Philemon

I was reading a newsgroup this morning when I came upon a posting that linked to an article on Philemon, which happens to be my favorite New Testament book. I realize we're not supposed to have favorites, and that Philemon all by itself would certainly be insufficient for much of anything. But taken in concert with the revelation we have in the rest of the NT, Philemon really provides us with such a poignant picture of our relationship with God that it has quickly become my most beloved epistle. And I have a comparatively short attention span, so the length of the letter is just perfect.

The historical context is fairly well-known: Paul is writing a letter to his friend and brother in the faith, Philemon, on behalf of Philemon's slave Onesimus. Onesimus ran away from his master, and we are given to understand that in so doing he probably deprived his master not only of his services, but also some goods (verse 18). In that time, animals had more rights than slaves; a man might be imprisoned for beating his horse, but he could do whatever he wished with a slave.¹ Running away from your master would likely be considered an offense punishable by death.

We know from historical records that at the time the letter was probably written, a slave uprising in Rome (where Paul was prisoner) led to the death of a prefect. The penalty exacted was death for all of the slaves of the household (of which Secundus reportedly had 400).²

It is in this situation that we find Onesimus, a runaway slave in Rome around the time that 400 slaves are executed. He, too, is under the sentence of death.


I take some time to establish this historical background for two reasons: first, because it interests me, and second, because it represents so well the situation in which we find ourselves vis-á-vis God: running away and under condemnation.

Like Onesimus, we are fleeing, conscious of our guilt. And like Onesimus, we are sovereignly brought to a relationship with the Savior (v15). Paul here acts as a type of Christ, and suddenly the words that he writes become dramatically more meaningful:

If thou count me therefore a partner, receive him as myself. If he hath wronged thee, or oweth thee ought, put that on mine account; I Paul have written it with mine own hand, I will repay it:

(vv 17-19a) In the same way, when Christ returns us to God, he says to the Father, "Receive him as though he were me." He says, "Whatever he owes you, I will pay." And that is such a comfort; in my worse hours, I am often reminded of these verses, which send me running back to the Father.

The Greek here is actually very strong, because Paul uses a first class condition. We might rather translate the phrase, "Since you count me as your partner, ...." Paul does not use rhetoric here, or make a command; he is rather assuming that Philemon indeed is his partner in the faith, and that he will therefore treat Onesimus like he would treat Paul.

The corollary is indeed a revelation of grace. God the Son requests God the Father to receive us, not on the basis of our own merits or abilities, but rather because of his relationship with the Father.

There's more there, of course, but the kernel of the letter is found in those three verses. This is where the gospel may be found, and what good news it is! Our Savior does not condemn or accuse; he assumes the penalty.³


[1] Details are abundant on the web; see here and here for examples.

[2] See Tacitus' Annals, 14.42-45, quoted here.

[3] As a post script, if you compare what I think about Philemon and what the Journal of Biblical Accuracy thinks about Philemon, I think you'll find them at least marginally different. While I would consider their reading true to the letter, I don't know that I would consider it true to the spirit. My intention is not to be critical toward the JBA, but rather to show an example of where reading with an anthropocentric view of Scripture causes us to completely miss the point.

2nd and 3d John Musings

We've recently covered second and third John in church—while they style it as "verse by verse" it's really more "chapter by chapter" there.

Probably part of this is inspired by other readings, but I was struck at the closings of these epistles:

Though I have many things to write to you, I do not want to do so with paper and ink; but I hope to come to you and speak face to face, so that your joy may be made full.

I'm not very old, even if my skeleton sometimes tells me otherwise, and so I expect that as I age I'll have a somewhat deeper perspective than I do now. I also want to tread somewhat lightly here. My initial baptism into reformation theology, if you will, was accompanied by a deep reverence for the Scripture; I would often refer to it as "Jesus on the shelf."

Lest anyone get the wrong idea, I still maintain that reverence, and I still hold fast to sola scriptura. But I found as I studied the Scripture for the Scriptures' sake, I stopped looking at the subject of the revelation—Jesus Christ. As I read in a book recently, it is as though we are studying a score of music without actually listening to the piece itself. The Scriptures have meaning because they reveal Jesus Christ; he is the Word, the fullness of the revelation of God.

And so when I read the conclusions to 2nd and 3d John, it seems almost to me as though Word Himself is saying to us, "There's more that I can tell you, more to write down; but I would rather explain it to you in person, face to face, so that your joy may be full."

We do see through a glass darkly; but the time is coming, and I pray soon, when we shall see him face to face and know him as we are fully known.

Elihu and Job, Part Two

I briefly commented on Elihu and Job in a previous entry. I wanted to revisit the subject because I've finally finished his dialogue and moved to the theophany in Job 38.

As a quick review, Job and his comforters go back and forth through the book essentially arguing about the nature of justice. Job maintains his innocence and integrity against his friends, who insist he has committed some trespass and is being punished for it.

Elihu appears somewhat abruptly—reading between the lines we might guess that the dialogue between Job and his friends occurs in the midst of a crowd of people.¹ He intends to respond differently than the others, and I think he succeeds, at least in a small part.


The theme of his speech is creation, and the sum of what he says is this: "If you can't understand the physical universe—the creation—how do you expect to understand the Creator?" The same sort of reasoning appears in the theophany, where God essentially says to Job (I paraphrase Swindoll's paraphrase), "Until you can run the physical universe, don't tell me how to run the moral universe."

If we cannot discern God's purposes in creation, how are we to discern his purposes in how he deals with us on a moral level? Elihu's logic seems to be essentially that God is just whether we understand his righteousness or not.

We are left with a bit of a bad taste in our mouths here, because the answer doesn't mean that there's less suffering to be had, and in fact doesn't provide us with any real good reason for it. The fortunate end of the story is that the inscrutable appears; in the words of Schaeffer, "He is there, and he is not silent." To understand God and his purposes, he must reveal them to us.

Job got a whirlwind (which appears, it seems, as abruptly as Elihu did), and we have Christ, the ultimate revelation of God to humanity.


In a somewhat tangential vein, Elihu explores the nature of justice in his discussion, too. He looks at righteousness as though it is something that obligates others; for example, he says to Job, "If you are righteous, what do you give to him? Or what does he receive from your hand?" (35.7).

In some respects, I think this is a reasonable way to look at God's righteousness. His righteousness (and his ability to execute justice) obligates us to meet a perfect standard. We see the same in the law given in the Old Testament. The righteousness of the lawgiver obligates the receiver.

But this doesn't work in reverse—the righteousness of the receiver doesn't obligate the lawgiver. Job doesn't obligate God by living a life of integrity.² This essentially hamstrings Job's claim that God has violated his justice; Elihu rightly accuses him of condemning God to justify himself.

We are left, I think, with the understanding that there's an absolute standard of righteousness, and that Job is not the one setting it. To accuse God of perverting justice is to say that one understands justice better than God—a claim we may debunk as easily as Elihu did.


[1] I guess some feel that Elihu is a pre-incarnate manifestation of Christ. I don't see any particular reason to promote or doubt this line of thinking, though his self-assigned role as an intermediary between Job and God implies at least a typological connection.

[2] This is yet another argument for the deity of Christ. Only God's righteousness obligates others; a mere man living a perfect life wouldn't obligate God at all.