Replacing the Veil

God created us for intimacy with Himself. Why do we build back up what He died to tear down?

The trip down Howell Mountain was like a descent from heaven to earth, starting from above the blankets of cloud and finishing among the vineyards on the valley floor. In the ten minute ride down, you could see the best of the Napa Valley: the stalwart pines, standing tall and militant along the ridges; the winding forest roads, always green with moss; and of course, the vineyards, which occupied everything from the steep, mountain hills to neighborhood backyards and the endless commercial fields.

Strapped into the backseat of my family’s Honda Odyssey, I leaned by forehead against the window and stared out at the valley below. We had just visited church, but this wasn’t a normal Sunday guest experience. For one, it wasn’t even Sunday.

Prior to attending my Seventh-Day Adventist college to pursue an English degree, my family decided to take a trip to check out the campus, the music department, where I’d be auditioning for a scholarship, and the church—a reasonable move seeing how we weren’t even Adventist. That Saturday afternoon, however, some unfamiliar theology communicated in the message actually shook me.

At the time, I had been in the middle of my own Great Awakening and was on fire for God. I read my Bible constantly—not out of guilt, but with the sincerity and exuberance of someone newly in love. Having just figured it out, I prayed all the time and wept at the the idea that Jesus would give himself for someone like me. For the first time in my 18 years I felt right with God. Now, when confronted with things like food restrictions and celebrating Sabbath on the “right day,” I questioned whether I was right about anything I believed in.

These new teachings challenged what I had learned about God in the last year— and by challenged I mean that they reacted in my heart like baking soda does to a capful for vinegar. I walked out discouraged, closed off, doubting my salvation.

Untested and secure within the confines of my garden, I thought my faith was strong. But in this new arena of veggie bacon and 1860s prophetesses and “Happy Sabbath!” from strangers downtown, it only felt threatened. One church service and my developing faith took as many steps back as I had covered that year, and for a time, I shut out the God whom I now perceived expected far too much.

For a season, the question that plagued my mind was this: Was the God I was learning to love who I really thought He was, or had my heart been slowly warming to someone who was completely indifferent to me?

I didn’t dare run to Him. I was hurt. God didn’t like me, so what was the use talking to Him? Like a hospital patient in need of some privacy, I drew a thick curtain around my heart and with a flourish and put out a sign: Do Not Disturb.

Fear and Fig Leaves

Around Halloween 2005 I discovered the stash of King Size Reese’s my mom had bought at Costco for the slew of trick or treaters who would be swarming our small neighborhood in a matter of weeks. Having grown up without much sugar in the house, I took advantage of the situation in a way that any normal 8 year-old would.

For two weeks I woke up at 5am and enjoyed a modest 4 Reese’s cups while watching the news. Any and all evidence was carefully removed and stowed, not in the trash where my parents would see, but inside the rocking chair, between the couch cushions, and behind the entertainment center. I knew the Great Kitchen Table Judgement would happen eventually, but until then I was happy to give Elsa a run for her money, feigning the image of perfection and stuffing everything else away between the cushions. Turns out, I’m not the first one to try that. In Genesis 3, Adam and Eve patented fig leaf couture when they realized they were naked:

“Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves.” (Genesis 3:7)

Sin has a way of making us feel exposed, and why wouldn’t it? Romans 6:23 warns us that the “wages” or payment for sin is death. Not one of us are righteous, and like the first humans, in our sins we feel exposed before the Lord.

So what happens when it’s God who comes near?

The Garden of Eden.

The Tabernacle in the desert.

The Temple.

All three scenarios were formed for the purpose of God dwelling with his people. And while the Tabernacle and Temple served as places where Israel could become right with God through blood sacrifice, they were not permanent fixtures, but foreshadowed the man who would both remove our sins and dwell among us. The prophet Isaiah prophesied this Savior 700 years before he was born, calling this man, “Emmanuel,” meaning God with us (Isa. 9:6).

This wouldn’t just be God in a cloud, or God hovering above the Ark in the Holy of Holies where no man could survive without being completely cleansed. This would be (as my friend likes to say) “God in a bod,” living among his people, touching their faces, healing their diseases, and bearing their shame for them (Isa. 53:4).

Into-Me-See

I once had a counselor break down the word “intimacy” into “into-me-see.” To achieve intimacy, you have to be vulnerable. And to achieve vulnerability, you have to be willing to share who you are, warts and all, with another.

Into me, see.

It’s terrifying, honestly. I’d much rather stuff all my not-so pretty stuff, not-so Christian thoughts and habits, and the questions I’m too embarrassed to ask God and others right down under the couch cushions like a wad of Reese’s wrappers.

But the issue is, without vulnerability, which leads to intimacy, we will never truly be known. And that’s the fear the whole world is trying to solve, one more shopping trip, beer, porno, or pay raise at a time.

Ecclesiastes 3:11 acknowledges our innate longing for a forever-love from a forever-God, explaining how God, “has set eternity in the human heart.” All our lives, we have this sense that we were made for something else, or somewhere else. A Garden, perhaps. Created with what Rick Warren calls “the God-shaped hole,” we desire to belong somewhere and to Someone; to know and be known, love and be loved. It is in our DNA and basic development (just look up the studies on children in orphanages suffering from impaired cognitive development, lack of growth, and other problems due to lack of parental nurturing.)

Our desire to be known and loved can only be fully fulfilled in Christ simply because we were designed to be complete in Him. There’s a reason the corner piece from my Statue of Liberty puzzle doesn’t fit into my Map of the United States puzzle; it was designed with a specific place in a specific picture.

Tearing the Veil

We were created by God, but also for God, a gift to himself. As it says in Colossians 1:16, “For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him.”

Because of sin, we were separated from God. Yet, it is the story of the cross that flips our story on its head, turning tragedy to comedy.

In the Tabernacle and Temple, one could not enter into the presence of God without being cleansed, and even then, because God was so holy, there was always the possibility that this human High Priest could die. That veil, woven in purple, blue and scarlet and beautifully embroidered with images of cherubim, represented the separation between Heaven and Earth, sinful men and Holy God (Ex. 36:35).

Yet, that changed with Christ.

At the moment of his death, this very veil in the Temple was torn in two, from the top to the bottom (Mk. 15:38-39). While the earth shook and the dead rose from their graves, the line between Heaven and Earth was being broken; the Messiah had not only given himself to atone for the sin of humanity: He had made a way for man to be with God once more.

Bride of Christ

I read somewhere that the history of the bridal veil has less to do with fashion and more to do with preventing the groom of an arranged marriage from making a break for it should he not find the face of his never-before-seen beloved not so…uh…pleasing. The idea was to conceal that face until you locked him down and he couldn’t escape.

In my own walk with the Lord, this is how I’ve sometimes operated. Some passing thought, new theological teaching, or even more seriously, my own sin causes me to clamp up, shut down, and throw that veil up over my face before God can see what a messed up doubter I am. Like Jonah jumping into a boat on a sea that God himself created, I pretend I can outrun the one who oversaw my creation in my mother’s womb (Ps. 139).

It’s not that I want to be apart from Him, per se. It’s just that my veil feels safer, more secluded from the eyes that have every right to judge me.

And yet, in Christ, it is now my right to approach the throne of God with confidence, as unveiled as Adam and Eve were unashamedly naked (Heb. 4:16). It is the grace of God that saved me from death, and the love of Christ which assures me that I do not need to hide—not from the One whose grace allows for repentance and true intimacy.

Not from the one who gave everything to become Emmanuel.

Not from the one who died to carry me in His arms and bring me home.