The ancient figure of the Antichrist has returned to public debate through an unlikely messenger: billionaire investor Peter Thiel. In speeches delivered from San Francisco to Rome, the tech entrepreneur and influential supporter of Donald Trump and JD Vance has repeatedly invoked the Antichrist as a modern political force, linking global institutions, liberal democracy and even climate activism to apocalyptic danger. According to a major essay published in Die Zeit by Jesuit scholar and author Klaus Mertes, this revival is not simply religious rhetoric but part of a much longer and more troubling political tradition.
Mertes traces the origins of the Antichrist back to early Christianity, where the idea first emerged not as a supernatural villain but as a warning against deception. In the Gospel of Mark, Christ warns believers that false prophets and false messiahs will appear during times of crisis, promising salvation while leading people astray. The danger, Mertes argues, lies not only in false religion but in manipulative promises of security and redemption. Early Christians understood this as a challenge of discernment: learning to distinguish truth from seductive propaganda.
Over centuries, however, the concept evolved into something far more expansive and politically charged. The Greek term “anti” carried a double meaning — both “in place of” and “against.” As a result, the Antichrist became both the false substitute for Christ and the enemy actively opposing him. During the persecution of Christians under the Roman emperor Domitian, these ideas took on political significance. In the Book of Revelation, the Roman Empire appeared as the “beast from the sea,” demanding worship and obedience. The coded number 666 was widely interpreted by insiders as a reference to Domitian himself.
As historical memory faded, the Antichrist transformed from a coded political symbol into a mythic personality. Medieval theologians consolidated scattered legends into a single narrative in which the Antichrist would emerge in the final days of the Roman Empire, perform miracles, deceive believers and eventually be defeated in a cosmic confrontation. This personalized image proved remarkably adaptable. Different eras projected new enemies onto the figure, allowing the Antichrist to become a permanent symbol of civilizational fear.
By the Middle Ages, anti-Jewish themes had become attached to the myth, while reformers and revolutionaries reshaped it to fit their own conflicts. Martin Luther identified the papacy as the Antichrist. Later, conservative critics of the Enlightenment portrayed secular reason itself as anti-Christian. The French Revolution, with its elevation of the “Goddess of Reason,” became evidence for those who believed modernity had turned against God.
Russian literature and philosophy added another dimension. Fyodor Dostoevsky’s famous “Grand Inquisitor” depicted authoritarian control masquerading as spiritual salvation. Vladimir Solovyov’s “Short Tale of the Antichrist” imagined a benevolent world ruler who achieves global domination through promises of peace and unity. These stories later fed conspiracy theories, including the notorious “Protocols of the Elders of Zion,” which falsely portrayed Jews as agents preparing the way for global tyranny.
According to Mertes, this marked a decisive transformation. The Antichrist ceased to be merely the enemy of Christianity and became the enemy of humanity itself. Twentieth-century thinkers such as the German legal theorist Carl Schmitt recast the figure in secular terms, portraying global political integration and universal institutions as existential threats. The Antichrist became associated with cosmopolitanism, internationalism and centralized world order.
It is within this tradition that Mertes situates Peter Thiel’s recent rhetoric. Thiel has reportedly equated organizations such as the United Nations with the Antichrist, arguing that global governance under the banner of universal human rights represents a form of oppression. Climate activism has also entered this framework. Greta Thunberg, in Thiel’s interpretation, becomes part of an apocalyptic struggle between freedom and centralized control.
Yet the Antichrist narrative is only half the story. Accompanying it throughout history is another theological figure known as the “Katechon,” or “restrainer.” Derived from a passage in the Second Letter to the Thessalonians, the Katechon is the force that holds back chaos and delays the end of history. Early Christian thinkers identified the Roman Empire itself as this restraining power, maintaining order against collapse. Over time, the idea evolved into a justification for strong sovereign authority.
Carl Schmitt embraced the concept during the twentieth century, arguing that every era required a Katechon capable of preserving civilization through decisive power. Mertes argues that this idea continues to influence modern authoritarian thought. In Thiel’s worldview, the United States becomes the Katechon standing against the Antichrist represented by global institutions. Thiel’s admiration for the Roman emperor Constantine — who fused imperial authority with Christianity — reflects a broader longing for a powerful Christian state able to resist liberal modernity.
The essay draws connections beyond the United States. In Russia, oligarch Konstantin Malofeev founded a think tank explicitly named “Katechon,” dedicated to promoting Eurasian nationalist ideology associated with philosopher Alexander Dugin. Russian Orthodox Patriarch Kirill has framed Russia’s war in Ukraine in explicitly sacred terms, portraying the Russian state as a spiritual barrier against a decadent West.
For Mertes, these narratives are dangerous precisely because they resonate with genuine anxieties. Economic instability, cultural fragmentation, climate fears and geopolitical conflict create fertile ground for apocalyptic thinking. The language of cosmic struggle transforms political disagreement into existential warfare between good and evil, survival and destruction. In this atmosphere, compromise becomes betrayal and opponents become agents of darkness.
The danger is amplified when religious symbolism merges with political radicalization. Mertes warns that the fusion of fear, obedience and apocalyptic certainty can produce deeply toxic forms of politics. Such rhetoric not only polarizes societies but also creates openings for authoritarianism by promising protection against overwhelming threats.
At the same time, the essay insists the problem is not confined to public figures like Thiel. Religious institutions themselves can become breeding grounds for “false messiahs” who manipulate spiritual longing for political ends. Mertes argues that churches must confront their own role in sustaining apocalyptic fantasies while rediscovering theological traditions centered on human dignity, freedom and hope rather than fear.
The Die Zeit essay presents the modern revival of Antichrist language not as an eccentric theological curiosity but as a revealing symptom of a broader political shift. Ancient apocalyptic myths, once confined to scripture and medieval prophecy, are increasingly reappearing in mainstream ideological discourse. And in a world marked by polarization and uncertainty, their power may be growing once again.
