Except for a plague of antichrist flicks in the 1970s, Hollywood hasn’t even tried to screen an Apocalypse, as it has the Gospels and the Book of Exodus. Perhaps some things are just too strange, bloody, violent, and extravagant, even for Hollywood.

Or maybe directors are put off by the casting that Revelation would demand (not to mention the cost of special effects!). Cecil B. DeMille could content himself with a cast of thousands in The Ten Commandments. Revelation, though, would require literally hundreds of thousands. It is perhaps the most populous book of the Bible.

Who are these characters that fill the landscapes and heavenscapes of John? In this chapter, we’ll try to get to know them a little better.

But first, a confession: I fear to tread here. Perhaps no subject more fascinates or obsesses Revelation scholars, preachers, and hobbyists than the identification of the book’s beasts, critters, angels, and people.

A reader’s identification of these characters depends largely on his scheme of interpretation. The futurist scheme has inspired interpreters to identify the beasts, in turn, with Napoleon, Bismarck, Hitler, and Stalin, among others. The “preterist” view—which emphasizes a first-century fulfillment of Revelation’s prophecies—tends to identify the beasts, for example, with one or another Roman Emperor, or with Rome itself, or with Jerusalem. A third perspective, sometimes called the “idealist,” sees Revelation as an allegory of the spiritual warfare that every believer must fight. Yet another view, the “historicist,” holds that the Apocalypse lays out God’s master plan for history, from beginning to end.

Which view do I follow? Well, all of them. There’s no reason they can’t all be true simultaneously. Scripture’s riches are boundless. The earliest Christians taught that the sacred text operates on four levels, and all of those levels, all at once, teach God’s one truth—like a symphony. If I favor one perspective over the others, it is the preterist. Yet, again, I won’t discount the others. What binds them all together is what binds us all to Christ: the New Covenant, sealed and renewed by the Eucharistic liturgy.

For within the Apocalypse emerges a pattern—of covenant, fall, judgment, and redemption—and this pattern does describe a particular period of history, but it also describes every period of history, and all of history, as well as the course of life for each and every one of us.

“I, JOHN”

I mentioned earlier that there is much controversy over John’s authorship of the Book of Revelation. That debate, while fascinating, is only incidental to our study of the Mass and the Apocalypse.

One thing, however, is clear: the text explicitly associates itself with John (Rev 1:4, 9; 22:8). And “John” in the New Testament (and in the minds of the early Church Fathers) means John the Apostle.

Indeed, the books themselves indicate that, if they do not share a common author, they at least flow from the same school of thought. For Revelation and the Fourth Gospel share many theological concerns. Both books reveal a rather precise knowledge of the Jerusalem Temple and its rituals; both seem preoccupied with presenting Jesus as the “Lamb,” the sacrifice of the new Passover (see Jn 1:29, 36; Rev 5:6). Moreover, John’s Gospel and the Apocalypse share some terminology that, within the New Testament, is peculiar only to them. For example, only the Fourth Gospel and the Apocalypse refer to Jesus as “the Word of God” (Jn 1:1; Rev 19:13); and only these two books refer to New Covenant worship as “in the Spirit” (Jn 4:23; Rev 1:10). Also, only these two books speak of salvation in terms of “living water” (Jn 4:13; Rev 21:6). There are many other parallels as well.

Still, this identification of the author John with the Apostle John is important only because of the insight it gives us into the power of Revelation’s vision. In the Gospel, for example, John is identified as the “Beloved Disciple” of Jesus (see Jn 13:23; 21:20, 24). John was the Apostle on most intimate terms with the Lord, the disciple who was literally closest to His heart. John reclined on Jesus’ breast at the Last Supper. Yet, in the Apocalypse, when he saw Jesus in His power and glory, with universal dominion and divine sovereignty, John fell on his face (see Rev 1:17). These are important details for us, who want to be “beloved disciples” today. While we must strive for an increasingly intimate relationship with Jesus, we can hardly begin the conversation until we see Jesus for Who He is, in His all-surpassing holiness.

John’s identity is important also in relation to Revelation’s earthly concerns. Tradition identifies the Apostle John as bishop of Ephesus, one of the seven churches addressed in Revelation. The churches are identified with cities, all seven of which were located within a fifty-mile radius in Asia Minor, probably marking off the sphere of John’s authority. We can see why John, as bishop, would be chosen to deliver such a pastoral message as we find in Revelation, especially in the letters to the seven churches (Rev 2, 3).

“THE LAMB”

This is Revelation’s favored title and image for Jesus Christ. Yes, He is ruler (1:5); He stands amid the Menorah robed as high priest (1:13); He is “the first and the last” (1:17), “the holy one” (3:7), “Lord of lords and King of kings” (17:14)—but, overwhelmingly, Jesus is the Lamb.

The Lamb, according to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, is “Christ crucified and risen, the one high priest of the true sanctuary, the same one “Who offers and is offered, Who gives and is given’ ” (no. 1137).

When John first sees the Lamb, he’s actually looking for a lion. No one is able to open the seals of the scroll and reveal its contents, and John begins to weep. Then an elder reassures him, “Weep not; lo, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that He can open the scroll and its seven seals” (Rev 5:5).

John looks around for the Lion of Judah, but instead sees—a Lamb. Lambs are not very mighty to begin with, and this one is standing “as though it had been slain” (Rev 5:6). We don’t need to revisit here all that we discussed in chapter 2. What should be clear is that Jesus, here, is a sacrificial lamb, like the Passover lamb.

The elders (presbyteroi, priests) then sing that Christ’s sacrifice has enabled Him to break the seals of the scroll, the Old Testament. “Worthy are You to take the scroll and to open its seals, for You were slain, and by Your blood You ransomed men for God” (5:9). Heaven and earth then give glory to Jesus as to God: “To Him Who sits upon the throne and to the Lamb be blessing and honor and glory and might for ever and ever! . . . and the elders fell down and worshiped” (5:13–14).

The Lamb is Jesus. The Lamb is also a “son of man,” robed as a high priest (1:13); the Lamb is sacrificial victim; the Lamb is God.

“A WOMAN CLOTHED WITH THE SUN”

Revelation 12, John’s vision of the woman clothed with the sun, captures the essence of the Book of Revelation. With many layers of meaning, it shows a past event prefiguring an event far off in the future. It recaps the Old Testament as it completes the New. It reveals heaven, but in images of earth.

John’s vision begins with the opening of God’s temple in heaven, “and the ark of His covenant was seen within the temple” (Rev 11:19). Perhaps we can’t fully appreciate the shock value of that line. The Ark of the Covenant had not been seen for five centuries. At the time of the Babylonian captivity, the prophet Jeremiah had hidden the ark in a place that “shall be unknown until God gathers His people together again” (2 Mac 2:7).

That promise is fulfilled in John’s vision. The Temple appeared, “and there were flashes of lightning, loud noises, peals of thunder, an earthquake, and heavy hail.” And then: “A great portent appeared in heaven, a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars; she was with child” (Rev 12:1–2).

John would not have introduced the ark, just to drop it immediately. I believe (with the Fathers of the Church) that when John describes the woman, he is describing the ark—of the New Covenant. And who is the woman? She is the one who gives birth to the male child Who will rule the nations. The child is Jesus; His mother is Mary.

What made the original ark so holy? Not the gold that coated the outside, but the Ten Commandments inside—the Law that had been inscribed by the finger of God on tablets of stone. What else was inside? Manna, the miracle bread that fed the people in their pilgrimage through the wasteland; Aaron’s rod that blossomed as a sign of his office as high priest (see Nm 17).

What makes the new ark holy? The old ark contained the word of God written in stone; Mary contained in her womb the Word of God Who became man and dwelt among us. The ark contained manna; Mary contained the living bread come down from heaven. The ark contained the rod of the high priest Aaron; Mary’s womb contained the eternal high priest, Jesus Christ. In the heavenly temple, the Word of God is Jesus, and the ark in whom he resides is Mary, His mother.

If the male child is Jesus, then the woman is Mary. This interpretation was upheld by the most sober-minded of the Church Fathers, St. Athanasius, St. Epiphanius, and many others. Yet “the woman” also stands for more. She is “daughter Zion,” which brought forth Israel’s Messiah. She is also the Church, besieged by Satan, yet preserved in safety. As I said before, Scripture’s riches are boundless.

Other scholars argue that the woman cannot be Mary, since, according to Catholic tradition, Mary suffered no labor pain. The pangs of the woman, however, need not have been physical pain. St. Paul, for example, used birth pangs to describe his own agony until Christ be formed in his disciples (see Gal 4:19). Thus, the suffering of the woman could describe the suffering of a soul—the suffering that Mary knew, at the foot of the cross, as she became the mother of all “beloved disciples” (see Jn 19:25–27).

Others object that the woman cannot be Mary because the woman in Revelation has other offspring, and the Church teaches that Mary was perpetually virgin. But Scripture often uses the term “offspring” (in Greek, sperma) to describe one’s spiritual descendants. The children of Mary, her spiritual offspring, are those “who keep the commandments of God and bear testimony to Jesus” (Rev 12:17). We are the other offspring of the woman. We are the children of Mary.

Thus, Revelation also portrays Mary as the “New Eve,” mother of all the living. In the Garden of Eden, God promised to “put enmity” between Satan, the ancient serpent, and Eve—and between Satan’s “seed and her seed” (Gen 3:15). Now, in the Apocalypse, we see the climax of this enmity. The seed of the new woman, Mary, is the male son, Jesus Christ, Who comes to defeat the serpent (in Hebrew, the same word, nahash, can apply to both dragon and serpent).

This is the overwhelming teaching of the Fathers, Doctors, saints, and popes of the Church, both ancient and modern. It is the teaching of the Catechism of the Catholic Church (see no. 1138). I must point out, however, that it is not held by many biblical scholars today. Yet those who disagree must bear the burden of proof. Pope St. Pius X spoke eloquently for the Tradition in his encyclical letter Ad Diem Illum Laetissimum:

Everyone knows that this woman signified the Virgin Mary. . . . John therefore saw the Most Holy Mother of God already in eternal happiness, yet travailing in a mysterious childbirth. What birth was it? Surely it was the birth of us who, still in exile, are yet to be generated to the perfect charity of God, and to eternal happiness.

THE FIRST BEAST

Unsuccessful in his assaults on the woman and her son, the dragon turns to attack her offspring, on those who keep the commandments of God and bear testimony to Jesus. The dragon summons his own seed, two dreadful beasts. Oddly enough, amid all the hopeful and awe-inspiring images of the Apocalypse, these hideous monsters seem to spark the most interest. Moviemakers and televangelists dwell longer, by far, on 666 than on the glassy sea or the Lion of Judah.

I feel an urgency to impress upon you the reality of the beasts. They are symbols, but they’re not just symbols. They are real spiritual beings, members of the satanic “lowerarchy,” demonic persons who have controlled and corrupted the political destiny of nations. John describes two ugly beasts. But I believe the beasts he saw were much more horrible than his description.

In much of Revelation—but especially chapters 4 and 5—John describes the realities behind the Mass. Now, he does the same with sin and evil. Just as our actions in the liturgy are united with unseen heavenly things, so are our sinful deeds attached to infernal wickedness. In the Mass, what does God want to make us? A kingdom of priests who reign through their sacrificial offerings. On the other hand, what does Satan want to accomplish through the beasts? He wants to subvert God’s plan by corrupting both kingdom and priesthood. Thus, John shows us, first, the demon that corrupts government authority, the state. Next, he reveals the demon of corrupt religious authority.

First beasts first: from the sea arises a hideous seven-headed, ten-horned monster, a terrifying combination of leopard, lion, and bear. The horns symbolize power; the diadems (or crowns), kingship. Both its power and its kingship it receives from the dragon. We would err, however, if we identified this beast with monarchy in general. No, the beast represents corrupt political authority of any sort.

It’s tempting, too, to identify the beast exclusively with Rome, or with the Herodian dynasty that Rome maintained in the Holy Land. Certainly the Rome of John’s day typified the sort of government represented by the beast. But the beast itself does not allow for such a simple identification. It’s actually a combination of all four of the beasts from a vision of the Old Testament prophet Daniel (see Dan 7). I follow the Church Fathers, who saw Daniel’s beasts pointing to four gentile empires: Babylon, Medo-Persia, Greece, and Rome—all of whom persecuted God’s people before the Messiah’s coming.

Revelation’s seven-headed beast, then, stands for all corrupted political power. For it’s a human impulse to look upon the power of the state as the greatest power on earth and say, like the people in the Apocalypse, “Who can fight against it?” Out of fear for this power—or desire for a piece of the action—people constantly compromise themselves and worship the dragon and the beast. History’s most blatant example of a human institution usurping God’s prerogatives is Rome and its Caesars. They literally demanded the worship that belongs to God alone. And they made war on the saints, instigating bloody persecutions of those who would not worship the emperor.

Even after Jerusalem’s fall, other adversaries would rise to persecute the Church of God. In every age, the Church faces mighty persecutors, with ever more powerful armies and armaments. Yet weapons and legions and strategies all will fail. Great generals will, ultimately, fall to mortal wounds. But when the Lamb enters the fray, “Then the kings of the earth and the great men and the generals and the rich and the strong, and every one, slave and free, hid in the caves and among the rocks of the mountains, calling to the mountains and rocks, “Fall on us and hide us from the face of Him Who is seated on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb; for the great day of their wrath has come, and who can stand it?’ ” (Rev 6:15–17).

The Church is the army of the Lamb, the forces of Zion preserved upon Jerusalem’s destruction. The army of the Lamb draws strength from the banquet of heaven.