This post is a chapter of Neither Slave nor Free, a serial novel that tells a literary-fictional, historically-plausible backstory to the New Testament letter, Philemon. New chapter every Sunday. Listen to it on Spotify or Apple Podcasts.
Risking crucifixion, Onesimus, an enslaved shepherd, flees his bitter half-brother and master, Philemon, only to find that freedom requires more than mere escape.
“. . . a masterful grasp of the cultural, political and spiritual context of the time . . . The heart of the novel beats for hope, and asks one essential question: what does it mean to truly be free?” —Claire Gibson, author of Beyond the Point: A Novel
“. . . one of the best historical novels I’ve ever read on a New Testament figure . . . Mead’s novel utilizes cutting edge scholarship as he weaves a beautiful and inspiring story of hope and faith.” —Demetrius K. Williams, Professor of Comparative Literature and Religious Studies, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukie; Editor of Onesimus Our Brother: Reading Religion, Race and Slavery in Philemon
“Through characters that are vividly complex, defying any easy, moralizing categorization, Mead delivers a thrilling piece of historical fiction that sheds needed light on a tiny letter whose controversial impact has been, and remains, gargantuan.” —Tommy Givens, Associate Professor of New Testament Studies, Fuller Theological Seminary
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Story Recap
Onesimus and the other slaves in Philemon’s household are required to gather at the Lycus River early Sunday morning for a mysterious ritual. Beforehand, Onesimus deposits his earnings—his peculium—with Philemon’s steward. At the river, Onesimus discovers that the ritual is baptism, the rite of Christian conversion, which he does not want to undergo.
Just as Onesimus scoped an escape route, Philemon’s square frame lumbered into the clearing with Monica and a man Onesimus didn’t recognize, the three of them emerging from the downriver path. Monica and the man also wore cream-colored garments, but Philemon’s clothes were bright white. The new man was wiry and handsome, with a full head of graying curly hair and a short scraggly beard. He wore a grubby cloak over his new cream tunic. His leather traveling boots were worn, and the bridge of his crooked nose was sunburned. He smiled with excitement, surveying the crowd of slaves.
“Who’s that,” Onesimus said in a low voice, heart accelerating. He picked at a thumb hangnail with an opposing finger.
“Epaphras,” said Neos. “Started the gatherings . . . in Colossae and Hierapolis. Laodicea.”
The three greeted Archippus and Apphia with kisses on either cheek. Apphia shifted her sycophantic attention to Epaphras, which seemed to make him uncomfortable, unlike Archippus, who’d welcomed it. Philemon stood next to Epaphras, facing the crowd, and clapped his hands twice. When he had their attention, he stepped back, and Epaphras began to speak. Archippus pushed his way past Apphia and Monica and stood on the other side of Epaphras, almost touching him. His face relaxed into false piety. Epaphras cast a sideways glance at him and inched away, continuing his comments. Onesimus could make little sense of Epaphras’s speech, though he found the mention of “dying in the waters” troubling. Epaphras finished his speech with a prayer and then stepped down off the riverbank onto a sandbar at the water’s edge. After stripping to his undergarment, a light tunic, he tossed his cloak and the heavier tunic on a rock. Turquoise veins crisscrossed his lean forearms, bulging even in the cold air.
Onesimus hung back, still standing next to Neos, fretting over Epaphras’s talk of death in the water. His innards felt like dough kneaded by a muscled baker. “Does it hurt?”
Neos snickered.
“How long does he hold you under?” said Onesimus.
“Well, it just . . . it’s only . . .”
Onesimus glanced up to see if Neos would finish the sentence, but his fellow shepherd was staring across the crowd at Felicitas, lost in thought. Onesimus shook his head. He supposed he’d understand the ritual soon enough.
Epaphras waded into the slow-flowing river up to his waist. He winced at the cold, then smiled as if to show it wasn’t so bad. Archippus had also taken off his sandals, hitched up his robe, and waded into the river, though the temperature sapped his courage, stopping him mid-shin. One of the black tassels on his robe dipped in and out of the water.
Epaphras beckoned a young house slave into the stream. The slave obeyed, drawing shallow halting breaths to cope with the cold. “What’s your name?” said Epaphras.
“Secundus,” said the slave.
“Secundus, do you turn from your sin and vow to follow Jesus the Christ?”
“I do,” said the slave, stuttering from the cold.
Then Epaphras spoke a scripted phrase of some sort, a formula: “You are all children of God. For as many as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”
At that moment, Archippus called out, “In the name of the Archangel Michael!” He glanced over his shoulder, checking that all on shore had heard him.
Epaphras shot him a fiery look, impelling him toward shore, and repeated the first formula. He then tipped the slave backward into the river, one hand under his head and one under his back. After submerging him for a moment in the frigid current, he lifted Secundus out of the water and directed him back to shore. The slave was now gasping and shivering erratically. His over-saturated clothing dripped a gleaming trail across the sandbar.
Neither slave nor free, thought Onesimus. What could it mean? The first part—“neither slave”—made it seem like the baptism would free Secundus. But then, Neos, the twins, and others already baptized remained Philemon’s slaves, so that couldn’t be it. The second part—“nor free”—made it seem like any baptized free person would lose their freedom, become enslaved somehow. But that couldn’t be it either—look at Philemon and Monica. So what did it mean? Was there some third condition, neither enslaved nor free? No. You were either a slave or a free person; it had to be one or the other. The phrase seemed like word games to Onesimus—words that made no logical sense. Yet still, they seemed to capture something of the way he felt. He no longer felt like a slave: surely his brother had made a mistake in not freeing him—a mistake that would be rectified if only they found the will. But, of course, he didn’t feel free either. Here he was, forced to do something he didn’t want. The words teased him, as if referring to something profound, right there in front of him, yet something he couldn’t quite see.
At the riverbank, Philemon stopped Secundus and looped a leather necklace over his jittering head. A small wooden cross dangled from the leather. Philemon said to him, “You’ve died with Christ. Your sins are forgiven.” Then Monica passed him a set of the new garments and said, “You are raised with Christ. Clothe yourself in love.” Secundus scuttled to the bushes to change into the dry clothes. After him, a line of slaves entered the bitter waters, one after another, each wheezing and spluttering with cold. Archippus lingered in the shallows, chastened, silent, watching nervously.
Onesimus faded to the fringe of the clearing and inched toward the path back to the colonnade, trying not to be noticed. His heart galloped in his chest. He edged sideways and backwards, eyes locked on Philemon, who faced away from him, toward the river, where the baptisms continued. If he could get back to the domus, he thought, he could hide somewhere outside and rejoin the group as they went in for the meeting. Philemon might not notice. At least twenty-five slaves were set for baptism. Brotherly love wouldn’t keep Onesimus top-of-mind—that he knew for sure. He felt his hands sweating. The clothing would be a problem. All would be in their cream garments, and he’d be in his shabby grays, announcing his rebellion. Still worth the risk, he thought. If Philemon diluted his own devotion to Artemis with this tradition-hating faith, that was his business. But Onesimus wanted no part of it. If questioned, he’d say he lost the group on the way to the river.
He finally made it to the path and turned to face the direction he was heading, picking up his pace to a brisk walk, heart still pummeling his ribs. He took a deep inhale and sighed. He realized he’d barely been breathing. After rounding a corner, putting himself out of view of the clearing, he stopped, retrieved the wineskin from under his cloak, and took another deep draft. He felt his shoulders loosen. He re-corked the skin, whispered a prayer of thanks to the goddess, and continued his quick pace up the path toward the colonnade. Then, behind him, he heard, “Onesimus!” Damn it, he thought. He looked back and saw Tertius, an enormous house slave, as thick and square as Philemon, bounding up the path toward him, wearing the cream-colored garments, hair wet. He reached Onesimus and said, “Where are you going?”
Play stupid, thought Onesimus. “Back to the domus. Get a head-start on the meeting,” he said. His shoulders retightened, his hands sweat, and his heart began to pound again.
“But you haven’t been baptized.”
“That’s okay,” he said, and turned to continue along the path, away from the river, pretending Tertius had accepted his point. Without a word, the big slave grabbed Onesimus by the upper arm and tugged him back toward the river. “What are you doing?” said Onesimus. Tertius looked at him, unimpressed, and pulled him harder toward the clearing. Onesimus reviewed his options. Fight him? Even if he managed to break free, things would end badly. He could no longer rejoin the crowd at the domus and claim a misunderstanding. Or claim he’d gotten lost. He’d have to head for the villa, but Philemon would send more slaves after him in no time. He’d be whipped for sure. Unable to see an alternative, he yielded and headed back down the path with Tertius, his arm still shackled in the slave’s tight grip.
They re-entered the clearing, and the entire group turned and stared. Epaphras stood idle in the chilly current. Philemon glowered. Everyone else had been baptized. Tertius released his grip, and Philemon waved Onesimus to the river. He kicked off his sandals and trudged toward the bank. As he passed his brother, he focused his eyes on the sandy ground in front of him, gray and moist under his feet. His brother’s disapproving look felt like physical pressure. He stepped down from the bank, crossed the bar, and waded into the water, which swirled around him, casting stolen heat downstream in arctic eddies. At waist deep, he could hardly breathe.
Epaphras welcomed him with a concerned smile. He smelled like fresh sweat and dirt. Epaphras asked his name, then said, “Onesimus, do you turn from your sin and vow to follow Jesus the Christ?”
Onesimus hesitated. He glanced again at his brother, glaring from the riverbank, then finally nodded.
Epaphras seemed anxious. He looked to Philemon, who raised his eyebrows, pressed his lips together, and tilted his head slightly forward. Epaphras looked back at Onesimus, juddering in the current, and recited the formula, “. . . neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one . . .” He dunked him as he had the others, and they made their way back to shore, Onesimus fighting to fill his cold-shocked lungs with breath. He felt defiled, like he’d been submerged in a river of dung.
Onesimus stepped onto the bank. Philemon frowned and draped a leather necklace over his head, which still vibrated from the cold. “You’ve died with Christ.”
Monica handed the cream-colored garments to him, gave a sympathetic look, and said, “You are raised with Christ. Clothe yourself in love.”
Onesimus hurried into the bushes to change. He shimmied out of his wet clothes and began slipping on the fine wool undergarments, even as water continued to drip off his body. He pulled on the tunic and noticed the ornamental cross dangling from his neck, alongside his Artemis charm. An instrument of torture. An appropriate gift from his brother, he thought. What kind of death cult had he joined? Had he in fact joined it? He shifted the wooden cross so it hung behind his neck, against his back, then kissed the silver charm and whispered an apology to the goddess. He tucked the charm under the front of his tunic, over his heart, wrapped himself in the new cloak, and steeled himself for the next indignity.
The tension in this chapter is really well done, especially Onesimus struggling with what “neither slave nor free” actually means while still being trapped in his circumstances. That internal conflict made me want to keep reading. What made you choose this particular moment to explore his understanding of freedom?