‘Nay, father, I could not,’ said Onesimus. ‘Ever since that theft from Philemon, ever since that flight, I have prayed but faintly; I felt as if I could not pray, as if no prayer of mine could be heard. A cloud of despair has hidden God’s face from me. Oh!’ he cried, wringing his hands, ‘I am an outcast—I am a castaway. I have no part in Him. My lot is now with this world, of which I have seen the infamies and loathe the crimes. It was but two weeks ago that any gleam of hope came back to me.’
‘What gave thee hope?’
‘Lucas of Antioch, whom I see with thee, gave some parts of his records of Jesus to one of Octavia’s slaves. I, too, went with the unhappy Empress to Pandataria, and there I read the Master’s parable of the Prodigal Son, and I tried to say, “I will arise and go to my father, and will say—”’
But here Onesimus stopped, and though he made an effort, he was unable to proceed.
With all his heart the great Apostle pitied him; indeed he pitied him so much that he found no words to speak. He could only lay his hand gently on the suppliant’s head, and uplift his eyes to heaven in prayer.
So Luke spoke and said, ‘I can tell thee, Onesimus, of other words of the Master. He cried: “Come unto me, all that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will refresh you;” and “him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.”’
‘Did He say that? Did He say that?’ asked Onesimus, eagerly.
‘He did,’ said Luke, ‘and no word of His can pass away.’
The Prætorian Celsus had heard the conversation, and he too was touched. ‘Those words,’ he said, ‘called me from Satan to God. I was as deep a sinner as any man in the cohort, and no man can be much worse than that. I used to shrink from no cruelty, and to abstain from no sin. I was one of the soldiers employed in the massacre of the innocent slaves of Pedanius Secundus. So deep was my misery that one night I went in full armour to the Sublician Bridge, meaning to end a life so shamed and empty. But as I climbed the parapet, I was seized by the strong arm of a man in a slave’s dress. I drew my dagger and asked him, with a savage oath, if he held his life cheap, since he, a slave, thus dared to interfere with me, a Prætorian soldier. He fixed his steady eyes on me, and said, “I am unarmed; you can slay me if you will; but I will try to prevent you from self-murder.” “My life is my own,” I answered sullenly. “It is not your own,” he answered. “It is God’s, who gave it. He set you here, and you have no right to desert your post.” The man was Nereus, now the freedman of Pudens. He drew me away from the bridge, and I talked long with him. He was the first to give me the hope that I might live for better things. He taught me about Christ, and Christ’s promise that He would cast out none who came to Him. That saved me. When I was a Pagan I knew shame and guilt, but never knew that it could be washed away.’
‘Thanks be to God for His great goodness,’ said the Apostle. ‘And thou, my son, Onesimus, hear what Celsus has said. Thou hast had no fruit in the things of which thou art now ashamed, for the end of those things is death. But now, if thou wilt return to Christ, thy fruit shall be to holiness, and the end shall be eternal life.’