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Whatever the referents behind the horrific images of Revelation 9, the visions of mayhem and slaughter are clear enough. In war and plague, countless millions of human beings are slaughtered, one-third of humankind, some in great agony. Today I wish to focus on the closing verses of the chapter, setting this sweeping destruction in a certain framework.

(1) At one level, this destruction is the work of hell—more precisely, of “the angel of the Abyss, whose name in Hebrew is Abaddon, and in Greek, Apollyon” (Rev. 9:11), the Destroyer. There is no doubt this is also Satan, the Devil himself (cf. Rev. 12:7–9; 20:10). For all his efforts to entice human beings away from the God who made them and whose image they bear, Satan’s long-term goals for human beings are never benign. He may give temporary power or advantage to those who sell themselves to do evil, or to those who enter a Faustian pact with him, but his ultimate goal is the destruction of all human beings, or as many of them as he can harm, as ruthlessly, as painfully, as possible.

(2) For all that Satan himself is behind this destruction, in the larger narrative of the book, God himself has brought about this destruction as part of his righteous judgment. Satan is evil and powerful, but he is not all-powerful. Even at his most virulent he cannot escape God’s control—and God is able to use even Satan’s evil to bring about his purposes of righteous judgment on those who persist in their rebellion against God.

(3) So perverse are human beings that even the most devastating judgment frequently fails to get their attention or to drive them toward repentance. “The rest of mankind that were not killed by these plagues still did not repent of the work of their hands; they did not stop worshiping demons, and idols of gold, silver, bronze, stone and wood—idols that cannot see or hear or walk. Nor did they repent of their murders, their magic arts, their sexual immorality or their thefts” (Rev. 9:20–21).

Few statements are more discouraging. What is God to do? When he maintains order and stable times, his image-bearers drift away from him, indifferent to his blessings. When instead God responds in judgment, his image-bearers charge that God is unfair, or assign these things to blind circumstance, or exclusively to the Devil, or to alien deities who need placating. Apart from the intervention of the convicting work of the Spirit, few reflect deeply on how these disasters are calling to us in prophetic terms.

What disasters has the race of God’s image-bearers faced in the twentieth century? What is their message? How have most people responded?

Earlier we witnessed a king who began well and ended poorly (Asa; see December 13–14); still earlier, we witnessed a halfhearted reformer (Rehoboam; see December 11). Now we come across another, King Jehoshaphat, who does not degenerate, nor does he slide along in a gray zone between good and evil, but rather proves to be very good in some areas and not very discerning and even stupid in others—all his life (2 Chron. 19–20).

The two previous chapters (2 Chron. 17–18) can be divided into two parts. Chapter 17 depicts the strengths of Jehoshaphat—the man who diligently seeks the Lord and fortifies the entire southern kingdom. By contrast, chapter 18 depicts foolish Jehoshaphat, enmeshed in a needless and compromised alliance with wicked King Ahab of Israel, almost losing his life in a fight that wasn’t his. Now in the chapters before us, the prophet Jehu, son of the prophet Hanani who had been imprisoned by Asa in his old age, confronts Jehoshaphat: “Should you help the wicked and love those who hate the LORD? Because of this, the wrath of the LORD is upon you. There is, however, some good in you, for you have rid the land of the Asherah poles and have set your heart on seeking God” (2 Chron. 19:2–3).

Then the pattern repeats itself. Jehoshaphat works diligently to rid the judiciary of corruption (2 Chron. 19:4–11). When he faces another military crisis, this time the nations of Moab and Ammon allied against him, he turns to God for help. The culmination of his prayer is intensely moving: “O our God, will you not judge them? For we have no power to face this vast army that is attacking us. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are upon you” (2 Chron. 20:12). In his mercy, God sends his Spirit upon Jahaziel son of Zechariah, who carries a prophetic word to strengthen and encourage Jehoshaphat and the people of Judah and Jerusalem (2 Chron. 20:15ff). The victory they win is extravagant, and the Lord graciously imposes “the fear of God” upon the surrounding kingdoms, thereby giving Jehoshaphat and Judah rest.

So what does Jehoshaphat do? He makes another stupid and unnecessary alliance, this time with Ahaziah, the new king of Israel, and is soundly rebuked by another prophetic word (2 Chron. 20:35–37). Doesn’t the man ever learn?

Today we would probably label such deeply disturbing repetitions “character flaws.” They can occur in people whose lives, on so many levels, are entirely praiseworthy. At one level it is entirely right to thank God for the good these people do. But would it not have been far better if Jehoshaphat had learned from his first mistakes?

Would it be impertinent to ask if you and I learn from ours?

There are many disputed points of interpretation over Revelation 7. For instance, who are the 144,000 (Rev. 7:4)? Are they the same people as the great multitude that no one could count (Rev. 7:9), in much the same way that in chapter 5 the Lion is the Lamb? What or when is the “great tribulation” (Rev. 7:14)? Is it a brief period of time? If so, when—in A.D. 70, or toward the end of the age? Or is it a way of referring to the entire period between Jesus’ first and second comings?

But here I shall restrict my attention to three elements in John’s description of the “great multitude that no one could count.”

First, they spring “from every nation, tribe, people and language” (Rev. 7:9). There is not a whiff of racism here. Moreover, this theme keeps recurring in the book. For instance, already in Revelation 5:9, the elders sing a new song to the Lamb: “You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased men for God from every tribe and language and people and nation.” The ultimate community of God is transnational, transtribal, transracial, translinguistic. In that sense, Los Angeles is a better anticipation of heaven than Tulsa, Oklahoma. Let the church, strengthened by the grace of God, live out now, as largely as possible, what she will one day be.

Second, everything significant about these people turns on the work of God effected through the Lamb—in short, it turns on the Gospel of God. So they stand “before the throne and in front of the Lamb” (Rev. 7:9); they cry “in a loud voice: ‘Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb’” (Rev. 7:10). While the angels worship God (Rev. 7:11–12), John is told that these people “have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb” (Rev. 7:14). In short, whatever else is found in Revelation, this book overflows with the Gospel.

Third, the ultimate prospect for the great multitude is not located in this life. They “are before the throne of God and serve him day and night in his temple” (Rev. 7:15). Nothing bad will ever again befall them (Rev. 7:16). “For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes” (Rev. 7:17). The book of Revelation fans the flames of courage and faithfulness in this life, even in the teeth of the most virulent opposition, by holding out the most glorious prospects for the life to come.

Chapters 4 and 5 of Revelation, on which we have not reflected, constitute a major vision that prepares us for much of the rest of the book—including Revelation 6. Chapter 4 is to chapter 5 what a setting is to a drama. Revelation 4 depicts, in apocalyptic symbols, the throne room of Almighty God. The emphasis is on God’s awesomeness, his holiness, his transcendent and spectacular glory. Even the highest orders of angels veil their faces as they bow in worship and extol God for his holiness. In Revelation 5, the drama begins. In the right hand of God rests a scroll, which turns out to contain all his purposes for redemption and judgment. The scroll is sealed with seven seals. In the symbolism of this book, opening the seals means bringing about all of God’s purposes for redemption and judgment. If the book remains unopened, God’s purposes will remain unfulfilled. A powerful angel launches a challenge to the entire universe: Is anyone worthy to approach this awesome and frankly terrifying God, take the scroll, and open the seals—in other words, to serve as God’s agent to bring his purposes to pass? No one is found who is worthy, and in despair, John weeps. Then one of the elders tells him to stop crying. The Lion of the tribe of Judah has prevailed. John looks up through his tears, and sees—a Lamb. This is not an animal additional to the Lion. True to the mixed nature of apocalyptic metaphors, the Lion is the Lamb—and he emerges from the center of the throne. From then on in the book of Revelation, praise is offered to him who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.

Revelation 6 finds the Lamb opening the seals. In due course, the seventh seal introduces seven trumpets (Rev. 8), which in turn are followed by the seven bowls of God’s wrath (Rev. 16). Thus the entire drama of the book of Revelation is introduced by the vision of Revelation 4–5.

So far as Revelation 6 is concerned, I shall focus on only two points. (1) The martyrs who are “under the altar” cry out in a loud voice, “How long, Sovereign Lord, holy and true, until you judge the inhabitants of the earth and avenge our blood?” (Rev. 6:9–10). It is a great comfort to know that justice will be done, and will be seen to be done; it is an even greater comfort to know that God is more forbearing than Christians. (2) But when that judgment does come, there is no escaping it, no reprieve. All who have rebelled against their Maker and never been reconciled to him, whether they are slaves or among the powerful and the mighty, cry out to the mountains and the rocks to hide them “from the face of him who sits on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb” (Rev. 6:16). But who can hide from the throne of God?

Beginning well does not mean ending well. Judas Iscariot began as an apostle; Demas began as an apostolic helper. We know how they ended up. Asa began as a reforming king zealous for God, a man who displayed formidable faith and courage when the Cushites attacked (review yesterday’s meditation)—but how he ends up in 2 Chronicles 16 is frankly disquieting.

The crisis was precipitated when Baasha, king of Israel, attacked some of Judah’s outlying towns and cities. Instead of displaying the same kind of resolute faith he had shown twenty-five years earlier, when he had to face the more formidable Cushites, Asa opts for a costly political expedient. He strips both the temple and his own palace of wealth, and sends it to Ben-Hadad, ruler of the rising regional power of Aram, centered in Damascus. Asa wants Ben-Hadad to attack Israel from the north, thereby forcing Baasha to withdraw his troops from the southern assault and defend himself in the north. The ploy worked.

This was also linking Judah with Aram in dangerous ways. More importantly, the prophet Hanani puts his finger on the worst element in this strategy: Asa is depending on politics and money, and not on the Lord God. “Were not the Cushites and Libyans a mighty army with great numbers of chariots and horsemen? Yet when you relied on the LORD, he delivered them into your hand. For the eyes of the LORD range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him. You have done a foolish thing, and from now on you will be at war” (2 Chron. 16:8–9).

Even then the situation might have been retrieved: God so regularly listens to the truly repentant. But Asa merely becomes angry, so enraged that he throws Hanani the prophet into prison. His dictatorial urges multiply, and Asa begins to brutalize the people (2 Chron. 16:10). Four years later he contracts a wretched disease, but instead of asking for the Lord’s help (let alone his forgiveness), he entrenches himself in bitterness and seeks help only from the physicians. Two years of disease later, he dies.

What about all those years of godly reform? We are not in the position, of course, to offer a final accounting: that belongs to God alone. But people can be on the side of goodness or reform for all kinds of reasons other than love of God; phenomenologically, people can have a heart for God for a long time (2 Chron. 15:17) but wilt before demonstrating final perseverance. In a disciplined person, it may take a while before the truth comes out. But when it does, the test, as always, is fundamental: Am I number one, or is God?

The reign of King Asa of Judah is instructive on several fronts, and will occupy our attention both today (2 Chron. 14–15) and tomorrow.

Asa’s long reign began with ten years of peace (2 Chron. 14:1), “for the LORD gave him rest” (2 Chron. 14:6). During this time Asa “commanded Judah to seek the LORD, the God of their fathers, and to obey his laws and commands” (2 Chron. 14:4). The people sought the Lord, “and built and prospered” (2 Chron. 14:7). At the end of ten years, Asa faced the devastating power of the Cushite forces (from the upper Nile). Asa could not possibly have forgotten how his grandfather Rehoboam was subjugated by Shishak of Egypt (2 Chron. 12). Asa’s own conduct is exemplary, a foretaste of how his descendant Hezekiah would handle himself centuries later when he faced the Babylonians: he called on the Lord, frankly acknowledging his utter powerlessness against such forces. “Help us, O LORD our God, for we rely on you, and in your name we have come against this vast army. O LORD, you are our God; do not let man prevail against you” (2 Chron. 14:11). By whatever means (the text does not specify), the Lord answers, and Asa’s relatively tiny army crushes the Cushite host.

Enter Azariah son of Oded, a prophet with a message of encouragement for Asa and for all Judah and Benjamin (2 Chron. 15:1–2). Reflecting on the terrible years of anarchy under the closing years of the judges and the opening years of the monarchy, when travel and trade were dangerous and when the Levites were not sufficiently disciplined and organized to teach the people, Azariah encourages king and people alike to seek the Lord, for “he will be found by you, but if you forsake him, he will forsake you” (2 Chron. 15:2). Such a message strengthens Asa’s resolve. He proceeds against the remaining idolatry in the land and pours resources into the maintenance of the temple. This is the covenant community, and under Asa it begins to act like one. “They sought God eagerly, and he was found by them. So the LORD gave them rest on every side” (2 Chron. 15:15) for a further quarter century, to the thirty-fifth year of Asa’s reign (2 Chron. 15:19). The “high places” were not removed (2 Chron. 15:17)—a residue of competition with the temple—but for the most part Asa was a straight arrow.

We should not be embarrassed by the blessing of God on integrity and righteousness. Righteousness exalts a nation: it lifts it up and strengthens its hand. This is not merely a sociological inference: it is the way God has structured things, the way he providentially rules. Inversely, corruption attracts the wrath of God, and sooner or later will bring a nation down.

The seven churches of Asia Minor (roughly the western third of modern Turkey) differ quite a bit from one another (Rev. 2–3). In most instances they reflect something of the cities in which they are located, either by mirroring their faults or by withstanding their oppression. Two of the seven churches, at Smyrna and Philadelphia, are small and under attack, and they receive no criticism. The other five are in various degrees of jeopardy.

The church that receives the least encouragement and the most condemnation is the church at Laodicea (Rev. 3:14–22), a church that reflects its surroundings far too closely. Laodicea was a banking center. Here travelers to the East changed their money, as did Cicero, the famous Roman orator, when he traveled beyond the borders of the Empire toward the East. The money business made the city wealthy. It was also known as an ophthalmic center. Eye infections were not uncommon, and at Laodicea doctors had developed a poultice that many found effective. The sheep in this area produced a particularly tough, black wool—the “jeans” material of the ancient world. The only real drawback to the town was its water system. Nearby Colossae had the only fresh spring water in the Lycus Valley; nearby Hierapolis boasted hot springs, renowned as a place for “taking the cure.” Laodicea had to bring in its water through stone pipes from miles away, and this water was foul. It left thick calcium carbonate deposits in the pipes, and was infamous in the ancient world for its disgusting taste.

John picks up on these points. The church thinks it is rich, but does not realize it is spiritually bankrupt. It believes it can “see,” i.e., that it is discerning, when in fact it is blind. It holds that it is well dressed, entirely presentable, whereas God perceives it is naked. This church has become smug and proud in all the ways the city is smug and proud. The exalted Jesus urges that this church “buy” the “gold” that only he can give, the eye salve only he can provide, and clothes, white clothes (signaling purity) only he can give them (Rev. 3:18). For in his experience, in their current state they are to him like Laodicea’s water: neither cool and refreshing (like the water at Colossae), nor hot and medicinal (like the water at Hierapolis), but frankly nauseating. They are neither cool and useful, nor hot and useful; they are merely disgusting and make him retch.

Many a church in the West finds itself in a similar position. Hear the Word of the Lord: “Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline. So be earnest, and repent. Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me” (Rev. 3:19–20).

The chronicler provides some fascinating insights into the reign of Rehoboam, the first king of Judah after the end of the united monarchy (2 Chron. 11–12). We note two of them.

(1) Predictably, many of the Levites who lived in the north drifted south (2 Chron. 11:11–17). Their entire life centered on the temple, and this was the connection that Jeroboam, king over the northern ten tribes, wanted to break. Not only therefore did he establish his own idol gods, but he sacked all the Levites. The effect, at least initially, was to strengthen the hand of Rehoboam (2 Chron. 11:17). Sometimes the principle of “unintended consequences” is quietly used by God’s providence to bring blessings out of what at first appears to be unmitigated disaster. The most stellar example of this, of course, is the cross.

(2) Rehoboam proves to be a mediocre king whose total effect is bad. Certain early elements in Rehoboam’s reign were good. He chose the right son, Abijah, to be his “chief prince” (2 Chron. 11:22), preparing him for the throne. Learning from the stupidity of the initial decision that had cost him the unified kingdom (2 Chron. 10:8; cf. 1 Kings 12:8), Rehoboam worked hard at maintaining contact with the people, dispersing his many sons around the districts and fortified cities of Judah. Sadly, once he had become comfortable, once his kingdom was more or less secure, he drifted away from the Law of the Lord, and so did his people (2 Chron. 12:1). God responded by unleashing Shishak, king of Egypt, against this small nation. The prophet Shemaiah thundered, “This is what the LORD says, ‘You have abandoned me; therefore, I now abandon you to Shishak’ ” (2 Chron. 12:5).

King Rehoboam and the leaders of Israel humble themselves (2 Chron. 12:6, 12). The result is that God does not permit the Egyptians to destroy Judah. Nevertheless, God says that his people will “become subject to [Shishak], so that they may learn the difference between serving me and serving the kings of other lands” (2 Chron. 12:8). This development reminds us of God’s reaction when the people of Israel entered the Promised Land and promptly compromised their faithfulness. The result was that instead of the clean sweep they might have had, they were embroiled in squalid skirmishes for generations.

There is a kind of evil that is not very bad and not very good, not too terribly rebellious yet not hungry for righteousness, a stance that drifts toward idolatry and hastily retreats at the threat of judgment. What it lacks is David’s heart, the heart of a man who, despite failures, sets himself to pursue God with passion and delight. The final verdict on Rehoboam’s reign explains the problem: “He did evil because he had not set his heart on seeking the LORD” (2 Chron. 12:14).

Before the opening vision of Revelation 1, which pictures the exalted Jesus in apocalyptic symbols that are reminiscent of the imagery of the Ancient of Days in Daniel 7 (Rev. 1:12–16), John provides us with a brief encomium: “To him who loves us and has freed us from our sins by his blood, and has made us to be a kingdom and priests to serve his God and Father—to him be glory and power for ever and ever! Amen!” (Rev. 1:5–6).

(1) For all the startling and even terrifying pictures of God and of the Lamb in this book, we start out with a declaration of Jesus’ love, his peculiar love for the people of God: “To him who loved us … be glory and power for ever and ever!” There is nothing that inspires our gratitude and awe more than the love shown us by the eternal Son of God on the cross. I believe it was T. T. Shields who penned the lines: “Was ever a heart so hardened, / And can such ingratitude be, / That one for whom Jesus suffered / Should say, ‘It is nothing to me’?”

(2) Jesus Christ “has freed us from our sins by his blood.” Some older versions offer instead “has washed us from our sins by his blood.” The difference in the Greek is only one letter; the NIV is almost certainly right. By his blood, i.e., by his sacrificial and atoning death, Jesus expiated our sins and thereby freed us from their curse. Not only so, but all the benefits we receive—the gift of the Holy Spirit, the promises of God’s enduring protection, eternal life, the consummating resurrection—have been secured by Jesus’ death, and all of them combine to free us from our sins—their guilt, their power, their results.

(3) Christ “has made us to be a kingdom and priests to serve his God and Father.” There is a sense in which we are in the kingdom—the sphere of his saving rule. There is another sense in which Christ now rules over all in unconditional sovereignty (Matt. 28:18; 1 Cor. 15:25), and in that sense everyone and everything is in his kingdom. But insofar as Christians are the peculiar locus of the redeemed community and the foretaste of the universe-transforming redemption still to come, we ourselves can be thought of as his kingdom. Moreover, he has made us priests. Christians do not have priests other than Jesus their great high priest: there is but one mediator between God and human beings (1 Tim. 2:5). But in another sense, we are priests: all Christians mediate between God and this broken, sinful world. We mediate God to fellow sinners by faithfully proclaiming and living out the Gospel, and bear their needs in our intercessory prayers before our heavenly Father. Jesus Christ has made us a kingdom and priests to serve his God and Father.

“Dear friends, although I was very eager to write to you about the salvation we share, I felt I had to write and urge you to contend for the faith that was once for all entrusted to the saints. For certain men whose condemnation was written about long ago have secretly slipped in among you. They are godless men” (Jude 1:3–4). Observe:

(1) Sometimes it is right to contend for the faith. That is not always the way forward, of course: more often the primary emphasis must be on proclamation, articulating, and rearticulating the whole counsel of God. Sometimes a gentle answer or earnest entreaty will prove the wiser course. But here, Jude urges his readers to contend for the faith.

(2) That for which we must contend is the faith that was once for all entrusted to the saints. The place where the faith is being attacked in such cases is bound up with some stance that describes itself as “progressive,” “contemporary,” or “avant-garde”—but which is inevitably prepared to sacrifice something that “was once for all entrusted to the saints.” Of course, sometimes the latter is nothing more than an appeal to unwarranted tradition, but that is not what is going on in this case. Here the “progressivists” are sacrificing something that has been essential to the Gospel from the very beginning.

(3) In some cases, contending for the faith (which is not to be confused with being contentious about the faith) is the most urgent thing to do. That is why Jude can openly admit he had hoped to write something else, but felt compelled to apply himself to this more urgent task. However discomfiting, when essential truth is being denied, and the denial is being believed by rising numbers, strategic wisdom foregoes other ministry for a while and focuses on the immediate pressing danger.

(4) The need for the firmest contention usually arises when the heretical voices arise in the church. When those who oppose the truth are outside the church, then although some Christians must respond to their various arguments (perhaps for evangelistic purposes), there is no urgency about contending for the faith once entrusted to the saints. Once such people manage to slip inside the church, however, so that many naive Christians accept their teaching without perceiving it to be pernicious, firm contention is inevitable. Such people must not only be refuted, but disciplined—and the latter cannot be accomplished without the former.

(5) The peculiar godlessness Jude confutes in this case is some perverse reading of the Gospel that transmutes it into “a license for immorality” (Jude 1:4). Any reading of the Gospel that promotes immorality or denies the efficacy of Jesus’ salvation must be wrong and dismissed as godless.