On this Lenten road I stop and kneel a while, as though the Lord might hear me where I am. There isn’t much to offer but myself— no borrowed faith to wrap around my doubts, no heat of zeal, just what I find inside.
It isn’t easy work to look that way. Plain sight has seldom brought a man much ease.
The questions come the same as they have long: Why trouble seems to find the ones most good.
If most are good—as people like to say— has God stepped off and left the darker fields to carry on without His watchful care?
And what of Job? Was he a tale once told to quiet fears beside an older fire? Or does he sit somewhere in modern dust still asking why the losses fall his way?
I think of Jacob meeting Esau once— after the years of gain had weighed him down— and laying something heavy from his heart before he crossed again into his kin.
Perhaps our faith begins where something ends: a God gone silent, or too many gods crowding the narrow rooms where people pray.
And yet the earth goes on in quieter trust. The soil keeps working under what we ask. Something below the surface turns and waits, the way the seasons labor out of sight.
So faith comes back the way the spring comes back— not proved by talk or forced by argument, but rising slowly from the patient ground.
In the bulletin of an American church, I once read a layperson’s article titled “The Path to Healing Ourselves.” It began with these words:
“Our church is facing a difficult time. Beneath it lie anger and pain. More than ever, we need reconciliation and mutual understanding. We hope that when the new pastor arrives, our wounds will be healed. But a friend told me that their church once welcomed a new pastor with the same hopes—yet those hopes were not fulfilled. She said, ‘True healing begins only when there is a desire within us to be healed.’”
Hearing that was disappointing. I wondered, Where can the beginning of healing be found? Turning to Scripture and prayer, I became convinced that God could lead us toward it. I would suggest four simple steps:
Let us accept each other’s experiences as they are—even the actions each believed to be right.
Let us admit that past wounds may not be fully resolved, and begin again from where we stand today.
Let us set aside the need to decide who was right and who was wrong.
Whatever the other person says, listen with respect, believing that from their perspective their words are sincere. Listening without argument or prejudice will not harm us.
Perhaps we might also reflect on the ministry of a former pastor in this way: What meaning did that pastor help me discover in my life? What inspiration or challenge did I receive through him? What in me was changed? And what do we truly need now?
The article was written by members of a congregation that had recently said farewell to their pastor after months of conflict and division. In the empty place left behind, the members longed for reconciliation with one another.
It is easy to think that Korean churches alone face such struggles, but American churches experience them as well. Congregations sometimes face deep tension when new generations arrive, when different expectations of ministry collide, or when racial and cultural diversity enters communities that were once homogeneous.
In such moments, churches are tested by differences of generation, opinion, faith expression, and culture. Sometimes they grow through the struggle; sometimes they scatter.
Wherever people gather, a place can become either a field of conflict or a birthplace of creativity and beauty. When conflict arises, hearts easily divide like oil and water. Both sides may feel justified, yet wounds are left behind.
As Helen Keller once said, the most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched; they must be felt with the heart. That insight invites us to ask whether reconciliation and forgiveness truly live within our own hearts.
Within human nature there is something called vested interest—the instinct to defend what we believe belongs to us because we arrived first or labored first. History shows how dangerous that instinct can become. It has fueled injustice, discrimination, and violence.
Even today, racial prejudice and cultural pride reveal how deeply this desire for privilege can shape human relationships. Yet it is not limited to race or politics. It appears in schools, workplaces, families, and even in churches—communities that confess unity in Christ.
I once saw a congregation complete the beautiful construction of a new sanctuary, only to watch a group of members leave afterward. Perhaps there were understandable reasons. Yet the departure left a small number of believers struggling to carry the burden of debt and responsibility. It was heartbreaking.
Human hearts can be easily stirred—even by misinformation in newspapers or media. A single false report can shake a community or even a nation. Yet while we listen quickly to such voices, we often fail to listen carefully to the truth of God’s Word.
The spiritual life, as writer Howard Macy observed, can never be pushed to the margins. It remains an unexplored frontier. To live within that world requires courage, effort, and openness to the untamed work of God’s Spirit.
Those who have been transformed by grace are called to live a new spiritual life. But that life requires effort—more effort than simply returning to the familiar habits of the past.
When the struggle for privilege quietly grows within a congregation, it divides the body of Christ. Sadly, many conflicts within churches arise from this hidden competition for position and influence.
The empty place left after conflict—after a pastor departs, after wounds are exposed—can become either a deeper division or the beginning of healing.
어느 미국인 교회 주보에 [우리 자신을 치유하는 길]이라는 제하의 평신도가 쓴 글이 나와있었다. 그 글에는 “…우리 교회는 지금 어려움에 직면에 있으며, 그 뒷면에는 또한 분노와 아픔이 도사리고 있습니다. 우리는 어느 때보다도 화해와 서로의 이해를 구해야 될 때입니다. 우리는 새 목사님이 오시면 우리의 아픔을 치유하리라는 희망을 갖고있습니다. 그러나 어느 친구가 내게 말하길, 자신의 교회에도 같은 아픔과 희망을 가지고 새 목사님을 맞았지만, 결국 그들의 소망은 이뤄지지 않았다고 합니다. 그녀는 말하길 ”진정한 치유란 우리 안에서 치유 받고자 하는 열망이 있어야 한다“라고 했습니다. 저는 그녀의 말을 듣고 몹시 실망했습니다. ”이 시점에서 과연 어떻게 치유의 출발을 찾을 수 있을까?“ 저는 성경말씀을 찾아 근거를 얻기 시작했으며, 기도를 통해 하나님은 그 일을 이루실 것을 확신하였습니다. 저는 여러분들께 4가지의 저의 생각을 나눕니다.
1. 우리가 겪은 “옳다고 생각하여 행한 각자의 모든 행한 일”에 대한 경험을 그대로 서로
받아들이자.
2. 지난 아픔들을 더 이상 해결 할 길이 없음을 인정하며, 오늘의 시점에서 다시 출발하자.
3. 누가 “맞았고 틀린 것”에 대한 판단일랑은 모두 잊어버리자.
4. 상대방이 무슨 말을 하든지, 그 말은 상대방으로서 옳은 말이기 때문에 그대로 들어주자. 절대 다툼이나 편견을 갖지 말고 들어주는 일은 결코 서로를 상하지 않는다.
우리는 전임목사님이 하셨던 모든 일에 대해 생각을 이렇게 정리하면 어떨까요? “전임 목사님은 내게 어떤 삶의 의미를 찾게 하셨을까? 그 분으로부터 받은 신앙의 영감 및 도전은 무엇이었을까? 그 분은 무엇을 나로부터 변하게 하셨을까? 우리는 현재 무엇이 필요한가?” 라는 질문을 할 때입니다.“
몇 달 동안의 서로의 반목과 갈등 속에서 결국 담임 목사님을 떠나보내고, 그 빈자리에 선 성도들간의 화해의 손길을 서로 애타게 바라고 있는 글이었다. 한인교회 만이 문제가 많은 것 같으나, 미국교회 안에서도 만만치 않은 문제들로 인해 성도들이 아픔을 겪고 있는 실정이다. 그 중에 백인들로만 차있던 교회들이 흑인 및 소수계 교인들이 몰려올 때 심한 격동을 치루게된다. 특히 젊은 목사님들은 50, 60년대의 목회방법을 고집 하는 오래 된 교인들의 기대에 지쳐 힘이 쭉 빠져있다가, 젊고 비전이 있는 새 교인들이 들어 올 때는 목회에 새로운 힘이 솟는 것만은 사실이다. 서서히 교회 안에서 새 교인들을 중심으로 한 여러 가지의 개혁의 바람이 불게된다. 그러나 그 사이에서 갈등이 벌어지고 서로간에 원치 않는 반목이 자리를 잡게됩니다. 그 아에서 기득권 쟁탈이 벌어집니다. 교회는 이렇게 늘 세대차이, 의견차이, 신앙의 갈등, 인종문제 속에 도전을 받고 성장하기도 하고 흩어지기도 한다.
사람들이 모인 곳- 그곳은 추한 자리가 될 수 도 있고, 창조와 아름다움의 산실이 될 수 있다. 교회에 문제가 생기면 물과 기름이 갈라지듯이 사람의 마음은 어느 한편으로 치우칠 수밖에 없다. 결국 양편이 다 맞을 수도 있고 다 틀릴 수도 있다. 그러나 상처는 모두에게 지울 수 없는 얼룩을 만들어 내고 만다. 헬렌켈러는 “이 세상에서 가장 좋고 아름다운 것은 눈으로 볼 수 없고 손으로 만질 수 도 없다. 그것은 가슴으로 느껴야 한다”라고 하였듯이, 우리 교회에 가슴으로 느껴오는 화해와 용서가 있는지 돌이켜 보게된다.
담임 목사님을 떠나보내고 아픔과 분노 속에, 진정한 성도간의 평화를 추구하는 교우들의 그 빈자리에서 얻어지는 교훈이 우리 모든 한인교회에도 함께 하기를 기도한다.
사람의 심성가운데 <기득권>이라는 것이 있습니다. 먼저 특정한 자연인이나 법인들이 장소를 차지했다거나, 먼저 그 일에 종사했다거나 했을 때, 기득권을 잡았다라는 말을 합니다.
과거 히틀러는 하나님의 선민이라는 유대인들을 멸종시킴으로 인해, 독일인이 세계의 기득권을 잡을 것이라는 착각 속에 600만의 유대인을 살해하는 범죄를 행했습니다.
우리는 미국에 와서 가장 가까이 느끼는 것이 인종차별이라는 것입니다. 먼저 이 땅에 이민 온 백인들의 기득권 속에 소수민족들은 알게 모르게 차별을 당합니다. 또한 흑인과 황인종들은 서로 기득권을 얻으려는 보이지 않는 알력을 갖고 있습니다. 우리 속에 숨어있는 인종을 차별하거나, 남의 문화를 얕보는 태도는 인간의 마음 속에 자리잡고있는 기득권을 차지하려하는 마음때문입니다. 그러나 이것은 인종관계 안에서 만 숨어있는 것이 아니고 우리 삶의 곳곳에 영향을 미치고, 인간관계를 서로 고립시키며 담을 쌓는 일을 하고 있습니다. 어린아이들 사이에서도 이런 일들은 얼마든지 일어나고 있습니다. 사람들이 함께 하고 있는 군대나 학교, 감옥, 직장과 또한 그리스도 예수의 피로 둘이 하나가 된 교회 안에서도 일어납니다.
어느 한인교회가 마음을 합하여 아름다운 성전을 하나님께 봉헌 한 후에, 한무리의 교우들이 교회를 나가는 것을 보았습니다. 물론 여러 가지 이해 할 만한 “그럴 수 밖에 없는 여건”들이 있었을 것입니다. 그러나, 그 여건들을 이기지 못하고 무리가운데서 떨어져 나감으로 인해, 소수의 성도가 남아 성전건축하느라, 빌린 은행 빚을 갚느라 애를 쓰는 예를 보면서 마음이 참 아팠습니다.
인간의 마음은 신문이나 방송매체의 오보에도 곧잘 걸려넘어지게 되어있습니다. 신문에 기사 하나가 잘못나오면, 사회가 난리가 나고 국가가 흔들리고 세계가 위기 속에 휘말립니다. 그런데, 이렇게 외부의 오보에는 귀를 기울이고 난리를 내고 사는 우리들이, 하나님의 진리의 말씀에는 귀를 너무 기울이지 않고 살고있진 않는지 회개케 됩니다.
“영적인 세계는 변두리로 밀려 날 수 없다. 그 세계는 언제나 미개척의 변경이다. 만일 우리가 그 세계에서 살고자 한다면, 우리는 길들여지지 않은 야성 상태의 세계를 받아들이고 또한 기뻐해야 한다”고 하워드 메이시라는 분은 말하였습니다. 생각해 보면 우리는 죄로 길들여지고 그렇게 살아왔다가, 하나님의 은혜로 새 사람이 된 사람들이지요. 그러나, 우리의 새로운 영적인 삶을 영위하고 산다는 것은 마치도 미 개척지를 개발하는 것 이상의 어려움과 노력과 열정이 필요케됩니다. 그러다 보니 또 과거의 죄속에서 길들여진 방법대로 살기를 좋아합니다. 왜냐면 그일은 힘이 들지 않고 노력 할 필요가 없기 때문이지요.
구원받은 성도들 가운데 서서히 일어나는 기득권 경쟁은 그리스도의 몸을 산산히 나누는 일을 합니다. 우리 한인 교회 안에서 일어나고 있는 상당수의 문제점 중의 하나가 기득권 경쟁이라고 보아도 무리가 없을 정도로 이 문제로 많은 교회들이 앓고 있습니다.
Bright morning on the hill. Light on the branches. The buds hesitate between sleep and speech.
Yet the heart does not quiet.
Somewhere beyond this field the old argument continues— war repeating itself with tired certainty.
Many reasons have been spoken. None have made it just.
Still the earth turns in its ancient obedience. Soil keeps faith with the seed. A robin balances on the fence. Wind passes through grass without choosing a side.
Creation remembers what we forget.
No hand in this honest soil can bury violence as one drops a stone into deep water.
Peace moves otherwise— not summoned, not hurried.
She walks the longer road, arriving only when her hour is full.
And yet—
the peach tree knows something.
Without decree, without permission, it opens
petal after petal—
each small pink touching the heart like a question
There is a place where my heart often lingers. It is not a place where an empty chair waits for me, nor where familiar faces greet me. It is simply my own place—my sanctuary.
One day I discovered that a bud, which had waited for years, had broken through its shell and was sending up a tender shoot beneath the warm sunlight. It was a moment of wondrous surprise. From that moment on, the praises offered to God became like a fragrant bouquet of flowers, set afloat upon the rushing currents of time. God called me out into nature and spoke through the wind and the birds, through the grass and trees, through rocks and flowing streams. Even in the lonely voyage across the storm-lashed ocean, God showed that He was guiding the trembling ship and holding its course. Wherever I went, whatever I did, He was always with me. Through all creation He allowed me to encounter the tears of Christ that heal within Him, and the love of His redeeming blood flowing like a river.
Years ago, I once attended an opera performance and found myself feeling ashamed before the leading soprano. She sang with such total devotion—holding nothing back, giving no thought to personal feelings or even to the audience—pouring out her whole being in order to give life to the composer’s song. It was as if the spirit of the composer had taken form within her. Each note seemed to carry the precise and sensitive breath of a final offering in a lifetime. The parsonage is the ground and stage of my life. Yet I often reproach myself, asking: How passionately, how precisely and keenly, am I breathing out the breath of the Lord?
Through more than twenty years of multicultural ministry, life in the parsonage has brought me into contact with many precious people. I have also experienced the unique love and responsibilities that only a pastor’s wife can receive. There were times of laughter and times of tears—beautiful and precious years in which joys and sorrows were quietly borne together. I am grateful to God that I can now share the experiences and reflections of an imperfect person through these Parsonage Letters. My heart trembles with anticipation for the new encounters and relationships that await.
And once again, I set out. Beside the lake near the park, where wild ducks drift peacefully, the submerged trees reveal different colors with each season. The stretching wings of the ducks gliding calmly across the water seem to shake the dust from my heart. And so today, for a little while, I pause there again, seeking a moment of quiet rest.
제 마음이 종종 머무는 곳이 있습니다. 그곳엔 저를 기다려 주는 빈 의자가 있는 곳도 아니요, 안면이 있는 사람들이 맞아주는 곳도 아닙니다. 다만 그곳은 저만의 장소이며 성소입니다.
어느 날, 수년을 기다리던 껍질을 헤치고 새순이 따스한 햇볕아래 돋아나고 있음을 발견하였습니다. 그것은 경이로운 놀라움이었습니다. 그 순간부터 하나님께 드려지는 찬양은, 한 묶음의 향기로운 꽃다발이 되어 시간의 급류에 떠가게 되었습니다. 하나님은 저를 자연으로 불러내어 바람과 새를 통해, 풀과 나무, 바위와 시냇물로 말씀하셨습니다. 폭우가 내리던 대양의 외로운 항해가운데서도 흔들리는 함선을 지키시며 방향을 잡고 계심을 보여주셨습니다. 어느 곳을 가든, 무엇을 하든, 그 분은 언제나 늘 함께 하셨습니다. 만물을 통해 그 안에서 치유하시는 그리스도의 눈물과, 강물같이 흐르는 보혈의 사랑을 만나게 하셨습니다.
수년 전, 어느 오페라 공연에 참석하여 여주인공 앞에 부끄러움을 느낀 적이 있었습니다. 그것은 작곡자의 노래에 생명을 주기 위해서, 개인적인 사사로운 감정이나 관중을 전혀 마음에 담지 않은 채, 혼신을 다해 열창하는 모습이었습니다. 그녀는 작곡자의 혼이 현신 이라도 한 듯이, 일생일대의 마지막 호흡을 한음 한음 속에서 정확하고 예민하게 내뿜고 있었습니다. 목사관은 제 삶의 터전이며 무대입니다. 그러나 얼마나 열정을 다해 정확하고 예리하게, 주님의 호흡을 내 쉬고 있는가? 하는 자책이 늘 있습니다.
20여 년간의 다 민족 목회를 통한 목사관의 삶은 수많은 귀한 분들을 만났습니다. 목사의 아내만이 받을 수 있는 특별한 사랑과 일들도 경험했습니다. 때로는 웃기도 하고 울기도 하며 기쁨과 아픔을 삭이던 귀하고 아름다운 시간들이었습니다. 부족한 사람의 경험과 생각들을 목사관 서신을 통해 함께 나눌 수 있게되었음을 기쁘게 생각하며 하나님께 감사드립니다. 또 다른 만남과 관계 속에 가슴 설렐 뿐입니다.
저는 또 다시 달려갑니다. 물오리들이 한가로이 떠다니는 공원 옆 호수엔, 물아래 드려진 나무들의 모습이 계절마다 다른 색채를 띄고 맞이해 줍니다. 물위를 여유 있게 헤 젖는 물오리들의 기지개가, 내 마음에 쌓여있는 먼지들을 털어 낼 것만 같아 오늘도 잠시나마 여유를 찾아봅니다.
As autumn passes and I find myself wanting to say that the mountains and fields seem to be burning away, I was given the opportunity to visit, with the elderly members of our church, the birthplace of President Roosevelt in Poughkeepsie in upstate New York, as well as the Vanderbilt Mansion, built by the wealthy railroad magnate.
It was a long-awaited day we had planned throughout the summer. Yet, as if on cue, autumn rain fell from morning until evening. Still, as we rode together on the bus, watching the rain-drenched foliage through the window, simply being together made the day joyful and beautiful.
For years our church has hosted this annual appreciation trip for seniors. Sitting in the back of the bus this year, watching the elders rejoice like children, my heart was deeply moved.
And yet, I could not ignore how noticeably frailer many had become this year. Some could not attend because even simple movement had become difficult. Even among those who joined us, a day’s journey seemed exhausting.
Among them were a deaconess who had once been Korea’s first female announcer, a retired schoolteacher, and an elder who had served as an Air Force officer. Some had held significant social roles; others had quietly raised grandchildren in a new land, supporting their families with steady devotion.
Only a few years ago, they had been energetic and quick in movement despite their age. But this year, as I watched them grow breathless while singing hymns on the bus, I found myself thinking: Is not our life like a leaf trembling in the wind?
Today, I would like to reflect on old age.
Let me share with you the lyrics of a humorous song titled, “Life Begins at Seventy.”
Our life begins at seventy, our hearts and bodies still strong. If someone comes to take us at seventy, tell them it is not yet time.
At eighty, tell them it is still too soon. At ninety, tell them not to hurry us. At one hundred, tell them we will go—slowly.
One of the elders sang this song during our trip, and the lyrics touched my heart.
Do you not think there is some truth in this? That real life may indeed begin at seventy?
Those who are ill or weary may protest, “What are you talking about? I only wish to go quickly to heaven.” Yet I suspect that deep in every human heart is the sentiment of the song’s final line: “When you come at one hundred, tell them we will go slowly.”
If by God’s grace I should live into my seventies, I believe I, too, would want to go to heaven—but not in haste.
Everyone, regardless of age, sometimes looks back with regret. “If only I had thought differently then… if only I had chosen better…” Yet life cannot be reversed. The French writer Romain Rolland once said, “Life does not issue return tickets. Once the journey begins, there is no going back.”
I did not understand those words when I was younger. But lately, as I have begun to feel the speed of life, they strike deeply. How much more swiftly must time pass for those climbing the hills of seventy, eighty, or ninety?
Human life moves through stages: infancy, childhood, youth, adulthood, and old age. Each stage anticipates the next. Youth dreams of love and possibility. Adulthood bears fruit through struggle. And before we know it, old age arrives—a time of retirement, of gathering and concluding one’s life.
I, too, sense the signals approaching. My children grow taller than I. I struggle to keep up with computers and the internet. Gray hairs multiply like autumn leaves changing color. Wrinkles settle beneath my eyes.
And yet, surprisingly, my heart sometimes feels young again. I now understand what elders once meant when they said, “Though the body ages, the heart remains eighteen.”
Old age is a step no one can skip.
Is old age defined by white hair and weakening flesh? Or by wisdom and experience? Or by the daily awareness of mortality?
Victor Hugo, in Les Misérables, wrote that when dignity accompanies wrinkles, one earns respect—and that in happy old age, there shines an indescribable dawn.
Old age carries failures and triumphs alike. It holds a dimension of value that youth does not yet know. We must help our elders live this season with dignity, joy, and recognition of the wisdom they have gained.
What do elders truly desire from their children? Often, it is something small: a ripe apple in autumn, a bouquet of flowers, a favorite homemade dish.
Someone once said that older people need money—not to indulge themselves, but to give to their struggling children or to help neighbors in need.
As the body weakens, though the spirit may not, sorrow can easily arise. A careless word. Indifference. Being left behind. These chill the heart.
Chesterfield once observed that just as a drunkard believes he drinks moderately, so youth easily believes itself wise. If young people hope for a respected old age, they must learn from those who have invested a lifetime gaining wisdom—not merely academic knowledge, but wisdom born of tears and endurance.
If youth is “nature’s gift,” then old age is “the masterpiece of ripened art.”
In Scripture we read: “Gray hair is a crown of glory” (Proverbs 16:31), and “Stand up in the presence of the aged, show respect for the elderly, and revere your God” (Leviticus 19:32). Even before commanding reverence for God, we are told to honor the elderly.
During our trip, we briefly stopped at the Vanderbilt Mansion, a grand estate overlooking the Hudson River, built on six hundred acres of breathtaking land. Fifty rooms filled with European treasures. More than fifty servants maintained it. Yet Frederick Vanderbilt eventually left it all behind. The mansion became a museum.
Old age is the time when we face the question: How shall we finish our lives?
The God who has guided us thus far will also secure eternal life beyond old age. This conviction brings comfort to my heart.
Dear listeners, may this week be one in which we help our elders live with dignity and beauty.
Once, in another forest, I walked beside the quiet pond with Henry David Thoreau— learning how little a life requires, how pine and water write their patient lessons.
Once, beneath a wider sky, I listened with Wilhelm Reich for the hidden pulse moving between breath and cloud— body and sky held within one unseen field.
All things are rooted. All things share the same breath.
Another root appeared— older, buried in exile: Gao Xianzhi, child of a fallen land, driven west when Goguryeo collapsed into history.
In the year 747 he crossed the high ice— Darkot and the Pamirs— a thousand riders moving upward, each man leading two horses where even air grows uncertain.
Centuries later Aurel Stein named that vast wilderness Innermost Asia. Others remembered the general as the King of the Mountains.
History moves beneath the ground. It does not travel with trumpets. It remains in the roots— silent, patient, waiting for the thaw.
Sometimes a single life seems no more than ash. Sometimes a single life becomes the still point around which an age turns.
Between the wires, where current hums without thought, a paulownia once stood— too near the careful reach of power.
It fell.
The stump was burned. Fire entered the heartwood, left a hollow— a dark mouth in the earth breathing smoke long after the flame was gone.
Years went by. The place turned rough to look at. So I planted flowers there— small colors rising around the blackened ring.
Farther down the line, four hundred yards of fence, fifteen old trees were taken for the high wires. Seventy rings in each, fifty feet of wind and weather.
Cut. Burned. And the fire moved downward— not toward the sky, but into the hidden places.
Roots thick as old memory would not give way. Weeks of digging— pulley, shovel, pick. We dug deeper than a man stands, deeper than guessing.
Three feet down we found a living thread— a passion vine holding its green life in the dark.
So the soil learned again. Ash softened into loam. What looked ruined became ready once more— ready for seed, ready for growing.
Daily Sauntering 
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