As the faithful of the Western Rite enter in our church buildings on the Sunday before Palm Sunday, our eyes search for the familiar and holy images that we have become accustomed to seeing there, but instead we find violet veils. Those experiencing this for the first time may be confused—and hopefully, disturbed—at not seeing the holy images. The cross and the icons are veiled from our sight on the fifth Sunday of Lent, traditionally called “Passion Sunday,” and it marks a distinct turning toward the end of this Lenten journey. But why are the icons veiled, and why is this called “Passion” Sunday if the Gospel passage (St. John 8:46-59) isn’t the account of Christ’s passion?
The Gospel passage we do have for this Sunday tells us of a verbal exchange between Jesus and many people (including religious leaders) in the Temple in Jerusalem. In this passage, Jesus is teaching in the Temple, and he’s been saying a lot of provocative things—provocative mainly to those who weren’t there to learn from him, but to trap him in his words and discredit or even arrest him. Saying things like, “You are from below; I am from above,” and, “unless you believe that I am he you will die in your sins,” is fairly provocative to tell the official stewards of the Jewish faith and tradition. As this exchange in John 8 goes on, we see more and more the stance of some of the people (particularly the religious leaders) solidifying as enemies of Jesus. This is clear from the accusations and interrogations flung at Jesus, until finally he says, where the lectionary passage picks up , “Which one of you convicts me of sin?” Jesus says multiple times in this chapter that God, his Father, is the judge, and that his own testimony is true, regarding himself and his Father.
The entrance chant for this Sunday is from Psalm 43, and begins “Give sentence with me [or, ‘Judge me’] O God, and defend my cause against and ungodly people.” In Latin, “Judge me O God” is “Judica me Deus,” and so this Sunday is also called ‘Judica Sunday.’ This plea for God to give judgement over/against the indictments of ungodly people highlights the theme for this Sunday—in fact, for this Sunday through the rest of Lent, now known as Passiontide (or the season of the Passion). The direction toward the cross is unmistakable now. At the end of this Gospel passage, these “ungodly people” try to end Jesus then and there, picking up stones to stone him. And there, the Son of God made flesh, whose revelation and epiphany to the world we celebrated only a few short weeks ago it seems, who was made known by the message of an angel to blessed Mary, who was perceived by the pre-natal John the Forerunner, who was endorsed by the very voice of the Father at the Jordan River, and whose teachings and miracles drew crowds of thousands, now does what?—he hides himself.
In the moment of the rejection of Jesus by the people, he is hidden from them.
In the historical context of this event, the reason for Jesus hiding himself seems obvious: so that he doesn’t get killed by people throwing rocks. But this is the Gospel of John, the theological Gospel, structured to tell the story theologically and filled with mystical parenthetical notes. A few paragraphs earlier John tells us that though Jesus was saying all these provocative things in the Temple, no one arrested him because “his hour had not yet come.” Jesus didn’t hide from them merely to avoid death; he hid because the time for his death had not yet come. Timing, it seems, is not overlooked by God who is outside of time. He is, after all, the maker of time. And when he works within this world of space and time, he is the master of timing. St. Paul notes that it was in the “fullness of time” that the Son of God was sent forth to be born of a woman and revealed to the world. And as his revelation takes account of timing, so does his hiding.
I’m talking about God revealing and hiding himself, but does God really play hide-and-seek? Why not? We do. Even from the very beginning, our relationship with God has been a mixture of hiding and revealing. When God first made us, he revealed—that is, he opened up to us—every good gift the Garden of Eden had to offer, but he hid one treasure: the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. This one thing hidden (and not necessarily forever, but likely only for a time — remember, God considers timing) is the thing our ancestors decided they had to have. After the magic fruit yielded its revelation, Adam and Eve hid themselves. Now humanity hides and God seeks.
From then on, revelation from God also often required hiding. God’s revelation to Noah involved a hiding of the earth by the waters, a hiding of Noah’s family from the waters by the ark, and later the unfortunate hiding of Noah’s nakedness by his sons. God’s revelation to Moses required a hiding of the holy mountain in cloud and thick darkness, the direct revelation of God’s form required the hiding of his front with his hand only to reveal his back (whatever we’re to make of that), and the consequence of this revelation to Moses require the hiding of his face to all the people. The artifacts of God’s revelation to the Hebrews (the tablets of the Law, the jar of manna, and Aaron’s staff that budded) had to be hidden in the Ark of the covenant. The presence of God to be manifested on the mercy seat of the ark had to be hidden in the holy of holies, behind a veil. The messages and actions of the holy prophets were always paradoxical minglings of revelation with shroudedness. And now the height of the revelation of God—God himself in flesh—had to hide himself sometimes.
But why? Why is God or any gift from God ever hidden from us at all? Sometimes the answers involves timing in a plan of God that’s simply beyond our comprehension. But often the answer is because we can’t receive it properly. In verse 43 of this chapter, Jesus says, “Why do you not understand what I say? Because you cannot bear to hear my words.” Just as ears unable to bear God cannot hear him, so eyes unable to bear him cannot see him. Foolish and senseless people have eyes but don’t see, and have ears but don’t hear, says Jeremiah. Ezekiel says the same thing. Jesus, over and over again, affirms this phenomenon regarding many who see his works and hear his words.
And what about us? How often do the words of the Gospel, of the psalms and epistles and prophecies and hymns and antiphons of the Church fall flat on the hard soil of our hearts to be picked away by demons flying by or to be choked out by our own untended thoughts and cares? How often do our eyes—already veiled by their own sinful history, like a film of residue built up over time by the impurities we’ve beheld—meet the holy images and fail to discern their truth, beauty, and glory? If partaking of the Eucharist without discerning the Lord’s body will be to our condemnation, what if venerating the cross or the icons of Christ and his Saints without discerning their holiness might also be to our detriment? [Incidentally, if Christ is veiled then so should be his Saints, because the servant is not greater than the master]. Is this timely veiling during Passiontide not a mercy toward us, outwardly reminding us of the veils over our own eyes and ears. And, as the images are veiled from our eyes, so also are the Alleluias and the doxologies veiled from our ears.
But this is no removal or abolishment. As we can see, our beloved images are still there in the church, if only veiled, as God always is there, if only veiled. And this veiling takes on a dual character: one of sorrow and of gladness. The deep violet of the veils evoke the mournful tones characteristic of Lent, and appropriate for the bemoaning of and repentance for our sins, the sins that lead our Savior to the cross. The purple also paradoxically connotes the true royal Kingship of this suffering servant. But these veils, in addition to appearing as royal burial shrouds, also serve for us as wedding veils, shielding our view of the bridegroom until the appointed time. And what is the appointed time? Good Friday, when our groom fulfills the prophecy in Genesis by leaving his Father in heaven and his mother on earth to be made one flesh with his wife, naked and fully revealed on the cross, the blood and water rushing from his side as the virile seed which enables his bride the Church to give birth to her holy ones. That’s when these veils come off.
It’s our job, then, to make sure that our eyes and our ears are purified with no veil remaining on them when these veils are removed. Let us complete our fast faithfully in much prayer, and scripture reading, and works of mercy, so that we all, with unveiled face, may behold the glory of the Lord and may be transformed into that same image from glory unto glory unto glory.