Apocalypse now and then.

As we approach the year 2000, we are sated with headlines and books pointing to the end of this or that, raising our curiosity about what the next millennium will be like. There is a kind of muted excitement about witnessing a new millennium. At the least, we wonder what it will feel like to date our letters, January 1, 2000! Futurists suggest trends that we are likely to see continue and develop when the year 2000 rolls around. Others suggest that the expressions of guilt and repentance taking place around the globe from the French church to South Africa are somehow appropriate--that a new millennium is a time to get our houses in order. And author Paul Thigpen has compiled a number of papal writings in a volume entitled Celebrate 2000! A Three Year Reader (Servant, 1996) to help Catholics prepare for the millennium in a spiritual way.

Perhaps it's all this talk about the millennium that has led me to the Book of Daniel. Although most of us do not anticipate an apocalyptic conflagration in the year 2000, many of us do see it as a time to step back and reflect on the larger picture of history and cosmos.

Visions, fire, dazzling faces, radiant clothing, voices coming out of clouds, the Ancient One sitting on the throne amidst ministering throngs--chapter seven in the book of Daniel offers a Cecil B. DeMille portrayal of the end of the world. The Ancient One sits on a throne of burning fire that flames out toward the thousands upon thousands in attendance. One like a son of man comes on the clouds of heaven and receives dominion, glory, and kingship that shall last forever. We often hear this reading on the Feast of the Transfiguration when Jesus stands before Peter, James, and John--his face dazzling like the sun, his clothes radiant as light. A voice from a cloud says, "This is my beloved Son, on whom my favor rests. Listen to him."

The Book of Daniel is set in a time in which the Israelites were dominated and persecuted by the cruel ruler Antiochus IV Epiphanes, probably about 165 B.C. The legends recounted in the first part of Daniel are meant to encourage the Israelites to keep the Commandments and to trust that God will always remain with them, even in adversity. The four beasts of chapter seven point to the persecutions of Israel that give way to the image of a throne on which a messianic figure, the "Son of Man," sits. At the end of the ages dominion over the world is held by a host of celestial beings who are God's ministers. The final outcome of persecution is salvation by Yahweh. The message is one of hope for the future in the midst of suffering and persecution.

At various times throughout history, individuals and communities have claimed to know when the world would end. Inevitably, the date they announce comes and goes, and eventually another group comes forward with a new prediction. But the apocalyptic imagery of Daniel strikes most Christians as strange indeed. This genre of writing has been around for a long time, long enough for scholars to analyze its diverse forms and to draw some conclusions about its functions. Some suggest that apocalyptic writings arose among the Israelites when they no longer had any historical hope.

As is the case in this passage from Daniel, apocalyptic literature often functioned in times of crisis to assure the hearer of God's reliable power that would ultimately rescue the faithful from persecution or trouble. Often, apocalyptic texts describe fantastic visions that give meaning to past and present troubles, pointing with confidence to the future establishment of God's messianic kingdom. Redemption expands outward from narrow personal or nationalistic horizons to cosmic and transhistorical perspectives.

The message, often couched in an ambience of timelessness, placelessness, and oblique symbols, is certainly about the ultimate victory of God. God is portrayed as the master of history who will be victorious in the end. Evil powers will be judged and condemned, and a new age will dawn in which God will reign amongst the good who receive their reward and give themselves over to praise of God for all eternity. The chaos of earthly life will give way to celestial order and stability. Pessimism about the present will be transformed into joyous optimism about the age to come.

Hildegard of Bingen, a 12th-century Benedictine abbess, preacher, prophet, healer, and musician composed a major theological work titled Scivias that is also filled with apocalyptic images of towers and fires and personified virtues that are larger than life. In her first vision she sees "a great mountain the color of iron, and enthroned on it One of such great glory that it blinded my sight. On each side of him there extended a soft shadow, like a wing of wondrous breadth and length. Before him, at the foot of the mountain stood an image full of eyes on all sides, in which, because of those eyes, I could discern no human form" (Scivias, I, 1, Prologue).

Hildegard writes and speaks out against the abuses of the church in her time, which included schism, warring rivalries between empire and papacy, a lax clergy, and widespread greed. She describes the crisis of her time: "But now the Catholic faith wavers among the nations and the Gospel limps among the people; the mighty books go unread from shameful apathy; and the food of life, the scriptures, cools to tepidity" (III, 11, 18).

How might these apocalyptic images be revelation of the good news for us today? To begin, they are focused on God and are intended to say something about who God is. The God of the apocalypse is an awesome, otherworldly, and powerful figure. This figure is more than human, surrounded by an aura of bright light. In the New Testament story of the Transfiguration, Jesus becomes dazzling as the sun. One is reminded of the way Hildegard describes her messages from God as coming from the "living light."

We all know that power can be, and too often is, used for evil ends to control and dominate others. On the other hand, good power is crucial and welcome to help keep our affairs going and to reassure us in a pinch. No doubt we have all had the experience of being in a crisis, and being mighty glad that someone was around who was able to comfort us by being strong and offering assurances that somehow "things would be all right."

The God we encounter in Daniel is reliable and powerful on a very broad, cosmic scale. Apocalyptic writing reminds us of this God and invites us to trust that no matter how profoundly we manage to interfere with God's loving designs by filling the world with hate and violence and innocent suffering, evil will not have the last word. Trusting in God's providence is not a call to irresponsibility but rather just the opposite--an invitation to allow God's reliable power to release in us the love to lay down our lives daily for the good of our loved ones, of strangers across the globe, of our enemies, and of ecosystems. A new millennium offers an invitation to take stock not only of our personal lives, but of families, neighborhoods, churches, nations, and the world.

At the conclusion of Scivias, Hildegard describes her vision of the end-time. She says, "After this I looked, and behold, all the elements and creatures were shaken by dire convulsions; fire and air and water burst forth and the earth was made to move, lightning and thunder crashed and mountains and forests fell, and all that was mortal expired. And all the elements were purified, and whatever had been foul in them vanished and was no more seen. And I heard a voice resounding in a great cry throughout the world, saying, `O ye children of men who are lying in the earth, rise up one and all!' And suddenly from the East a great brilliance shone forth; and there, in a cloud, I saw the Son of Man ... he sat upon a throne of flame, glowing but not burning, which floated on the great tempest which was purifying the world.... And at once such great joy and praise arose in Heaven, and such great misery and howling in Hell, as were beyond human power to utter. ... And the sun, moon and stars sparkled in the firmament like great ornaments, remaining fixed and not moving in orbit, so that they no longer distinguished day from night. And so there was no night but day. And it was finished" (III, 12, Prologue).

In the last several decades, theology and spirituality have focused on an immanent God, one who is close, approachable, friendly, and deeply involved in the affairs of the world. And this is a good development, a needed correction to a too-distant God. But one wants to keep the transcendent God in view as well--at least out of the corner of one's eye. God is both nearer to us than we are to ourselves and also dazzling, awesome, speaking like thunder out of the clouds. This is the God before whom it is a good idea to have a healthy fear and tremble.

And when we do experience and embrace this God, we may find ourselves responding in two quite different ways. First, we might breathe a sigh of relief, because no matter how tough things get in our personal lives, in our families, or in our world, there is this shining, flashing, powerful God upon whom to lean. This is a God we can count on. This is a God who, we believe, actually does have the power ultimately to make all things well. And if the gift of faith allows us, ever so gingerly, and at times with a good dose of skepticism, to rely on this God, we then become free to be "for others." If God does indeed watch over creation, then we can stop worrying about our own needs and insecurities and begin worrying about and working for the good of the world. Hildegard's trust in a powerful and providential God allowed her to unleash her energies in the interest of justice, honesty, and integrity.

The second response is what used to be known as fear of the Lord. Not a servile fear, or a fear of punishment (although on occasion, the biblical writers and Hildegard are not shy about threatening readers with damnation), but rather a healthy fear of God's awesome love, of our ability to turn our backs on this love, and of God's rightfully angry response.

As the story goes, we have a God who creates the world out of love, sends the Son out of love, who lays down his life out of love, and promises us the Spirit for eternity, out of love. How dare we take this love for granted? How can we not be filled with awe, with fear and trembling at such powerful love? And should we not, metaphorically speaking, fall on the ground with Peter, James, and John at the Transfiguration, overcome with fear at this mighty voice that commands us to love others--even our enemies in the same way in which God loves us?

As we look toward the millennium, let us ponder this dazzling, awesome God. Let us remember that the God of glory and the God of the cross, in the person of Jesus, is the very same God. Let us repent of our narrow, selfish preoccupations; learn better to trust God's benevolent power to make all things well; and resolve to begin anew with increased love and commitment to work, live, and pray for a more just, loving, and humane world.

By Elizabeth Dreyer, the author of several books, including Manifestations of Grace (Liturgical Press, 1990) and Earth Crammed with Heaven: A Spirituality of Everyday Life (Paulist, 1994). She lives in Hamden, Connecticut.