I still remember those songs from my teenage years—the ones about entering the Holy of Holies. I wasn’t in a church pew; I was watching concerts on TV or listening to them on a worn cassette tape, volume turned just high enough to feel something sacred in the sound. The melodies rose like incense, trembling through the speakers as if daring me to draw near to something far too holy to touch. Back then, I thought that’s what faith was—searching for a doorway into God’s presence. I didn’t know yet that what He really wanted wasn’t for me to find His presence, but to carry it.

Long before those songs were ever written, God gave His people a gift in the wilderness—a way for heaven and earth to meet. He called it the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. The Hebrew word means “dwelling place,” from shakan, the verb “to dwell” or “to abide.” It wasn’t just a structure—it was an invitation. God wasn’t asking for a monument of stone or a ritual of religion, but a place where His presence could settle, where His glory—His Shekinah—could rest among His people. In that tent, the infinite God chose to dwell within reach of human hands, to live not above them, but among them. The Tabernacle was more than fabric and frame; it was the visible heartbeat of a God who never wanted to be distant. He wanted to be home.

Imagine the preparation. The sound of hammer against bronze and loom against thread filled the air for months as the people worked. Every clang and rhythm of weaving was worship—obedience turned into sound. The smell of oil and cedarwood mingled with desert dust. The Tabernacle was becoming more than fabric and frame—it was becoming a pulse.

Then, with desert winds sweeping across endless sand, the sun falling like fire behind the horizon, the divine structure—crafted to the smallest detail by inspired hands—stood in the middle of the encampment, shimmering with color and light. Gold caught the fading rays of the sun, and fine linen rippled like water. This was more than a tent; it was an embrace. “Come closer,” God said. “I want to dwell with you.”

Every element carried meaning. Every material whispered a truth. The gold spoke of His purity. The silver, His redemption. The bronze, His judgment made merciful. But it was the fabric that told the deeper story. Scarlet, blue, and purple threads wove through every curtain and garment, each color chosen by God’s hand.

Scarlet for sacrifice—the color of blood that would one day pour from a cross. Blue for divinity—the color of the heavens, pure and eternal. And purple—the meeting point between the two. The place where the divine and the human converge. That’s why purple became the color of royalty. It’s what happens when heaven stoops low enough to touch humanity—when the depleted meets the divine. Royalty isn’t about crowns or thrones; it’s about relationship. It’s the color of God’s nearness—the moment His divinity brushes against our frailty and makes it beautiful.

But look closer still. These weren’t just royal colors; they were living ones. Scarlet like the blood pulsing through arteries. Blue like our spirit returning to its Source, longing to be filled again with His breath. And purple, that sacred in-between, where heaven and earth meet in every heartbeat.

The Tabernacle was more than a building; it was a map of His heart—and ours. From the beginning, God wasn’t just creating a place to visit. He was revealing what He planned to inhabit.

The beauty of the Tabernacle was staggering. Curtains embroidered with cherubim. Lampstands shaped like almond blossoms. Gold overlaying acacia wood so that light danced where shadow should have been. It was the work of Spirit-filled craftsmen—Bezalel and Oholiab—the first in Scripture said to be filled with the Spirit of God. Not to preach. Not to prophesy. But to create. Their hands shaped what their hearts believed—a dwelling for the divine.

Still, for all its splendor, the Tabernacle was only a glimpse of something greater. It was never the destination—just the beginning. The Holy of Holies glowed with God’s presence, but it was sealed off by a veil—thick, woven, heavy with warning. No one entered except the high priest, and only once a year, carrying blood for the nation’s sins. Tradition says the priest’s ankle was bound with a rope, in case he was found unworthy and his lifeless body needed to be pulled out. The veil swayed gently in the desert wind, a living reminder that holiness was near… but not yet within reach.

Then came the moment everything changed.

Centuries later, on a hill outside Jerusalem—Mount Moriah, Golgotha, the Skull—the final sacrifice was lifted high. The sky darkened. The earth trembled. And from the temple—the permanent echo of the old Tabernacle—a sound thundered through eternity. The veil tore, from top to bottom.

That sound didn’t just split fabric; it split history. It was heaven’s declaration that the separation was over. The place where God’s presence once dwelled was no longer behind a curtain of linen. The Holy of Holies had moved—from gold and acacia to flesh and blood, from a tent in the desert to the human heart.

And that Spirit still fills believers today. The One who once guided needle and hammer now shapes human hearts into His dwelling. The same breath that spoke blueprints into being in the wilderness now crafts beauty out of broken lives—flesh instead of fabric, hearts instead of altars.

The scarlet, blue, and purple that once covered the walls of the Tabernacle now flow through the veins of His people. We are not the Holy of Holies—but we are where He chose to dwell. The heart became the meeting place of heaven and earth—the true Tabernacle of the Living God.

Paul said it best. “Or do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and you are not your own?” (1 Corinthians 6:19).

The Tabernacle was never meant to be permanent—it was a preview of God’s ultimate plan. Through Christ, He tore the veil not to let us in, but to let Himself out—to pour His Spirit into His people.

Now, when I think of those songs, I smile. I see that teenager again—eyes closed and singing—while picturing myself stepping through a tattered drape, hoping to come into His presence. And I want to whisper to him, You don’t have to hope anymore. You’re the place He entered.

The same presence that once filled the Holy of Holies now fills your chest with every breath. The same fire that burned above the Ark now flickers in your spirit. The same voice that thundered in the wilderness now whispers in your soul.

And maybe that’s what the colors were saying all along. Scarlet—the sacrifice that opened the way. Blue—the divinity that descended to meet us. Purple—the heartbeat of relationship where the two became one. The Tabernacle was never about walls or fabric. It was a prophecy of blood and Spirit, of a God who would one day choose to dwell not among His people, but within them.

The wilderness was only the rehearsal. The heart is the home.

Reflection

What if you’ve been searching for God in places He already lives? What if the Holy of Holies isn’t somewhere you go, but Someone who came to you?

When you accepted Jesus as your Savior, you no longer had to search for His presence—you were forever filled with it. The same Spirit that rested above the Ark of the Covenant now rests within your heart. You don’t have to perform to reach Him. You don’t have to chase His presence. You carry it.

So here’s the gentle dare—stop trying to enter His presence as though He’s waiting behind a curtain. Live as though His Spirit already fills the room within you. Because it does.

The Holy of Holies isn’t a room you enter. It’s a relationship you live.

Prayer

Papa,

Thank You for the beauty of Your design—the gold and linen, the scarlet and blue, the purple that reminds me where heaven meets earth. Thank You that the veil was torn so Your Spirit could dwell not in tents or temples, but in hearts like mine. Help me live aware that I am Your dwelling place—the living Tabernacle of Your presence. Let Your life flow through me as scarlet and blue, meeting in the purple place where my heart touches Yours.

Amen.