NOTES for Pmn 1:1-20

Judging by the context, Onesimus, whose name Paul mentions at the beginning of the letter, was Philemon's slave, apparently converted to Christ together with his master. Later he became Paul's companion and helper, and now, being imprisoned in a Roman prison, Paul returns Onesimus to Philemon, in his own words no longer as a slave, but as a brother in Christ.

One may think that the spiritual formation of the newly converted Onesimus took place under the apostle's direct influence; it could not have been otherwise if Onesimus really accompanied Paul for a sufficiently long time. And when his spiritual formation in Christ was completed, he ceased to be a slave, if not legally, since there is no clarity about the formal status of Onesimus and it is unclear whether Philemon freed him as a freedman or not, then in fact.

After the baptism of the master himself and all his household, Philemon's house in fact became a space of the Church, where slaves in the traditional Greco-Roman sense could not exist, and Christian slaves could not exist by definition, whatever legal status the people living there had. Thus the Kingdom entered the world, transfiguring it first of all at the level of relationships, which constitute the spiritual foundation of the Kingdom.

But to cease being a slave in fact meant to walk the path that makes a person an inhabitant of the Kingdom. That means a person inwardly absolutely free and fully responsible. A person for whom there are no longer forced or unconscious relationships with anyone. And who, accordingly, can no longer be anyone's slave, but can be a helper to anyone whom God entrusts him to help. Regardless of status, which now becomes a matter sometimes important, but secondary, determining neither the spiritual life of the former slave nor his relationships with his former masters.

Paul places a very high value on brotherly love, even when the matter concerns each individual member of the Church. Today such a view would seem a little strange to us. We are more used to thinking that we need the love of the Church, not that the Church needs ours. For Paul, as we can see, this is a mutual process. And that is not surprising. Indeed, if the Church were an organization, even a religious organization, then as a whole it would always and in every way surpass any of its members, even the most outstanding one. But the Church is not a religious organization; it is a community of people living in the Kingdom. Here there are deep and personal relationships among people, but not the kind of wholeness or aggregate that would automatically prove more important than any individual person. The Kingdom does not know a mass, a collective, or an aggregate. It knows only the individual person. And the Church, the real Church with a capital C, also does not know the crowd or the collective; it knows only the individual person and the community as a fellowship of such people in all the depth and uniqueness of their relationships with one another. And here every person truly matters. The love of each person can truly support the whole Church; following the custom of the first Christian Church, the apostle calls the members of the Church "saints." It turns out that not only does each person depend on the Church, but the Church also depends on each person. Of course, it does not depend in the way we depend on one another in the untransformed world, unable to do without one another and at the same time unable to live with one another. It depends as people depend on one another in the Kingdom, being bound by relationships that certainly cannot be considered obligatory in the sense in which the untransformed world understands obligations, but which nevertheless prove absolutely necessary for us, just as necessary as the people with whom these relationships bind us and without whom we would have no one with whom to share the fullness of the life of the Kingdom that we receive by becoming part of it. And this readiness to share is what distinguishes the Kingdom from the untransformed world. Here people relate in order to give; there, in order to receive. And every giver, everyone ready to share what he has, becomes a noticeable figure in the Kingdom. So noticeable that the whole Church knows about him.

Looking at the life of fallen humanity, a thought sometimes involuntarily enters the mind: what if God, either Himself or through people specially appointed by Him, immediately rewarded and encouraged good deeds, and just as immediately stopped evil deeds and punished them? Would we not then find ourselves in a world that, if not ideal, was at least much better than the one that now exists? At first glance it may appear that this is exactly how it would be. Who, indeed, would want to do anything bad knowing that he would be punished immediately? Except that people themselves would hardly become better because of it. After all, a person's spiritual life is determined above all by the choice he has made. And that choice must be voluntary. A choice made only out of fear of coming punishment cannot in any way be called voluntary. Strictly speaking, it is not a choice at all, because only a decision made freely, without any external pressure, can be considered a choice. Of course, pressure does not always lead to the desired results. Inner freedom often overcomes external influence, and a choice is made despite the situation, which does not in the least encourage a free decision. But in our hypothetical world, lack of freedom guaranteeing correct behavior would be the very source of goodness. And then it would turn out that people in such a world had not become better at all; they only seemed good, being forced to play the appropriate role. But in the Kingdom one must not play a role, but live. And God refuses to force people to do good. Paul, as a man of God, cannot fail to understand this, and he too does not want to make anyone do good deeds under compulsion, even if that compulsion were not by force but, for example, by authority or the pressure of public opinion. After all, his goal is not to force his addressee to behave well, but to point out to him the way into the Kingdom. A way that can be traveled only freely.

Much has been said and written about Christian love, including by Paul himself. Yet the best way to understand what Christian love is may be from the example of those relationships which are not even described, there is no talk of descriptions, but are mentioned in the apostle's letters as if in passing, as something self-evident. "If you are in fellowship with me, receive him also." Of course, something similar is possible according to the laws of the untransformed world. One can present an ultimatum to someone who depends on you. One can try to manipulate those who love you. But here, clearly, there is neither one nor the other. Here there is simply absolute confidence that, if the issue is Christians, inhabitants of the Kingdom, the relationships of love linking him, Paul, with two different people will necessarily be established between these people too. Or, more precisely, have already been established; otherwise the apostle would not write with such confidence. But where does it come from, this confidence? Of course, one could say that it is a matter of Christian duty, that a Christian simply cannot fail to receive a brother who needs support, and much else of the same kind. But on "Christian duty" alone, as two millennia of Christian history show, one does not get far. Christian love, however, as the same experience shows, can work wonders. This is not surprising, for it is itself a wonder, like everything that belongs to the Kingdom. And the love of which the Savior spoke fills the Kingdom, forming its nature, its spiritual substance, the fabric of those relationships that bind the inhabitants of the Kingdom to one another and each of them to Christ, and Christ Himself to the Father. Then Paul's request becomes not only not at all surprising, but self-evident: the Kingdom knows no distances in our sense; here people spiritually close to one another turn out to be near in the most literal sense, and if we do not notice this, it is only because untransformed reality blocks the Kingdom from us. For Paul, however, as one can see, this barrier is absent, and he writes to his correspondent as if it did not exist for him either. Perhaps this is excessive optimism. Or perhaps simply hope and confidence. Confidence in the Kingdom, in the One who brought it into the world, and in those who followed Him.

Continuing the conversation about Onesimus, Paul recalls certain debts about which we know nothing because nowhere else in the New Testament books is anything said about them. And he adds: count Onesimus's debt as my debt to you. Here the apostle continues the thought he expressed in the first part of the letter, the thought that in Christ there are no longer slaves and masters, and that relationships among Christians can and should be completely different. It is no accident that Paul speaks of himself as Philemon's debtor, taking Onesimus's debt upon himself.

The debt most likely arose from some expenses connected with Paul's apostolic ministry. But that is not all. The point is that Paul's work is not Paul's alone, but the work of the whole Church. And Onesimus, who took part in the work of the whole Church to the extent of his strength, owes Philemon neither more nor less than Paul himself would have owed him if Philemon had decided to make some claims against the apostle.

It is understandable that Philemon would hardly have dared to do that, not only because of Paul's authority, but also because he fully understood the significance of Paul's ministry. With Onesimus, however, things were apparently not quite the same. Onesimus is not Paul; besides, he is Philemon's slave, and although Philemon after his conversion had indeed begun to treat Onesimus differently than before, old habits were not so easy to uproot.

Indeed, relationships between people, especially everyday relationships, often remain only dimly conscious and, to a significant degree, continue to be shaped by the behavioral automatisms that belonged to their former life, even when it would seem that a person has parted with that former life. The force of behavioral inertia is great, and it cannot be overcome unless one recognizes that inertia as a spiritual problem requiring the most serious attention.

It was precisely this inertia that made Philemon demand from Onesimus what he would never have demanded, for example, from Paul. And Paul interrupts it by putting himself in Onesimus's place. He does this not only out of solidarity with his helper, but also for Philemon's own sake, because without overcoming behavioral inertia and the automatisms connected with it, his spiritual life will never become whole.

The words “receive him as you would me” echo Jesus' parable (Matt 25:34-46) about how we should receive the poor, the sick, and simply those whom we meet along the way. “I was sick and you visited Me.” The pronoun “me,” the comparison “as you would me,” seems excessively personal, because it is impossible to practice constantly seeing the Savior's features in every person. Faith in God and trust in God often cannot help us with this. Then Paul's rational argument, which appeals to our reason, comes to our aid. If you cannot understand or explain this, if you do not want to live this way, remember how much you personally owe God for your salvation. You can repay that debt in only one way: by receiving the other, the one who is different, who differs from you in every respect.