As a writer, I always read with questions in the margins.
What was said? What was left unsaid? What did the author assume the audience
would already know? What was intentional, and what was careful? When I read the
book of Philemon, those questions were louder than usual. Especially as an
African American woman.
This book made me sit in tension.
It was short—just one chapter. But it stirred something
long. Something deep.
At the surface, it is a personal letter about a runaway
servant named Onesimus and a man named Philemon. Paul is writing to ask
Philemon to welcome Onesimus back—not as a slave, but as a brother. It is a
letter about reconciliation, restoration, and Christian love.
But there is more beneath the surface. And that “more” is
what made this book difficult for me to read.
Why didn’t Paul just condemn slavery outright?
Why didn’t he say, “Philemon, let that man go free—this is
wrong”?
As a writer, I know when someone is choosing their words
carefully. And Paul? He was careful. Respectful. Strategic. But I cannot
help but notice—he stopped short. He advocated for Onesimus. He used persuasive
language. He leaned on friendship and favor. He reasoned with conviction. But
he never named the injustice.
And that bothered me.
Not because the letter was unkind. It was very kind. Paul
was gentle, almost poetic. He spoke from affection and authority. He framed
Onesimus as his child, his heart, his co-laborer in Christ. He elevated his
status spiritually—and urged Philemon to do the same socially. That was bold in
its own way.
But the silence still stood out.
Maybe Paul did not want to rock the boat. Maybe he felt it
was not the right moment to go after the institution. Maybe he believed
transformation would come one heart at a time—not one law at a time. I
understand that strategy. But it is still hard to sit with.
This is where I had to read with layered eyes.
As a Black reader, I cannot ignore how this letter has been
misused historically. How it has been twisted to justify slavery, when I
believe that was never Paul’s intent. As a writer, I see Paul using rhetoric to
reframe relationships. He made a strong, ethical appeal to Christian
conscience. It was reasoned. It was persuasive. But it was not revolutionary—at
least, not in the way I wanted it to be.
And yet—there is power in what he did say.
Paul does not call Onesimus a slave. He calls him “beloved.”
“Brother.” “Son.” He says, “If he owes you anything, charge it to me.” That is
deep. That is personal. That is Christ-like. He lays down privilege and appeals
to Philemon’s love—not just for Paul, but for Christ.
This letter is subtle. But it is layered.
As a writer, I saw a man writing under the limits of his
time—but still trying to call people higher. He could have commanded. But he
chose to appeal. He led with compassion. He challenged the social order
without directly naming it.
I do believe Paul was against slavery as a system. But I
also believe he was trying to dismantle it from the inside—through
relationship, through equality in Christ, through what we now call subtext. And
subtext can be powerful. But it can also leave too much unsaid.
That is the tension I sat with.
My favorite line? “Perhaps the reason he was separated from
you for a little while was that you might have him back forever—no longer as a
slave, but better than a slave, as a dear brother.”
That line is poetic. It opens the door to a better way. It
hints at transformation. It nudges Philemon toward liberation. But again—it
stops just shy of saying it plainly.
As a writer, I understood the craftsmanship of this letter.
It was tactful, thoughtful, personal, and pastoral. It was not random. Paul
knew exactly what he was doing with every word.
But as an African American Christian? I wished he had done
more.
Reading Philemon made me reflect on how truth is often
delivered in layers. And sometimes, it is up to the reader to hear what was
whispered just as loudly as what was declared.
This letter is not a manifesto—but it is a map. A map toward
reconciliation. A call for dignity. A suggestion that love should change how we
treat people—not just in spirit, but in practice.
It is still hard to read. But it is worth sitting with.