Onesimus


	His Word and Mine

Bible Stories
Onesimus, inspired by the New Testament book of Philemon
The path thins as the city fades below us. Jagged mountains interrupt the horizon. Tychicus leads. Weeks ago I walked this trail a free man. Today I am a slave returning to his master. “Hurry, Onesimus! You're too far behind,” Tychicus says, his silhouette looming against the sky. A breeze catches his robe. I obediently lengthen my stride, and Tychicus nods approval as I reach the hilltop. He plods along the ridge like a mule, his sandals patting the soil, lifting tufts of dust. We don’t talk, and his silence is welcome… …as welcome as my freedom from Master Philemon had been. My last errand rendered more than a week’s distance with ample provisions for the return trip. After delivering Master’s goods, I prepared to go east toward home. West was toward Ephesus. The decision came hard, the first step harder still. The second step came with such ease that I proceeded gladly, not counting steps, but transforming the familiar ridges into my distant past. A song emerged from my heart, and I sang, Who could catch up with me? Who could know I will not return? Who could know until too late? No one will find me. No one will know where to look. I am free, I am free, I am free! “Onesimus!” I quicken my pace. I was born to be free like Master Philemon, to make my own choices. Those days of escape were the best of my life. Yes, Master sometimes entrusted me with choices, and he would now realize that those choices corrupted his slave. Yet, having choices was the best part of belonging to him. Having choices is what made leaving him especially hard. But while I was free, all choices were mine! All day I answered only to myself. All day and all night! Life became a dance for me, swaying toward food or bed according to the day’s rhythm. “Onesimus! Onesimus, hurry!” I catch up and Tychicus motions me to lead—my punishment for lagging. He thinks he may lose me if I walk behind. He’s right. An escape may not be possible for days, when we are that much closer to Master Philemon. “Onesimus, do you not trust me?” I instantly drop my concerns, a skill all slaves possess. He saw worry on my face and he is testing me. I dread answering. Tychicus is returning me to Master Philemon, who will likely kill me—his legal right. No, I do not trust Tychicus. Instead, I say, “I am just a little tired, Master.” He grabs my arm and his brows come together like a ram’s horns. My heart thumps in my throat—thumps throughout my chest—and I fall to my knees, trembling, anticipating punishment. When I open my eyes, his wide face is even with mine, a kindness in his eyes I had not previously noticed. “Onesimus, my brother, you are a slave only to Christ now. Do not call me ‘Master.’ Christ Jesus is your master.” Paul used these same words just yesterday, and I believed him. Yet, I do not believe Tychicus. I raise my eyes to show trust I do not feel. A breeze cools nervous sweat at the base of my tight curls. Tychicus soothes, “I would be as afraid as you are.” I, too, have calmed the lamb before its slaughter. He says, “Philemon has legal cause to punish you. But Paul’s letter reminds him that he and you are now members of the same body of Christ. Would you purposely harm your own body, Onesimus?” I shake my head just a little. I dare not utter an opinion. “Neither will Philemon harm you. Have faith.” He takes my elbow and we rise. Was that a smile crossing his face? We continue in silence, me in front. Traveling west toward Ephesus, my soul danced. Up until then, that was the freest I had ever been. I thought nothing could best that. After that, Paul introduced me to Christ and baptized me. Even now, I ache to relive my freedom in that moment! I had just escaped slavery, yet I happily abandoned my new independence to enslave myself to Jesus Christ. I loved choosing him! Paul said he could see Christ in my countenance. He told me no one could fake that. Indeed, I felt Christ in my body, claiming my spirit, turning my thoughts into a wise new song. That precious moment lasted all my days with Paul. Paul prayed that Master Philemon would receive me gently and that Christ would help me face him. The truth is, Christ stayed with Paul and didn’t come with me. Anxiety now dims my memory of Christ’s embrace. “Onesimus! You are slowing down. Let’s rest.” I point out a patch of shade nearby. Tychicus hands me a fruit. I sink my teeth into it and suck out its sweetness. The fruit shrivels like my memory of the joy-filled days with Christ and with Paul. After supper, I wait for Tychicus to rise, and he doesn’t. He clasps his thick hands, shuts his eyes, and lifts his contorted face skyward. As he prays, I imagine my fate. I have seen other slaves stoned and whipped. I wonder if I can tolerate it. I wonder if I’ll live. He opens his eyes; his cheeks are damp. “Did you not pray with me?” he says to my wide eyes. The light of Jesus radiates from his wet face, and I turn my head, ashamed and confused. Jesus is here on the mountain with Tychicus, even with Paul so far away. Tychicus prayed and Christ came. Maybe Christ would also come to me. I do hope so. Tychicus still beams as he draws his feet under himself to rise. Impulsively, I touch his arm. “Wait, Brother!” I say. A breeze pushes tears across my temple. Paul was right about everything. “Teach me to pray.”
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His Word and Mine

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