Day 218

Isaiah 25–26 | Matthew 26:47–68

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Growing up as a pastor’s kid, I used to think the church building had secrets.

While Dad taught the midweek Bible study and Mom worked on bulletin boards, my siblings and I would explore—wandering the hallways and empty Sunday school rooms like we were Lewis and Clark discovering untouched land.

The best spot? A long, pitch-black tunnel behind the baptistery that ran the length of the sanctuary.

It had cinder block walls, a concrete floor, and that musty smell that only churches and attics seem to get. Sometimes it was lined with leftover wedding decorations or choir music. Sometimes completely empty. But always dark.

And for some reason, I thought it was sacred.

Off limits.

Holy, even.

Not because there was anything actually spiritual about it, but because it felt like we weren’t supposed to be there. I remember thinking often—half scared, half awestruck—that one day we’d walk down that hallway and Holy Ghost Himself would be waiting to scold us.

That’s how I imagined holiness as a kid.

A place you probably weren’t allowed to enter.

A God you should probably stay on the other side of.

The Curtain and the Robes

In today’s reading, Jesus stands on trial before the high priest. He’s silent—until the moment they demand an answer.

And then He gives them one.

“You will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power and coming on the clouds of heaven.”

Then the high priest tore his robes…

It’s pretty dramatic when you picture it. Caiaphas thinks he’s caught a blasphemer. He tears his garments in outrage. The court erupts.

But just a few verses later—after Jesus is beaten, mocked, and crucified—God tears something, too.

Not robes, but the curtain.

From top to bottom.

Because the God I once imagined guarding the tunnel in our old church?

He wasn’t trying to keep us out.

Instead, He was tearing down everything that kept us from coming in.

No More Barriers

That curtain in the temple went far beyond decoration.

It separated the Holy of Holies from everything else.

It was thick. Intimidating. Sacred.

And only one man—one time each year—was allowed past it.

Until Jesus died.

And the moment He did, that thick curtain tore like tissue paper.

Because holiness wasn’t being hidden anymore. It was being handed to us.

The God I feared would scold us kids in the dark hallway? He was actually waiting to welcome us into the light.

From Distant to Dwelling

Isaiah 25 says: “He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces…”

And Psalm 91 promises: “He will cover you with His pinions, and under His wings you will find refuge…”

That’s the Gospel.

Not a God who waits behind curtains and cinder blocks. But a God who tears them all down so He can be near.

We don’t have to crawl through tunnels to find Him. Because He comes to find us first.

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Father, thank You that there’s no more curtain. No more guessing. No more earning. Thank You that Your holiness didn’t stay behind a veil, and that Your presence doesn’t wait in the dark to scold me. You meet me with mercy. You cover me with grace. And You welcome me not with rules, but with arms wide open. Let me live today like the curtain’s really gone. Because it is. Because Jesus made it so. Amen.