ANYONE hurrying to church on Sunday to listen to what the Bible says about Bartholomew will likely be disillusioned. Only one second-service lectionary reading mentions his name (Matthew 10.1-22).
Poor Bartholomew. He is one in every of the Twelve, a frontrunner of the brand new Israel, Jesus’s trusted friend. Yet the very first thing lots of us associate with him is a massacre. Before I had read the New Testament, or heard of the famous medical school that bears his name, I knew of “St Bartholomew”, because he had a massacre named after him: a slaughter of a minimum of 5000 Huguenots (Protestants) by Catholics on his feast day (24 August), in 1572.
The linking of saint and slaughter is a coincidence, telling us nothing of the person himself: a mere accident of history. I can consider just one other saint whose name is similarly smirched, and that’s Valentine. He, too, has a massacre named after him. He, too, is a victim of timing: 14 February 1929 was the day when seven members of 1 criminal gang were worn out, allegedly on the orders of Al Capone. Perhaps the naming of the later massacre was inspired by that of the previous, though it was the killing of “only” seven men, not 1000’s.
Setting aside this accident of history, we all know almost nothing about Bartholomew himself. A suspiciously recent (ninth-century) tradition identified him with Nathanael. At least his actual name is well-attested: Luke twice mentions Bartholomew as one in every of the Twelve. He is called within the Gospel (6.14-15). Acts 1.13 records almost the identical list in almost the identical order, but omitting Judas Iscariot.
In Matthew’s list of the Twelve (10.3) and in Mark’s (3.18), just as in Luke’s two lists, Bartholomew comes after Philip. At last, here is something historical to hold on to: that multiple witnesses put Philip and Bartholomew together. “Philip” (meaning “horse-lover”) is a purely Greek name, though one popular amongst some Jews. “Bartholomew” is Semitic. The “Bar” a part of his name is similar as in “Bar-Jonah” or “Barnabas” (Matthew 16.16; Acts 4.36): taking it along with the second a part of his name (“Talmai” in Hebrew), points to something like “son of my furrows”.
Although scripture links Bartholomew to Philip, their stories soon diverged. Fourth-century hagiographies tell how Bartholomew travelled to India, bringing the gospel with him. If there’s any truth within the stories told of his martyrdom (it is alleged that he was flayed alive), his death was as horrific because the massacre that bears his name.
The Bartholomew of scripture, then, was followed by a Bartholomew of legend. Both had their part to play in enriching our faith. Whether by coincidence or windfall, the apostle has come to represent the worst and better of humankind. By historical coincidence, he’s eternally related to religious persecution. By the pious legend of his horrific martyrdom, he has come to be related to the humanities of healing, which is why (like Luke) he has hospitals named after him.
Finally, why select for Bartholomew’s day a Gospel that doesn’t even name him? Perhaps it is just a matter of tradition: the identical Gospel is ready in Common Worship as within the 1662 Prayer Book. Three features of this Gospel make clear the apostle’s life and witness to guide our reflection on his meaning for us.
First, Jesus is speaking on the Last Supper. Second, Jesus is difficult established ideas of leadership and authority. Third, Jesus’s sufferings are a way by which his followers are united with him. These three aspects coalesce in an everlasting promise, made by Jesus to Bartholomew and his companions: you’ll “eat and drink at my table in my Kingdom, and you’ll sit on thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel”.
This just isn’t a Gospel with a straightforward transferable message. It doesn’t mean that someday we will sit on thrones judging Israel. It is, fairly, a reassurance — authentication — that Christ’s “little flock” has at all times been in protected hands. All the apostles suffered for his or her faith, but only Bartholomew‘s name has been clouded through a likelihood historical association that was not his fault. Yet, despite the legend and unfair happenstance, Bartholomew’s apostleship is a signal to us: to learn, from his example, to follow Jesus, whatever the fee — protected within the knowledge that we will find healing, even when our immediate suffering suggests otherwise.
