Revelation 19:20-21

And the beast was taken, and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone. And the remnant were slain with the sword of him that sat upon the horse, which sword proceeded out of his mouth: and all the fowls were filled with their flesh.

When I come to this part of Revelation, I almost want to slow John down.

We have walked through seal after seal, trumpet after trumpet, vial after vial. We have watched sorrow deepen, judgment fall, the earth convulse, kings rage, demons deceive, and men harden themselves against God. Then at last the heavens open, Christ appears, the armies gather, and the whole thing seems to rush by in just a few lines. If I had written it, I might have spent chapter after chapter on the appearing of the King. John does not.

Why not

Because John is not writing as a curious observer. He is writing as a shepherd.

He is writing to saints who were not playing church. They were being hunted, mocked, beaten, imprisoned, and killed. These were not comfortable people wanting a prophecy chart to hang on the wall. These were suffering believers who needed to know that the blood, the pain, the waiting, and the groaning of this broken world would not go on forever. So John does not linger where I might linger. He gets to the point.

The King comes.

The beast falls.

The false prophet is finished.

The rebellion ends.

Jesus wins.

That is what persecuted people need to know.

And that is what we need to know too.

Because even if we are not standing in the valley of Megiddo, every one of us knows something about tribulation. This world is not home. It groans. Romans says all creation groans and travails in pain together until now. That means the ache is everywhere. It is in the hospital room. It is in the funeral home. It is in the strained marriage, the weary mind, the fearful heart, the temptation that does not let go, the prayer that seems delayed, the disappointment that keeps revisiting us.

Ever since Eden cracked open under sin, nothing has been fully right.

There was a time when man walked with God in the cool of the day. No striving. No hiding. No shame. No breaking through. No pressing in. Just fellowship. Just nearness. Just peace. Then sin entered, and from that moment on the whole world began to bleed.

But there is a solution.

Salvation.

Not distraction.
Not optimism.
Not pretending.
Not merely learning better religious language.

Salvation.

And I am convinced one of the clearest pictures of that salvation is the table of the Lord.

That is what grips me in Revelation 19. The chapter gives us two suppers. In the first half there is the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. In the second half there is the supper of judgment. One table is joy. The other is horror. One is fellowship with Christ. The other is the end of rebellion. And in between those two scenes, I hear David whispering across the centuries,

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.
Psalm 23:5

That is not a small thought. That is thunder to my soul.

The Lord does not always remove the enemy first. He does not always clear the battlefield before He comforts His people. Sometimes He spreads the table right there in the middle of the conflict. Right where fear is barking. Right where sorrow is pressing. Right where disappointment is circling. Right where the enemy wants to convince you that God has forgotten you. The Lord says, Sit down here. Eat here. Remember Me here. Let Me strengthen you here.

That is why communion matters.

It is not a little ritual to tack onto church when convenient. It is not a break in the service. It is not filler. It is not form. It is the Lord saying, In the middle of your war, come close to Me. Take the bread. Take the cup. Remember My body broken for you. Remember My blood shed for you. Remember that your hope is not in your strength, but in My finished work.

There are Christians who know a great deal, and thank God for knowledge. But knowledge alone will not always steady a trembling heart. There are battles you do not reason your way through. There are sorrows you do not outline your way through. There are nights when what the soul needs most is not another explanation, but another encounter with Jesus Christ.

That is what happens at the table.

Not magic.
Not superstition.
Not empty ceremony.

Communion.

Nearness.

Remembrance.

Union.

It is the Lord drawing His people back to the center and saying, Feed on Me. Let My life steady your life. Let My sacrifice anchor your soul. Let My presence become greater than the noise around you.

That is how saints endure.

That is how believers walk through fire without being consumed by despair.

That is how a man faces his own armageddons and does not come apart at the seams.

He comes to the table.

Dear saints, the solution to catastrophe is not positive thinking. The solution is not trying harder. The solution is not pretending that the enemy is not there. The solution is salvation, and salvation is not cold theory. It is Christ Himself given to us, feeding us, holding us, keeping us, walking with us until the day He rends the heavens and rides forth in glory.

One day the war really will be over.

One day the beast will be gone, the false prophet silenced, the rebellion crushed, and the whole creation set free into joy again. One day the mountains will break forth into singing and the trees of the field will clap their hands. One day there will be no more tribulation at all.

But until that day, there is a table.

And the Lord still prepares it in the presence of our enemies.

So come to Him there.

Meet Him there.

Feed on Him there.

Because the saint who learns to live at the table will be able to walk through the battlefield without losing heart.