Matthew—also called Levi—was a tax collector. To understand how radical his inclusion is, you need to grasp what that meant. In first-century Israel, a tax collector wasn't just an unliked government employee. He was a traitor. He was a Jew who collaborated with the occupying Roman forces, bidding for the right to tax his own people. Any money he collected beyond the Roman quota was his to keep. He was essentially profiting from the oppression of his neighbors, friends, and family. Seen as ritually unclean and politically corrupt, he was a social outcast, barred from the synagogue and polite society.

One day, Jesus walks up to this man's booth—a symbol of greed and betrayal—and says two words: Follow me. We aren't told of any negotiation or hesitation. Matthew gets up, abandons the seat of his financial security, and walks away. That very night, he throws a dinner party, not for the religious elite, but for his old friends—"tax collectors and sinners"—so they could meet this Jesus who saw past their reputation and into their humanity (Matthew 9:9–13).

So the man documenting the life of Jesus is not an academic, a poet, or a priest. He's a numbers guy. A man trained in precision, record-keeping, and tracking transactions. His work was to notice details others missed. As you read his Gospel, you'll see that personality everywhere: in the meticulous family tree that opens the book, the careful organization of Jesus's teachings, and the constant tallying of fulfilled prophecies. This isn't a man given to flights of fancy; he’s an accountant showing his work.

Most scholars place Matthew's Gospel somewhere between AD 60 and 80. It's written in the shadow of Roman occupation, for an audience of fellow Jews who knew their scriptures inside and out. They were desperately waiting for a Messiah—a promised deliverer. But they were expecting a warrior-king, a political hero like King David who would raise an army and expel the Romans. They were looking for a political revolution.

Matthew’s goal is to show them that Jesus *is* the promised Messiah, but a different, more profound kind of King. He’s not here to overthrow a temporary empire, but to establish an eternal Kingdom. To prove this, Matthew masterfully weaves his narrative with the Hebrew Scriptures (what Christians call the Old Testament). He includes over 60 direct quotes and nearly 200 allusions. His core argument is built on a recurring pattern: "This happened... to fulfill what was spoken by the prophet."

For Matthew, "fulfillment" isn't just about checking off a prophetic to-do list. It’s about showing how Jesus is the climax of Israel's entire story—the one everything has been pointing to all along. He's presenting a legal case to a jury of his peers: Here is the prophetic promise, here is the historical event. Look at the evidence. The King has come.

A fair question. This isn't about blind faith. Let's weigh the evidence like any good skeptic would.

1. The author is an eyewitness with everything to lose. When Matthew walked away from his tax booth, he walked away from a life of financial security, status, and power—the ancient equivalent of a lucrative C-suite job. There was no going back. He didn't write this story to get rich or famous; he got poor and hunted. Early church history unanimously reports that he was martyred for his faith. People might die for what they believe is true, but they don't willingly die for something they know they invented.

2. He includes embarrassing details. A powerful indicator of a historical account's reliability is what scholars call the "criterion of embarrassment." An author inventing a story makes their heroes look heroic. Matthew does the opposite. He openly identifies himself by his shameful former profession. He records the disciples—the future leaders of the church—as being clueless, power-hungry, cowardly, and pathetically weak in their faith. He even includes Jesus calling the group’s leader, Peter, "Satan" (Matthew 16:23). Who makes their foundational heroes look this bad if they're fabricating a religion?

3. The real-world details are verifiable. Matthew isn't telling a "once upon a time" fable. His story is filled with specific names of people, towns, coinage, and cultural practices. He mentions specific fishing boats on the Sea of Galilee, the exact coin needed for the temple tax, and the nuances of Jewish purity laws. Time and again, modern archaeology has affirmed the accuracy of these background details, from the discovery of a first-century boat of the type Jesus used, to the synagogue at Capernaum where he taught, to a house believed to be Peter's. The setting isn't myth; it's history.

4. It's too early and widespread to be a legend. Legends need time to develop, usually over generations in an isolated place. But by the early 100s AD—within living memory of eyewitnesses—Christian leaders across the Roman Empire (in Antioch, Rome, and Alexandria) were already quoting Matthew's Gospel as authoritative scripture. Hand-copied and carried by foot, this text spread like wildfire. There simply wasn't enough time for a fabricated conspiracy to take hold without a massive public pushback from people who were actually there.

Each lesson will cover a section of Matthew. We quote key passages to focus your attention, but we highly recommend having a Bible (or a Bible app) open to see the context. The goal here isn't speed, it's depth. Read slowly. Ask hard questions. Honest doubt is a far more powerful engine for discovery than reluctant agreement.