Beyond the Curtain:
What Religion Can Do — and What Only Christ Can
There is something quietly powerful about religious ritual. The repeated prayers, the familiar hymns, the structured order of a worship service — these things can feel either deeply meaningful or completely hollow, depending on where your heart is when you encounter them. Most of us have probably experienced both. We have sat in a service and felt genuinely drawn toward God, and we have sat in that same service going through the motions, wondering if any of it matters.
The truth is, both reactions are pointing at something real. Religion — the ritual, the repetition, the structure — has genuine value. But it also has a ceiling. And understanding both of those things changes everything about how we approach our faith.
The Purpose Behind the Practice
In the ancient tabernacle of Israel, God gave his people an elaborate system of worship. The details were staggering. A golden lampstand, ornately carved and flawless, provided light in the holy place. A table overlaid with pure gold held the bread of the presence — set out as an offering of fellowship and provision. Incense burned constantly. Priests performed their duties daily, caring for the sacred space with precision and devotion.
None of this was arbitrary. Every element was preaching something. The lampstand pointed to a God who illuminates — the same God who would later say, through Jesus in John 8:12, that he is the light of the world. The bread on the table spoke of provision and fellowship, a God who feeds his people and welcomes them into his presence. The table itself, gorgeous and golden, declared that fellowship with God is not an afterthought. It is central to who he is.
These symbols were doing something important. They were shaping the hearts and imaginations of God's people. They were teaching truths that words alone could not fully carry. They were drawing worshipers inward, awakening a desire for something deeper, something more.
That is what genuine religious practice is meant to do. When we gather together, sing, pray, study Scripture, and serve one another, these things orient us. They tune out the noise of the world and fix our attention on God. They are not meaningless. They are not mere tradition for tradition's sake. They are signposts.
But signposts are not the destination.
The Curtain That Tells the Truth
Deep within the tabernacle, past the holy place with its lampstand and table, hung a thick curtain. Behind it was the most holy place — the holy of holies — where the Ark of the Covenant rested. This was the place of God's most immediate presence. And almost no one could go there.
Only the high priest. Only once a year. Only with blood.
That curtain was not a cruel barrier. It was an honest one. It told the truth about the human condition. No amount of faithful service in the outer courts could get a person behind that curtain. No level of devotion, no ritual perfectly performed, no religious achievement could earn that access. The curtain communicated something that is still difficult for us to accept: our conscience cannot be perfected by our own effort.
Inside the Ark itself were three objects — a jar of manna, Aaron's staff that had budded, and the stone tablets of the covenant. Each one told the same story. God's people had failed. They had complained, rebelled, and broken covenant. And each time, God had provided anyway. The contents of that Ark were a record of human failure met by divine faithfulness.
And over all of it — literally covering the Ark — was the mercy seat. God told Moses in Exodus 25:22 that he would meet with his people there, at the mercy seat, between the cherubim. The most honest place in the universe, the place where human failure was most clearly on record, was also the place where God chose to dwell and to meet his people.
That is not a coincidence. That is the heart of God on display.
What Only Christ Can Do
The book of Hebrews draws a sharp contrast between what the old system could accomplish and what Christ has done. The priests kept returning to the altar because the work was never finished. The sacrifices covered sin temporarily, but they could not reach the conscience. They could not produce the deep, settled assurance that a person is truly right with God.
Christ entered the true holy place — not a tent or a temple made with human hands, but the very presence of God — once, and the work was done. He did not offer the blood of animals. He offered his own blood, and through it, he secured something the entire sacrificial system could only gesture toward: eternal redemption. A purified conscience. The real price of admission, paid in full.
Hebrews 9:14 describes it as the blood of Christ purifying our conscience from dead works so that we can serve the living God. That phrase — dead works — is telling. Works done in order to earn our way into God's presence are dead works, no matter how sincere they are. They cannot do what only Christ's blood can do.
Living on the Right Side of the Curtain
Here is where this becomes personal. The invitation that Christ has opened is not reserved for a spiritual elite. It is not for the especially devoted or the religiously disciplined. John 3:16 makes it plain that God's love and provision extend to whoever believes. The curtain has been torn. The way is open.
But we cannot stand in two places at once. We cannot keep looking to our religious performance to give us what only Christ can provide, and simultaneously walk in the freedom of a purified conscience. At some point, we have to move through the curtain.
The practices of faith — gathering together, reading Scripture, praying, worshiping, serving — these are genuinely good. They shape us and draw us toward God. But they are the lampstand and the bread of the presence. They are not the mercy seat.
The mercy seat belongs to Christ. And he has already made a way for us to stand there.
Romans 12:1 calls us to present ourselves to God as living sacrifices — not because we must in order to be accepted, but because we already are accepted, and this is our grateful response to his mercy.
The destination was never the ritual. It was always the presence of God. Christ has opened that door. The only question is whether we will walk through it.
What Religion Can Do — and What Only Christ Can
There is something quietly powerful about religious ritual. The repeated prayers, the familiar hymns, the structured order of a worship service — these things can feel either deeply meaningful or completely hollow, depending on where your heart is when you encounter them. Most of us have probably experienced both. We have sat in a service and felt genuinely drawn toward God, and we have sat in that same service going through the motions, wondering if any of it matters.
The truth is, both reactions are pointing at something real. Religion — the ritual, the repetition, the structure — has genuine value. But it also has a ceiling. And understanding both of those things changes everything about how we approach our faith.
The Purpose Behind the Practice
In the ancient tabernacle of Israel, God gave his people an elaborate system of worship. The details were staggering. A golden lampstand, ornately carved and flawless, provided light in the holy place. A table overlaid with pure gold held the bread of the presence — set out as an offering of fellowship and provision. Incense burned constantly. Priests performed their duties daily, caring for the sacred space with precision and devotion.
None of this was arbitrary. Every element was preaching something. The lampstand pointed to a God who illuminates — the same God who would later say, through Jesus in John 8:12, that he is the light of the world. The bread on the table spoke of provision and fellowship, a God who feeds his people and welcomes them into his presence. The table itself, gorgeous and golden, declared that fellowship with God is not an afterthought. It is central to who he is.
These symbols were doing something important. They were shaping the hearts and imaginations of God's people. They were teaching truths that words alone could not fully carry. They were drawing worshipers inward, awakening a desire for something deeper, something more.
That is what genuine religious practice is meant to do. When we gather together, sing, pray, study Scripture, and serve one another, these things orient us. They tune out the noise of the world and fix our attention on God. They are not meaningless. They are not mere tradition for tradition's sake. They are signposts.
But signposts are not the destination.
The Curtain That Tells the Truth
Deep within the tabernacle, past the holy place with its lampstand and table, hung a thick curtain. Behind it was the most holy place — the holy of holies — where the Ark of the Covenant rested. This was the place of God's most immediate presence. And almost no one could go there.
Only the high priest. Only once a year. Only with blood.
That curtain was not a cruel barrier. It was an honest one. It told the truth about the human condition. No amount of faithful service in the outer courts could get a person behind that curtain. No level of devotion, no ritual perfectly performed, no religious achievement could earn that access. The curtain communicated something that is still difficult for us to accept: our conscience cannot be perfected by our own effort.
Inside the Ark itself were three objects — a jar of manna, Aaron's staff that had budded, and the stone tablets of the covenant. Each one told the same story. God's people had failed. They had complained, rebelled, and broken covenant. And each time, God had provided anyway. The contents of that Ark were a record of human failure met by divine faithfulness.
And over all of it — literally covering the Ark — was the mercy seat. God told Moses in Exodus 25:22 that he would meet with his people there, at the mercy seat, between the cherubim. The most honest place in the universe, the place where human failure was most clearly on record, was also the place where God chose to dwell and to meet his people.
That is not a coincidence. That is the heart of God on display.
What Only Christ Can Do
The book of Hebrews draws a sharp contrast between what the old system could accomplish and what Christ has done. The priests kept returning to the altar because the work was never finished. The sacrifices covered sin temporarily, but they could not reach the conscience. They could not produce the deep, settled assurance that a person is truly right with God.
Christ entered the true holy place — not a tent or a temple made with human hands, but the very presence of God — once, and the work was done. He did not offer the blood of animals. He offered his own blood, and through it, he secured something the entire sacrificial system could only gesture toward: eternal redemption. A purified conscience. The real price of admission, paid in full.
Hebrews 9:14 describes it as the blood of Christ purifying our conscience from dead works so that we can serve the living God. That phrase — dead works — is telling. Works done in order to earn our way into God's presence are dead works, no matter how sincere they are. They cannot do what only Christ's blood can do.
Living on the Right Side of the Curtain
Here is where this becomes personal. The invitation that Christ has opened is not reserved for a spiritual elite. It is not for the especially devoted or the religiously disciplined. John 3:16 makes it plain that God's love and provision extend to whoever believes. The curtain has been torn. The way is open.
But we cannot stand in two places at once. We cannot keep looking to our religious performance to give us what only Christ can provide, and simultaneously walk in the freedom of a purified conscience. At some point, we have to move through the curtain.
The practices of faith — gathering together, reading Scripture, praying, worshiping, serving — these are genuinely good. They shape us and draw us toward God. But they are the lampstand and the bread of the presence. They are not the mercy seat.
The mercy seat belongs to Christ. And he has already made a way for us to stand there.
Romans 12:1 calls us to present ourselves to God as living sacrifices — not because we must in order to be accepted, but because we already are accepted, and this is our grateful response to his mercy.
The destination was never the ritual. It was always the presence of God. Christ has opened that door. The only question is whether we will walk through it.
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Pastor Matthew Dionne
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