A New and Living Way

The veil is torn.

We began with this truth, and we end with it. Everything else we have explored — the God who hears, the access we have as His children, the prayers of Abraham and Moses, the pattern Jesus taught, the meaning of His name, the Father’s “no,” the prayers of the early church, the call to intercede — all of it flows from this single, world-changing fact: at the moment Jesus died, the veil of the temple was torn from top to bottom, and the way into the presence of God was opened.

It remains open.

The veil was not temporarily pulled aside. It was not opened for a moment and then restored. It was torn — permanently, irreversibly, from top to bottom by the hand of God Himself. What was closed is now open. What was forbidden is now invited. What was reserved for one man on one day of the year is now available to every believer on every day of their lives.

This is not a metaphor. This is not theological abstraction. This is the reality in which we live and move and have our being. The holy of holies stands open, and we are summoned to enter.

The Songs of Ascent

In the Psalter, there is a collection of fifteen psalms — Psalms 120 through 134 — that bear the title “A Song of Ascents.” These were the songs the pilgrims sang as they made their way up to Jerusalem for the great feasts. The journey to Jerusalem was literally an ascent; the city sits high in the Judean hills, and worshipers climbed toward it from every direction.

But the ascent was more than geographical. It was spiritual. The pilgrims were ascending toward the dwelling place of God, toward the temple, toward the presence that rested between the cherubim. With each step upward, they were drawing nearer. With each psalm, they were preparing their hearts.

The Songs of Ascent move through a range of human experience. There is distress: “In my trouble I cried to the Lord, and He answered me” (Psalm 120:1). There is confidence: “I will lift up my eyes to the mountains; from where shall my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth” (Psalm 121:1–2). There is longing: “I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the Lord’” (Psalm 122:1). There is patient waiting: “Those who sow in tears shall reap with joyful shouting” (Psalm 126:5). There is humble trust: “Lord, my heart is not proud, nor my eyes haughty; nor do I involve myself in great matters, or in things too difficult for me” (Psalm 131:1).

The pilgrims carried all of this with them as they climbed. Their joy and their sorrow, their hope and their weariness, their gratitude and their need — all of it ascended with them toward the house of the Lord.

And then, at the end of the journey, Psalm 134:

“Behold, bless the Lord, all servants of the Lord, who serve by night in the house of the Lord! Lift up your hands to the sanctuary and bless the Lord. May the Lord bless you from Zion, He who made heaven and earth.”

— Psalm 134:1–3

They have arrived. The ascent is complete. And what do they do? They lift their hands. They bless the Lord. And they receive the blessing that flows from His presence.

We are pilgrims still. We are making our way toward a city whose builder and maker is God (Hebrews 11:10). But here is the astonishing thing: we do not wait until we arrive to enter the presence. The presence has come to us. The way has been opened. We can lift our hands now, bless the Lord now, receive His blessing now — not because we have completed the journey but because Christ has completed the journey for us.

Enter His Gates

Psalm 100 has been called the Old Testament’s invitation to worship. It is brief — only five verses — but it gathers up everything the Psalter has taught about approaching God.

“Shout joyfully to the Lord, all the earth. Serve the Lord with gladness; come before Him with joyful singing. Know that the Lord Himself is God; it is He who has made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people and the sheep of His pasture. Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise. Give thanks to Him, bless His name. For the Lord is good; His lovingkindness is everlasting and His faithfulness to all generations.”

— Psalm 100:1–5

“Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise.” The psalmist assumes that the worshiper will enter. The gates are not barred. The courts are not closed. There is a way in, and that way is marked by thanksgiving and praise.

For the Old Testament worshiper, this entrance led to the outer courts of the temple. Only priests could go further, and only the high priest could enter the holy of holies — and even he, only once a year, with blood, in fear and trembling. The ordinary worshiper came as close as he could and no closer.

But the veil is torn.

Now the invitation extends not merely to the gates, not merely to the outer courts, but all the way in — into the holy place itself, into the presence that was once unapproachable, into the very throne room of God. The way that was closed is now open. The access that was reserved is now universal. Every believer, at every moment, can do what only the high priest could do — and can do it with confidence rather than fear.

Enter His gates with thanksgiving. Enter His courts with praise. And then keep going — through the veil, into the holy of holies, to the throne of grace itself.

What the Veil Kept Out

We must feel the weight of what the torn veil means.

Under the old covenant, the veil was protection. The holiness of God was so intense, so consuming, so utterly incompatible with sin, that direct access would mean death. When Nadab and Abihu offered unauthorized fire before the Lord, fire came out from the presence of the Lord and consumed them (Leviticus 10:1–2). When Uzzah reached out to steady the ark of the covenant, he was struck dead on the spot (2 Samuel 6:7). The veil was not arbitrary. It was mercy. It kept sinful humanity from being consumed by unapproachable holiness.

The high priest who entered the holy of holies on the Day of Atonement did so with blood — the blood of the sacrifice that covered sin. Tradition tells us he wore bells on his garments so those outside could hear that he was still moving, still alive, not struck down. He did not linger. He performed the required ritual and withdrew. The presence was too holy for extended stay.

This is what makes the torn veil so staggering. The problem has not changed — God is still holy, and we are still sinners. But the solution has been provided. The blood of Jesus has done what the blood of bulls and goats could never do. It has not merely covered sin; it has removed it. It has not merely delayed judgment; it has satisfied it. The wrath that would have consumed us has been absorbed by Another.

And so the veil is torn — not because God is less holy but because the holiness has been satisfied. Not because our sin matters less but because it has been fully atoned. The way is open not because the danger was imaginary but because the danger has been met and overcome.

Draw Near

The writer of Hebrews uses a particular phrase three times in his letter: “draw near.”

In Hebrews 4:16, after describing Jesus as our great high priest who sympathizes with our weaknesses, he writes: “Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

In Hebrews 7:25, describing the superiority of Christ’s priesthood, he writes that Jesus “is able also to save forever those who draw near to God through Him, since He always lives to make intercession for them.”

And in Hebrews 10:22, after declaring that we have confidence to enter the holy place by the blood of Jesus, he writes: “Let us draw near with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water.”

The same invitation that Abraham received when he approached God on behalf of Sodom — nagash, draw near — is now extended to every believer. The same intimacy Moses experienced in the tent of meeting — face to face, as a man speaks to his friend — is now available to all who come through the torn veil. What was exceptional has become normative. What was rare has become constant. What was the privilege of the few has become the birthright of every child of God.

Draw near.

With Confidence

The writer of Hebrews does not merely invite us to draw near. He tells us how to come: with confidence.

The Greek word is parrēsia. It means boldness, openness, freedom of speech. It was the word used for the right of a citizen to speak freely in the public assembly — to say what needed to be said without fear of reprisal. Applied to prayer, it means we come without cringing, without terror, without the paralyzing fear that we might be rejected or struck down.

This does not mean we come casually. The throne is still a throne. The God we approach is still the God who spoke the universe into existence, before whom angels veil their faces. Reverence is not abolished by access. But reverence is not the same as fear. We come as children to a Father, not as criminals to a judge. We come with confidence that we will be received, because the blood that opened the way is sufficient.

“Full assurance of faith.” Not partial assurance. Not fingers-crossed hoping. Full assurance — the settled conviction that we belong here, that the door is truly open, that the Father welcomes our coming. Our confidence is not in ourselves — in our worthiness, our performance, our spiritual achievements. Our confidence is in Him — in the blood that cleanses, in the High Priest who intercedes, in the Father who delights to give good gifts to His children.

Many Christians pray as though the veil were still intact. They approach hesitantly, apologetically, uncertain whether they will be heard. They treat prayer as a favor they hope to receive rather than an access they have been granted. They come like strangers rather than children.

The veil is torn. Come like you know it.

A New and Living Way

The writer of Hebrews describes the access we have as “a new and living way.”

It is new. The Greek word is prosphatos, which originally meant “freshly slain” and came to mean “recent, new.” This way did not exist before Christ. It was not available under the old covenant. It was opened by His death and remains perpetually fresh — not an ancient path grown over with weeds but a way that is always as new as the moment the veil was torn.

It is living. The old covenant had its rituals and sacrifices, but they dealt with death — dead animals, shed blood, temporary coverings that had to be repeated year after year. The new way is alive because the One who opened it is alive. Jesus did not remain dead. He rose, He ascended, He sat down at the right hand of the Father, and He lives forever to make intercession for us. The way He opened is as alive as He is.

And it is through the veil — that is, through His flesh. This is mysterious language, but the meaning is clear: the torn veil and the torn body of Jesus are connected. When His flesh was torn on the cross, the way into God’s presence was opened. We enter through Him. There is no other way in. We do not approach God on our own merits, by our own efforts, through our own righteousness. We come through Christ — always through Christ — and in Him we are welcomed.

The Door Remains Open

This book has been about prayer. But prayer is not a technique. It is not a skill to be mastered or a formula to be recited. Prayer is the exercise of access — the actual use of the open door.

We have traced prayer from Genesis to Gethsemane, from the first cries of humanity to the prayers of the early church. We have seen Abraham bargain with God, Moses speak face to face, Jesus teach His disciples a pattern, and Paul pour out his heart for the churches. We have examined what it means to pray in Jesus’s name, how to receive the Father’s “no,” and why intercession costs something. All of this has been preparation for one thing: that you would actually pray.

Not just read about prayer. Not just understand prayer. Pray.

The door is open. The throne is accessible. The Father is waiting — not with reluctance but with delight. The Son is interceding. The Spirit is helping. Everything that could be done to make prayer possible has been done.

What remains is for you to come.

Come

Come with your thanksgiving and your need. Come with your praise and your confusion. Come with your confidence and your questions. Come when you feel worthy and when you feel utterly unworthy. Come in the morning and in the night. Come when the words flow easily and when they will not come at all.

Come as Abraham came — as a friend who speaks honestly with God. Come as Moses came — face to face, holding nothing back, hungry for more of God than you have yet experienced. Come as Hannah came — pouring out your soul, asking for what your heart most desires, and then releasing the outcome to His wisdom. Come as David came — with songs of praise and cries of lament, with confession and celebration, with every emotion laid bare before the throne.

Come as Jesus taught you to come — addressing God as Father, hallowing His name, seeking His kingdom, asking for daily bread, receiving forgiveness and extending it, depending on Him to lead you through temptation and deliver you from evil.

Come in His name — as His representative, aligned with His character, authorized by His blood, confident that requests prayed in accordance with His will are heard and answered.

Come even when the answer is no — trusting that the Father’s wisdom exceeds your understanding, that His purposes are larger than your requests, that His “no” is the act of love, not rejection.

Come to intercede — standing in the gap for others, bearing their needs to the throne, refusing to cease praying for them, willing to bear the cost that genuine intercession requires.

Come.

The veil is torn. The way is open. The throne of grace awaits.

We began this book by observing that most Christians do not pray like people who know the veil is torn. They pray timidly when they could pray boldly. They stay distant when they are invited to draw near. They treat prayer as an occasional religious activity rather than the constant breath of a life lived in God’s presence.

Perhaps that has been true of you. Perhaps it has been true of me. We have not prayed as we could have prayed, as we were invited to pray, as the torn veil makes possible.

But the door does not close. The invitation does not expire. The blood that opened the way is as effective today as it was on the day it was shed. Whatever has been lacking in your prayer life, whatever timidity or neglect or confusion has marked your approach to God, the remedy is not to wallow in regret. The remedy is to come.

Right now, if you are willing. This moment. You do not need to prepare yourself further. You do not need to clean yourself up first. You do not need to wait until you understand everything. The veil is already torn. The way is already open. The Father is already waiting.

Come.

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.

Come.