I’ve spent the last few days watching people unravel online over The Chosen, so I figure I might as well throw my own voice into the void.

For context: I’ve actually watched the show, and I used to study Catholic theology. I’m an atheist, though, so I’m not writing this as a believer rushing to defend a specific dogma or tear down someone else’s. But that academic background runs deep, and it inevitably shapes how I critique religious media.

That’s the lens I’m bringing here: the structural framework of Catholic theology I once lived and breathed. My goal is to separate three distinct things: what the show actually puts on screen, what the Biblical texts literally say, and what two thousand years of church tradition have spun out of those texts. And eventually, comment on some misguided, hateful critique just for the sake of critique and chance to insert their own beliefs and opinions at the cost and dignity of denominations who worked on the series.

To be clear, this isn't a manifesto. I’m not trying to convert anyone, deconvert anyone, defend the Church, or settle centuries of theological beef in a late-night blog post. I’m just fascinated by a piece of media taking massive creative liberties with a subject that, predictably, makes people lose their minds.

There are aspects of The Chosen I genuinely appreciate. There are also moments that, from a theological standpoint, are borderline impossible to defend. Both things can be true at once.

Which brings us to the core of the issue.

Disclaimer: What follows is my own commentary. When I flag something as "theologically problematic," I’m speaking strictly from a Catholic framework I'm most familiar with, not claiming every single Christian tradition would view it the same way. Pointing out a structural issue doesn't mean the whole show is irredeemable garbage or heretical trash. Sometimes a TV show is just a TV show. And they did explain many times that this show isn't just a "Jesus Show". It's the series that primarily focuses on people who met Jesus in person and how did that change their lives. The Chosen ones.

[ I. THE PROBLEMATIC PART ]

Before going any further, we need to clarify what "theological problems" actually mean in this context. I’m not throwing a fit because the writers invented dialogue not explicitly recorded in Scripture. That’s basic storytelling. The Gospels aren't film scripts, and they leave massive gaps between events. If you made a show restricted purely to verbatim quotes from Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, you’d end up with a three-episode miniseries composed almost entirely of people walking through dusty landscapes.

The issue starts when an invented scene doesn't just fill in a quiet narrative gap, but constructs a characterization or theological vibe that directly clashes with the text. That distinction is everything. There’s a world of difference between "the Bible doesn't mention this happened" and "the text gives us every reason to believe it didn't happen like this."

In a Catholic framework, Scripture isn't a loose sandbox of spiritual prompt ideas, and biblical figures aren't interchangeable OC templates. When an adaptation rewrites who they are, it’s not just about whether it makes for dynamic television. It fundamentally alters what the story communicates about Christ, the Apostles, grace, and salvation.

With that framing, a few moments in The Chosen cross the line from standard creative license into genuine theological confusion.

1. "Creepy John" and the downgrade of John the Baptist

Let’s start with a smaller example that illustrates the broader habit.

Multiple characters in the show repeatedly refer to John the Baptist as "Creepy John" or "Crazy John." On the surface, it’s just banter about his extreme desert lifestyle and intense preaching style. Taken in isolation, it’s not some catastrophic theological disaster.

Except the biblical John is held in insanely high regard by the text itself. Before he’s even born, Gabriel tells Zechariah his son will be "great before the Lord" and operate in the spirit and power of Elijah (Luke 1:15–17). Later, Jesus gives John the ultimate endorsement: among those born of women, no one greater has ever arisen (Matthew 11:11).

That makes the running joke hit weirdly. John isn't just a weird desert eccentric who accidentally stumbled into plot relevance; he’s the prophet specifically set apart to pave the way for the Messiah. In the Gospel of John, his entire posture is one of radical, crushing humility; he states he isn't even worthy to untie Jesus' sandals (John 1:27).

To be technical: calling John "Creepy John" is obviously NOT blasphemy against the Holy Spirit. (That specific teaching in Matthew 12 and Mark 3 refers strictly to attributing the work of God’s Spirit to an unclean spirit.) Calling John names isn't the "unforgivable sin."

The issue lays elsewhere. The show takes a figure the text frames with immense sacred dignity and filter-drops him down to a quirky bug-eating guy everyone makes fun of. It’s not outright heresy, but it’s definitely a bizarre choice to reduce a character whom Christ Himself calls the greatest human to ever live into a comedy bit. Like homeless Majnun in Mevlana Rumi, whose hair is a mess, he disappears a lot and talks like he isn't aware of protocols and time passage.

2. Jesus, Judas, and the emotional negotiation problem

The Judas storyline is where things get significantly more serious.

One of the most emotionally charged scenes in the show depicts Jesus pleading with Judas to give Him his heart, essentially begging him to change his mind and choose Him. As purely dramatic television, it’s great. But the moment you line it up next to the Gospel narratives, the theology completely falls apart.

The Gospel of John explicitly states that Jesus knew what Judas was going to do from the jump. John 6:64 confirms Jesus knew from the beginning who wouldn't believe and who would betray Him. By the Last Supper, his betrayal is fully integrated into Jesus’ conscious understanding of what must happen.

This doesn't mean Jesus hated Judas. Catholic theology has zero issue with Christ sincerely desiring the salvation of someone who ultimately rejects Him. God knowing what we call future choice doesn't mean He strips away that person's free agency. God just experiences all time as one moment, while we're stuck in sequences.

So the issue isn't "Jesus knew Judas would betray Him, so why talk to him?" He absolutely would. The problem is the framing. The scene frames Jesus as desperately trying to bargain Judas out of a trajectory whose outcome He already foresees, almost as if the Passion could be dodged if Jesus could just hit the right emotional pitch in a conversation.

The canonical Gospels present a far colder, terrifying reality. Jesus knows what Judas is doing, keeps him close in the inner circle anyway, and frames the coming betrayal as something tied directly to Scripture and the divine plan. Matthew records Jesus saying it would have been better for his betrayer if he had never been born. The Gospels hold two heavy things together: Judas is fully responsible for his choice, and Christ’s Passion isn't a tragic surprise God is desperately trying to avert at the last second.

This is where the boundary between foreknowledge and causation is vital. Jesus knowing Judas will betray Him doesn't make Judas a puppet. But turning Jesus into a desperate negotiator trying to talk Judas out of a fixed outcome reshapes the entire theological weight of the Passion.

And that matters, because Judas isn't just a tragic character arc; he’s the New Testament's ultimate study in human freedom, responsibility, sin, and despair.

3. Peter: Human weakness is Biblical, but this specific Peter is a different story

Peter is probably the easiest character in The Chosen to defend, mainly because the New Testament itself gives us an intensely flawed human being.

He’s impulsive. He regularly misinterprets Jesus. He speaks long before thinking. He brags that he’ll stand by Christ even if everyone else runs away... and then, exactly as predicted, he panics and denies knowing Him three times.

So I have zero issue with showing Peter as emotionally messy, terrified, insecure, or acutely aware of his own shortcomings. Luke’s Gospel actually gives us a surprisingly raw psychological profile. Jesus warns him that Satan has demanded to sift the disciples like wheat, but immediately reassures him: He has prayed for Peter’s faith, and once he has turned back, he must strengthen his brothers. Peter immediately snaps back with total confidence that he’s ready for prison and death, only to be told he’s going to deny Jesus three times before sunrise.

That’s an extraordinary, highly complex character study already present in the source text.

Where things get shaky is when the show takes Peter’s emotional instability and flattens it into a portrait of a perpetually broken, self-loathing guy. Sure, screenwriters need room to build character arcs, but the biblical Peter isn't just "the depressed fisherman who needs Jesus to fix his self-esteem." He’s also the disciple who makes one of the clearest confessions of Christ's divinity in the Gospels, the man specifically commissioned to anchor the others, and the cornerstone apostle of the early Church.

This matters because Catholic theology doesn't treat Peter’s weakness as his entire identity. His weakness is the exact raw material grace works through. Christ doesn't pick Peter because he’s psychologically unshakeable; He picks him despite his flaws and transforms him through them. He demonstrates on him how God's Grace works, and how faith transforms. Roman Catholic Church is built precisely on that.

The same applies to the show's depiction of alcohol. If the goal is simply showing a first-century Mediterranean man drinking wine, there's no issue there; wine was an everyday standard in ancient life. But framing Peter as habitually drunk or using drunkenness as a primary shorthand for his psychological trauma goes way beyond the text. The New Testament obviously recognizes drunkenness as a moral issue, but it never frames Peter that way.

In short: The Chosen is on solid ground when showing Peter as reckless and afraid, but gets reckless itself when it invents an entire modern psychological diagnosis around him.

4. The bigger issue: when filling in gaps starts quietly rewriting theology

All of these examples lead to the exact same core issue. Non-canonical scenes aren't inherently evil; a TV drama literally cannot exist without them. The real question is what kind of material the writers choose to fabricate.

If you invent a casual conversation between two disciples about fishing nets, the theological impact is zero. We simply don't know if it happened or not.

It’s an entirely different situation when you invent a subplot framing an Apostle as a closet alcoholic, turning John the Baptist into a creepy desert lunatic, or showing Jesus desperately trying to talk Judas out of a betrayal He already foresaw. At that point, your creative filling-in-the-blanks is doing heavy theological lifting.

And that’s precisely where a critical reader has every right to call it out. Scripture leaves gaps. Sacred Tradition helps us navigate those gaps. But a modern adaptation shouldn't quietly patch them with fan-fiction tropes that viewers slowly start confusing with actual Scripture.

The risk isn't that someone will binge a season on Netflix and immediately become a medieval heretic. The reality is straightforward: human memory favours narrative. We remember scenes, emotional beats, and dialogue. Over time, an invented, dramatic TV scene can become far more vivid in someone's head than the sparse biblical passage it was supposedly adapted from.

That’s why these details deserve critique. Because when you step into the territory of dramatizing sacred history, your fiction inevitably makes a statement about the sacred history itself.

5. Jesus and sinners: Friendship isn't the same thing as affirmation

There’s another core dynamic in the show that I find shaky, and this one involves Jesus directly rather than His followers.

The Chosen understandably goes all-in on showing an approachable Christ. He laughs, eats with people, parties at weddings, talks to societal outcasts, and generally avoids acting like the solemn, emotionless statue that centuries of classic European art made Him out to be. There’s solid Scriptural backing for this; Jesus was literally smeared as a friend of tax collectors and sinners (Matthew 11:19; Luke 7:34). That wasn't a baseless rumour; He legitimately shared meals with people deemed morally compromised by polite society.

However, there is a crucial distinction in the Gospels that the show routinely blurs: Jesus hangs out with sinners to call them into something new. He doesn't treat their present state as the final destination.

Look at the calling of Levi. When the Pharisees ask why He’s eating with tax collectors, Jesus drops the famous physician metaphor: "Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick." Then comes the clause modern pop-theology loves to skip: "I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners." (Mark 2:17; cf. Luke 5:31–32.)

The Greek vocabulary here is doing heavy lifting. Mark uses καλέσαι (kalesai)—"to call"—and Luke explicitly appends εἰς μετάνοιαν—"to repentance." The whole point isn't just making sinners feel validated at a dinner party. His hospitality has a vector. It demands an exit from their old life.

This distinction is vital for Matthew's character arc. The show frames his core trauma as loneliness and social rejection, which works fine as a relatable drama trope. But the Gospel's actual diagnosis is different. Matthew isn't just an outcast; he’s an extortionist. Jesus doesn't just tell him he’s misunderstood; He tells him, "Follow me." The entire transformation is baked into the command to abandon his table.

This is why the show's version of Jesus occasionally drifts too close to a modern therapy session: "I see you, I hear you, you are loved exactly as you are... you quirky autistic sweetheart with a dog as only friend." Sure, there’s a Christian element in that sentiment, but stripped of context, it’s incomplete. The Jesus of the canonical Gospels also says, "Go, and sin no more" (John 8:11), "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand" (Matthew 4:17), and "Follow me."

In Catholic theology, grace isn't just a comforting shoulder pat. Grace heals, reshapes, revives your moral compass and transforms. Christ welcomes the sinner precisely because He refuses to leave them in the condition He found them.

I have no issue with Jesus grabbing a drink at a table with sinners—that’s straight out of the text. The problem is when the dramatic editing makes the table itself look like the whole point of the Gospel.

6. The sermon rehearsal: Can Jesus actually doubt His own message?

An even weirder moment comes during the prep for the Sermon on the Mount.

The series shows Jesus workshopping His sermon; asking people for feedback, rewording drafts, and outright worrying if He’s getting the message right. As a portrait of a standard human speaker grinding over a speech, it’s relatable. As a portrait of the Incarnate God, however, it triggers a massive Christological red flag.

Catholic theology holds firm to a principle that often gets erased when modern media over-indexes on Jesus' humanity: Christ isn't just a brilliant moral philosopher slowly figuring out what God wants from Him on the fly. He is the Word made flesh. John opens his Gospel with the Λόγος (Logos)—the Word—and identifies that Word directly as God before stating that "the Word became flesh" (John 1:1, 14).

This doesn't mean His human experience was a fake holographic illusion, or that He walked around pretending to be human while secretly consulting a divine cheat sheet. Catholic Christology explicitly affirms that Christ possesses a genuine human intellect and a genuine human will, experiencing true human development. That’s why Luke can write that Jesus "increased in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man" (Luke 2:52).

But there is an immense difference between growing in human maturity and being anxious about whether the divine truth He was sent to proclaim is actually correct.

That’s why that scene feels so fundamentally off. Jesus could certainly speak and communicate using human phrasing. But showing Him visibly unsure of whether His moral message is accurate turns the Incarnation into a story about a religious guru discovering his life purpose in real time.

The issue isn't whether Jesus felt human emotions; He clearly did. The issue is that the show projects modern intellectual insecurity onto a mind that orthodox theology views as inextricably bound to the divine nature.

It’s no surprise this scene caused massive friction among viewers, forcing the show's creators to address the pushback directly. It wasn't just nitpicking. It hit a nerve because it quietly rewrote how Christology works.

7. "Transgression" and the childhood of Jesus

Then there’s a single throwaway line in the childhood flashback episode that sounds harmless until you pause and actually analyze what it implies.

After Mary and Joseph finally track down twelve-year-old Jesus in the Temple, Joseph asks Him what He plans to do for His mother to make up for "this transgression." The scene is clearly meant to be a relatable parental joke after an incredibly stressful situation. The problem? Transgression is not an innocent word in biblical terminology.

In Scripture, a "transgression" isn't just "you made your parents worry." It explicitly denotes crossing a moral boundary or violating a divine command. That makes the word choice wildly irresponsible when applied to Christ.

If you compare the episode directly to Luke 2:41–52, the contrast is stark. Mary asks, "Son, why have you treated us so?" and explains their frantic search. Jesus responds that He must be in His Father's house, or attending to His Father's affairs. Luke then notes that His parents "did not understand the saying that he spoke to them." There is zero implication of moral failure or sin on Jesus' part.

The underlying tension in the passage is actually the exact opposite. Mary and Joseph are genuinely distressed, but Jesus is operating under a higher filial imperative: "Did you not know that I must be in my Father's house?"

Catholic theology approaches this moment with care. Jesus remains genuinely subject to Mary and Joseph, as Luke confirms when they return to Nazareth. But His allegiance to His heavenly Father comes first. The passage doesn't show a rebellious child needing a scolding, nor does it show an omniscient adult wearing a child costume. It portrays the raw mystery of the Incarnation: a real child whose identity and divine mission transcend what even His parents can fully grasp.

That’s why calling it a "transgression" stings more than the writers probably realized. It was meant as light banter, but when you're writing dialogue for Christ, casual jokes can inadvertently build bad theology.

8. The trap of turning "relatability" into a theological standard

This points directly to the underlying thread tying all these scenes together.

The Chosen excels at making Jesus feel approachable. At its best, that's the show's biggest hook. The danger emerges when "relatability" gets elevated into a primary theological category. We start with the orthodox truth that Jesus was fully human, and slowly slide into portraying a Jesus who suffers from the exact same existential confusion, cognitive limits, insecurities, and moral ambiguity as everyone else in the room.

Catholic theology never asks us to choose between a fully human Jesus and a divine Jesus. The doctrine of the Incarnation explicitly forbids that and sees it as a false choice. The Nicene Creed's declaration—"For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven... and became man"—doesn't mean Christ became "sort of" human or dialed back His divine nature to fit in.

He can be physically exhausted without being clueless about His mission. He can endure real agony without experiencing moral doubt. He can pray without needing a journey of self-discovery to figure out who God is. He can extend radical love to sinners without affirming their sin. And He can experience authentic human emotion without being reduced to just another guy trying to find himself.

Balancing those two truths on screen is notoriously hard, so it’s understandable why screenwriters gravitate toward simpler, modern emotional tropes. But in Catholic Christology, holding that exact tension is what makes the Incarnation profound in the first place.

9. When the actor eclipses the icon

Beyond the dialogue, there's a side effect of the show's success that feels far more unsettling, at least for me: for millions of viewers, Jonathan Roumie's face has effectively supplanted their mental image of Jesus. Fans carry photos of Roumie in their wallets, envision his face during personal prayer, and openly admit they can no longer read the Gospels without picturing the actor delivering the lines.

To be clear, this isn't automatically formal idolatry, and it would be absurd to accuse everyday viewers of sin just because a TV actor pops into their head when they pray. Christianity has a long tradition of sacred art, and Catholic theology doesn't condemn mental imagery in prayer. But it highlights why dramatizing Christ is fundamentally different from playing any historical figure. The actor isn't just playing a character; for many, his physical face gets attached to the Object of their worship. Even Roumie has discussed how weird this dynamic gets, describing how fans approach him as if he were actually Jesus while he tries to gently enforce boundaries.

It’s a bizarre paradox. The show sets out to make Jesus feel tangible and human, and succeeds beyond expectation. But that success makes it shockingly easy for a fictional image to fill the void. Instead of picturing an unknown first-century Jewish man whose exact historical features are lost to time, viewers visualize Jonathan Roumie smiling in 4K resolution. The actor did his job too well.

[ II. THE UNEXPECTED HATRED ]

Going into the discourse around The Chosen, I fully expected the standard debates over historical accuracy, artistic license, and the risks of dramatizing sacred texts. What caught me off guard was the sheer volume of pushback from Christian influencers, online pastors, and high-profile commentators whose main issue isn't what the show puts on screen, but who was allowed on set.

A massive chunk of the backlash centers on the presence of Catholics and members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS) across the cast, crew, and distribution team. Jonathan Roumie, who plays Jesus, is devoutly Catholic. Major production partners and set locations have LDS ties. For a vocal segment of critics, they’re proof of spiritual contamination.

The rhetoric isn't subtle. Critics routinely declare Mormons to be "about as Christian as Muslims," dismiss Catholicism as a pagan system that worships Mary, and frame the entire series as a dangerous product of "false religion" and "heretical influence." These judgments aren't delivered with solemn concern; they're served up with smug confidence, theatrical outrage, mocking laughter, and open hostility. It isn't pastoral correction, it's an obvious public hit job.

Honestly, I find this tribal outrage far more unsettling than any of the show's actual script writing flaws.

Part of the whiplash comes from the absurd gap between the values these creators preach and the fruit they actually produce. These are commentators who insist their worldview is anchored in a gospel of love, patience, turning the other cheek, and leaving final judgment to God. But the commentary they pump out online radiates the exact opposite spirit: impatience, cynicism, humiliation, and smug superiority. The casual ease with which they write off entire traditions as non-Christian is packaged as "spiritual discernment," when from the outside, it looks like standard culture-war boundary-policing wearing a coat of theological paint.

I’m not suggesting the differences between Evangelicalism, Catholicism, and Mormonism are minor. They aren't. Their doctrines on God, revelation, and salvation diverge in fundamental ways that genuinely matter to their believers. Rigorous debate is valid, and we had a fair share of those debates when covering Luther and his five Solae. Or Solas. However you prefer.
What’s impossible to defend is a style of gatekeeping that treats the mere presence of a Catholic actor or an LDS producer as toxic fallout, while demonizing anyone who watches the show as hopelessly compromised.

There’s a deep irony here: many of these outrage merchants are professional influencers whose entire business model relies on the exact same attention economy they accuse the show of exploiting. Modern algorithms reward outrage and hot takes; nuance doesn't get shared. So blanket declarations like "Mormons aren't Christians" or "Catholics worship idols" function as algorithmic clickbait.

Listening to these call-out videos, I’m repeatedly struck by how much these creators resemble the exact religious establishment Jesus spent His ministry clashing with. The Pharisees and religious leaders of the Gospels weren't cartoon villains; they were sincere, hyper-disciplined, deeply religious figures convinced they were protecting the purity of their faith against cultural decay. They policed boundaries with absolute certainty, treated contact with "unclean" groups as a moral hazard, and wrote people off without a second thought.

Jesus didn't clash with them because they cared about truth. He clashed with them because their toxic brew of self-righteousness, arrogance, and gatekeeping made them incapable of recognizing truth when it was standing right in front of them. Watching modern Christian influencers attack Catholics and Mormons with that same posture of online purity testing produces an eerie mirror image. The labels have changed, but the spirit remains identical.

I’m not writing this as a Catholic defending the Church, nor as an apologist for LDS theology. I’m writing as someone who studied Catholic thought deeply enough to know it can't be reduced to anti-Catholic strawmen, and as an atheist who finds the spectacle of Christians publicly eviscerating each other over a TV drama deeply depressing. The very people who claim the world desperately needs Christ seem least capable of showing the grace they preach when dealing with fellow believers who don't fit their exact theological mold.

None of this means The Chosen gets a free pass. As I’ve already laid out, invented scenes can mangle character arcs, dramatic liberties can quietly distort Christology, and an actor’s performance can displace the mystery of the actual text. Those are real issues that warrant honest critique.

But the flavor of criticism that starts and ends with "they let Catholics and Mormons near the camera" says very little about the show and a lot about the critics. It reveals that for a certain brand of online believer, the primary threat isn't bad scriptwriting or questionable theology. The primary threat is the terrifying possibility that someone outside their approved echo chamber might feel inspired by the story, or help tell it.

That kind of gatekeeping isn't new in church history. But it remains fundamentally incompatible with the figure at the heart of the Gospels. If the text tells us anything, it’s that Jesus spent a massive amount of time frustrating the religious gatekeepers of His era. Watching His modern followers do the exact same thing to one another, with total confidence and zero self-awareness, is the single most disturbing part of this entire phenomenon.

A TV show can have theological flaws and still be watched with a critical eye. It’s much harder to watch believers treat each other with public spite, only to turn around and claim that everyone else is the one practicing "false religion."

[ III. STILL WORTH IT ]

So, is The Chosen problematic? Absolutely. From a Catholic theological perspective, several of its creative liberties clash with Scripture and sacred tradition. Certain scenes risk flattening Christology, and others rewrite core character dynamics in ways that actually matter. The phenomenon of an actor’s performance replacing the mystery of Christ in people's minds is a very real side effect. These aren't manufactured complaints.

Is it still worth watching? Without a doubt.

It’s actually my comfort show. For all its narrative stumbles, it contains a huge amount of heart, faith, emotional nuance, and genuine craftsmanship. It has gotten people to engage with ancient Gospel texts who would have otherwise never picked up a Bible. It delivers moments of real beauty, clever humour, and sharp human observation. Those strengths don't magically erase the theological problems, but the theological problems don't invalidate the art either.

A series can be deeply flawed and still be brilliant television. It can invite sharp criticism while remaining well worth coming back to. In the end, that’s where I land: not as a hostile critic trying to tear it down, nor as an apologist pretending it’s perfect, but as a viewer who sees both the flaws and the beauty—and chooses to keep watching with both eyes open.