As indicated above, the Book of Revelation and other apocalyptic narratives have traditionally been understood as stories designed to bolster the morale of persecuted groups “whose lives are, or who perceive their lives to be, overwhelmed by historical or social disruption” (Rosen xii). Believing in apocalyptic prophecy like the Book of Revelation allows powerless communities to maintain their faith and tolerate living in times of crisis and chaos, since these ordeals are promised to be merely the temporary forerunners of an eternal, divine social order. Or, as Richard Bauckham, Professor of New Testament Studies at St. Mary’s College of the University of St. Andrew’s, writes in The Theology of the Book of Revelation, “It is not that the here-and-now are left behind in an escape into heaven or the eschatological future, but that the here-and-now look quite different when they are opened up to transcendence” (8). “At a deeper level,” writes Collins, “the hearer’s powerlessness and lack of control over events is not denied but affirmed. It is of little importance, however, because they are God’s and God is in control” (152).
Yet apocalyptic narratives are not simply comforting stories told by persecuted groups. Bauckham cautions against over-reliance on this common generalization by reminding the reader that many Christians in the first century benefited from the Pax Romana. Some first-century Christians led lives of affluence and high social standing, as evidenced by John’s condemnation of the church at Laodicea: “Thou sayest, I am rich, and increased with goods, and have need of nothing; and knowest not that thou art wretched, and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked” (Revelation 3:17). Members of other churches (Pergamos, Thyatira, and Sardis) are chastised for compromising their faith or following false prophets (Revelation 2:14, 2:15, 2:20, 3:2). John’s message to these Christians is not one of comfort, but “severe warnings and calls to repent” (Bauckham 15). For Collins, acknowledging this aspect of Revelation is essential: “Rather than simply consoling his fellow Christians in a situation of grave crisis, [John] wrote his book to point out a crisis that many of them did not perceive” (77).
According to Collins, “the overall tone of Revelation suggests that John would have rather seen conflict between Rome and Christians intensified than abated” (124). This fits with still a third interpretation of the purpose of Revelation. In addition to reassurance and warning, “the call to Revelation’s readers or hearers to ‘conquer’ is fundamental to the structure and theme of the book. It demands the reader’s active participation in the divine war against evil…as the only way for Christians to reach their eschatological destiny” (Bauckham 88, 92). “The call to conquer allows no middle ground where Christians may hope to avoid death by compromising with the beast” (Bauckham 93-94). Similarly, “Revelation itself allows no neutral perception: either one shares Rome’s own ideology, the view of the Empire promoted by Roman propaganda, or one sees it from the perspective of heaven, which unmasks the pretensions of Rome” (Bauckman 35). Collins believes it was the potential Roman threat, rather than actual persecution, that caused John to write “The thrust of the Apocalypse…toward even greater exclusiveness…[so] the threat from without is met by clarifying and intensifying norms within the group” (88).
Revelation’s triple function as reassurance, warning, and call to arms depends on a strictly binary view of morality. Yes, the faithful will be rewarded, but sinners, “the other” of the believers, are condemned to eternal damnation. There can be no middle ground between these two extremes, since compromise invites uncertainty and ambiguity — in a word, chaos. According to apocalyptic scholar Lee Quinby, “the binary structure of apocalypse is the most fixed element of its normative morality” (Millennial Seduction 37) In the Book of Revelation, good and evil are always mutually exclusive: just as “Babylon must fall so that the New Jerusalem may replace her,” “The coming of God’s kingdom on earth must therefore be the replacement of Rome’s pretended divine sovereignty by the true divine sovereignty of the One who sits on the heavenly throne” (Bauckham 130, 34). Ultimately, since “the holiness and righteousness of God require the condemnation of unrighteousness on earth and the destruction of the powers of evil that contest God’s rule on earth…it is part and parcel of the apocalyptic outlook to portray the present and the eschatological future in starkly black and white terms” (Bauckham 40, 47).
Prior to the description of New Jerusalem, John writes, “the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea” (21:1). Not only is the sea where the beast rose up from (13:1), but it serves as a reminder of the Flood of Genesis, when the world was destroyed as punishment for humanity’s transgressions. The Flood, in turn, is “understood as the primeval waters of chaos or the waters of the abyss (Gen. 1:2, 7:11), which God in creation had restrained and held at bay, but had not abolished (Gen. 1:6-7)” (Bauckham 53). The sea is a destructive force, a constant threat of a return to chaos. Its removal in Revelation “portrays God as faithful to the Noahic covenant and indeed surpassing it in his faithfulness to his creation…by taking creation beyond the threat of evil” (Bauckham 53). Once again, Revelation leaves no doubt about the totality of God’s order in the world and the destruction of anything other than that heavenly domination.
