Why God Hides

Nothing is hidden except to be made manifest; nor is anything secret except to come to light. (Mark 4:22)

I have a friend who is reading through the whole Bible in forty days for Lent. At such a pace, he says, you can tend to miss a great deal, but you also see things in the text you would never have seen otherwise. Here’s a question he sent me just the other day:

“Why do you think apocalyptic literature makes up so much of the biblical canon? Every time I read it, I feel lost.”

Let’s get technical for a second. By “apocalyptic literature,” my friend is speaking of a genre of Jewish/Christian texts, which depict a revelatory experience communicated through other-worldly interpreters to a human recipient, usually by means of highly symbolic language. And yes, such texts can be very hard to understand. Yet, if my friend had asked a bible scholar the question he asked me, the answer probably would have been something like, “Well, technically, there isn’t that much apocalyptic literature in our Bible, since Revelation and the second half of the Book of Daniel are the only two biblical texts which officially fit the genre. The vast majority of officially ‘apocalyptic literature’ comes from Jewish texts from the Second Temple period such as 1 Enoch, 2 and 3 Baruch, 4 Ezra, and the Book of Jubilees.” 

Sure. But I still think my friend’s intuition was a good one. Many passages in the Old Testament contain strong apocalyptic elements, especially the books of Zechariah, Ezekiel, Isaiah, Joel and even Job. With a slightly looser definition, one can even see seminal versions of apocalypse as far back as Genesis and Exodus. However, the meaning of apocalyptic texts and their place in the larger context of Scripture is often misunderstood and underappreciated.

Though the term “apocalypse” literally means “unveiling” or “revelation” (thus, the English name for the last book of the Bible), in common secular parlance it has come to mean something more like “the end of the world.” For most people, the word carries terrifying and violent connotations. And indeed, those themes are present in many apocalyptic texts, which raises the question: if apocalypse ultimately has to do with the unveiling of God in the world, shouldn’t that be a good thing? After all, God is love. Shouldn’t we want him to appear? 

Well, yes and no.

Two Movements: Atonement and Apocalypse

After the fall, the unveiling of the presence of God to humans becomes a complicated matter. Recall Moses’s request to the Lord on Sinai (“Show me your glory!”) and the Lord’s response to Moses.

“I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you, and I will proclaim my name, the Lord, in your presence. I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion. But,” he said, “you cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live.” (Exodus 33:19-20)

In other words, direct divine revelation is apparently impossible without death by holiness. And yet, the Lord still provides Moses with a partial solution.

“There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. Then I will remove my hand and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen.” (Exodus 33:21-23)

The Lord grants Moses a partial revelation (his back) by means of a proper covering (the cleft of the rock). This is crucial.

In another piece, I proposed that the Bible can be seen as the story of two opposite flowing streams, holiness (“setting apart”) and inclusion (“bringing in”), which ultimately flow together in Christ and in his church. I’d like to propose another related framework here, which can similarly help us to see the pattern of God’s redemptive scheme. In short, the Bible is the story of two seemingly opposite movements: atonement (“covering”) and apocalypse (“uncovering”).

Atonement as Covering

The word for “atonement” in the Old Testament is the Hebrew word kaphar, which literally means “to cover or conceal.” Some argue that kaphar also means “to wipe,” not merely “to cover,” and that the former makes more sense of its common use with regard to sin and salvation. I think both meanings can be taken together. If you picture the physical process of wiping, to wipe something literally involves covering the unclean thing momentarily and then removing the covering as the thing being wiped is made clean. In this sense, as we will see, the story of the Bible can be seen as a kind of slow-motion wiping from atonement to apocalypse. 

Kaphar is the word used in “Yom Kippur,” the Day of Atonement, in Leviticus 16. The chapter begins like this:

The Lord spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron who died when they approached the Lord. The Lord said to Moses: “Tell your brother Aaron that he is not to come whenever he chooses into the Most Holy Place behind the curtain in front of the atonement cover on the ark, or else he will die. For I will appear in the cloud over the atonement cover.” (Lev. 16:1-2)

Here again we see the problem of unmediated or improperly mediated exposure to God. The presence of a holy God is not to be taken lightly. In chapter 10, Aaron’s sons approached the Lord improperly and died. Now the Lord is reiterating to Aaron the proper way to come into his presence, which involves…coverings. First and foremost, Aaron is commanded to sprinkle the blood of a sacrificed bull and goat on the mercy seat (kaporet, sometimes translated “atonement cover”) and then on the altar. The sprinkled blood serves as a covering for the priest and for the people’s sin (though it is not explained exactly what this means). While in the Holy of Holies, Aaron is also commanded to burn incense in order to “conceal” the mercy seat.

[Aaron] is to put the incense on the fire before the Lord, and the smoke of the incense will conceal the atonement cover above the tablets of the covenant law, so that he will not die. (Lev. 16:13)

The idea here seems to be much the same. The smoke of the incense “covers” the room as the blood covers the mercy seat, so that Aaron will not die in the presence of God. And just as the smoke covers the room, a linen veil divides the Holy of Holies from the rest of the tabernacle and further layers of curtains and animal-skin coverings conceal the tabernacle, protecting the people from the danger of the holiness of God, so that they do not suffer the same fate as Aaron’s sons. Layers upon layers of coverings.

But this is neither the beginning nor the end of the story of coverings and atonements. After Adam and Eve eat of the tree, what’s the first thing they do?

Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves. (Gen. 3:7)

But when God appears, Adam and Eve seem to become immediately aware that their own coverings are insufficient. So they hide amongst the trees (further covering/concealment). The Lord then makes “garments of skin” for them and clothes them, a more costly and effective covering (death to cover them from death). But while this better covering proves enough to keep them alive, it is not enough to keep them in the presence of a holy God. Further layers are needed. They must be cast out of Eden. Cherubim and a flaming sword guard the way in. And of course, images of these same cherubim will eventually sit atop the mercy seat and be imprinted on the veils and curtains of the tabernacle.

As the story continues, Cain is covered with a mark by God after killing his brother. His ancestors cover themselves with cities and weapons. Fast forward to Exodus. The tenth plague, the death of the firstborn sons, passes over those whose doorposts are covered with sacrificial blood. After their escape from Egypt, the law is given as a covering over the people of God, as Paul eventually makes clear (see below). The law of Moses, like the tabernacle with its veils, allows the people of Abraham’s promise to stay close enough to the presence of God, through obedience, not to die of alienation, but also guards them from coming too close too casually, lest they die of holiness.

Apocalypse as Uncovering

But atonement/covering is not the whole plan. Yes, the people need to be protected from death by holiness. But protection alone—even forgiveness alone—is not the ultimate goal of God’s redemptive plan. You cannot marry someone if the veil is never lifted. The point of the veils of the tabernacle is not only to guard the way to the Holy of Holies, but also to mark the way in. The point of a veil, as strange as it may sound, is that the veil would be removed at the proper time. Think also of the symbolism of the cherubim, who not only guard the way back into Eden but also mark it out. Likewise, the flaming sword is not merely an obstacle but also, ironically, a light in the darkness.

As I have already hinted, this theme of uncovering (which is the literal Greek translation of the word apocalypse) occurs throughout the Old Testament, not just in later apocalyptic texts. The movements of atonement (covering) and apocalypse (uncovering) become a kind of X-shaped path to redemption, where covering/atonement starts on the top-left and, in a sense, decreases over time and uncovering/apocalypse starts on the bottom-left and increases over time. Christ’s earthly ministry in the Gospel accounts, by the way, can be seen as both the center of this X and as manifesting its own X-shaped pattern, a microcosm of the whole story of Scripture.

In the earliest chapters of the Bible, God begins to build in incremental hints and experiences of the coming unveiling. Circumcision is a central first step in this process, as it represents a removal of the garments of skin. This removal, as Paul later makes clear, is only external, so it is not the true unveiling. Rather, it is a sign of what is to come: the unveiling/circumcision of the heart for God. For further evidence of this gradual apocalypse, the Lord “appears” to Abraham more than once. Jacob, too, has a vision of angels ascending and descending a ladder to heaven; then he wrestles with God. Moses’s experience on Sinai, the giving of the law, etc, is perhaps the most dramatic version of this. Moses descends the mountain with a shining-but-veiled face, giving the Law to the people, which itself veils but also becomes a light unto their path. These are mini-apocalypses, which build toward an unveiling that cannot yet be, “lest you die.” Nevertheless, the unveiling shall come—and does come—in Christ.

Therefore, since we have such a hope, we are very bold. We are not like Moses, who would put a veil over his face to prevent the Israelites from seeing the end of what was passing away. But their minds were made dull, for to this day the same veil remains when the old covenant is read. It has not been removed, because only in Christ is it taken away. Even to this day when Moses is read, a veil covers their hearts. But whenever anyone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we all, who with unveiled faces reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit. (2 Corinthians 3:12-18)

This is why Paul, in the New Testament, warns Christians not to stake too much on Torah (the law). The law, Paul argues, is not an end in itself, but a means to the unveiling of Christ in the proper time. The law cannot save. Rather, it is a garment of skin, like the one given to Adam and Eve in the garden, given because of trespasses “until the time” of unveiling. Here’s how Paul puts it:

What I am saying is that as long as an heir is underage, he is no different from a slave, although he owns the whole estate. The heir is subject to guardians and trustees until the time set by his father. So also, when we were underage, we were in slavery under the elemental principles of the world. But when the set time had fully come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those under the law, that we might receive adoption to sonship. (Galatians 4:1-5)

The mini-atonements of the Old Testament (fig leaves, garments of skin, cherubim, law, priests, tabernacle, temple, veils and blood) serve as temporary guardians and tutors preparing the way for a final covering/atonement and a final uncovering/apocalypse. “Destroy this temple,” Jesus says, “and in three days I will raise it up,” (John 2:19). Jesus curses the fig tree (think: fig leaves) and rebukes Peter’s sword (think: Cain’s ancestors) on his way to the cross, where his blood would become the ultimate covering for the sins of the world, one final perfect atonement. And yet, the cross and the resurrection also become the first-fruits of the final apocalypse, the unveiling of the living God. The cross then, as its very shape suggests, is the center of the X.

The rest of the New Testament, then, can be seen, in part, as a working out of how these two streams—atonement and apocalypse—ultimately flow together (and are fulfilled) in Christ. Paul’s letters are particularly interested in this problem.

For Moses, the cleft of the rock served as a veil which allowed him to see in part. Likewise, the veil over Moses’s face allowed the Israelites to see him in part. The very thing which allowed us to see in part is now obstructing us from seeing more. The law of Moses pointed to Christ. But now that Christ has appeared, our attachment to the law is making us unable to see him. The Pharisees in Jesus’s moment and the Judaizers in Paul’s failed to see the true, non-ultimate purpose of the law, that is, a covering that leads to uncovering. They wanted a version of atonement without apocalypse, the covering of the law without the proper uncovering which leads to true union. Likewise, it could be argued that many Christians today are ironically tempted toward a similar attachment to Christ as atonement without Christ as apocalypse. We want to be covered by him, but not uncovered with him.

Jesus, the Veiled Unveiling

Once we have seen this pattern in Scripture, we can begin to see how Christ’s own life and ministry becomes a microcosm of this veiling/unveiling movement. The story of the Gospels begins with a series of revelations of Christ (who is the apocalypse), yet, at least at first, each unveiling is nevertheless dramatically veiled. The Christ, we learn, is to be hidden in the womb of a humble virgin from Nazareth. Angels appear to foretell the news, but only in unexpected places to unexpected recipients, who must “store it up” in their hearts. On the night of his birth, the great glad tidings come not to prophets, priests, or kings, but to shepherds tending their flocks by night. John the Baptist prepares the way for the Messiah quite obscurely in the wilderness. Veils upon veils.

When Jesus’s ministry begins, one expects that at least now the veil will be lifted. Not so. Those who come to the Gospels expecting a great and sudden unveiling of the Messiah, especially in the mouth and ministry of the man himself, are confused and disappointed at first. Why does he not simply reveal his true identity? Why conceal himself?

There is much that could be said about what scholars have called “The Messianic Secret,” but for now suffice it to say: Though Christ is the apocalypse, he is careful not to let the unveiling happen all at once. Both the Father and the Son prefer the incremental way in order to till the hearts of those whose soil cannot yet properly receive the seed. As Christ reveals in the Parable of the Sower, the problem is not the seed of the word, which is simple and plentiful, but the soil of our hearts, which is fraught with complications. Thankfully, God has become not only the seed-sower, but the soil-tiller, patiently preparing the hearts of his people for his coming apocalypse. For the disciples, the cross itself was the apocalypse that almost broke them. Had it not been for the patient work that Christ had already done in them, it would have broken them. The incremental way paid off. Yet even the incremental way has an end. This is why apocalyptic and proto-apocalyptic texts tend to be so frightening. The people are never quite ready for the unveiling, but it is coming nonetheless.

We get a glimpse of this in C. S. Lewis’s brilliant novel about heaven and hell, The Great Divorce. In the penultimate scene, the main character (Lewis) has spent the better part of the story as a ghost in the “Solid Country” between heaven and hell, a land that seems paused in a kind of prolonged twilight, awaiting the glorious dawn which might arrive at any moment. He imagines what it would be like to behold such a beautiful country in the light of day, but he also knows that, as a mere ghost, the light itself would be the end of him. His arduous journey toward the mountains has made him slightly stronger and more solid, yet still he has a ways to go. But suddenly…

Once more the quiet woods in the cool light before sunrise were about us. Then, still looking at [my guide’s] face, I saw there something that sent a quiver through my whole body. I stood at that moment with my back to the East and the mountains, and he, facing me, looked towards them. His face flushed with a new light. A fern, thirty yards behind him, turned golden. The eastern side of every tree-trunk grew bright. Shadows deepened. All the time there had been bird noises, trillings, chatterings, and the like; but now suddenly the full chorus was poured from every branch; cocks were crowing, there was music of hounds, and horns; above all this ten thousand tongues of men and woodland angels and the wood itself sang. "It comes! It comes!" they sang. "Sleepers awake! It comes, it comes, it comes." One dreadful glance over my shoulder I essayed—not long enough to see (or did I see?)—the rim of the sunrise that shoots Time dead with golden arrows and puts to flight all phantasmal shapes. Screaming, I buried my face in the folds of my Teacher's robe. "The morning! The morning!" I cried, "I am caught by the morning and I am a ghost." But it was too late.

So it is in the prophets: Christ the Sun is coming, and all the atonements and coverings of the old covenant—and of the people’s own making—will not suffice to protect them from the morning. But, as the prophets say, if they trust and repent, they will receive the ultimate atonement and apocalypse, which is Christ himself, and will enter the wedding feast of the Lamb. Otherwise, they will not recognize him, refuse him, and be left outside in the cold.

So it is with us. Christ has come. But Christ is also coming. Will we be ready to welcome him or will we be caught unawares? Thankfully, our Lord is not only the coming One, but the One who makes us ready for his coming. He tills the soil of our hearts through the Spirit, just as he did for the earliest disciples, so that the seed of his word can take root and bear fruit in our hearts. Just as the apocalypse of the cross came for the disciples like a thief in the night, like an explosion giving light to, but also threatening, everything they ever knew, so will he come again. But thanks to Him, we can be ready.

Lent is a good time to remember: God hides in order to be seen.