Source: John J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature, Third Edition (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2016), 240–289.
This podcast examines three Jewish apocalypses written after the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE: 4 Ezra, 2 Baruch, and the Apocalypse of Abraham, viewing them as responses to this catastrophe. It analyzes their structure, arguing that despite internal inconsistencies, they generally exhibit a seven-part design. The text explores the theodicy (justice of God) issues they grapple with and their differing perspectives on topics like human sinfulness, the law, and the coming messianic age, contrasting Ezra's skepticism with Baruch's emphasis on obedience and Abraham's mystical tradition.
When we hear the word "apocalypse," we tend to think of a future, world-ending catastrophe—a cataclysmic event yet to come. But what if the world had already ended? For the Jewish people living in the first century, it had. The destruction of Jerusalem and its sacred temple by the Roman Empire in 70 CE was not a distant prophecy; it was a devastating reality that shattered their political, religious, and cultural universe.
This was a national trauma of the highest order, a catastrophe that demanded explanation. The historian Josephus tells of "impostors" who, under the pretense of divine inspiration, led people into the desert during the revolt itself, but these movements left no literary trace. Instead, the most profound and psychologically complex apocalyptic texts were written in the quiet, agonizing aftermath. Contrary to popular belief, these works weren't composed in the heat of battle to rally rebels, but as a way for a community to process overwhelming loss and find a way forward. They are less about predicting the future and more about making sense of a broken present. This article explores five surprising strategies from these ancient "post-apocalyptic" writings.
In a typical religious text, the hero is a figure of unwavering faith. The book of 4 Ezra, one of the most powerful works from this period, flips that script entirely. Its protagonist, Ezra, begins not as a faithful prophet but as a relentless skeptic, a figure whose agonizing questions are more reminiscent of the biblical Job than a divinely appointed seer.
Ezra relentlessly challenges God on the fundamental problem of justice, launching a direct assault on the traditional covenantal theology that seemed to have failed so spectacularly. His complaints give voice to the deepest anxieties of his people: Why was Zion destroyed while the wicked empire of Babylon—an allegorical representation of Rome—was allowed to prosper? Why did God allow an "evil inclination" to exist in humanity from the time of Adam, making sin almost inevitable? And most painfully, why do the wicked so vastly outnumber the saved?
Rather than offering immediate answers, the angel Uriel’s initial reply is reminiscent of God’s response to Job. He poses a series of impossible questions—“Weigh for me the weight of fire, measure for me the measure of the wind”—to emphasize the profound limits of human understanding. This is a brilliant pastoral strategy. Instead of demanding faith, 4 Ezra first validates doubt. By placing these sharp, uncomfortable questions in its hero's mouth, the text provides a cathartic effect for its readers, acknowledging the legitimacy of their frustration and despair. Ezra’s pessimistic realism is perfectly captured in his conclusion to one dialogue:
"I said before, say now, and will say hereafter: more numerous are the lost than the saved as the tide is greater than a drop." (9:15–16)