The four horsemen set out.
Apocalypse today.
The question of trust
A cursory reading might suggest that each calamity follows directly from the Lamb’s breaking of a seal, or worse, that God has orchestrated these events as instruments of divine wrath. Such an interpretation, however, fundamentally misconstrues both the text of Revelation and the Catholic understanding of God’s providence. The breaking of each seal does not represent God inflicting arbitrary suffering, but rather the admission – within the bounds of divine foreknowledge – of outcomes arising from human freedom. In permitting these events, God does not relinquish control; indeed, He remains sovereign over all creation, fully aware of every human choice that departs from His will. Nothing transpires apart from His consent or beyond the scope of His providential governance. With this theological foundation laid, we now turn to the first of the visions themselves.
The victor who will continue to conquer
“Now I watched when the Lamb opened one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures say with a voice like thunder, “Come!” And I looked, and behold, a white horse! And its rider had a bow, and a crown was given to him, and he came out conquering, and to conquer.” (Ap 6:1-2)
The vision of the Lamb in Revelation presents a rich tapestry of symbolism that has inspired divergent exegetical interpretations. In the opening scene, the Lamb – unequivocally identified as Christ – breaks the first of seven seals. Subsequently, each seal is opened not by angels but by figures variously described as “Beasts” and “Living Creatures.” These creatures, far from being literal angels, represent the fullness of God’s created order, perfectly embodying the divine will and thereby summoning further prophetic revelations.
Although the overall framework appears straightforward, scholars continue to dispute the precise meaning of the imagery. The New Jerome Biblical Commentary, for instance, offers two principal readings: “messianic woes as depicted in the Synoptic Gospels” or “a symbol of victory; the general celebrating a military triumph.” Likewise, the Jerusalem Bible acknowledges both an ecclesial triumph and a more secular, militaristic interpretation. This divergence among commentators is striking. Some exegetes maintain the traditional view, drawing a direct line from this vision to Revelation 19 – where the rider on the white horse is unmistakably Christ in glory – while others argue that the opening of the seals signifies a broader spiritual or institutional victory.
From a Catholic perspective grounded in tradition, both interpretations deserve serious consideration. Yet the immediate context of the text, together with the consistent pattern of Johannine symbolism, inclines one towards the latter understanding. If we regard the Lamb’s opening of the seals not merely as Christ’s personal triumph but as the unfolding advance of the Gospel through the Church’s missionary and redemptive activity, we preserve the communal and dynamic dimension of salvation history that lies at the heart of Catholic orthodoxy.
The depiction of the Four Horsemen in Revelation clearly echoes the earlier vision of the prophet Zechariah. In Zechariah 1:8–12, the prophet beholds four horses serving as God’s messengers “to patrol the earth.” Their report – that “we have traversed the land far and wide, and behold, peace reigns everywhere” – at first appears reassuring. In truth, however, it is the peace of a graveyard. Judah, God’s own people, lies crushed beneath foreign oppression. Though the Lord’s anger was but slight, the nations He permitted to chastise His people “went too far in punishment” (Zech. 1:15). Consequently, God declares His intention to shatter this false tranquillity in order to redirect the destiny of His chosen remnant.
The same dynamic informs the fourth seal in Revelation 6. In the prosperous cities of the Roman Empire – among them those in Asia Minor to which John’s Apocalypse is addressed – pagan inhabitants boast of security and abundance. Yet the Christian community suffers under systematic persecution. Divine justice therefore allows a human agent – “a man,” not God Himself – to disrupt this unholy peace. By withholding interference, God permits the execution of wicked schemes so that the Church may emerge purified and vindicated.
In both Zechariah and Revelation, what appears as a reigning peace conceals a mortal oppression of God’s people. The ensuing devastation is not an arbitrary act of wrath but a measured instrument of divine correction. Through it, the Lord breaks the stranglehold of false tranquillity and restores true covenantal order.
In the Johannine vision, the white horse initially recalls the image of a Roman military commander; yet the rider’s possession of a bow immediately distinguishes him. In the first century, Rome’s eastern neighbours – the Parthians – were renowned for their skill in archery, and this detail alerts us to broader geopolitical realities beyond the imperial legions.
The rider wears a crown, a traditional emblem of authority; more precisely, the text states that the crown “was given” to him. This wording underscores the theological conviction that God permits – even ordains – certain historical developments. In granting this crown, the divine will also authorises the rider “to go forth conquering and to conquer.” Within the Catholic understanding of Scripture, such permission does not imply God’s complacency in violence, but rather His sovereign allowance of human affairs for a greater good.
Overall, this passage foretells a period of conflict in which an overconfident Rome will suffer a sequence of humiliating reverses. According to Catholic tradition, God’s intention in allowing these defeats is twofold: first, to shatter the empire’s arrogance; second, to vindicate and console the faithful who endure oppression. Consequently, the vision offers both a warning against pride and a promise of divine solidarity with those who remain loyal to Christ.
As a punishment... I will let you take matters into your own hands
Attempting to correlate this narrative with specific events from Roman history is, in practical terms, little more than an academic exercise. As I have noted, such patterns recur throughout human civilisation, irrespective of the names affixed to the states in question. Consider the twentieth century: Poland, subjugated and partitioned by three great empires, only recovered its independence when those very powers – so confident in their own might – turned against one another. Although the First World War inflicted untold suffering upon countless civilians, it inadvertently paved the way for the rebirth of a nation eliminated from the map of Europe for 123 years – Poland.
In much the same fashion, the Second World War – borne in part of a failure to learn from the first – nonetheless prompted a momentary moral awakening. In its aftermath, the international community, guided by a renewed sense of responsibility, strove to enshrine the principle of universal human rights within the framework of global order. Even the collapse of the so-called “evil bloc,” despite its catalogue of atrocities, unfolded without widespread military conflagration. As a result, the latter half of the twentieth century witnessed a marked reduction in both the frequency and scale of interstate conflicts.
Paradoxically, these two cataclysmic wars – though they spilled oceans of blood – yielded enduring benefits for humanity: the affirmation of national self-determination and the elevation of the individual’s dignity as the cornerstone of international law. Today, as we fear that the conflict in neighbouring Ukraine may spill over into our own country and engulf Europe at large, we are reminded that divine Providence can bring good even out of human-inflicted calamity. In light of these lessons, it falls to us to pursue peace grounded in justice and rooted in the inviolable dignity of every human person.
No one desires war; it remains an unequivocal evil against which we must steadfastly pray for peace. Yet it is imperative to ask: what manner of world do we envisage securing through such prayers? We inhabit a cultural and political climate in which the seven deadly sins are frequently lauded as virtues, while God and His faithful are progressively marginalised and, in some quarters, even persecuted. Major geopolitical actors – whether Russia, China, the United States or the European Union – bear witness to moral erosion and systemic corruption, and they exhibit little reluctance in rebranding vice as virtue.
The future is veiled in uncertainty, yet it is not beyond divine possibility that the Lord, in His righteous judgement, may withdraw His protective hand from a civilisation that has wilfully embraced iniquity. He might therefore permit a decisive emergence of a victor – no longer mounted on horseback but advancing in armoured vehicles, no longer wielding a bow but commanding missile silos and autonomous drone fleets. Such an unfolding would lay bare the stark consequences of humanity’s collective folly.
War, in all its horrors, remains an instrument of last resort. Yet when men, in their pride and impiety, challenge the Creator, why should He indefinitely shield them from the fruits of their own rebellion? To do so would risk affirming the very presumption that humanity can transcend its need for divine guidance – and that Christianity is no more than a superstition to be cast aside in the name of progress. Indeed, this world, corrupted at its core and intent on constructing its own Tower of Babel, stands as a sobering testament to the necessity of recognising both God’s mercy and His justice.
In his Epistle to the Romans (1:18–31), Saint Paul presents a sober analysis of divine justice: God’s punishment often consists simply in permitting human folly to run its course. Although people “knew God,” they neither honoured Him nor gave thanks; as a result, “they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened.” Claiming wisdom, they proved themselves fools and exchanged “the glory of the immortal God” for likenesses of mortals, birds, quadrupeds and creeping things. In consequence, God “gave them up” to impurity, allowing them to dishonour their own bodies through unrestrained passions. Further still, because they refused to retain God in their knowledge, He delivered them over to a reprobate mind, so that they carried out deeds wholly contrary to His design.
This passage teaches that God need not actively afflict sinners; by withdrawing His protective hand, He enables individuals to experience the full weight of their own misguided choices. In this way, human misfortune and disgrace become the natural fruit of turning away from the Creator.
Blow after blow
And further misfortunes, which God does not protect self-conceited humanity from?
“When he opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature say, “Come!” And out came another horse, bright red. Its rider was permitted to take peace from the earth, so that people should slay one another, and he was given a great sword.” (Ap 6:3-4)
Within the apocalyptic vision of Saint John, the second seal reveals a fiery red horse whose very hue and attributes convey a profound symbolic message. The red of the steed signifies bloodshed and widespread devastation; the great sword borne by its rider emphasises his authority “to take peace from the earth” (Revelation 6:4). At first glance, one might suppose this to be a mere reiteration of the first seal’s calamities, but a closer exegesis shows a distinct intensification. The phrase “that people should slay one another” transcends a conventional clash between uniformed armies; it encompasses the full spectrum of atrocity – looting, rape, murder – and portends internecine conflict, including riots and civil war.
Historical experience confirms how war unleashes not only organised military hostilities but also systematic abuses against civilian populations. Consider Poland under German and Soviet occupations: it was not only frontline engagements that brought ruin, but the atrocities inflicted on defenceless communities. In such circumstances, humanity often regresses to a primal ferocity, behaving like predators unbound by moral restraint.
Within Catholic tradition, these recurrent cycles of violence are understood both as manifestations of original sin in its social dimension and as solemn invitations to divine mercy. When the Lamb opens the third seal, the narrative advances to yet another realm of human affliction – each unfolding plague or judgment deepening the tension between justice and hope, judgment and redemption.
“When he opened the third seal, I heard the third living creature say, “Come!” And I looked, and behold, a black horse! And its rider had a pair of scales in his hand. And I heard what seemed to be a voice in the midst of the four living creatures, saying, “A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three quarts of barley for a denarius, and do not harm the oil and wine!” (Ap 6:5-6)
The Black Horse? Scales in the hands of its rider?
The meaning of these symbols is explained by this mysterious voice. A quart (in Greek text χοινιξ – hoiniks) is approximately 1.1-1.3 litres. A denarius was more or less the daily wage of an ordinary worker. Normally, one could buy about several litres of wheat and proportionally more barley with it. Such high prices simply signify famine. The scales held in the rider's hand symbolise the meagre measuring out of grain, and the black horse – symbolizes famine.
The intriguing part, however, is "do not harm the oil and wine". What does it mean?
Olive Oil and Wine
Olive oil and wine in the ancient world occupied an intermediate economic position: they were not outright luxuries, yet neither were they everyday staples accessible to the poorest households. Even in periods of peace, the indigent could scarcely afford to consume them on a daily basis. When the text remarks that these items do not appreciate significantly in price, it implicitly contrasts them with the true linchpin of subsistence – grain – which becomes markedly more expensive. In other words, it is the essential foodstuffs that suffer acute inflation in times of crisis, while ancillary commodities such as oil and wine remain relatively price-stable.
This observation carries a clear social implication. As the vision unfolds through the opening of the seals, the most severe burdens fall upon those whose diets and livelihoods depend on the basic staples. The poor are compelled to forgo even modest luxuries; they must tighten their belts as the cost of bread soars. By contrast, the wealthy possess the means to hedge against shortages and speculative price rises. History repeatedly confirms that crises – whether wars, pandemics or financial collapses – tend to exacerbate economic inequality. The fortunes of the richest often expand inexplicably, while the masses endure deprivation.
From the perspective of Catholic social teaching, this pattern underscores the imperative of solidarity and the preferential option for the poor. Scripture and ecclesial tradition consistently call us to heed the needs of the most vulnerable (cf. Matthew 25:35–40). In his encyclical Caritas in Veritate, Pope Benedict XVI warns that true human development must address not only material concerns but also the moral and spiritual dimensions of economic life. As Catholics, we are therefore summoned to respond vigorously – in prayer and in practice – to any system that disproportionately burdens the poor, and to advocate for structures of justice that safeguard the dignity of every person.
Misfortunes come in droves
“When he opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, “Come!” And I looked, and behold, a pale horse! And its rider's name was Death, and Hades followed him. And they were given authority over a quarter of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by wild beasts of the earth” (Ap 6:7-8)
The “pale horse” of Revelation 6:8 is best understood as a personification of pestilence, hence the rider’s name, Death. Closely attendant upon him is Hades – rendered in some translations as “the Abyss” – which, in the Greco-Roman imagination, denotes the shadowy realm of the dead. These “shadows” are so-called because, in that worldview, the inhabitants of Hades exist in a state of neither-life-nor-death. Within this vision, the Abyss appears to gather the multitude of corpses that Death has claimed.
Of particular note is the enumeration of four modes of destruction: “with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by wild beasts of the earth.” The swords and famines were foreshadowed by the first and second seals, and the plague corresponds directly to the fourth seal’s rider, the pale horse. The reference to “wild beasts,” however, is less readily accounted for by natural calamity or generalised chaos. Nor does it imply a cosmic revolt of nature against sinful humanity. Instead, the phrase evokes the prophetic pronouncements of Ezekiel (cf. Ezekiel 5 and 14), where the same quartet – sword, famine, wild beasts, and plague – serves as the instruments of divine chastisement upon an unjust people.
The convergence of these four destructive forces under the aegis of the Lamb’s opening of the seals suggests not a linear chronology of eschatological events, but rather a single, multifaceted outpouring of judgement. In the reality of war – both spiritual and material – death, cruelty, hunger, and disease do not unfold in isolation but interpenetrate one another, each a portent of the others within the divine economy of redemption and retribution.
This portrayal exemplifies the chastisement that humanity endures as a consequence of its own injustice and folly. It is essential to emphasise that this is not primarily a direct punishment imposed by God, but rather the consequence of human beings exercising the freedom granted to them, unrestrained by the Divine. In this regard, God withdraws the protective canopy that once sheltered mankind, permitting them to be thoroughly drenched by the torrential downpour into which they have plunged themselves through pride and imprudence. Furthermore, it merits particular attention that Death and the Abyss have been granted authority over only one quarter of the earth. Consequently, although death claims a vast multitude of lives, it does not encompass all, nor even the majority.
You wanted this yourself, man
In the face of a contemporary world beset by pervasive injustice, one must ask: why does God permit such disorder? Why does He refrain from immediate intervention as humanity rushes towards conflict? Why do those who would be branded as bandits, were they not clothed in the mantle of authority, seize power without hindrance? A careful reading of the Apocalypse suggests that divine providence allows iniquity to mature fully, so that its disguises fall away and its true, corrupt nature is revealed.
This allowance serves two interrelated purposes. First, those who perpetrate injustice are left to suffer the consequences of their own folly; in their arrogance, they bring about their own undoing. Second, humanity as a whole is compelled to abandon its illusions concerning modernity, progress, tolerance and human rights when these are detached from authentic moral foundations. Only by confronting the naked reality of sin can society recognise the insufficiency of secular assurances and turn again to the enduring truths of the Gospel.
Therefore, if we perceive the four horsemen of the Apocalypse advancing across the earth, we must resist despair and cease to reproach God. His permissive will permits these trials to serve as a purifying fire, stripping away false hopes and leading the world towards genuine wisdom and lasting renewal in Christ.