Leadership and Love in the Letters of Paul and Pliny

Two ancient letters. Two elite authors. Two runaway household members.

And two utterly different visions of power, reconciliation, and community.

Paul of Tarsus (c. 5—c. 64), a Jewish Pharisee turned Christian apostle, wrote a short epistle to a man named Philemon. Paul was likely imprisoned at the time, and the letter concerns a slave named Onesimus who had fled Philemon’s household and come to Paul for refuge. Rather than keep Onesimus, Paul sends him back—with a request that would upend the structures of Roman social life.

Roughly fifty years later, Pliny the Younger (c. 61—c. 113), a Roman lawyer, author, and magistrate, wrote a letter to his friend Sabinianus about a member of his household. The man (a freedman, not a slave) had also fled from Sabinianus’s service in disgrace. Now, he had come to Pliny, seeking intercession. In a letter full of social tact and rhetorical polish, Pliny encourages Sabinianus to receive the man back with mercy. He appeals not to justice or equality, but to Sabinianus’s character. It would be more dignified, Pliny suggests, to be lenient. Let him go unpunished. Be the bigger man.

Both letters are written to household leaders. Both concern a servant who has fled. Both ask for mercy. But they do so in strikingly different ways and with radically different visions of community, authority, and reconciliation. To read them side by side is to glimpse two worlds: one shaped by Roman hierarchy, the other by cruciform love.

Roman Households and Runaway Men

In the Roman world, the household (domus) was not just a private sphere; it was the backbone of social order. The paterfamilias had near-total authority over everyone in his home, including slaves and adult children. Slavery was not racially defined, but it was deeply ingrained; slaves could be prisoners of war, victims of debt, or even born into bondage. And though some slaves held positions of trust, the institution was brutal. Running away was not only illegal but shameful. If caught, the punishment could be severe, even deadly.

Letters, especially among elites, played a critical role in maintaining this order. They were how reputations were polished, favours requested, and expectations managed. So when Pliny and Paul pick up their stylus to write, they enter into an existing genre—but what they do with it could not be more different.

Pliny: Mercy with a Hint of Pride

Pliny's letter to Sabinianus is smooth, flattering, and calculated. A free man in Sabinianus' household has run away and come to Pliny for help. Pliny obliges. But his appeal is less about the man himself and more about Sabinianus' magnanimity. The man remains unnamed. While a real human, within the letter he serves as a narrative device to highlight Sabinianus’ (and Pliny’s) virtue.

Pliny urges forgiveness, but only as a strategic act. Sabinianus, he says, should show mercy because it will make him look better. It will preserve order with minimal fuss. The structure of Roman hierarchy remains entirely intact: Pliny at the top, Sabinianus just below, the runaway far beneath. Everyone knows their place. Pliny even suggests that mercy will be better for Sabinianus' own peace of mind. The servant may benefit, but the primary consideration is Sabinianus' reputation and emotional well-being within the context of the virtuous life of a Roman citizen.

Paul: Reconciliation as Fellowship

By contrast, Paul’s letter to Philemon is personal, vulnerable, and relational. Onesimus, a slave in Philemon’s household, has come to Paul while he is imprisoned (likely in Ephesus; cf. Philem. 1:1, 9). During that time, Onesimus has become a Christian. Now Paul is sending him back—but not as a slave. As a brother.

Paul doesn’t ignore the social realities of his world, but he subtly reworks them. He calls Onesimus my child (v.10), my very heart (v.12), and says that he is sending him back not as a doulos (bondservant), but as a beloved brother (v.16). He calls on Philemon not to punish but to receive, not as a master but as a fellow member of Christ’s body. He appeals not to social status, but to koinonia—partnership in the gospel (vv. 6, 17).

Paul's language echoes his broader theology. Just as he wrote to the Galatians, “There is neither slave nor free... for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Gal. 3:28), here he enacts that conviction in concrete terms. The appeal is not theoretical; it is personal, relational, and deeply costly.

He affirms that he could command obedience (v.8), but he deliberately chooses to appeal “for love’s sake” (v.9). He entrusts Philemon with agency, writing “that your goodness might not be by compulsion but of your own accord” (v.14). Even his gentle reminder—"to say nothing of your owing me even your own self" (v.19)—carries the weight of spiritual investment, not manipulation.

Where Pliny protects the hierarchy, Paul destabilises it with grace. He models a leadership rooted in shared identity in Christ, costly forgiveness, and mutual transformation.

We find echoes of this pattern elsewhere in Paul’s letters. To the Corinthians, he insists that love “does not insist on its own way” (1 Cor. 13:5) and that all believers are “one body with many members” (1 Cor. 12:12). To the Philippians, he urges humility: “in humility count others more significant than yourselves” (Phil. 2:3). His appeal to Philemon is simply this theology made flesh—grace embodied in correspondence.

In short, Paul is not trying to manipulate or usurp. He is trying to reconcile. Not as an outsider, but as a fellow sufferer—an old man and prisoner of Christ Jesus (v.9)—whose only authority is the authority of love.

Real Leadership, Real Risk

Paul’s approach is not soft. It’s brave. It calls for costly forgiveness, relational vulnerability, and shared responsibility. It names real tensions and entrusts the outcome to a shared love in Christ.

He doesn’t treat Onesimus as a problem. He treats him as a partner. He doesn’t treat Philemon as a tool for mission. He honours him as a fellow worker. Paul’s language of "love," "goodness," and "heart" (vv. 5–7, 9, 14, 20) shows that this letter is not about appearances—it’s about transformation.

This is Christian leadership at its most tender and most daring.

And it has unexpected resonance with modern ideas of leadership. In today’s workplace, some of the most effective models of leadership emphasize mutuality, participation, and psychological safety. Servant leadership. Transformational leadership. The idea that people work best—not when coerced or commanded—but when respected, heard, and invested in.

Think of the modern shift from command-and-control hierarchies toward collaborative, team-based approaches. Paul wouldn’t have known those frameworks, of course. But in many ways, he embodies their best instincts. He invites Philemon into partnership. He gives him space to say no. He asks—not demands—for costly mercy.

Paul leads not through domination, but through persuasion, love, and shared identity in Christ. That kind of leadership is always risky. But it’s also the kind that lasts.

Letters for Today

Most of us are not Roman governors or imprisoned apostles. But we do write letters with our lives. We make choices about how we use our voice, our power, our relationships. And those choices shape our communities.

In moments of conflict or crisis, do we write like Pliny or like Paul? Do we seek to preserve order, or to reimagine it for the sake of reconciliation? Are we willing to risk being misunderstood for the sake of love? To step down from privilege for the sake of peace?

The letter to Philemon offers more than a historical curio. It offers a window into a way of leading that reflects the gospel itself. One where grace reorders power. Where partnership replaces patronage. Where brothers and sisters replace slaves and masters.

It is a better letter.

And, in Christ, a better way.