Who Was Matthew?
Matthew was not the man anyone would have chosen. He worked as a tax collector—a profession that, in the eyes of his people, stood shoulder to shoulder with betrayal, the kind of life that turned neighbours into enemies and left no room for redemption. In first-century Judea, tax collectors were not simply disliked—they were despised, seen as men who had sided with Rome and profited from the suffering of their own. They carved their living from pockets already empty, often taking more than the law allowed and giving back nothing but resentment.
Most would not have given Matthew a second glance. He would have been avoided in the streets, spoken of in whispers, and quietly condemned. He was not just considered corrupt—he was considered beyond forgiveness.
And yet, when Jesus passed by Matthew’s booth and said, “Follow me,” Matthew rose—and followed.
There was no resistance. No calculation. Just the quiet sound of a man standing to his feet and choosing something deeper.
He left behind the life he had built—his income, his influence, his certainty—and stepped into a future that offered no guarantees, only a calling. In that one simple act of faith, the course of his life was changed forever.
Why Matthew’s Account Stands Apart
Each Gospel moves to its own rhythm. Mark writes with urgency, moving quickly as though racing to tell the story before it slips away. John slows everything down, his words thick with wonder, stillness, and symbolism. Luke writes with the mind of a historian—careful, compassionate, and precise in detail.
Matthew’s voice is different. His Gospel unfolds with intention, every word measured, every scene connected to something deeper. He does not rush to announce something new; he moves steadily to reveal how something ancient has been fulfilled. He writes to the Jewish heart, drawing every thread of promise, every prophecy, and every buried hope into the life of Jesus.
This careful rhythm did not come by accident. Matthew had spent his life keeping records, tracing patterns, and seeing what others missed. As a tax collector, he had been trained in ledgers1 and lists, in columns of names and numbers that demanded precision. He knew the weight of a record kept. He understood what it meant to follow a trail of truth.
So when he wrote the story of Jesus, he did not shape it as hearsay. He structured it as evidence—laying out a witness account for those who could not live on sentiment alone, for those who needed more than hope, and more than words.
This is the One, Matthew says—the One the prophets spoke of,2 the One history has held its breath to see. He did not appear as a disruption to the story, He arrived as its fulfilment—threaded through every line, every longing, and every page.
From Lineage to Legacy
Matthew’s Gospel does not begin with a miracle. There are no angels lighting up the sky, no shepherds abandoning their flocks, no wise men drawn by a distant star. Instead, it opens with a list—a genealogy—forty-two names, arranged with care by a man who had spent his life tracing patterns. Three sets of fourteen. A thread that weaves through patriarchs and kings, through exile3 and return, before settling quietly on a single name—Jesus.
To modern readers, it may feel like a passage to skip. A list of unfamiliar names that seem far removed from meaning. But to a first-century Jewish audience, it was a declaration. A genealogy was never just ancestry—it was identity.
By tracing Jesus back to Abraham, the father of the covenant,4 and to David, the king whose throne had been promised forever, Matthew was making more than an introduction. He was making a claim. This was not merely a teacher, a prophet, or a miracle-worker. This was the heir to the promise. This was a King.
Even the structure carries weight. In Hebrew numerology, the name David totals fourteen. Matthew frames his genealogy around this number. David stands at the centre. Jesus arrives at the conclusion.
This is not a record for history’s sake. It is a tapestry of fulfilment—stitched through generations, carried by promise, and completed in a name that would change the world.
A Line Marked by Grace
What makes Matthew’s genealogy so powerful is not just the pattern, but the people he chose to include. Matthew does not edit the list to make it look clean or impressive. He does not skip over the complicated stories or hide the names that carried shame. Instead, he writes them in openly—because grace has always been at the heart of this story.
Among the names are women whose lives were marked by struggle. Tamar, who was forced to fight for justice after being wronged by her own family. Rahab, a prostitute, who risked her life to protect God’s people even before she fully believed in Him. Ruth, a foreigner, who left everything she knew to follow loyalty and love. Bathsheba, whose story was shaped by betrayal and grief more than by choice.
Matthew does not explain their stories or apologise for them. He simply names them, showing that the line leading to Jesus was never built on perfection. It was built on courage, trust, and grace.
The Messiah did not come through a line of spotless heroes. He came through real people—people with broken stories, complicated pasts, and difficult decisions. And by placing them here, Matthew makes something clear: Jesus did not avoid brokenness. He came through it, to reach us in it.
With these names still echoing, Matthew moves the story forward. The promises that had once been whispered in the dark are about to step into the light. And so we turn to the first chapter of Matthew’s Gospel, where the story truly begins.
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 genealogy by naming two men whose stories shaped the future of Israel—Abraham and David. Both of them had been given promises by God. Both were told that their lives would lead to something far greater than they could see.
To Abraham, God promised that through his family, all nations on earth would one day be blessed. It was not simply about descendants; it was about offering hope to a world in need—hope that would stretch across borders, generations, and into the deep places where people longed to be made whole.
To David, God promised that one of his descendants would sit on a throne that would last forever. This king would not rule through military power or political strength, but through justice, mercy, and peace. His kingdom would be unlike any the world had seen.
These promises were not hidden away or whispered in private. They were spoken aloud, written into Scripture, and carried forward from one generation to the next. They became the foundation of Israel’s hope.
Now, as Matthew traces the family line that leads to Jesus, he is showing that these promises have not been forgotten. They are being fulfilled. The blessing given to Abraham is beginning to unfold. The everlasting kingdom promised to David is taking shape.
Even in the way Matthew arranges the genealogy—three groups of fourteen names, with David positioned at the centre—he is making a point. This is the one all the promises were pointing towards.
The King has come. The covenant still holds. And the story that once felt unfinished is now moving forward.
2. Judah and His Brothers
If the story had followed human logic, the family line would have passed through Joseph—the favoured son whose dreams came true. Joseph rose to power in Egypt, forgave those who betrayed him, saved a nation from famine, and lived with a wisdom far beyond his years. Or perhaps it would have gone through Benjamin—the youngest, the most protected, still held close in the memory of his mother, Rachel.
But the story did not follow favour. It followed grace.
It moved through Judah—the brother who plotted Joseph’s downfall. The one who sold his brother for silver and walked away from the wreckage. Judah’s story in the book of Genesis reads more like a fall than a rise—full of selfishness, scandal, and pride. And yet, with God, the beginning of a story is never its end.
Even before Judah’s life had fully unfolded, God had already spoken through Jacob, his father:
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 (NLT)
In simple terms, Jacob was saying that kings would come from Judah’s family. One day, a ruler would rise whose kingdom would never end. The sceptre and staff were symbols of power, like a crown or throne—signs of authority that would be passed down through Judah’s descendants.
It was a promise wrapped inside a prophecy. A throne hidden in the hands of a man who had not yet become the kind of person fit to carry it.
But this is the rhythm of redemption.
God does not choose based on reputation or success. He does not wait for the story to clean itself up. He chooses in the middle of the mess—and then walks with it forward.
Matthew does not hide Judah’s failures. He includes his name openly, as if to say—this is where redemption begins. Not through perfection, but through restoration.
Jesus did not come from a family line that never stumbled. He came through one that did—and was loved anyway.
3. The Women in Jesus’ Genealogy
In a quiet but radical move, Matthew does something almost unthinkable for his time. He names women in a genealogy.
In first-century Jewish tradition, family lines were traced through men—father to son, name to name. Mothers, wives, and daughters were rarely mentioned. Their stories were often left out, reduced to silent footnotes that history barely acknowledged. But Matthew, careful with every detail, chooses to name them. And not the women people might have expected.
He does not list queens or matriarchs known for spotless reputations. Instead, he highlights women whose stories were shaped by loss, scandal, and survival. Stories that speak not only of ancestry, but of redemption.
- Tamar
Denied justice by her own family, her future withheld, her name nearly erased.5 Her story in Genesis is difficult to read and often avoided, but here she stands—remembered not for shame, but for the courage to fight for her place when no one else would. Tamar’s quiet defiance was written into the story of promise. - Rahab
A foreigner and a prostitute, defined by her past and by where she came from. Yet it was her courage, her choice to trust a God she had only just heard of, that saved her family6 and wove her name into Israel’s story. - Ruth
A Moabite widow,7 defined by loss and by her status as an outsider. Through quiet faith and fierce loyalty, she stepped into a story much greater than her own. Her love and her trust brought her into the line of kings. - Bathsheba
A woman remembered more for the scandal that surrounded her than the sorrow she carried. Her story is often reduced to a footnote in King David’s failure.8 She did not choose the circumstances that pulled her into the public eye, but she bore their weight. Through her came Solomon, and through Solomon, the royal line continued.
Why does Matthew name them? Because this is the story of Jesus. Not a Messiah descended from perfect lives, but from real ones. Not a line untouched by pain, but one marked by grace.
From the very first chapter, Matthew is telling us something essential. Jesus did not come through polished reputations. He came through broken stories—through people the world had overlooked, dismissed, or forgotten.
This is not a lineage built on prestige. It is a lineage built on mercy. A family history that makes space for the excluded, the hurting, and the outsider. A kingdom that begins not with the best the world could offer, but with hearts willing to believe.
Because the Gospel does not begin with ideal lives. It begins with real ones.
4. The Kings of Israel
As Matthew’s genealogy unfolds, the names begin to shift—from patriarchs to kings. The line moves through thrones and crowns, tracing a path across centuries of leadership. It weaves between faithfulness and failure. Some kings ruled with humility. Others ruled with pride. Some turned their hearts towards God. Others turned away and did not return.
Yet through every reign—however brief, however broken—one thread remained steady: the promise.
Among these kings are legacies that still echo today:
- Hezekiah
A reformer in a time of spiritual drift. He tore down idols, reopened the temple, and led his people back to worship. He did not just govern; he remembered. In the ruins of compromise, Hezekiah rebuilt something sacred. - Manasseh
A name that marked some of Judah’s darkest years. His reign was steeped in idolatry, injustice, and desecration. But near the end of his life, when the weight of his choices caught up to him, he turned back. He humbled himself before God. And mercy, unexpected and undeserved, met him there. - Josiah
A boy-king who became a voice of return. When the Book of the Law9 was rediscovered in the temple, Josiah did not respond with pride—he wept. With trembling hands, he led his people not just back to rituals, but back to reverence. Back to the heart of God.
Not every king honoured the promises entrusted to them. Some left behind a legacy of faith; others left only ruin. But the covenant was never upheld by human character. It was upheld by God. His faithfulness did not waver when theirs did. His promises remained—quiet, patient, and unshaken.
The throne of David was never meant to glorify man. It was always meant to carry something greater—an inheritance sustained not by human strength, but by divine promise.
And now, through Jesus, that promise had come. Not announced with banners or celebrated in courts, but born quietly into the world He came to save. Not clothed in robes or gold, but wrapped in skin and breath and vulnerability. Born through a line of broken kings, to become the kind of King they never could be—the one who would not fail.
5. The Exile and Restoration
The Babylonian exile10 did not just uproot a people. It unravelled a story. Jerusalem was no longer theirs. The temple—the centre of worship, the place where God’s presence dwelt—was left in ruins. The kings were gone. The throne stood empty. The songs of Zion were silenced in a foreign land.
Everything that had once seemed certain was lost.
To many, it must have looked like the end of the covenant. As though the promises given to Abraham, to David, and to the generations in between had come to nothing. As though the thread had snapped, and the story had ended in silence.
But covenants like these do not depend on human strength. Even in Babylon, even in exile, God was still speaking.
Among the names listed after the exile, one stands out.
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 (NLT)
A signet ring was the symbol of a king’s authority—worn close to the hand, pressed into wax to seal decrees and promises, marking something that could not be broken.
Zerubbabel11 was not chosen to rule. He was chosen to rebuild. To remind a scattered people that their story had not ended in exile—it had only deepened.
His name in the genealogy is not filler. It is not formality. It stands as a reminder that God’s promises do not collapse when kingdoms fall. They do not disappear when people are displaced. They do not 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 living 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, name after name, breaks. Joseph is named—but not as the father of Jesus. He is called the husband of Mary. And through Mary, the Messiah is born.
It is a detail easy to miss, but it changes everything.
Through Joseph, Jesus receives the legal right to David’s throne—a royal claim rooted in the customs and covenants of Israel’s history. Through Mary, he receives something deeper still—divinity clothed in human flesh.
This is not simply the continuation of a royal bloodline. It is the moment that line gives way to the One it had always been pointing towards. Not an heir by tradition, but the Son by heaven’s choosing. Not born of human desire, but born of divine intention.
Matthew does not linger over the miracle. He does not attempt to explain what cannot be explained. He simply lets the lineage come to rest—on a carpenter, a young woman, and a child who would carry the weight of eternity.
The genealogy does not simply close here. It opens. A greater story is beginning. A story where God steps in—and chooses to stay.
7. The Bigger Picture of Jesus’ Genealogy
Perhaps you have read the names. Perhaps you have noticed the rhythm—generation after generation, carried forward by promise. But what now?
This genealogy is not just a prelude to Jesus. It is a quiet invitation to trust what God is doing in your story too.
If Matthew’s list teaches us anything, it is that God does not wait for clean beginnings. He moves through fractured timelines. Through families that fall apart. Through seasons of life you would rather forget.
You do not need to trace your story back to greatness. You do not need to come from a long line of faith. The beauty of the Gospel is that it does not depend on where you have come from, but on what God is willing to do with where you are now.
Your name may 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 did not simply 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 forgotten detail. You are not a footnote. You are a 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 as oil still glistened on their skin. Over prophets who carried the weight of divine 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)—the word from which we get ‘Jesus Christ’. Not a name with two parts, but a name and a claim. Identity and mission, bound together.
For centuries, the world had waited for that name to rise from the dust. The prophets had spoken of one who would come—not simply to lead, but to heal. Not just to restore Israel, but to redeem the world. A King whose reign would never end. A deliverer who would bring justice and mercy. A shepherd who would also be sovereign.
But the wait grew long. The silence became heavier than the promises. Four hundred years passed without a new word from God—until a carpenter and a young woman welcomed a child into the world.
He did not arrive with a throne beneath him, or a sword at his side, or an army at his command. He arrived with the cry of a newborn in the night—and the breath of God wrapped in flesh.
This is what Matthew is claiming. Jesus is not just another teacher. Not simply a revolutionary. Not another prophet in a long line of prophets. He is the One—the One the oil had always pointed towards, the One every promise leaned into, the One even silence could not silence.
The Messiah had come. Not through spectacle, but through surrender. Not in force, but in presence. And his name was Jesus.
9. “She became pregnant through the power of the Holy Spirit”
Mary was not extraordinary by the world’s standards. She was a young girl from a quiet town, engaged to be married, living a life that did not draw attention. She did not stand out. She was not aiming for greatness. But heaven was not looking for status. It was looking for surrender.
Without fanfare, the Spirit moved. In silence and mystery, eternity was planted inside her womb. There was no human plan, no earthly ambition—only the breath of God spoken over a willing heart.
Matthew does not embellish the story. He does not attempt to explain the mystery or soften the miracle. He simply tells it as it is—a fulfilment of a promise spoken long before:
All right then, the Lord himself will give you the sign. Look! The virgin[a] 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 (NLT)
For generations, that verse had lingered in scrolls and memory. Some have pointed out that the Hebrew word almah, often translated as “virgin”, can also mean “young woman”. Was the prophecy meant to be taken literally, or was it symbolic?
Either way, the heart of the promise stands.
This child was not conceived by human striving. He was not the result of ambition or dynasty. He was a gift. Not man reaching for heaven, but heaven reaching for man.
10. “Did not want to disgrace her publicly, so he decided to break the engagement quietly”
Joseph did not know the full story. He only knew what he could see—and what he saw must have looked like betrayal. The girl he planned to marry was pregnant. In that world, under those laws, he had every right to end the engagement. Every right to protect his reputation, to walk away cleanly, and to leave the shame where it seemed to belong.
But Joseph chose a different way. He decided not to act loudly or out of anger. He would not expose Mary to public shame. Instead, he chose to shield her—to release her quietly, without drawing attention, even though he did not yet understand why.
At this point, Joseph had no knowledge of the divine plan. No voice from heaven had spoken. No angel had appeared. He simply acted with compassion. He valued mercy over judgement, even when he felt wounded. He chose love when he could have chosen resentment.
And perhaps that is why he was chosen.
Because heaven was looking for more than a guardian. It was looking for a man whose kindness could carry a secret, whose strength could hold a fragile story, whose heart could be trusted with a miracle.
11. “He will save his people from their sins”
The angel could have said anything—that Jesus would lead, that he would heal the land, that he would silence their enemies. But he does not. 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 simply soothe their wounds, or fix their systems, or restore their pride. But save them—from the deepest break a soul can carry.
Sin was not just a word. It was a rupture—a tearing away from the God who made them. Not merely a matter of rules, but of relationship. 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. He would carry what humanity could not lift. He would open the way that had been closed for far too long.
This was not a name given out of tradition. It was a name given for a purpose. Jesus—Yeshua—The Lord saves.
And in that one line, heaven hands us the Gospel—quietly, completely.
He came to rescue. Not simply 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 Great12 ruled Judea under Rome’s authority—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 consumed by power—crafting temples, palaces, and towers, while tearing down anyone who threatened his throne.
Even his own sons were not safe.
So when whispers reached him of a child—born King of the Jews—it was not 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 beneath his fear, something far older was unfolding.
Because this was not just about Herod. It never was. This was the collision of two kingdoms—earthly power, desperate to preserve itself, and divine purpose, quietly moving forward beneath it. One clinging to control. The other, wrapped in swaddling cloth, laid in a manger.
Herod reminds us that 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 were not kings, and they were not part of Israel’s story. They were scholars from the East—likely Persia or Babylon—men who spent their lives studying the stars, interpreting dreams, and searching for signs of the divine written into the natural world. They had no Scriptures to guide them, no promises to hold onto, yet they carried something else: a quiet expectation that when heaven moved, the earth would somehow reflect it.
And so when the sky shifted, they noticed—not out of duty, not out of tradition, but out of wonder that stirred them to move.
Because God does not reserve revelation for insiders. Sometimes it is those furthest from the story who are the first to see it unfolding.
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 was a town so small it barely registered on the maps—overshadowed by Jerusalem’s power, overlooked by rulers, and forgotten by history. But it was not forgotten by God.
Matthew ties Jesus’ birthplace to a prophecy spoken long before, quoting the words of Micah 5:2:
But you, O Bethlehem Ephrathah, are only a small village among all the people of Judah. Yet a ruler of Israel, whose origins are in the distant past, will come from you on my behalf.
Micah 5:2 (NLT)
It would not be a king rising from marble halls, but a shepherd emerging from the fields—the same fields where David once watched over his sheep, and from that same soil, a greater Shepherd would come.
He would not lead by force, but by mercy. He would not conquer through power, but through sacrifice. His crown would not glitter with gold, but be woven with thorns. His reign would not begin with conquest, but with care.
15. “They opened their treasure chests and gave him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh”
The gifts they brought were not random, and they were not polite offerings given out of duty. They were chosen with care—each one carrying meaning, each one layered with prophecy.
- Gold
The gift reserved for royalty, offered not to the rich or powerful, but to a child wrapped in linen, lying in a quiet house tucked away in Bethlehem. Even without a crown, He was already a King. - Frankincense
A fragrance lifted in worship, burned in the temple as an offering to God. It spoke of divinity woven into human breath, a reminder that this child carried something eternal within Him. - Myrrh
A burial spice, carried by mourners and laid upon the dead. A shadow of sorrow, reaching even into His birth, pointing to a sacrifice yet to come.
Each gift placed at His feet told a story the Magi themselves may not have fully understood—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 being revealed.
16. “God had warned them in a dream not to return to Herod”
They had followed the star, laid down their treasures, and bowed before a child not yet crowned. Their journey had brought them to a moment thick with wonder, but what they could not see was what waited behind them.
Herod’s smile had been hollow, his words a trap hidden beneath courtesy. Had they returned the way they came, they would have carried danger straight to the doorstep of the Messiah.
But before they could move, heaven spoke through a dream—quiet, clear, unmistakable: do not go back. And so, at first light, they slipped away by another road, led now not by a star, but by the whisper of God.
Because the child they came to honour was not just a king. He was the centre of a plan no empire could stop. And not even Herod, for all his power and 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 threat still lingered, and the cost of staying was too high. So he rose in the night, took Mary, took Jesus, and crossed the border into Egypt—a place heavy with Israel’s history, a land once marked by oppression, now holding their salvation.
It was more than survival. It was a divine echo.
Centuries earlier, God had led His people out of Egypt by fire and cloud, and now, He would lead His Son out too. But this was not simply history repeating—it was history being rewritten. Jesus did not just walk the steps of Israel’s story. He redeemed them.
Every movement was layered with meaning, every mile carrying the weight of promises being kept. Because this was not just the rescue of a child. It was the beginning of a greater Exodus—one that would one day lead every exile, every wanderer, every heart far from home, back into the arms of God.
18. “Herod’s brutal action fulfilled what God had spoken through the prophet Jeremiah”
Matthew does not only record the horror; he frames it through the lens of prophecy. When Herod ordered the killing of the innocent children in Bethlehem,13 it was not just an act of rage or desperation. It was a shadow that had already been spoken into the story long before.
Centuries earlier, the prophet Jeremiah wrote words soaked in grief:
A cry is heard in Ramah—deep anguish and bitter weeping. Rachel weeps for her children, refusing to be comforted—for her children are gone.
Jeremiah 31:15 (NLT)
In its original setting, these words mourned the exile of Israel—mothers losing sons to war and captivity, the sound of grief rising from a people displaced. But Matthew sees more than history; he sees a pattern. A sorrow that does not belong to one moment, but weaves through time—surfacing again now, in Bethlehem.
Herod’s cruelty did not derail the plan of God. It became part of the story already spoken. And even in the weeping, Matthew invites the reader to listen—because hidden beneath the sorrow was always a deeper promise still waiting to be fulfilled.
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 had not come. His son, Archelaus,14 now ruled over Judea—a man so unstable and violent that even Rome, known for its iron grip, eventually stripped him of power.
Judea had fallen into the hands of another threat, and Joseph, discerning the danger, knew that returning would mean risking everything once again.
So he waited. And once more, heaven spoke.
He received another dream, and with it, another change of direction. Joseph did not resist. He did not demand to understand. He adjusted the course with the same quiet obedience that had carried him this far—not because it made sense, but because it was asked of him.
He led his family north, away from the danger, into the hills of Galilee. They settled in a town called Nazareth—a place far from attention, with no fame to its name. Because the story of salvation was never meant to begin where the world was looking. It was always meant to grow quietly, almost unseen, until the time was right.
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 tracing a thread through all of them.
Because again and again, the prophets spoke of a Messiah who would be overlooked. Not clothed in glory, but wrapped in humility. Not honoured, but rejected.
- 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 was spoken. It meant carrying a name already marked by contempt. And in that, Jesus was not simply fulfilling a location—He was stepping into an identity, into the pattern the prophets had already traced.
From Egypt to Bethlehem to Nazareth, every step of His early life whispered the same truth: the Saviour would not arrive where people expected Him. He would come in the margins, and walk the road no one else would choose.
Not because He had to, but because He chose to.
Footnotes
- Ledger — A ledger is a book or record used for keeping accounts. In Matthew’s time, it would have been used to track debts, payments, and financial records with precision. ↩︎
- The One the prophets spoke of — Throughout the Hebrew Scriptures (what Christians call the Old Testament), prophets such as Isaiah, Micah, and others foretold the coming of a chosen King and Saviour. Matthew presents Jesus as the fulfilment of these ancient promises. ↩︎
- Exile — A period when a nation or group of people are forced to live away from their homeland. In the Bible, the exile often refers to when the Jewish people were taken to Babylon after Jerusalem was conquered. ↩︎
- Covenant — A sacred agreement or promise made between God and His people. In the Bible, covenants often carried deep commitments, with God promising blessings in return for faithfulness. ↩︎
- Tamar — In ancient Jewish tradition, levirate marriage (from the Latin levir, meaning ‘husband’s brother’) was a custom where a man was expected to marry his deceased brother’s widow if they had no children. This protected the widow from poverty and ensured the family line continued. Tamar’s first husband died, followed by his brother, leaving her twice widowed without a child. Judah, their father, promised that she would marry his third son once he was old enough—but never kept his word. Tamar was left in limbo, denied justice by the very system meant to protect her. Her story is recorded in Genesis 38. ↩︎
- Rahab — Rahab lived in Jericho and was known for her work as a prostitute. When Israelite spies came into the city, Rahab chose to hide them, risking her life to protect strangers from a people she barely knew. She asked for mercy for her family and placed her faith in the God of Israel. Because of her courage and belief, Rahab and her family were spared when Jericho fell, and she became part of Israel’s story. Her story is found in Joshua 2. ↩︎
- Moabite — A Moabite was someone from Moab, a nation east of Israel’s borders. The Moabites were often seen as outsiders and were not easily welcomed into Israelite life. Ruth, a Moabite widow, chose to stay loyal to her Israelite mother-in-law, Naomi, even after her husband’s death. Through her faith, courage, and kindness, Ruth found a new life among God’s people and became the great-grandmother of King David. Her story is recorded in the Book of Ruth. ↩︎
- Bathsheba — Bathsheba’s story is found in 2 Samuel 11–12. While bathing in her home, she was seen by King David, who summoned her to the palace and slept with her. After she became pregnant, David arranged for her husband Uriah’s death in battle to cover the wrongdoing. Bathsheba carried deep personal loss and public shame, yet she later became the mother of Solomon. Through her, the royal line leading to Jesus continued. ↩︎
- 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 — In 586 BC, the Babylonians conquered Jerusalem, destroyed the temple, and forced many of the Jewish people into exile. They lived as captives in Babylon for about seventy years, far from their homeland and place of worship. The exile was seen as both a national tragedy and a spiritual crisis. ↩︎
- Zerubbabel — A descendant of King David, born during the Babylonian exile. After the exile, he led a group of Jewish people back to Jerusalem and helped rebuild the temple. Though he never ruled as king, Zerubbabel carried the hope of restoration and became a symbol of God’s continuing promise. Ezra 3, Haggai 2. ↩︎
- King Herod the Great — Herod ruled Judea from 37 to 4 BCE as a client king under Rome. Appointed by the Roman Senate and supported by Caesar Augustus, he became known for his ambitious building projects—including the expansion of the Second Temple—and for his ruthless defence of his throne. Though he brought stability and architectural achievement, his reign was also marked by fear, political violence, and deep unpopularity among the Jewish people. britishmuseum.org, imj.org.il. ↩︎
- Herod’s Massacre of the Innocents — The killing of infants in Bethlehem, recorded only in Matthew 2:16, is not mentioned in other historical sources. However, given the small size of Bethlehem at the time, a localised tragedy may not have been considered significant by Roman historians, who typically focused on large-scale political events. Herod’s reputation for brutality—including the execution of members of his own family—is well documented, making the Gospel account consistent with what is known of his character. ↩︎
- Herod Archelaus — Archelaus ruled Judea, Samaria, and Idumea from 4 BCE to 6 CE after the death of his father, Herod the Great. Historical accounts, particularly by the Jewish historian Josephus, describe his reign as unstable and brutal—including the massacre of 3,000 pilgrims during Passover. His rule provoked widespread unrest, leading Emperor Augustus to depose and exile him to Gaul. H.H. Ben-Sasson, A History of the Jewish People, Harvard University Press, 1976, p. 246: hup.harvard.edu. ↩︎
hi
Awesome