A searchable, downloadable PDF of the original article appears below. This article imagines what it would have been like for Philemon to first read Paul’s letter to him. Put yourself in his place. Esther Mcllveen is a free-lance writer living in Richmond, B.C.
Apphia sat musing, recalling the events of the day waiting for Philemon. When she heard his step, she ran skipping down the garden path to meet him at the gate with the news. “Onesimus is back!”
“What brings him back? Has his relished freedom gone sour? How shortlived has been his independence! On what pretext is he returning? Has the pilferer more plans for easy cash? He is a marked man, can he possibly face his penalty?”
“He’s changed, Philemon, he came in great humility. He brings with him a letter in Paul’s own handwriting. Here, it’s in my apron pocket. I’ll leave you now to read it, but when I return you must share all with me.” She gave his arm a squeeze.
Philemon left limp as he settled into his favourite rocker. His hands trembled and the knot in his stomach tightened. The annoyance he had held in check now seethed within him. “Ungrateful rascal. That unindustrious, lackadaisical serf has dared to return. What loss he has put me through.”
Forgetting who the carrier had been, he opened the letter.
“I thank my God always when I remember you… I hear of your love and of the faith you have toward the Lord Jesus and all the saints… for I have derived much joy and comfort from your love, my brother.”
The words of appreciation and affection flooded him and for a moment the inner storm subsided. A letter from Paul always had that effect upon him. How his life had known change and all because of Paul. The letter slid from his fingers as he leaned back to reflect on the innovations that had taken place in his business, his home and in his outlook on life. It was difficult to recall the past – parts of it were painful memory. Some of it was so foreign now, like a chrysalis that had been shed.
The office had claimed endless hours of his life in the days when he was a pawn in the business whirl. Apphia had expensive tastes; besides, the shopping sprees provided an outlet from her frustrated, narrow world. Archippus had left for college and no one needed her. Philemon shuddered as he thought of the strain that had entered their relationship – their shrivelled close-fisted world – the acute emptiness that haunted him when he was alone – plus the accumulated guilt.
Suddenly he remembered that he was experiencing a rare solitude. Ever since the church was meeting in his home Apphia and he usually had someone to dinner, or housed in the guestroom. The once-lonely house was now bulging with singing, studying, praying. This is what Paul had meant when he had described fellowship. The sense of belonging grew rich with the passing of time. The role of a shepherd was becoming familiar – he liked it.
No doubt this was why Paul was writing. He needed all the assistance for this momentous commission. He picked up the letter eager for its contents.
“I appeal to you for my child, Onesimus, whose father I have become in my imprisonment… I am sending him back to you, sending my very heart. Perhaps this is why he was parted from you for awhile, that you might have him back forever, no longer as a slave, but as a brother… so if you consider me your partner, receive him as you would receive me.”
Philemon’s eyes could focus no longer – so this was the explanation. Onesimus was returning on Paul’s credibility. “He doesn’t know what he is asking.” His pulse quickened. The palpitations that had long ceased now returned, only with greater intensity. “The neighbours have mocked my esteem for my slaves. Onesimus has betrayed my confidence.” His fist came down hard on the letter. “I can’t do it” he gasped. Then he collapsed to his knees.
“Confident of your obedience, I write to you, knowing that you will do even more than I say. If he has wronged you at all, or owes you anything, charge that to my account. I will repay it – to say nothing of your owing me even your own self.
“Confident of your obedience…”
Philemon rose and brushed his knees, then turned to the bunk house. “Onesimus! Ah, here you are, Onesimus, would you be willing to read the Scripture lesson when the church meets on Sunday, my brother?”