An Examination of the Letter to Philemon and the American Prison System
Like many other areas experiencing colonialism’s lasting impact, Ugandans hold on to some particular and peculiar white, Christian practices. In 2013, I studied abroad in Uganda and lived with host families. Though I do not dare speak on behalf of all Ugandans, the majority of the ones I know have two names — one birth name that is typically in their native tongue, and one Christian name — one often taken from the biblical text or strangely … American politics. For example, one of my first friends there was named Reagan.
My host siblings bore many biblical names: Peter, James, Nicodemus and Onesimus. Yes, my dark-skinned, nearly 7-foot tall big brother was named after the runaway slave in the book of Philemon. To this day, I wonder what it means to hold that name as part of his personal legacy. To be tied to atrocities like American chattel slavery, which, while different from Ancient Near East slavery, is still how many readers envision it. Or to be tied to the mess of American politics like Reagan.
We say that we now recognize the inhumane nature of institutional slavery and have moved past it. We claim to know and uphold the belief that owning other human beings, regardless of the criteria used, is misaligned with the will of a God who seeks liberation for all divine image-bearers. We like to believe ourselves to be Paul crying for freedom.
Yet we gun down those crying in the streets for restitution after their fathers are publicly choked out by an individual tasked with “protecting and serving” us. We force migrants clawing towards hope through the Sonoran Desert’s sand to die of dehydration and redirect our ample American resources to installing military surveillance to see them take their last breaths. We don’t blink an eye when we can get fresh tomatoes year-round, because we don’t pay the medical bills for Central American farmers who grow tumors from the carcinogenic weed killer used to provide them. We know the money we spend on renewing our car registrations and tags doesn’t go to filling our potholes, but many of us don’t know it also doesn’t benefit the inmates who produce our license plates, who on average make 17 cents per hour.
Like Reagan and Onesimus, we bear the marks of history we did not choose, but which we must reckon with if we are to move toward something new. Our incarcerated siblings will bear the sociopolitical mark of enslavement for the rest of their lives, even as they are released back into a society where they have virtually no rights. I use the word slavery here purposefully. You see, in our current system, imprisonment functions essentially as the last form of legalized slavery in this country. We choose to not only view, but treat, incarcerated individuals as if they do not belong in this nation unless they are going to produce something for it. We turn a blind eye toward massive prison structures so we do not have to come face to face with those residing within. We force them to produce hand sanitizer during a pandemic without providing them with adequate healthcare. We continue criminalizing marijuana because we do not want to pay these “employees” even minimum wage for their contributions.
With this in mind, let’s revisit the letter from Paul to Philemon concerning Onesimus.
The history of white, Christian supremacy and its related excuse-making, the same history which led us to our current carceral system, upholds that since Paul does not clearly direct Philemon to release Onesimus, his returning slave, that he had no problem with the institution of slavery as it existed in the early church, nor would he have questioned it in the Antebellum South. However, a keen reading of this text reveals something much different which may just impact the way we view those who are imprisoned/enslaved in our current system.
Here’s what Paul does address in this text: Paul never refers directly to Onesimus as a slave, nor does he call Philemon a master. Put another way, there is no divide between prisoner and warden or judge in this text. Instead, he uses the word “brother” for them both, four separate times. He calls them to reconcile with one another and reconceive their relationship as one rooted in the equality and freedom of Christ — a relationship that makes them partners, siblings, co-laborers. For Paul, Onesimus is not just a slave. He is a brother, and even Paul’s own son. With this focus on relationality, Paul breaks down the social divide and replaces it with one of kinship. With our modern lens, we might see this call as an invitation to restorative justice, rather than punishment or “law and order.”
Beyond their relationship to one another, Paul also plays with their names. Philemon’s name translates to “lover of people,” and Paul uses this to remind Philemon of how he was created to, and literally named after, love. He says that love has “refreshed” both the hearts of the saints and Paul’s own heart. Philemon’s inherent gift to the world is one of offering refreshment. Contextually, to be “refreshed” means to be offered hospitality, financial support, and even rest from work — that sounds a lot like love-inspired manumission to me. Onesimus’ fairly common slave name means “useful.” But rather than using this translation to justify his enslavement, Paul argues Onesimus is now even more useful to the life of Philemon’s church as a member of the free and loving family of God.
Finally, Paul uses the word “heart” repeatedly, both in reference to Philemon having a big heart, and to Onesimus being “my own heart.” In Greek, this word is “splanchna,” and it literally means “guts.” Paul, Philemon and Onesimus, as well as others at that time, imagined compassion came from your “splanchna,” your guts. Imagine that with me. To love someone with your whole digestive tract.
For Philemon, and for us, if compassion means to be moved from the guts, then we should be sick to our stomachs at any sign of injustice. We should be sick to our stomachs every time we see another headline about an upcoming execution at Riverbend Maximum Security Institution or an unlawful deportation. We should be sick to our stomachs when the women at Debra Johnson Rehabilitation Center tell us about enduring yet another midnight strip search. We should be sick to our stomachs whenever we read that women and individuals of color are incarcerated at rates infinitely higher than their white male counterparts. We should be sick to our stomachs when federal agents gun down a woman in the street for defending those with less privilege than her own.
And after our stomach-churning, we should be moved to action. Moved to replace that which is incompatible with human dignity and reconciliation with something more life-giving and justice-minded. Because Paul’s words carry both theological and ethical meaning.
Believing in a God who desires freedom and healing means following through by acting faithfully. It’s not enough for us to imply meaning or hold our convictions silently when people’s lives are at stake. It is our responsibility to be our siblings’ keeper in the midst of stratified systems which tell us we can be their master. It means speaking and acting boldly on behalf of those who do not have the recognized agency or power to make change by themselves. Concerning the hyper-incarceration of our siblings, it requires us to stand in solidarity with them in body, mind and spirit. We must stand against the over-policing of our poor and non-white siblings. We must advocate for police and prison reform at every level. Following Paul’s instructions, we must take on their financial burdens and charge them to our own accounts by paying toward bail funds and legal representation. We must listen to the stories from those on the inside so we have clear directions for how we can help on the outside. We can and we must create lasting change for those languishing behind bars in our very city, rather than continuing to turn away from them.
In the words of Paul, I leave you with this charge, full of grace and autonomy, which our incarcerated siblings do not always have access to — “I am bold enough in Christ to command you to do your duty, yet I would rather appeal to you on the basis of love … Confident in your obedience, I am [communicating and standing with you], knowing that you will do even more than I say.” Amen.
Lindsey Longoria works as a housing navigator at The Contributor. Prior to joining our team, Lindsey earned a Master of Divinity degree from Vanderbilt Divinity School specializing in Spirituality and Social Justice, particularly as it pertains to modern American Christianity.
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