirit” has also been understood to indicate a form of spirit possession, similar to other types of spirit possession in antiquity. On this view, in the setting of worship on the Lord’s Day, John was possessed by the Spirit. When compared with other forms of religious experience, John’s seems to be more like that of a shaman than a medium, since he did not lose control of his own thoughts or awareness. In this state of Spirit possession, it was not that John received revelatory information from the divine world above to be channeled through him, but that the Spirit opened up John’s perspective on the human world below, making his context a part of the revelatory experience which was then seen and experienced in a different light (Thompson  2003, 140–41). However, the application of such anachronistic categories to John’s Spirit experience and the way in which the conclusions offered run counter to the understanding offered at the text’s narrative level suggest that other ways of understanding what it means to be “in the Spirit” may merit more attention. “In the Spirit” and the Prophetic Revelatory Experience. Instead of seeking to understand the phrase in light of categories external to the text, other interpreters have sought to allow the text to define the meaning of “in the Spirit” in Revelation. In such explanations the phrase is often understood to describe John as in the sphere or under the power of the Spirit, enabling him, or at least his consciousness, to be transported to new scenes of action where he receives a variety of revelatory disclosures (Hill  1979, 90–91; Tenney 1957, 32–33). As the phrase stands near the beginning of the four major sections of the book, introducing a transition in the visionary experience, it follows that the Spirit is a constant agent of revelation (Mazzaferri 1989, 300–303). On this view, the phrase functions as a technical term for John’s experience of rapture by the Spirit. During this time, he appears to experience a suspension of his normal consciousness as “his normal sensory experience” is “replaced by visions and auditions given him by the Spirit.” While “in the Spirit,” and despite his extraordinary revelatory experiences, he retains his ability to think, since he does not lose his faculties in the process. Thus, the Spirit inspires both John’s prophetic experience and the medium by which it is shared with his hearers (Bauckham 1993a, 159). John’s experience parallels that of Ezekiel, especially the visionary transportation by the Spirit, further underscoring the connection between the activity of the Spirit and John’s prophetic task (Mazzaferri 1989, 377–83). “In the Spirit” and the Context of Worship. A connection between the experience of being “in the Spirit” and the act of worship seems to be implied by the fact that so much liturgical language occurs in the book’s prologue, which immediately precedes the first “in the Spirit” phrase. Aspects suggesting a liturgical context include: the first of seven beatitudes (i.e., words of blessing), which helps introduce a book described as “words of prophecy” (1:3); the fact that Revelation is to be heard in a communal context and is addressed to a cluster of churches (1:4); the coupling of words about Jesus Christ with a doxology; and a prologue that concludes with two prophetic words, one attributed to Jesus (1:7) and the other to God (1:8). John’s reference to being “in the Spirit on the Lord’s Day” is understood by many to refer to Sunday as a regular day of worship. On this view, the implied regularity of John’s practice and that of the community with whom he is united “in the Spirit,” though geographically separated from, would make more explicit

The Spirit in the Book of Revelation   247 the tie between John’s being “in the Spirit” and worship as the context in which such a phenomenon is an expected part. The angelic command to worship God in 19:10 “for the witness of Jesus is the Spirit of Prophecy” would seem to confirm the connection between worship and the activity of the Spirit (Koester 2014, 739–40). This understanding should not be taken to imply that John worshipped “in the Spirit” in order to receive an apocalypse, but rather, that he worshipped “in the Spirit” because that is how worship took place. As such, it is in a state of worship that John receives the apocalypse (Archer 2015, 130–31). Worship is thought to have included at least music and singing (Thompson 2003, 142–45), owing in part to the number of hymns and musical instruments mentioned in the book, as well as prayers, kinesthetic movement, words of worship, silence, repentance, perhaps even the Eucharist, and witness as an act of worship (Archer 2015, 312–28).

“In the Spirit” and Writing in the Spirit: Literary Fiction or Expression of the Church’s Spiritual Experience Although one earlier interpreter took the position that John essentially transcribed the vision using the words of Jesus rather than his own (Lenski 1943, 15–16), modern scholars have been divided over the issue of whether the claims of the book about John’s Spirit experience are a literary fiction that owes its origin to apocalyptic literary conventions, or whether they attest John’s actual experience of the Spirit. On the one hand, the text shows signs of literary and theological development and sophistication consistent with a long period of reflection and thought. This fact, combined with some overlap with the characteristics of the apocalyptic genre have led to the conclusion that the writer was following literary convention when referring to his call and experience of the Spirit (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 51). On the other hand, the text claims that John was “in the Spirit” when he experienced the revelation and was instructed to write down what he saw and heard. One of the problems in attempting to prove that John’s claims of being “in the Spirit” are a literary fiction is that “the phenomenology of revelatory experience conforms to stereotypical behavioral and literary conventions and expectations,” indicating that reaching a definitive decision on this issue is an almost insoluble problem (Aune 1997, 82). This situation, along with the role which visionary experience appears to have played in various early Christian circles, suggests that John’s claims to such Spirit experience cannot be easily discarded, but must be taken seriously. A mediating approach would allow for a visionary experience as perhaps the catalyst for the work, while taking into account the “conscious literary shaping” of various features within the text, acknowledging that John often followed literary convention, while at the same time reckoning with the fact that he departed from such convention at any number of points (Koester 2014, 251–52).

248   John Christopher Thomas My own view is that the role of the Spirit in the composition of the book was even greater than simply being a catalyst for the work. Instead, I propose that it helps to account for the literary and theological complexity of the work, taking seriously the book’s attribution that “in the Spirit” John writes all that he sees and hears in his extended visionary experience. On this view, the book of Revelation is the result of the “dynamic convergence and intersection of all that is John’s life,” experienced when he is “in the Spirit.” Specifically, all that John is, his knowledge of the OT, the apocalyptic traditions, the Johannine Jesus tradition, his worshipping community, and the experience of revelation itself converges before his eyes and ears “in the Spirit” to produce the text of the Revelation. Such an understanding suggests that instead of seeing Revelation as the product of a long period of reflection and thought, one can view John’s “in the Spirit” experience as resulting concretely in the production of an extraordinarily complex and unique prophetic text, an understanding that would seem to be very much at home in the narrative of the Apocalypse (Thomas 2012, 44–47).

The Spirit of Prophecy The phrase “the Spirit of prophecy” occurs one time in the book of Revelation (19:10), in the statement, “For the testimony of Jesus is the Spirit of prophecy.” Despite its uniqueness, a number of scholars consider the “Spirit of prophecy” to be the dominant or central pneumatic theme in the book, one that is closely associated with the “in the Spirit” phrases (Bauckham, 1993a; Bruce 1973, 337–40; Schweizer 1968, 449). The phrase is even sometimes used by scholars as shorthand to refer to the pneumatology of the Apocalypse. However, a number of interpretive issues surround the meaning of this phrase.

The “Spirit of Prophecy” and the Question of Genre An investigation of the book’s genre may go some way toward informing the meaning of the phrase the “Spirit of prophecy.” It is not uncommon for discussions of the genre of the book of Revelation to begin with a comparison of its characteristics with those of the literary genre identified as the apocalyptic tradition, a category that, ironically, receives its name from the Apocalypse of John. The similarities between Revelation and the apocalyptic tradition are striking at some points, but at other points, significant differences are evident. The similarities include the use of fantastic imagery, a transcendent perspective that gives its hearers the opportunity to view this world and its history from the perspective of heaven, the question “Who is L/lord over this world,” and a decidedly eschatological orientation. The differences between Revelation and the apocalyptic tradition include the fact that Revelation is not pseudonymous, because John writes in his own name; a more extensive use of visual symbolism than is found in other documents labeled apocalyptic; and the

The Spirit in the Book of Revelation   249 way in which the book is an unsealed—that is, open—book designed to reveal its contents rather than a sealed book designed to conceal its contents (Thomas 2012, 13–16). Owing to such mixed results in comparing Revelation with other apocalyptic texts, several scholars have identified the Apocalypse as a book of prophecy (Mazzaferri 1989). Internal evidence for this identification is plentiful. First, the volume begins (1:3) and ends (22:8) by referring to the book as “the words of this prophecy,” enfolding the entire contents of Revelation with prophetic claims. This identification is supported by the angel’s words of instruction to John in 22:10, “Do not seal up the words of this prophecy,” and John’s words about “the words of this prophecy” and “the book of this prophecy” near Revelation’s conclusion (22:18–19). Second, a number of passages in Revelation appear to be individual prophetic utterances (1:7, 8; 2:1–3:22; 14:13; 16:15; 22:7–20). Third, there are a number of affinities between Revelation and OT prophetic literature, including John’s call narrative and his reinterpretation of the words of the OT prophets. On this last point, it is significant that in the prophecy concerning Babylon, in 18:1–19:8, there are echoes of every message spoken against Babylon in the OT (Bauckham 1993b, 5). Accordingly, the phrase “the Spirit of prophecy” is situated in a document that presents itself as prophetic, making it likely that the phrase should be understood as having reference to prophetic activity generated by the power of the Spirit (Thomas 2012, 572–73).

“The Witness of Jesus and the Spirit of Prophecy” The expression “Spirit of prophecy” is connected to “the testimony of Jesus” in 19:10. One of the interpretive challenges is whether the grammatical construction “the testimony of Jesus” is a subjective genitive or an objective genitive. If the former, the phrase describes Jesus’s witness; if the latter, the phrase describes the witness about Jesus. Though the different interpretive options have a variety of defenders, it seems unlikely that the hearers would have felt compelled to choose between the options, because by this point in the narrative, both dimensions of Jesus’s witness have been described. The witness about Jesus is indeed a message from Jesus (Michaels 1997, 213). Moreover, the witness of Jesus is intimately connected with his identity as “the faithful witness” (1:5) who himself has been faithful unto death as “the firstborn of the dead.” In 19:10, the ­witness of Jesus can best be understood as the theological point at which the teaching of and about Jesus and the words of the resurrected Jesus, as well as the witness of Jesus conveyed by the Spirit to the church, converge (Koester 2014, 740).

The “Spirit of Prophecy” and the Phenomenon of Prophecy in the Church The expression “Spirit of prophecy” may include bold preaching, as some have suggested, but that interpretation does not exhaust the phrase’s meaning in the Apocalypse.

250   John Christopher Thomas A number of scholars are convinced that the phrase points to, and must be understood in the light of, the phenomenon of prophecy in the life and experience of the church. Evidence for such an interpretation includes the book’s affinities with prophetic literature, as well as the complex view of the extent of prophecy in the community implied by the text. First, although John is nowhere explicitly referred to as a prophet, it is clear from the text that he functions in a prophetic role. John describes his work as words of prophecy. He is four times described as being “in the Spirit,” which makes his revelatory experiences possible. On two occasions John recounts his prophetic call and commission to write what he sees (1:11; 10:8–11). His engagement with the resurrected Jesus, angelic figures, and the elders, as well as his transportation by the Spirit on two occasions, are reminiscent of the experiences of OT prophetic figures. By recounting his revelatory experiences in Revelation, he makes them available to his hearers. Clearly, John functions as a prophet, which makes it likely that the community itself was a context in which prophetic activity occurred. The book also reveals the existence of at least one rival prophetic figure, a woman whom Jesus calls Jezebel, whose teachings and practices he condemns (2:20). Significantly, while John nowhere explicitly refers to himself as a prophet, this prophetic rival is described as “one who calls herself a prophet,” perhaps suggesting that prophets in this community do not so much claim the title of prophet for themselves as have the title affirmed about them by others. Her deceptive teaching leads “my servants” to commit sexual immorality and eat food sacrificed to idols. The association of her teaching with “the deep things of Satan” suggests that the source of her prophetic work is not the Spirit, in contrast to that of John’s prophetic work. Jesus instructs the community not to tolerate this activity but to repent. The clear implication is that just as those who claimed to be apostles—but are not—were tested, so this false prophetic figure and her teaching should have been tested. The existence of this rival “prophet” signals that the community was familiar with more prophetic figures than John and is additional evidence for understanding the community envisioned by the Apocalypse as a prophetic one. John does not function alone in his prophetic task, but is joined by others referred to explicitly as “your brothers the prophets” (22:9) and implicitly in the phrase “the Lord, the God of the spirits of the prophets” (22:6). Although their role and function are not described, they would seem to be similar to those of John. Several additional references appear to be made to such prophets in Revelation (11:18; 16:6; 18:20, 24; cf. also 10:7; 11:10). The cumulative weight of such evidence suggests that the community is one in which the idea of “the prophethood of all believers” was a significant part of the community’s self-understanding (Waddell 2006, 193).

The “Spirit of Prophecy” and Pneumatic Witness The witness of Jesus is closely connected to the “Spirit of prophecy,” for Jesus is the faithful witness par excellence in Revelation (1:5). Significantly, such faithful witness is shared or emulated by numerous individuals in the book. They include Antipas, who is

The Spirit in the Book of Revelation   251 explicitly called “my faithful witness” by Jesus (2:13), and other figures who were faithful unto death, such as the souls under the altar (6:9–11), the great crowd or innumerable multitude (7:9–17), the two prophetic witnesses (11:3, 7), and believers in general (12:11, 17; 17:6), as well as the one hundred forty-four thousand (14:4). The story of the two prophetic witnesses, which stands near the center of the Apocalypse (11:1–13), shows how the relationship between the faithful witness (of Jesus) and the “Spirit of prophecy” extends to those within the prophetic community implied by the book. These individuals are identified as “my [God’s] two witnesses,” who will (divinely) be given the ability to prophesy, suggesting that here the activities of witnessing and prophesying are synonymous. In the description of the two witnesses that follows, a variety of prophetic characteristics converge in ways not unlike the description of the inaugural vision of the resurrected Jesus in 1:9–20. The two witnesses are identified as the two olive trees and the two lampstands, reminiscent of Zech 4 (Bauckham 1993a, 273–83). They can bring forth fire and close the heavens like Elijah. They have the ability to turn water into blood and bring other plagues like Moses. But perhaps most significantly, they experience a death, resurrection, and ascension like that of Jesus. Their prophetic powers appear to be the accumulation of all the prophets who preceded them; their anointing by the Spirit seems to be complete as they stand before the Lord of all the earth, a position not unlike that of the seven spirits of God. In the two witnesses there seems to be a convergence of the activity of Jesus, the prophetic ministry of the Spirit, and the ongoing witness of the church. When their witness was complete they became vulnerable to the beast who rises from the abyss and is victorious over them, killing them and humiliating them in the global city by denying them burial. But their prophetic Spirit activity was not confined to their lifetime, for “the Spirit of life from God” entered into them and stood them on their feet. Then they, in language reminiscent of the prophetic word of Jesus in Rev 1:7, were taken up into the clouds before the eyes of their enemies. These prophetic events would result in the conversion of the vast majority of the inhabitants of the great city (Thomas 2012, 341–42). For the community, participation in the faithful witness of Jesus appears to be fueled by the Spirit of prophecy. It is a witness very much at home in a prophetic community. This reality can be observed near the book’s end, where the Spirit and the bride speak the same words of invitation for any to “come” (22:17) and drink from the river of the water of life that brings salvation and healing to the nations who respond to such faithful witness by believing in the Lamb (22:1–2). Such a result, the conversion of the nations, is the ultimate goal of such Spirit-inspired faithful prophetic witness.

The “Spirit of Prophecy” and Pneumatic Discernment Discernment plays a major role in the narrative of Revelation. Throughout the book John and his hearers are called to and aided in the process of discerning what obedience to God and Christ entails. On occasion, such assistance is offered from the resurrected Jesus himself (1:20), one of the elders (7:13–14), and/or angelic beings (14:6–13). There

252   John Christopher Thomas are also a number of literary markers that call the hearers to discern. One of the most significant is the specific call to pneumatic discernment near the conclusion of each of the seven prophetic messages, “The one who has an ear let that one hear what the Spirit is saying to the churches” (Ruiz  1989, 195–200). This sevenfold call reinforces John’s blessing, spoken to the hearers in 1:3, with regard to hearing and keeping the words of this prophecy, suggesting that these calls are invitations to discern what obedience means. This hearing is a pneumatic activity that stands in solidarity with John, who is “in the Spirit” when he receives and writes these words, with the prophetically spoken words of Jesus, and with the Spirit who calls for and enables discerning obedience (Thomas 2012, 121–23). At some points, the text implicitly calls for pneumatologically conditioned discernment, as in the need for wisdom and understanding, which may be understood as divine gifts (13:18; 17:9), and in the challenge of interpreting a title like Babylon the Great, which involves mystery. The story of the two prophetic witnesses, however, explicitly calls for pneumatic discernment (Johnson 2018, 266–72). The Greek term pneumatikos (11:8) has variously been translated as “spiritually,” “allegorically,” “figuratively,” and “symbolically.” But these translations fail to capture the relationship of the term to the Greek word for Spirit that lies at its root. The translation “pneumatically” conveys the sense that pneumatic discernment is a Spirit-given perception (Bauckham 1993a, 169). Specifically, in this text “the Great City” pneumatically means “Sodom and Egypt, the place where their Lord was crucified.” This interpretive assistance offered by the Spirit stands in continuity with the interpretive assistance offered by Jesus earlier in the narrative (1:20). It is significant that this term stands at the center of a passage that stands at the center of a book in which pneumatic discernment plays a major role. As Waddell notes, “In the center of the Apocalypse, John places the story of the two witnesses, and in the center of this brief narrative, John describes the spiritual insight of the church discerning the reality of the great city” (Waddell 2006, 183). The entire process of pneumatic interpretation presented in the Apocalypse can be described by this term (Herms 2015). In a comprehensive study of pneumatic discernment, David  R.  Johnson argues that in the Apocalypse discernment begins with Jesus, the seven Spirits, and the one who sits on the throne, for truth and discernment are Christologically, pneumatically, and theologically conditioned. He proposes that the means of pneumatic discernment include pneumatic experience, communal worship, stories and hymns (including lament), and even the narrative of the Apocalypse itself, so that discernment is perhaps the most essential aspect of the church’s existence (Johnson 2018, 348–92). In a prophetic community like the one presupposed by Revelation, there would be a need for a way to discern between true and false prophecy. The fact that John and his “brothers the prophets” have at least one rival prophet, the woman Jesus calls Jezebel— who is condemned for her teachings and practices, not her gender—confirms this need. At the cosmic level, this tension is captured by the way the seven spirits go out from the eyes of the Lamb, while the evil spirits go out of the mouths of the dragon, the beast, and the false prophet (Thomas and Macchia 2016, 487). How would the community discern the difference between such true and false claims and what inspires them?

The Spirit in the Book of Revelation   253 There may be traces of such a process of discernment in 2:2, where the church in Ephesus is praised for the fact that they have “tested” the claims of those who said of themselves to be apostles but were found to be liars. Such testing may be in keeping with the words about testing the spirits in 1 John 4:1–6, where the entire community (“you,” plural) is called to discern by testing. In 1 John the confession of faith fostered through the Spirit is expected to be in conformity to the whole complex of the Johannine Jesus tradition, summarized in the words “Jesus Christ coming in the flesh” (Thomas 2012, 111–15). Similarly, the close connection between the command to worship and the statement “For the witness of Jesus is the Spirit of prophecy” in Rev 19:10 might suggest that prophetic pronouncements were also assessed based on whether or not they encouraged members of the community to participate in the worship of God or in the false worship of his rivals (Koester 2014, 740).

The Spirit and Jesus A final major aspect of the pneumatology of the Apocalypse is the relationship between Jesus and the Spirit. First, the extremely close nature of their relationship is apparent from the beginning of Revelation, where, in conveying grace and peace, the seven spirits are mentioned in between God and Jesus Christ, with the seven spirits actually preceding the mention of Jesus. As noted earlier, this triadic greeting suggests that God, the seven spirits, and Jesus Christ are part of a divine community—underscoring an extraordinarily tight relationship between the three, including Jesus and the Spirit. Second, the closeness of their relationship is informed by a phrase that stands near the end of each of the seven prophetic messages (2:7, 11, 17, 29; 3:6, 13, 22), “The one who has an ear let that one hear what the Spirit is saying to the churches.” While this refrain indicates that the words to be heard—and thus obeyed—are the words of the Spirit, they are also the words of Jesus, since each message begins as direct address from the resurrected Jesus. Thus, the words Jesus speaks, without interruption, from 1:17 to 3:22 are also the words of the Spirit, and the words the Spirit is saying in this context are coterminous with the words spoken prophetically by Jesus. The fact that Jesus and the Spirit speak with one voice reveals that their relationship is even closer than their appearance together in the prologue initially suggests (1:4–5). Third, at the beginning of the prophetic message to the church in Sardis, Jesus claims to be “the one who has the seven spirits of God and seven stars,” making his intimate connection with the Spirit even clearer (3:1)—and since “the seven spirits” are “of God” this statement may also reveal the intimate relationship he shares with God. Later the seven spirits of God are identified with the eyes of the Lamb (5:6), an image that so emphasizes the closeness of the Spirit’s relationship to Jesus that it might well leave the impression that one is wholly subsumed in the other and that there is no longer any differentiation between the two. Finally, 19:10 testifies to the inseparable connection between the witness of Jesus and the Spirit of prophecy.

254   John Christopher Thomas Despite the extraordinarily intimate nature of their relationship, Jesus and the Spirit do not lose their distinct identities. The Spirit is differentiated from Jesus in contexts where the seven spirits are before the throne, where John experiences the revelation of Jesus Christ “in the Spirit,” as the seven spirits go out into all the earth, and as the Spirit anoints the prophetic witness of the prophetic community to a hostile world (11.3–13). Later, the personal character of the Spirit is underscored when the Spirit can speak on the Spirit’s own terms (14:13) and in connection with the Bride (22:17), leading one scholar to conclude that in this one respect the pneumatology of Revelation may be even more sophisticated than that of the Gospel according to John (Smalley 1996, 293). As the survey of the scholarship devoted to the seven Spirits, the “in the Spirit” phrases, the Spirit of prophecy, and the relationship between Jesus and the Spirit reveals, the role the Spirit plays within the Apocalypse is a pervasive one and its pneumatology robust. Although it is not as well-known as that found in other New Testament writings, the pneumatology of the Apocalypse stands equal in importance alongside the other major pneumatological voices found within the New Testament, in particular that of Luke-Acts, Paul, and the Gospel and Epistles of John. The fruit yielded to this point by investigations suggests that future explorations of the role of the Spirit in the book of Revelation should be richly rewarded.

References Archer, Melissa L. 2015. “I Was in the Spirit on the Lord's Day”: A Pentecostal Engagement with Worship in the Apocalypse. Cleveland, TN: CPT Press. Aune, David E. 1997. Revelation 1–5. WBC 52A. Dallas: Word. Bauckham, Richard. 1993a. The Climax of Prophecy. New York: T & T Clark. Bauckham, Richard. 1993b. The Theology of the Book of Revelation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bruce, F. F. 1973. “The Spirit in the Apocalypse.” In Christ and Spirit in the New Testament: Studies in Honour of Charles Francis Digby Moule, edited by Barnabas Lindars and Stephen S. Smalley, pp. 333–44. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Charles, R. H. 1920. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on The Revelation of St. John. Vol. 1. ICC. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Contreras Molina, Francisco. 1987. El Espíritu en el libro del Apocalipsis. Koinonia 28. Salamanca, Spain: Secretariado Trinitario. Fekkes, Jan, III. 1994. Isaiah and Prophetic Tradition in the Book of Revelation: Visionary Antecedents and Their Development. JSNTSup 93. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic. Hemer, Colin J. 1986. The Letters to the Seven Churches. JSNTSup 11. Sheffield, UK: JSOT Press. Herms, Ronald. 2015. “πνευματικω~ ς and Antagonists in Revelation 11 Reconsidered.” In The Book of Revelation: Currents in British Research on the Apocalypse, edited by Garrick V. Allen, Ian Paul, and Simon P. Woodman, pp. 133–46. WUNT II/411. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hill, David. 1979. New Testament Prophecy. Atlanta, GA: John Knox Press. Johnson, David  R. 2018. Pneumatic Discernment in the Apocalypse: An Intertextual and Pentecostal Exploration. Cleveland, TN: CPT Press. Kempson, Wayne Richard. 1982. “Theology in the Revelation of John.” PhD diss. Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.

The Spirit in the Book of Revelation   255 Koester, Craig R. 2014. Revelation. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Lenski, R. C. H. 1943. The Interpretation of St. John’s Revelation. Minneapolis: Augsburg. Mazzaferri, Frederick David. 1989. The Genre of the Book of Revelation from a Source-Critical Perspective. BZNW 54. Berlin: de Gruyter. Michaels, J. Ramsey. 1997. Revelation. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Moyise, Steve. 1995. The Old Testament and the Book of Revelation. JSNTSup 115. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic. Ruiz, Jean-Pierre. 1989. Ezekiel in the Apocalypse: The Transformation of Prophetic Language in Revelation 16, 17–19, 10. Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Smidt, Kobus de. 1999. “Hermeneutical Perspectives on the Spirit in the Book of Revelation.” JPT 14: 27–47. Schreiner, Thomas R. 2010. Magnifying God in Christ: A Summary of New Testament Theology. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1991. Revelation: Vision of a Just World. Minneapolis: Fortress. Schweizer, Eduard. 1968. “πνεῦμα.” TDNT 6: 332–455. Smalley, Stephen  S. 1996. “The Paraclete: Pneumatology in the Johannine Gospel and Apocalypse.” In Exploring the Gospel of John, edited by R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black, pp. 289–300. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Smith, Christopher R. 1994. “The Structure of the Book of Revelation in Light of Apocalyptic Literary Convention.” NovT 36: 373–93. Sorke, Ingo Willy. 2009. The Identity and Function of the Seven Spirits in the Book of Revelation. Ann Arbor, MI: ProQuest LCC. Tenney, Merrill C. 1957. Interpreting Revelation. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Thomas, John Christopher. 2012. The Apocalypse: A Literary and Theological Commentary. Cleveland, TN: CPT Press. Thomas, John Christopher, and Frank  D.  Macchia. 2016. Revelation. Two Horizons New Testament Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Thompson, Leonard L. 2003. “Spirit Possession: Revelation in Religious Studies.” In Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 137–50. RBS 44. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Waddell, Robby C. 2006. The Spirit of the Book of Revelation. JPTSup 30; Blandford Forum, UK: Deo.

chapter 16

Cr eation a n d N ew Cr eation i n th e Book of R ev el ation Mark B. Stephens

The idea of new creation is a regular feature of eschatological scenarios narrated in Jewish and Christian prophetic and apocalyptic literature. As a conceptual label, “new creation” functions as a rubric for collating a broad range of images pertaining to cosmic eschatology (Stephens 2011, 1). Although new creation discourse can be deployed with a more anthropological focus (Hubbard 2002), when we speak of Revelation’s vision of new creation, we are intentionally referring to the way it portrays the cosmic dimensions of eschatological salvation, in particular, the participation of the nonhuman material order in the end times. In order to appreciate Revelation’s perspective on creation and new creation, we must begin by situating the text within two broader contexts. First, we must consider Revelation’s Jewish context by examining how creation and new creation functioned within both the Hebrew Bible and the apocalyptic literature of Second Temple Judaism. Second, we must attend to Revelation’s rhetorical context, so as to situate John’s cosmological discourse within the rhetorical situation occasioned by the Christian experience of Roman hegemony in first-century Asia. Having surveyed these matters of context, we can then turn to the text of Revelation itself. Many studies on the topic of creation and new creation can place undue emphasis on the concluding vision of Rev 21:1–22:5. But discourse concerning both creation and new creation is threaded throughout the entirety of the text, and it is only by appreciating the way creation has already been spoken about in the first twenty chapters that one can fully understand what John intends in chapters 21 and 22. As J. Webb Mealy has stated: “Context in Revelation consists of a system of references that progressively build up hermeneutical precedents in the text, precedents that precondition the meaning of each new passage in highly significant ways” (Mealy 1992, 13).

258   Mark B. Stephens Consequently, our analysis of Revelation will be broken into two discrete subsections. The first will discuss how creation and new creation are portrayed in passages prior to the final chapters, in which it will be demonstrated that Revelation evinces a strong hope for the transference of sovereignty over the earth. These insights will then frame our second subsection, where Rev 21 and 22 will be examined as a strategic final word, which brings fulfilment and closure to the expectant hopes that have already been generated. Within the rhetorical situation of Roman Asia, such hopes for creation played a crucial function in enabling John’s fitting response to the exigencies of the seven churches.

New Creation in Jewish Context We begin by considering John’s thought in light of Jewish antecedents. Specifically, this involves attending to the way the Hebrew Bible, and the broader traditions of Jewish apocalyptic, may have influenced his understanding of these topics.

Creation and New Creation in the Hebrew Bible Among the surer findings of Revelation scholarship is John’s manifest indebtedness to  the theological and imaginative resources of the Hebrew Bible (Beale and McDonough 2007, 1081; Koester 2014, 123–25). While substantial debate remains surrounding the hermeneutics of John’s creative appropriation (Mathewson 2003, 311–25; Moyise 2002, 3–21), the purpose here is to offer our own summary interpretation of how creation and new creation function within this diverse body of literature. Within twentieth-century interpretation of the Hebrew Bible, it was commonplace to relegate the doctrine of creation to a subordinate position, in preference for a prioritization of redemption (Fretheim 2005, ix). Yet if one reads the texts of the Hebrew Bible in terms of their final composition and eventual canonical ordering, it becomes clear that creation has been positioned as the broad horizon within which Israel’s redemption is to be understood (Tucker 1993, 110). Framed by this context, God’s redemptive activity is often construed as restorative, as he seeks to overcome “the anticreational forces which threaten life and creation” (Och 1995, 229). This insight helps explain why key redemptive events in the Hebrew Bible, such as the Noahic Flood (Gen 6–9) and the Exodus (Exod 1–15), are so shot through with creational motifs and themes, indicating that the larger goal of such events is the renewal of creation, and the restoration of God’s imagebearers to their original mandate (Watts 2002). In light of these patterns of redemption, it should be unsurprising that when the Hebrew Bible eventually considers the eschatological future, we find the motif of new creation featuring prominently. In a range of passages (Isa 11:1–9; 65:17–25; Ezek 34:25–30; 47:1–12; Hos 2:14–23; Amos 9:13–15), we encounter a constellation of images that

Creation and New Creation   259 together indicate the participation of the nonhuman material order in the blessings of the eschaton (Stephens 2011, 19–45). Among these various images, one can discern two prominent clusters: first, the involvement of animals in the eschaton (albeit with a profound transformation of hostilities; cf. Isa 11:1–9; Hos 2:18); second, the renewal of agricultural fertility (Ezek 36:1–15; Hos 2:21–22; Amos 9:13–15), realizing the Edenic paradigm of a fecund land susceptible to delightful cultivation. Perhaps the classic instance of a new creation text in the Hebrew Bible is Isa 65:17–25, a text that has clearly influenced John’s own understanding. There we see the end goal envisaged is of “humanity being restored to the soil, tilling the land in ease, where the work exerted is commensurate with its reward, with human beings at peace with the animals, all in the midst of the favour and presence of God” (Stephens 2011, 44). In other words, the envisaged “end” is the end of evil, rather than the end of the present cosmos (Gowan 2000, xi). The rhetorical function of visions like Isa 65 is to convince the faithful to place their hope in God’s power to bring about an eschatological reversal, through which he will bring vindication for his servants, and the fulfillment of his creation project (Blenkinsopp 2003, 285–86; cf. Gowan 2000, 122). Nevertheless, despite the dominant current of renewal and restoration in the eschatological traditions of the Hebrew Bible, one must also acknowledge the presence of episodes and scenarios in which cosmic catastrophe is either threatened or depicted (Isa 13:1–22; 24–27; Jer 4:23–28; Joel 2:30–31; 3:14–16; Zeph 1:2–3). These episodes are notable for their violent imagery in which creation appears to be “ruined beyond recognition” (Chester 2014, 335). To be sure, the imagery deployed draws heavily upon the “curselanguage” conventions of Ancient Near Eastern covenants, which were known to deliberately amplify the adverse consequences of covenant-breaking as a rhetorical technique for garnering attention (Sandy 2002, 83–84). Nevertheless, such language serves to reaffirm that there is nothing inherent in creation to guarantee its continuance, and that the possibility of Yahweh destroying the earth can at least be countenanced (see Gen 8:22; Pss 46:1–3; 102:25–27; Isa 51:6; cf. Adams 2007, 25–51).

Creation and New Creation in Second Temple Apocalyptic Literature Unlike the clear presence of allusions to the Hebrew Bible, it is always a more difficult task to demonstrate that early Christian authors specifically appropriated noncanonical writings from the Second Temple period (Bauckham 2010, 70). Nevertheless, in the case of an apocalyptic text like Revelation, we can confidently discern numerous instances of shared language and imagery (Bauckham 1993a, 38–91). For much of the twentieth century, the study of Second Temple apocalyptic literature was undergirded by assumptions that it was irretrievably pessimistic toward all aspects of the present age, including the present created order (Charles 1920, 2:193; Morris 1972, 50). But more recent scholarship has unveiled a far more nuanced portrait of both ­creation and new creation in these texts (Argall  1995, 101–7; Gowan  1985, 99–102;

260   Mark B. Stephens Russell 1996, 80–133). For example, creation often functions as source of wonder and as an exemplar of obedience to the will of God (1 En. 2–5; 36:4; 72–82; 100:10–11; 2 Bar. 21:4–8; 48:1–10; cf. Stone 1987, 298–308). Indeed, even in those apocalypses that seem to envisage a final dissolution of the world, such as the First Dream-Vision in 1 Enoch, we still find a positive appreciation for how the present creation testifies to the goodness and majesty of its Creator (1 En. 83:10–11). When it comes to eschatological scenarios, we find a diversity of traditions among the apocalypses. It is true that the apocalyptic imagination often expresses its eschatology in language and imagery that is more dualistic, transcendent, even other-worldly, as compared with the classical prophetic tradition in the Hebrew Bible (Collins 1974, 21–43; Russell 1964, 267–69). Yet such disjunctions between prophecy and apocalypse can be overplayed, ignoring the significant commonalities between the two forms of literature (Grabbe 2003, 23). With regard to the future of creation, Second Temple apocalyptic does furnish examples that stress profound discontinuity between the present and the future, including the portrayal of cosmic catastrophe (Adams 2007, 52–100; cf. 1 En. 83:3–5; 102:1–3; 4 Ezra 7:30–31; Apoc. Zeph. 12.5–8). Yet this is by no means the only, nor even the dominant, form of expectation. A number of apocalyptic texts articulate a clear hope for the renewal, purification, and transformation of the present cosmos (1 En. 5:9; 10:1–11:2; 25:1–7; 45:4–5; de Boer 1988, 53; cf. Nickelsburg 1991, 56). Such depictions of a renewed creation can serve a variety of rhetorical functions, not the least of which is the way they nourish hope for the vindication of the righteous faithful (1 En. 45:4–6). However, perhaps the primary function for traditions of creational renewal is to announce that God’s beneficent sovereignty will one day be (re)manifested over the entire cosmos. Having suffered under the influence of evil forces, be they angelic or human, the renewal of creation constitutes the termination of all alternative claims to sovereignty (de Boer 1988, 39). As we shall soon see, this configuration of new creation as “transferred sovereignty” features prominently within Revelation’s account of the future of creation.

Creation and New Creation in Rhetorical Context Having surveyed something of the Jewish background, we now turn to considering how John’s rhetorical context may have influenced his presentation. Reading Revelation rhetorically means attending to the text as a piece of persuasive discourse (Koester 2014, 132), which was designed to intervene in a situation and to effect change in the audience’s beliefs, emotions, dispositions, and behavior (Carey 1999, 11; Yarbro Collins 1984, 144). As opposed to reading the language and imagery of Revelation as a coded piece of armchair theology, rhetorical approaches stress how John’s symbols can only be understood in light of their persuasive function.

Creation and New Creation   261 The rhetorical context of Revelation emerges out of its social and historical location within Roman Asia in the late first century. Traditional portraits of this setting have tended to stress a context of persecution, officially mandated by Roman authorities, using the instrumentality of the imperial cult (Metzger 1993, 16; Mounce 1998, 15–21). But more recent scholarship has substantially revised our understanding of how the imperial cult was promoted, by turning our attention to the way the cities of Asia were actively supporting the cult as a means of signifying provincial loyalty and demonstrating pietas (deSilva 1999, 100). In simple terms, the pressure placed upon Christians to venerate the emperor came also from the provincial context, as local elites and even near neighbors demanded Christians perform appropriate acts of cult or risk being branded as a social deviant (Friesen 2003, 58). Of crucial importance for discerning Revelation’s rhetorical situation is the place of cosmology in imperial ideology (Friesen 2001, 124–27). As many studies have shown, Roman political hegemony was explicitly grounded in the cosmological claim that “heaven and earth were harmoniously united under Roman rule” (Yeates  2017, 43). Within such a framework, acts of cultic veneration served to “cosmicize” the centrality of the emperor, in effect declaring that “the way things really are” is a world where imperial rule sits at the center of the universe (Thompson 1990, 181). Thus, “Roman imperial cult worship employed a discourse that constructed a cosmos” (Hansen 2014, 49). This means that in the context of first-century Roman Asia, cosmological discourse was inevitably rhetorical, because cosmologies functioned to guide and persuade as to who was the rightful sovereign over the earth (Yeates 2017, 41). At this juncture, we must remember that the rhetoric of Revelation is not aimed at convincing or persuading the imperial authorities, but rather addressing the exigencies present among the seven churches of Asia, as they configured their participation in the wider culture. Contrary to the stereotype that the churches of Asia were united by an experience of common suffering, it is clear that John faced a diverse set of responses to Roman rule (Maier 2002, 30–39). Some congregations, such as Smyrna and Pergamum, were experiencing a measure of suffering for their faithfulness to Christ (Rev 2:9–10, 13), while other churches, such as Sardis and Laodicea, appear to be experiencing little to no hostility (Rev 3:1–2, 15–17). Instead of a simple situation of oppression and persecution, necessitating a “rhetoric of comfort” addressed to the despairing, John’s larger challenge appears to have been an intramural debate among the churches concerning the question of cultural accommodation and authentic Christian praxis (deSilva 1992, 384). Most likely, a rival circle of prophets was urging a stance of peaceful accommodation with Asian culture, including its religious rituals (Rev 2:1–7, 12–29; cf. Duff 2001, 71). In view of this internal debate, one can discern the strategic power of John’s apocalyptic vision. The genre of apocalypse offers a “very serviceable vehicle for deconstructing and reconstructing views of reality” (deSilva 1999, 67), because it harnesses the power of the religious imagination to construct an alternative world that can displace the cosmological claims of Rome (Yeates 2017, 51). Through its visionary construction of a countercosmos, Revelation refurbishes the audience’s imagination with a completely different

262   Mark B. Stephens take on how things are and how things will be (Bauckham 1993b, 17; deSilva 1993, 54–55). Lying at the center of Revelation’s alternative map of the world is the divine throne (1:4; 3:21; 4:2; 7:9; 11:16; 12:5; 14:3; 19:4; 20:11; 21:3; 22:1), the true center upon which all of creation rests (Bauckham 1993b, 31–34). John’s counter-cosmic vision is, therefore, an essential tool for achieving his overarching rhetorical goal: to foster a discipleship of “critical distance” from Roman culture, so as to enable a prophetic witness to the nations (Rev 11:3–13, cf. deSilva 2009, 71).

Creation and New Creation in the Book of Revelation Our focus now moves from background context to examining the foregrounded text. Beginning with a survey summarizing the diverse ways John labels the created order, we then consider how creation and new creation are portrayed across the entirety of the work.

The Language of Creation Before we embark on an examination of creation and new creation in Revelation, it is worth pausing to note the language that John uses to describe the created order. These include ktisis (“creation”; 3:14), ta panta (“all things”; 4:11; 22:1); kosmos (11:15; 13:8; 17:8), and oikoumenē (3:10; 12:9; 16:14). In addition to this, we have numerous instances where individual elements of creation are referred to, both natural (stars, grass, clouds, stones, mountains, rivers, and the sea; cf. McDonough 2000, 228) and supernatural (angels and demons; cf. Koester 2014, 119–20). Yet the predominant terminology employed throughout the text is the language of “heaven” and “earth.” On some occasions, this terminology simply echoes the conventional merism first encountered in Genesis, in which heaven is the visible sky above and earth represents the land below (see Rev 14:7; 21:1). But John’s usage of “heaven” and “earth” often encodes a theological meaning pertaining to the duality of the present created order. Hence, heaven frequently denotes the spir­it­ ual realm to which John ascends, the transcendent place from which a true perspective can be seen and a world where the divine will is honored (Bauckham  1993b, 31; McDonough 2008, 181–82). At the opposite pole of the duality, the earth is rarely construed as a neutral place; rather, it is the arena in which the suffering faithful must contend with an array of forces that actively resist the sovereignty of God (Bauckham 1993b, 40, 46; McDonough 2008, 183; Murphy 1999, 185). Yet for all that Revelation testifies to a present opposition between the two realms, the ultimate hope of this text is for this dualism to collapse by means of an eschatological merger of heaven and earth ­ (Schellenberg 2006, 471).

Creation and New Creation   263

Creation and New Creation in Chapters 1–20 Creation discourse recurs throughout the entirety of Revelation, such that the eschatological denouement depicted in chapters 21–22 is deliberately shaped by themes and expectations generated by chapters 1–20. Here we will examine creation discourse under three broad rubrics: Creation as a Testimony to the Glory of God, the Suffering of Creation, and the Transference of Sovereignty over the Earth.

Creation as a Testimony to the Glory of God At two key points in the vision narrative, John explicitly points to creation’s purpose in glorifying God. This is most to the fore in Rev 4, where the inaugural vision of the heavenly throne room climaxes with a hymnic acclamation of God’s glory and power. According to the song of the twenty-four elders, what grounds and legitimates their worship is God’s unique actions in creation: You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will they existed and were created. (Rev 4:11; NRSV)

In addition to the explicitly creational language of the hymn, we can also discern a number of creational motifs present throughout the throne room (Kiddle 1940, 93). The rainbow encircling the throne may well allude to the Noahic covenant with creation (Boxall 2006, 84; Giesen 1997, 149), and the four living creatures likely represent the totality of creation (Beale  1999, 332). Together, these images and auditions present heaven as the archetype of what creation should be: a theocentric cosmos rightly oriented in worship to its Maker (Roloff 1993, 72). A similar focus on how creation legitimates God’s claim to honor is found in 14:6–7. There an angel exhorts all the earth to “Fear God and give him glory” precisely because he is the one who made “heaven and earth, the sea and the springs of water.” In simple terms, the question, Who is the Creator? also answers the question, Who is worthy of honor and worship? Understood within the broader rhetorical strategy of Revelation, creation’s testimony to the honor of God serves a profoundly important function. In the rhetorical cosmology constructed by Roman hegemony (Hansen 2014, 2–3), Asian Christians were positioned as a minority movement sitting at the periphery of power. But within the counter-cosmos of Rev 4, the true and real center of creation is unveiled and praised (deSilva 1993, 51). This kind of creation discourse is therefore hortatory in its intent, for it encourages the implied audience to swap the false idols of imperial power for the true worship of the heavenly throne room (Schimanowski 2004, 82).

The Suffering of Creation While the archetypal and idealized pictures of Revelation 4 testify to the way creation is meant to be, far more space is given over to portrayals of creation being destabilized,

264   Mark B. Stephens corrupted, and dismantled (e.g., Rev 6:12–17; 16:1–21; Chester  2014, 336; cf. McDonough 2000, 235). These representations of the “suffering” of creation are multifaceted in their significance. At one level, they reaffirm a tradition that recurs throughout Jewish and Christian thought in which the nonhuman creation participates in the consequences of divine judgment against human wickedness (Gen 3:17–18; Hos 4:1; 2 Bar. 48:42; Rom 8:20; cf. Hahne 2006). But a separate and distinct facet of creation’s suffering is the way that cosmic turmoil also testifies to the disordering effects of corrupted rule. Creation suffers because Rome is a “destroyer” (11:18), and her influence corrupts the earth through fornication (19:2; cf. Resseguie 2005, 226). This construction reflects a similar pattern to that found in the story of the exodus. There the motif of “creation run amok” (Exod 7:14–12:32) is both a testimony to the sovereign power of God over nature, and the logical outworking of Pharaoh’s distorted rule (Fretheim 1991, 385). Consequently, Revelation’s repeated portrayal of cosmic turmoil is intentional and strategic. Given that Roman ideology was grounded in a rhetorical cosmology that promised stability, the depiction of cosmic elements in turmoil is a rhetorical ploy, because it undercuts the pretentious claims of Rome to secure existence and guarantee prosperity (Rev 18:7; cf. Hansen 2014, 94; Koester 2001, 81–85). Here again, Revelation’s rhetorical situation must always be kept front and center. These grand visions of judgment ultimately serve John’s pastoral task of persuading his Christian audience to abandon cultural accommodation with Rome, including its religious rituals. Put another way, the language and imagery of chaos and deconstruction seeks to undermine counterfeit hope in the sovereignty of Rome (Bauckham 2004, 14).

The Transference of Sovereignty over the Earth As has already been suggested by our previous two points, Revelation’s theology of creation is inextricably intertwined with God’s sovereignty in all things. As Mitchell Reddish succinctly states: “God is sovereign over the world because this is God’s world” (Reddish 2001, 101). Within the narrative world of Revelation, creation is not merely his impressive achievement; rather, it belongs to him as his treasured possession. On one level, Revelation affirms that God is eternally sovereign over the world, as the hymn of 4:11 announces. But at another level, Revelation unveils that the eschatological future will bring the full implementation of God’s sovereignty over his creation (Caird 1966, 141). For example, included within the hymns of chapter 4 is the song of the four living creatures (4:8), who modify Isaiah’s Trisagion by acclaiming God as the one who was, who is, and who is to come. Here, the concluding reference to God’s “coming” (erchomenos) is not so much an affirmation of ongoing existence, as it is a declaration of God’s intention to come to the earth in judgment and salvation (Pss 96:13; 98:9; Isa 40:10; 66:15; Zech 14:5; cf. Bauckham, 1993b, 29). Thus, the unveiling of heaven as an idealized picture of creation also carries with it the eschatological promise that what is true in heaven will become true on earth (Bauckham 1993b, 31; McDonough 2008, 182). The central agent who brings God’s eschatological reign is Christ. Already in 3:14, the exalted Christ has described himself as the “beginning of God’s creation” (hē archē tēs ktiseōs tou theou), a self-predication that likely refers to his role in inaugurating and

Creation and New Creation   265 ruling over the new creation (Beale 1999, 298). But it is in chapter 5, where Christ is unveiled as the Lamb who takes the scroll, that we see a symbolic action that indicates his investiture as the unique sovereign who can implement the reign of God over creation (Aune 1997, 336). What is most important for our study is to note how the second half of chapter 5 is given over to portraying the consequences that result from the Lamb’s taking the scroll. Two of these items gesture toward the idea of the Lamb’s work enabling the renewal of creation. First, there is a resumption of praise in the new song of 5:9–10, where we hear the promise that the ransomed saints will eventually “reign on earth,” a statement that constitutes an eschatological reversal of their present marginal position. But of even more importance is what transpires in vv.11–14. There John sees that the worship inaugurated in the heavenly court spills over into a cascading sequence, so that the gulf between heaven and earth is bridged, as the praise of God moves from the heavenly realm to ultimately be embraced by “every creature” (5:13; pan ktisma; cf. Stephens 2011, 183). This climactic picture of a creation united in acclamation of God is not to be construed as a vision of present reality, but rather as a proleptic adumbration of God’s eschatological goal for creation (Bauckham 1993b, 33). Simply put, at the end of chapter 5 we experience a brief flashforward, so as to apprehend the goal toward which the ensuing vision will be tracking. Together, chapters 4 and 5 function programmatically, defining the end from the very outset, which is that the God of Revelation intends the liberation of creation by restoring it to a theocentric orientation. The dynamic promise that God will liberate his creation through implementing his reign upon the earth necessarily entails the dismantling of Rome’s counterfeit sovereignty. This logic explains why Revelation often portrays the future of creation in terms of a transference of sovereignty over the earth. In chapters 1–20 the most important text for this notion is Rev 11:15–19, where we encounter a two-part hymn that functions as a “hinge” within the whole apocalyptic drama (Humphrey 2007, 158). On the one hand, this literary unit concludes the action of chapters 4–11. On the other hand, this passage also points forward to the events narrated in chapters 12–22. With regards to its being a conclusion, 11:15–19 serves to complete the judgments of the seven trumpets (Murphy 1999, 273–74). In response to the blowing of the final trumpet (11:15), we hear the announcement that the kingdom has arrived. Here the language of transferred sovereignty is at its most apparent: “The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Messiah.” A range of intratextual echoes intentionally link this passage to the earlier throne-room vision of chapters 4 and 5. These include an overlap in the setting (Rev 4:2, 11:19), the atmospheric presence of lightning and thunder (4:5; 11:19), the participation of carried-over characters (4:4; 11:16), as well as the recurrence of similar language concerning God’s power and reign (4:11; 11:17). Together, these linkages suggest that 11:15–19 announces the accomplishment of the program announced in chapters 4 and 5. What was true in heaven has now become true on earth, because the sovereignty of the world has passed from the hands of Rome to the rule of God and his Christ (Giesen 1997, 262; Roloff 1993, 136). Yet for all that this unit constitutes a conclusion, it also functions as a preview of chapters 12–22, where the essential themes concern the destruction of God’s enemies and the

266   Mark B. Stephens rewarding of his saints (Murphy 1999, 270). So in 11:18, we are given a summary articulation of how earthly sovereignty will be transferred–namely, that the time has come for “destroying those who destroy the earth.” By framing the matter in these terms, God’s eschatological program for creation is defined as the elimination of those evil forces that threaten God’s good world (Stephens 2011, 196). Indeed, what is announced in 11:15–19 is not the replacement of one world with another, but rather regime change over the selfsame world (Guttesen 2009, 128). It is not God who is a destroyer of the earth; on the contrary, God’s purpose and plan is to remove the destroyers (Koester 2001, 112–13). This same logic of transferred sovereignty also undergirds the “gospel” (euangelion) announcement in Rev 14:6–7. The literary positioning of this passage places it in close proximity to visions relating to the emergence and enforcement of imperial cult (13:4, 8, 11–18; cf. deSilva 1998, 94; Friesen 2001, 146). Within this context the call for true worship of the Creator is deliberately contrasted with false worship of the beast (14:9–11). In a manner reminiscent of Isa 52:7, the underlying message is that the Creator intends to take possession of his world by bringing his reign upon the earth (Roloff 1993, 174–75). Moreover, when one factors in the way “gospel” language was frequently employed in relation to imperial accomplishments, we can discern the full polemical intent (Murphy 1999, 321).

Conclusion In view of the preceding discussion, we can see that even before chapters 21 and 22 Revelation has already established several important ideas in its theology of creation, as well as framing expectations with regard to the new creation. The cosmos exists for the glory of God, but it is presently corrupted (McDonough 2008, 187). At the center of Revelation’s hopes for the future is that the eschatological coming of God will bring a transference of sovereignty over the earth. Creation will ultimately be liberated because of the prior actions of the Lamb, who will restore the created order to its intended theocentric orientation. In light of these preceding texts we would expect to find that the concluding chapters of Revelation offer a fitting closure to these ideas and hopes. To a consideration of these we now turn.

New Creation in Chapters 21–22 The locus classicus for Revelation’s perspective on new creation is 22:1–22:5. Yet it is often ignored that these final chapters do not constitute a single textual unit, but rather involve the combined contribution of two different sections (Deutsch 1987, 109). The first is 21:1–8, which is the final panel in a series of visions beginning in 19:11 that transitions the narrative from the fall of Babylon to the arrival of the New Jerusalem (Giblin 1974, 490–91). The second is 21:9–22:5, which is a separate description of the godly polis of the New Jerusalem, deliberately placed in a polemical parallelism to the prior depiction of Babylon in 17:1–19:10 (Barnett 1989, 112). Accordingly, we will examine each of these ­literary subunits in turn, before considering their insights together.

Creation and New Creation   267

The Initial Vision of the New Creation: Revelation 21:1–8 As the concluding panel of a major transitional section, these eight verses provide a summary introduction to the new creation, before the topic is further expatiated upon in 21:9–22:5. Here we shall limit our focus to four salient points that emerge from this initial account. First, 21:1 opens with a vision-report in which John sees “a new heaven and a new earth, because the first heaven and first earth had passed away.” This language of heaven and earth “passing away” (apēlthan) is often construed as evidence that Revelation envisages a complete termination of the present cosmos and its replacement with a creatio de novo. (Vögtle 1985, 305). Despite the valiant attempts of some to construe this language as merely phenomenological (Heide 1997, 43), it seems likely that John is communicating that the first heaven and earth has ended in some sense. This interpretation comports well with the preceding co-text in 20:11, where earth and heaven flee from the great white throne of judgment, and no place is found for them (Stephens 2011, 229–32). Second, the specific detail that “the sea was no more” (21:1c) is another significant marker of discontinuity, at least on a qualitative level. Within Revelation, the sea is often symbolically associated with both evil and death (13:1; 17:1–2; 20:13) neither of which will be present in the new creation (Keener 2000, 491). Moreover, John is also likely drawing on the traditional Ancient Near Eastern conception that the sea was associated with the forces of chaos (cf. Isa 27:1; Beagley 1997, 127–29). The eschatological vanishing of the sea coheres therefore with the broader notion that the new creation will involve the final elimination of all evil powers (11:18; Bauckham 1993b, 53; cf. Mounce 1998, 381). Third, in 21:2 John sees the New Jerusalem descending out of heaven toward the earth. This picture of the descent of the eschatological city, a detail that is somewhat unique in the apocalyptic tradition (Sweet 1979, 303), functions as a symbol of integration, insofar as it gestures toward the collapse of the previous dualism between heaven and earth (Schellenberg 2006, 471). Moreover, given the prominence of “transferred sovereignty” as a theme throughout chapters 1–20, the descent of the New Jerusalem may rightly be regarded as a visualization of divine rule being implemented through God’s dwelling upon the earth (vv. 3–4; Dunham 2003, 107). Fourth, we have the crucial audition in 21:5, in which God himself speaks directly for the first time since chapter 4 (Royalty 1998, 220). From the divine perspective, the essential significance of 21:1–4 can be summarized in one economical phrase: “See, I am making all things new” (Idou kaina poiō panta). The reference here to “all things” (panta) is highly significant, for it consciously recalls the earlier reference to “all things” (ta panta) in the creation-themed canticle of 4:11. The stress is therefore placed upon the newness that is being imparted to God’s original creation, a fact that is only further strengthened by the fact that adjective “new” has been placed early for emphasis (Beasley-Murray 1974, 312).

The New Jerusalem and the New Creation: Revelation 21:9–22:5 Although here we are isolating this literary unit for our study of creation and new creation, we must begin by acknowledging that within the larger context of Revelation, this

268   Mark B. Stephens passage functions as a structural pair with the earlier vision of Babylon (17:1–19:10). Indeed, Revelation is deliberately designed to conclude with a rhetorical comparison between the two cities, a strategy that implicitly calls upon the audience to decide in which city they seek to find their belonging (deSilva 2009, 293). This large and detailed passage is filled with a rich collection of images communicating the glory and wonder of the New Jerusalem. As with 21:1–8, our aim here is not to mine all the exegetical details, but instead to offer a summary account of its major themes, which we again will restrict to four basic points. First, the language and imagery associated with the New Jerusalem indicate that the city represents the full realization of God’s presence upon the earth (cf. 21:3). So its cubic shape gestures to the Holy of Holies (21:16; cf. 1 Kgs 6:20; 2 Chr 3:8–9); its precious stones recall the high priestly breastplate (Rev 21:19–20; cf. Exod 28:7–10; 39:8–14); and its radiance owes to the glory of God (Rev 21:11). Indeed, so complete is the manifestation of God’s presence that the city has no temple within it, because the entire city is a temple (21:22; cf. Caird 1966, 279). Second, this eschatological city-temple is not merely a part of the new creation; rather, it is coextensive with the new heaven and new earth (Beale 1999, 1109–11). This helps explain why in 21:2 the vision-report could move easily from a description of the new earth to a description of the New Jerusalem. Accordingly, the foursquare shape of the city (21:16) creates a symbolic association between the city and the new earth, for throughout the narrative of Revelation, the number four is frequently employed in relationship to the earth (7:1; 20:8; cf. Resseguie 1998, 54). Third, the New Jerusalem is portrayed as a garden-city, fulfilling the hope that the sacred space of Eden would be not only restored, but eschatologically extended to encompass the whole earth. The work of Gregory Beale has cogently demonstrated that in a range of Jewish traditions, including creation accounts and temple iconography, there is an embedded hope that the promise of Eden will one day be fulfilled in an escalated form (Beale 2004, 123–67). In John’s portrayal of the New Jerusalem, we see that escalated fulfillment, where “the boundaries of Eden have escalated to encompass the whole earth, the population of Eden has escalated to include representatives from all peoples, and the garden itself has escalated into a garden city” (Stephens 2011, 252). Finally, the New Jerusalem reiterates the central theme of transferred sovereignty. Here we must begin by recalling the pairing of this vision with the earlier account of Babylon’s demise (17:1–19:10). Seen within that macrostructural framework, this scene overtly visualizes the displacement of Roman power. As John Sweet so eloquently puts it: “Here now is the glorious new city for which that slum-clearance made room” (Sweet 1979, 301). In addition to this structural insight, two images from 21:9–22:5 further embellish the theme of transferred sovereignty. First, in 21:24–26, we witness the kings of the earth bringing their glory into the New Jerusalem (21:24). Within the narrative world of Revelation, the kings of the earth have previously been portrayed as standing in solidarity with Babylon (17:2; 18; 18:3, 9: 19:19). Their presence here in the eschatological city functions as a picture of switched allegiance from the failed rule of Babylon to the eternal rule of God and the Lamb (Mathewson 2002, 136). But perhaps

Creation and New Creation   269 the supreme image of transferred sovereignty comes in 22:1, where the throne of God, which was previously located in heaven (4:2), has now been permanently installed on the earth. To recall again the language of Bauckham, what was true in heaven has now become true on earth.

Conclusion The closing chapters of Revelation provide the reader with a fitting conclusion to its entire discourse concerning creation and new creation. Stated simply, Revelation proclaims that the eschatological future will bring a termination to the corrupted cosmos under Roman rule and succeed it with the perfected reality of a new cosmos, symbolized by the New Jerusalem. This radical transformation necessitates the use of many images of cosmic discontinuity, because the destruction of the destroyers of the earth means a comprehensive end for the old order of things (21:4). Indeed, a world without Babylon, the dragon, the sea, and death is in many respects no longer the same world. Moreover, given the way Roman imperial ideology was grounded in a cosmology, the coming of the new creation demands images in which the present cosmic order is destabilized and deconstructed (Hansen 2014, 8). Nevertheless, Revelation’s larger framework is one of cosmic renewal, which is achieved by the work of the Lamb effecting a transfer of sovereignty over the earth. Instead of longing for the abandonment of the created order, Revelation regards creation as rightfully belonging to God, and meant to bring him glory. Thus, in the face of creation gone awry, the God of Revelation is defined as the one who comes in judgment and salvation, in order to bring his throne from heaven above to the earth below. Thus, the new creation is in some sense the old creation now filled with the presence of God, but without the presence of all forces that would bring corruption, pain, chaos, and death (Stephens 2011, 256–57). For the original audience in Roman Asia, John’s creation discourse centrally underpins his rhetorical goals. Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza captures well the central questions that drive the persuasive strategy of this text: To whom does the earth belong? Who is the ruler of this world? The book’s central theological symbol is therefore the throne, signifying either divine and liberating power or demonic and death-dealing power. (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 120)

In answer to these urgent questions, Revelation’s apocalyptic drama constructs a ­“counter-cosmos” in order to undermine any thought of idolatrous participation in Roman culture. Rome is unveiled as an agent of cosmic destruction, who herself will be eventually destroyed. On the flip side, God is portrayed as the faithful Creator, who intends for “all things” to reach their eschatological goal. Thus, within Revelation, God’s sovereignty as king, and his credibility as an object of exclusive worship, is intimately

270   Mark B. Stephens bound up with his actions as the Creator and renewer of all things. Only on the basis of this theology of creation can John effectively persuade his audience to cultivate critical distance from their idolatrous social context, a distance that is necessary if they are to perform their role of being prophetic witnesses to the nations.

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chapter 17

Perspecti v e s on Ev il i n the Book of R ev el ation Gregory Stevenson

The book of Revelation and the concept of evil have a long and firmly entrenched association in the popular imagination. Fueled by fever-dream presentations in film, television, and literature, and buoyed by the doomsday proclamations of fringe preachers (and some mainstream ones), many people have come to equate Revelation with rampaging demonic hordes, the Antichrist, and widespread death and destruction. These interpretations often fixate on the identification of evil in current social patterns and political figures as a prelude to the eschatological showdown between God and Satan. In contrast, many theological studies of theodicy, which attempt to explain God’s ex­ist­ ence, nature, and activity in the face of evil, typically ignore Revelation.1 Whereas the first approach offers sensationalist speculation that divorces Revelation’s message on evil from its historical and contextual moorings, the second approach devalues Revelation’s contributions to the study of evil through lack of attention. Revelation, however, offers a very important perspective on evil for Christian communities, but it is a perspective that is governed by two factors. First, Revelation’s perspective on evil is contextual, grounded in the sociohistorical experiences of the seven churches of Asia during the latter half of the first century. Unlike theodicies, which tend to focus on abstract, theoretical, and universal explanations of evil, Revelation’s focus is on specific, personal, and contextual experiences of evil. Revelation’s concern, therefore, is showing its audience how to live faithfully in the midst of such experiences. Second, the book’s perspective on evil grows primarily out of its use of imagery, mythic patterns, and literary structures. Whereas Revelation, as representative of apocalyptic literature, addresses the concept of evil with a measure of depth and seriousness that exceeds any other genre in the Bible (Cook 2003, 72), it is surprising how infrequently the terminology of “evil” occurs in the book. The two Greek terms most often translated as “evil” (kakos, ponēros) appear a total of three times, and in two of those

276   Gregory Stevenson occurrences they are used figuratively to describe the foulness of sores that afflict followers of the beast (16:2). In the only other occurrence, John uses kakos to identify false teachers at Ephesus as “wicked” people (2:2). Similarly, John avoids using any of the common terminology for “goodness” (agathos, kalos) in Revelation. Given the paucity of such terminology, one might question whether the categories of “good” and “evil” are the best way to characterize John’s vision. However, though the terminology is not pervasive, the concepts of good and evil are interwoven into the very fabric of Revelation’s narrative, impacting and being impacted by virtually all aspects of the text. The book’s evocative imagery, mythic patterns, and literary structures present a vision of good and evil that is tailored to a specific sociohistorical context, yet is defined by a broader tran­ scend­ent conflict. This analysis of Revelation’s perspective on evil will thus examine the dominant metaphor used to structure Revelation’s narrative world, how that narrative world addresses the social context of its audience, and how specific elements of that narrative world, including the use of dualistic language and imagery, attempt to shape the audience’s response to their social situation in order to promote faithfulness to God.

The War of Good versus Evil in Revelation Revelation is a war story. Warfare functions as a governing metaphor that structures the book’s narrative world. The language of warfare permeates the book: “make war/battle” (2:16; 9:7; 11:7; 12:7, 17; 13:4, 7; 16:14; 17:14; 19:11, 19; 20:8), “victory/conquer/conquest” (2:7, 11, 17, 26; 3:5, 12, 21; 6:2; 11:7; 12:11; 15:2; 17:14), “kill/slaughter” (5:6, 9; 6:8–9, 11; 9:15, 18, 20; 11:7; 13:8, 10; 18:24; 19:21), “sword” (1:16; 2:12, 16; 6:8; 13:10, 15; 19:15, 21), “army” (9:16; 19:14, 19). War is inherently dualistic, dividing forces into opposing camps, and the two primary forces in Revelation are two warring kingdoms: the kingdom of God versus the kingdom of the world. By using the metaphor of warfare, Revelation defines good and evil in terms of allegiance. “Good” is that which aligns with the reign of God, while “evil” is that which opposes the reign of God. Revelation then develops this dualistic structure throughout by creating sets of opposition that define the sides in this war and reinforce the differences between them. John presents the main figures in this war as opposing entities. The first pair is the leaders of the respective sides: God versus the dragon/Satan. God, by virtue of his role as creator, is at the center of all things and the only one worthy of glory, honor, and power (4:11). Satan, whose name means “adversary,” suggesting that “his primary role is that of opposition” (Aune 1998, 668), represents authority that is counterfeit to that of God. That God alone is worthy of glory, honor, and power reveals that the dragon’s claim to a throne (13:2), his granting of authority to the beast (13:2, 7), and his reception of worship is based in deception (12:9; 20:3, 7–8, 10). Whereas God creates, the dragon destroys.

Perspectives on Evil in the Book of Revelation   277 The dragon initiates the war against the saints (12:17; 13:7), battles the angels in heaven (12:7), and gathers the enemy forces for battle (20:7–9). A second pairing is that of Christ versus the beasts from the sea and land. Although several symbols represent Christ in Revelation, the animal symbol of the lamb is the dominant one for Christ and stands over against the animal symbol of the beast. The beast from the sea is commonly held to be a symbol for the Roman Emperor, with the beast from the land likely denoting some kind of provincial authority. As such, these two figures embody the power of the Roman Empire in its opposition to the kingdom of God. The central element of conflict between the Christ/Lamb and the beasts is that of dominion. The beast, as an agent of the dragon, has been granted power, a throne, and authority “over every tribe and people and language and nation” (13:2, 7). Yet Revelation asserts that Christ is the one who “will rule all the nations” (12:5) and is the “King of kings” (19:15–16). Consequently, the beasts resist the authority of Christ by engaging in blasphemy and slander (13:5–6) and making war against and killing the saints (11:7; 13:7, 15). A third pairing sets two female figures in opposition: the bride and the whore. The narrative aligns these characters in that both are associated with cities (the bride as new Jerusalem, 21:2, the whore as Babylon, 17:5), are dressed in fine linen (18:16; 19:8), wear gold and precious stones (18:16; 21:18–19), and are aligned with inscribed names (17:3, 5; 21:12,14). However, the bride stands as a symbol of purity; her “bright and pure” linen represents “the righteous deeds of the saints” (19:8), while the whore symbolizes promiscuity (17:2; 18:3). In contrast to the names of saints and apostles that the bride/new Jerusalem bears, the whore/Babylon bears blasphemous names (17:3). As with the dragon and beasts, the whore/Babylon is also held guilty of shedding the blood of the saints (17:6; 18:24). Spatial dualism in Revelation also helps delineate the lines between good and evil by marking off the symbolic territory of the respective groups. Leonard Thompson emphasizes the three-tiered universe of Revelation, in which divine forces are located in heaven, “evil forces” are assigned to the abyss, and the earth is the “place of conflict between the two” where the battle for allegiance plays out (Thompson 1990, 76–77). However, a couple of observations regarding this structure are necessary. First, the association of enemy forces with the earth, the abyss, or “the kingdom of the world” is not an indictment of God’s sovereignty, as though he has somehow lost his authority over creation. God remains “the Lord of the earth” (11:4) and his sovereignty over all creation is never questioned in Revelation (Thompson 1990, 91; Thomas and Macchia 2016, 411). Even the abyss as the location of “evil forces” is ultimately under God’s control. The demonic locusts that are released from the abyss in 9:1–11 do so at the behest of the fifth angel (9:1), and they do God’s will by harming only those who do not bear God’s seal (9:4). Likewise, in 20:1–3, an angel seizes the dragon and locks him in the abyss by God’s authority. Second, the primary symbolic contrast in Revelation is not heaven versus the abyss, but heaven versus earth. On one level, the earth functions as the battlefield in this war. It is where the members of the seven churches reside, and where they are called to stand in faithfulness. However, the earth is not a neutral battlefield in this war because

278   Gregory Stevenson the powers of evil have corrupted the earth (11:18; Bauckham  1993, 52). Throughout Revelation, therefore, those aligned with the kingdom of God are consistently associated with heaven (6:9; 7:9; 14:1–3), while those aligned with the kingdom of the world are described as “the inhabitants of the earth” (3:10; 6:10; 8:13; 11:10; 13:8, 12, 14; 17:2, 8) and “the kings of the earth” (18:3, 18; 19:19). In this sense, the terms “heaven” and “earth” function in Revelation as a representation of allegiance, and “earth” is frequently associated with an oppositional orientation to the kingdom of God.

Evil and the Social Context of Revelation Because Revelation is a contextualized response to the experiences of its audience, its perspective on evil is intricately enmeshed with the identification of that social experience. In other words, what is the context for the war that Revelation envisions? The traditional understanding of the book of Revelation is that it was written in response to Roman persecution of Christians (Mounce 1998, 16–19; Swete 1906, lxxiv, xcii). This view depicts the war in Revelation as an existing war in which Christians are faithfully resisting the Roman Empire and are, therefore, innocent victims suffering under Roman attack. Consequently, the rhetorical function of Revelation is to comfort this Christian community and to encourage its members to endure their suffering in faithfulness. In this viewpoint, evil is something that is external to the Christian community. It is a violent, oppressive force “out there” that threatens the faithful. The interpretive landscape has more recently shifted toward a rejection of persecution as the generative force behind the writing of Revelation, which has resulted in a comparable shift in evaluations of the book’s perspective on evil. Following Leonard Thompson’s work calling into question the historical evidence for widespread and systematic Roman persecution of Christians in the first century (Thompson 1990), many scholars have downplayed the role of persecution in favor of accommodation. Christians are too comfortable within Roman society and have compromised their faith by embracing the benefits and value system of Roman culture (Maier  2002, xii–xiii; Thompson 1990, 91). Rather than innocent victims, Christians have become collaborators with the enemy. The focus thus shifts from Rome as persecutor to Rome as seducer. Within this view, the rhetorical function of Revelation is to expose the evil nature of Roman society, to indict Christians for their complicity in that evil, and to call them to repent and resist Roman culture. Consequently, the war in Revelation is more of a potential war that will break out if Christians heed the call to repent and resist. So Maier can claim that the “problem the Apocalypse addresses is not too much persecution but too little” (Maier 2002, xiii). In this view, evil is no longer strictly “out there” but is also “in here.” Evil becomes the threat of seduction through the lure of the comfort, security, and status that the Roman system offers.

Perspectives on Evil in the Book of Revelation   279 What both interpretations have in common is the tendency to read Revelation through the narrow lens of their reconstructed social situations while devaluing the valid contributions of the other perspective. It sets up a false either/or scenario that leads to prioritizing one set of evidence over another. Two factors should lead us to be cautious about embracing a strict choice between persecution and accommodation. First, the term “persecution” is vague and can encompass many different forms of oppression, both physical and mental. Thompson argues against persecution by stating that the situation underlying Revelation must be sought “within normal, not abnormal times, in established policies of the empire toward Christianity, not in eccentricities of a particular emperor” (Thompson 2003, 36). However, one must account for the fact that “normal” times within the early Roman Empire and “established policies” are not necessarily conducive to a comfortable Christian existence. Normal imperial policies, for instance, fostered idolatry with respect to both the Greco-Roman deities and the imperial cult, economic oppression of certain groups, and the interrogation of groups that did not meet Roman legal restrictions. All of this could place faithful Christians in an ideological conflict between the demands of their faith and the demands of Roman society. Second, the evidence from Revelation itself resists such bifurcation. Churches are not monolithic entities that embody a single social experience, but instead represent a wide variety of experiences and religious viewpoints that vary not only from church to church, but also within congregations. Any attempt to read Revelation as a response to a singular (or even dominant) social setting is strongly resisted by the seven churches themselves, which resist such easy categorization (Charry 1999, 163). It is axiomatic that faithfulness leads to suffering in Revelation. Those who hold to the traditional social setting view the churches as primarily faithful and suffering as a result, whereas those who argue for accommodation view the churches as primarily unfaithful. The letters to the seven churches, however, contain a mixture of both faithfulness and unfaithfulness in almost equal measure. John describes only one church (Laodicea) as being wholly compromised in their faith, but he depicts two churches (Smyrna and Philadelphia) as completely faithful because only these two letters lack any command to repent. The remaining churches embody a mixture of the faithful and the unfaithful. Although Sardis is spiritually “dead,” there are “a few people” who have “not soiled their clothes” (3:1, 4). The church at Pergamum has remained “true” to the name of Christ even in the midst of a hostile environment that has resulted in the death of one of their own (2:13). Yet some in the church have acquiesced to a false teaching that promotes accommodation to Roman culture (eating meat sacrificed to idols and practicing sexual immorality), which John associates with Balaam and the Nicolaitans (2:14–15). The church at Thyatira is guilty of tolerating a woman who teaches a similar doctrine and who has presumably won some converts from the congregation (2:20–23); yet others in the church have rejected that teaching (2:24), and the church as a whole is praised for its love, faith, and perseverance (2:19). Although Ephesus is a church that has forsaken its “first love” (2:4), it appears to be particularly resistant to accommodation and false teaching since John praises them for not tolerating wicked individuals (in contrast to Thyatira), for rejecting false apostles, and for hating the practices of the Nicolaitans (2:2–3, 6).

280   Gregory Stevenson Reading Revelation as a book addressed to complex, multifaceted churches made up both of Christians who resist the values of Roman culture and suffer as a result and Christians who avoid suffering by accommodating to those same Roman values means that the rhetoric of Revelation functions both to comfort the oppressed and to challenge the compromised. John’s choice of apocalyptic rhetoric as the means of addressing these churches is instructive because the flexible and polyvalent symbolism of apocalyptic is uniquely suited for engaging varied types of readers simultaneously and for fostering faithfulness to God in these multiple settings. Since John’s depiction of evil in Revelation is a contextualized one, reading the book as a response to social situations that encompass both faithful resistance and faithless compromise has profound implications for the book’s perspective on evil.

Clarifying Evil in Revelation Within the context of the warfare metaphor, Revelation employs several rhetorical methods to clarify the nature of the evil facing its audience. One such method is the use of dualistic sets of opposition that grow out of the overarching conflict of the kingdom of God versus the kingdom of the world. Several of these sets of oppositions were introduced earlier, and demonstrate the battle lines in this war. Here we examine how these oppositions further clarify the issue of allegiance that faces John’s audience. The fundamental identifier of the adherents of these two kingdoms (and thus the dividing line between “good” and “evil”) is faithfulness, defined by descriptors and actions that demonstrate allegiance to one kingdom or another. Those aligned with the kingdom of God are “faithful” (pistos; 2:10, 13; 17:14); those aligned with the kingdom of the world are “unfaithful” (apistos; 21:8). The faithful prophesy and witness (6:9; 10:11; 11:3, 7, 18; 19:10), while the unfaithful utter blasphemy (2:9; 13:1, 5–6; 16:11, 21; 17:3). The unfaithful are the perpetrators of violent acts—they do harm (11:5; 22:11), murder (11:7), make war (11:7; 12:17; 13:7), destroy (11:18), and get drunk on the blood of the saints (17:6). The faithful are the victims of such acts—they are killed (2:13; 6:9, 11; 13:10, 15), suffer (1:9; 2:9–10), and their blood is shed (17:6; 18:24). Revelation characterizes the faithful with terminology of moral purity (white, virgin, blameless, holy, pure, washed), while characterizing the unfaithful with terminology of immorality (fornication, adultery, defilement, theft, uncleanness, abomination, impurity). The kingdom of God is true, just, and righteous (14:5; 15:3–4; 16:5–6; 19:1–2, 8), while the kingdom of the world is defined by lies, deception, and falsehood (2:2, 20; 3:9; 12:9; 13:14; 16:13; 19:20; 20:3, 7–8, 10; 21:8, 27; 22:15). Whereas the faithful engage in true worship (7:15; 11:10), the unfaithful engage in idolatry and magic arts (9:20–21; 13:4–5, 8, 12, 14; 14:9, 11; 16:2; 21:8; 22:15). Another rhetorical method Revelation employs, particularly to situate social/political manifestations of evil within a broader context, are mythic patterns of conflict. These mythic patterns shape much of the presentation in Rev 12. The chapter retells the

Perspectives on Evil in the Book of Revelation   281 Christian story, with its depiction of the birth of Christ (12:1–6), the cross (12:10–11), and the nature of Christian existence in the late first century (12:11–12, 17). The combat myth, which finds various forms of expression in many ancient cultures, depicts a tran­scend­ ent struggle between divine beings that represent order and chaos, which often involves a dragon seeking to kill an unborn child to keep that child from later defeating the dragon. By presenting a dragon attempting to devour a pregnant woman who will give birth to the Messiah, Rev 12:1–6 uses the combat myth to set up the conflict between Satan and the Messiah. This conflict finds further expression in 12:7–11, where a war in heaven between the dragon and Michael evokes the gigantomachy (a heavenly war between the gods and the giants), which is an extension of the combat myth. The result of this war is the dragon’s defeat, rendered dramatically when he is hurled to the earth, a defeat that is then clarified as having occurred “by the blood of the Lamb” (12:11), suggesting that the heavenly war represents a symbolic description of the cross. The dragon’s defeat at the cross, however, does not mark the end of conflict, and he goes down to the earth filled with fury (12:12). Here John turns to the mythic pattern in Gen 3. Having already identified the dragon as “that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan” (Rev 12:9), Revelation applies the enmity between the serpent and the offspring of Eve (Gen 3:15) to the dragon/serpent, who declares war on the offspring of the woman (Rev 12:17), defined as “those who obey God’s commandments and hold to the testimony of Jesus” (12:17). John thus clarifies the nature of Christian existence as a time of warfare in which Satan has directed his long-standing enmity with God toward those who align with God’s kingdom. It is often noted that apocalyptic texts take these and other primordial myths and recast them as eschatological narratives (Bauckham 1993, 89–90; Collins 1995, 25–38); however, it is equally important not to forget that they are also primordial myths. As primordial myths, they situate the experiences of John’s audience within a transcendent context and depict their current conflict as one expression of an enduring war with Satan as the ultimate cosmic adversary of the kingdom of God (Aune  1998, 668; Bauckham 1993, 89; Beale 1999, 633–34). This understanding of evil as a transcendent reality that undergirds all forms of opposition to God (imperial or otherwise) is a fundamental component of apocalyptic literature. To read Revelation in a way that denies or ignores this transcendent dimension of evil is to read Revelation as something other than apocalyptic (Cook 2003, 72, 194; Faricy 1979, 189). Yet these mythic patterns are just that: patterns. They are designed to be repeatable. Consequently, Revelation employs the paradigmatic character of these mythic patterns by applying them to the historical enemies of Israel’s past (Aune 1998, 668). The book’s frequent use of traditions and imagery associated with Egypt, Babylon, and Antiochus Epiphanes demonstrates that the primordial conflict of chaos and order, good and evil, faithfulness and unfaithfulness repeats itself throughout history in the form of imperial entities. By taking the four beasts of Daniel (each representing kingdoms) and combining them in the beast of Rev 13, John presents Rome as the current embodiment of this recurring pattern. Rome does not hold the patent on opposition to the kingdom of God

282   Gregory Stevenson and the institutionalizing of unfaithfulness. In fact, the interplay of Rev 12 and 13 clarifies the position of the Roman Empire in John’s schema. Before depicting Rome as a monstrous beast (Rev 13), John introduces the dragon as the real enemy (Rev 12). By only then moving on to the beast and stating that the beast receives his power, throne, and authority from the dragon (13:2) does Revelation make it clear that Rome is merely one weapon among many that the dragon utilizes to wage its war on the followers of God. The dualistic warfare rhetoric of Revelation has come under attack for its interpretive legacy, particularly the demonization of perceived enemies, the embracing of Christian triumphalism, and the representation of women in categories of good and evil (Carey 1999, 137, 176–77; Friesen 2006; Schüssler Fiorenza 1985, 199). Addressing these objections to the rhetoric of Revelation within our contemporary context is an important avenue of inquiry (though beyond the scope of this chapter), yet it is equally important to appreciate the functions of that rhetoric for John’s original audience. Ellen Charry employs the “two-edged sword” from Revelation as an effective analogy for the function of John’s rhetoric (Charry 1999). John simultaneously comforts and critiques the members of his churches, and the dualistic warfare rhetoric provides one example of this. For those members who are faithful to the kingdom of God and who resist Roman imperial culture, the dualistic rhetoric of Revelation provides them clarity and hope. It makes sense of their suffering by situating it within a long tradition of opposition between God and Satan that repeatedly manifests in social conflict. By viewing their struggle within this larger context, it emboldens them to stand firm and endure in faithfulness, for they stand in solidarity with all the oppressed faithful who have come before. Furthermore, their struggle is not just a social or political battle against a first-century empire; it is one manifestation of a transcendent battle against Satan that has been raging since the beginning of time. Revelation’s assurance of God’s ultimate victory spurs them on to greater endurance and continued faithfulness, as Revelation exhorts, “Here is a call for the endurance and faith of the saints” (13:10; 14:12). Social scientist Roy Baumeister argues that victims naturally conceive of their experiences in dualistic categories of good and evil, right and wrong, whereas the perpetrators of evil “see a large gray area” (Baumeister 1997, 40). This suggests that dualism helps victims cope by assuring them that their experiences were undeserved and unjust. It also suggests that for the perpetrators of evil and all those aligned with them—which in the context of Revelation would include those who have accommodated to Roman culture—dualism is just as important for its clarifying function. Viewing their actions in the context of a “gray area” allows perpetrators to justify their behavior and choices, whereas dualism forces them to confront their complicity by placing them firmly on the side of evil. For those who have compromised their faith, Revelation’s dualistic rhetoric informs them that there is no neutral ground in this war and compels them to decide for or against the kingdom of God (Thomas and Macchia 2016, 411). For all the members of the seven churches, Revelation’s language offers a clarion call to faithfulness. It accomplishes this by establishing dualistic categories of good and evil and then undercutting those same categories.

Perspectives on Evil in the Book of Revelation   283

Blurring Evil in Revelation The dualistic warfare language of Revelation establishes clear battle lines in which “good” and “evil” are neatly defined, assuring the faithful that they stand on the side of the Lamb. The problem, however, is that many members of the churches believe they are on the side of the Lamb even as they cavort with the beast. Two fundamental characteristics of evil in Revelation are deception and seduction (Boxall 2006, 179; 12:9; 13:14; 17:1, 2, 4, 5; 18:3, 9; 19:2, 20; 20:3, 8, 10; De Villiers 2000, 65). Many members of John’s churches have succumbed to the seductive charm of the enemy because they have been deceived into viewing Rome as a benign and even benevolent force in their lives, one that provides security, peace, and prosperity to the empire. Revelation’s dualistic rhetoric unmasks “the demonic potency” of such power (Meeks 2000, 467), indicts unfaithful Christians for their complicity in this demonic system, and forces them to make a choice. One strategy Revelation employs to indict these compromised Christians is to deliberately undercut the very dualism it established by blurring the lines between opposing entities. Two studies illustrate this feature. Preferring the term “boundary” for the division between opposing forces, Leonard Thompson states that the boundaries Revelation employs to create categories of good and evil are soft and blurred (Thompson 1990, 75). Both evil and good forces share characteristics that cause them to become “blended together” (Thompson 1990, 77–80). The Lamb and the beast are both “slain” (5:6; 13:3) and wear diadems (13:1; 19:12); Babylon and Jerusalem are both decked out in fine linen, gold, jewels, and pearls (18:16; 19:8; 21:18–19, 21), and “both function as sexual partners in their respective systems” (18:3; 19:7–8); God and Satan are both enthroned (2:13; 4:2); and God and the great whore both offer a drink of wine to others (14:8, 10; 16:19; 18:3; Thompson 1990, 81–82). The point, for Thompson, is that the dualism of Revelation, which seems to describe conflict between the church and Roman society as a battle between good and evil, actually does the opposite by presenting good and evil in a way that shows them not to be fundamentally different (Thompson 1990, 81). Although Thompson acknowledges that Revelation symbolically constructs “a world of conflict and opposition,” he argues that these symbolic constructs do not mirror actual social conflicts and opposition among John’s churches with the result that “terms such as conflict, tension, and crisis do not characterize his vision” (Thompson 1990, 75, 91). The second study comes from Paul Duff, who explores the literary links between the female characters in Revelation, identifying two who are “good” (the woman of Rev 12 and the bride/new Jerusalem) and two who are “evil” (Jezebel and the whore/Babylon) characterizations. He demonstrates numerous literary similarities between these characters (Duff 2003, 70–75), but then argues that, despite the similarities, the figures are supposed to be contrasted, and that the evil characterizations function as “an intentionally distorted reflection of the other” (Duff 2003, 71). These literary links between good

284   Gregory Stevenson and evil characterizations highlight the deceptive nature of the opposition, in which “evil forces and individuals look surprisingly like their benign opposites,” which allows them to “disguise themselves as godly characters so as to dupe humanity into siding with Satan” (Duff 2003, 78–79). Duff ’s approach is similar to Thompson’s in that he sees John arguing against a prevalent view in the churches that Roman society is essentially benign. Duff focuses on the internal tension in the churches over the leadership struggle between John and certain false teachers, such as “Jezebel,” who promote openness to Greco-Roman society (Duff 2003, 65, 68, 79). Duff, however, draws a sharper line between good and evil in Revelation than does Thompson, with the contrasts between characters functioning as a warning against deception. Although both of these studies are instructive on the nuances of John’s imagery, I disagree with Thompson’s conclusion that the blurring of lines suggests that there is no social conflict represented in Revelation, and would disagree with an interpretation that restricts the issues in Revelation simply to leadership struggles within the church (though Duff himself does not assert this). Rather, I argue that when John establishes sets of opposition and then blurs the lines between them, he is addressing differing factions within the churches, by drawing clear battle lines between good and evil and then showing how easily those lines can be crossed. This blurring is essential because a stark dualism of good and evil can lead to a form of self-deception in which people see a hard line between themselves and evil that inoculates them against responsibility. Evil becomes something that is done to them rather than something they perpetuate. By blurring the lines, Revelation argues that the identification of “good” and “evil” in this war is not as clear-cut as one might suppose and that boundaries can be crossed, and allegiances can shift. Evil masquerades as good, and good people may be deceived into complicity with evil systems and beliefs. Outsiders can come inside, and insiders may in fact be outsiders. So Jezebel can be a member of the church of Thyatira and yet linked with Satan (2:20, 24). The blurring of boundaries thus serves as a warning both for the faithful to stay vigilant and for the compromised and deceived to repent. Revelation’s frequent references to repentance (2:5, 16, 21–22; 3:3, 19; 9:20–21; 16:9, 11), including John’s plea to come out of Babylon (18:4), indicate that the book’s perspective on evil is intertwined with the concept of choice. Revelation structures the battle less as an absolute, metaphysical dualism of good versus evil and more as an orientation of faithfulness or unfaithfulness to the kingdom of God. John’s audience must decide with which camp to align. For those who align themselves with the enemy, whether through deliberate choice or through deception and seduction, the calls to repentance suggest that the lines they have crossed into enemy territory can be crossed back over. The dualistic structure of Revelation counters compromise and accommodation by exposing the deceptive nature of the enemy and forcing a choice of allegiance. Just as dualism provides an antidote to the poison of despair that afflicts faithful Christians who are being victimized within a society that is antagonistic to the kingdom of God, so, also, dualism provides an antidote to the temptation to compromise one’s faith in the pursuit of comfort, security, and prosperity.

Perspectives on Evil in the Book of Revelation   285

Defeating Evil in Revelation The ultimate goal in any war is victory. How the victory over evil comes about in Revelation involves the activity of three participants: Christ, the saints, and God. Rev 1:5 introduces Christ as “the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth.” This threefold designation establishes a pattern that is essential for understanding Revelation’s concept of victory over evil: faithful witness leads to suffering and death, but such death is merely a prelude to resurrection/exaltation (Stevenson 2013, 111–13). Three texts in particular shape the vision of Christ’s victory in Revelation through their employment of the themes of faithful witness and death. In Rev 19:11–16 Christ appears as a warrior on a white horse going out to wage war. That his name is identified as “the Word of God” and he strikes down the nations with a sword that comes out of his mouth indicates that this warrior wages war with the weapons of truth and witness. Rev 5 connects Christ’s victory with death by first introducing a powerful lion who has “conquered” (5:5), and then defining the nature of that conquest by transforming the image of the lion into that of a slaughtered lamb (5:6). Through this transformation of images, Revelation argues that victory is not attained by impressive displays of strength but by wielding a power different than that of the enemy. Whereas the enemy’s primary weapon is deception and falsehood, the slaughtered Lamb counters it with the power of truth and faithful witness that does not bend even in the face of death (Bauckham 1993, 91). Rev 12:9–11 further combines witness and death in its depiction of the dragon being cast down from heaven, a defeat that occurs “by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony” (12:11). Rev 12 depicts the cross of Christ as a vital turning point in the war against evil, for it reveals the pattern for victory. As David Barr notes, “At every juncture in this story where good triumphs over evil a close examination will show that the victory is finally attributed to the death of Jesus” (Barr 2006, 214; see also Aune 1998, 669). This victory comes about because faithful witness that doesn’t flinch even in the face of death exposes the deceptions of Satan and of the Roman Empire that earthly power, security, and wealth are the ultimate values in this world. The exaltation of the Lamb at the right hand of God (3:21) affirms the truth of this witness. This pattern of the Christ (faithful witness, suffering/death, exaltation) undergirds the entire narrative of Revelation and provides a paradigm of victory for both the saints and creation itself. The saints achieve victory in Revelation through faithfulness expressed in three ways: repentance, witness, and endurance. That each of the seven letters ends with a promise to the “one who conquers” indicates that such victory stems both from continuing to do the things that are praised in the letters and from repenting of the things that are warned against. Faithful witness in Revelation involves both prophetic speech and enduring suffering (1,9; 2:2–3; 2:19; 3:10; 7:14; 13:10; 14:12). These two elements of active witness and endurance are the means by which the saints take a stand against evil and conquer it (Barr 2003, 101, 106, 108). In particular, Revelation presents the victory of the saints as an

286   Gregory Stevenson extension of the victory of Christ. In Rev 3:21 Christ promises that “the one who conquers” will sit on his throne “just as I conquered and sat down.” The saints therefore conquer by embodying the pattern of the Christ. The three elements of this pattern are on display in Rev 2:10, where the saints in Smyrna are called upon to be faithful to the point of death in order to receive the crown of life. Likewise, in 20:4 the saints have been beheaded for their faithful witness but then experience resurrection leading to reigning with Christ. This pattern is most clearly represented in chapter 11, where the story of the two witnesses deliberately mirrors the story of Christ: they witness faithfully (11:3–6), are then killed in the city “where also their Lord was crucified” (11:8), are resurrected after three-and-a-half days (11:11), and then ascend up to heaven in a cloud (11:12). By this, Rev 11 reveals that Christian witness is to be in imitation of Christ. When the church witnesses to the world as Christ did by speaking truth in the face of opposition, it is this witness that exposes the lies of the enemy and achieves victory. At the close of the story of the two witnesses, the seventh trumpet sounds and it is revealed that “[t]he kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Messiah” (11:15). By immediately following the story of the two witnesses with this proclamation, John asserts that the conquering of the kingdom of the world and its reconciliation with the kingdom of God comes about by the saints witnessing faithfully, in imitation of their Lord. So, also, Rev 12:11 states that it is both the blood of the Lamb and the faithful witness of his followers “even in the face of death” that has defeated Satan. The final defeat of evil, however, falls under the sovereignty of God, who ensures victory through judgment and creation. Evil, in Revelation, is recalcitrant. The opposing forces and their allies refuse to repent (9:20–21; 16:9, 11). Though the dragon is cast down, he continues to oppose God and declares war on the saints (12:9–17). Despite the fall of Babylon, the beast likewise continues to wage war (19:19). This unrepentant, entrenched opposition necessitates God’s divine response of judgment. Two components make God’s judgment of evil “true and just” (15:3; 16:5–7; 19:2). First, the judgment executed is in direct relation to the crime that was committed. They murdered the saints and so receive wrath (6:9–17; 18:20); they shed blood and so are given blood to drink (16:6); they destroy the earth and so are destroyed (11:18). David Barr expresses dismay at the violent judgments in Revelation, questioning whether they amount to an abuse of divine power. He distances God, however, from these violent judgments by suggesting that the seeds of judgment grow out of the evil actions themselves (Barr 2006, 211–12, 219). Richard Bauckham, though, argues that one cannot separate evil actions that generate their own punishment from God’s acting in judgment (Bauckham  2004, 3). Rev 11:18 declares that the time has come for destroying the destroyers of the earth. Bauckham points out that the term diaphtheiro can mean destruction both in the sense of causing ruin and in the sense of “corrupting with evil.” The enemy forces of the dragon, beast, and false prophet are corrupting God’s creation, and so the faithfulness of God demands judgment in order to deliver his creation (Bauckham 1993, 52). The second component that makes God’s judgment of evil “true and just” is choice. Although Barr questions the ethics of God’s delay in putting a stop to evil (Barr 2006, 211), one function of delay is the granting of time for repentance. The slaughtered Lamb offers not only freedom to the oppressed, but also the opportunity for

Perspectives on Evil in the Book of Revelation   287 salvation to the oppressor (Thomas and Macchia 2016, 436). The choice to reject this opportunity and to continue in opposition to the kingdom of God highlights the justness of the judgment they receive in return. Judgment in Revelation, however, is ultimately not in service of the destruction of creation but in service of hope for creation. Victory in Revelation involves overcoming the oppositional dualism that structures the narrative. The dragon, beast, false prophet, and all who are aligned with them, find their place in the lake of fire (19:20; 20:10; 21:8), which symbolizes the reality that some evils are beyond repair (Barr 2006, 218). These evil forces corrupted this world and only their full removal can allow for the healing of creation, since a world of justice, truth, and peace can only exist by ending injustice, deception, and violence (Bauckham 1993, 46–47; Volf 1996, 300). Creation itself adheres in part to the pattern of the Christ, which ends with hope in the form of resurrection and exaltation, the new beginning that follows an ending. In line with this pattern, creation itself passes away and is resurrected as a new creation (21:1–3). Within this new creation, the opposition that characterized the old creation is no more. Heaven and earth no longer represent opposing orientations but are reborn in harmony, as is represented by the new Jerusalem descending from heaven to earth, so that the dwelling of God now resides with humanity (21:2–3). Evil finds no place in this new creation (21:8; 22:15). Opposition has been replaced with healing and reconciliation, a quality that is rare in apocalyptic writings (Meeks 2000, 468). Throughout Revelation “the nations” and “the kings of the earth” stand opposed to God, aligned with the dragon and the beast. The nations are “angry” (11:2, 18) and drink the wine of adultery (14:8; 18:3), indicating their seduction by the great whore. Likewise, the kings of the earth commit adultery with the great whore (17:2), align with the beast (17:12–14, 18), make war against the righteous (16:14–16; 17:14; 19:19), and lament Babylon’s doom (18:9–10). Nevertheless, Revelation offers hints within the narrative that the opposition of the nations and kings will ultimately be removed, not by their confinement to the lake of fire, but through reconciliation. The nations will one day worship God (15:4), a great multitude “from every nation” will gather before the heavenly throne (7:9), and the kings of the earth will turn against the great whore (17:16). These glimpses find their fulfillment within the new creation, where the nations and kings of the earth bring their glory into the city of God (21:24–27) and the leaves of the tree of life are “for the healing of the nations” (22:2). Revelation contextualizes the conflict with evil within God’s cosmic plan for his creation. Within this plan, the deceptive and oppressive nature of evil is overcome by the faithfulness of Christ, the witness and endurance of his followers, and the faithfulness of God to his vision for a creation that is reconciled to himself in peace and love.

Concluding Reflections The power of apocalyptic rhetoric lies in its fluidity and flexibility. This makes it a fitting choice for addressing the complex and multifaceted social context of the seven churches. Particularly through its use of a warfare metaphor, Revelation both encourages those

288   Gregory Stevenson faithful Christians who suffer as a result of their witness and critiques those unfaithful Christians who compromise their faith through accommodation to Roman culture and values. As such, Revelation simultaneously addresses the “evil” that attacks from without and the “evil” that arises from within. This flexibility allows Revelation to speak to varied circumstances both ancient and modern. This is why modern interpreters who live in a context where Christians enjoy prosperity and protection and where the relationship between empire and church can become overly comfortable see in the book an indictment of Western culture and of Christianity’s accommodation to Western values (e.g., Maier 2002, xiii), whereas interpreters who have experienced oppression and who live in contexts where poverty and conflict between church and authority are the norm see in the book a powerful vision of hope and comfort (e.g., Boesak 1987). Rather than limiting the reading of Revelation to one perspective or the other, and in so doing limiting the book’s message regarding evil, embracing the flexibility of Revelation’s rhetoric in speaking both to the oppressed and to the complacent allows Revelation to show how evil can be defeated in all its varied forms.

Note 1. James Crenshaw’s book bears the subtitle Biblical Responses to the Problem of Evil, yet the book of Revelation is never mentioned once (Crenshaw 2005). Anssi Simojoki’s essay, “The Book of Revelation,” which appears in Theodicy in the World of the Bible, practically ignores the text of Revelation in favor of the book’s history of interpretation, genre, and reliance on the Old Testament (Simojoki 2003). Robert Faricy adds that even among scholars who take apocalyptic seriously, they do so “rarely if ever in the context of the problem of evil” (Faricy 1979, 185).

References Aune, David. 1998. Revelation 6–16. WBC 52B. Dallas: Word. Barr, David L. 2003. “Doing Violence: Moral Issues in Reading John’s Apocalypse.” In Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 97–108. RBS 44. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Barr, David L. 2006. “The Lamb Who Looks like a Dragon? Characterizing Jesus in John’s Apocalypse.” In The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 205–20. SymS 39. Leiden: Brill. Bauckham, Richard. 1993. The Theology of the Book of Revelation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bauckham, Richard. 2004. “Judgment in the Book of Revelation.” Ex Auditu 20: 1–24. Baumeister, Roy F. 1997. Evil: Inside Human Violence and Cruelty. New York: Holt. Beale, G. K. 1999. The Book of Revelation. NIGTC. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Boesak, Allan A. 1987. Comfort and Protest: Reflections on the Apocalypse of John of Patmos. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Boxall, Ian. 2006. The Revelation of Saint John. BNTC. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson.

Perspectives on Evil in the Book of Revelation   289 Carey, Greg. 1999. Elusive Apocalypse: Reading Authority in the Revelation to John. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Charry, Ellen T. 1999. “ ‘A Sharp Two-Edged Sword: Pastoral Implications of Apocalyptic.” Int 53: 158–72. Collins, John J. 1995. “The Origin of Evil in Apocalyptic Literature and the Dead Sea Scrolls.” In Congress Volume: Paris 1992, edited by J. A. Emerton, pp. 25–38. VTSup 61. Leiden: Brill. Cook, Stephen L. 2003. The Apocalyptic Literature. Nashville: Abingdon. Crenshaw, James L. 2005. Defending God: Biblical Responses to the Problem of Evil. Oxford: Oxford University Press. De Villiers, Pieter G. R. 2000. “Prime Evil and Its Many Faces in the Book of Revelation.” Neot 34: 57–85. Duff, Paul B. 2003. “Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing: Literary Opposition and Social Tension in the Revelation of John.” In Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 65–79. RBS 44. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Faricy, Robert. 1979. “The Problem of Evil in Perspective.” Communio 6: 173–91. Friesen, Steven. 2006. “Sarcasm in Revelation 2–3: Churches, Christians, True Jews, and Satanic Synagogues.” In The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 127–44. SymS 39. Leiden: Brill. Maier, Harry  O. 2002. Apocalypse Recalled: The Book of Revelation after Christendom. Minneapolis: Fortress. Meeks, Wayne A. 2000. “Apocalyptic Discourse and Strategies of Goodness.” JR 80: 461–75. Mounce, Robert  H. 1998. The Book of Revelation. Rev. ed. NICNT. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1985. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. Philadelphia: Fortress. Simojoki, Anssi. 2003. “The Book of Revelation.” In Theodicy in the World of the Bible, edited by Antti Laato and Johanees C. de Moor, pp. 652–84. Leiden: Brill. Stevenson, Gregory. 2013. A Slaughtered Lamb: Revelation and the Apocalyptic Response to Evil and Suffering. Abilene, TX: Abilene Christian University Press. Swete, Henry Barclay. 1906. The Apocalypse of St. John. New York: Macmillan. Thomas, John Christopher, and Frank  D.  Macchia. 2016. Revelation. Two Horizons New Testament Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Thompson, Leonard  L. 1990. The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire. New York: Oxford University Press. Thompson, Leonard  L. 2003. “Ordinary Lives: John and His First Readers.” In Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, edited by David  L.  Barr, pp. 25–47. RBS 44. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Volf, Miroslav. 1996. Exclusion and Embrace. Nashville: Abingdon.

chapter 18

V iolence i n th e A poca ly pse of Joh n David L. Barr

Violence is not incidental to apocalyptic thinking; it lies at its heart. The conundrum that apocalyptic writings seek to explain may be stated thus: If God created the world, then why is the world is so ungodly? Why do the wicked dominate the righteous? As one apocalyptic writer implores: And now, O Lord, these nations, which are reputed to be as nothing, domineer over us and devour us. But we who are your people, whom you have called your firstborn, only begotten, zealous for you, and most dear, have been given into their hands. If the world has indeed been created for us, why do we not possess our world as an inheritance? (4 Ezra 6:57–58)

The Scope of Violence Apocalyptic writers offered various answers to this question, but most agreed that things were about to change. They generally saw the time of change to be one of great suffering, violence, and divine retribution (Schmithals 1973, 62; Wessinger 2014). There would be war (Arcari  2011, 18–27; Collins  1975). And war of necessity involved violence. John builds his story on this paradigm of the coming holy war, with its attendant violence, as Adela Yarbro Collins (1976) has so ably shown in her study of the combat myth in the book of Revelation. While the use of such a paradigm is not unproblematic, violence is at least understandable as a theme of warfare—and there is such a thing as a just-war theory. A people under attack have a right to defend themselves, and John portrays such an attack on his community (Rev 12:17). A second, related, root metaphor for the freeing of God’s people from the powers of this age also involves violence: the Exodus tradition (Kio 1989). In that tradition, God

292   David L. Barr brings a series of plagues upon Egypt, forcing pharaoh to release Israel from her captivity. Most of the images of violence portrayed in the trumpet series and the bowls of wrath series are drawn directly from the plague tradition (Richard 1997). Given the violent nature of these two traditions and their fundamental role in the Apocalypse, it would be surprising if there were not significant violence. But the violence of John’s Apocalypse runs much deeper. It is not only personal (3:5); it is corporate (2:5), social (18:1–24), and indeed cosmic (21:1). As the American philosopher C. S. Pierce lamented, But little by little the bitterness increases until in the last book of the New Testament, its poor distracted author represents that all the time Christ was talking about having come to save the world, the secret design was to catch the entire human race, with the exception of a paltry 144,000, and souse them all in brimstone lake, and as the smoke of their torment went up for ever and ever, to turn and remark, “There is no curse anymore.” Would it be an insensible smirk or a fiendish grin that should accompany such an utterance? I wish I could believe St. John did not write it. (Peirce 1992, 385–86)

But this wish, which we can of course grant in terms of authorship, overlooks the significant violence found in the Gospels themselves. Matthew, for example, begins with a slaughter the innocent children and ends with a calling down of divine vengeance on the Jews who crucified Jesus and on their children (Matt 2:16; 27:25; Matthews and Gibson 2005; Volf 1996). We should not be shocked to find significant violence in a movement that was grounded in the horrendous violence of the crucifixion of an innocent person (Fitzmyer 1978; Hengel 1977). Nor should we overlook the considerable violence in the Hebrew Scriptures, held sacred by John and his community. Most pointedly, these writings present a version of holy war practices that can be deemed no less than immoral, demanding the obliteration of the enemy, and not just the soldiers: They are to “kill both man and woman, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and donkey” (1 Sam 15:3; cf. Josh 6:21; Num 34–35, Deut 2:33–34). Surely, such stories would inure their hearers to the problem of divine violence (Collins 2003). Finally, we should not ignore the social context in which John wrote, a context of blood sport and death in the arena, where the display of violence and the punishment of criminals functioned to establish Roman identity and to maintain social control (Frilingos 2004). The expansive portrayal of violence in John’s Apocalypse must be considered within these four contexts: the holy war mythology, the violence in the Jesus story, the portrayals of violence in the Hebrew Scriptures, and the everyday violence of life in the GrecoRoman world. These contexts are not offered to justify John’s violence, but simply to remind ourselves that ancient and modern sensibilities might be quite different. Still, a careful look at John’s violence must be undertaken.

Violence in the Apocalypse of John   293

The Kinds of Violence John communicates violence to the audience in three ways: violent actions in the plot, violent images in the characterization, and violent language in the discourse. By violent language I mean those instances where John engages in verbal violence, such as the curse he pronounces on any who would change his recital (Rev 22:18–19). I would also include his labeling of his opponents as “Jezebel” (2:22) and a “synagogue of Satan” (2:9; 3:9). He presents his community as those who follow one who is truly human (1:13), while others serve an animal (13:1). John’s Lamb was not simply killed; it has been slaughtered (sphazō 5:6). Such language is meant to divide people, not to bring them together (Yarbro Collins 1986). Even more violent are the images John chooses for telling the story. The carrion birds feasting on the entrails of the defeated army (19:17); the drunken ruler queen, killed and eaten (17:16); the killing of Jezebel’s children (2:23); the slow torture of those who follow the beast (14:11); the winepress of God’s anger, with blood flowing as high as the horses bridles (14:19–20); and the lake of fire that consumes all those not written in the Lamb’s book of life (19:20, 20:15). These aspects of John’s violence are perhaps the most difficult to understand, because none of them is essential for the story. They entail what we might call a surplus of violence. As noted, John’s story involves war and its attendant violence. The manifestation of that war appears slowly: it is only hinted at in the first section (chapters 1–3), made explicit in the second section (chapters 4–11), and dramatically portrayed in the final section (chapters 12–22). Our first hint that there is a war to be fought occurs in the instructions John sends to the seven churches, in which each is admonished that they must conquer (nikaō; 2:7, 11, 17, etc.) Indeed, if they do not conquer, the writer threatens to come and make war against them with the sword of his mouth (2:16). In this segment of the story (Rev 2–3), the fight is against one’s own inclinations and the failures of others in the community, and there are harsh judgments on those who fail to conquer (war, destruction, and death) and extravagant rewards for those who do (tree of life, manna, sharing the divine throne). The scene shifts dramatically in the second segment as we join John on his journey to heaven, where he witnesses the empowerment of Jesus to reveal what has been hidden. In that revelation, we learn two things about the war. First, we are shown the origins of war with the appearance of one who would conquer the world: the rider on the white horse. Such aggression leads inevitably to war, famine, and deaths of the innocent, which can only be resolved in apocalyptic judgment, depicted in the seven seals. The ultimate vision of the ending of evil in the series of seven seals is one not just of a holy war, but of cosmic dissolution (6:12–17). Then, without precedent, foreshadowing, or explanation, we are told of the beast who rises out of the abyss to make war on the witnesses, killing them and leaving their bodies in the street (11:1–10). The first battle of the final war seems to have been won by the enemy.

294   David L. Barr The third segment of the story explains where this beast came from, why he wages war, and how that war progresses. It is filled with violence. We are told that the beast is an agent of the ancient dragon, who waged war against Michael and his angels and was cast out of heaven to earth (12:7). Failing to destroy the pregnant woman and eat her infant son, the dragon turns to make war on the rest of her children (12:17). There are at least five battles in the ensuing narrative, each of which would seem to be the final conflict (16:14, 17:14; 19:11, 19; 20:8). Curiously, none of these scenes ever describes an actual battle; in each case, the narrative moves directly from the announcement of the battle to the announcement of victory, a victory that includes extreme violence. By contrast, the War Scroll from Qumran (1QM) is at great pains to portray the actual fighting of the battle—the battle formations, standards, and trumpet signals (Wise, Abegg, and Cook 1996, 150–71). It gives very little attention to the world after the battle, and ­imagines that the hostilities cease when the long battle is won. The War Scroll imagines a battle that will last forty years; the battles in the Apocalypse seem over in an instant. In John’s scheme, the first “final battle” (Harmagedōn) culminates in the destruction of the earth in an unprecedented earthquake, the elimination of islands and mountains, and unbelievably large hail stones that plague humankind (16:17–21). The second includes the truly ghastly scene of the destruction of Babylon the great whore, whose allies will “make her desolate and naked; they will devour her flesh and burn her up with fire” (17:16). And it gets worse. The third expands the menu, as the birds feast on the remains of those who were killed in the war. Then, after the battle, the prisoners of war are executed by the rider on the white horse (19:21). This brings peace, but only for a thousand years, after which there is one more battle, one that entails the complete destruction of the earth and the heavens, and the judgment of all humanity—the living and the dead. And “anyone whose name was not found written in the book of life was thrown into the lake of fire” (20:15). So we have a violent story, represented in violent images and spoken in violent language. This is perhaps what D. H. Lawrence had in mind when he called Revlation “a rather repulsive work” that is “not content till the whole world be destroyed, except that lake of fire in which those who fail to get in line might suffer eternally” (1982, 103). Such revulsion has been expressed by critics as far back as Martin Luther (1522) and as contemporary as the modern literary critic Harold Bloom (1988). The portrayal becomes even more problematic when we examine the sources and implications of the violence that is portrayed. I will first consider its subjects and objects, focusing on who does the violence and to whom it is done. Then I will ask about its relation to justice and to what degree is the violence deserved.

The Subjects and Objects of Violence John portrays four different sources of violence: violence by humans, violence by the dragon and his agents, violence by Jesus, and violence by God—the latter predominat-

Violence in the Apocalypse of John   295 ing. The violence is perpetrated against four objects: Jesus, John’s community, the earth, and the dragon with his agents. Much of this violence is symmetrical. The dragon attacks John’s community and is repulsed by divine violence against him. The dragon’s agents make war on John’s community and Jesus appears as the divine warrior to defeat them. The violence symbolized in the seven seals is largely human violence (seals one through five; 6:1–11), which is overcome by divine violence (seal six; 6:12–17). Such reciprocal violence is easy to understand, after the model of self-defense. Much of the violence fits this reciprocal model, but some of the violence is asymmetrical: Jesus followers are never shown to do violence to him, yet Jesus is said to make war on (2:16), kill (2:23), threaten (3:3), and remove (2:5) those among his own followers who fall short of expectations. Moreover, the majority of the violent acts in the Apocalypse are attributed to God, though no violence is enacted against God. The reverse is true of the earth: she enacts no violence but experiences extreme violence in earthquakes and the destruction of oceans and streams, and is finally destroyed. We will consider what might justify this perspective in the next section. Human violence against Jesus is never shown; it has happened in the past. Thus Jesus was pierced (1:7), was dead (1:5, 18), and appears as the slaughtered Lamb (5:6). The violence portrayed here is historical and hardly graphic. Much the same can be said for human violence against the community. Some will be imprisoned (2:10), and at least one of their number was killed (2:13). The vision of the lives under the altar might imply that more deaths are anticipated (6:9). Some have been slandered by those “who call themselves Jews” (2:9). It is also foreseen that the nations will trample Jerusalem (11:2). This last vision suggests a third object of human violence: the earth itself. Again, this is declared but not shown (11:18). Clearly, John conceives of his community as under siege, but he is restrained in showing human violence against the community. In John’s story the real violence against the community stems from the dragon—that “ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world” (12:9). Having failed to capture and devour the newborn child of the heavenly woman, the dragon now makes war on the rest of her children—surely John’s community (12:17; 13:7). This dragon and his agents are said to kill the two witnesses (11:7), and they repeatedly raise an army of rebellion (13:7, 16:14, 17:14, 19:19, 20:8). More pernicious, they entice, torture, and kill any who do not worship them (13:15–16). However, John never portrays his community committing violence against the dragon or his agents. Quite the opposite, they are cautioned that those who take the sword die by the sword (13:10). When the Lamb gathers his followers on Mount Zion, it might seem that he is gathering his army for war, but what ensues is not a war. It is rather more like a victory parade (14:1–5; Thomas 2008). The rhetoric of the subjects and objects of violence in the Apocalypse provide some justification for its use (Peters 2004). There is violence against the community, but no violence by the community. There is violence by the forces of evil and violence against the forces of evil. There is violence by God but no portrayal of violence against God. John would like us to believe that this is an ethical portrayal: “[B]ecause they shed the

296   David L. Barr blood of saints and prophets, you have given them blood to drink. It is what they deserve!” (16:6). But there are problems, because at another point, John prays: “Render to her as she herself has rendered, and repay her double for her deeds; mix a double draught for her in the cup she mixed” (18:6). This double repayment begins to sound more like revenge than justice—as does the cry of the martyrs: “[A]venge our blood” (6:10). Is the violence of this story justified?

The Ethics of Violence The violence portrayed in John’s Apocalypse raises at least four ethical questions having to do with coercion, criminal actions, procrastination, and the rhetoric of destruction.

Coercion All societies involve some level of coercion; evil deeds and the people who do them must be constrained. “Do not resist one who is evil” (Matt 5:39) may be healthy individual advice, but it is impossible as social practice. But just here we come to a paradox. To punish people for their deeds is to assume that they are responsible for their deeds, that they have chosen them, that they have free will. But if violence is used to coerce behavior, free will disappears. If you put a gun in someone’s back and demand their wallet, you cannot later claim that they gave it of their own free will. The choice between dying and giving up your wallet is not a real choice. Part of John’s case against the dragon and his beasts is that they resort to violence when persuasion and seduction are not sufficient. When miracles fail to lure people into worshiping the beast, coercion raises its ugly head: those who fail to worship the beast will be killed (13:15). But John portrays an even greater threat, because God is the one who will enact an even graver hazard—eternal punishment for those who do not fall in line (20:14). John seems to anticipate the logic of the Inquisition: it is better to torture the body to enforce correct belief than to let people lose their souls through heresy. The fourth, fifth, and six bowl of wrath—featuring fire, plagues, pains, and sores—seem to be intended to make people repent (16:8–11; cf. 9:21). But how is this different from the threat of the beast to kill all who do not worship his image? In fact, the divine coercion goes even further: Then another angel, a third, followed them, crying with a loud voice, “Those who worship the beast and its image, and receive a mark on their foreheads or on their hands, they will also drink the wine of God’s wrath, poured unmixed into the cup of his anger, and they will be tormented with fire and sulfur in the presence of the holy angels and in the presence of the Lamb. And the smoke of their torment goes up forever and ever. There is no rest day or night for those who worship the beast and its image and for anyone who receives the mark of its name.” (14:9–11)

Violence in the Apocalypse of John   297 Humanity seems to be left with some very narrow options: refuse to worship the beast and the beast will kill you, or worship the beast and God will kill you. We must at least ask the question as to whether the use of lethal violence to control religious behavior is ever morally justified.

Immoral Actions The question of the ethics of John’s story must be pursued even further, for the establishment of the new city of God includes actions that are today universally recognized as inherently immoral. Here the indictment of God would read: war crimes, crimes against humanity, and, perhaps, sadism. The Geneva conventions, signed in 1929, establish rules for the conduct of war—rules designed to protect noncombatants, especially civilians and prisoners of war. It embodies a nearly universal agreement that certain humanitarian values must be maintained even in war. Of course, the need for these conventions reminds us that wars routinely violate such norms. Unfortunately, the wars portrayed in the Apocalypse do not observe such conventions. In John’s story the enemy combatants are annihilated after the war has been fought and won: And the beast was captured, and with it the false prophet who had performed in its presence the signs by which he deceived those who had received the mark of the beast and those who worshiped its image. These two were thrown alive into the lake of fire that burns with sulfur. And the rest were killed by the sword of the rider on the horse, the sword that came from his mouth; and all the birds were gorged with their flesh. (19:9–11)

Such practices were routine for the Romans. It was customary to bring the leaders of foreign wars back to Rome, along with the captured booty and soldiers, to display them publicly in victory parades, and then to publicly execute them (Thomas 2008, 83–86; Versnel 1970). Those not killed would be sold as slaves. The Arch of Titus in Rome commemorates Titus’s victory over Judea in 70 ce and clearly shows the triumphal parade of prisoners and booty. One could argue that it is unfair to hold John to a higher standard than that of his own time, but if we find the Roman practice repugnant, should we not find John’s imitation of that practice equally repugnant?

Sadism Perhaps the most disturbing scene in the whole of John’s Apocalypse involves the apparent enjoyment of unending suffering: Then another angel, a third, followed them, crying with a loud voice, “Those who worship the beast and its image, and receive a mark on their foreheads or on their

298   David L. Barr hands, they will also drink the wine of God’s wrath, poured unmixed into the cup of his anger, and they will be tormented with fire and sulfur in the presence of the holy angels and in the presence of the Lamb. And the smoke of their torment goes up forever and ever. (14:9–11)

Wrath, anger, torment, forever. Bad enough that John should portray such a scene; even more troubling is that he makes the Lamb complicit. As Steve Moyise has commented: “Had such a statement been written about the beasts, commentators would have described it as the epitome of malice, vindictiveness and evil” (2001, 182).

Procrastination John seems to recognize that by creating a story in which God has both the power and the intention to overthrow the dragon’s illegitimate regime, he has created an additional ethical problem. After reviewing the havoc caused by human endeavors to create empires, the suffering victims inquire, “[H]ow long will it be before you judge and avenge our blood on the inhabitants of the earth?” (6:10). Actions have moral consequences, but so do inactions. The ethical problem of delay can be illustrated quite simply: if you know that a child on your street is being abused, and you know that you could place a call to children’s services and end the abuse, by what logic can you delay in doing so? Would not such delay make you responsible for what the child suffers in the interim? So, also, we must ask, if God has the power to stop evil and suffering, and intends one day to use that power, how can any delay be justified? Again, John seems to recognize this problem when the revealing angel refuses to let John write down the seven thunders, but instead declares, “[T] here will be no more delay” (10:5–6). This is, first of all, a promise that the story will proceed apace, but it echoes the desire of the apocalyptic writers for immediate divine action.

The Explanations of Violence While the scope of the problem as it has been outlined here is a distinctively modern conception, earlier readers were not without their concerns (Verheyden, Nicklas, and Merkt 2011). Already in the third century, Origen rejected a literal reading of the lake of fire, which he insisted was for the purification and redemption of the soul (Ramelli 2011, 62). His argument was theological: since God is good, and God can only do good things, therefore the lake of fire must serve some virtuous purpose. Tyconius argued in the fourth century against those who saw the Apocalypse presenting a series of future events. He argued that these events encapsulated the experience of Christians in the world. Thus the millennium is not some future time, but the present

Violence in the Apocalypse of John   299 experience of reigning with Christ in the church, a view taken by Augustine and many later interpreters. This focus on the spiritual meaning of the Apocalypse, rather than its literal reality, allowed most interpreters to avoid the moral concerns that have been outlined here. They did not seek to “decode” the Apocalypse (to decide that each symbol “really means” some actual event or person) but to embody it (to imagine how these symbols and events should instruct the spiritual life of the Christian community). Interpreters who did take the violence seriously, such as Oecumenius in the sixth century or Andrew of Caesarea in the seventh, saw the need to rationalize and justify the actions attributed to God. In their view, the violence stems from human weakness and from the human rejection of divine love. These explanations seem to have been widely accepted. In the sixteenth century, Martin Luther initially rejected the Apocalypse. In his Preface to the Revelation of St. John (1522), he admitted that the work did not speak to him, did not present a picture of the Christ that he knew from the Gospels. His new preface (1530) saw the conflicts of the Apocalypse as the struggle between true and false faith. In a curious way, the same dichotomy exists today among interpreters of John’s Apocalypse (for an overview, see Hylen 2011; Skaggs and Doyle 2007). There are those who reject the work because they find its support for violence, misogyny, and revenge objectionable (Bloom  1988; Mack  1995, 195–97; Moore  1999; Moyise  2001; Pippin 1992, 1999). Others, probably the majority, find ways to explain away the objectionable elements—most commonly by appeals to symbolism and metaphor (Barr 2003, 2006; Bauckham 1993b; Blount 2005; Boring 1989; Farmer 1997; Johns 2003, 2005). Of course, the nuance of the individual scholars suggests that these are not absolute categories but two poles on a continuum.

Real Violence One way to clarify the issues between these two schools of thought is to ask the simple question: To what degree can the events portrayed in the Apocalypse be said to actually happen? If they denote real events that have happened, do happen, or will happen, it will require some extraordinary intellectual gymnastics to continue to regard the book as telling an ethical story. For it is not just the violence that must be explained; there are also the moral issues of coercion, criminality, sadism, and procrastination outlined here. If there are ways to reconcile a literalist reading of Revelation with these ethical issues, I have not come across it. Perhaps the best one can do is to say that the awful judgments of the Apocalypse are deserved because of humanity’s failure to repent (Peters 2004). But the problem does not disappear even if one takes a less literal and more symbolic interpretation. We are still left with the problem of what the symbols symbolize. A great many interpreters adopt some form of allegorical interpretation, wherein things in the story actually mean something outside the story: “[E]verything just meant something and something moral at that. You put down the meaning flat” (D. H. Lawrence, quoted in Bloom 1988, 47). The women in John’s story are mythic figures, but if they refer in any

300   David L. Barr way to real women it is hard to avoid their portrayal in terms of Western misogyny and sexism. Tina Pippin explains her evaluation of the story as a “Pornoapocalypse” (1999, 92–97), suggesting that even if one could accept the meaning of the symbolism, the symbolism itself was intolerable: “Having studied the evils of Roman imperial policy in the colonies, I find the violent destruction of Babylon very cathartic. When I looked into the face of Babylon, I saw a woman” (1992, 80). One way interpreters have sought to avoid this dilemma is to establish some hermeneutical principle by which to evaluate the story. Since the story itself embodies the concept of justice, for example, the reader is authorized to evaluate the use of the symbols according to a standard of justice (e.g., Schüssler Fiorenza 1998, 3–10). Adopting such a standard allows the reader to understand that the gender of John’s characters is accidental, not essential (Huber 2007, 33–44). These are not real women, and we should interpret them in accord with John’s primary objective of justice (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 13). This is an important idea. The suggestion is analogous to the controversy surrounding the reading of Huckleberry Finn, whose racist language has caused some to seek to set it aside (Mensh and Mensh 2000). Others argue that at a deeper level, the story is an­ti­rac­ ist and should be read in accord with its underlying humanism. The feminist debate about the Apocalypse is similar (see the essays in Levine 2009). But does this appeal to some more basic truth solve the problem? It may be possible to read Revelation without sexism, but it certainly does not demand to be read that way (Moyise 2001, 190–94). The story John tells contains much that is deplorable. Setting aside for the moment the larger issues of theology and focusing on only the morality of the actions portrayed, we come to a harsh conclusion. This god who threatens death, and eventually enacts it on all who do not submit, is immoral. It is like an abusive marriage in which the stronger partner beats the weaker till the weaker surrenders, or else eventually dies at the hands of the one who claims to love them. I am not persuaded by the argument that it was for their own good. We cannot justify immoral acts merely by attaching the name “god” to them (Keller 1995, 199–201). Is the book, then, “without wisdom, goodness, kindness, or affection of any kind”? (Bloom 1988, 4).

Metaphoric Violence When reading an apocalypse we must always remind ourselves that things are not what they appear. The “unveiling” of an apocalypse presumes that the reality that we can see is false. We can make an analogy to Plato’s cave, whose inhabitants mistake the grotesque shadows on the back wall of the cave for actual people (see Plato’s Republic, VII 514 a, 2 to 517 a, 7; Paulien 2004). So, perhaps, the grotesque figures we meet in the Apocalypse should be read otherwise. One approach draws on the ancient practice of rereading illustrated by the phrase: when you see X, read Y, where Y is understood to be some deeper meaning. For example, the author of the Gospel of John shows Jesus reinterpreting the Exodus tradition of manna, claiming that the true meaning refers to the bread of life (Brown 1966, 1.262).

Violence in the Apocalypse of John   301 Many argue that John is doing something similar in the scene that introduces Jesus in the guise of the heavenly Lamb: See the Lion of the tribe of Judah . . . . I saw . . . A Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered. . . . (Rev 5:5–6).

On one level, this is simply John rewriting history; the one they believed to be the Messiah did not look like the Messiah was supposed to look and did not do what the Messiah was supposed to do. But on another level, John is redefining what it takes to be worthy. As Caird suggested, it is almost as if John is saying to us at one point after another, “Wherever the Old Testament says ‘Lion,’ read ‘Lamb’ ” (cf. Barr  1997, 361; Boring 1989, 110; Caird 1966, 73). This is a very tempting reading, for once the Lamb is introduced he dominates the story; the Lion does not reappear. But it is too simple to say that the Lamb replaces the Lion, for before the story is finished the Lamb will be acting very Lion-like: destroying the enemies of God (17:14). Is he, as D. H. Lawrence suggested, really a Lion in Lamb’s clothing? This is also too simple. In John’s vision the Lamb does not replace the Lion; nor does the Lamb become the Lion. John has created a paradoxical symbol that cannot be easily translated into other language (Barr 1984; 2006, 206–10). John never tells us what it means; he deals in symbols, not explanations (Bauckham 1993a, 180). John uses this technique of substituting visual symbols for oral ones at least twice more: when he is told he will be shown the bride, but actually sees a city (20:9–27), And he is told the elect are one hundred forty-four thousand, but sees they are an innumerable multitude (7:4–8). The reader is not asked to choose which is real; both are. They are two ways of imagining the same thing. Two other paradoxical symbols are often cited to argue that John does not imagine real violence. The first is the war in heaven in which Satan is defeated by a heavenly army that is headed by Michael, but then the defeat is attributed to the blood of Jesus and his followers (12:7, 11); the other is the mass slaughter of the unrepentant, but by a mouthborne sword (19:21). Clearly, John regularly subverts his metaphors of power and domination by matching them with equally powerful metaphors of suffering and subversion (on metaphor theory, see Huber 2007, 45–88; on multiple metaphors, see Hylen 2011). But matching, not replacing. We must not move too quickly to embrace one pole of John’s paradox while we ignore the other. Few interpreters have directly addressed the ethical issues that I have just sketched. Although John seems to have some recognition of the problem of delay (10:6), he makes no effort to address the issues of coercion, immoral acts, or sadistic enjoyment of others’ suffering. Nor have his interpreters, though there has been some preliminary work (Barr 2003) and broader discussion of apocalyptic ethics (Collins 2014, 326–42; Meeks 2000). When the martyrs cry out for vengeance, they are told they must wait until the number of sufferers is complete (6:10). When judgment is enacted, it is said to be “destroying those who destroy the earth” (11:18). It could be argued that the mechanism of judgment here is not some external coercion but the inevitable result of unjust actions (see 16:6).

302   David L. Barr This would be consistent with John’s theme that victory comes through suffering, which may provide a theoretical basis for martyrdom, raising further ethical questions (Middleton 2018). Much work remains to be done here. On the one hand, no one doubts that John’s plea is for patience and endurance. He does not advocate violence, and nothing in his gory story can be read as legitimating violence against others. In addition, no one doubts that the image of the heavenly warrior slaying his enemies with the sword of his mouth is a metaphor for what we might call verbal combat—not actual killing. Metaphors do not kill, though they may cause injury. Using battle metaphors predisposes one to see a bipolar world of friends and enemies (Strozier 2007). There is little room for dialogue, differing values, and honest disagreements. This is especially problematic in a time when many Christians and Muslims regard each other as wholly evil (Amanat and Collins 2004), and violent apocalyptic groups have emerged in both traditions (Wessinger 2014, 429–37). Interpreters who suggest that we can ignore the violence in the Apocalypse by showing that it is “only symbolic” make their task of understanding too easy. We must not pretend that concentrating on the meaning of the violent symbols allows us to overlook the violence and immorality involved in those symbols. Symbols, unlike simple signs, participate in the reality to which they point. Surely John’s metaphors are dipped in blood (De Villiers 2015). Metaphors are not similes; they do not point to something else, they embody it. We might easily grasp a sign, a simile, or an allegory. But symbols and metaphors grasp us. Said another way: Allegory can always be explained, and explained away. The true symbol defies all explanation, so does the true myth. You can give meanings to either—you will never explain them away. Because symbol and myth do not affect us only mentally, they move the deep emotional centers each time. (D.  H.  Lawrence, quoted in in Bloom 1988, 46)

On the other hand, to simply condemn John for the violence in his story is to fail to read carefully. For at every point at which violence is employed, John is careful to undermine the violence (the sword) with some, often absurd, counterimage (of his mouth; 19:15, 21). John never resolves this tension, and perhaps we should not either. Interpreters who see only violence make their task of understanding too easy. It is important to remember that John is telling a story, a story that relates what happened to him when he was out of his mind (or, as he says, “in the spirit”; 1:10). This is more like telling someone about your dream: reporting an experience, not outlining a plan of life (Paulien 2004). Our dreams are not entirely rational; anything can happen in a dream. In fact, things happen in dreams that our critical consciousness would never allow. When we bring our critical consciousness to bear on John’s use of violence in his story, that story comes up woefully short. When we allow ourselves to listen to that story, to share his dream, we may yet find a meaning relevant to our own situation. It is time to end allegorical readings of the Apocalypse. The actions and images recounted there do not refer to something else; neither future events nor timeless truths are figured. It is a

Violence in the Apocalypse of John   303 story, and, as a great modern storyteller noted: “ ‘There is nothing better than imagining other worlds,’ he said, ‘to forget the painful one we live in. At least I thought so then. I hadn’t yet realized that, imagining other worlds, you end up changing this one” (Eco 2002, 99). The Apocalypse is, to be sure, a violent story—built on the paradigm of holy war and using the Exodus tradition of divine judgment through plagues. Written in a time when the horror of the public violence of crucifixions and the arena were routine, the Apocalypse shows little concern about employing images that are both violent and ethically offensive. At the same time, we must recognize the extreme irony of John’s conquering force: suffering. It is what made Jesus “worthy” (5:2–5). It is what enables his followers to win their battle against evil (12:11). This violent nonviolence (De Villiers 2015) may be impossible to rationalize, but it can be experienced as the audience is enabled to re-live John’s dream.

References Amanat, Abbas, and John  J.  Collins. 2004. Apocalypse and Violence. New Haven, CT: Yale Center for International and Area Studies: Council on Middle East Studies. Arcari, Luca. 2011. “Early Jewish Background of the War Scenes in John’s Revelation.” In Ancient Christian Interpretations of “Violent Texts” in the Apocalypse, edited by Jozef Verheyden, Tobias Nicklas, and Andreas Merkt, pp. 9–27. SUNT 92. Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Barr, David L. 1984. “The Apocalypse as a Symbolic Transformation of the World: A Literary Analysis.” Int 38: 39–50. Barr, David L. 1997. “Towards an Ethical Reading of the Apocalypse: Reflections on John’s Use of Power, Violence, and Misogyny.” In Society of Biblical Literature 1997 Seminar Papers, pp. 358–73. SBLSP 36. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Barr, David L. 2003. “Doing Violence: Moral Issues in Reading John's Apocalypse.” In Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 97–108. RBS 44. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Barr, David L. 2006. “The Lamb Who Looks like a Dragon? Characterizing Jesus in John’s Apocalypse.” In The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 205–20. SymS 39. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Bauckham, Richard  J. 1993a. The Climax of Prophecy: Studies on the Book of Revelation. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Bauckham, Richard J. 1993b. “The Lion, the Lamb, and the Dragon.” In The Climax of Prophecy: Studies on the Book of Revelation, pp. 174–98. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Bloom, Harold. 1988. The Revelation of St. John the Divine. New York: Chelsea House. Blount, Brian  K. 2005. Can I Get a Witness? Reading Revelation through African American Culture. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Boring, M. Eugene. 1989. Revelation. Interpretation. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Brown, Raymond  E. 1966. The Gospel According to John I–XII. AB 29. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Caird, G. B. 1966. A Commentary on the Revelation of St. John the Divine. HNTC. New York: Harper & Row.

304   David L. Barr Collins, John J. 1975. “ ‘Mythology of Holy War in Daniel and the Qumran War Scroll: A Point of Transition in Jewish Apocalyptic.” VT 25: 596–612. Collins, John J. 2003. “The Zeal of Phinehas: The Bible and the Legitimation of Violence.” JBL 122: 3–21. Collins, John  J. 2014. Apocalypse, Prophecy, and Pseudepigraphy: On Jewish Apocalyptic Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press. De Villiers, Pieter G. R. 2015. “The Violence of Nonviolence in the Revelation of John.” Open Theology 1: 189–203. Eco, Umberto. 2002. Baudolino. Translated by William Weaver. New York: Harcourt. Farmer, Ron. 1997. Beyond the Impasse: The Promise of a Process Hermeneutic. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Fitzmyer, Joseph A. 1978. “Crucifixion in Ancient Palestine, Qumran Literature, and the New Testament.” CBQ 10: 493–513. Frilingos, Christopher  A. 2004. Spectacles of Empire: Monsters, Martyrs, and the Book of Revelation. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Hengel, Martin. 1977. Crucifixion in the Ancient World and the Folly of the Message of the Cross. Translated by John Bowden. Philadelphia: Fortress. Huber, Lynn R. 2007. Like a Bride Adorned: Reading Metaphor in John’s Apocalypse. Emory Studies in Early Christianity. New York: T & T Clark. Hylen, Susan  E. 2011. “Metaphor Matters: Violence and Ethics in Revelation.” CBQ 73: 777–96. Johns, Loren L. 2003. The Lamb Christology of the Apocalypse of John: An Investigation into Its Origins and Rhetorical Force. WUNT II/167. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Johns, Loren  L. 2005. “Conceiving Violence: The Apocalypse of John and the Left Behind Series.” Direction: A Mennonite Brethren Forum 34: 194–14. Keller, Catherine. 1995. “Power Lines.” ThTo 52: 188–203. Kio, Stephen H. 1989. “Exodus as the Central Symbol of Liberation in the Book of Revelation.” BT 40: 120–35. Lawrence, D. H. 1982. Apocalypse. New York: Viking. Levine, Amy-Jill. 2009. A Feminist Companion to the Apocalypse of John. Feminist Companion to the New Testament and Early Christian Writings. London: T & T Clark. Mack, Burton L. 1995. Who Wrote the New Testament? The Making of the Christian Myth. San Francisco: Harper San Francisco. Matthews, Shelly, and E. Leigh Gibson, eds. 2005. Violence in the New Testament. New York: T & T Clark. Meeks, Wayne A. 2000. “Apocalyptic Discourse and Strategies of Goodness. JR 80: 461–75. Mensh, Elaine, and Harry Mensh. 2000. Black, White, and Huckleberry Finn: Re-imagining the American Dream. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press. Middleton, Paul. 2018. The Violence of the Lamb: Martyrs as Agents of Divine Judgement in the Book of Revelation. LNTS 586. London: T & T Clark. Moore, Stephen D. 1999. “Revolting Revelations.” In The Personal Voice in Biblical Interpretation, edited by Ingrid Rosa, pp. 183–200. London: Routledge. Moyise, Steve. 2001. “Does the Lion Lie Down with the Lamb?” In Studies in the Book of Revelation, edited by Steve Moyise, 181–94. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Paulien, Jon. 2004. “John’s Apocalyptic Matrix: Violence and Virtual Reality Ancient and Modern.” Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, San Antonio, TX.

Violence in the Apocalypse of John   305 Peirce, Charles  S. 1992. “ ‘Evolutionary Love.” In The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosophical Writings, edited by Nathan Houser and Christian Klossel, pp. 365–66. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Peters, Olutola K. 2004. “Politics of Violence in the Apocalypse of John: Moral Dilemma and Justification.” Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, San Antonio, TX. Pippin, Tina. 1992. Death and Desire: The Rhetoric of Gender in the Apocalypse of John. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Pippin, Tina. 1999. Apocalyptic Bodies: The Biblical End of the World in Text and Image. London: Routledge. Ramelli, Ilaria L. F. 2011. “Origen’s Interpretation of Violence in the Apocalypse: Destruction of Evil and Purification of Sinners.” In Ancient Christian Interpretations of “Violent Texts” in the Apocalypse, edited by Jozef Verheyden, Tobias Nicklas, and Andreas Merkt, pp. 46–62. SUNT 92. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Richard, Pablo. 1997. “Plagues in the Bible: Exodus and Apocalypse.” In The Return of the Plague, edited by José Oscar Beozzo and Virgil Elizondo, pp. 45–54. London: SCM Press. Schmithals, Walter, ed. 1973. The Apocalyptic Movement: Introduction and Interpretation. Translated by John E. Steely. Nashville: Abingdon. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1991. Revelation: Vision of a Just World. Minneapolis: Fortress. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1998. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: Fortress. Skaggs, Rebecca, and Thomas Doyle. 2007. “Violence in the Apocalypse of John.” CurBR 5: 220–34. Strozier, Charles B. 2007. “The Apocalyptic Other: On Fundamentalism and Violence.” Nova Religio: The Journal of Alternative and Emergent Religions 11: 84–96. Thomas, David Andrew. 2008. Revelation 19 in Historical and Mythological Context. Studies in Biblical Literature. New York: Peter Lang. Verheyden, Jozef, Tobias Nicklas, and Andreas Merkt, eds. 2011. Ancient Christian Interpretations of “Violent Texts” in the Apocalypse. SUNT 92. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Versnel, H. S. 1970. Triumphus: An Inquiry into the Origin, Development and Meaning of the Roman Triumph. Leiden: Brill. Volf, Miroslav. 1996. Exclusion and Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness, and Reconciliation. Nashville: Abingdon. Wessinger, Catherine. 2014. “Apocalypse and Violence.” In The Oxford Handbook of Apocalyptic Literature, edited by John Collins, pp. 422–40. New York: Oxford University Press. Wise, Michael, Martin Abegg Jr., and Edward Cook. 1996. The Dead Sea Scrolls: A New Translation. San Francisco: Harper San Francisco. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1976. The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation. HDR 9. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1986. “Vilification and Self-Definition in the Book of Revelation.” HTR 79: 308–20.

chapter 19

The Cit y-Wom en Ba by l on a n d N ew J erusa l em i n R ev el ation Lynn R. Huber

Southwest of Laodicea, one of the seven cities addressed in the book of Revelation, is the city of Aphrodisias, named for its patron, Aphrodite. The city was known for its fine buildings, including the sebasteion (imperial cult temple), dedicated to Aphrodite and the Julio-Claudian emperors. Likely finished during the reign of Nero (54–68 ce), the sebasteion was an impressive structure that included a temple and a highly decorated three-storey portico that lined the processional way. The portico included reliefs depicting imperial triumphs within a framework of Greek myth, as well as the breadth of Roman conquest. The latter was communicated through personifications of the ethnē (nations or “foreign peoples”) that lay at the edges of the Empire, including Dacia, Egypt, and Judea (R. R. R. Smith 1988). Many of the scenes of imperial triumph similarly included personified nations, such as Britannia and Armenia. These personifications, which draw upon a long tradition of representing nations and cities as women, present an elite Aphrodisian perspective on Roman power. Drawing upon this tradition, John, Revelation’s self-named author, deploys his own city-woman images as part of his call for his community to resist Roman power and build a communal identity in relation to God and the Lamb.

Reading Revelation’s City-Women with Scholars Scholarly conversation about Revelation’s city-women began in earnest with the emergence of feminist critical approaches to the text, since the imagery raises questions about

308   Lynn R. Huber John’s understanding of gender and sex and about how gendered imagery is interpreted and appropriated by scholars and communities in conversation with Revelation (Stenström 2009).1 For most of these scholars, Revelation’s depictions of the whore and the bride are central to understanding the text’s rhetorical strategy.2 Some of the earliest discussions of Revelation’s city-women explore the relationship between these images and their cultural contexts. Adela Yarbro Collins draws from history-of-religions scholarship as she explores the mythological foremothers of Revelation’s women. She highlights the bride’s roots in Isaiah’s depiction of Jerusalem as God’s wife, which, like Revelation, includes a description of the city bejeweled (Isa 54:12). Babylon the whore similarly “hails from” the prophetic tradition in which Nineveh and Tyre are depicted as prostitutes because of their unscrupulous “quest for wealth” (Yarbro Collins 1993, 26; Nah 3:4; Isa 23). The prophets even depict Jerusalem, Israel, and Judah as a prostitute or unfaithful wife, as a way of symbolizing the people’s supposed turn to “idolatry” (Isa 1:21; Hos 1–4; Jer 3:6–10; Ezek 16; 23:5–21). Barbara Rossing emphasizes the rhetorical function of the two city-women in Revelation by examining the “two-choice” topos in Greek and Roman moralist writings and Jewish wisdom traditions. Like these, Revelation’s use of whore and bride imagery, which John combines with the prophetic critique of cities, depicts an either/or option. Revelation’s audience can either associate with the whore, which is an indictment of the Roman Empire, or accept the invitation of the bridal new Jerusalem, which is “an invitation to citizenship in God’s alternative realm” (Rossing 1999, 15). Rossing emphasizes that this gendered imagery is mainly a way of contrasting the two options and not a statement about gender per se (1999, 162). Two of the most influential interpreters of Revelation’s city-woman imagery have been Tina Pippin and Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza. Although both scholars understand their readings as feminist, they disagree over whether one should highlight the gendered (Pippin) or the political (Schüssler Fiorenza) aspects of the imagery. Exploring how Revelation’s assumption of a male-identified audience encourages readers to celebrate the whore’s gruesome demise and to valorize the passive and virginal bride, Pippin challenges the assumption that modern interpreters can look past the text’s misogyny (1992a).3 Critical of Pippin’s perspective, Schüssler Fiorenza argues that the whore and bride should not be read as revealing John’s perspectives on actual women, but as John’s appropriation of prophetic traditions in which women symbolize cities and political institutions. Reading the book in historical context and in subsequent parallel contexts, Schüssler Fiorenza argues that these two images present the audience with a choice, either associate oneself with “the powers of oppression . . . [or] those of liberation and well-being” (1991, 130). As such, they are part of Revelation's liberatory vision. Shanell T. Smith pushes past the binary options presented by Pippin and Schüssler Fiorenza by employing a hermeneutic of “ambiveilence.”4 Reading Babylon through the lenses of postcolonial theory and womanist interpretation, Smith maintains that the citywoman is “simultaneously a brothel slavewoman and empress/ imperial city” (2014, 176). This is an image of one who both experiences and participates in oppression and victimization, and, as such, it is one with which Smith identifies as an African American woman living in the United States. Smith highlights the intersecting identities incorporated into

The City-Women Babylon and New Jerusalem   309 this imagery noting that feminist Conversations overemphasize the gendered aspect of the city-women, and give little or no attention to the fact that audiences, whether living in ancient Asia Minor or the contemporary United States, cannot envision the city-women without making assumptions about their racial, ethnic, and class identities. While many scholars have focused on Revelation’s depiction of the great whore, my own work has explored how the bride serves as an image of the idealized community to which John calls his audience (Huber 2007). I have demonstrated that the image of the bride has been productive for thinking about communal and individual identity among interpreters of Revelation, including medieval and modern women visionaries (Huber 2013). Similarly, Jacqueline M. Hidalgo explores how Revelation’s evocation of a new Jerusalem bridges the past, present, and future and parallels and intersects with Latinx visions of Aztlán, the mythical past, present, and future home of the Chicanx community (Hidalgo 2016). More recently, Revelation scholars have brought the insights of queer theory into conversation with the text’s city-women imagery. I approach the image of the woman Babylon as a queer lesbian reader, and identify with John as he wonders at the elaborately clad female figure before him (17:6–7), thereby pushing against the text’s heteronormative assumption that readers who desire the whore are male-identified (see Pippin 1992a, 83–86). In so doing, I interpret queer desire for the whore figure in terms of the appeal of assimilation to the dominant culture (Huber 2011). More recently, Luis Menéndez-Antuña reminds interpreters of queer theory’s emphasis on the multidirectionality of desire, arguing that the desire of Revelation’s audience cannot easily be realigned from one object, the whore, to another, the bride (2018, 96–98). We can imagine that, despite John’s assumption that his audience embodies male desire for women, Revelation’s audience members have complex experiences of both attraction and repulsion to the two city-women presented to them. Queer readings of Revelation remind us that texts do not control the responses of their readers. Scholarly engagement with Revelation’s city-women reveals the tendency to reduce these rich images to a single facet—either the city or woman—and to overlook other aspects within the imagery. Moreover, we see a tension among scholars between those who look at what the images have said (as rhetorical historical constructions) and those who look at what the images might say as resources for contemporary interpretative communities. Here I will focus upon the former, on how Revelation’s city-women relate to their ancient rhetorical context, including other female personifications.

The Ancient Personification of Cities and Nations as Women The personification of cities and nations as women appears throughout the ancient Mediterranean world in texts, on coins, in monumental art, and more. Although in some cases these entities were depicted as men,5 the association between cities and

310   Lynn R. Huber women stems partly from the grammatical gender of the Greek and Latin terms for “city,” polis and urb respectively (A. C. Smith 2011, 105). Another aspect is that both cities and women could be metaphorically envisioned as containers. The connection is built on the assumption that cities were walled spaces with gates that could be closed and opened. That idea aligned with the views of ancient physicians who understood the female body as defined by possessing a uterus. The uterus, as described by Galen near the end of the first century ce, was understood to be akin to the male “part,” simply turned “inward” (On the Usefulness of the Parts of the Body 14.6). According to this view, women were naturally inwardly oriented, designed to contain a man’s penis, sperm, and, eventually, a fetus. Woman were by design “living containers” (Bonnard 2013). Given these metaphorical associations between cities and containers and women and containers, a metaphorical connection between cities and women was easily drawn. The metaphorical logic that equates women and cities with containers includes the idea that both can be penetrated. This leads to a common association between sexual assault and invasion, between rape and war. When the Greeks invade Priam’s palace in Troy, they penetrate the structure’s “stubborn gateway” behind which “trembling matrons moan, clinging to the doors and imprinting kisses on them” (Virgil, Aen. 2.480–90). The physical penetration of a building, conceptually similar to a city, evokes a sexual response in the matrons who live within the palace. The boundary between physical place and human women is blurred (Whittaker 2009). A similar blurring of the boundary between conquered place and assaulted women occurs in at least two of the extant reliefs from Aphrodisias. In one, the emperor Nero carries a seemingly unconscious and nude personification of Armenia by her armpits, and in another, a nude Claudius stands behind a partially unclothed and fallen Britannia (Fig. 19.1). Both reliefs use the imagery of sexual violence as a way of indicating the defeat of nations. Although the images ostensibly depict political conquest, they also remind the viewer that militaries, ancient and modern, regularly deploy sexual assault and rape as a means of demonstrating and maintaining power over the other (Gaca 2003). Moreover, using images of sexual violence to depict political dominance reflects the cultural equation of the free male with power and dominance and the female and feminized, a category that included enslaved males, with weakness and passivity, a gender logic that imbued the Roman social world writ large (Walters 1997). The personification of cities as women did not always signify dominance and conquest. One of the most widespread and flexible personifications was the depiction of various cities as the goddess Tyche, a deity associated with fate and fortune. Popular in Greek and Hellenistic contexts, visual representations of different cities as Tyche (e.g., Alexandria, Tarsus, Laodicea) underscore the metaphorical association between cities and women as containers (Broucke 1994, 37–38). One of the most distinguishing characteristics of the goddess is the mural crown on her head. The crown resembles city walls and at times even includes representations of city gates. For instance, the Anatolian city of Tarsus is depicted as Tyche on a coin minted during Domitian’s reign (Fig. 19.2). Like other versions of Tyche, she wears a mural crown that evokes the walls of Tarsus, which contained and ostensibly protected its inhabitants and institutions. The image of Tyche

The City-Women Babylon and New Jerusalem   311

Figure 19.1  Sebasteion Relief of Claudius and Britannia, Aphrodisias, Turkey, first-century ce. Photo courtesy of New York University Excavations at Aphrodisias (G. Petruccioli). 

here points to the way the personifications map the characteristics of cities and women onto one another. Based on a famous fourth-century bce bronze statue of Tyche of Antioch by Eutychides, the Tyche of Tarsus sits with her foot on a male figure who represents the river Cydnus, just as the city itself “sat” along the river. While the initial connection made between cities and women might be on account of their metaphorical status as containers, the blending of these concepts easily lends itself to being extended in a variety of ways. The city of Rome was also depicted in the form of a goddess, called Roma, who was occasionally shown wearing a mural crown, like Tyche (Joyce  2014, 10). Evoking

312   Lynn R. Huber

Figure 19.2  Silver Tetradrachm of Domitian (obverse) and Tyche (reverse), Tarsus, 83–96 ce. Photo courtesy of the American Numismatic Society.

Figure 19.3  Silver Cistophorus of Nerva, Asia Minor, 98 ce. Photo courtesy of the American Numismatic Society.

im­agery associated with the Amazons, Roma could appear helmeted, holding a spear, and with one breast bared. The parts of a personification require interpretation in relation to the whole. Even though the bared breast of a figure like Britannia indicates her vulnerability and the shame of her defeat, in relation to other Amazonian signifiers on Roma, the breast signals the goddess’s valor, a willingness to take risk in battle (Joyce 2014, 6). Additionally, the breast may signal Roma’s maternal nature as a goddess who provides for those under her care. Roma was especially popular in the Greek-speaking eastern portion of the Empire and the cities of Asia Minor were some of the earliest to build temples in her honor. Smyrna was the first, building a temple to the personified city during the Republican period (Tacitus, Ann. 4.56). Subsequent temples dedicated to Roma and Augustus were

The City-Women Babylon and New Jerusalem   313 built in Ephesus and Pergamum. A first-century coin from Pergamum represents the temple on its reverse side, labeled roma et aug. Perhaps the cornucopia bearing goddess, who bestows power by placing a crown upon an emperor’s head (likely Augustus, though it is sometimes associated with Nerva (Friesen 2001, 32) is Roma h ­ erself, who was often depicted holding the “horn of plenty” (Fig. 19.3).6 The prevalence of Roma in Asia Minor suggests that Revelation’s audiences would have been familiar with this personification. In a context in which the imperial cults were an important aspect of civic and provincial culture, the expectation would be that Roma was worthy of respect and honor, a far cry from the treatment Revelation offers her.

The City-Women of Revelation The city-women of Revelation—Babylon the great whore and the bride named new Jerusalem—appear primarily in chapters 17–18 and 19–21 respectively. They emerge after John’s depiction of earthly political powers as beasts who have been empowered by the “great dragon,” who is identified as Satan (12:9). While the inhabitants of the earth are inclined to follow and worship the beast (13:4), throughout the narrative John calls his audience to resist this and to be faithful to God and the Lamb, even if that leads to death (e.g., 6:9; 7:14; 20:4). The dualism, which positions the beast and the Lamb as cosmic foes, reflects John’s perspective on the state of things for Jesus-followers in the urban centers of first-century ce Asia Minor. He understands them as combatants in a battle that will ultimately be won by Christ and his armies (19:11–21). Whether the members of John’s audience saw things in the same way is another issue. Revelation’s world was one in which the urban elites were invested in gaining the favor of imperial Rome. The city of Pergamum requested and received the privilege of honoring Augustus and Roma with a provincial temple (Dio Cassius, Rom. Hist. 51.20), depicted on the coin in Fig. 19.3. The sebasteion building project in Aphrodisias began during the reign of Augustus’s successor, Tiberius, to honor the Julio-Claudian family for granting the city “free and allied status,” which made it independent of the province of Asia. At least one of the individuals who sponsored the project received Roman citizenship as a result (R. R. R. Smith 1987, 90). These types of patron-client relationships would have been important throughout the cities of Asia Minor. Even though only the wealthy could undertake a massive building project, there were myriad ways individuals and associations could demonstrate their gratefulness and loyalty to the dominant powers, such as attending festivals and games related to the imperial cults.7 Moreover, there would have been significant social pressure to support and participate in the imperial cults, for, as Steven M. Friesen underscores, these traditions were not imposed by Rome but reflected “local values” (1993, 75). Honoring and even worshipping imperial figures, including Roma, were part of being a good neighbor or citizen in the cities to which Revelation is addressed; however, for John, these activities pandered to the beast who bears blasphemous names (Rev 13:1–4). According to John, even eating the meat that was left over from sacrifices, which would

314   Lynn R. Huber have been sold in the local markets, was participating in the empire’s evils (2:14, 20). This toleration of the imperial cults among Revelation’s audience members was a failure to recognize both the true reign of God and the Lamb and that the imperial system threatens, physically and spiritually, those who follow the Lamb. Revelation responds by drawing on the tradition of personifying cities and nations as women, and then deploying these city-woman images to simultaneously critique Rome, construct a communal identity for those who follow the Lamb, and present the two options that are available to audience members.

Babylon, the Great Whore and City Immediately after he witnesses angels in heaven pouring out bowls of plague upon the earth, John is whisked away into the wilderness by one of the angels, who has something to show the seer. The language of seeing and showing plays an important role throughout Revelation, which uses the rhetorical technique of ekphrasis to place images before the audience members’ eyes (Huber 2013, 11–15; Whitaker 2015, 6). John characterizes the narrative as a whole as something intended to be shown to God’s “slaves” (1:1).8 The aim, as noted by Robyn J. Whitaker, was to use vivid description to persuade one’s audience members to see things in a particular way, so that their perspectives, opinions, and actions would be impacted (2015, 17–18). The focus of this visionary event, according to the angel, is the judgment of the great whore (17:1). As we will see, This vision is not simply descriptive; it is a call to action. The object of judgment, tēs pornēs tēs megalēs in Greek, is a paradoxical image that plays with the category of class. While we opt to translate this phrase the “great whore,” since John clearly wants to vilify this character, the variety of English translations reflects the difficulty scholars have in capturing the social significance of this character. Is the term best rendered “harlot” (ASV), “whore” (KJV, NRSV), or “prostitute” (NIV)? At first glance, one might see this woman as a hetaira, a wealthy and high-class courtesan, often associated with classical Greece (e.g., Roose  2005). Her clients are the “kings of the earth,” suggesting that she trades in power and prestige, and her extravagant appearance makes her success clear: she is “adorned with gold and jewels and pearls” (17:4). Contributing to the sense that this woman comes from the upper class, she wears garments made of scarlet and purple, colors associated with the clothing of the imperial family. The costume points to this being an imperial woman; however, the label pornē belies this. The term suggests not a woman with rank and class but a typical Roman prostitute, who worked or was forced to work—since many were enslaved—in the bars and brothels found throughout the Empire’s cities (Glancy and Moore 2011, 554–55).9 John’s depiction draws on the imagery of enslavement when he says that her name is visible upon her forehead (17,5), as the enslaved could be tattooed with the name that linked them to their enslaver (Glancy and Moore 2011, 559–60; Jones 1987).10

The City-Women Babylon and New Jerusalem   315 Prostitution was part of the Roman social system, providing free males opportunities for sex apart from marriage, and without the risk of infringing on another man’s property (i.e., wife, daughter, slave). Despite this, sex workers of all genders, many of whom were enslaved, were infames, lacking in reputation or honor. As Catharine Edwards notes, “Prostitution, for many Roman writers, represented the most degrading form of female existence imaginable” (1997, 82), an assessment John clearly shares. Roman authors associated brothels and prostitutes with unpleasant smells and dirtiness (Juvenal, Sat. 6.121; 11.173). Similarly, John depicts the whore of Rev 17 holding a golden cup full of bdelygmatōn, which is often translated as “abominations” (NRSV), a term that has a moral or euphemistic valance in English but is linguistically related to words associated with nausea and filth.11 The whore’s cup also holds akatharta, or “unclean things,” explicitly related to her “fornication” or “prostitution” (porneia). On top of this, the great whore is drunk on the blood of the saints (17:6), pointing to her lack of s­ elf-control, a flaw from the Roman perspective, and her taste for violence. These ­characteristics create a sense of antipathy toward the woman adorned in imperial garb. Revelation’s great whore is an image of one who has access to everything and to all power, but who has debased herself and even become enslaved. Glancy and Moore compare this text to Juvenal’s depiction of Messalina, the third wife of Emperor Claudius, as a “whore-empress” (meretrix augusta). Juvenal describes Messalina trading her palace bed at night for a brothel doorway, where she stands “naked and for sale” with “nipples gilded” (Sat. 6.120–125). The historian Tacitus similarly depicts Messalina as excessive and whore-like (Ann. 11.25–38). In both cases, as Glancy and Moore note, the depiction of the “whore-empress” serves as a way of critiquing the decline of the social order and, especially, the imperial family’s role in that decline (2011, 565).12 For John, however, the great whore is not just an elite woman who has traded status for enslavement; she is aligned with evil itself. The great whore rides on a scarlet beast “full of blasphemous names” and with multiple horns and heads (17:3), a clear allusion to the beasts that appear earlier in the narrative and who are aligned with Satan (12:9). The beast the great whore rides is clearly an inversion of the divine, as the angel explains that “the beast that you saw was and is not” (17:7), a play on the description of God as the one “who is and who was and who is to come” (1:8). As the great whore’s mount, the beast is the thing that moves and motivates her. She, in other words, colludes with evil. It quickly becomes clear that it is a personification when John reveals the great whore’s name: “Babylon the Great, Mother of Whores and of the Earth’s Abominations” (17:5). The allusion to the quintessential evil city of Jewish tradition makes sense given that Babylon and Rome share the distinction of having destroyed Jerusalem and the city’s Jewish temple on the same day, albeit centuries apart. Other ancient Jewish authors make the same connection (e.g., 4 Ezra, 2 Baruch). The allusion portrays Rome, like Babylon, as the heart of an oppressive imperial power that brings destruction on the people of God. The city and woman imagery within this personification merges almost seamlessly as John describes the whore in a way that evokes representations of the goddess Roma. As

316   Lynn R. Huber in popular representations of the goddess, John views the great whore Babylon “sitting” upon both “seven mountains” (17:9) and “many waters” (17:1, 15). The seven mountains, which John simultaneously identifies as seven kings, is an apparent reference to the seven hills with which Rome was commonly identified (e.g. Pliny, Nat. 3.66; Martial, Epigr. 4.64.11–12). The depiction of Rome sitting on waters and mountains conjures up images of the goddess sitting like Tyche (Joyce 2014, 13). Often, Roma sits upon shields, indicating the peace she brings through military domination (pax Romana), although on at least one first-century coin minted in Asia Minor, Roma sits upon seven hills with her feet resting upon a personification of the Tiber (Koester 2014, 685). In an allusion to this traditional imagery, John equates the water upon which Rome sits with “peoples and multitudes and nations and languages” (17:15). The ­metaphorical equation evokes all those who have been subdued by Rome because of the city’s strategic location; one need only look at the reliefs of the sebasteion to get a sense of their identities. The description of the personified Rome concludes with a graphic representation of the judgment promised in 17:1. The kings that make up the horns and heads of the beast will, under authority from God, turn against the “great city” (hē polis hē megalē). The Greek here recalls the initial description of the “great whore” (tēs pornēs tēs megalēs), who will be judged. The vivid account of the judgment again makes no distinction between city and woman, even though interpreters often favor one image over the other. The angel explains that the beast and the kings “will make her desolate and naked; they will devour her flesh and burn her with fire” (17:16). Many interpreters have emphasized that this violent scene should be understood as the destruction of an oppressive city and not an actual woman (e.g., Huber 2013, 69; Rossing 1999, 90). However, the metaphorical blending of woman and city erases any line that may exist between these concepts, and Revelation’s audience members are subjected to viewing the rape and utter annihilation of a city-woman. The image, which parallels traditions from Revelation’s prophetic past (e.g., Ezek 16:41; 23:25), is horrific, because the metaphorical blending of the concept woman and city suggest the razing of a city in a way that conjures visions of sexual violence against women. The reference to the kings’ cannibalizing the great whore clearly evokes the body of a person, although the boundary between woman and city collapses as the city-woman burns. Some interpreters characterize this scene as one of “selfdestruction,” since the great whore is the one who associated with the kings who destroy her (e.g., Blount  2009, 322). Rome, from this perspective gets what she deserves. Mitzi J. Smith wryly notes the problematic logic behind this, characterizing it as victim blaming: “[W]hores can be subjected to violence because they are whores” (2015, 174). The horror of this imagery potentially obscures the irony at the heart of the personification. As Craig R. Koester notes in reference to the reliefs in Aphrodisias, the city that contributed to the subjugation of others, including Britannia and Armenia, will be “stripped and devastated” (2014, 694). We might imagine some in John’s audience being uncomfortable with the vision unfolding before them. Whether they hear Rev 17 as referring to a city, a goddess, or as a thorough blending of both, they are prompted to envision the destruction and complete debasement of something that has been and is held in honor by some within their ranks and by those around them.

The City-Women Babylon and New Jerusalem   317 The violence enacted upon the city-woman named Babylon continues in Rev 18, although the narrative highlights the concept of city more strongly in this chapter, including the metaphorical connection between cities, women, and containers. Echoing the oracles of Isaiah, an angel announces the destruction and desolation of the great city Babylon (18:2; see Isa 21:9; 34:11–15). The city has become a “prison” (phylakē), a word that is repeated three times in 18:2, connoting a place that contains individuals or foul spirits, birds, and beasts.13 The image of Babylon as a place that contains and even traps its inhabitants leads another voice from heaven to command, “Come out of her, my people” (18:4). This command, which Revelation’s audience members hear directed at them when the text is read aloud (1:3), signals one of the primary functions of Revelation’s city-woman imagery: to persuade Jesus-followers in urban Asia Minor to distance themselves from Rome. These Jesus-followers are to remove themselves from the city lest they become contaminated by its sins and plagues (18:4). In fact, John even calls his audience to participate in the punishment of the city-woman (18:6). Unlike those around or even among them who participate in the adulation of the Empire, John’s audience members are called to withdraw from and even oppose the city-woman that John depicts as depraved, disgusting, and entangled with evil.

New Jerusalem, the Wife and Bride Audience members, as those who desire to be faithful to God and the Lamb, are also presented with a city-woman with which they can identify (Pattemore 2004). As the smoke from the destruction of the great whore rises, the multitudes of heaven joyfully announce that the “marriage of the Lamb” has come: “’Let us rejoice and exult and give him the glory, for the marriage of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready; to her it has been granted to be clothed with fine linen, bright and pure” (19:7–8a). Given the hymnic wedding announcement of the great multitude, it is surprising that the personification begins with a reference to the Lamb’s gynē, “woman” or “wife,” and not nymphē or “bride.” Some ancient manuscripts even change gynē to nymphē. While the exact reason behind John’s choice of terms remains unknown, gynē reflects the ancient assumption that, with few exceptions, all free women with social status were expected to marry. Likewise, Revelation refrains from identifying the Lamb’s partner as “virgin,” even though the ancient wedding involved a virgin becoming a bride becoming a wife. The wedding, including the donning of bridal garments and the procession to the groom’s home, was the moment in which a young female transitioned from one social role to another (Hersch 2010, 295; Huber 2007, 127–28). The wedding is all about the virgin’s transition into her new identity as wife, and in 19:7, the end of that transition is anticipated as the Lamb’s wife is introduced. Although the virgin is not mentioned in the hymn announcing the wedding, multiple virgins, one hundred forty-four thousand to be exact, are introduced earlier. In 14:4, parthenos is used to characterize those who follow the Lamb, understood as male

318   Lynn R. Huber (i.e., they have not “defiled” themselves with women, suggesting that they are chaste heterosexual males). “Virgin” is a term that refers primarily to an unmarried girl, as well as conveying a sense of sexual inexperience.14 Describing men in this way challenges the ancient valuation of male power being evidenced through sexual conquest and fathering heirs (Huber 2008, 9–10; Stenström 2011; Walters 1997). By encouraging audience members, who presumably want to be faithful Jesus-followers, to see themselves in this role, John prepares them for eventually identifying with the bridal imagery of Rev 19 and 21: the faithful, envisioned in terms of male identity, are virgins who follow the Lamb “wherever he goes,” even to the point of becoming his bride and wife. Revelation’s description of the Lamb revolves primarily around her appearance. Although this plays on the ancient assumption that women were overly concerned with appearances (Olson 1992, 2009), it also reflects the ideals communicated through the ancient bridal costume and the ways in which costumes were assumed to communicate identity. In the traditional Roman bride’s costume, for instance, chastity was signaled by the “Herculean knot” that fastened her belt; and fertility, through the reddish-yellow color of the veil (flammeum; Olson 2008, 21–24). Revelation’s description of the garment as “bright and pure” (19:8) similarly suggests ideal traits of the bride, including her closeness to the divine, who is associated with light, and her purity, suggesting an exclusive connection to the Lamb, despite the appeal of the beast. More importantly, the bridal garment represented the virgin’s ability to provide for her future family by spinning and weaving, since the bride ideally wove the tunica recta she wore (Olson 2008, 21). Even if the bride did not actually weave the particular tunic she wore on the wedding day, the donning of the tunica recta, made of a single piece of fabric woven on a upright loom, was a signal of her readiness to take on the responsibility for clothing her family, something that even the female family members of Augustus supposedly managed (Suetonius, Aug. 73). Revelation’s language describing the bride preparing herself for the wedding suggests her active role in the construction of this garment. Similarly, the description of the garment’s fine linen being made from the “righteous deeds of the saints” (Rev 19:8) hints at the communal identity of the bride. If a bride traditionally makes her own wedding garment and this bride’s garment is made up, metaphorically, of the actions of those who are faithful to God and the Lamb, then the imagery suggests that the faithful ones must be collectively the Lamb’s bride. In other words, those who were envisioned as virgins in 14:4 eventually transition into the role of bride and wife. The description of the bride’s garment as “fine linen” (19:8) evokes the description of the personified Jerusalem in Ezekiel, since she, too, is clothed, by God, in “fine linen” when he becomes betrothed to and weds her (Ezek 16:10, 13, LXX). Although the bride’s identity as new Jerusalem will not be revealed until chapter 21, through this personification John prompts his audience to see themselves as a renewed or rebuilt Jerusalem, since the old city has been “given over to the Gentiles,” a likely reference to the Roman capture and destruction of the holy city (Rev 11:2). While the bride’s faithfulness is emphasized through her costume, the wedding also points to God’s faithfulness to Jerusalem; although the city is in ruins, it will be reconstituted in the future and reunited with the divine.

The City-Women Babylon and New Jerusalem   319 Though brief, the wedding imagery draws a clear contrast between the bride and the great whore. The reference to purity reflects a metaphorical connection between physical cleanliness and moral behavior. However, the imagery also implies a kind of class distinction. The great whore, an imperial figure, debases herself with filth by becoming a prostitute, and even a slave. She is bought by the kings of the earth and eventually dies at their hands. Interestingly, while many prostitutes in the ancient world would actually have been enslaved, throughout Revelation John encourages his audience to envision themselves as both bride of the Lamb and enslaved to God and the Lamb (e.g., 1:1; Koester 2008), wearing the names of these two “lords” upon their foreheads like marked slaves (14:1). John views this metaphorical enslavement in positive terms and in ways that belie the harsh realities of ancient slavery, including the sexual exploitation of the enslaved (Marchal 2011). The difference is that the whore sells herself to the beast, while the bride is faithful, as slave and wife, to the Lamb. Although those who make up the bride are “slaves,” as bride they prepare to take on a role associated with honor and ­status. This is somewhat paradoxical since in the first-century Roman Empire, legal marriage was a privilege of those who were free (Evans-Grubbs 1993, 127). Revelation’s use of both slave and bridal imagery as a way of characterizing those faithful to God and the Lamb would sound dissonant to some audience members, especially those Jesusfollowers who were enslaved and not allowed to legally marry. While the hymn proclaimed by the multitudes alludes to the Lamb’s wife, “she” does not appear in John’s vision until the beginning of Rev 21, after the last judgment has concluded (Rev 20). John then witnesses the emergence of a new heaven and earth, followed by “the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, like a bride adorned for her husband” (21:2). The moment John and his audience see the new Jerusalem, they also hear “her” likened to a bride. The personification of the new Jerusalem as bride is unveiled. The unveiling (anakalypsis) of the bride, the revelation of her to the groom and wedding witnesses, was a key part of the ancient wedding, according to Greek visual sources (Sutton 1997, 28). That Revelation as an “apocalypse” is in itself an “unveiling” does not seem coincidental, since the personification of new Jerusalem as bride is one of the narrative’s culminating visions (Huber 2013, 1–2), When the identity of the Lamb’s woman, the bride, is revealed, the focus is clearly on the city that is being compared to a bride. Revelation elaborates the metaphorical blending of city and woman when a loud voice from God’s throne announces that the new Jerusalem is the place where the divine “dwells” with people: “See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them” (21:3). While the NRSV uses “home” and “dwell,” the Greek terms are related to the noun skēnē, which recalls the tent used as God’s dwelling place during the Exodus (Exod 29:43–46). This is a place of meeting and encounter, where God will wipe away the tears of the faithful, easing their mourning and pain (Rev 21:4). Although the skēnē suggests a temporary space, especially since the term is also used to describe a theatrical backdrop, a vision of a more solidly constructed new Jerusalem appears when an angel comes to show John “the bride, the wife (gynē) of the Lamb” (21:9). The bride is fully unveiled as John describes a four-square city with high walls and bejeweled foundations. John’s angel guide even measures the city walls

320   Lynn R. Huber with a rod of gold, highlighting the city’s geometric perfection. The gemstones that adorn the city recall the breastplate of the temple priests, but also evoke images of elite Roman women dressed in precious materials. Even though the opulence of the great whore serves as a sign of her baseness, the jewels that adorn the bride are a sign of her connection to the divine, who was also associated with jewels and precious stones (Royalty 1998). One might imagine that these walls would look quite nice imaged as a mural crown worn by Tyche. The container metaphor at work in the personification of new Jerusalem continues to be at the fore when John describes the city’s gates and what comes into the city, and what cannot enter the city. There seems to be a kind of irony in the fact that new Jerusalem is built much like a fortress, yet its twelve gates are never closed, since there is no night (21:25). The city contains, and yet it is ostensibly permeable. While the city’s gates remain open and people bring honor and glory into it, there are still those who remain outside the city: “But nothing unclean will enter it, nor anyone who practices abomination (bdelygma) or falsehood, but only those who are written in the Lamb’s book of life” (21:27). The city remains off limits for those who have not been faithful to the Lamb and therefore do not have their names written in the book of life (20:12, 15). Again, a clear distinction from the great whore is made by noting that those who practice bdelygma (17:5) will not enter the city. In Revelation’s personification of the great whore, the boundaries between city and woman overlap to the point of being nonexistent at times. English translations of these chapters highlight this by using feminine pronouns to describe the city-woman, even when the city imagery seemingly dominates. Even when a translation uses the neuter “it” to describe Babylon as a “a dwelling place of demons” (18:2, NIV), the text renders the command to leave Babylon in feminine terms, underscoring that Babylon is also a woman: “Come out of her, my people!” (18:4, my emphasis). The command reads, quite bluntly, as a command to discontinue intercourse. However, when it comes to the bridal new Jerusalem, whose garments are pure, English translations tend to opt for the neuter when describing those who are allowed in and those who are not. With few exceptions (e.g. Pippin  1992b, 70), the possible gender and sexual connotations of the new Jerusalem are erased or avoided in modern translations. Perhaps the elision of sexual connotations emphasizes that the new Jerusalem is not simply a place to visit or a container of sorts to enter. Instead, the audience is to embrace the role of bride and to become part of the new Jerusalem, or, as Robert H. Gundry has aptly put it, this image is one of “People as Place, Not Place for People” (1987). While depictions of conquered nations dominate the sebasteion reliefs in terms of numbers, the elaborate sculptural program includes some representations of Rome as the goddess Roma. In one, Roma wears a turreted crown, like Tyche, and stands over a personification of an abundant arth, the goddess Gē. In another, a victorious Roma stands in armor with a male captive at her feet. There may even have been a depiction of Roma crowning a personification of the Polis, Aphrodisias (R. R. R, Smith 1987, 97). These images present Roma as the elite citizens of Aphrodisias probably wanted others to see the “great city,” a very different picture of Rome than the one John constructs in

The City-Women Babylon and New Jerusalem   321 Rev 17–18. Revelation deploys the rhetorical resources of the ancient world, but as tools for resisting and constructing alternative identities. The visions of Roma from the sebasteion remind us, too, that the goddess and the conquered nations are all part of the same narrative, part of the vision being presented to the people of Aphrodisias. Taking one set of images without the others presents only a partial vision of how one should understand the story of Rome. So, too, Revelation’s great whore Babylon and bridal new Jerusalem are both integral to John’s vision of idea Christian identity.

Notes 1. The number of female-identified scholars who focus on Revelation is notable in a field dominated by men. See Levine (2009, 1). 2. Not all Revelation scholars focus on the whore in contrast to the bride. Paul Duff (2001, 85), for example, suggests that all the female characters are related to the whore and that the Woman Clothed in the Sun should be understood as the whore’s counterpart. I use “whore” instead of prostitute because it aligns with Revelation’s rhetorical aims. This is argued later in the essay. 3. Pippin, along with J. Michael Clark, arrives at a similar conclusion when reading Revelation from a queer perspective (Pippin and Clark 2006). 4. “Ambiveilence” is a term used by to Smith to capture the complexity of her interpretive perspective, which draws together womanist and postcolonial criticisms (2014, 50). 5. There are some examples of cities or peoples depicted as men. The people of Rome, for  example, were sometimes represented in the guise of a young male, semi-nude and bearing a cornucopia, commonly understood as the Genius Populi Romani (Fears 1978, 277). 6. Silver Cistophorus of Nerva, Asia Minor, 98 ce, ANC 1944.199.42643, American Numismatic Society, accessed April 21, 2019, http://numismatics.org/collection/ 1944.100.42643. Joyce notes that Roma was sometimes depicted holding a cornucopia, like Tyche or Fortuna (2014, 10). 7. Key works on the prevalence of the imperial cults in Asia Minor include Friesen (1993, 2001) and Price (1984). 8. Throughout Revelation, those who faithfully follow God and the Lamb are characterized as douloi. The Greek term is often translated as “servant,” reflecting a trend in English biblical translation to efface the Bible’s role in the justification of slavery (Martin 1990). Revelation, however, clearly uses slave imagery for those who are faithful, describing them as ones who will be “sealed” for God (7:4), implying that God’s name is placed on their foreheads like a brand, and as those who have been “purchased” for God (14:1–4; Glancy and Moore 2011). 9. On the ubiquity of brothels throughout Roman cities, see McGinn (2006). 10. In Rev 7:3 John depicts those who follow God and the Lamb as having their names (those belonging to God and the Lamb) tattooed upon their foreheads. This is part of Revelation’s depiction of those who are faithful to God and the Lamb as slaves. 11. For example, bdelygmia is used by Xenophon to describe food that is nauseating (Xenophon, Mem. 3.11). 12. See also Susanna H. Braund’s (1992) argument that Juvenal’s sixth satire is more a critique of marriage and Augustan marriage laws than simple misogyny.

322   Lynn R. Huber 13. The third instance of phylakē, which describes the place containing foul and hateful beasts, is not attested in all manuscripts. However, both the NRSV and NIV reference all three uses of the term, although both versions translate it as “haunt.” This fails to capture the container imagery at work in these verses. The KJV comes closer, although it does not include the third reference, translating phylakē as “hold” and “cage.” 14. For a discussion of the how virginity was understood by medical writers in the firstcentury Mediterranean world, see Hanson (2007).

References Blount, Brian K. 2009. Revelation: A Commentary. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Bonnard, Jean-Baptiste. 2013. “Male and Female Bodies according to Ancient Greek Physicians.” Clio. Women, Gender, History 37: 1–18. Braund, Susanna H. 1992. “Juvenal—Misogynist or Misogamist?” JRS 82: 71–86. Broucke, Pieter B. F. J. 1994. “Tyche and the Fortune of Cities in the Greek and Roman World.” Yale University Art Gallery Bulletin: 34–49. Carey, Greg. 1999. Elusive Apocalypse: Reading Authority in the Revelation to John. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Classen, Constance. 1994. Aroma. London: Routledge. Duff, Paul Brooks. 2001. Who Rides the Beast? Prophetic Rivalry and the Rhetoric of Crisis in the Churches of the Apocalypse. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Edwards, Catherine. 1997. “Unspeakable Professions: Public Performance and Prostitution in Ancient Rome.” In Roman Sexualities, edited by Judith P. Hallett and Marilyn B. Skinner, pp. 66–95. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Fears, J. Rufus. 1978. “O ΔΗΜΟΣ O ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ Genius Populi Romani. A Note on the Origin of Dea Roma.” Mnemosyne 31: 274–86. Friesen, Steven  J. 1993. Twice Neokoros: Ephesus, Asia, and the Cult of the Flavian Imperial Family. Leiden: Brill. Friesen, Steven J. 2001. Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John: Reading Revelation in the Ruins. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gaca, Kathy L. 2003. The Making of Fornication: Eros, Ethics, and Political Reform in Greek Philosophy and Early Christianity. Hellenistic Culture and Society. Berkeley: University of California Press. Glancy, Jennifer  A., and Stephen  D.  Moore. 2011. “How Typical a Roman Prostitute Is Revelation’s ‘Great Whore’?” JBL 130: 551–69. Gundry, Robert H. 1987. “The New Jerusalem: People as Place, Not Place for People.” NovT 29: 254–64. Evans-Grubbs, Judith. 1993. “ ‘Marriage More Shameful Than Adultery’: Slave-Mistress Relationships, ‘Mixed Marriages,’ and Late Roman Law.” Phoenix 47: 125–54. Hanson, Ann Ellis. 2007. “The Hippocratic Parthenos in Sickness and Health.” In Virginity Revisited: Configurations of the Unpossessed Body, edited by Bonnie MacLachlan and Judith Fletcher, pp. 40–65. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Hersch, Karen K. 2010. The Roman Wedding: Ritual and Meaning in Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hidalgo, Jacqueline  M. 2016. Revelation in Aztlán: Scriptures, Utopias, and the Chicano Movement. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

The City-Women Babylon and New Jerusalem   323 Huber, Lynn R. 2007. Like a Bride Adorned: Reading Metaphor in John’s Apocalypse. New York: T & T Clark. Huber, Lynn  R. 2008. “Sexually Explicit? Re-reading Revelation’s 144,000 Virgins as a Response to Roman Discourses.” JMMS 2: 3–28. Huber, Lynn R. 2011. “Gazing at the Whore: Reading Revelation Queerly.” In Bible Trouble: Queer Reading at the Boundaries of Biblical Scholarship, edited by Teresa J. Hornsby and Ken Stone, pp. 301–20. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Huber, Lynn  R. 2013. Thinking and Seeing with Women in Revelation. LNTS 475. London: Bloomsbury. Jones, C. P. 1987. “Stigma: Tattooing and Branding in Graeco-Roman Antiquity.” JRS 77: 139–55. Joyce, Lillian. 2014. “Roma and the Virtuous Breast.” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 59/60: 1–49. Keller, Catherine. 1996. Apocalypse Now and Then: A Feminist Guide to the End of the World. Boston: Beacon Press. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Koester, Craig R. 2008. “Roman Slave Trade and the Critique of Babylon in Revelation 18.” CBQ 70: 766–86. Levine, Amy-Jill. 2009. Introduction to A Feminist Companion to the Apocalypse of John, edited by Amy-Jill Levine and Maria Mayo Robbins, pp. 1–16. London: T & T Clark. Martin, Clarice  J. 1990. “Womanist Interpretations of the New Testament: The Quest for Holistic and Inclusive Translation and Interpretation.” JFSR 6: 41–61. McGinn, Thomas A. J. 2006. “Zoning Shame in the Roman City.” In Prostitutes and Courtesans in the Ancient World, edited by Christopher A. Faraone and Laura K. McClure, pp. 161–76. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Menéndez-Antuña, Luis. 2018. Thinking Sex with the Great Whore: Deviant Sexualities and Empire in the Book of Revelation. Routledge Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Biblical Criticism. New York, NY: Routledge. Olson, Kelly. 2008. Dress and the Roman Woman: Self-Presentation and Society. New York: Routledge. Olson, Kelly. 2009. “Cosmetics in Roman Antiquity: Substance, Remedy, Poison.” CW 102: 291–310. Pattemore, Stephen W. 2004. The People of God in the Apocalypse: Discourse, Structure, and Exegesis. SNTSMS 128. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pippin, Tina. 1992a. Death and Desire: The Rhetoric of Gender in the Apocalypse of John. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Pippin, Tina. 1992b. “The Heroine and the Whore: Fantasy and the Female in the Apocalypse of John.” Semeia 60: 67–82. Pippin, Tina, and J.  Michael Clark. 2006. “Revelation/Apocalypse.” In The Queer Bible Commentary, edited by Deryn Guest, Robert Goss, Mona West, and Thomas Bohache, pp. 753–68. London: SCM Press. Price, S. R. F. 1984. Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Roose, Hanna. 2005. “The Fall of the ‘Great Harlot’ and the Fate of the Aging Prostitute: An Iconographic Approach to Revelation 18.” In Picturing the New Testament: Studies in Ancient Visual Images, edited by Annette Weisenrieder, Friederike Wendt, and Petra von Gemünden, pp. 228–52. WUNT II/193. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

324   Lynn R. Huber Rossing, Barbara  R. 1999. The Choice between Two Cities: Whore, Bride, and Empire in the Apocalypse. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International. Royalty, Robert M. 1998. The Streets of Heaven: The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1991. Revelation: Vision of a Just World. Minneapolis: Fortress. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1998. “Epilogue: The Rhetoricality of Apocalypse and the Politics of Interpretation.” In The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment, edited by Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, pp. 205–36. Minneapolis: Fortress. Smith, Amy C. 2011. Polis and Personification in Classical Athenian Art. Leiden: Brill. Smith, Mitzi J. 2015. “Fashioning Our Own Souls: A Womanist Reading of the Virgin-Whore Binary in Matthew and Revelation.” In I Found God in Me: A Womanist Biblical Hermeneutics Reader. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 158–82. Smith, R. R. R. 1987. “The Imperial Reliefs from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias.” JRS 77: 88–138. Smith, R. R. R. 1988. “Simulacra Gentium: The Ethne from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias.” JRS 78: 50–77. Smith, Shanell T. 2014. The Woman Babylon and the Marks of Empire: Reading Revelation with a Postcolonial Womanist Hermeneutics of Ambiveilence. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress. Stenström, Hanna. 2009. “Feminists in Search for a Usable Future: Feminist Reception of the Book of Revelation.” In The Way the World Ends? The Apocalypse of John in Culture and Ideology, edited by William John Lyons and Jorunn Økland, pp. 240–66. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Phoenix. Stenström, Hanna. 2011. “Is Salvation Only for True Men? On Gendered Imagery in the Book of Revelation.” In Imagery in the Book of Revelation, edited by Michael Labahn and Outi Lehtipuu, pp. 183–98. Leuven: Peeters. Sutton, Robert F. 1997. “Nuptial Eros: The Visual Discourse of Marriage in Classical Athens.” The Journal of the Walters Art Gallery 55/56: 27–48. Walters, Jonathan. 1997. “Invading the Roman Body: Manliness and Impenetrability in Roman Thought.” In Roman Sexualities, edited by Judith  P.  Hallett and Marilyn  B.  Skinner, pp. 29–43. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Whitaker, Robyn J. 2015. Ekphrasis, Vision, and Persuasion in the Book of Revelation. WUNT II/410. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Whittaker, Tony. 2009. “Sex and the Sack of the City.” Greece and Rome 56: 234–42. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1993. “Feminine Symbolism in the Book of Revelation.” BI 1: 20–33.

chapter 20

The Peopl e of G od i n the Book of R ev el ation Peter S. Perry

Then I heard another voice from heaven saying, “Come out of her, my people, so that you do not take part in her sins, and so that you do not share in her plagues.” (Rev 18:4 NRSV)

The phrase “people of God in the book of Revelation” is ambiguous and can be interpreted diversely and even divergently depending on a reader’s context, assumptions, and memories. To modern English readers, it may suggest ecclesiology, sociology, ethics, identity construction, or some other kind of systemization of thought. Although these are relevant, this chapter is animated by the question: What signals does Revelation give about John’s understanding of “the people of God”? He is writing in the Greek language to diverse groups in first-century Asia Minor. How do they hear the phrase? He expects his work to be read aloud to people he believes will not only hear but act on what he has written (1:3). From John’s point of view, the “people of God” are, first, audiences. They also will have diverse ways of processing the phrase “people of God.” This chapter seeks to clarify how they may have resolved its ambiguities and how John attempts to shape their self-understanding as people of God. Revelation 18:4 is the most direct reference to the “people of God” in the Apocalypse. John hears the word “people” (Gk. laos) only twice to refer to “God’s people” (also 21:3). Only in 18:4 does God speak directly to them. As a result, audiences desiring to be the people of God would hear and pay special attention to God’s call to come out of Babylon, a symbol for the city of Rome that sits on its beast of an empire. In 18:4, John signals most clearly that to be the people of God is to disengage from the idolatrous and violent imperial economy described in chapters 17 and 18. This is the climax of the book, toward

326   Peter S. Perry which John gradually moves his audiences by describing the people of God in ways that will help them to overcome their fears and misconceptions. Five key images that he uses to characterize the people of God include assemblies; slaves of God, saints; clothed in white; and witnesses.1

Audiences John expected someone to read this apocalyptic prophetic letter aloud to groups who already identified themselves as the people of God.2 “Blessed is the one who reads aloud the words of the prophecy, and blessed are those who hear and who keep what is written in it; for the time is near” (1:3). As the reader speaks, she or he makes decisions about tone, emphasis, volume, and pacing. Consciously or unconsciously, the reader uses facial expressions, pauses, and moments of eye contact with the group as a whole and, perhaps, with specific individuals. Even a reader who holds the scroll in both hands and reads directly from it will move his or her head, arms, hands, and body with emphasis. These movements inevitably shape how the audience understands the visions. “Meaning” is too narrow a word for what is happening; the audience is experiencing the book of Revelation, embodied by a specific reader for a specific group of people in that moment. It is an auditory, visual, cognitive, emotional, spiritual, and social experience (Perry 2009, 1–5). The experience brings John’s visions into the moment of reading. As the reader says, “And I saw . . .” (used forty-five times in Revelation) and “I heard” (used twenty-six times), the audiences see in their imagination and hear with their ears. In this way, the people of God are not simply experiencing a reader vocalizing signs from a sheet of parchment or papyrus; they are experiencing the sights and sounds John experienced. They are invited to see and hear Jesus and the One-Who-Sits-on-the-Throne, the living creatures, elders, angels, horsemen, a dragon, and beasts. The reader and even John recede as the audiences experience God and Jesus speaking directly to them. For example, the letter opening begins with a recognizable formula, “John to the seven assemblies” (1:4), and ends with a doxology. But rather than beginning the body of the letter, the reader next says, “Look!” and invites the audiences to see Jesus coming with the clouds in that moment (1:7). For an instant, the reader even becomes the voice of God, “I am the Alpha and the Omega” (1:8), before resuming the role of John to his audiences (1:9). Later, Jesus speaks directly, “See, I am coming like a thief ” (16:15). At the end of the scroll, it is difficult to discern whether it is Jesus or John who is speaking through the reader (22:16–19). The people of God become audiences of God, experiencing transcendent reality. The plural “audiences” is critical to consider. There is not one audience but seven different assemblies addressed by John, and multiple subgroups within them. For example, the assembly in Thyatira has one audience aligned with John and another who follows a prophet that he labels “Jezebel” (2:20). If called “people of God,” each audience would likely agree the label applies to them but not necessarily agree on what it means.

The People of God in the Book of Revelation   327 Furthermore, with the word “audiences” we should imagine any group who experiences the book of Revelation, not simply first-century audiences in Asia Minor. No matter the time or place, if readers or hearers consider themselves people of God, they open themselves to be transformed in some way. However an audience understood themselves as “people of God,” it cannot be conceived as a static category. John intends to change his audiences and their understanding of “the people of God” by this experience. “Blessed . . . are those who keep what is written in it” (1:3). This benediction offers God’s blessing as an incentive both for reader and listener to participate in the transformation, to yield to the visions, and to change values, attitudes, and behavior. Not every audience has been transformed in the same way!3 John moves these audiences into the presence of God so that they may be moved from ignorance to knowledge. Initially, it is the promise of knowing “what must happen soon” (1:1) that draws audiences further into the visions. But more than knowing the future, John wants to enlighten them about what it means to be the people of God. The seer himself joins them in this transformation, minimizing his role as the knowledgeable prophet. On one hand, John assumes a posture of knowledge (deSilva 2009, 130–33). This is a necessary strategy: John needs the ethos of a prophet to persuade his audiences to change. John asserts that he is an indispensable link in the transmission of these visions, from God to Jesus to his angel to John (1:1). He is a witness to the heavenly court and transmits what he sees and hears to his audiences. He exhorts, “[L]et anyone who has an ear listen” (13:9). He calls for his audiences to become wise (17:9). He claims a powerful position between God and his audiences. On the other hand, John minimizes his position of special knowledge and portrays himself as ignorant so that his audiences might identify with him. When introducing his role, he does not call himself a prophet but aligns himself with his audience as a “slave of God” (1:1) and “brother” (1:9). When the elder asks him “who are these robed in white and where have they come from?” John responds with ignorance, “Lord, you know” (7:14). When John hears seven thunders speak, he does not understand that their message is not to be recorded (10:4). He twice bows down before angels and has to be corrected (19:10; 22:8–9). The book of Revelation demonstrates that John learns; even more, that John is teachable. In this way, John mirrors and identifies with the audience’s movement from ignorance to knowledge. John aligns himself with his audiences’ ignorance in order to help them gradually recognize Rome’s violence and economic idolatry. The people have been duped by the lie that economic success and comfort means Rome is benevolent and not hostile toward followers of Christ. The big disclosure in Revelation is that Rome is a bloodthirsty seductress: “The woman you saw is the great city that rules over the kings of the earth” (17:18). No one in the first century ce would have misunderstood what John meant: the woman is a symbol for the city of Rome. Audiences then deduce that the beast is its empire that spread across the Mediterranean. John assumes his audiences generally agree they should reject emperor worship, eating idol meat, and fornication and builds on that consensus in order to get at the more difficult topic of participation in the Roman economy. Steven Friesen notes that there is a striking absence of condemnations of the imperial cult in the oracles of Rev 2–3

328   Peter S. Perry (Friesen  2005, 367). If “Jezebel” or the Nicolaitans are advocating sacrifices to the emperor, why does John make only general references to idol meat and fornication? Or if eating idol meat is such a serious problem, why isn’t it brought up in the visions of chapters 4–22? Although these are points of disagreement with subgroups in Pergamum and Thyatira, the majority of John’s audiences concur and so the topics become a helpful starting point for a more difficult subject. John’s audiences, to varying degrees, were having difficulty accepting that Rome was violent and its economy idolatrous. This explains the structure of the book. If John had begun with a vision of Rome drinking the blood of the saints and gloating over her wealth with the kings and merchants, his audiences may have dismissed him as ridiculous. But John carefully aligned himself with them, beginning with visions in which they would readily understand and accept, and then gradually built toward chapter 17–19, where they would be faced with new knowledge and a question: How could the people of God participate in such an idolatrous and murderous economy? “Come out of her, my people, so that you do not take part in her sins!” (Rev 18:4)

Assemblies The people of God identified themselves as “assemblies” (ekklēsiai, used nineteen times in chapters 1–3 then again at 22:16). It is unfortunate that most translations use “church,” which now connotes a modern church building and organization.4 John uses the term “assembly” to describe groups in each city as political and religious decision-making bodies within God’s empire, even as they contest what it means to be the people of God. To a Greek speaker in first-century Asia Minor, the Greek word ekklēsia would bring to mind formal and informal political assemblies of citizens gathered to make decisions for their city. Ralph Korner surveyed 1858 inscriptional mentions of ekklēsia from the fifth century bce to the second ce and studied its use in Jewish and Christian sources. He concluded that the early Jesus movement used ekklēsia to reflect civic ideology for the creation of an alternate society (Korner 2017, 21). He demonstrates that the term ekklēsia is not inherently counter-imperial but may have been viewed as counter­oligarchical and pro-“democratic.” Assemblies in first-century Asia Minor were political and religious, whether formal or informal. When silversmiths rioted in Ephesus, accusing Paul of cutting into their business of selling statues of gods, the clerk of the city urged the crowd to either settle it in the courts, with the proconsuls, or in the “lawful assembly” (Acts 19:39). An inscription in Termessos in Pisidia from the second century ce describes a lawful assembly that attests to the responsibilities of a classical Athenian ekklēsia: appointment of magistrates, financial affairs, civic subdivisions, construction of roads and cisterns, food supplies, and organization of games and festivals (Korner  2017, 41–2). The historian Herodotus describes occasions when leaders of a city call together people for deliberation, speeches, or proclamations (e.g., Hist. 3.142.2).

The People of God in the Book of Revelation   329 The messages of Rev 2–3 are similar to messages from rulers to assemblies. Josephus recounts how, around 1 ce, Jews of Asia Minor sent ambassadors to Emperor Augustus to protest local Greco-Roman leaders seizing funds and harassing Jewish communities (Ant. 16.160–65). The emperor sent letters to the governors to restore Jewish funds and privileges. Josephus reports the following copy was inscribed on a pillar in the imperial temple in Pergamum: Caesar Augustus, Pontifex Maximus with tribunician powers says, Since the Jewish nation has been found well-disposed to the Roman people not only at the present time but also in time past it has been decided by me and my council under oath, with the consent of the Roman people . . . And if anyone is caught stealing their sacred books or their sacred monies . . . he shall be regarded as sacrilegious and his property shall be confiscated to the public treasury . . . I order that it and the present edict be set up in the most conspicuous part of the temple constructed for me by the koinon of Asia in Pergamum. If anyone transgresses any of the above ordinances, he shall suffer severe punishment (Aune 1990, 201–2).

As with Jesus’s messages to the assemblies, this imperial message affirms the recipients, acknowledges public pressure, commands a response, threatens consequences, and commends public reception. For Greek-speaking Jews, the word ekklēsia also carried political and religious implications, especially the sense of God’s people gathered for sacred purposes. In a Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, ekklēsia was used to translate the Hebrew qāhāl one hundred three times, referring to a meeting or collectively to the people gathered (Korner  2017, 94). When the tribes of Israel gathered at Mizpah they built an altar, offered sacrifices, and decided what to do about the tribe of Benjamin (Judg 21:5, 8 LXX). Relevant to the Book of Revelation, Moses sings his final song “in the hearing of the whole assembly of Israel” (Deut 31:30 LXX; see Rev 15:3). In later Jewish literature, ekklēsia were God’s people gathered for political, juridical, and religious concerns. In Judith, women participated in judicial decision-making (Jdt 6:16). The Maccabees convened public religious and political assemblies (1 Macc 5:16; 14:19). Relevant to public reading before deliberative assemblies, Jews of Rome and Sparta renewed their alliance with the Hasmoneans by sending tablets that were read publicly before the ekklēsia in Jerusalem (1 Macc 14:16–23). In Sirach 50:20, ekklēsia refers not to the specific meeting or collective designation of the people while assembled but to the community at-large. In this light, the messages sent from Jesus to the assemblies of each city depict Christian communities as an alternate society in contrast to the Roman Empire. Although the term ekklēsia does not necessarily imply a counter-imperial agenda (Korner 2017), in the context of the book of Revelation it fits into a larger pattern. Jesus stands in the position of representative of the emperor dictating messages to his scribe (John), which will be delivered to messengers (angels) in each city (Aune  1990). Receiving a letter from the emperor, each assembly hears the pronouncements and is expected to deliberate. Each message contains affirmations, critique, warnings, and

330   Peter S. Perry rewards. The implied message: Christian communities are portrayed as a superior, cosmic, and eternal empire whose ruler is God (Bauckham 1993b, 34–39).5 These assemblies, however, are not homogeneous. Each has different subgroups, and some of them are at odds with each other, some with John, some with Jewish outsiders, and others are under pressure from local authorities. At least four assemblies were divided in some way. In Smyrna, some faced imprisonment, while the rest were free. John mentions the followers of the Nicolaitans and “Jezebel” early in the messages to Pergamum and Thyatira, which suggests that these subgroups were dominant in these assemblies (2:15, 20). The majority of Christ-followers in Sardis had soiled their “clothes,” but there were some who were clean (3:4). Each of these subgroups likely would have claimed the name “people of God” and asserted that they were faithful to God. The so-called “false apostles,” Nicolaitans, and “Jezebel” likely would have agreed with John’s characterization of Jesus as “the One like a Son of Man” (Rev 1:13), a common Christian interpretation of Daniel 7:13 as a cosmic messianic image (e.g., Mark 14:62). But these teachers drew different social implications. Perhaps similar to some in Corinth, they encouraged Christians to eat meat that had been sacrificed to a Greco-Roman god (see 1 Cor 8 and 10). These leaders would have understood themselves as telling the truth about God, perhaps, like those whom Paul quotes, saying “no idol in the world really exists,” and that “there is no God but one” (1 Cor 8:4), concluding idol meat is just like any other meat. Similarly, those called “synagogues of Satan” in Smyrna and Philadelphia would have understood themselves to be “the people of God” (Hemer 1986, 67). Those Jewish communities likely had rejected Jesus as the Messiah and put public pressure on those who did by denouncing them to civic and provincial authorities (Koester 2014, 275). In a similarly exclusive move, John accuses them of lying about being Jews (Rev 2:9; 3:9). Modern readers should hear the reference to “synagogues of Satan” as a dispute between family members (cf. John 9:18–22; 12:42). Koester suggests “[i]t resembles intra-Jewish polemics like those at Qumran, where one Jewish group called another an ‘assembly of Belial’ (1QHa X, 22) and an ‘assembly of wickedness,’ ‘futility,’ or ‘deceit’ (1QM XV, 9; 1QHa XIV, 5; XV, 34)” (Koester 2014, 276).6 The idea of the “people of God” was contested within and between assemblies. John and his audiences understand themselves to be assemblies—the people of God gathered to make decisions that have political and religious impact. He presents his visions as messages from the true ruler for these decision-making groups to act upon. As they become an alternate society, John urges them to cease acquiescing to Roman idolatry by actively disentangling from the Roman economy and more fully becoming assemblies in God’s empire.

Slaves of God John also refers to his audiences as the “slaves (douloi) of God” (1:1; see 2:20; 7:3; 10:7; 11:18; 19:2, 5; 22:3, 6). He invites his audiences, paradoxically, to identify with both high

The People of God in the Book of Revelation   331 and low status: high status as servants of God, publicly identified, protected, and representing their exalted master; low status as bought, owned, and directed. The seer sees them transformed: the slaves of God are ultimately exalted and rewarded as the slaves of the beast suffer. By calling the people of God “slaves,” John evokes a complex metaphor for identity commonly used among Christians at the time (deSilva 2009, 131).7 Other Christian letter writers referred to themselves and Christ-followers this way (e.g., Rom 1:1; Jas 1:1; 2 Pet 1:1; Jude 1:1; see Acts 16:17). The evangelists remembered Jesus himself inviting his followers to think of themselves as slaves of God (e.g., Mark 10:44; Luke 1:38; 2:29; 12:37–38; 17:9–10; John 15:2; but see John 15:15). Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David, and Daniel are called douloi tou theou in Greek versions of Jewish writings (e.g., Ps 104:6 LXX; 1 Macc 4:30; 2 Macc 1:2). As a slave of God, John evokes the status of a slave representing his master, an honored position that carries some of the authority of the one who sent the slave (Aune 1997–98, 1:17). He presents his authority as delegated by God through Christ. John later refers to other prophets as “slaves” (10:7; 11:8; see also “fellow slaves,” syndouloi, in 6:11 and 22:9). This may reflect the prophet as a representative agent of the divine, symbolically correlated to the high status of a slave who represents a powerful master (compare 2 Kgs 9:7; Jer 7:25; Ezek 38;17; Dan 9:6, 10. See Pattemore 2004, 133; Royalty 1998, 137–39; Trebilco 2004, 581). Some in John’s audiences may not have identified themselves as “slaves of God,” thinking of this as a term that referred to leaders of the Christian community. Blount (2009, 29) argues that the douloi tou theou of Rev 1:1 are “prophetic colleagues to whom John reports his revelatory visions.” In this case, audiences may think of John, Peter, and Paul as God’s slaves, but not themselves. Others may easily identify themselves as “slaves of God.” When they hear that a prophet “Jezebel” is leading some of Jesus’s slaves astray in Thyatira (2:20), they likely would think of people like themselves who are acting on the persuasive teaching of a prophet. For them, “slave of God” was simply a term used for a follower of Christ. Others may have rejected the title, considering it humiliating to be a slave, even of God. Later interpreters read slave language as metaphorical, but as Glancy (2006, 129) comments, this language would be heard concretely in the first century ce: [E]very level of the sayings tradition includes evidence that Jesus routinely evoked the figure of the slave in his teachings . . . Slaves worked long hours. They labor in the fields. They fasten sandals on their masters’ feet. They deliver social and business messages. They do not always get along with one another. They take advantage of their masters’ absences to eat and drink from storerooms. For modern commentators, slaves and slavery have often been, first and foremost, metaphorical. For Jesus, slaves and slavery were a part of the fabric of everyday life.

The same can be said for John and his audiences. Slaves are contrasted with those who have freedom (6:15; 13:16; 19:18). John’s focus on food brings to mind a slave’s worry about nourishment. God’s protection contrasts with the capricious beatings a slave might

332   Peter S. Perry receive. Arguments within assemblies sound similar to slaves who fight and quarrel among themselves. To be a slave was to be bought like a commodity, identified as de­pend­ent, and directed by a master. Slaves are bought, and to be freed comes at a price. Their low status is emphasized by their purchase as objects. The Lamb is worthy to take the scroll because he bought (ēgorasas) for God a people out of every tribe and language and people and nation (5:9). Glancy describes Roman bills of sale and wills that treated slaves not as people but as things, like cloth or spices to be traded (Glancy 2006, 7). When John describes the Lamb “buying” people, the implication is that Jesus has paid the price of manumission. In this case, it is the slaughter of the Lamb, not gold or goods, that is the price paid (7:14). The one hundred forty-four thousand slaves of God are “those bought from the earth” (oi ēgorasmenoi apo tēs gēs), who now follow the Lamb as their new master (14:4). Slaves in Revelation are publicly identified as dependent. Four angels seal the slaves of God with seals on their foreheads (7:3). Most first-century audiences would have thought of symbolic slave brands, not physical marks (Aune 1997–98, 1:456–59).8 John does not expect Christ-followers to have the Lamb and God’s name physically written on their foreheads (14:1; compare 3:12), but to consider themselves slaves of God and to share that identity as publicly as if it were branded on their foreheads. It is also a mark of symbolic protection: those sealed will not be harmed by the demonic locust cavalry loosed by the fifth blast of the trumpet (9:4). Finally, those with God’s name on their foreheads will worship God face to face (22:3–4). Being sealed a slave of God symbolizes the public identity, protection, and service of the people of God. Slaves are directed by their master. John, as God’s slave, is directed to write (1:11, 19; 2:1, etc.), come (4:1), take and eat a scroll (10:8–9), and measure (11:1–2). As slaves of the One-Sitting-on-the-Throne, such direction also comes with the high status of authority. The two witnesses are given authority to prophesy, shut the heavens, turn water to blood, and strike the earth with plagues (11:3, 6). All the slaves of God are directed to rejoice over the fall of Babylon (19:5). If audiences don’t see themselves as God’s slaves at the beginning, John gives them increasing incentives to identify themselves as God’s slaves. By the end, it is the slaves of God that will see God’s face and have God’s name on their foreheads (22:3–4). Even more, slaves of God have significant advantages over slaves of the beast. Beginning in chapter 13, John compares slaves of God with the slaves of the beast, who are also publicly identified and serve a master. John does not explicitly use the phrase “slave of the beast,” but instead uses symbols of slavery for “those who worship the beast and its image and receive the mark of the beast” (14:9, 11; 16:2; 19:20). “There can be little doubt that this brand is a parody of the seal of God that is placed on the foreheads of his servants (7:3; 9:4)” (Aune 1997–98, 2:768). It is on the right hand or forehead (13:16), symbolic of the public identity as a slave of the beast rather than a slave of God. It is required to buy and to sell, communicating that only those publicly identified as slaves of the beast can participate in commerce (13:17), which may suggest the way the Roman emperor’s image was used on coins, stamps, and seals (Koester 2014, 595).

The People of God in the Book of Revelation   333 Not so subtly, John reveals the advantages for his audience to identify as slaves of God, not of the beast. The slaves of the beast will pay a high price: they will “drink the wine of God’s wrath” (14:10) and receive a painful sore (16:2). Those who sit on thrones at the end have “not worshiped the beast or its image and had not received its mark on their foreheads or their hands” (20:4). By sketching these two kinds of slaves, John shows his audiences the advantages for a people who will not participate in either imperial worship or commerce. It is already assumed that the people of God will reject imperial worship. They need more persuasion to accept that imperial commerce is idolatry. Initially, John presents the “slaves of God” as the honored and valued status, sealed by the name of the Lamb and his Father in a way that is the only protection from demonic locusts. Later, he makes it clear that there is a competing public identity—the mark of the beast, required to buy and sell. In this way, John asks the assemblies to deliberate: are we slaves to the beast or slaves to God? The choice is stark: short-term honor and life versus long-term honor and ex­ist­ ence. Either accept the mark of the beast, be able to participate in the imperial economy, live now by worshipping the beast and its image, but be judged by God’s wrath and excluded from Christ’s reign. Or, accept the seal of the Lamb and his Father, follow the Lamb wherever he goes (including possible suffering and death), perhaps be killed for not worshipping the beast and its image, but be raised to rule with Christ.

Saints Thirteen times in Revelation, John refers to the people of God as saints, “holy ones” (hoi hagioi). John uses the term “holy” to describe the status conferred by relationship with God, although it elsewhere is understood as a group marker of purity (Lev 19). The emphasis in Revelation, Aune argues, is on the relationship with God, not their sanctity, and for this reason, he suggests simply translating hoi hagioi as “God’s people” (Aune 1997–98, 1:359). John transforms his audiences’ expectations of a saint to include suffering and humiliation before ultimate restoration. They move from passivity to activity: to prayer, worship, keeping God’s commands, and doing acts of justice (Koester 2014, 379). God and relationship with God are at the heart of this label. Jesus and the One-WhoSits-on-the-Throne are the ones who first carry the title (3:7; 4:8). God is the true Holy One, as proclaimed by the four living creatures who echo Isa 6: “Holy, Holy, Holy (is) the Lord God, the Almighty, who was and is and is coming” (Rev 4:8; 6:10; see Isa 6:3). God’s title as “holy” is juxtaposed with worthiness to receive accolades and status. The twentyfour elders announce that the One-Who-Sits-on-the-Throne is “worthy (axios) to receive glory and honor and power” for creating and sustaining all things (Rev 4:11). “Holy” in Revelation is therefore a status marker of association with God that is recognized by others. When referring to God, it implies that God is worthy of reverence and ultimate status because of God’s role as creator and sustainer (4:11). It is not an exclusive status but is shared by God, like a throne that can seat more than one (3:21).

334   Peter S. Perry Unworthiness is the antonym: no one is found worthy to open the scroll and break its seals (5:1). After the Lamb is declared worthy (5:9), the Lamb is honored with titles similar to the One-Sitting-on-the-Throne (“power, wealth, wisdom, might, honor, glory, and blessing,” 5:12; cf. 4:11). The Lamb is worthy because he has been slaughtered to redeem saints for God.9 The saints are holy because they have bought by the Lamb. A “holy one” is also associated with faithfulness and truth-telling. To the assembly in Philadelphia, Jesus is identified as “the holy one, the true one” (3:7; see 19:11; of God, linked in 6:10). Being holy is related to being true, both in the sense of telling truth and being reliable (Koester 2014, 323). In Philadelphia, some non-Christian Jews denounced Christ-followers to local officials and denied them power (3:8). Christ, in contrast, is reliable and tells the truth in front of the authority that ultimately matters. With Christ as paradigm, the “saints” are faithful to God and tell the truth about the One-Who-Sitson-the-Throne (17:14). Christ and the saints share status and ruling position (2:27–28; 3:21), a juxtaposition found in Dan 7:13–14 and 7:18 (Pattemore 2004, 118–24). Both the Son of Man and the holy ones receive an eternal kingdom in a way that suggests that the status and ruling position of the Danielic Son of Man is shared with the saints in both texts. In addition, if John’s audiences brought Dan 7 to mind, they also would anticipate that the saints suffer at the hands of beastly imperial powers. Audiences may recall that “This horn made war with the holy ones and was prevailing over them” (Dan 7:21) when they hear that “[the beast] was allowed to make war on the saints and to conquer them” (Rev 13:7). Much more than Daniel, John emphasizes that the saints, despite their status before God, may suffer and be killed. Captivity may be inevitable, and violent resistance will only lead to death (13:10; 16:6). Most shockingly, the wealthy and luxurious Babylon who amazes all who see her is shown to be drunk on the blood of the saints (17:6) and culpable for “all those slaughtered on earth” (18:24). In the final eschatological battle, the saints are surrounded by the nations who are deceived by Satan (20:9). The suffering and death of the saints, especially later in the book, emphasizes that it is difficult at first for John’s audiences to hear that Rome is not benevolent but hostile. By evoking the memory of Daniel, John makes it possible for his audiences to identify with the saints who suffer and are killed by beastly empires, with the surprising revelation that the Great City of Rome is the worst and most violent of all. The saints, though temporarily humiliated, will be restored, even as the empire falls. The seventh trumpet brings an announcement that God’s saints will be rewarded (11:18). The saints will rejoice as Babylon falls (18:20). Jerusalem is called the “holy city” because God and the Lamb dwell there (Koester 2014, 796), giving status to it and the “holy ones” who dwell there (21:2, 10; 22:19; see 11:2). John uses the title “saint” to move audiences from passivity to action. As participants in the “holy city,” John offers an alternative to Rome, its status and benefits (Rossing 1999). For Laodiceans, it means stopping trade in gold, clothes, and ointments and giving up the lifestyle they enjoy. For Smyrnans, it means ending ambitions to climb the ladder out of poverty and enduring denunciation and imprisonment (Royalty 1998). To be a saint means to reorient one’s priorities, possessions, and purpose toward the

The People of God in the Book of Revelation   335 Holy One. The activity of the saints begins with prayer and worship, priestly roles suggested by offering up prayers, like incense, before God (5,8; 8,3–4). The phrase “prayers of the saints” communicates that the people of God have status so that their concerns, cries for justice, and needs are heard before the divine throne (6,10).

Those Clothed in White Revelation also portrays the people of God wearing white clothes. In this way, John illustrates coming out of the imperial economy with a concrete change of lifestyle. John is certainly not the only one concerned with symbolic clothes (e.g., Matt 22:11; Rom 13:12–14; Col 3:12). The question concerns the relationship between the symbolic value and social significance of clothes. John describes three different sets of clothes: a long robe worn only by Jesus, a more generic garment, and a long flowing robe given to those who die because they tell the truth about God.10 Jesus appears clothed in a long robe (podērē; 1:13), which may be symbolic of a priestly role (Beale 1999, 208–9; though it is not a technical term, see Exod 25:7; 28:4), a revelatory messenger (as in Dan 10:5 and Ezek 9:2; Aune 1997–98, 1:93), or simply majesty (Koester 2014, 246). Both earthly and heavenly figures are said to have “garments” (himatia). This Greek word generally refers to outer clothing worn over an under layer. Jewish and GrecoRoman traditions use white robes to symbolize purity, holiness, and honor (Koester 2014, 314). White outer garments are in contrast to those stained by use. Some people of Sardis haven’t soiled their garments (himatia); metaphorically their status before God is not tainted (3:4). It is clear that garments symbolize status when Jesus promises that those who conquer will be dressed in white because they are worthy (3:5). Jesus urges the assembly of Laodicea to buy from him “white garments” (himatia leuka; 3:17–18). The twenty-four elders around the heavenly throne are dressed in white robes (4:4). Jesus interrupts the narrative to remind the audiences to “keep their garments” (16:15). John explains that the fine linen that clothes the bride of the Lamb should be understood as the righteous deeds of the saints (19:8). John describes white flowing robes (stolai leukai) given to those who have died as testifying to the truth about God and Jesus. The stolē does seem to suggest higher status than the more generic himation, but it also may only indicate a longer outer garment.11 Those souls slaughtered “for the message from God and for the testimony they have given” were given white, flowing robes and told to rest for a while (6:9–11). After hearing about the sealing of one hundred forty-four thousand, John sees a great multitude clothed in white, flowing robes (7:9). The elder asks him, specifically using the robes as markers of the people’s identity: “Who are these robed in white…? ” (7:13). The elder answers his own question, explaining that they have come out of great public pressure and have washed them in the blood of the Lamb (7:14). Finally, these long, flowing robes are recalled in a benediction at the end of Revelation, “Blessed are those who wash their

336   Peter S. Perry robes” (22:14). The only way John shows audiences to wash robes is “in the blood of the Lamb,” which symbolically seems to mean to be bought by Christ’s blood (5:9) and to show willingness to die for testifying God’s message (6:9–11). This image combines cleansing by blood, clothing, and manumission, concepts from sacrifice, social status, and slavery (Beale 1999, 394). Although the metaphorical use of these terms is accurate, it is a mistake to lose sight of the tangible clothes and their social and economic role for John’s audiences. Jesus offered metaphorical robes to the Laodiceans because they loved the literal robes they bought and wore (3:17–18). Fine linen is metaphorically the righteous deeds of the saints (19:8) and worn by the white rider (19:14) because John’s audiences valued the real fine linen that was traded by merchants to Babylon (18:12) and grieved not being able to dress in this luxurious cloth. A Christian interpolation in the late first-century Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah demonstrates how John’s audiences might have heard the economic and social implications. And many [Christians] will exchange the glory of the robes of saints for the robes of those who love money; and there will be much respect of persons in those days, and lovers of the glory of this world. . . And in those days there will not be many prophets . . . because of the spirit of error and of fornication, and of vainglory, and of the love of money . . . (3:25–28; quoted in Kraybill 1996, 49).

Metaphorically being clothed with the “robes of saints” means not clothing oneself with the literal luxury and comfort that is acquired in imperial trade. White clothes were signs of special status. Fullers, sometimes slaves, washed clothes and made clothes white. A garment was washed with an alkali (often urine) to separate the dirt from the cloth, and then whitened by hanging it over a basket frame under which a sulfurous steam removed the color (Pliny the Elder, Nat. 35.50; Apuleius, Metam. 9.24; Pollux, Onom. 7.39–41). A white clay was rubbed into the cloth to increase the whiteness (Pliny the Elder, Nat. 35.57). Such treatments were available only to a few, elite families, landowners, priests, and upper-echelon soldiers. To wear a white garment (himation) was to show one’s status and means; to be able to whiten a longer robe (stolē) showed even higher status. Because a white robe was expensive to make and maintain, it became the symbol of purity, holiness, and honor. John describes the people of God as those clothed in white, a metaphor similar in effect to calling them saints. What is new is the economic dimension. The strategy: the promise of the white robe captures audiences’ attention and persuades them to be willing to face even death to receive that status. Rome is portrayed as using fine clothes to seduce kings, merchants, shipmasters, and sailors—and presumably some of the people of God—to participate in the imperial economy. “Alas, the great city, clothed in fine linen, in purple and scarlet . . . For in one hour all this wealth has been laid waste!” (18:16–17). John uses his audience’s desire for that luxury to persuade them to give it up, begin the process of grieving, and value the metaphorical white robes more than the real ones.

The People of God in the Book of Revelation   337

Witnesses Perhaps the most important role John wants his audiences to claim is that of witness. A witness speaks the truth about God, which also exposes the lies that deceive people to participate in the seductive but idolatrous imperial economy. Roots of marty- occur nineteen times in Revelation, each time used to describe the work of Jesus, John, one of the people of God, or in one case “the tent of witness.” The root does not imply dying for one’s convictions but telling the truth (Blount 2005, 46–47). The content of this truthtelling is “the message of God” (1:2; 6:9) or “the witness of Jesus” (1:9; 12:17; 19:10) or both together (1:2; 20:4). Once, the verb martyreō refers to the book of Revelation itself (22:16), and twice, as a kind of oath (22:18, 20). Jesus is the paradigmatic witness. John first introduces Jesus as the “faithful witness” (1:5; see 3:14). The syntax of this introduction is awkward, since the title is in the nominative case, when one would expect the genitive to match Iēsou Christou. Blount argues that this would trigger the audience to search for an allusion and that some may find one in Ps 89:37 (88:38 LXX), which compares the eternal Davidic kingship to the moon’s enduring witness (Blount 2009, 35). As the moon shines, the witness tells the truth of the Messiah’s eternal rule. The weapon of a witness is his or her mouth. Jesus has a sharp, two-edged sword coming from his mouth (Rev 1:16; 2:12, 16; 19:15, 21). The two witnesses speak and spew fiery words of judgment that metaphorically “kill” (Koester 2014, 498–99). They have authority over the sky, earth, and waters; even if no human listens, God’s creation responds to these witnesses (11:5–6). “Witness language is the cutting, prophetic word of God’s lordship. That word is the weapon to be wielded against the powers that tout and enforce the lordship of Rome” (Blount 2009, 45). These two witnesses go unnamed, which invites audiences to identify with them. They are protected, which gives incentive to imitate them. The time of protection is not for comfort or passivity: the witnesses wear sackcloth, not fine linen. They are given authority to prophecy for one thousand two hundred sixty days (11:3). This is equivalent to forty-two months, the time of protection signaled by John’s measurement of the temple (11:1–2). Protection during a time of delay is not simply a benefit given to the people of God; it marks out a time for the people of God to become active witnesses. John shows that some who hear witnesses do change. Those who survive the earthquake are terrified and give glory to God (11:13), a response characteristic of the people of God (e.g., 1:6; cf. 16:9). This makes clear one of John’s goals: peoples and tribes and nations and languages can still repent and change—but they need witnesses who will speak the truth. The nations will walk by the light of the Holy City and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it (21:24), but nothing unclean will enter it, only those whose names are written in the Lamb’s scroll of life (21:27). How would this happen? How would nations and kings be written in the Lamb’s scroll of life? John suggests that witnesses will play an essential role.

338   Peter S. Perry Witnesses tell the truth that God is the One-Who-Sits-on-the-Throne, not Babylon. Witnesses proclaim that Christ is the King of kings and Lord of lords, not the emperor. Witnesses cry out when the vulnerable are killed (6:10; 18:24). Witnesses tell the truth that Rome’s luxury is excessive and idolatrous (Perry 2007). Witnesses tell the truth that participating in Rome’s idolatrous economy will only bring down terrifying consequences when she falls (18:4–5). Witnesses protest human bodies being sold as commodities (18:13). Witnesses confront the claims to blessing, honor, and glory above God and the Lamb (5:13). Witnesses, like John, use their visions to persuade their audiences to let go of their desires for possessions or status and to seize hold of values such as faithfulness and service.

Conclusions As the Book of Revelation is read aloud to a group of people who identify themselves as the people of God, John attempts to transform their self-understanding and behavior. • As audiences, they are transported into God’s presence and transformed from ignorance to knowledge. They will come to see the empire, not as a benevolent Pax Romana, but as a bloodthirsty seductress who wants to lull them into a false sense of security. • As assemblies, they receive messages from their true ruler asking them to deliberate on disengaging from the Roman economy, transforming them into an alternate society. • As slaves of God, they are freed to publicly identify as God’s people, protected for service, and separate from those who serve the empire. • As saints in imitation of Christ, God gives status to the people of God, and they move from passivity to activity on behalf of others who are suffering at the hands of imperial consumption. • As those metaphorically clothed in white, they exchange literal luxury for status in God’s court. • As witnesses, they are moved to speak the truth and expose the lies that deceive people to participate in the imperial economy. Any time of apparent tranquility is not for sighs of contentment but for active witnessing to the true One-WhoSits-on-the-Throne.

Notes 1. More could be included in this list, for example, the people of God as “conquerors” (Rev 2:7, 11, etc.) or as “sheltered by God” (7:15; 12:12; 13:6; 21:3), in contrast with “inhabitants of the earth.”

The People of God in the Book of Revelation   339 2. On the complex genre of Revelation, see the chapter  2, by Mitchell Reddish, in this volume. 3. On the persuasive quality of Revelation and its varying effects on actual audiences, see the chapters 6, 23, 24, and 26 in this volume, by David deSilva, Ian Boxall, Charles Hill, and Julia Wannenmacher respectively. 4. For example, English translations of ekklēsiai in Rev 1:4 as “churches” (NRSV, NIV, NASB, CEB, etc.); Spanish, “iglesias” (DHH, NVI, NVT); French, “l’Eglises” (BDS, NEG, SG); Italian, “chiese” (LND, NR); but better, the German translation as “Gemeinden” (Schlachter, Luther). 5. This is not to say that John envisions Christian communities as a kind of parallel political structure to the Roman Empire, as some have argued about Paul’s use of ekklēsia (e.g., Kooten 2012). See Korner (2017, 180–83). 6. Also see the chapter 11, by Mikael Tellbe, in this volume. 7. Koester (2014, 211) argues that douloi should be best translated “servants” rather than “slaves” in order “to avoid the impression that they are mere property of God.” “Servants,” however, inadequately expresses in English the dependence of douloi on their masters, and the ways both divine and beastly masters in Revelation identify and direct their slaves. No matter what English word is used, modern readers and hearers will need additional information about first-century slavery in the Roman Empire. 8. Koester (2014, 416) notes that Roman slaves were not regularly tattooed to signal ownership, whereas in classical Greece, prisoners of war could be sold as slaves with tattoos on their foreheads. 9. “Holy,” “worthy,” and “conquered” are linked in the Lamb’s self-giving to buy the saints from slavery. 10. Many English translations use the same word, “robe,” for both podērē and stolē. 11. In Jewish literature, stolai refers to priestly robes (e.g., Philo Leg. 296; Jos. Ant. 3.151); royal robes (2 Chron 18:9 LXX; Esther 6:8; Josephus, Ant. 8.412), a splendid garment on a soldier (Jos. Ant. 19.270; Vit. 1.334), and simply indicating a longer outer garment (Gen 41:14, 42 LXX; 46:22; Josephus, Ant. 2.134).

References Aune, David E. 1997–98. Revelation. 3 vols. WBC 52. Nashville: Thomas Nelson. Aune, David E. 1990. “The Form and Function of the Proclamations to the Seven Churches (Revelation 2–3).” NTS 36: 182–204. Bauckham, Richard. 1993a. Climax of Prophecy: Studies in the Book of Revelation. London: T & T Clark. Bauckham, Richard. 1993b. The Theology of the Book of Revelation. Cambridge: Cambridge University. Beale, Gregory  K. 1999. The Book of Revelation. New International Greek Testament Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Blount, Brian K. 2005. Can I Get A Witness? Reading Revelation through African American Culture. Louisville, KY: Westminster. Blount, Brian  K. 2009. Revelation: A Commentary. NTL. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. deSilva, David  A. 2009. Seeing Things John’s Way: The Rhetoric of the Book of Revelation. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox.

340   Peter S. Perry Friesen, Steven J. 2005. “Satan’s Throne, Imperial Cults and the Social Settings of Revelation.” JSNT 27: 351–73. Glancy, Jennifer A. 2006. Slavery in Early Christianity. Minneapolis: Fortress. Hemer, Colin J. 1986. The Letters to the Seven Churches of Asia in Their Local Settings. JSNTSup 11. Sheffield, UK: JSOT Press. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Kooten, George van. 2012. “ Ἐκκλησία του˜ θεου˜: The ‘Church of God’ and the Civic Assemblies (ε’κκλησίαι) of the Greek Cities in the Roman Empire; a Response to Paul Trebilco and Richard Horsley.” NTS 58: 522–48. Korner, Ralph J. 2017. The Origin and Meaning of Ekklēsia in the Early Jesus Movement. AJEC 98. Leiden: Brill. Kraybill, J.  Nelson. 1996. Imperial Cult and Commerce in John’s Apocalypse. JSNTSup 132. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic. Pattemore, Stephen. 2004. The People of God in the Apocalypse: Discourse, Structure and Exegesis. SNTSMS 128. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Perry, Peter S. 2009. The Rhetoric of Digressions: Revelation 7:1–17 and 10:1–11:13 and Ancient Communication. WUNT II/268. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Perry, Peter S. 2007. “Critiquing the Excess of Empire: A Synkrisis of John of Patmos and Dio of Prusa.” JSNT 29: 473–96. Rossing, Barbara  R. 1999. The Choice between Two Cities: Whore, Bride, and Empire in the Apocalypse. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International. Royalty, Robert M. 1998. The Streets of Heaven: The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Trebilco, Paul R. 2004. The Early Christians in Ephesus from Paul to Ignatius. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Pa rt I V

H ISTORY OF R E C E P T ION A N D I N F LU E NC E

chapter 21

The Gr eek Text of R ev el ation Juan Hernández Jr.

The Greek text of Revelation—as a phrase—presumes a singularity. A single text. A single language. And a single book. Together, the distinct elements attest to a single material and historical artifact—no longer extant—and to an article of faith: there was once a single Greek text of Revelation. Whether there was in fact one copy or multiple copies in circulation (perhaps concurrently) is beyond verification. That there had to be at least one is plain. The original work(s) thus no longer exist(s). Only copies remain. Only texts. There are multiple texts, multiple languages, and multiple books. The study of the Greek text of Revelation—historically at least—has worked backward from these developments to ascertain the contours and content of the now vanished work. The origin and presumed development of the textual tradition were thus priorities, as were the identification, definition, and stabilization of individual text types. Consistency and coherence were putative markers of particular textual traditions, and differences disclosed fault lines and distance. Every cartographic measure was taken to uncover an original (and ephemeral) Greek text. Multiplicity and variation would have to give way to a single original text. That text never materialized in any single manuscript. Every copy, every instantiation fell short. It would have to be reconstructed. The single, original text thus exists only as a concept, and every claim to have secured it speaks only of a reconstruction. The idea of an original nonetheless proved resilient, if not fecund. Reproductions of it emerged (and emerge) repeatedly. The obsessions of textual scholarship—flanked by the evolutions of theory, method, and material artifacts—created an intellectual culture committed to the quest and a burgeoning legacy of defined terms, identified patterns, tallied results, and tracked developments. Each one bears witness to the collaborative, transgenerational efforts of the cause. The idea of a singular Greek text of Revelation gave way to a multiplicity of constructed cultural artifacts, a multiplicity of texts.

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The Extant Manuscript Tradition The Greek text of Revelation is preserved in 310 manuscripts. Seven are papyri, twelve are majuscules, and 291 are minuscules. Not all are available for inspection. Two hundred and ninety-three of the 310 are accessible (Sigismund and Müller 2017). The earliest manuscripts are from the second (possibly) and third centuries. All are fragmentary. The earliest extant manuscript with the complete text of Revelation is the fourth-century Codex Sinaiticus (S 01), shadowed by the fifth-century codices Alexandrinus (A 02) and Ephraemi Rescriptus (C 04), a palimpsest. The bulk of Revelation’s Greek manuscripts stem from the tenth to sixteenth centuries. A few even reach into the nineteenth. The manuscripts appear in a number of formats and collections. Almost all are codices. Two (perhaps three) are opisthographs preserved on traditional scrolls. A couple are palimpsests. And a handful are diglots or triglots (Sigismund 2015). One or more scribes were often engaged in the transcription of a manuscript. The number of transcribers (or “hands”) differs from manuscript to manuscript, as does the quality of transcription. The text’s correctors were also often several, and the corrections were not always contemporaneous with the copied text. Centuries may have separated the work of correctors (Milne and Skeat 1938). The character of the text changed and tended to reflect the standards of later exemplars. Textual heterogeneity—at least in the early centuries—approached the norm. Broad (and relative) uniformity characterized the text of later periods. The book of Revelation sat uneasily with the rest of the New Testament during its transmission history. The book was often a later insertion—sometimes by centuries— into an already extant NT manuscript (Sigismund and Müller 2017; Schmid 2018). A number of such manuscripts surfaced after the twelfth century. One thirteenth-century parchment manuscript was even supplemented in the fourteenth with a paper copy of Revelation—a clear attempt to complete the collection, the initial omission, perhaps an emblem of ambivalence about the book’s standing. The various codicological and paleographical traits of the hybrid manuscripts confirm the work’s idiosyncratic transmission. The distinct textual traditions of Revelation mirror the material divide. Dissonance occurs at the codicological and paleographical levels and at the level of text forms. The textual grafting was symptomatic of prior disruption. The work’s preservation among noncanonical writings further reinforces its seemingly liminal status. Homilies, hagiographies, and patristic material accompany the book in manuscripts that have no other NT content (Schmid 2018). And—as if to seal its displacement—the text of Revelation was never included in any Greek lectionary manuscripts, unlike in the Latin West or the Coptic tradition (Sigismund and Müller 2017; Schmid 2018). The late insertions, noncanonical companions, and liturgical exclusion merge into a trifecta of textual exile. The book appeared problematic. The regular

The Greek Text of Revelation   345 juxtaposition of commentaries and scholia alongside it underscored the need to r­ egulate the work’s meaning. Guidance was necessary.

Mapping the Textual Tradition The preponderance of late manuscripts, hybrid codices, and texts transmitted (and marred) by scores of hands and corrections across generations did not impede textual recovery. Late manuscripts were found to preserve an early text; and early manuscripts, a late text. There was no one-to-one correspondence between the date of a manuscript and the “date” of its text. And the layers of dross that covered the text in many spots—as well as paratextual features (e.g., glosses, colophons, images, punctuation, ornamentation, and other editorial markers)—only added to its rich textual history. The recovery of the original Greek text of Revelation thus remained a possibility despite the scant, erratic, and piecemeal preservation of the earliest manuscripts and its controlled, predominant, and relatively streamlined transmission among the later ones. The presumed date of the text, of course, is relative to its proximity to (or distance from) the putative original—itself a scholarly reconstruction and a product of the imagination. The reconstruction would require the recovery of the earliest stages of the textual tradition. The entire Greek manuscript tradition would have to be mapped. Manuscripts would have to be sought, uncovered, catalogued, and examined—­ individually and conjointly—to track textual development from a presumed singular point to its plural, multiform, and diasporic copies.

The Textus Receptus: A Late Text of Revelation The dominance of the Textus Receptus would stymie mapping efforts, at least for a time. The Textus Receptus was the sanctioned and inviolate text for centuries. And the increased availability of textual variants exerted little influence upon Greek New Testaments of the period. The editions of John Mill and Johann Jakob Wettstein illustrate this. The Textus Receptus was printed, and the variants that lined their apparatuses made no difference (Mill 1707; Wettstein 1752). The textual basis of Revelation was especially fraught. Codex 2814—a mediocre representative of the Andreas Text—represented its Greek text. The transcription was itself a rash production and featured wording attested nowhere else in the Greek tradition. The infamous textual corruption, evident most strikingly in Rev 22:16–22:1, was a product of retroversion. The missing lines were drawn from the Latin Vulgate and translated into Greek by Erasmus. Additional and intermittent corrections were also made throughout its text (Schmid 2018). The authorized text of Revelation thus stood a great distance from the “original.”

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Karl Lachmann: A New Foundation for the Text of Revelation—Codex Alexandrinus The initial, definitive break from the Textus Receptus would arrive with Karl Lachmann. The departure would not automatically “restore” the original Greek text of Revelation. Lachmann considered the production of the Urtext impossible. Only the fourth-­century text of the Greek NT could be produced with relative confidence. The text of Codex Alexandrinus—recognized since the nineteenth century as the best witness to the Greek text of Revelation—served as Lachmann’s foundation (Lachmann 1831). The codex was known as early as the publication of the Walton Polyglot. Mill and Wettstein had even included Alexandrinus in their apparatuses, but to no effect (Mill 1707; Wettstein 1752). Codex Alexandrinus would nonetheless begin to exert greater influence over the construction of the Greek text of Revelation from Lachmann onward (Schmid 2018).

Constantin von Tischendorf: The Recovery of Key Manuscripts for the Text of Revelation The arrival of Constantin von Tischendorf inaugurated major advances in the study of the Greek NT. The recovery of additional manuscripts, the publication of new and accurate transcriptions, and the construction of multiple critical editions of the Greek NT broke new ground and laid a foundation for research that would transcend his career. Of Tischendorf ’s editions, the Editio Critica Octava is the most consequential because of the wealth of its apparatus (Tischendorf 1869–72). As for Revelation, the manuscripts Tischendorf recovered, transcribed, edited, and published would go further to illuminate the book’s textual history than the various installments of his reconstructed text. The primary manuscripts Tischendorf used to reconstruct the text of Revelation are the codices Alexandrinus, Ephraemi Rescriptus, and Sinaiticus. Tischendorf was the first to decipher Codex Ephraemi (1843), as well as to recover Codex Sinaiticus (1863). Together with Codex Alexandrinus, Codex Ephraemi would represent one of the two best witnesses for the text of Revelation. Tischendorf, however, deferred to Codex Sinaiticus for a number of unique (and suspect) readings of Revelation. Sinaiticus certainly preserved an “old text,” but as textual critics would later recognize, it was a secondary witness relative to Alexandrinus and Ephraemi for the book of Revelation. Tischendorf ’s selection of “special” readings would be ignored (Schmid 2018). Tischendorf ’s recovery of two late majuscules, however, would contribute to the reconstruction of the textual history of Revelation in unprecedented ways. The two— the palimpsest Codex Porphyrianus (P 025) and Greek Codex Vaticanus 2066 (Q 046)— are late and dubious witnesses to an early text. They would nonetheless serve to illuminate the later stages of the textual tradition and, for a time, rank as authoritative witnesses of the Andreas (Αν) and Koine (K) traditions respectively. Bernhard Weiss and Wilhelm

The Greek Text of Revelation   347 Bousset would make advances in that particular direction. Tischendorf, however, was responsible for the recovery and initial critical editing of the two manuscripts.

Westcott and Hort: The Original Text of Revelation Any reluctance over claims of having reconstructed the original was abandoned with Westcott and Hort. The title of their edition, The New Testament in the Original Greek, leaves no doubt about their view of the text (Westcott and Hort  1881). Hort, like Tischendorf, considered the joint witness of Alexandrinus and Ephraemi authoritative for the reconstruction of the Greek text of Revelation. The two witnesses represented the Neutral text for Hort—a pure textual stream that flows directly from the original. Alexandrinus and Ephraemi were thus on a par with the codices Sinaiticus and Vaticanus (B 03) for the rest of the NT. Hort abandons Tischendorf, however, in underscoring the relative “inferiority” of Codex Sinaiticus for Revelation, and rejects his preferred readings. Hort’s remaining textual categories—the Alexandrian, Western, and Syrian texts—proved less useful for the text of Revelation.

Bernhard Weiss: Mapping an Early and Late Textual Tradition for Revelation The study of the textual tradition of Revelation witnessed a fundamental shift with the work of Bernhard Weiss (1891). Weiss’s reconstructed Greek text of Revelation is itself very close to Hort’s. As did Hort, Weiss placed great value on the codices Alexandrinus and Ephraemi for the textual reconstruction of the book. Weiss, however, made a crucial observation about the tradition that paved the way for additional discoveries. Weiss distinguished between two major text forms in the textual tradition of Revelation. The first, he argues, is an unrevised “older” text, whose witnesses are Alexandrinus, Ephraemi, and Sinaiticus. The second is a heavily corrected “younger” text, whose witnesses are P and Q. The codices P and Q—according to Weiss—were dependent upon this heavily corrected “younger” text. A common foundation was thus believed to stand behind P and Q. Weiss was the first to make the claim, the first to draw attention to the potential of these codices.

Wilhelm Bousset: The Reconstruction of the Andreas Textual Tradition of Revelation Weiss’s observations were groundbreaking but limited. Wilhelm Bousset would provide greater clarity and definition to the development of Revelation’s late textual tradition (Bousset  1894a; Hernández  2015b). Bousset accepted Weiss’s distinction between the

348   Juan Hernández Jr. earlier and later parts of the tradition. Bousset, nonetheless, disputed the notion that P and Q—the primary witnesses representing the later tradition—shared a common foundation. Bousset argued instead that P and Q were entirely independent and parallel recensions. Any common foundation would have been very narrow and beyond verification. The advances were facilitated by the broader scope of Bousset’s study. Bousset investigated P and Q against the backdrop of all the available minuscules rather than in isolation from them, as Weiss had done. Bousset further found that not only are the two recensions parallel and entirely independent of one another, but that they also may preserve the Urtext in their agreements. The two later traditions, once fully established, can thus also bear witness to the “original,” as earlier traditions do. The claim makes him the forerunner of Hermann von Soden’s recensional theories. More importantly, Bousset was the first scholar to identify and reconstruct the so-called Andreas archetype—a reconstruction that laid a foundation for Josef Schmid’s subsequent textual work. Bousset’s late nineteenth-century observations about the textual tradition—though altered and modified over time—were pioneering and persist to this day in our understanding of the Andreas and Koine text types.

Hermann von Soden: A Theory of Three Recensions for the Text of Revelation The value of von Soden’s work lies in the surplus of material he furnished in Die Schriften des neuen Testaments—a surplus that surpasses that of Tischendorf ’s Editio Critica Octava (von Soden 1902–13). Von Soden also imagined—and argued for—three independent recensions that guided his reconstruction of the text. The three recensions were dated to the fourth century and tied to particular ecclesiastical figures and p ­ rovenances—the Hesychian (H), the Jerusalem (I), and the Koine (K) recensions respectively. H was of Egyptian provenance and attributed to Hesychius. I was of Palestinian origin and connected with Eusebius, Pamphilus, and Origen. And K was attributed to Lucian of Antioch in Syria. The recensions were also associated with particular manuscripts or textual traditions: H (= AC, S), I (= Andreas), and K (= Koine). The H recension corresponds to Hort’s Neutral and Alexandrian texts, and the K to the Syrian text. There is no exact parallel for the I recension, which was a post-Hortian development. The individual texts of I, H, and K—once established—facilitated the reconstruction of their hypothetical ancestor I-H-K. The ancestral text, according to von Soden, was known in the third and second centuries. Agreement among the three attested to the original reading of Revelation, and two of the three were followed where differences arose. The independent reading was thus considered secondary—a status usually accorded to H (= AC, S). The importance of Codex Alexandrinus for textual reconstruction was downgraded as a result, and the reconstructed text of Revelation displayed greater Byzantine influence than Westcott and Hort’s. The collapsing of AC and S into one group further contributed to the ascent of the Byzantine text (Schmid 2018).

The Greek Text of Revelation   349 The treatment of AC S as a group (H) and the division of the Andreas (I) and Koine (K) traditions into separate recensional streams reflect the pioneering work of Bousset. Bousset had also popularized the notion of Hesychius as a recensor. And the idea that traditions associated with Eusebius, Pamphilus, and Origen had shaped the Jerusalem recension (I = Andreas) are indebted to Bousset’s argument that a “Pamphilian Codex” stood behind the text—a codex presumed to have reflected the editorial activity of the “Origen school” (Bousset 1894a, 1896; Hernández 2015a). The idea that notable figures and recensional activity were operative in the production of manuscripts is ultimately a byproduct of colophons in particular manuscripts. The traditions appear to possess more hagiographic than scientific value, however.

Herman C. Hoskier: Comprehensive Collations, a Polyglot Theory, and New Textual Groupings for Revelation Herman C. Hoskier’s Concerning the Text of the Apocalypse, stands as the most comprehensive collection of manuscript data for the Greek text of Revelation published to date (Hoskier  1929; Allen  2019). The collection of collated material—a magnum opus ­representing thirty years of labor—surpasses that of both Tischendorf and von Soden in breadth, scope, detail, and most importantly, accuracy. The collations remain ­indispensable, despite recent advances in textual research and the recovery of additional ­manuscripts. The textual theories advanced by Hoskier, however, proved less resilient. Hoskier abandoned the traditional recensional theories and erected a new foundation. There were early polyglots circulating before the rise of the fourth- and fifth-­century majuscules, according to Hoskier. Scribes purportedly worked from bilingual, trilingual, and even quadrilingual exemplars in the second and third centuries. The opportunity for linguistic transfer during transcription was thus pervasive, and corruption inadvertently crept in from two to four columns of Greek, Syriac, Coptic, and/or Latin in multilingual manuscripts. The textual corruption of the “great” majuscules could therefore be traced to these early polyglots (Hoskier 1910, 1911; Hernández 2019). The theory was, in part, a response to Hort’s text-type theory, with its confidence in the fourth- and fifth-century majuscules for textual reconstruction. Hoskier offered an alternative model to track the sources of textual corruption and attempted to lay the groundwork for the construction of an authoritative text in the future. The complexity and improbability of the theory, however, coupled with the use of unreliable versions, rendered the theory useless and without adherents. The polyglot theory nonetheless lies behind Hoskier’s textual groupings of the manuscript tradition for Revelation, even if the actual collations escaped its interference. There are seven major groupings in Hoskier’s reconstruction of the Greek manuscript tradition (Hoskier 1929; Hernández 2019). Three sets of majuscules form the first major grouping. The first set includes Sinaiticus, Alexandrinus, Ephraemi, 025, 046, and a group of minuscules. The second and third sets include 051 and 052 respectively, each

350   Juan Hernández Jr. accompanied by a group of minuscules. The second major grouping is the Erasmian Family with three subgroups, one of which constitutes its “most ancient stem”—a Greco-Syriac bilingual manuscript and a witness of singular importance for the Textus Receptus. The third major grouping is the Complutensian with three subgroups, one of which has a Coptic background. The fourth major group is 046 with a group of minuscules. The fifth is the Arethas group. The sixth is the Greco-Latin group with two subgroups. And the seventh is the Egyptian group with a “syriacizing” character and a couple of subgroups. The groupings are fraught with difficulties. The arrangement of manuscripts, because of their status as majuscules, overlooks the significant textual differences that set them apart. The move is a step back at various levels. It is a step back from Hort, who recognized the value of the codices Alexandrinus and Ephraemi over Codex Sinaiticus for Revelation; a step back from Weiss, who observed a distinction between an “older” and “younger” textual tradition; and a step back from Bousset, who isolated that “younger” tradition into two separate recensions. Further, the unity of most of the groups dissolves without the versions or the assumption of a polyglot theory. Most individual witnesses prove to be examples of the Andreas, Koine, and/or mixed-text traditions (i.e., the Arethas text, the Complutensian text, and families 104/336; Schmid  2018; Hernández 2019). The collations alone survived Hoskier’s polyglot theories and retain their usefulness.

Josef Schmid: The Four Major Text Forms of Revelation The textual work of Josef Schmid’s Die Studien zur Geschichte des griechischen Apokalypse-Textes is without question the dominant twentieth-century reconstruction of the Greek manuscript tradition of Revelation (Schmid 2018). The multivolume study was the product of twenty-five years of research, much of which was preceded and accompanied by the publication of articles and studies that laid the groundwork for the reconstruction of the textual tradition. Rich and abundant use was made of Hoskier’s comprehensive collations, and of the generations of previous textual scholarship. Die Studien thus provides a rare combination of firsthand examination of the Greek manuscript tradition with penetrating analyses of the work of his predecessors. The study articulated six concrete objectives, each of which pursues leads isolated in prior research. The first was to ascertain with greater clarity the characteristics of the Αν and K recensions. The second was to investigate more thoroughly the relationship between Αν and K, as well as that of all the major text forms. The third was to examine the correspondence between 𝔓47 and S, opposite AC and the Αν and K recensions respectively. The fourth was to examine the status of AC as the Neutral text. The fifth was to examine the foundation of the Αν and K traditions against all the other text forms. And the sixth was to study the author’s linguistic style as a cross-check to text-critical analysis. Eight conclusions emerge from Schmid’s study. First, the entire Greek manuscript tradition divides into four major stems: AC, 𝔓47 S, Αν, and K. Second, the Αν and K

The Greek Text of Revelation   351 recensions are entirely distinct, manifest in their unique readings. Third, though distinct, the Αν and K recensions are not entirely independent of each other. A common foundation exists, albeit far from extensive. Fourth, the AC and S 𝔓47 text forms constitute the “older text.” Fifth, the AC text form surpasses the remaining forms in value and stands closer to the Urtext than any other form. Sixth, each text form preserves the Urtext in one place or another. Seventh, the frequent divergences between A and C, as well as 𝔓47 and S, indicate that it is not possible to determine the mutual relationships of the old major stems completely and to classify them accurately in a stemma. Their status as text-types does not facilitate their representation in classical stemmata. The four major text types, however, all “exist” in the fourth century. Eighth, Codex Alexandrinus remains the most important witness of Revelation’s manuscript tradition. The efforts to achieve greater definition and clarity, manifest throughout the history of text-critical research, appear to have reached their apex (at least thus far) with the work of Schmid. The identification of the four major text forms was merely the beginning. Schmid also identified multiple groups—twelve for the Αν tradition and nineteen for the K—and four families: the Arethas group, family 104/336, the Complutensian, and the O family. The influences of (and advances over) Tischendorf, Westcott and Hort, Weiss, Bousset, von Soden, and even Hoskier are evident. And the traditional hagiographic figures associated with recensional activity—Hesychius; Eusebius, Origen, and Pamphilus; and Lucian of Antioch—have been retired. The nearest echo of these is Schmid’s reference to 𝔓47 S Orig as the “Origen text.” But that is due to a number of textual affinities between 𝔓47 S and Origen’s scriptural citations rather than demonstrable recensional activity by the ecclesiastical figure or traditions associated with him. Two additional conclusions emerge from the second half of Die Studien, which is an examination of the author’s linguistic style. The first is that the author repeats certain stereotypical phrases that provide a baseline for textual reconstruction. The repetition is akin to linguistic habits rather than an adherence to strict, rigid rules. And exceptions— evident in departures from the attested formulas—are instances of occasional disregard by the author. The reading that corresponds to the author’s stereotypical phrasing is the default selection wherever the manuscript tradition is divided. Second, the study of the linguistic style confirms the validity of Schmid’s text-critical assessment about the tradition’s individual text forms or stems: the AC text form surpasses all others in value.

Twenty-First Century Developments Time, of course, would inevitably disclose weaknesses in Schmid’s work, though few have been of sufficient weight to topple the entire structure. Misread data, paleographical and codicological inadequacies, lack of terminological clarity, questionable assumptions, and other errata would begin to surface in the twenty-first century. The most consequential, perhaps, was the discovery of a major dating error in Schmid’s reconstruction of the Αν tradition. The traditional fourth-century date ascribed to the Αν text

352   Juan Hernández Jr. emerged from a misdating of corrections in Codex Sinaiticus. The original date was off by three centuries. The implications of the discovery for the origins of the Αν text type are many, and they continue to reverberate. The corrections were repatriated to the seventh century in 2014 (Hernández 2014, 2015b). There were also unknown or unexamined (or insufficiently examined) manuscripts in Schmid’s day. Codex 2351, for example, reflects the work of two hands, not one (Tzamolikos 2013), and Codex 2433 contains no lemma text as Schmid had claimed (Sigismund and Müller  2017). And—contrary to Schmid’s original assessment—the Andreas commentary is preserved in manuscripts with other NT writings (Schmid 2015). Further, a number of new manuscripts have surfaced in recent years, such as P98 (Hagedorn 1992; Malik 2016), P115 (Chapa, Cockle, Gonis, and Obbink 1999), and Codex 2846 (Lembke 2012), and contribute to our knowledge of the codicology, paleography, and textual history of the book. P115, in fact, reignited debate over the potential authenticity of 616—an alternative reading to 666 known since the time of Irenaeus (Parker 2000; Koester 2016. Even with all the additional data, however, Schmid’s larger structure has largely remained intact. The major text types have barely budged.

Text und Textwert: A Re-examination of the Textual Tradition of Revelation The greatest promise for laying a new foundation for the Greek textual tradition rests with the work of the Text und Textwert volume (TuT) published in 2017. Of the 310 exemplars of the book of Revelation, 285 manuscripts are included in the collation results, and 274 undergo additional analyses. Only inaccessible or fragmentary manuscripts are excluded, as well any with inadequate quantities of text. The data pool is also larger. Readings from seventy-one additional manuscripts that have been compared to Hoskier’s edition, and twenty-six that have been compared to Schmid’s latest publications are considered. The limited manuscript attestation of the book of Revelation (visà-vis the rest of the NT) facilitates the analysis of all eligible manuscripts. The study represents an unparalleled opportunity to re-examine the entire textual tradition and merits detailed discussion (Sigismund and Müller 2017). Teststellen: Analysis of Selected Passages to Establish Trends in the Tradition. One hundred and twenty-three test passages (Teststellen) were selected for examination in TuT. The number is the product of a lengthy, collaborative, and rigorous winnowing process. The Teststellen emerge from seven categories to ensure diverse representation and include “Majority Text” readings (i.e., shared Αν Κ readings) that differ from the twentyeighth edition of Nestle-Aland’s Novum Testamentum Graece (NA28); mutually exclusive Αν and K readings that differ from NA28; readings that reflect Schmid’s “old text” division (𝔓47 S/AC); readings that differ among Hoskier’s families; readings that vary among the Arethas (Αρ) and K texts; notoriously problematic readings; and readings considered important in the secondary literature. The manuscript attestation of every Teststelle is itemized for examination—that is, collated.

The Greek Text of Revelation   353 Textual groupings are not a primary consideration in the selection of Teststellen, however. The evaluation of test passages is what produces a textual profile. The data facilitate differentiation among groups, even without considering them as a criterion for the selection of passages. The question of textual affinities is also left unsettled in this volume. The goal is to establish trends in the manuscript tradition among the 123 Teststellen and create a foundation for further genealogical analysis. The collation results are thus the basis for determining the character of each manuscript. Any allusion to text forms or types is therefore provisional. Further research is needed to confirm it. The preliminary findings, however, highlight patterns that emerge from TuT’s statistical model. A Relative Majority Text: A New Baseline for Textual Comparison. The most recent TuT volume displays a number of methodological adjustments—a byproduct of the oddities of Revelation’s textual tradition. The traditional TuT model is adapted to suit the haphazard preservation of the book. The anticipated Majority Text category, for example, is eliminated. There are no consistent Majority Text readings for the book of Revelation. Only relative Majority readings of varying textual combinations. This elimination of the first group rearranges the sequence of readings. The readings open with the second group, NA28, and proceed to K, Αν, Com, and a variety of “Special Readings.” The manuscripts of the K, Αν, and Com text forms—in numerical terms and in varying combinations—constitute the de facto Majority Text for Revelation—the relative Majority. The modification reflects what has been common knowledge about Revelation’s manuscript tradition for some time—that there is no unified Majority Text for the book. The initial observation was made long ago by Hort, who was followed by Weiss, Bousset, von Soden, and Schmid, who developed the findings in greater detail. TuT’s methodological adaptation is a major and necessary departure from prior volumes. Descriptive Collation Lists: An Assessment of Readings and Their Potential Textual Relationships. The Teststellen data appear in a number of lists and undergo a series of computational analyses. The initial lists are descriptive and provide the groundwork for further evaluation. The first—the “Collation Results”—follows the sequence of the 123 Teststellen and offers a glimpse into the manuscript attestation of each reading. The collations are the basis for determining the textual character of each manuscript and offer an initial assessment of readings and their potential textual relationships. The Coherence-Based Genealogical Method will eventually offer a complete genealogical analysis of the entire manuscript tradition included in the apparatus of the forthcoming Editio critica maior of Revelation. The second—the “Descriptive List”—covers the same terrain but organizes the data by manuscripts (rather than Teststellen. Manuscript supplements, a common feature of this particular textual tradition, are also displayed as separate witnesses. The supplements often belong to different textual families and require independent analysis. This feature of hybrid manuscripts was initially discussed by Schmid and incorporated fully into his reconstruction of the book’s textual history (Schmid 2018). The separate display of manuscript supplements by TuT is an additional departure from prior volumes that affords the attestation of representative readings greater clarity.

354   Juan Hernández Jr. Evaluative Collation Lists: Sorting, Comparing, and Grouping Manuscripts to Establish Alignments. Three Evaluative Lists follow the aforementioned “Collation Results” and “Descriptive Lists.” The first—“Sorting by Percentages”—features fourteen lists. Ten of them arrange manuscripts by percentages of agreement with NA28, K, Αν, Com, Special, and Singular Readings. Two arrange manuscripts by percentages of agreement with the relative Majority. And two highlight differences between NA28 and the relative Majority readings. The sorting strategies allow different manuscript rankings to emerge alongside their respective readings. The measure further offers a panoramic view of the entire textual tradition. The stability of the K, Αν, and Com groupings is also underscored by the procedure. Subgroupings, however, remain unestablished through this sorting method. The “Comparative List”—the second of the evaluative class—facilitates manuscriptto-manuscript comparisons. Manuscripts are separated into individual groups, each of which displays the number of Teststellen available for analysis in a given manuscript. The numbers of relative Majority and singular readings are also identified, as are the percentages of agreement with the highest share of one of the main text forms (NA28, K, Αν, or Com). The comparative data offer a rough image of the textual character of each manuscript. The data are available for every selected manuscript of Revelation. The third and final class of evaluative lists—the “Grouping by Percentages of Agreement”—offers an assessment of subgroups that is independent of the K, Αν, or Com text forms. The tables are organized by manuscript number and include data designed to isolate subgroups and test claims about the traditional branches of Revelation, the most notorious of which are 𝔓47 S and AC Oec, Schmid’s classic representation of the “old” text forms. Seven columns facilitate the comparative analysis of potential groups. A comparison of Codex Sinaiticus with 𝔓47 illustrates the function and yields of the method. An Example of Grouping by Percentages of Agreement: 𝔓47 and Codex Sinaiticus. The first column of the grouping procedure begins with the main manuscript, Codex Sinaiticus. The second follows with the comparison manuscript, 𝔓47. The two set the stage for the remaining comparative categories. The third column features the percentage of agreement between the two manuscripts at their shared Teststellen—58 percent. The fourth displays the level of agreement (without the Teststellen) where Codex Sinaiticus agrees with the relative Majority—64 percent. The fifth column shows the number of manuscripts with which 𝔓47 agrees with the same percentage as with Codex Sinaiticus—0. The percentage (58 percent) is supplied by the third column. There are thus no other manuscripts—apart from Codex Sinaiticus—with which 𝔓47 displays a 58 percent level of agreement. It is its nearest relative in the extant manuscript tradition. The sixth column records the number of manuscripts with which 𝔓47 agrees at a higher rate compared to Codex Sinaiticus—0. Again, the close relationship between the two is underscored. The seventh and final column highlights the number of places where 𝔓47 agrees with Codex Sinaiticus’s special readings—2/3. This comparative exercise is performed for all of Revelation’s manuscripts—with the exception of those that were inaccessible, fragmentary, or that preserve an inadequate stretch of text. The goal is the disclosure, confirmation, or elimination of subgroups in the manuscript tradition.

The Greek Text of Revelation   355

Preliminary Results: The Elimination of Schmid’s Two Classic Text Forms (AC, 𝔓47 S). The preliminary results are suggestive and require further analysis. The percentage of agreement between Codex Sinaiticus and 𝔓47, for example, raises questions about their standing as representatives of the same text-type. Codex Sinaiticus, it appears, does not have any relatives with which it agrees at 80 percent or more—the TuT threshold for a text form or text type. Its nearest relative is 𝔓47, but their agreement level, as noted, is 58 percent. The percentage increases to 64 percent, if relative Majority readings are excluded. The percentage nonetheless remains well below the 80 percent threshold. The codices Alexandrinus and Ephraemi Rescriptus face a similar fate. Their agreement level is 72 percent. The level rises to 74 percent, if the relative Majority readings are ignored. The percentage drops to 53 percent, however, if the text of Oecumenius (2053 etc.) is included. Schmid, as is well known, had identified Oecumenius as a member of the AC Oec text form. Its inclusion with AC, however, erodes the percentage of agreement in TuT’s statistical model. Whether the calculations are of AC or AC Oec, the percentages fall below the preset 80 percent threshold. And reducing the threshold to 70 percent, according to the editors, only increases the number of comparison manuscripts and reduces the meaningfulness of the data. Schmid’s 𝔓47 S and AC Oec text-types are thus related, but are not close enough to identify as text forms by TuT standards. Two classic and long-standing text forms stand on the brink of elimination. Other preliminary findings are mixed. The method does not substantiate or invalidate Schmid’s division of the Arethas text into two subgroups (Αρ1 Αρ2). Schmid’s claim that Miniscule 35 is a mixed text, however, is confirmed. As for the claim that Codex 2196 is a representative of the Com text, that is less certain in the TuT. The possibility of a major restructuring of the textual tradition nonetheless lies on the horizon with TuT’s statistical profiles.

TuT and Schmid’s Studien: A Comparison of Apples and Oranges? The TuT data represent an undeniable advance in the study of Revelation’s manuscript tradition. The statistical profiles secure a foundation for restructuring the entire textual tradition and are the first of a series of studies that will include the application of the Coherence-Based Genealogical Method to all of Revelation’s manuscripts selected for the Editio critica maior. The project will culminate with the reconstruction of the book’s Ausgangstext. The quest for the “original” has essentially been abandoned. The clarity and precision of the TuT data effectively execute the goals of this stage of research. The TuT volume is sui generis study compared to Schmid’s Studien, however. The TuT offers both more and less than the classic Studien. No one-to-one correspondence exists between the data, methods, and outcomes of each. Only overlap. There are continuities and discontinuities between the two. Their methodological starting points, for example, differ. Manuscripts are grouped according to agreement in error by Schmid. TuT groups them by rates of agreement. Group compositions therefore differ and fluctuate between

356   Juan Hernández Jr. the studies. The different groupings of TuT do not disqualify the results of prior groupings, however. The disparate results serve to raise questions and isolate areas of further research. The confirmation of prior groupings, on the other hand, offers strong validation of a group’s “existence.” The editors are nonetheless less flexible about the threshold for a manuscript’s place as the representative of a text form. The traditional 80 percent agreement threshold of prior TuT volumes is reasserted. The retention of the standard in the case of Revelation is surprising given the concessions afforded the data in light of the book’s odd manuscript tradition. By the 80 percent standard, both 𝔓47 S and AC Oec of Schmid’s Studien fail to qualify as text forms. The acknowledgment of their relatively close relationships is of no consequence. The relationship is simply not close enough. The usefulness of an 80 percent standard for other NT manuscript traditions, however—in a tradition in which the Majority text has had to be relativized and nearly every other criterion modified— remains unclear in the case of Revelation. One would have expected the editors to consider a relative text-form standard for the two. The exclusion of the older forms on the basis of a set percentage also threatens to flatten Schmid’s nuanced characterization of the textual tradition. The 58 percent (or 64 percent) rate of agreement for 𝔓47 S and the 72 percent (or 74 percent) rate of agreement of AC—both of which disqualify the two sets as text forms by TuT standards—appear to support Schmid’s claim that the two text forms regularly diverge from their own textual groupings. Schmid also notes that 𝔓47 and S diverge from each other with greater regularity than A and C. TuT’s lower rate of agreement for 𝔓47 S vis-à-vis AC thus confirms Schmid’s observation of differing degrees of “mixture” among the early witnesses. The deviations of the two “older” text forms are, in fact, what prompted Schmid to deny that their textual relationships could be arranged in a stemma with complete certainty. The TuT data—with the exception of the 80 percent standard—appear to support Schmid’s careful characterization to the two traditions (Schmid 2018). The standard thus tells us less than we imagine.

Conclusions The idea that two of the long-standing and classic text forms of Revelation’s manuscript tradition are on the verge of vanishing is an alarming prospect for traditionalists accustomed to—and comforted by— Schmid’s neat, quadrangular textual divisions. The four main text forms, each originating in the fourth century, are reminiscent of the fourfold gospel and were, perhaps, intended to be as faithful. The prospect of tampering with divine geometry is, understandably, prima facie rankling, perhaps as rankling as the notion that 616 might be preferable to 666, or that the “original” text is lost beyond all hope of recovery and that only the Ausgangstext is recoverable. That textual critics should be rankled by such changes is predictable. It is a matter of temperament, even religious conviction.

The Greek Text of Revelation   357 The study of the textual history of Revelation, however, cautions against any uncritical commitment to the conventions, coined terms, groupings, reconstructions, and statistics of the time—any time—whether of the text or its history. Scholarly developments have been in flux since the Renaissance-era cries of ad fontes. And the advances have only accelerated over the last two centuries. The dominance of Schmid’s Studien over the last sixty years was an exception. Its hold over much of the twentieth century is a byproduct of scholarly attrition as much as the merits of the work. The assumption—not entirely unwarranted—was that the textual work was essentially complete. The assumption held for sixty years. Further progress was stunted. The degree to which the advances of TuT and its allied projects will be as dramatic over Schmid’s Studien as the Studien’s advances have been over prior text-critical studies remains to be seen. The advances of Schmid’s study over the works of Hort, Weiss, Bousset, von Soden, and Hoskier are substantial and irreversible. The project of stabilizing, mapping, grouping, and reconstructing the text and its textual tradition, of course, continues unabated and is undertaken on different terms, as is evident with TuT. Time and scholarly review will render the final judgment. The clarity and precision of the TuT data, however, already constitute a significant advance—even if the 80 percent threshold for text forms appears to function as a Procrustean bed. The ground has also shifted since Schmid and his predecessors were doing their work. There are traditional considerations that are no longer countenanced by textual critics. The association of text forms with prominent figures and sacred precincts, for example, now belongs to the realm of hagiography, not modern textual criticism. And the “men of prominence” and their provenances have been replaced by percentages. Statistics—not saints—are what matter in the question of text forms. And that original Greek text of Revelation—that single, material, historical artifact that exists only as a concept—has been replaced by the Ausgangstext, a hypothetical witness to the earliest extant reading of the manuscript tradition. And that witness, instead of affording readers greater certainty, occasionally discloses more than one candidate for the “earliest” reading of the Greek text of Revelation, leaving readers, in essence, with options—a multiplicity of texts.

References Allen, Garrick V., ed. 2019. The Future of New Testament Textual Scholarship: From H. C. Hoskier to the Editio Critica Maior and Beyond. WUNT 417. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019. Bousset, Wilhelm. 1894a. “Der Kodex Pamphili.” In Textkritische Studien zum Neuen Testament, by Wilhelm Bousset, pp. 45–73. Texte und Untersuchungen 11/4. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Bousset, Wilhelm. 1894b. “Zur Textkritik der Apokalypse.” In Textkritische Studien zum Neuen Testament, by Wilhelm Bousset, pp. 1–44. Texte und Untersuchungen 11/4. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Bousset, Wilhelm. 1896. Die Offenbarung Johannis. Meyer-Kommentar. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

358   Juan Hernández Jr. Chapa, J., W. E. H. Cockle, N. Gonis, and Dirk Obbink, eds. 1999. Oxyrhynchus Papyri. Vol. 66. London: Egypt Exploration Society. Hagedorn, Dieter. 1992. “P.IFAO II 31: Johannesapokalypse 1,13–20.” ZPE 92: 243–47. Hernández, Juan, Jr. 2014. “The Creation of a Fourth-Century Witness to the Andreas Text Type: A Misreading in the Apocalypse’s Textual History.” NTS 60: 106–20. Hernández, Juan, Jr. 2015a. “The Legacy of Wilhelm Bousset for the Apocalypse’s Textual History: The Identification of the Andreas Text.” In Studien zum Text der Apokalypse, edited by Marcus Sigismund, Martin Karrer, and Ulrich Schmid, pp. 19–32. ANTF 47. Berlin: De Gruyter. Hernández, Juan, Jr. 2015b. “Nestle-Aland 28 and the Revision of the Apocalypse’s Textual History.” In Studies on the Text of the New Testament and Early Christianity: Essays in Honour of Michael W. Holmes, edited by Daniel M. Gurtner, Juan Hernandez Jr., and Paul Foster, pp. 71–81. NTTSD 50. Leiden: Brill. Hernández, Juan Jr. 2019. “Hoskier’s Contribution to the Apocalypse’s Textual History: Collations, Polyglots, Groupings.” In The Future of New Testament Textual Scholarship: From H. C. Hoskier to the Editio Critica Maior and Beyond, edited by Garrick V. Allen, pp. 39–50 WUNT 417. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hoskier, H. C. 1910. Concerning the Genesis of the Versions of the New Testament (Gospels). London: Bernard Quartich. Hoskier, H. C. 1911. Concerning the Date of the Bohairic Version. London: Quaritch. Hoskier, H. C. 1929. Concerning the Text of the Apocalypse. 2 vols. London: Quaritch. Koester, Craig R. 2016. “The Number of the Beast in Revelation 13 in Light of Papyri, Graffiti, and Inscriptions,” JECH 6: 1–21. Lachmann, Karl. 1831. Novum Testamentum Graece. Berlin: Reimer. Lembke, Markus. 2012. “Die Apokalypse-Handschrift 2846: Beschreibung, Kollation und Textwertbestimmung eines wichtigen neuen Zeugen.” NovT 54: 369–95. Malik, Peter. 2016. “Another Look at P.IFAO II 31 (P98): An Updated Transcription and Textual Analysis.” NovT 58: 204–17. Mill, John. 1707. Novum Testamentum Graecum. Oxford: n.p. Milne, H. J. M., and T. C. Skeat. 1938. Scribes and Correctors of the Codex Sinaiticus. London: British Museum. Parker, David C. 2000. “A New Oxyrhynchus Papyrus of Revelation: P115 (P.Oxy 4499).” NTS 46: 159–74. Schmid, Josef. 2018. Studies in the History of the Greek Text of the Apocalypse: The Ancient Stems. Edited and translated by Juan Hernández Jr., Garrick V. Allen, and Darius Müller. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Schmid, Ulrich. 2015. “Die Apokalypse, uberliefert mit anderen Neutestamentlichen Schriften—eapr Handschriften.” In Studien zum Text der Apokalypse, edited by Marcus Sigismund, Martin Karrer, and Ulrich Schmid, pp. 421–41. ANTF 47. Berlin: De Gruyter. Sigismund, Marcus, and Darius Müller, eds. 2017. Studien zum Text der Apokalypse II. ANTF 50. Berlin: De Gruyter. von Soden, Hermann. 1902–13. Die Schriften des Neuen Testaments in ihrer altesten erreichbaren Textgestalt. 2 vols. Berlin: Duncker. Tischendorf, Constantin von. 1869–72. Novum Testamentum Graece: Editio octava critica maior. 2 vols. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Tzamalikos, Panayiotis. 2013. An Ancient Commentary on the Book of Revelation: A Critical Edition of the Scholia in Apocalypsin. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

The Greek Text of Revelation   359 Westcott, Brooke Foss, and F. J. A. Hort. 1881. The New Testament in the Original Greek. 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Weiss, Bernhard. 1891. Die Johannes-Apokalypse: Textkritische Untersuchungen und Textherstellung. TU 7/1. Leipzig; Hinrichs. Wettstein, Johann Jakob. 1752. Novum Testamentum Graecum. Vol. 2. Amsterdam: Dommer.

Further Reading Bousset, Wilhelm. 1914. “Neues Testament: Textkritik.” TRu 17: 187–206. Colwell, Ernest C. 1969. “Method in Establishing the Nature of Text-Types of New Testament Manuscripts.” In Studies in Methodology in Textual Criticism of the New Testament, by Ernest Colwell, pp. 45–55. NTTS 9. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Hernández, Juan, Jr. 2006. Scribal Habits and Theological Influences in the Apocalypse: The Singular Readings of Sinaiticus, Alexandrinus, and Ephraemi, WUNT II/218. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hernández, Juan, Jr. 2010. “A Scribal Solution to a Problematic Measurement in the Apocalypse.” NTS 56: 273–78. Hernández, Juan, Jr. 2011. “The Relevance of Andrew of Caesarea for New Testament Textual Criticism.” JBL 130: 179–92. Kilpatrick, G. D. 1959. “Professor J. Schmid on the Greek Text of the Apocalypse.” VC 13: 1–13. Lembke, Markus, Darius Müller, and Ulrich B. Schmid, with M. Karrer, eds. 2017. Text und Textwert der griechischen Handschriften des Neuen Testaments VI: Die Apokalypse; Teststellenkollation und Auswertungen. ANTF 49. Berlin: de Gruyter. Malik, Peter. 2015. “Corrections of Codex Sinaiticus and the Textual Transmission of Revelation: Josef Schmid Revisited.” NTS 61: 595–614. Malik, Peter. 2015. “The Earliest Corrections in Codex Sinaiticus: Further Evidence from the Apocalypse.” TC 20: 1–12. Metzger, Bruce M. 1957. Review of Studien zur Geschichte des griechischen Apokalypse-Textes, by Josef Schmid. Gn 29: 285–89. Müller, Darius. 2020. “Der griechische Text der Johannesapokalypse und seine Uberlieferung: Untersucht an der Teststellenkollation und Auswertungslisten in ‘Text und Textwert VI. Die Apokalypse.’ ” PhD diss., Kirchliche Hochschule Wuppertal/Bethel. Schmid, Josef. 1955a. Der Apokalypse-Kommentar des Andreas von Kaisareia: Text. Vol. 1/1 of Studien zur Geschichte des griechischen Apokalypse-Textes. Münchener theologische Studien 1. Munich: Zink. Schmid, Josef. 1955b. Die alten Stämme. Vol. 2 of Studien zur Geschichte des griechischen Apokalypse-Textes. Münchener theologische Studien 2. Munich: Zink. Schmid, Josef. 1956. Der Apokalypse-Kommentar des Andreas von Kaisareia: Einleitung. Vol. 1/2 of Studien zur Geschichte des griechischen Apokalypse-Textes. Münchener theologische Studien 1. Munich: Zink. Schmid, Josef. 1959. “Der Apokalypse-Text des Oikumenios.” Bib 40: 935–42. Schmid, Josef. 1961. “Unbeachtete und unbekannte griechische Apokalypsehandschriften.” ZNW 52: 82–88. Schmid, Josef. 1968. “Neue griechische Apokalypsehandschriften.” ZNW 59: 250–58.

360   Juan Hernández Jr. Sigismund, Markus, Martin Karrer, and Ulrich Schmid, eds. 2015. Studien zum Text der Apokalypse. ANTF 47. Berlin: De Gruyter. Tischendorf, Constantin von. 1863. Novum Testamentum Sinaiticum cum Epistula Barnabae et Fragmentis Pastoris. 2 vols. Leipzig: Brockhaus. Tregelles, Samuel Prideaux. 1844. Book of Revelation in Greek Edited from Ancient Authorities. London: Bagster.

chapter 22

R ev el ation a n d th e N ew Testa m en t Ca non Tobias Nicklas

Revelation is the final book of the New Testament. In one way, this little sentence says everything that is relevant for our topic. At the same time, it evokes the question: How and why did Revelation become part of the New Testament canon? In other words, How did Revelation gain canonical status? Even if this question seem straightforward, it is quite difficult to answer, because only few sources speak explicitly about Revelation and its role in a New Testament or biblical canon. In many cases, we have to deal with implicit evidence, which is often quite difficult to evaluate. As a general rule, I will thus not concentrate only on the explicit evidence, but also look into writings that deal with Revelation in different ways. As far as I can see, the use of Revelation as an authority (for example, in an argument) can be related to questions of its canonicity. At the same time, we have to distinguish between the simple use of the text, its use as an authority in certain contexts and debates, and its overall canonical status. A small example may make this point a bit clearer: The Doctrine of Addai, a fifth-century story about the origins of the Church of Edessa, was used as an authority within the Syriac Church—at least for a certain period—but it never claimed to be part of the Syriac canon. This related to another issue. The ways in which a certain writing is treated by the scribes who produced the manuscript can be related to the text’s status. That’s why the treatment of Revelation in ancient manuscripts can be significant for our subject. When we speak about a New Testament today, we think about a book bound in the form of a codex, with the book of Revelation at the end. But was this placement at the end of the collection of New Testament writings—or better: the last book of the “New Testament”— fixed from earliest times? A final question is related to the book of Revelation as part of the New Testament canon. If we understand the different books of the New Testament as representing different voices within the canon, the questions emerge: What was, is, and can be Revelation’s role and function as one of these voices? Why is this voice important for the

362   Tobias Nicklas canon? In other words, the topic of Revelation and the New Testament canon has several dimensions. It can be related to (1) Revelation’s way into a developing canon, (2) to Revelation’s changing place within the New Testament, and (3) with Revelation’s possible theological value within the New Testament, and thus in the Old and New Testaments that make up the whole Christian Bible.

Revelation’s Way into the Canon In his recent magisterial commentary on Revelation, Martin Karrer develops a model that describes Revelation’s way into the canon in four steps (Karrer 2017, 135): He starts (1) with the text’s own immense authority to be a revelation, going back to Jesus Christ himself. (2) Between early second and early third centuries the text was universally acknowledged, and its usage quickly spread. (3) This broad reception and recognition continued in the West, but Christians in the East, beginning in the third century began having reservations about Revelation. (4) The fourth council of Toledo (633 ce) firmly reinforced Revelation’s status in the West, and the situation in the East changed with the commentaries of Oecumenius (probably in the mid-sixth century) and Andrew of Caesarea (before 614 ce). But even after this, Revelation was not used in Eastern liturgies. My own reconstruction of Revelation’s way into the canon accepts the main lines of Karrer’s results; however, I think the picture is even more complex. Of course, it is not possible within the scope of this chapter to give a full overview of the reception of Revelation in the ancient church. But perhaps the few following examples can illustrate the range of opinions regarding the text: Although we have some earlier evidence of a possible use of Revelation (to which we will return in a moment), a good starting point may be Justin Martyr (ca. 100–165 ce), in whose Dialogue with Trypho we find the following passage: After this, a certain man from us, whose name was John, one of the apostles of the Messiah, prophesied in a Revelation (apokalypsis) that happened to him, that those who came to believe in our Messiah would act for thousand years in Jerusalem; and afterward the universal, and, in short, the eternal resurrection and judgment of all would likewise take place. (Dial. 81.4; my translation)

Justin clearly sees Revelation as an important authority for ideas about the end of times. The passage, however, is part of a longer argument. Justin discusses questions of bodily resurrection and the idea of an earthly millennium. In this context, he refers to Ezekiel and to Isaiah, which he quotes at length (Dial. 81:1–2; cf. Isa 65:17–25). Only after this does he refer to Revelation, which thus functions as an additional authority that does not add very much to the argument but shows the remaining impact of prophetic charisms in the Christian movement. Revelation is thus an authority for Justin, but the

Revelation and the New Testament Canon   363 way he refers to it here seems to presuppose that it is probably not on the same level as the great prophets of Israel’s Scriptures. Another clear early witness of an early use of Revelation is Melito of Sardes (d. 180 ce). Melito not only used Revelation several times in his homily Peri Pascha, but according to Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 4.26.2; cf. Jerome, Vir. ill. 24), he also wrote an otherwise lost piece, “On the Devil and the Apocalypse”—quite a clear sign that he appreciated the book. Other second-century authors who certainly used Revelation as an authority were Theophilos of Antioch (d. in the 180s) and Hegesippus (ca. 110–180 ce). This, however, is only part of a whole spectrum of positive second- and third-century reactions to Revelation (cf. Karrer  2017, 108–23). Revelation is alluded to in the Epistle of the Communities of Vienne et Lyon (ca. 177 ce; M. Lugd.; transmitted by Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.1.3–5.2.8)—the text’s focus on giving witness for God and Jesus Christ seems to have been especially attractive given the persecution reported here (Baumeister 2005). An even more important witness is Irenaeus of Lyon (ca. 130–202 ce) who, for example, used Rev 4:6–8, the vision of the Cherubim at God’s throne (but cf. Ezek 1:4–14), in his argument for a collection of four Gospels (Haer. 3.11.8). In Haer. 5.26–36 Revelation plays an important role for Irenaeus’s description of the end of times. At around the same time, (Ps?)-Hippolytus of Rome made extensive use of Revelation in his tractates on Daniel and On Christ and the Antichrist, while a certain Methodius (usually called Methodius of Olympus) used Revelation in his Symposion or On Virginity. The book was also highly estimated by the Montanist movement, who understood the Phrygian Pepouza as “heavenly Jerusalem,” and used by Tertullian (Orat. 5). But this is not the whole picture. Even from early times we have evidence of more distanced and even critical attitudes: for example, 5 Ezra is an early Christian prophetic writing of uncertain date. Perhaps it goes back to the first half of the second century, maybe as a reaction to the catastrophic Bar Kokhba revolt of 132–135 ce (Nicklas 2014a, 336–40; Hirschberger 2018). Although most of this text shows only vague parallels to Revelation, the final vision, 5 Ezra 2:38–48, clearly alludes to both Rev 7 and 14, the two visions of the people of God. While Revelation, however, speaks about one hundred forty-four thousand coming from the twelve tribes of Israel (plus an uncountable number), 5 Ezra speaks only of an uncountable number. Thus, 5 Ezra seems to take a critical position toward Revelation. It uses and rewrites Revelation, but cannot accept Revelation’s idea of a people of God put together from the tribes of Israel and the nations (Müller 2011). Another example is a bit more difficult: The Alogoi are a somewhat obscure group (Dochhorn 2014) about whose real ideas we can only speculate. Our knowledge of the Alogoi (Dochhorn 2014) is mainly based on Epiphanius of Salamis (310–403 ce) and his Panarion (Pan. 51; but see, perhaps, Irenaeus, Haer. 3.11.9). While it seems clear that a group calling itself the Alogoi (that is, both “deniers of the Logos” and “simpletons”) never existed, there is probably a grain of truth in Epiphanius’s report, as it mirrors aspects of an exegetically motivated criticism of both the Fourth Gospel and Revelation. If we can trust Epiphanius, there must have been a group that interpreted Revelation in a nonallegorical way and regarded it as false prophecy.

364   Tobias Nicklas A main center of the debates around Revelation had to do with Rev 20:4–6, the short passage about the eschatological millennium. A whole series of authors interpreted this (actually rather short) text as a prophecy of a real eternal rule of the just in a kind of earthly land of milk and honey. Irenaeus of Lyons, Haer. 5.33.3–4, for instance, quotes a group of “presbyters” who developed the idea of a paradisiac eschatological millennium, and he cites Papias of Hierapolis (ca. 70–163 ce) as additional evidence for this view. It is, at least, quite possible that Papias (and the presbyters) used Revelation to develop their views (see the discussion between Hill 2004 and Nicklas 2011). The case is much clearer with some later Latin authors, such as Victorinus of Pettau (mid-third century to 303 ce) or Commodianus (third century?), who was probably the first author of Latin Christian poetry, who both provided quite blatant chiliastic readings of parts of Revelation (Hasitschka 2014; Stettner 2019). Other cases remain somewhat obscure. According to Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 3.28.2), the Roman presbyter Gaius (ca. 200) referred to a certain Cerinthus (Myllykoski  2005), who had lived in the times of Emperor Trajan (ruled 98–117). Eusebius writes: “Moreover, Cerinthus also through revelations, as if described by a great apostle, lyingly introduced portents to us, supposedly shown him by angels, saying that after the resurrection the kingdom of Christ will be on earth and that again the flesh dwelling in Jerusalem will be subject of desires and pleasures. And being an enemy of the Scriptures of God and wishing to deceive, he says the period of the marriage feast will be a thousand years” (Deferrari  1953, 185). It is not absolutely clear whether Gaius’s text refers to Revelation, but if so, this is perhaps the earliest witness that some critics of the book thought that Revelation was produced by Cerinthus. Even if the different sources regarding the early use and criticism of Revelation are too numerous to consider here in detail, it becomes clear that Revelation’s authority and status in the church was a matter of debate from earliest times. The decisive step which led to the text’s long-time rejection in the East, however, goes back to Dionysios of Alexandria, bishop of Alexandria between 248 and 264/5. Dionysios writes: Some of those before us have rejected and entirely discredited the book examining it chapter by chapter, declaring it unintelligible and illogical, and that its title was false. They say that it is not John’s, that, moreover, it is not even an unveiling [apocalypse], since it is veiled by an exceedingly thick curtain of obscurity, and that none of the Apostles or even any at all of the saints or of the members of the Church was the author of the book, but Cerinthus, the one who established the heresy called “Cerinthian” after him, for he wished to affix a name worthy of trust to his forgery. This was the doctrine of his teaching, that the kingdom of Christ would be on earth, and he dreamed that it would be made up of those things which he himself desired— since he was a lover of the body and quite carnal—the full satisfaction of the belly and of things below the belly, that is, feasts and drinking bouts and marriages, and, as a means of providing these under a better name, festivals and sacrifices and slaying of victims (Eus., Hist. eccl. 7. 25.1; Deferrari 1955, 131).

The passage puts together a number of problems and criticisms, which, if we follow this description, are interconnected. According to Dionysios, Revelation’s text is obscure

Revelation and the New Testament Canon   365 and not easy to understand. This led to doubts about its authenticity and even the idea that a “heretic” such as Cerinth could have authored it. But Dionysios goes on and offers even more arguments against Revelation: I would not dare to reject the book, since many brethren hold it in high esteem; but, assuming my understanding inadequate to form an opinion of it, I hold that there is some concealed and more hidden interpretation in each passage. For, even if I do not understand it, I suspect that some deeper meaning underlies the words (Eus., Hist. eccl. 7. 25.4; Deferrari 1955, 131).

After this passage a long series of other quotations from Dionysios makes clear that the Alexandrian bishop used techniques of literary criticism to show that Revelation cannot go back to the same author as the Fourth Gospel (Eus., Hist. eccl. 7.25.6–27). The problems many authors had with certain interpretations of Revelation could now be connected to doubts about the text’s apostolic authorship. It is not clear whether it was more due to Dionysios’s arguments or to their dispersion by Eusebius, who himself classified Revelation as a kind of addition to his list of homologoumena—that is, “acknowledged” writings of the New Testament (Metzger 1987, 203). In any case, from the fourth century on many Eastern authors, like Cyril of Jerusalem (313–386 ce), Amphilochios of Iconium (345–395 ce), John Chrysostom (344/49–407 ce), and Theodoret of Cyrrhus (393–457 ce) did not regard Revelation as Scripture (Metzger 1987, 209–16). While the text was broadly accepted and used in the West, where even some authors, such as Victorinus and Commodian, did not have problems with chiliastic readings, it took until the sixth century and later for Revelation to make a slow comeback in many parts of the Christian East. A comparable development can be seen by means of ancient canon lists and the book’s textual transmission (Markschies  2012, 115–46). While the (Western) Muratorian Fragment, (perhaps not yet a real canon list) regards both Revelation and (with some reservations) the Apocalypse of Peter as accepted texts (ll. 71–73), canon 60 of the regional synod of Laodicea (perhaps in the 360s ce) does not mention Revelation as canonical. The same is true for other Eastern lists, such as canon 85 of the Canones Apostolorum, of which in the most ancient form could date back to the end of the fourth century; a Syriac canon list from St Catherine’s monastery at the Sinai (early fifth century?; Cod. Sin. Syr. 10); a canon list connected to the Quaestiones et responsiones of Anastasius Sinaita (ca. 610–701 ce), but is also found in several early medieval manuscripts; and even the ninth-century Stichometry of Nicephoros. Revelation is listed as canonical by the Breviarium Hipponense (393 ce and confirmed by a synod of Carthage in 397 ce), a text that came to be important for the churches of North Africa, and the Decretum Gelasianum (CPL 1676), which probably has its roots in the times of Pope Damasus (366–384 ce), but in its present form goes back to the sixth century. An important exception in the East is Athanasius of Alexandria, who lists Revelation in his thirtyninth Paschal Letter of the year 367 ce as among the canonical writings. In the West the interpretation of the Donatist writer Tyconius, who offered a spiritual interpretation of

366   Tobias Nicklas Revelation, Primasius, Augustine, and Jerome were highly influential (Kretschmar 1985, 94–106). While the Coptic Church seems to have followed Athanasius’s lead in accepting Revelation, the Syriac Church, in turn, did not include Revelation in its Peshitto (Metzger 1987, 219). For example, the fifth-century canon list in the Doctrine of Addai (sec. 88), an extracanonical narrative about an apostle, which concerns the origins of the church of Edessa, includes one Gospel (Tatian’s Gospel, also called the Diatessaron), the Pauline Epistles and Acts, but it does not even mention Revelation (Desreumaux 2014, 236–38). Only with the later Philoxenian version (508 ce) did Revelation enter the Syriac New Testament (Metzger 1987, 219–20). In Armenia, the situation was even more difficult. B. M. Metzger writes: By the fifth century at the latest, the Armenians had a translation of the Book of Revelation, not, however, as a component of the New Testament, but as part of the apocryphal Acts of John. It was only at the close of the twelfth century that the celebrated Nerses of Lampron, Archbishop of Tarsus (d. 1198), had a new Armenian translation of Revelation prepared, and later arranged that a synod of the Armenian Church held at Constantinople should receive this book as holy Scripture in the New Testament. (Metzger 1987, 223–24; cf. Manukyan 2015)

A Georgian translation of Revelation is not available before the tenth century (Metzger 1987, 224). A look into the earliest manuscripts of Revelation can help to round out this picture. Of course, the oldest surviving manuscripts of Revelation come from Egypt, and thus cannot offer us a full overview of the text’s use in different regions and circles. A few observations, however, are relevant to our question: first, some of the most ancient papyri of Revelation, such as P24 (P.Oxy. 1230), P18 (= P.Oxy. 1079), P85 (Strasbourg, Bibliothèque Nationale P. gr. 1027), P98 (= P.IFAO II 31), and P115 (= P.Oxy. 4499) do not give the impression of having been used in public “liturgies” or owned by communities. G. Bazzana writes: Despite the limited number of early papyri that carry the text of the Apocalypse of John, a few preliminary conclusions can be drawn from the preceding analysis. First . . . the variety of material characteristics arguably mirrors a variety of socio­cultural uses to which the text of Revelation was put. Thus, one encounters artefacts that range on a rather wide spectrum from papyri that are almost writing exercises (as in the case of P98) to codices that are apparently intended as attempts of imitation and emulation of the traditional Greek bookroll (as in the case of P115 or P85). Second, despite the variety, it appears that the majority of the earliest witnesses indicate some sort of “private” use and circulation of the Apocalypse of John. (Bazzana 2016, 19)

Interestingly, this status is comparable to the status of other apocalyptic writings, such as the Shepherd of Hermas (which, at least in pre-Constantinian times, is even better attested for Egypt than Revelation is), the Apocalypse of Peter, and even the Potter’s Oracle (Bazzana 2016; Nicklas 2016).

Revelation and the New Testament Canon   367 After the fourth century, the situation seems to have changed, at least somewhat: Revelation was included in some of the most important codices of the New Testament, including Codex Sinaiticus (‫)א‬, Codex Alexandrinus (A), and Codex Ephraemi Rescriptus (C). Unfortunately, Codex Vaticanus (B) is only preserved until Heb 9:14. At the same time, even this witness is somewhat ambivalent: Codex Alexandrinus presents Revelation along with 1 and 2 Clement, and the even later Codex Claromontanus offers a list of Scriptures that still includes the Apocalypse of Peter (Karrer 2017, 124). But this is not the end of the story. Garrick Allen argued in a recent article that even in the early medieval period, that is, in manuscripts from the tenth century and later, the transmission of Revelation can be divided into two groups of witnesses, one he calls “canonical” and the other he describes as “eclectic” (Allen 2020). While the first strand of manuscripts transmits Revelation as part of a New Testament, the same text is treated differently in the second group. But even the first group is interesting for our purpose. Some of its manuscripts do not only contain what we regard a usual New Testament, but for example, can add further hagiographic material or present Revelation together with Andrew of Caesarea’s commentary (see manuscripts GA 82 93 177 459). Several witnesses of the “eclectic” strand Allen mentions are even more fascinating: GA 2059 (eleventh cent., Vatican library, Vat.gr.370, diktyon 67,001) puts together the works of Ps-Dionysios Areopagita, a series of scholia attributed to Maximus Confessor, a lexical list, plus Andrew of Caesarea’s commentary on Revelation, together with the text of Revelation. GA 2020 (Vat. gr. 579) from the fifteenth century, in turn, presents Revelation together with several texts from the patristic period (Allen  2020). Allen offers more examples, but the results are already becoming clear: The marginal nature of Revelation in the Greek tradition is on full and obvious display in the eclectic strand: it is often divorced from any other biblical works and stashed among the works of patristic authors and anonymous fragments. In many of these instances, the bibliographic code of the artefact obscures Revelation as an independent scriptural work altogether, subordinating it to the all-encompassing apparatus and commentary of Andrew of Caesarea. It is not at all clear that readers of previous generations would have read these works as witnesses to Revelation at all, but that they would have comprehended them as the work of Andrew, even though the entire text of Revelation is usually a key component of the Andrew commentary. The marginal status of Revelation is even visible in large swathes of the canonical stream. Revelation is often less ornamented than its New Testament counterparts, and lacks paratexts that are integral to the works. In some cases, too, it is physically divided from preceding New Testament works because unrelated non-biblical works intervene. (Allen 2020)

In other words, even for many late medieval readers—that is, at a time when we would understand Revelation to be a clear and uncontested part of the New Testament canon— it remained an at least somewhat obscure writing at the fringes of the canon, perhaps comparable to what the Catholic Church calls “deuterocanonical.” I thus agree with the main lines of Karrer’s picture, but think one has to add a few pieces, which make it even more vivid. First, the evidence of 5 Ezra or the Alogoi—and

368   Tobias Nicklas one could perhaps add Marcion, who did not include Revelation in his “New Testament,” or the groups behind the writings of Nag Hammadi, which seem not to show any traces of Revelation—seems to show that even during the second century, that is, in Karrer’s phase (2), Revelation was not universally acknowledged. Second, a look into the manuscripts can show that even in medieval times Revelation was treated very differently by different manuscripts—and its status may have been much less clear than we tend to think. Perhaps this thesis can be underlined with another, somewhat different piece of evidence. I agree that at the fourth Council of Toledo (633 ce), mentioned by Karrer, Revelation’s status as part of the New Testament canon was clear in the official Latin Church. This, however, did not prevent interesting developments besides and even after this. Even after Revelation’s status as “canonical” was officially accepted by important ecclesiastical documents, there remained space for other apocalyptic writings to develop and claim, if not canonical, then at least an authoritative status besides or even against Revelation. Interestingly, some of these writings were quite successful. The Apocalypse of Thomas, for example, circulated in several versions, the shortest of which describes the end of world as a kind of an anti-creation week of seven days (Nicklas, Geigenfeind, and Stettner 2018). This text, which in some manuscripts also includes prophecies of historical events that have to happen before the world’s end, is not very well-known today. But its old Irish version, The Signs before Doomsday (Herbert and McNamara 1989, 153–59), played an important role in medieval Irish ideas of the end of times. Another text was even more widespread—and this perhaps because it comes in the garment of pagan prophecy. In its original form, the Tiburtine Sibyl probably goes back to the final decades of the fourth century (Shoemaker 2016, 510), but the process of rewriting continued until the high Middle Ages. Of course, this writing never claimed to be a part of the New Testament canon. Nevertheless, as a text that connected a positive evaluation of important parts of Roman history (including the idea of a good final emperor) with different aspects of Christian eschatology, the Tiburtine Sibyl was very successful. While Revelation’s critical stance toward Rome became problematic when the Christianity became the official religion of the state, a text like the Tiburtine Sibyl, with its positive idea of Rome, could fill the gap. And after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, when new empires claimed to be a new Rome, it was easily possible to include some of their emperors in the text (Nicklas 2020a). The fact that this was possible at a time when Revelation was part of the canon means that Revelation as an entire text was not present enough in the cultural memories of most Christians for them to understand that the Tiburtine Sibyl’s ideas of the end of times at least partly contradicted Revelation. In any case, the Tiburtine Sibyl was for at least several centuries highly successful; it was preserved not only in 130 extant Latin manuscripts and in Greek, Arabic, Ehiopic, and Slavonic versions (Shoemaker 2016, 515). The Sibyl also made it into the liturgy of the Latin Requiem: Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla: teste David cum Sibylla. I cannot but conclude that even this evidence is important for our question. Perhaps it does not mean that Revelation’s status in the early-medieval Western Church was disputed, but it does mean that there must have been groups for whom this status did not matter— at least in their practical thinking about the world, history, and time—because other writings seem to be of at least comparable importance.

Revelation and the New Testament Canon   369

Different Paradigms of Understanding and Revelation’s Role within the Canon Introductions to the history of the New Testament canon often conclude with the end of antiquity—and the (more or less clear) definition and (more or less universal) ac­cept­ance of the New Testament canon. The examples given above, however, show that the history of the canon did not end when it was defined (Nicklas 2017b). The roles and functions of different books within this canon could change over the course of time and in different communities. Revelation certainly offers an interesting example of this idea. Perhaps even more than most other writings that made it into the New Testament, Revelation itself offers a clear claim to authority (Nicklas 2010). Already in its prologue, Revelation claims to go back to Jesus Christ and even God himself (Rev 1:1); it calls itself a “prophecy” (1:3; 22:7, 10, 18, 19) and thus relates to the prophetic books of what we call the Old Testament. This “prophecy” understands itself as related to Daniel or Ezekiel—and is full of allusions to Isaiah, Jeremiah, Zechariah, Joel, and others (cf. Hieke  2015; Yarbro Collins 2017). With its “canon formula” securing the text’s integrity (22:18–19), it does not just curse everyone who makes any change to it, but relates itself to the end of the Torah (Deut 29:20; but see also Deut 4:2; 13:1; Eccl 3:14 etc.; cf. Hieke and Nicklas 2003, 72–81). At the same time, it praises everyone who reads (aloud) its prophetic words, listens to them, and obeys them (Rev 1:3)—that is, it wants to be read in the meetings of communities of Christ followers. One could perhaps add that the Seer’s name—be it historically correct or pseudepigraphical (Frey  2015)—connects Revelation with the Corpus Johanneum, that is, the Gospel and the Letters of John. Where they were accepted as apostolic and where the authors were identified, Revelation could be understood as an apostolic writing as well. Even if we have seen that this claim was not universally accepted (and was partly rejected with very good reasons), it was at least partly successful. In other words, Revelation’s acceptance into the canon thus means to accept its claim to special authority (on the text’s side) and to understand it as true prophecy, connected with Old Testament prophecy and Johannine authority (from the readers’ side). As we have seen, in the second and third centuries the discussion around Revelation centered on its alleged chiliasm and questions of its authorship; however, the interest in Revelation seems to have changed over the centuries. The older focus on Revelation’s prophecies about the millennium and its relation to the future life in heavenly Jerusalem was replaced by a new line of interpretation. Probably starting with Tyconius, who was important for Augustine and many other later Latin authors, Revelation was accepted as a prophecy about the history and the triumph of the church (Kretschmar 1985, 94–107; Kovacs and Rowland 2004, 17). Beatus of Liébana, an early medieval commentator on Revelation (776 ce) from Asturia, put it in these words: “Nothing is described except the church” (cf. Kretschmar 1985, 96 n. 226). Where this reading was accepted a basic ordering principle of the New Testament canon could emerge. While the Gospels tell about

370   Tobias Nicklas the time of Jesus, both the Corpus Paulinum and the Praxapostolos, which includes Acts and the Catholic Epistles, can be related to the origins of the church. Understood as the continuation of this story, Revelation found its “natural” place at the end of the New Testament as is evident in a good many manuscripts and in Athanasius’s well-known canon list of 367 ce, at least. Revelation’s role within the canon changed again with the rise of historical criticism (see also Kovacs and Rowland 2004, 14–38). While we do not yet know how much the digitalization of books will change Revelation’s role in the Bible and our ideas of canon, a dramatic paradigm change has already happened. Revelation is for the most part no ­longer seen as a prophecy of the history and final triumph of the church, but as a writing that is first concerned with crises of its own time. On the one hand, the text develops a very critical and, one could say, aggressive, stance toward important aspects of its own time, but on the other hand, it embeds its ideas in a narrative that can be described as mythic (and thus is open for interpretations that are reach beyond the range of concerns of its first readers (on the problem of history and myths in Revelation, see Nicklas 2020b). All this means that we do not simply read Revelation as a piece of “future prediction,” the details of which, if correctly allegorized, can tell us what will happen in the generations to come. Historical criticism also shows that early critics of Revelation must have been partly right. The text cannot go back to the same author as the Fourth Gospel and the Johannine Epistles. An old connection within the canon thus loses its impact. At the same time, even though Revelation’s status within the canon seems not to be a subject of debate in the larger Christian community, important aspects of its message are heavily criticized. The text now—perhaps more than ever before— is attacked for its violence, its aggressiveness against opponents, and its deficient ideas about women (e.g., Pippin 1992; Marshall 2009; Mayordomo 2013; Henten 2017). Moreover, Revelation is also recognized as a very Jewish voice in the New Testament canon, which is, at the same time, heavily influenced by many aspects of Greco-Roman culture (Henten  2015). Although interpreters in the early twentieth century sometimes argued that Revelation’s Jewish qualities diminished its theological value, there is now much greater appreciation for the book’s deep connection to Judaism.

Revelation’s Continuing Significance within the Canon What does all this mean for our final question? For many mainstream Christians in the big churches of the West, Revelation does not play a major role. It remains a somewhat strange text, full of violent images—a writing that in the best case is interesting for a few scholars working on the origins of Christianity or the adherents of strange sects. But does the fact that Revelation is part of the biblical canon have any impact today? If we still want to understand the Bible as a decisive authority for the life and theology of the

Revelation and the New Testament Canon   371 church(es), I would say yes. I regard Revelation both as an important voice within the canon and as a text that needs the voices of other texts that came to be canonical. Let me illustrate this with a few examples: 1.  There is an influential group of scholars who, perhaps influenced by the changing political situation in the West, started to interpret important passages of the New Testament as “anti-imperial” (e.g., Carter  2006). Revelation plays a key role in this stream of interpretation—the text is understood to have been written against the Roman Empire and its cult of the emperor and as a harsh criticism of its social system (e.g., Friesen 2017). Although I agree that Revelation rejects the Roman emperor as a figure who is connected to the powers of evil, and even though I think that it wants readers to detach themselves from any kind of connection to non-Christian cults, I would not like to reduce Revelation to its alleged anti-Roman stance (cf. Alkier 2017). I would not even go so far as to say that the text offers any kind of social analysis. Chapter 18 does include some spiteful polemics against the fate of traders, who after Babylon’s fall and destruction cannot make money as they had done before (De Villiers 2012), but it is not necessarily focused on the social system behind this trade. Rev 21:26, in turn, seems to presuppose that some kind of trade will even be necessary and still possible in the immensely rich heavenly Jerusalem. Of course, the main impulse behind the aforementioned interpretation of Revelation is not wrong. Biblical texts and their critical voices should matter in our times. Some passages in the New Testament (Rom 13:1–7; Tit 3:1; cf. also 1 Peter 2:13–17) represent those early Christian voices who ask Christians to be good citizens of whatever empire or government. Even though this is historically understandable, and while each of these texts needs an extra examination on its own, it is good that Revelation represents another, sometimes very important, voice that can remind the church(es) that sometimes one should not make any more compromises, but should show one’s true colors. The situations may have changed drastically since Revelation’s origin; our criticisms of societies may be even sharper, though blind spots remain; and we may be in a position to discern even more about the ways in which godless systems can enslave and dehumanize people. Nevertheless Revelation’s voice remains strong. It opens the eye to a reality behind the sometimes brutal, purely secular world. 2.  All this leads to a second observation: Revelation’s rich images of God and his agent, Jesus Christ, who can be called both a lamb and a lion within only a few sentences (Rev 4:5–6), tie together an incredible number of ideas, motifs, and questions from both the Old and New Testaments (Hays 2012; Nicklas 2014b, 125–30). In this way, they also help to correct ideas of God and of Jesus Christ that are too one-sided. They show that God is not just the kind helping spirit or nice daddy some want him to be. Those aspects cannot be understood without the idea of a very human Jesus, to which one must add the image of a heavenly Son of Man (1:12–18), who is venerated together with God (5:8–14). And one can cite many other examples, but the main point is clear: Revelation can be understood as a point of intersection that connects the manifold images of God and Jesus Christ that are found in the Christian Bible in a single text.

372   Tobias Nicklas At the same time, Revelation is not just a collection of images; it tells a story (Alkier 2012, 150–70). The plot of the story can be viewed from different perspectives and with slightly different focus points. It encompasses the plots of many biblical stories, drawing on the story of God’s creation of the world and the deep crisis that ensues after evil powers have entered this world. It can be told as a story of God’s majesty, of God’s superiority even in a crisis situation, as in the story of the mission of his son, the Son of Man, the Lamb, and the Lion, who wins the final battle against the powers of evil with the help of his own blood. It can, however, also be told from the perspective of the human beings who suffer in this crisis and who, even as witnesses for God’s word, have to cry for his justice (Rev 6:9–11; Wengst 2010; Nicklas 2017a). In any case, it takes very seriously the question of what it means to be human in a world where God sometimes seems not to answer and in situations that are controlled by the powers of evil. At the same time, it already envisages the utopia of a heavenly Jerusalem wherein real life, face to face with God and the Lamb, will be possible (22:4). In a certain sense, the story belongs to the canon, because it draws together, rereads, and covers the other stories the Christian Bible has to offer. 3.  Finally, we should, however, be aware that Revelation’s story is and has always also been a dangerous story—one in need of both the responsible interpreter and the other voices of the canon, so that it does not lead to catastrophic and destructive interpretations (Nicklas 2012a, 151–53; on Nazi interpretations of Revelation, see Nicklas 2012b). Although it develops the idea of a people of God consisting of both the twelve tribes of Israel and an uncountable number of people from all nations (Rev 7:1–10), its polemics against the “synagogue of Satan” (2:9; 3:9) can be (and were) read as signs of anti-­Judaism. Although it can describe the people of God as a woman (12:1–2, 4b–6) or a bride or both (19:7–8; 21:9), it also uses feminine imagery to vilify opponents, for example, by describing Thyatira’s prophetess “Jezebel” (2:20–23) and Babylon as “whores” (chap. 17). There is, finally not much about love in the text (but see De Villiers 2008)—yet we read about a Christ who hates perhaps not the seer’s opponents themselves but their deeds (2:6). We thus have to connect Revelation’s voice with other voices of the canon, to make our biblical interpretations really gospels, so that they impart a good message for all people who read and listen to them (1:3), and we must not exclude parts of our audience by destroying their lives. Revelation belongs to the canon because it offers a story that brings together a multitude of voices within the canon; it, however, also needs the canon and its multitude of voices, which sometimes can help to correct and criticize it when it is too one-sided. And, finally, Revelation needs interpreters who are sensible of both its great richness and its dangers and pitfalls.

References Alkier, Stefan. 2012. “Die Johannesapokalypse als ‚ein zusammenhängendes und vollständiges Ganzes.” In Die Johannesoffenbarung: Ihr Text und ihre Auslegung, edited by Michael Labahn and Martin Karrer, pp. 147–72. ABG 38. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Alkier, Stefan. 2017. “Schwerwiegende Differenzen: Vernachlässigte Antagonismen in der Johannesapokalypse.” In Diversität–Dialogizität–Differenz: Religion in pluralen Kontexten,

Revelation and the New Testament Canon   373 edited by Christian Wiese, Stefan Alkier, and Michael Schneider, pp. 247–89. Berlin: De Gruyter. Allen, Garrick V. 2020. “The Sociology of the Book of Revelation in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages.” In Manuscripts of the Book of Revelation: Philology, Paratexts, Reception, pp. 156‒92. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Baumeister, Theofried. 2005. “Der Brief der Gemeinden von Vienne und Lyon und die Offenbarung des Johannes.” In Studien zur Johannesoffenbarung und ihrer Auslegung: Festschrift für Otto Böcher zum 70, edited by Friedrich Wilhelm Horn and Michael Wolter, pp. 339–55. Geburtstag. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener. Bazzana, Giovanni. 2016. “ ‘Write in a Book What You See and Send It to the Seven Assemblies’: Ancient Reading Practices and the Earliest Papyri of Revelation.” In Book of Seven Seals: The Peculiarity of Revelation, Its Manuscripts, Attestation, and Transmission, edited by Thomas J. Kraus and Michael Sommer, pp. 11–31. WUNT 363. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Carter, Warren. 2006. The Roman Empire and the New Testament. Nashville: Abingdon. Deferrari, Roy  J., trans. 1953. Eusebii Pamphili Ecclesiastical History. Books 1–5. FC 19. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. Deferrari, Roy  J., trans. 1955. Eusebii Pamphili Ecclesiastical History. Books 6–10. FC 29. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. Desreumaux, Alain. 2014. “Das Neue Testament in der Doctrina Addai.” In Christian Apocrypha: Receptions of the New Testament in Ancient Christian Apocrypha, edited by Jean-Michel Roessli and Tobias Nicklas, pp. 233–48. Novum Testamentum Patristicum 26. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. De Villiers, Pieter G. R. 2008. “Love in the Revelation of John.” In Seeing the Seeker: Explorations in the Discipline of Spirituality. A Festschrift for Kees Waaijman, edited by Hein Blommestijn et al., pp. 155–68. Studies in Spirituality 19. Leuven: Peeters. De Villiers, Pieter G. R. 2012. “Unmasking and Challenging Evil: Exegetical Perspectives on Violence in Revelation 18.” In Coping with Violence in the New Testament, edited by Pieter G. R. De Villiers and Jan Willem van Henten, pp. 201–26. Studies in Theology and Religion 16. Leiden: Brill. Dochhorn, Jan. 2014. “Die Aloger und Gaius von Rom: Ein Beitrag zur Rezeptionsgeschichte des Apokalypse und des Corpus Johanneum.” In Tot sacramenta quot verba: Zur Kommentierung der Apokalypse des Johannes von den Anfängen bis ins 12. Jahrhundert, edited by Konrad Huber, Rainer Klotz, and Christoph Winterer, pp. 29–58. Münster: Aschendorff. Frey, Jörg. 2015. “Das Corpus Johanneum und die Apokalypse des Johannes. Die Johanneslegende, die Probleme der johanneischen Verfasserschaft und die Frage der Pseudonymität der Apokalypse.” In Poetik und Intertextualität der Johannesapokalypse, edited by Stefan Alkier, Thomas Hieke, and Tobias Nicklas, pp. 71–134. WUNT 346. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Friesen, Steven  J. 2017. “A Useful Apocalypse: Domestication and Destabilization in the Second Century.” In New Perspectives on Revelation, edited by Adela Yarbro Collins, pp. 79–104. BETL 291. Leuven: Peeters. Hasitschka, Martin. 2014. “Die Vision von der tausendjährigen Herrschaft (Offb 20,4–6) und ihre Interpretation durch Viktorin von Pettau.” In Tot sacramenta quot verba: Zur Kommentierung der Apokalypse des Johannes von den Anfängen bis ins 12, edited by Konrad Huber, Rainer Klotz, and Christoph Winterer, pp. 121–34. Jahrhundert. Münster: Aschendorff. Hays, Richard  B. 2012. “Faithful Witness, Alpha and Omega: The Identity of Jesus in the Apocalypse of John.” In Revelation and the Politics of Apocalyptic Interpretation, edited by Richard B. Hays and Stefan Alkier, pp. 69–84. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press.

374   Tobias Nicklas Henten, Jan Willem van. 2015. “The Intertextual Nexus of Revelation and Graeco-Roman Literature.” In Poetik und Intertextualität der Johannesapokalypse, edited by Stefan Alkier, Thomas Hieke, and Tobias Nicklas, pp. 395–422. WUNT 346. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Henten, Jan Willem van. 2017. “Violence in Revelation.” In New Perspectives on Revelation, edited by Adela Yarbro Collins, pp. 49–78. BETL 291. Leuven: Peeters. Herbert, Maíre, and Martin  J.  McNamara. 1989. Irish Biblical Apocrypha: Selected Texts in Translation. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Hieke, Thomas. 2015. “Die literarische und theologische Funktion des Alten Testaments in der Johannesoffenbarung.” In Poetik und Intertextualität der Johannesapokalypse, edited by Stefan Alkier, Thomas Hieke, and Tobias Nicklas, pp. 271–90. WUNT 346. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hieke, Thomas, and Tobias Nicklas. 2003. “Die Worte der Prophetie dieses Buches”: Offenbarung 22,6–21 als Schlussstein der christlichen Bibel Alten und Neuen Testaments gelesen. Biblisch-theologische Studien 62. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener. Hill, Charles E. 2004. The Johannine Corpus in the Early Church. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hirschberger, V. 2018. Ringen um Israel: Intertextuelle Perspektiven auf das 5. Buch Esra. Studies on Early Christian Apocrypha 14. Leuven: Peeters. Karrer, Martin. 2017. Johannesoffenbarung (Offb. 1,1–5,14. EKK 24/1. Göttingen: Neukirchener Theologie bei V&R and Düsseldorf: Patmos. Kovacs, Judith, and Christopher Rowland. 2004. Revelation. Blackwell Bible Commentaries. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Kretschmar, G. 1985. Die Offenbarung des Johannes: Die Geschichte ihrer Auslegung im 1. Jahrtausend. Calwer Theologische Monographien. Stuttgart: Calwer. Manukyan, Arthur. 2015. “Die Johannesapokalypse und die armenischen Bibelübersetzungen im Wandel der Zeit: Ertrag, Tendenzen und Perspektiven der Forschung.” In Poetik und Intertextualität der Johannesapokalypse, edited by Stefan Alkier, Thomas Hieke, and Tobias Nicklas, pp. 135–52. WUNT 346. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Markschies, Christoph. 2012. “Haupteinleitung.” In Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung I: Evangelien und Verwandtes, edited by Christoph Markschies and Jens Schröter, pp. 1–180. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Marshall, John W. 2009. “Gender and Empire: Sexualized Violence in John’s Anti-imperial Apocalypse.” In A Feminist Companion to the Apocalypse of John, edited by Amy-Jill Levine, pp. 17–32. London: T & T Clark. Mayordomo, Moises. 2013. “Gewalt in der Johannesoffenbarung als theologisches Problem.” In Die Offenbarung des Johannes. Kommunikation im Konflikt, edited by Thomas Schmeller, Martin Ebner, and Rudolf Hoppe, pp. 107–36. QD 253. Freiburg: Herder. Metzger, Bruce  M. 1987. The Canon of the New Testament: Its Origin, Development, and Significance. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Müller, Karlheinz. 2011. “Noch einmal die Einhundertvierundvierzigtausend: Anmerkungen zur judenchristlichen Kompetenz des Verfassers der Johannesapokalypse.” In Mächtige Bilder: Zeit- und Wirkungsgeschichte der Johannesoffenbarung, edited by Bernhard Heininger, pp. 132–66. SBS 225. Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk. Myllykoski, Matti. 2005. “Cerinthus.” In A Companion to Second-Century Christian “Heretics”, edited by Antti Marjanen and Petri Luomanen, pp. 213–46. VCSup 76; Leiden: Brill. Nicklas, Tobias. 2010. “ ‘The Words of the Prophecy of This Book’: Playing with Scriptural Authority in the Book of Revelation.” In Authoritative Scriptures in Ancient Judaism, edited by Mladen Popovic, pp. 309–26. JSJSup 141. Leiden: Brill.

Revelation and the New Testament Canon   375 Nicklas, Tobias. 2011. “Probleme der Apokalypserezeption im 2. Jahrhundert: Eine Diskussion mit Charles E. Hill.” In Ancient Christian Interpretations of “Violent Texts” in the Apocalypse, edited by Joseph Verheyden, Tobias Nicklas, and Andreas Merkt, pp. 28–45. NTOA 92. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Nicklas, Tobias. 2012a. “The Apocalypse in the Framework of the Canon.” In Revelation and the Politics of Apocalyptic Interpretation, edited by Richard  B.  Hays and Stefan Alkier, pp. 143–54. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Nicklas, Tobias. 2012b. “Apokalypse und Antisemitismus: Die Offenbarung des Johannes bei Auslegern im Umfeld des Nationalsozialismus.” In Die Johannesoffenbarung: Ihr Text und ihre Auslegung, edited by Michael Labahn and Martin Karrer, pp. 347–70. ABG 38. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Nicklas, Tobias. 2014a. “Rezeption und Nicht-Rezeption der Offenbarung des Johannes durch antike christliche Apokalypsen.” In Christian Apocrypha: Receptions of the New Testament in Ancient Christian Apocrypha, edited by Jean-Michel Roessli and Tobias Nicklas, pp. 325–48. Novum Testamentum Patristicum 26. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Nicklas, Tobias. 2014b. “Der Gott der frühen Christen.” In Gotteslehre, edited by Karlheinz Ruhstorfer, pp. 73–132. Paderborn, German: Schöningh. Nicklas, Tobias. 2016. “Christliche Apokalypsen in Ägypten vor Konstantin: Kanon, Autorität, kontextuelle Funktion.” In Book of Seven Seals: The Peculiarity of Revelation, Its Manuscripts, Attestation, and Transmission, edited by Thomas J. Kraus and Michael Sommer, pp. 95–118. WUNT 363. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Nicklas, Tobias. 2017a. “Freiheit oder Prädestination? Gedanken zum Menschenbild der Johannesapokalypse.” In New Perspectives on Revelation, edited by Adela Yarbro Collins, pp. 105–30. BETL 291; Leuven: Peeters. Nicklas, Tobias. 2017b. “Kanon und Geschichte: Eine Thesenreihe.” Sacra Scripta 15: 90–114. Nicklas, Tobias. 2020a. “Authority and Canon according to Some Ancient ‘Christian’ Apocalypses: 5 Ezra and the Tiburtine Sibyl.” In Authoritative Writings in Early Judaism and Early Christianity: Their Origin, Collection and Meaning, edited by Tobias Nicklas and Jens Schröter, pp. 257–70. WUNT 441. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Nicklas, Tobias. 2020b. “Die Johannesapokalypse zwischen Sozialkritik, Geschichtsdeutung und Mythos.” In Festschrift Edmondo Lupieri, edited by C.  Pardee and J.  Tripp. Judaïsm ancien et origines du christianisme. Turnhout: Brepols (forthcoming). Nicklas, Tobias, with M. Geigenfeind and J. Stettner. 2018. “Die Deutung der Weltgeschichte in der Langform der Apokalypse des Thomas (Codex Palatinus §§ 2–10).” ETL 92: 257–74. Pippin, Tina. 1992. Death and Desire: The Rhetoric of Gender in the Apocalypse of John. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Shoemaker, Stephen. 2016. “The Tiburtine Sibyl.” In New Testament Apocrypha: More Noncanonical Scriptures 1, edited by Tony Burke and Brent Landau, pp. 510–25. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Stettner, Johannes. 2019. Veränderte Endzeitvorstellungen: Die Rezeption der Offenbarung des Johannes beim ersten christlich-lateinischen Dichter Commodian. WUNT II. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Wengst, Klaus. 2010. Wie lange noch? Schreien nach Recht und Gerechtigkeit—eine Deutung der Apokalypse des Johannes. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 2017. “The Use of Scripture in the Book of Revelation.” In New Perspectives on Revelation, edited by Adela Yarbro Collins, pp. 11–32. BETL 291. Leuven: Peeters.

chapter 23

R eception History a n d th e I n ter pr etation of R ev el ation Ian Boxall

Introduction A richly colored illumination from an eleventh-century copy of Beatus of Liébana’s eighth-century Apocalypse commentary, produced at the Abbey of Saint-Sever in Landes, France, depicts John of Patmos in the company of seven of his later commentators; all have haloes, and each holds a scroll or a book (see Meer 1978, 26). The seven are named, and the names are drawn from the introduction to Beatus’s own commentary, which enumerates the author’s sources. Among them are legends of early Christian exegesis, such as Jerome, Augustine, and Gregory the Great, and at least one, the sixthcentury commentator Apringius of Béja, is scarcely known outside the guild of ­ Revelation scholars. The Saint-Sever image indicates that early medieval readers of the book of Revelation could identify classic commentators who were considered not only wise interpreters of this difficult book but comparable to St. John himself in the inspiration underlying their exegesis. Several of them would remain ascendant throughout the Middle Ages and beyond. Yet these commentators, and their exegetical works, represent just a tiny percentage of the receptions of John’s Apocalypse, even in the early centuries. Reception of Revelation began as soon as it was first heard by those fledgling Christian communities in the seven cities of Asia (Rev 1:4). It has continued unabated ever since. Indeed, the colorful Saint-Sever image is itself part of Revelation’s rich reception. If the reception of Revelation spans nearly two millennia, scholarly attention to this history of reception as reception history is a more recent phenomenon, and

378   Ian Boxall more contained. As Jonathan Roberts reminds us, some parameters are necessary to move from “the plenitude of reception to the finitude of reception history” (Lieb, Mason, and Roberts 2011, 1). The aim of this chapter is to consider what this means for the reception history of Revelation. It begins with a broad definition of reception history of the Bible, its key terms, and significant debates, and then explores its specific contribution to the interpretation of John’s Apocalypse and considers its future prospects.

What Is Reception History? Reception history of the Bible is primarily concerned, not with the origins of the text, but with its ongoing use, interpretation, and impact, broadly conceived. Reception historians do not confine their interests to the work of biblical scholars and their commentaries across the centuries, such as John’s seven companions in the Saint-Sever Beatus, a field that is classically called Auslegungsgeschichte, or “the history of interpretation.” They also explore how the text has been received in spirituality and worship, in music, drama, literature, and visual art, and consider its wider cultural impact beyond Jewish and Christian communities. Its scope is therefore potentially vast. Yet, although reception history is sometimes criticized for merely anthologizing diverse receptions, in practice, it often has a constructive dimension. As a form of history, it seeks to identify and categorize receptions, and contextualize them in their originating historical and cultural contexts, often locating them within a broader historical framework (e.g., Räisänen 1992; Luz 1994; Crossley 2010; Rowland and Boxall 2013). Given this broad definition, the reception history of Revelation potentially includes its impact on early Christian martyr theology; Greek, Ethiopic, and Latin monasticism; medieval cathedral building; Dante’s Divine Comedy; geopolitics and military strategy; and the music of Johnny Cash. The Apocalypse has been visualized in frescoes, altarpieces, tapestries, woodcuts, and sculptures. Its text has been glossed by scribal marginal notes to manuscripts, and by interpretative annotations in printed editions, such as the Puritan Geneva Bible (1560), the Roman Catholic Douai-Rheims Bible (New Testament published 1582), and the Dispensationalist Scofield Reference Bible (1909). Its musical impact includes Latin liturgical antiphons, popular hymns such as “O What Their Joy and Their Glory Must Be” (John Mason Neale’s translation of “O quanta qualia” by the medieval theologian Peter Abelard) and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” Handel’s oratorio, Messiah, John Tavener’s 1993 The Apocalypse, and the 1982 album The Number of the Beast by the British heavy-metal band Iron Maiden. Its pervasive influence on American culture is typified by the massive success of the Left Behind series of novels by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins (1995–2007), and the fantasy horror television series Supernatural (2005–present). More surprisingly perhaps, given its violent visions of cosmic destruction, Revelation has emerged as a key text in the ecological ­theology of the Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew I (Chryssavgis  2012). Reception

Reception History and Interpretation   379 history in general, and the reception history of Revelation in particular, offers a veritable “garden of delights” for the biblical scholar (England and Lyons 2015, 3). As a discipline in biblical studies, reception history is especially associated with the Swiss New Testament scholar Ulrich Luz, who incorporated it into his commentary on Matthew in the ecumenical Evangelisch-Katholischer Kommentar (EKK) series, and has reflected on its parameters and significance (e.g., Luz 1994; 2005, 265–379). It is also central to the Wiley-Blackwell Bible Commentaries (2004– ) and to De Gruyter’s Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception (2008– ). Its philosophical roots lie in the thought of the German philosopher Hans-Georg Gadamer (1900–2002), especially his 1960 Wahrheit und Methode (English translation, Truth and Method; Gadamer 1989). Luz, like many German scholars, follows Gadamer in preferring the term Wirkungsgeschichte, variously translated “history of effect,” “history of effects,” or “effective history.” The latter translation is closest to Gadamer’s meaning, for he is not concerned with developing a method for analyzing a text’s effects, but rather with the process of understanding itself, which is always affected by the history in which the interpreter stands. The language of reception history (Rezeptionsgeschichte) is derived from the literary theory of Gadamer’s former student Hans Robert Jauss (1921–1997). Jauss also comes closer than Gadamer to offering the foundations for a methodology (e.g., Jauss 1982). Precisely how the thought of both Jauss and Gadamer should be understood, and its implications for reception history, remains contested (Beal 2011, 361–69; Evans 2014). Debate also continues, both among practitioners and critics, concerning reception history’s scope, purpose, methodology, and usefulness. The first three of these issues will be discussed, and then I will consider some examples of reception history’s potential for interpretation of Revelation. I return to the question of usefulness toward this end of the chapter.

Scope, Purpose, and Method First, what are the parameters of reception history? The potential raw material is vast. Thus even those receptions of which a scholar is aware will only represent the tiny tip of a vast iceberg, the bulk of which lies invisible below the water (Bockmuehl 1995, 66). For the book of Revelation, the commentary tradition alone is enormous, particularly in Western Christianity. Yet this is only to scratch the surface of this book’s interpretation and impact. Its visuality has made it a favorite resource for visual artists. It has often been central to theological debates about the Trinity, the nature of the church, and the meaning of history, angelology, and eschatology. Politically, it has functioned as a justification for Christian empires, and served as a potent critique of empire in all its forms. Selectivity is a necessary first step in the reception-historical enterprise. Parameters may be very broad, or what Timothy Beal calls “longitudinal, exploring a particular ­biblical book, character, or image through the ages” (Beal 2011, 359). The Revelation

380   Ian Boxall commentary by Judith Kovacs and Christopher Rowland is a fine example of this approach; it covers the entirety of the book of Revelation, and their substantial introduction locates the specific receptions within a broader historical and hermeneutical framework (Kovacs and Rowland  2004, 1–38). More focused examples of the longitudinal approach examine the reception of Patmos (Boxall 2013) and the interpretation of the millennium across the centuries (Wainwright 1993). Other reception-historical studies confine themselves to a specific chronological period (e.g., Patrides and Wittreich 1984; Emmerson and McGinn 1992) or cultural context (e.g., Cowley 1983), or even to specific interpreters (e.g., Ryan 2016). Second, making choices in turn raises the question of purpose: “to what end is it being marshalled?” (Lieb, Mason, and Roberts 2011, 1). Several broad answers to this question can be identified. The goal of some reception historians is to understand where they have come from—that is, to become better acquainted with their own interpretive traditions, which may include rediscovering what they or the tradition in which they stand have now forgotten. Roman Catholic biblical scholars, for example, may be more familiar with modern critical scholarship on Revelation than with the commentators widely read by their medieval and early modern forebears. The reception-historical exercise is therefore a journey of rediscovery. Or they might seek historical illumination as to the paucity of readings from the Apocalypse in the Roman Sunday Mass lectionary, which includes excerpts from Rev 1, 5, 7, 12, 21 and 22. The roots of this selection, they will discover, lie in the medieval liturgical practice of reading the Apocalypse in Eastertide, which prioritized the Lamb’s victory through death, rather than the visions of judgment, as the book’s hermeneutical key (Flanigan  1992). Thus reception history can aid the understanding of contemporary practice. The basic ecclesial focus of reception history underlies the EKK series, though with an ecumenical breadth, to enable Germanspeaking Roman Catholics and Protestants better to understand each other’s traditions, as well as their own, showing them not only where they have come from but what they might otherwise have become, on the basis of the text. Here, Jauss’s concept of the Gipfeldialog or “summit dialogue” may come into play. By this, Jauss refers to influential interpreters who represent defining high points in a text’s interpretation, and who have influenced the pre-understandings of subsequent readers (Parris 2009, 217–19; Evans 2014, 123–24). In practice, however, the “summit” authors may vary according to ecclesial or theological tradition. Western Christians would probably agree on the importance of the Latin commentators Victorinus of Pettau (d. ca. 304), Tyconius of Carthage (fourth century), Primasius of Hadrumetum (sixth century), and the Venerable Bede (eighth century). More controversial might be the key players from the later Middle Ages and beyond, particularly given the renewed focus on history in late-medieval Apocalypse commentators influenced by Joachim of Fiore, which provoked some controversial interpretations among radical Franciscans, and was followed by the fragmentation of the Reformation period. But this is only to focus on Western Europe and Roman North Africa. Various eastern Christian communities would have their own, very different participants in the Gipfeldiolog. Churches of the Byzantine tradition would certainly include Andreas of

Reception History and Interpretation   381 Caesarea (sixth century) and possibly his predecessor Oecumenius. Other ecclesial communities might insist on figures such as Nerses of Lambron, who translated and revised Andreas’s commentary for an Armenian readership (twelfth century), or Dionysius bar-Salibi (Syriac, twelfth century), who helpfully preserved fragments of the second-century exegete Hippolytus, or the Arabic-speaking Apocalypse commentators Būlus al-Būshī and Ibn Kātib Qayṣar (thirteenth century), while the complex oral tradition of Apocalypse commentary in the Ethiopian Orthodox Church (Cowley 1983) challenges the very notion of named individuals at the summit table. Christian communities from other continents will have their own preferred invitees. Claims to a space at the table are further complicated by the broader conceptualization of Wirkungsgeschichte or “effective history” articulated by Luz, which includes a text’s effects “in sermons, canonical law, hymnody, art, and in the actions and sufferings of the church” (Luz 1989, 95). With such expanded parameters, it would be difficult to exclude the Italian artist Sandro Botticelli, the apocalyptically inspired mystic Francis of Assisi, the seventeenth-century English Baptist Anne Wentworth, or the Swedish film director Ingmar Bergman, who was responsible for the 1957 film The Seventh Seal, from the round-table conversation. Another group of reception historians engage reception history as a means of illuminating original meanings, the traditional focus of historical criticism. There are at least two reasons why reception history makes a difference here. On the one hand, it points to the multivalency of meaning, which challenges univocal understandings of what the text “meant.” Here, patristic and medieval exegetes are particularly illuminating, as close readers of the text, who also exhibit a much richer capacity for detecting Old Testament allusion and echo than many modern scholars. To give but one example: the eighthcentury monk-exegete Bede, steeped in a profound monastic reading of Scripture, is able to detect a plethora of Old Testament echoes in Revelation’s vision of the mighty angel with the little scroll (Rev 10), drawn from Genesis, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Daniel, Amos, the Psalms, and Proverbs (Bede, In Apocalypsin 10). Indeed, this approach to reception history often gives priority to early, i.e., patristic receptions as being closer chronologically and culturally to the world of John (e.g., Bockmuehl 2006). On the other hand, the discipline’s attention to actual readers, audiences, and (in the case of visual reception history) viewers parallels a shift in historical criticism from author to original audiences. The focus is less on what the human author intended—arguably a problematic concept for a text like Revelation that claims visionary experience as its source—than on what the text is able to effect, whether on hypothetically constructed first hearers or on subsequent real audiences. Yet another approach exploits as fully as possible the wide cultural impact of the Bible, incorporating not only receptions across denominational divides but outside religious communities. This brings classic commentators into conversation, and often fierce disagreement, with marginal figures or maverick interpreters. It encourages robust interdisciplinary conversations by allowing room at the table for music, drama, literature, film, and visual art, and taking seriously a text’s impact in popular culture as appropriate subject matter for biblical interpretation. The Kovacs and Rowland commentary is an excellent example of this type of reception-historical enterprise. Another

382   Ian Boxall is the wide-ranging volume on the impact of Revelation edited by John Lyons and Jorunn Økland (2009). It pays significant attention to how the book of Revelation has influenced and continues to influence nonspecialist readers of the book. An additional advantage of this broad contextualization of reception history is its attention to Revelation’s pervasive cultural impact beyond specific church communities, including both positive and negative effects. Potent examples of the latter are explored in the contribution by Heikki Räisänen, including the violent effects of one famous reception of Rev 19, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” especially when it is read or sung in the light of the biblical tradition of holy war (Räisänen 2009). The third contested issue in reception history is its methodology. The lack of a single method may be explained in different ways: its relative newness as a scholarly enterprise; the influence of Gadamer’s own aversion to method; and differing views as to reception history’s scope, purpose, and goals and therefore its relationship to established methods, which affect the methodological approaches that are employed. For some critics, this lack of a clear methodology results in reception history often being little more than anthologizing or cataloguing. But in practice, many reception historians place as much emphasis on the history as on the reception. Reception history is arguably more historical and “diachronic” than historical criticism, in that it is not restricted to a specific historical moment of composition but traces the ebb and flow of the text through time. Where it differs from the latter is that it looks forward into history rather than backward (Gillingham 2015, 19). Moreover, as history, it is a constructive exercise. It involves not only the identification and selection of receptions, but also their categorization. Many reception historians strive to connect these diverse receptions in a broad interpretative narrative; this is, for example, a major feature of the Wiley-Blackwell Bible Commentaries. Indeed, James Crossley sees the collaborative task of constructing “the narrative of the origins, use and influence of the Bible” as a way of transcending the disjunction between historical criticism’s focus on the origins of biblical texts and reception history’s interest in their development and use (Crossley 2015, 47). Others may demur, emphasizing that, according to Gadamer’s understanding of Wirkungsgeschichte, what is at issue is not contextualizing receptions in a historical framework, but rather, recognizing that history itself is effective (Beale 2011, 369).

Describing the Big Picture If reception history enables a constructive account of the history of a text’s reception, what might the “big picture” look like for Revelation? Three recent attempts to describe the big picture (Kovacs and Rowland 2004, 14–38; Chilton 2013; Koester 2014, 29–65) illustrate the challenges reception historians face and the decisions they need to make. A broad reception-historical account will be shaped in no small part by prior decisions about selection and purpose, as well as by the knowledge and preferences of each individual reception historian. Certain key figures will regularly appear, many of them

Reception History and Interpretation   383 exemplars of Auslegungsgeschichte or the scholarly history of interpretation: Justin Martyr, Victorinus, Tyconius, Andreas of Caesarea, Bede, Joachim of Fiore, Peter John Olivi, Martin Luther, Luís de Alcázar, and Joseph Mede. But, as noted, other interpretative communities may consider different interpreters and receptions as more significant or trendsetting. Judith Kovacs and Christopher Rowland explicitly acknowledge their decision to privilege pre-Enlightenment interpretations and receptions outside the commentary tradition (Kovacs and Rowland  2004, xiv). This accounts for the rich diversity of names in the “Biographies and Glossary” section at the end of their commentary, which also point to the interests of the authors. For example, the inclusion of the likes of Richard Brothers, Mary Cary, Anna Trapnel, Anne Wentworth, and the Methodist Joseph Sutcliffe highlights radical English Protestant receptions of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Kovacs and Rowland, Bruce Chilton, and Craig Koester all opt for a broadly chronological framework for their descriptive account, beginning with early patristic receptions. This approach allows any direct influence from one interpreter to another to be readily detected, and enables the historical contextualization of receptions that are novel and potentially groundbreaking. Thus, for example, Origen’s reading of the Apocalypse as the story of the human soul, the Tyconian-Augustinian focus on the ongoing life of the church, Joachim of Fiore’s renewed emphasis on history, and the divergent Reformation and Counter-Reformation hermeneutical strategies are rightly given reception-historical prominence in chronological sequence. Organizing receptions chronologically also allows modern critical interpretations to be understood as relatively late receptions of the Apocalypse, building on earlier strands in the reception history (e.g., the correlation between the beast and imperial Rome), and reflecting the particular cultural concerns of their proponents. A purely chronological approach has its limitations, however. First, it risks obscuring the fact that different types of interpretation occur simultaneously or, alternatively, underplaying the commonalities between similar receptions occurring centuries apart. The Tyconian-Augustinian understanding of the millennium, as the time of the church between the incarnation and the Second Coming, was not universally supplanted by the exegesis of Joachim or his radical Franciscan successors. The reassurance found by exiled and persecuted sixteenth-century Protestants in reading Revelation as a book for martyrs has significant similarities with (as well as differences from) the approach taken by second- and third-century Christians threatened with persecution by imperial Rome. Martin Luther’s late conversion to an apocalyptic mindset, as expressed in his second Preface to Revelation of 1530, draws heavily upon late medieval patterns of interpretation, both Joachite and Wycliffite. Nor are Protestant interpretations of the sixteenth century monochrome. Koester acknowledges this by subdividing the period into Lutheran, Reformed, and radical and Anabaptist interpretations, as well as exploring the divergent paths taken by Roman Catholic exegetes as responses to Protestant antipapal readings (Koester 2014, 48–58). Second, precise periodization of Christian history is contested and, to a significant extent, anachronistic. Can one speak legitimately about “the Middle Ages,” “the

384   Ian Boxall Renaissance,” “the early modern period,” and, if so, where should one make the breaks? Moreover, transitions between historical periods do not necessarily coincide with specific groundbreaking moments in the interpretation of the Apocalypse. There are reasonable grounds for Craig Koester’s broad divisions of 100–500 ce, with a subdivision in the mid-fourth century, to account for Constantine’s Edict of Milan and the Council of Nicaea, a medieval period spanning 500–1500, again subdivided, the emphasis on church reform with the new millennium opening up new possibilities for reading the Apocalypse, as exemplified by the eleventh-century Rupert of Deutz; a third period from the dawn of the Reformation, and Catholic responses, lasting from 1500 to 1750; and a final period leading up to the present. But these dates are only very approximate and reflect particular views about when key transitions happened. Given the enduring influence of Tyconius and Augustine throughout the Middle Ages, Kovacs’s and Rowland’s account sees the transition from the “early Christian appropriation,” not in the sixth century, but with what they describe as the “Joachite revolution” in the twelfth. A further limitation of the chronological approach is that it is not universally applicable. Such temporal transitions as the Middle Ages or the Enlightenment may be meaningful for readers of Revelation in Western Europe. A very different historical periodization may be required for other parts of the Christian world. An alternative, which is complementary to the chronological, is to approach the descriptive task by identifying different patterns of interpretation. One might, for example, follow categories already regularly used by biblical critics. Categories like postmillennial, premillennial, amillennial are of limited usefulness, tied as they are to particular interpretations of the millennium or thousand-year reign of the martyrs, a theme that comprises a tiny three verses of the whole book (20:4–6). More indicative of an interpreter’s overall understanding are terms such as “preterist,” which regards Revelation as revealing events that were fulfilled in the distant past, especially in the Roman period; “church- or world-historical,” which construes Revelation as a linear prophecy of the unfolding historical process; “futurist,” which takes the book as a predictive prophecy of end-time events; and “symbolic,” which understands Revelation as describing the ongoing experience of the Church, or of the progress of the human soul. A different articulation of hermeneutical categorizing is provided by Kovacs and Rowland’s interpretative grid (Kovacs and Rowland 2004, 7–11). This plots interpretations on two axes. The first, a temporal axis, parallels the preterist/historicist/futurist distinctions by distinguishing between interpretations that regard Revelation as primarily concerned with the past, the present, or the future. The second axis runs from allegorical interpretations, which attempt to “decode” the book and its individual images, to more analogical interpretations, which allow interpreters to “actualize” the text in their own contexts without claiming to have exhausted its meaning. This allows them to identify commonalities between a historical-critical identification of the beast from the sea (Rev 13 and 17) with imperial Rome, and Hal Lindsey’s famous claim that John was prophesying the emergence of the predecessor to the European Union in the 1970s (the “ten horns”; 13:1). Both types of interpretation are, essentially, forms of decoding.

Reception History and Interpretation   385 Other considerations also affect how reception historians present the big picture. Concerns for historical precision might justify geographical distinctions, as in Koester’s decision to treat early eastern and western Christian receptions separately. Generic distinctions may also come into play. Should one include separate coverage of receptions in music, literature, sermons, and visual art, or integrate them into the broader discussion at appropriate points?

Textual Criticism and Materiality as Reception History The scholarly shift from the origins of a text to its readers, audience, and effects offers the potential for viewing textual criticism as a potent source for understanding Revelation’s reception. Textual critics have themselves shifted focus from the reconstruction of the potentially problematic “original text” to interest in subsequent scribal corrections, transcriptional errors, and emendations. Some examples will serve to illustrate this potential. The title given to the book is strictly secondary. Nonetheless, its variations and increasing length reflect changing perceptions of its author and his significance, and of the book’s subject matter. The earliest form is simply “Apocalypse of John,” without further defining its author, a pattern that adapts the text’s opening words, “Apocalypse of Jesus Christ” (1:1). Perhaps most developed is the title provided in a late manuscript from Mount Athos: “The Revelation of the all-glorious Evangelist, bosom-friend [of Jesus], virgin, beloved to Christ, John the theologian, son of Salome and Zebedee, but adopted son of Mary the Mother of God, and Son of Thunder” (Metzger 1994, 662). John’s biography is now complex, he is clearly identified with both the apostle and Fourth Evangelist, and his writings are treated as sources of theological wisdom. The manuscript tradition provides additional examples of Revelation’s chequered reception, particularly in the East. The lack of Greek lectionary versions of the text reflects its absence from the Byzantine liturgy, an absence that persists to the present (Parker 2008, 233). Nonetheless, there are contrary indicators that the liturgy impacted directly on the transmission of the Greek text. The longer form “into the ages of ages” widely attested at 1:6 may be due to liturgical influence, as is also the presence of “Amen” to conclude the book (Rev 22:21; Metzger 1994, 663, 691). The original text of Revelation in the fourth-century Codex Sinaiticus is a striking example of the book’s reception. It contains a significant number of unusual readings, at least some of which betray evidence of intentional exegetical activity as opposed to transcriptional error (Hernández 2010, 2015; Allen 2017). The reading of 10:1, for example, in which the mighty angel dressed in a cloud has “hair” (thrix) on his head, whereas the majority reading is “rainbow” (iris), shows a clear tendency to interpret this angel Christologically, in line with the majority view of the commentary tradition

386   Ian Boxall (e.g., Victorinus, Tyconius, Primasius, Bede, Alcuin, Thomas Brightman). It provides an intratextual connection to the “hair” of the one like of a son of man at 1:14. The “rainbow” is also lacking in 4:3. Instead of the majority reading “around the throne is a rainbow that looks like an emerald,” Sinaticus has “priests” (hiereis) around the throne (Allen 2017, 307). This change is often explained as a case of scribal mishearing. However, it may instead be deliberate, providing insight into the scribe’s reception of the wider passage. It has the effect of heightening the liturgical dimension of the vision, since it takes place in the heavenly sanctuary. It also clarifies the priestly identity of the twenty-four elders, a possibility already suggested by the repetition of “around the throne” in 4:3–4 (Allen 2017, 307–9). It may even reflect the practice of Constantine’s court, where priests stood around the emperor’s throne (Parker 2008, 244). Another puzzling reading in Sinaiticus may also reflect a conscious attempt to solve an exegetical difficulty. Its reading of 21:17 replaces the “wall” (teichos) of the new Jerusalem with chilos, which is possibly an abbreviated form of cheilos, or “edge.” That the “edge” of the new Jerusalem measures 144 cubits is less problematic than this measurement being the dimension of its wall, highly disproportionate to its massive height (twelve thousand stadia; Hernández 2010). Nor are deliberate changes the only textual-critical evidence for reception. Occasionally, what is almost certainly a scribal error nonetheless initiates a particular trajectory of reception and interpretation that illuminates other, perhaps neglected, dimensions of the text. An Arabic translation of 1:1, quoted in the Apocalypse commentary of Ibn Kātib Qayṣar, a thirteenth-century bishop of Old Cairo, is based on the translator’s misreading of the Bohairic Coptic text. Instead of God or Christ sending the revelation “through his angel to his servant John,” the translation equates the last two figures: “by way of his angel, his servant John.” This reading enables Ibn Kātib Qayṣar to explore the connections between apostles and angelic messengers, to identify John of Patmos with the ascetic John the Baptist as well as the evangelist and apostle, since monastic asceticism was angelic in character, and to understand angels, including the “angels of the seven churches,” as priests and bishops (Davis 2008, 91–94). Textual criticism, in its attention to specific manuscripts with their interpretative clues and marginal comments, reminds us of the materiality of the Bible and the book of Revelation in particular (Carey 1999). The Apocalypse of John is not one thing, but is embodied in a multiplicity of physical forms, each of which contributes to how the text is received. Manuscripts include complete or near complete versions of its text, combinations of biblical text and commentary, and richly illuminated manuscripts, some for liturgical and some for private use, where the dynamic between the image and the text plays a hermeneutical role. Evidence for eastern debates about Revelation’s canonicity includes the fact that a significant number of manuscripts of Revelation form part of nonbiblical collections. For example, the text is preserved with the sermons, hagiography, and exegetical or theological texts of patristic authors such as Justin, Hippolytus, John Chrysostom, and Pseudo-Dionysius (Parker 2008, 233). The advent of printing not only facilitated the widespread circulation of printed Bibles, in which competing interpretations of Revelation could be promoted through marginal notes, it also allowed

Reception History and Interpretation   387 relatively cheap reproductions of visual commentary in the form of woodcuts. Perhaps most influential was Albrecht Dürer’s Apocalypse series, first published in 1498, in which the image came to take precedence over the scriptural text. Reception history, broadly conceived, has the capacity to embrace these very different formats and examine how they affect the reception of the text.

Revelation’s Visual Reception Dürer is just one of many visual artists who have been inspired by Revelation’s visual character across the centuries (e.g., Meer 1978; Carey 1999; Rowland 2005; O’Hear 2011; O’Hear and O’Hear 2015). These exemplify the particular possibilities of visual reception: offering an immediacy to the text, evoking a direct emotional response on the part of the viewer; presenting several scenes, or images synchronically, so as to highlight their connectivity; holding several interpretations of the same passage together in tension, without requiring the viewer to choose between them; contemporizing the ancient text through the incorporation of familiar places, local coloring, and present-day dress. Each of these is a dimension of the text’s meaning, which can often be obscured by historical criticism’s emphasis on origins and univocal authorial intention. Analysis of what the art historian Paolo Berdini (1997, 12) calls “visual exegesis,” according to which the image is “a bearer of exegetical experience,” requires a particular skill set appropriate to the genre: attention to art historical methods, including awareness of when an artist (or the patron or theological adviser) is breaking with their artistic predecessors. The issue of visual reception is further complicated by the changing contexts of reception: many of the visualizations of the Apocalypse produced for a church setting are now encountered in the “alien” environment of the art gallery. The instinct to visualize begins early in Christian history. Motifs like the Alpha and Omega and scenes from Revelation like the Lamb on the throne, the twenty-four elders, the four living creatures as the evangelists and the new Jerusalem appear already in early Christian art. These modest beginnings are supplemented in the Middle Ages by Apocalypse cycles presenting the visions of the book sequentially in frescoes and illuminated manuscripts. Also important are the altarpieces that underscore the close correlation between Revelation and worship, especially the Eucharist, such as Jan and Hubert van Eyck’s Ghent altarpiece, which is centered on the Lamb of God standing on a Christian altar. Woodcuts such as Dürer’s continue this tradition in the early modern period, while those of his successors like Lucas Cranach the Elder served useful polemical purpose during the Reformation and beyond. Cranach’s Babylon, illustrating Rev 17 in the September 1522 edition of Luther’s New Testament, was groundbreaking in depicting the whore wearing the papal triple tiara (Scribner 1994; O’Hear 2011, 175–96). Revelation’s wider cultural impact beyond formal Christian contexts is strikingly exemplified in the Four Horsemen statues in Bruges, by the Belgian sculptor Rik Poot (1981–1987), who has depicted them as vivid symbols of pestilence, war, famine, and death.

388   Ian Boxall The visual treatment of two passages from Revelation will suffice to illustrate the fecundity and diversity of visual exegesis. The first is John’s inaugural vision (1:9–20), which often functions as interpretative key for the whole of John’s book. John describes how he was “in the spirit” on the Lord’s Day while “on the island which is called Patmos.” Artistic interpretations focus variously on the Patmos location and its significance, the character of John’s visionary experience, the content of his inaugural vision of “one like a son of man,” or the further sequence of heavenly visions which this opening vision makes possible. Both Hieronymus Bosch (St John the Evangelist on Patmos, ca. 1500) and Diego Velázquez (St John the Evangelist on the Island of Patmos, 1618) parallel discussions in the commentary tradition regarding how best to categorize John’s vision. For both, the manner of John’s “seeing” is noncorporeal and, in the case of Velázquez, clearly intellectual. A contemporary of Bosch’s, by contrast, chooses to explore another dimension of John’s Patmos vision: the restoration of Eden in the new Jerusalem (Rev 21–22). Hans Burgkmair the Elder (Altarpiece of St John the Evangelist, 1518) depicts Patmos as a lush tropical island, paradise regained, probably partly inspired by apocalyptic optimism provoked by discoveries in the New World. Another visual example responds to the inherent ambiguity in John’s statement that he was on Patmos “on account of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus” (1:9). Although the dominant view across the centuries is that he was there as an exile, other possibilities suggest themselves: that he went there for missionary purposes or retreated there under divine compulsion for visionary experience. Commentators regularly treat these as mutually exclusive. Visual artists, however, are able to retain a sense of ambiguity or multivalency. A fourteenth-century German triptych altarpiece from the workshop of Master Bertram, now in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, is a final example. One of its side panels visualizes the story of John, in which the saint is successively exiled to Patmos, receives his revelation from an angel, and preaches to the island’s population. Thus, unlike most written commentaries, it does not require its viewers to decide between the exilic, visionary, and evangelistic interpretations of Rev 1:9. The center of the passage in question is the extraordinary vision of “one like a son of man.” For some, the multiple details in this vision—eyes like flames of fire; feet like ­burnished bronze; sword coming out of his mouth; seven stars in his hand—are too fluid to enable the scene to be adequately visualized. They may find some justification in Albrecht Dürer’s awkward representation of this scene in his woodcut cycle. But for others this is a vision that potentially has a profound emotional effect, not only on the character of John but on the reader. The sixteenth-century Byzantine icon of the scene by Thomas Vathas is more successful in conveying the awesome vision that causes John to fall down “as if dead,” Located in the Cave of the Apocalypse on Patmos, where it forms part of the iconostasis or icon screen, it visually connects John’s vision with the experience of the Orthodox worshiper during the Divine Liturgy or the pilgrim visiting the cave-shrine. A second passage that has left a rich visual footprint is Rev 6:1–8, the four horsemen. The visual reception closely parallels the contested interpretation of the horsemen in the commentary tradition (O’Hear and O’Hear  2015, 70–92). The ninth-century Trier

Reception History and Interpretation   389 Apocalypse separates the first rider from the other three, reflecting an early tradition that identified this first rider as Christ or the victory of the gospel (Trier Stadtsbibliothek, MS 31, f. 19v). That all four riders have haloes, however, presents them all as divine agents, rather than demonic forces of destruction. By contrast, a modern mural in the headquarters of the US Conference of Catholic Bishops in Washington, DC, depicts a large, Christ-like rider on a white horse turning his bow on the other three, his smaller and weaker opponents in the cosmic battle. The capacity of visual art to exploit ambiguity is exemplified in the famous St John Altarpiece by Hans Memling, whose right panel portrays John on Patmos (ca. 1479). In Memling’s canvas, which presents the sequence of visions of Rev 4–13 synchronically, the first horseman gallops in the opposite direction from the other three, his head and bow directed behind him, leaving open the possibility that he is a Christ-like figure. By contrast, Dürer’s iconic woodcut of the scene has all four riding out together, and the visual focus is on the large third rider, Famine, dominating the center, and a skeletal Death in the front. All four horsemen thereby function as agents of divine judgment in the present, with contemporary characters, including a bishop, being trampled beneath the horses’ hooves. Different again is the decision to depict each horseman separately, thus shifting focus to what each signifies (e.g., the eleventh-century Bamberg Apocalypse). Particularly striking is the focus on the fourth rider by several eighteenthand nineteenth-century British artists, notably Joseph Mallord William Turner in his Death on a Pale Horse (ca. 1825–1830), believed in part to be a response to his father’s death. Here cultural changes result in the subject being disconnected, not only from his fellow riders, but from the wider narrative, in which God and the Lamb are the primary actors. These all are striking examples of the shifting receptions of this famous vision, responding visually to exegetical ambiguities and changing cultural circumstances.

Usefulness and Future Prospects Perhaps the most pressing question regarding reception history concerns its usefulness. What does it contribute to the task of interpreting the text, beyond a variety of examples of what the text has meant or the effects it has had? The foregoing discussion has attempted to address this question in different ways. Reception history can function variously to explore the trajectory of specific traditions of interpretation, open up forgotten or fresh perspectives, and challenge historical-critical assumptions that the meaning of a text is straightforward or univocal. Its broad compass means that it can explore negative as well as positive effects, and give some historical account of the emergence of the former in particular cultural circumstances. Even scholars somewhat skeptical of the usefulness of reception history generally, might recognize its appropriateness for the Book of Revelation. Given its hybrid genre, visionary character, tensive images, and its author’s reluctance to provide explicit interpretations of his visions (1:20, 13:18, and 17:10–18 are rare exceptions), the quest for Revelation’s meaning is less than straightforward.

390   Ian Boxall Two dimensions of reception history’s usefulness are worth highlighting. First, it is essentially interdisciplinary, drawing upon theology, liturgy, history, politics, literature, music, visual art, drama, and film studies. The reception history of Revelation is already bringing conversation partners from different disciplines into constructive dialogue, and biblical scholars play a key role because of their specific textual expertise. Second, reception history has a proven ability to address “real life” issues, helping overcome the criticism that biblical scholarship is disconnected from how ordinary people read the Bible. This apparent disconnect between scholarly exegesis and popular usage, whether by Christians or in the wider culture, is keenly felt in the case of the Apocalypse. There have been examples (thankfully a minority of cases) where reading Revelation has literally been a matter of life or death. In 1993, knowledge of Revelation’s reception history, as William John Lyons famously noted, may have been more directly useful to the FBI during its siege of the Branch Davidian compound at Waco, Texas, than the commentary on Revelation in Oxford Bible Commentary (Lyons 2010, 215). Whether the deaths at Waco might thereby have been averted remains a moot point. But this example does highlight reception history’s potential to contribute to the common good. Another example might be the divided Christian discourse over environmental concerns, including climate change. Revelation is frequently appealed to as justification for Christian disengagement with ecological issues, on the grounds that the new heaven and new earth (21:1) will come about through the obliteration of the present earth. Again, attention to Revelation’s reception offers resources for a very different theological approach, as Micah Kiel has recently shown, not least through his analysis of its medieval visual reception, which often highlighted a profound connectedness between humans and the rest of creation (Kiel 2017). What of reception history’s future prospects? John Lyons’s proposal that biblical studies be reconfigured as biblical “reception history” (Lyons 2010), both to overcome the disjunction between historical criticism and postmodern approaches and to avoid the marginalization of biblical scholarship in secular universities, is an attractive one. Nor is it purely pragmatic, given the inherent benefits for understanding the text, what it has done and what it can do. Whether the effect would be to make reception history too broad a category to be useful, remains an open question. But one aspect of Lyons’s concern will surely become more prominent in the years ahead: its interdisciplinarity. Although some fine reception-historical studies have been produced by individual biblical scholars, the range of knowledge and expertise required encourages collaboration. Already, a number of the Wiley-Blackwell Bible Commentaries, including the volume on Revelation, are coauthored. The collaborative aspect of reception history, including the commentary genre, is likely to be even more pronounced in the future, as is the shift away from predominantly book-focused commentary. And there are already indications of what that future might be. The reception­historical potential of textual criticism, and of the material dimensions of texts, is already made easier by digitization, as in the online Codex Sinaiticus and the work of the Center for the Study of New Testament Manuscripts. The multiauthored project of the École Biblique in Jerusalem, The Bible in Its Traditions, has the potential to combine

Reception History and Interpretation   391 the flexibility of the internet with the dynamic relationship between text, intertext, and marginal commentary that is typical of the medieval glossae. The Visual Commentary on Scripture, based at King’s College London, offers an online framework for bridging the gap between biblical scholarship and the contemporary public interest in biblical art. In short, the future for reception-historical study of John’s textually ambiguous and highly visual Apocalypse looks decidedly healthy.

References Allen, Garrick V. 2017. “Textual History and Reception History: Exegetical Variations in the Apocalypse.” NovT 59: 297–319. Beal, Timothy. 2011. “Reception History and Beyond: Toward the Cultural History of Scriptures.” BI 19: 357–72. Berdini, Paolo. 1997. The Religious Art of Jacopo Bassano: Painting as Visual Exegesis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bockmuehl, Markus. 1995. “A Commentator’s Approach to the ‘Effective History’ of Philippians.” JSNT 60: 57–88. Bockmuehl, Markus. 2006. Seeing the Word: Refocusing New Testament Study. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Boxall, Ian. 2013. Patmos in the Reception History of the Apocalypse. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Carey, Frances, ed. 1999. The Book of Revelation and the Shape of Things to Come. London: British Museum Press. Chilton, Bruce. 2013. Visions of the Apocalypse: Receptions of John’s Revelation in Western Imagination. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Chryssavgis, John, ed. 2012. On Earth as in Heaven: Ecological Vision and Initiatives of Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew. New York: Fordham University Press. Cowley, Roger  W. 1983. The Traditional Interpretation of the Apocalypse of St. John in the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Crossley, James. 2010. Reading the New Testament: Contemporary Approaches. London: Routledge, esp. pp. 117–63. Crossley, James. 2015. “The End of Reception History: A Grand Narrative for Biblical Studies and the Neoliberal Bible.” In Reception History and Biblical Studies: Theory and Practice, edited by Emma England and William John Lyons, pp. 45–59. London: Bloomsbury. Davies, Stephen J. 2008. “Introducing an Arabic Commentary on the Apocalypse: Ibn Kātib Qayṣar on Revelation.” HTR 101: 77–96. Emmerson, Richard K., and Bernard McGinn, eds. 1992. The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. England, Emma, and William John Lyons. 2015. “Explorations in the Reception of the Bible.” In Reception History and Biblical Studies: Theory and Practice, edited by Emma England and William John Lyons, pp. 3–13. London: Bloomsbury. Evans, Robert. 2014. Reception History, Tradition and Biblical Interpretation: Gadamer and Jauss in Current Practice. London: Bloomsbury. Flanigan, C. Clifford. 1992. “The Apocalypse and the Medieval Liturgy.” In The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, edited by Richard K. Emmerson and Bernard McGinn, pp. 333–51. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

392   Ian Boxall Gadamer, Hans-Georg. 1989. Truth and Method. 2nd ed. London: Sheed and Ward. Gillingham, Susan. 2015. “Biblical Studies on Holiday? A Personal View of Reception History.” In Reception History and Biblical Studies: Theory and Practice, edited by Emma England and William John Lyons, pp. 17–30. London: Bloomsbury. Hernández, Juan, Jr. 2010. “A Scribal Solution to a Problematic Measurement in the Apocalypse.” NTS 56: 273–78. Hernández, Juan, Jr. 2015. “Codex Sinaiticus: An Early Christian Commentary on the Apocalypse?” In Codex Sinaiticus: New Perspectives on the Ancient Biblical Manuscript, edited by Scot McKendrick, David Parker, Amy Myshrall, and Cillian O’Hogan, pp. 107–26. London: British Library and Peabody: Hendrickson. Jauss, Hans Robert. 1982. Toward an Aesthetic of Reception. Translated by Timothy Bahti. Theory and History of Literature 2. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Kiel, Micah. 2017. Apocalyptic Eschatology: The Book of Revelation, the Earth, and the Future. Collegeville: Liturgical Press. Koester, Craig  R. 2014. Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AYB 38A. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Kovacs, Judith, and Christopher Rowland. 2004. Revelation: The Apocalypse of Jesus Christ. Blackwell Bible Commentaries. Oxford: Blackwell. Lieb, Michael, Emma Mason, and Jonathan Roberts, eds. 2011. The Oxford Handbook of the Reception History of the Bible. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lyons, William John. 2010. “Hope for a Troubled Discipline? Contributions to New Testament Studies from Reception History.” JSNT 33: 207–20. Lyons, William John, and Jorunn Økland, eds. 2009. The Way the World Ends? The Apocalypse of John in Culture and Ideology. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Phoenix Press Luz, Ulrich. 1989. Matthew 1–7: A Commentary. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Luz, Ulrich. 1994. Matthew in History: Interpretation, Influence, and Effects. Minneapolis: Fortress. Luz, Ulrich. 2005. Studies in Matthew. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Meer, Frederick van der. 1978. Apocalypse: Visions from the Book of Revelation in Western Art. London: Thames and Hudson. Metzger, Bruce M. 1994. A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament. 2nd ed. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft. O’Hear, Natasha. 2011. Contrasting Images of the Book of Revelation in Late Medieval and Early Modern Art. Oxford: Oxford University Press. O’Hear, Natasha, and Anthony O’Hear. 2015. Picturing the Apocalypse: The Book of Revelation in the Arts over Two Millennia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Parker, David C. 2008. An Introduction to the New Testament Manuscripts and Their Texts. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Parris, David Paul. 2009. Reception Theory and Biblical Hermeneutics. Eugene, OR: Pickwick. Patrides, C. R., and Joseph Wittreich, eds. 1984. The Apocalypse in English Renaissance Thought and Literature. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Räisänen, Heikki. 1992. “The ‘Effective History’ of the Bible: A Challenge to Biblical Scholarship?” SJT 45: 303–24. Räisänen, Heikki. 2009. “Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side.” In The Way the World Ends? The Apocalypse of John in Culture and Ideology, edited by William John Lyons and Jorunn Økland, pp. 151–65. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Rowland, Christopher. 2005. “Imagining the Apocalypse.” NTS 51: 303–27.

Reception History and Interpretation   393 Rowland, Christopher, and Ian Boxall. 2013. “Reception Theory/Criticism.” In Oxford Encyclopedia of Biblical Interpretation, vol. 2, edited by Steven McKenzie, pp. 206–15. New York: Oxford University Press. Ryan, Sean. 2016. “Praising God in Adversity: Tyconius’s Ecclesiological Exegesis of the Celestial Liturgy (Rev. 4–5).” In The Book of Revelation and Its Interpreters: Short Studies and an Annotated Bibliography, edited by Ian Boxall and Richard Tresley, pp. 27–51. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Scribner, Robert  W. 1994. For the Sake of Simple Folk: Popular Propaganda for the German Reformation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wainwright, Arthur W. 1993. Mysterious Apocalypse. Nashville: Abingdon.

chapter 24

The I n ter pr etation of the Book of R ev el ation i n E a r ly Chr isti a n it y Charles E. Hill

Early interpretation of the book of Revelation emerged naturally from the life situation of the church, one it still largely shared with John and the Asian churches he addressed. Some of the most enlightening appropriations of the book’s message in the early church are found, then, not in the relatively few commentaries, of which we have no evidence before the late third century, but in the intuitive exegesis found here and there in the church’s writings, and particularly in its martyr literature. It was in her daily life in this world, and not simply in an expected future, that the church/mother and her children encountered the dragon, the beasts, and all their hellish powers up close. And it is precisely in suffering that they believed they most intensely experienced the paradoxical conquest of the slaughtered Lamb. In the wake of the Gallic persecution of 177, the author of the Letter of the Churches of Vienne and Lyons declared that the martyred Vettius Epagathus now “follows the Lamb wherever he goes,” apparently viewing him as one of the one hundred forty-four thousand on Mt. Zion in Rev 14:4 (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.1.9–10). To this author (perhaps the young Irenaeus), the sufferings of his community were a foreshadowing of the Adversary’s future coming against the church (5.1.4). Co-opting the language of Revelation, this author calls the executed martyrs “conquerors” (5.1.36, 58; 5.2.6), who, having conquered, receive the “crown of incorruption” (5.1.36). The enemy of the Christians is the “wild beast” (5.1.56; 5.2.6), the crooked serpent (5.1.42). The model for the community’s martyr/witnesses was “Christ, the faithful and true witness and firstborn from the dead and author of the life of God”—a clear conflation of the descriptions of Jesus from Rev 1:5 and 3:14 and Acts 3:15. A similar Apocalypse-imbued spirituality permeates Hippolytus’s martyrological reflections on Daniel in the lions’ den and on the

396   Charles E. Hill three Hebrew youths in the fiery furnace, and both Origen’s and Cyprian’s letters to martyrs and confessors. Beyond the church’s martyrological literature, we find the influence of John’s Revelation in ecclesiastical letters, treatises, sermons, and commentaries, as well as in early forms of Christian art. Naturally, Revelation played a formative role in the development of Christian eschatological thought, though the reading of Revelation was never confined to eschatological interests, in the usual sense of the term. Christians always found the book to be full of ethical and Christological insight that informed the present life of churches and the discipleship of individuals. The early reception of Revelation as Scripture is not surprising, given the book’s own claims to divine authority. More unexpected is the role John’s visions played in not only interpreting other passages of Scripture, but also in validating or canonizing other Scriptures. Irenaeus’s association of the four living creatures of Rev 4:6–8 with the four canonical Gospels (Haer. 3.11.8) is only the most famous example. The treatment here will focus on two aspects of each author’s interaction with John’s Apocalypse. We shall be interested in how the book was appropriated to form the church’s eschatological faith, defined here not only as a faith directed toward the fulfillment of future worldly events (e.g., persecution by the beasts, the return of Christ, bodily resurrection, and last judgment) but also as a faith in which the Christian community experiences the present age in union with its reigning heavenly king, Jesus Christ. Our other major interest will be in locating significant hermeneutical contributions each author made to the collective and cumulative task of interpreting Revelation. Where appropriate, the canonical implications they draw from the text of Revelation will also be noted. Besides the often precarious sociopolitical situation in which the church found itself, two other sociological factors affected especially the earliest interpreters: their apologetic interactions with the phenomenon of ongoing Jewish messianism, and the need to respond to the heretical excesses of Gnosticizing teachers such as Cerinthus, Marcion, and the Valentinians. Christian interactions with persons, institutions, and literature representing these ostensibly external cultural forces contributed to the interpretation of Revelation more profoundly than is often realized.

Revelation in the West before Tyconius John addressed his book to “the seven churches that are in Asia.” It is a point of special interest that some of the first surviving witnesses to the book and its interpretation have connections to one of these seven churches: Justin, whose Dialogue with Trypho is set in Ephesus; Melito, bishop of the church in Sardis; and Irenaeus, who grew up in Smyrna. But Christians in distant regions perceived that the book was written for them as well. We follow first the thread from Asia Minor to Rome, to North Africa, and to Gaul.

The Book of Revelation in Early Christianity   397

Justin We know that prior to Justin, Papias of Hierapolis held a chiliastic outlook, but Papias’s chiliasm, from what we know of it, does not seem closely based on Revelation (McGinn  2009, 86). Short references to Revelation are also found in the Epistula Apostolorum and in other sources likely datable to the first half of the second century. But the first Christian writer who shows a significant interaction with a portion of the book of Revelation is the converted philosopher Justin, writing in Rome circa 160. Eschatology: In chapters 80 and 81 of his Dialogue with Trypho the Jew, Justin reveals an understanding of the millennium of Rev 20:1–10, coordinated with several Old Testament texts, as an earthly kingdom with Jerusalem as its center. The introduction of Jerusalem into the interpretive space of Rev 20:4–6 (where it is not textually present) is accomplished by citing Isaiah’s prediction of a new Jerusalem in Isa 65:17–25. The thousand years of John’s prophecy, Justin believes, were obscurely foreshadowed in Isa 65:22, where the days of God’s people in the kingdom are forecast to be “according to the days of the tree of life” (“of life” in the LXX, not in Hebrew). Then, conflating the “day” on which Adam was to suffer death in Gen 2:17 with the “one day is as a thousand years” formula from Ps 90:4 (89:4 LXX), means that Adam’s death occurred within the first thousand years of the world’s existence. Justin is using the cosmic week scheme first witnessed in Christian sources in Barn. 15.5: “Observe, children, what ‘he finished in six days’ means. It means this: that in six thousand years the Lord will bring everything to an end, for with him a day signifies a thousand years.” Justin’s exegesis results in an expectation for a re-established, earthly Jerusalem that was evidently very much in accord with that of Trypho, who is surprised to hear the Christian’s “admission” that the Jews’ ancestral city would be restored. Its glory, however, Justin insists, will only be enjoyed by Christians, the true children of Abraham. Hermeneutical Contribution: Justin’s importance for the interpretation of Revelation lies chiefly in his witness to an early effort to join Rev 20:1–10 to a fairly traditional Jewish chiliastic eschatology. The centrality of Jerusalem in Justin’s chiliastic exegesis, in the context of his discussion with Trypho, shows his hermeneutic to belong to an apologetic that sought to claim as much of the traditional Jewish hope as possible for Christianity. Nevertheless, in this the earliest known literary use of Rev 20:1–10, Justin also implies that another viable Christian interpretation of the passage may have preceded his writing, when he acknowledges that many true Christians of the pure and pious faith do not share his hope for the earthly city of Jerusalem (Dial. 80.2). It is even possible that Justin himself espoused this alternative position in his Apologies and in the account of his martyrdom—­whether this signals a change of outlook for Justin, or a certain unsettledness on his part, is a matter for speculation. Here the kingdom Christians seek is not earthly or human but “with God,” and Christians enter it and “reign in company with him” when they are delivered from the corruption and sufferings of the present life (1 Apol. 10.2–3). At his trial before the prefect Rusticus, circa 165, Justin is convinced that if he endures, he will ascend (anabainein) to heaven upon his death (Mart. Justin 5; cf. 2 Apol. 2.18–19), a view that in the chiliast portions of his Dialogue he had associated

398   Charles E. Hill only with heretics who denied the resurrection (Dial. 80.4). In Justin’s chiliastic exegesis of Rev 20, then, we see the influences of both Judaism and of dualistic heresy, cooperating to push his Christian eschatology toward its pre-Christian roots.

Irenaeus In the roughly two decades that separate Justin from the writings of Irenaeus, writers such as Hegesippus in Rome, Theophilus in Antioch, and Melito in Sardis, who wrote a lost book entitled On the Devil and the Revelation of John, were making use of Revelation (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.18.1; 4.24.1; 4.26.2), but little is known of their exegesis. Irenaeus may have known some of these, besides the Letter of the Churches of Vienne and Lyons mentioned earlier. He had also received from Polycarp a typological hermeneutic which emphasized the analogy between the redemption from Egypt in the exodus and the redemption from the gentiles and the world in Christ. Very likely, this included the specific observation that the bowl judgments in Rev 16 showed that the nations are to “receive the same plagues universally, as Egypt then did particularly” (Haer. 4.30.4). In Irenaeus himself, however, we finally have an author in whom we can see a wide-ranging use of Revelation as sacred Scripture. All but four of the book’s modern chapters are attested in his work. Scripture and Canon: From Gaul, near the edge of the Christian mission’s western frontier, comes its most ambitious theological achievement to date, Irenaeus’s Against Heresies. Representing the general tradition, Irenaeus knows the book of Revelation as a product of the same John, disciple of the Lord, who wrote the Gospel. His best known appropriation of Revelation is no doubt his identification of the four living creatures of Rev 4:6–8 with the four Gospels (Haer. 3.11.8), a connection that would have a long run in Apocalypse exegesis, as well as in Christian art. The particular identifications would later shift in the works of Jerome (Comm. Matt. pref.), Augustine (de Cons. Ev. 1.6.9), and Pseudo Athanasius (PG 28.432.39–51), but the notion that the four creatures symbolize the Gospels would persist. The notion itself, as Irenaeus uses it, may not be as capricious as it seems, for it was suggested by a real analogy: as the divine Christ sits between the four-faced cherubim (Ps 80:1; Ezek 1:5–6, 26–28; a tradition known also from Ep. Apos. 3.1), so too, he is now seated among the four Gospels. Irenaeus probably exhibits another canonical interpretation when he labels the scroll handed to the Lamb in Rev 5:7 “the book of God,” most likely meaning the Old Testament (see the section “Victorinus” in this chapter). Eschatology: First we consider the Antichrist (Rev 13; 17; 19). For Irenaeus, Revelation has much to teach about the glory of Christ (e.g., Rev 1:12–20; 5:6; 19:11–17 in Haer. 4.20.11; Rev 3:7; 5:1–10 in Haer. 4.20.2) and the church (e.g., Rev 2:6 in Haer. 1.26.3; Rev 5:8 in Haer. 4.17.5; Rev 11:19 and 21:3 in Haer. 4.18.6) in this present age. But most influential for later interpreters would be his scripturally integrated, futurist construal of Revelation’s final chapters. Irenaeus is the first known interpreter to apply the epithet “Antichrist” from 1 and 2 John to the sea beast of Rev 13:1–10; 17:8–17; 19:19–20 (the earth beast/false prophet of

The Book of Revelation in Early Christianity   399 Rev 13:11–18 is Antichrist’s armor-bearer, Haer. 5.28.2), combining this figure also with Daniel’s little horn (Dan. 7) and Paul’s man of lawlessness (2 Thess. 2.3–12). This beast is the Roman power in its final form, and its ten horns are ten kings “among whom the empire which now rules shall be partitioned” (Haer. 5.26.1). One of these will be the Antichrist, who will slay three others when he comes to power (Haer. 5.25.1). Antichrist’s number 666 (Rev 13:18) suggests to Irenaeus a “summing up of the whole of that apostasy which has taken place during six thousand years” (Haer. 5.28.2; Irenaeus, too, assumed the cosmic-week chronology). By the late second century there had already been debate over Rev 13:18 and the attempt to divine the name of Antichrist from the numbers 666 or, due to an apparent scribal alteration, 616—a reading now represented in P.Oxy. 4499 (P115) and accepted in the Latin commentaries of Tyconius and Caesarius of Arles. Irenaeus reminds any who had dared to change this number that the book curses the one “who either adds or subtracts anything from the Scripture” (Rev 22:19; Haer. 5.30.2). Irenaeus will make no firm prediction of Antichrist’s name, though based on gematria he favors Teitan or Lateinos. But he will venture to draw from Revelation a definite conclusion about the adversary’s national origin. Irenaeus interprets the omission of Dan from the twelve tribes in Rev 7:5–8 as an indication that Antichrist will come from that tribe (Hill 1995). Antichrist will reign for three years and six months and will move his kingdom to Jerusalem, where he “shall sit in the temple of God (2 Thess. 2:4), leading astray those who worship him, as if he were Christ” (Haer. 5.25.4). But the real Christ will return and banish him to the lake of fire (Rev 19:20; Haer. 5.30.4, cf. 5.28.1). Then will come “for the righteous the times of the kingdom, that is, the rest, the hallowed seventh day” (5.30.4). Next is the Millennium (Rev 20:1–10). Having broached the topic of the millennial kingdom in Haer. 5.30.4, Irenaeus pauses to deal with an “error,” which, he implies, prevents some who were reputed to be orthodox from adopting this doctrine, an error, he charges, that derives ultimately from heretical sources. That error is the belief that the righteous are received into heaven at the point of death. The heretics claim this privilege, but they despise God’s good creation and deny the resurrection of their bodies (5.31.1). Orthodox Christians who believe that they, too, will ascend to heaven at death, must, Irenaeus warns, remember the “law of the dead” (5.31.2), according to which the souls even of the just go away to the lower parts of the earth (as their Master did) “and there remain until the resurrection,” at which time, and not before, they will arise body and soul (as their Master did). The millennial kingdom on earth—in which Jerusalem again, according to the LXX of Isa 31:9–32:1; 54:11–14; 65:18–22; and Bar 4:26–5:9, holds a central place (Haer. 5.34.4)—furnishes the necessary training and discipline for the saints, preparing them finally to dwell in the presence of God (Haer. 5.31.1–2; 5.32.1; 5.35.2). As disruptive to New Testament eschatology as this may be, it was part and parcel of the chiliast eschatology that Christian writers like Papias, Justin, and Irenaeus had taken over from Jewish apocalyptic sources such as 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch (Hill 2001). Irenaeus’s presentation in Haer. 5.31–32 is significant because it indicates that the alternative to the chiliastic interpretation of Rev 20:1–10 among his orthodox brethren was the common

400   Charles E. Hill Christian belief that the souls of the redeemed joined Christ in God’s heavenly presence at death (Luke 23:43; John 14:2–3; 2 Cor 5:6–8). This approach to the text is likely the one to which Justin before him had alluded. It understood the temporary kingdom of Christ in Rev 20:4–6 as centralized in heaven, and the souls on thrones on 20:4 as the souls of departed believers. This kingdom concerned the present time (hoc tempus; Haer. 5.34.2 near end). Hermeneutical Contribution: When Irenaeus criticizes some interpreters for allegorizing the Scriptures (Haer. 5.35.1), his main target is the Valentinian transmutation of bodily resurrection and a material new earth into spiritual existence in a super-celestial Pleroma. Within range, however, are also any reputedly orthodox brethren who do not believe in an earthly millennial kingdom, who “bypass” this part of God’s plan and expect an immediate entry into God’s presence at death. Irenaeus opposes the allegorists not with literalism per se (he uses allegory himself at times) but with a hermeneutic that seeks to honor God’s good creation, one Irenaeus believes is assumed by the prophets themselves. As with Justin, both Christian-Jewish apologetics and anti-gnostic polemics color Irenaeus’s exposition of Revelation. The first is the stronger in Justin, the second in Irenaeus, who found in the creation-affirming chiliasm of Papias (Haer. 5.33.3–4) and of Justin’s Dialogue a weapon well-crafted for the refutation of Valentinianism and other anti-materialist theosophies.

Hippolytus Establishing the extent of the corpus Hippolytani and even the identity of its creator or creators remain unresolved problems of scholarship. The traditional corpus is probably the work of two or more authors, though scholars are not agreed on the partitions. In any case, the two most overtly eschatological of the works of that corpus, On Christ and Antichrist and Commentary on Daniel, certainly come from the same author and were written in close temporal proximity, probably in the very first years of the third century, during the persecution of Septimus Severus. Taken together, these two works reveal large fragments of a sustained interpretation of Revelation. In addition, there are controverted excerpts attributed to “Hippolytus of Rome” by the twelfth-century Syrian writer Dionysius Bar Salibi in his own commentary on Revelation, taken possibly from a catena of extracts containing excerpts of purportedly Hippolytan exegesis (Prigent 1972; cf. Brent 1995). These eschatological works reveal an author highly steeped in the Jewish and Christian Scriptures and clearly indebted to Irenaeus’s work. Hippolytus, too, is well aware of the danger of error on the Jewish and heretical fronts, but more critical for understanding his social context is that he writes pastorally for a Christian readership very familiar with persecution and martyrdom. It was natural for the persecuted to lay hold of the hope of Christ’s imminent return, but Hippolytus, though he believes that the kingdom of Antichrist had already come to power, counsels the church strongly against a presumptive, immediate expectation of Christ’s return (Comm. Dan. 17–18, etc.).

The Book of Revelation in Early Christianity   401 Eschatology: Hippolytus follows Irenaeus in many aspects of his interpretation of Rev 13–19 and further develops Irenaeus’s notion of Antichrist’s Danite origins (though without reference to Rev 7). Babylon is Rome, which had banished John to Patmos (Antichr. 36). The earth beast (Rev 13:11–18) is the kingdom of Antichrist, and the sea beast is apparently its beginnings in Augustus, “by whom the empire of Rome was established” (Antichr. 49). The angel’s interpretation of the seven heads of the beast in Rev 17:10—“five have fallen, one is, the other is yet to come”—becomes an unusual proof text for the cosmicweek chronology: five thousand-year periods have passed, Christ came in the midst of the sixth, and thus he will not return until five hundred years after his birth (Comm. Dan. 4.23.6; 4.24.4). As with Irenaeus, the seventh thousand-year period will be the Sabbath rest, when Christ reigns with his saints (4.23.4–5). But this is not the millennium of Irenaeus and the chiliasts, for Hippolytus had earlier insisted that no one understand the kingdom given to Christ by the Father as “temporary or earthly” (proskairos ē epigeiosxi; 4.11.4), and the chiliast millennium is both. Instead, in accordance with Dan 7:17–18, it will be perpetual, glorious, and heavenly (4.10.2; Antichr. 5). In Hippolytus there is no glorious future for earthly Jerusalem. Rebuilding this city will be an achievement not of Christ but of the Danite Antichrist, who will also restore the land and its borders to the Jews he liberates (Comm. Dan. 4.49.5). In a further departure from Irenaeus, the first resurrection and the judgment given to the saints in Rev 20:4–6 are for Hippolytus present, heavenly realities. The one who departs this life after testifying to Christ “is no longer being judged at all, but judges [or, ‘will judge’], possessing his own portion in the first resurrection” (Comm. Dan. 2.37.4; cf. Cyprian Fort. 12, and the Roman confessors in Cyprian Ep. 31.3). Like Daniel, Christians, too, may be brought up alive from the “lion’s den” of Hades and found to be partakers in this resurrection (Comm. Dan. 3.31.3). Prophets, martyrs, and apostles are now “at rest” (note the Sabbath allusion) “in the kingdom of Christ” on high (Antichr. 59). For Hippolytus, Rev 20:4–6 does not concern a future reign from Jerusalem on this earth, but describes the blessedness of departed saints, martyrs in particular, in the present age, in the heavenly kingdom of Christ. Yet another interpretation of the “thousand years” of Rev 20:1–10 occurs in one of the excerpts Bar Salibi attributes to Hippolytus. It differs in several ways from that expressed in the two eschatological works, however, so it would seem to represent the thoughts of another author. This author denies that Satan has been bound in any continuing sense according to Matt 12:29 (contrast Hippolytus in Comm. Dan. 4.33.4). And, inverting the common cosmic-week view, the writer says, on the basis of Ps 90:4, that the thousand years of Rev 20:1–7 is a figure for a single day: “the number of the years is not the number of days, but represents the space of one day, glorious and perfect . . . for those that are faithful.” This is very similar to a view witnessed circa 397 in a work called The Progress of Time by the North African Quintus Julius Hilarianus. Although Hilarianus is sometimes cited as a chiliast (Daley 1991, 127), his view, like the one just quoted, defies the usual categories: “To the saints the resurrection will be one day, but this day of the saints will be prolonged so much that to the evil who will be living with pain in the world it will

402   Charles E. Hill number a thousand years. This is the seventh day, the eternal and true Sabbath whose image and figure was that temporal Sabbath written in the Law of Moses” (Progress 18; McGinn 1979, 53). Hermeneutical Contribution: Bernard McGinn sees in Hippolytus an important turning point in the history of interpretation of Revelation, for according to McGinn, Hippolytus made the main point of reference the present age of the church, rather than a future millennium. Hippolytus “had a coherent ecclesiological reading of chapter 12 of the Apocalypse, one that saw the text as a summary of salvation history—past (in relation to its foundation), present (in the ongoing life of the community), and to come (in relation to the final persecution)” (McGinn  2009, 95). For Hippolytus, the woman clothed with the sun is “the Church, endued with the Father’s word, whose brightness is above the sun” (Antichr. 61). The twelve stars on her crown “refer to the twelve apostles by whom the Church was founded.” Her bearing of the man-child means that the Church will not cease to bear from her heart the Word that is persecuted by the unbelieving in the world . . . that the Church, always bringing forth Christ, the perfect man-child of God, who is declared to be God and man, becomes the instructor of all the nations. And the words, “her child was caught up unto God and to his throne,” signify that he who is always born of her is a heavenly king, and not an earthly . . . (Antichr. 61)

Hippolytus believed that John’s vision of the woman and her child in 12:1–5 should remind the church of her constant ministry of bringing forth the incarnate Word, the heavenly king, who instructs hostile nations in the truth. Hippolytus’s understanding of 12:1–5 as relating to the church’s present calling is of a piece with his interpretation of the thousand years of 20:1–6. Hippolytus understands John in this passage to be portraying the heavenly kingdom of the man-child who was caught up to heaven in 12:5, and the reign of the saints who have joined him there. The resemblance of this point of view to those attested previously by Justin and Irenaeus suggests that the turning point Hippolytus marks is not so much the discovery of a new path as the fuller disclosure of an older one.

Tertullian The brilliant Carthaginian Tertullian, active from the late second century until about 220, wrote, among other things, apologetic works against Jews and pagans, and antiheretical works against Marcion, the Valentinians, and Praxeas the Monarchian. In midcareer he began to identify less and less with the hierarchy in Rome and Carthage and more with the puritanical, prophetic Montanist movement. His eschatology underwent a similar shift. Both Hippolytus and Tertullian were heirs of Irenaeus, but Tertullian’s adoption of the Irenaean eschatology, though gradual, was more complete.

The Book of Revelation in Early Christianity   403 Eschatology: Tertullian’s early works show no signs of chiliasm (e.g., Spect. 30.1–4). In Mon. 10.5, of uncertain date but certainly after his turn to the New Prophecy, Tertullian still appears to agree with Hippolytus that the first resurrection of Rev 20:5–6 describes the heavenly refreshment of the saints after death (cf. Exh. cast. 11.1) in the present age. But when, having fully embraced Irenaeus’s chiliasm, he came to write his great treatise de Anima (210–213), he flaunts his contempt for this view, which he now associates with Plato, the Stoics, and the heretics. Under pressure from fellow Christians, though, even the stalwart North African had to exempt one group of saints from Irenaeus’s “law of the dead” (An. 55.2). To those Christians who held that patriarchs, prophets, and now all departed saints are with Christ in paradise, he puts the question, “How is it, then, that the region of Paradise, which as revealed to John in the Spirit lay under the altar, displays no other souls as in it besides the souls of the martyrs?” (An. 55.4 referencing Rev 6:9–11; for support, he also cites Perpetua’s vision). No pure virgins, no innocent infants (An. 55.5), but only martyrs “in the strict sense of the word,” therefore, can also be included in the “great multitude” of white-robed saints in heaven in Rev 7:9–14 (Scorp. 12, cf. Res. 43). The two witnesses Enoch and Elijah, too, are in paradise, but only because they did not die. They must return to earth, as “they are reserved for the suffering of death, that by their blood they might extinguish Antichrist.” (An. 50). In On the Resurrection of the Flesh 25 (ca. 208), Tertullian presents in short compass the “stages of the last times” from “the Revelation of John,” revealing a sequentialist and futurist reading of Rev 16–20. As to the millennium of Rev 20:1–10, Tertullian follows Irenaeus in confessing on the basis of Rev 20–21 “that a kingdom is promised to us upon the earth, although before heaven, only in another state of existence; inasmuch as it will be after the resurrection for a thousand years in the divinely-built city of Jerusalem, ‘let down from heaven,’ [Rev 21:2] . . . ” (Marc. 3.24). Thus Tertullian joins the other chiliasts in finding Jerusalem in chapter 20, this time in terms explicitly taken from 21:1, 10. Scripture and Canon: Perhaps picking up a hint from Irenaeus, Tertullian interprets the double-edged sword proceeding from the mouth of the Word of God in Rev 1:16; 3:12; 19:15, 21 as “the two testaments of the ancient law and the new law” (Marc. 3.14; Adv. Jud. 9). Hermeneutical Contribution: As indicated, Tertullian’s main addition to the Irenaean interpretation of Revelation is probably the exception he carved out for the martyrs of 6:9–11 to dwell in paradise in the present age. But in making the common identification of John’s Babylon as Rome, Tertullian also articulates an elementary but important rhetorical tendency of the divine Scriptures, “figuratively to use a transference of name grounded on parallelism of crimes” (Adv. Jud. 9). That is, present-day Rome can be called Babylon because the two cities alike are “great and proud in royal power, and warring down the saints of God” (Marc. 3.13). Though Tertullian does not further develop this principle, it could easily justify extending applications of “Babylon” to other antichristian cities or cultures as well. So Tyconius will later hold that Babylon is not Rome (per se), but every city in the whole world “that persecutes or persecuted the servants of God” (CRev on 18:19, 20).

404   Charles E. Hill

Victorinus Victorinus of Pettau in modern Slovenia, writing in Latin, published the first surviving commentary on the book of Revelation (according to Dulaey  1997, ca. 260 under Gallienus). His interpretation of the eschatological aspects of the book is consistently that of Irenaean chiliasm, but he also articulates a profound new insight about the book’s literary character that marks an important advance for later interpreters. Eschatology: Victorinus’s chiliasm is in some ways more moderate and spiritualized than that of some others (Dulaey 1997; McGinn 2009), and he shows no aversion to employing allegory. His exegesis of Rev 20–22, however, was entirely too robust for Jerome, who reissued Victorinus’s commentary only after replacing Victorinus’s exegesis of these chapters with his own. Victorinus went beyond his predecessors in applying the entire portrayal of the New Jerusalem in chapters 21 and 22 only to the millennium, “the time of the kingdom and of the first resurrection” (on 21:1). In Victorinus’s commentary one finds no “new heavens and new earth” beyond the millennium. Consistent with the chiliast eschatology, images that to others depicted the saints in heaven, such as the one hundred forty-four thousand standing on Mt. Zion (14:1), and the conquerors of the beast standing by the sea of glass (15:2), Victorinus related to the millennial earth. His grasp of chiliasm also led him to an ingenious interpretation of the altar in Rev 6:9, one that would close up the loophole created by Tertullian. Recalling that the temple in Israel had, besides the golden altar in the holy of holies, a brazen altar in the temple court, Victorinus posits that the first of these symbolized heaven; and the second one, earth. The souls “under the altar,” therefore, are “under the earth” and in Hades. Not even to martyrs, then, had heaven been opened. The only human occupants of paradise in the present age, besides Christ himself, are apparently Elijah and another prophet, whom Victorinus thinks must be Jeremiah because his death “was never discovered” (curiously, he never mentions Enoch). These are the two witnesses of Rev 11 who must return to earth to undergo death at the hands of Antichrist, who is Nero raised from Hades. Nero will take another name, however (Victorinus offers no solution to the 666 puzzle), and will be received by the Jews as their Christ. Hermeneutical Contribution: Victorinus’s main new contribution to the interpretation of Revelation is his recognition of the book’s use of the technique of recapitulation. Just before commenting on 11:19, he writes, Therefore, it is important that we follow diligently and with the greatest attention the prophetic announcement and understand that the Holy Spirit announces and anticipates and moves through to the end of time in a disconnected way. The Spirit repeats what occurred in former times, and he presents as though it occurred at several times that which will occur at the same time. You will fall into a profound confusion unless you understand that what is said several times will not occur in the future several times. Therefore, the interpretation of the following passages will consist in the attempt to understand not so much the sequence of the sayings (lectionis) as the sequence of their meaning (rationis).

The Book of Revelation in Early Christianity   405 Victorinus’s explicit recognition of the cyclical nature of the visions, such that the sequence of their discrete images does not always denote a sequence of chronological time, is a milestone in Apocalypse interpretation. Scripture and Canon: The canonizing significance of John’s Apocalypse reaches full flower in Victorinus. He reprises Irenaeus’s association of the four living creatures with the four Gospels, and like Tertullian he sees in the two edges of the sword of Christ’s mouth (1:16) an image of the two Testaments. The same are signified in the jasper and carnelian of the enthroned One’s appearance (4:3) and in the two breasts of Christ bound with a golden girdle (1:13, a view perpetuated in the west by Tyconius and his successors and in the east by Andrew of Caesarea). The Law and the Prophets have exactly twentyfour received books, as denoted by the twenty-four elders (4:4) and by the sum of the six wings on the four living creatures (4:8). Both the twenty-four elders (OT) and the four living creatures (Gospels) depict therefore the symbiotic and intra-expository unity of the Old Testament and the New—a unity that heretics, who reject the former, and the Jews, who reject the latter, cannot know. A Pauline corpus containing letters to seven churches (evidently presupposing a thirteen-letter corpus, lacking Hebrews) is assumed as the pattern for John to imitate in writing to seven churches (1:4, 11, 20), a connection already drawn by the Muratorian Fragment. The open door in heaven in Rev 4:1 is the New Testament; the book handed to the Lamb in 5:1–10 is the Old Testament. The book of Revelation even represents itself in the scroll John received from the angel in chapter  10. Even the church’s “rule of faith,” its Trinitarian confession, is signified by the measuring rod given to John in Rev 11:1, a rule John promulgated through the Gospel he wrote after returning from Patmos upon the death of Domitian.

Revelation in the East Written remains that can confidently be claimed for “Eastern Christianity,” particularly for Egyptian Christianity, are meagre before the late second century, when the substantial writings of Clement of Alexandria emerge. By that time, however, the Apocalypse was already known as a member of a traditional corpus of writings attributed to the apostle John, and as Christian Scripture (Quis div. 42). The book would ultimately find a permanent place at the end of the New Testament canon, despite being temporarily eclipsed in some parts of the east because of doubts about authorship and eschatology that would first be raised in the third century.

Clement of Alexandria Clement’s citations of the book of Revelation, though very limited, show a greater concentration on its heavenly imagery than we see in Clement’s second-century contemporaries Justin and Irenaeus. For Clement, the twenty-four elders introduced in Rev 4

406   Charles E. Hill symbolize human souls in heaven and constitute the heavenly presbyterate, the pattern for presbyterates in churches here below (Strom. 6.13.105.1; 106.1–108.1; reminiscent of Ignatius, Ign. Trall. 3.1; Ign. Magn. 6.1). Clement seems to combine the image of the twenty-four elders with the souls on the thrones in Rev 20:4–6 when he says that the one who joins the ranks of these elders “will sit down on the four-and-twenty thrones, judging the people, as John says in the Apocalypse” (Strom. 6.13.106.2). John said nothing about the twenty-four elders judging, only that “judgment is given” to the souls sitting on thrones in 20:4. These heavenly elders are both judges and administrators (kritai te kai dioikētai; Strom. 7.10.56.5–6).

Origen Origen (ca. 185–ca. 254), too, in works written both in Alexandria and after his move to Caesarea in 231, uses the Apocalypse of John as an integral part of the apostle’s corpus. While he offers no sustained interpretation of the book as such, his interpretations often occur in contexts that involve heavenly themes. Eschatology: Like those of his predecessor Clement, the writings of Origen display the trappings of a cultured, philosophically trained mind. It is often said that Origen “spiritualizes” the eschatological promises of Scripture, transmuting them into qualities of the present interior, spiritual life of the believer. This is only partly true. Origen actually preserves the future orientation of the promises as integral to the Christian hope, but the future for the redeemed is not to be thought of as having the same constitution as the present earthly life, and it is not limited to the time after the resurrection. Already in his early work de Principiis (between 220–230), Origen laments the low conceptions of future blessedness held by those he called literalists, which involved physical eating and drinking, marrying, and begetting children in an earthly Jerusalem rebuilt as described in the prophecies of Isaiah and John (Princ. 2.11.2; Comm. Matt. 17.35; Cels. 7.28). Against these Christians he argues that the promised feasting is for the mind and spirit, which, after departing this life, will feed not upon corporeal victuals but on “the bread of life,” being trained and educated in the Jerusalem above, the city of the saints (Princ. 2.11.3). In keeping with this perspective, Origen at least once interprets the first resurrection of Rev 20:5–6 as pertaining to those now in heaven, who kept their baptism unstained until the end of their lives (Hom. Jer. 2.3). Writing to strengthen imprisoned friends during the persecution of Maximinus Thrax, Origen speaks of the consummated martyrs as “those who have been beheaded for the testimony of Jesus” (Rev 20:4), who now “appear by the altar (Rev 6:9) in their proper place” (Exh. Mart. 30). He encourages the potential martyrs with the prospect that they, too, will “sit and rule and judge with the King of kings” (Exh. Mart. 28; cf. 37). Hermeneutical Contribution: While Irenaeus feared that the non-chiliast approach to Revelation veered too close to Valentinian allegory, Origen charged that literalism was the “Jewish” method of interpretation, which justified the Jews’ rejection Jesus for his failure to satisfy their understanding of the promises (Princ. 2.11.2; 4.2.1; Comm. Rom.

The Book of Revelation in Early Christianity   407 8.8.10; Cels. 2.38). The “revelations to John,” Origen contends, conceal “unspeakable mysteries” (Princ. 4.2.3), which cannot be unlocked by the obvious, literal, or “corporeal” sense but require the “soulish” and “spiritual” aspects of interpretation (Princ. 4.2.4). Yet it is not entirely correct to say that Origen “de-eschatologizes” Scripture’s promises. Many prophecies that for Irenaeus described an interim earthly kingdom of the future, Origen tended to see as describing an interim heavenly kingdom that is enterable now and at the time of death.

Dionysius Hermeneutics lay at the center of a controversy over Revelation in mid-third-century Egypt, involving Dionysius, bishop of Alexandria (died ca. 265), and a group of Christians in Arsinoë, that led to schisms and defections of churches (Eusebius, Hist eccl. 7.24.6). Dionysius wrote two volumes On Promises in response to the controversy; the second volume, Eusebius says, was dedicated to the Revelation of John (7.24.3; 7.25.6). Hermeneutical Contribution: The issue from the chiliast side is stated in the title of Nepos’s book Refutation of the Allegorists. Dionysius, however, believed that Nepos’s book persuaded lay Christians “to hope for what is petty and mortal and like the present in the kingdom of God” (On Promises 2; Hist. eccl. 7.24.5). Having demonstrated the impossibility of understanding the Revelation after the obvious sense (tēn procheiron ekdochēn, 7.25.6, cf. Origen Princ. 4.2.4), Dionysius declared that “some deeper meaning underlies the words” (Hist. eccl. 7.25.4). Eschatology: Unfortunately, Eusebius does not reproduce any of the deeper meanings that might have been exposed by Dionysius’s Apocalypse exegesis. But despite his controversial and consequential dissociation of John the seer from John the apostle, Dionysius believed that Revelation’s author was a holy and inspired prophet, and the bishop’s remaining correspondence shows a few traces of a coherent exegesis of the book. His letter to Hermammon surprisingly identifies the emperor Valerian (253–260), who executed Cyprian of Carthage and Xystus of Rome, with the beast of Rev 13:5, “And there was given to him a mouth speaking great things and blasphemy, and there was given to him authority and forty and two months” (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 7.10. 2). In his letter to Fabius (Hist. eccl. 6.42.5) written under Decius (249–251), Dionysius’s notion of the departed martyrs is clearly based in part on an exegesis of Rev 20:4–6: “who now are assessors of Christ and who share the fellowship of his kingdom, and are partakers of his decisions and judge along with him.”

Tyconius This review will finish with the interpretive achievement of Tyconius (d. ca. 395). His commentary on Revelation (ca. 380) may legitimately be called epoch-making, first

408   Charles E. Hill because it carried through with impressive consistency a deliberative hermeneutical approach, and second, because it made a major impact on both Augustine and Jerome, and thereby virtually set the course for Latin exegesis throughout the Middle Ages. The text of Tyconius’s commentary was only reconstructed in 2011 by Roger Gryson from two known fragments and copious quotations by later Latin commentators. Hermeneutical Contribution: First, Idealism and Realism: Tyconius is indebted to Victorinus but realized more fully the extent of Revelation’s use of recapitulation. By the application of the seven rules for interpreting Scripture he had published in a separate treatise (The Book of Rules; Babcock 1989), Tyconius’s commentary pours forth a flood of spiritual, ecclesiological, and idealist exegesis. The new Jerusalem, for instance, which “every day ‘comes down from heaven’ ” is interpreted to be “those who are born from holy people, as the beast from the abyss is evil people born from evil people” (CRev on 1:14). Tyconius flatly denies the popular idea that the two witness are two individual men (on 11:11). They are “the church prophesying in two Testaments” (on 11:3). This church testifies from the time of the passion until the beast is revealed, or until the end of the world (on 11:3, 7). This is the same as the time, times, and half a time, of protection in the wilderness (12:14). But the 1,260 days of 11:3 is also a (non-literal) future time of intense persecution, during the time of Antichrist. As this last sentence shows, beneath the myriad of contemporizing images, Tyconius still maintains a realist eschatology. He expects an imminent “falling away” (2 Thess 2:3; CRev on 1:15, etc.), a revelation of the Antichrist (Paul’s Man of Sin, 2 Thess 2:3; CRev on 3:10, etc.), an intense, final persecution of the church (on 1:15, etc.), and Christ’s return in triumph. The seven last plagues even appear to be entirely eschatological, depicting conditions to ensue after the great apostasy (CRev on. 15:1). The bowls of wrath bring no physical tortures, only spiritual ones. God’s wrath gives the ungodly over to their sins (Rom. 1:24, 26, 28), so that, paradoxically, their horrific punishments are actually their sinful pleasures, particularly the persecution of the saints. One cannot say that Tyconius’s spiritualizing interpretation is the result of any desire to accommodate the church to the world. The church always lives under persecution, or the threat of it, particularly the Donatist church in Africa. The five months of Rev 9:5, 10 are evidently the five years of anti-Donatist persecution from 316–321 at the hands of Constantine, as a kind of prelude to the final persecution. Second, Bipartite Bodies and the False Church: Tyconius’s Donatist experience engenders a major new feature in the interpretation of Revelation, one that would return to prominence in later centuries, particularly from the time of the Reformation. For the first time, the concept of a false church enters as a constituent element in the interpretation of the book. One of Tyconius’s seven rules for Scriptural interpretation is that the body of Christ is bipartite, consisting of a right and a left side, a true and a false church. The devil’s body, too, is bipartite, one side being the heathen, the other the false Christians within the fold of the church. Thus, one side of the devil’s body and one side of Christ’s body are the same, members of the church in name only. John’s beast from the sea is no longer Rome or an individual emperor, but the devil’s body, false Christians. The false prophet, too, may be pluralized to refer to “the bishops [or, pastors; praepositi] of the body of the devil” (CRev on 16:13). His two horns may thus be the two Testaments,

The Book of Revelation in Early Christianity   409 for the false prophet employs them illegitimately. Most strikingly, the mark of the beast, 616 (Tyconius does not mention 666) may be a monogram formed from the chi (600), the iota (10) and the stigma (6), in a way that closely resembles the chi-rho symbol or Christogram, the very symbol Constantine had adopted as the sign of the power of Christ’s name (CRev on 13:18).1 Eschatology: Recapitulation and Rev 20: We have seen remnants of a long tradition of non-chiliastic exegesis of Rev 20:1–10, but Tyconius offers the first surviving extended treatment of it from this point of view. Most of the Tyconian exegesis will be taken over and enlarged on by Augustine (Civ. Dei 20.7–9), and by Jerome in his revision of Victorinus’s commentary. Further mediated through the commentary of Primasius of Hadrumetum (ca. 540), it would become normative for Medieval Latin exegesis of the Apocalypse (Matter 1992). The transition between Rev 19 and 20 is not chronologically sequential but recapitulates back to the commencement of the era. The binding of Satan is accomplished now by Jesus, according to Matt 12:29. Satan has been bound from entering the hearts of believers and has been cast instead into the hearts of the evil (cf. on Rev 7:2). He will be “loosed for a short time, that is, in the time of Antichrist.” The thousand years is “a part for the whole, that is, the remainder of the thousand years of the sixth day, in which the Lord was born and suffered” (CRev on 20:2; Book of Rules 5.56; cf. Augustine, Civ. Dei 20.7). Thus, while accepting the popular chronology of Hippolytus and Africanus, in which Christ was born circa 5,500 anno mundi, Tyconius eluded the dangers of datesetting (to be further expounded by Augustine) by recognizing that the remaining 500 years need not be literal. They are the time from Christ’s passion until his return. Tyconius is known for his interpretation of the first resurrection as the rising to new life in baptism, the forgiveness of sins (citing Paul in Col 3:2; Rom 6:13; Eph 2:1; CRev on 20:5). But, whether he knew the earlier exegesis or not, he encompasses it in his own, saying that the souls sitting on thrones are “both those living presently and the souls of the saints,” that is, the souls in heaven (cf. on 6:9, “in paradise,” contra Victorinus). The one blessed to have part in the first resurrection “is the one who will have preserved that which was born anew” (on 20:6). Origen had spoken similarly of those who keep their baptism (Hom. Luke 24.2; Hom. Jer. 2.3). Scripture and Canon: For Tyconius, too, the four living creatures are the four Gospels. The two Testaments make their appearance many times: in the two breasts of Christ (1:13); the two wings of the eagle (4:7); the scroll written inside and out (5:1, “on the outside the Old, on the inside the New, which is hidden in the Old”); the two wings of the eagle (12:14); the songs of Moses and of the Lamb (15:3); the opened books by which the church will be judged (20:11), and even the two horns on the beast (13:11).

Concluding Remarks Scholars such as Adolf von Harnack and R. H. Charles, and many since their time, have considered that the original interpretation of the Apocalypse could be seen virtually intact

410   Charles E. Hill in the works of the early chiliasts (the original “millennialist movement” of modern sociology). Chiliasm’s this-worldly and uncompromisingly “anti-imperialist” approach to the book has commonly been taught as the dominant or even the exclusive view of the church, until it was challenged by “the spiritualizing methods of Alexandria” (Charles 1920, 1:clxxxiv), and finally crushed by Tyconius, Jerome, and Augustine. But as far as we can tell, the interpretation of this enigmatic book was never monolithic. Nor do the old stereotypes entirely fit. Even the writings associated with Justin and Irenaeus register the existence of a non-chiliastic—and possibly just as anti-imperialist—­ exegesis. This interpretation of the book’s imagery gave greater scope to the present kingship of Jesus Christ from heaven and its implications for the life of the church, including the life of the church triumphant, in heaven with their king. This early nonchiliast outlook emerges into fuller view in Hippolytus’s eschatological works, as well as in various forms of Christian reflection on death and martyrdom, before Origen, Dionysius, and Tyconius. Larger theological/cultural traditions, Jewish, Christian, and heretical, shaped the ways in which the Apocalypse was read, heard, and kept. The sharpening of differences between interpreters eventually called on them to declare and defend their hermeneutical procedures. Real gains in apprehending the book’s literary aspects were achieved, such as in Victorinus’s recognition of recapitulation. Yet, by the admission of its most sophisticated interpreters, no human skill had succeeded in coaxing the book to yield up all its “unspeakable mysteries” (Origen). Despite their many differences, however, Christian interpreters on all sides recognized in the symbols of Revelation a divine mingling of things both present and future, both earthly and heavenly. From the words of John’s prophecy, so the records attest, Christians derived courage to confess their king and to conquer the accuser. In one sense, the practical significance of Revelation for the church of this period might be illustrated by the way in which author of the Martyrdom of Polycarp 21 recorded the date of Polycarp’s execution. Having named the sitting high priest and then the current proconsul, in the place where we should expect him to record the name of the reigning emperor, he chose to inscribe a confession of “Apocalyptic” faith: “but while Jesus Christ was reigning as King forever.”

Note 1. The Fathers of the Church edition (Gumerlock and Robinson 2017) prints Tyconius’s ­monogram inaccurately as the Christogram; Gryson’s CCL edition (2011, 310–311) gives a different rendition.

References Babcock, William S., trans. 1989. Tyconius: The Book of Rules. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Brent, Allen. 1995. Hippolytus and the Roman Church in the Third Century: Communities in Tension before the Emergence of a Monarch-Bishop. VGSup Supplement 31. Leiden: Brill.

The Book of Revelation in Early Christianity   411 Charles, R. H. 1920. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on The Revelation of St. John. 2 vols. ICC. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Daley, Brian. 1991. The Hope of the Early Church: A Handbook of Patristic Eschatology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dulaey, Martine. 1997. Victorin de Poetovio: Sur l’Apocalypse et autre écrits. SC 423. Paris: Cerf. Gryson, Roger, ed. 2011. Tyconii Afri Expositio Apocalypseos. CCSL 107A. Turnhout: Brepols. Gumerlock, Francis  X., trans. and David  C.  Robinson. 2017. Tyconius: Exposition of the Apocalypse. FC 134. Washington DC: Catholic University of America. Hill, Charles  E. 1995. “Antichrist from the Tribe of Dan.” Journal of Theological Studies 46: 99–117. Hill, Charles E. 2001. Regnum Caelorum: Patterns of Millennial Thought in the Early Church. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Matter, E. Ann. 1992. “The Apocalypse in Early Medieval Exegesis.” In The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, edited by Richard K. Emmerson and Bernard McGinn, pp. 38–50. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. McGinn, Bernard. 1979. Visions of the End: Apocalyptic Traditions in the Middle Ages. New York: Columbia University Press. McGinn, Bernard. 2009. “Turning Points in Early Christian Apocalypse Exegesis.” In Apocalyptic Thought in Early Christianity, edited by Robert  J.  Daly, pp. 81–105. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic and Holy Cross Orthodox Press. Prigent, Pierre. 1972. “Hippolyte, Commentateur de l’Apocalypse.” VC 28: 391–412.

Further Reading Bingham, D. Jeffrey. 2008. “The Apocalypse, Christ, and the Martyrs of Gaul.” In In the Shadow of the Incarnation: Essays on Jesus Christ in the Early Church in Honor of Brian E. Daley, S. J, edited by Peter W. Martens, pp. 11–28. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Crouzel, Henri. 1973. “La ‘première’ et la ‘seconde’ resurrection des hommes d’après Origène.” Didaskalia 3: 3–19. Fredriksen, Paula. 1992. “Tyconius and Augustine on the Apocalypse.” In The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, edited by Richard K. Emmerson and Bernard McGinn, pp. 20–37. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Gryson, Roger. 1997. “Les commentaires patristiques latins de l’Apocalypse.” Revue theologique de Louvain 28: 305–37, 484–502. Kretschmar, Georg. 1985. Die Offenbarung des Johannes. Die Geschichte ihrer Auslegung im 1 Jahrtausend. Calwer theologische Monographien, Reihe B. 9. Stuttgart: Calwer. Monaci, Adele. 1978. “Apocalisse ed escatologia nell’opera di Origene.” Augustinianum 18: 139–51. Musurillo, Herbert. 1972. The Acts of the Christian Martyrs: Introduction, Texts and Translations. Oxford: Clarendon. Tabernee, William. 2013. “The World to Come: Tertullian’s Christian Eschatology.” In Tertullian and Paul, edited by Todd D. Still and David E. Wilhite, pp. 259–77. New York: T & T Clark. Weinrich, William  C. 2011. Latin Commentaries on Revelation: Victorinus of Petovium, Apringius of Beja, Caesarius of Arles and Bede the Venerable. Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic. Vercruysse, Jean-Marc. 2016. “Tyconius’ Hermeneutics: The Way the Holy Spirit Expresses Itself through Scripture.” In Patristic Theories of Biblical Interpretation: The Latin Fathers, edited by Tarmo Toom, pp. 20–48. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

chapter 25

The I n ter pr etation of Joh n ’s A poca ly pse i n the M edieva l Per iod Julia Eva Wannenmacher†

I asked him why he thought the key to the sequence of crimes lay in the book of Revelation. He looked at me, amazed: “The book of John offers the key to everything!” —Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose

In the history of the reception of John’s Apocalypse, the Middle Ages are a long and ­prolific period that is both inspiring and inspirational. Together with the Song of Songs, Revelation was one of the biblical books that was most often commented on and read. The two books were closely related in the commentary tradition from the early Middle Ages onward (Matter 1992, 46). A common explanation for Revelation’s popularity is that medieval readers were expecting the end of the world and convinced that a time of crisis was imminent. Yet this is at most a partial truth. First, most people in the Middle Ages were not more pessimistic or convinced that the end was near than were people in many other periods. Second, there are other, more convincing ways to explain why Revelation was so popular. One of them is deeply rooted in the New Testament itself. While some texts seem to expect the second coming of Christ in the near future, others begin to deal with the problem of the delayed parousia. John’s Apocalypse is like Matt 24:22–24 in refusing to set dates for Christ’s return, while it structures the remaining time until the end in colorful and dramatic images that promise solace to the faithful and retribution for their enemies. People in the Middle Ages were, as Jacques LeGoff had put it, under the spell of figures,

414   Julia Eva Wannenmacher† and therefore prone to appreciate the structured future of the Apocalypse (LeGoff 1996, 7). At the same time, the High Middle Ages saw the emergence of individuality, as shown by the birth of the idea of purgatory in the twelfth century, and later the emphasis on the judgment of individual souls. These innovations were accompanied by growing interest in Revelation.

The Foundations: The First Latin Commentaries on the Apocalypse and Their Reception One of the ancient writers who developed the exegetical tradition of Revelation that would be of influence for medieval commentators was Victorinus of Poetovio in what is now Styria. A bishop and martyr, he died during one of the great persecutions of Christians, either in 283–284 or around 303–304 (Dulaey 1993). In his commentary on the Apocalypse—the first ever—(Dulaey 1997), written around the year 260, he stated clearly that Revelation had foretold the actual and imminent persecutions that he and his contemporaries were witnessing, not in a distant future, but in their own time: the seven seals, the red dragon and its heads, and even Antichrist were nothing but the godless emperors and their bloodthirsty armies. The other remarkable feature that later authors found in Victorinus’s exegesis is a rather mild millenarianism or chiliasm, the conviction that the promise of Satan’s captivity for a thousand years as described in Rev 20:1–3 would take place on earth, as a peaceful kingdom, foreshadowing the eternal heaven that was to be expected after Christ’s second advent. Later, this interpretation would be rejected—not only, but most famously—by Jerome of Stridon (347–420) and Augustine of Hippo (354–430), especially since Augustine was firmly convinced that these thousand years were not somewhere in a more or less distant future; for Augustine they are nothing but each Christian soul’s very presence, those Christians who were resurrected in Christ and in happy expectation of the second advent of Christ. But in spite of Jerome’s and Augustine’s authority, all their efforts to suppress chiliasm would prove to have been in vain. The second commentator who had great influence on subsequent interpretation of Revelation was Tyconius, who lived in North Africa in the second half of the fourth century. He was a Donatist, a follower of the late bishop Donatus, whose adherents contended that the bishops or clerics who had surrendered during persecutions were not to be regarded as ordained, and that the sacraments they administered were not valid, a position that nearly led to a schism in Africa. Donatists, including Tyconius, were regarded as heretical, and most of their writings were lost. But Tyconius’s thought survived, at least in part. Although scholars argue over whether or not Tyconius expected the second advent in the near future, they agree that he replaced a more literal exegesis with a purely

John’s Apocalypse in the Medieval Period   415 spiritual type (Kovacs and Rowland 2004, 16), and that his de-­eschatologizing of both the Apocalypse and historical events served as a model for both Jerome and Augustine (Bousset 1906, 56–63). His seven exegetical rules, which were quoted by Augustine and later Bede, Tyconius influenced the understanding of Revelation until the end of the Middle Ages. The sixth rule, which had the greatest influence in the Higher Middle Ages, is recapitulation (recapitulatio). Its basic principle is that every part of Revelation repeats in itself the same content as the whole book of Revelation. Tyconius’s commentary on the Apocalypse was widely known, and though the text itself is lost, large parts were preserved in the commentaries of Primasius, bishop of Hadrumetum (d. between 551 and 560), Cassiodorus (d. ca. 580; Cassiodorus  1847), Beda Venerabilis or Bede of Jarrow (d. 735), and Beatus of Liébana (d. after 798). What made Tyconius’s work so attractive to later writers was that he rejected the historical interpretation of Revelation in favor of a purely spiritual understanding, so that the interpretations of his commentary were not limited to a certain time or situation in history but could be adapted in each subsequent century. Jerome did not write a commentary on Revelation but edited Victorinus’s commentary and purged it of chiliasm, largely by relying on Tyconius (Dulaey 1991). With the commentaries by Victorinus and Tyconius, the contours for commenting Revelation in the Middle Ages were set.

Revelation in the Early Middle Ages: Commentaries from the Edges to the Center of Latin Christianity For many later exegetes, the commentary of Primasius of Hadrumetum, which is present-­day Sousse in Tunisia, was the most important source for the commentary of Tyconius. Yet Primasius was not just a copyist of his predecessor, as maintained by some scholars of the late nineteenth century, especially Johannes Haussleiter (1887, 23). In many cases, Primasius’s exegesis of the Apocalypse (Primasius 1985) shows traces of Augustinian thought, especially concerning the community of depraved and elect members of the church (Mégier 2014, 168) and in his interpretation of Rev 20, which firmly rejects all hints of chiliasm (Bousset 1906, 66). While Tyconius and Augustine are his main sources, he treats them in remarkably different ways: he reveres Augustine and thanks him, while at the same time treating the thoughts and writings of Tyconius like floatsam and jetsam (“herrenloses Strandgut”; Haussleiter 1887, 21). Yet today, Primasius’s greatest fame lies in his transmission of Tyconius’s texts. The commentary of the Asturian, Beatus of Liébana (Beatus 1930), has been called “the most important, and the most peculiar phenomenon of the eighth century” (Brunhölzl 1996, 495). It gained its importance less by the author’s original thought than

416   Julia Eva Wannenmacher† by his compilation of older, often lesser-known commentaries by authors like Victorinus, Primasius, and the Iberian writers Gregory of Elvira and Apringius of Beja. He has a remarkable tendency toward visionary thought and a sense of immediacy in visual imagery. In fact, many manuscripts of Beatus’s commentary boast colorful, dramatic, and visually engaging images to illustrate the text (Klein 2015, 71–94). However, the influence of Beatus’s commentary remained more or less limited to the Iberian Peninsula. The commentary of the Benedictine monk Beda Venerabilis, or Bede of Jarrow in the northern English Northumbria, a region that he probably never left, had a different fate (Beda 2001). What it had in common with Beatus’s is the use of common sources, most prominently Tyconius. Bede quotes Tyconius explicitly—though following Primasius, whose name he does not mention (Haussleiter  1887, 16)—whereas in his quotations from Victorinus, the author is not named. Bede’s quotations of Tyconius are similar to those of Beatus of Liébana, which suggests that their common source might have been the commentary of Primasius. But other than Beatus, Bede was an original and innovative writer, whose commentary on Revelation added new features to the history of ­exegesis. The most important new impetus was Bede’s division of the text into seven clearly distinguished parts, a novelty that was copied by nearly all later authors. Bede was firmly rooted in the Tyconian exegetical tradition, which finds, according to the principle of recapitulation, the same events depicted in each part of Revelation. For example, the interpretation of Rev 5 sees the history of the church from its beginning to the future end depicted in the seven seals, according to which the sixth seal is to be a time of persecution, while the seventh seal will be a time of rest; and at the same time the seven seals belong to the second part of Revelation. In his own time Bede was probably Tyconius’s most devoted disciple: not only does he quote his seven rules in the preface of his commentary, he also quotes Tyconius explicitly more often than any other author did, although he also refers to Cyprian, Jerome, Augustine, Pope Gregory I (d. 604), and Primasius. It was the commentary of Primasius through which Tyconius’s text was transmitted, more than by quoting Jerome’s or any other commentator’s excerpts of Tyconius. So the otherwise rather nondescript commentary of Primasius had significant influence on the medieval tradition of commenting on Revelation. Even the Glossa ordinaria follows this tradition, while mainly relying on the commentary of Haimo. For his interpretation of the seventh seal, Bede refers to a well-known authority in the history of exegesis, namely Jerome—yet what he quotes is not a commentary on Revelation but Jerome’s commentary on Daniel, which was actually one of the most important sources for the medieval interpretation of Revelation. While this might not come as surprise, since Daniel’s apocalyptic character is similar to Revelation, it might be surprising that other important sources for commentators came from completely different literary genres, from chronological writings like those of Otto of Freising (or encyclopedias, like that of Isidore of Seville) to geographical texts like John of Würzburg’s Description of the Holy Land. Accordingly, even authors who never wrote

John’s Apocalypse in the Medieval Period   417 a commentary on Revelation became important contributors to the history of medieval exegesis of Revelation, among them Augustine, Pope Gregory I, and Isidore of Seville (d. 636), who authored the most influential medieval encyclopedia, the “Etymologies.” Another attentive reader of Primasius—and through him, Tyconius—was Ambrosius Autpertus (d. 784), abbott of the Benedictine monastery of San Vincenzo near Benevent. His commentary (Ambrosius Autpertus 1975), like that of Bede, influenced later commentators, although his conception of Revelation consisted not of seven parts but ten. According to Klaus Berger (Berger  2018, 32–33), the most characteristic trait of Autpertus’s commentary is its emphasis on the present. With the repeated use of the word cotidie, “daily,” Autpertus makes clear that the time between Christ’s first resurrection and the new creation is merely one day, the prolongation of the day of resurrection (Berger 2018, 33). He also established a close connection between Revelation and the second favorite biblical book of medieval commentators, the Song of Songs. For Autpertus, Revelation describes the history of the Church and can be interpreted as a representation of the love between bridegroom and bride, Christ and his Church (Berger 2018, 301). One of Bede’s and Autpertus’s earliest and most influential readers was Alcuin of York (Alcuin 1851), who in his time—he died in 804—was the leading scholar at the court of Charlemagne and one of the creative minds in the process of the so-called Carolingian Renaissance in Europe. An important commentary that was edited under the name of Haimo, bishop of Halberstadt (d. 853), was probably written by Abbot Haimo of Auxerre (d. 865), in or around the middle of the ninth century. Though Haimo knows and cites Bede, his main reference is Autpertus. In later centuries, Autpertus’s commentary was used by the authors of the Glossa and by the Italian commentator Bruno, bishop of Segni, in the early twelfth century. Interestingly, though both commentaries are based on Ambrosius Autpertus, in the commentary of the so-called Haimo of Halberstadt as well as Bruno’s, Revelation does not have ten parts as in Autpertus’s commentary, but only seven, even though the division into seven parts is based on Autpertus’s conception of ten parts.

Ancient Tradition, New Methods: From the End of the Tyconian Tradition to the Glossa ordinaria After the comparable quietness about Revelation in the tenth and eleventh centuries, the twelfth century witnessed a new bloom of writing commentaries on Revelation. One of the most enigmatic and yet fascinating is the one printed in Patrologia Latina among the works of Ambrose of Milan (Ambrosius n. d.). A cryptogram hints at the name

418   Julia Eva Wannenmacher† Berengaudus, which led to the conclusion that the author was Berengaudus of Ferrières, who lived in Gaul in the ninth century (Visser 1996). In terms of content, however, it seems more reasonable that it was written not much earlier than the twelfth century. The text itself offers no clue to the time and circumstances in which it was written, refers to no historical incidents, mentions no historic personalities, and quotes no contemporary author—a typical style in the twelfth century (Kamlah 1935, 80). Its exegesis, though never explicitly, seems to refer to or at least to parallel the thoughts and writings of other commentators of the twelfth century, all of them commentaries and other texts written on Revelation during that century. Yet the commentary of “Berengaudus” has the most similarities to the thought and the conception of history that appears in the commentary by Joachim of Fiore, written around the turn of the next century. When Wilhelm Kamlah says that Richard of St Victor shows gradually increasing tendencies toward order (Kamlah 1935, 47), the same applies, perhaps to greater extent, to the anonymous author of this commentary. That is one more reason for a dating it not in the ninth century but to the twelfth century, and perhaps not even at its beginning. His interpretation of the seven seals as historical events has many similarities to the exegesis of Joachim of Fiore. However, it is merely linear and shows no trace of Joachim’s idea of concords or his Trinitarian theology; so it is quite certain that the two were independent minds, unknown to each other. The commentary of the Italian bishop Bruno of Segni (d. 1123) is still largely understudied (Bruno n. d.). It mainly follows traditional Tyconian exegesis and, despite the prominence of its author, it was scarcely transmitted or used by later authors. Also understudied, yet much more widely used in the Middle Ages and beyond, was the Glossa ordinaria. Until the beginning of the twentieth century, the Glossa was attributed to Walahfrid Strabo (d. 849), the scholarly Benedictine monk who lived on Reichenau Island in Lake Constance. Presently, it is regarded as a compilation of traditional and contemporary commentaries that derives mainly from Anselm of Laon (d. 1117) in Northern France, and his school. Perhaps the most important commentary on Revelation based on the exegetical tradition and methods of the Glossa is the commentary by Richard of St Victor (d. 1173), who was born in England or Scotland but studied, lived and taught as canon-regular in Paris, and was prior of the famous Augustinian chapter of canons from 1162 until his death. His commentary is a paradigmatic masterpiece of the new scholarly tradition (Richard of St Victor 1855). Kamlah admired its crystal clear arrangement, and the neatness and clarity of the way it carried through the interpretation (Kamlah  1935, 43). Following Bede’s division of Revelation into seven parts, Richard goes even further, dividing each of the seven visions into smaller parts, and trying to bring order into the sequences of visions and recapitulations. With its clarity and its definite structure, one might regard Richard’s commentary as a premature swan song of the classical tradition of the Glosse and its followers. Although the Glossa itself remained important and was often copied and even printed—as in Strasbourg in the late fifteenth century (Glossa 1480–81)—other scholars of the twelfth century went in new and unprecedented ways.

John’s Apocalypse in the Medieval Period   419

The “Historical Turn” of the Twelfth Century and the So-Called German Symbolism The best-known names among the new authors are Rupert of Deutz and Joachim of Fiore. Two others, who did not write commentaries on Revelation but nevertheless were of high importance for the interpretation of Revelation in the twelfth century, are Gerhoch of Reichersberg and Anselm of Havelberg. Together with Rupert, they represent the so-called Deutscher Symbolismus (German symbolism), a term coined by Alois Dempf (1929, 229–68). Rupert of Deutz (d. 1129) was a Benedictine in what is now a part of Cologne. Peter Classen described him as “the great exegete who brought tradition together and deepened it through meditation” (Classen 1983, 365). Rupert’s numerous exegetical, liturgical, and other writings were widely distributed and read (Haacke 1960, 1970). Traces of Rupert’s thought might even be echoed in Joachim of Fiore (Wannenmacher 2014, 305), since the parallel between the conception of the eternal Sabbath and the eighth day of creation from Rupert’s early work De divinis officiis (Rupert 1967) also appears in Joachim’s Expositio in Apocalypsim and his short treatise De septem sigillis (Wannenmacher 2005). Although his exegetical work figures prominently among his writings, he became an exegete quite late in life, after a deep crisis that ended with an intense vision (Van Engen 2009, 186). We find this motif again in the life of Joachim of Fiore. Though Rupert is often regarded as a rather conservative Benedictine, in recent decades the independent and innovative character of his writings has been emphasized (Van Engen 1983; 2009, 187–88). With Rupert and his commentary (Rupert 1854) begins what later would be called “Geschichtstheologie,” a term that can only approximately be translated as “Theology of History” or less appropriately, “History of Salvation.” Like Joachim, Rupert sought not only the sensus of the biblical texts, following the well-known pattern of the four classical senses (Lubac 1998–2000), but most of all the intellectus of Scripture. True understanding comes by the Spirit, and not to grasp it is a sin against the Spirit (Van Engen 2009. 198). Of great importance for Rupert’s understanding is his firm conviction of “Scripture as tracking the course of history, as moving through the events of salvation history in order, even re-tracking them, Tyconius’s notion of recapitulation” (Van Engen 2009. 187). Though he surely knew the exegetical tradition of the Glosse, Rupert deliberately choose new ways of interpreting the Bible. His commentary on Revelation, firmly rooted in the Tyconian tradition, is mainly a demonstration of Rupert’s concept of history. Christ is always in the center of Revelation as the author of salvation for humankind. Another remarkable feature of Rupert’s commentary is that he—maybe for the first time—includes extrabiblical sources such as the Jewish chronicler Flavius Josephus and the historians Rufinus or Orosius (Rauh 1979,

420   Julia Eva Wannenmacher† 200–201), a practice we will later see in Joachim of Fiore’s writings. His interest in history decreases when it comes to the immediate past and the present. His images of kings and emperors is never wholly positive. Traditionally, the Roman Empire and its successors were understood to be “the one restraing” (ho katechōn) the coming of Antichrist, a motif drawn from 2 Thess 2:6. Rupert does not reject the traditional interpretation but relativizes it, insisting that God alone determines the time for the coming of Antichrist. Horst Dieter Rauh notes that for Rupert the holy empire is the church (Rauh 1979, 217). Rupert’s commentary on Revelation, which is rooted in the long exegetical tradition from Tyconius onward, is a means of criticizing the empire, the scholastic method, and the present church. But above all, he establishes the throne of Christ as the center, origin, and aim of history. Rupert’s most notable reader and disciple was Gerhoch (d. 1169), “the willful, prolific provost of Reichersberg,” a monastery in Upper Austria (Classen  1983, 370). Rauh describes him as the living and often inconvenient conscience of church reform (Rauh 1979, 416). Gerhoch never wrote a commentary on Revelation, but in his treatises De investigatione antichristi and De quarta vigilia noctis he touches on topics from Revelation and becomes part of its exegetical tradition. Following Rupert, Gerhoch describes the history of the church as a history of decline. He does so by applying traditional exegetical methods to his texts, relating them to contemporary history, and making the Bible and his exegesis an instrument of criticism of contemporary issues. It is mainly the tone of his writings that differs from Rupert’s, though Rupert, too, criticized both the empire and the church. But where Rupert meditates, Gerhoch deprecates. The counterpart to both Rupert and Gerhoch is Gerhoch’s near contemporary Anselm, Premonstratensian and after 1129 bishop of Havelberg (d. 1158). He was also a diplomat, who served popes and the emperor and even made the journey to Byzantium on diplomatic missions (Lees 1998). Anselm had met Rupert personally (Rauh 1979, 269), but it seems that they did not get along well. Even when Anselm agrees with Rupert, he is anxious to contrast his views with those of the older Benedictine. He like Rupert readily criticizes the church, but his theological view is that history aims toward salvation, which allowed him to see progress rather than decline. Key terms of his conception of history are incrementum and varietas—growth and variety—which express his ideal image of the church. For him the variety among the members of the church of Christ is not accidental but essential, and the Holy Spirit is author of the varietas ecclesie (“variety of the church”; Rauh 1979, 274). Like Rupert, Anselm’s exegesis of John’s Apocalypse follows the tradition, mainly Haimo, with different emphases. Antichrist, the archenemy in the imminent future, is not a worldly prince or dignitary but a false messiah, whose followers are heretics and hypocrites. The church’s historical development up to the present has occurred in six stages, to be followed by a final seventh stage, which is eternity. All this has unfolded according to the seven seals of the Apocalypse, and the church will soon be tested by the enemy and finally led to unity with God.

John’s Apocalypse in the Medieval Period   421

Joachim of Fiore: The Abbot Who Saw Tomorrow With Joachim of Fiore (d. 1202) a new era began—and not only for the exegesis of Revelation. He spent most of his life in Calabria, in Southern Italy, apart from his training as notary in the Norman-Sicilian court and a journey to the Holy Land in his younger years. He was a hermit, monk, abbot, and founder of a new monastic order; he was in contact with several popes and was counselor and protégé of princes, kings, and emperors, most notably of the Staufian emperor Henry VI and his court (Grundmann, 1977). During his lifetime he was regarded with both awe and skepticism because of his reputation as an expert on the Antichrist and a prophet. Soon after his death, following disputes with his late contemporary Peter Lombard—whose views had been canonized by that time—Joachim’s Trinitarian theology was condemned by the Fourth Lateran Council of Pope Innocent III. This has tainted his reputation ever since, although the council condemned only his Trinitarian theology and not his other writings, and Joachim was not personally marked as heretic (Robb 1993). Yet the Franciscan Minorites, Dominicans, Jesuits, and Augustinian Hermits identified themselves or their founders with the eschatological viri spirituales, whom Joachim prophesied would guide the faithful at the end of the age. Later, Joachim’s prophecies were read and applied not only in Europe (Holdenried 2013; Schmolinsky 2013) but also in Latin America; in prerevolutionary and revolutionary Russia; by some of the ideologues of the so-called Third Reich in Germany, including Arthur Moeller van den Bruck; and in the early Communist movement (Wannenmacher 2013). Of his three main works, his commentary on Revelation is by far the most extensive, scholarly, and sophisticated. It is only available, however, in an edition from the early sixteenth century (Joachim of Fiore 1527). Wilhelm Bousset stated that after Tyconius, Joachim was the first commentator on Revelation who regarded the text as written for his own time (Bousset 1906, 75). Joachim’s exegesis is firmly rooted in the tradition, of which he proves to be an expert, citing even the rarest sources. But he also distinguishes carefully between matters of faith, of which there can be no doubt, and mere opinions, which can be wrong and may be contradicted both by himself and by other authors (Wannenmacher 2011, 452–53). His commentary is traditional in that he initially follows the classical structure of Bede, who divided Revelation into seven parts. Later, however, he modifies this structure. The first parts are identical with those of Bede, which had been in use for most of the twelfth century (part I: Rev 1:1–3:22, part II: Rev 4:1–8:1, part III: Rev 8:2–11:18; part IV: Rev 11:19–14:20). But Joachim’s fifth, sixth, and seventh parts are shorter than Bede’s (Bede’s part V: 15:1–17:18, Joachim’s: 15:1–16:17; Bede’s part VI: 18:1–20:15, Joachim’s: 16:18–19:21; Bede’s part VII: 21:1–22:21, Joachim’s: 20:1–10). Moreover, in Bede the seventh section is the last one, but Joachim’s commentary ends with an eighth section

422   Julia Eva Wannenmacher† dealing with Rev 20:11–22:21. Joachim’s commentary was written over a period of five to six years, the latest part being the long introduction. He was convinced that Revelation contained the whole history of salvation and God’s plan for his chosen people. Joachim is a strict adherent of the principle of recapitulation, and consequently each of the visions in Revelation depicts a certain part of history, while at the same time giving a sense of the whole of history. For example, the red dragon of Rev 12:3 belongs especially to the fourth part of Revelation (Wannenmacher 2019, 118–19), which describes a stage of history when the threats to Christianity have multiplied. At the same time, its seven heads and its tail signify the entire line of persecutors from King Herod and Emperor Nero to the sixth persecutor, whom Joachim tentatively identifies as Saladin, who at that time had conquered the Holy City. Joachim expects the seventh head to be the Antichrist—though he later modifies this attribution. Another hermeneutical principle Joachim followed was his idea of concordia, meaning the correspondence between the Old and New dispensations, the history of God and his chosen people from the Old Testament through the New Testament and the history of the church from its beginnings to its future end—an idea he thought had been propagated first by St. Paul himself. Joachim develops this idea to perfection, not only in his commentary on Revelation, but also in a separate book, the oldest of his three main works, on the correlations between the Old and New dispensations. Each figure or event in the old dispensation corresponds a figure or event in the new, which extends from the New Testament to Joachim’s own time and the imminent future until the end (Daniel 2013). The prophet Elijah, for example, corresponds to Saint Benedict, the father of western monasticism. Thus biblical or historical characters could appear repeatedly in his conception of history, a system that Marjorie Reeves described as kaleidoscopic (Reeves and Hirsch-Reich 1972, 21). The third important aspect of Joachim’s exegesis of Revelation is that he divides all of history into three periods, according the three persons of the Godhead. These include the periods of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This third period began secretly with the sending of the Spirit in the Acts of Apostles, again in the time of Saint Benedict with the founding of the religious orders in the west, and it will finally begin for all to see in the last days, which will come in near future. This is when new spiritual men, viri spirituales, as Joachim called them after the two witnesses in Rev 11, will arise and lead God’s people through the coming tribulations, the times of Antichrist, and the final persecutions to the glorious end. It was precisely this prophecy about spiritual men that in the decades and centuries after Joachim’s death inspired so many groups and individuals to identify themselves with these spiritual men, from the early Franciscans and Dominicans until the present (Wannenmacher 2011, 467–69). Joachim did not invent this division of history into the times of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. We can discern preliminary stages of the idea in Rupert as well as Anselm, and can be quite sure that Joachim knew at least some of Rupert’s work. What is new is the extent to which Joachim applied this tripartite scheme to his exegesis, along with his idea that Revelation encompasses all of history. Another unique trait in his exegesis is that unlike the earlier tradition, he does not foresee one final persecution before the end.

John’s Apocalypse in the Medieval Period   423 Instead, by carefully applying his exegetical methods, consulting biblical and extrabiblical sources of information, and even judging contemporary political events, he developed a scenario for the end times in a completely new way. Joachim, like all his predecessors since Augustine, rejected the idea of an earthly millennium, and did not adopt the idea of a forty-five-day period rest before the end, which earlier exegetes regarded as a time of refreshment for the saints, basing their calculation on Jerome’s commentary on Daniel (Wannenmacher 2005, 222–24). Instead, through detailed exegesis he concluded that the double persecution of the sixth period would not lead immediately to the eternal rest of the peaceful seventh period, as did all interpreters before him. According to Joachim, this seventh period would not be the eternal reign of God but would be those thousand years of peace that are promised in Rev 20:1–3. Joachim knew that Augustine had declared that the millennium was not to be expected in the future but that it was the present time of each Christian, since the resurrected Christ had won victory over death and Christians were already members of the heavenly city in the midst of the civitas terrena, or earthly city. For Joachim, this was still true, but based on his idea of the double beginning of the time of the Spirit, he could say that the millennium first began more than thousand years ago and will begin in the full sense in the near future, in the time of the Holy Spirit. After this peaceful millennium another, final, persecution will follow, when Satan will be released for the last time, and only then, as an eighth stage, will eternity begin. This is the reason Joachim structures his exegesis of John’s Apocalypse in eight parts rather than the usual seven. He is adapting the age-old scheme of dividing time into eight ages, according to the seven days of creation, followed by the eternal rest—a much older pattern that Augustine had introduced in The City of God 22.30. It was Joachim’s idea of the thousand years of Satan’s captivity as a time of heavenly bliss for the faithful, an era of heavenly qualities but within earthly time, that has inspired all generations since. With Joachim, the idea of a future millennium, which Jerome and Augustine had done away with, had come back more vividly than ever. But not only that. At the beginning and the end of this time of heavenly bliss, there is a persecution worse than any before. And since the thousand years are in earthly time, that will also be true of the persecutor who precedes it. In Joachim’s conception this is the Antichrist, and he, too, is an earthly figure. In a famous interview with King Richard I of England (Gillingham  1973, 138–39), Joachim himself answered questions about the Antichrist, hinting that Antichrist had already been born in Rome. In his writings, however, Joachim never identified the future Antichrist with any human personality. His successors were less hesitant: Depending on which camp they belonged to, they identified the Antichrist with either the pope or emperor. What fascinated Joachim’s audience and his readers was not only the possibility of identifying the Antichrist with various dignitaries. Later—and long before the runaway monk Martin Luther—the Franciscan Ubertino da Casale (ca. 1259–after 1329), John Wyclif (1330–84), and Jan Hus (1370–1415) declared the pope to be the Antichrist (Berger 2018, 339). To perhaps an even greater extent, it was the idea that Christianity did not have to wait patiently for the second advent, as declared by Augustine of Hippo.

424   Julia Eva Wannenmacher† From Joachim’s commentary on Revelation and other writings, his readers and followers obtained the idea that a new era was before them, an era of unheard-of bliss and higher understanding, in which spiritual knowledge would spread among the faithful. Naturally, Joachim would never have contradicted Augustine by saying that his conception was wrong. Joachim agreed that the thousand years of Rev. 20 are the whole time of Christianity, when Christ has won victory over death, the period from the New Testament until the second advent. But at the same time, the thousand years are the future period that begins at the end of the time, in time and with the gift of the Holy Spirit, the spiritualis intelligentia. In the centuries to come, this spiritual and God-sent gift could be interpreted in different ways. Joachim could be called the father of progress in history, as Marjorie Reeves did when she declared, “The spearhead of Joachim’s original thought lies in the great imaginative step which he took when he threw the full manifestation of the Third Person of the Trinity forward into the period ahead” (Reeves 1980, 288). Or he could be the namesake of impending revolutions, beginning long before Thomas Müntzer and not ending with the political upheavals of the twentieth century. His ideas seem to have lost nothing of their fascination.

The Explosion of Apocalyptic Thought and Commentaries on Revelation in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries The impact of Joachim of Fiore and his exegesis probably contributed to the remarkable growth of interest in Revelation and the writing of many new commentaries. It is not a coincidence that many of these commentaries were written by members of the Franciscan Order, whose founder was filled with a deep sense of eschatological ex­ist­ ence (Benz 1934, 162–68), and whom his followers declared to be one of the spiritual leaders of the church, that is, one of the apocalyptic witnesses of Rev 11 whose coming Joachim had prophesied. One of the earliest commentaries of this provenance is by Alexander Minorita (Alexander Minorita 1955), who wrote somewhere in Northern Germany. As Sabine Schmolinsky has shown, his first version, written around 1235, exhibits no familiarity with Joachim’s thought or writing, but the revised version, written in or after 1242 when Alexander had become a member of the Franciscan Order, does adopt the Joachite perspective (Schmolinsky 1991, 121–22). The additions to the revised version, clearly written by Alexander himself in the years 1248–1249, show the clearest traces of his new reading of Joachim. He aims at a “rational understanding of this most important of all Christian prophecies,” basing it on “historical awareness” (Schmolinsky 1991, 123; my translation).

John’s Apocalypse in the Medieval Period   425 In contrast to Olivi, the threats of the end times and the Antichrist seem to him less important than his general view of history, a perspective shared by Nicholas of Lyra. When we compare these thirteenth- and fourteenth-century commentaries, we find that writers who were personally or through their monastic orders in close relationship with the papacy or higher authorities of the church, or who were members of a less radical order, considered the predicted persecutions of the church and the faithful to be less threatening and imminent than did the writers Peter John Olivi and John of Rupescissa and others, who were less firmly committed to the existing church and its authorities, and who had a vivid sense of the nearness of the Antichrist and the end. The Franciscan theologian Peter John Olivi (1248–1298) was a contentious character. The main subjects of his disputes with members of his order, his superiors, and the papacy were poverty and evangelical perfection—points on which Olivi championed rather rigid positions. The new minister general of the order, Matthew of Aquasparta, however, defended him and sent him out to teach, first in Florence, from where he was sent to Montpellier in his homeland of France. In contrast to many of his more radical Franciscan brothers, Olivi died fully reconciled with his church and peacefully in a convent in Narbonne, surrounded by his disciples. He did not live to witness the condemnation of his writings in the fourteenth century. Olivi’s commentary, which he completed in the year before his death, was widely read, often copied, and even translated into the vernacular (Olivi  2015; Menichetti  2016). Probably because of the condemnation of Olivi’s teachings, only fourteen manuscripts survived, but we can infer from their number that many more must have been extant. Olivi resembled Joachim in that he was a highly original thinker and a versatile scholar, who was also an expert in appreciating the exegetical tradition. In many ways, his commentary depends on Joachim’s, especially in that it is both spiritually oriented and focused on history. What is unique about Olivi, compared to many others among Joachim’s self-appointed disciples, is that he regards Joachim not just as another knowledgeable commentator on Revelation but as a prophet. For Olivi, Joachim’s authority is so profound that according to David Burr, he cites no other authors and commentaries except Joachim and Richard of St Victor, and is unique in his adaptation of Joachim’s threefold and sevenfold patterns in history (Burr 1983, 80, 104–7). His own time is the sixth of seven periods in history; the time of the great persecution is near. He sees decay and the need for reformation in the church and, at the same time, an ever-increasing rise of the spiritual understanding that is accompanying the gradual shift away from the church of the clerics toward a new, spiritual church (Benz 1923, 262–70). It would be fascinating to be able to study the commentary of the aforementioned Franciscan, Matthew of Aquasparta (d. 1302), Minister General of the Franciscan Order, Cardinal Deacon of San Lorenzo in Damaso, and finally Cardinal Bishop of Porto. He was a productive writer, mainly before his creation and his numerous activities as papal diplomate, and while some of his writings are well studied and edited, the commentary on Revelation, unfortunately, is not. No idea of decay is mentioned by the French Franciscan Petrus Aureoli (ca. 1280–1322), who is less known for his commentary on Revelation than for his comments on the

426   Julia Eva Wannenmacher† Sentences of Peter Lombard, and for his philosophical works; consequently, the latter have not been edited. For Petrus Aureoli, John’s Apocalypse contains the key to understanding history and salvation (Benz 1934, 434). Vision by vision and chapter by chapter, the Apocalypse, according to Petrus, described and prophesied future events and characters of the church. In so doing, he follows Joachim of Fiore and Peter John Olivi, but unlike them he focuses on the time between Christ’s first and second advent instead of on a Trinitarian view of history. What he has in common with Joachim is his belief in the important role of spiritual understanding, which increases throughout the course of history. Ernst Benz was highly impressed, not only by Petrus’s vast knowledge of history, but even more by the clarity and perspicuity of his account of history (Benz 1934, 459). For Petrus Aureoli, to understand history and to focus on its final aim is to lose fear and uncertainty. By abandoning Joachim’s Trinitarian view of history, he abandons the idea of a future and ever more perfect church, too, and with it, the element of church criticism and the proclaimed need for reform that characterized the majority of Joachim’s self-attained disciples. But Petrus Aureoli has traded hopes for a new church for the trust in an institution. The last commentary on the Apocalypse that should be mentioned here is by the Conventual Franciscan Nicholas of Lyra (1270–1349), born in Lyre, in Normandy, who studied and later taught in Paris. He was a strict follower of the scholastic school of St. Victor and a notable scholar of Hebrew, though, as Beryl Smalley had stated, he was not the first to use Jewish sources, nor was it ever eccentric to do so (Smalley 1978, xvi). His commentary on Revelation dates from around 1329/30, not long after of the contention between Pope John XXII and the minister general of the Franciscans. It is a journey through history from the days of the apostles until the Middle Ages. Although he seems merely to discuss the text and past history, he decidedly takes sides in theological issues of his own time (Krey 2000, 269). He too declares that John foresaw all future tribulations of the church from John’s own times until the end of the world. Basically this is what many of his predecessors and especially Alexander Minorita had done before him. But compared to theirs, Nicholas’s description of this linear interpretation of historical events alongside the text of Revelation is what has been called a popularization of their exegesis (Krey  1992, 54 n. 2). Though a Franciscan himself, his interpretation of Revelation is neither a propaganda tool of his own order and its founder, nor a propagation or defense of crusading (Krey 1992, 55, 58). Compared to his predecessors Alexander and Petrus, whom he had certainly read, Nicholas is much more a historian—though of course not in a modern sense—and simultaneously an exegete. Neither the exegetical methods nor the historical sources used by Nicholas were new (most of them can also be found in Alexander Minorita), and his results were not thoroughly original; yet the rational and impartial approach to exegesis and the precise use of sources with added indications of provenance is something decidedly different. Still, like Joachim, Olivi, and Petrus Aureoli, his “primary agenda” (Krey 1992, 56) was to find out more about God’s plans for the future of the church and the future church. His perspective is much more Augustinian than theirs; he does not really seek or expect an ideal church, and at the same time, he clearly avoids any hints of a future and purely monastic

John’s Apocalypse in the Medieval Period   427 or spiritual church without clerics, bishops or papacy. Toward worldly powers, Nicholas—who had close relations with the French rulers—shows an equally rational and matter-of-fact attitude. He has a clear idea of where the power and the realm of the church ends and where that of worldly princes begins. Consequently, the Antichrist for Nicholas could not be born within the Christian community as either a cleric or a prince, but had to come from outside (Krey 1992, 75 n. 57). His view of his own order in the present and future is rather pessimistic, and he does not ascribe any special future tasks to it. In doing so, he is more of an Augustinian than a reformer avant la letter. Perhaps his reputation for familiarity with Hebrew texts—rather than other reasons, concerning content—which was also characteristic for the Reformation, is one reason Nicholas of Lyra has often been regarded as proto-Reformer, as in the anonymous’ verse: “Si Lyra non lyrasset, Lutherus non saltasset”—“Had Lyra not played, Luther would not have danced.” Be that as it may, the image of a dancing Martin Luther is too good to add any more words.

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428   Julia Eva Wannenmacher† Classen, Peter. 1983. “Res Gestae, Universal History, Apocalypse: Visions of Past and Future.” In Ausgewählte Aufsätze von Peter Classen, edited by Konstanzer Arbeitskreis für mittelalterliche Geschichte. Vorträge und Forschungen 28. Sigmaringen, Germany: Thorbecke, pp. 347–78. Daniel, E. Randolph. 2013. “Joachim’s Unnoticed Pattern of History: The Second Diffinitio,.” In Joachim of Fiore and the Influence of Inspiration: Essays in Memory of Marjorie E. Reeves (1905–2003), edited by Julia Eva Wannenmacher, pp. 3–13. Church, Faith and Culture in Medieval West. Farnham, UK: Ashgate. Dempf, Alois. 1929. Sacrum Imperium: Geschichts- und Staatsphilosophie des Mittelalters und der politischen Renaissance. Munich: Oldenbourg. Dulaey, Martine. 1991. “Jérôme ‘éditeur’ du Commentaire sur l’Apocalypse de Victorin de Poetovio.” REA 37: 199–236. Dulaey, Martine. 1993. Victorin de Poetovio: Premier exégète latin. Collection des études augustiniennes: Série Antiquité 139, 140. Paris: Institut d’études augustiniennes. Dulaey, Martine. 1997. Victorin de Poetovio, Sur l’Apocalypse, et autres écrits. SC 423. Paris: Cerf. Engen, John Van. 1983. Rupert of Deutz. Publications of the Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies 18. Berkeley: University of California Press. Engen, John Van. 2009. “Wrestling with the Word: Rupert’s Quest for Exegetical Understanding.” In Rupert von Deutz—Ein Denker zwischen den Zeiten. Internationales Symposion der Erzbischöflichen Diözesan- und Dombibliothek Köln und des Instituts für Christliche Philosophie der Leopold-Franzens-Universität Innsbruck, 20. bis 22. September 2007, edited by Heinz Finger, Harald Horst, and Rainer Klotz, pp. 185–99. Libri Rhenani Band 31. Köln: Erzbischöfliche Diözesan- und Dombibliothek. Gillingham, John. 1973. The Life and Times of Richard I. London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson. Glossa ordinaria. 1480/81. Edited by Adolph Rusch. 4 vols. Straßburg. Reprint 1992., Turnhout: Brepols. Grundmann, Herbert. 1977. “Zur Biographie Joachims von Fiore und Rainers von Ponza.” Ausgewählte Aufsätze 2: Joachim von Fiore, edited by Herbert Grundmann, pp. 255–360. MGH. Schriften 25. Stuttgart: Hiersemann. Haacke, Rhaban. 1960. “Die Überlieferung der Schriften Ruperts von Deutz.” DAEM 16: 397–436. Haacke, Rhaban. 1970. “Nachlese zur Überlieferung Ruperts von Deutz.” DAEM 26: 528–40. Haimo of Halberstadt. 1852. Expositio in Apocalipsin B. Johannis. PL 117. Paris. Reprint 1977. Turnhout: Brepols. 937–1220. Haskins, Charles Homer. 1927. The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Haussleiter, Johannes. 1887. Leben und Werke des Bischofs Primasius von Hadrumetum. Erlangen, Germany: E. Th. Jacob. Holdenried, Anke. 2013. “De Oraculis Gentilium (1673) and the Sibilla Erithea Babilonica: Pseudo-Joachimite Prophecy in a New Intellectual Context.” In Joachim of Fiore and the Influence of Inspiration: Essays in Memory of Marjorie E. Reeves (1905–2003), edited by Julia Eva Wannenmacher, pp. 253–81. Church, Faith and Culture in the Medieval West. Farnham, UK: Ashgate. Joachim of Fiore. 1527. Expositio super Apocalypsim. Venice. Reprint 1964. Frankfurt: Minerva. Kamlah, Wilhelm. 1935. Apokalypse und Geschichtstheologie: Die mittelalterliche Auslegung der Apokalypse vor Joachim von Fiore. Berlin: Emil Ebering. Reprint 1965. Vaduz, Liechtenstein: Kraus.

John’s Apocalypse in the Medieval Period   429 Klein, Peter  K. 2015. “Die Erneuerung der Beatus-Illustration im 10. Jahrhundert und das Problem der Endzeiterwartungen.” In Aus Buchwerkstatt und Bibliothek: Manuskriptkulturen des Mittelalters in Orient und Okzident, edited by Lorenz Korn, Birgitt Hoffmann, and Stefanie Stricker, pp. 71–94. Bamberg, Germany: University of Bamberg Press. Kovacs, Judith, and Christopher Rowland. 2004. Revelation. BBC. Oxford: Blackwell. Krey, Philip D. W. 1992. “Nicholas of Lyra: Apocalypse Commentator, Historian, and Critic.” FS 52: 54–84. Krey, Philip D. W. 2000. “The Apocalypse Commentary of 1329: Problems in Church History.” In Nicholas of Lyra: The Senses of Scripture, edited by Philip D. W. Krey and Lesley Smith, pp. 267–88. SHCT 90. Leiden: Brill. Lees, Jay T. 1998. Anselm of Havelberg: Deeds into Words in the Twelfth Century. SHCT 79. Leiden: Brill. LeGoff, Jacques. 1996. Der Mensch im Mittelalter. Frankfurt: Fischer. Lubac, Henri de. 1998/2000. Medieval Exegesis. The Four Senses of Scripture. 2 vols. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Matter, E. Ann. 1992. “The Apocalypse in Early Medieval Exegesis,.” In The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, edited by Richard K. Emmerson and Bernard McGinn, pp. 38–50. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Mégier, Elisabeth. 2014. “Was wird aus den exegetischen Kategorien des Tyconius in den Apokalypsekommentaren der lateinischen Kirche von Primasius von Hadrumetum bis Rupert von Deutz?,.” In Tot sacramenta quot verba: Zur Kommentierung der Apokalypse des Johannes von den Anfängen bis ins 12. Jahrhundert, edited by Konrad Huber, Rainer Klotz, and Christoph Winterer, pp. 153–93. Munich: Aschendorff. Menichetti, Caterina. 2016. “La Lectura super Apocalipsim di Pietro di Giovanni Olivi in volgare italiano.” Oliviana: Mouvements et dissidences spirituels XIIIe–XIVe siècles 5. https:// journals.openedition.org/oliviana/836. Olivi, Petrus Johannis. 2015. Lectura super Apocalypsim. Edited by Warren Lewis. Saint Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute. Primasius Hadrumetinus. 1985. Commentarius in Apocalypsin. Edited by A. W. Adams. CCCL 92. Turnhout: Brepols. Rauh, Horst Dieter. 1979. Das Bild des Antichrist im Mittelalter: Von Tyconius bis zum Deutschen Symbolismus. 2nd ed. Beiträge zur Geschichte und Theologie des Mittelalters. Neue Folge 9. Munich: Aschendorff. Reeves, Marjorie. 1980. “The Originality and Influence of Joachim of Fiore.” Traditio 36: 269–316. Reeves, Marjorie, and Beatrice Hirsch-Reich. 1972. The Figure of Joachim of Fiore. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Richard of St Victor. 1855. In Apocalypsim Joannis. PL 196. Paris. Reprint 1979. Turnhout: Brepols. 683–888. Robb, Fiona. 1993. “Did Innocent III Personally Condemn Joachim of Fiore?” Florensia 7: 77–91. Rupert of Deutz. 1967. De divinis officiis. Edited by Rhaban Haacke. CCCM 7. Turnhout: Brepols. Rupert of Deutz. 1854. Commentaria in Apocalypsim. PL 169. Paris. Reprint 1978. Turnhout: Brepols. 827–1214. Schmolinsky, Sabine. 1991. Der Apokalypsenkommentar des Alexander Minorita: Zur frühen Rezeptionsgeschichte Joachims von Fiore in Deutschland. MGH. Studien und Texte 3. Hanover: Hahn’sche Buchhandlung.

430   Julia Eva Wannenmacher† Schmolinsky, Sabine. 2013. “Joachim of Fiore through Johannes Wolff: A Visit to the Archives of Joachism in the Lectiones memorabiles (1600).” In Joachim of Fiore and the Influence of Inspiration: Essays in Memory of Marjorie  E.  Reeves (1905–2003), edited by Julia Eva Wannenmacher, pp. 231–52. Church, Faith and Culture in the Medieval West. Farnham, UK: Ashgate. Smalley, Beryl 1978. The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages. Oxford: Blackwell and Notre Dame, IN: Notre Dame University Press. Visser, Derk. 1996. Apocalypse as Utopian Expectation (800–1500): The Apocalypse Commentary of Berengaudus of Ferrières and the Relationship between Exegesis, Liturgy and Iconography. SHCT 73. Leiden: Brill. Wannenmacher, Julia Eva. 2005. Hermeneutik der Heilsgeschichte: “De septem sigillis” und das Motiv der sieben Siegel im Werk Joachims von Fiore. SHCT 118. Leiden: Brill. Wannenmacher, Julia Eva. 2011. “Dragon, Antichrist, Millennium: Joachim of Fiore and the Opening of the Seals.” In L’Apocalisse nel Medioevo: Atti del Convegno Internazionale dell’ Università degli Studi di Milano e della Società Internazionale per lo Studio del Medioevo Latino (S.I.S.M.E.L.), Gargnano sul Garda, 18–20 maggio 2009, edited by Rossana E. Guglielmetti, pp. 445–69. Florence: SISMEL and Edizione del Galluzzo. Wannenmacher, Julia Eva. 2013. “Auf der Suche nach dem Millennium: Von Joachim von Fiore bis zum Dritten Reich.” In Gott in der Geschichte: Zum Ringen um das Verständnis von Heil und Unheil in der Geschichte des Christentums, edited by Mariano Delgado and Volker Leppin, pp. 159–82. Stuttgart and Fribourg: Academic Press and Kohlhammer,. Wannenmacher, Julia Eva. 2014. “Ein Wandel in der Auslegung durch Joachim von Fiore?” In Tot sacramenta quot verba: Zur Kommentierung der Apokalypse des Johannes von den Anfängen bis ins 12. Jahrhundert, edited by Konrad Huber, Rainer Klotz, and Christoph Winterer, pp. 289–310. Munich: Aschendorff. Wannenmacher, Julia Eva. 2019. “Das Geheimnis des roten Drachen: Weltliche Macht und apokalyptische Verfolger in der Exegese Joachims von Fiore.” In Geschichte vom Ende her denken: Endzeitentwürfe und ihre Historisierung im Mittelalter, edited by Susanne Ehrich and Andrea Worm, pp. 107–23. Forum Mittelalter Studien 15. Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner.

chapter 26

The Book of R ev el ation i n M usic a n d Lit u rgy Paul Westermeyer

The Book of Revelation and Its Soundscape The book of Revelation is often seen as a game of decoding. Supported by a misunderstanding of apocalyptic literature and Revelation, this presupposes a secret code that predicts when the world will end. To read Revelation as a whole and in connection with the rest of the Bible, however, is to encounter God’s love in a huge hymn festival with a revealing soundscape (Lathrop 2017, 14–19). It is a “revelation” about God’s goodness, mercy, and power over evil in a cosmic view, not a secret code for our calendars (Koester 1992, 246, 248). Revelation sings a new song of proclamation, praise, and rejoicing by voices of multitudes gathered around a great supper of the Lamb, punctuated by other sounds. Hearing is the clue to seeing. As Bernard of Clairvaux (1091–1153) said, “Hearing will restore your vision” (Lawlor 1978). For Revelation Marilyn Parry’s words could be inserted, “hearing that is within the Eucharist” (Parry 2000, 10).1 Singing around the marriage feast of the Lamb tells the story of the unmerciful kingdoms of this world having become the merciful kingdom of our Lord, who will reign forever. Through this soundscape the horrible woes and trials of worldly persecution and injustice are seen in the context of God’s reign through Christ the Lamb, where, in a new heaven and earth, tears are wiped away, and death, mourning, and pain are no more. Lynn Hough sums this up in his discussion of the “Anthem of Redemption” at Rev 7:10: All those from every nation and language who have entered into the happy consummation realize that they owe their felicity to the regnant God and to the Christ who

432   Paul Westermeyer died upon the Cross. So they sing the glorious song of the redeemed. These ­outbursts of song are characteristic of the book of Revelation. Indeed, in spite of all the tragedy which it describes, it may be said to be one of the happiest books ever written. The music of eternity sends its triumphant joy back into the life of time. (Hough 1957, 420)

The rejoicing includes lament. Mothers weep. Babylon falls. Ships, music, artisans, and voices of the bride and the bridegroom disappear. Lamps go out. The author of Revelation knows what Don Saliers (2018, 4) reminds us, that there is no “doxology without lament.” The rejoicing also includes judgment, which is related to justice. Paul Tillich (1960, 71) says that “love is the ultimate principle of justice. Love reunites; justice preserves what is to be united. It is the form in which and through which love performs its work.” In Olivier Messiaen’s assessment, “It’s all love,” as we will see.

Liturgy The soundscape of Revelation and its meaning are not inventions of the book’s author. They are generated by the life, death, and resurrection of Christ and by the worship of the church that stands on that foundation in a weekly marriage feast with singing around the supper of the Lamb. As Gordon Lathrop (2017, 89) notes, the book of Revelation is “revealed on the Lord’s Day . . . sent in the seven letters as both affirmation and admonition to actual Christian assemblies . . . [with] images that always run toward [the gospel’s] anticipated feast.” Martin Rist (1957, 550) notes that Rev 22:20, “like so many of the passages in Revelation, suggests a liturgical origin.” The part of the verse to which Rist refers—“Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!”—is a communal liturgical response. The following verse, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen,” is a blessing with the assembly’s communal response of “Amen.” It concludes the whole book of Revelation as it has concluded the church’s liturgy. In addition to liturgical fragments like these, a number of hymns in Revelation suggest a liturgical origin. Here are ones Jim Samra (2019) isolates: 4:8, 11, “Holy, holy, holy, the Lord God, the Almighty . . . You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power . . .” 5:9–13, “You are worthy . . . Worthy is the Lamb that was slaughtered to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing . . . To the one seated on the throne and to the Lamb be blessing and honor and glory and might . . .” 7:10, 12, 15–17, “Salvation belongs to our God, who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb . . . Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanks and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen . . . they are before the throne of God, and worship him day and night . . .”

Revelation in Music and Liturgy   433 11:15, 17, “The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Messiah, and he will reign forever and ever . . . We give you thanks, Lord God Almighty, who are and who were, for you have taken your great power and begun to reign . . .” 15:3–4, “Great and amazing are your deeds, Lord God the Almighty! Just and true are your ways, King of the nations! Lord, who will not fear and glorify your name? For you alone are holy. All nations will come and worship before you, for your judgments have been revealed.” 16:5–7, “You are just, O Holy One, who are and who were, for you have judged these things . . .” 19:1–7, “Hallelujah! Salvation and glory and power to our God, for his judgments are true and just . . . Praise our God, all you his servants . . . Hallelujah! For the Lord our God the Almighty reigns . . .”

“Holy, holy, holy” in Rev 4:8 paraphrases Isa 6:3, which became the Sanctus, the fourth part of the Ordinary of the Mass. Some have assumed the Sanctus was part of the Eucharistic portion of the liturgy already in the time of the apostles, though that is disputed. The author of Revelation may have sung it or its precursor at worship as Marilyn Parry suggests (2000, 220), along with other hymns and liturgical texts quoted in Revelation; or the author may have fashioned hymns on the basis of what was sung in the assembly of the church or what was imagined in a heavenly version. Clemens Leonhard (Clemens and Löhr 2014, 183) says that the “heavenly liturgy need not be connected to any contemporary practice.” If John Chrysostom (347–407) is right about the earthly practice being an echo of the heavenly (Parry 2000, 7), to what extent the imagined heavenly prototype is based on the earthly practice is hard to tell. Samra’s comment that the hymns in Rev 4–5 are intended “to work together” suggests the difficulty of trying to be too precise about what is or is not what was literally sung, and what is or is not what was fashioned from what was sung. In any case, the influence of the church’s worship on Revelation cannot be dismissed (Parry 2000, 24–70). It may be that Massey Shepherd’s (1960, 84) point is most telling, “that the Paschal liturgy [the Marriage feast of the Lamb, the Eucharist] gave the Seer a basic focus for reference.” One can modify the exact way Shepherd construes this and still say it, perhaps as Parry (2000, 105) does, that “there is a large loose structure which focuses on the eucharistic liturgies of the early church.” The influence goes not only from the liturgy to the book of Revelation, but from Revelation to the liturgy. Though writers in the Antiochene tradition never cite Revelation nor was it included in Antiochene lectionaries, Parry nonetheless sees the Liturgy of the Seven Churches “exposed” in Revelation and finds it to be a “precursor for the Antiochene (West Syrian) family of liturgies.” She also sees Revelation as “an influence on the development of Christian worship” (2000, 4, 164). This breadth is diffuse. It includes relationships of the Sanctus to the Trisagion, the Te Deum, and the Cherubic Hymn. These hymns are related to families of liturgies in the early church in Syria, Egypt, Ethiopia, and Rome (Belcher 2019). The Cherubic Hymn dates from the mid-fifth

434   Paul Westermeyer century, with Greek and Syriac versions, translated as “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence” by Gerard Moultrie (1829–1885). Revelation’s influence may be present in lines like the “host of heaven [spreading] its vanguard on the way,” the “Light of light, descending from the realms of endless day,” the “six-winged seraph,” and the “sleepless eye” of “cherubim.” It is sung in the orthodox Liturgy of St. James at the Great Entrance when the bread and wine are brought in procession to the altar. “Worthy is Christ, the Lamb” is another example. In the Lutheran Book of Worship (1982, 60, 81, 102) it is fashioned from Rev 5, 15, and 19 as an alternative to “Glory to God in the Highest” (the Gloria in Excelsis), the second piece of the Ordinary. This emphasizes the Lamb more than in the Gloria, where the Lamb is addressed in an internal petition. A third example can be seen in the citations service materials make to Revelation. The American Book of Common Prayer of 1979 has over thirty such citations (Hatchett 1981, 670). These include canticles, prayers, an opening sentence, anointing with oil, and incense, as well as use at baptism, burial of the dead, the feast day of St. Michael and All Angels, and the Preface for Marriage (21:2).

The Lamb of God The hymns in Rev 5 and 19 are about the Lamb of God. Earlier, the “Holy, Holy, Holy” in 4:8 was from Isa 6:3 and points to the otherness of God who, in Isaiah, fills the temple and speaks to a human being. The Gospel of John (1:14) expresses the New Testament witness that God is not only known through the Word of God, but that the Word takes flesh in Christ. The author of Revelation highlights both God’s otherness and God’s presence in Christ in the flesh, the latter through the imagery of Christ the Lamb of God, as in Rev 5 and 19. Gordon Lathrop helps us understand the dangerous image of the Lamb. “In some apocalyptic literature,” he says, “the Lamb becomes a powerful, destroying, ruling ram, with murderous horns . . . in Revelation the Lamb has seven horns and is called a Lion (5:5–6) and then a ‘rider on a white horse’ (19:11–16).” However, in Revelation “the Lamb perpetually stays a Lamb” (Lathrop  2017, 88). Quoting David Barr, “ ‘the violence through which Jesus is said to conquer is violence done to him’ [so that] in the end of the book one finds the marriage supper of the Lamb (Rev 19:9), not of the Lion or the Ram, held in a city that welcomes all” (2017, 88). The “Lamb of God” (Agnus Dei) is the last part of the Ordinary, and the language most closely follows John 1:29. Thomas D. Busteed, however, sees it tied to Revelation. He isolates two usual hypotheses for its introduction into the Ordinary. One is that Pope Sergius around the year 700 introduced it to the West via “an influx of Greek-speaking refugees from Syria and other eastern regions” (Busteed 2017, 29). The other “centers around . . . Pope Sergius I and Emperor Justinian II” as “a protest against the Emperor’s authority” by introducing the imagery of the Lamb to challenge Canon 82 from the Council of Trullo, which said that “artists are not to portray the Foreunner [John] pointing to the Lamb” (Busteed 2017, 31, 33).

Revelation in Music and Liturgy   435 Busteed suggests an “alternative hypothesis” that sees Revelation influencing the liturgical use of the Lamb imagery. He places “the origin of the Agnus Dei” in the mix “of late seventh century interpretation of scripture, tradition, art, and ritual stemming from the Western use of the book of Revelation” (Busteed  2017, 34–35). The Lamb in Revelation is “reiterated in the artwork of Rome. The Lamb’s throne is the altar of the Eucharist, which contains the relics of apostles and martyrs. As the Lamb opens the fifth seal, we participate in the martyr’s cry for justice” (Rev 6:10–11; Busteed 2017, 41–42) so that the “worship of the Lamb is the ritual participation in the eternal New Jerusalem, the City of God, in protest to the rising and falling of egocentric kingdoms of earth . . . Every Eucharist is a subversive act, a sacramental participation in the New Jerusalem” (Busteed 2017, 42). The Agnus Dei speaks of the Lamb taking away sin, and it may appear too penitential at the meal where the bread is broken and the bread and wine are distributed. However, people in congregations and choirs who for centuries have sung it there every week seem to have found the peace of its last petition (“Lamb of God, you take away the sin of the world, grant us peace”) to be what defines it. This is personal peace and peace that fills the world into which Christians take it. Busteed may have isolated the constructively subversive reason for this understanding, especially where the culture’s egocentric kingdoms beat people down with no peace. J. S. Bach (1685–1750) points to a related understanding in his B Minor Mass, which is a musical and theological testament of celebration and instruction, and not intended for a service of worship. Bach used the same music for the Gratias agimus tibi propter magnum gloria tuum (“We give you thanks for your great glory”) of the Gloria in Excelsis, the first piece of the Ordinary, as he did for the Dona nobis pacem (“Grant us peace”), the last petition of the Agnus Dei, the last piece of the Ordinary. That is, the praise of God is intrinsically connected to the communal peace and justice of God as worshipers carry it into the egocentric world of warfare and injustice.

Hymnic Influences Revelation has had an extensive and ubiquitous influence on hymns and their singing. For example, about 130 allusions to Revelation are found in the 525 hymns in A Collection of Hymns for the Use of People Called Methodists (1780; Hildebrandt and Beckerlegge 1983). Daniel Mount has assembled a list of 107 gospel songs from thirteen chapters of Revelation.2 The African American tradition of spirituals and blues, as James Cone says, is about “the struggle for black survival” (Cone 1972, 1). It raises “questions about God, Jesus Christ, life after death, and suffering” (Cone 1972, 7). This tradition employs imagery from Revelation that affirms and celebrates the Christian view that the present does not define the future and inspires hope against the injustice of the present. Erskine Peters’s listing of the following texts under the headings of “Lyrics of Judgment and Reckoning”

436   Paul Westermeyer and “Lyrics of Resistance and Defiance” (Peters 1993, 270, 281, 289, 294, 296, 144, 145) points to these affirmations: “Hallelujah to the Lamb” “John saw the number that no man could number” “Yes, the book of Revelation to be brought forth on that day” “. . . the moon drips away in the blood” “There’s a mighty war in heaven, I John, saw” “New Jerusalem! Sitting down beside the Lamb” “Standing on the sea of glass.”

The African American urban gospel hymns of Charles A. Tindley (1851–1933) provide such language as “There is a Land that is Free” and “I Hear of a City.” Carlton Young—sleuth, editor, and teacher—suggests Revelation’s influence from the Second Great Awakening, rural and urban revivals, through national and international missions and the Social Gospel, into nineteenth- and twentieth-century worship, preaching, hymnody, and music. He sees it in such themes as God shall wipe away all tears (Rev 21:4); all things, people, and nations made new (21:1–8); Jesus coming soon (22:7–17); and the Lamb’s high feast as an extensive and open table (19:7–10).3 Craig Koester suggests that two major dimensions are at work in the relationships between Revelation and hymnody.4 One is about form: Revelation supplies the primary text, is a key text, or draws on Revelation’s imagery. The other is about function: enabling the worship depicted in Revelation to inspire worship within the gathered community and inspiring hope in varying social contexts, including those characterized by grief and injustice. These can be seen by looking specifically at several hymns. “Holy, Holy, Holy” comes not only in the Sanctus of the Ordinary, but also in hymns. Reginald Heber (1783–1826), an Anglican priest who was the bishop of Calcutta, wrote an especially well-known one, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty,” for Trinity Sunday. Here the form of the hymn uses Revelation as its primary text. This hymn was included in Heber’s Hymns Written and Adapted to the Weekly Church Service of the Year, which was published in 1827 after he died. With Isa 6:3 as background, it is based on Rev 4, the Epistle for Trinity Sunday in the Book of Common Prayer. The lectionary supports and is supported by the hymn. The three “Holies” are there with “Lord God almighty,” cherubim, seraphim, and saints “casting down their golden crowns around the crystal sea.” John B. Dykes (1823–1876), an Anglican organist and choir director who wrote three hundred hymn tunes for parish use, wrote the tune “Nicaea” for this text. In 1861 Anglicans included this hymn and its tune in Hymns Ancient and Modern, the model of a modern English hymnal. Some Protestant churches for many years began their worship every Sunday with “Holy, Holy, Holy.” Congregations who may never have used the liturgical term “Ordinary” made this hymn part of their “ordinary” worship. It functioned to draw the gathered community into the kind of worship described in the text from Revelation as the assembly does what the heavenly assembly does. Some hymns use Revelation less directly, but as important underlying key texts. John Newton (1725–1807), the Anglican priest who wrote “Amazing Grace,” wrote 141 hymns

Revelation in Music and Liturgy   437 on passages of the Bible, working from Genesis through Revelation. “How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds“ is one of them. It is built on the Song of Solomon 1:3 and uses a long tradition which interprets that book as an allegory of the love of Christ for the church. Here is the verse Newton cites: “your anointing oils are fragrant, your name is perfume poured out; therefore the maidens love you.” As in Rev 19:7 and 9, Christ is the seen as the bridegroom. (Newton actually made this more explicit than it is in the editorial alterations we use. His original stanza 5 said, “Jesus! My Shepherd, Husband, Friend.”) The imagery of Revelation is in the background without being the centerpiece. That does not deny the importance of Revelation for metrical hymns built directly on its texts, like “Come, Let Us Join Our Cheerful Songs” from 5:11–13 by the Congregational pastor and hymn writer Isaac Watts (1674–1748). It simply indicates the importance of Revelation as an underlying source of imagery. “Wake, Awake, for Night Is Flying” and “O Morning Star, How Fair and Bright” are further examples of Revelation as key but not central. Known among Lutherans as the King and the Queen of the chorales, they were written by Philipp Nicolai (1556–1608), a pastor in Westphalia, where in 1597 and 1598 thirteen hundred people died of the plague in sixteen months. These hymns functioned to inspire hope for life that transcends the present moment. Relying on Augustine’s “City of God,” Nicolai included them in his “Joyful Mirror of Eternal Life.” “Wake, Awake” is based on the parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids in Matt 25:1–11, but contains many other biblical allusions, among them the marriage feast in Rev 19:6–9 and the twelve gates of pearls in 21:21. “O Morning Star” is based on Psalm 45 but contains allusions to the jewel, jasper, and pearls of Rev 21:11, 19, and 21, and the Alpha, Omega, and Morning Star of 22:13 and 16. Laid out poetically both hymns visually form a chalice. Here is stanza 4 of “O Morning Star” in German and English. 4 Von Gott kommt mir ein Freudenschein, Wenn du mit deinen Äugelein Mich freundlich tust anblicken. O Herr Jesu, mein trautes Gut, Dein Wort, dein Geist, Dein Leib und Blut Mich innerlich erquicken. Nimm mich freundlich In dein’ Arme, dass ich warme Werd’ von Gnaden. Auf dein Wort komm ich geladen. From God to me a joyful sigh Comes when you turn your loving eye In gracious benediction. O Lord Jesu, my fondest good, Your Word, your Spirit, body, blood

438   Paul Westermeyer Refresh my inner being. Take me Kindly In your graces, Warm embraces, Bounties treasured. In your Word comes joy unmeasured.

In this stanza Nicolai made the form of the hymn, not only by the shape of a chalice but, even more subtly, by its position in the hymn, underline Revelation’s imagery of the bridegroom and the marriage feast. (It is hard to imagine that this structuring was accidental.) This fourth stanza of “O Morning Star” is at the center of the hymn, with three stanzas before it and three after it. Its middle line is “Your Word, your Spirit, body, blood.” There are twenty-one words (in the German original) before it and twenty-one words after it, making that line the very center of the hymn, surrounded by the number 21, which is formed by multiplying the perfect number 7 times the number 3 of the Trinity. This structure pictures the tender imagery of the bridegroom around the marriage feast of the Lamb of God in Word and Sacrament. Revelation’s imagery is subtly but surely built into this hymn even when texts from Revelation are not its central ones.

Oratorios The music of the Ordinary, though primarily congregational, has sometimes been sung by choirs in settings that range from monophonic Gregorian5 or other chant to various homophonic and polyphonic styles. The pieces of the Ordinary, with the Sanctus and Agnus Dei, have been composed independently and as sets for worship by Palestrina (1525–1529) and many other composers. So have many pieces of choral and solo music built on texts from Revelation or influenced by its imagery. Parts of the Ordinary have also been conceived as musical events outside of worship, like the B Minor Mass by J. S. Bach (1685–1750) and the Missa Solemnis by Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827). These include Requiems, like those of W.  A.  Mozart (1756–1791), Hector Berlioz (1803–1869), Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901), and Benjamin Britten (1913–1976). This brings us to oratorios stimulated by Revelation. Oratorios are works outside of worship intended for performance before an audience. Though not contextualized by the liturgy of a participatory worshiping community around Word, Font, and Table or using texts from the Ordinary, they nonetheless carry out Revelation’s soundscape and themes. Louis Spohr (1784–1859) was a skillful composer, violinist, teacher, and conductor. His oratorio “The Last Judgment” was written when he was the Kapellmeister in Kassel. It became quite popular. At its first German performance, in Kassel in 1826, a critic wrote that it “breathes a humility, devotion, and piety that is extremely uplifting, so that no other work of the present day can be compared to it.” At its first English performance in

Revelation in Music and Liturgy   439 1830 it was called “one of the greatest musical productions of the age” (Brown 1987, ix). The English title, “The Last Judgment,” and some of the English translation give the impression that judgment is the central theme.6 The German title, however, is Die letzten Dinge, “The Last Things.” The central theme is not judgment, but a new heaven and a new earth. Judgment is contextualized by God’s love. Johann Friedrich Rochlitz (1769–1842), the editor of the Leipziger Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, compiled the libretto from biblical passages in Revelation and asked Spohr to set them as an oratorio. Spohr agreed, but wanted a longer text. Rochlitz added other scriptural passages to those from Revelation and remained influential in Spohr’s composing. Dieter Zeh notes that Rochlitz regarded sections of the oratorio as “scenes” with “flowing transitions.”7 Virtuoso operatic solos were avoided in favor of shorter arioso-­recitatives, with large choruses that appealed to the bourgeoisie of the time. The oratorio’s two parts take an hour and fifteen minutes. The first part’s overture and the second part’s sinfonia are each eight minutes, which makes sixteen of the seventyfive minutes solely instrumental. The orchestral introductions have somewhat relentless and ominous dotted rhythms set against flowing melodic lines. The choral music of the first part contains flowing hymns of praise and thanksgiving to the Lamb with texts from Revelation: “Praise and honor to God” (1:4), “ ‘Holy, holy, holy’ is God the Lord” (4:8), “Behold the Lamb . . . Weep no more” (5:5), and “All glory to the Lamb” . . . “Blessing, honor, glory, and power to him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb forever” (5:12–13). Seeing is interpreted by song in praise to God. In the second part, “Thus says the Lord” brackets God’s judgment with texts from Ezek 7:2–27, Jer 29:13–14, and Ezek 37:27. The tenor announces that “The end is near . . . Prepare to meet your God,” with the orchestra continuing its dotted rhythm. The soprano and tenor sing a prayer that God not forsake them, with the dotted rhythms seeping into their lines. God responds in the chorus with flowing octaves, “If with all your hearts you seek me, you will find me.” After this bracketed section the texts are again taken from Revelation until the final one from Matthew 6:13. The chorus announces that Babylon is destroyed (Rev 14:8), and the seals are broken (8:1). Soloists and chorus respond, “Blessed are the dead” (14:13), “I saw a new heaven and a new earth” (21:1–2), and “Great and wonderful are your works” (15:3–4) in a fugue. A “Hallelujah” breaks out with the dotted rhythm relaxed into a choral celebration. A confident plagal cadence ends the piece with “Alleluia and Amen” after the concluding words of the Lord’s Prayer from Matthew’s gospel: “Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever and evermore.” A note in the score of The Holy City8 (1902) by Alfred R. Gaul (1837–1913)—not to be confused with the popular Victorian song of the same name by Frederick [Frederic] Weatherly [1848–1929])—calls Gaul’s “treatment . . . almost entirely reflective” of Spohr’s “The Last Judgment” by saying that the subject “has been treated in so masterly a manner by the great German composer” (1902, 3). Gaul was an English organist, composer, teacher, and conductor. His oratorio is about praise to God who brings a new heaven and a new earth. Structured in two movements called “Contemplation” and “Adoration,” it was written for the Birmingham Musical Festival in 1882 and became popular. It builds

440   Paul Westermeyer hymns and passages of scripture around texts from the book of Revelation, beginning with a hymn of Horatius Bonar (1808–1889), which links sight and sound: “No shadows yonder! All light and song!”9 Then “Sorrow and sighing shall be no more” from Isaiah and “the former things have passed away” from Rev 21:4 evoke the song the “ransomed people raise” in “laud and benediction,” using John Mason Neale’s (1818–1866) translation of the twelfth-century words of Bernard de Morlaix—also known as Bernard of Cluny (Lawson 1914, 208). In Part II the Chorus repeats the refrain, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts” from Revelation 4:5 and concludes with “Alleluia! (19:6) Amen!” (7:12 and 22:1). Franz Schmidt (1874–1939), an accomplished Austrian cellist, pianist, organist, conductor, and teacher composed his oratorio Das Buch mit sieben Siegeln (“The Book of the Seven Seals”; Schmidt 1938) as a committed Catholic after experiencing personal tragedies. Malcolm McDonald says it is “an attempt to set, in condensed form, the whole of the Apocalypse” (MacDonald 2004, 5). In two parts, it proceeds seamlessly for an hour and fifty minutes through waves of extremities in dynamics, range, and forces. It begins with what Schmidt called “the story of mankind,” which combines “the letters of St. John to the seven churches,” sung by a tenor; the words of God as Alpha and Omega sung by a bass; and choruses of “Holy, holy, holy,” “You are worthy,” and “Glory to the Lamb.” A slow, tangled organ solo initiates the opening of the first six seals, each with its aftermath and extended laments. Another organ solo, faster but also tangled, initiates the second part which begins with silence in heaven when the seventh seal is opened, leading to a great war with tribulation, Christ the Lamb who defeats evil, followed by thanks, homage, and seven towering sets of Alleluias to God the Alpha and Omega. A quiet chant by the men of the chorus precedes music from the beginning as John concludes with what he saw, heard, and the grace of God. Written between 1933 and 1937, this oratorio was premiered in Vienna on June 15, 1938, shortly after Hitler and the Nazis annexed Austria. Though Schmidt “was seen to give the Nazi salute,” he may have simply been extraordinarily politically naïve (MacDonald 2004, 5). The oratorio on its own terms is a lament on the horrors of the battle in heaven which, because of when it was written, is hard to divorce from the horrors Hitler visited on the earth. These horrors give way to God who brings the water of life, no more death and sorrow, and a new creation. Schmidt may have meant for his music to undercut tyranny like the book of Revelation itself. Whether he did or not, music, especially with texts like this, always transcends those who compose it. Dominick Argento’s “Rhapsody” (see note 8), The Revelation of St. John the Divine (Argento 1968), also uses texts from the book of Revelation in a summary fashion in a work of three movements that take about a half hour. A leading American composer who taught at Eastman School of Music and the University of Minnesota, Argento (b. 1927) wrote it in 1966 for the Choir at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota.10 John announces that he heard a great voice (1:10), turns (1:12), sees a throne in heaven (4:1), and hears the elders and the beasts around it singing “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty” (4:8) and “Thou art worthy” (4:11). He sees a book with seven seals in the right hand of the one who sat on the throne (5:1) and weeps because no one can open it. (5:4). One of the elders tells him not to weep, because the Lion of Judah, the Root of

Revelation in Music and Liturgy   441 David, has opened it (5:5). John sees the Lamb slain (5:6), with the voice of many angels and every creature in heaven singing the “Holy, holy, holy" and “Worthy is the Lamb.” The second movement recounts the opening of the seals. As the Lamb opens the first one, John again hears a voice: “Come and see!” (6:1). Hearing leads to seeing a nightmare of visual images as the seals are opened. An angel says not to hurt the earth, the sea, or the trees (7:3); and a multitude sings before the throne and the Lamb, clothed in white robes with palms (7:9–10). A unison chorus sings that they no longer hunger or thirst, for the Lamb feeds them and leads them to fountains of water, wiping tears from their eyes (7:16–17). Quietly and unaccompanied John announces after the seventh seal is opened that there was silence in heaven for about a half hour (8:1). Seven angels who receive seven trumpets prepare to sound (8:6), and all manner of catastrophes follow. In the third movement the chorus announces that Babylon has fallen (18:2), that “the kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord” who “shall reign forever” (11:15), and breaks into an “Alleluia” (19:1, 3, 4, 6); “for the marriage of the lamb is come” (19:9). Hearing is the interpretive filter for the sights as John repeats the music from the beginning and sings, “I saw these things, and heard them” (22:8), this time concluding with the blessing, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with us all” (22:21). Oratorios with Revelation as their central focus are not the only ones that express Revelation’s themes. So do two that are better known and have broader foci: Messiah of George Frederic Handel (1685–1759) and the German Requiem of Johannes Brahms (1833–1897). Both works lead to texts from Revelation. At the end of Part II in Messiah Handel set Revelation 16:15–16: “The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord, and of his Christ, and he shall reign forever and ever,” followed by “King of Kings, and Lord of Lords.” At the end of Part III, the conclusion, the words of Revelation 5:12–13 are used: “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain” and “Blessing and honor . . . glory and power be unto the Lamb upon the throne, forever and ever. Amen.” In the German Requiem Brahms concluded the second last movement with “Worthy art Thou” from Rev 4:11 and the last movement with “Blessed are the dead” from Rev 14:13. In both oratorios, praise to God for grace and mercy beyond our time and place are central. The themes of these pieces are similar. The musical forces and styles are not. They reflect the composers’ times, places, performers, and audiences. Spohr, Schmidt, Brahms, and Handel used soloists, choruses, and orchestras of various sizes, characteristic of their periods and where they worked. Gaul scored his piece for four soloists, chorus, and piano. Argento scored his for tenor solo, male chorus, three horns, three trumpets, and percussion. Handel wrote in an eighteenth-century homophonic­polyphonic mix, less complex than Bach’s. Though anticipating Wagner and flirting with chromaticism, Spoor wrote in an early classic-Romantic flavor, Brahms in a later classic-Romantic one. J. A. Fuller Maitland’s (1980, 189) comment that Gaul’s “superficial fluency won [his pieces] a wide popularity” fits his oratorio. Schmidt reminds one of Bruckner and Mahler. Argento’s music is in a twentieth-century percussive and mildly dissonant lyrical melodic style. These oratorios suggest that the themes of the book of Revelation do not fit only one time or one place. Indeed, they attract people of various times and places who embody

442   Paul Westermeyer them in their styles. That is, as Lynn Hough reminded us at the beginning of this article, “All those from every nation and language who have entered into the happy consummation realize that they owe their felicity to the regnant God and to the Christ who died upon the Cross. So they sing the glorious song of the redeemed” (1957, 420).

Messiaen’s Quatuor pour la fin du Temps Olivier Messiaen (1908–1992) based his Quatuor pour la fin du Temps (“Quartet for the End of Time”) on the book of Revelation (1942), using his unique twentieth-century musical language. Messiaen was a French church musician, organist at the Church de la Sainte Trinité in Paris for close to fifty years. He wrote the Quartet when he was held in a German prison camp from 1940 to 1942. First performed in the prison on January 15, 1941, it employed instruments, in various stages of disrepair, that were available to him and his fellow prisoners through help from prison guards—violin, clarinet, cello, and piano. Messiaen derived the dedication of the Quatuor from Rev 10:5–6: “In homage to the Angel of the Apocalypse, who raises the hand to heaven saying, ‘There shall be no more time.’ ” His Preface says that the music was inspired by Rev 10:1–2, 5–7. In a lecture on the book of Revelation before the performance, he told the prisoners that he did not intend a “play on words about the time of their captivity, but for the ending of concepts of past and future: that is, for the beginning of eternity, and that in this I  relied on the magnificent text of the Revelation” (Pople  1998, 13). This was not a momentary whim of Messiaen stimulated by a prison camp. His other works were also driven by what is sometimes called his mystic Catholic spirituality in which the church, its sacraments, and eternity are important. Nine years earlier, in 1932, he had written a work for organ titled, “Vision of the Church Eternal.” Twenty years after he wrote the Quatuor, he said that to regard the Revelation merely as an accumulation of cataclysms and catastrophes is to understand it poorly; the Revelation also contains great and marvelous lights [lumieres], followed by solemn silences. Moreover, my initial thought was of the abolition of time itself, something infinitely mysterious and incomprehensible to most of the philosophers of time, from Plato to Bergson. (Belcher 2019).11

Here are the eight movements, with quotations from Messiaen’s Preface. 1) “Liturgy of Crystal,” all instruments “Around the crystal sea (4:6), “between three and four in the morning,” the birds awaken, “improvise,” and with their “shimmering sound” and “halo of trills” sing “the harmonious silence of heaven.”

Revelation in Music and Liturgy   443 2) “Vocalise,” for the Angel who announces the end of Time,” all instruments The short “first and third parts . . . evoke the power of this strong angel who, crowned with a rainbow and clothed with a cloud, sets one foot on the sea and one foot on the land.” The middle section is described as “the impalpable harmonies of heaven. In the piano sweet cascades of blue-orange chords with their far-off chimes surround the recitative-like plainchant of the violin and cello.” 3) “Abyss of the birds,” clarinet alone “The abyss is Time with its sadness, its weariness; the birds are the opposite of Time . . . our desire for light, for stars, for rainbows, and for jubilant songs.” 4) “Interlude,” all instruments except piano A Scherzo “of a more exterior character,” though “linked” to the rest of the piece “by certain melodic recollections.” The instruments often play in unison as in 6). 5) “Praise to the Eternity of Jesus,” cello solo with piano “Jesus is considered here as the Word. A grand phrase, infinitely slow, on the cello, magnifies with love and reverence the eternity of the Word, powerful and gentle, ‘whose time never runs out.’ Majestically the melody unfolds in a kind of regal, gentle distance. ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God’ ” [John 1:1]. 6) “Dance of fury, for the seven trumpets,” all instruments “Rhythmically the most characteristic of the series. The four instruments in unison imitate the effect of gongs and trumpets (the first six trumpets of the Apocalypse attend diverse catastrophes, the trumpet of the seventh angel announcing the consummation of the mystery of God). Use of added values, of augmented or diminished rhythms, of non-retrogradable rhythms. Music of stone, formidable granite sound; irresistible movement of steel, enormous blocks of purple fury, icy frenzy. Listen especially to the terrible fortissimo of the augmentation of the theme and changes of register of its different notes, toward the end of the piece.” 7) “Tangle of rainbows, for the Angel who announces the end of Time,” all instruments “Recurring here are certain passages from the second movement. The angel appears in full force, especially the rainbow that covers him (the rainbow, symbol of peace, wisdom, and all luminescent and sonorous vibration). — In my dreams, I hear and see ordered chords and melodies, known colors and shapes; then, after the transitional stage, I pass through the unreal and suffer, with ecstasy, a ­tournament, a roundabout compenetration of superhuman sounds and colors. These swords of fire, this blue-orange lava, these sudden stars: behold the tangle, behold the rainbows!” 8) “Praise to the immortality of Jesus,” violin solo, with piano “Large violin solo, counterpart to the violoncello solo of the fifth movement. Why this second praise? It especially addresses the second aspect of Jesus, Jesus the Man, the Word made flesh, raised immortality for our communication with his life. It is all love. Its slow ascent to the acutely extreme is the ascent of man towards God, of the Son of God to his Father, the creature made divine towards Paradise.”12

444   Paul Westermeyer

Implications Allen Seel (1995) has thought out what Revelation suggests to the church. He derived a theology of music that includes a continuum of vocal sound, the responsibility to compose new songs, instruments, instrumental heralding, emotion, postures, the inclusion of inanimate and animate sounds of nature, unity, theology as doxology, and the use of all human senses and all collective resources in the whole creation (1995, 123–27). Editor Robin Leaver summarized Seel’s work like this: There is a widespread shortsighted view that music in worship is simply entertainment or propaganda that is useful in an anthropocentric here-and-now. By contrast, the Book of Revelation presents a more far-sighted view of music in worship in which a theocentric view is anticipated. (Seel 1995, v)

The church’s liturgical and musical influences from Revelation, Seel’s and Busteed’s insights, oratorios, and pieces like Messiaen’s point to a far-sighted view about Revelation’s relevance for worship, music, and life together. In Messiaen’s words, “It is all love.”

Notes 1. The author is grateful for help from Timothy Bernard, Philip Brunelle, Craig Koester, Charlotte Kroeker, Gordon Lathrop, and Carlton Young. 2. Daniel  J.  Mount, “Songs from Revelation,” Songs from the Books of the Bible https:// southerngospeljournal.com/archives/15586. 3. E-mail from Carlton Young, January 24, 2018. 4. E-mail from Craig Koester, July 11, 2018. 5. For Gregorian chant settings, see The Liber Usualis (Tournai, Belgium: Desclee, 1959). 6. The translation, “The Last Judgment,” was first used more accurately for a work Spohr wrote in 1812, Das jüngste Gericht. It was used again “loosely” for Die letzten Dinge. See Clive Brown, p. vii, who mentions works on the Apocalypse by other composers: Joseph von Eybler’s, Die vier letzten Dinge (The Four Last Things) in 1810 and Friedrich Schneider’s Das Weltgericht (The Judgment of the World) in 1819. 7. Dieter Zeh, trans. J. Bradford Robinson, David Kosviner, Louis Spohr, Die letzten Dinge, Deutsche Kammerchor Stuttgart (Carus 83.294), liner notes, p. 8. 8. Alfred R. Gaul, The Holy City, though called a “cantata,” is like Argento’s “Rhapsody” (see below) in that it, too, fits the category of “oratorio.” It is not intended for worship as are the cantatas Bach, Telemann, and many other composers have written. It is a sacred concert. 9. Horatius Bonar, Hymns of Faith and Hope (first series, 1857). 10. Larry Fleming (1936–2003), who later organized the National Lutheran Choir, was Luther Seminary’s choir director when Argento was commissioned to write The Revelation of St. John the Divine. 11. Olivier Messiaen, Apparition de l’Eglise Éternelle (Paris: Henry Lemoine, 1934). Christian assemblies may have had less trouble with the “collapse of time” than philosophers did (Belcher 2019). 12. Messiaen, “Preface,” Quatuor, pp. I-II. English translation adapted from J. Drew Stephen, Amici Ensemble, Messiaen, Quartet for the End of Time (DDD, 8.554824), Liner notes, pp. 2–3.

Revelation in Music and Liturgy   445

References Argento, Dominick. 1968. The Revelation of Saint John the Divine: A Rhapsody for Tenor, Male Chorus, Brass and Percussion. New York: Boosey and Hawkes. Belcher, Kimberly Hope. 2019. “Early Trinitarian Hymns (East and West).” In An Introduction to the History of Hymns, edited by Benjamin  K.  Forest, Mark  A.  Lamport, and Vernon M. Whaley, vol. 1, pp. 95–105. Eugene, OR: Cascade. Benedictines of Solesmes, ed. 1959. The Liber Usualis. Tournai, Belgium: Desclee. Bonar, Horatius. 1857. Hymns of Faith and Hope. London: James Nisbet. Brown, Clive. 1987. Introduction to Selected Works of Louis Spohr, 1784–1859, vol. 4: Die Letzten Dinge. New York: Garland. Busteed, Thomas D. 2017. “agnus dei: The Cost of Discipleship.” New Mercersburg Review 56: 28–43. Cone, James H. 1972. The Spirituals and the Blues. New York: Seabury. Gaul, Alfed R. 1902. The Holy City: A Sacred Cantata. Philadelphia: Theodore Presser. Hatchett, Marion J. 1981. Commentary on the American Prayer Book. New York: Seabury. Hough, Lynn Howard. 1957. “Exposition, The Revelation of St. John the Divine.” In Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 12. New York: Abingdon. Hildebrandt, Franz, and Olive, Beckerlegge, ed., 1983. “A Collection of Hymns for the Use of the People Called Methodists” (London, 1780), In The Works of John Wesley, vol. 7. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Koester, Craig R. 1992. “The Distant Triumph Song: Music and the Book of Revelation.” WW 12: 243–49. Lathrop, Gordon  W. 2017. Saving Images: The Presence of the Bible in Christian Liturgy. Minneapolis: Fortress. Lawlor, Robert. 1978. “Geometry in the Service of Prayer: Reflections on Cistercian Mystic Architecture.” Parabola 3:12–19. Lawson, Mary Sackville, ed. 1914. Collected Hymns, Sequences, and Carols of John Mason Neale. London: Hodder and Stoughton. Leonhard, Clemens, and Hermut Löhr. 2014. Literature or Liturgy: Early Christian Hymns and Prayers in their Literary and Liturgical Context in Antiquity. WUNT II/363. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. The Inter-Lutheran Commission on Worship. ed. 1982. Lutheran Book of Worship. Minneapolis: Augsburg. MacDonald, Malcolm. 2004. “Liner Notes.” In Schmidt: Das Buch mit sieben Siegeln, Franz Welser-M öst, conducting. Warner Classics. London: EMI Music. Maitland, J. A. Fuller. 1980. “Gaul, Alfred (Robert).” In, ed., The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, edited by Stanley Sadie, vol. 7, p. 189. London: Macmillan. Messiaen, Oliver. 1942. Quatuor pour la fin du Temps. Paris: Durand. Mount, Daniel  J. n. d. “Songs from Revelation.” Songs from the Books of the Bible https:// southerngospeljournal.com/archives/15586. Parry, Marilyn Marie Fortey. 2000. “The Significance of the Book of Revelation to the Development of the Liturgy.” PhD thesis. University of Manchester. Peters, Erskine, ed. 1993. Lyrics of the Afro-American Spiritual. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Pople, Anthony. 1998. Messiaen: “Quatuor pour la fin du Temps”. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rist, Martin. 1957. “Introduction and Exegesis: The Revelation of St. John the Divine.” Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 12. New York: Abingdon.

446   Paul Westermeyer Saliers, Don E. 2018. “Psalms in a Time of Violence.” Worship 92: 4–11. Samra, James. 2019. “Hymns and Credal Worship in the New Testament.” In An Introduction to the History of Hymns, vol. 1, edited by Benjamin  K.  Forest, Mark  A.  Lamport, and Vernon M. Whaley, pp. 3‒15. Eugene, OR: Cascade. Schmidt, Franz. 1938. Das Buch mit sieben Siegeln. Vienna: Universal Editions. Seel, Thomas Allen. 1995. A Theology of Music Derived from the Book of Revelation. Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press. Shepherd, Massey H., Jr. 1960. The Paschal Liturgy and the Apocalypse. Richmond, VA: John Knox. Tillich, Paul. 1960. Love, Power, and Justice. New York: Oxford University Press.

chapter 27

For ms of Fu t u r istic I n ter pr etation of R ev el ation i n th e Moder n Per iod Joshua T. Searle with Kenneth G. C. Newport

Introduction: Revelation and the Shaping of the Modern World Few books of the Bible have impacted culture and altered the course of the modern world to the same extent as Revelation. It is sometimes assumed that futuristic interpretations of Revelation in the modern world are marginal phenomena, limited to a few eccentric evangelicals or fundamentalist cults. Yet far from being confined to the margins of society, futuristic readings of Revelation have had a seismic impact, altering the whole cultural landscape of modernity. The history of the twentieth century is strewn with the debris of shattered futuristic apocalyptic visions that culminated in violence, terror, and ethnic cleansing. Enlightenment metanarratives of inexorable historical progress were irrevocably discredited by the traumatic experience of the twentieth century. After two World Wars, the Holocaust, the rise of international terrorism, ongoing violence in the Middle East, global pandemics and the imminent threat of the nuclear self-annihilation of all life on earth, many people began to wonder if they were participating in an unfolding apocalyptic drama as described in the pages of Revelation. Amid the general sense of trauma and disillusionment, ancient apocalyptic texts acquired a new general resonance and credibility. In the twentieth century, apocalyptic futurism thus went mainstream: “What was once bizarre speculation has become establishment rhetoric” (Barkun 2003, 443).

448   Joshua T. Searle with Kenneth G. C. Newport All interpretations, including interpretations of supposedly futuristic texts such as Revelation, are culturally constructed. Futuristic readings of Revelation are inextricably linked to contemporary social and cultural conditions. This chapter examines futuristic interpretations of Revelation in the modern period, highlighting specific instances when these interpretations have had a real-world impact on society and geopolitics. The chapter begins with an overview of the diverse cultural applications of futuristic readings of Revelation to the modern world. This is followed by a discussion of how recent developments in the field of millennial studies have clarified the ways in which futurism can invest current events with apocalyptic meaning through a process of what Richard Landes (2014, 33) calls “apocalyptic semiosis.” Following on from this, the next section takes a more historical approach, explaining the origins of premillennial dispensationalism in the works of John Nelson Darby, the radical Irish theologian and reformer, who became the most influential originator and exponent of futuristic interpretations of Revelation. Although premillennial dispensationalism originated in Ireland and retained a significant influence on the development of evangelicalism in Northern Ireland in the twentieth century, its most profound and enduring impact has been on evangelicalism in North America. In 2002, 40 percent of the American population believed in premillennial dispensationalism (Reynolds and Weber 2008, 86). The discussion, accordingly, turns to an evaluation of the role of futurism in shaping American foreign policy toward the Middle East. The chapter concludes with a summary of scholarly trends in the field of futuristic interpretations of Revelation and assesses whether they will retain their influence further into the twenty-first century and beyond. The aim of the chapter is not merely to describe scholarly trends but also to advance an argument concerning the continued relevance of futurism in the contemporary world. This relevance can be interpreted either positively or negatively. Futurism can stoke fear and resentment, but it can also inspire hope and reconciliation. The vivid imagery of Revelation has given imaginative shape to the deepest fears of Christian interpreters as many have looked into the future to see what they regard as the inevitable rise of the Antichrist, mystery Babylon, and the one-world religion of the beast. However, notwithstanding the responses of fear and foreboding, which are usually associated with such readings by those who interpret John’s Apocalypse as a sequence of future events, Revelation’s message is ultimately one of hope. This note of hope and reconciliation has not been recognized consistently in scholarly investigations of the real-world impact of the book of Revelation. “To be sure,” remarks Dereck Daschke (2010, 20), “scholars have long noted the pathology in apocalypticism and millennialism but have missed the ‘healthy’ resolution that counterbalances it.” Revelation’s impact on politics and culture is often represented in terms of its baneful effects, and it is seen as a text that can be used to apply a pseudo-theological gloss on bigoted and sectarian attitudes. The unfortunate consequence of this tendency has been that the more tranquil, yet no less pervasive and vigorous, notes of hope have all too often not been heard amid the noise, smoke, and commotion of futuristic interpretations that take Armageddon, rather than the new Jerusalem, as their point of departure. But

Futuristic Interpretation of Revelation   449 futurism can be described as a bittersweet approach to biblical prophecy, combining both the anxiety of the coming tribulation and the consolation in the anticipated triumph of Good over Evil.

Revelation: A Bittersweet Commentary on the Future Futuristic interpretations of Revelation have a real-world life that transcends the relatively narrow confines of academic debate and scholarly biblical exegesis. Many New Testament specialists read John’s Apocalypse as an academic text or as a document that addresses specific issues and crises in the life of the early church. The tendency among many lay readers, however, has been to interpret the events depicted in Revelation according to where they fit within the “the great unveiling of the prophetic calendar of God” (New Protestant Telegraph 1991, 5).1 Whereas differing scholarly approaches have typically highlighted the complexities and contextual location of the text in the ancient world of early Christianity, many nonspecialists have tended to favor interpretations that draw direct comparisons between the images of Revelation (the beast, the dragon, the whore of Babylon etc.) and current or future events and personalities. In contrast to those who find its imagery and symbolism to be obscure, one fundamentalist pastor discovered in Revelation “much that was eminently practical” and even maintained that Revelation “stands in eminence above other Scripture, since it is the closing word of the canon of Holy Scripture” (Foster 1996, 12). Revelation is said to be easily understood because the scenarios it describes are interpreted either as current events unfolding visibly in the present experience of the reader or as events that are anticipated to take place in the near future. One recent futuristic commentary on Revelation purports to “examine the timeline of the main events discussed in the Book of Revelation and how they will unfold” (Schneider 2017, 4). For many interpreters Revelation encourages one to believe that all earthly events are part of a process that will culminate in a future fulfillment of God’s predetermined sovereign plan. When he was the governor of Texas, future president George W. Bush remarked, “I would not be Governor if I did not believe in a divine plan that supersedes all human plans” (George W. Bush, quoted in Jones 2006, 102). For born-again Christians (like Governor Bush), who believed that they were playing their part in fulfilling God’s sovereign plan, John’s Apocalypse was read as an itinerary of events that were due to take place in the end times according to a fixed plan and purpose. Revelation was “a road map of mostly unfulfilled prophecy” (Hallowell 2016, 93). For those who interpreted Revelation from this futuristic perspective, the future hope in the consummation and the inauguration of a golden era of eternal glory was a necessary concomitant to a teleological conception of history and a belief in the sovereignty of God. This connection between the sovereignty of God and the apocalyptic hope has

450   Joshua T. Searle with Kenneth G. C. Newport been a recurring theme in futuristic interpretations of Revelation, especially in the Reformed tradition.2 The attempt to interpret Revelation as an itinerary of future events culminating in a golden era of justice, joy, and peace is often associated with a futuristic hermeneutic known as “millennialism” (Wessinger 2011, 5). The term is based on the Latin word for “thousand” (mille) and is derived from a key passage in Rev 20:1–6 that depicts a period of one thousand years in which Christ will reign prior to the final judgment and the coming of the kingdom of God in all its power and glory. Revelation depicts the future consummation of history in terms of a heavenly city, the new Jerusalem, in which a redeemed humanity enjoys perpetual bliss in the ultimate arena of human fulfillment and flourishing. This distinctive depiction of cosmic consummation envisions one of the most creative conceptions of humanity’s future that has been produced by the human imagination (Searle 2014a, 11). Revelation, in the judgment of Richard Bauckham (1993, 22), is “not only one of the finest literary works in the New Testament, but also one of the greatest theological achievements of early Christianity.” Revelation’s unique depiction of the future has inspired countless generations of Christians to selfless acts of courageous love in an effort to turn the heavenly city into a terrestrial paradise. Martin Luther King Jr. encouraged his supporters to keep in mind the eschatological dimension in the struggle for civil rights. He famously remarked, “It’s alright to talk about the new Jerusalem, but one day, God's preacher must talk about the New York, the new Atlanta, the new Philadelphia, the new Los Angeles, the new Memphis, Tennessee. This is what we have to do” (King, quoted in Warner 1999, 880). It is today acknowledged, that millennial ideas, derived from the book of Revelation, provided a visionary impetus to the civil rights movement in America (Luker 2002, 53). Yet the attempt to interpret Revelation as a prophetic itinerary of future events also has its dark sides. Twentieth-century history testifies to the catastrophic consequences of misplaced millennial optimism inspired by simplistic, literalistic, futuristic readings of Revelation. Both Hitler and Stalin, in different ways, were inspired by a conception of history that had analogies in literalistic and ideologically inflected readings of Revelation. According to Richard Landes (2014, 342), although Hitler and Stalin did not articulate explicitly millennial ideas, they “fell in thrall to the (apocalyptic) logic of these ideas.” It is now widely recognized that Hitler believed that he was engaged in an apocalyptic struggle against Jews and Communists on behalf of Christian civilization (Wistrich 1986; Burleigh 2000; Idinopulos 2003). The Nazi propaganda machine seized upon the notion of the “Third Reich,” which was made to correspond with the “age of the Holy Spirit,” alluded to by the medieval apocalyptic seer, Joachim of Fiora.3 Hitler’s vision of a Thousand-Year Reich (ein tausendjähriges Reich) was inspired explicitly by the millennial reign of the saints prophesied in Revelation (Redles 2008; Rhodes 1980). Moreover, the Nazi conception of the Final Solution (die Endlösung) bears an alarming resemblance to Revelation’s depiction of angels of death carrying out a mass extermination of one-third of humankind (Rev 9:15). The Nazi SS “doctors,” who performed perverted experiments on concentration camp prisoners and decided which disembarking

Futuristic Interpretation of Revelation   451 passengers were to live and which to die, were referred to as “angels of death” (Cefrey 2001; Lifton 1988). The extreme imagery and semantic ambiguity of key passages from Revelation render them vulnerable to exploitation by dehumanizing ideologies and destructive personal agendas. Put to the service of such ideologies, millennial readings of Revelation can exacerbate what Rubem Alves (1975, 44) calls “the self-destructive potentialities of human creativity.” One of the remarkable paradoxes of Revelation studies is the extent to which futuristic millennial interpretations of the text can inspire at the same time both the most extravagant affirmations of human hope and the most fearsome expressions of terror and brutality (Searle 2014a, xv). For every Francis of Assisi and Martin Luther King Jr., there have been multiple charlatans and nihilistic egomaniacs, such as Adolf Hitler, Pol Pot, and Jim Jones (Landes 2006). The diverse uses to which Revelation can be put correspond to the truism that Revelation itself is a text of contrasts and oppositions. Revelation evinces a creative, often perplexing, dialectic between hope and fear, reality and potentiality, and tran­ scend­ence and immanence. Pioneering biblical exegesis has shown that Revelation is not merely interspersed with semantic dualism but is also organized around a set of dualistic categories, which constitute the core structure of the apocalyptic narrative. According to John Gager (1975, 49–57, 64–65), Revelation presents a series of oppositions in a pattern of “rhythmic oscillation.” Revelation presents its readers with an eclectic array of contrasting metaphors that emerge from the apocalyptic-eschatological imagination. For instance, the messianic Lamb of the Apocalypse, identified as the one who “had been slain, having seven horns and seven eyes” (Rev 5:6), finds its diabolical counterpart in the “great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads” (Rev 12:3). The reception history of Revelation, too, has been characterized by contrasting interpretations. The juxtaposition of hope and fear has been a recurring feature of modern futuristic interpretations of Revelation. Alluding to the reception of the book of Revelation in seventeenth-century England, William Lamont (1972, 70) observes that interpretations of the Apocalypse oscillated between “the pessimistic belief in an imminent doomsday, and the optimistic expectation of an earthly paradise.” For some, Revelation is a bittersweet text that offers both warning and encouragement and inspires both fear and hope. In a curious scene in the tenth chapter of Revelation, the author, John, is instructed by an angel to eat a scroll of prophecy. As he devours the parchment, he finds that the scroll tastes sweet in his mouth. Yet after he has swallowed the scroll, it becomes bitter in his stomach (10:9–10). This scene is a pertinent metaphor for those interpreters who find in Revelation a detailed resume of future events. While many tasted the sweetness and comfort of Revelation’s assurance of God’s presence in the midst of adversity and affliction, others interpreted the text as a bitter warning of coming tribulation (Searle 2014b). Ultimately, however, for futurists Revelation is a book of hope. Revelation depicts a future age in which the world is transfigured into the kingdom of God (Rev 11:15), in which justice, love, and truth will reign supreme. The highest expression of human hope

452   Joshua T. Searle with Kenneth G. C. Newport that emerges from the New Testament is one of a redeemed community, united in Christ, participating in the redemptive outworking of God’s story that finds its culmination in the new Jerusalem. The glory of the heavenly city will be such that God’s people shall have “no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof ” (21:23). Even then the story does not end, for it has been revealed that God’s people shall “reign forever and ever” (22:5). The power that Revelation has exercised over the modern world consists in large part in its underlying message of hope that surmounts the tragedy, irony, and apparent contingency of human experience. For the futurist, Revelation is not merely a commentary on future events but a hermeneutical reference point for thinking about current events, which are invested with meaning according to where they fit within an assumed divine plan.

Hermeneutical Horizons of Futuristic Interpretation Regardless of whether Revelation inspired hope or fear, all futuristic interpretations of Revelation had in common the fundamental conviction that the scenarios depicted in John’s Apocalypse refer not only to the immediate context in which the text was first written but to events and personalities in the distant future. Although some of the prophecies of Revelation may already have been fulfilled, several still await realization. Futuristic interpreters approach the text of Revelation not as a historical curiosity or as an object of academic textual criticism but as a living, dynamic text that is “filled with events that have yet to come to fruition” (Hallowell 2016, 89). George Eldon Ladd (1972, 156), an influential evangelical proponent of futuristic post-tribulationism, remarked that the basic tenet of futuristic interpretations of the Apocalypse is the conviction that “eschatological events are foreshadowed in historical events.” Futurism presupposes “the ability to discern exact prophetic fulfilment in contemporary political events” (Mitchel 2006, 208). Readers who understand Revelation as a prophetic timeline of future events thus tend to interpret major events in the political arena as signs of the final end times. Anything from the passing of unfavorable legislation to the election of a perceived anti-Christian president can be infused with apocalyptic undertones. For instance, some fundamentalists regarded the election of “Barack Hussein Obama” in 2008 as a sign that the world was in the last throes of the Great Apostasy. Obama’s foreign-sounding name aroused anxieties that he was a closet Muslim and would attempt to curtail the liberties of Christians in North America. Similarly, the sequence of letters in the name Barack Hussein Obama was rearranged by futuristic speculators to yield a pattern that corresponded with the number 666, the “mark of the beast” (Rev 13:18). Kenneth Newport thus discovered that “the Internet is awash with ingenious ways to relate the number 666

Futuristic Interpretation of Revelation   453 to President Obama” (Searle and Newport  2012, 184). Obama’s election inspired an online ferment of speculation that the 44th president would turn out to be the apocalyptic beast of Rev 13, whose tenure would herald the period of great tribulation, purportedly prophesied in Rev 6–19. Such was the fear and apprehension of some evangelical commentators that these online rumors generated a phenomenon known as “Baracknophobia” (Amarasingam 2011). In the futuristic apocalyptic imagination, Revelation becomes a hermeneutical reference point, a set paradigm against which to interpret social and political events and developments. Futurism generated the notion that, as Oscar Cullmann (1967, 82) put it, “cosmic events are bound up with historical events” and that “the whole cosmic process is linked with what happens to humanity.” Futurism tends to divide reality into a heavenly “signified” and its corresponding earthly “signifier.” This interpretive tendency is reflected in the text of Revelation itself, which depicts a cosmic setting in which human history occurs simultaneously in heaven and on earth (Rev 5:8–12; 6:9–11; 7:9–17; 15:1–3; Searle 2014a, 183–84). For those whose thinking was orientated by futurism and who imbibed the notion that history was proceeding according to a fixed divine plan, all events, as they occurred, were perceived in the light of how they corresponded to a supposedly predetermined apocalyptic blueprint (Searle 2014a, 145). Since earthly events were bound up with an unfolding divine masterplan, futuristic readings of Revelation could cause interpreters to impute meaning and coherence onto seemingly contingent and unconnected events. In the semantic field of apocalyptic expectation, every apparently incidental event becomes suffused with purpose and intentionality. Richard Landes identifies this as a condition of “semiotic arousal” in which “everything has meaning, [and] patterns.” Landes remarks that in such a condition “everything quickens, enlivens, coheres.” This state of apocalyptic semiosis causes people to read conspiratorial significance into seemingly trivial or unimportant incidents. Semiotic arousal gives people “an entirely new vision of the world, one in which forces unseen by other mortals operate” (Landes 2014, 14). Revelation is a text that can surmount its initial semantic reference points, generating a new surplus of meaning that, in the minds of modern futuristic interpreters, conferred meaning and coherence on their apparently contingent contemporary circumstances. One of the reasons Revelation has retained such a hold on the modern imagination is the way in which its vivid imagery transcends the historical and semantic context in which it was first written. Mainstream scholarship has tended to agree with the view expressed by Bauckham (1993, 19) that “it would be a serious mistake to understand the images of Revelation as timeless symbols. Their character conforms to the contextuality of Revelation as a letter to the seven churches of Asia.” Yet in the minds of its modern interpreters Revelation is not simply a historical text that addressed a set of crises affecting early Christian communities in the Near East. Revelation, rather, is a living and dynamic text that requires continual reappropriation by each generation in order to disclose its meaning. Revelation thus addresses present-day concerns from the perspective of the future. Its meaning is not bound up with the specific situation of the early Christian communities or even with the intentions of the author (Ricoeur  1976, 30;

454   Joshua T. Searle with Kenneth G. C. Newport Vanhoozer 1998, 107). Although the capacity to transcend its original context is common to all texts, it applies especially to texts in the apocalyptic genre, such as Revelation. From the perspective of futurism, John’s Apocalypse is a living text that supplies a dynamic lens through which to interpret the world from the perspective of an anticipated future. Countless examples throughout history illustrate the power of futuristic interpretation to shape society and geopolitics. The remaining sections of this chapter will highlight some examples of the real-world impact of futurism.

Premillennial Dispensationalism: Darby, Scofield, and Rapture Fiction The futuristic interpretation of Revelation is not original to the modern period. Like all profound theological ideas, its roots are deep and ancient. Montanus (ca. 172), a secondcentury schismatic and self-proclaimed prophet, claimed that Revelation announced the future arrival of New Jerusalem in the town of Pepuza in his home province of Phrygia in Asia Minor (Stevens 2014, 31–32). In the twelfth century, the Italian mystic Joachim of Fiora interpreted Rev 20 as a description of a future era of the Holy Spirit that would inaugurate the millennial reign of Christ (Mounce 1977, 25). Although futuristic readings were arguably widespread among the early patristic writers (King 2002), the most influential school of futurism, premillennial dispensationalism, came to prominence only in the nineteenth century (Bass 1960). This approach to end times prophecy originated in Ireland in the early nineteenth century among a group of young intellectuals associated with Trinity College Dublin (Stunt 2012). The most notable figure in this group was John Nelson Darby, who has been described as “one of the most important shapers of evangelical thought throughout the last two hundred years” (Sweetnam and Gribben 2009, 569). A versatile scholar, fluent in several ancient and modern languages, including Latin, Greek, French, and German, Darby graduated with the coveted Gold Medal in Classics from Trinity College Dublin in 1819. In 1825, after a brief spell as a lawyer, Darby was ordained as a deacon in the Church of Ireland. After becoming disillusioned with the sacramentalism of Anglicanism and its close association with the state, Darby founded his own association, known as the Plymouth Brethren.4 Although Darby made significant contributions to Protestant ecclesiology, his most lasting and profound influence has been on the development of evangelical eschatology, especially in North America. Between 1862 and 1877 Darby visited America seven times and his teaching soon gained a large following among prominent American evangelicals. Darby converted so many significant Christian leaders in the second half of the nineteenth century that he initiated a “paradigm shift” in American evangelicalism from amillennialism to postmillennialism (Faupel 1996). It was Darby “more than any other individual,” who “turned conservative Protestant theology in North America toward what is known as dispensational premillennialism” (Olson 2005, 111).5

Futuristic Interpretation of Revelation   455 This innovative framework for deciphering the contemporary application and future trajectory of biblical prophecy gained enormous influence in the wake of modernity and its discontents. Premillennial dispensationalism, described by Gribben (2009, 5) as “a paradigm of cultural and ecclesiastical despair,” posits a purpose and direction for world history that is independent of the apparent chaos and contingency of particular historical events. The term “dispensation,” translated from the Greek oikonomia, is found in the King James Version (1 Cor 9:17; Eph 1:10; 3:2; Col 1:25) and refers to a divinely appointed order of governance. Premillennialism purports to elucidate the historical process in terms of a series of distinct stages, each alluded to in analogical form in the second and third chapters of Revelation. According to dispensationalists, history is divided according to the different arrangements that God puts in place to govern the world. Cyrus I. Scofield, whose Scofield Reference Bible had a huge influence on evangelical theology in the twentieth century, especially in North America, defined a dispensation as “a period of time during which man is tested in respect of obedience to some specific revelation of the will of God” (Scofield,  1909; note to Genesis 1:28; Mangum and Sweetnam 2009). The most significant event in the dispensationalist calendar is the return of Christ to the earth, as purportedly prophesied in the apocalyptic biblical texts. Premillennialism is so named because it is believed that Christ will return to the earth before the millennial reign of Christ described in Rev 20:1–4. Before that event, it is assumed, the world will continue to slide into moral depravity and spiritual decadence. Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins, the influential premillennial authors of the hugely popular Left Behind series, characterize the contemporary Western world as “a sex-obsessed cesspool of immorality . . . just like that of the Tribulation” (LaHaye and Jenkins, quoted in Jones 2006, 105). No redemption will be possible before the return of Christ, and thus all efforts to address social injustice or campaign for world peace are a waste of time and effort. Futuristic readings of Revelation, which posit a premillennial return of Christ, have thus been criticized by Christian environmentalists for promoting a sense of inertia and passive acquiescence to the looming ecological catastrophe (Maier, 2010, 254). Some charge premillennialism with undermining “the biblical worldview by locating the renewal of creation exclusively after the return of Jesus Christ. Since the present world is headed for inevitable destruction, any concern with saving it is a distraction from rescuing souls before Jesus returns” (Snyder and Scandrett 2011, 59). The premillennialist tendency to denigrate attempts to work for peace and justice before the return of Christ is especially prevalent in the literary genre, “rapture fiction.” The rapture refers to a key tenet of premillennialist dispensationalism that posits that Christ will return to the earth immediately before the “Great Tribulation.” It draws on such biblical texts as Matt 24:40, Luke 17:34, and, most notably, 1 Thess 4:16–17: “For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air.” Rapture theology teaches that Christ will return to earth to reclaim his people by snatching them out of the earth and transporting them to heaven, thereby sparing them

456   Joshua T. Searle with Kenneth G. C. Newport of “the wrath to come” (1 Thess 1:10). In rapture fiction, this event instigates a sequence of cataclysmic crises that drive the fiction through to its apocalyptic denouement. It is a curious paradox of premillennial dispensationalism that this highly literalistic approach to biblical prophecy relies on the imaginative genre of fiction to disseminate its worldview into the mass culture.6 Rapture fiction novels, such as those published in the Left Behind series, reinforce the pessimism of premillennial dispensationalism by presenting the view that in order to create the conditions for Christ’s return, the world will inevitably become more violent and degraded. Therefore, rapture fiction has tended to portray “anyone concerned with social justice or creation care” as being “in league with the devil” (Snyder and Scandrett 2011, 59). Academic engagement with Left Behind has been a major focus of contemporary millennial studies (Frykholm 2004; Gribben 2009; Gribben and Sweetnam 2011).

Futuristic Interpretations and Current Geopolitics: Revelation and Israel A decisive assumption of premillennial dispensationalism was the separation of Old Testament Israel from the church. For example, one key text is Gen 15:18: “In the same day the Lord made a covenant with Abram, saying, Unto thy seed have I given this land, from the river of Egypt unto the great river, the river Euphrates.” This and other passages were understood to apply exclusively to the Jewish nation rather than more generally to the church. This conviction led to a fundamental change in the way that the global evangelical movement viewed events in the Middle East. In 1948, after the Jewish People’s Council gathered in Tel Aviv to proclaim the establishment of a Jewish state in Israel, premillennial dispensationalists regarded it as a fulfillment of biblical prophecy. From this time on, premillennial dispensationalism designated the modern nation state of Israel as “God’s key to the future” (LaHaye and Jenkins, quoted in Jones 2006, 109) and the central focus of current world affairs. One of the most exciting fields of current Revelation scholarship is the study of the diverse ways in which futuristic readings of Revelation intersect with current political controversies. Several major geopolitical conflicts in the modern world, from the Cold War to the ongoing tensions in Israel-Palestine (Brueggemann 2015), have been fueled by worldviews based on futuristic interpretations of biblical texts, most notably Revelation. A prominent example of a Revelation-inspired futuristic reading of the purported apocalyptic significance of the enmity between the United States and the USSR was Hal Lindsey’s bestselling popular nonfiction book The Late Great Planet Earth (1970), which sold twenty-eight million copies in the first twenty years after its publication. Revelation’s allusion to an invasion from the East (9:13–19) was presumably originally a reference to the threat of invasion from the Parthian Empire. In the twentieth

Futuristic Interpretation of Revelation   457 century, this threat from the East was recast in the mold of Soviet Russia. Commenting on biblical prophecies, Lindsey wrote, “The might of the Red Army is predicted. It will sweep over the Arab countries as well as Israel in a rapid assault over to Egypt to secure the entire land bridge.” (For more on how biblical prophecy shaped popular American religious perceptions of the Cold War, see Gunn, 2009). Significant events in Israel today are usually accompanied by a ferment of speculation by fundamentalist Christians, who interpret events in the Middle East through the lens of yet-to-be-fulfilled prophecy (Wright 2017). These perspectives are not confined to a few fringe groups but have been expressed by influential Christian leaders and politicians, such as Pat Robinson and Jerry Falwell, and Ronald Reagan and his secretary of defense, Caspar Weinberger (Boyer 1992). The ways in which futuristic interpretations of Revelation tend to support the pro-Israel foreign policy of the United States is well documented (Rock  2011; Boyer 2003; Bruce 1988). The recognition of Jerusalem as the capital of Israel by the Trump administration in December 2017 was consistent with this general tendency to view Israel as a favored nation, based on its alleged key role in the unfolding of biblical prophecy (Strang 2017, 86). Secular commentators often do not appreciate that the problems with the seemingly interminable Middle East peace process are to a large extent a problem of end-times hermeneutics. For example, according to some premillennial interpretations of Revelation, the first person to succeed in brokering a lasting peaceful resolution to the conflict between Jews and Arabs will later turn out to be the demonic adversary of Christ, namely, the Antichrist, who is depicted as a beast in Rev 13 and who will deceive the world through lying wonders and fake gestures toward peace. The Antichrist in the Left Behind novels is the character Nicolae Carpathia, who in the second volume of the series, becomes the secretary general of the United Nations. Carpathia makes a speech in which he declares, “The era of peace is at hand, and the world is finally, at long last, on the threshold of becoming one global community” (LaHaye and Jenkins 2011, 262). This dark figure will receive worldwide acclaim for his peacemaking efforts and will be worshipped as a god by the people of the world (Rev 13:4), who will be forced to bear the mark of the beast on their right hands and foreheads (13:16). After concluding a deceitful “covenant with Israel” (Dan 9:27), this demonic personality will then begin a seven-year reign of terror, known as the “great tribulation” (Rev 2:22; 7:4). Many Jews—one hundred forty-four thousand to be precise (7:4–8; 14:1–5)— will convert to Christianity and evangelize the gentile nations during the period of tribulation, resulting in huge numbers of converts (7:9–17), who will be known as “tribulation saints.” Once he has gained the world’s confidence, the Antichrist will break the covenant with Israel and will subject the Jewish people to a holocaust even more terrible than anything known in history. The tribulation will result in the death by plagues of fire, smoke, and sulphur of one-third of the global population (9:18). Just at the point when the reign of the Antichrist appears to have reached its destructive zenith, Jesus Christ will make a sudden, spectacular return to destroy the Antichrist and establish his kingdom on earth for a period of one thousand years (Rev 20:1–6). This futuristic reading of Revelation explains why many evangelicals were cautious about

458   Joshua T. Searle with Kenneth G. C. Newport endorsing lasting peace in the Middle East, since they believed that Revelation prophesied that the person who brokers such a peace would turn out to be the Antichrist or the beast of Rev 13. For many evangelicals, especially in North America, the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948 was a clear demonstration the truth of biblical prophecy. This was the case even though before 1948, it was widely assumed by premillennial dispensationalists that the next event in Revelation’s prophetic calendar would be the rapture. This was the assumption of the Scofield Reference Bible, first published in 1916. There is no indication in the original edition of the Scofield Bible that the Jews would return to the promised land in the period before the rapture (Gribben 2009, 8). The return of the Jews to the promised land was the first stage in a process that will culminate in the final vindication of Israel as the pivotal nation in God’s plan for the salvation of the world. Israel is thus referred to in popular literature as “God’s Time Clock” (Ford 2008). Jerusalem is likewise described as “God’s centre stage,” “the naval of the earth,” and “the womb of the Kingdom of God” (Mitchell 2013).7

Conclusion: The Future of Futurism Scholars of apocalyptic prophecy are especially aware of the dangers of predicting the future. Yet it seems reasonable to conclude that futuristic readings of Revelation will remain influential as the modern world transitions into a condition of postmodernity. Several works have elucidated the apocalyptic undertones of postmodern culture (Dellamore 1995; Rosen 2008; Heffernan 2008). For example, the far-fetched speculation associated with futuristic readings of Revelation finds its counterpart in the disregard for hard facts that characterizes the postmodern condition in a post-truth age. In contemporary Western culture, futuristic readings of Revelation in the popular media tend to blend into a postmodern pastiche, along with other phenomena, such New Age teachings, UFO religions, conspiracy theories, and themes and images derived from popular science­fiction television shows, such as Star Trek and The X-Files (Urban 2011, 114). This kind of speculation played an important role within some Christian communities in the United Kingdom during the European Union membership referendum in 2016, when literalistic readings of Revelation were co-opted into the service of hardline conservative Euroscepticism. In the run-up to the plebiscite, fundamentalist Christian websites were full of speculation that the EU was a tool in the hands of the apocalyptic beast of Revelation.8 Many Christian voters were told that the best way to foil the Antichrist’s plan for world domination was to vote to leave the EU on June 23, 2016. Some speculated that the papacy was using the EU to extend the Catholic Church’s diabolical influence over world affairs (Wilson  2006, 276). This kind of rumor fed off decades of Christian fundamentalist Euroscepticism, which regarded the EU as “the Kingdom of Antichrist.”9 After the EU referendum, one commentator claimed, in an article entitled Bible Prophecy Foretold a Brexit!, “Revelation 17 shows how this European

Futuristic Interpretation of Revelation   459 empire will comprise 10 nations working under the direction of a false pagan church. Combined they form a revived Holy Roman Empire.”10 Another publication claimed that “the European Union continues to evolve into the world power forecast by Daniel and John in the Revelation” (Grey 2013) and added that biblical prophecy had predicted that the EU would move “to becoming the greatest and most crushing dictatorships [sic] ever in existence.”11 These kinds of futuristic interpretations of Revelation appear to be pervaded by beliefs that at first seem highly irrational, incoherent, and even contradictory. Yet New Testament scholars who are inclined to sneer at the seemingly naïve literalism of futurism should keep in mind that Revelation is an imaginative text that tends not to divulge its meaning to the forensic examination of historical criticism. Revelation belongs to an apocalyptic genre of biblical writing that addresses the issues of hope and fear at the deepest levels of language and human experience. As such, Revelation often discloses meaning to the reader through an existential fusion of the readers’ present experience and the future hope in the text rather than through a process of historical-critical analysis. Scholars in millennial studies now understand that the interpretation of apocalyptic texts like Revelation “operates much more at an emotional than a cerebral level” (Newport and Gribben  2006, viii). Therefore, those professional academics who seek to debunk futuristic interpretations of Revelation, and who use the techniques of the historical­critical method to expose the internal contradictions and inconsistencies of these literalistic futuristic interpretations, are missing the point. If the success of the Left Behind series has anything to teach us, it is that intellectual plausibility is not a necessary precondition to an apocalyptic worldview either finding widespread acceptance or having a culturally transformative impact. The unsophisticated, unnuanced literalism of popular neo-apocalyptic interpreters such as Hal Lindsey and Jerry Falwell was popular, not because it was hermeneutically rigorous or even intellectually plausible, but because of its “empathy with powerful elements of the cultural climate of our time” (Bekker 1982, 5). Therefore, it seems reasonable to speculate that for good or ill, futurism is here to stay. The rich symbolism of Revelation’s semantic field is a fecund soil in which utopian visions can take root and flourish. For all its vulnerability to dehumanizing ideologies, the book of Revelation postulates an overarching conception of reality and cosmic purpose through which to surmount the tragedy, irony, and apparent contingency of human experience. For this reason, Revelation will remain a living and dynamic text to countless people who are drawn to its vision of future hope. It therefore seems safe to predict that for many generations to come, Revelation will continue to inspire the imagination of not only dictators, egomaniacs, nihilists, and charlatans, but also poets, artists, philanthropists, and saints.

Notes 1. The New Protestant Telegraph was a Christian fundamentalist newspaper based in Northern Ireland and produced by Ian Paisley’s Free Presbyterian Church, which regularly printed articles that commented on current affairs through the lens of Revelation and other apocalyptic biblical texts.

460   Joshua T. Searle with Kenneth G. C. Newport 2. This connection between the sovereignty of God and the apocalyptic hope has been a recurring theme of futuristic interpretations of Revelation, especially in the Reformed tradition. For example, this link is made by the Reformed theologian, D. A. Carson (2002) in his Divine Sovereignty and Human Responsibility. The link is also explored in standard commentaries on the book of Revelation. See, for example, G. B. Caird (1966, 72); and Eduard Lohse (1960, 41.) See Searle (2014a, 139–46). 3. Frank Kermode makes this connection (1967, 12–13). Joachim’s vision of the “Third Age” has surfaced in various other forms throughout history and can be discerned in the millennial programmes of Thomas Müntzer, Girolamo Savonarola, G.  E.  Lessing, Auguste Comte, Karl Marx and Pierre Teilhard de Chardin among others. 4. For an authoritative history of the Brethren movement and its impact on the global church, see Coad (2001). 5. Some historians claim that Darby was not the originator of premillennial dispensationalism, but that his thought was continuous with trends in British theology in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Watson 2015). 6. In an insightful article, the literary critic, Jennie Chapman, examines the contradiction between the purported literalist content of premillennialism and the fictional mode of the popular novel through which its message is propagated. See Chapman (2012). 7. Chris Mitchell (2013, 221). This rhetoric was expressed in the 2016 campaign of Donald Trump to become President of the United States. Trump referred to Jerusalem as the ­“eternal capital of the Jewish people.” https://www.politico.com/story/2017/11/30/trumpus-embassy-move-jerusalem-271764. 8. The following websites are representative of these themes: True Bible Teaching, https:// www.truebibleteaching.com; Bible Truth and Prophecy, https://www.bibletruthand prophecy.com. 9. Revivalist (June 1975), 14–15. The Revivalist was a fundamentalist publication by the Free Presbyterian Church in Northern Ireland, led by Rev. Ian R. K. Paisley. It published several articles alleging that the founding of the EU had been predicted in the Book of Revelation. 10. https://www.thetrumpet.com/13988-bible-prophecy-foretold-a-brexit. 11. Grey, E., The Seat of the Antichrist: Bible Prophecy and the European Union (Danbury, CT: Dante Press, 2013). In Belfast, a large mural appeared in the run up to the referendum, which displayed the words “Vote leave EU – Revelation chapter 18 verse 4.” See http:// www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-36091022.

References Amarasingam, Amarnath. 2011. “Baracknophobia and the Paranoid Style: Visions of Obama as the Antichrist on the World Wide Web.” In Network Apocalypse: Vision of the End in an Age of Internet Media, edited by Robert Glenn Howard, pp. 96–123. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2011. Alves, Rubem. 1975. A Theology of Human Hope. St. Meinrad, IN: Abbey Press. Barkun, Michael. 2003. “Politics and Apocalypticism.” In The Encyclopedia of Apocalypticism, vol. 3: Apocalypticism in the Modern Period and the Contemporary Age, edited by Stephen J. Stein, pp. 442–60. New York: Continuum. Bass, Clarence  B. 1960. Backgrounds to Dispensationalism: Its Historical Genesis and Ecclesiastical Implications. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Futuristic Interpretation of Revelation   461 Bauckham, Richard. 1993. The Theology of the Book of Revelation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bekker, J.  C. 1982. Paul’s Apocalyptic Gospel: The Coming Triumph of God. Philadelphia: Fortress. Boyer, Paul. 1992. When Time Shall Be No More: Prophecy Belief in Modern American Culture. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Boyer, Paul. 2003. “When U.S. Foreign Policy Meets Biblical Prophecy.” AlterNet. February 20, 2003. http://alternet.org/story/15221. Bruce, Steve. 1988. The Rise and Fall of the New Christian Right: Conservative Protestant Politics in America, 1978–1988. New York: Oxford University Press. Brueggemann, Walter. 2015. Chosen? Reading the Bible Amid the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Burleigh, Michael. 2000. The Third Reich: A New History. London: Pan. Caird, G. B. 1966. Commentary on the Revelation of St. John the Divine. London: Black. Carson, D. A. 2002. Divine Sovereignty and Human Responsibility. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock. Cefrey, Holly. 2001. Dr. Josef Mengele: The Angel of Death. New York: Rosen. Coad, Roy. 2001. A History of the Brethren Movement: Its Origins, Its Worldwide Development and Its Significance for the Present Day. Vancouver: Regent College Publishing. Chapman, Jennie. 2012. “Theorizing the Fictional Turn in Popular Dispensationalism.” In Beyond the End: The Future of Millennial Studies, edited by Kenneth G. C. Newport and Joshua T. Searle, pp. 94–111. Sheffield, UK: Phoenix. Cullmann, Oscar. 1967. Salvation in History. Translated by S. Sowers. London: SCM Press. Daschke, Dereck. 2010. City of Ruins: Mourning the Destruction of Jerusalem through Jewish Apocalypse. BIS 99. Leiden: Brill. Dellamora, Richard, ed. 1995. Postmodern Apocalypse: Theory and Cultural Practice at the End. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Faupel, David W. 1996. The Everlasting Gospel: Significance of Eschatology in the Development of Pentecostal Thought. New York: Continuum. Ford, James Stuart. 2008. Israel: God’s Time Clock: What Lies Ahead for the Middle East, the United States and All Mankind? Camarillo, CA: Xulon. Foster, Ivan. 1996. Shadow of the Antichrist: A Commentary on the Book of Revelation. Belfast: Ambassado. Frykholm, Amy Johnson. 2004. Rapture Culture: Left Behind in Evangelical America. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gager, John G. 1975. Kingdom and Community: The Social World of Early Christianity. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Grey, Erika. 2013. The Seat of the Antichrist: Bible Prophecy and the European Union. Danbury, CT: Dante Press. Gribben, Crawford. 2009. Writing the Rapture: Prophecy Fiction in Evangelical America. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gribben, Crawford and Mark Sweetnam, eds. 2011. Left Behind and the Evangelical Imagination. Sheffield, UK: Phoenix Press. Gunn, T.  Jeremy. 2009. Spiritual Weapons: The Cold War and the Forging of an American National Religion. Westport, CT: Praeger. Hallowell, Billy. 2016. Armageddon Code. Lake Mary, FL: Charisma House. Heffernan, Teresa. 2008. Post-Apocalyptic Culture: Modernism, Postmodernism, and the Twentieth. Toronto: Toronto University Press.

462   Joshua T. Searle with Kenneth G. C. Newport Idinopulos, Thomas. 2003. “Nazism, Millenarianism and the Jews.” JES 40: 296–302. Jones, Darryl. 2006. “The Liberal Antichrist—Left Behind in America.” In Expecting the End: Millennialism in Social and Historical Context, edited by Kenneth  G.  C.  Newport and Crawford Gribben, pp. 97–112. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Kermode, Frank. 1967. The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. King, Paul L. 2002. “Premillennialism and the Early Church.” In Essays on Premillennialism: A Modern Reaffirmation of an Ancient Doctrine, edited by K.  Neill Foster and David E Fessenden, pp. 1–12. Camp Hill, PA: Christian Publications. Ladd, George Eldon. 1972. A Commentary on the Revelation of John. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. LaHaye, Tim, and Jerry  B.  Jenkins, Tribulation Force: The Continuing Drama of Those Left Behind (Carol Stream, IL: Tyndale House, 2011) Lamont, William. 1972. “Richard Baxter, the Apocalypse, and the Mad Major.” Past and Present 55: 68–90. Landes, Richard. 2006. “Millenarianism and the Dynamics of Apocalyptic Time.” In Expecting the End: Millennialism in Social and Historical Context, edited by Crawford Gribben and Kenneth G. C. Newport, pp. 1–23. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Landes, Richard. 2014. “Roosters Crow, Owls Hoot: On the Dynamics of Apocalyptic Millennialism.” In War in Heaven/Heaven on Earth: Theories of the Apocalyptic, edited by Stephen D. O’Leary and Glen S. McGhee, pp. 19–46. London: Routledge. Lifton, Robert. 1988. The Nazi Doctors: Medical Killing and the Psychology of Genocide. New York: Basic Books. Lindsey, Hal. 1970. The Late Great Planet Earth. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan. Lohse, Eduard. 1960. Die Offenbarung des Johannes. NTD 11. Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1960. Luker, Ralph E. 2002. “Kingdom of God and Beloved Community in the Thought of Martin Luther King, Jr.” In Ted Ownby The Role of Ideas in the Civil Rights South, edited by Ted Ownby, pp. 39–54. Jackson: University of Mississippi Press. Maier, Harry O. 2010. “Green Millennialism: American Evangelicals, Environmentalism, and the Book of Revelation.” In Ecological Hermeneutics: Biblical, Historical, and Theological Perspectives, edited by David  G.  Horrell, Cherryl Hunt, Christopher Southgate, and Francesca Stavrakopoulou, pp. 246–65. London: T & T Clark. Mangum, R. Todd, and Mark S. Sweetnam. 2009. The Scofield Bible: Its History and Impact on the Evangelical Church. Leicester: InterVarsity Press. Mitchel, Patrick. 2006. “Unionism and the Eschatological ‘Fate of Ulster,’ 1921–2005.” In Protestant Millennialism, Evangelicalism and Irish Society, 1790–2005, edited by C. Gribben and A. Holmes, pp. 202–27. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Mitchell, Chris. 2013. An Eyewitness Account of Prophecies Unfolding in the Middle East. Nashville: Thomas Nelson. Mounce, Robert. 1977. The Book of Revelation. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Newport, Kenneth G. C., and Crawford Gribben, eds. 2006. Expecting the End: Millennialism in Social and Historical Context. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Olson, Roger E., ed. 2005. “John Nelson Darby.” In The SCM Press A–Z of Evangelical Theology, edited by Roger E. Olson, pp. 111–13. London: SCM Press. Reynolds, William, and Julie  A.  Weber. 2008. The Civic Gospel: A Political Cartography of Christianity. Boston: Sense Publishers.

Futuristic Interpretation of Revelation   463 Rhodes, James M. 1980. The Hitler Movement: A Modern Millenarian Revolution. Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution Press. Ricoeur, Paul. 1976. Interpretation Theory: Discourse and the Surplus of Meaning. Fort Worth: Texas Christian University Press. Rock, Stephen R. 2011. Faith and Foreign Policy: The Views and Influence of U.S. Christians and Christian Organizations. New York: Continuum. Redles, David. 2008. Hitler’s Millennial Reich: Apocalyptic Belief and the Search for Salvation. New York: New York University Press. Rosen, Elizabeth  K. 2008. Apocalyptic Transformation: Apocalypse and the Postmodern Imagination. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield. Schneider, K. A. 2017. The Book of Revelation Decoded: Your Guide to Understanding the End Times. Lake Mary, FL: Charisma House. Scofield, Cyrus I. 1909. The Scofield Reference Bible. New York: Oxford University Press. Searle, Joshua T. 2014a. The Scarlet Woman and the Red Hand: Evangelical Apocalyptic Belief in the Northern Ireland Troubles. Eugene, OR: Pickwick. Searle, Joshua T. 2014b. “Sweet in the Mouth and Bitter in the Stomach: Interpretations of the Book of Revelation among Evangelicals in Northern Ireland during the Troubles.” ITQ 79 (2014): 14–29. Searle, Joshua  T., and Kenneth  G.  C.  Newport, eds. 2012. Beyond the End: The Future of Millennial Studies. London: Equinox. Snyder, Howard, and Joel Scandrett. 2011. Salvation Means Creation Healed: The Ecology of Sin and Grace. Eugene, OR: Cascade. Stevens, Gerald  L. 2014. Revelation: The Past and Future of John’s Apocalypse. Eugene, OR: Pickwick. Strang, Stephen E. 2017. God and Donald Trump. Lake Mary, FL: Charisma House. Stunt, Timothy. 2012. “Trinity College, John Darby and the Powerscourt Milieu.” In Beyond the End: The Future of Millennial Studies, edited by Joshua Searle and Kenneth Newport, pp. 47–74. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix. Sweetnam, Mark, and Crawford Gribben. 2009. “J.  N.  Darby and the Irish Origins of Dispensationalism.” JETS 52: 569–77. Urban, Hugh B. 2011. “The Devil at Heaven’s Gate: Rethinking the Study of Religion in the Age of Cyber-Space.” In Heaven’s Gate: Postmodernity and Popular Culture in a Suicide Group, edited by George D. Chryssides, pp. 268–302. Farnham, UK: Ashgate. Vanhoozer, Kevin. 1998. Is There a Meaning in This Text? The Bible, the Reader and the Morality of Literary Knowledge. Leicester: Apollos. Warner, Michael. 1999. American Sermons. New York: Library of America. Watson, William C. 2015. Dispensationalism before Darby: Seventeenth Century and Eighteenth Century English Apocalypticism. Silverton, OR: Lampion Press. Wessinger, Catherine. 2011. “Millennialism in Cross-Cultural Perspective.” In The Oxford Handbook of Millennialism, edited by Catherine Wessinger, pp. 3–26. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wilson, Hugh Wesley. 2006. The Rapture and End Times Prophecies for Beginners. Spring Hill, TN: Holy Fire. Wistrich, Robert S. 1986. Hitler’s Apocalypse: Jews and the Nazi Legacy. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Wright, Bryant. 2017. The Stage Is Set: Israel, the End Times, and Christ’s Ultimate Victory. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker.

Pa rt V

CUR R ENTS IN INTER PR ETATION

chapter 28

Femi n ist I n ter pr etation of R ev el ation Susan E. Hylen

The gendered imagery of Revelation has provoked interest and debate among feminist interpreters in recent decades. Like other interpreters of Revelation, feminist readers face a host of difficult decisions in their efforts to understand its complex language and rhetoric. Revelation’s imagery often has multiple points of reference: some are biblical or mythical or both; others point to local history or Roman politics. In addition, the language of the book draws on the speech conventions of its time, including gendered virtues and social patterns. For these reasons, interpreting the gendered language involves a complicated decision-making process. Readers must decide what role gender plays in the work and how to understand specific images. In addition to this complexity, Revelation’s layered imagery often resists reduction to a single meaning. At a basic level, layers of meaning are built into the work. For example, the interpreting angel describes the seven heads of the beast both as seven mountains and as seven kings (Rev 17:9). In other instances, John hears a voice describing one thing—twelve thousand people from twelve tribes, for example—and turns and sees something different—in this case, “a great multitude that no one could count” (7:5–9; cf. 5:5–6). Interpreting Revelation is complicated by the possibilities for multiple meanings inherent within the book.

Major Passages and Interpretive Issues Certain passages of Revelation have risen to the forefront for feminist interpreters. These images have multiple possible reference points, both biblical and historical.

468   Susan E. Hylen The combinations of gendered, human imagery and non-human imagery—like that of the city—yield complex possibilities for interpretation. Some of the passages in Revelation are frequently mentioned by feminist interpreters, and I introduce these texts and their central questions in this section. In sifting through many possibilities, feminist interpreters often ask a central question about the message of the book as a whole: Does Revelation communicate a positive vision that is inclusive of women? In answering this question, feminist interpreters have brought to the forefront certain interpretive choices. In particular, decisions about the role of ancient and modern history in understanding Revelation’s imagery have been important. Furthermore, they have weighed questions of whether a positive metaphorical meaning can exist alongside harmful gender stereotypes. Understanding the character Jezebel, for example, involves making decisions about what language should be taken as a referent to the author’s historical context and what is metaphorical. John introduced a female opponent in the letter to the church in Thyatira: “I have this against you: you tolerate that woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophet and is teaching and beguiling my servants to practice fornication and to eat food sacrificed to idols” (2:20). Many interpreters have agreed that the woman John referred to seems likely to have been an actual person. Other early Christian writings mentioned groups of Christians with different beliefs, and Jezebel may represent a similar kind of diversity in Christian teaching. However, the name John gave her, Jezebel, was probably not her name but an allusion to the Phoenician wife of King Ahab. In the Old Testament, Ahab’s marriage to Jezebel was part of the description of his idolatry that led Israel away from proper worship of God (1 Kgs 16:31–33). John’s repetition of this name drew on familiar biblical history to charge an unnamed woman as a participant in idolatrous behavior. Thus, Jezebel seems to be both symbolic and a real historical person. In a similar vein, the accusation against her of encouraging “fornication” seems likely to be a metaphor for unfaithfulness to God, also drawing on biblical precedents. However, the idea that Jezebel encouraged others to eat meat sacrificed to idols may be historical. This topic arose in Paul’s letters as an issue in early churches (e.g., 1 Cor 8–10), so it may represent a real dispute in Thyatira. All these possibilities emerge from only one verse. But the complexity of the interpretive decisions required are typical of Revelation. Other passages in Revelation are even more complex. The woman clothed in the sun (Rev 12) is widely seen as a positive figure, but one whose meaning is elusive. The woman was pregnant (12:2) and gave birth to a son (12:5). Threatened by a dragon (12:4), the child was taken away to the throne of God (12:5), and the mother fled into the wilderness (12:14). The meaning of the imagery is disputed and difficult to narrow down. Many Christian readers have taken her to be Mary or the church. However, history of religions research has opened up an array of possible mythological meanings, for the structure of her story mirrors a number of ancient tales that were familiar to early readers. Overall, despite the many possibilities, interpreters agree the woman is a positive figure aligned with God against the dragon. She offers a positive female image in contrast to Jezebel. Interpreting the one hundred forty-four thousand standing with the Lamb on Mount Zion (14:1) evokes the same set of questions in a different way. This group was

Feminist Interpretation of Revelation   469 introduced in a way that suggests they were men: “[I]t is these who have not defiled themselves with women, for they are virgins” (14:4). Based on this language, interpreters have questioned whether followers of Christ were imagined as exclusively male. This is a similar question about the nature of John’s language as literal or metaphorical. The issue is whether the masculine gender is part of the metaphorical content of the passage, perhaps representing the devotion of warriors aligned with God, or whether it communicates the expectation that only males could be pure enough to be true followers of God. One of Revelation’s most famous images is also one of its most complex: the whore/ woman/Babylon/Rome of chapters 17 and 18. An epitome of the forces aligned against God and Christ, she was characterized by her display of wealth and her fornication with “the kings of the earth” (17:2). She was a woman (17:3–4) and a city, although the city imagery includes both Babylon (17:5; 18:2) and Rome (see the seven hills in 17:18). One voice from heaven declared that she was already “fallen”; another predicted her future judgment and violent destruction (18:2–8). The whore of Babylon is a disconcerting image for feminist interpreters because of the harsh judgment against her. In chapters 17–18, she was the focal point of blame for the sins of all the kings of the earth and seems to be a scapegoat in taking on punishment for all. In doing so, Revelation’s language may replicate social conventions of blaming the victim. Feminist interpretation grapples with how to understand and deal with the ethical dilemma this imagery poses. A final female image was that of “the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband” (21:2). The marriage of the Lamb was further described in 19:7–9. The metaphor shifted from a feminine bride to a city (21:9–10), and back again to a person (22:17). Both as city and bride, she was a positive image of union with the divine and a place where God is present. However, when juxtaposed with the whore of Babylon, this imagery may have replicated a common trope of the good woman/evil woman. Although the trope may motivate readers to choose what is good, the imagery may also have reproduced common gender stereotypes that actual women may have experienced as limiting. Thus the feminine imagery of Revelation is multiple and complex. Perhaps for this reason, a primary disagreement among feminist interpreters has been how ultimately to assess Revelation’s relationship to women. While there are many points of agreement, as I will describe in detail, a primary dispute has been whether Revelation bears a useful message for women today, or whether the problematic images negate any positive aims.

A Central Question: Can Revelation Be Liberating for Women Readers? For many years, feminist interpretation of Revelation was dominated by a central disagreement. The dialogue between Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza and Tina Pippin made visible and problematized an ethical dilemma readers of Revelation face: Can the

470   Susan E. Hylen message of the text be understood as “good news” if its symbolic language replicates repressive gender stereotypes? Schüssler Fiorenza argued that the rhetorical purpose of Revelation was liberation, whereas Pippin asserted that Revelation could not be good news for women readers. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza situated Revelation in its historical context and argued for a message of redemption. In her 1985 book The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment, Schüssler Fiorenza interpreted Revelation as constructing a symbolic universe to motivate the ancient reader. The symbolic language invited readers to engage their imaginations in order to see the world around them in a new way. The redemption Revelation envisioned was socioeconomic liberation rather than individualistic spiritual transformation. Revelation aimed to motivate Christians who were experiencing persecution not to be tied to unjust social norms of their time. Through its imagery, readers would acknowledge the injustices inherent in the Roman imperial practices and resist participation. In this early work, Schüssler Fiorenza did not explicitly address liberation with respect to gender roles, although she did discuss gendered imagery. For example, Schüssler Fiorenza argued that the male virgins of Rev 14:1–5 represented cultic holiness. In the first-century context, abstinence from sexual activity could be a sign of cultic purity. Thus, Schüssler Fiorenza argued against a more literal reading that followers of Christ were exclusively male. Instead, the purity language represented the choices followers made in the past: “[T]heir actions and lives are the preconditions for such eschatological salvation” (Schüssler Fiorenza 1985, 191). Adela Yarbro Collins also drew on the historical context to interpret Revelation, but she gave a mixed assessment of the book. In her 1987 article “Women’s History and the Book of Revelation,” she argued that the reference to Jezebel in Rev 2:20–23 was evidence of the leadership roles women played in the early church. Although John was critical of the woman he referred to as “Jezebel,” her stance allowing the eating of meat sacrificed to idols was held by other Christians of the era, including those Paul addressed in 1 Cor 8. Yarbro Collins agreed that the purity language of Revelation 14 evoked cultic purity standards, citing Qumran documents, Philo, and the Book of Watchers (1 En. 88–89). However, Yarbro Collins also argued that the description of the one hundred forty-four thousand in Rev 14 represented the model disciple as male and presented contact with females as defiling. She concluded, “These two passages show that the Bible has a dual role in the history of women: it is a record of our oppression as well as a source for the reconstruction of a usable past and of images of hope” (Yarbro Collins 1987, 91). Like Schüssler Fiorenza, Yarbro Collins acknowledged the historical context in which Revelation’s imagery took shape. Her interpretation made room for a mix of positive and negative effects of the gendered images. In a subsequent work, Schüssler Fiorenza dealt more explicitly with gender as a problem that interpreters encounter. Her primary strategy in Revelation: Vision of a Just World (1991) was to situate the gendered imagery of Revelation in its historical context. For example, she argued that Revelation created a symbolic contrast between two cities imagined as women. In Rev 17, Babylon/Rome was depicted as a whore, and in

Feminist Interpretation of Revelation   471 chapter 21, the new Jerusalem was portrayed as a bride. Schüssler Fiorenza argued that these images were conventional. “John did not invent but took over from tradition the symbolic contrast harlot/bride for portraying the opposition between the world of Rome and the world of God” (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 131). She attributed the gendered nature of the imagery to convention: cities were often portrayed as feminine entities in antiquity. In addition, the harlot imagery of Rev 17 drew on familiar Old Testament language in which Israel’s idolatry was imagined as adultery. Schüssler Fiorenza argued that Rev 17 engaged in a political critique of Rome: “Babylon is the powerful personification of international oppression and murder throughout the Roman empire” (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 98). John’s vision of the judgment of Babylon brought hope to those who struggled for freedom (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 101). Schüssler Fiorenza criticized approaches to this gendered language that did not account for its function within Revelation’s rhetoric. Such interpretations “depoliticized” Revelation’s language, which she argued was better read as motivating a choice between the Roman empire and “the qualitatively new world of God” (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 131). Schüssler Fiorenza was also concerned that grammatically gendered Greek words not be equated with actual gender (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 14). She argued the language was meant to motivate resistance rather than to communicate information about actual men and women. Susan Garrett, writing in the Women’s Bible Commentary in 1992, also argued that Revelation used conventional gendered imagery to motivate readers to faithful action. For example, she related the “adultery” or “fornication” language to that of Hosea and other prophets who conveyed Israel’s unfaithfulness to God as marital infidelity (Garrett 1992, 378). The language of the one hundred forty-four thousand virgins evoked the idea of ritual purity before battle and, in the literary context of Revelation, also evoked eschatological warfare (Garrett 1992, 380). Garrett closed by acknowledging that the imagery was problematic for modern readers. “The objection that ‘Babylon’ is only a metaphor, a symbol, does not eliminate the problem that the text creates for women readers. The author’s exultation over the mutilation, burning, and eating of a woman—even a figurative one—tragically implies that women are sometimes deserving of such violence” (Garrett 1992, 381). Garrett articulated a problem that remained at the center of feminist interpretations for some time. The “tragic implications” Garrett pointed out were center stage in Tina Pippin’s book, Death and Desire: The Rhetoric of Gender in the Apocalypse of John (1992). Pippin argued that the rhetoric of Revelation evoked in readers a desire for the female of Rev 17 and a desire for her destruction. Pippin asserted that the positive female characters of Revelation were marginalized, and the negative women figures were destroyed. She interpreted the masculine identity of the one hundred forty-four thousand as an indication that all of the inhabitants of the new Jerusalem were men. “What is considered unclean and dangerous by the male hierarchy has to be placed outside the camp. Those on the inside . . . in this cultural system are all male” (Pippin 1992a, 50, cf. 70). Pippin argued Revelation was not capable of providing a hopeful message to women. Like many interpreters, she understood Revelation to draw sharp boundaries between

472   Susan E. Hylen insider and outsider. Pippin saw these boundaries as limitations on women: “There is no room for dissent and no room for women’s power and women’s voices” (Pippin 1992a, 52). Revelation depicted the cathartic death of evil, but in doing so, it created a hostile climate for women. Pippin argued that the impact of the imagery extended into the present experience of women readers of the text. “Both women characters in the narrative and women readers are victimized” (Pippin 1992a, 58). Pippin’s articles written in this period underscored similar ideas (Pippin 1992 b, 1992c). One feature of Pippin’s work that remained important in later debates was her insistence that the discussion of Revelation should not simply focus on its location as a firstcentury Greek writing. Pippin drew on historical work to understand Revelation: for example, her understanding of the one hundred forty-four thousand cited Adela Yarbro Collins’s earlier book, Crisis and Catharsis (1984). Yarbro Collins had argued that the sexual purity of the one hundred forty-four thousand drew on the holy war tradition of the Old Testament and other Jewish literature (see also Yarbro Collins 1976). So too, Pippin understood the language of the one hundred forty-four thousand as a purity concern and used that background to assert that the unclean females were excluded from the holy city (Pippin1992a, 50). But for Pippin, much of the historical approach to Revelation could remain in the background: “I do not assume that Babylon is Rome or that the beast is the emperor Domitian. I want to play with the polyvalence of the symbols, unanchoring them from any specific historical context” (Pippin 1992a, 16). This question of the role of history became one of the breaking points between the two dominant feminist views. For Yarbro Collins and Schüssler Fiorenza, understanding the imagery in its context gave it a potentially liberating valence. Yarbro Collins, for example, argued that the patriarchal nature of the imagery of sexual purity was inherited through the cultural context (Yarbro Collins 1984, 131). She saw this imagery as contributing to Revelation’s call to participate in a transformed human life, although she acknowledged it could be problematic for readers today (Yarbro Collins 1987, 89). But Pippin pushed back against the notion that Revelation could ever be read as liberating. She wrote, “Women in the Apocalypse are victims—victims of war and patriarchy. The Apocalypse is not a safe space for women. In effect I am saying that the Apocalypse is not liberating for women readers” (Pippin 1992a, 80). The divergence in these interpretations was shaped in part by decisions about how strongly the language of Revelation should be situated within its historical context.

Rhetorical Function of Images in Ancient versus Modern Contexts Pippin’s work engendered a debate about the imagery of Revelation and its interpretation in the present. A number of scholars agreed with Pippin that the language of Revelation conveyed negative messages for women in a modern context. Others

Feminist Interpretation of Revelation   473 countered that reading the metaphorical language in its historical context allowed a more positive message to emerge. In some ways, the scholarship of this period seems to reassert and reiterate the positions articulated above. However, in doing so, these scholars clarified some of the issues at stake in interpreting Revelation. Adela Yarbro Collins reasserted the importance of studying history to understand Revelation’s imagery. Drawing on her earlier work in The Combat Myth, Yarbro Collins argued that the woman clothed in the sun (Rev 12) followed a mythic pattern, the “threatened mother of the hero” (Yarbro Collins 1993, 23). She interpreted the woman’s story as a paradigm for the book’s initial readers: “Like her they have a heavenly identity . . . But they are also vulnerable: some have been arrested, some killed; their legal status in the Roman empire is precarious. The rescue of the woman and her being nourished in the wilderness suggests to the audience that God will deliver them” (24). Yarbro Collins contrasted the woman with the role of the whore of Babylon in Rev 17–18. The whore represented a different mother myth, that of the “Terrible Mother.” The mythic background she perceived caused Yarbro Collins to differ with Pippin about the rhetorical function of the imagery. Pippin had argued that the whore imagery was meant to evoke desire in the reader. Although depicting a prostitute, Yarbro Collins did not see evidence of desire in the language of these chapters, because she understood them to evoke a different rhetorical framework for ancient readers. She rejected the use of Pippin’s terms “sadist” and “pornographic” (Yarbro Collins  1993, 30). Instead, she affirmed that Revelation portrayed a social double standard but reasserted that female imagery played both positive and negative roles. Schüssler Fiorenza’s later work clarified how historical study was important so that grammatically gendered language was not confused with actual men and women. Schüssler Fiorenza responded to Pippin in the expanded second edition of The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment (1998). She cited Pippin’s work and the growing consensus around it (Schüssler Fiorenza 1998, 209). Schüssler Fiorenza countered that the grammatically masculine language in Revelation did not function to exclude women but was conventional language meant to shape the desires of both women and men (Schüssler Fiorenza 1998, 208). “Rather than focus on ‘woman’ in Revelation, one must explore its politics of meaning in order to adjudicate whether the discourses of Revelation are misogynist. To do so one needs to investigate whether and how much the rhetoric of Revelation shares in the hegemonic discourses of domination and dehumanization” (Schüssler Fiorenza 1998, 209). Schüssler Fiorenza went on to critique interpreters (Garrett and Pippin in particular) who equated the feminine language of Revelation with actual women. She argued that this was a literalization of the language usage that “negates the possibility of readers’ ethical decision and resistance” (Schüssler Fiorenza  1998, 217; cf. Schüssler Fiorenza  2006, 256–57). For Schüssler Fiorenza, destabilizing gender in Revelation meant contextualizing it as a particular kind of discourse. Barbara Rossing’s book The Choice between Two Cities: Whore, Bride, and Empire in the Apocalypse (1999) supported the perspective of Schüssler Fiorenza by elaborating the rhetorical purpose of the two cities depicted as women. Rossing argued that

474   Susan E. Hylen Revelation evoked the good woman/bad woman contrast of both Greek and Jewish literature. Wisdom literature, for example, portrayed Woman Wisdom (e.g., Prov 9:1–5) and the Strange Woman (Prov 7:10–18) as two of the possible paths the seeker of wisdom must choose between. Rossing pointed out how common this topos was in ancient literature (Rossing 1999, chap. 2). Like this preceding imagery, Revelation also used the good woman/bad woman contrast to motivate a choice by the reader. Rossing suggested that Revelation’s real interest was critique of the Roman Empire through the portrait of the cities. The cities were imagined as female in order to evoke the rhetorical framework of choosing what was aligned with God’s wisdom. Both Rossing and Schüssler Fiorenza were critical of Pippin’s focus on modern readers. They responded by giving continued attention to the ways the ancient context shaped early readers of Revelation to understand its rhetoric and feminine imagery. Rossing and Yarbro Collins also criticized Pippin for framing the desire that Revelation evoked in the reader as sexual desire rather than social, political, and spiritual (Rossing 1999, 14; Yarbro Collins 1993, 30). Dorothy Lee sided with Schüssler Fiorenza in addressing the rhetorical framework of the woman clothed in the sun (Rev 12). Lee argued that the woman was a symbol of resistance. Although threatened and pressured, she did not worship the dragon (Lee 2001, 210). Thus, Lee affirmed Schüssler Fiorenza’s claim that Revelation “­ challenges the notion that injustice and oppression are at the center of the universe” (Schüssler Fiorenza 1991, 120; Lee 2001, 210). Lee also stated the need for modern readers not to reinforce stereotypes of women’s subordination (Lee 2001, 212–13). Tina Pippin also responded to criticism by asserting her understanding that historically oriented interpretation did not go far enough to counter the negative impacts of Revelation. In her 1999 book, Apocalyptic Bodies: The Biblical End of the World in Text and Image, she cited her dissatisfaction with books that only asked “questions about authorship, date, social world, and the like” (Pippin 1999, x). To Pippin, reading the gendered violence as a metaphor for the downfall of Rome implied that the violence against women was acceptable. In chapter 2, Pippin described the conservative Christian culture in which she grew up and the dominant reading of Revelation she experienced there. Pippin, a college professor in Georgia, expressed concern about teaching responsibly in the context of the American south, because “the heavy exclusionary ideology of apocalyptic prophecy is similar to the contemporary ethos of racism, sexism, and classism, and other oppressive ideologies” (Pippin 1999, 13). She noted the use of apocalyptic imagery in white supremacist sources. Her work responded to damaging use of Revelation in modern churches, and the corresponding gender norms she found there. For Pippin, the historical approaches of Schüssler Fiorenza and others were unsatisfactory as a means of confronting those harmful messages (cf. Keller 2005, 59). Her interpretation identified features of conservative southern uses of Revelation and critiqued the implications she saw for contemporary gender norms. A number of scholars who agreed with Pippin developed their own interpretations using postcolonial theory. For example, Jean Kim drew on the insight from postcolonial feminists “that sexually oppressed women are caught in a no-win situation between

Feminist Interpretation of Revelation   475 foreign and native men” (Kim 1999, 63; cf. Nelavala 2009, 60–61). She argued that the woman of Rev 17 likewise was sexually exploited by both foreign and native men. Social norms and economic structures of the Roman Empire made prostitution common. At the same time, rape was a metaphor for domination by the colonizer. These social and linguistic patterns were accepted rather than transformed by the author of Revelation (Nelavala 2009, 79). John Marshall also used postcolonial theory to analyze Revelation’s violent gendered imagery. He explained that “the sexualized violence against female figures both within and without his community is a function of John’s position as a resistant writer within a situation of colonialism” (Marshall 2009, 17). For example, the denunciation of Jezebel reflected the situation in which “men position women as the bearers of subaltern purity and authenticity” (Marshall  2009, 25). In contrast to John’s desired separation from Rome, Jezebel represented collaboration with the empire, a kind of impurity John found intolerable. Marshall’s analysis explicitly reinforced Pippin’s position over and against Schüssler Fiorenza’s, because he saw the sexualized violence as “integral to John’s anticolonial cry for justice” (Marshall 2009, 32). This ongoing debate about the interpretation of Revelation brought certain aspects of the interpretive process to the forefront. Some interpreters focused on the historical context of Revelation’s imagery to better understand the rhetorical force the language had in its original setting. This approach frustrated some because, while it relativized the gendered imagery as historically situated, it did not directly dispute the oppressive cultural patterns that shaped the imagery to start with. Other interpreters were more concerned about the assumptions modern readers inherited from recent fundamentalist interpretations, which had negative implications for gender equality. The downside of this approach was that interpreters seemed to equate Revelation’s meaning with recent interpretations of it. Because those interpretations had negative effects on women, these readers rejected Revelation itself, as well as the harmful interpretations.

Reimagining the Categories The debate between Pippin and Schüssler Fiorenza created the impression that there were only two possible ways to read Revelation’s gendered imagery. For a time, it seemed that many interpreters simply took sides or elaborated one view or the other. A few interpreters continued to offer new historical or literary explorations (e.g., Glancy and Moore 2011; Carey 2009). A few scholars have proposed distinctive paths forward. In this segment of the essay, I discuss two trajectories in the on-going debates in feminist interpretation, each of which provides an alternative to the earlier framework. The first set of responses confronts the negative and positive gendered imagery of Revelation and refuses to emphasize one side at the expense of the other. A second set of interpretive responses continues to explore the meaning of gender as a category and proposes new approaches to Revelation’s imagery as a result.

476   Susan E. Hylen

Multiple Meanings A number of interpreters have embraced the possibility that Revelation may have more than one meaning. In doing so, these scholars refused to take sides in the Pippin/ Schüssler Fiorenza debate. Instead, they deliberately maintained elements of both liberating and oppressive messages existing side by side in Revelation. Some interpreters have used metaphor theory to better understand Revelation’s complex imagery. In response to Schüssler Fiorenza, a number of feminist interpreters have pointed out the importance of metaphor. For example, Hanna Stenström wrote, “When it comes to gendered symbols, none of them is ‘only a symbol.’ They all participate in the construction of gender” (Stenström  2009, 52). Although Schüssler Fiorenza never claimed Revelation’s language was “only a symbol,” her emphasis on the rhetorical force of the metaphor rather than its gendered content led a number of readers to counter that the stereotypical gendered imagery could not be rendered harmless. These readers understood the imagery to reinforce some of the negative social influences of first-­century culture (see e.g., Kim  1999, 61, 70; VanderStichele 2009, 107; M. Smith 2015, 172). The presence of only whore, mother, and bride images, for example, might reinforce the limited roles women found in their social context. Thus, thinking about the metaphorical nature of Revelation has emerged as one way to extend feminist discourse on this subject. Lynn Huber’s contributions have drawn on conceptual metaphor theory to describe how Revelation’s imagery has the potential for both positive and negative effects. Huber asserted that Revelation’s images did not give information about historical women but were used “to think with.” Huber pointed out the effect of metaphor blending in Rev 17–18: those chapters did not only present the political downfall of a city or the violent destruction of a woman. The blending of the images was an essential part of the way Revelation achieved its message. Because of this, she argued the imagery cannot simply be reduced to a city or a woman, and therefore read as either liberating or oppressive (Huber 2007, 2013, 59–60; Hylen, 2011, 210). Huber’s approach to metaphor led her to argue that multiple meanings are inherent to Revelation. Although the habits of biblical scholars have been to extract one meaning from the text through a rigorous method, the language of Revelation complicates this effort. Rather than seeing such openness to many meanings as a problem, interpreters might embrace the plural meanings that emerge in close interactions with Revelation. Huber has pointed out that the history of religions approaches to Revelation have expanded the possibilities of meaning by creating many historically plausible options. (For an example of this, see the summary by David Aune of possible Greek, Egyptian, and Gnostic referents behind the imagery of the woman clothed in the sun [Aune 1998, 2:670–74].) Huber argued that the nature of metaphorical language resists reduction to a single summative statement (Huber 2013, 2–4; cf. Hylen 2011, 790–92). Like Huber, Shanell Smith agreed that the imagery of Revelation should not be reduced to a simple choice between whore or bride. Her book The Woman Babylon and the Marks of Empire (2014) shares a good deal in common with earlier postcolonial

Feminist Interpretation of Revelation   477 interpretations. However, she moved beyond the requirement that the interpreter must choose between positive and negative valences by rejecting the call to classify the whore either as a woman or a city, and thus either an oppressive or liberating image. Smith drew on W. E. B. Du Bois’s twentieth-century concept of a “veil” that prevented African American people from seeing themselves as they were and imposed a white perspective (Smith 2014, 11, 132). She argued that John was similarly captured by Rome’s colonizing system and did not offer meaningful resistance (Smith 2014, 8, 104). Based on a previous article by Glancy and Moore (2011), she read the whore as a figure representing both a wealthy prostitute (Gk. hetaira) and a slave forced to perform sexual labor (pornē). Thus the whore represented both the wealth of Rome and its oppression. Smith did not reject one side in favor of the other but used the tension as a mirror for her own position as both minoritized scholar and beneficiary of colonization. In addition to her claim that Revelation’s imagery has plural meanings, Huber’s work also expanded the possible meanings of Revelation through close analysis of the history of interpretation. Although many scholars have affirmed in theory that more than one interpretation is possible, Huber took this idea a step further. She identified medieval readers and modern visionaries who interpreted Revelation in distinctive ways. Some of these interpreters saw Revelation’s language as an opportunity to open up multiple possibilities of meaning. Huber argued that both the visionary nature of Revelation and the different cultural contexts of its interpreters shaped the emergence of various meanings. Huber’s work has also been innovative in drawing attention to the multiple ways in which women interpreters read Revelation. Although both Schüssler Fiorenza and Pippin asserted that Revelation’s metaphorical language was open to many interpretations, their scholarly rhetoric suggested there was really only one preferred reading. By contrast, Huber’s detailed discussion of Gertrude Morgan and Myrtice West presented different interpretations as viable options. Gertrude Morgan (1900–1980), an African American woman in the Sanctified movement, felt a call to preach and understood herself as the bride of Rev 21. This self-understanding motivated much of Morgan’s art and ministry. Myrtice West (1923–2010) was a white woman in the South, who depicted the whore and bride in art. Her interpretation was shaped by dispensationalist readings of Revelation and by her daughter’s abusive marriage. Huber argued that West’s interpretations expressed the possibility of healing relationships, along with her own grief. Huber tracked how the city, whore, and bride metaphor showed up in each artist’s work, but in very different ways (Huber 2013, chap. 5). Divergent readings were shaped by the experiences and theologies of these women, as well as by the text of Revelation. Her analysis led Huber to call for a shift in feminist approaches, from debate about whether Revelation is liberating to a question of how women readers make use of the text: “This is my feminist agenda: By listening to the variety of women’s interpretations of Revelation, I seek to contribute to the scholarly recognition of the complexity of women’s experiences and the creativity of women’s intellectual production vis-à-vis Revelation as a way of making space for future productions by women and men who identify with women. In addition, I hope to reveal that while Revelation, like the

478   Susan E. Hylen discourses upon which it draws, may encourage its audience to use the conceptual domain woman as an aid, actual women readers are far from passive when it comes to engaging this domain” (171–72). For Huber, there is not a single “answer” to Revelation’s layered imagery. Women readers have been and are decision-makers and have agency in how they read and appropriate the book.

Destabilizing Gender Another avenue of exploration has been the expansion of what it means to study gendered imagery in Revelation. Earlier feminist discussions often focused primarily on images that were explicitly female or that, like the one hundred forty-four thousand, referred to females. In doing so, their analyses often assumed that gender was constructed in a binary form, that is, either male or female. Subsequent studies have expanded the notion of gender itself, which makes room for new approaches to Revelation’s language. Some scholars have explored messages about masculinity in Revelation. Instead of viewing maleness as a “neutral” category not worthy of study, this approach asserted that both male and female are genders that can be critically analyzed. It thus destabilizes modern conceptions of gender by asserting parity in the approach to male and female genders. Stephen Moore was an early adapter of this approach with respect to Revelation. He compared the image of God, “the one seated on the throne” (e.g., Rev 5:1) to Roman ideals of masculinity. For example, in his book God’s Gym, Moore argued that, like the ideal male, the divine image in Revelation is both static and hard (Moore  1996, 121, 135; see also Moore  2009,  2014). Revelation’s masculine ideals were also used to characterize the Roman emperor. These ideals in a similar fashion portray God as the ultimate male figure. More recently, Chris Frilingos has analyzed the presentation of the image of Christ as a lamb in Rev 5 in terms of its adherence to masculinity standards. Frilingos agreed to some extent with Moore’s analysis that Revelation has a preference for cultural standards of masculinity: “The Apocalypse . . . employs images of penetration and the passive body to conceptualize power and desire” (Frilingos 2003, 306). However, he argued that the image of Christ as a lamb standing as if slaughtered (Rev 5:6) violated this preference. Frilingos interpreted the lamb as weak and compromised, yet also exercising “authority because of its passivity” (Frilingos 2003, 308, 309). Frilingos did not see the lamb’s passivity as a rejection of Roman values, because he also saw the lamb as developing a “vengeful streak.” “The Lamb presides over the punishment of these prisoners, a scene that thus transforms the creature from passive to active. In the Roman world such a development would have been viewed as a gendered mutation from effeminacy to masculinity. The penetrated Lamb is now an agent of discipline, issuing divine retribution” (Frilingos, 2003, 312). Frilingos drew on cultural ideals of masculinity to describe the function of this image of Christ. A second approach is to destabilize the assumptions modern readers make about ancient gender norms and practices. In this sense, my research reassessing cultural

Feminist Interpretation of Revelation   479 norms and roles for women in the first and second centuries may also be useful in expanding the study of gender norms in Revelation. Readers have often asserted that women had very limited capacities to act in ancient society, which was reflected in the limited variety of roles women play in Revelation, as mother, bride, and whore. The woman clothed in the sun and the bride have been characterized as passive and powerless (e.g., Selvidge 1992, 162–63; Pippin 1992a, 72). These attributes were viewed as consistent with ancient social norms and practices. My research in this area can expand modern readers’ assumptions about the roles available to ancient women. I have argued that women had greater social and legal capacities than scholars have assumed. Many adult women owned property that was not controlled by their husbands. Such wealth was one basis for social status, which was the foundation of patron-client relationships and social influence. Women of various class levels used the wealth they had to give bequests, make loans, and donate large or small gifts to cities and civic groups. In doing so, they functioned in many of the same roles men did (Hylen 2015, chap 2; 2018, chaps. 4 and 5). Thus, although it is true that women were idealized as passive and men as active, the material evidence suggests this ideal did not reflect the social reality of the first-century Mediterranean world. Women held considerably greater social and legal authority than scholars have commonly acknowledged. Although commonly assumed to be socially inferior to men, this bias did not restrict women’s actions and influence as much as we have assumed. Instead of presenting one rigid social norm for what it meant to be female, we might explore the multiple ways ancient people embodied feminine norms. These changes in the understanding of the social context will not resolve many of the questions feminist interpreters have, but they may lead to new interpretations of Revelation. The image of the new Jerusalem as a bride, for example, has often been shaped by assumptions of the bride’s powerlessness, as noted earlier. However, the bride depicted in Rev 21 may have communicated power to early readers. She represented a wealthy woman, whose status would have been communicated through her adornment. And as Huber has noted, the bride is characterized using active verbs, suggesting that she is active rather than passive (Huber 2009, 176). Both Huber and Jorunn Økland point to the bride’s speech as well (Huber 2013, 87; Økland 2009, 102). Contextualizing this imagery among the many powerful women of Asia Minor in this period might alter the way that we think about how early readers apprehended it. A similar approach can be taken regarding masculinity. Huber has also drawn attention to the idea that “the Roman Empire was home to more than a single discourse on masculinity” (Huber  2008, 13). This idea should be expanded with further research. Such work might help to open up similar discussions about the varieties of masculine roles available in antiquity. Finally, a few interpreters further destabilize gender as a category by studying gender fluidity in Revelation. Theologian Catherine Keller may have taken a step in this direction early on with her assertion that the whore of Babylon is imperial patriarchy in drag (Keller 1996, 77; cf. Moore 2009, 89). More recently Lynn Huber has argued that, since the new Jerusalem represents the community of the faithful, the wedding of the bride to

480   Susan E. Hylen the Lamb required male readers to imagine themselves as the female bride. “By encouraging the audience to envision itself as a bride Revelation encourages the audience, male and female, to envision itself in the terms of feminine gender and as embodying the characteristics of the ideal wife in relation to the Lamb” (Huber, 2009, 178). Huber’s identification of the blended nature of the city/bride imagery informed her exploration of this effect on readers. Similarly, Frilingos’s study of the Lamb of Rev 5 led him to assert that “the Lamb is feminized and masculinized” (Frilingos 2003, 299). In doing so, Frilingos described an image of Christ as one whose gender is not fixed. This approach may help interpreters to set aside modern understandings of binary gender and explore new meanings in Revelation (see also Pippin and Clark 2006).

Conclusion Feminist interpretation of Revelation is a relatively new focus, and the recent trajectories in scholarship suggest that there is still much work to be done. Contemporary feminist interpretations have moved in directions that explore the varieties and complexities of gender norms and images. Close reading of the text of Revelation still has potential to yield new insights into this challenging book. In addition, historical study of the ancient world may illuminate our understanding of Revelation’s imagery in new ways. Attention to diverse interpretations throughout history can also help us to see new possibilities that a focus on ancient history alone can obscure.

References Aune, David E. 1998. Revelation. 3 vols. WBC 52. Nashville: Thomas Nelson. Carey, Greg. 2009. “A Man’s Choice: Wealth Imagery and the Two Cities of the Book of Revelation.” In A Feminist Companion to the Apocalypse of John, edited by Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, pp. 147–58. London: T & T Clark. Frilingos, Chris. 2003. “Sexing the Lamb.” In New Testament Masculinities, edited by Stephen D. Moore and Janice Capel Anderson, pp. 297–317. SemeiaST 45. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press. Garrett, Susan  R. 1992. “Revelation.” In The Women’s Bible Commentary, edited by Carol A. Newsom and Sharon H. Ringe, pp. 377–82. London and Louisville, KY: SPCK and Westminster John Knox. Glancy Jennifer  A., and Stephen  D.  Moore. 2011. “How Typical a Roman Prostitute is Revelation’s ‘Great Whore’?” JBL 130: 551–69. Huber, Lynn R. 2007. Like a Bride Adorned: Reading Metaphor in John’s Apocalypse. Emory Studies in Early Christianity. New York: T & T Clark. Huber, Lynn  R. 2008. “Sexually Explicit? Re-reading Revelation’s 144,000 Virgins as a Response to Roman Discourses.” JMMS 2:3–28. http://www.jmmsweb.org/.

Feminist Interpretation of Revelation   481 Huber, Lynn R. 2009. “Unveiling the Bride: Revelation 19.1–8 and Roman Social Discourse.” In A Feminist Companion to the Apocalypse of John, edited by Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, pp. 159–79. London: T & T Clark. Huber, Lynn R. 2013. Thinking and Seeing with Women in Revelation. London: Bloomsbury. Hylen, Susan  E. 2011. “Metaphor Matters: Violence and Ethics in Revelation.” CBQ 73: 777–96. Hylen, Susan E. 2015. A Modest Apostle: Thecla and the History of Women in the Early Church. New York: Oxford University Press. Hylen, Susan  E. 2018. Women in the New Testament World. New York: Oxford University Press. Keller, Catherine. 1996. Apocalypse Now and Then: A Feminist Guide to the End of the World. Boston: Beacon. Keller, Catherine. 2005. God and Power: Counter-Apocalyptic Journeys. Minneapolis: Fortress. Kim, Jean K. 1999. “ ‘Uncovering her Wickedness’: An Inter(con)textual Reading of Revelation 17 from a Postcolonial Feminist Perspective.” JSNT 73: 61–81. Lee, Dorothy A. 2001. “The Heavenly Woman and the Dragon.” In Feminist Poetics of the Sacred: Creative Suspicions, edited by Frances Devlin-Glass and Lyn McCredden, pp. 198–220. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Marshall, John W. 2009. “Gender and Empire: Sexualized Violence in John’s Anti-imperial Apocalypse.” In A Feminist Companion to the Apocalypse of John, edited by Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, pp. 17–32. London: T & T Clark. Moore, Stephen. 1996. God’s Gym: Divine Male Bodies of the Bible. New York: Routledge. Moore, Stephen. 2009. “Metonymies of Empire: Sexual Humiliation and Gender Masquerade in the Book of Revelation.” In Postcolonial Interventions: Essays in Honor of R. S. Sugirtharajah, edited by Tat-Siong Benny Liew, pp. 71–97. Bible in the Modern World 23. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Moore, Stephen. 2014. Untold Tales from the Book of Revelation: Sex and Gender, Empire and Ecology. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press. Nelavala, Surekha. 2009. “ ‘Babylon the Great Mother of Whores’ (Rev 17:5): A Postcolonial Feminist Perspective.” ExpT 121: 60–65. Økland, Jorunn. 2009. “Why Can’t the Heavenly Miss Jerusalem Just Shut Up?” In A Feminist Companion to the Apocalypse of John, edited by Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, pp. 88–105. London: T & T Clark. Pippin, Tina. 1992a. Death and Desire: The Rhetoric of Gender in the Apocalypse of John. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Pippin, Tina. 1992b. “Eros and the End: Reading for Gender in the Apocalypse of John.” Semeia 59: 193–209. Pippin, Tina. 1992c. “The Heroine and the Whore: Fantasy and the Female in the Apocalypse of John.” Semeia 60: 67–82. Pippin, Tina. 1999. Apocalyptic Bodies: The Biblical End of the World in Text and Image. London: Routledge. Pippin, Tina, and J.  Michael Clark. 2006. “Revelation/Apocalypse.” In The Queer Bible Commentary, edited by Deryn Guest et al., pp. 753–69. London: SCM Press. Rossing, Barbara  R. 1999. The Choice between Two Cities: Whore, Bride, and Empire in the Apocalypse. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International. Schüsszer Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1985. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. Philadelphia: Fortress.

482   Susan E. Hylen Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1991. Revelation: Vision of a Just World. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1998. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: Fortress. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 2006. “Babylon the Great: A Rhetorical-Political Reading of Revelation 17–18.” In The Reality of Apocalypse: Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 243–69. SymS 39. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press. Selvidge, Marla J. 1992. “Powerful and Powerless Women in the Apocalypse.” Neot 26: 157–67. Smith, Mitzi J. 2015. “Fashioning Our Own Souls: A Womanist Reading of the Virgin-Whore Binary in Matthew and Revelation.” In I Found God in Me: A Womanist Biblical Hermeneutics Reader, edited by Mitzi J. Smith, pp. 158–82. Eugene, OR: Cascade. Smith, Shanell. 2014. The Woman Babylon and the Marks of Empire: Reading Revelation with a Postcolonial Womanist Hermeneutics of Ambiveilence. Minneapolis: Fortress. Stenström, Hanna. 2009. “ ‘They Have Not Defiled Themselves with Women . . .’: Christian Identity according to the Book of Revelation.” In A Feminist Companion to the Apocalypse of John, edited by Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, pp. 33–54. London: T & T Clark. Vander Stichele, Caroline. 2009. “Re-membering the Whore: The Fate of Babylon according to Revelation 17.16.” In A Feminist Companion to the Apocalypse of John, edited by Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, pp. 106–20. London: T & T Clark. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1976. The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation. HDR 9. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1984. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1987. “Women’s History and the Book of Revelation.” In Society of Biblical Literature. 1987. Seminar Papers, edited by Kent H. Richards, pp. 80–91. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1993. “Feminine Symbolism in the Book of Revelation.” BI 1:20–33.

chapter 29

I n ter pr eti ng R ev el ation through A fr ica n A m er ica n Cu ltu r a l St u die s Thomas B. Slater

African (or Black) American scholarship maintains a close connection to the Black Church because it does not have the luxury of being irrelevant. Black congregations expect Black scholars to represent them in scholarly discourse and speak to their concerns in the academy. As a member of an underrepresented and marginalized community, the African American scholar cannot afford logical theories that have little relevance to or meaning for life. For that reason, Black scholars tend to be less esoteric and more contextual. In this way, the church and the academy feed off one another: sometimes the academy describes the church; at other times it pushes the envelope. This is seen clearly in the role of the Revelation to John (or John’s Apocalypse) in the Black Church, as well as within African American scholarship. For that reason, cultural studies is an attractive means of interpreting Scripture (Moore 1998; Slater 2015). Cultural studies provides a flexible approach to biblical interpretation that aligns Scripture with a contemporary cultural context. Howard Thurman was doing this very thing in 1949 in Jesus and the Disinherited. Thurman began with “the simple fact that Jesus was a Jew” (1949, 15). He argued that it was not possible to understand Jesus outside his Palestinian Jewish cultural context, and that Jesus was a poor Jewish person whose poverty made him more human than if he had been wealthy (1949, 18). Moreover, Thurman argued that Jesus was a spiritual genius who wanted his followers to acquire an inner peace that would sustain them in a repressive Roman society. Thurman believed strongly that such an inner peace would enable Black Americans to sustain themselves during the days of legalized discrimination: “The striking similarity between the social position of Jesus in Palestine and . . . the vast majority of American Negroes is obvious,” Thurman wrote (1949, 34).

484   Thomas B. Slater Cultural studies is not the typical method of biblical interpretation; that is, it is not a singular, focused method done to the exclusion of other interpretative approaches. Rather, it involves sociology, social history, literature, anthropology, linguistics, and other cultural markers. Cultural studies begins with the understanding that texts have developed within a specific cultural context. It understands that texts refer both explicitly and implicitly to the social and cultural realities within a given social matrix. It is inclusive and employs whatever approach is needed at the time. In addition, cultural studies does not attempt to reconstruct a single universal interpretation that is true for all people, all places, and all times. Instead, different social locations lead to different readings, which all may be correct to some degree. Moreover, it accepts the fact that human behavior is not always logical or consistent and that meaning varies from context to context (Hall 1992; McRobbie 1992). Finally, readers who employ cultural studies relate some aspect of the biblical context to their own modern context. Rather than affirm a supposedly “objective” approach, cultural studies works with the understanding that a more subjective approach has the potential to expose meanings that are hidden when using other interpretive approaches. This inclusive approach has the potential to make our readings more integrated and thus help readers attain a more complete, nuanced reading. This is not to say that cultural studies will lead to one definitive reading. Rather, different readings have the potential to expose dimensions of a passage that only one perspective cannot. Different readings from different social locations in some instances might be mutually inclusive or mutually supportive, not mutually exclusive, and add to our understanding of a given concept or passage.

Revelation in Congregational Life For most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the book of Revelation played a minimal role in the life of the Black Church in America. Certain phrases (e.g., “Behold, I stand at the door and knock” [Rev 3:20] and “These are they who have come up the rough side of the mountain” [7:14]) and images of salvation (e.g., 7:17; 11:19; 21:1–14), which have their roots in Revelation, have also resonated in the Black Church. Overarching themes were rarely explored, however, either in the parish or among black scholars. Most Black Christians were familiar with Rev 3:20, but thought it was a quote from the gospels. Sermons and Bible studies based on Revelation were rare. For example, Bishop James Walker Hood (1831–1918), of the African Methodist Episcopal Zion tradition, published The Plan of the Apocalypse (1900), but his book was rarely referred to in sermons or essays within Zion Methodism and is virtually unknown outside his tradition. At the time, Hood was well known in black Methodist circles. During this period, two types of sermons were typical: (1) sermons on the seven messages in Rev 2–3 and (2) fire-and-brimstone sermons, which hoped to scare people into repentance. For example, the Rev. Merrill Johnson, a respected African Methodist

African American Cultural Studies   485 Episcopal pastor in Texas from the late 1960s through the 1980s, regularly preached from Rev 2–3 and often preached a series from them. Like many pastors, he recognized that these passages spoke to all types of parish issues, both good and bad, in contemporary congregations. For many pastors like Johnson, these chapters became a resource for pastoral leadership and ethical exhortation in the same way Paul’s letters are. Ethical behavior and communal harmony were paramount for these pastors. Good behavior would lead to salvation. Few saw the Apocalypse as a religious or theological resource for African Americans facing racial discrimination. On the other hand, many more-conservative pastors preached fire-and-brimstone sermons based on Revelation. This was particularly true among pastors in Pentecostal traditions. Rev 19–20 played a key role in the preaching and teaching of these pastors. The atonement played a major role in this form of preaching; fear of eternal damnation was the hoped for response. Confessing one’s sins and being saved were paramount; individual ethics and communal unity were assumed. What produced such different interpretations from Black pastors? Pastors who had college degrees or who were in denominations that required some level of training tended to use the Apocalypse to exhort persons to better behavior to bring about communal harmony. This is especially true in denominations with episcopal polities. It was the pastors from denominations with congregational polities and which had no educational requirements, who tended to preach fire and brimstone and try to scare people into repentance. They assumed that community harmony would result if everyone were afraid to go to perdition. Although there have been exceptions to both cases, both approaches have proven to be too optimistic. Disagreeable people excel at following their natural instincts. While both approaches to Revelation have their strengths and weaknesses, neither has proven to be a theological or ethical panacea. Both left significant themes and passages untouched. For example, the book of Revelation played little to no role in the rhetoric or the practices in the civil rights movement. None of the pastors, whether they were preaching to inspire good behavior or to scare people into righteous behavior, developed this aspect of John’s Apocalypse. In the 1990s, I described John’s Apocalypse as a form of civil disobedience, and Allen Callahan called it subversive literature. In 2000s, Brian Blount wrote that the book was resistance literature, and Clarice Martin referred it as protest literature. All came of age during the civil rights movement, but they did not derive their conclusions from the rhetoric of the movement but from their study of the Apocalypse itself. Martin Luther King Jr., the proponent of nonviolent civil disobedience, never appealed to the Apocalypse and rarely mentioned it in his sermons, essays, and addresses. Interestingly, much of Revelation’s imagery played a significant role in the Black Church throughout the twentieth century (e.g., Christ standing at one’s door and knocking, streets paved with gold in heaven, new attire in the new heaven), but this imagery did not play a role in sustaining the community under duress. Late in the century, scholars and pastors began to question the usefulness of the imagery because they feared it promoted a docile acceptance of the status quo.

486   Thomas B. Slater Things developed significantly after the charismatic movement of the 1970s. More conservative and fundamentalist pastors started going beyond preaching judgmental sermons to predicting the imminent return of Christ and identifying signs of the end. Some sermons identified the two beasts in Rev 13 as certain countries or international movements. Some saw the emerging European Community as the restoration of the Roman Empire. Others developed elaborate arguments to predict Jesus’s return. Still others identified certain persons as 666, the Antichrist, without realizing that the term “antichrist” is found not in the book of Revelation but in 1 John 4:3 and 2 John 7. Liberal and moderate pastors responded to these developments by consciously preaching and teaching from other passages and themes in John’s Apocalypse and by consciously avoiding the fire-and-brimstone passages and making predictions. Parishioners asked for more studies of the Apocalypse, and pastors gave them more studies, but the Apocalypse still ran a distant third to Jesus and Paul. During the 1970s, there were fewer than two dozen African Americans with an academic doctorate in New Testament studies. Most black scholars focused on either Jesus and the Gospels or Paul and the Pauline tradition. None focused on the Revelation to John. This clearly changed in the 1990s. In her womanist study of Revelation, Shanell  T.  Smith notes that African American biblical scholars began to ask how Revelation has been and may be interpreted and what it might mean for the community. She continues that African American scholars share an interest in how Revelation “expresses the resistance and subversion of imperial powers by colonized peoples” (Smith 2014, 93). Correctly, Smith realizes that though these scholars share a common perspective, they use different methods and approaches to get there (Smith 2014, 94). What follows is a discussion of the most prominent Black American NT readers of the Apocalypse to John.

The Influence of Black Liberation Theology Three exegetes have interpreted the book of Revelation as a response to a religiopolitical crisis in Roman Asia. They perceive the book responding to the repression of Christians in that region and also serving as a model for Christian behavior during the period of repression prior to Christ’s return. Their respective works reflect the influence of liberation theology upon their generation during the last quarter of the twentieth century. Black liberation theology affirms that God is primarily concerned with those who are most in need and that God wants to liberate them from their oppression. In the 1960s, Luke 4:16–19 became the text for many, and it still remains important (Hendricks 2006, 7–8). In this passage, Jesus proclaims that his mission is to the poor, political prisoners, those who are physically challenged, and the oppressed. Many NT scholars have found these same themes in the book of Revelation.

African American Cultural Studies   487

The Apocalypse and Civil Disobedience In 1993, I began publishing several studies on John’s Apocalypse. My approach is distinctive among African American scholars because I work primarily as a historical critic. However, like my peers, I consistently challenge the establishment by questioning accepted positions and popular translations. I published an article in New Testament Studies in 1998 and incorporated that study into my monograph Christ and Community. Although I worked primarily as a traditional historical critic, the study was supplemented by insights from the sociology of knowledge. I took issue with those who argued that at the time Revelation was written there was no empirewide oppression of Christians under Emperor Domitian, and therefore no oppression at all. These writers argued that the seven messages in Rev 2–3 did not mention Roman oppression but focused on Christian laxity. I gave a threefold response (Slater 1998, cf. 2006, 2017). First, I argued that the seven messages were primarily written to address issues within the churches, not the place of Christians in the wider Asian context. Therefore, to seek information about the wider context in Rev 2–3 is to look for something that was never meant to be there. However, I noted that when external matters were mentioned in Rev 2–3, they referred to Christian suffering (2:8–11, 13; 3:8–10). Second, following Simon Price, I argued that each of the cities mentioned in Rev 2–3 sought the neokoros—that is, a designation as an official site of the imperial cult. Such religiopolitical practices in Roman Asia predated the Roman Empire. Agreeing that there is no evidence of an empire-wide persecution, I argued that by not participating in the imperial cult, Christians were open to abuse from locals who viewed Christian noncompliance as both impious and unpatriotic. Thus, a regional repression of Christians was quite possible, and I marshalled evidence from throughout the NT of Christians suffering harassment. I concluded that the lack of evidence for empire-wide oppression did not exclude the existence of a regional oppression. Third, I agreed that Rev 2–3 displayed examples of Christian laxity, but countered that this laxity would be best understood as attempts by some Christians to relieve the social pressures on them to conform. My book Christ and Community shows that the prominence of the slain Lamb in Revelation is totally understandable given the social context of the book: the repressive social context of Roman Asia has led to the slain Lamb becoming the most important image of Christ in the book. The slain Lamb recurs twenty-eight times in eleven contexts, and “the most prominent Christological functions center around the Lamb as the communal leader and role model whose sacrificial death provides many positive benefits for Asian Christians” (Slater 1999, 162). The Lamb gathers, leads, protects, and provides benefactions for the community; reveals God’s plans; oversees the book of life; makes war against God’s enemies; and shares divine honors with God Almighty. Significantly, a victory-through-suffering motif accompanies the Son of Man and the slain Lamb images of Christ and, possibly, the divine warrior in 19:11–21. This motif is rooted in the cross. As Christ became victorious on Easter through his faithfulness, John exhorts Asian Christians to conquer evil through their faithful witness to Christ. Thus,

488   Thomas B. Slater their suffering is not a sign of their culpability but their righteousness. Concurrently, at each juncture where the Lamb provides for the community, the community is instructed to respond not with violence but through a faithful witness. “Revelation encourages passive Christian civil disobedience in the face of an unsympathetic first century ce Roman Asian society” (Slater 1999, 245). I developed this thesis that John’s Apocalypse is a form of civil disobedience in “Context, Christology and Civil Disobedience in John’s Apocalypse” (2009), maintaining that the repressive nature of the Asian context explains why the slain Lamb became the dominant image of Christ: it explained their own struggle and also how to overcome it. Similarly, the Apocalypse never encourages Christians to take up arms but instead to defeat evil through faithful witness, just as Christ did. Thus the slain Lamb explained why Christians suffered and also provided them a means to overcome evil through their own witness. I described this means of defeating evil through faithful witnessing as civil disobedience. It is a way to be militant without being militaristic.

Revelation as Subversive Literature Allen D. Callahan develops the idea that Revelation is subversive literature by focusing first on its use of the Greek language. He discusses the three most influential theories concerning the distinctive grammar and syntax of the book of Revelation. The first view is that Revelation was originally composed in a Semitic language, either Hebrew or Aramaic, and that errors developed in the process of translating the vision into Greek. A second position is that John was simply careless in composing the book and should have paid more attention to grammatical details. The third view is that John wrote in a very colloquial, unlearned Greek with strong Semitic influences. Callahan dislikes all three arguments because they portray the author in a very negative light and assume the author had little to no facility in Greek. Callahan counters that the writer’s Greek reflects “an idiolectical peculiarity that is both intentional and insurgent” (Callahan 1995, 454). By “idiolectical,” he means that John creates his own meanings for certain words and phrases and uses them consistently. He argues that John’s language “is a subaltern language, the language of one who is disenfranchised from mainstream discourse” and that John has “transgressed grammatical norms as an exercise of his own discursive power” (Callahan 1995, 464–65). Callahan notes that in some places the seer observes certain rules, but not in other places. This demonstrates to Callahan that the writer can adhere to the rules of grammar when he wants to do so. Callahan also takes to task modern readers who have read the book for a certain meaning without asking how the book might have given meaning to the lives of the original readers. He argues that his idiolectical reading is the most appropriate critical reading. He also supports reading the book aloud, stating, “Reading the Apocalypse aloud . . . was effectual: through exhortations and exclamations, threats and thunder, the reading of the Apocalypse moved its hearers” and “the text did something to them” (Callahan  1995, 460). “All those who read, recite, hear, and hold dear these words

African American Cultural Studies   489 participate in the emancipation of discourse itself ” (Callahan 1995, 470). Callahan is an apologist for John. For him, John is not unskilled, but skillful; not a substandard rhetor, but an intentional, intelligent, and subversive one. Callahan followed with “Apocalypse as Critique of Political Economy” (1999), which discusses the ways in which politics and economics played a seductive role in Roman imperial society. “The text of Revelation 18 is an indictment . . . of wealth and those who worship it” (1999, 46). It is also a warning to contemporary readers who “are constrained to hear the unnerving call of an apocalyptic summons” (1999, 46). He follows Walter Wink, who decries the hegemony of American imperialism and the need for economic, political and religious repentance (1999, 46, n. 1). Callahan states, “Modern ­interpreters . . . have been tone deaf to the notes of political economy sounded so loudly in Revelation 18” (1999, 47). Callahan finds John employing idioms from the prophetic tradition that criticize ancient Babylon to describe the excesses of Rome. He calls attention to the manner in which merchants, tax collectors, financiers, and their business associates are co-­conspirators in “the murderous oppression of the poor” (Callahan 1999, 47–53, quote on 51). On the other hand, Callahan acknowledges the critique of feminists, who find John’s references to women to be excessively negative and to open women to sexual exploitation in the real world. He counters that though Rev 17–18 uses the negative female traditions found in the prophetic and sapiential literature, it does not exploit the erotic language of those traditions. Revelation does not focus on the feminine body, but makes its critique through the adornment of the woman/city. The audience is “in danger of being seduced” by the woman’s attire, imagery that is linked to the commercial exploitation of the poor in Revelation. Rome/Babylon is found guilty of economic exploitation, drug trafficking, and the murder of innocent people. Rome does not coerce, but seduces people into evil (1999, 53–64). “Luxury, slavery, violence, and desire are over-determining elements of imperial hegemony in John’s apocalyptic vision.” John intentionally relates these four evils because they are inseparable in real life (Callahan  1999, 64). Callahan cautions that “Roman imperialism has retarded virtue, burdened faith, bound the spirit, and ­hindered the soul” (1999, 65).

Revelation as Resistance Literature Brian K. Blount (2000) argued that Revelation is resistance literature, a view that is similar to Slater’s position that Revelation is a form of civil disobedience and to Callahan’s argument that the book is subversive literature. Blount employs a cultural studies approach in Can I Get a Witness? (Blount 2005, cf. 2007). He chose this method because it helps to discern how material written for one group in one place and time might become meaningful for another group in another place and time (2005, 6–12). “The cultural studies interpreter doesn’t merely sit on the sidelines and record the struggle; she participates in it” (2005, 11). He continues that all readings are political creations and

490   Thomas B. Slater therefore function socially as political statements. The cultural studies reader is a change agent: “This is precisely the effort I will want to make with regard to an African American reading of John’s Apocalypse” (2005, 12). Blount is rejecting historical-critical studies and the myth of the objective biblical interpreter. His main argument against historical criticism is that it claims objectivity and assumes that one can ascertain the “correct” interpretation, but no interpreter can be completely objective. Blount argues that martys should not be translated “martyr” but “witness” in Revelation, someone who faithfully witnessed before Roman authorities as Christ himself faithfully witnessed to God regardless of the circumstances or consequences (Blount 2005, 46–49). Blount, for example, draws parallels between this first-century ce resistance and the situation of the African American slave community, where undirected worship “was an act of resistance, and how black churches in the civil rights movement served as meeting places to discuss plans for ‘social and political liberation’ ” (2005, 100). The necessity of unwavering witness is central to Blount’s work. “Revelation craves witness as engaged, resistant, transformative activism that is willing to sacrifice everything” (2005, 38). For him, it is a public witness to the lordship of Christ Jesus and, as such, may be perceived by governmental authorities as sedition. Blount states that true Christians must be willing to make that sacrifice. He sees this same kind of determined activism in the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s in the United States (2005, 41–45). Blount calls making this correlation between John’s subculture and his own as reading “from below,” where the once-silenced voices take center stage (2005, 14–21). This chapter is also an excellent example of how Blount relates Scripture to his cultural context. Blount correctly finds the emphasis upon witnessing in the book of Revelation itself. He then skillfully relates the biblical emphasis upon witness with the oft-asked African American inquiry seeking someone to step up and publicly affirm the truth: “Can I get a witness?” This is cultural studies at its best (Blount 2005, 58, 61–67). In chapter 3 of Can I Get a Witness, “Wreaking Weakness,” Blount focuses on the slaughtered Lamb and shows what witnessing might require. Sacrifice and atonement are inseparable in many theological discussions, but they are not for Blount. Rather, Blount asks how suffering plays a role in the context of injustice, and he finds an answer in the homeopathic role of the Lamb. “Right before our disoriented eyes, he transfigures a slaughtered Lamb into a conquering Lion without surrendering either its homicide or its helplessness. It is a homeopathic act” (2005, 79). The slaughtered Lamb reminds the original hearers and readers that God has controlled the violence they deserved and that he has accepted them by means of divine grace. The Lamb voluntarily suffered in their place. Asian Christians must now take Christ’s place as the scapegoat. “When sufficient violence has been brought against them, God will initiate the judgment that will destroy their enemies and transform their violent history into a tranquil new heaven and a peaceful new earth” (2005, 81). Blount makes a powerful correlation between the hymns in Revelation, on the one hand, and the work of select blues and rap artists, on the other. Both types of expressions

African American Cultural Studies   491 respond to systemic discrimination and injustice. Both have produced responses to maltreatment through resistance. “Like rap, Revelation is a dangerous blend of memorable music and recalcitrant rhetoric. But like the spirituals, Revelation never gives up hope. Its liturgical hymns witness to the promise that God is relieving Rome of its historical command. Right now” (2005, 102–3). “The hymns . . . are a celebration of confrontational resistance” (Blount  2005, 107). Furthermore, Blount states that black religious music in all its forms is fighting music just as the hymns of Revelation are fighting music. Those hymns, Blount argues “rap” on Rome in the same ways that contemporary rap music decries the injustices of American society. Rome is simply the last in a succession of empires that sought to claim for itself “God’s privileged position as the Almighty.” He concludes, “The ‘Roman’ force of American slavery and the institutionalized racism that followed in its wake were mimics of the same idolatrous belief that some humans maintained about their own superior, Almighty status.” Blount concludes that in both ancient Rome and modern America, music was the vehicle to oppose oppression when all other means of expression were exhausted. Simply put, “You can sing” (2005, 117). In his commentary on Revelation, Blount expands his argument considerably. He says that Revelation is a mean book, but it is not mean-spirited. He means that God’s people are never encouraged to meet violence with violence; and while Christ may be described in military terms, his method of victory is not his weapons but his witness. It is through his nonviolent, faithful witness that Christ becomes “the behavioral faith model for the believers in John’s Asia Minor . . . It is in the understanding of that lordship claim and the nonviolent testimony to it that one comprehends the meaning and purpose of John’s work” (2009, 5). In the social setting of Roman Asia, politics and religion have become intertwined in the imperial cult. Religious piety and patriotism were viewed as one and the same social demand. Blount does not see an empire-wide repression of Christians, but “only sporadic mistreatment that targeted specific persons who were charged with being Christbelievers, and only when they either refused to deny the allegation or would not repent of their delusion” (Blount 2009, 11). Blount envisions a Christology in Revelation in which the Lion never stops being a Lamb, and the Lamb never stops being a Lion. Vulnerability and conquest belong together in the book’s narrative. He argues that when readers saw the Lamb, they heard the footsteps of the Lion. The conqueror and the conquered coexist in the same person. The weak Lamb, then, does not subvert the powerful lion; the Lamb’s weakness, its slaughter, is precisely the way the lion works out its power. “The lion sLambs God’s opposition” (2009, 117; original emphasis). Blount continues that slaughter was not the goal, but “an active ministry of resistance that would witness to the singular lordship of Jesus Christ” (2009, 118). Just as Jesus’s death led to his empowerment, so, too, the slaughter of Asian Christians would eventually lead to “the transformative goal of eternal life in a new heaven and new earth” where the lordship of Christ would be displayed in its entirety (2009, 118).

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The Impact of Womanist Perspectives Womanism is a distinctive approach that takes into account the struggles African American women experience because of their ethnicity, gender, and class. Womanists take to task scholars of all communities and both genders who are insensitive to the problems of racism, sexism and classism (e.g., Weems 1988, 1995). This approach stands in contrast to feminism, which primarily addresses gender inequalities.

Revelation as Protest Literature In her article “Polishing the Unclouded Mirror: A Womanist Reading of Revelation 18:13,” Clarice Martin examines how the phrase “slaves and human lives” serves as a “mirror” or “looking glass” into African American history, and also how her womanist reading might elucidate “the rhetorical and ideological functions” of Rev 18:13 in its firstcentury social and rhetorical contexts (2005, 82–84). Revelation is essentially “protest literature.” Its primary goal is to resist Roman imperialism. She states that Rev 18:13 reminds her of the struggles of African Americans from the earliest days of slavery to the present day. She says that the progress the African American community has made is like an investment whose full return will come at some point in the future. Martin challenges “the gender-exclusive hegemony of malearticulated understandings of the Christian faith” (2005, 83–85, quote on 85). Thus, Martin views Revelation not only as a voice against oppression but also as a voice for moral behavior. Revelation opposes the majority view of first-century Roman society that slaves were defective and inferior by referring to them as “human souls” (2005, 89). John’s reference to “souls” is a major critique of slavery in the Roman Empire, the evil empire itself. In this way, Revelation is resistance literature. It is a “minority report” on behalf of those who have no voice. Similarly, African American women have also actively resisted the forms and norms of male hegemony in American society (2005, 96–106).

Postcolonial Hermeneutics and Womanist Critique Shanell Smith brings together postcolonial hermeneutics developed from African American liberation theology and a womanist critique, paying tribute to Clarice Martin. “To the best of my knowledge these two approaches have only been employed individually in Revelation scholarship and never in tandem” (Smith 2014, 9). One of her aims is to “draw attention to John’s own imperialistic and patriarchal ideology, thereby challenging the general African American notion that John stands fully over and against empire” (2014, 9). She describes Revelation as a male minority report that is not inclusive of women (2014, 9; cf. 20–21).

African American Cultural Studies   493 Smith creates a new term for her combination of these two methods: a hermeneutic of ambiveilence. The expression comes from W. E. B. Du Bois’s concept of “the veil” and Bhabha’s category of colonial ambivalence. The veil suggests a covering that prevents African Americans from seeing their true selves. This is particularly acute for African American women, who see themselves through the lens of either white America or black American men. Veiling occurs in both the academy and the church (2014, 11). Smith writes, “At times, in a negotiation with my environment, I have consciously masked my true self, keeping my inner thoughts, goals, and dreams unspoken, in order to remain in solidarity with the oppressed, and to thwart any possibility of being labeled as an ‘uppity’ black woman, one who does not truly understand ‘the struggle’ ” (2014, 172). Smith goes on to say, correctly, that she is not alone: it is a means of survival and also a means of protecting one’s place at the table of American elitism (2014, 172). “Ambiveilence,” similar to Otto’s idea of the holy, is at once attractive and repulsive. For Smith, the woman Babylon creates a tension in the Apocalypse “in her dual representation as both colonizer and colonized” (2014, 12). Ambiveilence means that women of color in Europe and North America often have entrée into elite circles, but also identify and participate with women in their respective communities who are less fortunate than themselves; that is, they participate in the finer things of the empire but also associate with women who are victims of the empire. Smith argues that the Apocalypse presented John as an itinerant prophet, not the apostle, who was a Palestinian Jew well-acquainted with the Hebrew Bible. He exhorted the seven churches in Asia to stand against Roman imperialism, the imperial cult, and Roman social norms. She sees John arguing on two fronts: (1) with Asian Roman society in general and (2) also with Christians who would be more accommodating to that society. John’s Apocalypse responds to a local, sporadic repression and anticipates that an empire-wide persecution will result if Christians resist through their witness to Christ (2014, 105–24). Smith looks specifically at the woman Babylon in her final chapter. She examines the metaphors of woman and city, focusing on the destruction of the woman/city and its implications for violence upon women. She concludes that the woman Babylon is an exploited brothel slave and also an empress/imperial city. John abuses her body until she is destroyed by the beast. As such, the woman Babylon is a participant in imperial Roman society and also its victim. This imagery is both attractive and repulsive: it is ambivalent (2014, 125–74). This reading has personal meaning for Smith, from which she does not run away. “Reading the woman Babylon’s text includes a reading of myself and the pain and trauma associated with my existence, and I sympathize with her” (2014, 166). She notes the physical abuse and the killing of the woman, which mirror the mistreatment of black American slaves, and the negative connotations of her name, which remain to this day and remind Smith of the racism that continues to survive in American society. But as a person of privilege, Smith also resonates with the woman’s association with and participation in the Empire. It is difficult for Smith “to ignore the texts that further perpetuate

494   Thomas B. Slater slave ideology and embrace—albeit with adaptation—the texts that give me hope, when it comes to the ‘text’ of the woman Babylon” (2014, 166–67).

Postcolonial Theory and “Scripturalizing” Revelation The late Lynne St. Clair Darden’s work Scripturalizing Revelation: An African American Postcolonial Reading of Empire (2015) introduced a new method for studying Revelation. Darden wanted to bring significant changes to African American biblical studies by labeling it “African American spiritualizing, supplemented by postcolonial theory, especially Bhabhas’s concept of mimicry/mockery, hybridity/ambivalence in colonized identity and collective memory.” Scripturalizing is an improved reading of Revelation, and the imperial cult specifically, according to Darden. She wanted to disclose the complexity of cultural negotiations in the making of Christian identity (2015, xi–xii). Darden argued that African American biblical exegesis is myopic, focused too much on race and gender. The composition of African American culture is standing still, even as the community grows more complex. She wants scholarship to become more interdisciplinary in the fashion she finds in Randall Bailey’s use of feminist biblical scholarship and ideological criticism. Darden discounts the historical-critical method and its supposed objectivity, along with its Eurocentric social roots and development. She applauds the cultural-critical paradigm and the various reading strategies it supports (contextual hermeneutics, feminist interpretation, deconstructive criticism, ideological criticism, postcolonial criticism and various combinations of them) as superior to historical-­critical research. She advocates supplementing African American biblical interpretation with postcolonial theory. Combining the two eradicates the complex nature of a hybrid identity construct. Postcolonial theory helps to identify the complex nature of cultural identification, because postcolonial theory and African American scripturalization are complementary discourses with common goals and objectives. What then follows is a listing of the ways various forms of bigotry are identified and corrected by her method of study (2015, 76–77). Darden discusses “the strangeness of home” as the contextual worldview from which African American scripturalizing originates. In so doing, she places emphasis upon the fluid, hybrid nature of African American identity. In her conclusion, she speaks to how Western, Eurocentric scholarship has privileged ancient Greco-Roman thought as the matrix for intellectual cogency and ignored contemporary contexts. “African American scripturalization privileges the contemporary cultural matrix from which meaning is produced, rather than the ancient cultural matrices in which they emerged. Only when the contemporary cultural context is mapped out will the meaning produced be fully understood. Thus in this chapter I focused on theorizing cultural location in order to illustrate the complex dynamics of identity construction” (2015, 104–5). Darden relates traditional scholarship on the Apocalypse to the traditional call and response common to black worship. The call is found in commonly held scholarly

African American Cultural Studies   495 opinions on authorship, date, genre, and rhetorical strategy. The response is the scripturalizing perspective found in African American exegesis, which focuses on the author as a member of a marginalized group, John as an exile who lives in an “unhomely state,” where he employs apocalyptic language and imagery to criticize the Roman state. Darden argues that Blount and Martin interpret the Lamb far too much within the context of liberation theology and the civil rights movement. She takes issue that neither Blount nor Martin addresses complex hybrid identities, offer an alternative vision of identity, or consider the possibility that the oppressed might become the oppressor. Finally, in analysis of Rev 4–5, she argues that though John decried the imperial cult, he also mimicked and mirrored the violence in the Roman Empire. In the end, the seer reinscribes the very system he opposed by replacing it with a Christian version of that system. The key for Darden was the question of identity construction. Beginning with liberation theology places the black community on the side of the oppressed in the ancient context and fails to confront the ancient seer’s disturbing rhetoric of violence. Darden is more interested in challenging John’s mimickry of Roman social norms and duplicating them in his vision of the new creation.

Responses to Oppression in Revelation and African American Experience Mitzi Smith, a womanist New Testament scholar, writes that apocalyptic literature usually responds to perceived, real or anticipated forms of injustice and repression (Smith and Kim 2018). She notes that a prophetic figure receives a vision and passes it on to a given group. The target audience may be in distress or noncompliant with well established social norms, practices, and expectations. This type of literature may encourage perseverance, fidelity or hope. Apocalypses often envision a more just society in the near future. Smith compares the experience of Nat Turner to those of apocalyptic visionaries. Turner stated that the Spirit directed him to lead a slave revolt. Smith believes that Turner’s envisioned final judgment in which the wicked would be judged comes from his reading of the book of Revelation. She also describes the Roman Empire as a slave society, an empire built upon slave labor, just as eighteenth- and nineteenth-century American society was built upon slave labor. Smith writes that the Apocalypse communicates its meaning through symbolism that was culturally intelligible to John’s audience. John attempted to do four things: (1) make his readers aware of their behavior and its implications, (2) reshape the worldview of his readers, (3) provide an alternative understanding of the world, and (4) exhort them to maintain a high level of moral deportment. John’s Apocalypse is a single, extended revelation given through several visions. By this, Smith means that the various visions derive from a single visionary message. This message concerns the centrality of the word of God and the testimony/witness

496   Thomas B. Slater (martyria) of Jesus. Smith notes that in Revelation a martyr is an eyewitness whose objective is to testify, not to die; however, one might die as a consequence of one’s testimony. One’s witness should raise the consciousness of other Christians and also lead them to become uncompromising witnesses and doers of God’s word, that is, to become conquerors through their active witness of faith (e.g., 2:7, 11; 3:5, 12; 6:2; 12:11), similar to Slater and Blount. Smith describes the context as one in which Christians may be conquered and colonized by the Roman Empire. She writes that John’s audience was composed of slaves of God, and that in the first century ce, almost every kingdom was built upon slave labor. She then reminds her readers again that the Roman Empire was a slave society, thereby connecting Roman history and American history. Smith suggests that the imperial cult was at the crux of the tensions between Christians and non-Christians in first-century Roman Asian society. Some Christians might have perceived participation in the imperial cult as religious compromise. Pressure upon Christians to conform might have been seen by Christians as religious persecution, a persecution also seen in the Acts of the Apostles, Smith notes. This is important for Smith, for it demonstrates that John was not a lone seer who saw the world differently from his Christian contemporaries, but one who shared this experience with other first-century ce Christians. Moreover, Smith notes that participating in the imperial cult demonstrated both one’s religious piety and one’s political allegiance to Rome. Fidelity to God’s word and Jesus’s witness naturally conflicted with the religiopolitical expectations of Asian society. She notes that the imperial cult was one means to unify a culturally diverse empire under one emperor. It included not only the imperial father but also members of the imperial family. Such an extensive system would have been ingrained in the fabric of Roman Asian society. Smith then compares resistance to the imperial cult to the resistance of Colin Kaepernick, an American professional football player. Kaepernick, who protests the maltreatment of black men in American society, refused to stand during the performance of the national anthem at the start of a game, and his protest has connected politics and religion in American society, in that one’s religious position can be discerned given one’s stance toward Kaepernick’s political protest.

Conclusion All the writers discussed here agree that there was some sort of tension between local authorities and Christians within the social context of the Apocalypse to John. Slater, Blount, Martin, Callahan, and S. Smith see a more intense context than do Darden and M. Smith. Slater refers to Revelation as a form of civil disobedience; Blount and Martin, as resistance literature; and Callahan, as subversive literature. All see Revelation requiring a strong, courageous Christian lifestyle in response to a repressive regime.

African American Cultural Studies   497 S. Smith and Darden are more concerned with the construction of Christian identity in the book of Revelation. S. Smith speaks of how the woman Babylon, as both participant and victim, has a hybrid identity, as do African Americans. Like first-century Christians, African Americans must navigate a hostile dominant culture and also live within their less privileged primary community. Darden is concerned about hybrid existence. Specifically, she is concerned that by replacing the imperial cult with a Christian version of it, Christians might themselves later become the oppressors. With regard to methods, most have explicitly chosen newer methodologies that are not as closely associated with Eurocentric scholarship. I stand out because I do not belittle historical research. However, even I ask sociological questions in order to understand the data retrieved by historical research. Others move more directly into new methodologies. For example, Callahan discusses how Roman social power brought about (“seduced”) participation in the Roman Empire and its social benefactions. Blount, S. Smith, Darden, and M. Smith clearly turn to cultural analysis and away from historical criticism. All four draw parallels between the ancient context and their own contemporary social setting, as does Callahan in his later study. Different methodologies have not produced vastly different readings. For example, Martin, Blount, Callahan, and I see the book of Revelation as literature that supports and comforts a suppressed group, which inspires and emboldens its audience. One finds a similar result in the work of the womanist interpreters. Martin, M. Smith, Darden, and S. Smith are much more critical of the Apocalypse than are the men. Indeed, Martin and S.  Smith see parallels between male hegemony in the first century ce and the same unjust practice in their own twenty-first-century context. Darden criticized Martin for being too heavily influenced by liberation theology, but failed to note that Martin was very critical of the gender-exclusive language of the Apocalypse. Martin is closer to Darden than one might perceive if one has not read Martin. Finally, true to their African American context, all find points of contact between their own cultural location and those within the Apocalypse to John. For example, Blount relates John’s hymns to contemporary blues and rap music, which is a negative commentary on American life. Callahan (“Apocalypse as Critique”), Martin, and S. Smith connect it with American slavery. S. Smith and Darden draw attention to the hybridity of identity in Roman Asia and in the African American community. Moreover, M.  Smith sees a parallel in the emphasis upon witnessing in Revelation and Colin Kaepernink’s protest against armed white policemen killing unarmed black men. In these and other ways, these writers make strides to make Scripture relevant and also to remain connected to their community in order that their scholarship might be both relevant and meaningful. Some outside the cultural matrix of the African American community might argue that this scholarship is subjective and too concerned with praxis. These writers would probably reply, “Absolutely!” Indeed, no scholar works in a cultural vacuum. None of us has achieved perfection or total objectivity. These scholars work with that given, do their work, and let the work stand for itself. The best any of us can do is acknowledge our social baggage, give our best effort, and hope it helps others.

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References Blount, Brian K. 2000. “Reading Revelation Today: Witness as Active Resistance.”Interpretation 54: 398–412. Blount, Brian  K. 2005. Can I Get a Witness? Reading Revelation through African American Culture. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Blount, Brian K. 2007. “Revelation.” In True to Our Native Land: An African American New Testament Commentary, edited by Brian K. Blount, pp. 523–58. Minneapolis: Fortress. Blount, Brian  K. 2009. Revelation: A Commentary. New Testament Library. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Callahan, Allen D. 1995. “The Language of the Apocalypse.” HTR 88: 453–70. Callahan, Allen  D. 1999. “Apocalypse as Critique of Political Economy: Some Notes on Revelation 18.” HBT 21: 46–65. Darden, Lynne St. Clair. 2015. Scripturalizing Revelation: An African American Postcolonial Reading of Empire. SemeiaSt 80. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Hall, Stuart. 1992. “Cultural Studies and Its Theoretical Legacies.” In Cultural Studies, edited by Lawrence Grossberg, Cary  L.  Nelson, and Paula  A.  Treichler, pp. 277–85. New York: Routledge. Hendricks, Obery.  M., Jr. 2006. The Politics of Jesus: Rediscovering the True Revolutionary Nature of Jesus’ Teachings and How They Have Been Corrupted. New York: Doubleday. Hood, James Walker. 1900. The Plan of the Apocalypse. York, PA: Anstadt. Martin, Clarice J. 2005. “Polishing the Unclouded Mirror: A Womanist Reading of Revelation 18:13.” In From Every People and Nation: The Book of Revelation in Intercultural Perspective, edited by David Rhoads, pp. 82–109. Minneapolis: Fortress. McRobbie, Angela. 1992. “Post-Marxism and Cultural Studies: A Post-script.” In Cultural Studies, edited by Lawrence Grossberg, Cary L. Nelson, and Paula A. Treichler, pp. 719–30. New York: Routledge. Moore, Stephen  D., ed. 1998. In Search of the Present: The Bible through Cultural Studies. Semeia 82. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Slater, Thomas B. 1998. “On the Social Setting of the Revelation to John.” NTS 44: 232–56. Slater, Thomas B. 1999. Christ and Community: A Socio-historical Study of the Christology of Revelation. JSNTSup 178. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic. Slater, Thomas B. 2006. “Dating the Apocalypse to John.” Bib 87: 252–58. Slater, Thomas B. 2009. “Context, Christology and Civil Disobedience.” RevExp 106: 51–56. Slater, Thomas  B., ed. Afrocentric Interpretations of Jesus and the Gospel Tradition. 2015. Lewiston, NY: Edward Mellen Press. Slater, Thomas B. 2017. “Dating the Apocalypse to John, Revisited.” RevExp 114: 247–53. Smith, Mitzi  J., and Yung Suk Kim. 2018. Toward Decentering the New Testament: A Reinterpretation. Eugene, OR: Cascade. Smith, Shannell T. 2014. The Woman Babylon and the Marks of Empire: Reading Revelation with a Postcolonial Womanist Hermeneutics of Ambiveilence. Emerging Scholars. Minneapolis: Fortress. Thurman, Howard. 1949. Jesus and the Disinherited. New York: Abingdon-Cokesbury Press. Weems, Renita J. 1988. Just a Sister Away: A Womanist View of Women’s Relationship in the Bible. Philadelphia: Innisfree. Weems, Renita  J. 1995. Battered Love: Marriage, Sex, and Violence in the Hebrew Prophets. Minneapolis: Fortress.

chapter 30

Post- Col on i a l I n ter pr etation of th e Book of R ev el ation Harry O. Maier

The Apocalypse has never lacked hermeneutical adventurers. Historical, narrative, feminist, and post-structuralist criticisms name a small sample of their points of disembarkation. In recent years, interpreters have looked to post-colonial studies to reconnoiter Revelation’s variegated geographies. This is unsurprising because Revelation is filled with imperial language, even as it celebrates the overthrow of Satan and his political agents with such proclamations as “Now have come the salvation and the power and the kingdom of our God and the authority of his Messiah” (Rev 12:10). As with the Bible in general, the Apocalypse has been a vademecum in the colonial enterprises of Western powers, for those who have sought to promote them and for others to resist them. Today, post-colonial interpretation can be found in a variety of readings of the book of Revelation, most of them a development of the liberationist approaches that have appeared during the past fifty years (Moore  2014, 1–11). These include feminist and womanist analyses of the Apocalypse; African and African American accounts; Latin American and South African liberation perspectives; Haitian engagement; queer and gender explorations; Hispanic, Korean, and Indigenous treatments; immigrant and diaspora readings; and ecotheological interpretations.1 In most of these studies, postcolonial interpretation is expressly named. All of them share a concern that typifies its deployment—namely, to interrogate the ways in which dominant groups prescribe ways of understanding and acting in the world as a means of creating and retaining control of others. Post-colonial studies have furnished interpreters with an important compass for seeking direction in the study of Revelation in ancient contexts and for mapping the influence of the Apocalypse on modern ones. What does the phrase “post-colonial interpretation” mean? The definition of the term “post(-)colonial”—with and without the hyphen—has been a topic of debate (Loomba  1998, 7–19; Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin  2000, 187–89). The word

500   Harry O. Maier “post-colonial” as a formal academic designation first emerged in the 1970s in the field of Commonwealth and Third World literary studies to delineate and politicize the study the literatures produced in English in the colonies, former colonies, and dependencies of the former British Empire and the Commonwealth (Ashcroft, Cotter, Docker, and Nandan 1977). The “post-” with the hyphen thus has been understood chronologically. In this sense, its chief goal has been to decenter a Eurocentric domination of the literary canon in order to study writings composed by authors from former colonies and their engagement with cultural identities that emerged during and after colonization. The “post” has also been understood in another sense, designated by the term ­“postcolonialism” (without the hyphen), to represent an approach that extends beyond a chronological description of literary production to describe a theoretical analysis of colonial discourse more generally. Interpreters have contested the temporal understanding of “post” by insisting that colonization did not end with the dismantling of European empires (McClintock 1992, 84–98). The two-thirds world is filled with outposts of dominant global powers and places where their proxy wars are staged. Further, indigenous peoples continue to live with the legacy of colonialism. They are not living in a post-colonial period; their struggle is to decolonize the colonial realities that continue to frame their lives (Loomba 1998, 7). Postcolonialism thus seeks to identify how discursive operations of dominant cultures have affected and often continue to dominate the organization of life, values, social identities, and symbol systems of meaning, in ways that are often subtle, unconscious, and paradoxical. The interest is not so much historical and focused on the literature during the time of colonization and after the colonizers left. Rather, it is centered in a hermeneutical posture that engages and critiques the hegemonic exercise of power, that is, the way nondominant groups appropriate and reconfigure dominant discourses to create their own identities, often for subversive purposes. It is, in the words of one of its leading investigators in the field of biblical studies, “an active confrontation with the dominant system of thought, its lopsidedness, and inadequacies, and underlines its unsuitability for us. Hence, it is a process of cultural and discursive emancipation from all dominant structures whether they be political, linguistic or ideological” (Sugirtharajah 2003, 15). Contemporary scholars no longer sharply distinguish the terms post-colonialism and postcolonialism because the traditional meaning of the former term is so closely entangled with the latter one. Together, they express a complex relation of historical and hermeneutical approaches. As a field of study and hermeneutical positioning within the study of culture more generally their aim is to explore the impact that the territorial expansion of empires has had on culture and interpretation, the institutions of colonial occupation, the discourses of empire, the formation of identity and self-understanding in colonial situations, as well as the resistance to colonial discursive operations and their appropriation in dynamic and unexpected ways. In this chapter post-colonialism (with the hyphen) does not designate the traditional chronological attribution but is a reference to broadly conceived discursive operations.

Post-Colonial Interpretation   501 As a form of academic discourse, post-colonial interpretation began to be applied to the New Testament from the 1970s onward (Sugirtharajah 1998, 16–18), and since the 1990s, it has seen an explosion in studies (for an overview, Moore 2015, 273–84). As a form of resistance to colonialism, without, of course, the moniker postcolonial, it has been at work for centuries wherever the colonized have used the Bible to talk back to their colonial masters (Sugirtharajah 1991; 2001, 74–139; Runesson 2011, 51–126). Post(-) colonial interpretation is sometimes referred to as post(-)colonial biblical criticism (Sugirtharajah 2001), but the term criticism can be misleading because it does not designate a method of biblical exegesis in the way the terms text criticism, historical criticism, source criticism, and redaction criticism do, but rather a posture or location of interrogation over against textual and historical phenomena. As a hermeneutical mode of investigation, it litigates the claims of traditional biblical criticism as a means to nonprejudiced, objective, ahistorical, and universal truth free from the imprint of the cultural, economic status, gender, and geographical location of its users (Segovia  2000, 34–86; Runesson 2011, 51–88). Sugirtharajah (2001, 251) identifies three goals of postcolonial interpretation in biblical studies. The first is to analyze biblical documents for what he calls “their colonial entanglements,” that is, the ways in which texts reflect how the colonial intentions of ancient empires affected the content and production of the Bible. The second task is to “reread biblical texts from the perspective of postcolonial concerns, such as liberation struggles of the past and the present” by reflecting “on postcolonial circumstances such as hybridity, fragmentation, deterritorialization, and hyphenated, double or multiple, identities” (Sugirtharajah 2001, 252–53). Finally, it aims to interrogate the effects of colonization on interpretive works such as commentaries and historical and administrative records that have “helped to (re)inscribe colonial ideologies and consolidate the colonial presence” (Sugirtharajah 2001, 255). The following discussion takes up these three tasks of postcolonial interpretation, looking first at Sugirtharajah’s third aspect through an investigation of the role of the book of Revelation in Western colonial enterprises, and then by observing the entangled nature of the Apocalypse within the Roman Empire, and, finally, by considering the ways the book’s contents reflect fragmented and hybrid identities.

The Book of Revelation and Colonialism Colonization and the book of Revelation have often been close allies. This is in part because the Apocalypse offers a vision of the end of history, considered in both senses as the chronological ending to historical time and as the goal or telos of history, and even provides a revelation—as interpreted, for example, by Augustine in City of God, books 18–22—of the very pattern of history as the earthly arena for a more cosmic conflict

502   Harry O. Maier between God and his opponents (Maier  1999, 153–64). Its location at the end of the Christian canon makes Revelation the end point of a story that begins with creation in the book of Genesis. This has resulted in the Bible being used as a hermeneutical key for envisioning global history. The canonical organization of the New Testament further inscribes this overlay of scripture onto a more secular temporal succession in its organization of its books, beginning with Gospels, continuing with the story of the expansion of the early church in the book of Acts, interpreted in the Pauline and General Epistles that follow, and concluding with the Apocalypse to tie up history at the end. The New Testament gives the impression that history is a story of God’s expansion of the church, culminating in a judgment of the peoples of the earth based on whether their names are in the book of life (Rev 20:12–15). The result is a singular sacred narrative from creation to the realization of prophetic fulfillment in Jesus, through expansion of the church throughout the earth to judgment. It is no accident that the history of colonization has often been associated with an overarching biblical narrative that is correlated with a divinely ordained territorial expansion and the spread of Christianity (Vessey, Betcher, Daum, and Maier 2011). The Bible and colonization have gone hand in hand. In addition to its contribution to a sense of a divinely ordained historical pattern on account of its canonical location, the book of Revelation has played a versatile role in the history of Western colonization because of the temporal complexity of the sequence of its visions and narrative design. Especially relevant for the history of colonization is the fact that Revelation presents an apocalyptic timetable that includes two judgments. The first one, described in Rev 20:1–6, portrays a thousand-year reign of Christ together with the martyrs described in earlier chapters. The second judgment, presented in 20:11–22:5, presents God’s reign in a renewed heaven and earth. The passages describing these two judgments have resulted in two Revelation-derived versions of the millennium of 20:1–6; interpreters label one version postmillennial, and the other, premillennial (Boyer 2009, 66–68), and both have helped to shape the colonial imagination.2 It is the postmillennial version—namely, that Christ establishes a thousand-year reign with the saints and then returns for a final judgment—that has enjoyed the most traction with colonialist enterprises, which could then be undertaken in the confidence that they were part of God’s plan for humankind. In this optimistic version of a Christian story in which the church and divinely established rulers overcome evil, the millennium is the product of the steady expansion of the gospel throughout the world and the creation of a global order fit for the presence of Christ and his millennial reign. An early manifestation of this historical blueprint appears in the early church from the fourthcentury ecclesiastical historian Eusebius of Caesarea, who drew up a millennial picture of the Roman Empire under Constantine (Markus 2010, 72–104). Eusebius used prophetic biblical passages as well as those from the book of Revelation to celebrate the emperor Constantine’s Christianizing influences on his dispersed subjects as the fulfillment of the command to extend the reach of the gospel across the world (Maier 2011, 149–75). Eusebius in the full blush of a Constantinian spring, with an emperor advancing the cause of the church, observed the diverse ethnicities coming to the emperor

Post-Colonial Interpretation   503 Constantine’s palace and associated their presence with the fulfillment of the gospel’s mandate of reaching the ends of the earth (Life of Constantine 4.7; Oration in Praise of Constantine 10.6). This kind of Eusebian perspective can be seen in early Christian art. For example, the fourth- or fifth-century apse mosaic at the basilica Santa Pudenziana in Rome unites imperial iconography with the vision of the heavenly throne room in Rev 4–5 to represent an earthly order that gestures toward the heavenly Jerusalem to come (Fig. 30.1). It depicts an enthroned imperial Christ that draws on the iconography associated with Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto—a combination that expresses Christ’s rule over the entire cosmos, including the underworld (Grabar  1968, 34). Flanking him on either side, seated below Christ’s throne, are the apostles, dressed as Roman senators. On the left side, a female figure, personifying the church of the gentiles, crowns Paul with a victory laurel. To the right, a similar figure, symbolizing the church of the circumcision, crowns Peter. The crowning of the apostles with laurels draws on an imperial iconographic tradition of honouring leading citizens and emperors with the civic crown or the crown of victory in recognition of patronage and military triumph. Behind the apostles and the enthroned Christ are images of the churches Constantine built in Jerusalem, foregrounded with depictions of the four living creatures of Rev 4:6–7—iconography that by the fifth century had come to represent the four Gospel writers. Before the apse was restored, in the sixteenth century, below Christ and the apostles was a portrait of the slain Lamb of Rev 5:6. The image vividly presents the union of Christ, church, gospel, and empire in an evangelistic mission that is part of the divine plan of history. This iconographical representation expresses well what Peter Brown (1972, 267) calls “the prophetic viewpoint” for reading the advent of a Christian empire in late antiquity. The equation of a political agenda, the fulfillment of prophecy, and a gospel mission, received new impetus centuries later, when Christopher Columbus—drawing in large measure on a medieval millenarianism (Cohn 1969, 53–126) that wedded Revelation with other New Testament predictions of the coming of Christ and the book of Daniel— interpreted his geographical discoveries as fulfillments of prophecies of the territorial expansion of Christianity and the ushering in of a new messianic order (Watt  2017, 1–50). A colonially oriented postmillennial application of Revelation appeared again in the seventeenth century, when the Puritans fled persecution in England to found new colonies in North America. They used the Apocalypse to interpret their exodus to the continent as creating the historical conditions for the return of Jesus, who would rule the world from the new Jerusalem in a new Christian theocracy established in a domesticated American wilderness. Domestication included the evangelization of indigenous peoples. In 1792, the Puritan Cotton Mather, the first minister of Boston’s First Church, composed an ecclesiastical history of New England entitled Magnalia Christi Americana, whose intention, described in its opening lines, was to “Report the Wonderful Displays of [God’s] Infinite Power, Wisdom, Goodness, and Faithfulness, wherewith His Divine Providence hath Irradiated an Indian Wilderness” (Mather 1967, 89; emphasis original). Irradiated providence represented one colonial enterprise pitted against another; tellingly, Mather and others described the status of precontact peoples

504   Harry O. Maier

Figure 30.1 Christ enthroned with apostles, Santa Pudenziana, Rome (fifth century ce; sixteenth century restoration). Photo by Harry O. Maier.

as living under the shadow of Satan, who had hitherto reigned in an absolute empire, free from Christ’s reach (Wills  2007, 138–43). The Puritan arrival was the means by which God brought Revelation’s war against evil to America’s shores, a conflict waged to free first peoples from spiritual bondage. In the case of Columbus and the Puritans, the millennial reign of Christ accompanied discovery and colonization and exhortations to tame discovered lands and evangelize newly contacted peoples. This was a theme that dominated American religion and the construction of a political mythos through the nineteenth century (Tuveson 1968). Colonial millennialism was not confined to the Americas. Across the Atlantic in England, nineteenth-century British evangelicals presented an equally postmillennial, if less militarized, version of the Revelation-inspired historical template when they interpreted the colonial extension of the British Empire around the globe as the means by which nations were being converted in preparation for the return of Christ (Spence 2015, 146–203; Sugirtharajah 1998, 91–116). The British postmillennial vision was assisted by the global distribution of the Authorized Bible, “the only version [of Bible translations] on which the sun never sets,” as Christopher Anderson observed in his historical account of the English Bible in 1845 (Anderson  1845, x, cited in Sujirtharajah 2001, 146; original italics). The English Bible was a primary resource for evangelizing, instructing, and promoting British culture. Premillennial interpretation of the book of Revelation, which in its dispensationalist form has dominated American readings of the Apocalypse from the end of the nineteenth century onward and which is today the better known of its readings (Boyer 2009, 80–114), offers a far more pessimistic view of humanity’s progress. On this view, Revelation is not an optimistic narrative predicting the creation of global conditions fit for a returned Messiah; it is a gloomy forecast of an intensifying battle between God and Satan, and hence an urgent call to mission as Christ’s return grows ever more imminent

Post-Colonial Interpretation   505 (Robert 1990, 29–46). This has made for some paradoxical relationships with politics, as premillennialists have made a Faustian bargain with political power in order to use the state as a means to realize the church’s evangelistic goals (Harding 1994, 57–78). Through complicated hermeneutical strategies, some American premillennial dispensationalists have found in Revelation justification for the domination of the United States over the global order as a means of assuring that the gospel reaches to the end of the earth before the second coming of Jesus (Fath 2008, 120–29). They have even—though more rarely— found justification for the view that because the United States has sent so many missionaries out into the world, it will be saved from inevitable apocalyptic destruction (Lindsey 1983, 157–58; Boyer 2009, 251–53). Even as post- and premillennial modes of interpretation have been used to promote colonial enterprises, the colonized have also drawn from the Apocalypse in order to resist them (Wessinger 2011, 385–473). Three nineteenth- and early twentieth-century figures, Canadian Métis leader Louis Riel (1844–1885), Moari prophet Te Ua Haumane (? –1866), and the Lakota visionary Black Elk (1863–1950), furnish good examples of what anthropologists sometimes describe as “nativist millennialism” (Rosenfeld 2011, 89–111)—that is, the ways the colonized use the timetables of the millennium furnished by Revelation and deploy different forms of millenarianism to resist colonization. Louis Riel represents a postmillennial appropriation of the book of Revelation as a mode of resistance (Flanagan 2008, 181–83). Riel was a Métis, that is, a person of French Canadian and indigenous descent, who was the leader of his people and an elected member of the Canadian parliament, and who advocated for the rights of disenfranchised Métis threatened by Western settlement of mostly Protestant Anglophones in Manitoba. He proclaimed 1876, the year he reportedly began to receive prophetic messages from God, to be the beginning of the new millennium prophesied in Rev 20:1–6. This was the year, he announced, when the Holy Spirit moved residence from the Vatican to Montreal. This inaugurated the start of the new age in which God had selected him to be a prophet to gain justice for the Métis. Riel prophesied that God would use him to save the Métis from oppression and that a new age of reconciliation was about to dawn in northwest Canada as the start of renewed world order, after which Jesus would return in 4209, a year Riel derived from complex calculations. Riel’s prophetic political vision was an antidote to the injustices he associated with English-speaking Canada and Protestantism. Riel’s postmillennial resistance to colonization was rarer than the premillennial versions that have dominated many colonized areas of the world. In New Zealand, for example, Te Ua Haumene founded and was the prophet of the Hauhau Church, the first organized expression of an independent Maori Christianity. His movement is reflective of a number of millenarian movements that spread through the South Pacific as a response to colonization (Guiart 1970, 397–410; Trompf 2011, 435–46). Following his conversion, when he was a young man, he became thoroughly conversant with the book of Revelation. In 1862 he had a vision in which the angel Gabriel appeared to him and announced that God’s judgment was at hand and that he had been chosen to restore the Maori people, cast off the yoke of colonial oppression, and lead a church cleansed of missionary error (Head 1990; Adas 2011, 109–12).

506   Harry O. Maier In the United States, the Lakota medicine man Black Elk expressed a widespread Native American application of geopolitical and georestorative millenarianism to the often brutal colonization by western settlers (Pesantubbee  2011, 457–73). Black Elk reported visions that were heavily inflected by passages from the book of Revelation, which he had learned from his forty-six years as a Roman Catholic catechist (Costello 2005, 13–15, 91–97), to describe the coming of a new restoration of the natural order that had been decimated by the white settlers, justice for the brutalized Lakota, and a new age of grace and peace. Riel, Te Ua Haumene, and Black Elk were well versed in the book of Revelation, the latter two because of the work of missionaries who were part of a larger colonial project. Each figure deployed the Apocalypse against colonizers and constructed a new version of the goal and end of history, not with Europeans at the helm, but indigenous peoples, with visions of the new world order blended with indigenous beliefs. In their own way, Riel, Te Ua Huamene, and Black Elk used Revelation to talk back to empire in the postmillennial and premillennial language they had learned from their colonizers.

Revelation’s Colonial Entanglements Postmillennial and premillennial readings of Revelation derive from a text whose main historical preoccupation is the Roman Empire and the way to respond to it. This is what makes John’s Revelation—to borrow one of its metaphors—a two-edged sword. On the one hand, because of the imperial language John uses to describe his visions, the inclusion of Revelation in the canon has promoted the Christian endorsement of imperial language and discourse and a triumphalist vision of the church and the state as the means by which God’s sway gradually extends across the globe. This application, together with other New Testament texts that also borrow terms from an imperial register to describe the beliefs and ideals of nascent Christianity, has resulted in a political feedback loop in the history of the West in which one empire after another has adapted imperial language from the book of Revelation, as well as from the rest of the Bible, to celebrate political leaders and their aims. On the other hand, John deploys political language and imagery as a strategy to critique imperial rule by assigning the empire’s terms to the victims of imperial violence, especially to the casualty of Roman rule, Jesus of Nazareth. Thus, while Revelation has been used to boost imperial aims, it has also been used to resist them. It is this ambivalence that makes Revelation a text that is rich for colonial and postcolonial appropriation. The imprint of the Roman Empire on the book of Revelation is obvious. By the time the Apocalypse was written, Rome had ruled all of Asia Minor for a century and parts of it for much longer. The seven churches John addresses in Rev 2:1–3:22 were in cities that facilitated the collection of taxes and produce in the imperial economy. By the start of the second century, four of them (Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, and Laodicea) had

Post-Colonial Interpretation   507 temples dedicated to the worship of emperors, as well as Dea Roma, the goddess Rome. It is in an ancient colonial context that John’s Apocalypse unfolds. The representations of the beasts of the sea and the land (13:1, 11) symbolize imperial domination over the Mediterranean Basin. The depiction of the worship of the beast (13:12) is a reference to the imperial cult in Asia Minor. Similarly, the picture of one of the heads of the seven-headed beast as wounded and the number six hundred sixty-six (or six hundred sixteen, 13:18) can be decoded as a reference to Nero and an allusion to the popular myth in which he returns to avenge his enemies after his suicide in 68 ce (Aune  1998a, 737–40, 770–73). If Babylon represents Rome, John’s depiction of the whore of Babylon (17:1–5) is a polemical denunciation of Dea Roma. The vision of her as made desolate and naked in 17:16 is a provocative reversal of Roman imperial iconography that regularly personified conquered nations as stripped and violated women. Further, the laments of “the kings of the earth,” “merchants,” and “shipmasters and seafarers, sailors and all whose trade is on the sea” (18:9–19) over the smoking ruin of Babylon is a vision of the end of Roman imperial commerce, even as the long list of goods described as the merchants’ wares (18:11–13) express the economic exploitation of the peoples and territories under imperial rule. The reference to no one being able to buy or sell without bearing the mark of the beast (13:17), the presentation of the whore of Babylon as a luxuriating woman “clothed in purple and scarlet, and adorned with gold and jewels and pearls” (17:4), and the dirges of Rev 18 target the Roman imperial economy as an arena of injustice and violence. The prevalence of economic motifs in Revelation expresses the Apocalypse’s location in an imperial economy, but more pointedly, it adverts to the censure of some of its Christ-believing audience. The admonition to the church at Thyatira and the denunciation of Jezebel concerning the consumption of the food offered to idols (eidōlothyta; 2:14, 20) have been interpreted as veiled references to participation in meals such as those that happened in temple banqueting halls or in pagan associations where sacrificed food was served. John’s complaint has been interpreted as evidence of the rejection of the more accommodating stance concerning the consumption of idol meat directed by Paul to the Corinthians (1 Cor 8–10), where eidōlothyta is discussed both in the context of consumption in pagan temples (1 Cor 8:10; 10:14–21) and at private meals (10:23–30; Thompson 1997, 116–32; Duff 2001, 51–60). The complaint against the Laodiceans that they are “rich . . . have prospered . . . and need nothing” (Rev 3:17) is arguably a reference to believers who are benefiting from their participation in the Roman economy. In addition to veiled references to the empire and to life within it, Revelation borrows a good deal of imperial language to describe its characters, especially its main protagonist, Jesus. David Aune (1985, 5–26; 1997, 266–374) has noted the prevalence of imperial language and imagery in John’s vision of the throne room in Rev 4–5, including acclamations of worthiness for God and the Lamb to receive praise that finds parallels in imperial ceremony (4:11; 5:9; cf. Cuss 1974); the title of Jesus as “our Lord and God” (4:11; 11:17; 15:3; 16:7; 19:6)—a phrase that is used to describe the emperor Domitian; the twenty-four elders around the throne (4:4), who are reminiscent of the emperor Domitian’s lictors or bodyguards, who were also twenty-four in number; the images of

508   Harry O. Maier imperial obeisance when the elders cast their crowns or wreaths before the throne; and references to thunder and lightning around the throne of God (4:5), evoking Jovine images of imperial rule. Later in the vision (5:1–14), John describes what Aune (1997, 332, 364–65) calls the investiture of the Lamb, again accompanied by imperial-sounding acclamations. Later, in 19:11–21, John again borrows from Roman triumphal imagery to represent Jesus as a divine warrior: the white horse (19:11) and the white horses of his army (19:14), the diadems (19:12), the name inscribed on the rider (19:12–13, 16), the robe dipped in blood (19:13), the armies that accompany the rider 19:16), and the military imagery associated with battle and victory (19:18–19; Aune 1998b, 1050–51). The application of vivid-looking imperial images drawn from the imperial world continues in John’s evocation of the heavenly Jerusalem (21:9–22:5), which he develops as the antithetical parallel to the vanquished Babylon of chapter  17. John builds on the imperial ideals of the city as the harmonious order of urban dwellers and the natural world, even as “the kings of the earth,” who had fornicated with the whore of Babylon (17:2; 18:3, 9) and, as a consequence, were dispatched only a few verses earlier (19:17, 21; 20:13–15), reappear and bring their “glory” into the city (21:44), replicating the imperial motif of wealth flowing to Rome. The streets of heaven, as Royalty (1998, 211–39) has argued are as strikingly imperial as they are antithetical to those of Babylon.

Catachresis, Mimicry, and Hybridity An earlier generation, impressed by these kinds of allusions to imperial rule, described their presence as “polemical parallelism” against the emperor cult (Deissmann  1910, 345–46); contemporary interpreters of Revelation have often followed suit. By contrast, post-colonial interpretation seeks a more complicated and messy formulation. John’s Revelation is indeed polemical, but John as an author and member of the Roman Empire was immersed in the imperial order as much as he was opposed to it. This fact requires a more sophisticated interrogation of John’s relation to the Roman Empire than a simple choice between being for or against a political regime allows. At the levels of both opposition and internalization, John reflects a colonized identity: he writes his apocalypse as a member—indeed, probably a prisoner—of the Roman Empire, against a colonizing power that has enslaved the peoples of the earth, and he uses the language of the empire to frame his apocalyptic cross-examination of the world around him, including those in the churches who receive his revelations. His listeners— even the ones he celebrates for being properly resistant to Roman imperialism—could not be other than inhabitants of the empire, shaped by it in everything from the clothes they wore, the streets they traveled along, the food they ate, the shops where they worked, the households in which they lived, and the language they spoke. Indeed, the ekphrasis, or vivid picture language, John uses to represent his visions assumes his listeners’ full immersion in the Roman Empire in order successfully to create in their minds images of imperial rule, whether of its destruction or that of its rulers, and it

Post-Colonial Interpretation   509 paradoxically locates them as imperial residents in “Babylon” even as it calls upon them to leave it (18:4). It is an imperial spectacle that is on view when John places before his audience scenes of carnage and bloodshed (Maier 2002a, 71–74; Frilingos 2013, 39–64; Whitaker 2015, 105–38). In doing this, John conforms to an ancient ideal of vivid speech—namely, to turn listeners into viewers in order to awaken emotional participation in the scenes being evoked (Whitaker 2015, 37–70; deSilva 2009, 175–228). At least in his uses of imperial imagery, John’s ekphrasis follows the advice of rhetorical instructors not to depart very far from visual experience in order to make persuasion its most cogent, even though, like other New Testament authors, he deploys such evocations in paradoxical ways (Maier 2013, 1–61). Scholars differ as to whether Revelation is a response to (perceived) persecution (Yarbro Collins  1984, 84–110; Schüssler-Fiorenza  1998, 35–67) or to a lack of it (Thompson 1997, 74–80), but all agree that it is a text that deals directly with the political realities of the Roman Empire and their effect on emergent Christianity. Interpreters debate whether Revelation replaces one emperor, usually identified as Nero or Domitian, with another one in lamb’s clothing (Moore 2006, 97–121; 2014, 13–39), or whether the Apocalypse so effectively deconstructs the Roman Empire by using its own language against it that “empire” is effectively erased from the streets of the new Jerusalem it promises its audience (Bauckham 2015, 126–43). It is exactly this ambivalence that makes Revelation such a useful text for post-colonial interpretation. Post-colonial interpretation, to recall the second of Sugirtharajah’s three aims of postcolonial biblical investigation, seeks to discover hybridized and hyphenated identities that emerge in colonial situations. Two postcolonial theoreticians, Guyatri Spivak and Homi Bhabha, have developed two concepts to analyze such identities that have proven especially useful in postcolonial interpretation of the book of Revelation (Moore 2006, 105–18; Smith 2014; Low 2014, 253–70). Both theoreticians are interested in exploring the instability that arises in colonial situations and the conscious and unconscious ways in which the colonized render colonialism unstable, even as colonization advanced by colonizers. Spivak deploys the term “catachresis” to describe a process of appropriating a dominant culture’s language and institutions and their application to another social reality that they do not properly denote (Spivak 1991, 65–76; 1999, 14; Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin 2000, 34). Bhabha uses the term “mimicry” to describe the ways the colonized imitate the cultural habits, values, and institutions of the colonizer. Mimicry creates an inherently unstable condition for both the colonizer and the colonized, since it is in the interests of the colonizer that the colonized be “almost the same, but not quite” as the colonizer (Bhabha 1994, 86, italics original). This leads to what Bhabha describes as the paradoxical ambivalence in the relationship of the colonized to the colonizer. “In order to be effective,” he continues, “mimicry must continually produce its slippage, its excess, it difference . . . [M]imicry is therefore stricken by an indeterminacy: mimicry emerges as the representation of a difference that is itself a process of disavowal.” Even as mimicry inscribes colonial culture, it also threatens it, since it can never be the colonizer’s culture. On the other hand, being

510   Harry O. Maier “not quite” results in forms of hybridity wherein colonial culture mixes with colonized culture and the creation of a third thing. Hybridity results in the blending together of colonized culture with the colonizer culture in the creation of what Bhabha calls “an enunciatory third space.” Catachresis, mimicry, and hybridity are helpful for understanding Revelation as a text that expresses an identity and a posture toward the Roman Empire that at once reflects the language, concepts, and ways of being in its imperial context and is an inflection of them. This results in a text that borrows from the empire and thus, through imitation, reveals itself to be a thoroughly imperial text that at the same time transposes it into a new key. Catachresis, mimicry, and hybridity reflect the hyphenated imperial identity of John’s audience. John’s visions and language take imperial language and redeploy it to refer to new realities. As an example of catachresis and mimicry, John uses imperial language and acclamation usually used to refer to the imperial triumphator over the conquered in order to describe the slain Lamb of the throne room—namely, the victim of imperial violence. Catachresis can be found again in the representation of the rider of Rev 19 clothed in a robe dipped in blood (19:13), an image drawn from Isa 63:3 that portrays God as a conquering warrior who is red with the blood of his enemies. The vision borrows Roman imagery of triumph and conquest, but the blood that covers the rider is his own (see Rev 5:6, 12; 7:14; 12:11; 13:8; cf. 17:14; Johns 2003, 183–85), and the sword with which he slays is what is held in his mouth (19:15)—namely, his word of judgment (1:16; 2:12,16). Further, while the kings bring their glory into the city, they are invited to drink from the water of life without payment (22:17), a reversal of the conquerortribute relationship of the Roman Empire. John appropriates the language of imperial acclamation and the imagery of conquest and deploys it in a paradoxical way. He represents his listeners as the beneficiaries of the triumph of the slain Lamb, the victim of imperial violence, and uses the language of the dominant political arena to promote his vision. On the other side, Dea Roma, who as the personification of Rome is supposed to represent the ideal of a self-regulated and virtuous people, is subjected to a burlesque in which she is a luxuriating prostitute (Moore 2014, 103–23). Alternatively, the Jerusalem that had been conquered and thus at home iconographically in depictions of other defeated nations as naked or half clothed, dominated by her masculine triumphator, is now the adorned bride ready for her marriage with the Lamb. These are highly ironic acts of counter-appropriation that both inscribe and deconstruct dominant imperial discourses and express the slippery identity of the post-colonial situation. Redeployment and paradoxical uses of Roman imperial language illustrate catachresis and also indicate the degree to which John is an imitator of the empire’s colonial discourse. Revelation also expresses the hybrid location of its audience. This can be seen where John appeals to his listeners by fusing his acclamations of the crucified Jesus, which he presents in language borrowed from imperial politics, with images and citations, as well as echoes of the Hebrew Bible, a fusion that recurs throughout the course of his visions.

Post-Colonial Interpretation   511 John’s Greek also expresses hybridity. Modern translations of Revelation present a polished and syntactically correct rendition of John’s language, but his Greek is atypical and ungrammatical and contains Semitisms that modern renderings correct or smooth away. This has led scholars to a variety of theories to account for its atypical nature. These include that Revelation is a translation from an original Hebrew or Aramaic version into Greek, that John thought in Hebrew but wrote in Greek, that he modeled his Greek after biblical Hebrew, or that he was secondarily bilingual (i.e., Greek was his second language) and that the Semitisms of his Greek represent bilingual interference (Aune 1997, cxcix). All four theories indicate the crossing of linguistic or syntactical boundaries to create a text with a unique style that is at once the language of colonizers, whether Hellenistic or imperial, and indicative of a foreign identity. John’s hybridity can be seen in the political voice that addresses the dominant culture of listeners through the religious discourse and syntax of the dominated Other. Imperial language, urban location, Israel’s traditions, and John’s Greek come together to form a provocative identity of “almost the same, but not quite.” Postcolonial interpretation of the book of Revelation reveals a text that has been a potent resource for the imposition of imperial discourses, as well as for the deconstruction of them. It has been at hand for those establishing colonial blueprints and for those resisting them. Revelation is filled with the signs of its imperial origins. It is a writing that reflects a hyphenated identity. Revelation takes away with one hand what it gives with the other. It is no surprise that such a generative text has been simultaneously the site of fascination and revulsion, domination and resistance, legitimation and mockery of political power in equal measure. People have used the Bible's last book to discern signs of the end of history. They have also used it to promote differing versions of life in the middle of it.

Notes 1. Feminist and womanist readings: Yarbro Collins (1987, 80–91); Schüssler Fiorenza (1998); Martin (2005, 82–109); Pippin (1992); Smith (2014). African American approaches: Blount (2005); St Clair Darden (2015). African readings: Waweru (2007, 23–38). Latin American and South African liberation perspectives: Boesak (2015); Míguez (1995, 250–62); Richard (1995); Westhelle (2005, 183–201). Haitian engagement Charles (2015, 177–98). Queer and gender explorations: (Huber (2011, 301–20); Moore (2014). Hispanic treatments: González  1999); Ruiz (2003, 119–36). Korean cross-cultural study: Han (2014). Indigenous investigations: Charleston (2015); Tinker 2008, 17–35). Immigrant and diaspora readings: Gundaker (1998); Hidalgo (2016); Liew (2008, 134–46); Maier (2002a); Sánchez (2008); and Ecotheological interpretations: Bauckham (2012, 163–84); Kiel (2017); Maier (z, 166–79); Rossing (2005). 2. Postmillennialism is sometimes called historical premillennialism in contrast to dispensationalist premillennialism. The term historical refers to a divinely inspired human creation of a millennium to prepare for Christ’s rule as opposed to the dispensational form that emerged in the second quarter of the nineteenth century, which refers to a divine intervention in a new dispensation. To avoid confusion, I will use the term postmillennialism.

512   Harry O. Maier

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Post-Colonial Interpretation   513 In  Evangelicals and Empire: Christian Alternatives to the Political Status Quo, edited by Bruce Ellis Benson and Peter Goodwin Heltzel, pp. 120–29. Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos. Flanagan, Thomas. 2008. Louis “David” Riel: Prophet of the New World. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Frilingos, Christopher  A. 2013. Spectacles of Empire: Monsters, Martyrs, and the Book of Revelation. Divinations. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. González, Justo L. 1999. For the Healing of the Nations: The Book of Revelation in an Age of Cultural Conflict. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Grabar, André. 1968. Christian Iconography: A Study of Its Origins: The A. W. Mellon Lectures in the Fine Arts, 1961, the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Guiart, Jean. 1970. “The Millenarian Aspect of Conversion to Christianity in the South Pacific.” In Cultures of the Pacific: Selected Readings, edited by Thomas G. Harding and Ben J. Wallace, pp. 397–410. New York: Simon and Schuster. Gundaker, Grey. 1998. Signs of Diaspora. Diaspora of Signs: Literacies, Creolization, and Vernacular Practice in African America. New York: Oxford University Press. Han, Chul Heum. 2014. “Suffering and Resistance in the Apocalypse: A Cultural Studies Approach to Apocalyptic Crisis.” PhD diss. Vanderbilt University. Harding, Susan. 1994. “Imagining the Last Days: The Politics of Apocalyptic Language.” In Accounting for Fundamentalism: The Dynamic Character of Movements, edited by Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby, pp. 57–78. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Head, Lindsay. 1990. “Te Ua Haumene.” Dictionary of New Zealand Biography. Te Ara: The Encyclopedia of New Zealand (online). https://teara.govt.nz/en/biographies/1t79/ te-ua-haumene. Hidalgo, Jacqueline  M. 2016. Revelation in Aztlán: Scriptures, Utopias, and the Chicano Movement. New York: Palgrave. Huber, Lynn R. 2011. “Gazing at the Whore: Reading Revelation Queerly.” In Bible Trouble: Queer Readings at the Boundaries of Biblical Scholarship, edited by Theresa L. Hornsby and Ken Ston, pp. 301–20. Semeia Studies 67. Johns, Loren L. 2003. The Lamb Christology of the Apocalypse of John: An Investigation into Its Origins and Rhetorical Force. WUNT II/167. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Kiel, Micah D. 2017. Apocalyptic Ecology: The Book of Revelation, the Earth, and the Future. Collegeville, MN: Michael Glazier. Liew, Tat-siong B. 2008. What Is Asian American Biblical Hermeneutics? Reading the New Testament. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press with the UCLA Asian American Studies Center. Lindsey, Hal. 1983. The 1980’s: Countdown to Armageddon. Basingstoke, UK: Lakeland. Loomba, Ania. 1998. Colonialism-Postcolonialism. New Critical Idiom. London: Routledge. Low, U-Wen. 2014. “ ‘What Have the Romans Ever Done for Us?’: Postcolonialism, Mimicry and Hidden Transcripts in the Book of Revelation.” Pacifica 27: 253–70. Maier, Harry O. 1999. “The End of the City and the City without End: The City of God as Revelation.” Augustinian Studies 30: 153–64. Maier, Harry  O. 2002a. Apocalypse Recalled: The Book of Revelation after Christendom. Minneapolis: Fortress. Maier, Harry O. 2002b. “There’s a New World Coming! Reading the Apocalypse in the Shadow of the Canadian Rockies.” In The Earth Story in the New Testament, edited by Norman C. Habel and Vicki Balabanski, pp. 166–79. Earth Bible 5. Cleveland: Pilgrim.

514   Harry O. Maier Maier, Harry  O. 2011. “Dominion from Sea to Sea: Eusebius of Caesarea, Constantine the Great, and the Exegesis of Empire.” In The Calling of the Nations: Exegesis, Ethnography, and Empire in a Biblical-Historic Present, edited Mark Vessey, Sharon Betcher, Robert Daum, and Harry O. Maier, pp. 149–75. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Maier, Harry  O. 2013. Picturing Paul in Empire: Imperial Image, Text and Persuasion in Colossians, Ephesians and the Pastoral Epistles. London: Bloomsbury T & T Clark. Markus, R. A. 2010. Saeculum: History and Society in the Theology of St. Augustine. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Martin, Clarice. 2005. “Polishing the Unclouded Mirror: A Womanist Reading of Revelation 18.13.” In From Every People and Nation: The Book of Revelation in Intercultural Perspective, edited by David Rhoads, pp. 82–109. Minneapolis: Fortress. Mather, Cotton. 1967. Magnalia Christi Americana: Or, The ecclesiastical history of NewEngland from its first planting in the year 1620 unto the year of Our Lord 1698, in seven books. Edited by Kenneth  B.  Murdock and Elizabeth  W.  Biller. Cambridge, MA: Belknap. First published in 1702. McClintock, Anne. 1992. “The Angel of Progress: Pitfalls of the Term ‘Post-Colonialism.’ ” Social Text 31/32: 84–98. Miguez, Néster O. 1995. “Apocalyptic and the Economy. A Reading of Revelation 18 from the Experience of Economic Exclusion.” In Social Location and Biblical Interpretation in Global Perspective, vol. 2 of Reading from This Place, edited by Fernando F. Segovia and Mary Ann Tolbert, pp. 250–62. Minneapolis: Fortress. Moore, Stephen  D. 2006. Empire and Apocalypse: Postcolonialism and the New Testament. Bible in the Modern World. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Moore, Stephen D. 2014. Untold Tales from the Book of Revelation: Sex and Gender, Empire and Ecology. RBS 79. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press. Moore, Stephen D. 2015. “Post-Colonial Readings of the Bible.” In The New Cambridge History of the Bible, vol. 4: From 1750 to the Present, edited by John Riches, pp. 273–84. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pesantubbee, Michelene E. 2011. “Native American Geopolitical, Georestorative Movements.” In The Oxford Handbook of Millennialism, edited by Catherine Wessinger, pp. 457–73. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pippin, Tina. 1992. Death and Desire: The Rhetoric of Gender in the Apocalypse of John. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Richard, Pablo. 1995. Apocalypse: A People’s Commentary on the Book of Revelation. Translated by Phillip Berryman. Bible and Liberation. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Robert, Dana L. 1990. “ ‘The Crisis of Missions’: Premillennial Mission Theory and the Origins of Independent Evangelical Missions.” In Earthen Vessels: American Evangelicals and Foreign Missions, 1880—1890, edited by Joel A. Carpenter and Wilbert R. Shenk, pp. 29–46. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Rosenfeld, Jean E. 2011. “Nativist Millennialism.” In The Oxford Handbook of Millennialism, edited by Catherine Wessinger, pp. 89–111. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rossing, Barbara R. 2005. “For the Healing of the World: Reading Revelation Ecologically.” In From Every People and Nation: The Book of Revelation in Intercultural Perspective, edited by David Rhoads, pp. 165–82. Minneapolis: Fortress. Royalty, Robert M. 1998. The Streets of Heaven: The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press.

Post-Colonial Interpretation   515 Ruiz, Jean-Pierre. 2003. “Taking a Stand on the Sand of the Seashore: A Postcolonial Exploration of Revelation 13.” In Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, edited by David L. Barr, pp. 119–36. RBS 44. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Runesson, Anders. 2011. Exegesis in the Making: Postcolonialism and New Testament Studies. BIS 103. Leiden: Brill. Sánchez, David A. 2008. From Patmos to the Barrio: The Subversion of Imperial Myths from the Book of Revelation to the Present. Minneapolis: Fortress. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1998. The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment. 2nd ed. Philadelphia: Fortress. Segovia, Fernando F. 2000. Decolonizing Biblical Studies: A View from the Margins. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Smith, Shannell T. 2014. The Woman Babylon and the Marks of Empire: Reading Revelation with a Postcolonial Womanist Hermeneutics of Ambiveilence. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress. Spence, Martin. 2015. Heaven on Earth: Reimagining Time and Eternity in Nineteenth-Century British Evangelicalism. Eugene, OR: Pickwick. Spivak, Guyatri C. 1991. “Identity and Alterity: An Interview.” Arena 97: 65–76. Spivak, Guyatri C. 1999. A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Sugirtharajah, R. S., ed. 1991. Voices from the Margin: Interpreting the Bible in the Third World. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Sugirtharajah, R. S., ed. 1998. The Postcolonial Bible. Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic. Sugirtharajah, R. S. 2001. The Bible and the Third World: Precolonial, Colonial and Postcolonial Encounters. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sugirtharajah, R.  S. 2003. Postcolonial Reconfigurations: An Alternative Way of Reading the Bible and Doing Theology. London: SCM Press. Sugirtharajah, R. S. 2009. Postcolonial Criticism and Biblical Interpretation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Thompson, Leonard L. 1997. The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire. New York: Oxford University Press. Tinker, George E. 2008. American Indian liberation: A Theology of Sovereignty. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Trompf, Garry  W. 2011. “Pacific Millennial Movements.” In The Oxford Handbook of Millennialism, edited by Catherine Wessinger, pp. 435–56. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tuveson, Ernst Lee. 1968. Redeemer Nation: The Idea of America’s Millennial Role. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Vessey, Mark, Sharon Betcher, Robert Daum, and Harry O. Maier, eds. 2011. The Calling of the Nations: Exegesis, Ethnography, and Empire in a Biblical-Historic Present. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Wareru, Humphrey. 2007. “Postcolonial and Contrapuntal Reading of Revelation 22:1–5.” Churchman 1: 23–38. Watt, Mary Alexandra. 2017. Dante, Columbus and the Prophetic Tradition: Spiritual Imperialism in the Italian Imagination. Florence: Taylor and Francis. Wessinger, Catherine, ed. 2011. The Oxford Handbook of Millennialism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Westhelle, Vitor. 2005. “Revelation 13: Between the Colonial and the Postcolonial, a Reading from Brazil.” In From Every People and Nation: The Book of Revelation in Intercultural Perspective, edited by David Rhoads, pp. 183–201. Minneapolis: Fortress.

516   Harry O. Maier Whitaker, Robyn J. 2015. Ekphrasis, Vision, and Persuasion in the Book of Revelation. WUNT II/410. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Wills, Garry. 2007. Under God: Religion and American Politics. New York: Simon and Schuster. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1984. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Yarbro Collins, Adela. 1987. “Women’s History and the Book of Revelation.” In Kent H. Richards. SBLSP, pp. 80–91.

Index

Abbott, H. Porter  37–38 accommodation, cultural and religious  5–6, 141–44, 177–81, 192–95, 278–79 See also acculturation, assimilation, food sacrificed to idols acculturation as an issue for early Christians 191–93 See also accommodation, assimilation Adams, Edward  259–60 Agnus Dei 434–35 Alexander Minorita  424, 426 Alkier, Stefan  371–72 Allen, Garrick V.  349, 367, 385–86 allusions, biblical  86, 88, 91, 93, 105, 107–8, 110–11, 211, 315–16, 337 See also Daniel, exodus motif, Ezekiel, Isaiah Alogoi 363 Alves, Rubem  451 Ambrosius Autpertus  417 Andreas (Andrew) of Caesarea and Greek text of Revelation  345–52 as commentator  362, 367, 380–83, 405 Anselm of Havelberg  419–20 Antichrist in early Christian interpretation  398–405, 408–9 in medieval interpretation  420–27 in modern futuristic interpretation  457–58 Aphrodisias reliefs  307, 310–11, 313, 316, 320 apocalypses Christian 363–67 genre of  22–26 Jewish 23 Argento, Dominick  440–41 Armstrong, Paul B.  233 Artemis 171–74 Asclepius 172 Ascough, Richard S.  173–75, 178, 180

Ashcroft, W. D.  499–500, 509 assemblies of Jesus’ followers  185–88, 191, 328–30 assimilation as issue for early Christians  42–43, 191–93, 309 associations, trade and professional  143, 172–75, 177 Augustine  407–10, 414–17 Aune, David E.  2, 6, 8–9, 15, 21, 30–32, 42, 61, 70, 81, 95, 102, 104, 116, 118, 124, 138, 141, 161, 186, 192, 194, 213, 218, 242, 245, 247, 265, 276, 281, 285, 329, 331–33, 335, 476, 507–8, 511 Ausgangstext 355–57 author of Revelation as early Christian prophet  2, 30–33 identity of  2, 385, 407 self-presentation of  2–3, 23–24, 72–75, 327 See also John the apostle Babylon as whore  144–45, 314–17 depiction of  10, 41–44, 77, 127, 283, 493 in feminist interpretation  469–73 in relation to Rome  42–43, 63–64, 403, 507–8 Bach, Johann Sebastian  435 Backhaus, Knut  53, 59, 63 Barclay, John M. G.  153–54, 159, 192 Barnett, Paul W.  61, 139, 266 Barr, David L.  8, 42, 46, 63–64, 188, 195, 227, 231, 235, 285–87, 299, 301, 434 Bass, Clarence  440, 454 Bauckham, Richard  8, 10, 12–15, 22, 41, 45, 88, 95–98, 124, 134, 141–43, 163, 192, 205, 215, 232–33, 243–44, 246, 248–49, 251–52, 259, 262, 264–65, 267, 269, 278, 281, 285–87, 299, 301, 330, 450, 453, 509, 511 Baumeister, Theofried  282, 363

518   index Beale, Gregory K.  1–5, 38, 40, 42–43, 50, 54–55, 57, 85, 87, 90–91, 96, 98, 108, 111, 138, 161–62, 176, 180, 232, 258, 263, 265, 268, 281, 335–36, 382 beast from the land. See false prophet beast from the sea and Daniel  7, 90–91 depiction of  9–10, 13–14, 39–40, 60–61, 276–77, 281–82 mark of the  332–33 number of the  46, 134, 409, 452 violence of the  296–97 See also Antichrist, Nero, persecution Beatus of Liébana  415–16 Bede  380–83, 415–17, 421 Belcher, Kimberly Hope  433, 442, 444 Benz, Ernst  424–26 Berengaudius 418 Berger, Klaus  417, 423 Bhabha, Homi  509–10 Biguzzi, Giancarlo  58, 139 black church  483–85 hymns of the  435–36 Black Elk  505–6 Bloom, Harold  232, 294, 299–300, 302 Blount, Brian K.  41–42, 46–47, 104, 135, 187, 228–30, 299, 316, 331, 337, 489–91, 495–97, 511 Böcher, Otto  58–59, 64 Bockmuehl, Markus  379, 381 Boesak, Allan A.  135, 230, 288, 511 Bonar, Horatius  440, 444 Boring, M. Eugene  2, 10, 22–23, 29–30, 32, 43, 47, 127, 228, 232–33, 299, 301 Bousset, Wilhelm  347–51, 353, 357, 415, 421 Boxall, Ian  3, 43, 47, 135, 187–90, 263, 283, 378, 380 Boyer, Paul  457, 502, 504–5 Bredin, Mark  229 Bremer, Jan M.  116, 128 bride. See new Jerusalem Brown, Clive  439, 444 Brown, Raymond E.  232 Bruce, F. F.  243, 248 Bruno of Segni  417–18 Bush, George W.  449

Cadoux, Cecil J.  171–72 Caird, G. B.  41, 44, 47, 98, 232, 234, 264, 268, 301, 460 Callahan, Allan D.  82, 105, 142–43, 485, 488–89, 496–97 Carey, Francis  386–87 Carey, Greg  72, 74–75, 77–78, 82, 125, 232, 260, 282, 475 Carnegie, David R.  119, 230 Carter, Warren  140–41, 143–44, 187–88, 190, 371 catachresis 508–10 Cerinthus 364 Charles, R. H.  41, 47, 86, 88, 102, 104, 110, 134, 242, 245, 259, 409–10 Charry, Ellen T.  279, 282 Chester, Andrew  259, 264 chiliasm. See millennialism Chilton, Bruce  382–83 churches. See assemblies of Jesus’ followers civil rights movement  450, 483, 490, 495 Classen, Peter  419–20 Clement of Alexandria  405–6 codex Alexandrinus  344, 346–51, 367 Ephraemi  344, 346–47, 349–50, 355, 367 Sinaiticus  344, 346–47, 349–50, 352, 354–55, 367 Collins, John J.  8, 21, 22, 31, 59, 160, 281, 291–92, 301–2 conquering  230, 276, 285–86, 293 Constantine  408–9, 502–3 Conway, Colleen M.  145–46 Cook, Stephen L.  21, 31, 275, 281 Corsten, Thomas  173–74 Cowley, Roger W.  380–81 creation as a theme in Revelation  262–66 renewal of  258–60 See also God as creator, new creation Crossan, John Dominic  231–32 Crossley, James  378, 383 cultural studies  483–84, 489–90 Cuss, Dominique  139, 507 Cybele 171

index   519 Daniel, use of in Revelation  2, 45, 59–60, 86–88, 90–93, 334–35 Darby, John Nelson  454 Darden, Lynn St. Clair  142, 144, 494–97, 511 Daschke, Dereck  448 date of Revelation’s composition  3, 133–35 de Boer, Martinus C.  260, 302–3, 371–72 Deferrari, Roy J.  364–65 Deissmann, Adolf  139, 508 deSilva, David A.  3, 7, 70–82, 97–98, 261–63, 327, 327, 331, 339, 509 Dionysius of Alexandria  101, 105, 407 Dionysus 172–75 dispensationalism  448, 454–56 See also millennialism Dodd, C. H.  232 Domitian and fiscus Iudaicus 161 and question of persecution  3, 122, 133–37, 142 and Zeus  173 as lord and god  3, 137, 209, 226 dragon. See Satan Duff, Paul B.  2, 74, 261, 283–84, 321, 507 Dulaey, Martine  404, 414–15 Eco, Umberto  303, 413 ecological readings  146–47 economic issues in Revelation  10, 42–43, 141–44, 158–59, 196, 336 See also associations, trade and professional; wealth, attitudes toward Edwards, Catherine  315 Ephesus Christian groups in  185–90 Greek and Roman cults in  171, 174, 175, 193–94, 312 Jewish communities in  153–55 epistolary form  26–29 ethics and feminine imagery  81, 144, 469 of violence  231–35, 296–98 Evans, Robert  379–80 evil defeat of  13–15, 285–87 depiction of  9–10, 40, 90–91, 94–95, 275–78

in apocalypses  23–25 rhetorical approach to  280–87 See also Babylon, beast from the sea, false prophet, judgment, Satan exodus motif  37–38, 40–44, 49, 97–98, 264, 291 Ezekiel, use of in Revelation  2, 8–9, 30–31, 42–43, 59, 86–91, 93–94, 97, 117–18, 216, 258–59, 316, 318 false prophet or beast from the land  10, 49, 277, 408–9 Faricy, Robert  281, 288 Fekkes, Jan III  92, 98 Fletcher, Michelle  92–93, 97 Florentin Mot, Laurentiu  103, 107–13 food offered to idols  5–6, 177–81, 186–90, 193–94 Ford, J. Massyngberde  45, 232 Foster, Ivan  262, 449 Frenschkowski, Marco  62, 134 Fretheim, Terence E.  258, 264 Frey, Jörg  2, 45, 57, 59, 143, 190 Friesen, Steven J.  3, 6, 8, 61, 137, 139–41, 171, 175, 195–96, 369 Frilingos, Christopher A.  141, 292, 478, 480, 509 Furley, William D.  116, 128 Gadamer, Hans-Georg  379 Gager, John G.  160, 451 Galinsky, Karl  140–41 Gallusz, Laszlo  216–18 Garrett, Susan R.  471, 473 Gaul, Alfred R.  439, 441, 444 gender, treatment of in Revelation  144–46, 307–22, 467–80, 492 Gerhoch 419–20 German symbolism  419 Giesen, Heinz  15, 56, 61, 263, 265 Glancy, Jennifer A.  314–15, 331–32, 475, 477, Glossa ordinaria 416–18 God as Alpha and Omega  12, 213 as Creator  7–9, 13–14, 40, 205, 210, 212, 216, 263, 266, 269–70 as Iaō  213, 216

520   index God (continued ) as pantokratōr 214–16 as the one who is  210–11 name of  207–10 Gorman, Michael  143–44 Great Mother goddess  171, 173, 178 See also Artemis, Cybele Greek language of Revelation and grammatical incongruities  102–3 and theories of Semitic influence  104–5 as common Greek  106–13 as countercultural  105 Grey, Erika  459–60 Gribben, Crawford  454–56, 458–59 guilds. See associations Guthrie, Donald  228 Gwyther, Anthony  135, 143–44, 174, 176 Hallowell, Billy  449, 452 Han, Chul Heum  511 Handel, Georg Frederic  441 Hanfmann, G. M. A.  172–73 Hansen, Ryan L.  261, 263–64, 269 Harland, Philip A.  6, 7, 143, 153–54, 172–76, 194 Hausleiter, Johannes  415–16 Hemer, Colin J.  98, 136, 156, 161, 171, 243, 330 Hengel, Martin  190, 292 Hernández, Juan  347, 349–50, 352, 385–86 Hidalgo, Jacqueline M.  309, 511 Hill, Charles E.  364 Hippolytus 400–2 Hoklotubbe, T. Christopher  193–94 Hood, James Walker  484 Horsley, G. H. R.  105, 111 Horst, Pieter Willem van der  153, 157 Hoskier, H. C.  349–51 Hough, Lynn Howard  431–32, 442 Howard-Brook, Wes  135, 143–44, 174, 176 Hoz, María-Paz de  172–73 Huber, Konrad  57, 59, 214 Huber, Lynn R.  300–1, 309, 314, 316–19, 476–80, 511 Humphrey, Edith M.  79, 265 Hurtado, Larry  117, 265 Huttner, Ulrich  173–75

hybridity in postcolonial interpretation  494, 497, 501, 508–10 in Revelation’s imagery  39–40, 48–49 Hylen, Susan E.  299, 301, 476, 479 hymns genre of  115–16 Jewish and early Christian  116–17 using imagery from Revelation  435–38 within Revelation  115–27 idol meat. See food sacrificed to idols imperial cult  6, 138–40, 175–77, 194–95, 224–25, 261, 487, 493–96 Irenaeus 398–400 Isaiah, use of in Revelation  2, 30, 40, 42–44, 59, 86–94, 97, 117–18, 243, 259, 308, 433 Israel in futuristic interpretation  456–58 in Revelation  47–48, 163–64 See also exodus motif Jauss, Hans Robert  379–80 Jeffcoat Schedtler, Justin  116, 121, 127, 178, 217 Jenkins, Jerry B.  378, 455–57 Jerome  404, 409–10, 414–16, 423 Jesus and the Spirit  253–54 as faithful witness  226, 230–35, 250–51, 285–86 as Lamb  93–94, 120–21, 227–29, 434–35 as Lion  93–94, 227, 232–33, 301, 491 as Son of God  8, 139, 226 as Son of Man  55–56, 58–60, 92–93 Jewish communities and fiscus Iudaicus 159–62 and “those who say they are Jews and are not,”  160–61, 164 in Asia Minor  153–56 in relation to Christ-believers in Asia Minor 156–59 in relation to Revelation’s readers  4–5, 159–162 See also synagogue of Satan Jezebel and Nicolaitans  187

index   521 depiction of  74, 178, 180, 250, 283–84, 468 See also food sacrificed to idols, prophets Joachim of Fiore  421–24 Johannine Christianity  190–91 John the apostle  2, 24, 385–86, 405, 407 Johns, Loren L.  8, 42, 224, 228, 230, 499, 510 Johnson, Merrill  484–85 Johnson, Sherman E.  155, 160 Jones, Darryl  449, 451–56 Joyce, Lillian  311–12, 316, 321 judgment divine  218, 286–87 in Jewish apocalypses  23–24, 31 in oratorios  439 in Revelation’s hymns  125–27 interrupted 12–13 violence of  234–35 Justin Martyr  362 Karrer, Martin  3, 27, 55, 208–9, 212, 214–15, 217, 362–63, 367–68 Keller, Catherine  300, 474, 479 Keresztes, Paul  136, 159 Kiel, Micah D.  390, 511 King, Martin Luther Jr.  451, 485 Kim, Jean K.  474–76, 495 Kirby, John T.  71, 78, 82 Knunst, Jennifer  144–45 Koester, Craig R.  2, 4, 8, 10, 14–15, 26, 41–48, 53, 56–57, 60–62, 70, 77, 81–82, 105, 134, 141, 143, 160–62, 185, 187, 189–90, 209, 212, 226, 242–43, 247, 249, 253, 258, 260, 262, 264, 266, 316, 330, 332–35, 337, 339, 352, 382–83, 431, 436, 444 Koester, Helmut  160, 186 Kooten, George van  134, 141 Korner, Ralph J.  328–29, 339 Kovacs, Judith  369–70, 380–84, 415 Kraybill, J. Nelson  10, 98, 142–44, 196, 224, 230–31, 336 Kretschmar, Georg  366, 369 Krey, Philip D. W.  426–27 Krodel, Gerhard A.  42, 47 Lachmann, Karl  346 Ladd, George Eldon  452

LaHaye, Tim  378, 455–57 Lamb. See Jesus as Lamb Lamont, William  451 Landes, Richard  448, 451, 453 Laodicea Christian community in  7, 188, 196 Greek and Roman cults in  173–74 Jewish community in  157 Lathrop, Gorden W.  431–32, 434, 444 Lawrence, D. H.  294, 299, 301–2 leadership in Christian communities  196–98 Left Behind series  455–59 LeGoff, Jacques  413–14 Levine, Amy-Jill  300, 321 liberation theology  486, 492, 497 Lieb, Michael  378, 380 Linder, Amnon  155, 158 Lindsey, Hal  457, 459, 505 literary genre of Revelation as apocalypse  22–26 as letter  26–29 as prophecy  30–32 literary structure of Revelation  10–15 liturgical use of Revelation  432–35 See also hymns Lohse, Eduard  189, 460 Loomba, Ania  499–500 Low, U-Wen  509 Lupieri, Edmundo F.  46, 50 Luz, Ulrich  378–79, 381 Lyons, William John  379, 382, 390 MacGuffin 40–41 Maier, Harry O.  15, 193, 261, 278, 288, 455, 502, 509, 511 Maitland, J. A. Fuller  441 Malina, Bruce J.  60, 162 Manukyan, Arthur  366 Markschies, Christoph  206, 365 Marshall, John W.  370, 475 Martin, Clarice J.  321, 492, 495–97 Mason, Emma  378, 380 Mather, Cotton  503 Mathewson, David L.  92, 104, 109–10, 258, 268 Matter, E. Ann  409, 413 Mazzaferri, Frederick David  24, 32, 40–41, 246, 249

522   index McDonough, Sean M.  205, 207, 211, 213, 258, 262, 264, 266 McGinn, Bernard  380, 397, 402, 404 Mealy, J. Webb  257 Meeks, Waye A.  283, 287, 301 Meer, Frederick van der  377, 387 Megoran, Nick  227 Melito of Sardis  363, 396, 398 Menéndez-Antuña, Luis  309 Messiaen, Oliver  442, 444 metaphor 54–55 Metzger, Bruce M.  261, 365–66, 385 midrash  85, 97 Mill, John  345–46 millennialism colonial 503–4 nativist 505 post- 502–6 pre-  454–58, 504–6 millennium in early Christian interpretation  362, 364, 369, 397, 401–9 in medieval interpretation  423 in western colonialism  502, 505 mimicry 508–10 See also parody Moore, Stephen D.  144–47, 176–77, 299, 314–15, 475, 477–79, 483, 499, 501, 509–11 Mounce, Robert H.  3, 5, 41, 88, 261, 267, 278, 454 Mount, Daniel J.  435, 444 Moyise, Steve  94, 96–97, 99, 118, 232–33, 235, 243, 258, 298–300 Müller-Fieberg, Rita  59, 187, 189 Murphy, Frederick J.  10, 205, 262, 265–66 Mussies, G.  104, 110 myth  60–61, 125, 280–81, 473

new creation in Jewish apocalyptic literature  259–60 in the Hebrew Bible  258 in Revelation  266–69, 287 new Jerusalem and motifs from the Old Testament and Jewish literature  59, 89–91 and new creation  267–69 and feminine personification of ancient cities  307–14, 471–79 as wife and bride  317–21 depiction of  9 in ecological interpretation  146–47 in Revelation’s plot  38, 43–44, 48–49 See also Babylon Newport, Kenneth G. C.  452–53, 459 Newton, John  436–37 Nicholas of Lyra  425–27 Nicklas, Tobias  191, 198, 298, 363–64, 368–72 Nicolai, Philipp  437–38 Nicolaitans  177–78, 186–88 numerical symbolism  44–48

narrative criticism masterplot 37–38 characters and characterization  38–41 settings 41–44 Nazism 450 Nelavala, Surekha  475 Nero  3, 10, 134, 404 See also Antichrist, beast from the sea, Domitian Neville, David J.  231, 235

Papias  364, 397 Parker, David C.  153, 352, 385–86 parody  6, 10, 43, 49, 77 See also mimicry Parry, Marilyn Marie Fortey  431, 433 Patmos in reception history  388–89 John’s situation on  3–4, 135–36 Pattemore, Stephen W.  317, 331, 334 Paul, Ian  55, 64

Obama, Barak Hussein  452–53 O’Hear, Anthony  387–88 O’Hear, Natasha  387–88 Oecumenius Greek text of  255 as commentator  299, 362, 381 Økland, Jorunn  382, 479 Olivi, Peter John  425–26 oratorios using Revelation  438–42 Origen as interpreter of Revelation  406–10 Greek text used by  348–51 Osborne, Grant R.  41–42, 95, 104, 138 overcoming. See conquering

index   523 Paulien, Jon  47 Pauline Christianity 188–99 letter format  27–28 Pergamum Christian groups in  5–6, 177–80, 186–87 Greek and Roman cults in  6, 172–75, 312–13, 329 Perry, Peter S.  7, 12, 78, 81–82, 326, 338 persecution and patristic interpreters  395, 400, 406 and Revelation’s context  3–5, 133–42, 278–79, 493, 496 and Antichrist  396, 402, 408, 423, 425 Peters, Olutola K.  295, 299 Petrus Aureoli  425–26 Pezzoli-Olgiati, Daria  55, 57 Philadelphia Christian community in  4, 160 Greek and Roman cults in  174 Jewish community in  155–56, 160–62 Pippin, Tina  144, 299–300, 308–9, 320–21, 370, 469–77, 479–80, 511 Porter, Stanley E.  106, 110–13 postcolonial interpretation  308, 474–76, 492–95, 499–501, 509 Price, R. F. Simon  139–41, 175, 321, 487 Prigent, Pierre  190, 400 Primasius 415–17 prophecy as literary genre  30–32, 248–49 early Christian  249–53 spirit of  248–53 prophets Hebrew  30–32, 87–92 in resistance movements  505 in Revelation  10 rivalry among  74, 250, 252 See also false prophet, Jezebel Pucci Ben Zeev, Miriam  154–55

recapitulation  404, 408–10, 415–16, 419, 422 reception history and imagery  64 and textual criticism  385–87 and use of visual art  387–89 interpretive frameworks for  382–85 purpose and methods of  378–82 Reddish, Mitchell G.  10, 24, 232, 264, 318, 339 Reeves, Marjorie  422, 424 resistance literature  235, 485, 489, 492 Resseguie, James L.  38–48, 50, 94, 264, 268 resurrection first  401, 403, 404, 406, 409 future  285–87, 362, 364, 399–403 of Jesus  217, 229 rhetorical criticism and creation/new creation themes  260–64, 268–69 and feminine imagery  308–9, 472–76 and imagery  62–63 and use of the Old Testament  98 on authority/ethos  72–75 on deliberative rhetoric  70–72, 75, 80, 82 on emotion/pathos  75–78 on rational argument  78–82 Richard of St Victor  418 Richard, Pablo  135, 292, 511 Riel, Louis  505–6 Roberts, Jonathan  378, 380 Roloff, Jürgen  24, 27, 42, 44, 104, 139, 186, 256–66, 263 Roma, the goddess  311–16, 320 Rösel, Marin  205, 208, 211 Rossing, Barbara R.  9, 41, 77, 81, 144, 146, 308, 316, 334, 473–74, 511 Rowland, Christopher  21, 24–25, 46, 98 Royalty, Robert M.  7, 43, 69, 71, 73–74, 112, 142, 369–70, 378, 380–84, 387, 415 Ruiz, Jean-Pierre  85, 252, 511 Rupert of Deutz  419–20

queer theory  309 quest stories  37–38, 48

saints 333–35 Sanctus 433 Santa Pudenziana, iconography in  503–4 Sardis Christian groups in  7 Greek and Roman cults in  172, 175 Jewish community in  154–58

Räisänen, Heikki  187, 189, 378, 382 Ramage, Edwin S.  136–37, 172 Ramsay, William M.  135–36, 171 Rauh, Horst Dieter  419–20

524   index Satan defeat of  94–95 depiction of  9, 276–77 in Revelation’s plot  13–14, 281–85 See also synagogue of Satan satire. See parody Scandrett, Joel  455–56 Schellenberg, Ryan S.  262, 267 Schimanowski, Gottfried  216, 263 Schmid, Josef  344–46, 348, 350–53, 455–57 Schmidt, Franz  440–41 Schmolinsky, Sabine  421, 424 Schnabel, Eckhard J.  155–56, 158–59 Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth  7, 15, 29, 53, 57, 70–71, 74, 82, 98, 120, 122, 135, 140, 189–91, 205–30, 247, 269, 282, 300, 308, 469–77, 509, 511 Schweizer, Eduard  242, 248 Scofield, Cyrus  454–55, 458 Searle, Joshua T.  450–51, 453, 460 Sigismund, Marcus  344, 352 Slater, Thomas B.  8, 134, 140, 483, 487–88, 496 slaves in American context  490, 495–96 in Roman commerce  10, 88, 142, 145 of God  319, 330–33 Smalley, Stephen S.  40–43, 46, 254 Smallwood, E. Mary  136, 158–59 Smith, Amy C.  116–17 Smith, Christopher R.  48, 245 Smith, John Arthur  116–17 Smith, Mitzi J.  476, 495 Smith, R. R. R.  307, 313 Smith, Shanell  477, 486 Smyrna Christian groups in  4–5 Greek and Roman cults in  6, 171–72, 312 Jewish community in  4, 153–56, 160–62 Snyder, Howard  455–56 Soden, Hermann von  348–49, 351, 357 solecisms  86, 101, 104, 107–8, 111 Spirit/spirit and Jesus  253–54 and pneumatic discernment  251–53 being “in the,”  244–48 of prophecy  248–53

spirits, the seven  241–44 Spitta, Friedrich  228 Spivak, Guyatri  509 Spohr, Louis  438–39 Stauffer, Ethelbert  136–37, 139 Stebnicka, Krystyna  153, 159 Stenström, Hanna  308, 318, 476 Stephens, Mark B.  177, 257, 259, 265–69 Stettner, Johannes  364, 368 Stevenson, Gregory M.  118, 230, 232, 285 Stowasser, Martin  205, 214 Stowers, Stanley K.  26, 28 Sugirtharajah, R. S.  500–1, 504 Sweet, John P. M.  40, 41, 94, 136, 141, 232, 267–68 Sweetnam, Mark S.  454–56 Swete, Henry Barclay  43, 47, 104, 134, 278 synagogue of Satan  160–64 Taeger, Jens-W.  189–90 Te Ua Haumene  505–6 Tellbe, Mikael  154–55, 158–60, 162, 186, 189 Tenny, Merrill C.  245–46 Tertullian 402–3 textual criticism of Revelation and history of the canon  344, 365–68 and reception history  385–87 and theories of text types  345–51 in the Text und Textwert project  352–56 Thomas, David A.  295, 297 Thomas, John Christopher  243–44, 248–49, 251–53, 277, 282, 287 Thompson, Leonard L.  3, 42, 50, 116, 119, 122, 136–37, 162, 186, 226, 246–47, 261, 277–79, 283–84, 507, 509 Thompson, Stephen  102, 104–5, 108, 110, 112 Thurman, Howard  483 Thyatira Christian groups in  5, 186–87 Greek and Roman cults in  172, 176 See also Jezebel Tischendorf, Constanin von  346–49, 351 tower of Babel  43, 47, 49 Trebilco, Paul  153–55, 160–61, 164, 185–88, 190, 192–96, 331 Trites, Allison A.  226 Trummer, Peter  63–64

index   525 Tucker, Gene M.  30, 258 Turner, Nigel  102, 105, 109 Tyconius 407–9 Ulfgard, Håkan  38, 163, 179 van Kooten, George H.  134, 141 Victorinus  243, 364–65, 404–5, 414–16 violence and metaphor  300–3 ethics of  296–98 explanations of  298–303 Vögtle, Anton  205, 267 Volf, Miroslav  287, 292 Waddell, Robby C.  241, 243, 250, 252 Walters, Jonathan  310, 318 Wannenmacher, Julia Eva  419, 421–23 war imagery  276–78, 291–94 wealth, attitudes toward  7, 142, 195–96 Weiss, Berhard  346–48, 350–51, 353, 357 Wessinger, Catherine  291, 302, 450, 505 Westcott, Brooke Foss  347–48, 351 Wettstein, Johann Jakob  345–46 Whitaker, Robyn J.  62, 77, 82, 215, 314, 509 White, John L.  27, 29 Whiteley, Iwan  106–7, 111, 113 whore. See Babylon

Williams, Margaret H.  154, 159 Wilson, John Christian  134, 136 Wilson, Marcus  134, 137 Winter, Bruce W.  176–77 Wirkungsgeschichte 379–82 See also reception history Witetschek, Stephan  155, 186 Witherington, Ben III  42, 47, 71–72, 80, 138 witness and witnesses as role of Jesus’ followers  8, 337–38 Jesus as  226 witnesses the two  8–9, 41, 45–46, 251–52, 286 in early Christian interpretation  403–4 in medieval interpretation  422 Witulski, Thomas  2, 198, 209 womanist interpretation  308, 492–96 See also feminist interpretation Wood, Shane J.  133–34 Yarbro Collins, Adela  3, 9–10, 21, 29, 50, 60, 62, 64, 70, 77–78, 82, 105, 120, 125–26, 136, 138, 161–62, 164, 175–76, 181, 205–6, 224, 226, 231, 260, 291, 293, 308, 369, 470, 472–74, 509, 511 Zeus  172–74, 208–14, 217 Zimmermann, Ruben  9, 54, 58