Isaiah 50:4–7
Philippians 2:6–11
Matthew 26:14—27:66
OVERVIEW OF THE READINGS
Matthew’s Gospel presents the passion narrative, showing how Jesus was betrayed, handed over and crucified, yet remained obedient to the Father’s will throughout. The second reading, from Paul’s Letter to the Philippians, contains an early Christian hymn describing Christ’s self-emptying journey from divine glory to human degradation and his subsequent exaltation by God. The first reading, from the prophet Isaiah, introduces the Servant of the Lord who, though beaten and humiliated, sets his face like flint because he trusts in God’s help.
REFLECTION
My dear people of God, let us begin with the Gospel according to Matthew and its account of the passion of our Lord Jesus Christ. This narrative is lengthy and richly detailed, and we may be tempted to assume we know it so well that we can listen with only partial attention. Yet Matthew intends for us to recognise a particular truth: from the very beginning, everything is unfolding according to God’s purpose. Let us take note of the vocabulary Matthew chooses. The phrase ‘handed over’ appears repeatedly. Judas hands Jesus over to the chief priests. The chief priests hand him over to Pilate. Pilate hands him over to be crucified. On the surface, this seems to be a succession of acts of betrayal, and indeed it is. But Matthew, writing for a community steeped in the Scriptures of Israel, recognises that this same expression also denotes what God brings about. Human treachery and divine love operate on the same level, employing the same actions, yet they are directed towards completely different ends.
The betrayal itself is introduced with a detail unique to Matthew’s account. When Judas asks, ‘What will you give me to betray him to you?’ the chief priests pay him thirty pieces of silver. This particular sum calls to mind the prophecy of Zechariah, in which thirty pieces of silver was the amount paid to the shepherd of the flock destined for slaughter. Matthew intends for us to understand that even the exact quantity of blood money was known to God long before it ever fell into Judas’ hand. The Scriptures were not merely foretelling events from a distance; they were disclosing the pattern of God’s saving work.
At the Last Supper, Jesus takes bread, blesses it, breaks it and gives it to his disciples. He says, ‘Take, eat; this is my body.’ Then he takes the cup and declares, ‘This is my blood of the covenant, poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.’ He does not speak in symbols. He interprets his entire life and death as a sacrifice that establishes a new relationship between God and humanity. The blood of the covenant directs our memory towards Mount Sinai, where Moses splashedblood against the altar and sprinkled the people with blood, sealing their agreement to live by God’s law. Now Jesus proclaims that his own blood will seal a new covenant, one inscribed not upon stone tablets but upon human hearts.
Then we arrive at Gethsemane. Here we behold Jesus in profound anguish. Matthew tells us that he began to experience grief and distress. He prostrates himself upon the ground and prays, ‘My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.’ That word ‘cup’ carries heavy significance. The prophets had spoken of the cup of God’s wrath, the judgment that sinners deserve. Jesus, who possesses no sin, gazes into that cup and perceives the full weight of human rebellion against God. He recoils from it. He inquires whether another path exists. Yet then occurs the surrender that transforms everything: ‘Yet not as I will, but as you will.’ This is not the resignation of a victim bereft of choice. It is the active obedience of the Son who trusts the Father completely.
The arrest follows, and with it, the complete abandonment of Jesus by his friends. They all desert him and flee. Peter, who had sworn he would die with Jesus, denies three times that he even knows him. Matthew notes that Peter went out and wept bitterly. That detail is present for our instruction. The Church has always understood that Peter’s tears opened the door for his restoration. Failure need not be final.
The trial before Pilate reveals the political dimensions of these events. Pilate, the representative of Roman power, recognises that Jesus is innocent. His wife sends him a message warning him to have nothing to do with ‘that righteous man.’ Yet Pilate capitulates to the pressure of the crowd. He washes his hands in a symbolic gesture, but water cannot wash away injustice. The crowd shouts, ‘His blood be on us and on our children.’ In the context of Matthew’s Gospel, composed after the destruction of Jerusalem in the year 70 AD, this cry bore tragic historical resonance. Nevertheless, we must exercise caution. The blood of Christ, as the supper narrative makes clear, is poured out for the forgiveness of sins.
The account of the crucifixion itself is marked by restraint. Jesus is mocked, stripped and fastened to the cross. Those passing by hurl insults at him: ‘He saved others; he cannot save himself.’ Unknowingly, they speak the truth. If Jesus had come down from the cross, he would have been unable to save anyone. His refusal to save himself is precisely what makes salvation possible. At the moment of his death, the temple veil is torn in two from top to bottom. This is not the result of earthquake damage; it is an act of God. The veil had separated the Holy of Holies from the rest of the temple, the space where God’s presence dwelt in a unique way. With that veil now removed, God is no longer concealed behind a curtain. God is revealed in the crucified Son.
The centurion and the soldiers keeping watch over Jesus observe the earthquake and all that occurs, and they are filled with fear. They confess, ‘Truly this was the Son of God.’ Gentiles, outsiders, those who had executed the sentence, are the first to recognise the truth. The whole world is being drawn in.
Dearly beloved, now we turn to the second reading, that magnificent hymn from Paul’s Letter to the Philippians. Scholars inform us that this was probably sung in the earliest Christian communities before Paul ever committed it to writing. It captures in poetic form what the Gospels require chapters to narrate.
The hymn traces a movement, a descent and an ascent. Christ existed in the form of God. That phrase does not signify that he merely resembled God. It signifies that he shared the very being of God. Yet he did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited. The Greek word here is rare and powerful. It suggests something to be grasped, clung to, or employed for personal advantage. Christ, though he possessed divine glory, did not clutch it.
He emptied himself. This constitutes the heart of the mystery. The eternal Word, through whom all things were made, emptied himself. Not by ceasing to be God, but by assuming what he was not. He assumed the form of a slave. In the Roman world, a slave possessed no rights, no status and no independent existence. A slave was property, a tool with a voice. Christ, the Lord of glory, accepted that station.
He was born in human likeness. He entered fully into our condition, with all its limitations and vulnerabilities. And being found in human form, he humbled himself even further. He became obedient. Obedient to what? To the point of death. And not merely any death, but death on a cross. Crucifixion was so horrific that polite Roman society would not even mention it. It was reserved for rebels, slaves and the worst criminals. To die on a cross was to die utterly shamed, stripped of all dignity. Christ descended to that depth.
Then the hymn pivots. ‘Therefore God also highly exalted him.’ The word ‘therefore’ is crucial. The exaltation constitutes God’s response to his obedience. The one who descended is raised up. The one who was humbled is exalted. God bestows upon him the name that is above every name, the divine name, ‘Lord.’ And the purpose is cosmic: every knee in heaven, on earth and under the earth should bend, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.
My brothers and sisters, the first reading from Isaiah introduces us to the Servant of the Lord. This passage, the third of the four Servant Songs, was probably composed during the Babylonian exile, when God’s people dwelt in a foreign land, wondering whether God had forgotten them. The Servant speaks. He declares, ‘The Lord God has given me the tongue of those who are taught, that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word.’ The Servant is first a listener. Morning by morning, God awakens his ear to hear as those who are taught. Before he speaks, he listens. Before he sustains others, he is sustained by God. This constitutes the pattern of authentic ministry.
Then the Servant describes his suffering. ‘I gave my back to those who struck me, and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard; I did not hide my face from insult and spitting.’ These are not the actions of a passive victim. The verbs are active: I gave, I did not hide. The Servant accepts suffering as the cost of faithful witness. In ancient Mediterranean culture, the beard was a symbol of male honour and dignity. To have it plucked was to be shamed publicly, reduced to the status of a child or someone dishonoured. Spitting was the ultimate expression of contempt. The Servant endures all of this. Why? Because ‘the Lord God helps me.’ Three times in these verses the Servant declares that God helps him. That confidence transforms everything. Shame is not the final reality. Vindication is approaching.
‘Therefore I have set my face like flint.’ That image is striking. Flint is the hardest stone. The Servant’s determination is unshakeable. He knows he will not be put to shame. Not because suffering will be avoided, but because God will ultimately vindicate him.
The early Christians discerned in these verses a portrait of Jesus. When he stood before the Sanhedrin, when he was mocked by the soldiers, when he hung upon the cross, he did not conceal his face. He endured. He trusted. The silence of Jesus before his accusers is not weakness. It is the strength of perfect trust.
THE REFLECTION IN A NUTSHELL
Matthew’s passion narrative shows Jesus betrayed, abandoned and crucified, yet always in control because he trusts the Father completely. The hymn from Philippians traces Christ’s journey from divine glory through self-emptying humiliation to exaltation, revealing that God’s path leads downward into love. The Servant in Isaiah accepts beating and shame with unshakeable confidence, setting his face like flint because God assists him. Together these readings summon us to follow the same path, trusting not in our own strength but in the God who vindicates the humble and raises the crucified. May we, like Christ and the Servant, set our faces like flint towards whatever lies ahead, confident that the Father who helped them will also help us.
