Daniel

 

DANIEL AS SEEN BY A MERE OBSERVER

[I gratefully acknowledge my debt to my Goddaughter, Cathrine A. Zuzak, whose searching comments on the penultimate draft helped me to finalise this Dialogue. I have used ChatGPT (OpenAI) as a tool for discussion, language refinement, and structural feedback during the preparation of this work. I am grateful to them.]

 

I. GETTING STARTED

 

            As often before, the Book of Daniel kept puzzling me. Its author had taken liberties with the history of the Levant. I was also thinking about the patterns of the Hebrew poetry of the Bible. I knew that this poetry was magnificent: rhythmic without rhyme, incantatory without meter. But I was also aware that poetic structures and idioms had changed over the long span of antiquity.

            I was about to close the book and arrange lunch with a former colleague, when Theophil revealed himself. As often before, he assumed the guise of my late friend Peppi Stölz, whom I used to visit in London ever since I stumbled into his antiques shop.

            “Which good wind has blown you over, Maestro?” I wanted to know.

            “Peter’le, Peter’le: do you really think I am ‘blown’ by a wind? I decided to make my presence known because you require my help. And, as you know, I am always available when a friend needs me.”

            “I do know,” I assured him. I also knew that mankind regarded him as the ‘Adversary’ or ‘Asmodeus’ – the very epitome of evil. To me, though, he had invariably been a kind spirit that governed my steps and proceedings. I was just as fond of him as I had been of the real Peppi of days gone by.

            “You can, indeed, help me today, Maestro.”

            “I know, Peter’le. You contemplate two projects. One is an attempt to explain the nature of biblical poetry to intelligent and generally well-read people. The other is an analysis of the Book of Daniel. But before you opt for ‘project right’, there is another fundamental issue.”

            “What is it?” I asked with unease.

            “You are 93 years old. Each of the two projects requires research and analysis. Do you really want to do this? During your lengthy career as a Professor of Law, you tended to curse the deadlines you had to meet. Your existence as a respected retiree makes no such demands. Why do you want to harness yourself once again?”

            “A paradox, Maestro: now that I do not have deadlines and workloads, I rather miss them. Are you surprised?

            “Not really. Many aging retirees feel that way. My object is to induce you to reflect before you get started. Once you begin, pride will stop you from giving up.”

            “Right you are: are the projects too ambitious?”

            “On its own, neither is. But attempting both may be too heavy a burden. So, you better decide which one you want to tackle first. You can reflect on the other after bringing the first to conclusion.”

            “Which one is more suitable, or, putting it differently, which one am I more likely to enjoy.”

            “That’s a tough one, my friend. But there is a basic point to be made. If you tackle the Biblical Poetry project, you have three handicaps. In the first place, you must decide how the works you consider were pronounced. And we cannot be certain that the different poetic works you opt for were pronounced in one and the same manner. Existing scholarship has not come up with a firm conclusion respecting the modes of speech. Remember, even during one period – that of the Chieftain Yiftah – the tribe of Ephraim had a slang differing from that of other tribes.”

            “I take your point, Maestro. And what is the second handicap?”

            “You command only two ancient semitic languages, Peter’le: Hebrew and Aramaic. To tackle the poetry project, you would need to acquire a command of at least two others, that is, Assyrian and Akkadian. Are you prepared to study these?”

            “A formidable task at this stage of my life. And what is the last handicap?”

            “A strictly personal one, Peter’le. You are not a philologist by nature or by training. Can you overcome this? Can you master philology?”

            “Am not certain, Maestro. Well, how about the other project?”

            “We have already discussed the other books: Jonah, Judges and Ruth. Our object was to study the origin, the background and the message of a given book. Daniel may be more difficult to tackle, mainly because parts are written in Hebrew and others are Aramaic. But Hebrew is a language you command and used in daily life for some twenty years and you have a sound reading knowledge of Aramaic.”

            “But how about loanwords in the text, Maestro. Isn’t philology important when you seek to construct them?’

            “It is; but – in contrast with the project respecting Biblical Poetry – it is not central. In the context of a study of Daniel, this is just one issue. And you can tackle it by relying on the consensus of existing scholarly research. When studying Biblical Poetry, command of philology is crucial.”

            “I hear you. Very well, let us then start with the Daniel project.”

            “Good conclusion, Peter’le. We could start by reviewing the book. Daniel – as you know- comprises only twelve chapters. But the Book covers a lengthy period.”

            “Does this matter, Maestro?”

            “It does,” replied Theophil. “The reader requires at least a rudimentary understanding of the political world in which the book is set. Otherwise, names such as Nebuchadnezzar, Belshazzar or Darius float in a vacuum.”

“I agree,” I replied. “Modern readers rarely possess a coherent picture of Mesopotamian history. They vaguely associate Babylon with magnificence and tyranny, but little more.”

“A fair observation, Peter’le. Yet the Book of Daniel presupposes familiarity with the fall of Jerusalem, the Babylonian Exile, the succession of Babylonian rulers and, ultimately, the rise of the Persian Empire. Without that background, many passages remain obscure.”

“Let us then turn to it, Maestro.

 

II. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND OF DANIEL

 

“Shouldn’t we begin with Nebuchadnezzar?” I asked. “Please take the lead.”

“Very well, Peter’le. Nebuchadnezzar II was the greatest ruler of the Neo-Babylonian Empire. He reigned during the sixth century BCE and transformed Babylon into one of the wonders of the ancient world. Massive walls, temples, palaces and ceremonial avenues proclaimed the splendour of his reign. To the peoples of the Levant, however, he was remembered less as a builder than as a conqueror.”

“Because of Jerusalem, Maestro?”

“Precisely,” he confirmed. “Following repeated revolts by the Kingdom of Judah, Nebuchadnezzar captured Jerusalem, destroyed the First Temple and deported part of the population to Babylon. These events left an indelible scar upon Jewish memory. The Babylonian Exile became one of the formative experiences of Judaism.”

“And Daniel – the man – is presented as one of the deportees, Maestro.”

“Yes, although the precise historical circumstances are difficult to reconstruct with certainty. The narrative assumes that Daniel and certain noble youths were brought to Babylon during the earlier deportations.”

I reflected for a moment before asking: “What happened after Nebuchadnezzar’s death? The Book of Daniel gives the impression of a direct transition to Belshazzar.”

“A highly compressed impression,” answered Theophil. “Historical reality was considerably more complicated. Nebuchadnezzar died around 562 BCE after an exceptionally long reign. His death inaugurated a period of instability at the Babylonian court.”

“Who succeeded him, Maestro?”

“His son Amel-Marduk, whom the Hebrew Bible calls Evil-Merodach.”

“A singularly unfortunate name,” I observed.

“A consequence of later linguistic transmission rather than malice,” replied Theophil dryly. “Amel-Marduk reigned only briefly, approximately two years. Biblical readers may remember him because the Second Book of Kings records that he released the captive Judean king Jehoiachin [Yechoniah] from prison.”

“So even the biblical tradition preserves a trace of him.”

“Quite so. But his reign ended violently. He was overthrown and apparently assassinated by his brother-in-law Neriglissar.”

“A usurper?”

“More accurately, a powerful court figure with military backing. Neriglissar then ruled for several years and was succeeded by his young son Labashi-Marduk.”

“Who presumably did not last long?”

“You anticipate correctly, Peter’le. The boy occupied the throne only for a matter of months before being removed, probably murdered, by conspirators.”

“A turbulent succession.”

“Very much so. The instability paved the way for the accession of Nabonidus [Nabu-na’ib], the final king of the Neo-Babylonian Empire.”

“And was Nabonidus associated with Belshazzar?”

“He was, Peter’le. And here we encounter one of the most intriguing historical episodes underlying the Book of Daniel.”

“You refer to Nabonidus’ self-imposed exile?”

“Exactly, Peter’le. Nabonidus remains an enigmatic figure. Unlike Nebuchadnezzar, he showed comparatively little interest in Babylon itself and appears to have possessed unusual religious preoccupations. In particular, he displayed marked devotion toward the moon god Sin.”

“Which displeased the priesthood of Marduk?”

“Profoundly. Babylonian religion was closely intertwined with royal legitimacy. The priests of Marduk expected the king to participate in elaborate rituals centred upon Babylon and its chief deity. Nabonidus disturbed this equilibrium.”

“How?”

“Most remarkably by absenting himself from Babylon for many years. He established himself at Tayma in northern Arabia and remained there for roughly a decade.”

“Astonishing behaviour for an ancient monarch.”

“Indeed. Historians still debate his motives. Some suggest religious devotion; others point to commercial or strategic considerations connected with Arabian trade routes. Whatever the explanation, the practical consequence was unprecedented: the crown prince, Belshazzar, exercised royal authority in Babylon while his father remained absent.”

“So, Belshazzar was not king in the strict sense?”

“Correct, Peter’le. He was never the reigning monarch in the formal dynastic sense. Yet, Belshazzar held sufficient authority for later memory to treat him as the ruler of Babylon. This helps explain why the Book of Daniel places him in the royal role.”

“And the famous feast?”

“A dramatic literary setting, but not without historical resonance. Babylon did fall suddenly, and Belshazzar was closely associated with the final years of the empire. The author of Daniel compresses and reshapes events, but he does not invent the atmosphere of impending collapse.”

“Then came Cyrus?”

“Indeed. Cyrus, king of Persia, had already conquered Media and Lydia before turning against Babylon. By the time he approached Mesopotamia, the Babylonian Empire was weakened internally. Nabonidus had alienated important religious and political groups, and Persian propaganda presented Cyrus not as a destroyer, but as a restorer chosen by Marduk.”

“A clever strategy.”

“Extremely clever, Peter’le. In 539 BCE Babylon passed into Persian hands. The event was decisive not only for Mesopotamia, but also for the Judean exiles. Cyrus permitted deported peoples to return and restore their sanctuaries. In Jewish memory, therefore, he became not merely a conqueror, but an instrument of divine providence.”

“And here Daniel becomes complicated.”

“Very much so, Peter’le. For the book moves among Babylonian, Median and Persian figures in a manner that does not always correspond neatly to modern historical reconstruction. That is why we must distinguish between the historical world in which the story is set and the literary-theological world created by the author.”

“Very well. But, please, continue to set out the relevant history,” I replied.

“Willingly,” replied Theophil. “Cyrus, founder of the Persian Empire, created one of the largest political entities the ancient world had yet seen. Unlike many conquerors before him, he cultivated a reputation for moderation toward conquered peoples. The Jewish exiles benefited directly from this policy: some returned to Judea.”

“A policy that later generations remembered with gratitude,” I observed.

“Quite so. To many Jews, Cyrus appeared almost as an instrument of divine providence. Indeed, Isaiah describes him as ‘the anointed’ [Isa. 45:1]. Yet his empire was not merely benevolent; it was extraordinarily efficient. Persian administration combined military strength with a sophisticated bureaucratic structure extending from Asia Minor and Greece to the borders of India.”

“And who succeeded Cyrus?” I asked.

“First came his son Cambyses II, who conquered Egypt. His reign, however, proved unstable. Following political turmoil, power eventually passed to Darius I – often called Darius the Great – who consolidated and reorganized the empire. Under Darius, the Persian state reached remarkable administrative maturity.”

“The same Darius who appears in biblical tradition?”

“One of the difficulties, Peter’le, is precisely that several rulers named Darius existed, while the Book of Daniel appears to combine historical memory with literary and theological concerns. We shall eventually need to address these chronological problems separately.”

“A prudent warning,” I admitted.

“After Darius came Xerxes – remembered in Greek history for the Persian wars against the Greek city-states – and thereafter a succession of kings ruling an empire increasingly troubled by revolts, court intrigues and provincial unrest.”

“Was the empire already declining?”

“Gradually. Persia remained formidable for nearly two centuries, but internal weakness and external pressure slowly undermined it. Then came the great upheaval.”

“Alexander,” I suggested.

“Precisely. Alexander III of Macedon – whom history calls Alexander the Great –  invaded the Persian Empire in the fourth century BCE. Within little more than a decade he shattered Persian power completely.”

“A breathtaking achievement,” I observed.

“Nor was Alexander merely a conqueror,” added Theophil. “He possessed considerable familiarity with Persian history and is said to have carried during his campaigns a copy of Xenophon’s Cyropaedia [‘The Education of Cyrus’], composed around 370 BCE and centred upon Cyrus the Great as the model ruler.”

“So, Alexander was both a scholar and a great tactician: one almost unparalleled in military history. Alexander conquered territories stretching from Greece and Egypt to Mesopotamia and India. Equally significant, however, was the cultural transformation accompanying his victories. Greek language, education and customs spread throughout the Near East. Historians refer to this process as Hellenization.”

“And the Jews became subject to this new world?”

“They did indeed. Judea passed from Persian into Hellenistic control. Greek influence increasingly penetrated the cities of the Levant. Some Jews welcomed aspects of Greek culture; others regarded it as a mortal threat to ancestral traditions.”

“But Alexander died young.”

“At barely thirty-two years of age,” affirmed Theophil. “And therein lay the problem. He left no heir capable of controlling his immense empire. Almost immediately his generals – the so-called Diadochi, or ‘successors’ – commenced struggling for power.”

“So, the empire fractured, Maestro.”

“Inevitably. After prolonged wars, Alexander’s dominions split into several Hellenistic kingdoms. Two concern us particularly because they dominate the background of Daniel Chapter 11.”

“The Ptolemies and the Seleucids?”

“These very two, Peter’le. Ptolemy established himself in Egypt, while Seleucus gained control over Syria and the eastern territories. Judea found itself trapped geographically between these rival dynasties.”

“A dangerous position, Maestro.”

“Extremely dangerous, Peter’le. Control of Judea shifted between the two kingdoms. The conflicts between the ‘King of the South’ and the ‘King of the North’ described in chapter 11 of Daniel correspond closely to these dynastic struggles.”

“I begin to see why Chapter 11 appears so bewildering to modern readers,” I observed.

“Certainly. Without historical background, the chapter resembles an unintelligible catalogue of wars, marriages and betrayals. Yet contemporaries living amid these events would have recognised many of the references immediately.”

“Initially, the Ptolemies controlled Judea, didn’t they?”

“They did. For roughly a century the region remained largely under Egyptian administration. Conditions were comparatively stable, and Jewish religious life continued without catastrophic interference. The translation of the Old Testament into Greek – known as the Septuagint – commenced during their reign.”

“But the balance of power eventually changed.”

“Yes. In the early second century BCE, the Seleucid ruler Antiochus III defeated the Ptolemies and incorporated Judea into the Seleucid Empire.”

“And after him came Antiochus IV Epiphanes, Maestro.”

“The central figure for understanding Daniel,” declared Theophil gravely. “Antiochus IV sought aggressively to strengthen royal authority and accelerate Hellenization. His policies eventually collided violently with Jewish religious traditions.”

“Why did matters deteriorate so drastically?”

“Several causes converged: internal Jewish disputes, struggles among priestly factions, imperial financial pressures and Antiochus’ own temperament. Tensions escalated until the king intervened directly in Jerusalem.”

“The desecration of the Temple?”

“Yes, Peter’le. Jewish sources describe the prohibition of central religious practices such as circumcision and observance of the Torah. The Temple itself was rededicated to pagan worship. These measures shocked many Jews profoundly.”

“And this triggered the revolt?”

“It did. The uprising is commonly known as ‘the Maccabean Revolt’. A priestly family led by Mattathias and later by his son Judas Maccabaeus initiated armed resistance against Seleucid authority.”

“A rebellion both political and religious.”

“Precisely, Peter’le. That dual character is essential. The revolt was not merely a struggle for national independence, nor solely a dispute respecting theology. It combined resistance to foreign domination with determination to preserve religious identity.”

“And the rebels ultimately prevailed?”

“Against extraordinary odds. Jerusalem and the Temple were eventually recaptured and rededicated – an event commemorated in the Jewish festival of Hanukkah. Although warfare continued for years, the revolt ultimately resulted in a substantial degree of Jewish autonomy under the Hasmonean dynasty.”

“At this stage,” I reflected, “the connection with Daniel becomes unmistakable.”

“Quite so, Peter’le. Many modern scholars consider the persecutions under Antiochus Epiphanes to form the immediate historical background against which the final chapters of Daniel were composed or edited. The visions of monstrous kingdoms, arrogant rulers and ultimate divine deliverance acquire far greater clarity once placed within this historical setting.”

“And yet the book speaks in symbols rather than direct historical narrative.”

“A crucial point,” answered Theophil. “Apocalyptic literature rarely names contemporary oppressors openly. Symbol, vision and coded imagery provide both protection and theological depth. The author of Daniel was not merely recording events. He sought to interpret history itself as part of a cosmic struggle between earthly empires and divine sovereignty.”

“Thanks for this exposition, Maestro. It explains the political background faced by the compiler of the Book of Daniel. We can now safely proceed to our basic review of this Book,” I concluded.

             

III. REVIEWING THE BOOK OF DANIEL

1. A Brief Review of the Book

“I have supplied a summary of the historical background. But you must take the initiative as regards the book. So, you better start the ball rolling,” said Theophil. “You see, very few people have read Daniel.”

“Shall I simply spell out the contents?”

“Please, do!”

       “Chapter 1 is an introduction. It tells us that Daniel and three other boys descended from families exiled by King Nebuchadnezzar were selected for training at the Babylonian court. The author depicts them as gifted, disciplined and loyal to the God of Israel. The chapter culminates in Daniel’s gift of successful interpretation of dreams and visions, thereby establishing him as a figure endowed with divine wisdom.”

“A straightforward opening,” observed Theophil. “But one further fact need be mentioned: Daniel asked their overseer that he and his companions be given only vegetables and water instead of the rich food from the king’s table, so that they would not defile themselves with food considered impure by their faith.”

“Point taken, Maestro. I assume that the object of these lines is to highlight the importance of observing divine commandments even when in an alien environment.”

“Quite so, Peter’le. Please proceed.”

“Chapter 2 introduces the first great royal dream. Nebuchadnezzar beholds a gigantic statue composed of different metals, shattered by a mysterious stone. Daniel explains that the various sections symbolize successive empires destined to perish before the kingdom established by God. The vision became one of the most influential passages in later Jewish and Christian thought.”

“Do you think the postulation of four Kingdoms is accidental?” asked Theophil.

“I don’t think so. In ancient Near Eastern and Biblical symbolism, the number four often conveyed universality or totality – the four winds, four corners of the earth or four directions of the world. The sequence therefore may signify not merely four historical empires, but the totality of worldly imperial power standing under divine judgment.”

“Indeed, Peter’le. But we shall reserve disputes for later discussion. At this stage, our object is merely to acquaint the reader with the structure of the work.”

“Chapter 3, Maestro, recounts the famous story of the fiery furnace. Daniel’s three companions refuse to worship the golden image erected by Nebuchadnezzar and are cast into the flames; yet survive unharmed. The tale illustrates steadfastness under persecution and the conviction that divine power surpasses royal authority.”

“Chapter 4,” I continued, “returns to Nebuchadnezzar himself. Troubled by another dream, he learns from Daniel that excessive pride will bring about his downfall. The king subsequently loses his reason and lives like an animal until he finally acknowledges the sovereignty of God. The narrative combines court legend with moral instruction.”

“This, too, required further discussion later,” pointed out Theophil.

             “Chapter 5,” I narrated, “moves to the reign of Belshazzar. During a royal banquet, a mysterious hand writes words upon the wall. Daniel interprets the inscription as a judgment announcing the imminent fall of Babylon. The episode gave rise to the enduring expression ‘the writing on the wall’.”

“A useful contribution to several modern languages,” commented Theophil. “Please continue.”

“Chapter 6 contains perhaps the best-known narrative of all: Daniel in the lions’ den. Elevated to high office under Darius, Daniel becomes the victim of jealous rivals who induce the king to prohibit prayer to any deity save himself. Daniel continues his devotions regardless and is cast among lions but emerges unharmed.”

“From Chapter 7 onward,” I proceeded, “the character of the book changes dramatically. Narrative gives way to apocalyptic vision. Daniel now beholds symbolic beasts, heavenly courts, angels and prophecies concerning kingdoms yet to come.”

“We need some further details, Peter’le.”

“Chapter 7 describes four monstrous beasts arising from the sea, followed by the appearance of ‘one like a son of man’. The imagery profoundly influenced later apocalyptic literature and early Christianity alike.”

“We need to underscore and further analyse the point respecting the apocalyptic nature of this chapter,” interjected Theophil. “This is one of the major issues respecting the book.”

“Point taken,” I affirmed and went on: “Chapters 8 through 10 contain further visions and angelic interpretations. Kings and empires appear in symbolic form; conflicts between great powers dominate the scene. Certain passages seem astonishingly precise in their description of historical events, while others appear obscure or problematic. These matters have long occupied both believers and historians.”

“You need to add some details respecting chapter 8, Peter’le.”

“Why, Maestro?”

“Because it lays the foundation for the immediate message of the book, which emerges later on, in chapters 11 and 12. Chapter 11 has to be read together with the historical facts set out in 8.”

“Chapter 8,” I explained, “continues the apocalyptic pattern through the vision of the ram and the goat, symbols commonly associated with the Medo-Persian and Greek empires.”

“Indeed, Peter’le. And you need to cover chapter 11 – which has to be read together with 8 – in some detail!”

“Chapter 11 is perhaps the most difficult section of the entire work. It presents a long sequence of political struggles, alliances and betrayals involving rulers of the north and south. Readers unfamiliar with Hellenistic history often find the chapter bewildering. Yet it constitutes the key to many scholarly debates concerning the date, purpose and composition of the book.”

“And it has been cited by historians seeking to analyse historical events of that period,” added Theophil.

“Finally, Maestro, Chapter 12 concludes with promises of deliverance, resurrection and final judgment. The book closes not with earthly triumph, but with hope extending beyond history itself.”

Theophil nodded approvingly.

      “A concise and serviceable outline, Peter’le. You avoided drowning the reader in details while indicating the principal movements of the work.”

“That was my intention. A preliminary map before entering the territory.”

“And later you may return to questions already hinted at: historical inaccuracies, chronological difficulties, linguistic peculiarities, the transition from Hebrew to Aramaic, and the peculiar nature of apocalyptic prophecy.”

“I noticed,” I said, “that some passages seem almost transparent historically, whereas others appear curiously detached from known events.”

“You are not the first to notice this, Peter’le. Entire libraries have been written on the subject. But one must proceed methodically. Before discussing whether the author erred historically, one must first understand what sort of book Daniel is.”

“A fair warning.”

“And an indispensable one,” replied Theophil. “Readers, who approach Daniel expecting either straightforward history or simple prediction, generally misunderstand it. The book belongs to a far more complicated world – one in which theology, politics, symbolism and resistance literature intermingle.”

 

2. A Brief Review of the Two Languages

 

“The bilingual character of Daniel is neither accidental nor anomalous,” observed Theophil. “Roughly half of the book is written in Hebrew (1:1–2:4a; 8–12), while the central section (2:4b–7) is in Aramaic. Within the Masoretic Text [‘MT’], the only other substantially bilingual book is Ezra, where Hebrew and Aramaic likewise appear side by side.”

“Isn’t this unusual?” I asked.

 “It isn’t, Peter’le. In the wider Near Eastern world, bilingualism and even multilingualism were entirely natural. Aramaic functioned as the lingua franca of the imperial world, while Hebrew continued to serve as the language of Jewish religious and communal life in Palestine. The coexistence of the two languages in Daniel therefore reflects the linguistic realities of its age rather than any literary peculiarity.”

“I hear you,” I voiced my agreement.

“Actually, bilingual societies are hardly confined to antiquity, Peter’le. Modern states such as Belgium provide an obvious illustration of how multiple languages may coexist within a single political and cultural framework without creating any sense of anomaly. The alternation between Hebrew and Aramaic in Daniel would thus have appeared far more natural to its original audiences than it often does to modern readers.”

“Once again, I agree, Maestro. Modern readers expect the biblical scriptures to be in the ‘sacred language’, that is, in Hebrew. In contrast, in antiquity Hebrew was just one of the many languages in use. It venerated status developed in the diaspora!”

“It is also important to remember that texts such as Daniel were primarily encountered through hearing rather than reading. Literacy rates in the ancient world were limited, and the book would ordinarily have been read aloud within communal settings. The movement between Hebrew and Aramaic, therefore, belonged not merely to the written page but also to the auditory experience of the audience.”

“But I think, Maestro, that we should also note the manner in which the author transits from one language to the other.”

“Yes, Peter’le; this feature deserves particular notice. While the transition from Hebrew into Aramaic in Chapter 2 occurs naturally within the narrative setting – the Babylonian courtiers address the king in Aramaic – the return from Aramaic to Hebrew at chapter 8 is abrupt. No narrative explanation accompanies the shift.”

“There is another point, Maestro, which troubles me. The Aramaic sections seem to move with comparative ease, whereas the Hebrew of certain chapters often feels cramped, even somewhat stultified. I do not wish to exaggerate the matter; style is a treacherous witness. Yet the contrast makes one wonder whether the author – or final compiler – sometimes thought more naturally in Aramaic while choosing to cast particular materials in Hebrew.”

“A fair alert, Peter’le,” replied Theophil. “But we should not decide the issue prematurely.”

“Agreed. For the moment, we merely note the impression. The significance of the language-switch, and especially the return to Hebrew in the visionary chapters, will be considered later when it becomes relevant to the growth and final shaping of the book.”

“But please tell me,” I continued, “has this issue been noted by scholars, Maestro?”

 “It has. Some interpreters regard the change merely as a literary seam resulting from the compilation of different source materials, whereas others consider it deliberate and meaningful.”

For a few moments, Theophil reflected. He then added: “Having surveyed the historical background, narrative structure and linguistic character of Daniel, we may now examine a feature that many modern readers overlook entirely: the deliberate architectural arrangement of the book itself.”

 

 

3. The Chiastic Structure of Daniel

            “Very well, Peter’le. It may be best to commence by explaining the nature of chiasm.”

“In essence, a chiasm is a literary structure in which themes, episodes or ideas are arranged symmetrically. The pattern may be represented schematically as A-B-C-C’-B′-A′, with the second half reflecting the first in reverse order.”

“A mirror-like construction,” observed Theophil.

“Precisely. The central element often carries particular weight, while the corresponding sections illuminate one another through contrast or parallelism.”

“And what purpose did such arrangements serve, Peter’le?”

“As already noted, texts such as Daniel were meant far more to be recited than silently read. Under such conditions, parallel structures assisted listeners in retaining the sequence of ideas. Repetition and symmetry reinforced memory. The structure itself functioned almost as a mnemonic device.”

“Exactly, Peter’le. A carefully balanced arrangement enabled both speaker and audience to follow the progression of the work. The listener unconsciously anticipated correspondences and reversals.”

“I assume, then, that Daniel itself displays this type of arrangement?”

“Very markedly so,” answered Theophil. “Indeed, the chiastic structure of Daniel has long attracted scholarly attention. The central Aramaic section — chapters 2 through 7 — exhibits a remarkably balanced architecture.”

“Please demonstrate it, Maestro.”

“With pleasure. Consider first the outer frame. Chapter 2 contains Nebuchadnezzar’s dream of four successive kingdoms destined ultimately to yield before the kingdom established by God. Chapter 7 parallels this through Daniel’s own vision of four beasts likewise representing successive empires. The imagery differs, but the underlying theme is identical: earthly kingdoms rise and fall beneath divine sovereignty.”

“Chapter 3,” Theophil proceeded, “recounts the deliverance of Daniel’s companions from the fiery furnace after refusing idolatrous worship. Chapter 6 parallels this through Daniel’s deliverance from the lions’ den after refusing to abandon prayer to his God. In both cases faithful Jews resist royal commands and are miraculously preserved.”

“A very striking parallel indeed.”

“Quite so, Peter’le. Finally, chapters 4 and 5 form the centre of the structure. Both concern proud Babylonian rulers confronted by divine judgment. In chapter 4 Nebuchadnezzar is humbled but ultimately restored after acknowledging divine supremacy. In chapter 5 Belshazzar refuses such humility and perishes with the fall of Babylon itself.”

“For modern readers,” I observed, “such structural artistry often passes unnoticed because we tend to read rapidly and analytically rather than aurally.”

“A fair observation. Ancient audiences, however, were trained by habit to perceive recurring patterns. Symmetry itself conveyed meaning.”

After reflecting for a moment, I emphasized: “Yet one feature immediately attracts attention. The structure you describe concludes with chapter 7. The remaining chapters – 8 through 12 – are not incorporated within it.”

“An important observation, Peter’le. And the reason is closely connected with the composition and purpose of the book.”

“How so, Maestro?”

“The chiastic arrangement embraces the Aramaic section. Beginning with chapter 8, the text returns to Hebrew and adopts a markedly different character. The court tales and balanced narrative patterns largely disappear. In their place we encounter extended apocalyptic visions directed toward the crisis of the Seleucid age and the persecutions associated with Antiochus Epiphanes.”

“So, the final chapters serve a more immediate historical and theological purpose?”

“They do! The earlier sections establish themes of divine sovereignty, fidelity and the transience of empires through narrative and symbolic symmetry. The later chapters intensify these themes within an explicitly apocalyptic framework focused upon suffering, persecution and ultimate deliverance.”

“In other words,” I concluded, “the structure itself reflects the evolution of the book.”

“A perceptive conclusion, Peter’le,” replied Theophil. “The architecture of Daniel is not ornamental merely. The compiler organised inherited traditions in order to guide the reader – or rather the listener – from court narrative toward apocalyptic expectation.”

            Following a lull in our discussion, Theophil spoke again: “Up to this point, Peter’le, we have examined Daniel as a historical and literary work situated within the ancient Near East. We must now enter a more difficult world: that of apocalyptic thought. Some readers may prefer to leave the journey here. Yet without understanding apocalypse, one cannot truly understand the impact that Daniel had on its audience.”

 

IV. DANIEL: AN APOCALYPTIC BOOK

 

1. Apocalyptic writing illuminated

            “Peter’le,” observed Theophil, “we should start by describing prophecy in general and then discern the meaning of ‘apocalyptic’.”

“Modern readers, Maestro, tend to assume that all biblical prophecy belongs to one and the same category. Yet the prophetic literature of Israel is far more varied.”

“Precisely, Peter’le,” answered Theophil. “The prophet was not merely a predictor of distant events. In many instances, he was above all a moral and political critic addressing the immediate circumstances of his own generation.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “the prophets were primarily concerned with covenantal fidelity, social justice and national conduct.”

“Exactly. Amos denounces corruption; Micah condemns exploitation; Jeremiah warns of impending catastrophe. Much prophetic speech concerns the present rather than the remote future.”

“Yet prophecy also developed another dimension,” I observed. “Certain passages move beyond immediate historical crises and contemplate the ultimate destiny of nations and mankind itself.”

“You now approach eschatology, Peter’le.”

“I assume the term derives from the Greek eschata — ‘the last things’?”

“Quite so. Eschatological prophecy concerns the final condition of the world, the destiny of peoples, divine judgment and ultimate restoration. Such passages are scattered throughout the prophetic corpus.”

“One famous example immediately comes to mind, Maestro: Isaiah’s vision.”

“A very suitable example,” replied Theophil. “Isaiah Chapter 2 depicts all nations streaming toward Zion to receive divine instruction. Weapons are transformed into agricultural tools and war itself ceases.”

“The famous proclamation that swords shall be beaten into ploughshares,” I added.

“Precisely, Peter’le. The passage is unmistakably eschatological because it concerns the ultimate ordering of the world under divine sovereignty. Yet it is not properly apocalyptic.”

“That distinction requires clarification, Maestro.”

“Indeed, it does, Peter’le. Eschatological prophecy and apocalyptic writing overlap, but they are not identical. A prophecy may concern the final destiny of mankind without employing the peculiar imagery and worldview characteristic of apocalypse.”

“In other words,” I proposed, “eschatology concerns the ultimate future, whereas apocalypse introduces a distinctive literary and theological framework.”

“An accurate formulation. Apocalyptic writings generally involve heavenly visions, symbolic beasts, angelic mediators, cosmic upheavals and hidden revelations concerning the structure of history itself. They portray earthly events as manifestations of a struggle extending beyond the visible world.”

“Whereas classical prophecy usually speaks more directly and historically.”

“Correct, Peter’le. Yet the transition was gradual rather than abrupt. One already encounters scattered apocalyptic elements within the classical prophets themselves.”

“You refer, perhaps, to Isaiah 24 through 27?”

“Among other passages,” elaborated Theophil. “Those chapters differ markedly from the surrounding material. Cosmic destruction, universal judgment and the defeat of primordial forces dominate the scene. The atmosphere approaches full apocalypse.”

“And Ezekiel too seems important in this development,” I observed.

“Extremely important, Peter’le. Ezekiel introduces many features later associated with apocalyptic literature: overwhelming visions, hybrid creatures, heavenly chariots, symbolic actions and journeys into the divine realm. His visions possess an intensity very different from the more direct speech of Amos or Hosea.”

“So, apocalypse did not emerge suddenly.”

“It didn’t. It evolved gradually out of earlier prophetic traditions, particularly during periods of political catastrophe and cultural dislocation. As successive empires dominated the Jewish people, prophecy increasingly shifted from warning present rulers toward unveiling the hidden meaning of history itself.”

“And this finally brings us to Daniel, Maestro.”

“Exactly. Daniel represents the fullest apocalyptic development within the Hebrew Bible. Here symbolism, angelic interpretation and cosmic conflict move to the centre of the stage. Earthly kingdoms appear as monstrous beasts; history unfolds according to predetermined heavenly decrees; divine deliverance transcends ordinary political expectation.”

“At times,” I remarked, “Daniel almost seems to inhabit the same imaginative universe as later Jewish apocalyptic writings.”

“A perceptive observation, Peter’le. Among the closest parallels are traditions preserved in works such as the Book of Enoch [Ḥanoch, also spelt Ḥanokh or Chanokh, which is rendered Enoch in most English Bibles].”

“The work attributed to the patriarch who ‘walked with God’?”

“The same, my friend. In reality, it is not one book but a collection of apocalyptic writings produced over time. We shall return to that comparison shortly for itthrows important light upon both the nature and the date of Daniel.”

“At this point,” I suggested, “it is adequate to observe that Judaism of that era increasingly produced apocalyptic literature.”

“And that fact is historically significant. The world reflected in Daniel appears considerably closer to the apocalyptic atmosphere of the Hellenistic period than to the earlier prophetic world of the Babylonian Exile.”

 

2. Apocalyptic Nature of Daniel

 

“Maestro,” I observed after a short silence, “a given point now strikes me with greater clarity. Not all parts of Daniel appear equally apocalyptic.”

“You are quite correct, Peter’le,” replied Theophil. “And failure to perceive this distinction has caused considerable confusion among readers and scholars alike.”

“In what sense, Maestro?”

“The earlier chapters certainly contain eschatological themes. The succession of empires, divine judgment upon kings and the final triumph of divine sovereignty are already present. Yet the literary and theological framework remains closer to wisdom narrative and court legend than to full apocalypse.”

“You mean the stories respecting Nebuchadnezzar, Belshazzar and Darius?”

“Precisely Peter’le. Chapters 1 through 6 concern faithful Jews navigating life within foreign imperial courts. Dreams and divine interventions occur, but the structure of reality itself is not yet unveiled in the manner characteristic of later apocalyptic literature.”

“Whereas Chapter 7 changes the atmosphere entirely.”

“A decisive turning point, Peter’le. Beginning with Chapter 7, the reader no longer merely observes divine action within history. He is invited to behold history from the perspective of heaven itself.”

“That is a profound distinction, Maestro.”

“Indeed. The sea now gives rise to monstrous beasts symbolising empires; heavenly thrones appear; celestial judgment is rendered upon earthly powers; and history unfolds according to decrees issuing from the divine realm.”

“In other words, earthly politics become reflections of a cosmic order.”

“Exactly. Earlier prophecy generally addressed kings and nations directly within history. Apocalyptic writing, by contrast, reveals the hidden machinery underlying history itself.”

“And this explains the increasing prominence of angels?”

“Very perceptive, Peter’le. In the earlier books of the Hebrew Bible, messengers of God certainly appear. Yet Daniel introduces something far more developed: named heavenly beings operating within an organised celestial hierarchy.”

“You refer to Gabriel and Michael.”

“To them precisely. Gabriel appears as interpreter of visions, while Michael emerges as heavenly protector of Israel.”

“And this development is highly significant?”

“Extremely so. It reflects a growing conviction that earthly events cannot be understood merely through political analysis. Behind imperial conflicts stand invisible spiritual powers and heavenly struggles.”

“At times,” I reflected, “the atmosphere resembles later Jewish apocalyptic works more than the classical prophets.”

“A fair observation, Peter’le. The affinities become especially striking when one compares the later chapters of Daniel with traditions preserved in the Book of Enoch. You see,

Enochic literature expands many themes only adumbrated in Daniel.”

“But the resemblance is not complete, Maestro.”

“Certainly not. Daniel remains more restrained and historically focused. Enoch, by contrast, frequently ventures far deeper into speculative cosmology and celestial myth.”

“So, Daniel stands midway between classical prophecy and later apocalyptic speculation?”

“Daniel preserves continuity with the prophetic traditions of Israel while simultaneously opening the path toward the vast apocalyptic literature that would flourish during the final centuries before the Common Era.”

After a short silence, I reflected further: “Maestro, I now begin to understand why comparison between the two works is not merely literary ornamentation.”

 “The significance, is historical as much as
theological. Once scholars recognised the affinities between Daniel and the Enochic writings,
they were compelled to ask an obvious question: to what intellectual world do these works
belong?”

“In other words,” I suggested, “apocalyptic language itself possesses a history.”

“Exactly. Literary forms do not emerge fully developed out of nothing. The elaborate
angelology, symbolic empires, heavenly books and cosmic conflicts encountered in Daniel
appear far more at home in the religious atmosphere of the Hellenistic age than in the earlier
world of the Babylonian Exile.”

“And Enoch helps to illuminate this?”

“Very much so. As we have already pointed out, both works reflect a world overshadowed by religious anxiety and persecution. More importantly, they reveal strikingly similar habits of thought.”

“For example?”

“Consider the role of angels. Earlier biblical writings certainly contain divine
messengers, yet Daniel and Enoch both move toward a far more elaborate celestial hierarchy.
Named heavenly beings assume specialised functions; invisible struggles among spiritual
powers influence earthly events.”

“And both works also treat history as predetermined?”

“An essential point. In Daniel, successive kingdoms rise and fall according to heavenly
decree. Enoch similarly presents history as unfolding according to a hidden cosmic plan already
known in heaven.”

“I also notice,” I added, “that both writings display fascination with revelation itself:
sealed books, hidden knowledge and mysteries disclosed to chosen visionaries.”

“You noticed an important point, Peter’le. Such motifs belong characteristically to apocalyptic thought. The seer no longer merely proclaims moral warnings to society. He receives access to concealed realities unavailable to ordinary mankind.”

“And yet,” I reflected, “similarity does not necessarily prove direct borrowing.”

“A highly important caution,” replied Theophil approvingly. “Parallels between Daniel
and Enoch do not establish that one author copied the other. The more reasonable conclusion
is often that both emerged from related intellectual and religious currents circulating within
Judaism during the Hellenistic period.”

“In other words,” I proposed, “the resemblance situates Daniel within a recognisable
historical milieu.”

“Exactly. The comparison becomes especially significant because parts of Daniel claim
to originate in the sixth century BCE, during the Babylonian Exile. Yet many of its concepts
and literary forms seem considerably closer to the apocalyptic atmosphere flourishing several
centuries later.”

“And this comparison of the two books will help us to date the Book of Daniel, Maestro.”

“It certainly will do so. Any attempt to treat Daniel as a product of the Persian period, shatters once we take note of the apocalyptic nature of it last few chapters.”

“Let us, then, proceed,” I concluded.

 

 

 

V. DATING THE BOOK OF DANIEL

1.Review of Existing Views

“Maestro,” I began, “before we proceed further, we should review the principal views respecting the date of Daniel.”

“A sensible suggestion, Peter’le. For centuries both Jews and Christians accepted the traditional view that Daniel himself, an exile in Babylon during the sixth century BCE, composed the book.”

“That view assumes that the visions genuinely predict events centuries in advance.”

“Precisely. Modern critical scholarship, however, generally prefers a different explanation. Most scholars date the final composition of Daniel to the reign of Antiochus IV Epiphanes, around 165 BCE.”

“Because Chapter 11 corresponds so closely to the events of that period?”

“Exactly. The historical detail becomes remarkably precise up to Antiochus, but less certain thereafter. Many scholars therefore regard the earlier ‘predictions’ as history written in prophetic form.”

“Yet the book itself hardly appears uniform.”

“A crucial observation, Peter’le. This leads to a third position: Daniel is a composite work. Older court tales may have circulated independently before being combined with later apocalyptic visions.”

“And a fourth view?”

“A more developmental approach. According to this, traditions originating in different periods were transmitted, expanded and reinterpreted before finally assuming their present form during the Hellenistic age.”

“So, the real question is not merely when Daniel was written, but how it became the book we now possess.”

“A perceptive conclusion, Peter’le. The debate concerns both date and literary growth.”

 

2.Language, Structure and the Growth of the Book

“Maestro, the internal evidence seems particularly important.”

“It is. Daniel is unusual in that it moves between Hebrew and Aramaic. The transition into Aramaic occurs naturally in Chapter 2, but, as already mentioned, the return to Hebrew in Chapter 8 is abrupt and unexplained.”

“Which suggests that different materials may have been brought together?”

“Many scholars think so. The linguistic divisions coincide with differences in literary form. Chapters 1–6 consist largely of court narratives; Chapters 7–12 belong to the world of apocalypse.”

“The shift is unmistakable.”

“Indeed. It is therefore plausible that older stories about Daniel circulated before later vision material was attached to them.”

“The structure seems to support that possibility.”

“Quite so. The Aramaic core (Chapters 2–7) forms a carefully balanced unit, whereas the later chapters pursue a different purpose. The book therefore gives the impression of gradual growth rather than single-stage composition.”

“And yet the earlier materials may still preserve genuine older traditions.”

“Exactly. One need not choose between ‘ancient’ and ‘late’. Daniel may contain both.”

 

3.Chapter 7 as the Threshold of the Apocalypse

“One feature increasingly strikes me, Maestro. Chapter 7 appears to stand at a turning point.”

“Many scholars would agree,” he replied. “It is both the conclusion of the Aramaic section and the beginning of the fully apocalyptic part of the book.”

“In other words, it belongs to two worlds at once.”

“Precisely, Peter’le. The earlier chapters are concerned with faithful Jews living in foreign courts. Chapter 7 suddenly transports the reader into the heavenly realm: beasts arise from the sea, heavenly thrones appear and history is judged from above.”

“Yet it still recalls Chapter 2.”

“A highly important point,” Theophil spoke emphatically. “Both chapters describe successive empires. But whereas Chapter 2 presents them as parts of a great statue, Chapter 7 portrays them as predatory beasts.”

“A striking change of perspective.”

“Indeed. Imperial power appears not glorious but monstrous. The chapter therefore forms a bridge between the earlier narratives and the later visions.”

“And perhaps explains why it plays such an important role in discussions of dating.”

“Exactly. Its themes belong far more naturally to the apocalyptic atmosphere of the Hellenistic age than to the older world of classical prophecy.”

 

 

4. The Growth of Daniel and Final Compiling

“If Daniel contains different layers, how did it acquire its present unity?’ I asked.

“Through compilation, Peter’le. Some scholars overemphasise unity; others fragment the book excessively. The more plausible explanation lies between the two.”

“You mean that inherited materials were deliberately organised?”

“Precisely. The final compiler appears to have shaped the book with considerable skill. Chapter 7 links the court tales to the visions, while Chapter 8 develops themes introduced in symbolic form and moves them closer to the historical crisis reflected in Chapter 11.”

“And what of Chapter 1?”

“It may well function as a literary introduction. It introduces the principal characters and themes: fidelity, wisdom, exile and divine favour. In many respects it serves as an overture to the entire work.”

“So, the compiler was more than a collector of traditions.”

“Far more. He organised older narratives and newer visions into a coherent theological whole.”

“In that case, Daniel is neither a literary monolith nor a random anthology.”

“Well spoken

, Peter’le. The book appears to be the product of historical growth, yet shaped by a compiler who gave it its final unity and direction.”

 

5. Chapter 7 and the world of the Apocalypse

 

“Maestro, one feature increasingly impresses itself upon me. Chapter 7 appears to stand at a decisive turning point within the book.”

 “Indeed,” replied Theophil, “many scholars regard Chapter 7 as the true hinge upon which Daniel turns.”

“In what sense?”

“In almost every sense: linguistic, literary, theological and historical. The chapter forms both the conclusion of the Aramaic section and the opening of the fully apocalyptic world of the later visions.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “it belongs simultaneously to two different worlds.”

“Precisely. That is why Chapter 7 occupies such a pivotal position within the book. It still preserves features associated with the earlier court narratives; yet it already introduces the symbolic universe dominating chapters 8 through 12.”

“I now see the point more clearly,” I replied. “The earlier chapters describe experiences occurring within earthly courts: Babylonian kings, royal decrees, jealous officials and miraculous deliverances. Even where dreams occur, the setting remains political and human.”

“Correct, Peter’le. But Chapter 7 radically enlarges the horizon. The reader is suddenly transported beyond earthly courts into the heavenly realm itself.”

“The imagery itself announces the transition,” I observed. “The turbulent sea, the monstrous beasts, the heavenly throne-room, the Ancient of Days – all belong to a different imaginative atmosphere.”

“Right you are. We have crossed the threshold into apocalypse.”

I reflected for a moment before continuing. “Yet the chapter also preserves continuity with what precedes it.”

“A highly important point,” answered Theophil approvingly. “The transition is dramatic, but not abrupt. Chapter 2 already presented successive kingdoms symbolised through imagery – the great statue composed of different metals. Chapter 7 revisits the same fundamental theme but transforms the symbolism profoundly.”

“In Chapter 2,” I noted, “the empires appear as parts of an impressive human figure. In Chapter 7 they emerge as savage beasts.”

“A transformation of enormous significance, Peter’le. The earlier vision still presents empire within the ordered imagery of royal magnificence. Chapter 7 strips away that façade. From the divine perspective, imperial power appears monstrous, violent and predatory.”

“In other words,” I proposed, “the chapter unmasks political power.”

“Exactly. Empires glorify themselves as embodiments of civilisation and order. Apocalypse reveals the hidden reality beneath the propaganda.”

For several moments neither of us spoke. Then I asked: “Does this explain why so many scholars regard Chapter 7 as especially important for dating the book?”

“Very much so. The chapter stands at the intersection between older narrative traditions and later apocalyptic theology. Its symbolic world corresponds closely to intellectual developments characteristic of the Hellenistic age.”

“You refer to the increasingly cosmic understanding of history?”

“Precisely. Earlier biblical prophecy certainly proclaimed divine sovereignty over nations. But Chapter 7 goes further. Earthly events now reflect an invisible heavenly process culminating in cosmic judgment.”

“And the figure ‘like a son of man’ also belongs to this new framework?”

“Indeed, Peter’le. The passage has generated centuries of interpretation precisely because it occupies such an important position within apocalyptic thought.”

“I confess,” I admitted, “that the expression itself remains elusive to me.”

“You are hardly alone. Some interpret the figure collectively, representing the faithful people of Israel contrasted with the beastly empires. Others understand the image more individually or even messianically. Later Jewish and Christian traditions developed these possibilities in very different ways.”

“But regardless of interpretation,” I observed, “the symbolism itself marks a decisive advance beyond the earlier court tales.”

“It does! We are no longer dealing merely with faithful Jews surviving persecution under foreign kings. We are contemplating the ultimate reversal of world history itself.”

I reflected further before speaking again. “It also strikes me, Maestro, that Chapter 7 occupies precisely the structural centre between the earlier tales and the later visions.”

“It does: the chapter simultaneously concludes and inaugurates. It completes the chiastic structure of the Aramaic section while opening the fully visionary material that follows.”

“In that sense,” I suggested slowly, “Chapter 7 acts almost as a literary gateway.”

“A most elegant formulation, Peter’le. And one fully justified. Through this gateway the reader passes from historical narrative into apocalyptic revelation.”

“And perhaps,” I continued, “this explains why the chapter feels simultaneously familiar and strange. Familiar because it still reflects earlier themes; strange because the symbolic universe has expanded so dramatically.”

“Precisely. The compiler positioned the chapter with extraordinary skill. It prepares the audience gradually for the increasingly cosmic visions that dominate the remainder of the book.”

After a short silence, I added: “I also begin to perceive why apocalyptic literature proved so powerful during periods of persecution.”

“How so?”

“Because it transforms suffering itself. Political oppression ceases to appear merely accidental or temporary. It becomes part of a larger cosmic drama whose outcome is already determined by divine sovereignty.”

Theophil nodded gravely.

“An essential insight, Peter’le. Apocalypse reassures the persecuted that history remains under divine control even when earthly appearances suggest otherwise. The monstrous empires may dominate for a season, but they are already condemned within the heavenly court.”

“In that case,” I reflected, “Chapter 7 not only changes the literary character of Daniel. It changes the reader’s entire perspective upon history.”

 “And precisely for that reason,” replied Theophil, “Chapter 7 stands at the true threshold of the apocalypse.”

Top of Form

6. The Final Compiler

After a short silence I spoke again: “Maestro, one question still troubles me.”

“And what is that, Peter’le?”

“If Daniel grew gradually over time, who transformed these diverse traditions into the book we now possess?”

“A very important question,” replied Theophil. “For many readers speak of sources, layers and growth, yet forget that someone ultimately fashioned them into a coherent work.”

“In other words, the existence of earlier materials presupposes a final editor?”

“More than an editor, Peter’le. The evidence suggests a compiler of considerable literary and theological ability. He was not merely preserving traditions; he was arranging them.”

“How can we tell?”

“By observing the structure of the book itself. The narratives are grouped together. The Aramaic section forms a carefully balanced unit. The visions build progressively toward the crisis described in Chapter 11. Such organisation seldom arises accidentally.”

“So, the compiler imposed order upon inherited material?”

“Precisely. Yet he did so without obliterating its earlier character. The court tales retained their individuality; the visions preserved their distinctive atmosphere. What he supplied was a framework within which they could speak to one another.”

“For a common purpose?”

“Exactly. The compiler transformed stories about faithful Jews living under foreign rulers into a theological interpretation of history itself.”

I reflected for a moment.

“In that case, the final form of Daniel may be as significant as its individual parts.”

“A highly perceptive conclusion, Peter’le. Historians often concentrate upon origins, but readers encounter the completed work. The compiler's achievement was to unite narrative, wisdom and apocalypse into a single vision.”

“And that vision?”

“That earthly empires rise and fall, but divine sovereignty endures. The court tales demonstrate the principle; the visions reveal its ultimate meaning.”

“At times,” I said After a pause, “the compiler almost resembles an architect.”

“A fitting comparison,” replied Theophil. “He did not quarry every stone himself. Yet he designed the building in which all the stones now stand.”

 

 

I N T E R M E Z O

For a short while neither of us spoke. The room had grown darker while we discussed
beasts, kingdoms and apocalyptic visions.

“You are tired, Peter’le,” observed Theophil quietly.

“Perhaps a little, Maestro. One grows weary travelling through so many centuries in a
single afternoon.”

“A reasonable condition at the age of ninety-three,” he replied dryly. “Even
Daniel himself collapsed after certain visions.”

I laughed.

“The Dead Sea Scrolls will still be waiting tomorrow, Peter’le. Qumran has already
waited more than two thousand years.”

“A comforting thought.”

“Then let us leave the caves undisturbed for one more night.”

I closed my notebook.

“Very well, Maestro. Tomorrow, we proceed to Qumran.”

 

“You look much refreshed, Peter’le,” he told me when he materialised after breakfast next morning. “Well, let us proceed.”

I smiled at him gratefully.

 

 

 

 VI. THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS AND THE BOOK OF DANIEL

 

1. Relevance of the Dead Sea Scrolls

 

“Peter’le,” Theophil broke the silence, “we have now examined Daniel from several perspectives: historical, literary, linguistic and apocalyptic. Yet one important body of evidence remains.”

“You refer to the Dead Sea Scrolls, Maestro?”

“Precisely. No modern discussion of Daniel can safely ignore Qumran.”

“I agree,” I replied. “The Scrolls appear repeatedly in modern scholarship respecting the language and transmission of Daniel.”

“And with good reason,” answered Theophil. “For the discoveries near the Dead Sea illuminate not merely the text of Daniel itself, but also the wider intellectual and linguistic world in which the book circulated.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “the Scrolls provide external evidence.”

“They do, Peter’le. Up to this point we have dealt primarily with internal evidence arising from Daniel itself. The Qumran discoveries now permit us to compare the book against the realities of Jewish literary culture during the late Second Temple period.”

“I suspect,” I remarked cautiously, “that this discussion may also bear upon the question of Hebrew and Aramaic.”

“Very much so. Indeed, the Scrolls cast particularly important light upon that issue.”

 

2. The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Continuing Use of Hebrew

“Perhaps,” I proposed, “we should first remind the reader what precisely the Dead Sea Scrolls are.”

“A sensible beginning,” replied Theophil approvingly. “The manuscripts were discovered near Qumran beginning in 1947. They include biblical texts, commentaries, hymns, legal materials, liturgical compositions and internal community regulations.”

“And they span several centuries?”

“Roughly from the third century BCE to the first century CE.”

I reflected for a moment before continuing: “One frequently encounters the assertion, Maestro, that Hebrew had effectively ceased to function as a meaningful language long before this period.”

“A common claim,” replied Theophil. “But the evidence from Qumran renders such sweeping formulations difficult to maintain.”

“In what sense?”

“The Qumran community composed many of its own foundational texts in Hebrew. Their community rules, disciplinary regulations, liturgical writings and theological reflections were extensively written in Hebrew itself.”

“That point deserves emphasis,” I observed. “The community was not merely copying ancient Hebrew scriptures inherited from earlier centuries.”

“Precisely, Peter’le. It was actively producing its own literature in Hebrew.”

“For my part,” I reflected, “I find this highly significant for the study of Daniel. Modern readers often imagine Hebrew at this stage as little more than a fossilized sacred tongue.”

“A misconception encouraged partly by later developments,” answered Theophil. “Hebrew certainly possessed sacred prestige, but the Scrolls demonstrate that it remained an active literary and communal language among important Jewish groups during the Second Temple period.”

“That does not mean Aramaic disappeared, of course.”

“Certainly not. Aramaic remained enormously influential throughout the Near East and appears frequently among the Scrolls themselves. Greek too increasingly penetrated the eastern Mediterranean world.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “the linguistic environment was multilingual rather than monolithic.”

“Exactly. And once this is understood, the bilingual character of Daniel appears considerably less anomalous than modern readers sometimes suppose.”

After reflecting briefly, I added: “In that respect, the Scrolls indirectly support one of your earlier observations respecting Daniel.”

“And which observation is that?”

“That the movement between Hebrew and Aramaic in the book need not automatically imply awkward compilation or literary incompetence. Such bilingualism reflected the realities of the age itself.”

“A very fair conclusion,” replied Theophil.

 

3. Daniel at Qumran

 “But what evidence relating specifically to Daniel was discovered among the Scrolls?” I wanted to know.

“No complete copy survived, Peter’le, but the number of fragments is itself noteworthy.”

“Because it suggests that the book enjoyed considerable importance?”

“Precisely. Not all biblical books are equally represented at Qumran. Daniel appears to have occupied a respected position within the community’s intellectual and theological world.”

“I assume,” I said cautiously, “that this fact carries considerable historical significance.”

“It does, Peter’le. The presence of multiple Daniel fragments indicates that the work circulated widely enough to merit repeated copying and preservation.”

“And do the fragments include both the Hebrew and Aramaic sections of the book?”

“They do. Fragments corresponding to both linguistic portions have been identified. The Qumran evidence reflects substantially the same bilingual structure already familiar from the traditional text of Daniel.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “there is no indication that the Hebrew and Aramaic materials circulated independently as wholly separate works.”

“None that can be established confidently from the surviving evidence. On the contrary, the fragments suggest that Daniel already circulated in a recognisable form.”

“And how closely do these manuscripts correspond to the MT?”

“Generally, quite closely. Naturally, one encounters minor linguistic and orthographic variations, as is common within ancient manuscript traditions. Yet the Daniel fragments from Qumran broadly follow the textual tradition later preserved in the MT.”

“That observation seems highly significant.”

“It is, Peter’le. For it suggests that by the Qumran period Daniel had already attained a comparatively stable textual form.”

“In other words,” I reflected slowly, “the book was not still undergoing massive literary reshaping during the late Second Temple period.”

“A conclusion many scholars would regard as broadly justified. The evidence points less toward fluid textual experimentation and more toward relatively stable transmission.”

For a short while neither of us spoke. At length I said: “Maestro, the implications now become clearer to me. The Scrolls illuminate not merely the text of Daniel itself, but the wider historical setting in which the book circulated.”

“Is this conclusion affected by the carbon 14 testing of some of the scrolls and by the advanced planographic reading techniques that surfaced recently?” I asked Theophil.

“It isn’t, Peter’le. The classical research of the Dead Sea Scrolls has been confirmed.”

 

VII. FROM APOCALYPSE TO HISTORICAL CRISIS

For some time neither of us spoke. At length Theophil leaned back and fixed me with one of his penetrating glances.

“Peter’le,” he began quietly, “up to this point we have examined how the Book of Daniel came into being: its historical background, its languages, its literary architecture and its gradual growth. But we have not yet confronted the true heart of the work.”

“You refer to Chapters 7 and 8, Maestro?”

“Precisely. For these chapters do not merely continue the narrative. They transform the entire horizon of the book.”

“In what sense?” I asked.

“Until now,” replied Theophil, “the reader has remained largely within the world of earthly courts: Babylonian kings, jealous officials, decrees, banquets and punishments. Even miracles occurred within recognisable political settings. But beginning with Chapter 7, the ground itself shifts beneath the reader’s feet.”

“We leave history?”

“Not exactly, Peter’le. Rather, history itself becomes transfigured. The reader no longer observes merely kings and empires. He now beholds the hidden structure underlying historical events.”

“The apocalypse proper,” I suggested.

“Exactly. One might almost say that the earlier chapters prepare the reader morally, while Chapters 7 onward initiate him intellectually into an entirely different perception of reality.”

For a moment I reflected before continuing.

“And perhaps this explains why Chapter 7 feels so startling even to modern readers. One suddenly moves from lions and furnaces to monstrous beasts rising from the sea.”

“A highly perceptive observation,” replied Theophil approvingly. “The transition is intentionally dramatic. The compiler wishes the reader to understand that he has crossed a threshold.”

“A threshold into apocalypse.”

“Precisely. And Chapter 7 serves as that threshold.”

 

1. Chapter 7: The turning point

"Maestro," I observed, "before proceeding further, perhaps we should briefly recall the significance of Chapter 7."

"A sensible suggestion, Peter'le," replied Theophil. "But only briefly. We have already examined the chapter in some detail."

"Then let us merely summarise."

"Very well. Chapter 7 forms the bridge between the court narratives and the apocalyptic visions. It concludes the Aramaic section of the book while simultaneously introducing the symbolic world that dominates the remaining chapters. Through the imagery of the four beasts, the chapter transforms the succession of empires already encountered in Nebuchadnezzar's dream into a vision of history viewed from the perspective of heaven rather than earth."

"In other words," I suggested, "it marks the transition from narrative to apocalypse."

"Precisely. And for that reason it occupies a pivotal position in the structure of Daniel. But our concern now is no longer the literary function of Chapter 7 itself. We must examine how the apocalyptic vision becomes anchored in a concrete historical crisis."

"You refer to Chapters 8 through 12?"

"Exactly, Peter'le. It is there that symbolism and history begin to converge."

 

2. The Four Beasts and the Four Empires

“Maestro,” I resumed, “there is another matter that increasingly intrigues me. Why these particular beasts?”

“An excellent question, Peter’le. And one too often neglected. Readers generally hurry toward identifying the empires while overlooking the symbolism of the creatures themselves.”

“Perhaps because modern readers no longer instinctively think symbolically.”

“A fair observation. Ancient audiences, however, reacted to animal imagery very differently. Such symbols immediately evoked associations of power, danger, chaos and dominion.”

“Then perhaps,” I suggested, “the choice of animals is not arbitrary.”

“Far from arbitrary. Let us proceed carefully.”

“I am listening, Maestro.”

“The first beast resembles a lion with eagle’s wings. The lion throughout the ancient Near East symbolised majesty, sovereignty and royal power. Babylonian art repeatedly employed leonine imagery.”

“So, the symbolism would have been immediately intelligible.”

“Precisely. Yet the creature also possesses wings – suggesting speed, expansion and overwhelming force.”

“And later the wings are torn away.”

“A crucial detail, Peter’le. Imperial magnificence proves unstable. The beast becomes humanised and weakened.”

I reflected briefly before continuing. “The second beast – the bear – appears cruder and more brutal.”

“Exactly. The imagery becomes heavier and less regal. The creature is asymmetrical, raised up on one side, clutching flesh between its teeth. Raw force predominates.”

“Unlike the lion, which still possesses something almost noble.”

“A very perceptive distinction.”

“And then comes the leopard.”

“With four wings and four heads,” added Theophil. “Extraordinary speed combined with fragmentation.”

“The imagery certainly evokes Alexander’s astonishing conquests followed by the division of his empire.”

“Indeed. Yet notice the deeper literary movement. The creatures become progressively less natural and increasingly distorted.”

“That point had occurred to me, Maestro.”

“As it should! By the time we reach the fourth beast, ordinary zoology collapses altogether.”

“Because the final beast scarcely resembles any known animal.”

“Exactly. It is simply terror incarnate: iron teeth, destructive violence and unnatural hybridity.”

“So, the sequence itself matters, Maestro. The vision moves from recognisable creatures toward monstrosity.”

“A profoundly important insight, Peter’le. Empire progressively deforms creation itself. Political power detached from divine order becomes anti-human and ultimately anti-creation.”

“In that case,” I reflected, “the final beast cannot even be adequately described because tyranny eventually transcends ordinary categories.”

“That is the point, my friend. The symbolism intentionally breaks down. Language itself struggles before monstrous power.”

“And this,” I added thoughtfully, “also explains why apocalypse prefers beasts to statues. A statue is static and orderly; beasts are alive, violent and unpredictable.”

“A supportable conclusion,” replied Theophil approvingly. “Apocalypse reveals history not as stable civilisation but as predatory struggle.”

 

3. “One Like a Son of Man”

After a short silence I spoke again: “Yet the chapter does not conclude with the beasts.”

“No, Peter’le. And that is precisely the point. The beasts dominate history only temporarily.”

“The heavenly court intervenes.”

“Exactly. And then appears the mysterious figure ‘like a son of man.’”

“I confess, Maestro, that the expression remains elusive to me.”

“You are hardly alone. Few passages in Daniel have generated more interpretation.”

“Is the figure individual or collective?”

“A question debated for centuries. Some interpreters understand the figure collectively, representing the faithful people of Israel contrasted with the beastly empires. Others interpret the image more personally or messianically.”

“And later Christianity naturally attached enormous significance to the passage.”

“Quite so, Peter’le. Yet we must proceed cautiously. Our immediate task is not later theology but the meaning of the text within its own literary world.”

“In that world,” I suggested, “the contrast itself appears decisive.”

“In what sense?”

“The empires appear as beasts; the final figure appears human.”

Theophil nodded approvingly.

“A profoundly important observation, Peter’le. The chapter opposes two radically different principles of power. Beastly empire dominates through violence and appetite. The human figure receives authority from the heavenly court itself.”

“In other words,” I proposed slowly, “true sovereignty restores humanity rather than destroying it.”

“This is the very point. The vision culminates not in monstrous domination but in the recovery of properly ordered humanity beneath divine sovereignty.”

 

4. Why was Chapter 8 Needed?

 

“Maestro,” I said after digesting the information conveyed to me, “another question now presses itself upon me. If Chapter 7 already establishes the pattern of successive empires and divine judgment, why was Chapter 8 necessary at all?”

“You have reached precisely the right question, Peter’le. Many readers treat Chapter 8 merely as another vision added after Chapter 7. In reality, however, it performs an indispensable function within the architecture of the book.”

“In what sense?”

“Chapter 7 presents the universal pattern of history. Chapter 8 narrows the focus dramatically. One might almost say that Chapter 7 supplies the cosmic map, whereas Chapter 8 identifies the immediate battlefield.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “Chapter 7 remains deliberately broad and symbolic, while Chapter 8 moves toward concrete historical reality.”

“Exactly. The beasts of Chapter 7 are terrifying precisely because they transcend ordinary history. They represent empire in its universal and recurring form. But such universality also creates a difficulty.”

“What difficulty?”

“The suffering community requires not merely abstract reassurance respecting divine sovereignty. It seeks understanding of its own immediate historical crisis.”

I reflected for a moment before replying: “So, Chapter 8 historicizes the apocalypse.”

“A highly persuasive formulation, Peter’le. The vision now becomes more focused, more transparent and far less cosmic in scale.”

“The imagery itself changes,” I observed. “The monstrous composite beasts disappear.”

“Precisely. Instead of unnatural creatures emerging from the sea, we encounter a ram and a goat – recognisable animals associated with identifiable kingdoms.”

“So, it is symbolism?!”

“Indeed, Peter’le. The process begins with the conspicuous horn of the goat — generally understood as Alexander the Great himself. Its sudden breaking and replacement by four horns symbolises the fragmentation of his empire among the Diadochi, thereby leading directly into the Hellenistic world from which the Seleucid crisis emerged.”

“And, in this way, the symbolism becomes much easier to decode.”

“Intentionally so. The author no longer wishes merely to reveal the theological structure underlying history. He wishes to direct the reader’s attention toward a particular historical catastrophe.”

“You refer to the Seleucid crisis?”

“Ultimately, yes. But the movement toward it is gradual and carefully controlled.”

“Maestro,” I added after a short reflection, “another difference emerges. Chapter 7 feels almost timeless, whereas Chapter 8 increasingly belongs to a specific historical world.”

“An important distinction, Peter’le. Chapter 7 contemplates the recurring arrogance of empire itself. Chapter 8 begins directing the reader toward one concrete embodiment of that arrogance.”

“The little horn?!”

“Exactly. The vision progressively concentrates attention upon a ruler whose actions threaten not merely political independence but the religious existence of the Jewish people itself.”

“In that case,” I suggested slowly, “Chapter 8 serves as a bridge between universal apocalypse and historical persecution.”

“It does,” replied Theophil approvingly. “And without such a bridge, Chapter 11 would arrive too abruptly.”

“You mean that Chapter 8 prepares the reader for Chapter 11?”

“It does. Consider the progression carefully. Chapter 7 establishes the theological grammar of apocalypse: beastly empires opposing the saints of God. Chapter 8 narrows the symbolism toward the Greek world and the coming persecution. Chapter 11 then unfolds the crisis itself in near-historical detail.”

“In other words,” I concluded, “the visions become progressively less symbolic and progressively more historical.”

“They do, Peter’le. And this progression strongly suggests deliberate literary design rather than accidental accumulation.”

For a short time neither of us spoke. Then I said thoughtfully: “There is another matter, Maestro. The emotional atmosphere also changes between the two chapters.”

“How so?”

“Chapter 7 inspires awe and terror. Chapter 8 feels more immediate and anxious.”

“A keen observation. The earlier chapter contemplates history from the height of heaven. Chapter 8 moves closer to the anguish of lived experience.”

“And perhaps,” I added slowly, “that is why the chapter was needed. Universal theology alone cannot sustain a persecuted community. The suffering must be connected directly to the readers’ own historical reality.”

Theophil nodded gravely.

“Precisely, Peter’le. Apocalypse becomes powerful only when cosmic vision and historical experience converge.”

 

5. Why the Material Considered Thus Far Cannot Be the Entire Message of the Book

 

            For a few minutes I thought that the nature of the book has been illuminated. It then dawned on me that the task has not been completed.

“Maestro,” I observed, “I feel some hesitation about leaving chapters 9–12 aside too quickly. The material considered thus far appears to lead naturally toward chapter 9 and its suggestion that Jeremiah’s prediction (to be discussed) may yet be fulfilled at some future time.”

“That is understandable, Peterle. You see: the first eight chapters seem almost to prepare the reader for the ensuing oracle.”

“Am glad we are reaching the same conclusion, Maestro. If the argument of the book had ended with chapter 8, would the book itself really have said all that it intends to say?”

“A valid point, Peter’le The material considered thus far has established an important line of interpretation, but not necessarily the entire message of the work. A conclusion centred only upon possible fulfillment may still leave several features of the book insufficiently explained.”

            “In what sense?”

“In the sense that the earlier chapters do more than point toward a future realization of Jeremiah’s words. They also wrestle with the meaning of delay, disappointment, reinterpretation, and theological tension. These themes cannot simply be reduced to the question of whether the prediction will eventually occur.”

“So, chapter 9 may represent only one stage in the argument rather than its final destination?

“Exactly. It may express a possibility toward which the earlier material moves, but the remaining chapters suggest that the author’s concern extends beyond prediction and fulfillment alone.

“Then, Maestro, one must still ask why the book continues after chapter 9 in the manner that it does.”

“Yes, Peter’le. If the issue were merely whether Jeremiah’s prophecy would someday come true, the discussion could have concluded much earlier. The continuation of the book indicates that the author seeks to address a deeper problem – namely, how divine promise, historical reality, and human understanding are to be held together when fulfillment does not occur in the expected manner.

“In other words, Maestro, the unresolved tension itself becomes part of the message.”

“I believe so,” said Theophil after a pause. “The later chapters deserve attention not as secondary appendices, but as necessary components of the book’s overall theological argument.”

“Please clarify, Maestro.”

“Very well. Once the discussion moves beyond straightforward textual analysis, the issue is no longer simply what the text says, but how its claims are to be understood in light of history and faith.

            “Then before turning fully to the next part of the dialogue, we must recognize that the material examined so far, though substantial, does not yet exhaust the intention of the book as a whole.

“Precisely, my fried, precisely!”

 

VIII. THE UNRESOLVED TENSION: PROPHECY AND HISTORY

 

1. The Shadow of Jeremiah

“We must now confront one of the most curious moments in the book, Maestro,” I began. “In the first year of Darius the Mede, Daniel turns to the scriptures to understand the number of years which, according to Jeremiah’s oracle (Jer. 25:11–12; 29:10), must pass before the end of the desolations of Jerusalem, that is, seventy years.”

“A significant turning point, Peter’le,” Theophil observed. “But it carries a heavy historical irony. By the time of the Persian period, it was painfully clear that Jeremiah’s prophecy had not been fulfilled in the manner many had hoped. While some exiles had returned, Judah never regained its independence. It remained a small, often struggling province of a vast pagan empire. The ‘restoration’ was, at best, partial.”

“Precisely, Maestro. And that makes the setting of Chapter 9 so odd. Why does the author place this reflection in the reign of ‘Darius the Mede’?”

 

 

2. The Problem of Darius the Mede

“It is odd indeed,” Theophil replied dryly, “primarily because, historically speaking, no such person as ‘Darius the Mede’ ever existed.”

“I expected you to say that,” I said. “Modern historiography is quite firm on the matter. After the fall of Babylon in 539 BCE, the city was taken by Cyrus the Great. There is no record in any Babylonian, Persian, or Greek source of a Median king ruling between the Chaldean and Persian empires.”

“Correct, Peter’le. The author’s postulation of a separate ‘Mede Empire’ preceding the Persian one is historically incorrect. In reality, Cyrus had already unified the Medes and Persians under his own banner before he ever set foot in Babylon. The idea of a distinct Median period following the Babylonian one is a literary or schematic construction, likely born from a desire to fit history into a specific four-kingdom pattern.”

 

3. The Prayer and the Shift to the Apocalyptic

“If the historical framework is shaky, Maestro, then what is the object of the long prayer that follows?”

“Well, Peter’le, let us reflect on the nature of the prayer itself. It is not a request for information, but a communal confession of sin. Daniel identifies himself with the failures of his people. He acknowledges that the ‘desolation’ is not merely a political state, but a spiritual one.”

“And yet,” I noted, “the answer he receives is not a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ regarding the seventy years. Instead, the message switches abruptly from the language of prayer to the language of apocalyptic vision. The angel Gabriel informs him that the seventy years are actually ‘seventy weeks of years’ – four hundred and ninety years.”

“Exactly, Peter’le,” Theophil continued, leaning back. “The ‘switch’ from the communal prayer of confession to the angelic revelation of the ‘seventy weeks’ serves a profound theological purpose. It suggests that the fulfillment of Jeremiah’s prophecy is not a matter of a simple ticking clock, but is tied to the spiritual state of the community.”

“Please elaborate, Maestro.”

 “The delay – the stretching of seventy years into four hundred and ninety – implies that the restoration remains on the horizon until the ‘transgression’ is finished. We might conclude, then, that in the eyes of the author, the prophecy will be fulfilled only when the people are truly worthy of it, having navigated the spiritual and political desolation of their age.”

 

4. A Linguistic Return to Classic Prophecy

“There is a linguistic detail I wish to highlight, Maestro,” I noted, “which further underscores this connection to the past.”

“You refer to the name of the Divine, I presume?”

“Precisely. In the entire Book of Daniel, the Tetragrammaton (the four-letter name Yhwh)    appears only here, in the ninth chapter. Everywhere else, the author uses Elohim or Adonai.”

“And why do you think, Peter’le, that he breaks his own pattern?”

“It seems a deliberate attempt to emulate the language of classic prophecy. By invoking the specific, covenantal name used by Jeremiah and the earlier prophets, the author isn’t just quoting them; he is trying to capture their authority. He wants his readers to feel that this prayer and its subsequent revelation belong to the same sacred tradition as the great prophets of old, bridging the gap between the ancient promises and the difficult Hellenistic reality they now face.”

“But why was this necessary?” I asked as an afterthough. “I note that canons other than the MT treat Daniel as a prophet. The MT alone places the book amongst the Ketuvim, that is, the later books.”

"Quite so, Peter’le. By restricting himself to an apocalyptic revelation, the author subtly secures a layer of text authority without ever having to claim the mantle of a prophet. It’s a brilliant tactical move, really, especially when you consider the theological landscape of the time. Rabbinical Judaism had already firmly established the idea that formal prophecy ceased after Malachi…”

“… which means that the author was uneasy about portraying Daniel as a prophet,” I interjected.

 “He was. But by operating within apocalyptic boundaries, the author avoided the immediate skepticism that would come with claiming direct divine revelation, while still ensuring the text carries a profound, undeniable weight."

“So, Maestro, in a sense: he had his cake and ate it!”

 

IX. THE FINAL VISIONS AND THE HISTORICAL CRISIS

 

1. Chapter 10 as Literary and Theological Preparation

Once again, silence reigned. At length I said: “Maestro, the closer we approach the conclusion of Daniel, the more strongly I feel that Chapter 10 performs a very special function within the book.”

“It does, Peter’le,” replied Theophil. “Chapter 10 is far more than a mere introduction to what follows.”

“In what sense?”

“It serves simultaneously as literary preparation, theological legitimisation and emotional intensification. The compiler wishes the reader to understand that the revelations now about to unfold do not arise from ordinary political calculation. They descend from the heavenly realm itself.”

“I now see why the chapter is written in such solemn tones,” I reflected. “Daniel fasts, mourns and weakens himself physically before the vision appears.”

“Precisely. The atmosphere changes dramatically. We are no longer dealing merely with symbolic dreams or court narratives. The seer himself becomes overwhelmed by the proximity of revelation.”

“And the heavenly messenger also speaks of cosmic conflict.”

“A crucial feature, Peter’le. The struggle between earthly kingdoms is now presented as the visible expression of invisible warfare among spiritual powers. Persia and Greece are not merely political entities; they stand within a larger celestial drama.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “Chapter 10 seeks to reinforce the authority and veracity of the revelations contained in the following chapter.”

“Exactly. The compiler prepares the audience psychologically before presenting the long historical survey of Chapter 11. The reader must understand that what follows is not ordinary historical reflection disguised as prophecy, but hidden knowledge disclosed through heavenly mediation.”

“And this corresponds closely with the apocalyptic tendencies we discussed earlier.”

“Very much so. Angels, hidden decrees, cosmic conflict and revealed mysteries all belong characteristically to the apocalyptic world. Chapter 10 therefore acts as a threshold leading into the final and most historically charged section of the book.”

After a brief silence, I observed: “In literary terms, the chapter almost functions as a solemn overture.”

“A highly elegant formulation, Peter’le. And an accurate one.”

 

2. Chapter 11 and the Historical Horizon of the Book

“Maestro,” I continued, “Chapter 11 differs profoundly from the earlier visions.”

“In what sense, Peter’le?”

“The symbolism recedes. The chapter increasingly resembles a compressed historical chronicle.”

“A most important observation. Earlier chapters veil empires beneath beasts, statues and horns. Chapter 11, by contrast, approaches historical narration with remarkable directness.”

“And this explains why historians have repeatedly turned to it,” I observed

“Indeed. Once the broad sequence of Hellenistic history is understood, many passages become strikingly transparent. As already indicated, the struggles between the kings of the North and South correspond closely to the conflicts between the Seleucid and Ptolemaic dynasties.”

There is another point modern readers often overlook, Maestro.”

“And what is that, Peter’le?”

“Chapter 11 is not presented as an independent historical essay. Within the narrative itself, the speaker is still the heavenly messenger introduced in Chapter 10.”

“An important observation,” replied Theophil. “Readers frequently become so absorbed by the historical detail that they forget who is speaking. The chapter presents itself as Gabriel’s disclosure of hidden knowledge.”

“Which means that the historical survey derives its authority from the heavenly realm rather than from ordinary political analysis.”

“Precisely. The compiler wishes his audience to understand that the sequence of kings, wars and intrigues forms part of a larger divine design already known in heaven. Chapter 11 therefore remains thoroughly apocalyptic even where its language appears almost historical.”

“Please elaborate,” I asked.

“Marriages, alliances, invasions, betrayals and shifting balances of power unfold in a sequence astonishingly close to the known history of the Hellenistic Levant.”

“And the precision, Maestro, appears to increase steadily as the narrative approaches Antiochus Epiphanes.”

“A decisive point, Peter’le. Many scholars regard this phenomenon as central to understanding the composition of Daniel itself.”

“In other words, the closer the text approaches the age of Antiochus, the more historically exact it becomes.”

“Exactly. The compiler appears thoroughly familiar with the political developments leading to the Seleucid persecutions. The narrative moves through the Hellenistic struggles with extraordinary confidence and detail.”

“And yet,” I added slowly, “this precision does not continue indefinitely.”

Theophil nodded gravely: “You now approach the critical problem.”

 

3. Antiochus Epiphanes and the Limits of the Vision

“Maestro,” I observed after a lull, “the transition is rather striking. Up to a certain point, the chapter corresponds closely with historical events. Thereafter, the alignment becomes uncertain.”

“I assume, Peter’le, that you refer particularly to the expectations surrounding the downfall of Antiochus Epiphanes.”

“I do, Maestro. The final section appears to move from retrospective historical interpretation into genuine expectation respecting events still future to the author himself. The writer correctly understood the direction of the crisis but misjudged its precise culmination.”

“An excellent formulation. The difficulty does not lie in the general portrayal of Antiochus as persecutor and arrogant ruler. The difficulty concerns the circumstances of his anticipated end.”

“And historical reality diverged from those expectations.”

“Indeed, Peter’le. Antiochus did not perish in the dramatic Palestinian setting apparently anticipated by the text. His death occurred elsewhere and under rather different circumstances.”

“Paradoxically, Maestro, this discrepancy may illuminate the date of the work more clearly than the earlier accurate passages.”

“An inevitable conclusion, Peter’le. For the point at which historical precision suddenly gives way to uncertain expectation may well reveal the horizon of the final compiler himself.”

“In that case,” I reflected, “the chapter ceases to describe remembered history and begins instead to anticipate imminent divine intervention.”

“Exactly. And this transition strongly supports the view that a redaction of Daniel occurred amid the persecutions themselves rather than centuries beforehand.”

“I now understand why modern scholarship regards Chapter 11 as so decisive.”

“With good reason. The chapter forms the great intersection between theology and history within the entire book.”

For a short time neither of us spoke. At length Theophil added quietly: “And yet Daniel does not end there.”

 

 

X. CHAPTER 12 AND THE LIMITS OF HISTORY

 

“Maestro,” I continued after a pause, “despite all our discussions respecting language, structure and dating, I still feel that one chapter towers above the others in emotional force.”

“Chapter 12?” asked Theophil.

“Indeed. The final chapter seems somehow different from what precedes it. The political struggles and symbolic empires suddenly recede before something far more ultimate.”

“Correct, Peter’le,” replied Theophil. “Chapter 12 carries the Book of Daniel beyond the succession of earthly kingdoms into the realm of final destiny itself.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “history itself reaches its limit.”

“Exactly. Up to this point, even the apocalyptic visions remained closely tied to historical events. But Chapter 12 shifts the perspective decisively. The issue now is no longer merely the fate of nations, but the fate of mankind.”

I reflected for a moment before asking: “Is this why the chapter became so influential in later Jewish and Christian thought?”

“Very much so. For one encounters here one of the clearest expressions within the Hebrew Bible of resurrection and final judgment.”

“The famous passage respecting those who sleep in the dust of the earth?”

“The very same, Peter’le. Some shall awaken to everlasting life, others to shame and everlasting contempt.”

“At first sight,” I admitted, “the words appear almost startling within the context of earlier biblical literature.”

“A reasonable reaction,” answered Theophil. “The older strata of the Hebrew Bible generally concentrate upon collective destiny: the survival of Israel, the continuity of the people and the preservation of covenantal history. Individual existence beyond death remains comparatively shadowy.”

“Whereas Chapter 12 speaks unmistakably of personal destiny.”

“Precisely. And this development is historically significant. During periods of persecution and martyrdom, the older framework became increasingly difficult to sustain on its own.”

“How so, Maestro?”

“Consider the problem confronting faithful Jews during the persecutions of Antiochus. Many righteous individuals suffered torture and death precisely because they remained loyal to the Torah. If divine justice operated solely within ordinary history, their fate appeared intolerably unjust.”

“In other words,” I said, “history itself no longer provided adequate moral resolution.”

“Exactly, Peter’le. Apocalyptic thought therefore extended hope beyond history. Divine justice might not fully manifest itself within the visible world, yet ultimate judgment remained certain.”

“And resurrection became the answer?”

“One of the answers. The righteous dead could not simply vanish into oblivion while tyrants prospered. Final vindication required restoration beyond death itself.”

I remained silent before asking cautiously: “Does this mean that belief in resurrection emerged comparatively late within Judaism?”

“In its fully developed form: yes. Earlier biblical texts occasionally hint at divine victory over death, but Chapter 12 articulates the doctrine with unusual clarity.”

“And this too supports a later historical context?”

“Many scholars think so. The theology corresponds closely to the spiritual crises of the Hellenistic age, particularly the experience of persecution and martyrdom.”

For a moment I thought we had completed our enquiry. It then downed on me that one further matter required analysis.

“There is another feature of Chapter 12 that deserves notice,” I finally said.

“And what might that be, Peter’le?”

“The prominence accorded to the wise.”

“A highly important point, Peter’le,” nodded Theophil. “Modern readers often focus upon resurrection and overlook the fact that the chapter devotes unusual attention to a particular group within Israel.”

“You refer to the maskilim?”

“Precisely. The Hebrew term is commonly rendered ‘the wise’ or ‘those who have understanding’. Throughout the later chapters of Daniel, these figures occupy a distinctive position.”

“In what sense?”

“They are not kings, priests or military leaders. Rather, they are teachers, interpreters and guides. During periods of confusion and persecution, they preserve understanding and transmit it to others.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “they represent intellectual and spiritual leadership rather than political authority.”

“Exactly, Peter’le. The author of Daniel places remarkable confidence in the power of instruction. Tyrants may command armies, but the wise preserve truth.”

I reflected for a moment: “That is rather striking. Many apocalyptic works concentrate upon angels and cosmic battles. Daniel, however, also honours those who explain and teach.”

“Indeed, Chapter 12 declares that the wise shall shine like the brightness of the firmament; and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars for ever and ever.”

“A magnificent image.”

“One of the most beautiful in the entire book. Notice, Peter’le, that the comparison is not made to kings or conquerors. Eternal splendour is reserved for those who impart understanding.”

“Perhaps because the author [the compiler] himself belonged to such a circle?”

“A possibility entertained by many scholars. The book repeatedly emphasises interpretation, discernment and wisdom. Daniel succeeds not through military power but through understanding mysteries.”

“In that case,” I concluded, “the chapter offers more than hope for the dead. It also affirms the enduring value of learning, teaching and faithful interpretation.”

“A fair conclusion, Peter’le. The empires vanish, the beasts perish and the persecutors pass away. Yet understanding endures.”

After reflecting for yet another few moments, I added: “Another feature strikes me strongly, Maestro. The chapter repeatedly emphasises secrecy and concealment.”

“You refer to the command that the words be sealed?”

“Yes. Daniel is instructed to seal the book until the time of the end.”

“A highly characteristic apocalyptic motif,” replied Theophil. “Revelation is simultaneously disclosed and concealed. The visionary receives insight into the hidden structure of history, yet full understanding remains reserved for the appointed time.”

“At moments,” I observed, “the atmosphere almost resembles initiation into mysteries.”

“A fair comparison, Peter’le. Apocalyptic literature frequently presents truth as hidden knowledge accessible only through divine disclosure.”

“But why this fascination with secrecy?”

“In part because the world itself appeared incomprehensible. Political catastrophe, persecution and foreign domination created profound anxiety. Apocalyptic writers therefore sought reassurance in the conviction that history followed a hidden divine plan invisible to ordinary observers.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “events that appeared chaotic from below remained intelligible from above.”

“Precisely. The heavenly perspective transforms apparent disorder into predetermined design.”

For several moments neither of us spoke. At last I remarked: “The closing verses also possess a strangely personal quality.”

“How so?”

“After all the visions of empires and cosmic struggles, the final words address Daniel himself: ‘Go thy way till the end be.’ The conclusion suddenly becomes intimate and almost gentle.”

“A beautiful observation, Peter’le. The book ends not with political triumph, military victory or earthly revolution, but with quiet perseverance.”

“And Daniel himself does not witness the fulfilment?”

“Correct. He is told that he shall rest and stand in his allotted place at the end of days. The visionary himself belongs to the chain of expectation rather than its visible consummation.”

“That seems profoundly significant.”

“It is. Apocalyptic literature often reassures not by abolishing suffering immediately, but by situating suffering within a larger horizon of meaning.”

“In that respect,” I reflected slowly, “the conclusion of Daniel differs markedly from ordinary political propaganda.”

“Entirely so. The book does not promise that the righteous will necessarily prevail within immediate history. Instead, it proclaims that history itself remains subordinate to divine sovereignty.”

“And perhaps,” I added, “that explains the enduring power of the book.”

“How do you mean, Peter’le?”

“Empires vanished long ago: Babylon, Persia, the Seleucids and even Rome. Yet the anxieties addressed by Daniel persist. Men still confront tyranny, uncertainty and the apparent triumph of violence.”

“They do,” replied Theophil gravely. “The symbols of Daniel survived precisely because they transcend the immediate circumstances that first produced them.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “the book became universal by speaking through symbols rather than mere chronicle.”

“Exactly. Historical circumstances gave birth to the visions, but the visions outlived those circumstances because they touched enduring human fears and hopes.”

For a while silence settled between us. At last I said quietly: “Then perhaps Chapter 12 marks not merely the end of Daniel, but the point at which biblical history opens toward eternity itself.”

Theophil inclined his head.

“A fitting conclusion, Peter’le. And perhaps the only conclusion possible for an apocalyptic book.”

Once again, I thought we covered all issues. Then, after a brief silence, I felt the need to turn to one last unclear issue.

“There remains one feature of Chapter 12 that has puzzled generations of readers, Maestro.”

“The numerical prophecies?”

“Yes, Maestro. The references to one thousand two hundred and ninety days and to one thousand three hundred and thirty-five days.”

“A source of endless speculation,” replied Theophil dryly.

“Can they be explained with certainty?”

“Not with certainty, Peter’le. Numerous interpretations have been proposed. Some connect the figures with the desecration and subsequent restoration of the Temple; others regard them as symbolic extensions of earlier chronological schemes.”

“In other words, the precise calculation remains elusive.”

“Very much so. Yet one point is reasonably clear. The numbers belong to the atmosphere of expectation that permeates the final chapters of Daniel. The author believed that the period of suffering was limited and that divine intervention was approaching.”

“So, the significance may be theological rather than mathematical?”

“A wise caution, Peter’le. Readers frequently become absorbed in calculation and overlook the larger message. The purpose of the numbers is not merely to satisfy curiosity but to reassure the faithful that persecution has a fixed limit and that history remains under divine control.”

“In that respect,” I observed, “the numbers perform the same function as the visions themselves.”

“Exactly. They transform despair into expectation.”

“And that expectation is the message: salvation will come in due course!”

 

E P I L O G U E

 

The afternoon light had begun to fade, and the outlines of the room softened into the kind of half-shadow that invites reflection rather than analysis.

At length I said: “Maestro, I begin to understand why Daniel survived so powerfully through the centuries. The book seems perpetually reborn whenever a community confronts oppression, uncertainty or historical catastrophe.”

“I agree, Peter’le. Like certain other great works of religious imagination, Daniel acquired a life extending far beyond its original historical setting.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “its importance lies not merely in what it once meant, but in what successive generations discovered within it.”

“Precisely. And perhaps nowhere is this more visible than in later Judaism and early Christianity.”

“The connection with Judaism seems almost inevitable, Maestro. A people repeatedly subjected to foreign domination would naturally find consolation in visions proclaiming the eventual downfall of empires.”

“Quite so,” replied Theophil. “The Book of Daniel offered more than comfort. It supplied a language through which suffering itself could be interpreted. Political catastrophe ceased to appear meaningless. Oppression became part of a larger historical and cosmic drama governed ultimately by divine sovereignty.”

“And this remained influential long after the Maccabean crisis?”

“Very much so, Peter’le. Apocalyptic expectation did not disappear with the rededication of the Temple. Successive generations continued to read Daniel in light of their own anxieties and hopes.”

“You refer, perhaps, to Roman domination?”

“Among other things, Peter’le. Under Roman rule many Jews once again experienced the old tension between imperial power and covenantal identity. Different groups reacted differently: some accommodated themselves to Roman authority, others pursued legal and spiritual renewal, while still others cultivated hopes of imminent divine intervention.”

“And Daniel nourished such expectations?”

“Indeed. The visions of successive kingdoms destined to perish before the kingdom of God retained extraordinary force. The imagery of arrogant rulers opposing the saints of the Most High could readily be reapplied to new imperial circumstances.”

“Would this help explain the atmosphere surrounding the revolt of Bar Kokhba (during the reign of Hadrian Caeser)?”

Theophil’s expression grew thoughtful. “To some extent. One must proceed cautiously, for our evidence is fragmentary and later traditions often magnify events retrospectively. Yet there is little doubt that messianic and apocalyptic expectations formed part of the intellectual climate in which this revolt emerged.”

“The revolt itself,” I reflected, “must have appeared to many Jews as a final struggle against imperial domination.”

“A fair characterization. When Simon Bar Kokhba led the uprising against Rome in the second century CE, some influential figures – most famously Rabbi Akiva – appear to have regarded him as a potential messianic deliverer.”

“And Daniel would naturally have contributed to such expectations?”

“Very likely. The book had already accustomed generations of readers to viewing history as a sequence of oppressive empires destined ultimately to collapse before divine redemption. In periods of intense suffering, such visions acquire immense emotional power.”

“But the revolt ended catastrophically.”

“With dreadful consequences. The Roman suppression of the rebellion devastated Judea and profoundly altered the future course of Judaism. Yet even failure did not extinguish apocalyptic hope entirely. Rather, Jewish tradition gradually redirected messianic expectation away from immediate political revolt toward more spiritual and eschatological horizons.”

“So, Maestro. In a curious way, Daniel seems repeatedly to stand at the boundary between political history and transcendent hope.”

“And, Peter’le, precisely this ambiguity contributed to the book’s extraordinary influence.”

For a short while neither of us spoke. Then I continued cautiously: “The impact upon early Christianity appears equally profound.”

“Unquestionably so,” replied Theophil. “Indeed, few books of the Hebrew Bible exercised greater influence upon the imagination of early Christians than Daniel.”

“I assume the central importance of Chapter 7 explains much of this.”

“Very much so. The mysterious figure ‘like a son of man’ became foundational for Christian interpretation. The expression already possessed symbolic richness within Daniel itself, but early Christians associated it particularly with Jesus.”

“Especially because the Gospels repeatedly place the title ‘Son of Man’ upon his lips?”

“Precisely. The imagery of heavenly authority, suffering, vindication and final judgment resonated deeply with emerging Christian theology.”

“And the resurrection imagery of Chapter 12?”

“Another crucial element, Peter’le. Daniel contains one of the clearest expressions within the Hebrew Bible of resurrection and final judgment extending beyond the fate of nations collectively to the destiny of individuals. Such ideas proved immensely important for Christianity.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “Daniel helped furnish Christianity with a language for interpreting both history and eternity.”

“An excellent summary. Early Christians inherited from Daniel not merely isolated symbols, but an entire historical imagination. Empires became transient; persecution acquired meaning; ultimate justice lay beyond immediate appearances.”

“And the Book of Revelation clearly stands within the same apocalyptic tradition.”

“Very much so. Beasts, heavenly courts, symbolic numbers, cosmic conflict and final judgment – all reveal deep affinities with Daniel. One might almost say that Revelation universalizes and expands themes already present in Daniel.”

“At times,” I reflected, “the continuity appears almost overwhelming.”

“Indeed. Without Daniel, large portions of later Christian apocalyptic imagery become difficult fully to understand.”

The room had grown darker while we spoke. Evening now pressed itself gently against the windows.

After a prolonged silence I finally said: “It seems remarkable, Maestro, that a book emerging from the anxieties of successive empires should itself become almost timeless.”

Theophil smiled faintly: “Perhaps because the fundamental human experience never vanished, Peter’le. Empires continue to arise; communities continue to suffer uncertainty; mankind continues to ask whether history possesses meaning.”

“And Daniel answered that question?”

“Not with political analysis alone. The book offered something deeper: the conviction that beyond the turbulence of history there exists an order inaccessible to tyrants and unseen by empires.”

“In that sense,” I reflected slowly, “Daniel was never merely about Babylon, Persia, Greece or Rome.”

“Exactly. Those kingdoms became symbols of something larger: the recurrent tendency of worldly power to exalt itself as absolute.”

“And the book opposes this with divine sovereignty.”

“Quite so. The kingdoms of history rise magnificently and perish. The visions of Daniel insist that no empire – however terrifying – possesses ultimate permanence.”

After yet another lull Theophil rose.

“Well, Peter’le,” he said quietly, “you have now followed Daniel from Babylonian court tales to apocalyptic visions, from linguistic puzzles to theological hopes, from Antiochus Epiphanes to Bar Kokhba and beyond.”

“And perhaps,” I answered, “I finally understand why the book continued troubling me all these years.”

Theophil smiled: “That is because Daniel was never intended merely to be understood. It was intended to be pondered.”

I thought that, at this point, our dialogue was finally concluded. To my surprise, Theophil raised yet another point: “Peter’le, we have covered the field exhaustively. Throughout both of us remained calm and detached. But – as you well know – after our many years of friendship I have learned to read your emotions.”

“Well, Maestro?”

“I sense that you do not like – perhaps ever frown on – the Book of Daniel. Why?”

“Surely, you know!”

“I’d like to hear it from your own mouth!”

“The message of the prophets is usually clear, Maestro. They address the reader. Frequently, they ask him to repent; on other occasion that they set out to comfort him – to give him heart. In other instances – like in Job, Ecclesiastes and Proverbs – the Ketuvim draw his attention to problems faced by mankind or simply set out principle of good behaviour.”

“And in Daniel?”

“You have to slog through before you can work out the message.”

“But it is a relatively short book – 12 chapters in all!”

“True,” I conceded, “but are they readable?”

“Perhaps it was for contemporary readers. They understood the message even if it was camouflaged, Peter’le.”

“I have to accept this, Maestro. Still, Daniel is not recited in the synagogue and never became central to Rabbinical Judaism or any other religion.”

“It didn’t, Peter’le. But its influence was enormous in the formative years of religions.”

“That, Maestro, I readily concede. My quarrel is not with Daniel's importance but with its opacity. I still wish that its author had shown a little more consideration for his readers. One should not have to fight one's way through beasts, horns, numbers and angels merely to discover what the writer wished to say.”

“Very well, Peter’le. We can conclude on this very note,” said Theophil and vanished.

 

 

 

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