It should be no surprise that I was a weird kid into weird stuff. I wanted my faith to be like my namesake—mysterious and dark, preferably with an ancient teacher uttering cryptic phrases. My namesake, of course, being Luke… Skywalker, learning from Yoda in the swamps of Dagobah.

I was marinated in Revelation. Growing up, books like Left Behind, This Present Darkness, and The Remnant Trilogy were everywhere. They thrilled and scared me. And they were “biblical,” so how could they be bad? My uncle even had a little book laying out how Revelation was being fulfilled in our time. One section terrified me—it claimed Lucent Technologies was part of the Beast. Its name vaguely resembled “Lucifer,” its logo was a red circle (and we all know red is the devil’s color), and the circle looked like a snake eating its tail, which was supposedly pagan and evil. These were flimsy arguments, but as a 7th grader I bought in completely. So when my mom brought home a Lucent answering machine, I refused to use it.

Revelation featured heavily in my upbringing. So when I broke with the church, I left it behind, too. And honestly? I found myself less suspicious, less anxious. I wasn’t deathly afraid of my answering machine anymore. I thought of Revelation the way English writer D.H. Lawrence did, calling it “the work of a second-rate mind” that “appeals to second-rate minds in every country and every century.”[1]

Fast forward to my arrival at Lancaster Theological Seminary. Who should be teaching my New Testament course but Dr. Greg Carey, a foremost expert on apocalyptic literature—especially Revelation. Had I known this beforehand, I might have chosen another seminary! Yet Greg, whom you’ll meet at the end of this month, helped me understand Revelation again, as if for the first time. So let’s seek understanding together.

Three Things to Know about Revelation. First, it’s Revelation, not Revelations. The moment someone adds an “s,” I can’t take them seriously. It’s one revelation, not many.

Second, it’s a letter written to specific churches in a specific time. It spoke to their struggles under empire, but it also casts a vision beyond their moment—less a timetable for the end of the world and more a hope for the healing of the world.

Third, Revelation belongs to a biblical genre called apocalyptic literature. We tend to think “apocalypse” means “end of the world,” but in Greek the word means “an unveiling”—something hidden now made visible. Daniel would be the most famous Jewish apocalyptic work. Early Christians even had their own apocalypses, like the Shepherd of Hermas and the Apocalypse of Peter which reads a lot like Dante’s Inferno. For centuries, Hermas rivaled Revelation in popularity.

Apocalyptic literature is full of symbolism and allegory. You can’t read it literally without ending up in knots of contradiction. It’s evocative, not scientific; poetic, not prescriptive.

Our text begins, “I, John, your brother who share with you in Jesus the persecution and the kingdom and the patient endurance, was on the island called Patmos because of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus.”

Patmos is a Greek island in the Aegean Sea—you can still visit it today. According to tradition, “John” was exiled there during the reign of Emperor Domitian (AD 81–96) because of his testimony about Jesus. Most scholars agree this John is not the same as the author of the Gospel of John. The style, Greek phrasing, and theology are all different.

Revelation was written in a world where Christians were pressured to participate in emperor worship—this the “imperial cult.” Declaring “Jesus is Lord” was political language. It meant “Caesar is not.” To this day, it means the President is not. America is not. Our ultimate loyalty belongs to Christ alone.

John writes: “I turned to see whose voice it was that spoke to me, and on turning I saw seven golden lampstands, and in the midst of the lampstands I saw one like the Son of Man…”

The seven lampstands recall the menorah both at the tabernacle in the wilderness and in the Temple. These are to represent the seven churches to whom this letter is addressed to encourage them to be lights for the world. The “Son of Man” is a title Jesus used for himself over 80 times in the Gospels, drawn from Daniel 7. It carries both humility (“a human being”) and exaltation (“the heavenly ruler to come”).

The vision piles up symbols: a golden sash (authority), hair white as wool (wisdom), eyes like fire (discernment), feet like bronze (firmness, and a reminder of Jesus’ brown skin in the Mediterranean world), and a sharp sword from his mouth (God’s Word from Isaiah).

And then comes that repeated phrase from angels throughout Scripture: “Do not be afraid.” To the prophets getting their call, to Mary at the annunciation, to the shepherds at the birth of Jesus, to John on Patmos—the same words. Do not be afraid.

Jesus then commands John, “Now write what you have seen, what is, and what is to take place after this.”

Much of the book is coded political commentary. Think of it this way: if I said, “The donkey and the elephant are fighting in the house of white,” you’d know exactly what I meant. But imagine such speech were illegal—you’d need symbols to cover your meaning. That’s what Revelation does.

Our kids downstairs in Jesus Vibes are learning, “Revelation is at the very end of the Bible. Some people think it’s a secret code about the end of the world, but others think it was written to help people long ago—and us today—understand God and trust God even when things are hard.”

And that’s the heart of it: God is with us even when times are hard. Revelation was written to churches under pressure, urging them to remain faithful and not bow to the power of empire. But symbols can be twisted. Some have used Revelation to control others through fear. That’s how I learned it as a kid. That’s what I had to unlearn. Thanks to teachers like Greg Carey, I’ve reclaimed Revelation as a book of hope, not fear. It’s high art, full of symbols meant to stir memory and imagination, grounding us in God’s presence.

The Very Rev. Alan Jones once said, “Truth lies in the interpretation. And I hope you catch the double meaning of the word lies.” That phrase broke my brain. It’s the whole sermon in six words: Truth lies in the interpretation.

I believe all of us have had a revelation at some point—an experience that struck so deep it felt like someone was playing your heartstrings. The words you had longed to hear. The beauty you didn’t know you needed. The moment you whispered, “Thank God—I’m not alone.”

It might have been your favorite movie, your favorite song, your favorite painting. For me, I constantly get this feeling whenever I see Van Gogh’s Starry Night. One ex-girlfriend once stated, “Ew! Why do you like that?! It’s so sad!” I just don’t experience that way. There’s a tension in the painting, the sleepy town at peace, the swirling sky in its dynamic movement. The point is this: the same image, sound, or story can hit people differently. Truth lies in the interpretation.

However, there are some interpretations that are just beyond the pale. We cannot make “Silent Night” about Halloween. It’s about Christmas. We cannot make “Breaking Up is Hard to Do” about a wedding. These interpretations make no sense.

How you interpret Revelation might be different from how I read it. Maybe this is your favorite letter. Maybe you have no experience with it whatsoever. Maybe all you know is what you’ve heard about it from others, but never first hand.

Greg Carey writes, “Modern readers may recoil from the fearsome Jesus described here; however, if we remember Revelation’s audience—small, vulnerable circles of disciples who face opposition—they need a fierce Jesus who can protect them… The glorious risen Jesus, so fierce in his intensity, dwells among them and holds their concerns in his powerful hand.”

That’s the Jesus I need today. Fierce and tender. The Jesus who reminds me: Do not be afraid. The Jesus who keeps hope alive when the world feels overwhelming. This series will help us understand Revelation not about the end of the world, but a letter encouraging people of faith to persist in hard times. It’s resistance literature. It calls us to be fierce in love and faithful to Christ alone.

This week I was called “not a real Christian” by another pastor. He stated that I should be wary on judgment day. I reminded him of the merits we will be judged on from Matthew 25: feeding, clothing, welcoming, visiting. Those are the merits we will be judged on. And looking out at you church and your work, and me by-proxy; I think I’m in good company.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Works Cited

[1] Greg Carey, Faithful and True: A study guide to the Book of Revelation. The Pilgrim Press. 2022. Page 12.