The Onesimus Nobody Hears… for Now

Based on Philemon 1–21 – Paul’s letter on behalf of a runaway slave.
Disclaimer: A Midrashic Reading of the Epistle to Philemon – Not a retelling of what was, but an imagining of what might have been. Scripture leaves Onesimus silent. Here, we listen for the unspoken voice between the lines.

“Run, Oni, run!”

The words lashed the air behind him, half-mocking, half-urgent. Oni’s chest burned as he pelted down the narrow street, sandals slapping against stones slick with last night’s rain. He didn’t dare look back.

“Thief!” another voice rang out, sharp as glass.

“Coward,” someone hissed from a doorway.

The words clung to him like shadows. Whether truth or rumour, Oni knew they were louder than his own breath. He ducked into an alley, chest heaving, and pressed his back against the cool wall. From there, he could hear the world still speaking about him — always about him, never with him.

“Slave.”

“Runaway.”

“Trouble.”

The words chased him harder than any pursuer.

He had thought about leaving for months. The household was heavy with tension: whispered bargains, doors that closed too quickly, laughter that stopped when he entered a room. He was useful, yes. His name itself meant useful, though some spat it like a joke. But usefulness had a price. It made him owned. It made him less than whole.

When the coins went missing, eyes turned his way before questions were even asked. Maybe he took them. Maybe he didn’t. In the end, it didn’t matter. The story was already written on his skin. “Oni the thief” — it fit too well for anyone to doubt.

And so he ran.

Continue reading the full story here.

The Onesimus Nobody Hears… for Now

Based on Philemon 1–21 – Paul’s letter on behalf of a runaway slave.
Disclaimer: A Midrashic Reading of the Epistle to Philemon – Not a retelling of what was, but an imagining of what might have been. Scripture leaves Onesimus silent. Here, we listen for the unspoken voice between the lines.

“Run, Oni, run!”

The words lashed the air behind him, half-mocking, half-urgent. Oni’s chest burned as he pelted down the narrow street, sandals slapping against stones slick with last night’s rain. He didn’t dare look back.

“Thief!” another voice rang out, sharp as glass.

“Coward,” someone hissed from a doorway.

The words clung to him like shadows. Whether truth or rumour, Oni knew they were louder than his own breath. He ducked into an alley, chest heaving, and pressed his back against the cool wall. From there, he could hear the world still speaking about him — always about him, never with him.

“Slave.”

“Runaway.”

“Trouble.”

The words chased him harder than any pursuer.

He had thought about leaving for months. The household was heavy with tension: whispered bargains, doors that closed too quickly, laughter that stopped when he entered a room. He was useful, yes. His name itself meant useful, though some spat it like a joke. But usefulness had a price. It made him owned. It made him less than whole.

When the coins went missing, eyes turned his way before questions were even asked. Maybe he took them. Maybe he didn’t. In the end, it didn’t matter. The story was already written on his skin. “Oni the thief” — it fit too well for anyone to doubt.

And so he ran.

The journey was a blur of hunger, suspicion, and aching feet. Cities blurred into each other: marketplaces where traders eyed him as though weighing his worth, inns that turned him away with a shake of the head. He was always one word away from being recognised, one whisper away from being seized.

“Run, Oni, run!”

The words rang in his skull even when no one spoke them.

Then he met Paul.

It was not how he expected. Paul was not the fiery orator Oni had heard about in tavern tales, nor the thunder-voiced preacher who could topple temples with a single speech. He was a man marked by scars, speaking in the dim light of a borrowed room, writing letters with ink-stained fingers.

Paul welcomed him without question. Offered food, rest, listening. Oni did not speak much at first. He had learned the danger of words. But Paul filled the silence with stories: chains that did not break him, prisons that did not silence him, a Christ who made the lowly his own.

For the first time, Oni felt seen not as a slave, nor a thief, but as something more. A brother, Paul called him, though the word sat strange on Oni’s shoulders.

The days stretched into weeks. Oni carried water, fetched parchments, and ground ink. Paul would smile and say, “Useful indeed,” with a twinkle that did not sting.

But rumours seeped even here. Visitors whispered at the door: “Is that Philemon’s runaway?” “The one who stole?” Oni heard them, though Paul pretended not to.

And then one day, Paul looked at him long and steady.

“I suggest you go back,” Paul said. His voice was calm, but the words struck like chains. “Here is a letter. Take it. It will speak for you.”

Oni’s hand closed around the folded parchment. Heavy. Too heavy.

Return? To the house where whispers turned to accusations? To the man who could brand him a criminal, a slave, a nothing?

The voices rose again in his ears.

“Coward.”
“Thief.”
“Run, Oni, run!”

Was Paul commanding or inviting? Was the letter a key or a snare?

Oni did not know.

That night, he lay awake, the letter pressed against his chest. He could hear the city outside: sandals scuffing on stone, dogs barking, merchants bargaining even at this late hour. And beneath it all, the murmurs of the unseen jury that had always followed him.

“Slave.”
“Brother.”
“Runaway.”
“Beloved.”

Which was true? Could they all be true?

His eyes stung, though he refused to call it weeping.

Dawn crept in, slow and grey. Oni rose, shoulders tight, and tucked the letter into his cloak. He stepped outside, the air cool, the streets already alive with trade. He walked to the edge of the city, sandals raising dust.

The road split. Behind him, the city breathed; ahead, one path led to Philemon and its reckoning, the other into shadows uncharted.