About the second reading from Philemon, just to catch you up: Onesimus was a slave in Colossae, and Philemon was his owner.

Philemon had become a Christian at the hands of Paul. But Paul was now in prison somewhere, most likely Ephesus. Onesimus, it appears, ran away from Philemon, finding Paul in prison, again as I said, most likely Ephesus. Onesimus then converted to Christianity, like Philemon, at the hands of Paul; this is why Paul calls Onesimus “my child…whose father I have become in my imprisonment.”[1] Paul the missionary; Philemon the slave owner and Christian; Onesimus the slave and now a Christian too: this, to be brief, is the personal setting of the drama of this tiny biblical text, a mere 25 verses, a mere 335 words.

It’s a remarkable and disturbing letter, one that as a preacher I have usually avoided. Dealing with slavery and ethics, all through the layers of our own history, it’s difficult, to say the least, to say or think anything comfortable from the pulpit about it. And that’s because Paul does something in this letter that’s hard to understand, something we certainly wouldn’t do today. In fact, some accuse Paul here of caving in, of not following through on the redemption of Onesimus, settling merely for spiritual salvation and not real liberation. And that’s because, you see, the curious thing is that Paul sent Onesimus back to Philemon, his former owner. Onesimus, having found Paul and faith in Christ, was sent back to his owner, Philemon. And this biblical text is the invoice of Onesimus’ return. You can see why some have had trouble with this text, why I’ve not ever really preached about it. Because what the heck was Paul doing here? How can we make sense of it?

Now some say Paul here is merely following the law, acting as an amicus domini, a friend of the master, that is, as a mediator on behalf of a runaway slave; the idea is that Paul is pleading for Onesimus’ safe return, granting him the social capital of now being a Christian, which would hopefully buy him some leniency. By this reading, of course, Paul can be accused of cooperating with the system of slavery, not challenging or subverting it. This, of course, would render Paul’s Christianity rather weak if not altogether a sham.

But other scholars suggest Paul was doing something more, something indeed subversive and radically liberating. Although he does not order Philemon to free Onesimus—“so that the good you do might not be forced but voluntary,” he said—still, it’s clear that Paul expects Philemon will treat Onesimus “no longer a slave” but as a brother in the Lord. Treat him as you’d treat me, Paul tells him. If he owes you any money, I’ll pay it, Paul says. Clearly, in Paul’s mind, Onesimus is no longer a slave; he’s free now in Christ. But he lays the material act of earthly liberation at the feet of the slave owner; he leaves the act of manumission up to him. “Refresh my heart in Christ,” is all Paul says.[2] It’s a remarkable challenge and a remarkable risk.

Now I bring all this up—these curious details from this curious little letter—not to expound some moral and make some point like I normally do, but simply to raise a question, bring to light a problem. And that’s the question, the problem, of the relationship of faith to ethics, of how our beliefs influence our actions.

Should Paul have sent Onesimus back to Philemon? Why not send him farther away instead of to the place of his bondage? I wouldn’t have done that; I wouldn’t send an abused spouse, for instance, back to an abuser; my advice would be to run away and call the cops. It would be very sick and wicked for me to talk about how wives should submit to their husbands or about the virtue of suffering; my counsel, my help, would be to help that person find safety. You can see why I have questions for Paul here. How does our faith influence our actions, our ethics? I don’t always know. Sometimes I think we get it right, sometimes not at all. I want to talk to Paul about this when I see him. I get what he’s trying to do, but still I have questions. Just like I have questions for myself, for us, for society too.

Now I don’t judge Paul here. I just have questions; or rather, it makes me question how we relate faith to ethics, words to actions. It makes me think it’s not so easy. Of course, we immediately think of big issues, political ones. We think of all the fights and debates which divide society today. I think of the migrant crisis on the border. I think of what the Mexican-American novelist, Luis Alberto Urrea, wrote once: “Everybody loves Jesus Christ, they just don’t know what to do with Jesus Garcia.”[3] I think of racism, not merely racists acts but the social reality of racism, and how we don’t think about it. I think of what the great African-American writer, Ta-Nehisi Coates wrote: “Racism is not merely a simplistic hatred…One cannot escape the question by hand-waving at the past, disavowing the acts of one’s ancestors.”[4] I think of abortion and the poor and the abused and the Church and Christians and sin and complexity and fear and impotence. It’s not so easy, is it? Again, I don’t judge Paul, nor do I judge you. Rather, I judge myself. Which is probably what each of us should do, where each of us should begin.

Because, of course, before we can tackle these big issues—or at least at same time—we should also think about our more immediate environment. How does my faith influence my ethics, personally? How does my faith influence how I treat the people in my family, my neighbors, my coworkers, that awkward guy who gives his weird political opinions? As G. K. Chesterton said, “We make our friends; we make our enemies, but God makes our next-door neighbor.”[5] How do I treat those people? Am I honest in my dealings with others? Do I tell the truth? Do I go along with injustice or do I speak up? Am I fair and kind and patient with these people? Again, it’s not so easy, is it? Each of us heroes in theory, in practice, well, that’s sometimes a different story. Again, I don’t judge you. Rather, I judge myself, feeling around for the plank in my own eye.

So, what’s the lesson? What’s valuable here? What can we learn from this strange little letter to Philemon? I think this: Even if Paul didn’t follow through as we think he should have; even if we don’t think his ethics followed his faith as closely as it should have (and again, I don’t know the answer to that question), still, we shouldn’t lose sight of the profoundly radical truth Paul asks Philemon to accept. And that is, in Christ his relationship with Onesimus had changed forever. That is, what Paul is talking about is the possibility of the conversion of relationships—that it’s possible, especially when Christ is present. And that’s what I find remarkable, profound and challenging: the idea that it’s possible for us to undergo a change, a conversion, so profound that our relationships change too.

And so, what does this mean for us and for the people in our lives? What does it mean for the person we dislike so much we hate? What does it mean for that person for whom we bear prejudice? What does it mean for the person so politically different than you, you can barely stand the sound of his or her voice? What does what Paul say here mean for us and for these very difficult relationships? It means there’s hope. It means that conversion is possible, within us and within them. It means that in Christ, these things are possible, the end of bitterness and hatred. We simply must first believe it and then humbly pray for it and work for it in our own lives—for the grace of Christ and the conversion of our relationships. It really is the start, the only way we’ll find our way out of our present bitterness, the refreshment of Christ in peace. If we believe it’s possible. Amen.

[1] Philemon 10

[2] Philemon 14-20

[3] Luis Alberto Urrea, The Devil’s Highway, 227

[4] Ta-Nehisi Coates, We Were Eight Years in Power, 123, 179

[5] G. K. Chesterton, Heretics, 185

© 2019 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield