Growing up, I hated my name.
But then again, don’t most kids hate their names at some point?
As you grow into yourself and learn who you are as an independent person, it only makes sense that you’ll compare yourself to others and want what they have. A great sense of humor. A beautiful singing voice. Brown hair. A cooler name.
Matthew.
Matthew.
It always sounded so formal. Why couldn’t I be something cool like Han (“Star Wars” was my life as a kid) or Keith (I also loved “Voltron”)?
I remember my aunt getting flustered because I insisted on being called “Matt.”
“Why would you want to be called Matt?” she asked me. “Matt is for an old guy.”
I disagreed. While no Han, Matt sounded younger and cooler than Matthew. At least it did on the playground.
I’m pretty sure I even yelled at my mother at one point for saddling me with the name for life.
For. Life.
Of course, I’m pretty sure the “well, it’s in the Bible” explanation was tossed at me a few times. Well, sure, it’s in the most popular book ever printed. So were the names Nimrod, Gomer, Zerubbabel and Mephibosheth.
Where exactly are we going with this?
But here’s the thing: It’s not that my name is in the Bible. It’s why it’s in the Bible. It’s who it belongs to in the Bible.
That’s been something I’ve had to think a bit about since exploring Eastern Orthodoxy. In my Protestant walk, I rarely heard the word saint. Sometimes it would be used in front of Paul or Peter or John, but more often than not, the concept of a saint wasn’t something I really gave much weight to.
I knew the Roman Catholics had saints for everything. And that’s about the extent of my knowledge of the subject.
But in Orthodoxy, I’ve had to take a much closer look at the concept of saints, who they are, and why their icons are venerated in the church. I’ve had to think about my patron saint. If I convert, I’ll have to choose one.
In Orthodox Christianity, individuals have a personal patron saint—often the saint they were named after or one with whom they feel a strong spiritual connection. This saint becomes a sort of spiritual guide and example, and the person might celebrate that saint's feast day like a birthday.
Matthew is my natural choice, so I can’t imagine I’d go against that. I mean, St. Michael the Archangel seems rather metal, but I feel like I’d be betraying my namesake. And really, the more I reflect on things, the more I see a connection between us.
But getting back to childhood me, here’s what I would tell myself if I could go back in time:
You’re named not after any ol’ person in the Bible, but Matthew, one of the 12 who was closest to Jesus and walked with Him, talked to Him and learned directly from Him. You’re named after Matthew, who wrote one of the four Gospels, the most influential and transforming books in existence. You’re named after Matthew, a man who redeemed himself and helped change the world.
Every time I enter the church, I look up and honor the icon of St. Matthew, who, along with St. Mark, St. Luke, and St. John, hold up the four corners of the nave. Their Gospel accounts are the pillars that support the Church of Christ.
When I first started attending the church and was getting used to the icons, a newfound friend pointed to the one of Matthew and said, “There’s your boy.”
My boy.
It didn’t really strike me what he meant by that, but the next time I approached the front of the church to venerate icons, I looked up and really studied the icon of St. Matthew. I looked at him holding the scriptures, with his Gospel scroll being written on the table in front of him. I looked at the face full of wisdom and seriousness—as if in deep contemplation.
And it sort of struck me: “How cool is it that I have the same name as this guy?”
Because Matthew and I have some things in common.
The obvious: We’re both writers.
Matthew’s Gospel helps show how Jesus fulfills the prophecies, laws, and covenant expectations of Israel, establishing Him as the true teacher, the new Moses, and the inaugurator of God's Kingdom.
I write mostly about music—on another Substack if you’re curious.
While I can’t say my review of the Air Supply concert is as life-changing as the Gospel of St. Matthew, we do have that similarity going for us. We are storytellers.
More important is the story of Matthew himself—one of obedience and redemption.
He was a tax collector, a profession despised by many in Israel. The tax collectors were considered traitors, as they were fellow Jews collecting money for the occupying Romans. And they often stole by collecting more than was required.
One day, Matthew was sitting in his tax booth working. Perhaps he was weighing some fish caught by a local fisherman from the same sea where Peter and John made their living. Coins in one hand, pen in the other, eyes trained on the scales.
The fisherman looks at him with contempt, spitting on the ground as he hands over eight denari, knowing full well that the tax should be five.
Matthew flicks his wrist to signal they are done as the fisherman mumbles “traitor” under his breath.
It’s easy to judge a tax collector from a distance—until you wonder what led him there. Maybe Matthew took the job because he was tired of being poor. Maybe he felt stuck, or angry, or numb. Maybe he knew everyone hated him, but at least he wasn’t hungry. Not anymore.
He learned to not care about the hate directed his way. Besides, the Roman authorities provided him security.
Whatever the reason, he was in a position of power and was most likely living a comfortable life.
The next person walks up to his booth, and Matthew’s eyes are looking downward at his scrolls, not paying much attention.
The person just stands there. And Matthew, feeling his presence, looks up.
Jesus of Nazareth says a simple “Follow me.”
And Matthew did. Right then. Right there. He stood up and went with him in obedience, leaving it all behind. He left everything when Jesus called him.
Jesus called someone who was despised and excluded—a spiritual and social outcast.
According to St. Luke, Matthew’s conversion was so dramatic that he hosted a banquet with other tax collectors and outcasts to introduce them to Jesus.
Now that’s a man I can relate to. I know what it’s like to be a complete screw up and yet see God’s grace and mercy call me into greater things. To fall, get up, wipe that dust off my knees, and start on the path again.
If Matthew was redeemable, I’d say we all have a pretty good chance at it, too.
Orthodox Christians believe that those who have died in faith are not dead, but alive in Christ. Saints are just as alive—in fact, more alive—in Christ, and asking them for prayer is an extension of the unity of the Church across life and death.
If he’s truly alive in Christ, then Matthew isn’t just someone I was named after—he’s someone I can talk to. Someone who prays with me.
That’s a tough concept for a guy who has thought that praying to anyone but God was wrong. I think the best explanation I’ve heard to help me parse this out is that you’re praying to the saint to ask for them to pray to God for you, just as you would ask a living friend for prayer—they are alive in Christ, after all.
And really, the more I let that soak in, there is something very beautiful about that idea. When we lose a loved one, we often say (or hope) they’re in heaven. But the Orthodox take it a step further—those who leave us are still very much part of our lives, just in a different way.
Asking for the intercession of saints affirms that the Church is one body, not divided by even death. Salvation and prayer are not just “me and Jesus,” but “us in Christ.”
I don’t need to pray to saints for help. I can go right to God, and I do. But why wouldn’t I ask the help of a friend who is much closer to the action than I am?
If my boy Matthew will pray for me, heaven knows I could use it. I don’t take that lightly.
I think he understands.
There’s still a part of me that hesitates. That old evangelical wiring sometimes kicks in. But then I remember, this isn’t a detour. It’s about a deeper understanding of what it means to be part of the body of Christ. I’m adjusting, learning 2,000 years of tradition and teaching.
It’s one thing to be told you’re named after a Bible figure. It’s another to imagine him as someone who still lives in Christ—and maybe, just maybe, is praying for me now. That’s a strange thought for a former evangelical kid who just wanted to be called something cooler.
My aunt once insisted that Matt sounded old. But now I light a candle for her, and I think she’s probably smiling knowing that the name—and the faith—mean something different to me now.
I used to think names were something to fight against or shrug off. Now I wonder if mine was always nudging me toward something deeper. Toward finding inspiration in someone I was named for—but didn’t really know until recently.
I used to think my name was a burden. Turns out it means “gift of God.” Maybe that’s what it always was—I just hadn’t unwrapped it yet.
These reflections are part of my personal journey—how I’m seeing and interpreting things in the moment. Like any journey, my understanding may be limited or incomplete and will likely deepen over time. I share these thoughts not as conclusions, but as honest glimpses along the way.
Nicely put, Matt(hew)! You made me think about intercessory prayers. This also reminded me of how thrilled I was to discover this iconography in one of my first college art history courses: Matthew is represented by a divine man or angel. Mark by a winged lion, Luke by a winged ox, and John by a rising eagle.