A Curtain Torn: The Cross as a Liminal Space
“Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.”
—Mark 15:37–38 (NRSV)
Introduction: Tearing the Curtain Between God and Grief
In my early days of ministry, I remember sitting with a congregant after her father’s funeral. Her voice broke as she asked, “Do you think God was in the hospital room? Because I couldn’t feel anything.” I didn’t have an answer at the time, but I think about that moment every time I read Mark 15.
The temple curtain tearing at the moment of Jesus’s death is one of those verses we often rush past on Good Friday, heading toward resurrection. But in Mark’s Gospel, it stands as a startling rupture—one that refuses to resolve pain too quickly.
What does it mean that the holiest place in the temple was torn open at the moment of death? And what does this reveal about the kind of God we worship?
This post explores the torn curtain as a symbol of divine presence breaking into trauma. We’ll look at how this moment operates theologically, emotionally, and communally—and what it means for those standing in the wreckage of grief, loss, or injustice.
Exegetical Insight: What Was the Curtain, and Why Does It Tear?
In the Second Temple in Jerusalem, a curtain (Greek: καταπέτασμα, katapetasma) separated the inner sanctum—the Holy of Holies—from the rest of the temple. It marked the boundary between God’s unapproachable presence and the rest of the world. Only the high priest could enter this space, and only once a year, bearing sacrificial blood on Yom Kippur.
In Mark’s Gospel, this curtain is torn from top to bottom (Mark 15:38)—a detail that suggests divine initiative. Something irreversible has happened. God is not merely allowing access; God is making it.
This is no small metaphor. As Peter K. Stevenson writes, “The reader is to see that precisely in this brutal humiliation of Jesus the redeeming purpose of God comes to expression”. The tearing of the curtain doesn't signify the end of religion—it signifies the end of separation. The locus of God's presence is no longer behind the veil, but on the cross.
Adela Yarbro Collins adds in her Hermeneia commentary that the curtain’s tearing may also echo Jewish apocalyptic symbolism—evoking cosmic upheaval and divine judgment. The event is not just temple-centered but world-shaking. When the barrier tears, something dies—and something begins.
Theology of Liminality: Holding Space for Holy Disruption
In trauma studies, a “liminal space” is the in-between—a threshold where the old is gone, but the new hasn’t fully arrived. The torn curtain marks just such a space. Jesus has died. The resurrection has not yet come. The world holds its breath.
Moltmann describes the cross as the event where “the trinitarian relationships are disrupted” and God enters into human abandonment. In other words, this is not a moment of divine absence, but divine exposure. The curtain tearing reveals that God’s holiness is no longer hidden away from suffering—it is now embedded within it.
For trauma survivors, this theology matters. The spaces where trauma happens—hospital rooms, prison cells, war zones, foster homes—often feel like the least “holy” places in the world. But Mark 15 says otherwise. The Holy of Holies has moved. It now resides wherever the body of Christ is broken.
Application: What the Torn Curtain Means for Us
The church has long struggled with what to do in the presence of unresolved grief. We love resurrection stories. We celebrate healing. But what about the parts of the story that remain unhealed? What about the people who are still waiting?
This passage challenges us to make room for holy ambiguity. As scholar Matthew S. Medley puts it, “The cross is not a place where God fixes suffering. It’s where God joins us in it”. That truth reshapes our pastoral practices.
In worship, it means making room for lament—not just praise.
In community, it means honoring pain that hasn’t found resolution.
In theology, it means rethinking atonement not as divine transaction, but as divine presence in desolation.
We are called not to sew the curtain back up, but to live as people who dwell in the sacred tear.
Conclusion: Living in the Space the Curtain Made
Mark’s Gospel doesn’t give us tidy resolutions. It gives us rupture. It gives us silence. And yet, it gives us hope. The curtain is torn—not to show us a triumphant God—but to show us a God who chooses proximity over power.
This divine tearing is not an act of destruction. It is an act of disclosure. The mystery of God has stepped out from behind the curtain and onto a cross.
And in that space—the torn space—we find a strange kind of sanctuary. Not a place without suffering, but a place where suffering is seen. A place where grief is held. A place where God is, quietly, already waiting.
Further Reading & Works Cited (Chicago Style)
Peter K. Stevenson, “The Crucified God: Mark 15:25–39,” in Ministry Compass (2005), 149–164.
Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary, ed. Harold W. Attridge, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007).
Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God: The Cross of Christ as the Foundation and Criticism of Christian Theology (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2015).
Matthew S. Medley, “Emancipatory Solidarity: The Redemptive Significance of Jesus in Mark,” Perspectives in Religious Studies 21 (1994): 1–14.
