A History of the End of the World (4 page)

Similarly, Gog and Magog are described in Revelation as nations who put their armies under Satan’s command in the final battle at the end of the world. But when they are first mentioned by the prophet Ezekiel in the Hebrew Bible, Gog is a monarch, Magog is the country over which he reigns, and Satan is not mentioned at all. To be sure, Ezekiel predicts a battle between Israel and “Gog of the land of Magog,” but it is
not
a cataclysmic clash of arms that brings the world to doomsday.
¹⁷
Rather, God himself invites King Gog to invade the land of Israel so that the God of Israel can “manifest My greatness and My holiness” by granting the Israelites a glorious victory.
¹⁸
And, in fact, when the army of Gog is destroyed and the battlefield is cleansed of corpses, the Israelites will once again “dwell in their land secure and untroubled.”
¹⁹
Like the incident with Job, the whole bloody affair has been contrived by God himself to make a point: “They will know that I the Lord am their God when, having exiled them among the nations, I gather them back into their land.”
²⁰

Even when one of the Hebrew prophets
seems
to predict the end of the world, using words and phrases that will be familiar to readers of Revelation, he is actually describing something very different from what we find in Christian scripture. “The hour of doom has come,” vows God in the book of Amos. “I will make the sun set at noon, I will darken the earth on a sunny day.”
²¹
But the prophet Amos, quite unlike the author of Revelation, does
not
predict that God will destroy the earth and replace it with a celestial paradise in the clouds. Rather, as Amos sees it, God will spare the Israelites who have remained faithful to the divine law, and he will grant them nothing more exalted than a good life in the here and now.

To be sure, some of the Hebrew prophets were capable of weird and wild-eyed visions of the kind that we find in Revelation and other apocalyptic writings. Ezekiel, like the author of Revelation, claims to have beheld grotesque monsters and bizarre phenomena that exist nowhere in the natural world. Among the sights that Ezekiel sees, for example, are four creatures with the torso of a human being, a single calf’s hoof, four wings with a human hand beneath the feathers, and a head with four faces—a human face in front, an eagle’s face in the back, and the faces of a lion and an ox on the sides.
²³
And he describes how these creatures move on fiery “wheels,” a contrivance that convinced some of Ezekiel’s later readers that what he had actually seen were UFOs: “And when the living creatures were lifted up from the earth,” writes Ezekiel, “the wheels were lifted up.”
²⁴

So there is a kind of genetic linkage between the classical prophets of the Hebrew Bible and the authors of the apocalyptic writings: “Apocalyptic,” as H. H. Rowley puts it, “is the child of prophecy.”
²⁵
But the biblical prophecies differ in significant ways from the ones we find in the apocalyptic writings. Unlike the writers of the apocalyptic tradition, who delight in “guided tours” of the seven heavens, the biblical prophets always remain right here on earth. “No Hebrew prophet, not even Isaiah and Ezekiel, had gone up to heaven,” explains historian Bernard McGinn, a prominent figure in the study of Christian mysticism and apocalypticism in the Middle Ages.
*
“God had always condescended to come down to earth.”
²⁶
And, significantly, when the Jewish prophets look into the future to determine the fate of humankind, they imagine not a heavenly paradise but an earthly one.

The Jewish notion of an earthly kingdom under a God-sent king, as we shall see, shows up in the book of Revelation in the vision of the thousand-year reign of Jesus Christ that will follow the battle of Armageddon. Indeed, that’s one clue to the Jewish origins of its author and first readers, and that’s one of the reasons why Revelation was such a hard sell when the early Christians were deciding which writings belonged in the Bible. But that’s hardly the only or even the most crucial difference between the classical prophets of the Bible and the apocalyptic authors. The single greatest theological innovation in the apocalyptic tradition was a new and revolutionary answer to an old and enduring question: Why do bad things happen to good people?

T
he author of Revelation, of course, sets up “that old serpent, called the Devil and Satan,” as the source of all evil in the world.
²⁷
By contrast, as we have seen, the Hebrew prophets do not seem to know or care much about Satan, and they embrace the simple if also harsh idea that everything, good
or
bad, begins and ends with God. If the armies of Gog invade the land of Israel, for example, it is because God sent them to do so—and if the Israelites defeat the invader, it is because God grants them victory in battle. And if the Chosen People forfeit the favor of God, they have only themselves to blame.

The moral equation is plainly written in the Bible. God, we are told in the Torah, offers the children of Israel a “covenant”—that is, a contract, and a simple one at that. If the Israelites obey the laws that God is shown to reveal to Moses on Sinai, God will bestow blessings upon them, and if they disobey those laws, God will afflict them with curses. Thus, according to the core theology of the Bible, God is the sole author of history and the sole arbiter of what happens to humankind. And so, if God is sufficiently provoked by the stubbornness and sinfulness of the Chosen People to make them suffer famine or pestilence, conquest or exile, it means only that they are getting what they bargained for and what they deserve.

Some of the most heart-shaking and stomach-turning passages of the Bible, in fact, are the ones in which Moses provides a catalog of the curses that God will bring down on the children of Israel “if you are not careful to do all the words of this law which are written in this book, that you may fear this glorious and awful name, the Lord your God.” So ghastly is the parade of horribles, warns Moses in the book of Deuteronomy, that “you will be driven mad by the sights you see.”
²⁸

God will afflict the Chosen People with “extraordinary plagues, strange and lasting,” starting with “hemorrhoids, boil-scars, and itch,” escalating to “madness, blindness, and dismay,” and ending with the emblematic curse of the Jewish people—conquest and dispersion, exile and enslavement. “The Lord will bring a nation against you from afar,” vows Moses, “a nation whose language you do not understand, a ruthless nation that will show the old no regard and the young no mercy.”
²⁹

Remarkably, the innocent will suffer along with the guilty—men, women, children, and babies alike—and all because God himself wills it. “You shall betroth a wife, and another man shall lie with her,” rants Moses. “Your sons and your daughters shall be given to another people and it shall not be in the power of your hand to stop it.”
³⁰
And, besieged in their cities by the conquering armies, the children of Israel will be reduced to cannibalism. Perhaps the most horrific scene in all of the Bible is the one in which a “dainty and tender” young mother hides the afterbirth of her newborn infant—and the baby itself—from her husband and other children: “She shall eat them secretly,” says Moses, “because of utter want, in the desperate straits to which your enemy shall reduce you.”
³¹

So the Hebrew prophets find fault only with the Israelites. They do not mention Satan at all, and they do not blame the unhappy fate of the Israelites on the various pagan kings who are shown in the Bible to invade and conquer the land of Israel. Indeed, according to the logic of the biblical prophets, as we have seen, the foreign oppressors are sent
by
God, and the Israelites suffer precisely the fate that God promises them in Deuteronomy. The point is plainly made by the prophet Jeremiah by way of explanation of the Babylonian conquest and exile in 586
B.C.E
.
*
: “And when your people say, ‘Why has the Lord our God done all these things to us?,’ you shall say to them: ‘As you have forsaken me and served foreign gods in your land, so you shall serve strangers in a land that is not yours.’”
³²

God, too, decides when to remove the curses that he has called down on his own people, according to the biblical prophets. When the Babylonians were later defeated by the rival empire of the Persians, the exiled Jews were allowed to return to their homeland in Judea and rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem. That is why the emperor of Persia, Cyrus, is hailed in the Bible as a savior of the Jewish people, and that’s why God is given all the credit for sending him to their rescue: “Thus says the Lord to Cyrus, His anointed one, whose right hand He has grasped,” writes the prophet Isaiah in one poignant passage. “‘For the sake of Israel, I call you by name, though you have not known Me.’”
³³

The phrase “anointed one,” of course, is a literal translation of the original Hebrew word that comes down to us in English as “messiah.” And so the biblical author makes it clear that even a pagan may serve as a messiah if the God of Israel wills it. The name of Cyrus, the pagan messiah from ancient Persia, is rendered in biblical Hebrew as “Koresh,” and it is a name that we will encounter again in the long and exceedingly strange history of Revelation. Indeed, the fact that the name “Koresh” first appears in the Bible and then figures in the headlines of the late twentieth century shows the remarkable staying power of the messianic idea.

But the simple idea that God alone is the source of both good and evil began to lose its appeal at a moment when the biblical texts were still being composed and the Bible as we know it did not yet exist. On precisely this point, as we shall see, the earliest apocalyptic writers in Jewish tradition came up with one of their most startling and enduring innovations—the notion that Satan, and not God, is to be blamed for the bad things that happen. Some pious and prideful Jewish men and women simply refused to believe that God would afflict
them
merely because some of their fellow Jews were less than pious, and they began to look for someone else to blame—a supernatural arch-villain who was God’s adversary and enemy.

The idea that God is forced to struggle against an Anti-God would have struck the classical prophets of the Hebrew Bible as alien, baffling, and even heretical. But the idea captured the hearts and minds of Jewish men and women who suffered conquest and exile, occupation and oppression, estrangement and disempowerment, all at the hands of pagan kings and armies whom the God of Israel seemed unwilling or unable to defeat. So a few daring innovators set out to work a theological revolution by raising the biblical Satan from divine counselor and public prosecutor to the new and elevated role of master conspirator and maker of war on God himself. Here begins the apocalyptic tradition that will figure so prominently in Christian theology, and nowhere more prominently than in the pages of Revelation.

By an old tradition in rabbinical Judaism, the end of the Babylonian Exile in 538
B.C.E.
also marks the end of prophecy. God was willing to speak in dreams and visions to a few exceptional men and women who lived in the distant past, the rabbis conceded, but they found it harder to believe that human beings in the here and now had been granted the same divine gift. While the ancient rabbis were willing to imagine the coming of a savior who would bring an era of peace and security to the Jewish people, they were less credulous about men and women who offered their own prophecies and revelations about the end of the world. And, for that reason, most of the apocalyptic writings of the late biblical era were not only excluded from the Hebrew Bible itself, they were wholly written out of Jewish tradition.

“The day the Temple was destroyed, prophecy was taken from prophets,” says the Talmud, “and given to fools and children.”
³⁴

But, tragically, the Jewish experience of conquest did not come to an end. After a few centuries of relative peace and security as a provincial backwater of the Persian empire, Judea was invaded yet again by the armies of a conqueror from a far-off country whose language the Jewish people did not speak. His name was Alexander, and among his celebrated accomplishments was the spread of the classical pagan civilization that we call Hellenism. For the Jewish fundamentalists in ancient Judea, the arrival of Greek art, letters, manners, philosophy, and religion was as threatening as the arrival of any pagan army.

Notably, the very first apocalypses were written in direct response to the danger posed by Hellenism, a danger that manifested itself sometimes in occupation and oppression by a foreign army, but far more often as a kind of seduction by a foreign culture that was rich, worldly, sophisticated, and pleasure seeking. And so, by a strange irony, Alexander the Great, too, can be regarded as one of the fathers of the apocalyptic tradition that will ultimately produce, several centuries later, the book of Revelation.

Alexander himself was dead by 323
B.C.E.
, only thirty-three years old and already weeping for want of new worlds to conquer, but he left behind an empire that now included the land of the Jews. And in Judea, as elsewhere throughout the ancient world, the local gentry were eager to embrace the alluring new ways of their latest overlords. So it was that the Jewish aristocracy and intelligentsia began to speak and write in Greek. The earliest translation of the Bible into a language other than Hebrew, for example, is the Greek version called the Septuagint. But, significantly, the aping of Greek ways by Jewish men and women went far beyond the otherwise pious study of scripture in translation.