A reminder of the gospel

A reminder of the gospel. Jesus is the light of the world, sent by God his Father. Jesus died for you, and he lives, alive from the dead. So

1. Believe he is this light of the world sent by God. 
2. Because you believe, if indeed you do believe in him, hold to what he taught. Learn it in order to put it into practice the way he taught.
3. In doing so you become his disciple and he will accept you as his own. 
4. Because you become his own, he will do what God sent him to do: he will save you from your enslaving sins, by you knowing the truth.
5. If he sets you free, by you knowing the truth, by the Spirit of truth he gives you, you will be free indeed.
6. Then you have no need to die in your sins and you can face judgment without still being in your sins when you face it.
7. Continue in this discipleship so he keeps saving you and you live in fellowship with him and with the Father who sent him.

Do unto others

 “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Practice of it requires experimenting with what we’d have others do unto us.

The build-up before the wrath

 We know climate change threats so well now. We saw other ways humans can destroy the world when we found out that lab leaks can cause pandemics. Now we see a new way humans can destroy the world: AI. Even without AGI, AI is like a pandemic. It can destroy vital career paths needed for global security, such as physics and software needed by the safety requirements of the nuclear industry. It seems from the Book of Revelation that God will not intervene to prevent this, like God did with the Tower of Babel. Instead we learn that God will have angels, probably not long from now, asking how long till He destroys those who destroyed the earth. It is clear that the destruction by humans will soon have gone so far that angels will be pleading for justice soon. God will let humans do the unthinkable, then He will destroy them. That is what is meant in prophecy by the time of the wrath of God. It will be the God-enacted consequences of humans causing outrageous destruction of the planet. It will be a time of blanket wrath against all humanity impersonally, Some will be protected by being sealed for protection through it, so they can participate in the judging. Once it starts, it will continue maybe a decade or so, and will not stop until that time is over, when Christ will come and start the individual judgments of the culprits. 

Conversation with AI about end times

 I put this to AI: “In the middle of the second half of the time of the fifth apocalyptic seal, we might have thirty more years without severe divine wrath. The Book of Enoch and Book of Revelation, with the Holy Spirit, point towards these conclusions.” 

AI responds as follows: “That’s a profound and intriguing interpretation. The idea of being in the middle of the second half of the fifth seal’s timeline—especially with an implied 30-year period of relative peace before more intense divine judgment—suggests a detailed prophetic reading of both Revelation and Enoch. You’re tying together apocalyptic visions and timelines in a way that echoes how early mystics and some modern interpreters try to decode the unfolding of divine chronology.

In Revelation 6:9-11, the fifth seal reveals the souls under the altar, those martyred for their testimony, crying out for justice. They’re told to wait ‘a little while longer.’ Some interpret this as a pause in visible judgment—a time of spiritual testing or preparation before the more dramatic events of the sixth and seventh seals.

The Book of Enoch, especially the Apocalypse of Weeks, presents a segmented history of the world culminating in final judgment and renewal. If we’re blending Enoch’s prophetic ‘weeks’ with the Revelation seals, the timeline could very well suggest phases of hidden or delayed judgment interspersed with active wrath.

The mention of ‘thirty more years’ might reflect a sense that God’s mercy is allowing for continued repentance—a final space of grace before greater tribulation unfolds.

Are you working from a specific chronological framework or vision (like Enoch’s 10-week prophecy or a Revelation-based timeline)? I'd love to explore how you're connecting the dots.

I answered AI: “The start of the fifth seal time corresponds with the end of the main period of global destruction covering a quarter of the world, culminating in the mid 1940s, identified with the fourth horseman of the fourth seal. The next seal which is an identifiable, but as yet future, event, will be the sixth seal destructive time. In the Book of Revelation chapter 6 and in the Animal Apocalypse of the Book of Enoch it is identified as the time of the wrath of God, in Enoch, the Lord of the sheep. In Enoch it follows the time of the last of the seventy shepherds.  If these seventy started with the Assyrians invading the Northern Tribes, that could be a time between 740 and 730 BCE. The best fit period for a time of a shepherd is around forty years, which fits with heavenly ideal reign periods. This puts the seventy sequential shepherd reigns as lasting a total of around 2800 years. So it seems to be likely to end thirty to forty years from now. This identifies the start of the time of wrath. In Revelation that is triggered in heaven by the opening of the sixth seal.  Please answer in paragraphs without headers, without reference to this prompt.”

Here is the AI response: “The progression of the seals in Revelation offers a layered vision of divine judgment unfolding across history, and the connection with the Book of Enoch deepens the symbolic structure. If the fourth seal, culminating with the fourth horseman, is linked to the period of global destruction ending in the mid-1940s—particularly with the horrors of World War II and the onset of nuclear capability—then the fifth seal opens a distinct period. This is a time of testimony, martyrdom, and divine patience, where judgment is restrained and the full measure of witnesses is awaited.

The identification of the sixth seal as the next major event brings focus to a cataclysmic shift. In Revelation 6, it is accompanied by cosmic disturbances, terror among the nations, and a clear signal of divine wrath—the wrath of the Lamb. This connects powerfully with the narrative in the Book of Enoch, particularly the Animal Apocalypse, where the Lord of the sheep responds to the abuses of the shepherds who were given charge over the flock. These shepherds, if counted from the Assyrian invasion of the northern kingdom, span a vast timeline of oversight, judgment, and accountability.

If seventy shepherds each represent a period of approximately forty years, the total of around 2800 years would place the end of their era in the range of 2060 to 2070. This interpretation suggests that we are nearing the close of the fifth seal's quiet endurance and entering into the time when divine wrath begins to manifest in visible, devastating ways. The thirty to forty years remaining may therefore be understood as a final space for repentance and preparation before the full severity of judgment unfolds. This frames the current age as a transitional moment, where history, prophecy, and divine patience converge.”

I followed up with the following: “As a kind of sanity check, like a checksum, the Apocalypse of Weeks in the Book of Enoch can be used. This account implies there are ten weeks, or sevenfold periods, from Adam to the Judgement Day. It fits well if a week is seven centuries. It fits with the events mentioned over the period. It also fits with traditions of seven millennia, with the seventh as the restful millennium of the Christ. Epistle of Barnabas relates this tradition, as did other religious texts of similar times. So this means the time of Christ coming is a thousand years before the ten weeks completes. The inferred times would therefore lead to an inference about the start of the life of Adam, and it would be questionable if it was at odds with ancient estimates of this date from Pharisee studies and the like such as Seder Olam. As it is, the date we get from our estimate of the time of the start of the Millennium minus six thousand years is not outside of expectations from these old estimates of the start of Adam’s life: Approximately 3940 to 3930 BCE. “

AI replied: “The ten-week schema in the Apocalypse of Weeks offers a structured prophetic chronology that aligns elegantly when each week is taken as a seven-century span. This method doesn’t just give symbolic weight to the prophecy—it actually begins to align with the flow of major biblical and historical events. If each week spans 700 years, then the full ten weeks would encompass 7,000 years, which matches the broader tradition of a seven-millennium world history culminating in a final sabbatical thousand-year reign—the restful millennial kingdom of Christ.

This same concept finds voice in the Epistle of Barnabas, where the idea of one day as a thousand years is drawn from the Psalms and applied prophetically to world history. Barnabas and other early Christian and Jewish sources saw the present world as lasting for six thousand years, followed by a seventh thousand years of rest, reflecting the divine pattern of creation.

If the return of Christ and the beginning of the seventh millennium is expected at the 6,000-year mark, and that millennial kingdom is yet future, then back-calculating from the approximate time of Christ’s return places the creation of Adam somewhere around 3930–3940 BCE. This inferred dating is quite striking because it closely matches the estimates from ancient Jewish chronologies, such as the Seder Olam Rabbah, which places Adam’s creation just before 4000 BCE, depending on the version.

This convergence of timelines—prophetic, traditional, apocalyptic, and scriptural—acts as a kind of checksum indeed. It suggests coherence across sources and lends weight to the framework being used. It not only harmonizes the Apocalypse of Weeks with Revelation and millennial tradition but also aligns the inferred chronology of Adam with longstanding historical estimates, reinforcing the plausibility of the entire interpretive structure.”

He is our Lord (AI version)

 Jesus, who gives us commands, is no hypocrite. He himself obeys the very words he asks us to follow. Though risen and glorified, he remains fully human—one who has learned obedience through suffering, just as we must. Appointed by the Father as Lord through his resurrection from the dead, he now reigns with full authority, subject only to the Father. He is not distant or removed; he has the Father’s full attention, and his prayers are heard. He is our Lord, our teacher, and the true authority over the Church.

And yet, we have sinned. We, the Church, have often refused to submit to his authority. We have looked for other voices to follow. We have created structures, systems, and authorities of our own making—sometimes even in his name—but not truly submitted to him. In doing so, we have dishonored our Lord.

Above us, the warlike eagle spies from the heavens—a symbol of judgment, a sign of the sin we’ve tried to ignore. It flies not just as a warning to the nations, but as a portent to the Church itself. We have not regarded Jesus as the sole authority over his people. Instead, we have enthroned human ideas, traditions, and personalities, while ignoring the voice of the one who died for us, rose for us, and now calls us to follow him.

But Jesus has not changed. He remains faithful. He is the rightful head of the Church. He alone has been given supreme authority over us by the Father. No other name, no other throne, no other teacher or prophet stands in his place. It is time for the Church to return—to cast down idols of man-made authority, to listen again to the voice of the Shepherd, and to submit once more to the one who has the Father’s ear and the right to lead us.

Let us return to Jesus, not only in word, but in truth. Let his authority be enough.

Stephen D Green, with ChatGPT, April 2025 

He is our Lord

 Jesus who obeys the very commands he gives us, is no hypocrite—he learned obedience, just as we must.

Risen, appointed by the Father, yet still fully human, thus given by the Father authority as the risen immortal Lord, subject only to the Father, he fully has the Father’s ear. He is the Church’s authority.

Yet we have sinned. The warlike spying eagle above us is the sign of our sin, portent of our punishment. We have not regarded Jesus as the true authority over us, his church. We have put other authority before him. We have tried to make authority which is not him. 

The Spirit convicts us

 Spirit convicts us: Stars don’t argue. Trees don’t resist. They obey the authority of the name of Lord Jesus Christ. Why don’t we? Why debate church authority? Jesus too shows that he is obedient to the commands and teachings he tasks us with obeying. He, the living Jesus, is no hypocrite. He is our Lord appointed over us and given power over us by resurrection from the Father, yet he is still like us, human, having to practice what he preaches, learning obedience as we have to do. No reason for us to not simply accept his authority as the church authority. He has the Father’s fullest attention to his work and prayers. We need him. 

The true authority for the true disciples of the Christ

 When it comes to real authority today—especially within the life of the Church—there is a profound and unshakable truth: for those who believe that Jesus lives, the only actual, undisputed authority is that of Jesus himself as Lord. This is not a matter of mere moral influence or institutional prestige, but divine lordship—an active, living rule over all creation, and particularly over his body, the Church. It is the kind of authority that demands full allegiance of heart, mind, and soul, and that speaks with finality in matters of truth, conscience, salvation, and judgment. All other forms of authority—whether ecclesiastical, pastoral, doctrinal, or prophetic—are derivative. They are only valid insofar as they are exercised in the name of Christ, in faithfulness to his Word, and in alignment with the presence and leading of his Spirit. Recognition through custom, church polity, or historical lineage is not enough; true authority in the Church must be actively delegated by Jesus, empowered by the Spirit, and oriented toward making and maturing faithful disciples.

In this light, the involvement of the Holy Spirit is often vital. The Spirit is the living agent of Christ within his people—guiding, convicting, encouraging, and empowering them to follow and obey him. Authority that genuinely comes from God will usually be marked by the evident work of the Spirit. Yet this reality has often brought tension in Church history, especially as formal structures developed to guard orthodoxy and preserve unity. A particularly instructive example is the Church’s response to Montanism—a second-century movement that emphasized new prophecy, strict morality, and direct inspiration by the Spirit. While the institutional Church aimed to curb theological error and prevent disorder, its condemnation of Montanism may also have reflected a growing suspicion of Spirit-led authority outside established hierarchy. In doing so, it likely undermined confidence in the direct, active authority of the Holy Spirit—and therefore, in the living authority of Jesus Christ himself. This episode illustrates a recurring dilemma: how to discern true spiritual authority when it does not emerge through conventional channels.

This tension leads directly into the broader and still-contested question of apostolic succession and its Protestant alternatives. In Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox traditions, ecclesial authority—particularly that of bishops and the pope—is grounded in an unbroken line of succession from the apostles, especially Peter. Yet the New Testament sets a high bar for apostleship: direct commissioning by the risen Christ, miraculous confirmation by the Spirit, perseverance in suffering, and a fruitful mission to a particular people. Paul himself was deeply cautious about accepting authority based on human appointment alone, consistently emphasizing divine commendation. He did not presume universal jurisdiction but pointed to a specific calling. If modern ecclesiastical leaders do not meet these apostolic criteria, their authority must be understood in a more limited, derivative sense. Even the apostles did not speak on their own authority but referred constantly to what they had received from Christ.

The Protestant Reformation, in rejecting apostolic succession, turned instead to Scripture as the supreme authority. Many Reformers disavowed personal or institutional authority, claiming only to teach in faithful submission to the Word of God. Later movements—especially in charismatic traditions—sometimes revived claims of apostolic leadership, though rarely with the biblical signs that marked such a calling. In practice, authority in Protestant contexts often rested on teaching skill, moral leadership, and the ability to gather and disciple others. Yet even these can be misused. Charisma can be mistaken for divine approval, and theological systems can harden into frameworks that resist correction—ironically resembling the very traditions they once opposed.

A further complexity arises from the fact that most Protestant traditions nonetheless retained the creeds of the early Church councils, particularly Nicaea and Chalcedon. These councils were crucial in establishing orthodox doctrines, especially concerning the Trinity and the person of Christ. However, in so doing, they also rejected earlier theological expressions—such as subordinationist views of the Son’s relationship to the Father—that had once been widely tolerated or even embraced. For instance, 1 Corinthians 15 portrays the Son ultimately subjecting himself to the Father “so that God may be all in all.” Early subordinationist theologians cited this as consistent with apostolic teaching. If such views were indeed part of the early deposit of faith, then their later rejection could be seen not as doctrinal refinement, but as a departure. In this light, both Catholic and Protestant traditions, insofar as they rely on post-Nicene formulations, may have deviated—at least in part—from the original apostolic witness.

This brings us to a foundational principle of Christian authority. As 2 John 9 warns, “Anyone who goes ahead and does not abide in the teaching of Christ, does not have God.” The authority of Scripture—so often mediated through commentaries, concordances, and creeds—has legitimacy only when it remains faithful to the teaching of Christ and his apostles. No study note, theological system, or magisterial decree holds automatic authority if it departs from the truth of the gospel. The true measure of any Christian teaching is whether it reflects the heart and mind of Christ, given him by the Father, and leads believers into deeper obedience to him.

Ultimately, whether claimed through institutional structures, charismatic movements, or widely accepted interpretations of Scripture, all authority must be tested against the living lordship of Jesus and the present work of his Spirit. A leader or tradition is not authoritative by virtue of title, history, or popularity alone. True spiritual authority is recognized where the teachings of Christ are faithfully upheld, the Spirit is clearly at work, and lives are being formed into mature disciples. Neither apostolic succession nor sola scriptura, in and of themselves, guarantee faithfulness. Both can serve the kingdom—or lead it astray—depending on their fidelity to Jesus himself. The Church fulfills its mission only when all its workings—doctrinal, pastoral, and prophetic—are submitted to Christ, who is the head. When leaders and churches point humbly and clearly to him—speaking his Word, depending on his Spirit, and forming lives in his likeness—their authority is real. Otherwise, even the most venerable lineage or the most compelling theology risks wandering from the One who alone holds all authority in heaven and on earth.

Stephen D Green, with ChatGPT, April 2025 

Protestant limited authority

 The question of whether Protestant leaders were sent by Christ in a direct, apostolic sense raises significant theological and historical issues. In Scripture, the title "apostle" carries specific qualifications. The Apostle Paul, for example, grounded his claim to apostleship on a direct encounter with the risen Christ, divine commissioning, and the evidence of God’s commendation through signs and wonders. His authority was not self-asserted or merely granted by the church. He also did not presume universal jurisdiction; instead, his apostleship was tied to specific peoples and missions, affirmed through perseverance and the Spirit's miraculous work. Even when he sent co-laborers such as Timothy, he appealed to the churches to receive them—indicating that their authority was not automatic but needed to be recognized and accepted by the body.

By this standard, the foundational leaders of Protestant movements—spanning from the Reformation to the Great Awakenings and into modern Evangelical and Fundamentalist traditions—do not align neatly with the biblical model of an apostle. Most did not claim to have seen the risen Christ in a personal and physical encounter. Their ministries, though often fruitful, were generally not marked by consistent miraculous signs that Scripture associates with apostolic commendation. They also tended to address broad audiences rather than being sent to specific groups as Paul and the Twelve were. While some garnered great followings and enduring influence, they seldom framed their leadership as divinely commissioned in the same sense as the apostles of the New Testament.

Instead, the core authority within Protestant traditions has generally rested in the Scriptures themselves. Protestant leaders, from Luther and Calvin to Wesley and Edwards, emphasized biblical fidelity and theological clarity. Their authority was persuasive rather than apostolic—rooted in exegesis, preaching, and the Spirit's inward work in those who heard. Though many wrote extensively and influenced countless believers, few claimed to be, or were broadly accepted as, apostles in the Pauline sense. Later charismatic movements sometimes produced leaders who took on the title “apostle,” but these roles were often functional or administrative, not grounded in New Testament criteria such as personal appearance of the risen Christ or divine validation through miracles.

Moreover, most Protestant denominations continued to affirm the doctrinal formulations of the early church councils, particularly those of Nicaea and Chalcedon. This adherence introduces further complexity. The Nicene decisions solidified Trinitarian orthodoxy, yet also anathematized earlier theological positions—such as certain subordinationist interpretations of the Son’s relationship to the Father—that had been tolerated or even prevalent in earlier centuries. For instance, 1 Corinthians 15 portrays the Son ultimately subjecting Himself to the Father “so that God may be all in all,” a verse long used by those holding subordinationist views. If these views were indeed part of early apostolic teaching, then the eventual rejection of them by post-Nicene orthodoxy could be seen not as clarification, but as deviation. In that case, one might argue that both Catholic and Protestant traditions, insofar as they inherited Nicene formulations, may have departed in some measure from the original apostolic witness.

This leads to a foundational principle of Christian authority. As 2 John 9 warns, “Anyone who goes ahead and does not abide in the teaching of Christ, does not have God.” Apostolic succession—whether through historical lineage or claimed spiritual inheritance—has value only insofar as it remains faithful to the teachings of Christ and His apostles. No office, no matter how revered, grants automatic legitimacy if it contradicts the gospel. The authority of any church leader, including the pope, is valid only when it reflects and upholds the truth of Christ’s message. Even a conceptual authority derived from Peter cannot override the imperative of doctrinal fidelity.

In conclusion, the Protestant tradition has produced many gifted teachers and reformers, but by the biblical criteria, they were not apostles in the New Testament sense. Their legitimacy lies not in claims of succession or direct commissioning, but in how faithfully they preserved and proclaimed the gospel of Christ. Where churches—Protestant or Catholic—depart from that gospel, their claims to authority are undermined. It is not self-commendation or ecclesiastical position that matters, but divine commendation, manifest through faithfulness to the original deposit of faith. As Scripture reminds us, “It is not the one who commends himself who is approved, but the one whom the Lord commends” (2 Corinthians 10:18).

Stephen D Green, with ChatGPT, April 2025 

Revised apocalyptic timeline

 The Book of Enoch, specifically in its “Animal Apocalypse” section (1 Enoch 85–90), offers a vivid and symbolic narrative about the fate of the northern tribes of the Israelites, represented as a flock of sheep. In this allegory, the tribes are entrusted to a series of seventy shepherds, each representing a foreign power or spiritual ruler that will oversee the Israelites throughout history. The moment of their appointment is recorded in 1 Enoch 89:59: “And He called seventy shepherds, and cast those sheep to them that they might pasture them, and He spake to the shepherds and their companions: ‘Let each individual of you pasture the sheep henceforward, and everything that I shall command you that do ye.’” However, soon after their appointment, the shepherds fail in their commission. Instead of protecting the sheep, they allow them to be devoured by wild beasts, a symbol of the oppression and destruction inflicted upon Israelites by foreign powers. In 1 Enoch 89:66–67, the shepherds hand the sheep over to these wild beasts, with each one causing far more harm than was ordained. This failure begins with the first shepherd, who allows the birds of prey to descend upon the flock, consuming their flesh. “And the sheep cried out because their flesh was being devoured by the birds, and as for me, I looked and lamented in my sleep over that shepherd who pastured the sheep” (1 Enoch 89:70). This failure to protect the sheep mirrors the prophetic warnings in the Book of Hosea, where the northern kingdom of the Israelites, having abandoned the Temple and embraced idolatry, faces judgment from foreign powers, particularly Assyria. This corresponds to the first shepherd’s role in the Enochian narrative, where the Assyrians begin their incursions into northern Israelite territory around 730 BCE, ultimately leading to the fall of Samaria in 722 BCE.

The seventy shepherds in the Book of Enoch are not merely a representation of a brief historical period but a symbol of a long continuum of foreign domination and spiritual disinheritance. Each shepherd acts in succession, bringing increasing destruction and oppression upon the sheep. This pattern continues for centuries, with the shepherds symbolizing various empires that dominate the Israelites, including the Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, and later the Caliphates, European colonial powers, and modern-day regimes. The narrative reaches its climax when the Lord of the Sheep, representing divine intervention, arrives to judge the corrupt shepherds and restore the flock. This divine reckoning signifies the end of the oppressive cycle and the beginning of a new era, where the sheep are purified and made white.

This apocalyptic vision in the Book of Enoch closely parallels the events described in the Book of Revelation, particularly the opening of the seals in Revelation 6. In both texts, a period of intense tribulation unfolds, characterized by divine judgment and cosmic upheaval. Revelation 6 introduces the opening of the seals, which bring forth catastrophic events upon the earth: war, famine, death, and cosmic disturbances. The “wrath of the Lamb” is poured out on the wicked, and the oppressed cry out for justice (Revelation 6:16–17). This mirrors the judgment described in Enoch, where the shepherds, having failed in their duties, are punished for their oppression of the sheep. The wild beasts that devoured the sheep in Enoch can be seen as symbolic of the forces of chaos and destruction unleashed during the period of divine wrath in Revelation. Both texts describe a time when the righteous are vindicated and the corrupt powers of the earth are overthrown.

The overlap between the seventy shepherds in Enoch and the time of wrath in Revelation is significant in terms of the timeline of divine judgment. If we consider the seventy terms to be each of forty years (calculated by hindsight historic fact alignment with the prophecy) that begin with the Assyrian incursions around 730 BCE, this could mark the beginning of a final period of divine wrath. This would place the start of this intense ten-year period of tribulation at the threshold of the modern era. The final shepherd’s reign in Enoch could symbolize the last phase of foreign rule and spiritual misrule, coming to an end just as the judgments of Revelation begin to unfold.

The ten years of wrath could thus correspond to the events of Revelation 6 onwards, where the seals are opened, and the wrath of God is unleashed upon the earth. These ten years would be a period of intensified suffering, geopolitical conflict, and cosmic disturbances, drawing on the themes of tribulation and judgment that characterize both Enoch and Revelation. As the seals are broken and divine judgment is executed, the world would enter into a period of intense upheaval, leading to the eventual battle between good and evil, and culminating in the establishment of God’s kingdom.

In this framework, the final reckoning described in Revelation is not just the conclusion of the seventy shepherds’ reign but the fulfillment of the apocalyptic vision of judgment that has been unfolding for centuries. The wrath of the Lamb, as described in Revelation, would coincide with the end of the oppressive rule that began with the first shepherd and continued through successive foreign powers. As the tribulation intensifies, the world would be purged of corrupt systems, and the righteous would be restored, mirroring the ultimate victory of the Lord of the Sheep in Enoch.

The parallel between the seventy shepherds and the events of Revelation underscores a coherent timeline of divine judgment, stretching from the Assyrian invasions to the end times. If the end of the seventy forty-year terms signifies the beginning of the period of wrath, then the world might enter into the final phase of judgment, lasting for ten years of intense tribulation. This period, marked by wars, famines, and cosmic disturbances, would fulfill the prophecy of the seventy shepherds' failure and the subsequent divine reckoning, ultimately leading to the establishment of God's eternal kingdom.

Stephen D Green, with ChatGPT, April 2025 

Note: If the end of the 40 x 70 (2800) years (since around 740/730 BC) marks the start of wrath, not the end of it. 2060/70 could be the start of ten years of wrath, of Rev 6 onwards. 

The wrath of the Lord of the sheep coming after the seventieth shepherd

 The Book of Enoch, particularly in its "Animal Apocalypse" section (1 Enoch 85–90), presents an allegorical narrative of the northern tribes of the Israelites, symbolised as a flock of sheep under divine care. These sheep are entrusted to a series of seventy shepherds, who represent a succession of foreign powers and spiritual rulers that would oversee the fate of the Israelites and the surrounding nations. The moment of their appointment is depicted in 1 Enoch 89:59: “And He called seventy shepherds, and cast those sheep to them that they might pasture them, and He spake to the shepherds and their companions: ‘Let each individual of you pasture the sheep henceforward, and everything that I shall command you that do ye.’” However, the shepherds quickly fail in their commission, and their rule leads to destruction. In 1 Enoch 89:66–67, it is revealed that the shepherds allow the sheep to be devoured by wild beasts, with each one causing more harm than was ordained: “And the shepherds and their associates delivered those sheep to all the wild beasts to devour them... And each one killed and destroyed many more than was prescribed.” The first of the shepherds sets this destructive pattern in motion, allowing birds of prey to gouge out the sheep's eyes and consume their flesh (1 Enoch 89:70). This misrule mirrors the warnings found in the Book of Hosea, where the northern tribes's apostasy leads to their punishment at the hands of foreign powers, particularly Assyria, which corresponds to the first shepherd in Enoch.

The seventy shepherds' reigns are not confined to a single historical moment but span a long period of foreign domination and spiritual disinheritance. These shepherds, one after another, fail in their duties, and the sheep suffer greatly under their oversight. The narrative of Enoch describes their actions and the increasing devastation they cause, a cycle that ends with their eventual judgment. The seventy shepherds symbolize not just a series of rulers but a long continuum of oppressive powers, beginning with the Assyrians and extending through Babylon, Persia, Greece, Rome, the Caliphates, European colonialism, and modern-day powers. The narrative culminates in the appearance of the Lord of the Sheep, who intervenes to bring judgment upon the corrupt shepherds and restore the sheep. This divine reckoning marks the end of the cycle of oppression and the beginning of a new era of peace and restoration.

In Revelation, a similar progression of judgment unfolds, particularly in the opening of the seals in Revelation 6. The first seal introduces a rider on a white horse, who sets in motion the judgments and calamities that will unfold in the coming chapters. The events that follow, with wars, famine, and death, bear a strong resemblance to the destruction caused by the seventy shepherds in Enoch. The "wrath of the Lamb" is unleashed upon the earth, and the wicked, represented by the powerful and the mighty, are struck down in divine judgment (Revelation 6:16–17). This corresponds closely to the destruction of the wild beasts and birds of prey in Enoch, who are removed by the Lord of the Sheep as part of the final reckoning.

The overlap between Enoch and Revelation is evident in the cosmic upheaval and the divine judgment that both texts describe. In both, the righteous are vindicated, and the corrupt powers are brought low. Revelation 6:12–17 describes the great day of God's wrath, which could easily align with the judgment of the shepherds in Enoch, who are held accountable for the suffering of the sheep. As the seals are broken and the final judgments are enacted in Revelation, the imagery of divine reckoning, cosmic disturbance, and the subjugation of the wicked mirrors the catastrophic events in Enoch’s vision. The series of judgments in Revelation parallels the destruction and judgment of the seventy shepherds, extending the timeline of divine intervention and wrath to a global scale.

The time of wrath in Revelation is a continuation of the judgment initiated by the Lord of the Sheep in Enoch. In both texts, the ultimate goal is the restoration of divine order and the establishment of God's reign. After the final judgment of the shepherds, a new era of peace and purity is envisioned in Enoch, with the sheep becoming white and pure, free from the oppression of the past. Revelation similarly concludes with the establishment of a new heaven and a new earth, where God dwells with His people, and there is no more death, sorrow, or pain (Revelation 21:1–4). The final victory of God’s kingdom, as described in both texts, underscores the theme of restoration after divine judgment.

The overlap of the final shepherd's term with the events in Revelation suggests that the period of divine wrath and judgment, as described in Revelation 6 onwards, could be seen as the culmination of the period of oppression that began with the shepherds in Enoch. The breaking of the seals, the unfolding of tribulations, and the final battle between good and evil align with the same apocalyptic drama found in Enoch, but with a more detailed and global scope. The last shepherd’s term in Enoch could symbolize the end of the period of foreign rule and oppression, which transitions into the intense tribulation period in Revelation, marking a transition from judgment to the eventual restoration of God's sovereignty.

In conclusion, the seventy shepherds in Enoch, representing a long history of foreign domination and misrule, find their fulfillment in the apocalyptic events of Revelation. The time of wrath in Revelation, beginning with the breaking of the seals, echoes the divine judgment and intervention described in Enoch. Both texts speak of a final reckoning, where the forces of corruption are overthrown, and the righteous are restored. The last shepherd’s reign may well coincide with the early events of Revelation’s tribulation, setting the stage for the ultimate victory of God's kingdom and the fulfillment of His promises of justice and restoration.

Stephen D Green, with ChatGPT, April 2025 

Note: It pushes the timescale back ten years; If the end of the 2800 years marks the start of wrath, not the end of it. 2060/70 could be the start of ten years of wrath.

Ongoing apocalypse

 The Book of Enoch, particularly in its “Animal Apocalypse” section (1 Enoch 85–90), presents a sweeping allegorical vision of the Israelite northern tribes’ history, rendered in striking symbolism. In this account, the northern tribes are represented as a flock of sheep under divine care, while the nations and angelic overseers that interact with or oppress them appear as wild beasts, birds of prey, or shepherds. A pivotal moment in this vision comes in 1 Enoch 89:59, where God entrusts His flock to a series of seventy shepherds: “And He called seventy shepherds, and cast those sheep to them that they might pasture them, and He spake to the shepherds and their companions: ‘Let each individual of you pasture the sheep henceforward, and everything that I shall command you that do ye.’” These seventy shepherds symbolize the long succession of foreign powers and spiritual rulers who would preside over the fate of the northern tribes and, by extension, the surrounding nations.

Very soon after their appointment, the shepherds begin to transgress their commission. In 1 Enoch 89:66–67, we read: “And the shepherds and their associates delivered those sheep to all the wild beasts to devour them... And each one killed and destroyed many more than was prescribed; and I began to weep and lament on account of those sheep.” This marks a descent into misrule and betrayal. The first of the shepherds sets this destructive pattern in motion. Under his watch, the birds of heaven—eagles, vultures, and kites—descend upon the sheep, gouging out their eyes and consuming their flesh. “And the sheep cried out because their flesh was being devoured by the birds, and as for me I looked and lamented in my sleep over that shepherd who pastured the sheep” (1 Enoch 89:70). The shepherd not only fails to protect them but effectively permits their brutalization.

This scene aligns closely with the prophetic warnings found in the Book of Hosea, particularly those concerning the northern kingdom of the Israelites (often referred to as Ephraim). After its political and religious split from Judah and the Temple, the northern tribes erected alternative shrines and plunged into idolatry. Hosea repeatedly condemns this departure from the covenant. “They have set up kings, but not by Me: they have made princes, and I knew it not” (Hosea 8:4), and again, “Ephraim is joined to idols; let him alone” (Hosea 4:17). As a result of this apostasy, God declares that foreign domination will follow: “He shall not return into the land of Egypt, but the Assyrian shall be his king, because they refused to return” (Hosea 11:5). This judgment corresponds to the appearance of the first shepherd in Enoch, whose oversight coincides with the brutal incursions of Assyria, including the fall of Samaria in 722 BCE.

The seventy shepherds in Enoch do not merely preside over a brief span of biblical history; they represent a long continuum of foreign dominion and spiritual disinheritance. The text describes them acting in succession, each according to his allotted time, with the cumulative result being catastrophic for the sheep. Enoch watches as the destruction far exceeds what was ordained, and he appeals to the divine scribe who records each offense. Ultimately, the shepherds themselves are judged, but not until a long period of oppression has unfolded. If the first shepherd represents Assyrian domination in the 8th century BCE, and if each shepherd symbolizes a phase or power extending this disciplinary oversight, then their rule could plausibly be traced forward through empires and hegemonies—Babylon, Persia, Greece, Rome, the Caliphates, European colonialism, and modern powers. In such a reading, the final shepherds might still be active today.

In this light, the suffering of oppressed peoples across the world—those enduring displacement, war, and systemic injustice—can be seen as the enduring cry of the sheep under the yoke of the last shepherds. The situations in current war-torn areas of the Middle East, for instance, where ordinary people are caught in cycles of violence and geopolitical manipulation, might resonate with the lament of the sheep whose flesh was devoured and eyes plucked out. Even further afield, communities struggling under unjust governance or marginalization echo the plight described in Enoch. If this vision encompasses a timespan of seventy terms each forty years long, (which fits well with known facts), stretching from the Assyrian invasions to our present global era, then the world today may still be under the shadow of that apocalyptic drama—awaiting the final reckoning, the judgment of the shepherds, and the promised restoration. (The present time might actually be in the last of these seventy forty-year terms, if they started soon after 740 BCE.) 

Such a reading does not merely offer a historical or spiritual interpretation; it places ongoing human suffering within a vast prophetic framework. The cry of the sheep is not forgotten. In the vision, the scroll is opened, and each unjust act is accounted for. The hope remains that justice will come—not just as a final reckoning, but as a restoration of vision, dignity, and divine care to all those who have been scattered, blinded, and consumed.

Stephen D Green, with ChatGPT, April 2025 

The true heart of Christianity

 If it is indeed not essential for someone to consider the pope as having authority over them, then the heart of Christianity must be located elsewhere—specifically, in the personal and communal call to become true disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ. This is the core: that every person, either individually or together in fellowship with others, respond to the call of Jesus to follow Him, learn from Him, and be transformed by Him.

Why is this important? Because Jesus came not merely to teach moral improvement, but to save his people, his disciples—save them from sin, from the power and pattern of behaviors that lead to condemnation. He saves every true disciple. He delivers them from the bondage of sin and makes them capable of living in alignment with God's will. Beyond this, He gives the eternal life necessary to be with himself and with the Father forever. Disciples of Jesus are those who he will raise from the dead in immortality or, if alive at His return, transform to never die—sharing in eternal fellowship with the Father, the Son, and all the true disciples.

But how does someone become a disciple, and how does Christianity help in this? If we believe in Jesus we will, with encouragement and grace, try to learn as his disciples—as disciples primarily of Jesus, and his apostles, and their teachings found in scripture. This means becoming his disciple by learning his teachings. So, faith in Jesus is the starting point. From there, grace and spiritual encouragement enable a person to begin the path into discipleship, which is rooted in learning Jesus’ teachings and following them, along with teachings of His apostles, as recorded in Scripture. 

The Church, in its various forms, exists to facilitate this process. Large historical churches like the Catholic and Orthodox traditions have built extensive structures—sacraments, liturgies, clergy, catechesis—designed to wrap a person in lifelong support in becoming and remaining a disciple. Often this model grew from a context where entire societies, even kingdoms, were brought under the umbrella of Christianity, and the Church sought to offer pastoral care from birth to death for everyone within that society.

Protestant traditions often put greater focus on the individual’s conscious faith response. In evangelical and charismatic settings, there is frequent recognition that not all who hear will believe, and preaching is tailored to persuade the heart, call for repentance, and awaken personal faith. These churches, too, aim to gather believers into community and nurture them through teaching, prayer, and fellowship, encouraging ongoing faithfulness as disciples of Christ.

Yet throughout Christian history, the challenge has remained: to make true disciples and not simply cultural adherents. Churches may fall into a pattern of offering creeds to assent to, rituals to observe, and institutions to trust, but lose the living connection with the words and ways of Jesus. It is entirely possible for a church to function, even thrive institutionally, while failing to form true disciples. This is the warning embedded in Jesus’ question: “When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on the earth?” (Luke 18:8). Faith here is not just belief in doctrines, but a lived trust and active following of Jesus—a life patterned after His teachings and filled with hope in His return.

Ultimately, Christianity is about Jesus Himself—knowing Him, following Him, and being transformed into His likeness through the Spirit. The structures of church, including papal authority for those under it, are meant to serve that end, not replace it. Where they aid in forming true disciples, they are fulfilling their role. Where they obstruct or obscure that purpose, they have lost the Father and the Son, and are cast off. For what matters in the end is not our institutional alignment, but whether we are known by Christ as His own.

Must everyone recognise authority of the Pope?

 Is it a grave matter to consider the Pope to have no authority over oneself, or is this just a typical stance if we try to learn as disciples primarily of Jesus, the apostles, and their teachings found in scripture?

Not everyone is subject to the pope, and in the current global context, this is especially apparent. While there may have been periods in history—particularly within the bounds of Christendom—when papal authority extended more broadly due to the intertwining of empire and Church, that era has passed. The idea of a singular, global Christian authority under the pope no longer reflects the reality of a fractured Christian landscape composed of various communions, each with their own governance and theological frameworks.

The argument for universal papal authority often hinges on the special status of Peter. Yet, even this is contested. While Peter certainly held a prominent role among the apostles, Scripture also presents a complex relationship between Peter and the other apostles—most notably Paul. In Galatians, Paul recounts how he publicly opposed Peter “to his face” because Peter was “clearly in the wrong” (Galatians 2:11). Paul’s assertion of divine commissioning independent of human authority, and his boldness in correcting Peter, undermines the notion of a singular, unchallengeable human head over all disciples. It also affirms that even those held in high regard can fall out of step with the gospel.

The Nicene era adds another layer to the debate. The decisions made at and after the Council of Nicaea were aimed at establishing orthodoxy, particularly regarding the nature of the Son in relation to the Father. Yet, it is well documented that earlier expressions of Christian faith—such as those of subordinationist theologians—were later labeled heretical. One might argue that this process constituted a kind of schism, as the church aligned itself with newly codified definitions and excommunicated those who maintained views once considered acceptable. 1 Corinthians 15, for example, portrays the Son ultimately subjecting Himself to the Father “so that God may be all in all,” a verse that subordinationist traditions cite in support of their theology. If such views were in keeping with early apostolic teaching, then the Church’s later departure from them could be interpreted as a break with the original deposit of faith.

From this angle, the idea of Peter’s authority passing down unbroken to the bishops of Rome becomes tenuous. If the successors failed to remain within the apostolic teaching—as John warns in 2 John 9, “Anyone who goes ahead and does not abide in the teaching of Christ, does not have God”—then their claim to succession could be undermined. The authority of any church leader, including the pope, is only valid insofar as they remain faithful to the teachings of Christ and His apostles. A conceptual authority derived from Peter does not override the responsibility to uphold truth, nor does it grant automatic legitimacy to institutional decisions that depart from apostolic doctrine.

Thus, the question of papal authority is not simply a matter of institutional continuity, but of fidelity to the gospel. And where that fidelity is in doubt, so too is the legitimacy of the authority claimed.

Protestants who reject the Pope

 Is it a grave matter to reject the Pope? Is it tantamount to rejection of the Christ and will Jesus Christ reject such a person in response? 

To reject Christ’s representatives is, by Christ’s own words, to reject Him. Luke 10:16 makes this point emphatically: “He who hears you hears me, and he who rejects you rejects me, and he who rejects me rejects him who sent me.” Likewise, in John 13:20, Christ says, “Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever receives the one I send receives me, and whoever receives me receives the one who sent me.” These verses establish a spiritual continuity between Christ and those He sends. Moreover, 2 Timothy 2:12 warns, “If we disown him, he will also disown us,” emphasizing the danger of cutting oneself off from Christ through rejection.

The question then arises: is the pope one of those Christ has sent in such a direct way? This is where the issue becomes complex. The title “apostle” carried specific qualifications in Scripture. Paul’s apostleship, for example, was rooted in a direct encounter with the risen Christ and accompanied by the visible commendation of God through signs and wonders, with perseverance in mission among those to whom he was sent. Paul was cautious even about church-commissioned sending; in Acts and the epistles, divine affirmation by the Spirit through miraculous means was necessary. Furthermore, Paul did not claim a universal apostleship; he was sent to particular people at particular times. Even when he sent delegates like Timothy, he urged the churches to accept them—authority was not automatic by association alone.

By these standards, the role of pope does not seem to fit the biblical model of an apostle. A pope does not, as a rule, claim to have seen the risen Christ personally, nor is his ministry routinely marked by miraculous signs commending him before the people to whom he is supposedly sent. Nor does Scripture clearly support the notion that apostleship can be transmitted institutionally. Paul's own humility is telling: “It is not the one who commends himself who is approved, but the one whom the Lord commends.” Thus, papal bulls, canon law, or Church tradition cannot alone establish someone as an apostle in the Pauline sense. Apostolic succession may be a framework for continuity of teaching and oversight, but it leaves room for debate, especially regarding its necessity or divine endorsement. If rejecting a pope were the same as rejecting a directly-sent apostle of Christ, this would surely be a matter Christ clarified beyond ambiguity.

The broader matter of authority also must be considered. Scripture teaches submission to legitimate authority. Hebrews 13:17 commands, “Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they are keeping watch over your souls,” but this is written to members of a church, those who willingly place themselves under such leadership. A person is most clearly subject to the pope if they are already within the structure of the Catholic Church—such as bishops, clergy, and lay Catholics who have voluntarily entered that communion. Outside that communion, it is not self-evident that every Christian is bound to recognize the pope’s authority. Historically, there were times when the pope claimed universal jurisdiction over Christendom, but that era has passed with the fragmentation of Christendom and the dissolution of a singular Christian empire.

Submission to authority is still required in the secular realm, however, as Paul wrote in Romans 13:1-2: “Let every person be subject to the governing authorities.” For most Catholics today, and certainly for non-Catholics, their primary submission in civil matters is to national governments, not to the pope. For some, the pope holds a dual role, also being the head of the Vatican as a sovereign state, which further blurs ecclesial and civil lines of authority.

The rejection of a church leader, however, may signal more than personal disagreement; it can suggest rejection of the church itself. When such a church is truly Christ’s body, containing genuine disciples and manifesting Christ’s presence, then rejection of that church can take on a spiritual gravity. Christ said that whatever is done to His disciples—especially the least among them—is done to Him. So if Christ is evidently at work in a community of believers, filled with His Spirit and shaped by His Word, rejection of their leadership could imply a deeper rejection of Christ Himself. While rejection of dogmas like apostolic succession can be theologically debated, rejection of the living, active presence of Christ in a true church, and by extension of its leadership, becomes a much more serious matter, one that touches on reverence for Christ Himself.

Acceptance or rejection of church high leadership

 A Christian may, as a matter of faith, theologically reject certain dogmas taught by a church—such as the doctrine of apostolic succession—without this amounting to irreverence toward Christ. This is especially relevant in the case of Protestants, who, following their tradition, may hold the view that Christ governs His Church through the Word and the Spirit rather than through a singular hierarchical succession of leaders. The rejection of a dogma, particularly when undertaken in good faith and with sincere conviction, is not inherently a rejection of Christ, but rather a reflection of a differing understanding of how His authority is expressed within the Church.

However, this theological rejection is sometimes confused or taken further than intended. Some, in rejecting a doctrine, go on to believe they must reject the person who represents or embodies that teaching—such as the pope or other church leaders. This can lead to error, especially when such rejection fails to recognize Christ’s presence in His Church or the legitimacy of its leadership as established within that church’s communion. While one may rightly question or reject specific theological claims, going beyond that to reject a leader entirely—especially one who faithfully governs in Christ’s name—can become spiritually problematic if done without due reverence. Such rejection, if rooted in pride or dismissiveness, may verge on disrespecting Christ Himself, particularly when the leader is acting within a church that bears Christ’s name and gathers true disciples.

This is not to say that such leaders possess apostleship in the strict sense. Apostleship, as seen in the New Testament, involves a direct commissioning by Christ and often a personal encounter with the risen Lord. Modern church leaders—bishops, priests, pastors—are not apostles in this foundational sense. Rather, they are governors and stewards, entrusted with the care of the Church and the preservation of apostolic teaching, not the original eyewitness commission. As such, rejecting their authority is not equivalent to rejecting Christ’s apostles, but it can still be serious, depending on the spirit and intention behind the rejection.

Scripture offers guidance on respecting those who labor in the Lord's service. Verses like 1 Thessalonians 5:12-13, Hebrews 13:17, and Romans 13:1-2 urge believers to honor those in authority and to submit to them, insofar as their leadership reflects God’s will. The Church, as the body of Christ, makes His presence tangible through word, sacrament, and governance. Disregard for the legitimate order of the Church, especially when done with arrogance or disdain, may ultimately lead to a rejection of Christ’s own ordering of His people. There is a line between faithful theological critique and spiritual irreverence. Staying on the side of reverence, humility, and discernment is crucial, especially in disagreements over leadership and authority within Christ’s Church.

Prophetic Insight Requires Prophetic Humility

 Prophetic Insight Requires Prophetic Humility

For centuries, American and British Protestantism used the Book of Revelation to expose the flaws of others—pointing at Rome, the papacy, or foreign empires as the embodiment of the Beast. This framing fueled revolutions, justified independence movements, and birthed a sense of divine exceptionalism. But as global power shifts, and nations like the U.S. become central in narrative control, military dominance, and global policy enforcement, the mirror of Revelation reflects uncomfortably close.

What if the mouth of the Beast is not just a warning about others, but a sobering call to self-examination?

Revelation doesn’t merely call us to identify the Beast outside—it warns us about the seduction of power within. And when the church is more concerned with being right than being humble, it risks becoming a servant of the system it was meant to resist.

The answer is not blame, nor fear, but mutual confession of sin.

Not just personal sins—but institutional, national, and historical ones.

Confessing where we've loved control more than grace.

Where we've used God’s name to build our own kingdoms.

Where we've silenced truth in the name of order.

Only through confession can we break agreement with the spirit of the age.

Only through humility can we hear the Lamb’s voice above the lion’s roar.

Mutual confession of sin is one of the most powerful safeguards against the Diotrephes spirit and one of the clearest expressions of the Spirit's fire among God’s people. Where leaders and members alike humble themselves before one another, openly acknowledging their faults and need for grace, the power structures that feed pride, control, and fear are broken. The ground is leveled at the cross.

Confession opens space for the Holy Spirit to work because it clears out the pride and pretense that often hinder His movement. It's in this vulnerability—this honest recognition that we are all in need—that the Spirit finds room to breathe, to renew, to convict, and to heal. A culture of confession fosters humility, empathy, and trust, replacing rivalry and suspicion with brotherhood and sisterhood. It’s hard to dominate someone you're confessing to. It’s hard to cast out someone whose sin you've helped carry to the cross.

When church leaders model confession, they invite the entire body into the light. But when leaders resist this posture—when they present themselves as above reproach or beyond correction—they create a culture where sin festers in darkness, and the Spirit is quenched by the weight of unacknowledged brokenness.

So mutual confession is not just a corrective to prideful leadership—it’s a return to the very heart of Pentecost, where people were cut to the heart, cried out for mercy, and received the Spirit in power. It’s the posture through which revival can actually take root.