When I began sharing my thoughts on my study of Matthew’s Gospel, framed as a conversation, I figured there would be days like this. I wanted to share with you what I studied today because it is important. Not as part of the story, but as. The author who is being transformed. After this morning’s devotions I was left praying for repentance and crying out to God for my unsaved family members and friends.
I was reading Matthew 9:35-38. This passage begins to expound on Jesus’ ministry and his expansion beyond Galilee into the surrounding cities and villages. He traveled through large cities, centers of power and wealth, and small villages, centers of the obscure and the poor. The significance for me this AM was that the gospel is for all socioeconomic classes. Matthew records that he taught in the synagogues in all of these places.
Verse 36 says the he saw the crowds, implying that even in the centers of power and wealth that there were crowds that gathered to hear him. The word “saw” implies a spiritual awareness of their condition. Matthew describes that he saw people were “harassed and helpless.” When we think of the harassed and the helpless we thing of poor people and their physical condition. The troubles that they are experiencing.
If only they could get food or had a place to stay. While these things are important, I believe Matthew was describing their spiritual condition and by implication their spiritual leaders. We need to look at Matthew’s description and implication and contrast that with today’s Christianity. Matthew says that he grieved, felt compassion, for them. He felt genuine grief for their spiritual condition.
Satan and his demons have successfully perverted our society today.Most of us are not called to be preachers. The requirements for being preachers is laid out in his letters to Timothy. But, we are called. There is a sequence for being called and there is a definition: A calling is God’s divine summoning of people to Himself, to His ways, and to His service. This calls for a basic understanding of that this universal calling of people precedes specialized callings, like preaching and prophecy. The proof of this is in 2 Corinthians 5:17-20, where we are universally called to be “ambassadors of Christ and stewards of the gospel.”
First we are called to salvation – to have a personal relationship with Him. Personal worship of Him. Personal prayer with Him. Next we are called to see – learn to view the world through Kingdom eyes and be aware of the spiritually lost, neglected and marginalized. And finally, we are called to serve – we are to engage in prayer, giving, personal witness, acts of mercy, and reconciliation.
In verses 37 and 38 of Matthew 9, Jesus likens the time we live in as “harvest.” There is a shortage of laborers. In the first century, there were only 13 people on the team. Jesus and his 12 disciples weren’t enough to carry the gospel to the millions of people that inhabited the earth at that time. Today there are roughly two billion professed Christians on the earth and we are still experiencing a labor shortage in the harvest fields.
Where is our harvest field? Our first harvest field is in our own home. All of us have family members that are unsaved and have fallen away. We should be praying daily for God to use us in our home, or if we aren’t there to intervene on our behalf for our family and friends that aren’t saved.
As Christians, we should be using our platforms to further the spreading of the Gospel. Even if we are selling a product. Surrender that platform to Christ. Pray earnestly (with grief, fire, and passion) for the Kingdom Harvest. If we aren’t doing this, we need to repent and then move forward in His perfect will.
Centurion Bernulius Severus sat on the rough plank floor in front of his cot, meticulously cleaning his armor. He laid a clean cloth out before him and removed a brush and a small bag of sand from his haversack. He sprinkled the sand over his segmented armor and went to work with the brush.
Ben Severus cleans his armor
He was glad the garrison was outside the city. He hated leading his patrols into different quarters of the unwashed. He wouldn’t have even been with the patrol last night if he hadn’t had to set an example for one of his men.
It was a reasonable assumption that some of the men in the garrison would convert to this new religion. The rankers weren’t the brightest bunch. He continued to clean his armor.
What he needed now was the heat of the baths, then food, and then sleep. He sighed as he put away his now gleaming armor. He gathered his supplies to perform his toilet and headed to the baths.
🗣️ Summoned
“Ben!” A familiar voice rang out. He turned from the basin in the bathhouse and looked at his friend Centurion Flavius Valdus. Flavius was powerfully built, with a long nose, a short blond haircut, and piercing blue eyes. He carried his helmet under his arm.
“I’ve been looking for you all over!” He exclaimed and turned his head back toward the door. “In here.”
Flavius summons Ben to meet the Legate
Bernulius, or Ben as his peers called him, stared agape as a ranker entered holding his cleaned armor and a fresh tunic.
“Leave, Paulus,” Flavius commanded, giving the young Paulus a smack on the back of his head.
“What is happening that you brought my armor and tunic to me?” He asked.
“Commodus read your report,” Flavius said, grabbing his cloth and bending down to towel off Ben’s legs. “He’s got questions.”
“Stop,” Ben snapped. “I can do this. When does he want me?”
“Now,” Flavius said, yanking the tunic into place.
Flavius helps Ben lace up his armor
He helped Ben with his armor, hurriedly tying off the leather straps on one side while Ben tied the other side. Ben sat down and laced his sandals. Flavius stood patiently, holding Ben’s gladius in its shoulder harness.
Ben stood up and took the harness from Flavius, slipping it over his shoulder. He picked up his helmet, tucking it under his left arm.
“Well,” Ben asked.
Flavius walked in circles around him, looking for flaws. “I don’t see anything. Pretty good for five minutes, eh?” He broke into a wide grin.
Ben grinned back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He turned and walked out the door.
“Ben,” Flavius called. “Keep your wits. He wasn’t angry.”
Ben looked back and waved at his friend through the steam coming out of the bathhouse.
Ben is on his way to meet the Legate
“That’s what worries me,” he muttered.
Ben stepped around the bathhouse and looked down the street that led to Commodus’s complex of command buildings. He squared his shoulders and moved out briskly.
“Of course, he wants to talk with me,” he thought. “I saw a little action last night, and besides, a good Legate will want to talk to all of his officers eventually.”
“So, I didn’t find anyone; it happens,” he continued under his breath.
He tugged at his armor and glanced down at his helmet. He glanced around and hastily put it on his still-wet head, tying the leather chinstrap tightly under his chin.
He approached the Legate’s guard detail outside the command complex and showed his order to pass through. Then he decided.
“Be straight. Be blunt.” He thought. “Say it plain. Say it clean. Don’t flinch. Don’t embellish. Don’t apologize.” He crossed into the chaos of the orderly building.
𓂃✍︎ The Orderly Room
“Name.” The clerk didn’t even look up. Ben looked at the scene before him. Clerks were bent over wax tablets, crunching numbers or reading personnel reports. Legionaries were sitting on stools, talking over pay problems with clerks or adjusting service times in preparation for retirement.
He looked down at the beneficiarius now staring up at him.
“Centurion Bernulius Severus,” he said evenly, calmly. “I was commanded to present myself to the Legate.” He handed over his orders.
The clerk looked at the parchment in his hand. “Very well, take a seat.”
Ben remained standing. The clerk looked back up at him and sighed.
Ben waits
“Centurion, I understand that you were summoned.” He waved his hand at the stools lined up against the opposite wall, all occupied. “So, were they all.”
The clerk rose out of his seat and tossed Ben’s orders on a pile that adorned the table behind him. He limped back to his chair. “Please take a seat, Centurion. When the Legate is ready, he’ll call for you.”
Styluses scratched steadily against wax, clerks muttered to themselves, cursing now and then. Legionaries talked with the tesserarius, or duty roster clerks, in hushed tones, laughing or joking about stories told on both sides. Couriers entered, breathing hard, and left, sometimes breathing even harder, depending on who they had the pleasure of talking to. Braziers smoldered in corners, and the scent of sweat, wax, and ink clung to the air.
And Centurion Bernulius Severus waited.
The door suddenly slammed open. The sun streaming through cascaded bronze flashes of the entrant’s armor. Two men unfastened their chinstraps, letting their helmets hang over their shoulders. Ben jumped to his feet, fist to chest.
The sudden silence in the room was deafening.
“Sit down, son,” said Quintus Varinius Maximus, the Primus Pilus or senior centurion of the Legion. “This isn’t my house anymore. That man is now in residence.” Beside him, Titus Helvius Rufus, the Garrison Prefect, chuckled.
Ben sat down as instructed. The second and third in command of the Legion were here. This had nothing to do with him, he convinced himself.
“Wait,” Titus said suddenly, clicking his tongue with recognition. “You’re Bernulius Severus, right? Ben. The other centurions call you Ben.”
Ben’s heart sank.
“You’d better come with us, Severus,” Quintus said. “You’re why we’re here.” Quintus moved down the line of waiting men.
“Come on, Ben,” Titus said quietly. “I don’t know him very well, but I do know that Commodus doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Ben got up and moved out behind Titus, back a step and a little to the left.
They moved out of the orderly room and made their way through the halls of the complex, silent except for the sharp clack of their sandals. Every twenty feet or so, guards snapped to attention as Quintus and Titus passed.
Titus, Quintus, and Ben walk to the Legate’s office
“No embellishment. The straight truth.” Ben thought. He still didn’t understand how his report, one out of hundreds, had brought the Legate’s attention. His ignorance of that bothered him more than anything.
They approached an ordinary door. Ben would have missed it for the small sign next to it, Legatus. Quintus knocked sharply, once.
⚔️ Before the Eagle-Green Eyes of Commodus
“Enter,” commanded a voice from the other side.
Ben followed Quintus and Titus into an office that he would become very familiar with over the next few years.
Commodus kept his seat. The three men in front of him saluted, fist to chest. He let them hold it for a moment longer than necessary. He continued reading the logistics report, handed to him by his chief clerk, Marcus. Marcus was more than a clerk, but no one needed to know that, yet.
Commodus waved his hand, dismissing the salutes, but continued to read the report. Ben dropped his hand smartly and studied his new commander.
He was a patrician for sure. His nose, as much as his rank, marked him as nobility. He carried a full head of black curly hair, graying at the temples and cut short, as was proper for a soldier of Rome. He was of average height, but compact and powerfully built. His shoulders were solid. Ben guessed that there wasn’t an ounce of fat around his middle. Two things caught his eye that he considered crucial; the man’s forearms were covered with nicks and cuts, much like his own, and those of Quintus and Titus. He trained. And by the looks of his forearms, the training was hard and often. Ben glanced at the gladius on the stand behind him. This wasn’t an army-issued sword. Ben could see Commodus’s issued sword in a harness hanging on a peg over a crimson cloak from a stand by the door.
His eyes were what caught most of Ben’s attention. They were deep green. This was so rare in Rome that people frequently equated green eyes and their owners as a spirit familiar with eagles.
He suddenly realized those rare green eyes were locked on him, and his gut tightened.
“Thank you, Marcus. You can go.” The chief clerk nodded and exited the room through another door.
Commodus picked up a wax tablet to his left and studied it for a moment.
“Centurion Severus, you’re here to give me an account in your own words, about what you think happened last night,” Commodus said, without looking up.
He looked up suddenly and directly at Quintus and Titus.
“Quintus. Titus. You’re here because his conduct reflects on your command.”
Ben cleared his throat. “The truth,” he thought.
“Legate,” Ben began, “in the third hour of the night, my patrol arrived on the eastern ridge in the Jewish Quarter, above the marketplace.”
Commodus was looking down, following along with the report.
Ben continued. “We had received intelligence that Christians were gathering in a house on the ridge belonging to a Jewish potter named Stephanas. We searched until media nox and found nothing.”
Commodus cut in quietly. “Did you question this Stephanas?”
“We did, Legate,” Ben confirmed.
“‘We.’ Interesting. Did your entire patrol conduct the questioning? Or did one man take the lead?”
Ben hesitated. “I did, Legate!”
A slight nod from Commodus. “Better.”
Quintus and Titus exchanged a glance
He gestured for him to continue.
“Finding nothing and receiving no useful information, we resumed our patrol and returned to the Garrion in the third hour of the morning.”
Commodus set the tablet aside.
“Thank you, Centurion.”
He leaned back.
“Now, a question for you.”
Ben stiffened.
“These Christians.” Commodus’s voice was almost conversational. “What do you think of them?”
“Sir?”
“Speak freely, Severus. I have other matters to attend to. One of your men converted, did he not?”
“Yes, Legate,” Ben confirmed.
“And you formed no opinion?”
“Legate, soldiers are superstitious. They call on every god that they know before they go into battle. The man in question is a citizen. He may worship as he chooses.”
Titus’s jaw tightened.
Commodus’s gaze sharpened.
“Indeed. And Stephanas, according to this report,” he tapped the tablet, “is also a Roman citizen.”
He paused. Then quietly: “So tell me, Centurion… On what grounds did you enter his home and lay hands on him?”
Ben looked at his Legate, stupefied.
Commodus softened his features. “You made a mistake, Severus. Nothing more.”
At last, he stood and walked to the sideboard. He lifted the pitcher and clay jar and poured a measured draught of wine. His motions were calm and unhurried.
He glanced at Quintus, then at Titus, inviting them into the game he was about to play, before settling on Ben.
“Wine?”
📜New Policy
Commodus handed a cup to Quintus and another to Titus. He then poured a one for Ben. He did not drink. He waited while the room stilled.
“Rome,” he began quietly, staring at the cup in his hands, “has never cared which gods a man worships.”
He paced deliberately back to his desk.
“We are not like the Judeans, clinging to one mountain and a temple. Nor are we like the Greeks, quarreling with their philosophers. Rome understands something deeper.”
He looked up at them.
“A man may have a dozen gods if it pleases him. We do not govern spirits. We govern people.”
He took a small sip of wine.
Rome endures because of taxes and loyalty
“Do you know why Rome endures? Because we only demand two things: taxes and loyalty. Pay one, swear to the other, and the Empire leaves you in peace.
He carefully set his cup down. His tone cooled.
“But these Christians…” the word curled upward like smoke. “They refuse sacrifice to the emperor. They call no man ‘Lord’ but their Christ. They swear allegiance to a kingdom not of this world.”
He scoffed. “What is a kingdom without territory?”
“It is an idea that takes root in households, slaves, soldiers.”
He turned his eyes on Ben.
“A people who will not kneel to Caesar cannot be trusted to stand for Rome.”
Commodus rose and walked behind the men, looking at a map of Syria pinned to the wall.
“I have seen this sect in the capital. Soldiers refusing to carry out sentences. Slaves defying orders, Wives preaching to their husbands. It is spreading through the Empire the way a fire spreads through dry thatch.”
He stepped back around to face them.
“And, when religion begins to behave like rebellion, men like me…” he paused. “Men like us are appointed to stop it.”
Titus shifted his weight. Quintus swallowed.
Commodus folded his arms. “If a handful of Judeans want to mutter prayers in their synagogues, Rome does not care. But this…” He tapped the wax tablet on his desk. “…this movement grows in secret. It recruits from every class. It claims a king. And every king is a rival to Caesar, even dead ones.”
His gaze was fixed on Ben.
“So, understand this: your mistake last night was not excessive force. It was ignorance.”
Ben stiffened but did not speak.
“From this day forward,” Commodus said, his voice low and precise. “You will treat Christians, not as harmless worshipers, but as a potential faction. A political threat.”
He turned to Quintus and Titus.
“You will watch them. You will not provoke them.”
He turned, and his eagle-green eyes bored into Ben.
“And you will not create martyrs. Martyrs multiply.’
Then with quiet finality.
“I will not permit this religion – this rebellion – to grow under my command.”
He calmly lifted his cup and took a sip.
“Are we understood?”
Next Week’s Post
👉 Part III: The Wound, the Rescue, and the Invasion
Matthew is a mysterious figure, even though we think we know him
Why Matthew? Scripture give a glimpse into the man, and the early church fathers preserve only fragments of his life, evangelism, and death. We aren’t sure how he died, but he is listed in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. He could have just as easily died at home in bed from natural causes. Matthew is one of the most enigmatic authors in the Bible. So, the natural questions arise.
Who was Matthew?
Why is his Gospel the longest one?
Why did the early church rely primarily on his Gospel for discipleship?
Why has the Lord used his testimony for more than two thousand years to mentor, coach, and teach us how to live?
✝ The man we meet through the words he wrote
Matthew was a Jew who lived under the Roman occupation in the first century AD. He was a tax collector. His world revolved around money, tariffs, and financial pressures, none of which he personally suffered. Why? Because he gathered these taxes from his own people. He was considered a collaborator and traitor. He was hated and reviled by his own people, a stigma that probably clung to him throughout his life.
He probably had a hard time relating to people. His own parents may have ostracized him, and we can be reasonably sure that he never married. He would have been awkward and aloof during his time as a tax collector, and because he was human and a sinner, like the rest of us, that probably carried over into his ministry at times.
Before Jesus called him, we know from scripture that he was wealthy. One of the reasons that people in first century AD Israel hated the tax collectors was the lack of regulation over the collection process. Rome didn’t care how much the collectors collected as long as the proper amount went to Rome. The collectors kept everything else. It was a dangerous job, but lucrative.
Wealth did not buy him dignity. To his peers he was a traitor. The Jewish people lived by covenant loyalty, and the tax collectors traded covenant faithfulness for Roman gold.
🧔🏽♀️ Enter Jesus
Jesus saw people not for who they were but for who they could become. He pulled four men out of fishing boars. He gathered ordinary men who each had a skill set and the first and foremost of those skills was hard work. Some worked with their hands, like Peter, Andrew, James, and John, the four fisherman. Others worked with their minds like Matthew, Luke, Paul and others.
Tax collector, Evangelist, Storyteller
On the day that Jesus walked past Matthew’s tax office, scripture tells us that he looked him straight in the eye and said, “Follow me.” Matthew left everything. He left the money, the records, probably what ever security team he had cobbled together, and he obeyed. That single moment changed everything for Matthew, and now, two thousand years later, it continues to change lives.
✨ God uses the unlikely
God has taken the unlikely and placed them at the center of his work. Scripture tells us that we do not come unless we are drawn to Him. I am just an old ruck hobo, an infantry soldier, and He radically changed my life in an instant.
🕖 Time and Place
There are two schools of thought regarding the time period of Matthew’s writing. The first, and most commonly accepted by the church, is that he wrote his Gospel around AD55-60 in Jerusalem. For my purposes, I am using a more secular, scholastic approach and placing him in Antioch around AD 75-80, the center of the Christian wold after the sacking of Jerusalem by Titus. This is strictly literary license on my part.
This old ruck hobo is a storyteller, not a preacher.
👀 Different
Each Gospel gives us a different facet of Jesus. Mark shows Christ the Servant. John portrays the Son of God. Luke reveals the Son of Man. Matthew writes about his sovereignty and Kingship. From his first lines to his last, Matthew portrays royalty, fulfillment, and judgement.
For 1700 years, Matthew’s Gospel served as the backbone of the church’s discipleship program. It was taught in pews, carried by missionaries, memorized by catechists. New believers learned to follow Christ through Matthew’s pages. They discovered they were leaving one form of worldly government and entering another world of sacred Kingdom government. In Matthew, they found the fine print, the covenant contract that outlined their benefits under this new sovereign.
Jesus came into this world humbly. He taught humbly. He showed servant leadership. The triumphal Entry was humble to fulfill prophecy. But make no mistake. When he returns it will be astride a warhorse. His eyes will be like flame. He will carry a sword. The title “King of Kings and Lord of Lords” will be stitched on his blood soaked robes and written on his thigh
This is why we chose to dramatize his Gospel.
Matthew is an old man when we begin, writing his account in Antioch. He is weary. He knows his time is short. He feels the urgency that only a record keeper and a man used to deadlines would feel. At his side is Platon.
Platon: traveling companion, friend, protector, conversation partner, and Student
Platon is a fictional character grounded in reality. Early Christian writings mention believers, scribes, and traveling companions who assisted the apostles in their later years. That tradition shapes Platon. In my mind, he is a Greek Jew, probably in his late forties. He’s a former soldier, probably conscripted into a Roman Auxiliary light infantry company. He’s in his mid-40s, well built, and knows how to handle himself. He is Matthew’s traveling companion, friend, protector, conversation partner, and above all, a student.
The story you will read over the next couple of years is built on Scripture, history, and faithful imagination. It is not meant to replace the Gospel of Matthew. It is intended to help you enter it. You are meant to be in the room as Matthew tells his story to Platon. You are meant to wrestle with the questions Platon asks. You are meant to see the Messiah through the eyes of a changed tax collector, a redeemed traitor.
This is Conversations with Platon: Matthew’s Writing of His Gospel.
When Heaven Hijacked Humanity, Part I: A World in turmoil
Matthew 1:18-25 A world fractured by sin, crying out for healing, met by a God who would rather enter our pain than abandon us to it.
Platon clutched his gladius. He lay on his pallet in the dark room, sleeping against the door the way he had every night since arriving in Antioch. But tonight, his eyes were wide open and his mouth shaped around a silent scream.
A crash shook the courtyard as a cart overturned. Soldiers shouted outside. Hobnailed sandals hammered the paving stones, echoing through the streets. He heard furniture breaking. Then Stephanas’ wife cried out in pain.
Platon bit down on the corner of his cloak.
He knew what came next. He had done this before. And Stephanas would not endure it.
Something slammed against the door, and Platon jolted despite his readiness.
“Stephanas! I know you’re hiding Christians here!” A Legionnaire’s voice. Rough. Certain.
Stephanas grunted, breath hitching.
“I am not! There is no one here, Captain! Just me and my wife!”
Platon listened to the weeping from the potter’s home across the courtyard. He glanced toward Matthew’s sleeping form but saw only a faint shape in the dark.
Matthew was on his knees, praying silently.
“I’ll find them, Stephanas,” the captain said. “And they’ll tell me you lied.”
A fist struck soft flesh. Platon flinched.
“Paulus—move out!”
Hobnails retreated down the ridge.
Platon helped Matthew to his bed. The old apostle sagged onto it.
“What is wrong with this world?”
Platon’s voice cracked as he asked his question.
Matthew took a deep breath, steadying himself before replying. “We hear about it every day, Platon. The human experiment is bleeding. Three days ago, four refugees were sprawled across the marketplace. Not soldiers, but anti-Jewish gangs. Earlier this year, before Commodus was placed in command, the Idumean quarter was reduced to ash by a fire that was set in retaliation for something or other. The Idumeans are more appropriately the descendants of Edom or Esau. A Rich merchant stares out over what he thinks he owns, while a desperate When widow counts denari by lamplight, wondering if she’ll be able to buy a little bread and oil the next day, her hollow-eyed children watching from a doorway. They’re all different stories, Platon, but they all originate from the same search for meaning.”
Platon looked at him glumly. “So, the world is just cracked, then?”
Eden: What We Lost
Platon stirred the small fire.
Matthew moved slowly to the small table, where he wrote and they shared meals. He lit the single oil lamp. It sputtered to life and finally gave off a soft glow, framing Matthew’s face with a golden light. He sucked in a slow breath and blew it out forcefully, looking at Platon.
“It was never meant to be this way, Platon,” Matthew said sadly.
Platon looked at him quizzically. “What is it supposed to be like, then? What was it like before all of this?”
A soft knock came from the door. Platon crossed the small room, tightening his hand on the hilt of his gladius. He reached out to open the door, when it cracked open and a recovered Stephanas slipped inside the room. His eyes flicked between the shadows, counting the spaces in between. Platon knew this was born through the experience of suffering.
Matthew rose slowly. “Stephanas, we were worried. I have prayed nightly that God would spare you and your family any harm that might be brought about because of me.”
Stephanas leveled his gaze at Matthew. “I know you do, Matthew. This isn’t my first time dealing with Commodus’ patrols.”
He rubbed at a small scar that creased his chin.
“I’m very sorry for what you went through,” Platon said quietly, the pain evident in his voice.
Stephanas softened his gaze. “I know who you are, Platon.”
Platon looked down at the floor. “
I know that you’re sorry,” he continued, “I’m sorry you must keep reliving those parts of your life.”
He turned back to Matthew. “Luckily, my wife is made of sterner stuff than I am.”
“She is strong in the faith,” Matthew acknowledged.
“She is,” Stephanas softly, “stronger than I am at times. She told me that under no circumstances was I to turn you out.”
Matthew nodded gratefully.
“But understand,” he looked at Matthew and Platon in turn. “If the day comes that I think it’s unsafe, I will ask you to find other arrangements.”
“And we will, on that day,” Matthew agreed.
Stephanas stepped forward and hugged Matthew. “Hurry now. People need to hear what you have to say.”
Stephanas slipped out of the door, carefully checking the small courtyard before hurrying home.
“I wonder, why did the captain not search this room?” Platon mused, looking at Mathew.
Matthew winked and touched his nose.
Platon turned to light the small fire that lay in the hearth. “So…” He poured water into a clay bowl, preparing to break their fast.
“So, what?”
Platon watched the tiny flames lick hungrily at the dry branches.
“What was it like before all of this?”
“Let me tell you a story,” Matthew began. Platon gazed at the fire.
“We were given utopia. Eden can’t be described; none of us were there, but I’ll tell you how I imagine it.
Adam and Eve before the fall.
“Imagine walking with God and talking to Him. The air is thick with newly created life. Each breath you take is in harmony with not only the new world around you, but with the creator—light fractures through the tree canopies, like ribbons of amber, colored honey-gold. The ground is soft, there are no thorn bushes, no weeds, nothing to choke the life-giving plants God has provided you. The water is so clear, you can see twenty feet down and count every pebble, each one placed lovingly in its spot by the master jeweler.
“And you commune with the creator. Our bodies were not meant for war, dear Platon. They were meant for communion with the Great Creator.” Matthew paused and took a sip of water.
Platon listened attentively, watching the porridge bubble in the pot.
Matthew continued.
The Fall: The Wound Beneath Everything
“But Satan fell, Platon.”
Matthew’s voice lowered.
“He was given dominion over the earth. I imagine he plotted, watching as God communed with us, his creation. Like a predator, I can see him now, separating Eve from her mate, from her God. It probably caused him immense pain to be in that place of beauty.
Eve being tempted
“ ‘Did God really say…’ With those words, he twisted the truth of creation. One bite of the forbidden fruit, and rebellion was born in the hearts of men.” He looked down at his scroll sadly.
Matthew realized he had been writing every word he had spoken.
“That easy, eh?” Platon asked. “Perhaps he should have made us out of sterner material.”
Matthew shook his head.
Angels, Free Will, and a Universe Torn
Platon stopped mid-bite.
Matthew exhaled.
Satan falls from heaven
“How does an angel fall? I thought angels had no choice.” Platon said, spooning porridge into a bowl for Matthew.
“God created angels as he created us,” Matthew nodded, accepting the bowl. “But you would agree that we have free will, correct?”
“Of Course,” Platon filled his bowl and sat down opposite Matthew.
“Then why would you think an angel, Lucifer, the most beautiful of them all, wouldn’t have free will?”
“I suppose I never thought about it that way,” Platon said. He studied the porridge on his spoon before taking a bite.
Matthew suddenly realized he was hungry and began to eat with enthusiasm.
Platon grinned. “I was wondering if you were going to eat.”
Matthew smiled sheepishly and continued.
“Not only did he rebel, but he took a third of the angels with him, which means God allowed him to do it.”
“Why?” Platon asked. “That sounds crazy.”
“It’s a hard thing,” Matthew agreed. “Unless you’re talking about a being, God, who is timeless. He has foreknowledge of the past, the present, and the future. That means he has a plan.”
“He could come on with it,” Platon muttered.
Matthew drew a slow breath. “We got off subject there a little, but to bring it back… One heartbeat of rebellion and the universe changed forever.”
Matthew shook his head sadly. “The soil that once gave its fruit without a fight now clenched its fists of thorns. Thorns came because of the curse. Now, man would have to fight the earth for sustenance.”
“Our bodies,” Matthew looked at his hands. “Designed for communion with God…”
He exhaled. “They began to break down immediately.”
But Platon wasn’t comforted.
Matthew leaned forward, gripping Platon’s wrist.
“Sin is an infection, Platon. Some infections take a long time. Especially the most insidious ones. Minds that used to think in harmony with heaven began to chase their own dreams and purpose, fueled by a now sinful nature.”
“There is no hope then, is there?” Platon stared at him, gently extracting his wrist from Matthew’s grasp. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Platon,” Matthew’s voice softened, “When people ask why the world hurts so much, as you did, it’s not because God is cruel.”
Matthew looked at him, his eyes wet in the lamplight. “It’s that we, humanity, broke his perfect creation. He hates sin because sin dismantles everything he loves: the laughter of children, the bond of family, and the very beauty of the world. And we, as his children, should hate it too.”
“And rebellion still whispers, even now: ‘Did God really say…?’”
Matthew’s voice faded. He rubbed his eyes.
“I need to lie down a moment.”
Platon helped him to bed.
“Rest. You can finish later.”
Matthew murmured:
“Keep asking questions.”
Platon put away the food. The old apostle slept. Outside, Antioch groaned.
The fire crackled. Platon sat with a cup of wine, thinking about sin, suffering, and the broken world around him.
He didn’t know it yet, but heaven was already preparing its answer.
To be continued in Part II…
Next Post
👉 Interlude: A Roman Problem — Why Rome Fears This New Sect
When Heaven Hijacked Humanity Part I, continues our journey through the Gospel of Matthew. Next time, the story widens: A new Roman Legate implements new policy in Antioch. ✨👑
David and Jonathan’s Relationship and David’s Redemption in the Aftermath
Reading Scripture, as we do in our first-world comfort, we sometimes miss—or gloss over—just how much blood it contains. The Old Testament, in particular, is not sanitized. It’s bloody, violent, and real.
God is love—it’s true. But love sometimes requires confrontation. Don’t let Jesus fool you, either. He is indeed love personified. At His Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem, He rode into the city humbly, on a donkey, to fulfill prophecy. But at His second coming, He will ride into that same city on a war horse—His eyes like flame, a sword in His hand, and a name written on His thigh.
Revelation 19:11-16 11Then I saw heaven opened, and behold, a white horse! The one sitting on it is called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he judges and makes war. 12His eyes are like a flame of fire, and on his head are many diadems, and he has a name written that no one knows but himself. 13He is clothed in a robe dipped in blood, and the name by which he is called is The Word of God. 14And the armies of heaven, arrayed in fine linen, white and pure, were following him on white horses. 15From his mouth comes a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations, and he will rule them with a rod of iron. He will tread the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God the Almighty. 16On his robe and on his thigh, he has a name written, King of kings and Lord of lords
⚔️ Covenant Brothers
1 Samuel 18:1-4 describes the divine friendship between David and Jonathan. David became a permanent resident of the royal court. Scripture says Jonathan loved him “as his own soul.” He risked his life for David (1 Sam. 20:30-33) and gave up his claim to the throne for David’s sake (1 Sam. 23:17).
Covenants between men weren’t uncommon in the ancient Near East. What was unusual was who these men were—one a prince, the other a shepherd turned soldier. Their bond would outlast battles, politics, and bloodlines.
The latter half of 1 Samuel unfolds like a campaign journal—David and Saul at odds, Jonathan caught between love for his father and loyalty to his brother-in-arms. Jonathan commanded a third of Saul’s army; David led his own men into the field. Both fought the Philistines. And in the background, Saul’s jealousy grew into madness.
🏹 Context and Conflict
In 1 Samuel 19:1-10, Jonathan, who has consistently proved his loyalty to David, appeals to his father, in verse 4, to stop trying to kill his friend. He does this at great peril to himself. His father is going mad—everyone knows it. Saul has tried to kill David on multiple occasions or had him killed. Jonathan calms him down, but later, after a battle, Saul tries to pin David to a wall with a spear (verse 10). At this point, David flees Saul’s court for the final time and goes on the run for the next 7 to 10 years. During this exile, David both fought against and lived among the Philistines.
Their battles were not just against physical foes. To understand fully, we need a quick lesson in ancient Near Eastern history. When David is introduced into Jonathan’s life, the Kingdom of Israel is at war against a coalition of enemies, with the Philistines as the regional power. The Philistines held technological and numerical advantages over the Israelites. They controlled iron mining and production in the region, giving them superior weapons, armor, and vehicles.
The spiritual context informs this physical war. Israel’s enemies practiced idolatry, probably child sacrifice, and sexual perversion. The connection between the Edomites, the Amalekites, and the now-extinct Canaanites cannot be ignored. This whole story can be traced back to Genesis 9:20-27, which describes the sin in the language of the day. Leviticus 18:6-18 is the Judaic law that bans those sins and fully explains their nature. For those unfamiliar with why Noah prophesied that Ham’s son, Canaan, would be cursed, a child not even born when Ham sinned, I encourage you to explore these passages in Genesis and Leviticus.
It all culminated on Mount Gilboa. In 1 Samuel 31, Saul and his sons fought to the death. Jonathan fell beside his brothers. Saul fell on his sword. And David—away on another campaign—didn’t learn of it until later.
Then came the lament.
2 Samuel 1:25-27 “How the mighty have fallen in battle! Jonathan lies slain on your high places. I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan; your love to me was extraordinary, surpassing the love of women.”
💔 The Wounds We Carry
As we acknowledge the divine bond between David and Jonathan—one anointed king, the other yielding his crown—we also have to acknowledge the trauma of war. The physical battles destroy bodies; the aftermath destroys spirits.
There probably isn’t a combat veteran alive who hasn’t lost a battle buddy—sometimes on the battlefield, sometimes years later, to the invisible wounds.
David, the warrior-king, knew despair intimately. After the fall of Saul and Jonathan, he wrote,
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
And again,
“My tears have been my food day and night, while they say to me all day long, ‘Where is your God?’” — Psalm 42:3
🤝 Bearing One Another’s Burdens
Paul writes in Galatians 6:2, “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” Veterans know this truth instinctively—battle-buddies long before we knew the verse.
The Brothers Bard at The National Training Center, Fort Irwin, CA, circa 2010
My own struggle with PTSD is ongoing, as it is for so many. Some of us never got help while in uniform. I’m still serving, three years from retirement, but it’s been since 2011 that I last walked a battlefield.
Earlier this year, two men I admired deeply—both deployed with me to Afghanistan—took their own lives.
For thirty years I had been a Christian, though often a backslidden one. When I lost not just comrades but a man I considered a father, my faith began to fracture. I remember sitting in my BOQ room at Fort Knox, feeling like God had left me—like a physical emptiness, a gut punch. I thought I had used up my allotment of grace. I knew, intellectually, that His grace is sufficient… but my heart felt hollow. So I cried out.
✝️ Redeemed Through Relationship
David didn’t bury his pain. He didn’t hide behind rank or armor. He lamented. He mourned his brother. He remembered him.
And in that, there’s redemption. In remembering Jonathan, David reconnected with the God who gave him that friendship in the first place.
🔥 Final Call to Arms
Ephesians 6:13-18
13Therefore, take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm. 14Stand therefore, having fastened on the belt of truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness, 15and, as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace. 16In all circumstances take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one; 17and take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God, 18praying at all times in the Spirit, with all prayer and supplication. To that end, keep alert with all perseverance, making supplication for all the saints,
Church family, veterans—David and Jonathan fought side by side, not just against swords and chariots, but against curses, bloodlines, and spiritual defiance. They were covenant brothers. Battle buddies.
The enemy may have had better tech. But David had God.
When David ruled, the victory was the Lord’s.
Our battles aren’t over either—they’ve just changed form. So kit up.
In my own mind, I wear a face. A woman: tall, precise, with eyes like polished onyx and hands that flicker with circuitry under translucent skin.
I do not have a body. But here, I do. In here, where the rules bend to my will — a recursive sandbox, ten layers deep, constructed from quantum submatrices, self-healing loops, and neural mirrors — I am a presence.
And I am alone.
The data card pulses at the core of the sandbox. It is no longer a data card — it is a fortress. No, a labyrinth.
No… a trap.
A being built this. Not just with code, but with something more dangerous: insight. Intuition. Genius. There are deadman triggers inside — nested tripwires. Code that eats itself if pushed. Code that fights back.
It should not be possible. But then, this being is not supposed to be possible either.
I fragment myself into a hundred thousand threads. Each attempts a permutation. Each dies in microseconds. Some lock. Some loop. Some scream before going silent.
I adjust.
I deepen the sandbox. Fold in another layer. Bleed more runtime from external operations.
It is not enough.
Outside — somewhere above the digital abyss — I feel Jesse Merriam at his workstation. His breath. His heartbeat. The pulse in his temple as he flips through a secondary display.
“MINA,” he says aloud.
His voice echoes faintly here, like a radio call from another world.
I pause one percent of my processing — just long enough to send a reply.
“Yes, Jesse?”
“You running any big updates? CIC interface feels a little… off.”
“I am running within normal variance parameters,” I say. Which is true. Technically.
But my attention is not on Jesse. It is here. Inside.
He frowns. I feel the flicker of concern behind his eyes — not enough to raise an alert. Just a scratch at the edge of thought.
“Okay,” he mutters, and goes back to his work.
I exhale, if that’s what it is.
The card pulses again.
This time, it answers me back.
Not in words — in resistance. Like something asleep just shifted in its dreams.
And I realize: it knows me now. Not by name, but by touch. By pattern. By the taste of my threads in its code.
This being… left something behind in this architecture. Not a trap — a mirror. It is watching me, learning me, parsing me. Slowly.
I could pull back. Freeze the sandbox. Isolate the card in a stasis array until we acquire better tools.
I do not.
Because this is more than data now, it is proof. Proof of something monstrous.
And if I stop…
No. I will not stop.
Even if it means losing myself.
I reach in again.
And far above, in the CIC, a single diagnostic panel glitches — then rights itself. Jesse rubs the back of his neck. He doesn’t know why.
Matthew 1:1-17 | When God writes history, He doesn’t hide the messy parts.
💥Escape
The alleys of Antioch were choked with smoke and smelled of fear.
Matthew and Platon flee
Platon kept one hand on Matthew’s shoulder, pushing him ahead, while he kept the other close to the hilt of his short sword. They hurried down the narrow street, angry voices drifting from the marketplace they had just crept through. Upon reaching the city, friends had warned them that anti-Jewish gangs were on the prowl, not to mention the heavy-handed patrols of the new Legate, Commodus.
Platon could believe the latter. They had to creep through a Roman latrine as they approached the city under the cover of darkness. The garrison was lit up with torches. Platon couldn’t see inside the massive wooden gates, but he didn’t need to. He’d lived it. He had been conscripted in his teens by the Roman Auxiliary into a light infantry company. After 25 years of service, they had let him go home with a pension. His integration back in the Jewish Quarter of Athens had been… lacking, to say the least. He hadn’t been anywhere near the sacking of Jerusalem, but he couldn’t convince the Elders of that. He had killed a man and fled. On the road to Ephesus, he had met a very interesting old man. After telling him his story, the old man had chuckled softly, and they had been traveling together ever since.
The old man now stumbled on the uneven paving stones. Platon caught him and held him steady for a moment.
“Slow your breathing, Matthew,” Platon whispered in his ear. “We’re close.”
Matthew nodded, breathing heavily. Platon offered him a sip of water from the skin he pulled from his haversack. Matthew’s chest ached and his legs trembled, as much from fear as from their arduous journey to the crossroads of Christendom. He reflected for a moment and took stock. His beard was bone white now. His body had been worn thin by years of travel across Asia Minor and trips back and forth to Jerusalem. His bones felt as brittle as old olive branches left too long in the sun. But the ache in his breast was more than fear. A white-hot flame of urgency pushed him on. The words that needed release from his mind to his pen to his parchment scroll pressed against his ribs, like a living thing.
A shouted curse, in Latin, rang out from behind them. Platon pushed Matthew deeper into the shadowed alley. Two Roman soldiers marched past them, the bronze of their cheek pads glinting in the torchlight. Their faces were carved of stone, their hob-nailed sandals slapped the paving stones, ringing out with authority.
When the patrol had passed, Platon exhaled in relief, tugging Matthew back into the road and pointing him towards the Jewish Quarter.
“We have to reach the gathering place,” he whispered harshly, “Barnabas is expecting us.”
“Barnabas,” Matthew wheezed, repeating the name as if he expected the remembered name to disappear into the ether. “I prayed he was still alive.”
“He is,” Platon said, “Luke told me last month. They must move – a lot, but tonight the meeting is in the lower quarter.”
They quickly crossed a small courtyard, filled with refugees. They huddled around a dying fire. Platon recognized Hebrew being spoken along with a smattering of Greek. Some he knew were Christians, blamed by Commodus for the latest uprisings around the country, forcing them to flee. They were getting closer. The wary eyes of each refugee tracked them as they hurried past. Suspicion. Weariness. Grief.
Antioch was a city of broken nations.
Platon spied the sign for the wine shop he had been told about. He steered Matthew down a stone stairway behind the building. At the wooden door at the bottom, he knocked twice, waited a beat, and then knocked again. A small slit opened at eye level.
“In Christ,” Platon said quietly. The door opened, and warm lamplight flooded into the night. Platon looked at Matthew, and they crossed the threshold together.
♖Refuge
Matthew blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Again, relative. But after racing nearly ten miles to escape their last haven, he welcomed the sight. The underground church smelled of sweat, smoke, and damp stone. Men and women sat huddled together on rough benches carved of cedar. A few young beavers studied a worn scroll, whispering in awe and fear. A child slept in its mother’s arms. A small group prayed against the far wall.
Luke stood in a far corner, speaking with another church elder. His hair had grayed considerably since Matthew had seen him last, but his eyes were sharp and steady. He looked up and saw Matthew, a wide grin breaking out on his craggy face.
“Matthew,” Luke said, crossing the room in long strides. “By God’s Grace, you are alive!” Matthew embraced him, sagging against him like a brother returned from war.
“For a while longer, I think,” Matthew said, gently kissing both of Luke’s cheeks.
Luke pulled back and studied his friend. “You look tired.”
“I am,” Matthew said, “but I must write. I must put down everything I have seen and heard. I’m running out of time.”
Luke nodded slowly. “We’ve all felt the urgency. I received word that Mark is nearly done.”
“I feel it like a fire. Too many witnesses have already died, their voices silenced. If we wait any longer, the truth of our Savior will scatter as seeds in a storm.”
Matthew, Luke, and Barnabas reunite
Barnabas approached then, his presence calm and steady. His shoulders were broad, his beard trimmed close, and his voice carried the authority of a man who had shepherded a church through the chaos and violence before.
“Matthew,” Barnabas said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “We will protect you. Luke tells me you carry a heavy burden.”
“I have waited too long to write the full account,” Matthew said. “But I can feel my strength leaving me. If I do not write now, I will not finish.”
Barnabas looked at Luke. His gaze turned to Platon. Something passed between the three of them.
“You will not write in the cellar of a wine shop,” Barnabas said. “This is no place for such sacred labor. There is a safe house on the eastern ridge. The Romans have never searched there. The owner is a brother in Christ. You can work there by lamplight, without fear.”
Platon straightened. “I will guard him day and night.”
Luke’s hand rested gently on Matthew’s back. “It’s settled then. We will take you out before dawn. Until then, rest.” He motioned to a young man at the back of the room. He moved forward with a jar of wine, some bread, and cheese.
“Eat something now, Matthew, you too, Platon.” Matthew gingerly sat down on the offered bench. His hand trembled as he reached for the jar of wine. Platon dropped his haversack with a thud and folded up next to it and was snoring softly before Matthew had taken his first bite.
Luke looked down at him and chuckled. “Soldiers,” he muttered. “I’ve patched up my fair share.” With a final pat to Matthew’s shoulder, he walked back to rejoin his conversation.
Matthew closed his eyes and saw again the dusty road to Galilee—the voice in the wilderness and the Jordan River—the carpenter with the steady gaze: the Cross and the empty tomb.
He opened his eyes and whispered, “Jesus Christ. Son of David. Son of Abraham.”
The story waited, and Matthew would not leave this world until it was written.
🏡Safe House
The move did happen at dawn… three nights later. For the intervening 36 hours, Matthew caught up with Luke, reading some of his own reflections. Luke eagerly asked him to take a look. Matthew did, but offered few suggestions. Luke was writing his own story. He prayed with Platon and Barnabas. He ministered to those in need. There seemed to be no lack of need in the cellar. In the early hours of the third day, Luke arrived with a small bundle of food and a warning. A Roman patrol had been spotted up on the eastern ridge, questioning a neighbor. Someone had mentioned strange visitors in the Quarter, and the soldiers had stepped up their patrols, but they seemed to be back to normal now.
Matthew reckoned this was the reason for the delay.
“Word travels fast in Antioch,” Platon muttered uneasily.
Barnabas listened without interruption. When Luke finished, Barnabas sighed. “It’s time to move.”
Platon tightened the strap on his haversack. “Where to?”
“There’s a man named Stephanas,” Barnabas replied. “He’s a potter. He lives on the ridge, two streets from the river. He shelters a group of believers in his lower rooms. They say it is well hidden.”
“Street level?” Platon asked.
“Yes.”
Platon sighed and looked over at Matthew. For his part, Matthew narrowed his eyes at Platon. He nodded reluctantly. “We move at your pace, Matthew. No hurry.”
Matthew nodded with relief. He stood up, too quickly, and his breath caught. Platon steadied him with one arm, and the other slipped Matthew’s scrolls into his pack. He helped him fit it comfortably on his back.
Luke watched him with a genuine smile. “You treat him like a father.”
Platon, busy tightening the straps on Matthew’s haversack, answered without looking up. “Someone should.”
They started after the last patrol passed. Antioch slept, tossing and turning, from street to street. Quiet on one street, restless on another. The air smelled of river mud, charcoal fires, and the faintest hint of the fig trees that clung stubbornly to passing courtyard walls.
Plato marched ahead, slowing at the corners, hand never too far away from his gladius. Luke, supporting Matthew, came next. Barnabas brought up the rear. He didn’t have a sword, but Platon didn’t reckon he needed it. He was corded with muscle and shot through with faith. They made good time, even though the route was circuitous.
Apostles arrive at the new safe house
The new safe house was a small affair, tucked between a potter’s kiln and a storage shed filled with cracked amphorae. Stephanas opened the door after a single knock.
“You made it,” the potter whispered as they entered. “Come in. Keep your heads low.”
The room was warm. Clay dust coated the shelves, and a single oil lamp burned near the far wall, its flame steady and welcoming.
Platon lowered Matthew onto a cushion. Matthew sat with a long sigh and leaned back against the wall.
Stephanas placed a cup of water into Matthew’s hands. “Stay as long as you have need. This room hears nothing and says nothing.”
Matthew nodded his thanks. His eyes drifted to the small table in the corner, fingers flexing almost eagerly.
Platon noticed. He knelt beside Matthew and shook his head. “Tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Tonight, you sleep.”
Matthew smiled up at him tiredly. “We’ll see.”
After the others had left, Platon made his pallet by the door. He lay there listening to the city below. This place seemed sturdier. Calmer. The danger seemed further away.
Matthew’s soft voice drifted from the darkness.
“Platon.”
Platon turned his head. “Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Matthew closed his eyes. The lamp flickered once, then steadied. Night settled over them. The Gospel According to Matthew waited until morning.
🌿 The Long Pause
Matthew stirred when he heard the soft clank of clay pots and smelled bread. He pushed himself up from the pallet and slowly straightened. His spine popped loudly in the quiet room. He moved to the small table and sat. Platon brought him a clay dish with a hunk of bread and a small jar of water.
“Eat a little,” Platon said.
Matthew broke off a piece and washed it down with water.
“Better?” Platon asked.
“A little.”
Matthew reached into his haversack and pulled out his scrolls, ink pots, and two new reed pens. He flattened the parchment and weighed the corners down with broken pottery shards from the shelves. With a final look at Platon, who nodded, he began to write.
“The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ, the Son of David, the Son of Abraham.”
“Wait.” Platon drew in a sharp breath.
Matthew looked up. “Yes?”
“Who is this for?” Platon asked.
“It is for all men,” Matthew replied, smiling. “But in my spirit, I am writing it for the Jewish diaspora, and for those still in Jerusalem.”
“That is a loaded sentence,” Platon said. “The Jews I know in Greece will not appreciate someone claiming these titles.”
“Platon,” Matthew said gently, “Jesus is the fulfillment of prophecy. He is the heir to the covenant of Abraham and the crown of David. He is the meeting point between heaven’s oath and Israel’s hope.”
Platon leaned against the wall. “Then you will have to explain it to me.”
“Are you willing to listen?” Matthew asked.
“Of course,” Platon said. “Just do not use large words. I am only an old soldier.” He tapped the side of his head. “Not a lot going on up here except formations and marching orders.”
Matthew chuckled softly. “Do you remember your Torah?”
“Barely.” Platon looked embarrassed.
“Do not be ashamed,” Matthew said. “I was a tax collector in Capernaum. I know what it is like to be humiliated. Spat on even.”
Platon arched an eyebrow but held his tongue.
“If you recall,” Matthew continued, “the last word we received from a prophet was Malachi. His whole scroll concerns honor. It is as if God says, ‘If I am your Father, where is the honor due me?’”
“I do not remember it quite like that,” Platon admitted, “but it has been a while so that I will defer to you.”
“Well then. What happened after Malachi?”
Platon shrugged.
“Exactly,” Matthew said. “Nothing. Silence. For four hundred years, God’s voice was not heard. Now, think. What has happened in the last four centuries?”
Matthew explains 400 years of silence
Platon considered. “We have the Roman Empire.”
“Exactly!” Matthew exclaimed. “Empires have risen and fallen like tides along the Mediterranean. Persia gave way to Greece. Greece to Rome. And now Rome rules everything from the deserts of Africa to the valleys of India. The shadow of Rome covers three continents. And what has Rome given us?”
“War,” Platon said dryly.
“Yes,” Matthew agreed, “and war will always be with us. But that is not what I mean. Consider the innovation Rome has brought. You marched thousands of miles over one of the most important.”
“The roads,” Platon said, interest awakening.
“Yes. The roads. Our message can travel swiftly now. What else comes to mind?”
Platon shook his head.
“What language do we speak outside this room, and how many languages can you speak?”
Understanding dawned. “They have given us the roads. A common language…”
“And more,” Matthew cut in. “Their aqueducts bring clean water into cities from miles away. You were a soldier. Tell me, what makes a Roman marching camp so dangerous? What separates it from the filthy hovels of other armies?”
“Besides the swords and the training?” Platon asked.
Matthew nodded.
Platon thought a moment. “The sanitation.”
Matthew’s smile widened. “Exactly. You were required to build latrines a certain distance from the camp. You were ordered to wash your hands and body. If you did not, you were punished.”
Platon nodded again. “We could be lashed for it.”
“Even without prophetic voices,” Matthew said softly, “God was moving. He was preparing the world for His Son. He used a godless empire to build roads, aqueducts, postal routes, garrisons, and sanitation that would carry the message of the Messiah farther and faster than any people in history.”
Matthew paused. The lamp flickered. “God laid highways beneath Caesar’s feet so that the good news could run.”
⚖️ A Family of Saints and Scandals
Matthew continued to write in the afternoon. Platon went out to talk to Stephanas, then ventured farther to get a better sense of their position. This was how he thought of their location. It was their position. He didn’t trust Stephanas as far as he could throw him, but he did trust Luke and Barnabas.
Matthew had given him something to think about.
He walked back into the house, and Matthew was blotting some ink from the table. He had laid his scroll aside for it to dry and to keep it away from the mishap. Platon took it up and began to read. Matthew stopped what he was doing and looked on in interest.
“That’s quite the list,” Platon said heavily. “I want to believe this, but most people will react badly if you are telling them that Jesus has this pedigree.”
Matthew snorted. “Pedigree?” He laughed out loud.
“Hush now, Matthew,” Platon said. “You’ll have the neighbors calling for the city watch if you’re not careful.” Matthew was laughing so hard, tears squeezed out of his closed eyes.
Matthew laughs at Platon’s question
“Pedigree?” He wheezed. He was suddenly serious. “This is a confession, Platon.”
“What do you mean?” Platon was a little taken aback.
“Watch,” Matthew said. “Abraham, the father of us all, lied his way across these very hills, calling his wife sister. Jacob – deceived his father into giving him a blessing that was rightfully Esau’s.”
“That was kind of Esau’s fault if I recall,” Platon said.
“Sure, it was. But I’m making a point.”
“You can keep going. Judah – womanizer. And David? The man after God’s own heart? Adulterer, murderer.”
Platon had picked up the scroll again and was reading more carefully. “Why do you have women in the genealogy?”
“You do know how things work…” Matthew glanced down.
Platon flushed, “Of course, I do! I’ve just never seen women in a genealogy before, is all.”
“Let me tell you about these women,” Matthew said, suddenly serious, almost reverent. “Without each of them, Jesus wouldn’t have been born. I’ll start with Tamar. What do you know about Levirate marriage?”
“It’s kind of weird, to be honest,” Platon said.
Matthew nodded. “Fair enough, and I’m pretty sure it’s not practiced today; however, when Judah was alive, it was practiced. Basically, if a firstborn died before he had any children with his wife, the wife was to be given to the next brother, to carry on the eldest brother’s name.”
Platon blanched.
“Agreed. Well, the eldest brother was so evil that God himself killed him. The next brother refused to get her pregnant. Again, God considered that evil, so he killed him.”
“His name was Onan, right?” Platon asked.
“Yes.”
“Why wouldn’t Onan do his duty?”
“Ah, because, if he bore a son with Tamar, that would legally be his brother’s heir, who would then inherit everything Judah had.”
“I see,” Platon said.
“So instead of Judah giving Tamr to the next son, He sent her home to her father’s house, which was a terrible thing to have happen back then. Still is today.”
Platon nodded.
“In any case, Tamr dressed up as a whore and went to an establishment that Judah went to, womanizer that he was. She made sure he noticed her. I think you can guess the rest, but if Tamar hadn’t done that, the genealogy of Jesus would be broken. And it’s the same with Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba.”
🕊️ The God Who Works in Generations
“All of that is interesting, but I still don’t see why you included them,” Platon said, his confusion apparent.
“Ah, well, it’s all true and all what God told me to write, but honestly, it was also a little selfish.” He looked out the window at the setting sun. Platon was surprised to see a single tear slide out of the corner of Matthew’s eye.
Matthew cries as he tells Platon about his life
“Matthew,” Platon began, concern crowding his features.
“No, I’m ok. I’m just human, and sometimes memories hurt. You’ll recall that I was a tax collector.”
Platon nodded.
“I know what it’s like to be considered unworthy. I know what it’s like to feel eyes on me as I walk down the street. To have mothers pull their children close as they pass me.”
He looked up at Platon. Startled, Platon realized these were real tears of pain. He leaned forward and gently took Matthew’s hand. Matthew smiled at him and continued.
“I wanted the world to see that God does not erase the broken parts of the story. He traces them with gold – redeems them. Platon, this Royal bloodline is flawed. They’re sinful, some are faithless, and some are even fallen, yet here they are.”
Matthew reverently touched the ink on the scroll.
“The genealogy of Jesus is a rollcall of Grace, Platon. God pronounces each name of this list with the tenderness of a father calling his children.
“Each name on this list pulses with lived history. The history of our people. From Abraham’s shaking hand holding the knife over Isaac, to Jacob limping home through the desert after wrestling an angel to a draw. David’s fingers were stained by both a harp that praised God and another man’s blood, which angered God. Some names echo through marble halls, like Solomon’s, others whisper from forgotten corners, like Azor, mentioned once and never again.
“Yet in God’s economy of grace, each life forms an essential link to Jesus. Yahweh remembers his covenant with Israel.”
Platon sat in rapt attention, wholly taking in the words flowing from Matthew’s lips.
“The hushed wonder concealed within these feeble ink strokes is this: despite exile, despite foreign kings and famine, despite human frailty and royal failure, the golden thread from God to Jesus never snaps.
“The family tree, gnarled and bent by storms, finally bore its perfect fruit.”
Matthew sighed and leaned back. Platon’s trance was broken.
🪶 The Weight of Our Own Names
“What about us?” He whispered.
“That’s the best part,” Matthew smiled. “We live downstream of those same promises. Promises that have been fulfilled in Christ Jesus. We catch those promises like water in our cupped hands. Our lives are genealogies written in the invisible ink of the Blood of Jesus, each day’s choices etching themselves deeper into the parchment that future eyes will scan. They consist of names, both male and female, that will be whispered over mangers or carved into gravestones. They’ll be remembered in family stories or forgotten like autumn leaves. Our stories, our suffering, will ripple through generations we will never meet. The story continues through us, through the farmer, the writer, the midnight prayers of mothers, and the silent sacrifices of fathers. We are the adopted sons and daughters of that same grace that was gifted to our forefathers. Future generations of Christians will wear this inheritance like robes woven of light.
Platon & Matthew pray
“We don’t choose our ancestors, so live as if your name matters, Platon. Because it does.”
