Saint Bartholomew

Drawing near to him, we learn a precious lesson: to accept even the silences of history. A life given to God does not have to be measured by how many glorious pages of biography later generations manage to write. Sometimes it is quiet, steady faithfulness before God that is most precious, even if few remember the name.

The only thing certain is that he belonged to the disciples Jesus himself chose during the years of his public preaching — called to stay with the Master, and sent out by him. After the Lord ascended to heaven, his name is still mentioned among the brothers gathered in prayer in Jerusalem, and after that the New Testament falls silent about him.

Alongside those brief lines, a long tradition of the Church has always identified Bartholomew with the figure named Nathanael, described in some detail in Saint John’s Gospel. The identification rests mainly on his close bond with the Apostle Philip: in the Synoptic lists, Bartholomew’s name always comes right after Philip’s, and in John’s Gospel it is Philip who brings Nathanael to meet the Lord. Though the New Testament never says outright that the two names belong to the same person, the moving story of Nathanael’s meeting with Jesus has long been part of devotion to Saint Bartholomew, a cherished inheritance that fills in some of Scripture’s silence about him.

The way the two names were joined also reminds us of something: many figures in Scripture have more than one name. Some bear a name taken from their father, like Bartholomew; some take another name on entering a new stage of life, as Simon was renamed Peter. That a person can be known by several names, depending on who is telling the story and in what setting, is itself a reminder that what Scripture records is only a tiny part of a real person, far more alive than the few lines that remain.

The question sounds rather rude, nothing like what we usually picture from a future saint. It shows a low opinion of a poor region, and skepticism toward news that sounded too good to be true. Yet Philip did not argue back; he only gently invited his friend:

“Come and see.”

As soon as he saw Nathanael approaching, Jesus smiled and spoke about him before he could open his mouth:

“Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.”

Nathanael was stunned and asked: “How do you know me?” Jesus looked him straight in the eye and answered:

“Before Philip called you, when you were under the fig tree, I saw you.”

Scripture never says what Nathanael was doing under that fig tree. Was he praying alone? Sighing over troubles no one else knew about? Or quietly speaking to God in his heart, unknown to anyone? What happened beneath those green leaves remains a secret between him and God. What shook him to the core was realizing this: he had been known by God, seen and loved by Him, long before he had said a single word.

In the Jewish world of that time, the fig tree was often planted right in the courtyard or beside the synagogue, its broad leaves wide enough for a person to sit hidden in the shade to read, meditate or pray alone, away from the harsh sun and away from the curious eyes of passers-by. Many Jewish teachers of the time even advised their students to find a fig tree to sit under while studying the Law, since its shade was thought to quiet the mind. If Nathanael really was in such a private moment, one he was sure no one could see, then the fact that Jesus named that very detail shows all the more clearly that there is no hidden corner of a person’s inner life beyond the loving gaze of God.

Jesus smiled and answered:

“Do you believe because I told you I saw you under the fig tree? You will see greater things than that! You will see heaven opened, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”

An encounter that began in suspicion and prejudice opened up an entirely new horizon, linking earth with heaven. But the Lord’s promise also makes clear that this was only the beginning. The disciple still had many hard days to walk with his Master, and his faith would be tested again and again, above all in the darkness of the Cross.

John’s Gospel mentions Nathanael once more, on the Easter morning by the Lake of Tiberias, and tells us he came from Cana in Galilee, the very village where the Lord worked his first miracle, turning water into fine wine at a wedding feast. He was among the seven disciples who rowed out with Peter to fish all night and caught nothing, and then met the risen Lord waiting for them on the shore. If tradition is right that he is Nathanael, Bartholomew sat down with them and shared the warm breakfast the Master himself had prepared over the glowing charcoal. The Lord does not abandon those who come back empty-handed after a long night of failure.

No record from the time preserves the details of his execution, yet in every age the Church has reverently honored the martyrdom handed down to us. Precisely because the way he died is told as so painful, Saint Bartholomew later became the patron of tanners, bookbinders and those who suffer from skin ailments: a link both homely and moving between the pain he bore and the very ordinary pains of later generations.

His name reminds us of a great comfort: God does not despise the doubts and sincere questions that rise from the depths of the human heart. We do not need to put on a mask of piety before we dare come near the Lord. Come to Him just as you are, awkwardness, prejudices and all.