"the veil of the temple was torn in two"

“Jesus cried again with a loud voice, and yielded up his spirit.
Behold, the veil of the temple was torn in two from the top to the bottom.
The earth quaked and the rocks were split.”
Matthew 27:50–51

The temple in Jerusalem was designed with increasing levels of holiness, restricting access the further in you went. Outer areas, like the Court of the Gentiles and the Court of Women, were open to many, but access became increasingly limited the further inside you went. The innermost area—the Holy of Holies—was the most sacred space, believed to house the presence of God. It was separated from the rest of the temple by a thick, heavy curtain, symbolising the barrier between God and humanity. Only the high priest could enter this space, and only once a year, on the Day of Atonement, to offer a sacrifice for the sins of the people.

The curtain is torn. Not in anger. Not to destroy what is sacred, but to open it—to let the presence of God out into the world.

This isn’t just a tear in fabric. It’s a tear in the world. A rupture in what we thought was sealed. A crack that reaches further than we expected.

All week, Jesus has been breaking down what divides. He rode into the city on a donkey, not a war horse. He overturned tables. He told stories that levelled the playing field. He washed feet. He shared bread with the one who would betray him.

Again and again, he made space where others closed doors.

And now, the last boundary is torn. The barrier is gone—but the power remains.

God is no longer held behind a veil, but that doesn’t make the divine less sacred. It makes the sacred more present—more immediate, more woven into the world around us.

The space set apart still matters. Sacredness still speaks. But now, no one is shut out. The way is open. The cry has gone up. The tear has been made.

The torn curtain speaks of closeness. Of a God no longer kept at arm’s length. Of the possibility of a personal relationship—real, raw, and present.

Bible journalling can become one expression of that nearness: a way to sit with Scripture, respond honestly, and enter into the story without needing permission.

But personal doesn’t mean isolated. The wisdom of teachers still matters. The prayers of others still hold weight. Sacred spaces, intercessions, and tradition continue to shape us. The tearing of the curtain isn’t a rejection of these things—it’s an invitation to approach them with openness, not fear.

We don’t lose the holy in the tearing. We find it everywhere.

Art Journaling Exercise: The tear.

This prompt isn’t about decorating. It’s about rupture. Change. Access.

Take a page.

Hold it. Feel its weight in your hands.
Then—tear it.
Not carefully. Not symbolically.
Tear it, suddenly. Decisively. As if something real has broken open.

This is your curtain.

Now, use what remains. Place the torn halves on a journal page, or stick them down slightly apart—leave space between them.

Then sit with that space.

You might want to write into or around the tear. Use colour if it helps. But keep your response raw and honest. No need to tidy it.

• Here are some invitations to guide your writing:

• What once felt distant that now feels closer?

• Where have you found the sacred outside the expected spaces?

• What have you been afraid to approach—or have longed to draw near to?

• What tradition, teaching, or prayer has helped you find your footing in faith?

• What does “the holy” mean to you today?

• What is still held behind a veil, waiting to be revealed?

Let your marks be unfinished, layered, uncertain if they need to be.
The torn page doesn’t need to be mended.

This is not about resolution. It’s about presence.
You don’t need to explain what you’ve made.

Let the tear speak.

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Study Questions:

You don’t need to answer all of these. Choose one or two that stir something in you.

1. What strikes you most about this moment in the story—the loud cry, the torn curtain, the earthquake, the centurion's declaration?

2. Why do you think Matthew includes the tearing of the temple curtain? What does it symbolise in the narrative—and what might it mean for us today?

3. What boundaries (personal, spiritual, social) does this passage bring to mind? Which ones do you feel have been “torn” open in your own experience of faith or doubt?

4. The centurion and others declare, “Surely he was the Son of God.” Why might this recognition come after Jesus’ death? What does that say about how we perceive truth and power?

5. How does this part of the story challenge the idea of what is holy, powerful, or worthy of reverence?

   Journal Notes:

• The temple in Jerusalem had multiple courts and layers of access. The innermost area—the Holy of Holies—was separated by a heavy curtain, and only the high priest could enter it, once a year, on the Day of Atonement.

• In Second Temple Judaism, the temple was the centre of atonement—through ritual and sacrifice.  Jesus’ death reframes atonement as something that no longer needs to happen through temple ritual. His self-giving love becomes the new way of reconciliation, once and for all.

• Earthquakes in Scripture often signify God’s presence and decisive action (see Exodus 19:18, 1 Kings 19:11–12).  The natural world responds to the spiritual rupture. This isn’t just a political execution—it’s a cosmic event.

• The centurion—one of the very soldiers overseeing the crucifixion—is the first person in Matthew’s Gospel to proclaim Jesus as the Son of God at the moment of his death. This moment of recognition is startling. It comes not from a disciple, a priest, or a follower, but from someone within the imperial system that carried out the execution.

  Historically, many Roman soldiers in Judea were not from Rome itself.
  The Roman army in the provinces included both:

  Legionaries (citizens, often from Italy or Romanised provinces), and

  Auxiliaries (non-citizens, frequently recruited from local or neighbouring populations).

  In Judea, auxiliaries were commonly drawn from surrounding Gentile regions, such as Syria or Samaria. While it’s unlikely that observant Jews would serve (due to religious restrictions), many soldiers were “local” in origin, even if serving the empire’s interests.

  This makes the centurion’s declaration even more layered: he may be ethnically or culturally closer to the region than we assume, and yet as a gentile stands symbolically as an outsider to the faith—and still, he sees.

  This moment reflects the universality of Christ’s self-offering and the tearing down of spiritual and social boundaries. The centurion becomes a surprising witness to truth, as the story moves outward from the temple to the world.