The Martyrdom Of St Matthew

The Martyrdom of St. Matthew the Apostle While widely recognized as the writer of the first book of the New Testament, St. Matthew remains one of the unknown figures among Christ’s apostles. Even there, he seems almost hidden, perhaps out of humility. He appears abruptly at his counting-table, follows Christ with a matter-of-fact suddenness, and only occasionally is mentioned afterwards in the narrative, sometimes, as in Mark’s gospel, under his other name of Levi, an appropriately priestly-sounding appellation. This is not to call him a minor figure, by any stretch of the imagination—there is great inner tension and drama packed into his shocking, bold, split-second conversion; and his gift of the Gospel, sometimes thought to have been written originally in Aramaic, provides a distinctly Hebrew view of Our Lord’s coming as the prophesied Messiah, the Christ. There are many other, now-forgotten stories of St. Matthew’s life, some striking, some contradictory, some surely legendary, others certainly real. Historians sometimes keep such tales at arm’s length from serious inquiry, but while occasional flourishes and details may seem extravagant to our modern minds, such legends were frequently passed down orally from the earliest times and treated with considerable respect by the Fathers of the Church: theologians, bishops and priests with deeply probing, critical minds who, weathering dungeon, fire, sword, and a fair amount of bitter invective, did not suffer nonsense gladly. There is truth beneath the gilding. While not part of the inspired canon of Scripture and certainly not free of occasional oddities, they remain an important part of our Catholic heritage. Without such stories, we would have no three kings and the Good Thief would remain nameless. The accounts of St. Matthew’s life after the Resurrection are varied, and somewhat overlooked. In art, he is seldom depicted apart from his pen and scroll; only occasionally do we see his conversion or the feast at the house of Levi, and even rarer still is his martyrdom. But in his death, there is a special strength and sacrifice; and because of the events that led him to his own Calvary, the second-century St. Hippolytus called him “the apostle of holy virginity.” Where and when and even how St. Matthew gained the crown of martyrdom is uncertain. It is placed variously in Persia, Ethiopia, Parthia or Macedonia, or even in a fabulous “city of maneaters” of unknown location, and variously by sword, by decapitation, or by burning. However, the most commonly-accepted version, which can be found in the older forms of the Breviary, as well as the medieval compilation known as The Golden Legend of the bishop Blessed James of Voragine, which places his martyrdom in the vicinity of Ethiopia and Egypt. It is this version I have followed in this image; though, like the medievals and early Christians, I have concerned myself less with authentic period detail than the essential historic and symbolic qualities of the narrative. St. Matthew appears in the center of the image, as a bishop vested in full pontifical regalia. He is reported to have presided over his flock in this capacity for thirty-three years. This is deliberately anachronistic, to show the continuity of the order of bishops over the past two millennia, but less anachronistic than one might imagine. The Apostles were the first bishops, and while the hierarchy and traditions of the Church have grown and developed over time, we are realizing more and more that many of Catholicism’s customs are far more ancient than we popularly imagine. For instance, the Apostolic Constitutions—perhaps not as old as once thought,

but still drawing on long-established oral accounts continuously passed down from early times— ascribe to him the invention of holy water. This may or may not be true, but the early Christians, with their hidden liturgies, mystagogy, and catacomb art were very much the Church in a recognizable, organized modern sense. Such niceties are not late medieval additions to a pure, obscured early faith, but their germ has always been present. St. Matthew’s vestments are depicted as more medieval in character than truly archaeologically ancient, but they nonetheless are intended to stress this concept of sacred continuity. His emblems of tax-collector’s money-bags are embroidered on the lappets of his mitre and the hem of his maniple; the crook of crozier is ornamented with figures of angels bearing Gospel-books, the palm-branches symbolic of martyrdom, and a six-pointed star and Hebrew letter Yod, one of the divine monograms associated with God the Father, representing his Judaic background. The tassels and bells on his robes also echo the vesture of the Jewish high priesthood, while the crucifixion scene on his chasuble recall us to the central fact of his own sacrifice for Christ. I have condensed several key moments in the drama of the saint’s death, as related by Bl. James of Voragine, into this one composite image. Now, the martyrdom of St. Matthew about in this way. Some time before, St. Matthew had gained the attention of the local ruler, Egippus, by raising his dead son (some accounts say daughter) to life, as well as defeating two local pagan magi, Zaroës and Arxaphat. One particularly picturesque version has two dragons summoned by the sorcerers falling asleep at his feet. After such acts of wonderworking, Egippus was so amazed, he exclaimed Matthew was nothing less than a god himself, but Matthew explained he was but the servant of the Lord Jesus Christ. King Egippus and his family were baptized, and a great church was built for St. Matthew’s new flock. Iphigenia, the king’s daughter (sometimes said to be the one Matthew raised to life) offered her virginity to God, and St. Matthew put her at the head of two hundred other consecrated women. This may seem as fanciful as the sleeping dragons mentioned earlier in this account, but the orders of widows and virgins are frequently mentioned in the New Testament, and while not perfectly analogous to today’s nuns, are certainly similar in spirit. Eastern Orthodox accounts call the king of the story Fulvian, and say he later became a priest and saint himself, adopting Matthew’s own name as his own. But this is a detail unfamiliar to Western accounts. Iphigenia’s father, whatever his name, eventually died, and was succeeded by the wicked Hirtacus, who lusted after the virgin Iphigenia. He attempted to bribe the Apostle with land and power—even to half his kingdom, like Herod—if he could deliver the girl to him to be his wife. Matthew, cleverly, suggested he should follow the custom of his predecessor and attend Mass on the following Sunday. Iphigenia and her other virgins would be present, and he would preach on the blessings of lawful Christian marriage. Hirtacus was delighted, assuming his Sunday would culminate in a wedding to the beautiful Iphigenia. The next day, as good as his word, the Apostle preached at length on the glories of matrimony. The king praised him for his wisdom, but Matthew, having finished his sermon, called for silence, and said, “Since marriage is good as long as the union is kept inviolate, all of you here present know that if one of his servants dared to usurp the king’s spouse, he would deserve not only the king’s anger but death as a penalty, ad this not because he had married a wife, but by taking his master’s spouse, he was guilty of violating

matrimony. So it is with you, O king! You know the virgin Iphigenia has become the spouse of the eternal King and is consecrated with the sacred veil. How can you take the spouse of One who is more powerful than you and make her your wife?” King Hirtacus, enraged, stamped out of the church. Iphigenia fainted—or, was James puts it, “was prostrate with fear,” but St. Matthew stood firm and gave the virgins his blessing. It is this event which is shown on the right-hand side of the image, the beauteous Iphigenia, clothed in modest but royal raiment, dropping her prayer-book in shock, and supported by one of her horrified handmaids. The central figure of St. Matthew represents him as preaching his sermon, wearing the mitre of pontifical authority; giving his blessing to the frightened virgins, and also, at the very moment of his martyrdom. While holy mass continued, the king summoned a swordsman to dispatch the impudent apostle. After the liturgy concluded, St. Matthew paused for a moment in prayer before the altar with his hands raised to heaven. I have taken a little license here and imagined the attack occurring right at the masses’ conclusion, with the procession forming up before the altar; processional crosses and a taper can be glimpsed in the background, as well as the palm of martyrdom. The right-hand processional cross shows the hand of the Father reaching down from heaven at its central node, a reference to the medieval etymology that saw Matthew’s name as deriving from the Latin-Greek manus Theos, or hand of God. This is not linguistically accurate from a modern or historical understanding, but nonetheless illustrates a deeper symbolic meaning. Pendants inscribed with the Alpha and Omega hang from the cross’s arms, but this being the divine fulfillment of Matthew’s whole earthly life, only the Omega is visible. The swordsman came down the aisle of the church and struck the Apostle square in the back with the point of his sword. He died almost instantly. We do not see this hear, just the moment before the blade fell; the executioner is a limber, capering, mocking, demonic figure, inhuman behind his visor, decked out in fantastical armor decorated with serpentine ornament and bat-wings, his scabbard and sword-hilt decorated with the pagan Egyptian symbols of the old order represented by Hirtacus and his lusts. He is merely a depersonalized extension of the king his master; history does not even give him a name, and this shows to us how sin can destroy our own identity, while God seeks us to be fully alive in Him. What happened next? Sadly, blood was nearly met with more blood. St. Matthew’s enraged congregation stormed Hirtacus’s palace and nearly burnt it down, but were restrained by the Apostle’s priests and deacons. His whole flock then joyfully celebrated their spiritual father’s entry into heaven as a martyr. Hirtacus eventually came to an inglorious end, and Iphigenia’s brother was installed as ruler by a jubilant populace. Iphigenia herself died a peaceful death and is now know as St. Iphigenia. While largely forgotten by today’s Christians, she was venerated in colonial Brazil, as well as in Spanish-ruled eighteenth-century Guatemala, and her feast-day, while not on the General Calendar, may be traditionally celebrated on the same day as St. Matthew’s, that is, today. St. Matthew’s life and martyrdom is not well-known today. Yet, it offers a defense in blood of Christian purity and faithfulness extraordinary even in its own day. Such tales have been handed down from generation to Christian generation; fanciful details and anachronistic scenery may have been added over two millennia of retelling, but the central action of the story and its significance remain obscured. Christians have suffered too much for the Faith to neglect to pass on such stories

without care, or to turn them into a game of telephone. I make no pretense of historical accuracy in this image, which has more of Gothic France and fifteenth-century Germany, as well as a hint of our own time, in it, than the mildly nebulous setting of history, folklore and legend. The main object has been to create a sense of timelessness, continuity, antiquity, beauty, and the exotic wonder that this tale of sacred travel and death has engendered in the hearts of Christians over the ages. A concern with exact historical detail in art is a fairly modern idea. To conclude this oration, I would like to direct you to the little angel tucked in below the Apostle’s feet. St. Matthew is almost always shown with a winged man nearby. As with the other three Evangelists, they are derived from the accounts of the seraphim and cherubim of Ezekiel and the Apocalypse, and in this instance, the winged man—usually transmogrified into an angel— relates to the roll-call of generations that begins St. Matthew’s Gospel, our assurance of the GodMan’s true humanity, and His essential Jewishness. Indeed, the scroll it holds bears the opening words of the New Testament: “The book of generations of Jesus Christ, the son of David.” This text, and this angel, remind us that in the end all Christian witness brings us back to this final point. That God became Man in a real place, in a real time, to save us for Himself.