Chosen: Grace beyond the screen

By Herman M. Lagon

A week ago, my daughter Parvane introduced me to The Chosen Series at Netflix. While Typhoon Tino roared outside our home in Lapuz Norte, I spent the long hours watching the series—four seasons straight. It came at the right time: quiet days, howling winds, and a restless heart looking for something honest. The show did not lecture or moralize. It simply held up a mirror, showing me my own roots, flaws, and the stories that shaped my years as a teacher in an Ignatian school. Perhaps that is why it worked—it was humble, real, and brave without trying to be.

What struck me first was how ordinary the disciples seemed. Simon Peter complained like any overworked teacher. Matthew wrestled with guilt and social awkwardness. Zee tried to hide anger under the disguise of loyalty. Gaius the Roman and Nicodemus the Rabbi felt like people I could meet in a classroom or at a barangay meeting. Mary Magdalene’s quiet fight to rise from shame felt deeply familiar—like anyone trying to begin again. They were not distant saints but people still figuring out who they were. When Peter asked, “Who am I to him?” I heard the same question echo in teachers, parents, and public servants just trying to do right.

One scene that stayed with me was when Matthew sat at his tax table, trapped between duty and guilt. His ledger felt like a record of his sins and fears. It reminded me of my former students who face tuition deadlines, or the small fishers in Banate waiting days for payment from buyers. Their ledgers—literal or not—carry the same weight: survival, shame, and a flicker of hope. The show’s beauty lies in how it reminds us that grace can rewrite even those ledgers. It did not tell me to repent; it simply invited me to see myself differently.

That is also why The Chosen resonates with teachers like me. It offers a space where learning, healing, and forgiveness meet. It finds the divine not in grand temples but in simple, everyday places—the market, the boat, the quarry. It teaches through stories, not sermons. In education, we talk about connecting with students beyond grades and rubrics. This series does that. It whispers rather than shouts, reminding us that recognition and kindness can teach better than PowerPoint slides ever could.

Still, the series has its share of quirks. It takes creative liberties—Jesus cracking jokes, or disciples recalling words that are not in the Bible. Some scholars worry it might confuse viewers about what Scripture actually says. I get that concern. But I also think it is okay to let art interpret faith. I watch The Chosen not as gospel but as conversation. I tell Parvane the same: this is a story inspired by the Word, not the Word itself.

Should Christians—or teachers who happen to be Christians—watch it? I think yes, with open eyes. Here in our country, many people still struggle to connect what they believe with how they live. The Chosen bridges that gap. It shows Simon Peter losing patience when his catch fails, Mary Magdalene breaking under stigma, and the group learning to forgive one another. These are not distant events; they mirror what we face daily—strained teamwork, quiet guilt, and the search for meaning in service. The show reminds us that faith does not make life easier; it just gives it direction.

The production itself deserves praise. The actors are natural—especially those who play Peter, Matthew, and Mary. The dialogue feels alive, not stiff or staged. The dusty roads of Galilee look convincing enough that you can almost smell the air. Unlike the overly polished religious shows of the past, The Chosen feels grounded. For teachers used to videos that moralize or simplify, this one respects the audience’s intelligence. It trusts that we can handle complexity and silence.

At its core, the series is about grace. Not the kind you preach, but the kind that quietly changes people. I saw it when Jesus asked a disciple, “What does your heart tell you?” It is not a line from Scripture, but it captures something true. In class, I have seen students soften when asked that question. Sometimes, learning begins not with answers but with listening. The show reminded me of that. It taught me that grace, when lived, can turn obligations into invitations.

More than anything, The Chosen makes you rethink what it means to serve. It shifts focus from image to empathy. In our culture, where politicians still print their faces on tarpaulins for every act of “service,” the series feels like a quiet rebuke. Real service is not about being seen—it is about seeing others. I saw myself in Zee’s temper, Simon’s pride, and even in the teachers I know who hide doubt behind authority. We serve best when we stop pretending to be perfect.

Now that I have finished Season 4, I prepare myself for the next one with mixed feelings—excitement and unease. The Passion story is near, and that means pain and redemption. Maybe that is why this show matters. It tells stories we already know but need to feel again. Like us, the disciples will face storms they cannot calm. And like us, they will learn that surrender is sometimes the bravest thing to do.

The Chosen is not flawless, but it is sincere. It helped me pause during a stormy week, reminded me of where I started, and where I still need to go. It made faith feel close again—less about dogma, more about humanity. If you decide to watch it, do not look for perfection. Bring your doubts, your own “ledger,” and your willingness to see differently. You might find that grace still moves quietly beyond the screen.

***

Doc H fondly describes himself as a ”student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.