There’s a tear in everything.
Jesus dies, God dies, and the earth shakes and rips itself apart.
And the veil between the living and the dead is slashed open and holy ones who were once dead are now raised to life and praising in the streets.
And the curtain in the Temple is ripped in two, the barrier to the holiest place on Earth now wide open.
And time and space are confused as darkness falls too early.
The Creator and Sustainer of the universe dies, and in that moment things unravel. The grubby politics and the brutal-but-calculated execution have inadvertently stabbed a hole in the cosmos, and through this wound a soldier glimpses the truth.
I used to think the curtain in the Temple was a thick, dark, black thing. But in reality it was red and blue, purple and white, representing fire and air, water and air. So when it tears, it speaks to this world – a world of grass and glass, trees and concrete – being exposed to the world of the divine and holy, of God and angels. That was always something to be feared.
But if there’s a wound in the world, then it’s one through which healing can come. The last time the heavens opened, God announced that Jesus was his Son. This time, the truth is uttered by a man steeped in blood, but it’s the truth nevertheless. Of all the wounds this Centurion has seen, this is the one that saves the world. After all, there was never meant to be a barrier between us and God. “There’s a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in,” sang Leonard Cohen. On Good Friday, that’s more true than ever.
There’s a wound in the world, but beyond the bruises and the nails, it’s a wound that heals.
And in the silence of a tomb, the healing begins.