The conversation doesn't end with Monday's newsletter. Join our growing community across social platforms where sophisticated men continue the discussion about authentic transformation, conscious parenting, and intentional living.

Follow us on all platforms: linktr.ee/DapperMindsSociety

Share your insights, ask questions, and connect with other men who are committed to breaking cycles and building better versions of themselves. The brotherhood extends beyond the inbox.

Hey Everyone

We talked last time about grounding our identity in the SON instead of the sun - about how we spend our lives saying "I am" and finishing it with what we do, when God is asking us to just be His.

But there's another side to this coin. Another way we get our identity wrong.

And it showed up in a way I wasn't expecting when I was reading through Matthew recently.

Let me walk you through it.

Between the last words of the Old Testament and the first words of the New Testament, there's a gap.

Four hundred years.

Malachi chapter 4, verse 6 to Matthew chapter 1, verse 1.

Four centuries of silence.

No prophets. No "thus says the Lord." No fresh word from heaven. Just... nothing.

Israel had the Scriptures - the Torah, the Prophets, the writings. They had what God had already said. But no new revelation. No guidance for the specific hell they were walking through.

And brother, they were walking through hell.

Think about what happened during those 400 years:

The Persians conquered them.
Then Alexander the Great and the Greeks rolled through.
Then the Seleucids - Syrian Greeks - took over and desecrated the Temple. Literally sacrificed pigs on the altar.
The Maccabean revolt happened (we remember it now as Hanukkah).
Then Rome showed up and crushed everyone under an iron fist.

Wars. Occupation. Persecution. The Temple defiled. Their land taken. Their people oppressed.

And through all of it - God said nothing.

I was thinking about this the other day, and it hit me: what about the people who were born during that silence?

Imagine being born in year 200 of the silence. Year 300. Year 380.

You grow up hearing stories about Moses. About the prophets. About God speaking to His people, delivering them, guiding them.

But you've never experienced it yourself.

Your parents haven't.

Your grandparents haven't.

Nobody alive has heard from God in two hundred years.

At what point do you start wondering: "Is God even still there? Did He forget about us? Are we being punished for something?"

The faith required to keep believing during that silence is staggering.

And yet - many did. The faithful remnant kept the Scriptures. Kept the Sabbath. Kept the Temple when they could. Kept waiting for the promise.

They didn't know when the Messiah would come. They just knew God said He would.

So they waited.

I was thinking about this when all of a sudden I said out loud something that stuck with me: "It's like when a teacher goes silent during a test."

And man, that hit.

The teacher isn't silent because she doesn't care. She's silent because the test requires you to apply what you've already learned.

The silence is part of the process.

And I think that's what was happening with Israel. They had the Law. They had the Prophets. They had the promises - including that last one in Malachi about Elijah coming before the "great and dreadful day of the Lord."

The question was: would they remember? Would they stay faithful? Would they hold onto what God had already said when He wasn't saying anything new?

Could they trust Him in the silence?

Here's what gets me about that last promise in Malachi:

The very last words God spoke before the 400 years of silence were these:

That was it. That was the last thing.

A promise - but also a warning.

"I'm sending Elijah. Watch for him. He's coming before the great and dreadful day."

And then... 400 years of silence.

Generations lived and died clinging to that promise, never seeing it fulfilled in their lifetime.

But here's the thing,

When God finally broke the silence - the FIRST thing He did was fulfill that promise.

Matthew 3. John the Baptist shows up.

Wearing camel hair. Eating locusts and wild honey. Preaching repentance in the wilderness.

And later, in Matthew 11:14, Jesus says this about John:

The promise from Malachi 4 - the last word before the silence - was the first thing fulfilled when God broke the silence.

Think about that.

400 years. Generations of people who never heard God speak. Decades of wondering if He forgot. Centuries of occupation and suffering and silence.

And when God finally speaks again, His first move is to say: "I didn't forget. I kept My word."

This is what I need you to hear today, brother:

If you're in a season of silence right now - if it feels like God isn't speaking, if it feels like He's distant, if you're wondering if He forgot about you or if you did something to deserve the quiet - remember this:

Silence doesn't mean abandonment.

Silence doesn't mean God broke His promise.

Silence doesn't mean He's not working.

The teacher is quiet during the test - but she hasn't left the room.

And when God does speak again, when He does move, when the silence finally breaks - He will show Himself faithful to every word He's spoken.

Israel waited 400 years.

And God kept His promise.

If He can be faithful through 400 years of silence, He can be faithful in yours too.

Hold onto what He's already said. Trust what you already know to be true. Wait for Him.

Because when He moves, you'll see that He never forgot. He was just preparing something you couldn't see yet.

And then - after four hundred years - God spoke.

Not through a prophet this time.

Through His Son.

Matthew 1:1.

"This is the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham..."

The silence was broken.

But here's the part that's been wrecking me:

Who did God choose to tell that story first?

Who got to write the first account of Jesus's life - the breaking of 400 years of silence, the arrival of the long-awaited Messiah?

Matthew.

A tax collector.

And brother, if you don't know what that means in first-century Israel, let me paint the picture for you - because this is dark.

Tax collectors were the most hated people in Jewish society.

Not just unpopular. Not just disliked.

Despised.

They were Jews who worked for Rome - the very empire that was occupying and oppressing Israel. They collected taxes from their own people to fund their oppressors.

And they didn't just collect what was owed. The system allowed them to overcharge and pocket the difference. So they were getting rich by bleeding their own community dry.

They were traitors. Sellouts. Collaborators.

The religious leaders lumped them in with "sinners" as if it was one category. Matthew 9:10-11 - when Jesus eats with tax collectors, the Pharisees say "Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?"

Like they're the same thing.

But here's what really gets me:

It wasn't uncommon for Jewish families to hold funerals for their children who became tax collectors.

Think about that.

Your son takes a job collecting taxes for Rome, and the family holds a funeral for him. While he's still alive.

They mourn him as if he's dead. They sit shiva. They tear their clothes. They grieve.

Because in their eyes, he is dead. He's cut off. He's no longer part of the family, no longer part of the community, no longer part of God's people.

He's dead to them.

Can you imagine what that does to a person?

Your own family - the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally - look at you and say "You're dead to us."

The community you grew up in turns their backs.

The synagogue won't have you.

Your childhood friends cross the street to avoid you.

Everyone you've ever known tells you the same thing: "You are worthless. You are a traitor. You are beyond redemption."

That's who Matthew was.

Not just hated by strangers. Mourned as dead by his own family.

And God picks him to write the first Gospel.

Think about that.

After 400 years of silence, when God finally speaks again - when the Word becomes flesh and walks among His people - the first person He chooses to tell the story is the guy everyone - including his own family - said was dead.

Not a priest.
Not a Pharisee.
Not a respected rabbi.
Not someone from the "right" family or the "right" tribe.

The guy they held a funeral for.

A man who had sold out his own people.
A man who had chosen money over integrity.
A man who represented everything wrong with Israel's compromise and corruption.
A man the world said was worthless.

That's who God picked.

Here's what gets me:

Matthew's Gospel is written primarily to a Jewish audience. It's the most "Jewish" of the four Gospels.

It opens with a genealogy tracing Jesus back to Abraham.
It quotes the Old Testament more than any other Gospel.
It constantly shows how Jesus fulfills Messianic prophecy.
It's structured to show Jesus as the new Moses, the ultimate King of Israel.

This Gospel is a love letter to the Jewish people, showing them their Messiah has come.

And God chose the guy they literally mourned as dead to write it.

The outcast. The traitor. The one they'd written off as too far gone.
The one the world said had no value.

God said: "You. You're going to tell My story."

I've been sitting with this for days, and I think I'm starting to understand why.

Matthew knew what it meant to be despised.
He knew what it meant to be written off.
He knew what it meant to have the world tell him who he was - and to believe it.

Tax collector. Traitor. Dead to his family. Worthless.

That's what the world called him.

And somewhere along the way, I imagine Matthew started to believe it.

"I am a tax collector."
"I am a traitor."
"I am worthless."
"I am dead to everyone who ever mattered."

He grounded his identity in what the world said about him.

And then Jesus said "Follow me."

This dude had a lucrative career. He was making serious money. He had security. He had a system that worked for him.

But he also had nothing.

Because all the money in the world couldn't change what the world said about him.

He was still dead in their eyes.

And then Jesus - this rabbi, this teacher, this man everyone's talking about - walks up to his booth and looks him in the eye.

Not with disgust.
Not with contempt.
Not with the look Matthew had gotten used to seeing.

Jesus looked at him and saw someone worth calling.

"Follow me."

Two words.

That's all it took.

And Matthew walked away from all of it.

So when Matthew writes his Gospel - when he tells the story of Jesus breaking 400 years of silence - he's not writing from a place of superiority.

He's writing from a place of gratitude.

He's writing as a man who was lost and then found.
Who was dead and then made alive.
Who was called worthless by the world and then called beloved by God.

Matthew knows what it's like to have the world tell you who you are - and then have Jesus tell you something different.

And maybe that's exactly why God chose him.

Because someone who's been forgiven much loves much.

And someone who knows what it's like to be defined by the world's labels can tell the story of a Savior who came to redefine us.

Here's where this connects to what we talked about last time:

In the first message, we talked about how we try to ground our identity in the sun - in what we do, what we produce, our performance.

Now I'm seeing the other ways we get it wrong:

We ground our identity in our sin - in what we've done, where we've failed, how we've compromised.

And we ground our identity in what the world says about us - in the labels people put on us, the judgments they make, the ways they define us.

It's all the same lie, just wearing different masks.

Lie #1: "I am what I accomplish. My worth equals my performance."

Lie #2: "I am what I've done wrong. My identity equals my sin."

Lie #3: "I am what the world says I am. My value equals other people's opinions."

All three lies do the exact same thing: they make something OTHER than Christ the source of your identity.

One bases it on your success.
One bases it on your failure.
One bases it on what other people think.

But all three are trying to finish "I am" with something other than "His."

I felt this recently in a way that gutted me.

I was having a conversation with a guy from church - good dude, hard worker, loves his family. And he was telling me about something he did years ago that he's never been able to shake. A compromise. A betrayal of his own values. Something he's carried shame over for a decade.

And he said: "I know God forgave me. I know that in my head. But I can't shake the feeling that I disqualified myself. That I'm... less than now. That God can use other people, but not me. Not after what I did."

He was grounding his identity in his sin.

Then he said something else that broke my heart:

"And the worst part is... I think other people see it too. I think they look at me and know. And I can't escape what they think of me."

He was also grounding his identity in what the world said about him.

And brother, I saw myself in him.

Because I've felt both of those things.

The times I chose money over integrity - and couldn't forgive myself.
The times I failed and felt disqualified.
The times I let what other people thought of me become the truth I believed about myself.

How often do we do this?

Someone calls you lazy - and you start believing "I am lazy."
Someone says you're not good enough - and you start believing "I am not good enough."
Someone labels you a failure - and you start believing "I am a failure."

The world tells us who we are. And we believe it.

Matthew's family said "You're dead to us."
The community said "You're a traitor."
The religious leaders said "You're a sinner beyond redemption."

And I imagine for a long time, Matthew believed them.

"I am dead."
"I am a traitor."
"I am worthless."

Until Jesus said "Follow me."

Matthew's identity wasn't "tax collector" anymore.

He wasn't "Matthew the traitor."
He wasn't "Matthew the dead son."
He wasn't "Matthew the one everyone hates."

He was Matthew the disciple.
Matthew the Gospel writer.
Matthew the beloved.

Not because he performed his way into that identity.
Not because he made up for his past.
Not because he convinced the world to change their minds about him.

Because Jesus said "Follow me" - and Matthew said yes.

That's it.

That's the whole transaction.

And when God broke 400 years of silence and needed someone to tell the story of the Messiah to the Jewish people - He picked Matthew.

The message in that choice is deafening:

Your past doesn't disqualify you.
Your profession doesn't disqualify you.
Your failures don't disqualify you.
What other people say about you doesn't disqualify you.

The only thing that matters is: Will you follow?

Brother, I don't know what you're carrying today.

Maybe it's the weight of what you haven't done - the performance anxiety, the fear that you're not enough, the crushing pressure to be the sun when you were only ever meant to carry the Light.

Or maybe it's the weight of what you have done - the compromises, the failures, the things you can't undo, the shame that whispers "God could never use someone like you."

Or maybe it's the weight of what the world has said about you - the labels, the judgments, the ways people have defined you, the voices that told you you're not valuable, not worthy, not enough.

All three are lies.

All three are trying to ground your identity in something other than Christ.

And I need you to hear this:

Your identity is not in your performance.
Your identity is not in your sin.
Your identity is not in what the world says about you.

Your identity is in the SON.

God is I AM.

You are His.

Not because of what you've done.
Not in spite of what you've done.
Not because of what anyone else says about you.

Because of what CHRIST has done.

That's the gospel, man.

You don't have to perform your way into worth.
You don't have to hide your past to deserve your calling.
You don't have to let the world's labels define you.

You just have to hear "Follow me" - and respond.

Matthew did.

And God used a man the world mourned as dead to tell the greatest story ever told.

If He can do that with Matthew, what can He do with you?

And here's the other thing I need you to remember:

When you're in your season of silence - when it feels like God isn't speaking, when the test feels too long, when you're wondering if He forgot -

Remember that God is faithful to His word.

Israel waited 400 years for the promise in Malachi to be fulfilled.

And when God finally moved, the first thing He did was keep that promise.

He sent Elijah (in John the Baptist).
He sent the Messiah.
He proved Himself faithful.

So hold on, brother.

God hasn't forgotten you.
He hasn't abandoned you in the silence.
He's still faithful to every word He's spoken.

And when He moves - and He will move - you'll see that He was working the whole time.

Preparing something you couldn't see yet.

So here's my question for you today:

What are you letting define you?

Is it your performance? Your productivity? Your success or lack thereof?

Is it your past? Your failures? Your shame?

Is it what the world has said about you? The labels people put on you? The ways they've written you off?

Or is it Christ?

Because He's the only "I am" that can hold the weight of your worth.

He's the only identity that can't be stripped away by failure, by time, by circumstance, by what other people think.

You are His.

Tax collector or not.
Successful or struggling.
Clean record or complicated past.
Labeled by the world or mourned as dead.

You are His.

And that's the only identity statement that will ever be enough.

Let's renew our minds together, brothers. Let's think dapper - not by performing better, not by hiding our shame, not by listening to the world's lies - but by remembering whose we are.

Nick
The Dapper Mind Society

One more thing.

If you're reading this and you're carrying the weight of disqualification - if you've been telling yourself "God could never use me, not after what I've done" or "not after what people say about me" - I want you to know something:

That's a lie.

Matthew was a tax collector his own family mourned as dead.
Peter denied Jesus three times.
Paul murdered Christians.

And God used all of them.

Not in spite of their pasts. But because someone who's been forgiven much loves much. And someone who knows what it's like to be lost can tell others how to be found.

And someone who knows what it's like to be labeled by the world can tell others about a Savior who relabels us as beloved.

If you're ready to stop letting your past define you - if you're ready to stop letting the world's labels become your identity - if you're ready to find who you really are in Christ instead of your sin, your performance, or other people's opinions - I want to walk that road with you.

If you need prayer, if you need someone to talk to, if you just need to know someone else gets it...

Reach out: [email protected]

I'm not a pastor. I'm not perfect. I'm just a brother who knows what it's like to feel disqualified - and who's learning that Jesus has never been interested in our qualifications or the world's labels.

Just our willingness to follow.

So if you need that today - I'm here.

Let's walk this out together.

Nick
The Dapper Mind Society