Unpacking Holiness
For much of Scripture, the question is not whether God is present, but how He is present—and what that presence requires of those who draw near.
In the wilderness, God dwelt among Israel in a way that was unmistakable and, at times, terrifying. His glory rested at the center of the camp, between the cherubim, surrounded by boundaries, laws, and careful instruction. Holiness was concentrated, proximity was dangerous, and disobedience often resulted in sudden loss of life. This was not cruelty; it was molding. Israel was learning what it meant to live near a holy God.
When the people entered the Promised Land, something shifted. God’s presence remained real, but it was no longer centralized in the daily lives of the people. The Tabernacle—and later the Temple—stood in one place, while the nation spread out across hills and valleys. Judgment no longer came primarily through immediate death, but through drought, defeat, exile, and longing. Distance became mercy. Time became space for repentance.
The Temple itself became the final containment of holiness—a sacred center where sin could be confessed and covered, where God’s presence could dwell without consuming the people. But when that system was corrupted, when ritual replaced repentance and sacrifice lost its meaning, the prophets saw what the people did not: the glory departed. God left the building. The Temple burned. But only after it was already empty.
By the time of Jesus, the Temple remained, but the Ark was gone. The Holy of Holies was empty. God’s presence had not returned in cloud or fire. And then—quietly and unannounced—He walked back in. The building could no longer contain holiness.
When the veil was torn at His death, it did not invite people into a room long emptied of presence. It announced that holiness was no longer confined—no longer behind fabric, walls, or geography.
What followed at Pentecost confirmed this relocation. Fire descended again, but it did not consume or contain. It rested on people. Language itself—once divided at Babel to restrain human ambition—was restored and redeemed. Unity no longer required sameness. God did not erase nations or tongues; He inhabited them. The Spirit created understanding without erasing difference, presence without centralization.
God has always resisted being contained—by buildings, by systems, by experiences, even by our expectations. He works in margins, in exile, in hiddenness, in patient formation. Holiness no longer destroys by proximity; it heals by indwelling. The fire still falls, but now it refines rather than consumes.
The story of Scripture is not about how to reach God, but about how God comes to dwell with His people.
Through His Spirit, holiness now dwells within His people. Reminding us of whose we are and always inviting us deeper into His presence.