The Veil Is Torn

Everything in this book has been leading to this chapter.

We have established that God hears — genuinely, attentively, as the very nature of who He is. We have examined who we are when we come to Him — image-bearers, fallen, redeemed. We have traced the history of prayer from the garden through the patriarchs, watching Abraham argue boldly from God’s own character and Moses quote God’s self-revelation back to Him in intercession. We have seen what it means to walk with God, to be called His friend, to speak with Him face to face.

But all of that was preparation. All of it was moving toward a single moment in history when everything changed.

The veil was torn.

This is the hinge on which the entire biblical story of prayer turns. What happened at the cross did not merely improve our access to God. It did not open the door a little wider or make the pathway a little easier. It tore through the barrier entirely — from top to bottom, by divine action, once and for all. And most Christians, if we are honest, do not pray like people who know this.

What the Veil Meant

To understand what the tearing accomplished, we must first understand what the veil was and what it represented.

When God gave Moses instructions for the tabernacle — the portable dwelling place where His presence would reside among His people — the design included a thick curtain separating two chambers. Exodus 26:31-33 describes it:

“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 workman. You shall hang it on four pillars of acacia overlaid with gold... You shall hang up the veil under the clasps, and shall bring in the ark of the testimony there within the veil; and the veil shall serve for you as a partition between the holy place and the holy of holies.”

The veil was a partition. It divided the holy place — where the priests performed their daily ministry — from the holy of holies, where the ark of the covenant rested beneath the mercy seat and between the golden cherubim. The holy of holies was the place of God’s most concentrated presence on earth. And the veil said: you cannot come in here.

Not “you may come in carefully.” Not “you may come in if you prepare yourself properly.” The veil was a barrier. It communicated separation. It announced that there was a place where the holy God dwelt that sinful humanity could not approach.

One man could pass through it. Once a year. Under very specific conditions. Leviticus 16 describes the Day of Atonement — Yom Kippur — when the high priest alone entered the holy of holies to make atonement for the sins of the people. And even he could not simply walk in:

“The Lord said to Moses: ‘Tell your brother Aaron that he shall not enter at any time into the holy place inside the veil, before the mercy seat which is on the ark, or he will die; for I will appear in the cloud over the mercy seat.’”

— Leviticus 16:2

He will die. The presence of God was not safe for sinful humanity. The veil was not arbitrary religious architecture. It was protection — and it was judgment. It marked the boundary between the holy and the unholy, and it declared that boundary uncrossable by ordinary means.

When the high priest did enter, he came with blood — the blood of a bull for his own sins, the blood of a goat for the sins of the people. He came with incense, filling the chamber with smoke so that “the cloud of the incense may cover the mercy seat” (Leviticus 16:13). Even in the moment of authorized entry, there was covering, concealment, mediation. The high priest did not simply walk into the presence of God as a man walks into a room. He came shrouded, bearing blood, representing a people who could not come themselves.

This is what the veil meant: access to God’s immediate presence was not available. Not to the common Israelite. Not to the Levites who served in the tabernacle. Not even to the priests who ministered daily in the holy place. The innermost presence of God was reserved, restricted, separated by a barrier that only one man could cross, only once a year, only with blood.

The book of Hebrews, looking back on this entire system, puts it plainly:

“The Holy Spirit is signifying this, that the way into the holy place has not yet been disclosed while the outer tabernacle is still standing.”

— Hebrews 9:8

The way into the holy place has not yet been disclosed. The veil was a sign — not just of separation but of anticipation. Something was coming that would disclose the way. Someone was coming who would do what the blood of bulls and goats could never do.

The Psalm That Was Enacted

Before we arrive at the moment the veil tore, we need to hear what Jesus said in the darkness.

Matthew 27:45-46 records that from the sixth hour until the ninth hour — from noon until three in the afternoon — darkness covered the land. And at about the ninth hour, Jesus cried out with a loud voice:

“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” — that is, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”

These are the opening words of Psalm 22.

In the first-century Jewish world, to quote the opening line of a psalm was to invoke the entire psalm. When Jesus cried out “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” He was not merely expressing anguish — though the anguish was real and unfathomable. He was pointing to a text that His hearers would have known, a psalm that describes in precise detail what was happening at that very moment.

Psalm 22 was written by David approximately a thousand years before the crucifixion. It describes an experience David himself never had — at least not in the literal, physical terms the psalm uses. But Jesus had it. Every detail.

Consider what Psalm 22 contains:

“I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within me. My strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue cleaves to my jaws; and You lay me in the dust of death.”

— Psalm 22:14-15

The physical description of crucifixion — the dislocation of joints from hanging, the dehydration, the heart under extreme stress. David never experienced this. Jesus did.

“For dogs have surrounded me; a band of evildoers has encompassed me; they pierced my hands and my feet.”

— Psalm 22:16

Pierced hands and feet. Crucifixion as a method of execution did not exist in David’s time. The Persians would develop it centuries later; the Romans would perfect it as an instrument of terror. Yet the psalm describes it — a thousand years before it happened.

“They divide my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots.”

— Psalm 22:18

Matthew 27:35 records: “And when they had crucified Him, they divided up His garments among themselves by casting lots.” John 19:24 notes explicitly that this fulfilled the Scripture.

But Psalm 22 does not end in abandonment. It does not close in darkness. After the agony and the forsakenness, the psalm turns:

“I will tell of Your name to my brethren; in the midst of the assembly I will praise You... For He has not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; nor has He hidden His face from him; but when he cried to Him for help, He heard.”

— Psalm 22:22, 24

The one who was forsaken is vindicated. The one who cried out is heard. And the final verse of the psalm declares:

“They will come and will declare His righteousness to a people who will be born, that He has performed it.”

— Psalm 22:31

He has performed it. The Hebrew can also be translated “it is finished” — the same declaration Jesus makes in John 19:30 just before He dies. The psalm that begins with abandonment ends with accomplishment. The cry of forsakenness leads to a declaration of completion.

Jesus was not merely quoting a psalm. He was enacting it. The psalm that David wrote without fully understanding what he was writing found its complete fulfillment in the One hanging on the cross. And when that One breathed His last, having accomplished what the psalm foretold —

The veil was torn.

The Moment of Tearing

Matthew 27:50-51 places two events in immediate sequence:

“And Jesus cried out again with a loud voice, and yielded up His spirit. And behold, the veil of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom; and the earth shook and the rocks were split.”

The timing is not incidental. At the very moment Jesus died — not an hour later, not when the news reached the temple, not as a gradual process — the veil was torn. Matthew emphasizes this with “and behold” — a phrase used throughout his Gospel to draw attention to something startling, something that demands notice.

From top to bottom. This detail matters enormously. A tear from the bottom upward would suggest human action — someone pulling, ripping, forcing their way through. A tear from top to bottom is different. It is the work of One who acts from above. It is divine action, not human effort. God tore the veil.

The veil in Herod’s temple was not a light curtain. According to Jewish tradition preserved in the Mishnah, it was approximately sixty feet high, thirty feet wide, and the thickness of a man’s hand — roughly four inches of woven material. It was not something that could be torn by accident or by any ordinary means. The tearing was an act of power.

And notice: the veil was not opened. It was not pulled aside. It was not unlocked or unsealed. It was torn — rendered permanently unable to fulfill its separating function. You cannot mend what God has torn. The barrier between humanity and the immediate presence of God was not adjusted. It was destroyed.

The earth shook. The rocks split. These are the accompaniments of God showing up. When God descended on Sinai, the mountain trembled (Exodus 19:18). When Elijah encountered God at Horeb, there was earthquake and wind and fire (1 Kings 19:11-12). At the death of Jesus, creation itself responded. Something cosmic had happened. The boundary between heaven and earth had been breached.

Mark 15:38 records the same detail. Luke 23:45 places the tearing of the veil alongside the darkness, noting that “the sun was obscured.” All three Synoptic Gospels preserve this moment — the moment when the barrier fell, when the way was opened, when what had been inaccessible became accessible.

For centuries, that veil had stood. For centuries, it had declared: this far and no further. For centuries, only one man could pass it, only once a year, only with blood.

And then, at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, at the precise moment when the Lamb of God yielded up His spirit, the veil was torn from top to bottom — and it has never been mended.

What This Changed

The book of Hebrews was written to explain what the cross accomplished — and much of its argument centers on this very question of access. The author is writing to Jewish Christians who understood the old system, who had grown up knowing what the veil meant, who felt the weight of separation that it represented. And his message is: everything has changed.

“Therefore, brethren, since we have confidence to enter the holy place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way which He inaugurated for us through the veil, that is, His flesh, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith.”

— Hebrews 10:19-22

Look at what this passage claims.

We have confidence to enter. The Greek word is parrēsia — boldness, freedom of speech, the kind of open access that belongs to citizens rather than slaves, to children rather than strangers. The access is not tentative or provisional. It is confident.

To enter the holy place. Not the outer court. Not the holy place where priests ministered. The holy place — the innermost sanctuary, the place of God’s presence, the place the veil had guarded for a thousand years. We enter there.

By the blood of Jesus. This is the price of access. The blood of bulls and goats had covered sin temporarily, year after year, never finally dealing with it (Hebrews 10:4). The blood of Jesus dealt with it once for all. His sacrifice does not need to be repeated because it accomplished what all the previous sacrifices only anticipated.

By a new and living way. The Greek word for “new” here is prosphatos — literally “freshly slain.” It carries the sense of something recently opened, newly made accessible. The way did not exist before. Christ’s death created it. And it is living — not a dead ritual or a static system but a way that is alive because the One who opened it is alive.

Through the veil, that is, His flesh. The veil that separated us from God was torn through when Christ’s body was broken. The barrier was His flesh; the tearing was His death; the access is His resurrection life. The way into the presence of God runs directly through the cross.

And since we have a great priest over the house of God — Jesus, the high priest after the order of Melchizedek (Hebrews 7), who does not need to offer sacrifices for His own sins because He has none, who lives forever to make intercession for us (Hebrews 7:25) — let us draw near.

Draw near. The same word family we saw when Abraham drew near to intercede for Sodom. The same posture Moses took when he approached God as a friend. But now available to all who come through Christ, not by special calling or unique relationship but by the blood that has opened the way for everyone who believes.

The Throne We Approach

Hebrews 4:14-16 gives us the most direct instruction on prayer in the entire letter:

“Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but One who has been tempted in all things as we are, yet without sin. Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

Notice what kind of throne it is. Not a throne of judgment — though God is the Judge of all the earth. Not a throne of law — though His righteousness is perfect. A throne of grace. The throne we approach in prayer is characterized by grace. That is its primary quality. That is what flows from it toward those who come.

And notice who sits on it, interceding for us. A high priest who can sympathize with our weaknesses. One who has been tempted in all things as we are, yet without sin. Jesus knows what it is to be human — to be tired, to be hungry, to be grieved, to face temptation, to feel the weight of impossible circumstances. He does not observe our struggles from a distance. He has walked in human flesh. He understands.

Therefore — on the basis of His sacrifice, on the basis of His priesthood, on the basis of the torn veil and the opened way — let us draw near with confidence.

Not with uncertainty. Not with the hesitation of those who are not sure they will be received. Not with the posture of servants waiting to see if the master will acknowledge them. With confidence. With parrēsia. With the boldness of children who know their Father and know they are welcome.

To receive mercy. Not to earn it, negotiate for it, or prove ourselves worthy of it. To receive it — as a gift, as the natural outflow of a throne characterized by grace.

And to find grace to help in time of need. The throne is not merely a place of forgiveness, though forgiveness flows from it. It is a place of help. Practical, timely, specific help for the needs we actually face. This is what prayer accesses: not merely pardon but provision, not merely acceptance but assistance.

What This Means for Prayer

If the veil is torn — truly torn, permanently torn, torn from top to bottom by divine action — then certain things follow for how we pray.

The tragedy is not that the veil was torn and we cannot enter. The tragedy is that the veil was torn and we still stand outside as if it were intact. We pray timid prayers, uncertain prayers, prayers that hedge and hesitate and apologize for bothering God — as if the veil still stood. We treat access to God as something we might lose if we say the wrong thing — as if the torn veil could somehow be mended by our failures.

It cannot. What God has torn, no one can repair. The way is open. It stays open. And it was opened at the cost of the Son’s own body, torn like the veil, so that we might come.

The New and Living Way

Hebrews calls this access a “new and living way.” Both words matter.

It is new — freshly opened, recently inaugurated, not available before. Abraham prayed with remarkable boldness, but Abraham did not have what we have. Moses spoke with God face to face, but Moses approached through cloud and fire and the cleft of a rock. The high priest entered the holy of holies, but he entered once a year, with blood, in fear. The way we have is new. It did not exist until Christ opened it.

And it is living — not a dead system of rituals but a way that pulses with the resurrection life of the One who opened it. Jesus is not a dead savior who accomplished something in the past that we now try to appropriate. He is alive. He has passed through the heavens (Hebrews 4:14). He sits at the right hand of the Majesty on high (Hebrews 1:3). He ever lives to make intercession for us (Hebrews 7:25). The way is living because He is living.

This is what the cross changed for prayer. Not technique. Not formula. Access. Real, substantive, blood-bought access to the immediate presence of God — access that was not available before, access that the old covenant could only anticipate, access that is now ours in Christ.

When you pray, you are not sending a message toward a distant throne, hoping it arrives. You are entering the holy place, through the torn veil, into the presence of the God who hears. You are approaching a throne of grace, where mercy and help are waiting. You are coming to a Father who tore the barrier down so you could come.

The veil is torn.

Come.