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Exodus 36 — The only building campaign in history that raised too much
7 min read
fresh.bible editorialGod has given the blueprints. The people have been asked to contribute. and have been called and filled with skill by the Spirit. Everything is in place. Now the — the physical dwelling place of God among his people — is about to become real.
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But before a single curtain gets woven or a single frame gets cut, something happens that might be the most surprising fundraising moment in all of . And then the construction begins — detailed, precise, and stunning.
assembled the team. , , and every craftsman the Lord had filled with skill and understanding — everyone whose heart stirred them to come and do the work. These weren't people who were assigned to a shift. They were people who showed up because they wanted to.
Moses called Bezalel, Oholiab, and every skilled worker in whom the Lord had put ability and understanding — everyone whose heart moved them to come and do the work. They received from Moses all the contributions the people of Israel had brought for the construction of the sanctuary.
But the people kept bringing more. Every single morning — more freewill offerings.
Eventually, the craftsmen stopped what they were doing, came to Moses, and said:
"The people are bringing far more than we need to do the work the Lord commanded."
So Moses sent a proclamation through the whole camp: "No one — man or woman — is to prepare anything else for the sanctuary contribution." The people had to be restrained from giving, because the materials on hand were already more than enough for everything that needed to be done.
Think about that for a second. They had to tell people to stop giving. Not "we're almost at our goal." Not "just a little more and we'll get there." The opposite problem. The generosity was so overwhelming that leadership had to shut it down. These were former slaves. They didn't have generational wealth or investment portfolios. They had what they'd carried out of . And they gave so freely, so eagerly, that there was surplus. When people genuinely care about what's being built, you don't have to beg them to participate. They show up every morning with more.
Now the construction begins. And the first thing the craftsmen made were the innermost curtains — the fabric that would form the interior walls of the itself. This wasn't just functional. It was art.
The skilled workers made the tabernacle with ten curtains of finely woven linen in blue, purple, and scarlet yarn, with cherubim — heavenly figures — skillfully worked into the design. Each curtain measured forty-two feet long and six feet wide. Every single one was identical.
They joined five curtains together in one set, and the other five together in a second set. They made fifty loops of blue yarn along the outer edge of the last curtain in each set — fifty loops on one side, fifty on the other, perfectly aligned opposite each other. Then they made fifty clasps of gold and fastened the two sets together. The tabernacle became a single, unified whole.
Every measurement matched. Every loop aligned with its counterpart on the other side. Fifty gold clasps holding it all together into one seamless structure. This wasn't a tent thrown up in a hurry — it was precision craftsmanship on a level that would impress anyone today. And the woven into the fabric meant that when you stood inside the tabernacle and looked up, you were looking at images of the heavenly throne room. The interior was designed to feel like standing at the edge of itself.
Beautiful curtains are one thing. But this structure needed to survive the desert — relentless sun, wind-driven sand, sudden rainstorms. So over the inner curtains, they added layers of heavy-duty protection.
They made eleven curtains of goat hair as a tent covering over the tabernacle. Each curtain was forty-five feet long and six feet wide — all the same size. They joined five curtains in one set and six in the other. They made fifty loops along the outer edge of each connecting curtain, then fifty bronze clasps to fasten the tent into a single whole.
Over that, they added a covering of tanned ram skins, and over that, a layer of goatskin leather.
Layer after layer after layer. Fine linen with woven on the inside. Goat hair over that. Tanned ram skins over that. Durable leather on the very outside. From the interior, you'd see royal colors and heavenly figures. From the outside? Weathered animal hide. The beauty was hidden within. There's something worth sitting with in that. The sacred space didn't advertise itself. It didn't need to look impressive from a distance. The was for those who came close enough to enter.
With the curtains ready, the craftsmen turned to the structure that would hold everything up. This is the skeleton — acacia wood frames, silver foundations, gold overlay, and crossbars locking it all together.
They made upright frames of acacia wood for the tabernacle. Each frame was fifteen feet tall and just over two feet wide. Every frame had two tenons at the base for fitting into its foundation socket. Every single frame was made this way.
For the south side: twenty frames set into forty silver bases — two bases under each frame. For the north side: the same — twenty frames, forty silver bases. For the back wall on the west side: six frames, plus two specially crafted corner frames that were separate at the bottom but joined together at the top. That made eight frames across the back, set into sixteen silver bases.
Then they made crossbars of acacia wood — five for the south wall, five for the north wall, five for the back. The center bar ran the entire length of each wall, halfway up the frames. They overlaid all the frames with gold, made gold rings to hold the crossbars, and overlaid the bars with gold too.
Step back and picture the scale of this. Ninety-six silver bases. Forty-eight gold-covered wooden frames. Fifteen acacia crossbars locking everything rigid. And the whole thing was designed to be assembled, taken apart, carried through the wilderness, and set up again at the next camp — every piece fitting perfectly every time. These were people who had spent generations making bricks for . Now they were building something that would have rivaled Egyptian craftsmanship, using skills God himself had given them. Same hands, completely different purpose.
The final pieces were two fabric barriers — and each one told you something different about what it meant to approach God.
They made the inner veil of blue, purple, and scarlet yarn and finely woven linen, with cherubim skillfully worked into the design. It hung on four pillars of acacia wood overlaid with gold, set on gold hooks, standing in four silver bases.
They also made an embroidered screen for the entrance of the tent — blue, purple, and scarlet yarn with fine linen, beautifully needleworked — hung on five pillars with gold-covered capitals and gold hooks, standing in five bronze bases.
Two pieces of fabric. Two very different messages. The entrance screen was the invitation — the way in, the open door, the welcome. Anyone authorized to enter the holy place passed through it. But the inner veil was the boundary. It separated the from the Most Holy Place, the space where God's presence would above the ark. One said "come in." The other said "not yet." Both were gorgeous. Both were necessary. Access to God was real — but it wasn't casual. There were layers to this relationship, steps you couldn't skip.
And here's something worth holding onto: centuries later, when died on the , it was this veil — this exact kind of barrier between people and the full presence of God — that tore from top to bottom. The boundary became a doorway. But that's a later chapter. For now, the stands complete in its framing, its curtains, and its thresholds. Built by willing hands, funded by overwhelming generosity, and designed down to the last gold clasp to say one thing: God is here, and he's not leaving.