From the artist:
 

The first time I read this text, my senses were flooded. My mind was overtaken by flashes of saturated imagery—of the darkened sun and moon, of stars barreling toward the ground, of clouds swirling with glorious light, of people floating on winds. My body felt the wavering instability of the heavens. I could smell and taste the wisdom of the fig tree, and as I neared verse 32, I felt the sharp coldness of uncertainty scale my back.

“But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come” (Mark 13: 32-33).

I heard the ticking of clocks grow louder and felt anxiety crawl in my stomach. This text gives me a familiar feeling—It’s the feeling of being out of control, a feeling of the looming, almost mocking, unknown.

Recently, I had a very sudden and excruciating death happen in my family. It came out of nowhere and I don’t understand it. I’m shattered. It feels as though the whole earth is shaking and everything that offered me comfort is losing its light and is crashing to the ground.

This tragedy, as well as this text, remind me that my understanding of God and the world around me is so miniscule.

What am I supposed to do with this tragedy? What are we supposed to do with this confusing text? Are we to anxiously wait around for “the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory?” Are we to sit as though we are in a waiting room with ticking clocks, on the edge of our seats waiting for the alarm to sound? Are we to be immobilized by mystery?

Waiting isn’t going to cut it. I need to do something and I desperately need light to break in.

In times of confusion, especially in scriptural texts, I try and find an anchor to hold onto, and often times that anchor is repetition. Repeatedly, in various ways, the text says, keep alert. Keep awake; beware. All I know to do is keep awake—to keep pointing to the miraculous signs of God’s love and light breaking into the world, to work to bring more of that light in and break down those things that seek to block the light—until light swallows up the darkness.

—Lauren Wright Pittman