On Second Thought
Advent is a season that teaches us how to wait faithfully in a world that does not feel stable. We light candles while headlines grow darker, we sing of hope while grief remains close at hand, and we confess that Christ will come again even as chaos seems to multiply around us. Into that tension, the reading from Book of Revelation 9:11–21 speaks with unsettling honesty. It does not soften the reality of judgment, nor does it minimize the destructive power of evil. Instead, it reminds us that history is not spiraling out of control; it is moving toward an assured destiny under the sovereign hand of God.
The key verse names a terrifying figure: “They had as king over them the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in Hebrew is Abaddon, and in Greek he is called Apollyon.” Both names carry the meaning “destroyer.” Scripture is unflinching here. Evil is not imaginary, symbolic, or harmless. It seeks destruction, chaos, and despair. Advent does not deny this darkness; it places a greater light beside it. The coming of Christ is God’s decisive answer to destruction, not by ignoring it, but by overcoming it. Revelation reminds us that forces of ruin may roar for a time, but they are neither ultimate nor eternal.
William Bradbury’s hymn “The Solid Rock” captures this truth in language meant to be sung when fear presses in. “My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.” That line alone confronts one of our deepest spiritual temptations: the instinct to trust what feels stable rather than what is truly secure. The “sweetest frame”—our emotions, circumstances, or personal resolve—will always shift. Advent teaches us to anchor hope not in what we see forming around us, but in what God has already established in Christ. When darkness veils His lovely face, faith does not panic; it rests.
Revelation’s visions of judgment are not given to frighten believers into paralysis, but to steady them in truth. God has not forgotten His promises. He has not lost track of His people. He knows each one perfectly and is actively preparing them for the day when Christ will return and gather them to Himself. The same book that speaks of Abaddon and destruction also declares, later, the triumph of Christ over the Beast and the False Prophet. Evil is loud, but it is not victorious. The cross and resurrection have already secured the outcome. What remains is the unfolding of what God has promised.
Advent sharpens this perspective by reminding us that Christ came once in humility and will come again in glory. The first coming assures us that God enters suffering rather than observing it from a distance. The second coming assures us that suffering will not have the final word. Between those two comings, believers live with a dual awareness: realism about the brokenness of the world and confidence in the reign of Christ. Revelation does not invite us to speculate endlessly about timelines; it calls us to trust deeply in the King who stands above them.
This is why discouragement, though understandable, is not our destiny. We grieve honestly, but we do not despair. We see injustice clearly, but we do not surrender to cynicism. The surest place to be found is not in predicting events or controlling outcomes, but in the care of God’s Son. Jesus is not only our future hope; He is our present help. He is the Rock beneath our feet when everything else feels like sinking sand. Advent faith learns to walk steadily even when the ground trembles.
The closing prayer of the reflection captures the heart of Christian confidence: God is both future hope and present help. Victory is not postponed until Christ’s return; it is lived now through trust, obedience, and perseverance. Revelation’s stark imagery ultimately serves this purpose—to pull our gaze away from fear-driven reactions and re-center it on the unchanging faithfulness of God. In a world of turmoil and grief, assurance is not found in denial, but in alignment with the One who reigns.
On Second Thought
At first glance, it seems strange—almost contradictory—that a passage as severe as Revelation 9 would be paired with a hymn of assurance and an Advent hope. Why speak of destroyers when we are longing for a Savior? Why confront judgment when we are waiting for light? On second thought, that tension may be exactly the point. Advent is not sentimental optimism; it is resilient hope formed in the presence of real darkness. By naming the destroyer, Scripture strips evil of its disguise and limits its authority. Abaddon has a name, but he is not the Name above all names. Destruction is real, but it is not reigning.
The paradox is this: the clearer Scripture becomes about the depth of evil, the firmer our footing becomes in Christ. When we stop pretending the world is stable, we are finally ready to rest on what truly is. Advent does not ask us to ignore the storm; it teaches us where to anchor when the storm comes. The destroyer exposes the fragility of everything that is not Christ, and in doing so, quietly points us back to the only foundation that holds. Assurance is not naïveté; it is clarity shaped by trust. And sometimes, it takes the hardest passages of Scripture to remind us just how solid the Rock truly is.
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