MOM AND MALIBU

Today will be the last time I will visit Malibu Fresh Seafood Market and Patio Café for at least 6 months. After unseasonably wet December and now January which is too much for my liking (I confess I am a spoiled fair-weather Southern California boy at heart), I was to expect a rain pause at least until the afternoon. I planned to see my mom before we head out to Asia this Tuesday. She lives with my sister in the San Fernando Valley, which is relatively a short drive to the ocean. The routine which happens almost every other weekend is to take my mom for a drive to Malibu. She loves driving since it reminds her of her golden camping and traveling years.

Las Virgenes Drive, which leads through the Malibu Canyon off the 101 Freeway driving north, is my choice of the scenic road to get to the ocean. After much rain in the last week or so, everything is covered in green. The road starts with the quintessential Southern California bare rolling hills covered with sparkling green grass and with occasional oak trees dotting the hills, which reminds me of William Wallace’s Scotland Highlands. After each lazy turn, I feel like I ought to spot some sheep or the long-haired Highland cattle but see none. I read it was one of the hills Kobe Bryant supposedly died in a helicopter crash a few years ago. My mind wanders off to his legacy and the impact of creating a bond between my son, Michael, and me over following the Lakers and Kobe. 

Closer to the ocean, the rolling hills disappear into the rearview mirror and turn into a curvy canyon road with formidable Santa Monica Mountains flanking both sides of the road. I wished I still had my Mazda 6 Sport Wagon equipped with Pro Lowering Springs which makes cornering like a breeze and essentially hugs and glides through the windy road. Once I pass through the canyon, I am met with a wide open ocean awaiting before me with Pepperdine University to my right. The café rests on the Pacific Coast Highway 1 about a mile north of the university. 

As the outdoor café sits on PCH 1, we get a full view of the Malibu coast in front of us. While I go for their signature Seafood Combo and Fries to get my fried food fixing, my mom loves Clam Chowder soup which my dad loved. She has never told me, but I wondered if her love for clam chowder soup is her way of remembering my dad. Afraid of my mom getting all emotional, I avoid the question and shift my mind to something else as her pain of losing her husband several years ago still lingers on. She has been losing her short-term memory significantly, but her long-term memory is still sharp. With her short-term memory compromised, our conversation remains simple and on repetition. Knowing her questions are genuine, I don’t mind the repeat and depth of our conversations. One constancy is that she thanks me repeatedly for the time spent. 

I am like my mom. She is adventurous and spontaneous. Though dissipated significantly due to her age and stamina, she is a busybody with a massive desire to feed whoever is around her. As she has lived through one of the tumultuous times of Korean history and life as an immigrant, her love language has been cooking and feeding her loved ones, often even damaging her own health to “care for others.” We benefited much from her desire and love, but for years it has also caused friction and triggered boundary issues for me to live my life. She may very well have received my need to create “healthy” boundaries as a rejection of her love. . . It helps now that she can no longer cook as she used to not to mention the distance between our places. The passing of time has become a remedy.

Driving back the same route, sure enough, my mom thanked me for the time spent. I told her, “Of course, I’d love to.” While our relationship has not been perfect which is to say, perfectly human, complex, and messy, I utter thankfulness to God in silence for this woman who bore me and raised me. After I came home, I placed leftover Seafood Combo and Fries in a takeout box on a dining table. Upon seeing the box, my other son Brad said to me while smiling, “You’ve been with Halmuni (Grandma).” 

REMY

I have been in love, the bromance kind, with a dog. 

Named after the main character in the Pixar movie, Ratatouille, Remy is a small chihuahua sent from heaven, as our family would like to believe. Remy dons short and thick brown hair featuring a tiny bald spot on his forehead. His signature look though is his regal and proud ears that stand tall and oversized compared to the rest of his body. Remy is also a dog with hundred facial expressions with his lower lip reminiscent of human lips. But his eyes tell us so much of what he feels and what he thinks.

Remy still maintains pale pink paws reminding us all that he is a poor walker. But nobody blames him because he lives in Minnesota with my daughter, Elizabeth. It is a good thing he is here in Southern California now. Though it’s been raining and cold, this is paradise compared to Minnesota’s blizzardy winter where winter wonderland turns very quickly into frozen tundra. Chihuahuas are not meant to be in Minnesota, I suppose, but along the idyllic warm coast of the Mexican Riviera. No wonder Remy loves the beach. 

We remember the day Remy first came to us like yesterday. He was skittish and extremely cautious and timid. Elizabeth shared with us how she got hold of Remy. Elizabeth rescued Remy from a dog foster home. It turned out that from an earlier photo before ending up at the foster home, Remy at one point had lost all his hair and was a scared and neglected dog. Elizabeth does not know the full history, but apparently, Remy overcame his adversities and became one of the most charming dogs in the foster home. Elizabeth quickly spotted him and brought him home. 

Even then when given food for the first few weeks, poor Remy gulped his food, not chewing, lest someone take his food away. Remy was also so funny looking that we all chuckled at him. Speaking for myself, I did not know what the attraction was initially. That question disappeared as quickly as it came to me when Remy came to me gingerly when I was sitting down on the sofa. He wanted to sit on my lap. As I let him, he was happily content and did not move until I moved. He even let me caress his paws while on my lap. He promptly melted my heart then and I fell in love with Remy. When Remy leaves California, my heart aches. When Remy arrives back in California, my heart leaps with joy. 

Remy is a seasoned traveler having flown close to 10 times now as Elizabeth and he have gone back and forth between Minnesota and California for the last several years. Remy made a dashing appearance as a proud and special guest during Hannah and Jeremiah’s wedding last summer. Remy now eats in a relaxed mode without having to worry about when the next meal may come. Remy has become famous as he has more followers on his Instagram than I do. 

We all believe that Remy is an angel disguised as a chihuahua, a special gift from God to our family. The truth of the matter is Remy came to me during the most tumultuous time of my life, after stepping down from leadership and having entered my yearlong sabbatical, not knowing where God would call me next. Remy’s cuddly presence, simply wanting to be with me, provided soothing healing for my soul.

Remy has also been my teacher, teaching me to embrace the sacred presence of now. Small children, animals, and nature have something in common. They are all utterly present to the present moment. They accept now as now and do not betray the present moment. The other day, I was watching Remy across the sofa from where I was sitting. Remy was fixated on a tiny gnat, not even a fly, as his eyes followed the swirling movement of the gnat, amused and curious while tilting his head from side to side. That brought me a smile and a lesson. 

Remy exhibits and embodies the ministry of presence. Remy does not talk but his presence brings encouragement and healing to those who are near him. I have been reminded of the importance and graceful power of the ministry of presence as I have attended numerous funeral services in recent months.

This angel comes packaged in oversized ears and a tiny dense body while delivering a big-sized lesson of being present in the present moment by simply being a lap dog. I need this angel around me for a long time as I have much to learn. 

FLUENT

This entry reads more like an update than other entries. As you will see, as I travel around the world, I am eager to continue to write and capture what God is showing me and highlighting to me. I invite you to continue to join in the journey this year. 

I feel it in my bones. I feel it in the air. 

After seasons of death, deconstruction, and a newfound desire, a season of definitive launching is upon us. I cannot and will not define what “launching” looks like this new season. That is beyond my territory and not even important. The river flows with all surprises and adventures. For now, I am merely happy to be in the river. . . 

We have our biggest and longest trip in front of us to start the Year of the Rabbit, my 60th year. Just to bore you with big markers and brief descriptions of each leg: 

Jan 17 thru Jan 31: The Philippines. Center Quest Asia School of Spiritual Direction is launching its inaugural cohort. Grace has a significant role in serving as a mentor as well as an instructor of two modules. CQ Asia starts its opening residency during the last week of January.

Jan 31 thru March 31: Malaysia and SE Asia. We will be in Kuala Lumpur as our base and plan to travel in and out of SE Asia, visiting other families and ministries. There is a family in KL that we have been tracking very closely for many years. They will be our hosts while Grace and I will “work” as digital nomads performing several services including Grace’s role in CQ Asia SSD.

March 31 thru June 29: Korea. I was told by my publisher that my translated book in Korean would be out in April. The title has not been decided but it has much to do with “pilgrim spirituality.“ That would be the main reason for our swing to Korea this time along with other responsibilities: conferences, ministry of hospitality, coaching, speaking, etc. Additionally, I am hoping to be involved with events related to my book release: book concerts, the launching of book clubs, etc. I am eager to meet with people on the ground who would be attracted to my book’s content.

Easily, the most memorable event during the holidays was our family gathering in San Diego. All our adult children including Elizabeth who flew in from Minnesota, Jeremiah (Hannah’s husband), Gloria (Michael’s fiancée), Mina (Brad’s girlfriend), and my favorite nieces, Lauren and Kristian as well as Lauren’s boyfriend, Daniel, were all together for a couple of days. Really too short but so sweet and heartwarming. They surprised me with an early 60th birthday bash. We shared stories, played games, snapped some annual family photos (thanks to Jeremiah), and feasted on Oscar’s seafood tacos, Taco Especial, and Octopus Taco. My daughters and my wife collected heartfelt and deeply moving words of encouragement for my 60th and put together both a 30-minute video and some 14 pages of printed texts. My heart was full, and I could not digest all the kind and grace-filled words heaped on me and I will most definitely need to go back to relisten and reread to fully appreciate what people have so magnanimously shared. Buoyed by the gathering and the words of encouragement, I will continue to be me and will let the river take me where it wills. 

From left to right: Elizabeth (Remy), Kristian, Lauren, Gloria, Michael, Grace, me, Brad, Mina, Hannah, and Jeremiah

LOVE SONG OF A BUTTERFLY

나비의 연가

이해인

가르쳐 주시지 않아도
처음부터 알았습니다
나는 당신을 향해 날으는
한 마리 순한 나비인 것을

가볍게 춤추는 나에게도
슬픔의 노란 가루가
남몰래 묻어 있음을 알았습니다

눈멀 듯 부신 햇살에
차라리 날개를 접고 싶은
황홀한 은총으로 살아온 나날

빛나는 하늘이
훨훨 날으는
나의 것임을 알았습니다

행복은 가난한 마음임을 가르치는
풀잎들의 합창

수없는 들꽃에게 웃음 가르치며
나는 조용히 타버릴
당신의 나비입니다

부디 꿈꾸며 살게 해 주십시오
버려진 꽃들을 잊지 않게 하십시오

들릴 듯 말 듯한 나의 숨결은
당신께 바쳐지는
무언의 기도

당신을 향한
맨 처음의 사랑
不忘의 나비입니다, 나는

Love Song of a Butterfly
(translated by Jesse Lee, my good friend, with minor adaptations from me)

Hae-In Lee

Even if you don't teach me,
I knew it from the beginning
that I'm a gentle butterfly
flying towards you.

Even as I dance lightly,
I found out that yellow powder of sorrow
was on me.

In the blinding sunlight,
the days I have lived with the enchanting grace
of even wanting to fold my wings,

I knew that
the shining sky was mine,
flying freely.

Blades of grass sing in the chorus teach
happiness is poor in heart.

While teaching countless wildflowers to laugh,
I am your butterfly that will quietly burn.

Please let me live with a dream,
and don't let me forget the abandoned flowers.

My barely audible breath
is a silent prayer
dedicated to you

The first love towards you,
an unforgettable butterfly,
I am.

---

Lee Hae-in, a beloved Catholic nun, is a prolific poet and essayist in Korea. As I write before Christmas this year, I can’t help but ponder the meaning of Christmas and why and how Jesus came and walked among us. The first few times I read the poem, I equated myself to the butterfly. Today, in my reflection, I imagined Jesus as the butterfly. And I was once the abandoned wildflower Jesus came to restore laughter and meaning to my existence.

Jesus’ last barely audible breath on the cross was a silent prayer for all creation. While on earth, Jesus embodied the sweet sorrow, lived his life in the blinding sunlight and under the enchanting grace, and learned and taught to fly in freedom. He spoke about the poor in heart would belong in the kingdom of heaven. He taught countless wildflowers to laugh and I am one of them.

I in turn am called to fly in freedom and grace, teach other wildflowers to laugh, and not forget the abandoned and overlooked flowers within my reach. All the while being reminded of the first love and I as the unforgettable and unforgotten one. . .

YOU WAKE THE DEAD TO LIFE

By Rumi (Translated by Haleh Liza Gafori)

You wake the dead to life,
you fountain of grace,
you fire in thickets of tangled thought.

Today you arrived beaming with laughter—
that swinging key that unlocks prison doors.

You are hope’s beating heart.
You are a doorway to the sun.
You are the one I seek and the one who seeks me.
Beginning and end.

You greet need with generous hands.
You flood us with spirit,

rising from the heart,
lifting thought.

Rare one, you reveal the pleasure
of wisdom and practice.

Beyond these, what is there
but excuses and deceit?

We lust after the afterlife.
We stew over trinkets.
We stage battles between black and white.
Our ears are plugged with twisted delusions.

You carry the cure.

Silence!
I’m in a hurry. Leave the paper. Break the pen.
The cupbearer is here, jug in hand.

Meet us in the land of insight,
camped under ecstasy’s flag.”

---

Being an avid listener of Poetry Unbound, with Pádraig Ó Tuama as the unparalleled host, I gifted myself the book, 50 Poems to Open Your World. I have not opened the book as I am planning to digest the book during my travels next year.

A couple of weeks ago, the above poem by Rumi was read and interpreted by Ó Tuama, an Irish poet. Rumi is still considered one of the most beloved poets, more than 700 years after his death. As a mystic, his voice still reverberates widely and his inspiration finds common ground with other mystics around the world. Since his poems are time and culture-bound, they are not easy to comprehend. I have appreciated and resonated with a handful of his poems over the years.

This poem first of all is a poem of friendship, as I learned that “you” in the above poem is Shams, one of Rumi’s closest friends. “You” also can and do mean God or Allah, I am sure, in Rumi’s mind.

Today, I take time to reflect on friendship, friendship with fellow pilgrims, and with God. I will share a couple of reflections. “The key that unlocks prison doors” is the very key of true friendship. True friendship does not control or take captive each other’s soul but allows our souls to be free. Freedom of our souls exists for one grand purpose—love. Love that is not born out of freedom is not true love. Freedom from “whatever holds us captive” clears distractions and obstacles, but freedom to love, which to me is a deeper freedom, bestows existential meaning and value. The very gift of friendship gifts each other the freedom to love.

I love the crescendo of “You flood us with spirit, rising from the heart, lifting thought.” Our spirit gets flooded, and our hearts rise as a result, impacting how we think, how we see, and how we behave. Our thought (chatterbox, really) or ego does not run our life anymore. It’s the act of generosity from the friendship that corrects and restores how we live our lives, from spirit to heart to thought, not the other way around. Thank you, friends! Thank you, God!

MY COURAGEOUS LIFE

MY COURAGEOUS LIFE
has gone ahead
and is looking back,
calling me on.

My courageous life
has seen everything
I have been
and everything
I have not
and has
forgiven me,
day after day.

My courageous life
still wants
my company:
wants me to
understand
my life as witness
and thus
bequeath me
the way ahead.

My courageous life
has the patience
to keep teaching me,
how to invent
my own
disappearance,
and how
once gone,
to reappear again.

My courageous life
wants to stop
being ahead of me
so that it can lie
down and rest
deep inside the body
it has been
calling on.

My courageous life
wants to be
my foundation,
showing me
day after day
even against my will

how to undo myself,
how to surpass myself,
how to laugh as I go
in the face
of danger,
how to invite
the right kind
of perilous
love,

how to find
a way
to die
of generosity.

…

My Courageous Life
A new adaption of ‘Second Life’
in Pilgrim
Poems by David Whyte

---

I find Whyte’s poem compelling enough in my life now to want to wander through each stanza and linger long.

Last night, I zoomed with 5 of my closest friends from my early Christian years back in college. Seven of us (we were missing one last night) were clamorous, unrefined (though some may argue that they were more refined than the others), and attracted to any kind of fun and mischief like moths drawn to a flame. There was even a nickname designated to us aptly called “animals.” I could write for days to tell all the stories. . . We felt like the world was our playground and everyone else was our supporting cast. But above all, our lives were transformed by Jesus, and we all loved Jesus. Over the years, not that full-time service deserves special praise or recognition, 6 of us have served God either as pastors or missionaries while others supported and encouraged others. Two brothers up in Pacific Northwest are serving as pastors though one is in transition. One is in Australia serving as a pastor. The father of one brother just passed away a couple of weeks ago; his father had just celebrated his 100th birthday a few months ago. And most of us have already turned 60 with me and one other to turn 60 in a few months.

Our current life’s context dictated much of our sharing and reflections last night. We have a fuller and wider view of our lives, and all possess the kind of quality to detach ourselves from our first half of life’s accomplishments as well as to own hard lessons learned.

This is the context in which I come to this poem this morning. The second to the last stanza grabbed me today. My true self (or what Whyte calls “my courageous life”—that’s how I am interpreting the poem today) looks to undo or at least suppress my ego while thanking my ego for my survival during much of the first half of my life. My true self desires to go beyond the glass ceiling of my ego’s misguided protection and security. I want to at least smile if not laugh out loud in the face of danger and risk. As I shared last week, I know what awaits me is both “harsh and exciting.” I want to count all the blessings and enjoy the grand table spread before my “enemies” while laughing in the face of peril.

We are all at a point where we have to risk everything and do what makes our heart bloom and blossom. With honesty, a wider and longer view of life, and our ego in check (mostly), we realize that we must pursue our individual heart’s calling. Without anyone saying it out loud, we all knew viscerally that was the invitation. It seems to me this morning that was our way of “inviting the right kind of perilous love.” Not pursuing perilous love is even riskier at our age. Just perhaps that is a “way to die of generosity” when the time comes.

WILD GEESE

As it has become an annual tradition, I would like to share a few of my favorite poems with you during the month of December. Every week, I will share a poem with my brief reflection below. I invite you to do the same from where and how you are today.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

---

Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese is a classic. For me, today, the word “meanwhile” is being highlighted. Meanwhile captures something serendipitous, seemingly irrelevant, and something that can easily be ignored. When meanwhile becomes permanent enough to capture our imagination, we are at the doorway of God’s message. Meanwhile also allows us to take a deep breath and pause to notice what’s around or above us and lift up our eyes from our “repentance” and “despair.” Toward the end of the poem, Oliver lingers on the last “meanwhile” image of wild geese and imbues the very calling of our lives.

Like Oliver, I find that the pursuit of our calling can be both harsh and exciting. What it does do is “announce our place in the family of things” over and over again. I love the expansive nature and intimate familial language of our calling “in the family of things,” reminding us of the interconnectivity and interdependence in all things as God the author and perfector in all and of all. Anticipating and celebrating Advent this season at one level is about joining the wide and perennial family and tradition, reminding us of our place in the family and the history of things.

Lastly, Thomas Merton’s reflection is apt here.

"A tree gives glory to God by being a tree. For in being what God means it to be it is obeying [God]. It “consents,” so to speak, to [God's] creative love. It is expressing an idea which is in God and which is not distinct from the essence of God, and therefore a tree imitates God by being a tree."

I would like to surmise that our invitation is twofold: one is to be a “tree” or a “wild goose,” giving glory to God and consenting to God’s creative love. At the same time, we are not the end as we are called to merely hold our place in the cosmic family of things. I wonder if that is why it is harsh and exciting or exciting and harsh.

WHY I WRITE

While there were certainly other entries that were personal, this week’s entry is just as personal, and I feel vulnerable. I debated whether to share this entry. In the end, it is my way of being accountable to myself and to you as readers and active sojourners in my life. 

Just as a heads up, Grace and I will be embarking on our longest trip overseas starting next January 20 through June 30 out in Asia. I will share more in detail at the beginning of the year (January 3 post) what the trip is about. In the meantime, as this week’s entry suggests, I look forward to immersing myself in writing in new environments and as life evolves. 

For a while now, I have been asking myself why I write or more precisely why I want to write. I allowed the question to percolate and observed in me what rose to the top. Today, I decided to capture some of my reasons. . . 

I write to better audience myself, what is going on internally in relation to the external worlds I happen to be navigating. I know I see, feel, think, ask, and imagine. I want to explore my interior depth by giving words and expressing myself through writing. It is a medium that I had not taken advantage of until lately. Much of the time I know I am the one writing, but there are a few moments when the act of writing takes over my act of writing. It feels like a divine-friendly takeover, working through my mind and imagination. It feels mysteriously addictive. 

I write sometimes out of anger and dissatisfaction. I see things most of the time not as they are but as they should be according to the grand narrative of God’s kingdom articulated and lived out by Jesus. I see the chasm between what should be and what is, thus being a source of my great dis-ease. Certainly not to say that what I see or want to see is in line with the living vision of God’s kingdom, but it has become crucial that I try. I see and think in “systems” in big broad strokes. The big picture is important because it tells me where I am and where I need to go.

I write to remember. It is laborious work for me to write details, to “caress the divine details” according to Vladimir Nabokov. It has been an invitation for me to explore deeper and finer details and colors this season. It is a learned lesson for me to meet God in fine and divine details, that is my life, my life always in context. God is not only big and magnificent but also intimate and generous. God is not only a generous Father but also a caring Mother. Unless I learn to capture the details, I know the details will elude me over time and thus be forgotten. I want to cherish how God came to me and count on every detail of God’s intimate motherly caring. 

I write to communicate. I know I possess a perspective and a voice of freedom and God’s generous love. I want to be a voice of God’s radical inclusivity and expansive love; everything else pales in comparison. I love the “soft opening but radical launch” of Jesus’ ministry in Galilee that is captured in Luke 4: 16-30, upsetting the religious status quo. It seems that love that is not perfectly free is not love at all. I write to invite others to lift up their eyes and see the blue sky beyond the clouds and even the intermediate darkened sky. 

I write to let the world know I exist and my voice matter. My life is now well entrenched in the second half of the life stage. I know what I want to do. More precisely, I know what I do not want to do in life. I am less attached and far less attracted to institutions and systems. Hopefully as a result I am less entitled. While my ego is still very much alive, I am at least aware of how my ego functions most of the time thus hopefully being able to limit the ego’s selfish reach. 

I write to know God as a knowable God, which can only be subjectively experienced. God comes to me disguised as life, as Paula D’Arcy says. I also know I see and know God dimly—there is a God I cannot ever know. God is unknowable and thus remains a great elusive mystery. I want to explore the depth of this profound mystery and wonder through the human finite act of writing, hoping to catch a glimpse and insight into an unknowable God who can be knowable. 

Finally, I write because I want to write. This is new for me. What I had experienced while staying at Yangpyeong both in the spring and the fall revealed something in me that I had not known before. The writing was not only fun and something that I looked forward to almost every day as part of my pleasure and discipline, but it also changed how I began to “see” things. When we strip religious clothing down from the kind of “unadorned” spirituality Jesus talked about, I believe spirituality is essentially about seeing and hearing—the kind of seeing and hearing that is not based on ego building and defending but seeing and hearing based on what is and what should be according to the standard of the kingdom Jesus taught. In short, writing has become a sacred act of grounding myself in this world but also offering a gift to the world as I continue to explore what I consider to be the early stage of my vocational calling. 

OVERLAPPING CHAPTERS

Yesterday (November 15th) marked an end of a chapter. I knew it was coming. Our neighbors to the east of us, with whom we have been neighbors for over 20 years, moved out. About a month ago while we were still in Korea, our neighbors to the west of us, who were there when we moved in 1998, moved out. Both are settling down in the lower San Gabriel Valley area. Both neighbors have been and still are part of the organization/community we’ve been part of for decades. While we weren’t extremely chummy chummy neighbors, we could count on them being good dependable neighbors. Hopefully, we’ve been good enough neighbors to them as well. Given all this, today feels eerily bare and strange. I know viscerally that this signifies a beginning of a new chapter in our life.

As of July of this year, our decades-long (since 1982 for me and 1975 for my wife) association and relationship with our home church came to an end amicably and without much fanfare, not that I wanted to let the world know. I would credit the decision as one of the fruits of pandemic-induced changes. While we remain extremely grateful from the nurturing when we were spiritual babies to the eventual “send off” as missionaries from our home church, this also marked a significant end to our long chapter. 

At the end of last year (2021), I cleared out of my office, since our organization was downsizing its office footprint and communicated to us that only the “essential” office-related staff will be given office space in another part of Pasadena. While I loved the idea of decentralization and not needing to show up in the office setting, I was faced with the giant task of getting rid of books, files, conference materials, and other knick-knacks I had accumulated since 1988. Just the other day, I opened the closet door in my bedroom and stared at my “office” clothes that I wore during my office days and no longer need or want. I told my wife that I should probably chuck these clothes. That was a vivid reminder of what my normal days used to look like. I ended up donating most of my missions-related books as well as a few precious archival-type books to an institution in Africa. My office furniture, including a desk I had once salvaged from a dumpster, sanded down and refinished and thus rightfully had grown fond of, and other files and conference materials either got thrown out or got shredded. I know I can get sentimental, imbuing more meaning than necessary to things, but I was cold and brutal in throwing stuff out this time. My wife and my adult children were proud of me. All in all, the act of clearing out of the office space triggered a series of events that was an ending of a long significant chapter in my life. 

Going further back to my sabbatical in 2020, which coincided with the beginning of the COVID pandemic, I spent the bulk of my time reflecting and reevaluating the first 30 years of my life and ministry. Looking back, what started as a divine and timely gift of rest and renewal during my sabbatical and other series of events continue to signal a decisive ending to my old way of seeing and doing. 

And a new horizon is decidedly upon us. I have been sensing and discerning a new horizon for the last 2 years, which is becoming clearer and gets my blood pumping and my juices flowing. My wife and I are far more fixated on the future than on the past. The past “eternity stranded in time” is giving way to a future forging of our lives. I am grateful again that I was able to spend a wintery season of death and deconstruction which segued into a spring of desire during my sabbatical. The once dominant trajectory of my life is winding down while a new strand of trajectory is birthed and launched. Without the last big chapter of my life, there is no new chapter and there is no me. Exercising self-compassion in this regard is required of me as I realize it leads to others-compassion. All the more being grateful for the pause and grace of being in the liminal space of overlap of two lines on a graph where the old paradigm is waning and a new paradigm of doing life is waxing. . . 

ARE YOU A PHONATIC?

Sometimes, I feel like a tourist in my own town. It is true that I can probably sleepwalk through most of the vast San Gabriel Valley neighborhood without the aid of Google map navigation, having lived here for more than 30 years. But when I approach my neighborhood with a little more wonder and curiosity, then new-old scenes unfold and reveal a kind of charm I have not noticed before. Yesterday was unseasonably wet and cooler than the previous days where shorts and short sleeves ruled the daytime. What do you do when it is wet and cold in Southern California? You either go for Phở or Ramen. Either could have easily satiated my longing for hot slurpy and hearty noodle soup. When it is wet and cold outside, you slurp hot and wet noodles inside of you.

When we decided to go for Phở with our daughter, Hannah, and her husband, Jeremiah, they approved without hesitation. So, we had a double date. The go-to Phở joint in our neighborhood is Golden Deli which is jam-packed most of the time. We knew we were not the only ones thinking Phở so we got there earlier. At least, we thought we did. But alas, the line looked unbearably long, and our stomachs could not wait. We quickly pivoted to Phở Super Bowl, which is literally about 100 meters away across the street from Golden Deli. While the name sounds “superior” to Phở  78, Phở  88, or Phở  2000, it is decidedly mediocre compared to other clever names: Good Pho You, Phonomenal, What the Pho, Absolutely Phobulous, etc. At the end of the day, you do not and would not go for Phở based on the name of the restaurant. Nor the ambiance. Not even the health grade of the restaurant unless it is C. It is all about what is in the bowl. I am sure many phonatics would agree with me. . .

Even at the Super Bowl, we beat the crowd by a few minutes and saw people lining up outside minutes after we sat down. We promptly ordered and loudly slurped (more me than others) our way through the bottom of the bowl with no shame. My favorite Phở is the one with tripe and tendon. Both have different complementary textures and are chewy while tendon when it is cooked perfectly is chewy gelatinous and not mushy gelatinous. With Sriracha and Hoisin sauces, the combination is hard to beat. They do that extremely well in Golden Deli, but I was surprised by how competitive Super Bowl’s bowl was. As soon as we walked in and got seated, the first thing we noticed was the choice of music; someone’s playlist of Disney songs. Oddly funny for a Phở restaurant but when Phở finally showed up in my face, I forgot all about the music. When I gained further consciousness after slurping enough soup and looked around, the restaurant was filled with people from different cultures and races. I felt right at home as a “tourist” having just come back from Korea in Southern California.

Being a tourist in my own hometown is not so bad. What I used to consider normal and ordinary are not normal and ordinary anymore. What is normal and ordinary comes alive in ways I have not seen before. While being a tourist is categorically different from aliens and strangers that Apostle Paul talks about, it forces a similar outlook and perspective in seeing things differently. One minor difference may be that a tourist would possess more capacity for wonder and curiosity. I have lived through all three categories in my life and could identify with all three positions. Not to force fit any, the word pilgrim would possibly encompass all three categories of people and their characteristics. Rather than hold on and defend a sense of various entitlements through life, I would like to think that it is healthy and necessary to navigate and live life as all three aspects of the pilgrim. 

THE GOSPEL OF THE CROSS AND THE GOSPEL OF THE KINGDOM

November 5 Entry

The last ten days were a whirlwind with a flurry of activities back to back to back. To a point where I did not have time to sit down, reflect, and journal. I am now back in Pasadena home. A day after we came back to the US, we hosted a group of Michael’s friends who were eager to celebrate with Michael for finishing his Masters in Occupational Therapy program. His loving girlfriend, Gloria, whom he will marry next year, was also present by him all day. As proud parents, we happily did the work of providing hospitality to our son’s friends whom we have known since their high school days. 

Right before the uneventful flight across the Pacific, my last gig in Korea was to present a paper to Korean missions leaders on Why “Imago Dei” and “Hospitality” Matter in Global Missions Today. Going in, I had my fair share of doubts regarding what the response would be like. A pleasant surprise filled my day instead. After my presentation in the morning, many approached me and shared with me how relevant the message was and how they now see that missions can change foundationally as a result.

There were some earnest questions that came my way as well. One of the repeated questions had to do with when will we “preach the Gospel of Christ’s death.” Yes, the Gospel of Christ’s death on the cross. My short public response during the large group’s Q and A was that it was not a matter of whether we preach “the gospel of Christ’s death” or not but it was how we preach the gospel. I had a significantly longer conversation with a younger leader who came to me with genuine questions. It was not that he disagreed with my presentation, but he was stuck in the paradigm of the gospel being limited to the atonement of Christ’s death on the cross. My foremost point was that the Gospel is Jesus Christ himself including his death on the cross and resurrection. 1 Corinthians 2:2 reads, “I deliberately kept it plain and simple: first Jesus and who he is; then Jesus and what he did—Jesus crucified” (The Message). According to Paul, it was Jesus himself and what he did on the cross. 

My next point was that we must read the Scriptures with Jesus’ lens interpreting the rest of the Scripture and that we cannot read the Scriptures with Apostle Paul’s lens. There is a sense of obsession and almost infatuation with Paul and for what Paul has written, especially for modern evangelicals. We cannot read Jesus from Paul’s lens as enticing as that may sound. We should be doing it the other way around. If we agree that Jesus Christ himself is the gospel, then how we live as his followers becomes clearer. We must follow the teachings, life, and actions of Jesus as the way, the truth, and the life. If we restrict the gospel as “Jesus died on the cross for our sins” and that what we must do is to acknowledge and confess with our mouths, then how we live on this earth is not as clear. Deciphering how we live as his disciples then is mainly about preaching the gospel of Christ’s death and not much more. Discipleship then is restricted to preaching and believing the right doctrine of Christ’s atonement on the cross. There is no compelling connection between what we believe and how we ought to live. This is the fallacy of modern evangelicals according to Dallas Willard in his magnum opus, The Divine Conspiracy: Rediscovering our Hidden Life in God.

Furthermore, in conjunction with my paper, my assertion is this, borrowing words from N. Tom Wright, in his book, The Day the Revolution Began, “His (Jesus) death, the climax of his work of inaugurating God’s kingdom on earth as in heaven was the victory over the destructive powers let loose into the world not simply through human wrongdoing, the breaking of moral codes, but through the human failure to be image-bearers, to worship the Creator and reflect his wise stewardship into the world” (italicized mine). Thus, our heavenly vocation on this earth is to reflect, embody, and live out the divine part of God’s “image bearer” as humans. And we do this by following the very footstep of the incarnation of Jesus Christ to a point of self-emptying love for the world. 

The afternoon session was all about ministering to factory and migrant workers in Korea who are mostly from neighboring Asian countries. The half a dozen or so presenters were all practitioners who are actively working with the workers, and many emphasized the concepts of imago dei and hospitality in their field of work. I was humbled and affirmed by those active practitioners who are trying to embrace all peoples as God’s image bearers and practice self-emptying and freedom-giving hospitality.

Overall, I was encouraged by the willingness to slow down enough to question and evaluate some of the long-held assumptions of doing church and missions through the “pause” that COVID gifted to the Korean Church. This opportunity gave me a new seeing that provided a ray of hope and possibilities for what I can be doing in Korea in the future including providing safe and free space to younger people. Before the gathering, my main question was to discern whether I would still have a voice in the Korean missions world or whether I am far off the center, out on the edges. I realize from a small but not insignificant sample that I still have a voice left and that I need to continue to harness my marginal voice alive, which to me is a part of my heavenly vocation as God’s image bearer.

YANGPYEONG FALL JOURNAL | FINAL

October 25 Entry

I have been café hopping with great enthusiasm and curiosity. Also with a purpose, a purpose to read, reflect, and write most days. Thankfully, Yangpyeong area is known for enthusiastic café hoppers. On the weekends, cafés are filled with city folks from Seoul wanting to get away and take in the fresh air, the beauty, and now autumn colors. 

Once upon a time, getting a good cup of coffee was a challenge in Korea. So I somewhat begrudgingly visited Starbucks in Korea where Americanos were at least consistent to the taste I was familiar with. Now, I could pop into a random café and expect a good cup. Here at Yangpyeong, I have tried to avoid franchise run cafés and have favored frequenting small neighborhood cafés. 

As an extrovert, I like to be surrounded by people. Apart from a few impulsive conversation starters I initiate with strangers (Koreans are generally more startled by a stranger initiating small talks with them), I usually remain quiet and keep my mouth shut. I soak in and channel the energy and stimulation around me like some weird superhero. I realize my energy shifts over time based on the environment and people around me. This morning, I am sitting by two people who are talking loudly not only to one another but also over their phones and are hopelessly oblivious. I am thinking whether I should find seating outside (where it is still in the 40s) and avoid the noise. I decided to stay for warmth and wear my Airpods Pro (thank God) but I am still perturbed. At the same time, one of my Spotify playlist songs unexpectedly moves me to tears and it is promptly on a repeated loop to figure out why.

Not all café scenes and external sensory stimulation are the same. I have learned that I prefer cushioned seats for my aging butt, the table at the right height to read and type, the lights bright and preferably natural sunlight, and open indoor or outdoor seating either facing the people and/or the scenery. As such, the two cafés that have become “right” for me and thus have become my office are Café Nine Block in the mornings and Café Osirok in the afternoons. In both cafés, the baristas know me now and prepare hot Americano with room in a mug. Café Nine Block is ideal in the mornings especially when the sun is out because of its floor to ceiling foldable windows that open up to the mountains, stream, and trees. It triggers me to say one more “Good morning” after my walk. Café Osirok sits right by a narrow U-shaped country road which forces cars to slow down, deeper into the mountain and away from the town center. Across the road is a vibrant and clear stream, while the café is perfectly positioned to monopolize the sunlight. The café features lots of seasonal flowers and eclectic furniture, including a couple of swing chairs outside, and decorations that somehow all blend in with our eyes satiated. It even has an inviting outdoor fireplace, further wooing the passing cars and a few hammocks on the rooftop for those who have time to take a nap. 

One other reason for café hopping is that if I stay home, I constantly see things that call my name even though I am not home home (in Pasadena). I know external changes are good for my soul as changes stimulate untapped interior thoughts and reflections. External sensory stimulation leads to interior concentration for me. Café atmosphere keeps the busy and happy sensory part of me engaged while concentration gets quieter and deepens. It’s an odd contradiction. I once read that Mozart had his wife read stories out loud to him while he composed.

In this vein, I get the café scene in Paris. When I get a chance to revisit Taizé community in France, I would love to sit in one of those ubiquitous street facing cafés in Paris while sipping espresso, engage in serious people watching, and read and write for hours. France is fresh in my mind since my wife and I watched At Eternity’s Gate last night while we were at a coin laundry, drying our clothes. At Eternity’s Gate is an ethereal and a visionary movie about Vincent Van Gogh’s final years, starring Willem Dafoe as believable Van Gogh. I was reminded of Thomas Merton’s words, “Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.” Van Gogh remains a supreme example of a person who has found and lost himself in the art at the same time. As the movie portrays, Van Gogh found God in him because he realized God gave him the talent and vision for him to gift the world through his painting. In the movie, Dr. Paul Gachet surmises, “Maybe what you (Van Gogh) are saying is that your gift to the world is painting.” To which Van Gogh replied, “If not, what good is an artist?” Van Gogh knew that his “art was not an end in itself.” His art awakened him “into a higher spiritual order,” the Giver of gifts. Van Gogh found and lost himself in the “mission” of God in himself. 

But I refuse to diss the Yangpyeong scene for the Paris scene. At least not yet. . . Yangpyeong’s café scene has done more than enough to stimulate and to concentrate, hopefully on my way to both find and lose myself. 

YANGPYEONG FALL JOURNAL | WEEK 5

October 21 Entry

I cannot remember the last time I hiked to a mountaintop in the middle of the fall season where I could view fall foliage. In fact, after squinting my brows trying to remember, I don’t think I ever did. Yesterday was that hike, an epic one. I am sure we could have picked the most optimal time to view the fall foliage, but it was close enough to my undiscerning eyes. I was told in another week the mountains will sing nature’s spectacular chorus of the glorious tints of autumn foliage. 

I was invited by a seasoned hiker (who is also a retired missions leader) who seems to know most of the mountains in South Korea by name and with intimate familiarity. He rattled off the names of mountains, villages, and specific trails he has conquered which sounded all gibberish to me because I was unfamiliar with most of the names. He invited another friend of his, who also is well-versed in hiking and outdoor activities. After having served in Central Asia for multiple years, he is currently serving as a trainer for aspiring missionaries in Korea. 

They came out all decked out from top to bottom in ways that were evident that they were serious mountain lovers. Though I wasn’t wearing a pair of basketball or walking shoes which would have been woefully inadequate, I, on the other hand, lacked “professional” gear. I needed one of those non-slippery mountain hiking boots. Admirably though, my trail running shoes held and held well. I needed a day pack that snugs my shoulders and back like a second skin. But my city traveler’s bag also held without tripping me up. My best equipment? My pair of REI wool hiking socks! They have proven their worth time and time again by not giving my feet ill-timed blisters. Yay, REI! A few days ago, when I told someone that I was going to join a group to the Baekundae Peak at Bukhan Mountain, the first thing he told me was that people die falling from the rocks near the top. I chuckled and pretty much ignored his well-intentioned warning while instinctively turning my head to see if my wife was also listening. My wife, sitting right next to me, looked at me like “Are you sure about this hike?” Though she didn’t say a word, she might as well have said it because I deciphered it out of her mind. I must be a mind reader!

All in all, according to my faithful Apple Watch, we did close to 12 miles with about 24,000 steps and close to 300 floors, up and down. I was thankful that my legs did not betray me and were still intact after a demanding but rewarding hike. I was told by multiple sources including the host that this was one of the most beloved trails in Korea for its unique embodiment of beauty and wonder. We could not have picked a better day in terms of temperature in the low 60s high and low 40s low with a gorgeous sunny fall sky, ever reminding me to live as free as the sky. After meeting at a subway station, we took a bus, packed like sardines in a can with other hikers, to a nearby trailhead which we promptly missed because we were busy catching up and getting to know each other. We improvised and decided to reverse our course, ascend what we were going to descend, and descend what we were going to ascend. As a strong P on MBTI, the change did not bother me at all. Instead, it was a brilliant decision in retrospect because we went in the opposite direction from most people’s route. Even then for a weekday hike, the trails traveled well. I suppose people knew and wanted to seize the day. 

Our otherwise very meaningful conversations faded into the background and got drowned in the sight of the magnificent blaze of the autumn mountains. Half of our conversations revolved around accepting and acknowledging what the Creator of nature was gifting us that day. Words fell woefully short though we tried followed by unrehearsed bursts of exclamations, and it seemed clear that silence was the most fitting way to absorb and thank the Creator. What we can give back to the Creator is to simply accept the wideness and wildness of nature’s beauty which obeys the Creator in love. 

After circling back to our original meeting place, our seasoned guide took us to a local fried chicken and beer joint in the neighborhood. As soon as we sat down, we each ordered 1,000 cc chilled draft beer, clinked our beer mugs, and let it soak our thirsted and tired bodies with ridiculous satisfaction. I felt like I belonged in some sort of Renaissance Fair. Apart from the can of beer I gulped down on the United flight over to Korea last year after working out on the plane like a wild man (the plane was practically empty lest you think I was a lunatic), this beer ranked on the same level. I think I am beginning to appreciate beer since I can associate it with certain accumulating beer episodes. 

To top off the day in the right way, we decided to do a sauna, walked over to the next building, and thanked our bodies for taking care of us that day. After I came home, I made sure I popped an Advil before I went to bed, since I knew my legs would cramp without the aid of Advil.

YANGPYEONG FALL JOURNAL | WEEK 4

October 17 Entry

In the grand tradition of play, I have become an “evangelist” of play during this trip. Enneagram type 7 in me has been on full unhindered display. Additionally, in this season, my wife considers play as one of her spiritual disciplines, maybe for the first time in her life. Buoyed by her latest pursuit, I have seized the opportunities to play, every chance I can get. In recent years, I have considered play as an integral part of rest and the Sabbath. Play and pray are essential components of a true sabbath. Eugene Peterson writes in his fine book, Working the Angles: The shape of pastoral integrity:

Puritan sabbaths that eliminated play were a disaster. Secular Sabbaths that eliminate prayer are worse. Sabbath-keeping involves both playing and praying. The activities are alike enough to share the same day and different enough to require each other for a complementary wholeness.

On the Sabbath, John Calvin led his congregation in prayers in the morning and played skittles in the afternoon with people in Geneva. For decades, playing weekly “sabbath” basketball has been deeply therapeutic and profitable for maintaining my soul’s wholeness. I even get to play basketball with my son and my son-in-law on a weekly basis when I am in Pasadena. For an almost 60-year-old man, life does not get any better than this. The pursuit and discipline of “complementary wholeness” Peterson writes has become a lost art. We, especially those who are spiritual, have denigrated play as what children do during their innocent years. Since when did we get the idea that adults have to be serious? Somehow seriousness has been wrongfully translated into dedication, devotion, and deep spirituality. 

This time, we brought several card games from the US with a serious intention to play. Clearly, we were going to find time and ways to play. As such, we have had numerous opportunities to play. Over the weekend, we were with a group of friends we have been doing community with. We reserved a church facility in Suwon and spent two nights together. Other than walking along the picturesque reservoir where the trees were beginning to turn colors, we were at a church facility playing and praying. I played badminton for the first time in decades. I grew up playing countless hours of badminton in front of the house where I grew up. Badminton is easy to play (unless there is strong wind) because the equipment is not expensive, and one does not need big real estate. After waving comically at nothing but air with my racket for the first few swings triggering laughter from the “audience,” my body reached deep into my childhood memory bank and figured out how to play. When I first saw the playground, what I noticed was the basketball hoop (no net though, which is a serious downside), but I wanted to keep my cool. One problem. It’s dirt with uneven ground. And I was wearing my usual flip-flops. After badminton, others began flocking around the basketball hoop. Sure enough, someone suggested playing some random Korean basketball games (such as the US’s version of Around the World, Knock Out, etc). Then we migrated to playing 3 on 3 on a dirt basketball court with flip-flops on. The problem was overcome because I simply ignored the problem. And we had a blast waking up the inner child in each of us. 

After eating delivered dishes of Jajang myeon (Korean Chinese black bean noodle dish), Gul Jjambong (Oyster and vegetable noodle soup), Japche Bap (Marinated glass noodles with assorted vegetables over rice), Tang Suyuk (Korean sweet and sour pork with sauce on the side), and some fried Mandus, the evening was set for more play. We broke out the games we brought: The Mind, Five Crowns, and Dutch Blitz. We started a few rounds of speedy Dutch Blitz with separate men and women groups since only a maximum of 4 people can play. My wife, who confessed before the game how terrible she is at playing games, won the entire round, showcasing her own steady style. Others rightfully were amazed at how poised and controlled she was. The sports adage that games tend to slow down for pros was on display. She was like a bashful resurrected Neo (in the Matrix movie) fighting against the agents with one hand, hardly breaking a sweat. Then we switched over to The Mind with all the children present and played until the children needed to call it a night. We were of one mind, playing like little children. I marveled at how great and wholesome it was that children got to play with their parents and parents’ friends. Then Five Crowns made its way with couples playing as one team. When we checked our time, it was 2 am in the morning! 

Many commented through our playtime both in the afternoon and evening that some of the wearier and worn-out members got visibly renewed by playing. With our eyes sparkling and countenance brightened, laughter and childlike silliness filled our day, causing an upward spiral movement of unbridled laughter and joy. It was a fine sabbath day for all!

YANGPYEONG FALL JOURNAL | WEEK 3

October 9 Entry

One of our daily mainstay questions has been surrounding food: What are we going to eat today? What are we going to serve today? They are happy and life-giving questions. Our wonderful host is extremely gifted in sharing. She has successfully raised our expectations of receiving, mostly food, on a daily basis. So far, she has shared peaches, bananas, two small bottles of homemade kimchi, and homemade green plum syrup made by her mom, which is about 10 years old (thus more flavorful and aromatic), just to name a few. She has also given us peppers, potatoes, pumpkin, chestnuts, and sword beans from her well-kept garden. 

Other than the Kwak Ji Won Bakery which requires a 15-minute scenic drive from our place, we found a competent bakery close to our place. When we are preparing for guests and pressed for time, the one close to our place became our go-to bakery. It is run by two sisters who look very much alike. We tried their baguette for the first time during this stay as we enjoyed their ciabatta bread in the past. To our surprise, it was one of the best we have eaten, anywhere. It was perfectly light with enough crustiness on the outside to cut and even shred the palate if not careful, and airy and a bit of chewiness inside. One problem. They open at 9 am. I promptly swung by and told them our dilemma. They offered a delightful solution since they arrive early to bake, they could bake the baguette by a certain time, and we can pick them up before they are officially open. While thanking them for their kind thoughtfulness, I asked them if 8 am would work. They replied with a pleasant yes which made us feel like, “Ok, we are part of this community.” We paid right there and then and came the next morning and picked up a freshly baked baguette. The following morning, we doubled the order and picked them up at 8 am again. 

My cousin, who I consider to be the older sister I never had, visited me today. I had made plans to go to Hanjeongsik (Korean table d’hote but more elaborate than what the French may be used to) for lunch nearby. Thus, I ate pumpkin porridge for breakfast from our host’s garden skillfully crafted by my wife. That was a strategic move on my part because I knew what awaited me for lunch! The restaurant sits on farmland, invisible from the main road. Though there is a restaurant sign on the road, it is mainly for those who already know and want to come to the restaurant, since the signage does not match the exceptional quality of the food. I had accidentally found out about the place and knew exactly what to expect. My cousin ordered the top-tier course meal of Hanjeongsik, appropriately called “empress” Jeongsik, apparently because a former Korean empress was born in the same neighborhood in the late 19th century. 

The fabulous spread induced multiple wows as countless dishes, too many to count, covered every single space of our large table. We were told that most of their vegetables are grown right on their farmland. I helped to clear most of the dishes valiantly except for a couple of beef dishes, as I could not rely on my wife and my cousin much, all the while wondering about the dishwashing load for an unfortunate soul that day. For dinner, I had pumpkin porridge and a piece of bread, since my stomach was happily still full from lunch. Today’s meals were accentuated by the impressive “empress” course meal bookended by “pauper” pumpkin porridges. 

Eating is a sacred act. Maybe except for the water we drink (which travels from “heaven” to deep “earth” to us), every single food we put in our mouths is a result of something dying. The beef and pork we ate for lunch nourished, sustained, and “gave” us life because they gave up their lives. The vegetables and fruits we pluck, uproot, pick, and gather (because they fell to the ground) are all because they “gave up” their lives. The coffee I enjoy daily is from the beans someone picked from a tree halfway around the world. It is a sacred and paradoxical act because we are eating something that gave its life so we can live. 

Sharing food as in table fellowship is thus also a sacred act. We get to communally experience what it means for us to live because of something else’s death. It is a communal act of remembrance and a celebration of our lives. 

We are not exempt from the poetic cycle of death and life either. I will meet and face death as all will. The same nature’s law will apply: our deaths will sustain the life of something else or lives or give a new life to someone(s) or something(s). 

Jesus’ words “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me” refers to the bread we break and share. Bread comes to us in the same paradoxical manner: some things had to die in order for us to live. Perhaps, Jesus’ words are not meant to only apply to the holy sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, rather it is a daily reminder that when we eat “bread,” (or anything else we eat) that “gave up” its life, we are to remember Jesus’ death. Jesus’ death, signifying and representing all deaths, gives us new life, the life of eternity.

This season of autumn bears the same paradoxical cycle of truth: decaying and impending dying in contrast to becoming seeds to bearing life in spring. What is remarkable is that nature showcases its decaying season’s last wonder through its own “fireworks” of multi-colored foliage before finally dying (which really is not dying). Additionally, nature seems to give and empty itself out until the very end culminating in what we call harvest. Nature seemingly gives and gives until the very end. 

We live benefitting from the “death” of creation. In promoting perpetuity, we will all die so someone or something else can live. Today, I remember and give my utmost tribute to a friend of mine who just passed due to an untimely illness less than two weeks ago. It is a worthy reminder for me to believe that his death is not the end, but the beginning of something or someone that I simply cannot wrap my mind around. The plain truth that all will die is not a morbid thought, but a reflection of hope and nature’s continuity, which is holding paradoxes in perfect mysterious union and ultimately conducted in love by the Master of the universe. 

YANGPYEONG FALL JOURNAL | WEEK 2

September 28 Entry

After my morning walk, I received a text message that someone who is dear to me maybe fighting some sort of debilitating disease. I can’t share it in words, since this is not my story to tell. Shaken and shocked, I felt dismayed. Over zoom, we held the person in our prayers with one other person. 

We had circled today to visit Yangpyeong traditional open market that opens every 5th day, the dates that end with numbers 3 and 8. Since we had time during the day, we thought it would be prudent to go and fetch some assorted Kimchi and whatever looks good in our line of sight (which is dangerous) as we anticipate hosting some people over the weekend. The problem is my eyes are moving 100 miles an hour, scanning like Jason Bourne (I can be like Jason Bourne when it comes to food), and command my servant mind to buy most of everything my bossy eyes see. Since this was our second time visiting (we visited once during spring), other than the seasonal fruits and vegetables, most other vendors, stalls, and shops looked recognizable, so I maneuvered around as if I had the kind of familiarity that locals have. We walked the entire market, which was not small by any stretch of the imagination, and took mental notes as to what we would buy in the order which would allow us to carry the least in our hands before heading back to our light car.

Unlike last time, we came prepared, with a colorful Trader Joe’s bag that fits well with many of the elderly grandmas’ color-clashing pants. First, we bought some mandus (steamed dumplings) for ourselves and for our host. Last time, we had to wait in line for 20 minutes. Only 5 minutes today, so I was not going to miss the short line. Our main task was to buy a couple of Kimchis. But on the way, I predictably got sidetracked and bought some assorted Jeons (pan-fried meat, fish, and vegetable coated in flour and eggs). I remembered from our spring visit the older lady (할머니) who sold Pa-Kimchi (small green onion Kimchi) that we and our guests enjoyed a great deal. I was disappointed the lady was not there today, but we found another older lady selling Kimchi. As we were standing in line, the man in front of us, without our asking, turned toward us and freely offered us a comment that this lady’s Kimchi is the best in the market, hands down. Whether that is true or not, we will be the judge of that, but for now, his promotion did a convincing job of our buying a couple of Kimchis, Pa-Kimchi and Yeolmu-Kimchi (young radish water Kimchi) without the radish but only the leaves. We were told by the lady that she and her husband farmed the vegetables. Great, I thought, from the farmer to the chef to the happy eater. 

As we sat down finally to get some lunch, since it would have taken me a long time to make a decision where to eat, I “wisely” relied on my wife this time. She chose beef rice soup. So cheap but so good. Later tonight, the whole market scene will be back to normal, a parking lot as if this whole commotion was nothing but an illusion. The tables and stools featured at the food stalls are the worn blue portable plastic kind, and toilet tissues are hung from the tent as serviceable napkins. Ingenious improvisation. Makes so much sense if you stop imagining and can get over the thought of using toilet tissue to wipe your mouth. The soup arrived less than 30 seconds later, steamy hot. As we sat down to devour our meal, I received a text message from another friend that his surgery (very involved and possibly life-threatening) is scheduled for tomorrow, which I had known and had been praying about. I responded to the text by telling him that I would stand in prayer with him and for him and that I would like to see him well in person once I get back to the US.

Maybe it was a food coma, but I must have sleepwalked over to the long line in front of a booth selling Sundae (Korean blood sausage consisting of glass noodles and other spices). My wife detests the smell of it, so she decided to stand afar while I was mindlessly waiting. I waited for 30 minutes for about 3 dollars worth of food. I could overhear people passing by murmuring what the line was for. When they found out it was Sundae, some shook their heads and walked away, but some decided to join in line while all were disbelieving and curious about what the deal was. Contrary to my expectation, the sundae was disappointing. I basically got sucked into the capitalistic phenomenon that if there is a long line, it must be good. I am sure my standing in line convinced some other people to wait in line. I got a good chuckle out of the experience while my patient wife simply smiled. Great to know that my wife still loves me after all that waiting and disappointment.

We ended up buying some apples, avocados (Koreans do not eat avocados much), and carrots and made our way back. Our fridge is full to the brim now. A moratorium is in full effect on grocery shopping for now. 

All the while, I am thinking and praying for the two friends for today and tomorrow. Life happens to us more than we make life happen. Even when we think we are in control over our lives, perhaps we really are not, ultimately forcing us to surrender. I suppose the question is, where or to whom do we surrender? If yes to surrender, surrender is not some sort of fatalistic assent of whatever will be, will be, and thus void of hope, but one with great hope and expectation. And that living this life is good, and has great purpose. And the One we surrender to and trust is ultimately good and kind, as the One does not know anything else. 

YANGPYEONG FALL JOURNAL | WEEK 1

September 24 Entry

My poor wife heard me grumble this morning as I blurted out that I have done the worst job of packing my clothes for this trip. I’m not sure what I was thinking or whether I was thinking at all while packing. I packed too many pants, the wrong kind, too many shorts, all exercise shorts. My wife plainly told me, “I can see where your priority is.” Compared to Seoul, Yangpyeong’s daytime and nighttime temperature variances are significant. So the times I can wear shorts are during the day, and those days are disappearing fast as cooler weather will prevail soon. “I am not surprised since you packed the night before the trip,” said my wife without an ounce of judgment in her tone. I smiled and said, “Oh well.” At least, I brought enough “dressy” clothes for the occasion when I will be speaking at a conference. I can grumble with the best of them but one of my saving personality devices is that I can quickly switch gears to look at the cup half full. I will have to rely on that positive outlook for the rest of the trip.

The first thing we did this morning upon waking was to take a walk along the river and rice fields. Speaking of priority, I was not going to miss the ritual of my morning walk in Yangpyeong, as I imagined and rehearsed this walk many times before coming back. The morning temperature was in the low 50s, nippy for my Southern California trained body to wear any of the shorts I brought with me. It was perfect sweatpants weather. We had to walk fast because it was cold, especially in the shaded areas. One of the flaws of the current house is that it does not get enough sunlight, as the house faces north. The host told us that during winter, the house gets colder than other south-facing houses. After we walked for about 10 minutes, the inordinately bright sun greeted us with a warm good morning. I could almost hear the sun saying, “짜잔”(Jja jan), which can be translated as "ta-da!" Until then, the sun was still hiding behind the mountain. I suppose the sun wanted to make a grand enough entrance to remind us of what we have been missing. 

As our bodies were getting warmed by hurried steps, I noticed right away rows of wild cosmos flowers, from white to light pink to light fuchsia to light purple to hot red, along the riverbeds, and by the rice fields. Unlike the spring or summer times, where many flowers compete for the throne of our hearts, in the fall, the cosmos has no real competition. They get to be the queen of fall flowers. They certainly got my attention. The stems are so slender and fragile looking, provoking me to provide protection. The proportion of the flower petals to the slim stems looks a bit out of place like a large donut-shaped head attached to a small slender body. And yet, the flowers stand tall and shoot straight up, similar to sunflowers. (I found out later that cosmos plants are part of the sunflower family.) As the sun greets them, they greet back, as if to talk in some secret language. They all look like they are smiling even when they know their autumn act will end soon. 

We saw more people during this morning’s walk than at any other time in the spring. Since my wife and I were walking together, a number of people exchanged greetings with us. I made the observation that many were saying hellos this time. She curtly said that perhaps they were not afraid of saying hello since I was not walking alone. I nodded since I know I can look scary and intimidating with my strange hairstyle and occasionally with my sunglasses and buff head coverings on. Anyhow, it was good to be noticed and to exchange hellos. Connections with people and strangers, as light and casual as the greetings are, are always good for my heart. 

I was just as eager and anxious to go to Kwak Ji Won Bakery near Dulmulmeori where we frequented during our spring stay. We got to know the chief baker as well as the master baker who started a baking academy, along with multiple bakeries through his disciples. That was one of the serendipitous and unexpected highlights earlier in the year. The last time we saw them, we heard that the master baker’s wife, who is also a renowned baker and cake maker and has won several awards, was diagnosed with stomach cancer and was in need of surgery. We had told her we would pray for her and exchanged hope and goodwill. As such, we were eager to find out how the surgery went and how she was doing. We also brought a small gift with us, a small statue of a healing angel, to plant messages of healing and hope. 

After we arrived at the bakery, we were doing our rituals of reading and writing. As my wife was coming back from her restroom visit, I overheard my wife’s excited voice (she does not get excited much) from a distance. Seconds later, she called me to come. There she was, the master baker’s wife, standing before us. Her countenance told us she was well. She remembered us as we asked her how the surgery went. She said the surgery went really well and that she was doing well. As she was sharing, she was holding my wife’s hands with teary eyes. We told her we were very happy to hear the news. She had her perm fixtures on her hair as she was getting ready to go to a function. She said, “I did not lose my hair, so I am able to fix my hair as I like.” Small but significant joy and dignity of life. 

That made my day, enough to feast on my day with goodness and surprises. 

YANGPYEONG IN THE FALL

When I was at Yangpyeong this past spring, I wrote, with joy, for the first time in my life. I was surprised that I could enjoy writing as much as I did. Surprised, because writing requires meticulous, diligent, consistent effort, which I painfully and royally lack. Surprised also, because I had assumed that writing was not within my ken and my calling was more toward apostolic action-oriented endeavors. Spontaneity, scattered interests, diffusive and unfocused mind, and curiosity are more accurate descriptors of me than a steady disciplined orientation. Nonetheless, joy certainly was. Apparently, it was evident enough that my wife noticed a change in me too. Robert Frost said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.” To further paraphrase Frost, one can even say, “No joy in the writer, no joy in the reader.” 

The Yangpyeong writing experience was almost as if something came over me and took hold of me. Certainly, I am far from hinting at the idea that I was so filled with God that God inspired me to direct my fingers. Ok, maybe so in some parts as I was deeply moved by what God opened my eyes to see. Even then, it was more of my latent inner self being awoken, for the “ground” was fertile for the first time in my life. Including the timing of both this trip to Korea being meshed with my life’s journey, the ground may be the well-cultivated ground with enough compost consisting of the garbage of discursive thoughts, turmoil (think tilling), and rest for life to grow. I realize this process is not unlike Henri Nouwen’s description of the movement from “the desert of loneliness to a garden of solitude.”

Looking back, there was a sense of childlike wonder of seeings and noticings, which coincided with and possibly unlocked my own childhood in Korea decades earlier. As I have been on a deconstructive and reconstructive journey, I can perceive my life more honestly without needing to puff up my ego or downplay my life's significance and meaning. The evolution of my spiritual and human journey, I would like to believe, is ripe with a more earnest appraisal of life and thus ready to engage my true worth and trust what I love and value. 

I say all this because my wife and I will be back in Yangpyeong in about a week's time at the same Airbnb. (By the time this entry is uploaded, we will be in the air crossing the Pacific Ocean.) This time, it will be autumn. I can’t remember where I read it but to paraphrase what I read—In spring, we are invited to look down. In the fall, we are invited to look up. I cannot wait to “look up” to see the gorgeous fall Korea sky, lose myself counting the leaves dance and fall against the backdrop of heaven, and witness pinching myself waking up from the glorious fall foliage. That will be a treat for my monotonous Southern California eyes for sure. Overall, Yangpyeong remains glowy in my mind. Yangpyeong played a pivotal role in my soul recognizing a home that I had forgotten.

I am a bit cautious about Yangpyeong at the same time. I do not want to have the same expectations of the joy of writing this fall only to fall short. Maybe unbeknownst to me, it is a way to save and safeguard my ego, I do not know for sure. There are these measured and calculated expectations for this trip. I do not want to be in this state of mind, but I am. 

Recently, I came across Jack Kerouac’s “Belief & Technique for Modern Prose.” Four of them stood out to me as I evaluate my time in Yangpyeong and anticipate what is to come this fall.

Submissive to everything, open, listening

Blow as deep as you want to blow

Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind

No fear or shame in the dignity of your experience, language & knowledge 

What I have learned is this very notion of submissiveness while at Yangpyeong as I look back. It was a posture of humility, acceptance, and openness through listening and observing. How I listened and observed was a reflexive and reflective exercise of accepting what came to me every day with childlike wonder. Each day was an unexpected and exciting journey with no map. This posture unleashed my gifts of spontaneity and curiosity. 

The next two techniques are similar in my mind. When I thought I was writing about the external realities of my days, I was actually excavating and discovering the deep interior terrains of my soul. I have learned that I have to remain true to who I am as I write, loyal to my soul. In this sense with no disrespect to Kerouac, “from bottom of the mind” falls short. It is from the depth of my soul. A shocking discovery for me was that the depth of my soul breathes the same air as God, a God who “breathed” into me to create me. I have experienced a very small portion of being in union with God through my journaling and writing, more than enough to desire more, to see what God would see, and to think what God would think.

The permission, encouragement, and thus rightful claim of the dignity of my experience, language, and knowledge is liberating not only as someone who wrote with joy for the first time but also in life. This is a sound liberating doctrine that there is no more fear or shame in the dignity of all our experiences. And the language with which we choose to communicate brings fuller and far more authentic and interesting expressions of the unrepeatable uniqueness of who we each are. 

My hope is to write every day with joy again this fall. I want to discover more of who I am, who I am becoming, and what God is like through writing. All this in the mundaneness of everyday life, being submissive and present to what is Real, my life that is taking place in real and present time. 

LIFE AS A COLLECTION OF MOMENTS

Life is a collection of moments. More precisely, life as a collection of what we deem as “defining” moments is what largely shapes and guides our life. The requirement for stewarding such moments is that we pay close attention as moments happen and remember them after they happen. It is simple enough but onerous to learn. Poet David Whyte expresses this sentiment poignantly in the last stanza of his poem, Born Again. Tangentially, one can easily see the “Irishness” of his appreciation of nature.

I want to be born again, in exactly the selfsame life,

aware this time from the inside out, and to stand this time

as a beautiful un-worrying witness, living beyond

the need for this or that; some memory always with me

of a ship making its way through lifting water,

the song of the wind, the song of my mother,

my father’s disbelieving, expectant face,

and the crowding, merciful voice of the sea at my birth.

I italicized the word aware above as Whyte yearns to recall some of his life’s defining moments. I can sense both his gentle ache and longing that he had wished to cherish the moments (my word) closer to his heart and with more awareness.

We are who we are because of the accumulative effect of life’s defining moments. Some moments are defined by external circumstances and factors that we have no control over. Freak accidents, natural disasters, acts of violence, cowardice, as well as great generosity, the miracle of intervention, and helping hands, are bigger than anyone’s life’s external realities. Then there are those that are seemingly insignificant, even obscure, too small to notice at first, i.e. witnessing small acts of kindness, meeting kind eyes from a stranger, reading unexpected text messages, catching a smile of a little child, noticing “lilies of the field and the birds of the air,” cool drizzle on a hot humid day, etc. Those moments happen and we can be impacted by the external realities at the time if we will.

Then there are moments that we work to create and arrive at. These are the moments that are induced by our effort and planning. Working hard to graduate, get a job, write a book, etc are just a few examples.

However, moments that have shaped my life most profoundly are the moments prompted by interior assurances and convictions. The interior convictions are mysterious divine visitations that come like gentle fleeting butterflies or cool breezy wind of inaudible soft-spoken words. They have never been thunderous words, overwhelming and ignoring whatever state I happen to be in. If I believe the words, they are mine to possess. If I am ignorant or am distracted, it simply flies away and looks for another opportunity, never judging or condemning. If I believe, it becomes yet another moment to believe again. To believe is to trust the Source and the Source’s intention of goodness. This act of belief goes on a long way to ground me and move my pilgrim body toward the Source’s Home with increased willingness and eagerness.

These encounters are mysterious and subjectively experienced. And the two go together, making the relationship between mystery and experience inseparable. 

When I decided to step down from leadership in 2019, I “heard” an inaudible voice that said, “Son, you have no idea how good this decision is” on January 1. Though the voice was faint, it was undeniably clear, and I “believed” the moment as it happened. A few months later, Psalm 45: 10-16 was given to us by three random sources (what I would consider as my communities), confirming what we needed to do: to forget and leave our father’s house and our people, essentially “to go to the land which God will show us.” In June, I even had a dream where I saw the Psalm 45:10 inscription. The Tradition tells me all faith heroes are called to go and leave their father’s home. So I am in good company, I tell myself, having confirmed by “community” that is represented through Scripture, Tradition, and communities I am part of.

The interior moment that guides and shapes our life defines or redefines what and how we see. It is a brand new way of seeing, the chrism of the sight. Because we see differently, we can live differently. The old way of seeing is no more with scales from our eyes removed. No wonder Jesus spoke repeatably and convincingly about what and how we see. Spirituality starts with seeing, seeing rightly. The right seeing allows us to navigate the pilgrim movement of the body and life, ever shaping us through life-changing moments and directing us where to go and how to go. 

CENTER AND EDGES

For the last two weeks, I have been reflecting and writing about the need for renewal, how renewal takes place, and its intricate inseparable relationship with community and service. This week, I am diving into the need for fresh expressions of “containers, systems, or structures” that can be used to stimulate and generate waves of fresh renewal.

Anyone who has experienced being part of systems of both Christian and/or the world (and that is all of us), would know experientially that systems over time tend to exist and serve systems for their own self-interested end. Obviously, systems do not start with that in mind. Systems begin most of the time to challenge, uproot the “old” systems, and provide innovative and alternative models to do systems. But over time, it takes a herculean effort to swim out of the encrustation of bureaucracies and dominant managerial “efficient” processes. The foremost way to combat the malady toward survival and relevancy is to continually infuse innovation and entrepreneurship within the systems without allowing the systems to manage the creative and should I say apostolic processes. To me, this is proven perennial wisdom that is embedded in the development of human civilizations. 

I appreciate Thomas Merton echoing similar perennial wisdom in his book, The Inner Experiences, about a system he was quite familiar with—the monastic tradition.

“. . . but the traditional large monastery has no longer anything new or original to contribute to society. . . Innovation must come from elsewhere—for instance, from small, mobile, and detached groups like the Little Brothers of Jesus.” (p. 125 of The Inner Experiences)

Most people are content and happy to maintain the security and comfort that come from residing at the “traditional” center. (I am adding the word center for tradition and center often are associated with each other.) Jaroslav Pelikan’s insight is apt here, “tradition is the living faith of the dead, traditionalism is the dead faith of the living.”[1] One of the telltale signs of discerning traditionalism from tradition has to do with whether there is an absence of regard for historical, experiential, and theological context or framework. Simply put, we don’t know why and how we got to believe what we believe and we do not seem to care. It seems that we do not have an appetite to understand why we believe but be conveniently content with the fact that we believe. From this vantage, we read into the Bible, defending what we believe as in a propositional set of belief systems and affirming what we already know to be “true” by parroting out a certain set of doctrines. 

To be fair, all that goes around in maintaining the center is not necessarily bad because it can offer stability and security. At the same time, for a center to be the center, the center is often associated with power and control. The center needs to be defended with power and control, often vigorously. The center simply does not inspire. 

As with Merton, I’m convinced that history is not made by the people in the center of power but by people who are out on the edges or “from elsewhere” and from “detached groups.” One can find innovation and creativity both at the center and the edges, to be sure. But the kind of innovation on the edges is radical and foundationally disruptive in nature, changing the trajectory of history. I am not saying that all innovation at the edges benefits humanity. Clearly, some have not. 

Being out on the edges is not for the faint-hearted. It is lonely and can easily be misunderstood. While it may be breathtakingly free being on the edges, it is riddled with unresolved questions and both tried and untried failures and heartaches. It is a sure bet for failures. The edges don’t stay the same and remain constant, they are always shifting and morphing. To take the analogy further, one cannot be both at the center and at the edges at the same time, maintaining perfect balance. One can traverse from one place to another over time and over the course of one’s life. Additionally, there are what I call bridge people. They are the ones who reside in one place, sympathetic and passionate about bridging the gap between the center and the edges. For example, one can reside at the center and try to speak some sense into the people who are on the edges without control and manipulation. On the other hand, one can also have people who reside on the edges and try to bring awareness and awakening into the center without judgment and condemnation. 

One of the better examples of the latter is none other than Francis of Assisi, insightfully highlighted by Richard Rohr in his book, Eager to Love: The Alternative Way of Francis of Assisi. And one can have a meaningful and constructive dialogue between these bridge peoples on both sides, but not people who are bent on either the center or the edges. They will drive each other into a madhouse. Generally speaking, prophets and apostles are out on the edges while pastors and teachers reside at the center. A poetic prophet Jeremiah portrays par excellence and what it means to live on the edges.  

So far, I have been talking somewhat abstractly about center and edges, and the interplay and dynamic relationship between the two. Merton brings it down to a personal level and internalizes the relationship between “external control” and “liberation” at the level of one’s soul.

“The contemplative seeks to liberate his soul from all external control, to purify and detach it from material, sensual, and even spiritual compulsions, and to surrender it to the truth and creative freedom of the Holy Spirit. And in liberating himself, he becomes able to show others the way to the same liberty, because his life bears witness to a supreme liberty and enables them to know it, obscurely, and to burn with its desire.” (p. 129)

A life that knows “supreme liberty” and shows it to others is a life well-lived. Our liberation which intuitively recognizes and responds to the creative freedom of the Holy Spirit becomes both an invitation and a gift to others, enlarging the movement of supreme liberty. This supreme liberty whether one is at the center or on the edges is what finally judges and corrects. One could reside at the center without the fullest sense of supreme liberty. One could also reside at the edges without the fullest sense of supreme liberty. The supreme liberty we are invited to pursue is to “surrender to the truth and creative freedom of the Holy Spirit,” and is the liberty to “show others the way to the same liberty” which is to serve, not to insist on our worth. Paradoxically, the supreme liberty is to surrender and to serve. 

Personally, I care deeply about this topic because I believe in creating and forming alternative communities with alternative consciousness toward perpetual re-formation and renewal of humanity. My growing belief is that renewal and re-formation cannot happen without the innovative infusion of alternative communities originating from detached groups, from the periphery, or from the margin. I also have experienced enough unsettled frustration and dis-ease of the center defending the center without the validity of existence. My earnest prayer and hope are that we would witness more innovative structures that understand the signs of the times to contribute to and develop humanity’s consciousness toward God.

[1] This is a portion of the interview with U.S. News & World Report, July 26, 1989 (the interview focused on his book The Vindication of Tradition). Pelikan follows the above sentence. “Tradition lives in conversation with the past while remembering where we are and when we are and that it is we who have to decide. Traditionalism supposes that nothing should ever be done for the first time, so all that is needed to solve any problem is to arrive at the supposedly unanimous testimony of this homogenized tradition.”