The Ancient One Still Reigns

A Meditation for Christ the King Sunday

As I watched in the night visions, I saw one like a human being coming with the clouds of heaven. And he came to the Ancient One and was presented before him [Daniel 7:13].

In these days following our recent Presidential election, we’re witnesses to a stark contrast in responses. Some folks are practically floating on air, convinced that the outcome signals national salvation. Others are “absolutely devastated,” as described by the editors of The Christian Century — that thoughtful, albeit thoroughly left-leaning voice of mainline Protestantism.

I’d like to suggest—no, I feel compelled to argue—that both responses miss a fundamental point: that when it comes to the Kingdom of God, political power simply isn’t relevant. This Sunday’s alternate Old Testament reading, Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14 [Christ the King Sunday, RCL, Year B], offers us a perspective that might help us find our bearings.

Many of us grew up hearing dramatic stories from Daniel—like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego surviving the fiery furnace in chapter 3, or Daniel emerging unscathed from the lions’ den in chapter 6. These beloved tales show faithful people standing firm in the face of political pressure. But this week’s text takes us into different territory altogether.

At chapter 7, the Book of Daniel shifts from those narrative accounts to a series of mysterious visions about the nature of earthly and divine power. If you haven’t spent much time with this part of Daniel, you’re not alone. The shift from storytelling to apocalyptic vision is dramatic, and at first glance, perhaps even disorienting.

These visions described in Daniel emerged during one of the most challenging periods in Jewish history. The people were living under foreign rule, and their very way of life was under threat. The immediate crisis was the reign of Antiochus IV, a Greek ruler who had outlawed Jewish religious practices and even desecrated the temple in Jerusalem. He went so far as to mint coins declaring himself Epiphanes — “God manifest.” It was in this context of political oppression and religious persecution that Daniel recorded his remarkable vision.

And what a vision it is! The scene in Chapter 7 opens in what we might call a divine courtroom, though that hardly does justice to its grandeur. Here we encounter the “Ancient One” — a deliberately mysterious name for God—taking his seat on a throne of fiery flames. The description is spare but stunning: clothing white as snow, hair like pure wool, attended by countless thousands. The books of judgment are opened.

It’s particularly fitting that we encounter this text on Christ the King Sunday, the final Sunday of the Western Church’s liturgical year. This feast day was established by Pope Pius XI in 1925, during a time when fascism was rising in Europe and totalitarian regimes were demanding absolute allegiance from their citizens. The Western Church recognized a familiar pattern—not unlike what Daniel’s readers faced under Antiochus IV—of political powers claiming divine authority. The feast day was created specifically to remind Christians that their ultimate allegiance could never belong to any earthly regime or political movement, no matter how powerful or persuasive. Now, nearly a century later, as nations and political movements continue to demand absolute loyalty, this reminder remains as relevant as ever.

Into this majestic courtroom scene comes “one like a human being” (or “Son of Man” in some old translations), approaching the Ancient One. To this figure is given “dominion and glory and kingship” that, unlike every earthly regime, “shall never be destroyed” [Daniel 7:14]. Christians have long seen in this figure a prophetic glimpse of Christ, whose reign we celebrate this Sunday. Notice what true kingship looks like in this vision. There are no press conferences, no military parades, no power displays, no triumphalist declarations. There is instead a faithful approach to the Ancient One and received authority that requires no self-aggrandizement.

Which brings me back to our present moment. When we invest ourselves too deeply in political outcomes—whether celebrating victory or mourning defeat—we are revealing where our faith lies. The elation of those who are “floating on air” and the despair of those who feel “absolutely devastated” suggest that all too many of us have forgotten the temporary nature of all earthly power. More importantly, we’ve forgotten where true authority lies.

The books that are opened before the Ancient One don’t record election returns. The power that is genuine needs no self-proclamation of divinity, no coins declaring “Epiphanes.” The kingdom that lasts forever isn’t established by human vote or human force.

When we look more closely at Daniel’s vision of genuine authority, we notice something remarkable about its character. The power described here doesn’t operate through coercion or fear. The Ancient One doesn’t need to suppress opposition or manipulate public opinion. The one “like a human being” doesn’t arrive with armies or economic leverage. Instead, we see authority that manifests itself through presence, through relationship: “and he came to the Ancient One and was presented before him” ]7:13].

This kind of sovereignty—the kind we celebrate on Christ the King Sunday—expresses itself not in the ability to compel, but in the power to transform. It doesn’t demand allegiance; it invites relationship. It doesn’t require our anxiety about its preservation because, as Daniel tells us, it “shall not pass away, and his kingship is one that shall never be destroyed” [7:14].

Whether we find ourselves tempted toward political triumphalism or driven to despair by electoral outcomes, Daniel’s vision echoes through the centuries to our own time. Just weeks ago, our newly installed Senior Pastor, the Reverend Goodie Bell, drew from this same deep well of truth in a pre-election sermon at Blacknall. Speaking from Philippians 3, she reminded us that “our citizenship is in heaven” —a declaration that, like Daniel’s vision and the feast of Christ the King itself, calls us to examine where we place our ultimate trust.

Paul’s language of heavenly citizenship wasn’t just spiritual metaphor; it was a direct challenge to the Roman Empire’s demands for absolute loyalty, just as Daniel’s vision challenged Antiochus, and just as both texts challenge us today. Not because earthly politics don’t matter—they do—but because their importance is ultimately penultimate. The genuine authority we glimpse in Daniel’s vision, and that we celebrate this Sunday, transcends our political categories while simultaneously giving them their proper, limited place.

As we conclude another church year, might we all learn to hold our political hopes and fears more lightly, knowing they rest within a larger reality—one where the Ancient One still sits enthroned, where true authority still manifests itself in transformation rather than coercion, and where God’s kingdom continues its quiet, but steady work of renewal, regardless of who occupies the seats of temporary power.