Millions of people served him (Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14)

A reading from the book of the prophet Daniel

Daniel 7:9–10

⁹I watched until thrones were placed and an old man sat down. His clothing was as white as snow, and the hair of his head was like pure wool. His throne was flames of fire, and its wheels were a blazing fire. ¹⁰A river of fire flowed from before him; thousands upon thousands served him, and countless thousands stood before him. The Judge sat down, and books were opened.

Daniel 7:13–14

¹³I was looking in the visions of the night, and behold, with the clouds came one like a son of man, and he came up to the old man and was brought before him. ¹⁴And to him was given dominion, glory, and a kingdom, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him. His dominion is an everlasting dominion that shall not pass away, and his kingdom one that shall never be destroyed.

It is midnight. A man sleeps, but in his sleep his eyes are wide open. This is no ordinary nightmare—it is a door opening onto the underside of the world. Daniel sees chairs being arranged in a vast hall, as if before a trial that will decide everything. Then an old man sits down. His hair is white, his cloak too—not the weary whiteness of old age, but the blinding whiteness of fresh snow. Beneath him, the throne is not made of gilded wood or carved gold: it is made of flames, wheels of fire that turn. A blazing river flows at his feet and stretches into the distance. Around him, an immeasurable crowd: not hundreds, not thousands—myriads upon myriads, a number that even Hebrew struggles to express, so far does it surpass what a man can count on his fingers or even imagine in a lifetime. And then books are opened. It is a tribunal. The entire universe held its breath. Then, from the clouds, a figure approached—not a beast like those that had prowled earlier in Daniel's vision, but a man, a simple son of man, humble above all others. He walked before the Elder, and there, before that immense court, everything was entrusted to him: power, glory, a kingdom that would never end. All the tongues of the earth would serve him. And this kingdom would never fall.

Daniel saw a kingdom that will never end: here's how this vision changes things for you

The scene of the fiery throne already foreshadows the face of the Son of Man in the Gospel

A vision born in the darkness of exile, to tell a people at their wits' end that an indestructible reign will come—brought not by a conqueror, but by a man surrendered to God. This text speaks to those who feel insignificant before history, crushed by powers that seem eternal.

What Daniel saw that night isn't just about Israel under Greek rule. It's about your life, when it seems subject to forces greater than yourself. We're going to look at this text closely: its original context, its inner movement, what it proclaims of the Gospel, and how it concretely changes things for you today—in how you stand, how you pray, how you hope.

A people on their last legs, under the boot of a king who thought he was a god

To understand what Daniel is saying, we must first understand to whom he is speaking. The year is around 165 BC. The Greek king Antiochus IV Epiphanes rules Judea with unprecedented brutality. He has forbidden circumcision, desecrated the Temple in Jerusalem by installing a statue of Zeus there, and burned the Torah scrolls. Faithful Jews are executed for refusing to eat pork sacrificed to idols. This is the most violent persecution the Jewish people had experienced before the Holocaust.

The Book of Daniel, as we read it, appears to have been written much earlier, during the Babylonian exile, two centuries before Antiochus. But scholars agree: in its final form, this seventh chapter was composed—or at least extensively revised—to speak directly to the Jews oppressed under Antiochus. This was a common literary technique at the time: to recount the present by disguising it as a narrative of the past, in order to say things too dangerous to say openly.

Chapter 7 opens with a vision of monstrous beasts emerging from the sea—a winged lion, a bear, a four-headed leopard, and then a fourth, nameless beast with iron teeth, which crushes everything in its path. These beasts symbolize the empires that succeeded one another in dominating Israel: Babylon, Media, Persia, and then the Greece of Alexander and his successors—including Antiochus, the "little horn," who blasphemed and persecuted the saints.

It is in this climate of oppression that our passage emerges. After the clamor of the beasts, after their bestial violence, something shifts. We no longer speak of conquest or devouring. We speak of a tribunal. Of a judgment. Of justice finally served.

For a Jew of the second century BCE, watching his brothers die under torture rather than renounce their faith, this text was not an abstract meditation on the end times. It was a lifeline. A certainty: the beasts will not win. There will be a judgment. And a reign will endure, not given to a new brutal empire, but to a human figure, humble, faithful—like them, in their image.

The very title of the book, Daniel, means in Hebrew "God is my judge." The entire seventh chapter is a meditation on this name: when human justice fails, when the powerful crush the weak with impunity, God remains the judge. And his judgment, unlike the rigged courts of tyrants, leads to life, not death.

The movement of the text: from crushing defeat to reign, via a judgment that restores

This text follows a very simple movement, almost childlike in its clarity, but profoundly moving in its scope. It can be summarized as follows: monstrous powers crush everything — then a tribunal is established — then a man steps forward, alone, before the Judge — and to this man, everything is given.

This is the movement of every life crushed by seemingly endless injustice. First, the crushing: the beasts of the previous vision devour, trample, blaspheme. This is the experience of someone who suffers violence beyond their control—a progressing illness, a lingering betrayal, a crushing system. Then comes a pivotal moment: thrones are erected. Something will be judged. It is no small thing, in a life crushed like this, to feel that one day, injustice will be named for what it is.

And then there's this striking image of the Old Man. It's not frightening at all, despite the power of the setting—the fiery throne, the burning wheels, the incandescent river. These are images of strength, yes, but the figure himself is dressed in white, with hair like wool: it's the image of ancient purity and wisdom, not vengeful anger. God judges, but his face is not that of an executioner. It's that of an elder, a sage, almost a grandfather whose authority reassures more than it frightens.

Then appears the central figure: «like a Son of Man.» In Aramaic, the expression used by Daniel—kevar enash—literally means «like a son of man,» that is, simply «like a human being.» This is what is most striking about this vision: after monstrous, hybrid, terrifying beasts, here comes someone with a human face. Not just another monster, not a creature with horns or iron teeth. A man. A fragile figure, borne on the clouds, approaching the throne with utter humility—he does not impose himself, he is brought before the Elder, and it is the Elder who gives him everything.

This is where the text completely shifts the meaning of power. The beasts had seized their dominion through force, devouring, and terror. The Son of Man, however, receives his dominion—it is given to him as a gift, not as a conquest. And this gift is total: dominion, glory, and kingship. All nations will serve him. And—this is the most important sentence in the text—this kingship will not pass away; it will never be destroyed.

Why does this still matter today? Because each of us, at some point in our lives, has experienced the beast: a force greater than ourselves that crushes, that seems invincible, that lasts far too long. This text doesn't promise that the beast will never exist. It promises that it won't have the last word. That judgment will come. And that what will last forever is not brutality—it is the humble faithfulness of a human being in the hands of God.

Three dimensions of this vision for your concrete life

God's justice is not a threat, it is a promise of restoration

Many fear the word "judgment." They associate it with condemnation, with fear, with a court where one finds oneself accused and defenseless. But look closely at the scene: this judgment begins after oppression, not before. It is not God who inaugurates violence—it is the beasts. Judgment comes to end injustice, not to begin it.

Think of an abused child who finally sees their tormentor confronted with the truth in a just court. This moment is not terrifying for them—it is liberation. This is precisely the image Daniel gives to his people: you suffer under Antiochus, you see your loved ones die for their faith, but one day, this violence will be named, judged, and stopped. Evil will not continue indefinitely with impunity.

In your life, this means something very concrete: if you experience injustice—at work, in a relationship, in your health, in the world—you don't have to pretend that this injustice is the ultimate truth about your life. The text invites you to persevere, knowing that judgment will come one day, putting things right. This isn't passive resignation; it's active hope, which gives you the strength to continue without letting bitterness consume you.

And above all, this judgment does not lead to destruction, but to a reign that gives life. «They opened books»—a classic Jewish image of judgment, in which everyone’s actions are recorded. But here, this book is opened to prepare for the restoration of a kingdom, not to condemn en masse. God’s judgment, in this text, serves restoration far more than punishment.

The human frailty of the Son of Man reveals where true power lies.

Here is one of the most profound reversals in the text: in a world where power belongs to beasts — to brute force, domination, terror — it is a human being, fragile, without weapons, without an army, who receives eternal kingship.

Consider the context: the Jews under Antiochus had neither a powerful army nor political power. They had their faithfulness, their prayer, their quiet refusal to deny their God—often paid for with their lives. The book of Daniel tells them: this fragility, this defenseless humanity, is what will receive the eternal kingdom. Not the beast. Not Antiochus. Not force.

This is a lesson that has transcended centuries to reach you. If you feel small, powerless, and insignificant in the face of the great forces that shape the world—economic, political, and social—this text doesn't tell you that you must become a beast yourself to survive. It tells you that your faithful vulnerability carries more weight before God than all the power of empires. True victory lies not in domination, but in humble, unwavering faithfulness.

And it is precisely this figure of the Son of Man that Jesus will use to refer to himself, more than any other title in the Gospels. When he says, «The Son of Man must suffer,» or «You will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds of heaven,» he is directly quoting Daniel 7. He is announcing that he is the one: the vulnerable man to whom everything is given, but only after passing through the cross—the most utter humiliation—before receiving the ultimate glory. The path of the Son of Man, in Jesus as in Daniel, leads through humiliation before receiving kingship.

A kingdom that will never pass away: what it means to have a hope that is not dependent on circumstances

The last sentence of the text resonates like a rock in the midst of a stormy sea: "His dominion is an everlasting dominion, which shall not pass away, and his kingdom, a kingdom that shall not be destroyed."«

To understand the force of this statement, one must remember that all the empires Daniel saw in his vision—Babylon, Media, Persia, Greece—did indeed collapse. History has confirmed this. No human empire has lasted. Antiochus himself died a few years after these events, in miserable circumstances, far from the glory he claimed for himself.

But the kingdom given to the Son of Man is not fragile. It is not built on conquest, therefore it cannot be defeated by a stronger conquest. It is given by God himself, therefore it shares in his eternity.

What does this mean for you? It means that everything you build on loyalty, love, truth, and justice—even if it seems insignificant, even if it doesn't make the headlines, even if no one remembers it—is part of a realm that will never crumble. Conversely, everything built on domination, fear, and manipulation, however impressive it may seem today, will carry within it the seeds of its own downfall. This is an extraordinarily concrete compass for discerning where to invest your life.

How this vision changes your concrete way of living

First, in your spiritual life: this text invites you never to confuse the apparent power of a situation with its ultimate truth. When you pray in the face of a trial that seems invincible, you can pray as Daniel wrote—knowing that judgment will come, that the beast does not have the last word.

In your relationships, too: humble loyalty, the kind that doesn't seek to dominate, to crush, to be right at all costs, is precisely what this text elevates to the status of true power. Choosing the gentleness of the Son of Man rather than the strength of the beast, in an argument, a family conflict, a professional negotiation, is not weakness—it is participating in the kind of reign that endures.

In your relationship to work and success: this text frees you from the pressure to "win" at all costs, to crush others in order to succeed. What matters, from Daniel's perspective, is not the size of the empire you build, but the integrity with which you build it. A small, honest business is worth infinitely more, in the eyes of this text, than an empire built on injustice.

Finally, in your hope amidst the world's current events: when the news overwhelms you—wars, injustices, powerful figures who seem untouchable—this text reminds you that you are witnessing a scene in motion, not its conclusion. The courtroom is still being set up. The books are still being opened. Nothing is set in stone.

What tradition says about this text of fire and judgment

Hippolytus of Rome

In his *Commentary on Daniel*, the first known comprehensive Christian commentary on this book, Hippolytus explicitly identifies the Son of Man in Daniel 7 with Christ himself, coming on the clouds to receive universal kingship from his Father. He emphasizes the contrast between the beasts, symbols of earthly kingdoms destined to perish, and this human figure whose reign alone knows no end—an interpretation that would become the cornerstone of all subsequent Christian exegesis of the passage.

John Chrysostom

In his *Homilies on the Gospel of Matthew*, particularly when commenting on Jesus' words about the Son of Man coming in glory, Chrysostom returns to Daniel 7 to show that Jesus, by calling himself Son of Man, was openly claiming before his Jewish listeners the eternal kingship announced by the prophet — an affirmation of divinity veiled under a deliberately humble expression, which only attentive hearts could decipher.

Thomas Aquinas In the *Summa Theologica*, Thomas Aquinas draws on Daniel 7 to develop his reflection on the universal kingship of Christ, showing how the dominion received from the Father by the Son of Man foreshadows the last judgment where Christ will judge the living and the dead — the scene of the tribunal in Daniel becoming, in Thomas, the very image of the final judgment announced in the Creed.

Contemporary liturgical resonance This text is proclaimed on the Solemnity of Christ the King, which concludes the liturgical year. This choice is not insignificant: the Church ends its year by recalling that all of human history, with its empires that rise and fall, converges on this moment when kingship is given to the Son of Man—a reign that is not measured by political domination but by fidelity to the very end, even unto the cross.

Lectio divina

Practical suggestions for prayer

This week, take ten minutes one evening in silence. Slowly reread the verses of Daniel 7. Let yourself be filled with the image of the river of fire, of the Old Man dressed in white, of the immense crowd that serves him.

Next, name before God a situation in your life where you feel overwhelmed by a force greater than yourself—a «beast,» whatever it may be. Don’t try to minimize it or dramatize it: simply name it.

Then, in silence, imagine this scene of judgment unfolding around this specific situation. Ask God to give you the certainty, not that everything will be alright immediately, but that this beast will not have the last word.

Finish by slowly reciting the last sentence of the text, like a personal promise: "His dominion is an eternal dominion, which will not pass away." Repeat it three times, letting it descend from the mind to the heart.

What this text tells us about today's empires

We, too, live in the shadow of modern beasts. They do not wear visible crowns, but they devour just as much: the frantic race for performance that crushes those who do not succeed, the power dynamics that crush the weakest in our companies, our families, our societies, the globalized indifference that lets entire populations die without the world being moved for long.

Daniel 7 does not suggest fleeing from these beasts or denying their existence. It suggests facing them, naming them for what they are, without being convinced by their apparent power that they will have the last word. This is a spiritual resistance, not an armed one: it consists of living, in the midst of the beasts, according to the logic of the Son of Man—faithfulness, humility, service—knowing that it is this logic, and not that of domination, that will ultimately receive all glory and all kingship.

For a Christian today, this means refusing to believe that the only way to survive in a harsh world is to become harsh oneself. It means choosing, in one's professional, family, and social choices, the path that may sometimes seem like a losing one in the short term, because it is faithful in the long term—to the kingdom that will never pass away.

Choose today the reign that will never end

In the darkness of exile and persecution, Daniel saw a truth the world doesn't always see: beasts roar loudly, but they don't last. Judgment is coming. Kingship is given—not to strength, but to the humble faithfulness of a man in God's hands.

This vision is not a story to soothe suffering. It is a call to live, from this moment on, according to the logic of this eternal kingdom—even when everything around you seems to prove the contrary. Choose loyalty over domination. Choose trust over fear. Choose to hope that the tribunal will be established, that the books will be opened, and that what truly matters—your silent loyalty, your quiet love, your everyday justice—will be part of a reign that will never end.

Practices

Name your beasts. Identify a situation where you feel overwhelmed by a force greater than yourself, and explicitly entrust it to God in your prayer tonight.

Read Daniel 7 aloud. Reading aloud anchors a text in memory and heart in a different way; try it once this week.

Choose loyalty over domination. In any conflict or negotiation this week, opt for the humble path of the Son of Man rather than a power struggle.

Pray for those who are persecuted today. This text was born in times of persecution; include in your prayers the Christians and believers who are suffering oppression for their faith today.

Celebrate Christ the King. If the opportunity arises, participate in the Mass of the Solemnity of Christ the King of the Universe, to experience liturgically what Daniel saw in his vision.

Keep a journal of hope. Write down each evening a sign, however tiny, that injustice does not have the last word in your day.

Meditate on the expression "Son of Man". In your reading of the Gospels this week, return to the times when Jesus uses this title for himself, linking it to Daniel 7.

References

Antiquity and the Fathers (1st–5th centuries)

• Hippolytus of Rome, Commentary on Daniel — the first systematic Christian commentary on the book of Daniel, identifying the Son of Man of Daniel 7 with Christ receiving from the Father an eternal kingship, as opposed to the bestial kingdoms destined to disappear.
• John Chrysostom, Homilies on the Gospel of Matthew — highlighting the link between Jesus' use of the title "Son of Man" and the eternal kingship announced in Daniel 7, revealing a veiled affirmation of his divinity.

Late Fathers and the Middle Ages (5th–15th centuries)

• Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica — based on Daniel 7 to establish the doctrine of the universal kingship of Christ and his function as judge of the living and the dead at the last judgment.

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