The Chosen recently kickstarted their second season. I’m inspired by the self-funded nature of this show, along with the new dimensions of these motley teenagers and twenty-somethings following Jesus around. A recent episode gave some light into Nathanael’s story.
You do remember, Nathanael, right? He’s not one you hear a lot about. Of course there’s Peter, James, and John, and my homeboy namesake of Doubting Thomas, and well . . . Judas. But Nathanael?
He’s definitely up there among the most invisible disciples, along with Bartholomew and poor Thaddeus (or “the other Judas”).
Scripture gives a peek into Nathanael’s story in John 1:47-50 (ESV):
Jesus saw Nathanael coming toward him and said of him, “Behold, an Israelite indeed, in whom there is no deceit!” Nathanael said to him, “How do you know me?” Jesus answered him, “Before Philip called you, when you were under the fig tree, I saw you.” Nathanael answered him, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!” Jesus answered him, “Because I said to you, ‘I saw you under the fig tree,’ do you believe? You will see greater things than these.”
The Chosen takes some creative liberties with Scripture, certainly, but it’s awesome to see these millennia-old characters fleshed out, coming to life in ways never before seen on screen. Indeed, the show’s introduction of this nobody Nathanael is one that will stick with me.
Namely, because this nobody Nathanael is me.
Early into this particular episode, we learn that Nathanael is an architect. His latest project, a place of worship, collapses in disaster. He retreats to a fig tree where he burns his blueprints and cries out to God:
“This was done for You. Do not hide Your face from me! Do You see me? Do You see?”
His cries gave me flashbacks to another disciple of sorts, LOST‘s Ben Linus as he cried out to godlike Jacob:
“I never questioned anything. I did as I was told. But when I dared to ask to see you myself, I was told, ‘You have to wait. You have to be patient’ … What was it that was so wrong with me? What about me?”
Ben voices his frustration after 35 years of obedience without a payoff. And I sense a similar despair with Nathanael. A despair that feels all too familiar.
I did what You asked, I built what You told me to build, and it literally collapsed. So now what? Are You even there anymore?
I feel the strain in Nathanael’s voice. The wavering. A desperate pleading to be seen.
A few years ago I found myself in the rubble of my own “collapse.” I thought I’d built something special here in Asheville. I thought I was following God.
And yet it burned to the ground in what feels like the greatest failure of my life. I retreated to a 200-square-foot studio in the woods and faced a lot of lonely nights under the proverbial fig tree.
Do You see me? Do You see?
A year ago, before the pandemic, I heard whispers to build again. And I started to. Despite untold reservations, I started.
And then the pandemic hit. And then my autoimmune disease swallowed me whole. Isolation and doubt overtook me for weeks, months at a time.
Now, a year removed from the start of this pandemic and the onslaught of my disease, I hear the whispers — those damn whispers — to build again. To build something similar but also very different from the first bricks laid in this city years ago.
I’ll be honest, it’s still hard not to feel the tremors of that collapse of yesteryear. To close my eyes and not see the plumes of dust and breathe it in.
Am I doomed for another collapse? Will the rug be pulled out from under me again? What are my expectations for anything built on this side of fallen life? Should they be great because God is great or should they be minuscule because man is — because I am — nothing?
Am I sure this whisper is even God’s voice? Isn’t some of it my own? Can I just ignore it? Can someone else hear it, too?
Can someone else do the building, and I do the following? I’m a great follower. I love keeping rules and order.
But building, leading? Who am I to sketch any blueprints?
The questions mount; their intensity escalates. Like brick upon brick of my former progress, I feel the weight of my questions amid the unshakeable whisper of this voice.
None more resounding than:
Do You see me?
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