On Sunday, I attended the church I attended last week, and all I can say is that somebody out there (hmmm) definately is out to show me something. I went down to the fellowship hall after service, and began chatting with some people about vacation plans and travelling. My ticket was wrong, as it turned out, and I began asking what in the world there was to do in Gwanju. My co-worker (we will call him Homer) silently guided me over to the pastor, who apparently had begun his Korean life in Gwanju. The answer to my question was, "Nothing." He then proceeded to cajole me into joining his family, the youth group (his two teenage daughter and a friend!), Homer, and his good friend (I mentioned her two blogs ago). I had no idea where they were going or what they were going to do, but I took a "Well, why not?" attitude, and, with a lot of coaxing, agreed to go. The three-day trip only cost me 100,000 won ($100).
We picked up my stuff, and met at KFC. The KFCs in Korea, I must tell you, are actually better than the ones in the United States. I hate fried chicken, but this was GOOD. We left at about 7:30, and got to our destination, Yeonso (yawn-soo) at about 2 a.m., after fighting intermittent torrential downpour. This was to become the theme of our trip. Yeonso is near the ocean on the southwest corner of Korea, I believe. The girls in the car were ages 13,14, and 15, and apparently know all the "Silly Songs" from VEGGIE TALES.
We slept in until 11, and then proceeded outside the city limits. We first visited Aeonyang, where we were supposed to work on fixing the English "translations"(I use this term very loosely, as many of them were almost unreadable, and at times, humerous in spite of their subject matter) in one of the martyr museums. We are currently working on an English-language brochure for the tour of the martyr sites with the idea to pass them on to military chaplains..The idea of this trip was to visit sites of martyrdom for the Christian faith, and evaluate their significance to English language speakers. The firstmuseum was a memorial to a Pastor Son, who lost his life and most of his family in service to the Lord.
Pastor Son was the son of an elder and a deaconess (Presbytarian), who ran afoul of the Japanese during their occupation of Korea (turn of the 20th century) even at an early age. He refused to participate in shrine worship, and was thrown out of elementary school. Christianity had spread like wildfire through Korea thanks to American and Canadian Presbytarian and Methodist missionaries. Japan used this fact in order to humiliate and subjugate the Koreans; after their emperor died, they forced all schools, including missionary schools, to adopt shrine worship and to bow to their dead emperor's image. As a result, many of the freedom fighters against the Japanese were from a Christian background. The movement for democracy and self-rule is intricately entwined with the Christian revival; many pastors and deacons led the move for freedom from oppression. Korea's Christian martyrs are therefore also held in esteem as national heroes, and Pastor Son holds a place in their hearts much like Gandhi does in India.
Pastor Son went to Pyongyang for seminary, and also spent time in a Japanese seminary under a much-loved and respected (even in korea) Japanese pastor. He was sent to Aeonyang, a leper colony founded by an American doctor and missionary, a Dr. Wilson. Another American missionary by the name of Forsythe also figures prominantly in the spread of both Christianity and Western medicine. All of the western medical hospitals in South korea were founded through missionary societies.
It ws at the leper colony that Pastor Son found his calling. He would go directly into the foulest contagion ward and embrace the lepers without fear of contamination. His gift was that of love and compassion, "The Atomic Bomb of Love" as the Koreans call him. His congregation welcomed him with open arms, and his critics soon dissolved. He was a rather plain (nerdy) man, with thick round glasses and a homely face, but even in photos, there is a light shining in his eyes.
He was captured by the Japanese for his fervent preaching, but never tortured as so many prisoners were. He spent seven years in prison, then was inexplicably released.
Meanwhile, his family had grown up. It was 1948, and his two sons were in college, preparing to study abroad in America. The eldest lead the Christian society at the university, but the Communists were becoming ever more present on campus. One day, they came to his door, and took him out. His younger brother also was taken, and, knowing that his elder brother would be shot, pleaded that his older brother be released. Witnesses say that even as he was being blindfolded, elder brother pleaded with them to repent of their deeds, and accept the grace of God. They shot him, and his brother broke free to hold his dying brother. He also pleaded with them to repent, saying that his faith was the same as his brother's faith. He stood up, and spread his arms out, saying that he would die like his Lord and Savior. They shot him in the chest, and he died next to his brother.
Pastor Son received the news as he was praying in the chapel with grace. He expressed concern for the souls of the murderers, stating that his sons were already within the gates of heaven, but the murderers faced hell for their sin. He then adopted one of the murderers into the family (a slight acquaintance of the brothers).
A few years later, the Communists came for Pastor Son. They took him and several of the elders out into an orchard. Pastor Son kept on preaching, even after his lips were ripped by his tormentors. they shot him and his followers in the orchard. The next day, his wife gave birth to the future Pastor Son.
We visited the leper colony on out trip (the old folks non-contagious ward). The building was in poor repair; there was no air conditioning, and the residents were sitting on the floor. On the plaque, it said that First Presbytarian in Orlando and a church in Germany had given them the current building in 1986, but it didn't appear much, if any, money had come in for a long time. The volunteer workers did the best they could, swatting flies, feeding the residents (many without fingers or feet), and wheeling them about. I hope someone reading this can raise some funds for the Wilson Rehabilitation center in Aeongyang.....
At the colony, we met an 82 year old resident who lived there. H came to the colony with leprosy (now called Hansen's disease) when he was 19. Although cured, as many there are (the contagion ward is on an island off the coast), he was blind and lost the use of his fingers, so he never left. Through an interpreter, we learned that he was the last survivor of a group of residents who had memorized the entire New Testement. Those who could read helped those who were blind memorize by listening; they also learned later on through cassette tapes. As he said, "My eyes and hands don't work, but my ears and brain work fine, and as long as I have a mouth that works, I will praise the Lord."
We pressed on to Chin-do, a fishing village, apparently famous for anchovies. All along the bay were set nets where the locals grew seaweed (a staple of a healthy Korean diet), and fishing boats lined the wharfs. We took a crazy, winding jaunt into our van through the dockside streets of the village; it was so narrow that only one car could take these streets at a time. There was a boat repair yard where quite a bit of welding was going on.
We left the island, and went back into Yeonso. We spread out on the beach, enjoying the fact that the rain had stopped. It was warm, but not too warm, and vey peaceful. As a beachfront, it wasn't much to look at, but a welcome respite nevertheless.
We then wended our way up to Kumsan church, a museum example of a typical Presbytarian missionary church. We read the letters of the missionaries, and looked around the simple, yet strangely attractive meeting room. There was a curtain diagonal to the pulpit; the men sat on one side, and the women on the other. The pastor, because it was diagonal, could see both sides evenly.
We then drove around looking for accomodations, and were arrested by a glow in the dark castle motel. Intrigued, we pulled off the highway, and found ourselves in a Vegas-like strip of neon-lit Motels. They were set on a hill, and many of them were themed, such as "The El Dorado," the above mentioned castle (there were actually two) and our more modest choice, "The Blue Park." It was clean and affordable, but a little on the shady side. In the lobby, I went over to investigate their movie collection, and discovered it was an impressive array of pornography and "C" action movies. In the morning, I saw several "calling cards" from various heavily, and not very attractively, made-up women. I slept Korean-style that night...on the floor.
We again got up early, and went to Jeam-ri, a historical site of martyrdom and nationalism (a national treasure). At this site, the Japanese had used the church membership list to track down the families in Jeam-ri, and called them to the church. They checked them off the list in roll-call fashion, left the building, nailed the doors shut, set it on fire, and began firing at the building. They then systematically burned the village down, and moved on to other villages suspected of being involved in the March First Movement (Korea's Declaration of Independance). When the scattered survivors came to bury the dead, they found all the bodies melted together in the center of the church and buried them in a mass grave. In 1982, the bodies were unearthed, separated, and reburied. The Japanese offered an official apology, and helped fund the building of the museum and the exhuming efforts. Jeam-ri no longer exists, as it was obliterated, but the museum stands on the land it once occupied.
We then went north to the Protestant martyr's museum, a very impressive collection and history lesson starting with the missionaries and continuing into our century. There were beautifully (if grotesque) rendered watercolors of village scenes, soldiers, and torture scenes. The story was told through pictures, paintings, and mercifully well-translated placards. The third floor was devoted to portraits of about 300 martyrs of the faith- men, women, and missionaries. This was not translated, but I wad told that each brass plate told the individual story. The last frame was a mirror, and it read "Are you the next martyr?"
We returned to Seoul that evening, and cobbled together the Wednesday night worship service.
I mused on the lengths that people went to in the name of Christ. I am in awe of this kind of love. I think if it came down to it, I would stand for my faith, even if I died for it. Part of this is sheer stubborness, I must admit, but what does a Christian have to lose, after all? There is a point beyond bodily pain in which we enter into a realm of no pain. What a gracious and loving gift to give to the Savior of the Universe. These people are remembered for their compassion and love, not their sacrifice.
Given the current political ramifications of martyrdom, I tried to come to terms with the idea of faith being worth dying for. Muslim fundamentalists do it in the name of later rewards; Christians do it as servants of love and compassion. Which is more likely to be fruitful to the world?
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