This piece was adapted from Russell Moore’s newsletter. Subscribe here.
When times are dark, people often steady themselves with an escape into a book. Sometimes that means retreating into stories of simpler times or happier places. I recently learned there’s even a genre called “cozy mystery.”
With the bleakness of the news these days, I too found myself seeking refuge in the better, calmer world of a book. The weird thing is that the book is Revelation.
When I first considered teaching through Revelation at my church, I had some qualms. People everywhere are already on edge—reeling from a pandemic, divided by politics, staring down an artificial intelligence revolution that might upend everything—and Revelation is, well, apocalyptic.
Its symbology of beasts, dragons, horsemen, and seals can seem confusing and overwhelming to most people. Plus, the Book of Revelation can be terrifying. It opens with the resurrected Christ sternly rebuking churches, and then gets darker.
I love the book, but I wondered if teaching it in this current moment would feel like showing up to a Sex Addicts Anonymous retreat to lead a study on Song of Solomon.
Maybe I should wait for a less chaotic time, I said to myself. But I’m glad I resisted that temptation to quit before I started. Spending time each week in Revelation—meditating on it, preparing to teach it—has calmed me, steadied my nerves, and even made me happier. Here’s why.
Many treat Revelation as a cryptic message meant for someone else. Some think it was for first-century Christians under Roman persecution. Others, especially in the past century of American Christianity, believe it’s a roadmap for the end times: Wormwood is satellite technology, the mark of the Beast is a QR code, Gog and Magog are China and Russia, and so on.
But Revelation, like all Scripture, is Christ speaking to his church in every generation, in every kind of crisis. Those who have paid close attention to the book across history often identify two central themes: unveiling and overcoming. Both speak directly to my temptations toward cynicism and anxiety, and both offer surprising comfort.
Unveiling, the literal meaning of apocalypse, doesn’t mean vindication. In a time when truth is often defined by power or popularity—even by those who once warned against relativism—many measure truth by the “vibe” or the proximity to influence, whether that’s corporate hierarchies or tech algorithms. In this framework, truth becomes whatever wins in the moment.
Social media and entertainment culture have reinforced the illusion that truth is what goes viral. If a church is growing, it must be faithful. If a political movement polls well, it must be right. In personal conflicts, many assume there will eventually be a moment when the truth comes out and finally vindicates them. But that moment rarely arrives.
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The unveiling in Revelation is different. It reveals a deeper reality than metrics. Jesus says to the churches, “I know.” “I know where you dwell, where Satan’s throne is. … You did not deny my faith,” he tells one (2:13, ESV throughout). To another: “You have the reputation of being alive, but you are dead” (3:1).
The Roman Empire appeared to be the apex of history, the ultimate civilization. Yet Revelation unmasks it. What looks like a god is a beast (ch. 13), and Babylon, which seems permanent, collapses in an hour (18:10).
The Christians pressured to conform seem like a scattered, feeble minority, but they are actually part of “a great multitude that no one could number” (7:9). The throne that crucifies them is occupied by a beast, but behind the veil sits a “Lamb who was slain” (5:12).
Overcoming, the other dominant theme, answers the question that haunts many of us: “Yes, but what can we do?” Revelation answers, again and again: Overcome. But not in the way we expect.
The overcomers are not the ones who conquer Rome or subvert Babylon. They are those who refuse to bow. They do not triumph by redirecting the same kind of power for “our side” but by resisting those categories for “winning” altogether. “They have conquered him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, for they loved not their lives even unto death” (12:11).
In Revelation, the real threat to the church isn’t persecution—it’s assimilation. “Do not fear what you are about to suffer” (2:10), Jesus says to one church. The danger is not what the empire can do to Christians, but what Christians will become to avoid suffering.
Jesus downplays external threats, urging endurance. But he warns severely against internal compromise. To lose your life is bearable. To lose your lampstand is not. To be without a head is temporary. To be without Jesus is hell.
When we ask, “What can we do?” in the face of overwhelming evil, we often want a strategy. Sometimes that’s possible and necessary. But more often, the problems are too vast to solve by technique.
You can’t fix “the church.” You can’t save “the world.” But you can call cruelty what it is. You can see idolatry clearly. You can refuse to become a Beast yourself. And Revelation shows us that what stands against the Beast is not a bigger, stronger beast—but a Lamb that is slain.
The unveiling in Revelation is a call to wisdom. “He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches” (3:6). And the theme of overcoming in Revelation is a call to endurance. It is better to be beheaded than to become a beheader.
Yes, the times are perilous. They always are. Maybe there’s war, famine, or tyranny on the horizon. But behind the veil, the table is being set for a wedding feast. That should strengthen us to stand without fear or despair. It should remind us of the way back to the Tree of Life.
Apocalyptic questions demand apocalyptic answers: Stay awake. Strengthen what remains. Learn to say, “Come, Lord Jesus.” Overcome.
And when you feel anxious or afraid, read something calming and reassuring—like the Book of Revelation.
Russell Moore is the editor in chief at Christianity Today and leads its Public Theology Project.
