Matthew 24:1–36, 42–44; Mark 13; Luke 21:5–38
Keep Awake
What Wonderful Stones!
Commentary by Eric C. Smith
It’s a familiar image to many, even iconic within the canon of Western art: Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss. But this digital work by Tammam Azzam turns Klimt’s ubiquitous painting into something haunted and disturbing.
Azzam superimposes The Kiss onto the façade of a ruined building in his native Syria, layering the familiar and the romantic onto the abhorrent and the tragic. The contents of flats and the everyday existences they once housed spill out through bombed-out walls like entrails: a toilet, shelving, wiring, splintered furniture. The effect is jarring, like staring at a desiccated corpse.
At first glance the composition is familiar, the shape of the two lovers’ bodies registering in the viewer’s mind. But an instant later the horror of this re-presentation of Klimt’s work follows. The viewer sees the destruction behind the familiarity of the image, and with it comes the recognition that something has gone terribly wrong.
Mark’s thirteenth chapter foretells just the kind of destruction we see in Azzam’s work. Jesus’s most sustained apocalyptic vision begins with the physical and the structural, referring to the Jerusalem Temple: ‘Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down’ (13:2). But quickly Jesus’s words turn to direr predictions of human misery: refugees fleeing the city and leaving their lives behind (vv.14–16), the intense suffering of the most vulnerable (v.17), the fabric of society being torn apart (v.12). Jesus’s vision would come to pass just a few decades later, in the chaos and violence of the Jewish War of 66–70 CE, which visited annihilation upon the city of Jerusalem and the surrounding landscape and produced untold suffering among the people.
Both for Azzam’s Syria and for Mark’s Jerusalem temple, the desolation of the exterior points to a more severe devastation within. The grotesque demolition of buildings implies an even grimmer destruction of human lives. In Azzam’s reworking of The Kiss, the human toll of war is visible because of its absence; human beings no longer appear to inhabit these spaces, and Klimt’s lovers are the only faces to be seen. In Mark 13, the lives of the city are on display in all of their vulnerability, as avatars of the suffering that Jesus foretells.
A Little Apocalypse Writ Large
Commentary by Eric C. Smith
Mark 13 begins with a disciple’s experience of grandeur and scale: ‘Look’, the disciple remarks to Jesus, ‘what large stones and what large buildings!’ (13:1).
Steven Cogle’s triptych The Temple Within is similarly imposing, stretching twelve metres long, causing the viewer to feel small by comparison. The painting depicts a decisive moment in the history of Judea and the Jewish people: the destruction of Jerusalem and its Temple at the hands of Roman power in the year 70 CE. The dramatis personae of the event feature prominently in the work: Temple priests and implements, Roman soldiers styled as death in imperial garb, the white stone of the Temple precincts, the victorious Roman general Titus, and blood-drenched swords. The scale and style of the work match that of the Roman siege and the ensuing destruction: overwhelming and chaotic, with a mixture of abstract and impersonal human figures and bold but indistinct scenery depicted with slashes of colour.
This chapter of Mark’s Gospel is often called the ‘little apocalypse’ because of the way it irrupts into the text with dire visions and alarming predictions. The Greek word behind our word ‘apocalypse’ means an unveiling or a revelation, and Jesus’s words in Mark 13 function in just this way: to make visible something that is hidden. Behind the solid and immense stones of the Temple pointed out by his disciple, Jesus sees vulnerability and the precarity of life under occupation. His words are full of geopolitical dynamite, prophesying ‘wars and rumours of wars’ (13:7), in which nations battle nations (v.8), a desolating sacrilege defiles sacred space (v.14), and messiahs—a title freighted with geopolitical danger—proliferate (vv.21–22). In this chapter Jesus is not only predicting violence but also rattling a sabre, citing the scripture of ancient Israel as warrant for a coming ‘Son of Man’ in power and glory (v.26).
Cogle’s painting imagines the fruition of this violence in the movements of Roman legions and the steadfast piety of Jews blowing shofars and reading from holy scriptures. The scene depicts the city and the Temple that Jesus knew at their apotheosis—the moment they met earthly destruction and began a heavenly journey, moving to a new life in the memories and stories of a nation and people shattered by war.
Mission Not Yet Accomplished
Commentary by Eric C. Smith
Thornton Dial is a master of assemblage—the collection and arrangement of found objects into a work of art.
In Victory in Iraq, Dial gathers a grim assemblage, reminiscent of the charred remains of vehicles on roadsides and the discarded machinery of war. The ‘victory’ of the title is bitterly ironic, an echo of U.S. president George W. Bush’s confident but premature proclamation of ‘mission accomplished’ in 2003. The sweeping V of the image, the only unbroken lines in the work, lies in a field of carnage.
The Jesus of Mark 13 seems to stand in contrast to the Jesus we meet elsewhere in the Gospel of Mark. His words are electric, coursing with a current that threatens those who come too close. The apocalyptic words of this chapter have a frantic energy as they describe the coming calamities, not unlike news reports that breathlessly tracked the first missiles and sorties of a conflict like the Iraq War.
But soon Mark’s little apocalypse descends into grief and devastation, and Dial’s assemblage does the same. There is no glory in the ‘victory’ Dial depicts, only brokenness, and Jesus’s words lead him not to a messianic restoration of Israel but to a dire warning to ‘keep awake’ in anticipation of a master who is returning home (13:32–37). The master, Jesus implies, might be pleased, but then again he might also be angry, so it’s best to be prepared.
Near the bottom of Dial’s work, difficult to pick out of the rubble, is a fragment of a doll’s face. In the wreckage of the Iraq War, human bodies were just one more bit of detritus. Conservative estimates suggest over a hundred thousand ‘violent deaths’, with the range of ‘excess deaths’ caused by the war ranging above one million. Likewise, the historian Josephus reports that over one million people died in the Jewish War of 66–70, and that a hundred thousand more were enslaved (Jewish War 6.9.3.).
Such estimates, both modern and ancient, are always contested and controversial, but Jesus’s words in Mark 13 ring true: ‘For in those days there will be suffering, such as has not been from the beginning of the creation that God created until now, no, and never will be’ (13:19).
References
‘Iraq: the Human Cost’, MIT Center for International Studies, available at http://web.mit.edu/humancostiraq/index.html [accessed 20 September 2020]
Arnett, Paul, Joanne Cubbs, and Eugene W. Metcalf Jr (eds). 2005. Thornton Dial in the 21st Century (Houston: Museum of Fine Arts)
Cubbs, Joanne and Eugene W. Metcalf Jr (eds). 2011. Hard Truths: The Art of Thornton (New York: Indianapolis Museum of Art)
Moten, Fred. 2017. Black and Blur (Durham: Duke University Press), chapter 10
Russell, Charles. 2007. ‘“It's about Ideas”: The Art of Thornton Dial’, Sacred and Profane: Voice and Vision in Southern Self-Taught Art, ed. by Carol Crown and Charles Russell (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi)
Tammam Azzam :
'Klimt, Freedom Graffiti', from the Syrian Museum series , 2013 , Photomontage (?)
Steven Cogle :
The Temple Within, 2017 , Acrylic & oil stick on canvas
Thornton Dial :
Victory in Iraq, 2004 , Mannequin head, barbed wire, steel, clothing, tin, electrical wire, wheels, stuffed animals, toy cars and figurines, plastic spoons, wood, basket, oil, enamel, spray paint and two-part epoxy putty on canvas on wood
Birth Pangs
Comparative commentary by Eric C. Smith
Apocalyptic visions are often about critiquing power, and therefore these visions are received differently by people on different sides of the power they critique. The great apocalyptic narratives in the Bible, like Daniel and Revelation, always have imperial power in their sights, and they subvert that power with fantasies of its destruction at the hands of a righteous and angry God. Mark 13’s fantasies of violence (and their parallel passages in Matthew 24:1–36 and Luke 21:5–36) take aim at the hegemony of the Roman Empire, but they also predict the demise of the status quo: Jerusalem and its Temple, grand and permanent as they might appear, will not long endure. The perseverance of this scene throughout the synoptic tradition is testament to the appeal of apocalypse for the early followers of Jesus, whose communities coalesced in the shadow of empire. In all three Synoptic Gospels, there was room enough to remember a prediction of imperial violence.
To those who are comfortable and secure in the status quo, a vision like Mark 13 feels like a threat. Scholars like Brian K. Blount and Allan Boesak have argued that both ancient and modern readers of Revelation have understood the apocalyptic language of that book as a call to liberation and a defiant affirmation of divine justice, and something similar happens for readers of Mark 13. To the people on the underside and in the margins of society, this sort of apocalyptic rhetoric carries a kind of violent hope. With nothing to lose and everything to gain, peasants and slaves and imperial subjects might hear Jesus’s dramatic predictions in Mark 13 as hopeful and not threatening. The overturning of the world is only alarming when your comfort depends on the world remaining right side up.
All three of the artists featured here—Tammam Azzam, Steven Cogle, and Thornton Dial—have long histories of using their art to speak into the experiences of oppressed peoples. Since the outbreak of civil war in Syria, Azzam’s work has focused on the human costs of the conflict and the kinds of atrocities endured by persons caught up in war. Cogle and Dial, both African American artists, have used their art to chronicle and expose racism, racialized violence, and protest movements like Black Lives Matter. All three create art in an apocalyptic register, harnessing the chaotic consequences of the exercise of power to chronicle struggle and suffering among people who have little agency over the conditions of their own lives. All three critique power, especially the power of state and cultural violence. They all create beauty in solidarity with persons who find themselves on the wrong end of imperial swords.
Jesus’s words in Mark 13 are a spectacle of destructive comeuppance, meant to alarm and motivate people into action. People who are secure in the world as it is will be motivated by the fear of losing their place, but people who have no security will hear Jesus’s words differently. The promise of this apocalyptic vision is that the Son of Man will ‘gather his elect from the four winds’ (13:27), and their motivation is to readiness.
‘Keep awake’, the text intones, ‘beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come’ (13:35, 33). This is a promise of divine favour, over and against the prevailing edifices of worldly power. ‘Not one stone will be left here upon another’, Jesus says (13:2), and in the way that readers imagine the tenor of Jesus’s voice and gleam in his eye as he says those words, they will be able to discern their own position in the world. Is the overturning of the world a hopeful thing?
References
Blount, Brian K. 2005. Can I Get a Witness? Reading Revelation through African American Culture (Louisville: Westminster John Knox)
Boesak, Allan. 1987.Comfort and Protest: The Apocalypse of John from a South African Perspective (Louisville: Westminster John Knox)
Finley, Cheryl et al. 2018. My Soul Has Grown Deep: Black Art from the American South (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art)
Commentaries by Eric C. Smith