Give my greetings to the brothers and sisters at Laodicea, and to Nympha and the church in her house. After this letter has been read to you, see that it is also read in the church of the Laodiceans and that you in turn read the letter from Laodicea.
—COLOSSIANS 4:15–16
The sun has set over Laodicea, but Nympha’s house glows with lamplight and hums with the comforting sounds of stifled laughter and hushed conversation. As soon as Aelia and Drucilla slip through the back door and into the crowded atrium together, they sense a stirring. There is news.
“What has happened?” Drucilla asks.
“Tychicus arrived from Colossae,” whispers a young widow, “with a letter from Paul.”1
At this, Aelia’s heart leaps, for it means she gets to listen to Nympha read. It mesmerizes her every time—the way Nympha enunciates every syllable carefully, gently, sometimes pausing to explain the meaning of the more difficult words or ideas, or to laugh forgivingly when one of the children throws a tantrum. Many at the gathering are women, slaves, and poor laborers, unable to read the letters from the apostles on their own, though a few are wealthy tradesmen, the owners of sprawling households. A passerby would find it strange to see them sitting together for a meal, master breaking bread with his slave, a wealthy patroness pouring wine for a poor prostitute. But this is what makes them different; this is what makes them Christians.
Nympha and her husband manufacture textiles, a lucrative trade in the Lycus Valley, renowned the world over for its purple cloth. They first heard the good news from a trader named Lydia, who brought it all the way from Thyatira, the story of an executed Jew who rose from the dead circulating like a strange new spice along the trade routes. While everyone in this household follows Jesus, Nympha usually manages the ekklesia, or gathering, herself. The community is known among the apostles as the church that meets at Nympha’s house.
As the scent of fresh bread and stewed mullet wafts in from the kitchen, Aelia wonders for a moment if this is a short letter. She hasn’t eaten all day. Her husband is a shepherd and poor, undoubtedly annoyed that a girl who came with such a small dowry would give him so much trouble over religion. He has been harsh with his mother lately too, for the government has made it illegal for widows to remain unmarried, but Drucilla insists on serving alongside the other widows in the church. This practice of caring for widows together, as a community, has proven especially controversial to the government, for it is believed that tampering with the household order is akin to tampering with the created universe. Pax Romana begins in the home, they always say, with obedient wives, slaves, and children.
And yet at these evening gatherings, Aelia has learned there should be no distinction between Jew and Gentile, male and female, slave and free, for all are one in Christ. Even the Scythians and barbarians are to be welcomed at the table. The degree to which followers of Jesus can accommodate Roman law without compromising their identity has thus become an issue of frequent debate at Nympha’s house. Elsewhere, Christians have been imprisoned and even killed for resisting the empire, so the question lingering over every meal, every Scripture reading, and every prayer among the church at Laodicea is the same: Do we risk our necks over differences with the government regarding class, commerce, worship, and household, or do we let things like that go?
No one can seem to agree. Perhaps tonight’s letter will help.
It is a beautiful letter, and tears run down Aelia’s face as Paul, through Nympha, declares, “The gospel is bearing fruit and growing throughout the whole world—just as it has been doing among you since the day you heard it and truly understood God’s grace.”
Nympha’s voice echoes strong and certain through the atrium, where at least thirty people sit on the tile floor. They hear about Paul’s incarceration and persecution, about how Jesus is “the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation,” about guarding against false teachings and empty philosophy, about withholding judgment from those who hold different convictions regarding the observance of religious festivals and food, about how they should sing more hymns. Drucilla smiles wide at that last one. Aelia resolves to make peace with a sister with whom she has been in disagreement.
But then the mood shifts as Nympha reads—out loud!—that the church need not fear the government because Jesus “is the head over every power and authority.” He has “disarmed the powers and authorities,” she reads, “and made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross.”
A nervous murmur fills the room. What if someone overheard? Those words could certainly be taken out of context by a passing Roman soldier. This is an open-air atrium, for mercy’s sake!
Nympha raises a hand to encourage calm.
“Notice the apostle says nothing of overthrowing the government,” she says. “He speaks only of exposing it, disarming it.”
“And yet he writes this letter from prison,” a tradesman grumbles to muffled snickers.
“What I understand the apostle to be saying,” Nympha says, “is that the crucifixion of Jesus exposed the empire, and all forms of unjust authority, for what they are—cruel and empty, desperate and weak. Rome executed an innocent man, for what? Healing the sick? Telling stories? Riding a donkey into Jerusalem? The Messiah’s obedience in humbling himself, loving his enemies, caring for the poor and suffering, and turning away from violence made a mockery of this opulent and oppressive empire. It made a mockery of religious hypocrisy and exclusion. And his resurrection proves he is in fact Lord and Master of all, for even Rome could not bury him, even Caesar could not keep him dead for long.”
The atrium echoes with shocked whispers. Nympha is a Roman citizen, so these are dangerous words. Aelia notices for the first time that the imperial mural that once adorned the atrium wall has been painted over.
After a moment, Nympha reads on.
“Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. . . . Do not lie to each other, since you have taken off your old self with its practices and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge in the image of its Creator. Here there is no Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all.
“As God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.”
Aelia rests her head on Drucilla’s shoulder. She loves the imagery of dressing in compassion, kindness, and patience, and imagines slipping into love as though it were a purple robe, made of the best Colossian cloth. For a moment she forgets her hunger, forgets the dull dress and dirty fingernails that always seem so out of place in this fine home full of expensive silver. How could the apostle have known exactly what she needed to hear tonight, exactly how she felt?
“Wives submit yourselves to your husbands.”
The words jolt Aelia from her reverie, not because they are foreign, but because they are familiar.
In Rome, peasant and patron alike memorize the household codes at an early age, the most influential having been composed by Aristotle, who taught that the male head of house functions as a sovereign ruler over his wives, adult children, and slaves. Caesar believes a well-ordered state relies on well-ordered households, so perhaps the apostle means to encourage Christians to honor these long-held customs so as not to cause unnecessary offense.
Nympha clears her throat.
“Husbands love your wives.”
This is different. None of the household codes Aelia knows speak of husbands loving their wives. While some wealthy couples marry for love, most marriages, like hers, are arranged, often when the girls are just children. The empire requires little from the male head of house besides allegiance to the state and control over his home, Aristotle’s assertion that “the male is by nature better fitted to command than the female” an unquestioned assumption for centuries.
And yet, Aelia thinks, in this house, Nympha holds authority. Among Christians, many women do—Lydia, Junia, Priscilla, Phoebe. Paul refers to them as his coworkers and speaks of them as equals.
“Children, obey your parents in everything, for this pleases the Lord,” Nympha continues. “Fathers, do not embitter your children, or they will become discouraged.”
She pauses before getting to the next part. Every person in the room knows what comes next.
“Slaves obey your earthly masters in everything,” Nympha reads. “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord. . . . It is the Lord Christ you are serving. Masters, provide your slaves with what is right and fair, because you know that you also have a Master in heaven.”
At this the room erupts. Aelia is clearly not the only one puzzled. Slaves with an inheritance? Masters with a Master of their own? Some think the apostle is encouraging acquiescence to the empire. Others believe his words are subversive, and dangerously so.
“What does this mean for Onesimus?” someone shouts.
The room falls silent.
Onesimus was once the slave of a wealthy Christian named Philemon, a tradesman who hosts gatherings of Christians in his home in Colossae. Rumor has it Onesimus left the household under uncertain circumstances, befriended Paul in Rome, and now serves as something of an emissary on behalf of the apostles, delivering messages and arranging travel—with or without the blessing of his master. The question of what to do with slaves is a contentious one among the churches, for many of the Jews believe that when the Messiah announced in the synagogue that he came to liberate the poor and oppressed and “proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor,” he referred to the year of Jubilee, an ancient practice among their people in which, periodically, slaves were freed, debts forgiven, and land returned to original owners. This struck many of the Greek Christians as radically impractical and strange, a sure way to attract unwanted attention from the government.
Nympha seems reluctant to answer the question. She herself owns three slaves, all of whom sit in this very room. Her family boasts vast landholdings throughout the Lycus Valley, much of which they acquired when Rome seized the property of poor farmers who failed to pay their taxes. A year of Jubilee would not be in Nympha’s best interest, to say the least.
She glances at Tychicus, who nods in encouragement.
“We have received word that Onesimus has returned to Colossae,” she says, “with instructions from Paul that Philemon, and the rest of us, treat him as a brother, not a slave.”
It’s unclear how much of the letter is even heard after that. Several times Nympha’s voice is drowned out by animated debate. Those who refrain from speaking seem lost in thought, unsure of what to do or say. Perhaps the apostle anticipated this, for the letter concludes with a reminder to “let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt.”
Aelia thinks about this at the meal as she gobbles down the fish and bread, trying not to look too desperate or too much like a barbarian while stuffing a few extra dates and olives into her sack to bring home. She sits with Drucilla and the widows, who each have their own take on what has transpired.
“Just as we live in the empire, but are citizens of the kingdom of God, so we live in traditional households yet belong to the family of God,” Drucilla ventures. “Maybe we are not called to overthrow the empire’s social order, but to disarm it, to reveal its emptiness compared to gatherings like these where slave, master, husband, and wife are equals in service to Jesus.”
An elderly widow jumps in.
“We can obey the empire’s laws without following its rules.”
“Exactly.”
“And if husbands and wives love each other,” another pipes in, “and slaves and masters respect one another, and if all submit to Jesus as the head of the Christian house, the ‘chain of command’ begins to break down.”
“Indeed!”
Aelia wonders what Drucilla might have been had she been born into a family like Nympha’s. The ekklesia has uncovered gifts of insight, wisdom, and leadership in her mother-in-law once obscured by lowly status and rural accent.
Later Nympha will read more letters, letters that speak of husbands loving their wives as Christ loves the church, willing to give their lives for them, and of Christians “submitting to one another” and living as “slaves to one another.”
In Christian households across the region, the old chain of command begins to break down.
The night after the first letter, as Drucilla and Aelia slip quietly through the streets together, arm in arm on their way home, Drucilla wonders aloud if there will come a day when the world doesn’t need household codes, when Jesus really is Lord and Master of every home.
That’s when Aelia has a dangerous thought.
“They say Pax Romana begins in the home,” she says. “Maybe revolution does too.”