Human Kind,” said the poet T. S. Eliot, “cannot bear very much reality.” We need not look far for proof of this assertion. Real life, today, is what people flee, one by one, each retreating into his private distraction. The escape routes range from drugs and alcohol to romance novels and virtual-reality games.

What is it about reality that humankind finds so unbearable? It is the enormity of evil, its seeming omnipresence and power, and our own apparent inability to escape it—indeed, our inability to avoid perpetrating evil. Hell, it seems, is everywhere—in sham imitation of God’s omnipresence—threatening to consume us, to suffocate us.

This is the reality we cannot bear. Yet this is the stark and terrible reality that John portrayed, without flinching, in Revelation. John’s beasts loom monstrous, beyond Hollywood’s darkest imaginings, snapping their jaws at the most innocent and vulnerable prey: a pregnant woman, a baby boy. They despise both nature and grace, Church and state. They can sweep a third of the stars from the sky. They’re the power behind the throne in nations and empires. They grow strong from the immorality of the people they seduce; they get drunk on the “wine” of their victims’ fornication, greed, and abusive power.

Facing such opposition, we must choose: either fight or flight. This is a basic human instinct. Moreover, after a superficial evaluation of our own apparent resources, and the enemy’s apparent resources, “flight” might seem the reasonable choice. According to the spiritual masters, however, flight is not a real option. In his classic work, The Spiritual Combat, Dom Lorenzo Scupoli wrote: “This war is unavoidable, and you must either fight or die. The obstinacy of your enemies is so fierce that peace and arbitration with them is utterly impossible.” In short: we can run from evil, but we can’t hide.

Moreover, we cannot ascend to heaven if we flee the battle. God has destined us, the Church, to be the Bride of the Lamb. Yet we cannot rule if we do not first conquer the forces that oppose us, the powers who are pretenders to our throne.

What are we to do? We should take a look around us, after lifting the veil of mere human sight. John reveals the most encouraging news for Christians in battle. Two thirds of the angels are on our side, fighting constantly, even while we sleep. St. Michael the Archangel, heaven’s fiercest warrior, is our untiring and unbeatable ally. All the saints in heaven constantly call to almighty God for our vindication. And—most encouraging of all—in the end we win! John sees the battle from the perspective of eternity, so he can reveal the ending as vividly as he describes the casualties. The battles rage so fiercely that rivers run red with blood and corpses lie rotting in heaps in the streets. Yet the victors enter a city whose streams flow with living water and whose sun never sets.

Hear Father Scupoli again: “if the fury of your enemies is great, and their numbers overwhelming, the love which God holds for you is infinitely greater. The angel who protects you and the saints who intercede for you are more numerous.”

We can count on heavenly help. Who can ask for greater assurance? Yet we often do. Many Christians remain troubled because they perceive that Jesus has somehow “delayed” in coming to help them. This seems especially true when they look at society’s degeneracy. The world, sometimes, seems firmly in the hands of evil forces, and despite the prayers of Christians, the evil remains and even prospers.

Still, Revelation shows that it is the saints and angels who direct history by their prayers. More than Washington, D.C., more than the United Nations, more than Wall Street, more than any place you can name, power belongs to the saints of the Most High gathered around the throne of the Lamb. The blood of the martyrs calls to God for vengeance (Rev 6:9–10), and He vindicates them, now as at the dawn of history, when Abel’s blood cried out from the earth. It is the saints’ prayers that immediately call forth the wrath of the Lamb against “the great men . . . the rich and the strong” (6:15–16).

Yet the power of the saints is of a different order than the world’s idea of power, and the wrath of the Lamb differs significantly from human vengeance. That may seem self-evident, but it’s worth our deepest contemplation. For many Christians profess to believe in a heavenly sort of power, which, on closer analysis, turns out to be worldly power writ large.

Consider, for a moment, Jesus’ Jewish contemporaries and their worldly expectation of the Messiah: He would establish the kingdom of God by military and political means—conquer Rome, subjugate the gentiles, and so on. We know that such hopes were dashed away. Rather than marching on Jerusalem with His armies, Jesus waged a campaign of mercy and love, manifested by the meals shared with tax collectors and other sinners.

And we all learned our lesson, right? It doesn’t seem that way. Because, today, many Christians still hope for the same messianic vengeance as the first-century Jews. Though Christ came peacefully the first time, they say, He’ll come back with a holy vengeance in the end, crushing His foes with almighty force.

But what if Jesus’ Second Coming turned out to be much like His first? Would many Christians be disappointed? Perhaps, but I don’t think we should be. For, even though Revelation narrates a fair share of famines and plagues and pestilences, still chapter 6 portrays God’s judgment of the mighty and powerful as the “wrath of the Lamb.” Why does John use the lamb image here? What kind of terror can a lamb really inspire? Why didn’t he speak of the wrath of the Lion of Judah?

Similarly, why is “overcoming” accomplished after Christ’s first coming by those who “loved not their lives even unto death”? Or why are the opposing sides set forth so unevenly: two dragons and a land-beast attack the pregnant woman as she gives birth to the baby Messiah? Sure, there’s St. Michael the Archangel; but the best he can do is kick the dragon out of heaven—so now the devil’s free to pursue the woman into the wilderness and then make war on the rest of her offspring. In short, the deck is clearly stacked—the wrong way!

Then, what about the closing scene (ch. 19), when Christ comes to “avenge the blood of His servants” (v. 2)? There, we see someone named “Faithful and True” riding on a white horse, accompanied by heavenly hosts in white linen (is this their best armor?), fighting with nothing but a sword—“coming out of his mouth”! Why is it not in His right hand? Why isn’t He swinging it? Clearly, it’s the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God, which He’s preaching—and not a military weapon of mass destruction. Then, He takes the Beast and False Prophet, and throws them alive into the fire and brimstone. Note that He doesn’t kill them first, doesn’t cut them up or gloat over their corpses. Next, the fate of the wicked is described in the following two chapters simply in terms of their being excluded from the New Jerusalem. What kind of comeuppance is this? Why is Jesus still a Lamb—till the very end? And why a marriage supper, rather than a victory party?

I would suggest that the expectations of many Christians about Christ’s Second Coming may stand in need of adjustment. Otherwise, we can find ourselves fighting disappointment—as did Jesus’ Jewish contemporaries in the first century. Perhaps we need to rethink the common image of God suppressing his wrath—“Just you wait, you’ll see how angry and vengeful I can really be”—by viewing it more carefully in light of His perfect fatherhood. This does not do away with divine wrath; it simply fits it into the consistent picture of God that Jesus provides. As I said earlier, viewing God’s judgment in terms of divine fatherhood does not lower the standard of justice, or lessen the severity of judgment; fathers generally require more from their sons and daughters than judges from defendants.

What, then, should be our image of Jesus’ Second Coming? For me, it is Eucharistic, and it is brought about as the Mass brings heaven to earth. Just as the earthly priest stands over the bread and wine and says “This is My body,” thus transforming the elements, so Christ the high priest stands over the cosmos, pronouncing the same words. We stand on the earth as the elements stand on the altar. We are here to be transformed: to die to self, live for others, and love like God. That is what’s happening on the altar of the earth, just as it happens on the altars of our churches. As the fire descended from heaven to consume the sacrifices on Solomon’s altar, so the fire descended to consume the disciples at the first Pentecost. The fire is one and the same; it is the Holy Spirit, Who enables us to be offered up as living sacrifices upon the altar of the earth. That is what makes sense out of the second half of the Apocalypse.

It makes sense, too, out of the events of our everyday lives. In the light of divine fire, we see the daily news not as meaningless and unconnected sound bites, but as a story, whose ending we already know. All things in history—in world history and in our personal history—work together for the good of those who love God (see Rom 8:28). For Christ is Lord of history, its beginning (see Jn 1:1) and its end (see 1 Cor 4:5).

Christ is firmly in charge, and He wants us to reign with Him as His bride. Thus, we must fight to gain our throne, but our warfare is hardly grim. We can even look upon it in romantic terms. History is the story of Christ wooing His Church, gradually drawing us all to our marriage supper, the banquet of the Lamb. He looks upon us as Adam looked upon Eve and says, “This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh” (Gen 2:23). The Church is at once His bride and His body, for in marriage the two become one flesh (see Mt 19:5). Thus, Christ looks at us and says, “This is My body.”

God intends all of history—whether the particular events seem good or ill for “our side”—to lead us to the eternal communion of our marriage supper. We must not underestimate Christ’s desire for us to arrive at the feast. Remember He is a bridegroom awaiting His bride. So the passionate words He spoke to His Apostles are true for us as well: “I have earnestly desired to eat this Passover with you” (Lk 22:15).

Nor must we underestimate Jesus’ power to lead us to the feast. He, after all, is God almighty, all-knowing. Eternal communion with the Church is what He wants, and what He wills, and it is surely what He accomplishes even now. Loving communion with His Church is the very reason that God became a man and bled and died; and it is the very reason He created the world in the first place. Thus, all the events of all time should lead us, inexorably, to the event we see mystically in the last chapters of the Book of Revelation.

Hell, then, may seem to prevail in the world, but it does not. The Church is, in a sense, in charge. Our prayers, and especially the sacrifice of the Mass, are the force that propels history toward its goal. In fact, in the sacrifice of the Mass, history achieves its goal, because there Christ and the Church celebrate their wedding feast and consummate their marriage.

How, then, should we understand our ongoing combat? If history has, in a sense, already reached its goal, why should we continue to fight? Because not all the world has come to the feast, even if you and I have. So we must continue to ransom the time, to restore all things in Christ. Remember that when we go to Mass, we take along all our professional work, family life, sufferings, and leisure, and all of these become spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ, during the celebration of the Eucharist. God wills that you and I should play an indispensable role in salvation history. “The Spirit and the Bride say, “Come’ ” (Rev 22:17). Note that it’s not just the Spirit Who issues the call to mankind, but the Spirit and the Bride. The Bride is the Church—it’s you and me.

Meanwhile, our enemy, the Beast, consecrates nothing. He works tirelessly, sometimes intimidating us by his industry; but his labors are sterile. He is 666, the creature stalled in the sixth day, perpetually in travail, yet never reaching the seventh day of sabbath rest and worship.

So the battle goes on, and we have enlisted for active duty. We must, however, begin the fighting very close to home. Our most dangerous enemies are those we’ll find in our own soul: pride, envy, laziness, gluttony, greed, anger, and lust. Before we can advance on enemies in society at large, we need to identify our own sinful habits and begin to root them out. All the while, we need to grow in the wisdom and virtue that make us more like Christ.

We can advance only if we come to know ourselves as we really are, that is, as we appear to almighty God. When John faced the Lamb of God, he accurately sized up the situation, and he fell down to the ground in humility. We need to see the truth with the same clarity. Thus we need to see matters in the same divine light. Yet how can we, when all around we’re beset by darkness? The only way is for us to step into that same clean, well-lighted place where John had his vision: worship in the Spirit on the Lord’s day—which is, at the same time, the heavenly city where “night shall be no more” (Rev 22:5).

Only in the new Jerusalem will we see ourselves as we are, for there we will face judgment; there we will read what is written in the book of life. It’s heaven, but we don’t need to die to go there. The new Jerusalem is Mount Zion; it is the Church of the Upper Room; and it touches down for us in the Holy Mass.

We want to know ourselves. So we must use well the parts of the Mass that are set apart for self-examination: the penitential rite, for example, with the “Lord, Have Mercy” and “I Confess.” This requires recollection, an interior quiet that allows us to examine our thoughts, words, and deeds. If we want to be recollected, it helps to arrive at church well before Mass and begin our prayer. Interior recollection will enable us to concentrate on the reality of the Mass, no matter what’s going on around us: come crying babies, bad music, or mediocre homilies.

To prepare for Mass, we should also take frequent advantage of the Sacrament of Reconciliation, confessing our sins after making a deep examination of conscience. Remember the counsel of the Didache, the Church’s oldest liturgical guide: we should make confession before receiving the Eucharist, so that our sacrifice may be pure. Though the Church only requires us to confess once a year, the overwhelming teaching of the saints and popes is that we should go “frequently.” How often is that? That will vary according to your circumstances and the advice of your priest-confessor. We should follow good example, however, knowing that most saints went at least weekly, and the most trusted spiritual masters advise a monthly minimum.

If we are honest before God, then, we’ll find ourselves, in our hearts, falling down in humility, as John did. We will pray with perfect sincerity the prayer before Communion: “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you. . . .”

What do we see when we stand in light? We see that we are sinners and we are weak; but we see much more as well.

We see that, in this war, we are the stronger side by far. At Mass, we invoke the angels, and we worship beside them, as John did—as their equals before God! We call upon their help. Listen closely to the preface of the Mass, just before you sing the “Holy, Holy, Holy”: “Now, with angels and archangels, and the whole company of heaven, we sing the unending hymn of Your praise.” Some Eastern liturgies even dare to number the angels: “a thousand thousands and ten thousand times ten thousand hosts of angels and archangels.” The word “hosts” in this context connotes military might—like “legions” or “divisions.” The Mass, it seems, is like the Normandy invasion in the spiritual realm.

We also invoke the saints, acknowledging them by name. In the Roman Canon, Eucharistic Prayer I, the priest reads off a long list of Apostles, popes, martyrs, and other saints—twenty-four, to correspond exactly to the presbyteroi surrounding God’s throne in the Apocalypse.

In spiritual warfare, the saints are powerful allies. Remember that, in Revelation, God’s vengeance follows close upon the prayers of the martyrs beneath His altar. In some Eastern liturgies—for example, the ancient Liturgy of St. Mark—the congregations echo the martyrs’ prayers: “Crush under our feet Satan, and all his wicked influence. Humble now, as at all times, the enemies of Your Church. Lay bare their pride. Speedily show them their weakness. Bring to naught the wicked plots they contrive against us. Arise, O Lord, and let Your enemies be scattered, and let all who hate Your holy name be put to flight.”

No doubt, we’ve got power and might on our side. We say so in the “Holy, Holy, Holy,” which we sing, together with the angels, at every Mass we attend. We should make sure to give that song all we’ve got. Did you ever watch a strong army march in formation? The soldiers move with unified precision, and they chant with gusto and confidence. That’s how we should proceed through the liturgy: confidently, joyfully. It’s not that we deny the enemy’s strength; we just glory in the fact that God is stronger, and God is our strength!

Knowing ourselves and the angels, of course, is not enough. We must come to know God more and more, and that is an endless (and endlessly rewarding) pursuit. Because the more we learn about Him, the more we realize we don’t know, and can’t know without grace.

Coming to know God, we will come to know what infinite strength and resources we can call upon in battle. So we should prepare for Mass, throughout our lives, by ongoing doctrinal and spiritual formation. No soldier would rush untrained into battle. Neither should we think that we can conquer demons if we’re flabby in our faith. We need to put ourselves through the rigors of basic training, living a sustained and disciplined life of prayer, and studying the faith daily, reading the Bible, using Catholic tapes, TV, and books (especially the Catechism of the Catholic Church). All this is a lifelong task.

Our doctrinal study will invest the liturgy’s every word and gesture with power. We will make the Sign of the Cross, knowing that it is the banner we carry into battle—and before that banner, demons tremble. We will dip our fingers into the holy water, knowing, in the words of St. Teresa of Ávila, that this water makes demons flee. We will recite every line of the Gloria and the Creed as if our lives depended on it, because they do.

And what “happens” on the battlefield when we receive Jesus Christ, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, in Holy Communion? The saints tell us that we rout the enemy at that moment, and that ever afterward we can keep watch with Jesus’ watchfulness. A fifth-century monk of Mount Sinai testified that “when that fire enters us, it at once drives the evil spirits from our heart and remits the sins we have previously committed. . . . And if after this, standing at the entrance to our heart, we keep strict watch over the intellect, when we are again permitted to receive those Mysteries, the divine body will illumine our intellect still more and make it shine like a star.”

So the brightness of the Mass goes home with us as the perpetual day of the heavenly Jerusalem. As we grow in grace, our Mass becomes a light burning within us, too, even amid our work and family life. That’s security in wartime; for the weaker army will rarely attack in the light of day. And the devil knows, when the light of Christ is on one side of the battle, the darkness of hell is the weaker.

Yet the battle remains a battle. Even if our victory is assured, the fighting itself won’t necessarily be easy, and this is especially true at Mass. Knowing the power of grace, the devil will most forcefully assault us, says one ancient teacher, “at the time of the great feasts and during the Divine Liturgy—especially when we are intending to receive Holy Communion.”

What is our particular combat during Mass? Maybe it’s warding off contempt for the worshiper whose perfume is too strong, or the man who sings the wrong lyrics off-key. Maybe it’s holding back our judgment against the parishioner who’s skipping out early. Maybe it’s turning the other way when we begin to wonder how low that neckline really goes. Maybe it’s fighting off smugness when we hear a homily riddled with grammatical errors. Maybe it’s smiling, in an understanding way, at the mom with the screaming baby.

Those are the tough battles. Maybe they’re not as romantic as sabers clashing in a faraway desert, or marching through tear gas to protest injustice. But because they’re so perfectly hidden, so interior, they require greater heroism. No one but God and His angels will notice that you didn’t mentally critique Father’s homily this week. No one but God and His angels will notice that you withheld judgment against the family that was underdressed. So you don’t get a medal; you win a battle instead.

The reality “unveiled” in John’s Apocalypse is as terrifying as it is consoling. Yet the good news is that, with heavenly help, we can bear it. We are children of the King of the universe; but we live amid constant peril, surrounded by dark spiritual forces who want to destroy our souls, our crown, and our birthright.

Yet the winning is ours for the taking. How right that our tradition associates the Mass with the todah, ancient Israel’s thanksgiving sacrifice. The todah was an expression of complete confidence: a prayer for deliverance from one’s enemies, a prayer for deliverance from imminent death—and, at the same time, the todah offered thanks that God would answer one’s prayers. Recall, too, how the rabbis predicted that, in the messianic age, all sacrifice would cease except the todah. Thus we pray with confidence in every Mass, “deliver us from evil”; and thus we give glory to God for our deliverance.

In Holy Communion, we receive the Bread that will sustain us, even during the enemy’s longest siege. In the Mass, as we stand beside our heavenly allies, the devil is impotent. Before the altar, we approach heaven, the fount of infinite grace, which alone can change our sinful hearts. At the marriage supper of the Lamb, we ourselves are enthroned to reign over history by our prayers.

In this millennial season, many people will come to you shouting that the end is near, and that the latest skirmish across the sea is surely the battle of Armageddon. Don’t be frightened. You can tell them that, yes, the end is near; yes, the Apocalypse is now. But the Church has always taught that the end is near—as near as your parish church. And it’s something you should be running to, not from.

Any battle we’re impatient to fight with earthly weapons we should first enter with weapons of the spirit. You want justice for oppressed people across the globe? You want relief for the martyrs overseas? Don’t rush first to city hall. If you want to bring about the kingdom, you should first worship well, as often as you can, wherever the sanctuary of the King touches down in the Mass.