We begin each day by looking in the mirror. It’s one of the first things we do—brushing our teeth, fixing our hair, applying makeup, adjusting our clothes. And just before we leave the house, we give ourselves one last look to make sure everything is in place. Even throughout the day, we catch our reflection in car mirrors, glass doors, and passing windows. Whether consciously or not, we are always checking—always looking.
Why is that? Because a mirror reflects what’s in front of it. It shows us if something’s off, out of place, or in need of attention. We rely on it to correct our appearance before facing the world. But what if there’s something deeper we need to examine—something a mirror cannot show?
The Gospel of Matthew, chapter 27, gives us a different kind of mirror. It’s not glass or metal, and it doesn’t reflect our face—it reflects our soul. This chapter doesn’t simply tell the story of Jesus’ suffering and crucifixion; it invites us to step into it. It asks us to slow down, to observe carefully, and to ask ourselves the uncomfortable question: What does the cross reveal about me?
The chapter opens with Judas, one of Jesus’ closest followers, who returns the thirty pieces of silver he received for betraying his Lord. Stricken with guilt, he confesses, “I have sinned.” But instead of returning to Jesus, he isolates himself in despair and ultimately takes his own life. The religious leaders, unmoved by his remorse, coldly dismiss him. In this moment, we see the devastating weight of sin carried alone—and the danger of refusing to turn back to the one person who could forgive and restore.
This image forces us to look inward. How do we handle our own guilt and failure? Do we try to manage it ourselves, hiding our shame and carrying the weight alone? Or do we bring our brokenness to Jesus, who willingly carried our sins in His own body? The cross is not a place of condemnation, but of healing. It reminds us that our sins are far too heavy to bear on our own—but Jesus has already borne them for us.
As the story continues, Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, presents a choice to the crowd: release Jesus or Barabbas, a known criminal. The people, stirred by fear and pressure, choose Barabbas. Pilate, despite knowing Jesus is innocent, yields to the crowd and washes his hands of responsibility. We see here how easy it is to make the wrong choice when under pressure—how quickly conviction can be sacrificed on the altar of convenience.
Each of us faces our own daily choices between truth and compromise. When the pressure mounts—when we’re tired, stressed, or afraid—do we stand firm, or do we fold? The crowd’s decision wasn’t just a moment in history; it’s a pattern that repeats itself in our lives every time we choose what is easy over what is right.
Then comes the mockery. Jesus is beaten, clothed in a robe of scorn, crowned with thorns, and paraded as a fake king. Even as He hangs on the cross, the insults continue. The Son of God is humiliated by those He came to save. And yet, He endures it without retaliation. This part of the story is perhaps the most piercing, because it asks us a difficult question: Do we, in our own way, mock Jesus too?
Not always with our words—but perhaps with our lives. When we say we follow Him but ignore His call to forgive, to love, to live humbly and purely, are we not contradicting our confession? When we compartmentalize our faith—keeping it in church on Sunday but absent from our decisions, our relationships, and our priorities the rest of the week—are we not acting like those who mocked Him, while claiming to know Him? Mockery doesn’t always sound loud—it can whisper quietly through compromise and indifference.
At the moment of Jesus’ death, something extraordinary happens. Darkness falls, the earth shakes, and the curtain in the temple—the thick veil that separated God’s holy presence from the people—is torn from top to bottom. This was no accident. The tearing of the curtain was a divine declaration: the way to God is now open. No longer does access to the Father depend on priests, rituals, or temple sacrifices. Jesus has become the final, once-for-all sacrifice. In His death, He removes the barriers between us and God.
This act reshapes how we approach our Creator. We are no longer outsiders, hoping for a glimpse of His presence. We are welcomed in. We can speak to Him directly, worship freely, and walk with Him daily—not because we have earned the right, but because Christ has made a way.
But do we live like that’s true? Do we approach God with boldness, or do we hold back, forgetting the wonder of what has been done for us? The torn curtain reminds us not only that God is accessible, but that His presence is with us always—at home, at work, in joy, and in sorrow. He is not confined to a building. His Spirit dwells within His people.
As the chapter draws to a close, the noise and chaos fade into silence. Jesus is taken down from the cross. A man named Joseph of Arimathea, risking his reputation, gives Jesus a proper burial. A few faithful women remain nearby, watching, waiting, grieving. They don’t preach or perform miracles. They simply stay. Quiet, steady, present.
There’s something holy about their silence. In a world that often values loud declarations and visible results, their faithfulness reminds us that sometimes, the truest devotion is quiet. Sometimes it looks like showing up when no one else does. Remaining when others walk away. Believing when hope feels thin.
Waiting on God doesn’t always come with answers or resolution. But faithfulness in the waiting means holding on—believing that even in silence, He is working. Like Joseph and the women, we are invited to stay close, even when the light dims and the path ahead is unclear.
And so, we return to where we began—looking in the mirror. But not just the one that reflects our face. There is another mirror now, the cross, standing tall and unflinching, reflecting what we cannot always see on our own. In its shadow, we are asked: Who am I in this story? Pilate, washing his hands? The crowd, choosing the easier path? The soldiers, mocking what they do not understand? Or Joseph and the women, quietly faithful?
The mirror shows us not just who we are, but who we are invited to become. Because in the end, the cross is not only a symbol of suffering. It is the place where love triumphed, mercy poured out, and the door to God was flung wide open—for you, for me, for all.
Upside Down Faith 