Sermon for September 7, 2025

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The Rev. Taylor Vines

As a male Taylor, I’ve spent my whole life being called the wrong name. I’ve been called “Tyler” more times than I can count. Some folks just can’t seem to get it right. In fact, there are people who’ve known me for years, decades even, and still can’t manage it.

It’s gotten so bad that I’ve developed a trick. As soon as someone says “Tyler,” I say: “No, Taylor — like Taylor Swift.” And I have to admit, that line has been working better lately.

Now, getting called the wrong name isn’t the end of the world. It’s annoying, sometimes funny, sometimes frustrating. But it does remind me that names carry meaning. They can be honored, or they can be twisted. They can carry dignity, or they can strip it away.

Speaking of names, let’s introduce ourselves to our friend Onesimus. His very name, in Greek, means “useful” or “handy.” And it’s not just a coincidence — it was a common name given to enslaved people. Imagine living every day with a name that tells you: your value is in how productive you are, how much you can serve someone else’s needs. A name that says you’re replaceable.

That was Onesimus’ reality. To Philemon, he was useful — as property. To the society around him, he was disposable.

But in Paul’s letter, the shortest book in the New Testament, Onesimus is given a new identity. Paul calls him: my child. My very heart. No longer a slave, but a brother. And if the Gospel could rename Onesimus, what names might Christ be ready to remake in us?

For context, Paul is in prison when he writes this letter to Philemon, a wealthy Christian whose house is large enough to host a church. One of Philemon’s slaves, Onesimus, has run away, and along his journey, he meets Paul.

Onesimus hears the Gospel and becomes a Christian. Paul loves him like a son, calling him “my child” and “my very heart.”

And then comes the part that has made generations of anti-slavery Christians cringe: Paul sends him back. Now, Christians have wrestled with that for centuries. Why not say it plainly, Paul? — slavery is evil, full stop.

Instead, Paul goes at it sideways: “Receive him no longer as a slave, but more than a slave, a beloved brother.” It sounds subtle and barely meaningful, yet it still undermines a whole system and worldview at odds with the Gospel.

Listen to how Paul frames it: “Though I am bold enough in Christ to command you to do your duty, I would rather appeal to you on the basis of love… and I, Paul, do this as an old man, and now also as a prisoner of Christ Jesus.”

Paul could pull rank. He could issue an order. But he doesn’t. He appeals instead to love. Not because it’s easier — but because love freely chosen has the power to transform.

He isn’t asking Philemon to cave in on this one request, to just grit his teeth and let Onesimus back in the house as a free man. He’s asking Philemon to be reshaped by the love of Christ — so deeply that his whole life, the way he treats others, the way he sees Onesimus, the way he sees everyone — is changed forever.

And Paul adds a little pun: “Formerly he was useless to you, but now he is indeed useful both to you and to me.”

Remember, Onēsimos means “Useful.” And again, it was a common name given to enslaved people — a way of saying, “Your whole identity is wrapped up in what you can do for me.” To the world, he was useful only as labor. Handy. Replaceable. Disposable.

But Paul flips the name. In Christ, Onesimus is useful not because of what he can do, but because of who he is. He’s not a tool. He’s not property. He’s family.

And maybe sometimes we’ve felt like Onesimus ourselves. Judged by how productive we are. Valued for what we can produce in the rat race of life. Praised when we deliver, ignored when we can’t keep up. The world is quick to measure us in terms of usefulness. Christ never does. In Christ, we are not useful or useless — we are beloved.

That’s what Paul is asking of Philemon: stop seeing Onesimus with the world’s eyes and start seeing him with Christ’s.

But it’s costly. Philemon had every legal right to punish Onesimus. To welcome him as kin would mean losing control, risking reputation, disrupting his household.

That’s why our reading from Luke’s Gospel speaks so directly: “Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”

For Philemon, the cost of discipleship was pride and power. For us, it may be releasing our obsession with productivity and status. It may mean loosening our grip on the categories we use to rank people — and ourselves.

So who are the Onesimuses around us? Who do we quietly dismiss as useless?

Perhaps it’s the homeless neighbor who uses our parish hall as a place to sleep in the winter. The person battling addiction or mental illness, written off as hopeless. The LGBTQ+ person still told by family or church that they don’t belong.

The world names them as burdens. Disposable. But Paul’s letter won’t let us keep those labels.

And maybe the Onesimus we need to see differently is ourselves — no longer defined by what we produce, but by who we are in Christ.

And when we let the Gospel rename us, stories change.

A generation after Paul, Ignatius of Antioch writes to the church in Ephesus about their bishop — a man named Onesimus. He praises him as “a man whose love surpasses words.”

If it’s the same man as tradition holds, then his journey is astonishing: from slave, to brother, to bishop, to saint. That’s the power of Christ. To rename. To restore. To transform.

Paul ends his letter to Philemon with this line: “I write to you knowing that you will do even more than I say.”

So friends, I’ll ask again: Who is our Onesimus — the person the world calls useless, but Christ calls beloved? And maybe it’s you. Maybe you’ve been crushed by the world’s demand to be useful. If that’s true, hear this: The world might say you’re useless, but Christ says you’re beloved. No one is disposable. Not Onesimus. Not you. Not anyone. Amen.

St. Luke's Episcopal Church, Ypsilanti, MI

All are welcome!

Sermon for September 7, 2025