Passage 📖: Matthew 27:45-56

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👋 Introduction to Today’s Lesson

There are moments in life when everything feels like it’s falling apart — when the light goes out, when silence replaces answers, when grief or confusion makes the world feel heavier than it should.

That’s the kind of moment we’re stepping into today.

Not the noise of mockery.

Not the chaos of the crowd.

Not the brutality of the soldiers.

But the stillness that comes when heaven itself seems to break.

Matthew slows the story down.

The sky changes.

The earth shakes.

The world holds its breath.

Because what happens at the cross in these verses isn’t just tragic — it’s cosmic. It’s as if creation is trying to tell us something about what this moment really means… and what it means for us.

Today’s passage doesn’t ask us to admire the cross.

It invites us to enter it.

To see what God was doing in the darkest hour.

To hear what Jesus was saying in His loudest cry.

To watch how the world responded to the death of its Maker.

And maybe — if we listen closely — to discover that the very place where everything seemed to end… is where a whole new world began.

Let’s step in.

Last week, we watched Jesus endure humiliation at the hands of Roman soldiers — mocked, stripped, crowned with thorns, and beaten. The crowd hurled insults. The leaders sneered. Even the criminals beside Him joined in.

To them, the cross looked like weakness.

To heaven, it was wisdom.

They said, “He saved others… but He can’t save Himself.”

What they didn’t understand was this:

Jesus wasn’t unable to save Himself — He was unwilling.

Because saving us required Him to stay on the cross.

We saw that the world admires power that dominates, but God reveals power that surrenders. A love that looks defeated… but is actually winning the greatest victory ever seen.

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Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land[b] until the ninth hour. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” that is, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” And some of the bystanders, hearing it, said, “This man is calling Elijah.” And one of them at once ran and took a sponge, filled it with sour wine, and put it on a reed and gave it to him to drink.  But the others said, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to save him.” 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. The tombs also were opened. And many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised, and coming out of the tombs after his resurrection they went into the holy city and appeared to many. When the centurion and those who were with him, keeping watch over Jesus, saw the earthquake and what took place, they were filled with awe and said, “Truly this was the Son of God!”

There were also many women there, looking on from a distance, who had followed Jesus from Galilee, ministering to him, among whom were Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James and Joseph and the mother of the sons of Zebedee.

📍 Where Are We in the Story?

It is still Friday — the day of the crucifixion.

Jesus has been hanging on the cross for three hours (9 AM–noon).

Mockery, humiliation, and rejection surround Him… until noon, when everything changes.

🌑 “Darkness Covered the Land”

“From noon until three… darkness came over all the land.”

— Matthew 27:45

This isn’t weather.

It isn’t an eclipse.

It is a supernatural sign, echoing Old Testament imagery of:

Creation itself is saying: Something cosmic is happening.

Jesus is stepping into the weight of sin and abandonment.

🕊️ The Tearing of the Temple Veil

At His death:

“The veil of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” — Matthew 27:51

This was the massive curtain separating the Holy Place from the Most Holy Place — the symbol of humanity’s distance from God.

Its tearing means:

This is one of Scripture’s most explosive theological moments.

🌍 Earthquake & Open Tombs

“The earth shook, the rocks split, and the tombs broke open…”

— Matthew 27:51–52

Creation convulses as the Creator dies.

But Matthew highlights something deeper:

🪦 The Rising of the Holy Ones (vv. 52–53)

A select group of God’s people are raised — a sign, not a full resurrection.

Matthew wants us to see:

Before Easter morning:

This is new creation breaking in.

🪖 The Roman Centurion’s Confession

“Truly this was the Son of God.”

— Matthew 27:54

Not a disciple.

Not a priest.

A Roman executioner — the last person you’d expect — becomes the first to see clearly.

👩‍🦰 The Women Who Stayed

As the disciples flee, women remain:

Quiet faithfulness stands where fear drove others away.

📜 Why This Moment Matters

In this short passage we witness:

Here — in this moment —

heaven, hell, earth, and humanity collide.

The cross becomes the hinge of history.

If you want to understand the tearing of the veil, you have to see it through the entire story Matthew has been telling.

From the very beginning, Jesus’ ministry has been about access — giving people entry into something they were always told was off-limits.

In Matthew:

Again and again, Jesus breaks down the invisible walls people built around God.

And then — in the moment He dies — God tears down the actual wall.

“The veil was torn in two, from top to bottom.”

— Matthew 27:51

This wasn’t just fabric.

This was the barrier between God and humanity — the symbol of distance, exclusion, and unworthiness.

Only the high priest could enter.

Only once a year.

Only with blood.

Only in fear.

And God tears that.

From top to bottom — His initiative, not ours.

Why?

Because everything Jesus did in His ministry… He is now doing in His death.

The tear says:

“The separation is over.

Come in.”

No more priest standing between you and God.

No more system determining who’s worthy.

No more distance, no more earning, no more waiting outside.

The Holy of Holies is no longer behind a veil.

It’s now open to the world.

And here’s the part we must not miss:

Jesus didn’t just tear the veil in the Temple — He’s trying to tear the veil in us.

The veil of shame.

The veil of fear.

The veil of “I’m not enough.”

The veil of spiritual insecurity.

The veil that says, “I don’t deserve to be close to God.”

The veil we keep holding onto.

The cross didn’t just remove a barrier between God and humanity —

it removed the barrier between God and you.

The torn veil declares:

You don’t have to hide.

You don’t have to perform.

You don’t have to qualify.

You don’t have to stay outside.

You have access, right now, right in this very moment.

Because God wants to be close.

And He has already removed everything that ever stood in the way to come close.

All throughout Matthew’s Gospel, a pattern has been forming — one you don’t fully notice until you reach the cross:

The people who should’ve recognized Jesus… didn’t.

And the people who had no reason to… did.

From the very beginning:

Matthew has been whispering this truth chapter after chapter:

Those who think they see… don’t.

Those who know they’re blind… begin to see.

And then — at the cross — the theme reaches its peak.

When Jesus breathes His last,

when darkness falls at noon,

when the earth shakes,

when the veil tears…

The first human voice to proclaim His identity is not a disciple.

Not a rabbi.

Not a priest.

Not even one of His own people.

It is a Roman centurion:

“Truly this was the Son of God.”

— Matthew 27:54

A man who participated in the execution.

A man shaped by empire.

A man trained to fear Caesar, not Yahweh.

A man who had watched countless men die —

and knew this death was different.

The insiders rejected Him.

The outsider recognized Him.

The religious experts mocked Him.

The Gentile executioner bowed in awe.

Matthew wants you to feel the shock:

The least likely person becomes the clearest voice.

And here’s the deeper truth behind it:

The centurion didn’t recognize Jesus because he had the right background.

He recognized Him because he had the right posture:

He was close to the suffering.

He stood nearer to Jesus’ pain than anyone else.

He saw the way Jesus forgave His enemies.

He saw the way He suffered without hatred.

He saw the way creation responded to His death.

He saw a love he had never seen in Rome —

or anywhere else.

And that love broke him open.

So what does this mean for us?

It means:

And most of all:

If you want to see Jesus clearly,

stand closer to the places where He is still suffering.

Stand near:

the poor,

the lonely,

the overlooked,

the hurting,

the sinners everyone else has written off,

the crucified ones of our world.

Because that’s where revelation happens.

That’s where the veil lifts.

That’s where eyes open.

That’s where the centurion still speaks:

“Truly… this is the Son of God.”

If you read Matthew straight through, you’ll notice something Jesus has been hinting at from the very beginning:

A new world is breaking in — quietly at first, then unmistakably.

From His birth:

Creation is already responding.

In His ministry:

Jesus keeps saying:

“The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.”

Not someday.

Not eventually.

Now.

He told His critics:

“How can anyone enter a strong man’s house unless he first ties up the strong man?

Then he can plunder his house.”

(Matthew 12:29)

And everywhere He went, that’s exactly what He did:

But at the cross — Matthew wants us to see it happen on a cosmic scale.

When Jesus breathes His last:

The veil tears — the separation between God and humanity collapses.

The earth quakes — creation itself convulses as the Creator dies.

Rocks split — the foundations of the old world fracture.

Tombs open — death loses its grip before Easter Sunday even arrives.

Holy ones rise — previews of resurrection walk into Jerusalem.

A centurion confesses — the nations begin to see the true King.

The women remain — faithfulness stands where fear told them to flee.

Matthew is shouting through every line:

This is not just a death.

This is a detonation.

A new creation explosion.

Look at the order:

This is Genesis all over again —

but this time, instead of forming Adam from dust,

God is forming a new humanity through the death of His Son.

The old world is cracking.

The new world is emerging.

The Kingdom is no longer near —

it’s here. Breaking in. Breaking open. Breaking through.

And here’s the part Matthew wants you to feel:

You’re not just watching history.

You’re standing at the fault line of two worlds.

The cross didn’t just forgive your sins —

it inaugurated a new reality where:

The cross didn’t close a chapter.

It opened a new creation.

It didn’t end Jesus’ mission.

It unleashed it.

And now the only question left is the one Matthew leaves hanging:

Will you live as though the old world still rules…

or will you step into the new one that began at the cross?

Sometimes judgment doesn’t look like fire from heaven.

It looks like a courtroom built on lies.

Like leaders who trade truth for convenience.

Like institutions that protect power instead of people.

That’s the scene in Matthew 26.

It’s not just about Jesus being falsely condemned.

It’s about centuries of prophetic warnings finally coming to a head.

Jesus had already said it plainly:

“You build tombs for the prophets… but you are the ones who murder them.”

He warns,

“All the righteous blood shed on earth… will come upon this generation.” — Matthew 23

This trial was the climax.

The system meant to uphold righteousness… turned against the Righteous One.

And in that courtroom — They claimed to uphold God’s law — yet violated nearly all of it:

They ultimately built a religious machine that became fully opposed to the very God it claimed to serve.

This wasn’t a surprise. It was a culmination.

This wasn’t the first time God waited patiently for corruption to run its course.

He once told Abraham:

“The sin of the Amorites has not yet reached its full measure…”

— Genesis 15:16

But when it did — judgment came.

And now, the same pattern is unfolding again.

The religious leaders — once guardians of the truth — have become hostile to it.

The cup of injustice is full…

And the consequences are already in motion.

By the end of that generation, the Temple would fall.

Jerusalem would burn.

And the invitation of the Kingdom would be handed to outsiders — not because God had given up on His people,

but because His people had rejected their God.

This moment explains why the Gospel turns outward:

To Gentiles.

To strangers.

To anyone who will say yes.

But this moment isn’t just history.

It’s a mirror.

Because injustice didn’t die with the Sanhedrin.

It lives on — anywhere power is protected more than people.

Anywhere systems silence truth to preserve control.

So what do we do?

Don’t read this story and think only of them.

Read it and examine us.

Our churches.

Our leadership.

Our hearts.

Where have we silenced truth to avoid disruption?

Where have we honored the institution… but ignored the innocent?

Because innocent people still walk into our courts and communities…

Only to be met with slander.

And still suffer for speaking the truth.

And Jesus still asks the same question today:

Will you stand with Me —

Even when it costs you everything?

Blessings,

Michael

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