The Protecting Veil

Psalm 3:3,4

We veil things we want to keep private. We veil things we would hope others would not see. We veil things to preserve them. We veil things to protect them. We veil things to hide them. A piece of cloth becomes a suit of armor. A drapery becomes a shield.

And that is where we enter the world of Psalm 3. 

In this case, it is a request to be veiled—to be hidden from view. The prayer is a hope to be safe. The request is for shelter in the midst of strife, struggle, and suffocating fear. If God will drop a veil, the psalmist will be safe, secure, and sound. 

In 1836, Nathaniel Hawthorne published a wonderful story of New England gothic mystery, “The Minister’s Black Veil,” in which a parish priest met the world veiled by a piece of black lace. No one could fathom why. Children fled from him. There was an air of menace to the parson. However, as the story unfolds, we discover that the preacher is living a parable—his veil his meant to hide his shame over his sin—he is not worthy to be seen—and it is also a call to his congregation to admit their own sinfulness, to realize that there is a veil between them and their God. 

Mr. Hawthorne probably did not have Psalm 3 in mind as he penned his story, but the idea fits. All of us are veiled by sin. I realize that may be a bit morbid for the first Sunday of a new year—our resolutions probably all remain relatively intact, only four days have passed, and there really hasn’t been time to really mess things up too badly. However, I am not seeking morbidity or pessimism about the opening year and us in it. Instead, I want us to meet this year in such a way as to make the best possible start. That begins by seeing ourselves as we are before our God. Paul Tillich commented in his book, The Dynamics of Faith, that to be human is to be unfinished, imperfect, and incomplete—that is simply the nature of all things created—we are always and forever becoming. We carry a veil—all that is not perfect, not whole, or not as it should be drops a veil between us and God. Now, for God, that veil is less than nothing. God draws ever nearer to us as God perceives the imperfections in need of growth and mending—i.e., grace. But for us, we begin to feel a distance, separation, and, like the minister’s congregation, a spot of fear when the veil appears. Follow the psalmist—as soon as the veil becomes apparent, he confesses its existence. He turns to God openly seeking protection, preservation, and promise. 

It is precisely in that moment that another veil drops—this one no longer hiding a secret from discovery, but rather enfolding us in a blanket of love.

We see this particular dynamic again and again in the story of Jesus. Every day, he met someone veiled. It may have been wrong behavior, deviant lifestyle, arrogance, broken body or mind, and on through the list of human imperfections. It was not only a terrified father who declared, “I believe, help my unbelief,” but nearly everyone Jesus met. Jesus did not dismiss any of them. He welcomed them. The only ones left outside the circle of his grace were those who chose to stay outside, but even then, Christ continued to invite them to reconsider, rethink, and redo their response. He held his arms wide like a mother holding a warm, fresh towel for a child emerging from the bath—the best sort of veil.

Remember how that felt? To be folded up in your mother’s arms? The chill of being wet warmed and gone as she gently dried us off? 

Some will smirk and say such an image of God is too sentimental to be of service, but I would counter that it is precisely in such images that we find the truth of grace—grace is not some cold, intellectual idea; it is the real and actual parental love present in the best of moments of care, nurture, and tenderness. It is the moment when we crash and tumble, but someone wraps us up, dusts us off, and refreshes us for what’s next.

Traditionally, Psalm 3 is a prayer of David when his own son, Absalom, pursued him with murderous intent to seize power over Israel. Talk about a veil of tears! But in the midst of it, David seeks the enfolding grace of God to see him through to redemption. As we read the actual story of this tragic episode in David’s life (cf. 2 Samuel 13-18), we find that David never forsook Absalom, praying for peace, restoration, and reconciliation. He also knows that the veils of anger, jealousy, and family dysfunction are too heavy for any human to lift, so he throws himself at God for rescue. He wants everyone to feel the “holy other” veil of grace enfolding them.

If the paragon of Israel’s righteousness can so readily and necessarily admit the veil of sin in order to receive the welcome veil of grace, we need to follow suit—this practice is no less than appropriate righteousness—the right walk with God that ensures we will be who we need to be in God’s presence. 

And that is a marvelous way to open a new year.

As we cast of the veil of secrecy, afraid of what would happen if anyone knew us, we can accept the veil of grace that tells everyone (us, too) who we are.