19.02 | Torn
Matthew 27:45-66
‘And Jesus cried out again with a loud voice and yielded up his spirit. And behold, the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. And the earth shook, and the rocks were split.’
Matthew 27:50-51
Shut the front door.
My wife Lydia grew up overseas—India, West Africa, and Pakistan. This gave her some incredible opportunities, cultural versatility, and a deep compassion for global issues.
And it also gave her a robust dislike of British weather.
To compensate, our house tends to be pretty warm. Possibly even subtropical. We have an electric blanket that can be operated separately for our different sides of the bed (a British ecosystem on my side), and it’s assumed that my warmest jumpers and coats are fair game if Lydia wants to layer up.
All this to say, keeping the front door closed is an issue. And, when you’re trying to get three kids, one dog, and two adults (one of who has a tendency to forget something the first time he leaves), it can stay open for some time. The wind howls through the house, sucking the warm air out and blowing in some fresh British vibes.
The front door is meant to keep the warm air in, and the cold air out. It’s a two-way arrangement.
Shut the front door is a frequent imperative in our house.
Today’s reading is the culmination of all stories into one moment: the final breath of Jesus. Every wound and pain and injustice in history. Every life parted from the beauty and goodness for which it was intended. The deep yearnings of the very creation itself for the promise of a better age—all of it culminates right here. Jesus, Son of God, King of all, gasping His final breath and pulsing His final heartbeat.
And then it happens.
Jesus dies.
And suddenly, there is an explosion of activity.
The earth shakes. The rocks split. Tombs open and the dead literally walk out and show up in the city. The centurion, standing on the quaking earth at the foot of the cross, looks up in awe at the one and only Son of God.
And the curtain of the temple tears in two.
The temple building was in two parts. The holy place, where the priests would minister throughout the year. And the Most Holy place, where only the High Priest would enter, and only once a year, and only with very specific instructions of sacrifice and worship. Ancient temples were not viewed as mere places of worship. They were far more. They were seen as intersection points—between heaven and earth. The holy place, then, was just the porch. It was as close as most priests ever got. But the Most Holy Place was the intersection point between God’s place and ours. It was the overlap of heaven and earth. It was heaven’s front door.
The curtain was massive—60 feet high and 30 feet wide, and woven together of 72 ornately decorated thick plaits. It was huge and bulky because it needed to be. It served two great purposes:
To keep the world out.
To keep heaven in.
Why?
Because a sinful world cannot handle the sheer brilliance of the life of heaven. Heaven’s holiness is not cuddles and candy floss. It is fire and it is glory. A broken world cannot handle it without human brokenness being first dealt with.
As Jesus’ heart beats its final beat—as His body is broken—this curtain is torn.1 Sin and brokenness is dealt with. And the tearing of the curtain inaugurates a new age of the earth. This age is marked by an open front door to the very presence of God Himself.
What does this mean?
It’s a two-way arrangement.
We can enter in. Utterly reconciled, utterly forgiven, utterly loved, utterly welcome. To approach God with unflinching confidence.2
Heaven is breaking out. Through the cross, the life and power and joy and beauty of heaven overspills through through God’s very people—you and me—into a hurting world.
The front door has been permanently opened.
And the final age of history has begun.
Reflect:
Today, which truth do I need more? That the door is open for me to approach the Father with confidence? Or that Jesus opened the door so that heaven may invade the pains of the earth?
Turn this to prayer.
Pray:
Father,
Sometimes I stitch that curtain back up in my mind.
I see you as cold, uncaring, and such a long way away.
I can begin to think that my sin is greater than your love,
And you’d be happier with me at a distance.
But the Cross tells a different story.
Remind my wounded heart that the tattered curtain
Means that I am invited with freedom and confidence
Into your very presence.
And Father,
Sometimes I stitch that curtain back up in my mind.
I act and think as though
That person;
That situation;
That sickness;
That need;
Is beyond the measure of your power.
But today
I abandon this false idea.
Send the fire of the Holy Spirit
To set me ablaze in faith,
That I would remember that the wounds I see
Can be brought to the shreds of that curtain
And the blazing overspill of the heavenly.
This is our age,
And this is what He did.
Come Holy Spirit,
In Jesus’ Name,
And the power of his Cross
Amen
Old Testament:
For those also reading the Old Testament this year, your additional readings are here:
Leviticus 13:1-14:32 | Psalm 25:1-15
Hebrews 10:20 describes this curtain as being analogous to Jesus’ body (Jesus Himself being the nexus between heaven and earth)
Hebrews 10:19-20