Jerusalem, AD 40. Four men are dead. The killer is one of their own.
Simeon of Meroë has served the Kandake of Ethiopia as a royal treasury examiner for twenty years - a man who finds what is hidden, exposes what has been falsified, and names what others overlook. He is also something else: a secret believer, baptized by a deacon named Philip in the desert outside Gaza after a chance encounter on a desert road changed everything. He carries in his chest two verses that have never stopped arguing with each other. One says he is excluded. The other says he is welcomed by name.
When four leaders of the early Jerusalem church die under circumstances the community is calling persecution, the Kandake sends her best investigator north. The movement is gaining influence even in her court. She wants to know what it is made of.
What Simeon finds in Jerusalem is a community more fractured than he expected - and a pattern of deaths that no one wants to see. The victims are not random. They are all men who welcomed Gentiles as full members of the people of God. The method is precise. The motive is theological. And the killer, Simeon comes to understand, is not an enemy of the church from outside. He is a zealous believer within it, who has read the scriptures carefully and drawn from them a terrible conclusion: that holiness requires blood.
To stop him, Simeon must navigate a city layered with danger - Roman patrols, Temple politics, suspicious elders, and a community of believers who are not sure a foreign eunuch has the standing to judge anyone. He must find the man before he strikes again, and he must do it while carrying his own lifelong wound: the verse in Deuteronomy that has functioned in his mind as a sentence since the day his body was altered by royal decree.
A Name Better Than Sons is a story about murder, yes - but more than that, it is a story about who gets to belong. It is about the early church at its most human: brave and petty, prophetic and blind, capable of extraordinary mercy and of violence in the name of the God it worships. It is about what happens when a community's theology outpaces its practice, and what it costs to bring them back into alignment.
It is about a man who has spent his entire life being told, in one way or another, that he is standing at the edge of the assembly - and what happens when the leaders of that assembly stand before him and say: No. You are not at the edge. You are in the center. Isaiah fifty-six is not a footnote about you. It is the main text.
Drawing on the account in Acts chapter eight and the world of first-century Jerusalem as recorded by Luke, Paul, and Josephus, this novel brings to life the unnamed Ethiopian eunuch of the New Testament - giving him a name, a voice, a past, and a future. It places him in the thick of the early church's most consequential debate: whether the God of Israel had truly opened his house to all who would come, or whether some doors remained closed by ancient decree.
For readers of Francine Rivers, Mesu Andrews, and Geraldine Brooks, A Name Better Than Sons is a literary historical novel that takes the Bible seriously as literature, as theology, and as the living story of real people who had to decide, week by week, what their faith cost them.
Simeon already knows what his has cost. The question is whether the community he has given himself to will finally, fully, call him one of their own - and whether he can believe it when they do.
The Nile is wide. The door is open. The name that cannot be cut off is older than the wound.
