“BLESSED UNDOING”

Journeying well may just be a race toward “blessed undoing.” (I am borrowing this phrase from David Whyte’s poem, The Edge You Carry With You.) It is not an arms race of who can accomplish more, earn more, or be recognized more.

After the jet lag subsided, I recalled a breakfast club with friends/colleagues from a previous organization. Our “can’t go wrong” traditional breakfast menu features Sullungtang (Korean beef soup). There used to be four of us, but one member is now in Malaysia, where he's part of my Malaysian community. This time, we complemented our breakfast with assorted decadent croissants paired with handcrafted cappuccinos made by the friends’ daughters at a famous café in Pasadena. Even on a Thursday mid-morning, a long line awaited us. But there was no need to fret. Upon entering the store, we made a beeline for the back where all the dough action was happening and were promptly handed a platter of a few delicacies, now famous in LA, thanks to coverage by the LA Times a year ago. Even before the cappuccinos arrived, we finished two croissants. After devouring them, I learned that each croissant contains precisely fifty-five layers of dough, with a spread of butter imported from France between each layer!

Our conversation flowed from a year-long catching up, obligatory update on our health, and our grown adult children. We then shared our latest musings on life, spirituality, and even science. With one of them already being a grandfather, me on the way, the other a few more years to go, we have more years to look back than look forward to. One thread of conversation that stayed with me is related to an illusion that we think we have control over our adult children. We acknowledged that while we are not overtly protective or controlling of our children, there are still some persistent layers left, perhaps disguised as hope and prayer for our children.

Like many aspects of life, a life of freedom or disentanglement revolves around giving up or letting go of our control. The control we think we have is an illusion to begin with anyway. Furthermore, behind any form of control, power lurks. We dedicate a great deal of time and energy to maintaining the power. Why do we even waste energy on what we cannot get? Here, the real tension and hard work lies in how we let go and let be without giving up on our love and care. As the context of our control pertains to every conceivable “meaningful” thing in life, our sanctification depends on our willingness to let go or what Whyte calls “blessed undoing.” The very emptying act of sanctification stands as antithetical to the success-driven cultures we are surrounded by. It requires humility to admit that the pervasive usage of words like results or even “fruit” in the Christian contexts is not too dissimilar.

Meister Eckhart’s wisdom shines, “God is not found in the soul by adding anything, but by a process of subtraction.” This self-emptying incarnational act was lucidly demonstrated by Jesus when he walked among humanity. When Jesus commanded us to go based on how he came to us—incarnationally—we are to position ourselves, first, far from power and control, and to befriend humility and letting go.

To engage in this sanctifying act with joy, rather than merely out of duty, is what truly matters. There is not only freedom in letting go, but also joy. Our God is neither fretful nor angry when God “let go” and granted humanity unfathomable free will. Our God is nothing but love. In this context, God’s love and freedom must never be viewed independently from each other. The community of Trinity exists solely in love and for love. We are invited into the circle of union through love. Our experience of this love manifests as joy, as joy flows from the loving presence of everything. In other words, this means experiencing the joy of being in union already while simultaneously journeying towards union.

“WELCOME BACK”

We are back in the land of perpetual spring and summer, with blinding sunlight. After being welcomed by the immigration officer at LAX, who acknowledged, “Welcome back,” we drove through a sparse downtown Los Angeles compared to the urban jungle of Kuala Lumpur’s center. As I looked out the window, the morning sun nearly blinded me. I muttered to myself, “Not much has changed since we left.” My thoughts shifted quickly, and I was glad to be home where the Lakers and Dodgers play. It was almost as if we had never left. The feeling was strangely familiar and familiarly strange. Then as we drew near to Pasadena, I gasped at the bare San Gabriel mountains, the major victims of the devastating Eaton Fire. It was as if someone had shaved the mountain bald, not unlike my dome.

After landing before six in the morning, one of my first to-do lists was to renew my expired driver’s license. For this one, I needed to go in person to renew. I was promptly immersed right in the heart of LA in the DMV office, another welcome back to California. A new facial photo was taken after an obligatory eye exam which I passed swimmingly even with my aging eyes. The clerk at DMV asked me, “Do you wear glasses or contacts?” Proudly, I said no. As for the photo, I wasn’t sure whether to smile or bare my full teeth since the atmosphere was subdued, with many simply wanting to get out of the office as soon as they could. In the end, I smirked, similar to Mowgli’s shy smile in The Jungle Book. The guy who took my photo tersely said after, “Good enough.” If my picture does not turn out well, I will blame my picture on the photographer. But then, “Who cares?” ran through my mind.

Needing caffeine to stay awake, we stopped by my former “second” office at Peet’s Coffee in Hastings Ranch, near our home. As I wondered if I would see the usual suspects, my thoughts transformed into a nostalgic moment as soon as I stepped inside. I instantly recognized the same barista who later said, “Thanks, Chong” after my order, and familiar characters I had written about before leaving for Asia last year. With another warm welcome from these familiar strangers, I felt right at home.

Our next stop was LA Fitness, which has been home to my gym for many years. My wife told me, “Hey honey, now you could swim if you want to.” Yes, that is a change from last time. Not sure if I want to take all my gear including my swim shorts, but that is one option I did not have before. The manager explained what package would most benefit us for the next six months. After we signed the contract, he said, “Welcome back.” I smiled back and went on to our fav grocery store, Trader’s Joe. Again, not much change except for the prices. Suddenly, I felt the pain and missed Malaysia. But I was also happy to be back. While in Malaysia, I had always wished to step into Trader’s Joe, one of my ordinary joys of life.

Later that evening, authentic LA tacos arrived with our son and daughter-in-law, along with all our adult children. They all came to welcome our presence back in Pasadena. This was our first time being back together as one since they came to visit us in Kuala Lumpur last October. This fall, we will welcome our grandson, who will undoubtedly become the center of our undivided attention. After devouring the tacos, the men watched the Lakers demolish the Nuggets. Then we bought tickets to see the Dodgers play for my belated and our oldest daughter’s birthdays early next month. One of the bonding moments in KL last October happened through watching the Dodgers in the post-season run, eventually winning it all in grand style.

Since embracing an itinerant lifestyle over the past several years, we have experienced numerous opportunities to be “welcomed back.” We are thankful for this day’s cordial ordinary reception. Including our adult children welcoming us back, we remain grateful for more “Welcome back” from our loved ones and friends. Being welcomed and having a sense of belonging go hand in hand; they are inseparable realities of intimacy. To be welcomed signifies that we belong. This sanctity of belonging fosters a longing for presence, which in turn cultivates welcoming. The circles of belonging across the US and Asia stand as living testaments, encouraging us to continue our journey, which reflects the most fundamental belonging—to our own soul.

MALAYSIA

By the time you receive this post in your inbox, we will be flying somewhere over the Pacific Ocean to California. This post serves more as an update as I reflect on the past year in Malaysia. We will be in our US home for about six months until the end of September, with our sights set on moving to Korea by October 1. I will continue to post my weekly blog during our stay in the US. Again, thank you for reading.

Ruthie asked me, “What symbol would describe your one-year experience in Malaysia?” Ruthie and Joey, with their two adult children from the Philippines, visited us last week as our last guests in Malaysia. I could not answer her right away. My wife and I told her we would need time to ponder the question. Unfortunately, while they were here, I did not get to respond to her and Joey, both leaders and pastors of a significant church network in the Philippines,

Anointing oil would be my answer. We came to Malaysia believing God had anointed us to come to this land. It was a matter of obedience born out of love. We knew God was calling us to broader Asia, with Malaysia as our temporary base. As such, we were to “test” our calling during our one-year stay in Malaysia. It was a test of faith, as I called this “grandest adventure” of our life. After receiving the call from God to “forget your people and your father’s household” (Psalm 45:10) in 2019, this unfolding journey was never a straight line, but the call (and the One who called us) was our north star that we never lost sight of.

As I have written before, there is much to appreciate about Malaysia as our base. From the affordable cost of living and ease of international travel to safety and strong infrastructure, we have found Malaysia to be an ideal spot. I also value the warmer climate as I age. The spectacle of lightning and thunder, followed by a brief “gut-cleansing” downpour, will be cherished memories as well. With the reasons above, it is not difficult to envision ourselves spending one or two months each year here and in the surrounding region in the future.

Last year, we were in Korea three times, three separate trips to the Philippines and Singapore, and also Japan, Indonesia, and Vietnam once. There was an invitation to Thailand, which we could not fit into the schedule. The most encouraging fruit of our time in Malaysia is that there is a strong sense of communities in Singapore and the Philippines, obviously including Korea, with more to come. These are growing relationships, and sharing similar values, postures, and outlooks in life. In my opinion, they represent a new way of being and living in this world that is radical, generous, and inviting to all around them. And I know I have a role to play.

Without demanding from God, I intuitively understand that my contribution involves the integration of contemplation and action. Knowing that God does not waste anything, my thirty-five years in the evangelical missions enterprise will remain significant. However, the approach to engagement will be dramatically different from previous ones. Furthermore, it involves laying down and providing foundations not only for this (or present) generation of leaders and influencers but more for the next generations. 

A few days ago, I took a slow, contemplative walk around the neighborhood we called home for the previous year, absorbing and reflecting on our time. After the walk, I promptly captured the experience in a poem, almost sealing it in a time capsule. Before clearing out of our Malaysia “home,” we engaged in a ritual of leaving, visiting each room and space thanking God for small and big miracles and blessings.

On our last night in Malaysia, we spent our last evening with our community. Having agreed to commission us to Korea, we broke bread and celebrated what God has done in our midst, sharing numerous and specific moments of grace and joys of being together. Earlier, I asked them if I could anoint them with oil. They replied with a hearty yes. Before Ruthie and Joey left for the Philippines, they gave us a bottle of anointing oil from Jerusalem after hearing about our commissioning evening.

We came after being anointed. And we will move on to the next chapter after another set of anointing.

SNORKELING

The first time I ever snorkeled was back in Maui during our honeymoon in 1990. Well, for a few seconds . . . When I was young (I do not remember how old I was), I almost drowned. While I do not remember the exact time and place, I do recall the helpless feeling quite vividly until some random guy next to me pulled me out. It did not last long. It did not have to. That was long enough for me to develop a fear of water.

Back to Maui. Although I knew I was afraid of water, especially deep water, and considering the fact that I didn’t know how to swim, the clear turquoise water in Maui still lured me. We took a boat out and docked near the coral reef by an island. Everyone eagerly jumped in. I naively believed that I could somehow float and enjoy the underwater scene. What made matters worse was that no adults wore lifejackets; only young children had them on. My ego kicked in and convinced me that I didn’t need one. The next thing I remember is being in the water, frantically searching for something to hold onto. I spotted a lifeguard on his surfboard nearby and swam as if my life depended on it. I realized I could “go” but didn’t know how to float.

To make matters worse, my dormant fear rushed back while I was in the ocean. I grabbed one side of the board. Surprised, the lifeguard told me I could not hold on to the board and to swim back to the boat. I couldn’t tell him I didn’t know how to swim. Again, my ego interrupted. I saw the boat approximately 20 feet away. I put my head down and swam like a madman. In those few seconds, I caught a glimpse of some coral reef fish. Even while I was on the verge of “dying” during my honeymoon, I couldn’t ignore the beauty of the fish. I finally made my way back to the boat, completely out of breath and my heart racing. That was the end of my first snorkeling experience.

Thirty-five years later, I found myself in a boat, setting out for yet another snorkeling adventure. This time, I was on beautiful Redang Island, off the coast of Kuala Terengganu, along the eastern coast of Peninsula Malaysia. Redang Island is notable for its marine sanctuary, renowned for world-class snorkeling and white sand beaches. The Malaysian community had planned this getaway a while ago. The all-inclusive resort soft-opened in March after being closed from November to February. Since it was not peak season, the rates were extremely reasonable. Our stay lasted two nights and three days, with snorkeling as the main highlight. We went out three times to different nearby islands. Although I had been learning to swim (and still couldn’t float), I promised myself I would try again, hoping to redeem the disappointing experience from thirty-five years ago. This time, I didn’t let my ego interfere; I wore a lifejacket, which was actually required.

I jumped into the deep ocean and submerged my head to breathe through the snorkel mask, but I initially froze due to the depth of the ocean floor. I reassured myself that I had a lifejacket on and just needed to breathe using my mouth instead of my nose. As I began to enjoy the incredible new underwater world, I quickly surpassed my previous record of just a few seconds. After the outing, I FaceTimed my wife and shared every detail of the experience blow by blow. (My wife stayed back since she had a lot of work to attend to.) On the second day, we went to a nearby island where the Marine Center is located and snorkeled in shallow waters. Armed with pieces of bread, we attracted an array of colorful coral reef fish. With so many varieties to see, I marveled at this world I never knew existed. At one point, it felt like I was swimming in an aquarium.

The redemption and overcoming of my fear were not insignificant achievements. Figuratively speaking, this redemption and overcoming opened up a new world. This new world emerges as we learn to conquer our fears and experience redemption. To me, that was the bigger lesson.

HOF (Hospitality and Friendship) HOUSE

After learning that a longtime friend in Korea had lost his wife, I felt compelled to be with him in person. During the tumultuous week leading up to his wife’s passing, we had spoken twice. After she had passed into eternity, I also knew that I wanted to avoid the funeral crowd, so I called to ask him when would be a good time for a visit. A week later, I was on a plane to Korea to spend the weekend together.

After I landed close to midnight, he picked me up, and we drove to Hongseong in Chungcheongnam Province, where he and his late wife leased a country house, affectionately called HOF (Hospitality and Friendship) house. Upon arrival, he asked me whether I was hungry. After hearing a slight but convincing yes, he made me a bowl of ramen with homemade Kimchi thrown in. I gulped it down, washed up, and went to bed with the electric blanket turned up to the maximum heat.

The next morning, I woke up with the unmistakable aroma of fresh coffee roasting. His excuse was that he forgot to bring some coffee grounds from Seoul home, so he had to roast them manually. We both knew we could not survive without good coffee. Feeling grateful, I gulped that down and immediately went for the second cup. What followed was thin, perfect pancakes with precious maple syrup from Vermont. The memorable story of his visit to the Podunk Vermont town harvesting maple syrup flowed naturally.

Our conversations flowed naturally. Actually, it was mostly him sharing with occasional questions and noticings from me. He embodied what it means to “live the questions,” as Rilke said. Tears flowed too, punctuated with touches of laughter not unlike skittish adolescents, but also like older men being honest to their feelings.

As I opened up the living room curtain first thing in the morning, I finally saw the surroundings. As if the bright sun knew it was not the most welcomed guest that morning, the sun hid behind the panoramic grey sky. There was a sizeable plot of land suitable for farming, but since it was still winter, the ground appeared frozen and looked lifeless and hopeless. In a matter of a few weeks, neighbors will be busy tilling and preparing the land for sowing and planting. Soon, the field will be covered with green and vibrancy of life.

A small hill next to the farmland was covered with bare stick-figured trees, but the impressive pine trees still maintained the forever green with the backdrop of the deep, sad grey. Birds did not get the dreary grey memo, though, as they sang throughout the day. With no nearby manmade noise to drown out nature’s sound, birds were having their field day. Then, the fine misty rain fell as if to console my friend and me. The rain mimicked the slow falling snow. If one had not watched the ground, anyone would have mistaken the rain for snow.

Someone observed, “When hearts listen, angels sing.” Perhaps the angels were disguised as birds cheering us on as we sat, talked, and listened, interspersed with long silences in between. Over time, the words we chose became more intimate and sacred, which allowed us to go deeper into the depths of our souls. It was as if we were listening to each other’s souls rather than to words being spoken. Alice Fryling offers an insight worth pondering in her book, The Art of Spiritual Listening: Responding to God's Voice Amid the Noise of Life.

“Prayer is at the heart of listening to others. As we listen to others, we are also listening to God. We are praying as we are listening. We are praying that the one we are accompanying on the spiritual journey will be strengthened in the inner being and rooted and established in the love of God.”

I would surmise that listening to others and God attentively is the same listening that equates to prayer. As my friend listened to himself and put words from the depth of his soul, he began to find strength in his inner being and discerned what and how he needed to live without his wife right next to him for the first time in a long while. In his own words, he recognized that a new chapter of his life was opening up before him. Cautiously and with hope, he responded with a yes to God’s invitation based on the love of God. In the background, birds were still singing, cheering him on. So was I.

BIRDS AND WILDFLOWERS

Birds and Wildflowers

Bird a symbol of freedom effortlessly rules the air
without owning anything
Bird takes what is given to them
without controlling anything
while being subservient to the sun, rain, clouds, moon,
harsh and gentle, spectacular and rudimentary,
it is the ruler above everything
A ruler and a subject of freedom, perhaps because
it knows its limits with no complaints,
but the air of silence
light and letting go as if
the spread of wings to prove.

Wildflowers, wild but doesn’t mean uncared for,
just is
simply
where simplicity is, there is no deception
celebrates by opening themselves brightly and vulnerably
for others to savor them, to create joy without any utterance of words
oh, how words rob mystery
while showcasing what it means for different beings to be in union
just is
obediently
where obedience is, there is love
whether noticed or not, without judgment
Could it be elegance? Perhaps,
it is grace
sustained by grace and eventually becoming grace.

Ever since I developed an appreciation for nature, the world of poetry opened up to me, along with some Scripture passages I had taken for granted. As a city boy all my life, my encounters and fleeting appreciation of nature mostly came during road trips to national parks for camping and hiking. Those trips were few and far between, though. One reason Yangpyeong remains so special to me is that it unlocked and awakened a yearning within me that I did not know existed. Additionally, there is a mystery, savagery, and beauty to the four seasons that I have forgotten, due to the temperate weather Los Angeles provided for much of my life.

I have been a fan of Søren Kierkegaard for some time. Kierkegaard wrote extensively in theology, philosophy, devotional writings, psychology, social critiquing, etc and his influence reached multiple disciplines in his day and beyond. While he remained in the Christian faith (Lutheranism), he was an astute and fierce critic of the system-building mindset of Christendom. He resided on “the edge of the inside, " giving him a detached, keen ability to question and critique. One of his main emphases if not the main was his question of the existence of human beings. He is known as the “father of existentialism” who lived far before his time and impacted postmodernism in our time. I owe the above poem to his fine devotional book, The Lily of the Field and the Bird of the Air: Three Godly Discourses.

It was not that Jesus lacked wisdom clues of what to refer to in his brilliant Sermon on the Mount when he pointed to the lily and the bird and spoke with elegance and power. Jesus was precise and intentional. Nature, as God’s magnificent creation, breathes, revels, and reveals God’s beauty and mystery. Grace is everywhere if we choose to see it. Truth is everywhere if we choose to pay attention and notice. I would venture to guess that Jesus could have chosen a ubiquitous olive tree and a butterfly. The ultimate point is not the lily or the bird, but nature—allowing it to teach us. 

Stringing together the three strands of nature, Kierkegaard, and Jesus’ teachings converged as part of my assignment this week at the School of Spiritual Direction. I was to engage in Lectio Divina (sacred reading), and I chose the passage from Matthew 6:25-29. I did not intend to write a poem; rather, it arose within me as a prayerful reflection on this passage.

LISTEN. . . AND SEE

“You wish to see; listen. Hearing is a step toward Vision.” St. Bernard of Clairvaux

During the past week, I heard the news of two close friends’ father and wife, respectively, passing into eternity. It is widely understood that hearing is the last sense to go when one dies. Hearing is the first sense in the womb and the last until we take our final breath. Isn’t it interesting that we can close our eyes and choose not to see, but we cannot truly shut our ears? Our ears are always on, even while we are sleeping. How we come into life and depart from this life is shaped by our ability, a divine gift, to hear. Over time, both will see what I can never see from this side of heaven. If they are “sleeping,” do they still have the ability to hear? I do not know.

Speaking of hearing, we heard the invitation from our friends in Singapore and from God to make a weekend trip over the strait. We had made a plan to be there in December but the day before our departure I came down with COVID, so we had to scrap the trip. Since the symptoms were very mild and the second red line was so faint that I almost was in denial. After looking at my strip, my wife simply told me, “You have COVID.” Thus, for our friend’s sake, I called it off. This was a long-anticipated makeup trip.

One of the gifts we have received during our one-year stay in Malaysia is that we have communities of friends sprouting up in several countries in Asia. Singapore has become one of those hubs of friends, thanks to CenterQuest Asia community. Since I attended the Opening Residency as a guest/observer and the Closing Residency in 2023 and 2024 respectively, we connected with several folks from Singapore. Similar in age range, we began journeying with each other’s lives in intimacy and vulnerability. At least two couples flew out to Korea at different times to spend a week with us, giving us opportunities to host.

All are associated with CenterQuest Asia and I love that the community is ecumenical, broadening my perspective on spirituality and humanity. Several are part of the “Asia Poet Society” I initiated. We meet monthly for two and half hours and learn to “live deep and suck out all the marrow of life” as Thoreau put it wisely. We skillfully and graciously companion one another through each of our tender and honest poems.

Singapore is one of the best foodie paradises known to humankind. And I am certainly a human! I realized that through my frequent past trips, but I never had local friends to guide and pamper me. From al fresco dining while feasting on fish head curry soup, roti prata, prawn noodle soup, and the famous chili crab to boutique restaurants where we enjoyed fusion pasta dishes and steak paired with wine and beer (not to mention the homemade eight, really fifteen, treasure noodle soup), we were in foodie paradise, eating from the moment we woke up until it was time to crash for bed. Upon returning to KL, one of the first things we did was hit the gym!

Putting food aside, what gives me life is the mutual desire for deeper connections and to live the rest of our lives with our arms wide open, charting new paths. The quest for the motivation of true self arises not from the pursuit of significance or needs, but from how God has formed us. None of us desires to “make” ourselves; all desire to discover how we are made. If and when we are honest with ourselves and our journeys, I firmly believe we can all reach that destination. The ability to be honest is a grace in itself, while at the same time, we embrace grace through self-compassion. Ultimately, this is the only quest that is worthy of our attention. The invitation to listen as a step toward vision is fitting in this journey. What and how we listen will determine what we see and how we live our lives toward the Vision of true self.

Yesterday, I read the Facebook post that my friend’s wife passed. I called my friend in Korea and told him I would like to come and visit him over the next weekend after all the formal funeral procedures. I know I will have nothing to offer or say, but only to listen.

BEAUTY

“Beauty is the harvest of presence, the evanescent moment of seeing or hearing on the outside what already lives far inside us; the eyes, the ears or the imagination suddenly become a bridge between the here and the there, between then and now, between the inside and the outside; beauty is the conversation between what we think is happening outside in the world and what is just about to occur far inside us.” (italicized are mine) David Whyte

Beauty as the conversation between our inner being and outer reality affirms the familiar adage of “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” I resonate with the word conversation. The liminal conversation reveals what was once hidden inside due to the relentless energy of beauty that gently engulfs like the waves hitting the shore. If we only say yes to the beauty outside. . . That “if” takes courage to see beyond and to linger which is to say be patient, and also not to be pummeled by what others see or like. What others see as beauty may not be ours because it is not our time to unlock what is inside us.

Beauty is intimate and personal, otherwise it is not beauty. It must hit the ground, the ground of our being. Rumi sees. “Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” There are hundreds if not tens of thousands or billions of ways to be intimate. Beauty is not out there but on the “ground” like the snow softly blanketing the ground or nature putting on a show exclusively for our eyes. For beauty to be beauty, it has to be concrete and real (subjective experience) not according to others or some systems but by each of our unique ways of being.

If we allow beauty to touch and infiltrate our being, we inevitably begin to reflect that beauty in all aspects of our lives. This act of living is not triggered by external realities detached from who we are; rather, we recognize beauty because it affirms our present longings. The external beauty we recognize reinforces the beauty within us. Thus, love-filled actions stem from our innate nature. In other words, outer beauty awakens our inner longing and gives significance to what we have always known. Beauty and longing are inextricably linked. It serves as a way for God or the Cosmos to connect with the deepest part of our soul.

It is precisely “hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground” that builds my faith and affirms my path of spiritual direction (whether in individual or group). By embracing “hundreds of ways,” I am rejecting the cultural proprieties (even if proven) or any other systemwide thinking that one way or a way is better than all the others. Fundamentally, I cannot imagine God to be that parochial. (I asked ChatGPT just now how many species of butterflies are in the world. Its’ reply? 17,500 kinds.)

This past week, I have witnessed beauty in the most unexpected place, from someone’s deathbed. Since this is not my story to tell, I will not go into detail. Beauty emerges from unspeakable suffering, pain, and agony. Beauty comes in the name of tenderness, grace, and joy against all hope. Beauty is disguised as God’s goodness in humanity. Though they are ever so fleeting and temporal, it has the power to transform and hope for eternity. While facing directly the face of death, beauty refuses to back down and generates hope as a tangible gift to all who have been standing by and offering prayers. Life arises out of impending death. Beauty is power and hope even amid doubt and suffering.

Beauty as “the harvest of presence” reflecting congruency between the inner and outer worlds resonates deeply. The hope my friend and his family possess is affirmed by flickering glimmers of hope-light from the outside. In fact, beauty as hope does not flicker or glimmer; instead, it shines like a bright neon light in our favorite colors.

KING, LOVER, AND SAGE

Having just turned an age when I can officially claim my social security checks (if I choose), I have more years to look back on than to envision my future. I appreciate the contrasting poetic translation (New Living) of Proverbs 20:29, “The glory of the young is their strength; the gray hair of experience is the splendor of the old." At this point in life, I willingly choose splendor over strength. And I have a boatload of experience!

My wife and I just finished a Zoom session with a group of younger friends with whom we have been engaging in group spiritual guidance. Having met for the last four years, we took the past two months to share words of life and encouragement. We have traversed deep, dark, perilous valleys together, been nourished by still waters and lush green meadows, and climbed and descended various mountain peaks. Even before the group Zoom, we have a long history of enjoying each other's company for nearly three decades.

Among other words being spoken, “sage” was one repeated word that the group shared with me as they took time to channel what God may have for me to hear. The truth is that I had wished that I would be a good wise sage someday.

I remember reading John Eldredge’s *The Way of the Wild Heart: A Map for the Masculine Journey* when the book first came out nearly 20 years ago. Naturally, I was comparing and reflecting on my own masculine journey concerning Eldredge’s “map.” Eldredge outlines and elaborates on the six stages of manhood: the boy, cowboy/ranger, warrior, lover, king, and sage. For the sake of brevity, I will glide over the early stages (though they are interesting to contemplate).

According to Eldredge. the “Lover” stage awakens and includes the physical lover, but it is much more comprehensive. This stage involves appreciating beauty and learning to love unconditionally. After discovering a “mission” in one’s life (during the warrior stage), the warrior stage will not mature unless it is infused with the love and beauty of life. The lover stage unlocks the artist within us through the unique artistic channels that God has gifted us. “Artistic” not only refers to the culturally accepted expressive arts (music, painting, writing, etc.), but is fundamentally about unleashing the very essence of who we are as God intended—I can only be me, and you can only be you. We all are God’s created and creative arts in motion, a poetry of motion. It is easy to envision the life of the biblical character David—from boy to ranger (as a shepherd), warrior, lover, and, of course, king.

The “king” stage is where one gets to exercise authority and responsibility over a ‘kingdom.” The “kingdom” can be one’s own company or organization, household, small group in church or community, or even a country. The list goes on. What is implied is that the king is responsible for leading others. Without “others” following, there is no king.

According to Eldredge, the “sage” stage is the last stop of the masculine journey. Parallelly, Robert Clinton’s “The Making of a Leader” details a similar outline of a leader. The last stage is what Clinton calls “afterglow/celebration.” Clinton describes only a few reach this level and it is all about influence. One of the key concepts from Eldredge about the sage stage is wisdom.

Years ago, I heard from a retiring pastor from an influential church that his biggest fear was his irrelevance. I appreciated his awareness and honesty at the time. That made a lasting impression on me.

In an effort to weave together the disparate thoughts alongside my own life’s journey, here are a few reflections based on my masculine journey.

I know I have gone through a lover stage after the warrior stage, but my primal lover stage happened after the king stage. Using my own language, the lover stage I am referring to definitely includes my appreciation for beauty and love of nature through writing and poetry after my kingship stage. More than that, the lover stage to me was mostly about descending, descending from kingship but also going deeper and embracing “death” and “deconstruction.” In the kingship stage, one is ruling over people but also exercising authority and stewardship in certain ways of doing things, developing and perpetuating a system. A king is not a king without some systems to rule and proliferate. As such, a king is almost always beholden to a certain way of doing things even if one is trying to reenvision and restructure.

A further note on descending. Descending is letting go, of control, expectations, and aspirations however good and noble they may be. The language of descension is identical to Richard Rohr’s “Falling Upward” concept in that our focus is not set on “upward” but squarely on “falling.” If and when we fall enough, sometimes as in free falling which can be both petrifying and exhilarating, then we realize upward movement has also been taking place. As we descend, we meet death and decay, and arrive at a place where we can identify with Solomon’s wisdom “Everything is futile.” The good news is that we begin to witness life, flourishing, and meaning where death and futility used to reign. What was once stark opposite contradictions melt away and disappear with no need for striving. Death and futility become friends in descension. There is no more need to label life as good and death as bad. And we won’t see this unless we descend or fall. God is already there at the pit (or Sheol if you like) and what we considered as the farthest limits as David wrote (Psalm 139). This, to me, is at the heart of the Lover stage and serves as a doorway to Sage.

Sage cannot and should not remain within the systems whether they are good or bad (which is precisely my point in that we make judgments according to our experiences and view of systems we have been part of). Sage is above and beyond any systems of power otherwise sage cannot exert the kind of influence that puts the listeners first. Unlike a king, sage is not about building or expanding his or her kingdom. It is about the “listeners’ kingdom.” At the same time, it is about helping to lift one’s eyes to bigger realities beyond systems and develop attention to beauty and love. To be sure, nobody including sage can sit outside judgmental outlooks, biases, or above system. However, the difference between a king and a sage is that a sage has eyes beyond the system and operates from a different and wider plane of seeing. While sage may have influence, sage does not and should not have the power to rule and control. Furthermore, sages can traverse and offer wisdom to people in all different stages of life—from the boy to other sages. One thing I know is that I want the onus to be on someone else, not on me. Ultimately, I wonder if the “splendor” of sage or the old is relative to the honest evaluation and acceptance of the “gray hair of experience.”

FEAR

As a human being, I naturally experience thoughts, feelings, and, of course, fear. However, I am not my thoughts, feelings, or fear. The reality is that while I have them, they do not define me. What some have coined as FEAR, or “false evidence appearing real,” resonated with me recently. As an Enneagram 7, I often find myself in my head, and fear lurks around as a constant adversary. My sense of peace can sometimes be an illusion. Likewise, my sense of fear may not be grounded in reality. it is simply false evidence appearing real. With further introspection, it is not even false evidence but a loud projection of what can go wrong. And I can choose to navigate my life based on my projection and perception. Or not! Either way, the appearance as real, far from real, is the main culprit for being a captive of fear. The invitation is for me to be aware that I am writing certain script, scripts to protect myself and my self-interests. When I am aware and name what I am doing (or thinking in this case) in the present, they simply disappear.

When our friends from Korea visited us, the one go-to activity the children wanted to do was swimming. At one point, all children and adults from Korea and Malaysia were together frolicking around in the pool. We were of one mind playing. On one corner of the pool, my wife who knows how to swim was instructing a child, an absolute beginner, how to swim. Not knowing what came over me, being nearby, I decided to give it a shot for myself. I almost drowned when I was a child and ever since I was afraid of water, particularly the deep. But this was only 5 feet deep. Now there were two absolute beginners. In just a few minutes with my wife’s gentle and clear instructions, to my shock, I found out that I could float! With strong encouragement from our Malaysian community afterward, I enrolled in an adult swimming class for the next several weeks. I am learning to face my fear (though I have not been to the deep yet) and embrace what I can and cannot.

Seeing “fear as a vehicle of silence” is like turning my enemy into a friend, embracing fear as a movement from affliction to the vehicle of Presence. Martin Laird’s book, Into the Silent Land, articulately outlines the shift from victim (of fear) to witness (of fear). Fear flexed its muscles in my restless mind during the firestorms in Southern California. My fear-feeding mind was fixated on what was taking place, trying to learn as much as I could, and keeping track. Fear dominated much of my life regarding water. On a grander scale, our imminent move to Korea is riddled with joy, excitement, and fear. In all these cases, learning to be aware and name what I am doing (which is a testimony of the life of a witness) and projecting especially regarding fear is a real-time lesson. Helen Cepero’s words (Christ-Shaped Character: Choosing Love, Faith, and Hope) made me pause, “Sometimes the search for abundance in our lives is evidence of our fear of scarcity.” The fear of scarcity for me can lead to the door of suffering. Richard Rohr points out that suffering occurs when we lose control. I don’t see myself as a control freak, but I admit that I still fear scarcity.

In this vein, Barbara Brown Taylor’s words (An Altar in the World) struck a chord of resonance in me.

. . . pronouncing a blessing puts you as close to God as you can get. To learn to look with compassion on everything that is; to see past the terrifying demons outside to the bawling hearts within; to make the first move toward the other, however many times it takes to get close; to open your arms to what is instead of waiting until it is what it should be; to surrender the justice of your own cause for mercy; to surrender the priority of your own safety for love—this is to land at God’s breast.

Pronouncing a blessing puts me close to God. In the phrase “surrendering the priority of your own safety for love,” the drive for safety is my sense of control leading to fear and suffering. It is to land at God’s breast. What can reverse such narrow-mindedness and self-interests is to pronounce blessings, to myself and others. As such, the pronouncement of blessing aids us in seeing beyond bias, projections, and false evidence. The pronouncement of blessing gets us close to God and to be in union with God as the original Blessor. Our blessing is not our own, but simply a conduit or an instrument of God’s blessing, pointing everything back to God and getting all of us close to God including myself.

CONTEMPLATIVE SEEING

After bidding farewell to our guests, I knew my introverted wife needed space and time to decompress and recharge by being alone. Solitude and silence are her go-to spiritual disciplines. Thus, I needed to figure out how to rest and decompress in ways that would serve me, not expecting my wife’s involvement. I slept and exercised while maintaining my due diligence in a recently started spiritual direction course.

As part of my rest, I stumbled onto Netflix’s American Primeval limited series. I was promptly glued to it. The series is a gritty and brutal fictional depiction of the American West set in Utah during the 19th-century expansion era, sprinkled with some historical facts. Among other things, it highlights the multidimensional and complex conflicts between the Mormon religion, Native American peoples, the expanding and stretched-thin US government, and other pioneers and settlers, both opportunistic and desperate.

One of the unmistakable themes was the clash of how different peoples viewed and interpreted God. Both the Mormons and the Native American Indians fought, killed, and protected based on their views of God. (I’m trying not to spoil here.) It is not enough to say that the conflicts were about the Clash of Civilizations, more specifically, it was the poignant clash of peoples’ understanding of their Gods in their respective religions. Not being in their shoes in their times, I find myself appalled by their genuineness of blinded and misdirected unconsciousness. I agree with Richard Rohr, “The religious version of egocentricity is wanting to be right and in control.” While healthy and mature aspects of religions provide helpful and needy guidance to God, misguided religious fervor has harmed beyond doubt throughout history and with no shortage of current examples.

To put it differently, it came down to how they saw God which dictated their life’s responses and decisions. I am in the middle of the first module, Contemplative Prayer: A Way of Seeing. Cultivating how we see what we see, separating real from illusions, is at the heart of contemplative spirituality. Also, contemplative seeing is always immersed in grace and unconditional love, never under accusations, guilt, and shame. In this way, contemplative seeing is imitating and learning to see how Jesus sees, always with grace and compassion.

As part of my learning this week, I spent time meditating imaginatively on the passage of how Jesus called the first disciples at the Sea of Galilee. As I immersed myself in the account and was “seeing” imaginatively, I realized that seeing imaginatively sometimes aids “real” seeing, peeling off illusions. Below is my summary account of what I experienced.

I was looking at the vast sand under my feet (I imagined feeling it too) and out the sea where the horizon blends the sky and the sea into one, watching the gentle and lazy waves (this time) hitting the shore, observing the disciples interacting with Jesus. I watched the interaction in awe as “Something” gripped them as if they were under some sort of spell, left everything, and began to follow Jesus.

The next thing I see is Jesus walking towards me. The first thing I see is Jesus’ eyes. His soul-piercing and grace-filled eyes had already locked on mine as if he had been seeing me my whole life. My heart promptly melts, again as this is not the first time. He tells me, “Thank you for following me, son.” Speechless, my heart melts again because I had not expected to hear that from Jesus.

It is worth highlighting that when we see others, the first thing we see is the others’ eyes. I see the eyes looking back at me. My seeing and the other person’s seeing can be two different subjective experiences. I am subject to what I see based on how I see.

When I was guided to the section, imagining what Jesus would tell me and what I would tell Jesus, I was not prepared to hear Jesus thank me for following him. I am not 100% sure whether that was my wish driving my imagination, but I am sitting with what I thought I heard.

I did leave almost everything. Due to the firestorms in Southern California during the past week, I was forced to think of what I had left behind that I would need to claim (if given a chance). I could not think of anything. Before moving to Asia, we cleared most of our stuff (except for books and some random clothes and shoes). The most expensive item I own is my laptop, which is over 4 years old. This certainly does not justify Jesus’ words to me. But it is a reminder of our journey so far.

As I anticipate returning to the US for a few months, it will highlight our liminal status—home but not home. It will be a reminder to continue to fix my eyes on Jesus’ love-filled eyes, beckoning me to come home repeatedly.

OPPOSING REALITIES

Einstein, at the end of his life, supposedly had questioned, “Is the universe friendly?” While I do not fully grasp the context and ramification of what he meant by the question, a parallel question enters my mind, “Is God loving?” Both my calculating and contemplative mind concur (which never happens) that the answer is a true yes. Looking back, my life experiences tell me the answer to be a resounding yes. The key lies in looking back. However, it is also worth noting that sometimes while I was going through life’s most difficult and formidable experiences, I had a hard time thinking God is loving.

This past week has been hard and challenging as I hear and watch the reports of firestorms, which some firefighters likened to giant blowtorches fueled by hurricane force winds, raging and engulfing various sections of Southern California. What are no less than epic scenes from apocalyptic movies became real to the point where it is hard to separate the real from the surreal. It hit home when I saw and read that our house in Pasadena was near the Eaton Fire Zone. The firestorm spread less than a mile from our house, flanking the two nearby major streets east and west of our home. All our children had to evacuate with their three dogs and fled as far south as San Diego. Between my wife and I along with our children, we know at least a dozen families whose houses burnt down to the ground. I cannot and will never fathom what the loss is like.

While local, regional, and national authorities should have answers sooner rather than later, at the existential level, I, for one along with many, do not have answers. Nobody should have any answers to questions, “Is the universe friendly?” and “Is God loving?” At least not now. . .  Instead, we are supposed to live the questions. And live a life based on what is given and opened for us, not in a fatalistic way but with a trusting heart. Hasty and heady answers will only damage and worsen what is already diabolical. Having answers and being (and living) answers are two very different things. As we cannot handle the answers, I sense the invitation is to be brutally honest and wrestle with God. God expects and invites us not to shy away from asking life’s most tough questions.

On a more personal note, the fact that I am absent in my physical body from our children tears me apart. It is not merely whether our house is safe or not. It is about not being part of the process or the journey our children are currently facing. On the one hand, they are all mature adults, and they have the life tools to navigate this challenge well, even of this magnitude. Yet amid all the questions they are raising, burdens they are bearing, sorrow and compassion they are holding, and even the mundane things like cleaning up, helping others, and trying to put life pieces together, I am not there to process with them on the ground in real-time.

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In the middle of the disaster back home, my wife and I hosted 7 people from Korea, including 3 pre-teenagers during the past week. We physically hosted half of them in our house, but I served as the main host and guide. This was my reality here in KL. Though I was torn with my attention and heart divided by the dreadful event back in Pasadena, I also knew I needed to remain faithful to people who came because of my invitation.

As I was preparing to host, my mind was squarely focused on the children. I asked other children in KL in addition to doing my research how to entertain them. I was ready. Or so I thought. I quickly realized on day two that I needed to scrap what I had planned and improvise on the go. Unlike the adults we hosted before, the children are brutally honest about what they like and do not. As hospitality is about giving freedom to our guests (pre-teenagers) and it is not about me being in control, I shifted quickly. I had to. What they wanted were what I would consider as more ordinary and plain, as in going to our apartment pool, eating simple local foods, and going to their favorite Japanese shop of goodies. I thought of taking them to a water park, jungle ropes course, etc. You get the picture.

I realized afresh that hospitality is never about pleasing the host (in this case, it was me) but about giving them freedom to be and to do. For this to happen, I had to let go of my expectations and control. Letting go of expectations and control is always a good thing as was this time.

Last night as we were wrapping up our time, I asked a question to the children, “How was your time? How would you summarize your time in Malaysia?” Their answers almost floored me. The first one who is a boy and the youngest responded as cool as a cucumber, without mixing any emotions, “It was special.” The other child said, “It was a time of blessing” without making eye contact which I understand as it is more about being Asian. The last one said, “It was healing.” I did not know they knew what healing meant. I suppose the important thing is that whatever she meant, healing happened. They followed by filling out some details, again as a matter of fact-ly speaking. I received them as being genuine. On their way to the airport, I gave them big hugs and said, “Thank you for coming.” As they were leaving, I whispered to myself, “Thank you for teaching me and reminding me about what hospitality is.”

This week, I fumbled and struggled to hold both very contrasting realities together. This was not the first time where I had to juggle and struggle through stark opposing realities, and I know it will not be the last time.

THE GROWING EDGE

Times are bleak, turbulent, and filled with incredulous self-interest and twisted cruelties—like “Are you kidding me?” force me to let out a deep sigh of disbelief. We live in the dark times. I have loved Parker J. Palmer’s seasoned and insightful writing over the years, and I follow him on social media. He recently shared a quote from Howard Thurman below. It rang something deep in me. Most of all, Thurman’s prophetic and poetic words, which really are the same, gave me faith and hope against the current harsh and bleak conditions, especially regarding my motherland, Korea. By definition, faith and hope require patience and waiting amid uncertainties and unknowns.

All around us worlds are dying and new worlds are being born; all around us life is dying and life is being born. The fruit ripens on the tree, the roots are silently at work in the darkness of the earth against a time when there shall be new lives, fresh blossoms, green fruit. Such is the growing edge! It is the extra breath from the exhausted lung, the one more thing to try when all else has failed, the upward reach of life when weariness closes in upon all endeavor. This is the basis of hope in moments of despair, the incentive to carry on when times are out of joint and men have lost their reason, the source of confidence when worlds crash and dreams whiten into ash. The birth of a child — life’s most dramatic answer to death — this is the growing edge incarnate. Look well to the growing edge!

According to Palmer and Thurman, “the roots are silently at work in the darkness of the earth” and there is “the growing edge” unseen and unnoticed. Life is brewing and growing in the dark, resulting in new lives, fresh blossoms, and green fruit. Born in Florida in 1899, Howard Thurman, a black man, knows bleakness and darkness. He was an author, theologian, philosopher, mystic, and civil rights leader. When Thurman spoke of “the growing edge,” his words carried more punch and weight due to the unique dark times of his era. Thurman has spoken these words not out of a vacuum or fantasized ideal, but out of his own life’s poignant experiences. The waves of the growing edge continue to hit the shore of dark humanity, refusing to succumb to the darkness, and infusing with unquenchable life and light.

If Richard Rohr and other mystics are right, then the dark periods are all great teachers precisely because we are not in control. Thus, the darkness forces us to relinquish our control and let God be God, and put our active faith in God. The birth of Christ and His perpetual coming has come to us as “life’s most dramatic answer to death” which is the ultimate darkness. The incarnation of Christ is the ultimate growing edge. And the perpetuity of Christ’s incarnation continues to flood us as light in darkness.

I have witnessed the growing edge come to life and infuse life all around, over and over again. Thus, it is not hard to look to the growing edge! And I am.

GRACE

“Son, you have no idea how good this decision is.”
Almost exactly six years ago on the first of January,
I heard a faint grace-filled voice inside me, enveloping me
when walking my daughter’s huskie, Luna
to let go,
to descend,
to step into the unknown. 

Grace descended as I decided to descend.
My calculating mind does not understand grace
but the submissive soul just needs to stand under grace,
with my head tilted, eyes looking up and my hands stretched wide,
the grace the tangible and the powerful
forged a new way of living and being in the world.

I have learned that I must live my life,
not my ego’s projection,
not what others expect of me,
certainly not what the systems of power tell me.

I have learned that descension and even darkness can be gifts, too
gift of discernment,
gift of dependency,
and the gift of grace,
experiencing God as the ultimate lifter and salvation.

I have learned to be in wonder and astonishment,
the wonder of how everything is connected,
the wonder of how nature simply is,
the wonder of my true desires,
and of course, the wonder of God, the Grace Giver.

This poem needs little explanation as I try to summarize the last six years’ journey. My life's most important “decision” came with the call to descend. It was not a call to an invitation to step up. The paradoxical “falling upward” phrase Richard Rohr coined rings true after six years of looking at my rear-view mirror. I am not even sure whether I would distinguish words like desolation from consolation and vice versa. Desolation can usher in consolation. Consolation can also quickly be submerged under desolation.

Perhaps the invitation is to welcome them all as guests with great gifts. Because consolation is the grace of immediacy. And desolation is consolation in disguise of grace to come. No matter what, grace is the constant.

SECOND SIGHT

Sometimes, you need the ocean light,
and colors you’ve never seen before
painted through an evening sky.

Sometimes you need your God
to be a simple invitation
not a telling word of wisdom.

Sometimes you need only the first shyness
that comes from being shown things
far beyond your understanding,

so that you can fly and become free
by being still and by being still here.

And then there are times you want to be
brought to ground by touch
and touch alone.

To know those arms around you
and to make your home in the world
just by being wanted.

To see eyes looking back at you,
as eyes should see you at last,

seeing you, as you always wanted to be seen,
seeing you, as you yourself
had always wanted to see the world.

David Whyte

Seeing is the most primal, powerful way of being human. It is not only seeing but also being seen. The reciprocity and the mutuality of exchange are what makes humans human. The pristine, the purest seeing is invariably without words, by being still and at still. It is the surest way of making our home in this world. Freedom arrives by being still and by being still here and now. The inner freedom to be activates the exterior freedom to protect and fight for who I am meant to be. Also, I mull over the line—home is where I am being wanted. By being at home in this world, we pre-experience what it means to be at Home.

The most basic spirituality is about seeing and being seen. When we finally “see” God, we realize God has been seeing us the whole time, with one kind of seeing, love. How often did Jesus “see” before miracles and healings took place? Once healed, those saw Jesus differently, finally. This mutual seeing unfurls the very vision of union with God as God envisioned it. This way, seeing always precedes union. And it deepens and widens more generous seeing of all kinds. We see others and otherness as our heart dictates, varying from unconditional love to self-loathing hatred. In the recent political events in Korea, I confess that it was not the most kind of seeing toward the regime. Even amid turmoil within and without, God’s way of seeing is constant miraculously, and woos us back to God’s warm embrace.

As Whyte eludes, I have been wondering if blue sky, a mere blade of grass, an old Cypress tree, and irises also see me when I see, notice them with wonder. Would they say, “Ah finally, you see us. Now we see you?” For one, they know how to be still and silent for which I remain grateful.  All in all, I am okay with that remaining a mystery.

Seeing is always a subjective experience. We see what we see, not what others see. Spirituality as seeing means it is a subjective and sometimes a mystical experience. At the heart of mysticism is experiential knowing. Some say that religion is a belief in someone else’s experiences. It is not to disregard someone else’s experiences as others’ experiences validate mine and vice versa, creating a layer of serviceable “universal” knowing. However, it is worth noting that we often move from personal experiential knowing to universal, rarely the other way around. 

In the state of union with God, I will see everything through God’s way of seeing, through my eyes which is to say God’s seeing and my seeing are the same. That vision is too elusive and mysterious for me to understand but worth holding on to.

ARTIST AT LIVING

It is neither a genius nor
the unparalleled passion of Vincent van Gogh that
inspire me.

It is a troubled van Gogh,
fascinated by and drawn to a metamorphosis of things,
perhaps including himself,
while offering no judgment to distinct larva and chrysalis forms,
perhaps including himself.

Van Gogh’s troubles and his lonely metamorphosis,
as incomplete and fragile as it might have been,
where the incomplete is the perfect,
where the fragility is the strength,
inspire the divine vision of the human journey in me.

Not too long ago, I learned of van Gogh’s interest in butterflies, particularly the process of metamorphosis. Fascination may be a better word.

After taking an online poetry class this past June, I became restless, wanting to continue to feed a newfound desire. My wife, with her foresight and timely encouragement, gently suggested organizing a group for mutual encouragement and continued writing of poetry. I asked all my Asian classmates (four plus one) if they wanted to continue meeting over Zoom monthly. They all responded enthusiastically, and we have been meeting monthly, with each of us taking turns facilitating. With everyone being trained in spiritual direction (except for me), the group knows how to hold sacred and safe space for emerging poets in all of us. We would all write, each taking turns to read aloud to the group, and then everyone companions the reader. As we can peek into each other’s tender souls through poetry, our usage of companioning words is minimal but creates reverberation in our souls long afterward.

In one of the recent poetry Zooms, we were presented with van Gogh’s Grass and Butterflies painting. As soon as I saw the painting, something stirred in me though I did not know why. Weeks later, I revisited the painting and reflected using a combination of visio divina and imaginative “reading” of van Gogh and wrote the poem above.

As an imperfect and tormented soul, van Gogh’s contribution to the world would not be through a missionary call to the lowly miners. It would not even be a religion where he initially found meaning. Even in his art path, he would not follow the footsteps of the popular and accepted Impressionism. Instead, I would like to believe that what saved van Gogh was his attention to details, the divine details. Whether it was sunflowers, butterflies, irises, fields, cypress trees, portraits, sky, etc all came alive because of van Gogh’s prowess in paying attention to details. In the details of the most ordinariness, he came face to face with the divine, just perhaps. I imagine Van Gogh’s “invitation” would not be to admire and like his works, instead, he would be acutely exhorting us to slow down, look, and linger with details in life. And to “paint” it with our own style and life . . . D. T. Suzuki’s words ring true, “I am an artist at living – my work of art is my life.”

EYES

In just a few wordless seconds, decades flashed by
like a sweeping drama of
other-worldly beauty and glory,
too wonderful to be true.

They were the same eyes when they
first opened their curious eyes on the earth.
They are the same eyes I will never
forget into eternity.

They were the same eyes of God, the God who greeted me
with a faint smile and soul-piercing and melting light
They are the same eyes of God,
of love, mercy, and forgiveness.

My eyes and my soul feasted on the
divine touchdown of our hearts,
enlarging my feeble tent with a grander hope and vision.
To know that I can finally see and be seen.

About a month after our adult children, a son-in-law, and a daughter-in-law visited us in Malaysia, I sat at a café in Gapyeong, Korea reflecting on the holy family ritual. It remains a mystery what triggered me to revisit the “Ritual of Leaving.” (I highlighted this sacred ritual in the Oct. 15 entry.) Once I did, I could not get out of it, until I found words, as inadequate and incomplete as they are, to capture what I felt and sensed. I relived the heaven-sent memory, and my eyes promptly were welled up with tears, but unable to course down my cheeks. My eyes were looking at the farthest mountain outside the window but nothing registered. I was seeing but not seeing. Instead, I had seen something else. In that almost trance-like experience, the above poem flowed out of me, inspiring a vision of what “seeing” can be.

An influential German Catholic theologian, philosopher, and mystic of the Middle Ages, Meister Eckhart, famously said, “The eye with which I see God is the same with which God sees me. My eye and God's eye is one eye, and one sight, and one knowledge, and one love.” All eyes are one: God’s eyes. If we do the hard work of being honest and vulnerable and let our false self retreat by simple and powerful awareness . . . What begins to glimmer and glow is the shy true self. Eyes become the souls’ window, allowing the light within to recognize the light searching from without. The divine light dance glows even brighter, having been joined by the Light Who was there all along. This was a mystery until I experienced it with my family.

I WORRIED

I worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And I gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

Mary Oliver

I am a worrier too. At sixty-one, there are more things to worry about, the past, the future, not to mention the present. In particular, I am a professional in terms of projecting my worries into the future. I can’t help it but that is how I learned to navigate the unknown world in front of me. I also worry about aging moms, grown-up children, our well-being and health, and our friends.

Oliver addresses our helpless worries of nature in the first stanza. Helpless because there is very little we can do to help gravity and other forces of nature. I suppose the point is we worry even about the things we have very little control over.

The short second stanza reflects on our tendency to worry about the impact of our past. Does it matter whether we were right or wrong? How about in the areas of the need for forgiveness that are precisely beyond our control?

The next two stanzas unpack the future worrying fixations that may or may not have legitimacy and stem from family medical history. They range from Oliver’s simple but precious desire to sing to the possibility of more serious disease. Dementia would be the most terrible disease to a poet.

The word “finally” turns the entire poem. What follows is the realizations and actions in the past tense as is captured in the poem’s title, I Worried. The decisive verbs packed a punch after punch: saw, gave up, took, went out, and sang. The word “sang” is the redemptive reversal or the cancellation of her precise worry of hopeless singing. WHO CARES! Really, “I don’t care anymore” won the day followed by freedom. Oliver invites us to consider what we will act on to “reverse” our incessant worries.

I, too, want to be a “singer” of freedom—freedom from worrying about the past and especially the future. With admissible reasons to be worrisome in all societies and families, as all are fighting great battles, how about we join together in getting up, getting out, and shouting to the world that we are alive?

I imagine Oliver exclaiming among the trees, impressing the morning birds of all kinds. . . And so can you. . .

GRATITUDE

As has been the tradition in December, I would like to highlight a few poems, five poems to be exact since there are five Tuesdays. This year, I will also be sharing a few of my own, including my reflection and/or background of each poem.

If you are tracking with us physically, we will depart Korea on December 2 to the Philippines for my Opening Residency at the School of Spiritual Direction (SSD). After the residency, I was asked to preach at a church where I preached the last time I was in the country. We fly back to Malaysia only to fly to Singapore for a weekend to spend time with our friends. Starting on December 17, we will be in Malaysia. We host some people from Korea in January. Then we fly back to the US in early February until June.

My wife shared to a group of Zoom participants the other day, “We are happy because we are grateful. It is not that we are grateful because we are happy.” She was giving credit to Jim Wilder, an expert on spiritual formation and brain science, among other things. My blunt paraphrase, talking to myself, “Be grateful, dummy if you want to be happy.” The modern incessant pursuit of happiness emphasizes happiness for happiness’ sake. As such, it is easy to trace how happiness remains so elusive that it becomes an impossible and endless pursuit. When is “more” enough?

When the script is flipped and our focus is squarely on gratitude, happiness is a natural by-product with no effort necessary. When we seek and pursue gratitude at all levels, happiness comes to us as gifts. Happiness is like guests, arriving with gifts we often do not foresee and deserve. How do we cultivate the heart of gratitude? By starting from small and mundane levels of gratitude. . . Often, it is the scene or the view, from demure and hidden from our eyes to breathtaking, random, and unexpected kindness, last-ditch moments of grace, a phrase from background music, etc. How can I not be grateful for a hot bowl of Sulllungtang followed by Hotteok on a cold night? Which without failure would make me smile in happiness . . . Easily, there are thousands more examples. I am already hyping myself for forecasted snow tonight in gratefulness. . .

The preeminence of the pre-requisite of slowing down, even stopping, and paying attention is what is a necessary groundwork for cultivating gratitude. In other words, it is almost impossible to arrive at small and potentially unseen and unrecognizable moments of gratitude unless we slow down, at the very least. No wonder, this remains elusive for modern humanity whose success depends on a fast-paced life for more and more.

Then there are life-altering gratitude events being dropped on our laps. With uncalloused muscles of our heart ready to flex its muscles toward gratitude, we can effortlessly enter the grand gratitude gate. A few of those big gratitude gates we have entered this year are highlighted. How can we not be grateful for Malaysia, our more than capable home base this year, for people, its multicultural cuisine (me more than my wife), ease of travel, safety, low cost of living, guests who visited us, and most importantly, the community of friends? How can we not be grateful for new connections, friends, and the community we are now part of? How dare we forget and not be grateful toward God who prepared our way and tirelessly led us forward? How dare I forget and not be grateful for myriads of tender seeings, hearings, and touches of reality as reality enfolded, toward wonder, warmth, and mystery? How it is easy for me to be grateful for our adult children and spouses who carved out time to visit us and create memories that would last a lifetime.

Looking back, I realize there is yet one more requirement: the practice of letting go and living without entitlements. Holding on or demanding respect due to my title, experiences, or pedigree would be a death knell for I operate with the mindset that I must be thanked or honored. Gratitude would be hard-pressed or disingenuous. Entitlements function like a formidable inner fortress that needs to be demolished for gratitude to enter fully and freely. For a small example here in Korea, I find it freeing not to have a ubiquitous business card with my name on it. Whenever I meet new people, they hand me their business cards only to be reciprocated with nothing from my end. (It is not that they come across as entitled but only to highlight that the existing modus operandi is based on titles and degrees.) I crack my sheepish smile and apologize every time. Frankly, I would not know what to put on my card even if I had one. I suppose I am revolting in my small way to tell the world to get to know me beyond the card, take time, let us share our lives, and learn to feast.

In this season of harvest celebrations all over the world before the winter comes, feasting on happiness and laughter of joy can arrive once we do our part of slowing down and letting go to open the door to gratitude. Gratitude is like an unending supply of kindling that would maintain the fire to keep us warm in the “winter” of our lives.

AN ACORN AND YEAST

I participated in a group spiritual guidance session a week ago where I presented my reflection. We employed imaginative reading of Scripture, and I identified with one imagined character in the story. I saw myself as a gentile sitting in the back row of a synagogue as this story unfolded. The familiar story came alive, and days later, I found myself still lingering on the passage. I knew I had to write it out. Thanks for reading, as always.

Luke 13:10-21, The Message

He was teaching in one of the meeting places on the Sabbath. There was a woman present, so twisted and bent over with arthritis that she couldn’t even look up. She had been afflicted with this for eighteen years. When Jesus saw her, he called her over. “Woman, you’re free!” He laid hands on her and suddenly she was standing straight and tall, giving glory to God.

The meeting-place president, furious because Jesus had healed on the Sabbath, said to the congregation, “Six days have been defined as work days. Come on one of the six if you want to be healed, but not on the seventh, the Sabbath.”

But Jesus shot back, “You frauds! Each Sabbath every one of you regularly unties your cow or donkey from its stall, leads it out for water, and thinks nothing of it. So why isn’t it all right for me to untie this daughter of Abraham and lead her from the stall where Satan has had her tied these eighteen years?”

When he put it that way, his critics were left looking quite silly and red-faced. The congregation was delighted and cheered him on.

Then he said, “How can I picture God’s kingdom for you? What kind of story can I use? It’s like an acorn that a man plants in his front yard. It grows into a huge oak tree with thick branches, and eagles build nests in it.”

He tried again. “How can I picture God’s kingdom? It’s like yeast that a woman works into enough dough for three loaves of bread—and waits while the dough rises. 

I sat with my mouth open and eyes widened, trying to process what had just happened. I also felt the temperature rising in the synagogue. Toward the end, my heart burned, and I strangely felt free and unburdened.

I had known the woman suffering from severe arthritis for many years, though I have not seen her in recent years. During the years I have not seen her, she grew much worse in her condition. Her face wore scars of pain, just as twisted as her body. She must have heard the rumor that Jesus, who has miraculously healed many sinners in nearby villages, would visit the synagogue today. Perhaps a good neighbor alerted her. . .

As one of the few gentiles in the congregation who used to sit in the back, I have been attracted to the Jewish way of life, their laws, wisdom, and most of all, their God. As a latecomer and uneducated, I had many questions over the years but kept quiet and continued to attend and listen. I also heard rumors about Jesus and how he baffled and infuriated some and inspired many. This Jesus, I finally got to see and hear in person today.

He was different, remarkably and stunningly, unlike any religious leader I have listened to. His voice was tender and yet thunderous, packed with compassion and power. His eyes twinkled, almost inviting the listeners to hear beyond the words. He shed light on many questions I had, my intuition leaped with joy in agreement even to an uneducated mind. With his words being simple and easy to follow, Jesus did not waste words. The parables he shared were illuminating and penetrating.

Though the woman could not look up to see Jesus, Jesus spotted her hunched over in obvious pain and suffering. Stopping his talk, Jesus called her, touched her, and said, “Woman, you are free!” What happened next, I will never forget. Within seconds, she stood up like a new woman, standing tall and straight, her face beaming with light and glory. All the while, Jesus’ words, “Woman, you’re free,” still rings in my ear.

Not surprisingly because of what I was used to hearing about the Sabbath's teachings, the synagogue's leader was flustered and raised hell indirectly with Jesus by talking to the congregation. Jesus did not wait for a second, shot back with inhuman authority cut through the trap, and rebuked with power, remarkably couched in a question. I felt the dead weight I had been carrying somewhat unsuspectingly shattered into pieces. I could not help but shout with the loudest cheer I knew. The people in the synagogue turned back to see where the loudest clap and cheer came from, only to see me. I could not care less. . .

As all the eyes turned to Jesus again, he spoke in short parables. I knew that the acorn and the yeast referred to the arthritis woman. My heart was filled with hope and the vision of the Kingdom Jesus spoke about. While walking back to my house, it dawned on me that I too could be the acorn and the yeast. My heart strangely warmed, and I vowed to follow Jesus and his teachings. The woman’s countenance beamed with light that was not hers and I realized that I also saw the light that monolithic day.

Years later, Jesus is no longer walking on this earth. Yet, his presence remains, ever pervasively. The light in me is still alive and strong. In addition, I did not have the language the day I met Jesus, but now I know that both the woman and I were set free. She was freed from the bondage of disease and Satan. I was freed from the bondage of religious indoctrination and a system that shrinks God to a manageable and predictable God. I know how to live and let others live. They say they can see the light of freedom in me.