The Scandal of the Cross and Curtain
How a Torn Temple Veil Reveals God's Invitation
When we think about Good Friday, we naturally focus on the cross—Jesus’ agony, his sacrifice, the weight of our sin. And rightfully so. But it’s difficult to look at for long. Because the cross scandalizes. It offends.
We proclaim that God in human flesh was crucified. That human sin runs so deep it required wooden beams and iron nails.
Was there no other way? Are we just that tangled in sin?
The apostle Paul said the message of the cross was a stumbling block to the Jews of his time, and foolishness to Gentiles. The Messiah wasn't supposed to die? And how can a man who claims to be God die? But for those willing to face the offence of the cross: they behold that it is the power of God for salvation.
I want us to see God’s power in the scandal of the cross. And to do so, I want to draw our attention to something that happened at the moment of Jesus’ death.
A detail reported by Matthew, Mark, and Luke:
The temple curtain was torn in two.
This seemingly minor detail reveals as much about what happened on Good Friday as the cross itself. There is a deep satisfaction in tearing apart some things: like a large bill finally paid off. Before Christ died, he said, “It is finished.” And with satisfaction, God tore the curtain. When that curtain tore: everything changed. And when we see what this means for us, we too will be satisfied.
We read in Matthew 27:45-51:
"From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land. About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, "Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?" (which means "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?") ... And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split."
The Curtain
Unfathomable things unfolded. Nothing is more difficult to comprehend than beholding The Son of God—tortured and crucified—crying out in agony. Alongside him, creation itself responded: darkness covered the land, the earth quaked.
At the very moment Jesus died, something unfolded not only at the cross, but at the heart of Israel's worship—the Temple.
There, what Jesus accomplished in his death was unveiled:
The curtain was torn in two.
The Temple in Jerusalem was built to emphasize distance.
As you moved closer to the centre, access became more restricted—until you reached the Holy of Holies, the dwelling place of God’s presence. That innermost space was veiled by an enormous curtain:
Sixty feet tall, thirty wide, and thick as a man's hand.
It shouted a clear message:
“You cannot come any closer.”
Only the high priest could enter—and only once a year, on the Day of Atonement. Even then, it required seclusion, ritual bathing, spotless linen, and a sequence of sacrifices. The high priest carried not just blood—but the hopes of the people to receive forgiveness from God.
Passing through the curtain require all this preparation for one reason:
God's holiness is not to be taken lightly.
God isn’t just holy.
He is Holy, Holy, Holy—utterly other, blindingly pure, and overwhelmingly glorious.
To enter God’s presence irreverently was not just improper—it was deadly.
No one knew this better than the high priest—the only one tasked to enter this sacred and holy space.
Scripture tells us he wore bells on his garment so others could hear if he was still moving inside the Holy of Holies.
Over time, they started tying a rope around the priest’s ankle. That way, if he died before the holiness of God, they could drag him out.
Here’s the point:
The curtain wasn’t just decorative—it was a warning sign declaring:
“The Holiness of God.”
Our Condition
I know we might struggle with this concept of holiness. In our modern world, it’s easier to adopt an irreverent posture: “We don't need to tread fearfully before God—that’s just outdated religious ignorance.” But rather than dismiss God’s holiness as an uninformed ancient fear, what if we pause to consider what holiness reveals: not just about God’s character, but about our own condition?
Because the very fact that we can be dismissive of God's holiness is revealing—isn’t it?
For a moment, I want to turn to a vision given to the prophet Zechariah, some five-hundred years before Jesus was born. Zechariah writes:
“God showed me Joshua the high priest … Now Joshua was dressed in filthy clothes as he stood before the angel.”
Given all the protocols to ensure this never happened, this was shocking enough! But it gets even more shocking still:
It wasn’t just any filth.
Years ago, Julia and I adopted a dog named Sammy. She was even a model once!
Don’t let her good looks deceive you. One time, after we left Sammy outside to play, we heard her scratching at the door. When we opened it … she was filthy.
It wasn’t just any filth.
She had found a pile of dung, rolled in it, covered herself entirely. She stood there—looking up at us with pride … completely oblivious.
The Hebrew word used to describe the filth on the high priest is:
Dung.
Imagine the horror!
The high priest, who went through such meticulous procedures to be clean, stands before God like Sammy.
And remember: The High Priest represents the people before God.
This vision is a picture of us before God.
We can approach God thinking we're presentable—perhaps even proud of our accomplishments, proclaiming our own goodness—yet we can be completely unaware that what we consider impressive is filthy in God's sight.
The vision given to Zechariah unveils the contamination of human sinfulness before divine holiness.
It’s uncomfortable.
We’d rather dismiss it.
But that would be a denial of the truth.
I want us to see:
The holiness of God and the sinfulness of humanity.
This is why the curtain existed.
We needed that barrier.
But as we will see, God's intention was always to tear down that barrier. Because God doesn't want to leave us in our sin. Like Julia with Sammy, God does the messy work of cleaning us up. This is why we need to look at one more detail in Zechariah's vision:
The angel said to those who were standing before him, “Take off his filthy clothes.” Then he said to Joshua, “See, I have taken away your sin, and I will put fine garments on you.”
Do you see?
God provides the cleansing Joshua and the people couldn't accomplish.
Then God says:
Listen, High Priest Joshua … I am going to bring my servant, the Branch … and I will remove the sin of this land in a single day.
This is a promise of the coming Messiah.
And until his arrival, five hundred years later, the curtain remained, saying:
“This far and no further.”
That is ... until Good Friday.
When Jesus—the Branch—was broken for us.
The Branch Was Broken For Us
God was true and faithful to the promise revealed to Zechariah: God removed our sin—once and for all time—in a single day. Once again, let’s turn to our passage from the gospel of Matthew:
When Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom.
The instant Jesus died:
The veil tore before him.
Not after. Not later. The moment Christ gave up his spirit, the barrier was gone—and access was opened. Not because of anything we did—but because of what Jesus accomplished on the cross.
The tearing of the curtain and Christ’s body are inseparably connected. The author of Hebrews helps us connect the dots to see the reason why. He writes:
Therefore, brothers and sisters, since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way opened for us through the curtain, that is, his body, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near to God with a sincere heart and with the full assurance that faith brings.
When that massive barrier was torn, so was the record of sin that stood against us.
Jesus canceled the record of debt.
Took it all away. Nailing it to the cross.
Our sin was removed—in a single day.
But how does Jesus dying on a cross bring forgiveness?
He took our place. He bore our guilt—absorbing the judgment our sin deserved. This is the mystery of God in Christ, dying for us. He who was without sin became sin that we might become the righteousness of God. We exchanged clothes! He took on our filthy garments and we now wear his fine robes of holiness.
The author Walter Wangerin Jr. wrote a story called Ragman. A man who walked through the city calling, “New rags for old!”
To a weeping woman, he gave a clean cloth, taking her tear-soaked handkerchief. Then he began to weep her tears while she was left without sorrow.
To a bleeding girl, he gave a yellow bonnet, taking her bloodied bandage. Her wound transferred to his forehead.
To a one-armed man, he gave his jacket, leaving the man with two strong arms while the Ragman now had only one.
To a drunk under a ragged blanket, he gave new clothes while wrapping himself in the old.
With each exchange, the Ragman grew weaker—bleeding, limping, burdened. Finally, he collapsed at a landfill and died, surrounded by the rags of others’ suffering.
This is what Christ did on Good Friday.
He became our substitute. He took our rags of sin and suffering upon himself, so we might be made whole.
And this is what Jesus achieved for us on Good Friday.
Unprecedented access!
Into the presence of our Holy, Holy, Holy God.
For centuries, God’s presence was locked behind layers of restriction—one person, once a year, after elaborate rituals and sacrifices. But through his death, Jesus fulfilled the entire system.
The invitation now?
“Let us draw near with confidence.”
Not through some earthly curtain—but through the body of Christ broken and given for us.
This is the miracle of Good Friday.
What Does This Mean For Us Today?
But what does all this mean for us today, right now, in our everyday lives?
“Let us draw near into the presence of the Holy, Holy, Holy God.”
That’s the invitation that only Christ can offer. It feels like a scandal. Because it is! And it changes everything about how we approach God in our daily lives.
When we’re out of hope, out of energy, or out of steam, what do we do?
We don’t look to what we must do but to what Christ has already done.
As James Proctor wrote in his poem It is Finished:
Cast your deadly 'doing' down,
down at Jesus' feet;
Stand in Him,
in Him alone,
gloriously complete.
Some of us carry guilt and shame that clings like a second skin. We feel too far gone—filthy. But the torn curtain says otherwise: Your worst sins are not the final word. You don't have to clean yourself up first—Christ already did. Your access to God doesn't hinge on how good you are or how bad you are, but on his finished work. And now, we are dressed in the fine garments of Christ's holiness—not our own. This is why we have full access to God the Father.
Others of us long for an encounter with God, but we can feel like God is hidden away. But the curtain is gone. In Christ, you are not outside looking in. In Christ, you are already in the Holy of Holies—even when you don’t feel it. Draw near with confidence, not in your experiences, but in what Christ has done!
And when we suffer—when the grief is raw and we ache for answers—what we need most isn't explanation, but presence. The torn curtain means you have that presence. Not a distant deity, but a crucified Saviour who understands pain from the inside.
That’s what Good Friday gives us:
A love that reached all the way down.
A God who tore the veil, silenced the boast of sin and death, and made a way back—forever.
Yes, the cross of Christ is an offence. It exposes us. But as Tim Keller puts it:
We are more sinful and flawed in ourselves than we ever dared believe, yet at the very same time we are more loved and accepted in Jesus Christ than we ever dared hope.
This is the scandal of the cross.
There’s no getting around it.
We can’t find our way to God by avoiding it and looking away.
We can’t find our way to God by trying to walk around it.
We can only enter into the presence of God through the cross.
So: Pass through the curtain.
With confidence.
Today, we celebrate that through the cross of Christ, our access into the presence of our Holy, Holy, Holy God is not just temporarily allowed. It is permanently secured—now and forever.
God, our Father, we stand in awe of what happened on Good Friday. Not just the sacrifice of Jesus—as staggering as that was—but the curtain being torn down, the invitation extended. Thank you that we no longer need to stand at a distance. Thank you that we can approach you with confidence because of Christ’s torn body. Help us to live in the reality of this access, to draw near to you not just today but every day. Amen.