Hope Amid Beasts and Buds

The Scriptures set before us a vivid contrast between the beasts of a troubled night and the quiet, inevitable budding of a fig tree. Daniel sees empires roaring out of the sea; Jesus points to sap rising in branches. In both, God teaches us how to live when the world feels loud, fast, and fragile: look past the terror and learn the signs; do not forget who sits on the throne, and do not doubt whose word endures.

The Beasts We Know

Daniel’s vision is not meant to satisfy our curiosity about the future as much as to reveal the truth of the present. The beasts; lion, bear, leopard, and the nameless, iron-toothed terror; embody powers that dehumanize. They conquer by fear and appetite; they trample, devour, and boast. Ancient readers would have recognized the empires of their day in these figures. We recognize our own.

We know these beasts not because we can map them neatly to this nation or that corporation, but because their traits show up where we live. They sound like the relentless pace that treats people as units of productivity. They look like propaganda that bends truth until conscience grows numb. They feel like addictions; digital, chemical, or emotional; that promise control and deliver bondage. They surge in the idolization of security, status, or novelty. The “little horn” that speaks arrogantly is there wherever power learns to flatter itself and forget the poor.

The turning point in Daniel’s vision is not the rise of a better beast but the unveiling of a throne. “The Ancient One” takes his seat; fire purifies; books are opened; judgment is rendered. History is not a random churn of forces. There is One who sees, remembers, and sets things right. The arrogant mouth is silenced, not by a louder mouth, but by the court of divine justice.

The Human One and the Future of the World

Into that courtroom comes “one like a son of man” on the clouds. He is not another monster with sharper teeth; he is human. Dominion is given to him, and it will not pass away. For Christians, this is the luminous center of hope: Jesus identifies himself with this “Son of Man.” His power is not the ability to coerce; it is the authority to restore. He rules not by swallowing the world but by giving himself for it.

In an age suspicious of power; and rightly so; Christ reveals a kingship that rescues our dignity. He shows us the future is human, not bestial: mercy stronger than vengeance, truth steadier than spin, self-gift more creative than control. To follow him is to live humanly in an inhuman time:

• Refuse contempt when it is fashionable, and speak the truth without poison.
• Keep Sabbath edges in a boundaryless week; time that says, “I am not a machine.”
• Practice small fidelities at home and work; empires stride, but the kingdom grows quietly where someone keeps a promise.
• Befriend the poor, because Christ’s throne leans toward those the beasts disregard.

Reading the Seasons: The Fig Tree’s Lesson

Jesus points to a tree and asks us to pay attention. Buds are not breaking news; they are patient signals. Discipleship, too, requires this kind of noticing. “When you see these things happening,” he says, “know that the Kingdom of God is near.” The goal is not panic but preparedness.

We live among many “signs”; headlines that stir anxiety, wars that bruise consciences, cultural shifts that unsettle long-held instincts. It helps to remember:

• Signs are for orientation, not alarmism. A sign tells you which way to face and how to walk.
• Clarity does not come from doom-scrolling; it comes from staying close to the Word who does not pass away.
• Jesus’ remark that “this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place” reminds us that some signs were historically near (the fall of Jerusalem), while his promise stands for every generation: his words outlast every empire, algorithm, and era.

When the future feels heavy, Christians do not deny the weight. We stand up and raise our heads, because the world’s last word is not chaos but Christ.

While We Worry, Creation Sings

The canticle from Daniel 3 summons mountains, rivers, dolphins, birds, and beasts to bless the Lord. Creation neither argues nor campaigns; it simply praises. When fear narrows our vision to threats alone, this hymn widens our gaze. It teaches a practical spiritual ecology:

• Let created things be sacraments of steadiness. The rhythm of dawn and dusk, the quiet labors of soil and seed, the patience of trees; these proclaim that God is faithful.
• Gratitude is resistance. To bless God for simple gifts interrupts the liturgy of anxiety that modern life performs.
• Reverent care for the earth is kin to worship. To love the world as given; not merely as used; conforms the heart to the Ancient One who delights in all he has made.

If you cannot pray many words, step outside and bless what you see: “All you works of the Lord, bless the Lord.” This is not escapism; it is training in hope.

Anchored by an Unfailing Word

“Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.” This is either the most audacious promise ever spoken or it is the anchor of sanity. Since empires have crumbled and heavens have rolled over more times than we can count, and yet the words of Jesus continue to convert, console, and confront, the Church stakes her life on that promise.

You may be facing loss; a job that dissolved, a diagnosis that bent your calendar around hospitals, a relationship that fractured, a mind that will not quiet at 3 a.m. Let Christ’s sentence be your pocket-lamp: My words will not pass away. Repeat it when headlines shout. Whisper it before decisions. Pray it in traffic, waiting rooms, and kitchen sinks. His word is not an opinion among many; it is the seed of a new creation.

Practicing Steadfast Hope

Hope is a grace, and it is also a way of life. Some helps for the road:

• Keep close to Scripture. Read Luke 21 slowly. Memorize one line. Let it argue gently with your fears.
• Discern the beasts. Once a week, ask: What is dehumanizing me? What steals my prayer, poisons my speech, or flattens my rest? Bring it to confession if needed; ask a friend for help.
• Choose humanizing acts. Cook for someone. Write a note of thanks. Refuse to forward contempt. Limit the digital drip that forms your heart more than you realize.
• Keep the sacraments central. The Eucharist anchors time to eternity; Adoration steadies the gaze; Reconciliation puts the books of your life under mercy’s fire.
• Practice creation’s praise. Bless God for rain and for bills paid, for children’s noise and elders’ wisdom, for the breath you just took.

Apocalyptic Scripture is not a map of disaster; it is a revelation of sovereignty. The Ancient One reigns. The Son of Man receives the kingdom. The fig tree buds. Creation sings. And the word made flesh speaks a promise that will outlast the cosmos. So stand up, raise your head, and let your life announce; quietly, stubbornly; that his kingdom is near.