The Torn Veil

The veil was not a thin thing.

It was thick. Several inches of layered fabric. Four stories high.

It had hung between the Holy Place and the Most Holy Place since the temple was built.

Behind it was the Ark. The presence of God.

Only the high priest could enter, once a year, with blood.

Not without blood. With blood.

And even then, tradition said he wore bells on his robe so people outside could hear if he was still moving.

Because if God struck him dead for entering wrongly, they would need to pull his body out.

The veil was not symbolic. It was a boundary with consequences.

And then Jesus died.

And the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom.

From the top.

Human hands tear from the bottom. From where they can reach.

This tore from the top down.

As if something on the other side had decided the separation was over.

The earth shook. The rocks split. The tombs opened.

But the veil.

The veil was the thing that mattered theologically.

The barrier between the human and the holy, hanging there since the time of Moses, was gone.

No high priest made that choice.

No king, no council, no religious authority.

It tore from the top, in the same moment a man outside the city breathed his last.

And no one has ever been able to explain the direction of the tear.

Share This Story