Who Was Matthew?
Matthew wasn’t the obvious choice. He worked as a tax collector—a profession that, in the eyes of his people, stood shoulder to shoulder with betrayal. In first-century Judea, tax collectors weren’t merely disliked—they were despised. Seen as traitors to their own, men who sided with Rome and profited from the oppression of their neighbours, they carved their living out of pockets already empty, often keeping more than the law allowed.
He would’ve been dismissed without a second thought. Avoided. Spat at. Regarded not just as greedy—but as someone beyond forgiveness.
And yet, when Jesus passed by his booth and said, “Follow me,” Matthew rose—and followed.
No plea. No debate. Just the sound of a man standing to his feet and choosing something deeper.
He walked away from the life he knew—from his income, his influence, his certainty—and stepped into a future that offered no explanation, only invitation. And that one act of obedience would shape the rest of his life.
Why Matthew’s Account Stands Apart
Each Gospel carries its own rhythm. Mark moves fast—urgency in every sentence, like he’s racing to get the story out before time runs out. John slows everything down—his words thick with wonder, symbolic and still. Luke writes with the mind of a historian—careful, compassionate, and precise.
But Matthew—his voice is steady. Structured. Intentional in its unfolding.
He writes with the heart of someone who knows his audience. He speaks to the Jewish soul—tying threads from prophecy to presence, from ancient hope to present fulfilment. Every word is chosen. Every detail anchored in something older than the page.
And maybe that’s no surprise.
Matthew had spent his life keeping records. Tracking patterns. Noticing what others missed. He was a tax collector—trained to deal in numbers and names. He understood the value of order. The authority of traceable truth.
So when he set out to tell the story of Jesus, he didn’t write it as hearsay. He wrote it like evidence. As if laying out a case—carefully, clearly—for those who needed more than faith. For those who needed proof.
This is the One, he says. The One the prophets spoke of. The One history has been waiting for. The One who didn’t arrive suddenly—but came exactly as promised, exactly when He was meant to.
Not a break from the story—its fulfilment.
From Lineage to Legacy
Matthew doesn’t begin with a miracle. There are no angels in the sky, no shepherds in a field, no wise men on the road. He opens his Gospel with a list—a genealogy—forty-two names, arranged with the precision of a man trained in patterns. Three sets of fourteen. A thread that winds through patriarchs and kings, through exile and return, and lands—quietly, deliberately—on the name of Jesus.
To modern eyes, it can feel like background noise. A section we skim. A string of names we don’t recognize. But to a first-century Jewish reader, it was a revelation—layered with legal weight, spiritual meaning, and prophetic fulfilment.
It was more than ancestry. It was identity.
By tracing Jesus back to Abraham—the father of the covenant—and to David—the king whose throne was promised forever—Matthew was making a claim that could not be missed. He wasn’t introducing a man. He was unveiling a King.
Even the structure carries meaning. In Hebrew numerology, the name David adds up to fourteen. Matthew builds his entire list around that number—not by accident, but by design. David stands at the centre. And Jesus, at the culmination.
This wasn’t just history being recorded. It was prophecy being fulfilled. A lineage, shaped not by chance—but by intention. A story written into bloodlines—waiting for its final name.
A Line Marked by Grace
What makes this genealogy remarkable isn’t just the pattern—it’s the presence of names that never should’ve been there, at least by human standards.
Matthew doesn’t tidy the list. He doesn’t skip the complicated ones or shield us from the stories we’d rather forget. He includes them—intentionally, tenderly—because the story of Jesus was never meant to begin with polished perfection. It was always meant to begin with grace.
Women who carried shame not of their own making. Foreigners brought in from the edges. Men who made mistakes too public to hide. Their names linger in the lines like sacred interruptions—reminders that God does not build His kingdom through ideal circumstances, but through willing hearts.
Tamar, who stood her ground when no one else would. Rahab, who opened her door in faith before she had the language for belief. Ruth, who followed love into a land not her own. Bathsheba, remembered more for what was done to her than what she chose.
Matthew doesn’t explain them. He doesn’t defend them. He honours them—simply by naming them. Because this isn’t a list of qualifications. It’s a record of mercy.
The Messiah didn’t come through a line preserved by human virtue. He came through real people—people with wounds, with stories, with pasts that don’t always line up neatly on the page.
And by placing them here, Matthew makes something quietly revolutionary clear: Jesus didn’t just come for people like them. He came through them.
Which means—He comes for us, too.
And so, with the lineage laid before us, we turn to Matthew chapters one and two—where promise becomes person, and grace takes on flesh.
The Ancestors of Jesus the Messiah
This is a record of the ancestors of Jesus the Messiah, a descendant of David and of Abraham:
Abraham was the father of Isaac.
Isaac was the father of Jacob.
Jacob was the father of Judah and his brothers.
Judah was the father of Perez and Zerah (whose mother was Tamar).
Perez was the father of Hezron.
Hezron was the father of Ram.
Ram was the father of Amminadab.
Amminadab was the father of Nahshon.
Nahshon was the father of Salmon.
Salmon was the father of Boaz (whose mother was Rahab).
Boaz was the father of Obed (whose mother was Ruth).
Obed was the father of Jesse.
Jesse was the father of King David.
David was the father of Solomon (whose mother was Bathsheba, the widow of Uriah).
Solomon was the father of Rehoboam.
Rehoboam was the father of Abijah.
Abijah was the father of Asa.
Asa was the father of Jehoshaphat.
Jehoshaphat was the father of Jehoram.
Jehoram was the father of Uzziah.
Uzziah was the father of Jotham.
Jotham was the father of Ahaz.
Ahaz was the father of Hezekiah.
Hezekiah was the father of Manasseh.
Manasseh was the father of Amon.
Amon was the father of Josiah.
Josiah was the father of Jehoiachin and his brothers (born at the time of the exile to Babylon).
After the Babylonian exile:
Jehoiachin was the father of Shealtiel.
Shealtiel was the father of Zerubbabel.
Zerubbabel was the father of Abiud.
Abiud was the father of Eliakim.
Eliakim was the father of Azor.
Azor was the father of Zadok.
Zadok was the father of Akim.
Akim was the father of Eliud.
Eliud was the father of Eleazar.
Eleazar was the father of Matthan.
Matthan was the father of Jacob.
Jacob was the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary.
Mary gave birth to Jesus, who is called the Messiah.
All those listed above include fourteen generations from Abraham to David, fourteen from David to the Babylonian exile, and fourteen from the Babylonian exile to the Messiah.
1. David and Abraham
Matthew opens his list with two names that echo through Israel’s story—Abraham and David. One held a covenant. The other, a crown. And both, in their own way, were promised a future far bigger than themselves.
To Abraham came the first whisper of a global redemption—“Through your offspring, all nations on earth will be blessed.” A promise not just of lineage, but of legacy. A blessing that would stretch beyond borders and bloodlines, all the way into the ache of every generation still waiting to be made whole.
To David came the promise of permanence—“Your throne will be established forever.” Not through conquest, not through politics, but through a king unlike any the world had seen. A king whose reign would begin not with war, but with worship.
These weren’t private promises, buried in journals or dreams. They were declarations—spoken aloud, written into scripture, passed from one generation to the next.
And now, Matthew reaches for them—not to remember what was, but to reveal what is. Because this is the thread the story pulls tight.
Not just a man born in Bethlehem—but a fulfilment centuries in the making. Not just a new chapter—but the continuation of the covenant, the quiet arrival of the long-expected King.
And even in the structure itself—three groups of fourteen, with David placed squarely in the middle—Matthew is showing his hand.
This is the heir. This is the centre. This is the one every promise was pointing toward. The King has come. The covenant still holds. And the story—now—is moving forward.
2. Judah and His Brothers
If the story had followed logic, the line would’ve gone through Joseph—the golden boy with dreams that came true. The one who rose to power, forgave betrayal, saved a nation, and walked with wisdom beyond his years. Or maybe Benjamin—the youngest, most protected, still cradled in the memory of Rachel.
But the line didn’t follow favour. It followed grace.
It passed through Judah. The brother who plotted Joseph’s downfall. The one who sold his sibling for silver and walked away from the wreckage. His story in Genesis reads like a fall from honour—scandal, selfishness, a heart wrapped in pride. And yet, it’s not where he begins that matters. It’s where God takes him.
Because even before Judah was Judah, God had already spoken through Jacob:
The scepter will not depart from Judah, nor the ruler’s staff from his descendants, until the coming of the one to whom it belongs, the one whom all nations will honor.
(Genesis 49:10)
This verse is part of a blessing spoken by Jacob as he neared the end of his life. He looks at his son Judah and says something unexpected—that kings would come from his line, and one day, a ruler would rise who would reign forever. The “sceptre” and “staff” were symbols of power, like a crown or a throne. In simple terms, Jacob was saying: the true King is coming—and He’ll come through you.
A promise tucked inside a prophecy. A throne hidden in the hands of a man who hadn’t yet become the kind of person fit to carry it.
But that’s the rhythm of redemption.
God does not choose by résumé or reputation. He does not wait for the story to clean itself up. He chooses in the middle of the mess—and then walks it forward.
Matthew doesn’t gloss over Judah’s failures. He includes him by name, as if to say—look here. This is where redemption starts to shine. Not through perfection, but through restoration.
Jesus did not come from a line that never failed. He came from one that did—and was loved anyway.
3. The Women in Jesus’ Genealogy
In a quiet but radical move, Matthew does something almost unthinkable: He names women in a genealogy.
In first-century Jewish tradition, this was almost unheard of. Lineages were traced through men—father to son, name to name—while mothers, wives, and daughters were left unnamed, their stories reduced to silent footnotes barely acknowledged by history. But Matthew, careful in every detail, chooses to name them. And not the ones we might expect.
He doesn’t include queens or matriarchs of perfect reputation. He includes the women most likely to be overlooked—stories marked by loss, by scandal, by survival. Stories that speak not only of ancestry, but of redemption.
- Tamar
Denied justice by the very family that owed her protection1—a future withheld, a name left dangling—and yet unwilling to be erased. Her story is uncomfortable, often avoided, but here she is—remembered not for her shame, but for her defiance. She stood her ground in silence, and God wrote her into the line of promise. - Rahab
A foreigner, a prostitute, branded by profession and birthplace. And yet it was her courage—her belief in a God she had barely heard of—that spared her family and wove her name into Israel’s story. - Ruth
A Moabite widow,2 defined by loss and outsider status. But through quiet faith and unshakable loyalty, she stepped into something eternal. Her love brought her into the line of kings. - Bathsheba
A woman remembered more for the scandal than the sorrow—her story often reduced to a footnote in David’s failure.3 She didn’t choose the moment she was written into, but she bore the weight of it nonetheless. Caught in the consequences of a king’s power, her name is often spoken in a whisper. But through her came Solomon. And through Solomon, the royal line continued.
So why name them? Because this is the story of Jesus. Not a Messiah descended from polished reputations, but from stories scarred by pain—and transformed by grace.
From the very first chapter, Matthew is telling us something essential—Jesus didn’t come through perfection, He came through redemption—and He came for those the world forgets—those pushed aside, erased from the record, named only in whispers.
This isn’t a lineage built on prestige—it’s a lineage built on mercy—a story that makes room for the excluded, a kingdom that begins with the unexpected—because the Gospel doesn’t begin with ideal lives—it begins with real ones.
4. The Kings of Israel
As the genealogy unfolds, the names shift—from patriarchs to kings. It passes through thrones and crowns, through the lineage of Judah’s rulers, tracing a line that winds between faithfulness and failure. Some reigned with humility. Others with pride. Some turned their hearts toward God. Others turned away and never looked back.
And yet, through every reign—however brief, however broken—one thread holds steady: the promise.
Among the names are kings whose legacies still echo:
- Hezekiah
A reformer in a time of spiritual drift—he tore down idols, reopened the temple doors, and led a nation back to worship. He didn’t just rule—he remembered. In the ruins of compromise, he rebuilt something sacred. - Manasseh
A name etched into Judah’s darkest years. His reign was soaked in idolatry, injustice, and desecration. But near the end—when the weight of it finally caught up to him—he turned. He humbled himself. And mercy, unexpected and undeserved, found him. - Josiah
A boy-king who became a voice of return. When the Book of the Law4 was rediscovered, he didn’t celebrate his own wisdom—he wept. And with hands that trembled, he led his people not back to ritual, but back to reverence. Back to God.
Some led with righteousness. Others left only ruin. But the covenant was never upheld by character—it was upheld by God. His faithfulness didn’t waver with their weakness; it remained—quiet and unshaken.
Because the throne of David was never meant to glorify man. It was always meant to carry the weight of something greater—an inheritance not sustained by human power, but by divine promise.
And now, through Jesus, it had come—unannounced, unspectacular, unrecognised by the very world He came to redeem. Not in robes or gold, but in skin and breath and vulnerability. Born through a line of broken kings, to become the kind of King they never could. The kind who would not fail.
5. The Exile and Restoration
The Babylonian exile5 didn’t just uproot a people—it unravelled a story. Jerusalem was no longer theirs. The temple—their centre of worship, the house of God’s presence—lay in ruins. The kings were gone. The throne, empty. The songs of Zion silenced in a foreign land.
Everything that once felt certain—lost.
To many, it looked like the end of the covenant. Like the thread had snapped. Like the promises given to Abraham, to David, to generations in between had come to nothing.
But covenants like these don’t depend on human strength. And even in Babylon—even in silence—God was still speaking.
And then, a name reappears.
Zerubbabel—born in exile, raised in the shadow of broken dreams. A descendant of David, but without a palace, without a crown. And yet, through him, God begins again.
But when this happens, says the Lord of Heaven’s Armies, I will honor you, Zerubbabel son of Shealtiel, my servant. I will make you like a signet ring on my finger, says the Lord, for I have chosen you. I, the Lord of Heaven’s Armies, have spoken!
(Haggai 2:23)
A signet ring—the symbol of a king’s authority. Worn close. Pressed into wax to seal what cannot be broken.
Zerubbabel wasn’t chosen to rule, but to rebuild. To remind a scattered people that their story hadn’t ended in exile—it had only deepened.
His name in the genealogy is not filler. It’s not formality. It’s a reminder—that God’s promises don’t collapse when kingdoms do. They don’t vanish with displacement. They don’t dissolve in the silence between chapters.
The kingdom of Judah may have fallen, but the Kingdom of God was still coming. And Zerubbabel stands in that space—between ruin and restoration—as proof that God never stops building what He begins.
6. Joseph, the Husband of Mary
As the genealogy reaches its final breath, something shifts—the pattern of fathers and sons breaks. Joseph is named, but not as the father of Jesus. He is called the husband of Mary. And from Mary, the Messiah is born.
It’s easy to miss. But it’s everything.
Because through Joseph, Jesus receives the legal right to David’s throne—a royal claim rooted in custom and covenant. But through Mary, He receives something else entirely—divinity, clothed in flesh.
This is not the continuation of a royal bloodline. It’s the moment that line gives way to the One it was always leading toward. Not an heir by tradition, but the Son by heaven’s own choosing. Not born of man’s desire—but born of God’s intention.
Matthew doesn’t linger on the miracle. He doesn’t try to explain what defies explanation. He simply lets the lineage come to rest—on a carpenter, a girl, and a child who would carry the weight of eternity.
Because this is not just the close of a genealogy—it’s the opening of a greater story. God has stepped in. And He has come to stay.
7. The Bigger Picture of Jesus’ Genealogy
Maybe you’ve read the names. Maybe you’ve felt the rhythm—generation after generation, carried forward by promise. But what now?
This isn’t just a prelude to Jesus. It’s a quiet invitation to trust what God is doing in your story, too.
Because if Matthew’s list teaches us anything, it’s this—God doesn’t wait for clean beginnings. He moves through fractured timelines. Through families that don’t speak. Through chapters of your life you’d rather forget.
You don’t have to trace your story back to greatness. You don’t have to come from a long line of faith. The beauty of the Gospel is that it doesn’t depend on where you’ve come from—but on what God is willing to do with where you are now.
Maybe your name will never be written in a list like this. But your life—the quiet choices, the hidden faith, the whispered prayers—can still carry the weight of eternity.
Because Jesus didn’t just come through redemption—He came to extend it. And there is no part of your past too complicated, too shameful, or too broken to be included.
You are not a footnote in someone else’s story. You are the place where grace is still unfolding. And the God who worked through them—generation after generation—is still writing. Through you.
The Birth of Jesus the Messiah
This is how Jesus the Messiah8 was born. His mother, Mary, was engaged to be married to Joseph. But before the marriage took place, while she was still a virgin, she became pregnant through the power of the Holy Spirit.9 Joseph, to whom she was engaged, was a righteous man and did not want to disgrace her publicly, so he decided to break the engagement quietly.10
As he considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream. “Joseph, son of David,” the angel said, “do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife. For the child within her was conceived by the Holy Spirit. And she will have a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” 11
All of this occurred to fulfill the Lord’s message through his prophet:
“Look! The virgin will conceive a child!
She will give birth to a son,
and they will call him Immanuel,
which means ‘God is with us.’”When Joseph woke up, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded and took Mary as his wife. But he did not have sexual relations with her until her son was born. And Joseph named him Jesus.
8. The Messiah
Messiah. Not a surname—but a title. Not an afterthought—but the heartbeat of the story. The word begins in Hebrew—Mashiach (מָשִׁיחַ)—meaning ‘Anointed One.’ It was spoken over kings with oil still glistening on their skin. Over prophets who carried the weight of truth. Over priests who stood between heaven and earth on behalf of the people. To be anointed was to be set apart—chosen for a purpose only heaven could define.
In Greek, it becomes Christos (Χριστός). Which is where we get ‘Jesus Christ’—not a name with two parts, but a name and a claim. Identity and mission, fused together.
And for centuries, the world had waited for that name to rise from the dust. The prophets had spoken of someone who would come. Not just to lead—but to heal. Not just to restore Israel—but to redeem the world. A king whose kingdom would never end. A deliverer who would carry both justice and gentleness. A shepherd and a sovereign. A Redeemer.
But the wait was long. The silence, heavier than the promises. Four hundred years without a new word from God—until a carpenter and a virgin welcomed a child into the world.
No throne beneath Him, no sword at His side, no army at His command—only the faint cry of a newborn in the night, and the breath of God wrapped in flesh.
This is what Matthew is claiming. That this Jesus is not just another teacher. Not a revolutionary or a reformer. Not even a prophet in a long line of prophets.
But the One. The One the oil always pointed to. The One every promise leaned toward. The One the silence could not silence.
The Messiah had come—not through spectacle, but through surrender. Not in power, but in presence. And His name—was Jesus.
9. “She became pregnant through the power of the Holy Spirit”
Mary wasn’t extraordinary by the world’s standards. A young girl from a quiet town—engaged, not yet married—living a life that didn’t draw attention. But heaven wasn’t looking for status. It was looking for surrender.
And so the Spirit moved—silently, supernaturally—planting eternity inside her womb. No human hand. No earthly plan. Just the breath of God, spoken over a willing heart.
Matthew doesn’t dress it up. He doesn’t explain the science or soften the claim. He simply writes it as it is—a miracle wrapped in simplicity. A direct fulfilment of words spoken long before:
All right then, the Lord himself will give you the sign. Look! The virgin (almah) will conceive a child! She will give birth to a son and will call him Immanuel (which means ‘God is with us’)
(Isaiah 7:14)
For centuries, that verse lingered in scrolls and memory. And yes, some have questioned the Hebrew word almah—often translated virgin—because it can also mean young woman. So was the prophecy meant to be literal, or symbolic?
But the beauty is—it holds either way.
Because this child was not conceived by desire or dynasty. He came not through striving, but through surrender. This wasn’t man climbing toward heaven. It was heaven coming down.
10. “Did not want to disgrace her publicly, so he decided to break the engagement quietly”
Joseph didn’t have the whole picture. All he had was heartbreak. To him, it must have looked like betrayal—like the girl he planned to marry had broken trust before the vows were even spoken. And in that world, under that law, he had every right to walk away. Every right to preserve his name, clear his reputation, and let the weight of the shame fall where it seemed to belong.
But that’s not what he did. He chose a different path—not loud, not vindictive, not self-righteous. Quiet. Protective. Merciful.
Instead of exposing her, he resolved to shield her. To carry the sorrow in silence. To release her with dignity, without understanding the why.
He didn’t know the child was holy. He didn’t know the plan was divine. He just knew that mercy was better than justice—and love, even when wounded, was still love.
And maybe that’s why God chose him.
Because the kind of man who lays down his right to be right—the kind who leads not with force, but with compassion—is the kind of man heaven can entrust with a miracle.
11. “He will save his people from their sins”
The angel could’ve said anything—that He would lead, that He would rule, that He would heal the land or silence their enemies, but he doesn’t. Instead, he speaks one line over the unborn child, and in it, we hear the heart of heaven’s plan: He will save His people from their sins.
Not soothe their wounds. Not fix their systems. But save them—from the deepest break a soul can carry.
Sin wasn’t just a word. It was a rupture—a tearing away from the very God who made us. Not merely rule-breaking, but relationship-breaking. A wound not in law, but in love. And no offering, no effort, no earthly power had ever been enough to bridge the distance. Until now.
Because this child would do what no one else could—He would step into the fracture, carry what we couldn’t lift, and open what had been closed for far too long.
This isn’t a name of tradition. It’s a name of purpose. Jesus—Yeshua—The Lord saves.
And in that one line, heaven hands us the Gospel—quietly, completely.
He came to rescue. Not from circumstance, but from ourselves.
Visitors from the East
Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the reign of King Herod.12 About that time some wise men from eastern lands arrived in Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the newborn king of the Jews? We saw his star as it rose,13 and we have come to worship him.”
King Herod was deeply disturbed when he heard this, as was everyone in Jerusalem. He called a meeting of the leading priests and teachers of religious law and asked, “Where is the Messiah supposed to be born?”
“In Bethlehem in Judea,” they said, “for this is what the prophet wrote:
‘And you, O Bethlehem in the land of Judah,
are not least among the ruling cities of Judah,
for a ruler will come from you who will be the shepherd for my people Israel.’” 14Then Herod called for a private meeting with the wise men, and he learned from them the time when the star first appeared. Then he told them, “Go to Bethlehem and search carefully for the child. And when you find him, come back and tell me so that I can go and worship him, too!”
After this interview the wise men went their way. And the star they had seen in the east guided them to Bethlehem. It went ahead of them and stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were filled with joy! They entered the house and saw the child with his mother, Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasure chests and gave him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.15
When it was time to leave, they returned to their own country by another route, for God had warned them in a dream not to return to Herod.16
12. King Herod
Herod the Great ruled Judea under Rome’s shadow—appointed by Caesar, driven by fear. History remembers him for what he built, but Scripture remembers him for what he tried to destroy. He was a man obsessed with power—crafting temples, palaces, and towers—but tearing down anyone who threatened his throne.
Even his own sons weren’t safe.
So when whispers reached him of a child—born King of the Jews—it wasn’t awe that filled him. It was fear. A child meant challenge. A prophecy meant threat. And Herod, like so many before and after him, could not bear the thought of losing control.
But in that fear, something ancient was stirring.
Because this wasn’t just about Herod. It never was. This was the collision of kingdoms—earthly power, desperate to preserve itself, and divine purpose, quietly unfolding beneath it. One clinging to control. The other, wrapped in swaddling cloth and laid in a manger.
Herod reminds us: human power will always try to hold what it cannot keep. But when heaven writes a story, no throne can stop it.
13. “We saw his star as it rose”
The Magi weren’t kings. They weren’t Jewish. And they weren’t part of Israel’s story—or so it seemed. They were scholars from the East—likely Persia or Babylon—men who studied the stars, interpreted dreams, and searched for divine meaning in the natural world. In their culture, such wisdom was sacred. And in their watching, they saw something no one else did.
A sign.
They didn’t know the Scriptures. They didn’t carry the promises. But they carried expectation. And when the sky shifted, they followed it—not out of duty, but out of wonder.
Because God doesn’t limit revelation to insiders. Sometimes the ones furthest from the story are the first to recognise when it’s being fulfilled.
14. “And you, O Bethlehem in the land of Judah, are not least among the ruling cities of Judah, for a ruler will come from you who will be the shepherd for my people Israel.”
Bethlehem. A town so small it barely registered on the maps. Eclipsed by Jerusalem’s power. Ignored by rulers. Forgotten by time. But not by God.
Matthew anchors Jesus’ birthplace to a prophecy from Micah 5:2—words spoken long before, now fulfilled in quiet simplicity:
A ruler will come from you who will shepherd my people Israel.
Micah 5:2
Not a king rising from marble halls—but a Shepherd, emerging from a pasture. From the same fields where David once watched over his sheep, a greater Shepherd had come.
Not to dominate, but to lead. Not with force, but with mercy. A ruler whose strength would look like sacrifice—whose crown would carry thorns—whose reign would begin not with conquest, but with care.
15. “They opened their treasure chests and gave him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh”
The gifts were not random. They weren’t polite offerings or tokens of travel. They were deliberate—chosen with meaning, layered with prophecy.
- Gold
A gift for royalty. Not for the poor or the common—but for the throne. Even wrapped in linen, lying in a house tucked away in Bethlehem, He was already a King. - Frankincense
A fragrance used in worship. Burned in the temple as an offering to God. A sign that this child carried divinity in His breath. - Myrrh
A burial spice. Carried by mourners, used for the dead. A foreshadowing of what He had come to bear.
They laid each gift at His feet, unaware of how precisely they had named Him. This child was no ordinary child. He was a King who would reign, a God who would be worshipped, and a Saviour who would suffer and die. Even in His infancy, His purpose was already taking shape.
16. “God had warned them in a dream not to return to Herod”
They had followed the star, laid down their treasure, bowed before a child not yet crowned. Their journey had led them here—into a moment thick with wonder. But what they didn’t know was what waited behind them.
Herod’s smile had been hollow. His words, a trap wrapped in courtesy. And had they returned the way they came, they would’ve led destruction straight to the doorstep of the Messiah.
But before they could move, heaven spoke through a dream—”don’t go back.” They rose with the morning and slipped away by another road—led not by stars, but by the whisper of God.
Because the child they came to honour was not just a king—they had stepped into the centre of a plan no empire could stop. And not even Herod, for all his schemes, could touch what heaven had already secured.
The Escape to Egypt
After the wise men were gone, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. “Get up! Flee to Egypt with the child and his mother,” the angel said. “Stay there until I tell you to return, because Herod is going to search for the child to kill him.”
That night Joseph left for Egypt with the child and Mary, his mother, and they stayed there until Herod’s death. This fulfilled what the Lord had spoken through the prophet: “I called my Son out of Egypt.” 17
Herod was furious when he realized that the wise men had outwitted him. He sent soldiers to kill all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under, based on the wise men’s report of the star’s first appearance. Herod’s brutal action fulfilled what God had spoken through the prophet Jeremiah: 18
“A cry was heard in Ramah—
weeping and great mourning.
Rachel weeps for her children,
refusing to be comforted,
for they are dead.”
17. “This fulfilled what the Lord had spoken through the prophet: “I called my Son out of Egypt”
Joseph didn’t return home. Not yet. The danger was still too close. Herod’s fear had turned to fury, and staying meant risking everything. So Joseph rose in the night—took Mary, took Jesus—and crossed the border into Egypt.
It was more than survival. It was a return to the very land where Israel’s story had once been held captive. The place that had crushed their spirit—now cradled their salvation.
And centuries after God led His people out of Egypt with fire and cloud, He would lead His Son out, too. Just as the prophet had written:
Out of Egypt I called my son.
Hosea 11:1
But this wasn’t history repeating—it was history being rewritten. Jesus didn’t just retrace Israel’s steps. He redeemed them. Every movement layered with meaning—because this wasn’t just the rescue of a child, it was the beginning of a greater Exodus.
One where every exile—every wanderer—would one day find their way home.
18. “Herod’s brutal action fulfilled what God had spoken through the prophet Jeremiah”
Matthew doesn’t just describe the horror—he frames it through the lens of prophecy. When Herod ordered the killing of innocent children in Bethlehem, he wasn’t just acting out of rage. He was stepping, unknowingly, into the shadow of something foretold.
Centuries earlier, the prophet Jeremiah wrote of a deep, aching grief:
A voice is heard in Ramah—mourning and great weeping. Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.
Jeremiah 31:15
In its original context, this verse spoke of Israel’s exile—the heartbreak of mothers losing their sons to war and captivity. But Matthew sees in it a deeper pattern. A sorrow that echoes through time. A pain that surfaces again in Bethlehem.
Herod’s cruelty didn’t derail God’s plan—it became part of the story God had already spoken. And even in that heartbreak, Matthew invites us to listen not just to the weeping—but to the promise that follows.
The Return to Nazareth
When Herod died, an angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt. “Get up!” the angel said. “Take the child and his mother back to the land of Israel, because those who were trying to kill the child are dead.”
So Joseph got up and returned to the land of Israel with Jesus and his mother. But when he learned that the new ruler of Judea was Herod’s son Archelaus,19 he was afraid to go there. Then, after being warned in a dream, he left for the region of Galilee. So the family went and lived in a town called Nazareth. This fulfilled what the prophets had said: “He will be called a Nazarene.” 20
19. “The new ruler of Judea was Herod’s son Archelaus”
Herod was gone—but peace hadn’t come. His son, Archelaus, now ruled Judea—a man so unstable and violent that even Rome, a regime known for its iron grip, eventually stripped him of power.
Judea had fallen into the hands of another threat. And Joseph, discerning the times, knew that going back would mean stepping into danger once again.
So he stayed still—until heaven spoke.
Another dream. Another redirection. Another act of quiet obedience. Joseph adjusted the course not because it made sense, but because it was asked of him.
He led his family north—to Galilee. To Nazareth. A place off the radar, away from the noise, with no legacy to boast of. Because the story wasn’t meant to begin in the centre of attention—it was meant to unfold where no one was looking.
20. “This fulfilled what the prophets had said: “He will be called a Nazarene.””
Nazareth wasn’t the kind of place that carried weight. It didn’t appear in prophecy. It didn’t carry a reputation. It was the kind of town people passed through, not the kind they pointed to. But when Matthew says this fulfilled what the prophets had spoken, he’s not quoting a single verse—he’s drawing a line through all of them.
Because again and again, the prophets spoke of a Messiah who would be overlooked. Not clothed in glory, but in humility. Not received with honour, but pushed to the side. The language wasn’t geographic—it was prophetic.
- Isaiah 53:3
“He was despised and rejected by men.” - Psalm 22:6
“I am a worm and not a man, scorned by everyone, despised by the people.”
To be called a Nazarene was to be dismissed before a word had been spoken. It meant carrying a name already coloured by contempt. And in that, Jesus wasn’t just fulfilling location—He was stepping into identity. Into the pattern the prophets had already traced.
From Egypt to Bethlehem to Nazareth, every stop in His early life whispered the same truth: the Saviour would not arrive where people expected Him to. He would arrive in the margins, and walk the path no one else wanted.
Not because He had to. But because He chose to.
Footnotes
- Tamar: In ancient Jewish tradition, levirate marriage (from the Latin levir, meaning ‘husband’s brother’) was a custom in which a man was obligated to marry his deceased brother’s widow if the couple had no sons. This ensured the family line would continue and protected the widow from social and economic ruin. Tamar’s first husband died, followed by his brother—leaving her a childless widow twice over. Judah, their father, promised her his third son once he was old enough—but never fulfilled that promise. Tamar was left in limbo, denied justice by a system meant to secure her future. ↩︎
- Moabite: The Moabites were descendants of Lot, living east of Israel. They were often seen as outsiders and enemies of God’s people—excluded from the assembly of Israel by law (Deuteronomy 23:3). For a Moabite woman like Ruth to be welcomed, honoured, and woven into the lineage of the Messiah was nothing short of redemptive reversal. ↩︎
- Bathsheba: Bathsheba was the wife of Uriah, a soldier in King David’s army. David saw her bathing, summoned her, and slept with her—despite her being married. When she became pregnant, David arranged for Uriah to be killed in battle, then took Bathsheba as his wife. Though the sin was David’s, Bathsheba bore the shame in silence—yet through her, the royal line continued. (See 2 Samuel 11) ↩︎
- The Book of the Law: Most scholars believe this refers to the rediscovered scroll of Deuteronomy—containing the covenant, commandments, and promises God gave through Moses. To Josiah, it was more than ancient text. It was the voice of God, calling His people back to who they were meant to be. ↩︎
- Babylonian Exile: The Babylonian exile was a defining moment in Israel’s history. In 586 BC, after years of prophetic warnings, Jerusalem was conquered by Babylon. The temple was destroyed. The city was burned. And the people—God’s people—were taken into captivity. It marked the end of the kingdom of Judah and the beginning of a long, painful season of displacement. But even in exile, God’s promises endured—and His presence was not confined to walls of stone. ↩︎
