ANYONE hurrying to church on Sunday to hear what the Bible says about Bartholomew will be disappointed. Only one second-service lectionary reading mentions his name (Matthew 10.1-22).
Poor Bartholomew. He is one of the Twelve, a leader of the new Israel, Jesus’s trusted friend. Yet the first thing many 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 at least 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 man himself: a mere accident of history. I can think of only one other saint whose name is similarly smirched, and that is 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 one criminal gang were wiped out, allegedly on the orders of Al Capone. Perhaps the naming of the later massacre was inspired by that of the former, though it was the killing of “only” seven men, not thousands.
Setting aside this accident of history, we 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 of the Twelve. He is named in the Gospel (6.14-15). Acts 1.13 records almost the same list in almost the same 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 hang on to: that multiple witnesses put Philip and Bartholomew together. “Philip” (meaning “horse-lover”) is a purely Greek name, though one popular among some Jews. “Bartholomew” is Semitic. The “Bar” part of his name is the same as in “Bar-Jonah” or “Barnabas” (Matthew 16.16; Acts 4.36): taking it together with the second 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 is any truth in the stories told of his martyrdom (it is said that he was flayed alive), his death was as horrific as 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 providence, the apostle has come to represent the worst and best of humankind. By historical coincidence, he is eternally associated with religious persecution. By the pious legend of his horrific martyrdom, he has come to be associated with the arts of healing, which is why (like Luke) he has hospitals named after him.
Finally, why choose for Bartholomew’s day a Gospel that does not even name him? Perhaps it is simply a matter of tradition: the same Gospel is set in Common Worship as in the 1662 Prayer Book. Three aspects of this Gospel shed light on the apostle’s life and witness to guide our reflection on his meaning for us.
First, Jesus is speaking at the Last Supper. Second, Jesus is challenging established ideas of leadership and authority. Third, Jesus’s sufferings are a means by which his followers are united with him. These three factors coalesce in an eternal promise, made by Jesus to Bartholomew and his companions: you will “eat and drink at my table in my Kingdom, and you will sit on thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel”.
This is not a Gospel with a simple transferable message. It does not mean that one day we will sit on thrones judging Israel. It is, rather, a reassurance — authentication — that Christ’s “little flock” has always been in safe hands. All the apostles suffered for their faith, but only Bartholomew‘s name has been clouded through a chance 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 cost — safe in the knowledge that we shall find healing, even when our immediate suffering suggests otherwise.
