The Heavens in Fabric: God's Dividing Line
Introduction: Architecture as Theology
We live in an age that believes architecture is fundamentally about pragmatism. A building is to keep the rain off and the heat in, and if it does that, it has fulfilled its purpose. But God does not think this way, and Christians must not either. When God gives instructions for a building, as He does here with the tabernacle, every detail is saturated with theological meaning. The structure is a sermon. The materials are a catechism. The layout is a map of the cosmos. God is teaching His people the grammar of reality, not just with words, but with acacia wood, gold, silver, and finely woven linen.
The modern church, in its rush to be relevant and casual, has constructed a multitude of buildings that are intentionally non-descript. They are multi-purpose auditoriums, designed to look more like a community college lecture hall than the house of God. The reasoning is that we don't want to be stuffy or traditional; we want to be welcoming. But in doing so, we have built our theology, or lack thereof, into our architecture. We have built structures that declare that the presence of God is not particularly special, that the distinction between the holy and the common is fluid, and that worship is more about our comfort than His glory. We have built according to the spirit of the age, which is an egalitarian spirit that despises all hierarchy, all authority, and all distinctions.
The tabernacle is a direct polemical assault on this kind of thinking. It is a building defined by separations, by layers of holiness, by a clear and potent hierarchy of access. It teaches Israel, and it teaches us, that God is holy, holy, holy, and that sinful man cannot simply saunter into His presence. There is a right way to approach God, and there are a thousand wrong ways. The very structure of this tent in the wilderness declares that the Creator/creature distinction is the most fundamental truth of the universe. To forget this is to invite destruction. The veil we are considering today is the dramatic centerpiece of this architectural theology. It is a barrier, a boundary, and a billboard proclaiming the lethal holiness of God.
But it is also a promise. Like all of God's barriers, it points forward to the one who would tear it down. It is a temporary separation that anticipates an eternal welcome. In these few verses, we see the very heart of the Old Covenant economy: God dwelling with His people, but separated from them by a barrier that both protects and prophesies.
The Text
"You shall make a veil of blue and purple and scarlet material and fine twisted linen; it shall be made with cherubim, the work of a skillful designer. You shall hang it on four pillars of acacia overlaid with gold, their hooks also being of gold, on four bases of silver. You shall hang up the veil under the clasps, and you shall bring in the ark of the testimony there within the veil; and the veil shall separate for you the holy place and the Holy of Holies. You shall put the mercy seat on the ark of the testimony in the Holy of Holies. You shall set the table outside the veil and the lampstand opposite the table on the side of the tabernacle toward the south; and you shall put the table on the north side."
(Exodus 26:31-35 LSB)
A Barrier of Beauty and Dread (v. 31-32)
We begin with the materials and design of the veil itself.
"You shall make a veil of blue and purple and scarlet material and fine twisted linen; it shall be made with cherubim, the work of a skillful designer. You shall hang it on four pillars of acacia overlaid with gold, their hooks also being of gold, on four bases of silver." (Exodus 26:31-32)
The materials are, first of all, glorious. Blue, purple, and scarlet. These are royal colors, colors of immense value and dignity. The blue speaks of the heavens, the sky, the transcendent realm of God. The purple speaks of kingship and royalty. The scarlet speaks of blood, sacrifice, and life. The fine twisted linen speaks of purity and righteousness. This is not a drab, utilitarian curtain. It is a work of art, a masterpiece of textile design. God is not an aesthetic minimalist. He loves beauty, complexity, and skill. He commands that this be the work of a "skillful designer." God cares about craftsmanship. He is the ultimate craftsman, and He delights in the skilled work of His image-bearers.
But woven into this beautiful tapestry are figures that should stop every Israelite in his tracks: cherubim. These are not the chubby, sentimental babies of Renaissance art. Biblical cherubim are terrifying, glorious, and deadly serious. They are the guardians of holy space. After Adam and Eve were exiled from Eden, God placed cherubim with a flaming sword at the entrance to guard the way back to the tree of life (Genesis 3:24). They are the ultimate bouncers. Their presence here on the veil is a direct echo of Eden. This veil is the new east of Eden gate. It says, "You are exiled. You cannot come in. This is holy ground, and you are not." The cherubim are God's 'No Trespassing' sign, woven in royal colors.
So we have this profound tension. The veil is simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. It is attractive and repulsive. It displays the glory of God in its artistry, while at the same time barring access to that glory because of its guardians. This is the nature of God's holiness to a sinful people. It is glorious, but it is a lethal glory. To see God in His unveiled holiness would be to be consumed. The veil, therefore, is an act of mercy. It protects the people from the very thing they were made to enjoy. It is a quarantine curtain, keeping the contagion of sin from the purity of God's presence, and keeping the lethal purity of God from consuming the sinful people.
The Great Divider (v. 33)
Verse 33 explains the function of this veil in the starkest possible terms.
"You shall hang up the veil under the clasps, and you shall bring in the ark of the testimony there within the veil; and the veil shall separate for you the holy place and the Holy of Holies." (Exodus 26:33 LSB)
The veil's primary job is to separate. It creates the most important architectural and theological division in the entire cosmos. It divides the Holy Place from the Holy of Holies, or the Most Holy Place. Outside the veil, in the Holy Place, the priests would conduct their daily ministry. They would tend the lampstand, offer incense, and place the bread of the Presence on the table. This was a place of immense privilege, closer to God than any ordinary Israelite could ever get. But even for these consecrated priests, there was a hard stop. There was a line they could not cross upon pain of death.
Behind the veil was the Holy of Holies. This was God's throne room on earth. In it was one piece of furniture: the Ark of the Testimony, or the Ark of the Covenant. And upon the Ark was the mercy seat, flanked by two golden cherubim. This was the spot where heaven and earth met. Above the mercy seat, the very glory of God, the Shekinah, would dwell. This veil separated the realm of priestly service from the realm of God's immediate, enthroned presence. It was a constant, woven reminder that sin creates separation. Our sin has separated us from our God (Isaiah 59:2). This is not an arbitrary rule; it is a statement about the nature of reality. Holiness and sin cannot coexist. Light and darkness cannot occupy the same space. The veil makes this truth visible, tangible, and unavoidable.
God's Throne Room and Our Approach (v. 34-35)
The final verses describe the placement of the key articles of furniture in relation to this great dividing wall.
"You shall put the mercy seat on the ark of the testimony in the Holy of Holies. You shall set the table outside the veil and the lampstand opposite the table on the side of the tabernacle toward the south; and you shall put the table on the north side." (Exodus 26:34-35 LSB)
Inside, in the Most Holy Place, is the Ark, the very throne of God. This is the central reality. God is enthroned in the midst of His people. The entire tabernacle, the entire nation, is oriented around this one spot. The mercy seat, the lid of the Ark, was where the blood of the atonement was sprinkled once a year by the High Priest on the Day of Atonement (Leviticus 16). This was the only time anyone could ever enter, and even then, he could not come empty-handed. He had to come with blood. The message is clear: the only way to approach a holy God is through substitutionary sacrifice.
Outside the veil, in the Holy Place, are the table for the bread of the Presence and the lampstand. The bread speaks of fellowship and provision. The lampstand speaks of the light of God's Word and presence. These are wonderful gifts. The priests could enjoy a measure of fellowship with God (the bread) and walk in the light of His truth (the lamp). But it was mediated fellowship. It was fellowship at a distance. They could eat at His table, but they could not enter His throne room. They could see by His light, but they could not see His face. The veil stood in the way.
The Veil Torn in Two
For centuries, this veil stood as the great symbol of the separation between God and man. It was a constant reminder of the chasm that sin had created. But it was never meant to be permanent. It was a type, a shadow, a placeholder for the reality that was to come. The entire Old Testament sacrificial system was a drumbeat, getting louder and louder, pointing to the one who would be both the final High Priest and the final sacrifice.
The book of Hebrews explains this typology with breathtaking clarity. The author tells us that the veil was a symbol of Christ's flesh (Hebrews 10:20). Think about that. The beautiful, holy, perfect humanity of Jesus Christ was, in a sense, the ultimate veil. His flesh veiled His divine glory. The people of Galilee saw a man, a carpenter, a teacher. They did not see the consuming fire of the Godhead. His flesh was the merciful curtain that allowed God to walk among us without incinerating us.
But on the cross, something cataclysmic happened. At the very moment Jesus cried out, "It is finished," and gave up His spirit, the gospel of Matthew tells us, "behold, the veil of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom" (Matthew 27:51). This was not a small rip. This was a massive, heavy, ornate curtain, torn completely in half. And notice the direction: from top to bottom. No man did this. This was a direct, divine act. God Himself reached down and ripped apart the barrier that His own holiness had required.
In the tearing of Christ's flesh on the cross, the symbolic veil in the temple was torn apart. The way into the Holiest of All was now thrown open. The cherubim were, in effect, stood down. The flaming sword was quenched in the blood of the Lamb. What the law could not do, what centuries of animal sacrifices could not accomplish, God did in a moment through the death of His Son.
This is the heart of the gospel. Because of Christ, we now have "confidence to enter the holy places by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, that is, through his flesh" (Hebrews 10:19-20). The separation is over for those who are in Christ. We are no longer kept at a distance in the Holy Place. We have been invited past the torn veil, into the very throne room of God. We are invited to "draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith" (Hebrews 10:22). The throne that was once a place of terror is now, for us, a "throne of grace," where we can find "mercy and grace to help in time of need" (Hebrews 4:16).
The architectural theology of the tabernacle has been fulfilled and gloriously superseded. The dividing wall has been demolished. Let us, therefore, not live as though the veil is still intact. Let us not worship from a distance, timidly, as if we are still barred from His presence. Christ has opened the way. Let us boldly, joyfully, and gratefully draw near.