A Surprising Friendship

The 15^th Sunday after Pentecost                                                                   September 5, 2010

Text: Philemon                                                                                  The Rev. Dr. Ross M. Wright

A letter, written by the right person, using the right words, and wielding appropriate authority, can move mountains.  For example, on April 7, 1865, President Lincoln, anxious to end the war, sent the following telegram to General Grant, who was closing in on Lee’s wearied Army of Virginia: “General Sheridan says ‘If the thing is pressed I think that Lee will surrender.’  Let the thing be pressed’.”  Lincoln knew how to use letters to make things happen. 

            A letter of recommendation by the right person can get you a job, get you into college, or secure pardon.  Think of the letters of pardon signed by the president or the governor, often the last official duty on the last day of office.  Think of what that letter means to the guilty party: freedom, a clean slate, a new life.  

            The Apostle Paul knew something about the power of the letter to get things done.  The fact that we Gentiles are here today, worshipping the Lord Jesus Christ, Israel’s Messiah, is testimony to the power of his pen.  We have just heard his letter to Philemon, much as it would have been heard by the congregation in Colossae as part of the Sunday morning Eucharist.  Imagine what it must have been like to hear it for the first time.  I wonder how Philemon felt when he heard his own name, and realized that Paul’s letter was a direct communication to him concerning the affairs of his own household.  The words of the New Testament become God’s word to us when we hear them addressed to us, directly, to our congregation, addressing our situation – in short, when we hear the Bible as God’s personal word to us.  May it be so this morning, by the power of the Holy Spirit.   

            Let’s look at each of the key players in this drama. 

Here is Paul, the Apostle to the Gentiles, who has planted congregations all over modern-day Greece and Turkey, writing from a prison cell in Rome.  Notice how he identifies himself in the introductory greeting: “Paul, a prisoner of Christ Jesus.”  Not “Paul, the apostle appointed by God to the Gentiles,” not “Paul, chief evangelist and overseer of the churches” but “Paul, the prisoner of Christ.”  This describes his literal situation: he is in prison because of his witness to the resurrection.  More than that, “prisoner of Christ” identifies the core of his identity. 

Each of us is a composite of different personae: we are son or daughter, brother or sister, husband or wife.  We wear different hats; in some cases, this places us in positions of influence and authority.  But the core of our existence is who we are in Christ.  What does it mean for us to be a prisoner of Christ?  We are not literally incarcerated because of our witness to Christ, like Paul.  But are captured nevertheless, in the sense that our entire being has been apprehended by God in Christ.  We have been drafted, pressed into his service, perhaps unwittingly.  Now, it is at least possible that any aspect of our lives may be pressed into service for the spread of God’s kingdom.  We are not our own: we have been “bought with a price.”[1]  We are prisoners of Christ. 

            Here is Philemon: the addressee of Paul’s letter.  He is the leader of one of the congregations in Colossae.  He is probably a person with some financial means: he owns a house and at least one slave.  Paul loves this man; his affection for Philemon radiates from the letter:

 I always thank my God when I mention you in my prayers, because I hear of your love for all the saints and your faith in the Lord Jesus.  I pray that your generosity, which arises from your faith, may lead you effectively into a deeper understanding and experience of every blessing which belongs to us as fellow-members in the body of Christ.[2] 

Their friendship is grounded in a shared experience of the blessings of God and nurtured in prayer.  Anyone who happened to eavesdrop on Paul at prayer would have heard Philemon’s name mentioned often.  Paul does not find it draining to be in Philemon’s presence.   On the contrary, he says that he has been refreshed simply by being with Philemon: 

For I have derived much joy and comfort from your love, because the hearts of the saints have been refreshed by you, my brother. 

Does Paul say all this to butter him up so Philemon will do what Paul is about to ask?  You could read it that way.  But you could also read it as a true description: Philemon has a record of being generous to fellow believers.  It is because of this generosity that Paul appeals to him “for love’s sake” (v. 9) rather than standing on his authority to compel him.  This letter bears witness to love in the Christian community that is the ground of all effective work for the Lord.  There can be religious activity without love.  But the distinctive mark of God’s activity among us is love: the love that builds people up rather than tearing them down.   

Here is Onesimus, Philemon’s household servant, now, a runaway slave, seeking refuge with Paul.  Onesimus has done something to offend his master.  The precise nature of his offense is unclear and must be inferred from v. 18, where Paul writes: “If he has wronged you or owes you anything, charge that to my account.”  Did he steal something of value, like the silver candlesticks that Jean Val jean stole from the kind Bishop of Digne in Les Miserables?  Or was his labor in Philemon’s household the thing of value, which is now lost because he has run away?   

In any event, Paul and Onesimus are thrown together in that strange intimacy that exists between cellmates.  It is a life-changing experience for both of them.  For Onesimus, the effect of being in Paul’s presence is an encounter with the risen Christ.  He shares Paul’s conviction that Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified, is the Christ, Israel’s long awaited Messiah, that he is risen from the dead and has inaugurated the messianic age. 

The friendship with Onesimus is life-changing for Paul as well.  The apostle develops a deep affection for this runaway slave who has come to Christ.  The bond is so deep that Paul refers to him as his own child:

I appeal to you for my child Onesimus, whom I begot while in prison.   Previously he was useless to you, but now he has become useful both to you and to me.  I am sending him – who is my very heart – back to you. 

The friendship has become so deep that Paul wants to keep him at his side as a companion in the great work of spreading the good news of the gospel. 

Paul’s message has this effect on people.  When you encounter Paul’s gospel, you find yourself swept up with the great advance of the word of God. The word of God on the move, carrying Paul, Onesimus, Philemon, and everyone he comes into contact with it – including us.   

But now, Paul faces a dilemma.  Should he send Onesimus back to Philemon, with all the possible repercussions: return to slavery, punishment?  Paul’s friendship with Philemon demands that he do so.  Roman law demands that he do so.  Or should he keep Onesimus with him, not as a slave, but as a brother in the Lord Jesus?  What are Onesimus’ feelings about the matter?

Each of these realities or relationships makes its demands.  But notice that Paul does not accede to any of them.  Instead, he appeals to a deeper loyalty, a more comprehensive relationship: namely, to their existence in Christ.  Whatever roles they have been given in the world, whatever their outward station in life, these are trumped by a deeper reality and a more comprehensive relationship: their mutual relationship to Jesus Christ, who has called all three of them into his service. 

And here we come to the power of this letter.  Outwardly, Paul does the right thing – he sends Onesimus back to Philemon.  But he sends him back no longer as a slave, but as a brother in Christ, a fellow heir of the blessings of the gospel:

Previously he was useless to you, but now he has become useful both to you and to me.  I am sending him – who is my very heart – back to you.  Indeed I would have liked to keep him with me so that he could take your place in helping me during my imprisonment for the gospel.[3] 

Paul creates an “an atmosphere in which the institution of slavery could only wilt and die.”[4]  In Christ, the outer shell of slavery remains, while a new creation is formed from within.  The inevitable result is that sooner or later the new creation bursts through the old shell. 

              I hope that we can see ourselves this morning in Paul, Onesimus, and Philemon.  Like Onesimus, we are runaway slaves, who have deserted the master’s house and stolen his silver.  Jesus Christ stands in our midst, interceding for us to the Father: “Welcome them as you would me.  If they have wronged you or owe you anything, charge that to my account.”  Like Philemon, the Lord invites us to receive into the congregation the least and the lost, to treat any genuine seeker as a member of the Christian family.  Like Paul, we are called to give birth to spiritual children: we are a disciple making community.  We exist “to know Christ and to make him known.”