“We Must Acknowledge Our Limitations”

Posted on May 26, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon

Those who live in a parsonage often experience intense emotional ups and downs. When you hold the threads of life together with so many different people, the climate inside a parsonage can feel more unpredictable than the weather outside. One phone call brings laughter, another brings tears, and sometimes you must drop everything and run. In the morning you hear the joyful news of a newborn; by afternoon someone healthy has suddenly been hospitalized; by evening you hear of a death. These constant reports from near and far keep your heart in a state of tension.

Yet recently, even without any particular crisis, I found myself living in deep emotional turbulence. Nothing brought joy. I became easily irritated—toward my children, my husband, toward anyone. I spoke sharply, coldly. I felt unstable, quick to anger, and emotionally exhausted, as though I were spending far more energy than I had. No one had wronged me. No bad news had come. And yet my heart was flying low, barely above the ground.

It is embarrassing to admit this publicly, and unbecoming of a pastor’s wife. But in those dark days, I was forced to look closely at my own frail and imperfect self. Years ago, if I felt angry or overwhelmed, I could cry once, breathe deeply, and feel relieved. But now, with age, I can no longer behave like a child. Even though I went before God every dawn to pray, my soul did not know where it hurt. All I could offer were groans that came from somewhere deep and wordless.

I began speaking to myself: You often stand before others and speak of God’s great love and faithfulness. You tell those who are tested to “overcome in the name of Christ.” But when you yourself grow weak, why can’t you apply the same truth? Why do you speak so harshly to the ones you love? Are you not harming and destroying yourself? Is your faith only strong when life is bright and clear as midday?

My conscience struck me. I realized my emotions had been trapped in a cloud of negative energy for quite some time—dark clouds ready to burst into a storm at any moment.

Then the words of Scripture pierced my soul like light: “God is light; in Him there is no darkness at all.” (1 John 1:5)

Dear listeners,

Our outward appearances may differ, but inside we all share the same truth: we are limited, fragile, and incomplete.

Human emotion—Energy in Motion—is simply the movement of energy. Depending on where that energy flows, it can produce life or destruction. Some people barely show emotion at all—not because they lack it, but because their upbringing taught them to suppress it, leaving them unsure how to process what they feel.

And so I asked myself: How weak is the human being? How deeply do we need salvation?

— Yoon Wan‑Hee, November 19, 1998

Posted in Essay by WanHee Yoon, Devotional Essay, faith-column, Letter from the Parsonage, Live Broadcasting, As I Am | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

우리는 한계성을 인정해야 합니다

Posted on May 26, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon

목사관에 살고 있는 사람들은 심한 감정의 오름내림 속에 살고 있다고 볼 수 있습니다. 다양한 분들과 삶의 끈을 붙들고 함께 살다보면, 목사관의 기후처럼 다양한 곳은 없다고 생각해 봅니다. 어떤 때는 전화 한통화로 웃음을 졌다가, 때로는 울기도 하고, 때로는 일상의 일을 중단한채 뛰어야 하는 등의 일들입니다. 아침에 어느 가정에 아기를 출산했다는 기쁜 소식이 있는가 하면, 오후에 건강하던 분이 입원했다는 소식이라든가, 누군가가 돌아가셨다는 일들입니다. 멀리서 가까이서 들려오는 삶의 특보들은 언제나 긴장을 갖게합니다.

그런데, 요근래는 별다른 특보가 없는 상황인데도 저는 심한 감정의 오르내림 속에 살고 있었습니다. 무엇을 해도 기쁨이 없고 곧잘 짜증이 나서 애들에게도 그렇고 남편에게도, 누구에게든지 매섭고 차겁게 대하는 일을 얼마동안 하며 지냈습니다. 무엇을 해도 안정이 되지않고 화가 잘나고 필요 이상의 감정을 소비하여 마음적으로 지치고 힘든 상황이었습니다. 특별히 누구인가 제게 잘못 한 것도 없고, 또한 나쁜 소식을 들은 것도 아니건만, 마음의 날개는 저공을 하고있었습니다.

청취자 분들 앞에 부끄럽고 사모로서 옳치않은 행동이었다고 볼 수 있지요. 그러나, 저는 그 어둔 시간들을 지내면서, 불완전한 저의 나약한 모습들을 하나 하나 살펴보게 되었습니다. 수년 전만 하여도 왠지 화가나거나 감정을 제대로 조절치 못하면, 씩씩거리고 한차례 울고나면 마음이 시원해지고 위로가 될터이지만, 이제는 나이가 먹으니 어린아이와 같이 그렇게 할 수도 없는 일이었습니다. 하나님 앞에 새벽마다 나아가 기도를 하지만, 영혼은 어디가 아픈지도 모른채, 심한 신음소리 만을 내다가 되돌아 오곤 하였습니다.

저는 스스로에게 타일렀습니다. 너는 곧잘, 남앞에서 하나님의 위대한 사랑과 믿음에 대하여 말하고, 시험받는 이들을 향해 ‘그리스도 이름으로 승리하라’고 하면서, 막상 네 자신이 약해졌을 때는 왜 적용치 못하고 있는가? 왜 사랑하는 이들에게 그토록 냉정하게 쏘아주는가? 너는 지금 자신을 학대하고 파괴하고 있지나 않는가? 너의 신앙은 모든 환경이 대낮처럼 맑고 청명해야 만이 신앙인으로서 살아 갈 수 있는 자가 아닌가 라는 양심의 소리가 제 심령을 울렸습니다. 그러고 보니 제 감정은 한동안 너무나 부정적인 에너지 속에 사로잡혀 있는 모습이 보였습니다. 그것은 언제 어느때 비바람을 동반한 소나기로 변해버리고 말 먹구름 자체였습니다.

결국 “하나님은 빛이시라 그에게는 어두움이 조금도 없으시니라”(요일 1:5) 이 말씀은 내 영혼에 눈부시게 찾아 들어왔습니다.

청취자 여러분,

사람의 겉모습은 다를 수 있지만, 속 모양은 이렇게 누구나 한계가 있고 부족함이 있습니다.

인간의 감정(Energy Motion=Emotion), 그것은 에너지의 동작이라고 합니다. 이 감정의 돌팔구가 어디에 있느냐에 따라, 삶의 생산성이 나올 수 있고, 또한 파괴력이 나올 수 있다고 합니다. 사람에 따라서 거의 감정의 표현이 없는 분들도 있습니다. 아니, 있긴 있어도 자라나온 환경에 따라, 감정의 처리를 차단 당한채, 어떻게 자신의 감정을 처리해야 좋을지 모를 따름이지요.

도대체 인간의 존재란 얼마나 나약한 존재이며 불가불 구원이 필요한 존재인가? 라는 것이었습니다.

— 윤완희, 11/19/1998

Posted in As I Am, Devotional Essay, Essay by WanHee Yoon, faith-column, Letter from the Parsonage, Live Broadcasting | Leave a comment

Korean 한국인

Posted on May 26, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon

Tonight, with ‘Song of the Summer’ for SWIM,
BTS stood beneath the lights
of the American Music Awards once again.

Las Vegas glittered.
Crowds roared.
Three awards rose into Korean hands.

And suddenly
more than four decades of immigrant life
moved quietly inside me.

Missing.

Regret.

The long invisible ache
of living between worlds.

There were years
when being Korean in America
felt like carrying a hidden country
inside my chest.

An accent carefully managed.
Kimchi carried discreetly in lunch containers.
Letters from Korea folded into drawers.
Late-night tears after overseas phone calls
when voices traveled across oceans
with static and longing.

Yet before all this—

before mountains learned their names,
before borders carved the earth
with barbed wire and memory,

a whisper already moved
through Korean blood:

You are not empty.

Heaven breathes within you.

Not above—
not beyond distant clouds—

but within the farmer
bending over wet rice fields,
within the mother
carrying dawn upon her back,
within the child
kneeling beside winter fire.

Innaecheon. 인내천. 사람이 곧 하늘이다.

Human beings
are Heaven walking.

And so our elders bowed carefully
even before strangers,

as though every face concealed
a hidden sanctuary.

Korean-ness
was never conquest.

It was the trembling understanding
that no life stands alone.

Daedong. 대동. 모두가 함께하는 큰 세상.

The Great Together.

A table where hunger is shared
before wealth is counted.

A village where grief travels communally
like rainwater through ancient fields.

One person’s sorrow
becoming everyone’s unfinished prayer.

Even now,
beneath neon cities
and hurried ambition,
the old longing survives:

May no one eat alone.

May no one suffer unseen.

May the broken still belong.

And deeper still—

beneath occupations,
wars, dictatorships,
division, migration,
and the exhausting labor of survival—

there remains
Cheuk-eun-jeuk-sim. 측은즉심. 불쌍히 여기는 마음이 곧 사람의 본래 마음이다

The heart
unable to endure another’s suffering.

A grandmother placing warm soup
into trembling hands.

A stranger lifting an umbrella
over another in sudden rain.

Silent tears
for grief happening far away.

Compassion arriving
before thought.

Tonight,
watching Korean voices
fill American airwaves,

I realize
BTS carries more than music.

They carry generations.

The prayers of immigrants.
The silence of factory workers.
The endurance of mothers.
The loneliness of fathers.
The dream of children
trying to belong without disappearing.

And somewhere inside me,
the younger Korean immigrant
who once felt invisible
stands quietly beneath those lights too.

Not erased.

Not fully healed.

But seen.

Korean.

Not merely blood.
Not merely language.
Not merely nation.

But the ancient fire still whispering:

Heaven lives in people.

People belong together.

And the human heart
was created
to weep with love.

— TaeHun Yoon, May 2026

Posted in Poetry | Leave a comment

“At Penn Station”

Posted on May 25, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon

A few years ago, whenever I had business in Manhattan, stepping into Penn Station required great courage. After several bad experiences—getting lost in the maze of one‑way streets or paying outrageous parking fees—I learned to take the train instead of driving. Yet even now, I still cannot grasp the full size of Penn Station. Each time I arrived, I wandered in confusion, unsure which exit would lead me in the right direction. The rushing crowds—sometimes flowing like a rapid river, sometimes pouring down like a waterfall—left me dizzy and overwhelmed.

But somewhere along the way, I began to feel an indescribable affection for Penn Station. I started to see in it a small portrait of life itself.

There is beauty in Penn Station. Though tens of thousands hurry through without a second to spare, the flower stands at every corner stop even the busiest gentlemen and ladies in their tracks. In a single bouquet, people carry unspoken words and quiet love as they rush onward. In the golden calm of sunflowers that have fulfilled their purpose, I hear the song of birds rising boldly into the wind. New Yorkers, determined not to miss the fading sensations of the season, color the dreams of new immigrants who sell these flowers.

There is music in Penn Station. The hoarse trumpet player, the string trio, the gospel soloist, the young violin student—all offer a festival of sound to those waiting for their trains. The performers, sweating as they play, are met not with indifference but with generous applause and the soft flutter of bills tossed into open cases. In this spontaneous concert without invitations, gratitude flows freely between performer and passerby.

There are keepers in Penn Station. Even after the crowds have rushed home, some remain—those who guard the station simply by being there. They spend the day in the sunlit canyons of the city, then return at night seeking shelter from the cold. They settle quietly in a corner of the stairs, bow their heads, and fall asleep without complaint. At dawn, when the tide of commuters returns, they rise and leave without hesitation, giving up even that small space with grace. People step over the spot countless times without noticing, but the one who slept there carries away a bit of rest and peace in his heart. And he hopes silently: Someday, I too will have a place to go. Someday, I too will have work to do.

There is trust and love in Penn Station. One homeless man always travels with three or four cats, his little “business.” They say no country pampers animals like America, but watching the kittens follow him, I realize how precious it is—for human or animal—to have a home and a family. People stop to pet the kittens and drop bills into his worn cardboard box. The cats trust him completely. No matter how many strangers hold them, the one who feeds and protects them is the one they love most.

There is gratitude in Penn Station. Amid the tangled rails and endless arrivals, I am grateful that I can return to the home where my family waits. Once, I boarded the wrong train and ended up in a strange station, wandering all night in the dark. In that lonely place, I longed desperately just to reach Penn Station again. When I finally returned, the sigh of relief blossomed into fresh joy.

Penn Station has clear destinations. Those who know where they are going do not wander. Watching the crowds surge toward their platforms at the signal board’s command, I thought of that day—the day only the Father knows—when sheep and goats will be separated, and our paths will be divided just as clearly. I am reminded that my path cannot be the same as everyone else’s. I cannot run simply because others run.

In the crossing of those who depart and those who arrive, time rushes forward relentlessly. Even with flowers, music, and compassion, Penn Station is only a waiting place. When the moment comes, we must leave without hesitation for the train that is ours. Perhaps that is why I feel such affection for it.

Penn Station may hold beauty, romance, love, and gratitude—but it can never be our final home.

Today again, I pass through Penn Station among countless strangers who come and go without noticing one another.

— Yoon Wan‑Hee, June 16, 1997

Posted in Devotional Essay, Essay by WanHee Yoon, faith-column, Letter from the Parsonage | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

펜 스테이션에서(Penn Station)

Posted on May 25, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon

몇년전에 만하탄에 볼일이 있어 펜 스테이션에 나서는 일은 저에게 큰 용기마져 필요한 일이었습니다. 복잡한 만하탄에 차를 갖고 나갔다가, 일방통행으로 길을 잃어버려 길을 헤메이거나 비싼 주차비로 곤욕을 치르는 일을 몇번 경험한 일로, 만하탄에 갈 때는 기차를 타고 나서게 되곤합니다. 그러나, 요즈음도 펜 스테이션의 크기가 얼마나되는지 짐작이 가지는 않치만, 팬 스테이션에 내릴 때 마다 어디로 가야지 바른 출구가 나오는지 어리둥절하여서 헤메이기가 일수였습니다. 또한, 사람들의 물결이 급류처럼 밀려가기도 하고, 때로는 폭포수의 물이 흘러떨어지듯이 일초의 여유도 없이 내려가고 올라가는 사람들의 물결 속에, 저는 정신을 잃을 것 만 같았습니다. 그러나, 저는 언제부터였는지 몰라도 펜 스테이션에 말할수 없는 정감을 느끼며 삶의 축소된 모습을 보게 되었습니다.

펜 스테이션에는 아름다움이 있습니다. 하루에도 수만명의 발길이 일초의 여유도 없이 분주하게 오고 가는 그곳에, 코너마다 있는 꽃 가판대에 아름답게 담겨진 꽃들은 신사숙녀들의 발을 여지없이 멈추게 합니다.

한묶음의 꽃다발 속에 언어를 담고 사랑을 담아 갈길을 바삐 떠나가는 이들 속에, 황금의 평온에서 제 몫을 다한 해바라기들의 향연과, 바람 속에 힘차게 솟아 오르는 새들의 노래를 듣게됩니다. 식어가고 있는 계절의 감각을 놓치지 않으려는 뉴욕커들의 센스가 꽃을 팔고 있는, 새 이민자의 꿈을 아름답게 물들입니다.

펜 스테이션에는 음악이 있습니다. 목이 쉬도록 불어대는 트럼팻 소리, 현악 삼 중주의 연주, 복음성가 가수의 열띤 독창, 음악도의 바이올린 연주는, 기차를 기다리고 있는 이들의 잠시의 여백에 음률의 축제를 안겨 줍니다.

땀을 뻘뻘 흘리며 연주하는 이들의 연주에 결코 무관심 하거나 인색하지 않고, 부담없는 즉석 음악회에 초청장 없이 초청된 관중들은 박수와 함께 주머니에서 던져지는 푸른 지폐들 속에 오가는 감사와 여유의 눈길을 보게됩니다.

펜 스테이션에는 주인이 있습니다. 모두가 바쁘게 오고 갔어도 그곳에 남아 스테이션을 지키는 이들이 있습니다.

그들은 낮에는 볕이나는 빌딩 숲에서 지내다가 해가지면, 찬바람을 피해서 하나 둘 찾아들면서 사람의 발길이 뜸해진 계단의 한구석에 몸을 내리고, 고개를 숙인채 하루의 고된 일과를 말없이 정리하며 아무 불평없이 잠이 듭니다. 그리고, 새벽녁에 또다시 밀물 처럼 밀려오는 사람들의 발길이 분주해지는 시간이면, 여지없이 그 한자리 조차도 내어준 채, 넉넉한 모습으로 그 자리를 떠납니다. 사람들은 그들의 자리를 무심하게 수없이 밟고 오르지만, 주인 만은 그 자리에서 얻어난 쉬임과 평안을 가슴 언저리에 남겨둡니다. 그리고, 마음으로 염원합니다. 언젠가 나에게도 갈곳이 있으리라고! 언젠가는 나에게도 할일이 있으리라고!

펜 스테이션에는 신뢰와 사랑이 있습니다. 어느 홈레스 아저씨는 언제나 고양이를 서너마리를 앞세워 비지니스(?)를 하는 것을 보게됩니다. 미국에서 짐승 처럼 호강하는 나라도 없다고 하는데, 홈레스 아저씨를 따라다니는 어린 고양이 가족들을 바라보면서 사람이나, 짐승이나 쉴 집이 있고, 가족이 있음은 얼마나 행복한 일인지를 느끼게 됩니다. 사람들은 동정하여 어린 고양이를 만져보거나 안아본 값으로 홈레스 아저씨의 낡고 더러운 종이 상자에 푸른 지폐를 던져줍니다. 고양이들은 홈레스 아저씨를 신뢰하며 사랑합니다. 아무리 많은 사람들이 쓰다듬어 주고 안아줄지라도, 그들을 지키고 키워주는 홈레스 아저씨가 누구보다도 미더운 것입니다.

펜 스테이션에는 감사가 있습니다. 수없이 얽히고 설킨 철로 따라 만남의 열림 속에, 내 가족이 거하는 가정으로 갈 수 있다는 감사입니다. 언젠가 기차를 잘못타서 엉뚱한 곳에 내리어, 어둠 속에서 밤새 헤맨 적이 있었습니다.

저는 아무도 없는 어둠 속의 낯선 정거장에서, 펜 스테이션 까지만 갈 수 있다면 얼마나 좋을까하고 열망한 적이 있습니다. 그 밤, 펜 스테이션에 다시 도착했을 때의 안도의 한숨은 싱싱한 감사의 기쁨으로 살아나기 까지 했습니다.

펜 스테이션에는 분명한 목적지가 있습니다. 갈곳이 있는 사람, 갈곳이 분명히 정해진 사람들은 우왕좌왕하지 않습니다. 전광판 신호에 따라 각자의 출구를 찾아, 한치의 여유도 없이 몰려가는 인파를 바라보면서 그 날을 생각해 보았습니다. 그 날- 아들도 모르고 아버지 만이 아신다는 그 날을 – 그 날에 양과 염소가 갈라지듯이 우리의 갈길도 그렇게 분명하게 갈라질 것이라는 것을! 내가 갈길과 그들이 가는 길은 결국 같을 수 없음을 늘 깨닫게 됩니다. 남이 달려간다고 덩달아 달려가지 않습니다.

떠날 사람과 만날 사람들이 수없이 교차되는 펜 스테이션의 인파 속에서 성숙되어 가고 있는 시간의 촉박 함은 비정할 만큼 순간 순간 달려갑니다. 꽃이 있고, 음악이 있고, 연민이 있어도 그곳은 잠시 머무르는 대기 장소일뿐, 시간이 오면, 내가 타야만 될 기차의 출구를 향해 미련없이 가야 만 하는 곳이기에 더욱 더 정감을 느끼는 것 같습니다.

펜 스테이션에 음악이 있고, 아름다움과 낭만이 있고 사랑과 감사가 있을지라도 그곳은 결코 우리의 정착지가 될 수 없다는 것입니다.

잠시 펜 스테이션에서 오늘도 무심히 지나쳐 버리고 마는 수 많은 인파들 속에서 .

– 윤 완 희, 6/16/1997

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Day of Remembering

Posted on May 25, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon

May arrives carrying roses
and folded flags.

Children run beneath blue skies
while old men sit quietly
beside names carved in stone.

Somewhere, a bugle trembles
through the ribs of morning.

And America remembers.

Not only victories.
Not parades.
Not the proud thunder
of marching boots.

But sons who never came home.
Daughters whose letters ended
mid-sentence.
Young faces forever paused
between farewell
and tomorrow.

Long ago, after the Civil War,
when the nation still smelled of smoke
and sorrow hung like black cloth
across the fields,
mothers came carrying flowers.

Widows came.
Children came.
Former slaves came singing hymns
through Charleston streets,
lifting broken Union soldiers
from forgotten graves
into human memory again.

No generals taught them this.
Grief itself became the teacher.

Hands scattered petals
where bullets had fallen.
And Decoration Day was born—
not from power,
but from mourning.

Since then,
the names have continued:

Antietam.
Normandy.
Incheon.
Khe Sanh.
Fallujah.

History keeps carving
its painful alphabet
into the bodies of the young.

And every generation learns again
how expensive peace can be.

Today, flags lean gently
over white stones
like prayers bowing in silence.

The wind moves softly
through Arlington grass.
A mother touches a name
with trembling fingers.
A veteran salutes
someone only he can still see.

At three in the afternoon,
the nation pauses—
if only for a breath—
to hear the invisible footsteps
of the dead
walking beside the living.

Memorial Day is not merely
the beginning of summer.

It is the unfinished conversation
between sacrifice
and gratitude.

It is a candle
lit against forgetting.

And somewhere beyond the noise
of politics, markets, and wars,
the fallen rest beneath the earth
while countless flowers whisper:

You are remembered.
You are carried still.
You are home.

– TaeHun Yoon, Memorial Day 2026

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“Celebration of Pentecost”

Posted on May 24, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon

– Pastor Lucas Biggerstaff preached at St. Mark UMC — Knoxville, Tennessee

The preacher stood laughing
beneath bright Pentecost banners
and opened worship with Billy Joel:

“We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

And the congregation smiled—
some tapping their feet,
some remembering younger days,
old radios, old roads, old dances,
old fires still glowing through memory.

But soon another Fire entered the room.

Not the fire of headlines.
Not the fire of war.
Not the fire of fear consuming nations.

But the joyful Fire
of the Holy Spirit.

The Fire of the upper room.

The Fire resting upon trembling disciples
until trembling became singing.

And suddenly
the sanctuary itself seemed alive
with remembrance.

February 1956.

Seventy-one faithful souls
gathered inside Rocky Hill Elementary School.

No grand sanctuary yet.
No polished organ pipes.
No stained glass shining at sunrise.

Only folding chairs.
Simple hymns.
Coffee in humble cups.
Hands folded in prayer.

And joy.

Holy joy.

The kind that appears
when people trust God
before seeing the future.

Then came Northshore Drive.

Mud beneath shoes.
Dreams beneath prayers.

A little congregation
standing upon open ground,
already seeing what did not yet exist.

Rev. John McDonald arrived
with the hopeful footsteps
of a young shepherd.

And year after year,
the Spirit kept building.

Classrooms filled with children’s laughter.
Choirs lifting hymns toward heaven.
Youth running through hallways.
Covered dishes steaming in fellowship halls.
Christmas candles glowing softly in winter darkness.

Then October 1964—

the dedication of the sanctuary.

Voices rose like living flame
into freshly built rafters.

And the people rejoiced.

Because the building was never only brick.

It was love becoming visible.

The years continued singing forward.

The Robert Whorley Fellowship Hall.
The Simpson Library.
New land widening the ministry.
The parsonage purchased with faith.
Mortgages paid off at last—

hallelujahs rising quietly
through grateful tears.

Fifty years passed.

Then sixty.

And still the Spirit danced among the people.

Babies baptized.
Couples married.
Saints buried into resurrection hope.
Choirs singing through Easter mornings.
Children becoming parents.
Parents becoming beloved memory.

And still
the Fire moved onward.

Pastor Sam Ward
carrying flame toward Brainard.

Home Grown Pastor Lucas Biggerstaff
bringing joyful fire to Dunlap.

And now
Pastor Misti McCreary
arriving at St. Mark
with fresh wind in her hands.

Not replacing the flame—
but rejoicing within it.

For Pentecost fire
does not belong to one generation.

It is shared.

Passed hand to hand,
heart to heart,
song to song.

The Spirit still burns brightly
through ordinary people—

through greeters at the doors,
through choir members singing with shining eyes,
through Sunday school teachers holding tiny Bibles,
through elders whispering faithful prayers before dawn,
through children coloring red flames
with joyful crayons.

And perhaps
this is the true miracle of St. Mark:

not simply buildings standing through decades,

but people
still filled with joy enough
to keep loving,
keep welcoming,
keep serving,
keep singing.

Fire never quenched.

Fire laughing through generations.

Fire dancing through Knoxville nights.

Fire born long ago
in an upper room—

and still burning brightly
on Northshore Drive.

Rejoice.

The wind is still blowing.

The Spirit is still moving.

And the Fire still lives.

— TaeHun Yoon, Pentecost 2026

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“새로운 날”

Posted on May 24, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon

돌무덤의 돌이 굴려진 지
오십 일이 지났지만,
그들은 여전히 두려워하고 있었다.

문들은 아직 잠겨 있었고,
거리에는 여전히
군화의 기억이 남아 있었다.

예루살렘은
수많은 언어로 떨리고 있었다—

세상 모든 방향에서
강물처럼 밀려오는 순례자들.

그리고 그들 가운데에는
망명을 뼛속에 품고 살아가는 사람들이 있었다.

검문소를 아는 사람들.
점령을 아는 사람들.
역사가 어떻게
한 조국을 세대에 걸쳐
상처 입히는지 아는 사람들.

작은 한 방 안에서,
평범한 사람들이 기다리고 있었다.

어부들.
과부들.
잠 못 이루는 눈의 여인들.
두려움과 장례 향품의 냄새를
아직도 몸에 지닌 젊은이들.

그때 갑자기—

한 소리가 들려왔다.

제국으로부터가 아니었다.
탱크나 전투기로부터도 아니었다.
정복한 언덕 위에 세워진
궁전들로부터도 아니었다.

보이지 않는 문들을 지나
밀려오는 거센 바람 같았다.

집은 떨리기 시작했다.

마치 하늘 자체가
가난한 자들을 기억해낸 것처럼.

그리고 불이 나타났다—

도시들 위에 쏟아지는 불이 아니라,
아이들을 삼키는 불이 아니라,

사람들의 이마 위에
부드럽게 머무는 불이었다.

두려워하는 사람들 위에
혀처럼 갈라진 불꽃.

그리고 침묵당했던 이들이
말하기 시작했다.

한 언어만이 아니라,
수많은 언어로.

아랍어.
히브리어.
그리스어.
아람어.

난민들의 언어.
슬픔에 잠긴 어머니들의 언어.
오랫동안 조국을 빼앗긴 이들의 언어.

각 사람은
자기 어머니의 말 속에서
하나님의 숨결을 들었다.

아—

어쩌면 오순절은
결코 권력에 관한 것이 아니었는지도 모른다.

어쩌면 그것은 해방에 관한 것이었다.

민족들 사이의 오래된 벽들을 허무는 것.

잊혀진 자들의 존엄을 회복시키는 것.

어떤 나라도
다른 민족의 인간됨을 부정하면서
영원히 살아남을 수 없다는 것을
인류에게 가르치는 것.

성령은
안전한 자들에게만 내려오지 않는다.

쫓겨난 자들 위에.
점령당한 자들 위에.
이제는 사라진 집들의 열쇠를
아직도 품고 있는 자들 위에
내려오신다.

그리고 어쩌면
팔레스타인에도
새로운 날이 올 것이다—

복수를 통해서가 아니라,
다른 민족의 굴욕을 통해서가 아니라,
피의 강을 통해서가 아니라—

정의와 상호 인정이라는
고통스러운 탄생을 통하여.

아이들이 머리 위 드론의 공포 없이
잠들 수 있는 주권의 땅.

올리브 나무들이
다시 오래 늙어갈 수 있는 곳.

기억이 더 이상
지하에 숨어 있지 않아도 되는 곳.

이스라엘 사람들과 팔레스타인 사람들이
마침내 서로를
적이 아니라,

하나의 연약한 지구를 함께 살아가는
상처 입은 인간 존재로 바라보는
거룩한 어려움을 배워가는 곳.

오순절은 우리에게 상기시킨다.

하나님은
모든 고통의 언어로 말씀하신다는 것을.

그리고 교회는
제국을 축복하도록 부름받은 것이 아니다.

상처 입은 자들과 함께 숨 쉬고,
억압받는 자들 곁을 걸으며,
어두워진 역사 속에서
희망의 불꽃이 되도록
부름받은 것이다.

어쩌면 가장 위대한 기적은
불의 혀가 아니었다—

인간이 다시
서로의 말을 듣게 된 것이었다.

부활 후 오십 일이 지나,
두려움은 문을 열었다.

그리고 바람이 들어왔다.

그 바람은 지금도 들어오고 있다—

국경을 넘어,
벽을 넘어,
슬픔의 역사들을 넘어—

새로운 날을 찾아서.

— 윤태헌, 2026년 5월 24일

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“New Day”

Posted on May 24, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon

Fifty days
after the stone rolled away,
they were still afraid.

The doors remained locked.
The streets still carried
the memory of soldiers’ boots.

Jerusalem trembled
with many languages—
pilgrims arriving like rivers
from every direction of the earth.

And among them
were people carrying exile
inside their bones.

People who knew checkpoints.
People who knew occupation.
People who knew how history
can wound a homeland
for generations.

Inside one small room,
ordinary people waited.

Fishermen.
Widows.
Women with sleepless eyes.
Young men still smelling
of fear and burial spices.

Then suddenly—

a sound.

Not from empire.
Not from tanks or warplanes.
Not from palaces built
upon conquered hills.

But like a rushing wind
moving through invisible doors.

The house trembled
as though heaven itself
had remembered the poor.

And fire appeared—

not fire raining upon cities,
not fire swallowing children,

but fire resting gently
upon human foreheads.

Tongues of flame
upon the frightened.

And the silenced began speaking.

Not one language only,
but many.

Arabic.
Hebrew.
Greek.
Aramaic.
The languages of refugees.
The languages of grieving mothers.
The languages of those
long denied a homeland.

Each heard
the breath of God
in their own mother tongue.

Ah—

perhaps Pentecost
was never about power.

Perhaps it was about liberation.

About breaking the ancient walls
between peoples.

About restoring dignity
to the forgotten.

About teaching humanity
that no nation
can survive forever
by denying another people
their humanity.

The Spirit does not descend
only upon the secure.

It descends
upon the displaced.
Upon the occupied.
Upon those still carrying keys
to homes now vanished.

And perhaps
a new day will come
for Palestine—

not built through vengeance,
not through the humiliation of another people,
not through rivers of blood—

but through the difficult birth
of justice and recognition.

A sovereign land
where children may sleep
without drones above them.

Where olive trees grow old again.

Where memory no longer needs
to hide underground.

Where Israelis and Palestinians
may finally learn
the sacred difficulty
of seeing each other
not as enemies,
but as wounded human beings
sharing one fragile earth.

Pentecost reminds us:

God speaks
in every language of suffering.

And the Church is not called
to bless empire.

It is called
to breathe with the broken,
to walk beside the oppressed,
to become fire for hope
inside darkened history.

Perhaps the greatest miracle
was not tongues of flame—

but human beings
hearing one another again.

Fifty days after resurrection,
fear opened its doors.

And the wind entered.

It is still entering now—

across borders,
across walls,
across histories of grief—

searching for a new day.

— TaeHun Yoon, May 24, 2026

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“Refugees and Global Migration”

Posted on May 23, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon

— Yoon Wan‑Hee, December 10, 1998

These days, as Korea’s economic situation worsens, many people are reportedly entering Canada and the United States as economic refugees. We hear stories of people risking their lives, traveling through Canada or even South America under harsh conditions, just to reach the United States. To leave one’s homeland and live as a wanderer in a foreign land is one of the most shocking experiences a person can face. Yet these stories are not unique to Koreans. Every nation and every people has known such experiences—past, present, and surely in the future.

There are many reasons people are forced to leave their homeland. For us first‑generation immigrants, we left for our children’s education or for better economic opportunities, so we cannot call ourselves refugees. But today, out of the world’s five billion people, one hundred million have lost their roots because of hunger, war, political oppression, religious persecution, natural disasters, civil conflict, or economic collapse. That means one out of every fifty people is living as a refugee. And experts say that anyone alive today could, under the wrong circumstances, become a refugee.

This year, the World Council of Churches has designated it as the “Year of Solidarity with Refugees.” So today, let us reflect together on refugees and global migration.

When we think of refugees, many of us remember the horrors of the Korean War. Leaving behind homes, fields, and everything essential for survival—fleeing one’s birthplace—was the most extreme human experience imaginable. But in today’s generation, the word “refugee” also refers to the countless international orphans who must leave their homeland as a last means of survival.

In fact, the Old Testament is almost a story of refugees. The wandering life of Israel is woven throughout Scripture: Adam and Eve exiled from Eden; Noah fleeing natural disaster; Abraham and Sarah; Moses; Ruth; Joseph’s migration; the prophets fleeing persecution; and even the infant Jesus escaping to Egypt.

Today, global warming has intensified natural disasters. Hurricanes strike without warning, creating sudden waves of refugees. Recently, Hurricane Mitch devastated Central America, sweeping away 70–80% of entire nations. Climate‑driven disasters are expected to worsen. In many developing countries, population growth, economic collapse, and environmental destruction deepen poverty and heighten social tension—conditions that will only increase refugee crises.

Why should we, who live safely in this country, care about refugees wandering the world? Because human history shows that disaster can strike anyone, anywhere, at any time. And today’s refugee crises are larger and more severe than anything in past centuries. What, then, does God desire from us as Christians?

Long before the United Nations existed, the church was a place of refuge for foreigners. In Leviticus 19:33–34, God commands:

“When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. Treat them as native‑born and love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.”

And again in Deuteronomy 10:19:

“Love the stranger, for you yourselves were strangers in Egypt.”

We Koreans know this well. We lived through the Korean War. We have known the life of the wanderer. God’s words come close to our hearts.

Most of today’s refugees are victims of political conflict in their own countries. Their governments do not govern for all citizens but for a privileged few, creating internal strife. As a result, people rise up against unjust policies, guerrilla warfare erupts, and foreign aid often fuels prolonged conflict.

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