A reading from the book of Daniel the prophet

I, Daniel, was troubled in spirit, for the visions I saw deeply disturbed me. I approached one of those who stood around the throne and asked him about the meaning of it all. He answered me and revealed the interpretation:

«These immense beasts, four in number, represent four kings who will rise from the earth. But it is the saints of the Most High who will receive the kingship and hold it for eternity.»

Then I questioned him about the fourth beast, different from all the others, this terrifyingly powerful beast, with iron teeth and bronze claws, which devoured and tore to pieces and trampled underfoot what remained. I questioned him about the ten horns on its head, and about that horn which grew up, pulling down three others before it—that horn with eyes and a mouth speaking arrogant words—that horn which was more imposing than the others. I had seen it leading the war against the saints and defeat them, until the coming of the Ancient One who had rendered judgment in favor of the saints of the Most High, and the time had come when the saints had taken possession of the kingship.

To these questions, I received the answer: «The fourth beast represents a fourth kingdom on earth, different from all the other kingdoms. It will devour the whole earth, trample it underfoot, and crush it. The ten horns represent ten kings who will arise from this kingdom. Another king will arise afterward; he will be different from the former ones, and he will overthrow three kings. He will speak against the Most High, oppress the saints of the Most High, and try to alter the schedule of festivals and the Law. The saints will be given into his hands for a time, times, and half a time. Then the court will sit, and its dominion will be taken from it, to be destroyed and annihilated forever. The kingdom, the dominion, and the greatness of all the kingdoms under heaven have been given to the people of the saints of the Most High. His kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and all empires will serve and obey him.»

When the beasts collapse: receiving the kingship promised to the saints of the Most High

There is something profoundly disturbing about this chapter of Daniel. Monstrous beasts rise from the sea, empires devour the earth, an arrogant horn blasphemes against heaven. And yet, at the heart of this nightmarish vision, a promise bursts forth like a thunderclap: kingship, dominion, and power will be given to the people of the saints. Not seized by force. Not conquered by arms. Given. This should make us reflect on our relationship to power, to history, and to our own spiritual calling.

This text from Daniel 7 This is not an archaeological curiosity reserved for specialists in Jewish apocalyptic literature. It speaks to us today, to us who live in a world where empires take on new but equally voracious forms, where the temptation of power remains omnipresent, where the question of the meaning of history arises with renewed urgency. Daniel offers us a key to understanding that can transform our perspective on the present and our hope for the future.

We will begin by placing Daniel's vision within its historical and literary context to understand what it meant to his first readers. Then we will analyze the heart of the message: this astonishing reversal where kingship passes from beasts to saints. We will then explore three main themes: the nature of power according to God, the identity of these "saints of the Most High," and the concrete implications for our lives. We will draw upon tradition to enrich our understanding before offering avenues for meditation and practical applications.

A vision born in the furnace of history

To truly engage with this text, one must first be willing to be transported to another world. This is not a treatise on abstract theology. We are immersed in a vision, with all its inherent mystery, symbolism, and emotional intensity. Daniel himself tells us that his mind was "anguished" and "shaken." This is not a light, conversational read. It is an experience that shakes you to your core.

THE Daniel's book It was written in its final form around the second century BCE, during the persecution of Antiochus IV Epiphanes. This Seleucid king had undertaken the forcible Hellenization of Judea, desecrating the Temple, forbidding the practice of the Torah, and persecuting those who remained faithful to the Covenant. The "saints of the Most High" mentioned in the text are primarily these faithful Jews who risked their lives rather than renounce their faith.

But the text's roots go back even further. The narrative fiction places Daniel at the court of Babylon in the sixth century, during the Exile. This temporal overlap is not accidental. It conveys something essential: empires succeed one another, their forms change, but their dynamic remains the same. Babylon, Persia, Greece, Rome—and all those that would come after—share this same temptation of omnipotence, this same ambition to devour the world.

The literary structure of chapter 7 is remarkable. It forms a hinge in the Daniel's bookThis marks the transition from courtly narratives (chapters 1-6) to apocalyptic visions (chapters 7-12). It is no coincidence that this inaugural vision culminates in the promise made to the saints. Everything that follows in the book will be a meditation on this fundamental hope.

The apocalyptic genre, of which Daniel is a major representative in the Hebrew Bible, is not a literature of escapism. It is a literature of resistance. When one can no longer speak openly, one speaks in symbols. When the oppressor seems invincible, one reveals (this is the meaning of the word "apocalypse") that their power has already been judged, already condemned, already on borrowed time. The beasts can roar all they want: their time is running out.

The liturgical context of this text also deserves our attention. In the Christian tradition, it is read during the final weeks of the liturgical year, when the Church meditates on the last things and the return of Christ. This reading is not arbitrary. It recognizes in this text a message that transcends its immediate context to illuminate our own expectation of the Kingdom.

In Jewish tradition, this passage belongs to the texts that have nourished messianic hope for centuries. The figure of the "Son of Man" who appears a few verses earlier (Dn 7(13-14) has been interpreted in many ways: as a collective representation of the faithful people, an individual messianic figure, or both. Jesus himself would later adopt this title, giving it a new meaning while remaining within this long tradition of hope.

The great reversal: when power changes hands

Herein lies the beating heart of our text: a complete reversal of the logic of power. Daniel sees four terrifying beasts emerge from the sea—symbols of primordial chaos—and exert brutal dominion over the earth. Then, suddenly, everything changes. The Elder sits enthroned, the court is established, and kingship is transferred to the saints of the Most High.

What immediately strikes you is the contrast between the violence of the beasts and the apparent passivity of the saints. The beasts "surge," "devour," "tear apart," "trample." Their vocabulary is one of predation and destruction. The saints, on the other hand, "receive" and "possess." They seize nothing. They impose nothing. Kingship is given to them.

This paradox lies at the heart of the message. True power is not acquired by force. It is received as a gift. This is the exact opposite of what empires believe. For them, power is seized, defended, and expanded through conquest. For the saints, power comes from above, from the Old Man who sits on his throne, from the one whose kingship is "eternal."

Let's take a closer look at the fourth beast, the one that fascinates and terrifies Daniel. It is "unlike all the others," "terrifically powerful," with "iron teeth and bronze claws." It doesn't just dominate: it "devours the whole earth, tramples it down, and crushes it." This is empire in all its excess. This is power that knows no bounds, that wants to absorb everything, standardize everything, subjugate everything.

The horn that appears next takes the horror even further. It has "eyes"—a symbol of calculating intelligence—and "a mouth that utters delirious words." It "speaks words hostile to the Most High" and "persecutes the saints." It even attempts to "change the dates of the feasts and the Law." This is no longer merely political domination: it is an attempt to restructure time itself, to rewrite the fundamental rules of existence, to replace God.

And yet—and this is where everything changes—this arrogant horn is only temporary. “A time, times, and half a time”: an enigmatic phrase that says it all. Evil has its limits. Its dominion is not eternal. It is counted, measured, already on borrowed time even as it seems to triumph.

Then comes the judgment. The tribunal sits. Dominion is "taken away" from the beast. Not contested, negotiated, diminished: taken away. And all that seemed so powerful is "destroyed and utterly annihilated." That is the truth about empires: their apparent solidity is an illusion. They pass away. All of them. Without exception.

What remains is the kingship bestowed upon the saints. And this kingship is "eternal." The text insists: "all empires will serve and obey him." Not just some empires, not only future empires, but "all." The balance of power is completely reversed. Those who served become those who are served. Those who were trampled upon receive universal allegiance.

Power according to God: a logic turned upside down

The first dimension we need to explore is this radically different conception of power that runs throughout our text. For if kingship is "given" to the saints, it is because it is not of the same order as that of beasts. It obeys a different logic, operates according to different rules, and aims at different ends.

The power of beasts is a power of domination. It is exercised over others, against others, at the expense of others. It divides the world into dominant and dominated, predators and prey. It feeds on fear and violence. It knows only one direction: expansion, accumulation, the devouring of all that resists it.

The power given to the saints is of an entirely different nature. It is not simply a transfer where the formerly dominated become the new dominant, reproducing the same patterns with other actors. No. What is given is a kingship that partakes of divine kingship itself. “His kingship is an eternal kingship”: the possessive is ambiguous, referring both to the saints and to the Most High. This is because their kingship is not separate from that of God. It is its manifestation, its extension, its reflection.

Now, how does God exercise his kingship? The Scriptures constantly show us: through justice, through mercythrough caring for the little ones and the weak. The God of the Bible is not a super-emperor who would rule by force. He is the one who "brings down the powerful from their thrones and lifts up the humble," as the Bible will sing. Married in his Magnificat. He is the one who reveals himself not in the hurricane or the earthquake, but in "the whisper of a gentle breeze," as Elijah discovered.

This paradoxical kingship will find its fullest expression in the figure of Jesus. He who will take up the title of "Son of Man" that Daniel had contemplated, he who will affirm that "all authority in heaven and on earth has been given to him," will exercise this authority by washing the feet of his disciples, by healing the sickby welcoming the fishermen, by dying on a cross. “The kings of the nations rule over them, and those who exercise power over them call themselves benefactors. But with you there is nothing like that.” This is the charter of power according to God.

What is given to the saints is therefore not a license to dominate in their turn. It is a participation in the divine way of reigning. It is a responsibility, not a privilege. It is a service, not a reward. The saints do not receive kingship to enjoy power, but to exercise it according to God's will.

This completely changes our relationship to power. In our families, in our communities, in our businesses, in our societies, we are constantly tempted by the animalistic model: to impose, control, and crush anything that resists. Daniel's vision calls us to a different path. True power is not that which is imposed, but that which is given. Not that which takes, but that which receives. Not that which dominates, but that which serves.

This reversal is not simply an alternative strategy, a more efficient management technique. It is an ontological shift, a transformation of our very being. To exercise power according to God's will, one must first be transformed by God. One must accept receiving before being able to give. One must acknowledge one's own weakness before being able to help others. One must renounce the animalistic logic that still dwells within us.

For this is the secret Daniel reveals to us: beasts are not merely external empires. They are also inner forces. This greed that wants to devour everything, this arrogance that "utters delirious words," this will to power that tramples everything in its path—we know them from within. To receive the kingship of the saints is also to accept that these inner beasts be judged, dethroned, and annihilated, to make way for another way of being in the world.

Who are the saints of the Most High?

The second dimension to explore concerns the identity of these mysterious "saints of the Most High." Who are they? And above all: can we be among them?

The Hebrew word translated as "saints" is qaddishin. It does not primarily refer to morally perfect individuals or those canonized by a religious authority. It means "those who are set apart," "those who belong to the Most High," "those who are consecrated." Holiness, in the Bible, is less a moral quality than a relationship. That which is in relationship with the holy God is holy. Those who belong to Him are holy.

In Daniel's immediate context, the saints refer to the faithful people of Israel, those who uphold the Covenant despite persecution, those who refuse to bow down before idols, those who observe the Sabbath and the feasts at the risk of their lives. They are the Maccabees and their companions, the martyrs of the faith, all those who preferred death to apostasy.

But the text also opens onto a broader dimension. These saints receive a kingship that encompasses "all the kingdoms of the earth." Their vocation is not to form a small group separate from the rest of humanity. It is to be the first fruits of a new humanity, the witnesses of another possibility, the harbingers of the coming Kingdom.

Christian tradition has seen in the saints of the Most High a figure of the Church, this people gathered from all nations, Jews and Gentiles united in Christ. Not a triumphalist Church that would dominate the world, but a servant Church, a pilgrim Church, a Church that bears in its flesh the marks of persecution while already living the promised victory.

What characterizes the saints in our text is that they are persecuted. The horn "makes the war to the saints and prevails over them.” The saints “are delivered into his power.” This should give us pause. Holiness, according to Daniel, is not a comfortable situation. It exposes one to contradiction, hostility, and suffering. The saints are not those who have managed to take shelter from the beasts. They are those who confront the beasts and stand firm.

This dimension of resistance is essential. The saints are not passive, simply waiting for God to intervene. They are engaged in a struggle. They reject "words hostile to the Most High." They uphold "the dates of the feasts and the Law" that the horn seeks to change. They oppose the lie of the empire with the truth of faith. Their resistance is not armed—they have neither iron teeth nor bronze claws—but it is real, active, and courageous.

And it is precisely this unarmed resistance that is victorious. Not by its own strength—the horn "prevails over them" for a time—but through the intervention of the Old Man. Judgment comes from above. Victory is given, not won. But it is given to those who held firm, to those who did not capitulate, to those who maintained their loyalty despite everything.

This connection between loyalty Human effort and divine intervention are crucial. It avoids two pitfalls. The first would be voluntarism: believing that everything depends on our efforts, our struggle, our resistance. The second would be quietism: believing that everything is predetermined and that we have nothing to do. Daniel shows us a middle way: we are called to persevere, to resist, to remain faithful, but the final victory comes from God alone.

Who can become a saint of the Most High? You. Me. Anyone who chooses to belong to the living God rather than to the idols of this world. Anyone who refuses to bow down before the beasts of their time. Anyone who maintains hope when all seems lost. Holiness is not reserved for a spiritual elite. It is offered to all who accept to receive what God wants to give.

To already live as heirs to the Kingdom

The third dimension concerns the concrete implications of this promise for our daily lives. For if royalty is promised to us, how should this change the way we live here and now?

The first consequence is a liberation from fear. The beasts are terrifying. Their power seems absolute. The blasphemous horn appears invincible. And yet, their time is running out. Their dominion has an end. Knowing this, we can look at them differently. Not naively, as if they weren't dangerous. But without that paralyzing terror that would make us renounce our inner freedom.

Think about the situations in your life where you feel crushed by forces beyond your control: a ruthless economic system, a Kafkaesque bureaucracy, toxic relationship dynamics, addictions that seem invincible. Daniel's vision doesn't promise that these beasts will disappear tomorrow morning. It affirms that they are not eternal, that their power has already been judged, that their end is certain. This certainty can change our relationship to oppression. It allows us to avoid absolutizing what is only relative, to avoid perpetuating what is temporary.

The second consequence is a sense of responsibility. If kingship is destined for us, we must begin to exercise it now, within the limits of our present circumstances. Every act of justice we perform, every word of truth we speak, every gesture of mercy we make is a foretaste of the promised Kingdom. We are not condemned to wait passively. We can already live as citizens of the world to come.

This translates into very concrete things. In our family, exercising the kingship of the saints means creating a space of kindness, forgiveness, and mutual growth. In our work, it means refusing to compromise with injustice, treating every person with dignity, and putting our skills at the service of the common good. In our civic engagement, it means working for a more just society, defending the most vulnerable, and resisting hate speech and divisive rhetoric.

The third consequence is solidarity with the persecuted. Daniel's saints are "given over to the power" of the horn. They suffer persecution. Even today, millions of Christians are persecuted for their faith throughout the world. Millions more suffer under oppressive regimes, in situations of exploitation, violence, and injustice. If we belong to the people of the saints, their cause is our cause. Their struggle is our struggle. We cannot simply wait for our own coronation; we must stand with those who are suffering now.

The fourth consequence is a detachment from current forms of power. If true kingship is that which comes from God, earthly kingships lose their absolute character. We can respect them, collaborate with them when they serve. the common goodBut we do not owe them unconditional allegiance. “We must obey God rather than men,” as the apostles would say. This relativization of political power is one of the most precious legacies of the biblical tradition. It grounds the very possibility of criticism, resistance, and civil disobedience when circumstances demand it.

The fifth consequence is active patience. The Kingdom is promised, but it is not yet fully realized. We live in the in-between, between the promise and its fulfillment. This situation requires a patience that is not resignation but perseverance. We sow seeds whose harvest we may not see. We lay foundations upon which others will build. We participate in a work that infinitely surpasses us. This awareness can free us from the obsession with immediate results and give us the long patience of the cathedral builders.

Echoes in tradition

Daniel's vision has continued to resonate throughout the centuries, nourishing the reflections of theologians, the prayers of mystics, and the hopes of persecuted communities. A few echoes of this rich tradition deserve to be mentioned.

The Church Fathers interpreted this text as a prophecy of Christ and his Church. For Irenaeus of Lyons, in the second century, the four beasts represent the succession of pagan empires, and the saints of the Most High prefigure the Christian community called to reign with Christ. For Hippolytus of Rome, the arrogant horn announces the Antichrist, the figure of ultimate opposition to God who will be defeated at the end of time.

Augustine of Hippo, in his monumental City of God, developed a theology of history inspired by Daniel. Human history is the arena of a confrontation between two cities: the earthly city, founded on self-love to the point of contempt for God, and the heavenly city, founded on the love of God to the point of self-contempt. Empires pass away, with their glory and their violence, but the City of God remains. This vision profoundly marked the Western consciousness, offering a framework for thinking about historical catastrophes—the fall of Rome, the barbarian invasions, and many other trials yet to come.

In the Middle Ages, Abbot Joachim of Fiore proposed a Trinitarian reading of history, discerning in Daniel and the Apocalypse The signs of a coming Age of the Spirit in which the kingship of the saints would be fully realized. His ideas, sometimes controversial, have fueled numerous movements of reform and spiritual renewal.

In Carmelite spirituality, John of the Cross He meditated on the passage from the inner beasts—those disordered attachments that tyrannize us—to the freedom of the children of God. The dark night of the soul, this purifying trial, is like the time when the horn seems to triumph. But dawn is coming, and with it the promised kingship.

Liturgical tradition places this text in the final weeks of the year, when the Church contemplates the end times and the coming of Christ in glory. This choice is not insignificant. It invites the faithful to reread their own history in the light of the promise, to discern the follies of their time, and to maintain hope despite appearances to the contrary.

Closer to our time, liberation theologians have found in Daniel a resource for thinking about resistance to structures of oppression. The God of Daniel is a God who takes the side of the victims, who judges empires, who promises justice to the poor. This interpretation, sometimes contested, has fueled the commitment of many Christians to the most vulnerable.

The figure of the saints of the Most High continues to take shape in history. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a resistance fighter against Nazism, lived this holiness to the point of martyrdom. Oscar Romero, Archbishop of San Salvador, was assassinated for defending oppressed peasants. Millions of anonymous witnesses, in all faiths and cultures, embody this courageous fidelity that refuses to yield to the forces of their time.

Walking with Daniel

How can we allow this text to work within us, transform our perspective, and renew our hope? Here are some suggestions for personal appropriation.

First step: take the time to contemplate the beasts. Not with complacency, but with lucidity. What are the forces that, in our world and in our lives, "devour, tear apart, and trample"? What systems, what structures, what dynamics exert this brutal domination? And above all: what beasts still dwell within us—this greed, this will to power, this fear that sometimes makes us oppressors ourselves? This contemplation is not meant to depress us, but to name that against which we are fighting.

Second step: raise your eyes to the throne. The Old Man sits. The tribunal is in place. The judgment has already been pronounced. In the very heart of chaos, a peaceful presence upholds the sovereignty of good. To contemplate this presence is to regain a sense of proportion. The beasts are large, but God is greater. Their power is real, but His power is ultimate.

Third step: accepting to be "delivered" for a time. The horn prevails over the saints. This phase is painful but necessary. It tests the strength of our faith. It frees us from the illusion that we could be spared from the ordeal. It unites us with all those who suffer for justice. Accepting this vulnerability means rejecting the fantasy of omnipotence, which is precisely the sin of beasts.

Fourth step: hold in loyaltyDuring this "time, times, and half a time," what should we do? Maintain. Preserve. Persevere. Continue to celebrate the holidays the horn seeks to suppress. Continue to live according to the Law it seeks to change. Continue to proclaim the truth it seeks to stifle. This silent faithfulness is already a victory.

Fifth step: to receive kingship. Not to take it. Not to deserve it. To receive it as a gift. This implies a transformation of our relationship to power. As long as we want to dominate, we cannot receive. It is by accepting that we are not the masters that we become capable of reigning—with a reign that is service, gift, love.

Sixth step: to exercise this kingship right now. In the small things of daily life. In our relationships. In our commitments. Everywhere we can bring about a little justice, peace, and truth. The Kingdom is not just for tomorrow. It begins today, in every action that bears its mark.

Seventh step: wait with confidence. The outcome is not in our hands. The final victory comes from God. This waiting is not passive: it is pregnant with all that we have sown. But it is also humble: it recognizes that the fulfillment is beyond our control. To wait in this way is to live in hope.

The transformative power of a promise

At the end of this journey, what should we take away from it? First and foremost: Daniel's vision is not simply a historical document bearing witness to the hopes of an oppressed people more than two thousand years ago. It is a living message that continues to challenge us, to provoke us, to transform us.

She tells us that history has meaning. Not an obvious meaning, legible on the surface of events. But a profound, hidden meaning, which faith can discern. Empires fall. Beasts crumble. What remains is the kingship bestowed upon the saints. This conviction can sustain us through the most arduous trials.

She also tells us that we are called to an extraordinary vocation. Not to be subjected to history, but to become its actors. Not to resign ourselves to the reign of beasts, but to inaugurate another reign. Not to imitate the violence of the powerful, but to exercise a power of a completely different order – the power of love, service, and giving.

She finally tells us that this vocation is part of a community and a long-term commitment. We are not isolated individuals seeking our own personal salvation. We are the "people of the saints of the Most High," heirs to a long history of faithfulness, responsible for passing on hope to future generations.

Faced with the beasts of our time – whether they take the form of destructive economic systems, oppressive political regimes, dehumanizing ideologies or our own inner demons – Daniel's vision invites us to a threefold movement: lucidity to recognize them, resistance to stand up to them, confidence to know that their power is not the last word.

We can already live as heirs to the Kingdom. Not in a naive triumphalism that ignores the reality of suffering and evil, but in that active hope that transforms the present in the light of the promised future. Every act of justice, every word of truth, every gesture of compassion is a stone laid on the foundations of the world to come.

Kingship, dominion, and power are given to the people of the saints of the Most High. This promise awaits only our "yes" to begin its fulfillment—in us, through us, sometimes despite us, but never without us.

Take action

• Identifying an animal This week, name an oppressive force in your life or environment and think about a concrete way to resist it.

• Practicing service-power : choose a situation where you have authority and deliberately exercise it as a service rather than as domination.

• Join the persecuted : find out more about Christians persecuted today (or other oppressed groups) and engage in a concrete way with them – prayer, donation, advocacy.

• Meditate Daniel 7 : take fifteen minutes each day for a week to slowly reread this text, letting the images work within you.

• Celebrate despite everything : faithfully maintain a spiritual practice (prayer, Eucharist, Sabbath) as an act of resistance against the forces that want to cut us off from God.

• Sharing hope : Tell someone why you remain confident despite the difficulties – this word can be a light for others.

• Examine your own animals In a regular examination of conscience, identify the dynamics of domination that reside in your heart and entrust them to mercy divine.

References

– Daniel 715-27 (liturgical translation) – Irenaeus of Lyons, Against heresiesBook V – Augustine of Hippo, The City of God, books XVIII-XX – John of the Cross, The Ascent of Carmel And The Dark Night – John J. Collins, Daniel: A Commentary on the Book of Daniel (Hermeneia) – Jacques Ellul, Apocalypse: Architecture in Motion – Gustavo Gutiérrez, Liberation Theology