Men in Scripture tore their clothing in moments of great passion and distress. Job tore his clothing when he lost his sons and daughters and everything he owned. Jacob tore his clothes when he believed that a wild animal devoured his beloved son Joseph. David tore his clothes when his son Absalom killed his brothers. Elisha tore his clothes when God took Elijah up into heaven. 

In the gospel accounts, the high priest Caiaphas tore his clothes at the supposed blasphemy of Jesus. Tearing one’s clothing is a visible display of a mourner’s symbolic death, his utter distress and loss, in the face of physical or emotional catastrophe. The mourner demonstrates that he, like his clothing, feels rent from top to bottom. It’s a physical representation of being “undone.” But it also serves to signify the utter vulnerability and shame of the mourner. Not only are his frustrations let loose, not only is his clothing (picturing the man himself) rent and ruined, but the man reveals his own nakedness. He declares to the community his helplessness and shame in his present sorrow. He shows that he has no more covering, no more defense against the world. 

So why, in the account of Christ’s betrayal and crucifixion, the most cosmically distressing event in history, does Christ not tear his garment?  Jesus himself had more reason than any other to rend his tunic and cry out in distress and shame.  But instead, the Scriptures most pointedly tell us that his garment was not rent. 

But the tunic was seamless, woven in one piece from top to bottom, so they said to one another, “Let us not tear it, but cast lots for it to see whose it shall be.” This was to fulfill the Scripture which says, “They divided my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots” (Jn 19:24). 

Christ’s tunic was not rent, it would not be rent, and it had been prophesied centuries before that it should not be rent. When Christ, the man of sorrows, is hung before mankind and before his Father in his humility and nakedness, in utter anguish and breathing his last, his tunic remained in one piece, seamless and in one piece from top to bottom.  Why?

The historical consistency is not lost. For while we expect to see a torn garment in this situation and do not see it in Christ’s, we do see a greater garment that was indeed rent:

And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Then Jesus, calling out with a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” And having said this he breathed his last (Lk 23:45–46).

It was not Jesus’ garment that was ripped in distress, but God the Father’s. It was he, the heavenly Father, like so many distressed fathers in the Old Testament, seeing his only begotten Son breathe his last, who tore his clothes. The temple veil was the fabric that had covered him from our eyes; it shielded us from his Holy of Holies, his throne room, and his presence. In this moment of greatest sorrow, God the Father rent his garment and showed forth his “nakedness.” This was not to his shame but revealed his glory to the watching world. And through the demonstrated grief and love of the Father, we may now be welcomed as sons and pass beyond the torn veil into the Father’s glory.

Erin Joslyn is a graduate of New St. Andrews College, teacher of all things classical, wife of an Anglican priest, mother of 4 brilliant and boisterous children, and lover of coffee, Shakespeare, dark chocolate, Austen, Milton, autumn, Tallis, cozy couches, red wine, and late nights with good friends.