It Is Finished: Matthew 27:45-56

From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.

Darkness. Not an eclipse—impossible during Passover's full moon. Something else: creation itself recoiling, the sun refusing to shine on the murder of its maker. Three hours of preternatural night.

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?").

The cry ripped through the darkness. Aramaic words, torn from Psalm 22. The Son crying out to the Father who had always answered, always been present, always loved him—and finding, for the first time, something like absence.

This was the cup. This was what he had dreaded in Gethsemane. Not just physical death but the full weight of human sin, the Father's righteous wrath, the isolation that sinners deserved. He drank it all.

When some of those standing there heard this, they said, "He's calling Elijah."

Eli—Elijah. They misheard, or pretended to. Mock even his dying prayer.

Immediately one of them ran and got a sponge. He filled it with wine vinegar, put it on a staff, and offered it to Jesus to drink.

A small mercy in the mockery. Wine vinegar to wet his lips—or perhaps to prolong his life, to see if Elijah would come.

The rest said, "Now leave him alone. Let's see if Elijah comes to save him."

Leave him alone. Let him suffer. Entertainment from execution.

And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit.

A loud voice—strength at the end, not whimpered but declared. John tells us the word: Tetelestai. It is finished.

He gave up his spirit. Death did not take it from him. He released it. Even in dying, he was in control.

At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom.

At that moment. As Jesus died, something happened in the temple. The massive curtain separating the Holy Place from the Most Holy Place—the barrier between God and humanity—ripped from top to bottom.

From top to bottom. Not torn by human hands from below. Torn from above. God ripping open access to himself.

The earth shook, the rocks split and the tombs broke open.

The earth convulsed. Rocks cracked. Tombs gaped. Creation itself was responding to the death of its Creator.

The bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. They came out of the tombs after Jesus' resurrection and went into the holy city and appeared to many people.

Resurrection began spilling over. The power of Jesus' death was already breaking the grip of the grave. Holy people rose and walked.

When the centurion and those with him who were guarding Jesus saw the earthquake and all that had happened, they were terrified, and exclaimed, "Surely he was the Son of God!"

A Roman centurion—pagan, occupier, executioner—spoke the truth. The darkness, the cry, the death, the earthquake, the torn curtain—it all pointed to one conclusion.

Surely he was the Son of God.

The first confession after the cross came from a Gentile soldier. He had crucified him. Now he testified to who he had killed.

Many women were there, watching from a distance.

The women stayed. The male disciples had scattered, but the women watched. Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, the mother of Zebedee's sons. They witnessed what the men fled.

The Son of God was dead. The curtain was torn. The earth had shaken.

But Sunday was coming.