Religious language can be understood as existing on a spectrum, ranging from purely metaphorical expressions to deeply literal beliefs. At one end, phrases like “Cupid’s arrow struck me” are recognised as figures of speech with no expectation of belief in a literal child-god of love. At the other end, statements such as “Jesus is my saviour” are typically understood by believers as literal affirmations of historical and supernatural events, including his resurrection and ascension to heaven.
But between these poles lies a vast grey area where it is often difficult to know what people truly mean; sometimes religious language functions as metaphor, sometimes as poetry, and sometimes as a literal claim about reality.
Take the case of the Antichrist: when most people talk about the Antichrist, it’s often difficult to pin down exactly what is meant, as the concept has evolved over centuries and is deeply layered in religious and cultural imagination. The idea originates in several New Testament texts, especially the letters of John, which speak of “many antichrists”, and in II Thessalonians, where the author describes the “man of lawlessness” who will exalt himself and deceive many. These strands were later woven together with the vivid apocalyptic imagery of the Book of Revelation, where the figures of the beast, the number 666, and ultimate evil became synonymous in Christian storytelling – even though, strictly speaking, the Antichrist and the beast are distinct entities in the biblical texts.
During the Middle Ages, the legend of the Antichrist was greatly expanded and systematized, most notably by the 10th-century monk Adso of Montier-en-Der. Adso’s treatise on the Antichrist became a foundational source for later medieval writings and was influential in shaping mystery plays and church teachings, solidifying the Antichrist as a singular, monstrous adversary who would appear before the end of the world. Over time, this figure was invoked in political and religious disputes to label various adversaries as embodiments of ultimate evil. The motif flourished, morphing through centuries of Christian imagination and resurfacing strongly in modern times through novels and films.
Within Christian apocalyptic expectation, the Antichrist is imagined as a deceptive leader who will arise in the last days, drawing people away from God, performing false miracles, and orchestrating widespread persecution of believers. He is destined to reign for a limited period – often conceived as three and a half years – before being vanquished by Christ at the Second Coming and preceding the final judgment. This narrative retains a powerful grip on many believers, fuelling speculation, prophecy, and cultural anxiety through its mix of biblical origin, theological expansion, and dramatic representation.
Across history, some of the world’s most intellectually gifted individuals have obsessively speculated about the Antichrist. Isaac Newton, for example, devoted much energy outside his groundbreaking scientific work to biblical prophecy – convinced that the office of the Pope was the fulfilment of the Antichrist and even attempting to calculate the time of the apocalypse using prophetic numerology based on Daniel and Revelation.
In the 21st century, Peter Thiel – a renowned tech billionaire, co-founder of PayPal and Palantir, and early investor in Facebook – has also shown deep fascination with the Antichrist. Thiel, who is known for his influential role in Silicon Valley, his libertarian views, and his vocal political support for Donald Trump, has recently drawn public attention by organising a series of closed-door lectures on the Antichrist in San Francisco. His talks have sparked intrigue and debate by mixing theological speculation with concerns about the intersection of technology, politics, and ultimate evil, demonstrating that the apocalyptic imagination endures among even the most analytically minded modern elites.
Peter Thiel has been outspoken about his concerns over technological stagnation, arguing that the dramatic progress society once experienced has slowed to a crawl, and expressing frustration that the bold ambitions of past generations have been replaced by incremental and uninspired developments.
But Thiel’s anxieties go beyond mere stagnation itself – he warns that fear-mongering about technological risks can be exploited by would-be leaders who amplify these anxieties to justify tighter controls, ultimately paving the way for a centralised, one-government totalitarian regime. This preoccupation has lately focused on figures like Greta Thunberg, whom Thiel sees as promoting an anti-technological, alarmist agenda on the world stage. He explains his views as follows:
“The way the Antichrist would take over the world is you talk about Armageddon nonstop. You talk about existential risk nonstop, and this is what you need to regulate… The thing that has political resonance is: We need to stop science, we need to just say “stop” to this. And this is where, in the 17th century, I can imagine a Dr. Strangelove, Edward Teller-type person taking over the world. In our world, it’s far more likely to be Greta Thunberg.”
People have long been fascinated by the prospect of identifying the Antichrist, and this impulse has often unfolded as a game of connecting unlikely dots and extracting hidden meanings from random or trivial details – much like modern conspiracy thinking.
Throughout history, a procession of world figures – Napoleon, Hitler, Gorbachev, Reagan – have all been labelled as the Antichrist by various groups. The “evidence” marshalled to support such claims has ranged from linguistic and numerological tricks (for example, adding the values of the letters in someone’s name to see if it totals 666, as was done with Reagan – whose three names each contain six letters), to more fanciful interpretations, like viewing Gorbachev’s prominent birthmark as the “mark of the beast” foretold in prophecy. This pattern of seeking out arbitrary signs and weaving them into an apocalyptic storyline shows just how much projection and creative license is involved in Antichrist hunting, and how disconnected it can be from any reasonable discourse.
In this sense, Peter Thiel’s current effort to single out a contemporary figure as a potential Antichrist follows the same tradition, but with a more intellectual veneer. Unlike the crudely literal approaches of the past – fixating on names, numbers, or physical features – Thiel’s method is focused on ideological influence, especially the potential for certain political movements to provoke fear and suppress technological progress. Still, one cannot help but wonder whether Thiel’s vision has been coloured by popular culture, particularly films like The Omen, which famously cast the Antichrist as a charismatic child with ominous potential. Given that Greta Thunberg herself emerged as a global figure in childhood, Thiel’s concerns, though more sophisticated in their analytical scope, ultimately echo the archetypes that have dominated Christian apocalyptic imagination – and remind us how thin the line can be between critical scrutiny and elaborate myth-making.
Thiel could be right, or he could be wrong, about the dangers of technophobia and its potential to support authoritarian regimes on a global scale; his argument is provocative, but its real-world implications remain open to debate. While I personally think Greta Thunberg’s brand of activism is more performative than substantive, and Thiel’s warnings about the risks of fear-driven regulation deserve consideration, the question remains whether invoking religious language like “Antichrist” actually clarifies, or just confuses the conversation. Thiel’s references leave it fundamentally ambiguous – sometimes his scenario sounds like metaphor, other times like a sincere warning about a coming supernatural evil – making it unclear whether his analysis is mostly political, theological, or a blend of both.
Religious language, especially when it conjures figures like the Antichrist or the devil, possesses an emotional and imaginative force that goes far beyond its origins. Even for those without religious belief, there is much to appreciate in the way literary masterworks featuring the devil – like Milton’s Paradise Lost – explore the psychological and political dimensions of rebellion, tyranny, and vanity. Paradise Lost itself is an epic poem recounting Satan’s rebellion against God, his temptation of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, and the tragic consequences of humanity’s fall.
Yet, philosophers such as George Lakoff and Mark Johnson have shown that metaphors are not merely ornamental; as argued in their influential work Metaphors We Live By, metaphors actively shape how we understand abstract concepts, structure thought, and motivate action. This means that using religious allegories in public debate can have far-reaching effects, especially when they tap into deep cultural narratives whose mythic resonance can move people in ways that transcend literal belief.
That power comes with risks. If one invokes the allegory of the Antichrist to frame opposition to a climate activist, the move is not simply about adding vividness to speech – it is about mobilising moral passion and framing disagreement as a cosmic battle between forces of good and evil. Such language can drive crowds, escalate conflicts, and heighten polarisation, turning complex debates about technology or policy into arenas for apocalyptic confrontation. Thiel may or may not mean his references to the Antichrist literally, but for many in his MAGA-leaning audience the term is much more than metaphor – it is a vivid summons to a culture war where existential stakes feel very real.
Philologists have warned for centuries about the risks of confusing metaphor with reality in religious language. In the 19th century, Max Müller famously described mythology as a “disease of language,” arguing that poetic metaphors used to name or describe natural phenomena gradually ossified into personified myths, with symbolic figures becoming literal deities over time. For Müller, this “disease” occurred when cultures forgot the figurative nature of their language, allowing names and attributes – like Eos for dawn or Zeus for the sky – to gain an undeserved independence and become the centrepieces of elaborate religious systems. His broader point was that metaphor, while a tool for thought, can, when misunderstood, twist entire cultural worldviews.
But the case of the Antichrist in Christian theology is more complex. It is unlikely that the original authors of the Letters of John or II Thessalonians saw the Antichrist merely as allegory; on the contrary, the literary and historical evidence suggests they genuinely believed in a supernatural evil taking form in history. Liberal Christian readers who treat such figures as “just metaphors” may be projecting modern skepticism onto ancient texts.
Still, even if one accepted for argument’s sake that the Antichrist began as a metaphor, philological warning remains: continuing to use such loaded religious language in debates today risks unleashing the same confusions, allowing allegories to take on dangerous life and inspire real-world hostility or extremism.
