The term “apocalypse” conjures mental images of fire raining down from heaven, people mysteriously being “taken up” or raptured, or some other violent dystopian scenario like Tim LaHaye’s and Jerry Jenkins’ Left Behind series. But, “apocalypse” actually just means “to uncover” or “reveal.” The thing being revealed, or unveiled, could be something new or ancient, but previously hidden.
Richard Rohr suggests, I think rightly, that in order for something new or previously hidden to be revealed, old things must be peeled away or removed. To reveal a diamond or nugget of gold in the ground, layer upon layer of earth must be carefully and methodically removed.
Rohr further suggests that “[a]pocalyptic literature … is not meant to strike fear in us as much as a radical re-arrangement. It’s not the end of the world. It’s the end of worlds—our worlds that we have created.”1
What are the things hidden that the writers of our holy scriptures were trying to unveil? Luke offers a series of allegories and parables about lost (or hidden) things that certain characters go to extravagant efforts to find: the lost sheep (15.1-7), the lost coin (15.8-10), the prodigal son (15.11-32). After these stories, Jesus laments over Jerusalem, responding to the threat on his life from the local governor, Herod. Jesus says, according to Luke, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you kill prophets [those who speak truths, often hidden truths] and stone those who were sent to you! How often I have wanted to gather your people just as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. But you didn’t want that. Look, your house is abandoned” (Common English Bible, 23.37-38).
Apocalyptic literature attempts to offer a new or alternate reality (or way of seeing things) which can bring light into the darkest of times or situations. In the 2010-2011 Horizon’s Bible Study published by Presbyterian Women, the Rev. Dr. Barbara Rossing suggests that one of the most famous apocalyptic literature, the Book of Revelation (an English word for “apocalypse”) is actually a love letter with a message of hope.
Yes, the same book that LaHaye and Jenkins use as the basis for their Left Behind series, which, in my opinion, has little to do with what John of Patmos wrote in the Book of Revelation. LaHaye and Jenkins take great liberties with the scripture. In the Book of Revelation the author begins by introducing Jesus as “the one who loves us” (1.5). In the Left Behind series, it’s all about rapture and the end of the world (as opposed to the end of “these” times, these destructive and oppressive times).
Rossing writes, “Revelation takes us on a journey into the heart of God’s own dreams for our world.”2 It is the unveiling of a new Jerusalem, a new world, a new way of being in the world that invites us to live into God’s hope and vision—a world of peace, abundance, and true relationship (not the pseudo relationships we so often build on social media). Rossing even encourages readers to begin at the end—read chapters 21-22 first, then read the rest of the book through that lens.
Returning to Rohr, he writes that everything is temporary. Nothing is permanent. Specifically, he writes, “Jesus’ use of apocalyptic language is his way of showing that everything is passing away. God puts us in a world of passing things where everything changes, and nothing remains the same. … Apocalyptic literature helps us make room for something new by clearing out the old—old ideas, old stories, old ways of thinking, especially if we’ve become too attached to them.”
This past year, Rohr suggests, has been an apocalyptic time. He offers the words of author Neale Donald Walsch: “Yearning for a new way will not produce it. Only ending the old way can do that” (Facebook post by Walsch, July 22, 2014). We have been forced to let go of a lot of old ways as we navigated and adapted to the new reality of the pandemic. And though millions have received vaccinations, it looks as though the virus that causes COVID-19 will be with us for a long time. The Spanish Flu of 1918 is still with us over 100 years later—that’s why we get flu shots every year.
We cannot keep putting our lives on hold. We cannot keep shutting things down. We are going to have to discover new ways of doing things that allow us to live our lives and keep one another as safe and healthy as possible. For this to work, our hyper-individualism is going to have to give way to re-learning how to trust and depend on one another—which also means re-learning how to be trustworthy and dependable for one another. I’m not only talking about the bubbles of friends and family we have created to stave off infection. I’m talking about how we choose to be with and for strangers at work, at stores, at the coffee shop, and in our daily lives. I’m talking about wearing masks not for ourselves, but for the benefit of those who may be at risk or who believe they are at risk, whether we agree or not. I’m talking about erring on the side of caution for the sake of the vulnerable. For ninety-nine percent of us, it doesn’t hurt to wear a mask. But it may hurt not to.
2. Barbara Rossing, Horizons Bible Study, 2010-2011, 3.↩