A Problem Like Philemon

The more I read the scriptures, the more I think we too easily misunderstand them.  Or, maybe it’s not that we entirely misunderstand them, but that, because we mostly engage the scriptures superficially, so very often we miss the point.

Take St. Paul’s Epistle to Philemon.  Any synopsis of the letter will explain that it amounts to an appeal from St. Paul, directed to a man named Philemon to free a slave named Onesimus.  As such, it is a useful letter, challenging the ancient, awful, and unholy institution of slavery; and entirely in line with St. Paul’s teaching that “there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

Slaves were part and parcel of the Roman Empire, so this challenge to slavery is no small thing.  And, of course, slavery and its legacy have been part and parcel of our own nation for four hundred years.  As far as I know, there is no place left in the world where slavery is still legal.  Despite the fact that many millions of people across the globe still live their lives in bondage, effectively held as slaves, you won’t find anyone defending slavery, that I know of.  And despite the fact that the legacy of American slavery continues to inflict on this nation and its people deep wounds on top of deep wounds, we can at least recount a shared narrative that includes emancipation.  We can at least point to the Thirteenth Amendment.

Although it is not crystal-clear in the text itself, most readers of the Epistle to Philemon assume that Onesimus, the slave, had escaped: he was a run-away slave.  Why else would St. Paul have to negotiate his return to Philemon so carefully?  So it would seem that the issue that St. Paul must address is this: What’s to be done, seeing as Onesimus is a run-away slave?  A shorter version of the same question also works: What’s to be done, seeing as Onesimus is a slave?

An epistle about the need to protect run-away slaves resonates with the better angels of the American narrative too, and it would also provide a biblical antecedent to the Underground Railroad.  So reading the letter as though this is the question it addresses feels kind of right to us.

Listen to St. Paul writing to Philemon, the slave owner: “Formerly he was useless to you, but now he is indeed useful both to you and to me….  Perhaps this is the reason he was separated from you for a while, so that you might have him back forever, no longer as a slave but more than a slave, a beloved brother - especially to me but how much more to you, both in the flesh and in the Lord.”

“Formerly he was useless to you.”  This assertion must have come as news to Philemon, who, we can assume, found a certain usefulness in the slaves he owned.  “Perhaps… he was separated from you … so that you might have him back… no longer as a slave but more than a slave, a beloved brother.”

My gambit at the start of this sermon was that we are prone to miss the point of the scriptures.  And the more I read this letter, the more convinced I am that if we think it is a letter advancing an argument against slavery, we are missing the point.  Maybe the question isn’t really: what’s to be done, seeing as Onesimus is a slave?

I have to ask myself, who stands to learn a lesson from this letter?  And the truth is, it’s not really Onesimus.  The only person, really, who has something to learn from this letter; the person who stands to grow and to change as a result of this letter, the one for whom real transformation is both intended and possible is Philemon.  And when the hearts of the likes of Philemon are changed, then there is a chance to dismantle unjust institutions like slavery.

Yes, there is something at stake for Onesimus, who stands to benefit if he is forgiven for his escape and freed from his captivity.  But I think that the real point of this letter - the point that is easy to miss - isn’t the question of what’s to be done with Onesimus, seeing as he’s a run-away slave.  No, the real point of the letter is the question of what’s to be done with Philemon, seeing as he’s a Christian?  What’s to be done with this slave-owner, seeing as he’s a follower of Jesus Christ?  Yes, Onesimus stands to be freed, but he already knows that he deserves to be free. It’s Philemon who has a profound lesson to learn about the freedom that his slave deserves, and it’s Philemon who stands to be transformed by the way he responds to this letter from St. Paul.

St. Paul knows what’s at stake.  He knows that in the case of a run-away slave, everyone is likely to assume that the problem that needs solving is the problem of  the run-away slave.  But the burden of his letter is to say that problem is not really Onesimus, the problem is not the run-away slave.  In a real sense, from St. Paul’s perspective, the problem is not even the institution of slavery, problematic though it might be.  But St. Paul does not write this letter to address the problem of the institution of slavery.  No, St. Paul knows that it’s actually quite important that Philemon should understand that the real problem is him.  And if the problem of Philemon can be fixed, then the problem of the institution of slavery can be fixed.

If this situation were a scene in a musical, the song that would be sung is not, “How do you solve a problem like Onesimus?”  The song to be sung is, “How do you solve a problem like Philemon?”  It has a ring to it, does it not?  So, the problem is not the slave, the problem is the slave-owner, the slave-holder, the enslaver.  The problem is the one who says he’s following Jesus, on the one hand.  But look, just look, what he is doing with the other hand.

Although the letter itself does not tell us what Philemon decided to do about his run-away slave, New Testament scholars tell us that most likely reason this letter was preserved over time was because Philemon did, indeed, free Onesimus; the outcome was, in fact, what St. Paul had urged Philemon to do.  If this is so, it suggests that Philemon, himself, understood what the real point of the letter was.  And he knew that the solution to the problem required him to do something, and be changed.  It was never really a question of what to do about slavery or run-away slaves.  But, in a society in which slavery was simply accepted - which is to say, a society in which gross injustice was accepted - the real question was: what to do about being a Christian; how to change and grow one’s self, in the midst of an unjust society; how to be transformed by your commitment to Christ and to his church?

The fact of the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution might lead us to think that there’s nothing left for us to learn from St. Paul’s Epistle to Philemon.  Been there; done that, we might say, as though we weren’t still living with the ugly legacy of gross injustice caused by American slavery, among other injustices.  But the letter was never really addressing the question of slavery, anyway.  The letter was addressing the question of what it means to be a Christian.  And today, the letter is asking us to consider what’s required of followers of Christ in the midst of an unjust society this very day.  And the answer is: to do something about it!  Find the place and the manner in which you can effect some change, and do the thing that must be done, and then see that we ourselves are the ones who need change!

In this parish, we find ourselves returning again and again to the Food Cupboard, and the Saturday Soup Bowl, and to St. James School, where, in tangible ways that affect people’s lives, we are trying to answer the question of what it means to be a Christian in an unjust society.  It’s why these ministries are indispensable for the church - because without them we are failing to answer the pressing question of what it means to be Christians in an unjust world.  And we could and should find more and other ways to address that important question.

So, for encouragement, I’ll conclude, not with the way the Epistle to Philemon ends, but with the words of encouragement that St. Paul himself wrote near the beginning of his letter, words that he might as well have been writing to you and to me:

“When I remember you in my prayers, I always thank my God because I hear of your love for all the saints and your faith toward the Lord Jesus. I pray that the sharing of your faith may become effective when you perceive all the good that we may do for Christ. I have indeed received much joy and encouragement from your love, because the hearts of the saints have been refreshed through you, my brother[s and sisters].”

Yes, I pray that the sharing of your faith may become effective when you perceive all the good that we may do for Christ… all the good that we may do for Christ…

… as long as we are careful not to miss the point… and we see that the thing that really needs changing is you and me.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
4 September 2022
Saint Mark’s Church, Locust Street, Philadelphia

Entertaining Angels

Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.  (Heb 13:2)

Some stories bear repeating.  And I think it’s been a long time since I told this story, which took place more than twenty years ago.  The location is the eastern cape of South Africa, in the area that was once the Zulu kingdom, where is found the Umzimvubu River, a word that means “the home of the hippopotamus,” although there have not been any hippos living in the river for a long, long time, and also the Anglican Diocese of Umzimvubu.  I traveled there when I served as chaplain to the Archbishop of Perth, and our diocese of the Australian Church had a companion relationship with the Diocese of Umzimvubu.

There are two stories I have repeated many times from that journey because the experiences were so transforming.  I hope their effects on me will not fade.  And it’s important to renew the memory from time to time.  I think it might do you some good, too, but I’ll only tell one of those stories today.

A group of about five or six of us was staying for a while in a remote part of the diocese, as guests of a lay leader in the church whose name was Gilbert.  After a long drive on the bumpiest roads I have every driven, and after worshiping with Gilbert in his little church - the occasion for the other story I often tell of this journey - we parked our vehicles in a clearing beside the road, and walked a short distance to the edge of stream that was maybe ten or fifteen yards across.

To cross the stream, there was a kind of cable car, or flying fox set up: a box made of wood and metal that could hold two or three people, who could pull themselves, by a rope, across the stream to the other side to reach the small compound where Gilbert and his family lived.  The flying fox/cable car had a dab or two of blue paint on it, and  Gilbert had wryly dubbed it “the Blue Train,” after a famous luxury train that travels between Pretoria and Cape Town.  We visitors had brought boxes of provisions with us, so that feeding us would not be an undue burden.  But we were told by the local bishop to expect warm hospitality.

That evening we gathered for dinner.  Gilbert and his family laid out a feast for us, with roast chicken and many vegetables, rice, and potatoes, and an array of other bowls and dishes with all kinds of tasty things for us to eat, as well as bottles of soft drinks.  We felt honored, and we were not at all sure that the many children of Gilbert’s extended family would normally eat as well as we ate that night.  I thanked Gilbert as profusely as I could, and I assured him that, while much appreciated, such a feast was not necessary, and that we would be happy to eat whatever the family would normally eat.

“No, no,” Gilbert said, “ I must do this for you; I must do it.”

“We’re grateful,” I replied, “but please don’t feel obliged.”

But Gilbert repeated, “I must do it; I must.”

We went off the next day to work on repairing a ramshackle building that was to be used for the church for some reason or another.  At the end of the day, we returned, over the stream, via the flying fox.  After washing up, we gathered again for a meal.  A feast was prepared for us, similar to the one the night before.  As we ate, I thanked Gilbert and his family for their generosity; and I reiterated that we would be perfectly happy to eat whatever they would normally eat as an evening meal, and that such extravagance was not necessary.

“No, no,” Gilbert said, “ I must do this for you; I must do it.”

The next day, we crossed the stream, went to our work, and returned, via the Blue Train, to the compound.  And when we gathered for dinner, Gilbert told us that he had acceded to our request, and we would eat just as the family would normally eat that night.  It was clear that Gilbert found the wisdom of serving us such a meal dubious at best, and it felt as though he had agreed to do so only because we had insisted.  The meal, as I recall, was exceedingly simple: large loaves of fresh, home-baked brown bread, and a big pot of boiled cabbage.  It was not much, but there was plenty of it.  We thanked Gilbert and his family for their kindness; and no one went to bed hungry.

The next day unfolded as the previous one had, and this would be our last night staying with Gilbert and his family.  We took the Blue Train back across the stream, and when we gathered for the evening meal, the familiar feast was laid out for us.  Amid my words of effusive thanks, I repeated my assertion that such extravagant generosity was not necessary, as far as we were concerned.

“No, no,” said Gilbert, “ I must do this for you; I must do it.  For I could be entertaining angels.”

Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.  I have often told this story of the generous hospitality that Gilbert and his family showed to us as an illustration of this well known text from the Epistle to the Hebrews.  To this day, I have not had another experience in my life that better exemplifies Christian hospitality, nor an experience that so embodies the meaning of this biblical text.

The church asks us to pair the injunction to offer hospitality to strangers with Jesus’ teaching that “all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”  Coining a phrase that we would do well to inscribe on our hearts, Jesus says, “when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, go up higher.’”

Friend, go up higher.

As I reflected on Gilbert’s deeply genuine and generous hospitality to a group of people who amounted to strangers, I asked myself what I might have learned from that experience.  I wonder what would happen if Gilbert showed up to my home, unrecognized by me all these years later, if by some wonder he and his family were to be transported here to Philadelphia for a visit.  What would the circumstances of such a visit be?  And where would I seat Gilbert, if I failed to recognize him for who he is?  What place would I give him at my table, in my home, in my life?

I know that Gilbert would not sit down, of his own accord, at the place of honor.  Perhaps he would not even deign to take a seat at all.  And although I know full well how Gilbert would treat me, and that no honor was spared when I was his guest, would I have the instincts that I know he possesses, and would I have the grace to say to him, “friend, go up higher.”

I have reason to doubt that I have learned the lessons as well as I should have.

Our Lord goes on, “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”  I thank God that I can lean on the church when I hear Jesus say these words.  For in this parish, we have, for nearly twenty years, invited the poor to sit down and eat here, not only to be fed, but to be served here at our table on Saturday mornings.

When churches, like ours think of hospitality, our minds easily turn to Coffee Hour, to meatballs, and cucumber sandwiches, and mimosas, none of which is problematic, in and of itself.  But the Gospel calls us again and again to remember the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind, to remember those who have not as much as we have, and not as much as they need, and to open our doors, like our hearts, and to spread a table for guests such as these, who can never repay us, nor should we wish them to.

To quote Gilbert: We must do it, we simply must, because we could be entertaining angels.

Come to think of it, I expect we have entertained more than a few angels on Saturday mornings over the last nineteen years.  Thanks be to God!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
28 August 2022
Saint Mark’s Church, Locust Street, Philadelphia

The Story of Life

In the Times this week, David Brooks invited us to consider whether life is a story or a game.*  This strikes me as a question with religious implications.  If life is a story, then it unfolds in a way that we can “learn from our misfortunes to grow in wisdom, kindness and grace. [And] at the end, hopefully, we can look back and see how we have nurtured deep relationships and served a higher good.”  But if life is a game, then life is “about being better than others, getting more,” and “the hunger for status is never satisfied.”  After all, the point of a game is to win.  And if life is a game, maybe there are only two kinds of people in the world: winners and losers.

If you read the early chapters of Genesis as a kind of a game, I suppose the players would be God on one team, and humankind on the other team.  Consider how the major events play out:

After the wonder of creation, God realizes that Adam and Eve are avoiding him and are ashamed of themselves because they are naked - which is how God made them to be.  They have broken the only rule of the game, and so they are penalized, and evicted from the Garden of Eden.

Next come Cain and Abel, the sons of Adam and Eve.  And you know what happened there: just one generation removed from paradise, Cain kills his brother Abel out of jealousy.  This has become a dangerous game.

Next is the flood, and Noah’s ark: an event that unfolds because “the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth, and… every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was only evil continually.”  The flood is God’s way of picking up all the marbles and storming away.

Next is the Tower of Babel, in which human beings try to beat God at his own game; to acquire access to God’s domain, and to do whatever we want.  God sees this as a kind of cheating.  And so God scatters the people across the face of the earth to prevent us from winning this game.

But then comes Abraham.  And when God takes up his relationship with Abraham, it becomes hard to read Genesis as a game.  As God speaks to Abraham about establishing a covenant, it’s as though maybe he is discussing a new way of thinking about life.  These events feel very much like a story as God settles down to eat with Abraham and Sarah beneath the Oaks of Mamre.

But before you know it, we are on the road to Sodom and Gomorrah, and the game is on again, and it doesn’t look good for these two cities.  Abraham is all-in for our team when he tries to negotiate the terms of the game with God.  It seems pretty clear that Abraham is trying to win this for the sake of humanity.  And by the end of the passage we heard today, you could think that maybe Abraham did win the contest.  But sadly, we know that this was not the case.  In the last period, Sodom and Gomorrah will be destroyed by God with fire and brimstone.

How is it that on a very hot day, we are expected to find some value in any encounter with the scriptures that asks us to consider Sodom and Gomorrah?  Why even bring up the names of these two cities?  How can they be anything but a trigger for angst in the life of the church or of people of faith?

The lectionary editors left out a small detail about Abraham’s negotiation with the Lord, a detail contained in verses omitted from our public reading.  The detail is this: that all four of them - the three men (who are the Lord) and Abraham - all departed Abraham’s camp by the Oaks of Mamre, together.  Genesis 18:16 tells us that “Abraham went with them to set them on their way.”  It’s while Abraham is walking with God that he negotiates justice for Sodom and Gomorrah.  When the discussion was over, “Abraham returned to his place.”

Abraham’s entire encounter with the living God is unusually intimate, and very unlike most other encounters with the divine that we hear about in the Hebrew Scriptures.  Think of Moses going up the mountain, surrounded by smoke and mist.  Even though the negotiation itself may sound like a game, the conversation took place in the context of a story in which God walks with Abraham, and allows Abraham to walk with him.  In fact, in the verses we did not read, the Lord asks himself, “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do?”  And he answers himself, “No, for I have chosen him.”

God shows Abraham something that it would be easy for us to miss: that God is willing to let Abraham walk with him, and to let him in on the inner workings of his mind.  If you ask me, this is a strong signal that God is willing and able to see life not as a game to be won, but as a story to be told as we walk together.

It’s hot, so I’ll let David Brooks do some of my work for me.  If life is a game; if it’s “about being better than others, getting more;” and if “the hunger for status is never satisfied;” if the only point is to win, then things will not work out well between us and God, since God is always going to be more powerful than we are.

There is no doubt in my mind that we often choose to treat life like a game that has to be either won or lost, which is why the men of Sodom were so insistent that they get what they want (whatever that was).  They wanted to win!  But I am not so sure that that’s how God sees it.  And I take encouragement from those verses that were left out of our reading: the verses that remind us that God allowed Abraham to walk with him, and that remind us that God did not hide his intentions from Abraham, harsh though they were, because God had chosen Abraham.

I’ll let David Brooks keep doing the heavy lifting, since I think he is absolutely right about what it means if we approach life as a story.  It means we have the chance to “learn from our misfortunes to grow in wisdom, kindness and grace. [And] at the end, hopefully, we can look back and see how we have nurtured deep relationships and served a higher good.”

Playing the game of life, we will be forever thwarted by the One who is greater than we are, and by our own sinfulness, which sometimes makes it feel as though we can’t even find ten decent people in town.  The game of life results in losses, like the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah that sears itself in our memory (whether it happened or not) with fire and brimstone, and leaves us feeling forever damaged, as that complicated story has left so many of us.

But the story of life that I know is a story that leads from Eden, through floodwaters, past a tower at Babel, and eventually past the Oaks of Mamre.  That story leaves Sodom and Gomorrah behind without looking back, since looking back at Sodom and Gomorrah never did anyone any good.  That story takes us out of  slavery, across the Red Sea, through the wilderness, across a river into a promised land.  It’s a story that leads to Bethlehem, and to the shores of Galilee, and then to a Cross on Calvary.  God’s visit with Abraham on his way to Sodom and Gomorrah is a part of that larger story.

Oh, I know it’s hot.  It’s so hot that when Jason came in this morning the candles were bent and falling over.  Some day we’ll tell that part of the story, as we remind one another to walk with God and let the story unfold.

If life is a game, then we’ll forever bear the scars from wounds like those seared into our flesh at Sodom and Gomorrah, no matter how good a job Abraham did trying to win that match.  But if life is a story, then the God who walked with Abraham, also walks with us.  And walking together is just what Jesus asks us all to do when he calls us to follow him.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
24 July 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

* David Brooks, “Is Life A Story or A Game?” In the NY Times, 21 July 2022