From Elohim in Genesis 1 to Immanuel in Matthew 1 — every name, every revelation, every crisis met and answered — it is all one story. The story of a God who refuses to be distant. Who reveals Himself not in theological abstractions but in the real, raw, desperate moments of human life.
He showed up for Hagar in the desert when no one else saw her. He showed up for Abraham on the mountain when the knife was raised. He showed up for Moses at a bush that would not stop burning. He showed up at bitter water, on a battlefield, in a winepress, in a shepherd's psalm, in a prophet's promise, and in the last line of an exile's vision.
And in the fullness of time, He showed up in person — wrapped in human flesh, born in the town of Bethlehem, given the name Jesus because He would save His people from their sins, and called Immanuel because that is who He is: God with us.
But the story does not end in the manger. It ends at the cross — and at what happened the moment He died.
The Veil
There was always a barrier.
After Eden — after the open, unhindered communion between God and man was broken by sin — God did not go silent. He walked with Enoch. He spoke with Abraham. He revealed Himself by name, again and again, to anyone who needed to know who He was. But the communion had a limit. There was a line. And that line had a physical symbol.
In the tabernacle that Moses built, and later in the temple that Solomon raised, a thick curtain hung between the Holy Place and the Most Holy Place — the place where God's presence dwelt above the mercy seat. Only one man could pass through it: the high priest. Only one day a year: the Day of Atonement. And even he had to bring blood — not his own righteousness, not his own worthiness, but the blood of a sacrifice that covered the sins of the people.
The veil said something. It said what God told Moses on the mountain: "You cannot see My face, for no man can see Me and live" (Exodus 33:20). It said what Gideon feared at the winepress: that to see God face to face was to die. It said what every name in this book has quietly confirmed — that God is holy, and we are not, and the gap between those two realities is more than we can cross on our own.
Every name in this book was revealed through that separation. El Roi saw Hagar — but she did not see Him in the way Moses longed to. Jireh provided the ram — but Abraham still came down from the mountain. Shalom spoke peace to Gideon's terror — but the terror was real, because the holiness was real. Even Shammah — "The Lord is there" — was a promise about a city yet to come, not a present reality Ezekiel could walk into. The presence was always real. The access was always limited.
The veil hung in the temple for centuries. It hung while the prophets spoke. It hung while the psalms were written. It hung while Jeremiah wept and Ezekiel saw visions and the people went into exile and came back and rebuilt and waited. Four hundred years of silence passed, and still the veil hung.
And then Jesus died.
From Top to Bottom
From top to bottom. Not from bottom to top — not from man's side reaching up. From top to bottom. From God's side reaching down.
The barrier that had stood between God and His people since Eden — the barrier that said this far, and no further — was torn. Not thinned. Not repaired. Not opened with a key that only the high priest carried. Torn. By God's own hand. At the moment His Son died.
Every name in this book was building toward this. Every revelation of God's character — His sight, His provision, His healing, His power in battle, His peace, His shepherding, His righteousness, His presence — all of it was revealed through a veil. And now the veil is gone.
The writer of Hebrews explains what this means:
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
A new and living way. Through the veil. Through His flesh.
Draw near.
Not "send a representative." Not "wait for the Day of Atonement." Not "bring your best effort and hope it is enough." Draw near. With confidence. With full assurance. Because the blood of Jesus has done what no animal sacrifice, no human righteousness, no high priest's annual visit behind the curtain could ever do. It has removed the barrier — permanently, completely, and by God's own hand.
Sandals Off, Sandals On
There is an observation Scripture makes that is easy to miss, and it belongs here — at the end of the journey — because it captures the entire shift in a single image.
Twice in the Old Testament, God tells a man to remove his sandals. The first is Moses at the burning bush: "Remove your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground" (Exodus 3:5). The second is Joshua, on the threshold of the promised land, standing before the commander of the Lord's army: "Remove your sandals from your feet, for the place where you are standing is holy" (Joshua 5:15).
Both moments are thresholds — places where the promises of God are about to move forward. Both involve standing on holy ground. And in both, the command is the same: take your sandals off. You are in the presence of the holy God. Stand before Him as you are — bare, uncovered, with nothing between you and the ground He has made sacred.
That is the posture of the Old Testament. Sandals off. You are a creature before the Creator, a servant before the Master, a sinful man on holy ground. You may come this close — but no closer.
Now consider a scene from the mouth of Jesus Himself. The parable of the prodigal son. The boy has squandered everything. He has been feeding pigs, which for a Jewish audience is as low as a person can go. He rehearses a speech on the way home: "I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me as one of your hired men" (Luke 15:19). He is prepared to come back as a servant. Sandals off. That is all he expects.
But the father sees him while he is still a long way off. He runs — which in that culture, a patriarch did not do. And when he reaches the boy, he does not listen to the speech. He gives three commands:
"Quickly bring out the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand and sandals on his feet."
— Luke 15:22
The robe. The ring. And the sandals. Servants did not wear sandals. Sons did. The father is not accepting a servant back into the house. He is restoring a son. And the sign of that restoration — the detail that would have landed hardest on the ears of Jesus' audience — is the sandals. Put them on his feet.
Before the veil was torn: sandals off. You stand before the holy God as a servant, a creature, a sinner on sacred ground.
After the veil was torn: sandals on. You have been clothed in the righteousness of Tsidkenu, welcomed home by the Father, and restored not as a servant but as a son — or a daughter. The Spirit Himself testifies to it: "Abba! Father!" (Romans 8:15). The name we met in the last chapter — the name that makes the presence personal — is the cry of a child who has been given sandals and welcomed home.
That is what the torn veil accomplished. Not just access to a room. Restoration to a relationship. The God who said "remove your sandals" is the same God who says "put sandals on my child." The holiness has not changed. The access has. Because of the blood of Jesus, you do not approach God as a trembling servant hoping to survive the encounter. You approach Him as a child who has been given the robe, the ring, and the sandals — and told to come home.
He Is Still Showing Up
Every name in this book is now as close as your next prayer.
That is not poetry. That is what the torn veil means. The God who saw Hagar sees you — and He is not watching from a distance. He is with you. The God who provided the ram on Moriah provides for you — and the provision is not coming through a substitute animal on a faraway mountain. It comes through Jesus, who is closer than your next breath. The God who healed the bitter water, who held up Moses' arms, who spoke peace to Gideon's terror, who shepherded David through the valley, who promised righteousness through a coming King, who declared His presence as the last word over exile — that God is not behind a veil. The veil is gone.
And because the veil is gone, you can do the thing that every name in this book has been inviting you to do: draw near. Talk to Him. Call on Him. Not through a priest. Not through a ritual. Not through a system that says "this far and no further." Through Jesus. Directly. The new and living way.
This book has been about who God is — the character behind the names. But knowing who He is was never the end goal. The goal was always relationship. Communion. The kind of open, unhindered access to God that existed in Eden before sin broke it, that the veil symbolized as lost, and that the blood of Jesus restored.
If you want to learn how to walk through that open door — how to pray to the God whose names you now know — that is the subject of another book. A New and Living Way picks up exactly where this book leaves off: at the torn veil, in the presence of the God who made Himself accessible, with the invitation to draw near and the practical guidance for how to do it. This book has taught you who you are praying to. That one teaches you how to pray.
But before you close this book, hear what God says:
"Call upon Me in the day of trouble; I shall rescue you, and you will honor Me."
— Psalm 50:15
And what Paul writes to every person, Jew or Gentile, who has ever wondered whether God's promises include them:
For "whoever will call on the name of the Lord will be saved."
— Romans 10:13
Whoever. Not "whoever has earned the right." Not "whoever has cleaned up their life." Not "whoever belongs to the right nation or carries the right credentials." Whoever. Call on the name of the Lord, and you will be saved.
You know His names now. You have walked the road from creation to Immanuel, from Genesis to the manger, from the manger to the cross, from the cross to the torn veil. You have seen who He is. Not who theologians say He is. Not who traditions have made Him. Who He says He is — in His own words, by His own names, through His own actions across the pages of the book He gave us.
He is the God who was already there. The God who sees. The God for whom nothing is impossible. The God who provides. The God who simply is. The God who heals. The God who fights for you. The God who speaks peace over your fear. The God who shepherds you through every valley. The God whose righteousness becomes yours. The God who is there — always there, even after the exile. And the God who is with you — not at a distance, not through a veil, but here, now, in the person of Jesus Christ.
He showed up for them. He is still showing up.
Call on Him. He will answer.
He always has.
"For whoever will call on the name of the Lord will be saved."
— Romans 10:13