DIALOGUE WITH THOMAS MERTON | PART 1

By faith, I knew this day would arrive. It marks the point of no return, only to move forward to Asia. Our departure is scheduled for September 29, with Korea as our destination. Our friends found a beautiful house in Yangpyeong, which I have written about many times, both from and about. Over the next several blog posts, I want to share Thomas Merton’s journal entry from the book Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, followed by my responses from October 2020 and August 2025. I think it’s fitting to share my reflection, as Merton’s words confirmed the path we’ve been on for six years. This series will consist of four parts. I hope you will be able to follow along.

Preface

October 9, 2020
Below is a journal entry by Thomas Merton that essentially summarizes my wife’s and my desire to spend the rest of our lives living intentionally. My wife says that this reads like a manifesto of our life’s calling. As we reflect on how we arrived at this point, we see that it couldn't have happened without a significant amount of disillusionment and deconstruction. What is implied in this journal entry is multifaceted, encompassing theological, contemplative, and mystical aspects, as well as our appropriate posture, actions, and service to the world. Fundamentally, though not his intention, I believe it describes how each of us should live this life. I believe I can say that we understand this both intuitively and through experience. Although our experiences are not the same as Merton’s, there are enough congruencies to make it easy to follow and understand. Merton, being Merton, articulates it better than anyone else I know or have read.

Merton’s words are indented with my 2020 and 2025 comments, following each of Merton’s paragraphs. (Merton’s italicized words are his. I also italicized mine for emphasis.)

August 9, 2025
Looking back, I know exactly where and when I read this section of Merton’s journal as it seared into my heart. It was in Bali in 2019, in some random Airbnb poolside. For some reason, when I am physically outside of the US, I have always tended to think and perceive things more clearly. This was no exception. I noted the section and told myself I would revisit this section later.

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Part 1

Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, pp. 153-156

In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness. The whole illusion of a separate holy existence is a dream. Not that I question the reality of my vocation, or of my monastic life: but the conception of “separation from the world” that we have in the monastery too easily presents itself as a complete illusion: the illusion that by making vows we become a different species of being, pseudoangels, “spiritual men,” men of interior life, what have you.

2020
What amounted to this extraordinary spiritual epiphany took place on March 18, 1958, in a very ordinary place while performing a mundane duty of running errands for Merton. This was a revelation to Merton because this was not his understanding when he first joined the abbey in Kentucky. It was the experience of being one with God and the human race, for he saw others with God’s love, which also was in him.

2025
What Merton once conceived as “separation from the world” as “holy existence” was shattered through this mystical experience. The concept and call to separation were replaced by union, even with total strangers. Furthermore, as with Merton (as he writes in other places), we are also one with nature. That this union is multilayered, from union within oneself to with others and with otherness.

About two years ago, I was traveling from Yangpyeong to Seoul on a train. The train was sparsely populated with mostly older folks. Suddenly, I was overcome with compassion and love for all the passengers as I looked around. I knew that I could not have manufactured such compassion and grace, and that we are all somehow interconnected to being part of each other’s journeys.

Certainly these traditional values are very real, but their reality is not an order outside everyday existence in a contingent world, nor does it entitle one to despise the secular: though “out of the world” we are in the same world as everybody else, the world of the bomb, the world of race hatred, the world of technology, the world of mass media, big business, revolution, and all the rest. We take a different attitude to all these things, for we belong to God. Yet so does everybody else belong to God. We just happen to be conscious of it, and to make a profession out of this consciousness. But does that entitle us to consider ourselves different, or even better, than others? The whole idea is preposterous.

2020
We are all in the same boat as humanity. This IS the main point that levels all humanity as equals. No one is above or below, in or out, “better than others.” This way of thinking is decisively un-modern. Missions efforts in the modern paradigm still largely operate out of an impertinent attitude of superiority and thus extended paternalistic and patronizing relationships (which are not dissimilar to missions efforts during Western Colonialism), which essentially undermine the basic worth of each human being. Out of the realization (that we all belong to God) comes naturally what Merton describes as the solidarity with the others and sympathy and compassion for others (this certainly Is not to say we are the ones that are dishing out such worthy efforts, perhaps it is better to say co-sympathy and com-passion including us), basically arriving at a place of non-judgment and non-entitlement, while he assumes that those who are in the “profession” are conscious of belonging to God.

2025
Merton further dismantles the concept of holy separation by calling it preposterous. This preposterous idea certainly goes beyond missions, especially in this volatile and increasingly polarizing world. Extreme polarization works when there is a us and them, whoever the us and them may be. Somehow, to lump humanity as one is perceived as too risky and vulnerable. If we are honest with ourselves, it is not too far-fetched an idea that the entire modern construct developed out of “we,” whoever “we” are, being different or better than others. Thus, undoing this preposterous idea is a must.

HOPE, FAITH, AND LOVE

We create because we believe in hope. Hope is the undying, disruptive soul power that fuels and sparks creativity. I had loved Emily Dickinson’s imagery of hope in her poem; Hope is the Thing with Feathers.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

In hope, we live in the present for the future, singing the tune and never stopping. The preferred idealized future keeps us engaging and creating. Though hope and future are inseparable couples, hope draws its source of inspiration from the past, from our stories and the stories of humanity. We look back to delve deeper and be inspired to create. In hope, we live in the present because of the past, having sung the tune and never stopping. 

I write, create because of the hope that someday and somewhere, someone will read and connect with my writing. I see it as a message in a bottle drifting on the vast ocean. I don’t know who it will reach, if they will find the bottle among countless bottles, or even read it. As I take the time to open the message from the past, I am hopeful that my message will also find someone. But this is not the main reason I write and create. 

I write because I have a vision. Hope is a vision. To hope is to envision something out of nothing, in the sea of what is. I dream that all humanity will relate to and learn from one another as fellow human beings, out of the common ground of humanity, rather than arguing for differences, self-interests, power, and greed. While we can accept and even celebrate our differences, what is and can be shared among humanity, humans as humans, is too edifying and exhilarating to ignore. If we take Carl R. Rogers’ dictum of “what is most personal is most universal” to heart, then each of our stories possesses the vision and quality of connection with others.

Hope paints us a destination, which often is not crystal clear, “dimly or obscurely,” according to Apostle Paul. Faith kicks in and gets us to move toward the destination. Faith is not an absence of doubt. Doubts and questions are an integral part of our faith journey. Welcoming doubt and questions, as friends and not enemies to conquer, faith allows us to move and act, leading to increased faith. Faith without action is a dream of a simpleton. In faith, we act, adjust on the fly, and seek God who is ever close. Faith transforms the vision of a destination from dimness to luminance, which hope has known all along.

Love is the person, the being, who moves, providing us with motives for both the destination and the journey. On another way of saying what love is, I echo the words of Apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians 13:12. “For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.” (NRSV) The ultimate vision of love is that “we will know fully as we have been fully known.” This knowing is not an intellectual knowing, but an intimate experiential knowing. And that we are finally catching up with what God has known from the beginning. That is what love is and what love does. Love is to be known, recognizing that we have been known all along. Love is to know, seeing face to face, without dimness and obscurities.

RESTLESSNESS

I was working on the English edition of the preface to my first book. Although I wrote the book in English, it was originally translated into Korean. Now, I’m hoping my English book will see the light of day sometime in the fall. Through serendipitous connections, I was led to a competent, experienced, yet young editor who was willing and open to collaborating with me. Additionally, she was quite knowledgeable about the core ideas of my book, both through her experience and professional background, as she had edited a few authors I was already familiar with.

A recurring theme in my life, which my book entails, has been a sense of restlessness. Restlessness both pushed me and pulled me in life. Restlessness guided me, often like a slow but methodical meandering river, and drove me at times like a mad rushing river. I did what I did mostly out of dissatisfaction with what was the accepted norm, the status quo. Occasionally, dissatisfaction showed itself as rebellion, especially when I was young. Dissatisfaction also fueled a slow-burning drive to question, probe, and dismantle the encrustation of the “empire mentality,” as the late Walter Brueggemann called it in his book, The Prophetic Imagination.

Walter Brueggemann’s observation is this: “The task of prophetic ministry is to nurture, nourish, and evoke a consciousness and perception alternative to the consciousness and perception of the dominant culture around us.” He sets the stage further. “The alternative consciousness to be nurtured, on the one hand, serves to criticize in dismantling the dominant consciousness.. . . On the other hand, that alternative consciousness to be nurtured serves to energize persons and communities by its promise of another time and situation toward which the community of faith may move.” In my case, a deep sense of restlessness serves as a reservoir of energy to criticize the dominant consciousness of our time. It is the vision of what could and should be, the alternative consciousness, replacing what is, against the empires that enslave people, blatantly and connivingly.

The prophets of the old were poets, the creatives, the artists. The means and mediums of criticism and dismantlement were unleashed through their creative powers and genius. The natural law of cross-pollination flourishes among artists, not only between 21st-century peers but also spanning generations and centuries, connecting and releasing new creative energies as well as messages from the past. Art begets art, ad infinitum. Creativity inspires creativity, forever and ever. Amen?

The prophets of today are also poets, creatives, and artists. In fact, we all are. The key is to pay attention to what the dominant and royal consciousness of our time is and to take action with our unique creative gifts. This aligns with joining Jesus in setting the captives free and liberating the oppressed. We shouldn't be surprised that the people in the synagogue were filled with rage, because the dominant consciousness holds power and control. When that power and control are challenged, they will fight to defend them. History makers often come from the peripheries, the edges of the center, speaking with “voices of marginality,” as Brueggemann said. By tapping into our restless creativity, we can and will change the course of history.

TERROR AND BEAUTY

On this year’s Father’s Day, my wife gifted me with two books: Owls and Other Fantasies by Mary Oliver and Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard. Over the years, I witnessed her keen ability to know what books to gift people. As she is widely read, her recommendations over the years have expanded my reading list and provided me with boundary-crossing experiences. I had read many of Oliver’s collections, but I had not read the above title, while Dillard’s work is elevating me to another level of imagination.

In Oliver’s short essay on Owls, I found myself stuck ruminating based on my experiences.

“In the night, when the owl is less than exquisitely swift and perfect, the scream of the rabbit is terrible. But the scream of the owl, which is not of pain and hopelessness and the fear of being plucked out of the world, but of the sheer rollicking glory of the death-bringer, is more terrible still. When I hear it resounding through the woods, and then the five black pellets of its song dropping like stones into the air, I know I am standing at the edge of the mystery, in which terror is naturally and abundantly part of life, part of even the most becalmed, intelligent, sunny life — as, for example, my own. The world where the owl is endlessly hungry and endlessly on the hunt is the world in which I live too. There is only one world.”

In the previous paragraph, Oliver describes the owls as “pure wild hunters of our world,” citing that one can easily find headless bodies of rabbits and other small animals and birds, as the owl has “an insatiable craving for the taste of brains.” Life’s terror, which is natural and abundant, remains a mystery in conjunction with “sunny” life. The fact that both opposing qualities coexist is what remains a mystery. Nature does not shy away from terror, and therefore, it has an unmatched parallel with humanity’s penchant and capacity for terror.

The unprecedented floods around the world are sheer terror, as terror triggers the supple imagination for more terror. I do not have satisfactory answers to such terror wreaking havoc and taking lives. I also know water is an indispensable source of sunny and vibrant life. In a perfect dualistic world, we can conveniently separate the two, good versus evil, if you like, but having them coexist makes life messy and complex, and everyone is scrambling for answers.

Three paragraphs later, Oliver turns swiftly and writes this below.

“Are the roses not also--even as the owl is--excessive? Each flower is small and lovely, but in their sheer and silent abundance the roses become an immutable force, as though the work of the wild roses was to make sure that all of us, who come wandering over the sand, may be, for a while, struck to the heart and saturated with a simple joy.”

Nature exhibits both beauty and terror, just as “is the world in which I live too.” If we allow nature to teach us, then perhaps a mature response would be to acknowledge and welcome both. “Go to the limits of your longing… Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror,” Rilke wisely advised in the book, Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God. Nature encourages us to adopt a stance of letting everything unfold. It is a form of surrender—surrender to the present moment. This is still one of the hardest lessons for me. The idea of terror frightens me, and I tend to quickly say a prayer for protection that keeps terror as far away from me and my loved ones as possible. Accepting and embracing both terror and beauty affirms that I am part of this world. That sense of solidarity makes me human and gives me the unique power to empathize and to heal.

LISTENING FOR THE PRAYER OF THE HEART

I have been thoroughly enjoying my spiritual direction training so far. The second half of the school is gearing up to be a more hands-on practicum portion of the training. I will soon engage in my own spiritual direction sessions with two willing directees over the next seven months. Through my readings and interactions with my cohort, I can begin to articulate what spiritual direction is using my own language.

There are many helpful definitions out there, each emphasizing critical aspects of what spiritual direction is. As I anticipate companioning my two directees, I like to think of spiritual direction as listening for the prayer of the heart. CenterQuest Asia follows a contemplative-evocative approach to spiritual direction. Such a posture involves deep listening, allowing the directees to discover God’s presence and action in their lives through non-directive methods, such as open questions and gentle, tentative language. We believe the Holy Spirit is the true director. In this sense, the title, director, is quite misleading. It is more about companionship than “directing.”

Back to the matter of the heart. What we hold in our hearts longs to be expressed: that is the purpose of the heart. (This is a bit of a rabbit trail, but I was watching Kian84’s drawing session with Daeho84 on one of Kian84’s YouTube feeds. In their early forties, they talked about the necessity and the need to paying attention to their hearts. Here is the link if interested. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bx0OBHjBvTg&t=314s. Not sure if English subtitles are available, but you can choose the auto translate option.) Our life, then, is a series of struggles and victories in reaching the final declaration of our heart, which is the crown and height of humanity. It is the crown because God willed it from the beginning—the crown had been there all along; we just have not recognized it. It is the height because there is no greater reach one can achieve. Thus, it remains our ultimate responsibility to steward the channel and expression of our heart. What gets expressed, we may not know or understand fully, initially. Reaching the edge of such understanding gives sacred meaning to the union between the Creator and the creation.

The shier part of the heart reveals itself when it is safe and when it knows it can be trusted, which is one of the gifts spiritual direction can offer—to create the generous and trusted space to probe deeply into one’s own heart. Over time, I believe that pursuing our heart’s desire is our unique creative contribution to the world. Thus, pursuing one’s heart is never self-centered but the most worthy and self-emptying journey one can take. John Calvin operated with the conviction that all of created reality, each moment extended from the hands of God, is shot through with longing.[1] I would like to listen for that longing, desire. 

To reiterate and broaden our perspectives, where we connect with the rest of humanity happens through each person’s desire and longing. The root Latin word of “narrative” means to “tell” or “relate.” The root word is also closely related to the Latin word “knowing.” It suffices to draw an observation that we know through narratives, and that human understanding comes from sharing each other’s narratives. The question remains, “How and where do we get to share our stories and hear someone else’s stories?” A story that is not yet a happy ending, raw, and not neatly packaged with a ribbon on top. . .  Also, a story that is not fixated in the past or in the future, but as is presently enfolding. . .

The encounter with the Divine occurs within the context of humanity, not outside of it, as was the experience of Jesus. This encounter of the Divine with the human can be summed up in one word: incarnational. Thus, the invitation is to enter into our humanity fully, to our own narratives, again as Jesus did, for it is the gateway to not only a life-changing encounter but also a union with God. In this vein, I yearn to listen for the depths of humanity, the encounter, and the evolving union.

[1] Phillips, Susan S.. Candlelight: Illuminating the Art of Spiritual Direction (p. 25). (Function). Kindle Edition.

CONNECTION AND CONVERSATION

We are meant to live both in solitude and in collaboration. The destiny of being human is individualistic and communal, forever intertwined. Life is about connection, the connection within our whole being and between others. The more we are connected with ourselves and others, the more flourishing the meaning of life.

In just a few days, we will have been married for 35 years. No institution in the world is more apparent than marriage in promulgating connection. It remains somewhat puzzling, ironic, and providential that I have discovered and connected with myself more deeply as my wife and I pursued connection and intimacy with each other in marriage. While I view my role as a father (and grandfather to be) primarily as a steward, trying desperately to be a helpful bridge to the heavenly Father, my role as a husband is a lifelong partner, trying desperately to reflect Christ. While both are intimate means to provide connection, marriage bares and requires vulnerability, trust, and love unlike any other.

I have known Grace for more than two-thirds of my life. As she discovers more of her true self, there is more discovery to be had from my end. I can even call this a mystery. She is the same person, and yet she has evolved, becoming more of her true essence, somewhat foreign to me. She is not the person I married. She probably would say the same thing about my evolution. Certainly not boring, and I would like to think that we are providing the space and time to do the hard work of uncovering our true selves. As more of our true essences are revealed, we are required to let go of old images and projections, though they have been helpful servants, and are invited to welcome the new paths ahead and the new persons more fully.

The connection displayed through the dance between solitude and collaboration in the context of marriage grants me an insight and a blueprint for how I see and approach connection with the world. The image of humanity as “a bride of Christ” motivates me toward the fulfillment of the “marital” covenant connection between Christ and the world.

The work we do is always in conversation with our previous work, the work others have done, and what the world has observed. No current work, regardless of its nature, stands alone; it is shaped by all the prior work. My work now is a form of revision, whether major or minor, based on what succeeded or failed in the past. It is my personal interpretation, not only of my own work but also a critique and revision influenced by what I relate to, especially in the work of others. When I write, I write in conversation with myself from the past as I see things now that I did not see before. Articulating my internal conversation with my past self has helped me to clarify the path of my life and to dare to project into the future.

What I do say, in many ways, is a testimony and a unique voice, drawing from deep perennial wisdom traditions of the past. In my dutiful and delightful conversation with the saints from the past, I stand on the shoulders of their wisdom, as van Gogh wrote in a letter, “Still, a great deal of light falls on everything.” To be wise is to engage in the aforementioned conversations. The conversations help us to see and hear what to pay attention to and what to let go of. When one dismisses and rejects “conversations,” the slippery slope of isolation often leads to misguided ignorance and even lunacy.

Conversation and connection cannot exist without the other. Like wind to an eagle, conversation aids connection to soar to new heights, and into better human beings for the sake of the world.

OBITUARY

I wrote my own obituary.

First, I was intrigued by the idea above all else. I not only decided to write my own, but I invited a few others to do the same. About a month ago, I was companioned by my friends to probe deeper into what really matters most to me.

A few months ago, I read an article in the New York Times titled, Why I Write My Own Obituary Every Year (https://www.nytimes.com/2024/09/29/opinion/write-your-own-obituary.html). Intrigued and curious, I decided to follow through. I found a few helpful instructions online and followed these simple steps.

1.     Write your name and what you would like on your tombstone.
2.     How did you make the world a better place?
3.     Write down how people will remember you.
4.     Write down what was real me, my essence.
5.     Who will miss you the most?
6.     Write down what I would love someone to say when I depart.

This exercise briefly crossed my mind as a morbid idea. But once I overcame the initial obstacle, I realized it was neither morbid nor maudlin. Instead, it proved to be incredibly helpful in identifying what matters most to me at this point in my life. In hindsight, this exercise was somewhere between wishful projection into the future and honest, vulnerable self-assessment of the present. Not out of a desire to withhold my obituary, but because sharing what was most important and helpful to me mattered more, I would like to share what I learned from writing my own obituary. The real value for me was the reflection that followed, more than the exercise itself.   

Post Reflection

First, I became fully aware that this exercise reflected this time in my life, serving as a window to my soul this season. What I may write a few years from now may be nuanced differently or perhaps even radically different. For a document that is barely over 200 words, I became highly cognizant and intentional of every word and phrase I chose. Just perhaps, the words not only agreed but defined what I embraced as a reflection of who I think I am in my true essence. Conversely, I did feel restrictive and came face to face with the limitations and brevity of my mortality—that my life can be summed up in so few words.

On the first day of our sabbatical back in 2019, my wife and I visited Serra Retreat Center in Malibu, California. As we were about to walk the labyrinth, I saw the plaque that read, “Walk this labyrinth not just for yourself but for all those who cannot find their way.” That invitation remained prophetic and alive in me as I embarked on the second half of my life ever since then. That act of walking my own way so that I may be of help to others, surmises the timeless invitation—that walking my way is not just for my benefit and calling, but also others.

No wonder both my wife and I took on Jesus’ “mission” of “to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.’ (Luke 4:18-19, NRSV). This mission of Jesus, in my mind, served as the cornerstone for all the teachings and actions of Jesus. Jesus’ prophetic mission was to “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.”

In my obituary, there is also an undeniable shift from primarily serving organizations and programs to simply serving and being with people. God, as a generous and big God, has resonated with me over the years and changed how I see everything. In contrast, there is a clear sense of defiance and a voice against empire-building systems. Additionally, nature has become an important teacher for me.

Ultimately, this exercise sifted through and separated life’s trivialities and non-essentials from what I believe to be God’s invitation, based on how God designed me. It was like I had written an invitation to myself about how and what to live for, separating grains from chaff.

THE WAY

“If you can’t see far ahead, go as far as you can see.” The late Ralph Winter often quoted Dawson Trotman, the founder of The Navigators. “Clarity is often overrated,” more than we care to admit, as I once said during a leadership strategy meeting years ago. Rumi, a Sufi mystic, similarly captures, “As you start to walk on the way, the way appears.” Clarity does not precede action; it emerges from action. The most repeated biblical command, “do not fear,” along with the command to “go,” invites us to move, take the first step, feel the air, smell the roses, and face the enemy. What is promised is another imminent immanuel voice, “for I am with you,” providing “the assurances of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

Pilgrimage and clarity rarely go together. In fact, pilgrims undertake the journey to escape suffocating systems of certainty and to open their arms wide, with eyes wide open, to embrace all the turns and twists of life. John O’Donohue’s image of the river “carried by the surprises of its own unfolding” captures the beauty and savagery of pilgrimage. Clarity demands certainty, followed by a sense of control. Here, certainty is based on clarity, and when clarity disappears, bewilderment and insistence set in, causing one to obsess over clarity. The certainty of pilgrims comes from the reality that there is little or no clarity. The only certainty is that I AM WHO I AM is with me. Faith is more about Whom our faith resides in than what. Specifically, faith is about trusting that God is love and good.

Faith is not opposed to questions, doubts, and uncertainties. Faith involves honest wrestling with doubts about God, ourselves, and how the world seems to work. In a faith journey, we are not just encouraged to doubt and question, but we are required to do so.

Our current long liminal season began shortly after I stepped down from leadership on January 1, 2019. We are now well into the sixth year of discerning our next steps in life and ministry. As we started sensing God’s movements and nudges, we began to act. Specifically, we knew that Asia, with Korea at the forefront, was calling us. We took bold and drastic steps to move toward Asia. The only way I believed I would understand God’s calling was to immerse ourselves and discern on the ground, breathing the same air. God poured out gifts on us, including both affirmations and confirmations, along with miracles.

If discerning Asia was our (my wife and I) “walking the way until the way appeared,” then there was me “walking the way” to discover my contribution in Asia. Engagement with the world and for the world (missions) will continue to be part of my contribution, which is not difficult to envision. What required more time and effort from me had to do with walking the way to discover areas I did not know I had to contribute to. Spiritual direction, both individual and group, will be at the center of my service to the world. Hospitality in the context of nature brings me life and thus will complement spiritual direction. The biggest discovery for me was the growing desire that I must write.

We are halfway into our US visit. In about three months, I would like to believe our long liminal season will be over. Perhaps there will be another liminal season open up before us, but we will not worry about that until it arrives. As we started to walk the way, the way appeared for us over time, like fog slowly lifting from the ground, unveiling the brilliance of the sun.

FOR THE SAKE OF THE WORLD

Sol LeWitt, an American artist, in his letter to a friend artist, spoke of courage and empowerment. “Don’t worry about cool, make your own uncool. . . . you are not responsible for the world—you are only responsible for your work—so DO IT. And don’t think that your work has to conform to any preconceived form, idea or flavor. It can be anything you want it to be.”

For decades, I was consumed with being responsible for the world, to save the world. I still am, more than ever. But how I approach and engage the world has radically changed. By caring for the world, I have learned to care about the work I am doing and want to do. The betterment of the world by helping to bring God’s kingdom to this earth was the grand operative vision. And only that mattered. Vision had little or no connection or regard for my selfhood. The disconnection led to an unfortunate and unhealthy compartmentalization of the world and the selfhood when the world Jesus died for included every single self. The bifurcated reality pitted the world against selfhood and vice versa. One would have to choose one or the other since choosing both was thought to be a slippery slope into a schizophrenic form of existence.

LeWitt’s advice awakens those who want to heed a crucial first step out of the shallow dualistic thinking—focus on yourself and your work. What LeWitt does not say, at least in his letter to a friend, is that when we pay attention to our selfhood, the world will benefit. All our work can be original. If we don’t do our authentic and unique work, no one else will and can. What is “cool” and “uncool” remains subjective. When we do our work, we touch the segments of the world we are meant to touch. All the more reasons for all of us to discover and focus on our work. . .

Our work arises out of our self if the work is authentic. We can do fake work, but that will burn out, and we will start running on fumes. Adrian Van Kaam, a Dutch priest, has written extensively on the concept of originality.

Originality is like a unique mark each man receives at birth. It is his latent ability to be himself in his own way.

A value lacking in many of us is the courage to live our own lives.

Thomas Merton offers a similar insight. “For me to be a saint means to be myself. Therefore, the problem of sanctity and sanctification is in fact the problem of finding who we are and discovering our true self.” Originality of our work must stem from our original self. I believe there is a saint in all of us if we do the courageous work to discover our original self and live our own lives.

Over the weekend in New York, we eagerly maneuvered our way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one of our favorite things to do in the city, not to mention the gluttony-driven, gluten-filled pizzas and bagels (excluding my wife, who just patiently watched me devour them). Over time, while visiting museums, with slight exaggeration, I have evolved from iguana-esque perceiving, seeing everything in all directions frantically but understanding nothing, to ruminant lingering, imagining the story behind the artists, and letting the artists speak to my life. As I have paid attention to my work, other artists’ works entered my purview. I don’t appreciate all artists’ works, and that is precisely my assertion. They remained authentic, “uncool” in their stories and work, and some touch and move me deeply, while others do not.

All artists begin their creative journey as cover artists by imitating the artists and works they love, which was clearly evident in Monet, van Gogh, Picasso, etc. This is how we grow, mature, and discover our authentic and unique styles. All human beings are “cover” beings, imitating and emulating those they admire. This process allows us to pay our dues and continues the evolution of humanity’s consciousness throughout history. As we uncover our signature and God-given selves and commit to our unique “arts” and works—a lifelong journey, no doubt—we become gifts to the world without us trying. That is the only genuine way to make an impact, by speaking to and influencing those who resonate with our voices, colors, and actions.

DYING BEFORE DYING

We knew we had to go to Ann Arbor, Michigan. After pivoting and adjusting our plans, we arrived in Detroit before our trip to New York to celebrate a life well-lived, with utmost authenticity and humility. John M. Park, our in-law, passed into eternity after fighting a valiant battle against cancer, but more importantly, by living a life of dying.

“Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24, NRSV)
“For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.” (Matthew 16:25, NRSV)

When we, as parents, first met a few years ago, as our son Michael and their daughter Gloria were getting serious in their relationship, over In-N-Out burgers, all of us immediately felt like we were long-lost friends. After Michael and Gloria got married, I thought it would be the beginning of a deep friendship. Soon after the wedding, John discovered cancer.

Hundreds of people attended the memorial service, with most of the guests having had significant connections with John and his wife, Helen. We were among the few people, including our children, on the cusp of something blossoming and beautiful. With saintly qualities, John, a renowned surgeon in pediatric urology, has positively impacted and reshaped many lives in terms of health, dignity, and well-being. His life was a beacon of hope and a messenger of love.

As I listened to story after another during the service, I realized John was a man who died well before dying. As Jesus taught, we are all invited to live our lives by dying well before dying. By dying countless times, we are to discover what it means to truly live. Therein lies the ultimate paradox of life. We think we are living, but we are dying. When we welcome repeated death in living, we live. By dying well on this earth, we are to greet the ultimate death with hope, which is to live.

Dying well is a lost art because everyone is desperately trying to live, with our ego taking charge to protect and project. When we acknowledge and accept our ego’s flaws and failures, it leads to the invitation to die. Dying well means letting go and losing the strong grip of control we believe we have in life. It means befriending suffering and questions without having all the answers. Several months before John’s passing, he learned that he would be a first-time grandfather. While not knowing all of what John had to process, I wonder if he would have had to “let go” of his dream of being a grandfather, which was unbearable suffering.

As followers of Christ, we believe in transformation. Transformation, in essence, is a form of death. It does not occur by holding on to the old ways or continuing to “add,” but rather through subtraction or letting go, as mystics and saints would all agree. Transformation arrives when we are ready to release the old and embrace the new. Christ, who is at the center and pinnacle of all transformation, is already present in everything new if we acknowledge that the old no longer works. That is simply grace.

As we accept death, grace meets us at the rock bottom state of hopelessness and rescues us from death to life, over and over again. Grace does not rebuke or ask questions about how we got to death, but rather embraces us by giving us life and hope. Thus, life is always given, not earned. God does not love us because we are good, worthy of love, or have accomplished amazing things with our lives. God loves us because God is love and good. The only requirement for grace is the awareness and recognition that we need God.

I believe John experienced life and grace because he died well before the ultimate death, which is the doorway to eternal life. As with countless clouds of witnesses throughout history, his life will remain as a living testimony to die well before dying.

GIFTS OF GOD

“All the things in this world are gifts of God, presented to us so that we can know God more easily and make a return of love more readily.”

I find David Fleming's statement, a prolific writer and the author of What is Ignatian Spirituality, reassuring of God’s generous and gracious ways of interacting with humanity. It is as if God left pervasive trails of “breadcrumbs” in our lives for us to find, know, and love God. The Immanuel God comes to us in a perpetual incarnated form, through the living Christ, nature, and each of us. Through the gift of incarnated presence, we can be with God, know God, and move our being in God. One slight variation for me would be to say that it is more than “a return of love more readily,” but a return to love, which is our original true self, created by God. As we become love, we become like God, being in union with God and drawing everything to God.

One of the gifts from God is friendship. As we spend a week in Maryland before heading to New York City next weekend, we are surrounded by the unwrapped gift of friendship—a bond that has been decades in the making. During the pandemic lockdown, we discovered a deeper longing to connect with friends. In 2020, my wife and I started several Zoom groups for mutual spiritual guidance, including one in Maryland. This Maryland group, which we affectionately call Shire, consists of four couples, including us. We have known three members of the group since they were fresh out of college. As enthusiastic and wide-eyed singles, they embraced the vision of engaging with the world and traveled the globe for God. Now, in their early 50s, with their children in college, they are learning to navigate life and discover their true selves.

As foodies, we have enjoyed a diverse range of foods, including delectable home-cooked meals, hot pot, beers, bourbon whiskey, and even Taco Bell and Tastykake treats that evoke all kinds of childhood memories for some. Having lived on Hostess cakes, with a slight exaggeration, throughout high school and college (my unbeatable go-to combination was Coffee Cakes with whole milk), I have come to appreciate Tastykake’s dominance in this region. One of the members is a proud aficionado and evangelist of Tastykake, so he brought his two favorites: Butterscotch Krimpets and Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes. As my friend presented them to me like they were rare and expensive treats, after one bite, I was transported back to my college days, recalling a specific moment of sitting on the outdoor staircase of the Engineering building between classes.

Of course, our friendship goes deeper than the food, though our love for food helps bond our friendship even more. Over the last five-plus years, we have companioned through dark times and celebrated each other’s milestones and helped each other to remember the “Shire” in all of us. We have learned that darkness is never dark to God, but often is a necessary step in knowing and loving God. As we celebrate each other, we are celebrating God in all of us who tirelessly call us to “Shire.”

To shift rather dramatically while maintaining the relevance of Fleming’s statement, particularly the phrase “all the things in this world,” if there is one revelation or realization in recent years, it would be the growing desire to help others see God in all things. The book I am currently working on addresses this very theme, particularly for those who have walked away from institutional religious settings but have remained spiritual and seeking. I know that God is not confined to cathedrals, churches, or temples, as elaborate and ornate they may be. God can and is to be found in all because God is in all. God can be found in nature, whether it is a vibrant spring, flourishing summer, flamboyant autumn, or a dormant and dreary winter. God can be found in small things, from neglected vines to a forgotten pond. God can be found in big things, from the mysterious ocean to the ever-expanding cosmos. God can be found in small conversations to big earth-shaping policy decisions. God can be found in me and humanity, from random acts of kindness to through the arts.

One question I ask myself from time to time is, How big is my God? More than anything, I want to emulate this big, spacious, and freeing God and to be a reflection of such a gracious God to others. The bigger God is to me, the freer and more spacious I can be to others and otherness.

THE BIBLE AND A SECOND BOOK

There is one more pertinent thought I wanted to share from Rilke’s The Letters to a Young Poet. 

Rilke shares with the young poet two indispensable books—of all books—that are always with him, wherever he goes: the Bible and a poetry book by a Danish poet. This immediately triggered a memory in me. Ralph Winter, a renowned missiologist and mentor whom I consider to have shaped me profoundly during my formative years, often spoke about having two books by his bedside: the Bible and Kenneth Scott Latourette’s A History of Christianity. During my 30s and 40s, I became an ardent student of history, believing that “insight is foresight based on hindsight.” For the first time in my adult education, I loved learning and dove deeply into history.

While the Bible has remained constant, my second preferred reading has shifted over the years from history to poetry and other contemplative writings. Both aim to convey the truth. Truths come to us in many shapes and sizes: experiences, facts, meanings, wisdom, and even feelings. When we say it is “true,” we mean it experientially, factually, and based on our understanding of meanings and feelings. At the risk of sounding simplistic, history presents interpretations based on facts (if there are such things as “objective” facts). As historians argue, which side of history is one telling or writing from? Even so, there is no doubt that the study of history aids overall human development and flourishing, but only under one condition: that we become aware of our own biases. Without this awareness, we can become destructive and manipulative. It is not whether one has biases or not that will cause harm, because we all have biases; it is a lack of awareness. There is a simple but universal lesson that what we focus on determines what we see and what we miss. It is this missing part, resulting from our biases, that can hinder our understanding. What we think we see would not be as productive and holistic. Ralph Winter taught me to first read the author’s biography to understand his or her background, i.e., biases, which has ingrained in me. 

Poetry paints imagination based on intuition. I heard from an expert on T.S. Eliot that poetry is about wooing apprehension into comprehension. Poetry is about subjective seeing that is subtle and careful. No one interprets the same poem in the same way. Poetry beckons us to immerse our lives fully in honest interaction; otherwise, the poetry would not make any sense. Poetry is like a large mirror, granting generous latitude to explore our inner movements, while history is generally more restrictive and prescriptive, tending to remain in the intellectual realm. Poetry awakens our dormant intuitions into a living and breathing being, making it visceral and infinitely real. What is “real” initially becomes murky and confused, but over time, the real begins to emerge more confidently. My soul finally finds enough room and space to claim its brilliant existence.

Then there is the Bible. The Bible is a collection of multiple genres, from historical narratives to gospels and letters, or if you like, poetry. I would not say the Bible has history books; rather, the Bible features historical narratives. The narratives are to be read more as literary interpretations as opposed to literal ones. I love how the writers challenge and correct earlier narratives right in the Bible. The writers of the Bible were maturing in their consciousness of their real, subjective experiences of God, culminating with the narratives of Jesus. About a third of the Bible is written in poetry, which again is reflective of the culture and society at the time. The prophets of the Old Testament were considered to be poets. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, a great scholar of Jewish scriptures, said the following.

The prophet is a poet. His experience is one known to the poets. What the poets know as poetic inspiration, the prophets call divine revelation. . . . The inspiration of the artist is what is meant by “the hand of the Lord which rests upon the prophet.”

What makes the difference between the prophet and the ordinary person is the possession of a heightened and unified awareness of certain aspects of life. Like a poet, he is endowed with sensibility, enthusiasm, and tenderness, and above all, with a way of thinking imaginatively. Prophecy is the product of poetic imagination. Prophecy is poetry, and in poetry everything is possible, [such as] for the trees to celebrate a birthday, and for God to speak to [humans]. The statement “God’s word came to me” was employed by the prophet as a figure of speech, as a poetic image.  

I believe that a “prophetic imagination” (to borrow from Walter Brueggemann’s The Prophetic Imagination) is desperately needed in today’s world. To conclude, allow me to repeat what Brueggemann said so eloquently.

Our culture is competent to implement almost anything and to imagine almost nothing. The same royal consciousness that makes it possible to implement anything and everything is the one that shrinks imagination because imagination is a danger. 

The task of prophetic ministry is to nurture, nourish, and evoke a consciousness and
perception alternative to the consciousness and perception of the dominant culture around us.

FAMILY CAMPING

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

Sometimes, Mary Oliver

I realized it had been years since our family camped together. On the drive to Morro Bay, my wife and the boys debated how many years had passed. After a few minutes of confusion, we decided to ask Hannah, our family historian. Hannah has the superhero ability to remember all the details of our family history, including dates. For years, Elizabeth and Hannah’s “Dad’s silly moments” log captured my less-than-stellar episodes and mispronounced words. Every time they share a dad’s moment, it always brings a smile to our faces.

The central coast is rugged and green all year, notably featuring rolling hills dotted with iconic, ancient California oak trees. As my eyes trace the gentle curves of the hills, my soul begins to find a rhythm that has been stagnant. During this time of year, the hills proudly display the California bush sunflower, bursting with cheerful golden patches.

This trip was planned during their visit to us in Malaysia. By this time, we had welcomed our son-in-law and daughter-in-law (and the grandson to come). Along with family, we would also have three canine family members: two huskies and a chihuahua. It warmed my heart because for nearly two decades, we had gone camping almost every single year to the same site in Central Coast California, initiated by me. This time, it was their initiative. Not only that, but they organized everything as well. My only responsibility was to prepare morning hand-drip coffee and a Samgyupsal dinner, which I gladly volunteered for.

Since our time in Malaysia, where we watched the postseason baseball, we collectively became Dodger fans. Elizabeth, in particular, grew into an avid fan, following the players and statistics while also learning the intricacies of the game. Therefore, I thought we could watch a live stream of a Dodger game on my laptop, at least on the first night. Given the weak signal, we knew it wouldn’t work. Michael quickly pulled out baseball gloves, and the boys played catch with me, transporting me back to their Little League days.

Right before we went camping, I blurted out that this may be our last camping trip. My old body does not appreciate sleeping on the unforgiving ground, even with a quality sleeping pad. Michael loaned me his cot after we purchased a cot for my wife. Cots were game changers for us. During camping, Hannah looked me in the eye and told me, “Dad, this will not be your last camping trip.” I knew what she meant: that our family camping tradition would continue.

After a misty, gray morning, we drove further north to walk along the boardwalk on a bluff trail covered in late spring flowers, refusing to cede to summer. By this time, the sun had broken through, but the cool air remained, perfect for an easy stroll. Seagulls gracefully rode the wind with effortless ease. As I watched the rugged and hypnotic waves crashing against the shore, it was easy to lose my mind and find my soul, a soul that has always been in union with waves, sky, seagulls, and everything in between. No need for words; simply by paying attention, I come alive. And I am telling you about it.

Not to be outdone by the day’s performances, the night sky sparkled with white, yellow, and reddish gems against the gradients of a darkened background, spread out before us, causing the city folks to constantly wow. I could not remember the last time I saw that many stars. The very last night, Brad and I sat around the flickering campfire with our eyes adjusting to light and darkness repeatedly, and talked about life, prompted by Brad’s perceptive questions.

I must have thanked God so many times over the weekend: for our children, son-in-law, daughter-in-law, family dogs, nature, cosmos, small and big wonders, and for my undeserved, graced life.

“GO WITHIN”

Occasionally, some have asked, “How do you know what to write about?” After flashing a smile, my response has varied over time. Sometimes, I know exactly what I want to explore, as there has been a stirring in my heart or mind. Over the years, I have shifted from a restless and probing mindset to paying more attention to my heart. Now, I focus on bringing my whole self into the process, including the soul’s treasures, abyss, and emotions. Sometimes, just one word or phrase is enough to trigger something deep within me. More often than not, I do not know where or how my thoughts will evolve as I write. I simply let them flow, making minor edits. The next day, I returned to read it as if someone else had written it. What has become important and precious to me is that I pay attention to myself, the world around me, and God’s presence and actions.

The other day, the book I was reading featured a simple quote from Rainer Maria Rilke, The Letters to a Young Poet, which I had read cursorily before. I went back and read through a small book. This time, I read as if I were a young poet whom Rilke was addressing. The letters came alive, and I highlighted what spoke to me. This post is far from being a research paper; rather, it is a reflection based on my current life journey. First off, Rilke was only 27 years old, corresponding with a budding 19-year-old poet for almost six years, comprising ten letters total. The “young” Rilke was speaking to an old “young” poet within me. 

Unapologetically, Rilke’s overwhelming and overarching advice to a young poet was to “Go within,” or “Go into yourself” (in other translations). Rilke often wrote about solitude, what he calls “the vast inner solitude,” the necessary part of it, the trouble, sadness, and doubt. He advises embracing doubt as an intimate friend. He does not sugarcoat the dark and challenging aspects of solitude. In the Eighth Letter (out of Ten Letters total), Rilke lucidly and powerfully sums up, “We are solitary” and “fundamentally this is nothing that one can choose or refrain from.”

Rilke famously writes in an earlier letter.

I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. 

For Rilke, loving and living the questions was part and parcel with being in solitude. Rilke wisely advised the young poet to be patient, not rushing to get out of the desert-ness of solitude and loneliness of silence.

Rilke associated poetry and the greater art with solitude. “Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism. Only love can touch and hold them and be fair to them.” Perhaps in Rilke’s mind, he preached patience because he believed in love, that “love can touch and hold them.” In the Ninth Letter, Rilke wished         

that you may find in yourself enough patience to endure and enough simplicity to have faith; that you may gain more and more confidence in what is difficult and in your solitude among other people. And as for the rest, let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right, always.

One other gem of Rilke’s insight I took away this time, which I did not see before, was his appreciation for nature.

Then draw near to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose.

If you trust in Nature, in what is simple in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable; if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, not in your conscious mind perhaps, which stays behind, astonished, but in your innermost awareness, awakeness, and knowledge.

I felt like Rilke was inviting me to pen the divine details of nature as if people are reading for the first time. For that matter, I should write everything as if I am the only one who can put it into writing. I take this far from being arrogant, but out of a sense of stewardship for sacredness. As others steward what is given to them, I, too, am invited to do my part. As there is divinity in nature, there is also divinity in everything. Along this line, he encourages the young poet in the First Letter to

write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty. Describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. 

“Go into yourself” and “draw near to Nature” must not be viewed as exhortations to conveniently retreat from the world; rather, they are indispensable bridges to engage with the world around us. Both require generous and hospitable space as well as honest and tender hearts.

LOVE, HOLD, AND LET GO

The Camino de Santiago still calls my name. I know it because my heart aches with longing whenever I think of the pilgrimage. Our original grand plan was to pilgrimage on the French Way in the spring of 2020, which was the beginning of my much-anticipated one-year sabbatical. Not only did COVID-19 hit the world, but my dad passed in March of 2020. We might have still gone ahead, but my dad’s funeral coincided with the national declaration of the COVID-19 pandemic. I had planned to do a 40-day pilgrimage followed by a visit to the Taizé community, which remains a tender spot in our hearts.

We purchased lightweight walking sticks and the widely acclaimed best guidebook, but most importantly, the shoes. After spending hours watching YouTube and studying the French Way, I became well aware of the terrains, routes, and climates, not to mention the various types of lodging along the journey. Our next purchase would be backpacks that would serve us well. A generous family provided us with sufficient funds to cover the extended European trip, which we received as God’s confirmation.

After more than thirty years of predictable roles as missionaries based out of Pasadena, California, raising our family and serving the world, the last six years have been nothing short of a pilgrimage, a pilgrimage of life.

As one of the assignments for my ongoing training in spiritual direction school, we were to watch the movie, Of Gods and Men. This might have been my third or fourth time watching. The movie, based on a true story, depicts an order of French Trappist monks in Algeria during the turbulent civil war of the 1990s. (In case you haven’t watched it, I do not want to spoil it, so I will not go into details.) They, too, were pilgrims not only in Algeria but in life as well. Their respect for the host Muslim culture, from the God-fearing to the extremists, and their love for the peoples, is a beautiful and moving human drama. With the zealous extremists on the rise, the movie captures how they navigated their own sense of calling and God’s guidance, ultimately, whether to stay or leave. The discernment process between the individual and the communal is interwoven with freedom, compassion, and courage.

As pilgrims in life (if I can say that), they portray God and their state of being in acceptance of a God who is not fully known, their views of life filled with contradictions, yet imbued with hope and certainty. Here, the certainty does not stem from knowing everything but arises from doubt. The contradictions and paradoxes are not frustrating but mystical and freeing, relinquishing any sense of control. For all the monks, the ultimate discernment came down to what they love: one another, the villagers, the strangers, and God.

I was reminded of an excerpt from Mary Oliver’s In Blackwater Woods.

To live in this world 

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

Pilgrims own and possess little. What a pilgrim owns is not about accumulating external treasures, but rather about what one loves and holds close, which, in reality, is paying attention to the interior heart’s treasure. Even then, all of us will be asked to let it—everything, especially what we love and hold as precious—go. Life can be viewed as repetitive episodes of loving, holding, and letting go. And repeat all over again like fits of uninhibited laughter. Then, there will be the ultimate letting go for all. Due to the potential fear or protection from pain, we cannot not love and hold what we love as our loves.

Perhaps one of the greatest life lessons is to learn to love wildly without attachment and to hold close without control. To let it all go is a form of love, freedom. Loving, holding, and letting go are one way to articulate being in union with God.

THE GIFT OF BEAUTY

Once in a while, ugly happens and demands to remain the main guest in the soul’s abode. Along with the ugly, when the grim and gutter crowd in as uninvited guests, my busy mind works quickly to find much-needed solace. As the dust settles, more often than not, I realize hopelessness had been the mastermind behind the ugly, grim, and gutter.

I knew my soul needed therapy—beauty therapy. More than anything, beauty offers hope of what can be, beyond what I can see now. It is also a poignant reminder of what once was. Beauty unlocks the memory of yesterday’s beauty and projects what once was to what one can be, again and again. External beauty confirms the interior beauty of what already is. Without the beauty within, we would not see the beauty without. Beauty, then, is an epiphanic moment or a meeting place of our soul’s rich reservoir of pure elegance orchestrated and confirmed with God’s timely gifts. Hopelessness melts away before beauty.

When we arrived from Malaysia for our six-month stint here in Southern California, our children gifted us with an annual membership to the Huntington Library. Since the Library is only two miles away from our house and what used to be an office, we have maintained our membership over the years. I would spend half a day walking the gardens, sitting, reading, and journaling. It is a world away from the world. Over time, I have discovered my own secret spots depending on the mood and the outdoor temperature.

After my morning café office, I knew I needed to go to the library. The parking lot was packed with cars, even though it was a weekday. The months of April and May are the busiest due to the blooming spring flowers. While California wild poppies and other wildflowers attract visitors in April, roses from around the world are the main attraction in May. Many women donned their floral dresses, sometimes with matching hats, simply to honor the flowers, or they would risk looking dull, while most men were busy taking pictures for their loved ones and company. There I was, in all black and drab. The day was slightly overcast with occasional sunshine peeking through. I found a bench right in the middle of the Rose Garden, partly looking at the scenery but also people watching.                  

I watched children creating their early beauty memories. They would examine the roses this way and that, put their tiny noses to the buds, followed by satisfactory smiles, and touch the fragile beauty with their tender fingers. Even for them, I wondered if they instinctively know beauty because it is inherent in them.

It is a revelatory question to ask, “Where would humanity be without beauty?” Beauty is so personal that it is universal. Beauty is everywhere, as grace is, from grandeur to granular. External beauty awakens and validates the beauty inside. The strengthened beauty inside marches out and creates more beauty, resulting in hope-filled now and the future. 

Irish poets know a thing or two about beauty, surrounded by its rugged and stunning scenery. John O’Donohue, in his book Divine Beauty: The Invisible Embrace, adds.

“The graced eye can glimpse beauty anywhere, for beauty does not reserve itself for special elite moments or instances; it does not wait for perfection but is present already secretly in everything. When we beautify our gaze, the grace of hidden beauty becomes our joy and our sanctuary.”

“The graced eye” is just that, a gift. At the same time, “the graced eye” does require humility and acceptance of our unearned love. That is the very sanctifying work of “beautifying our gaze.” Grace becomes the filter through which we see everything. Thus, how we come to see determines what we see. Through the eye of grace, beauty presents hope as a divine gift. After two hours in the garden surrounded by beauty in sights, sounds, and smells, what was grim and gutter turned into a budding hope.

GOD NOTICINGS

During a morning walk around my neighborhood in Pasadena, I noticed spring-infused, fluorescent-green grasses sprouting in front of a home that had burned to the ground during the recent devastating firestorm. Spring arrived without fail after the harsh, miserable, fire-brimming winter. The grass was so stunningly green that it caught my attention, prompting me to stop and look, in contrast to the house that was no longer there. Other flowers were blooming, effortlessly taking cues from the new spring. Nature does what nature is, just as God does who God is. Nature does not betray the natural law and judges nothing. The way I experienced LA spring this morning felt like grace and hope, that “all will be well.”

The “Immanuel” God promised us that the triune God would be with us until the end of the age. Without this promise of God's illimitable grace, I do not know how we can live. God’s presence is immanent, pervading all conceivable and inconceivable aspects of our lives, revealing God-self to all who would seek. God makes God-self known, always. God wants to be found. To put it more wholistically, when we find God, it is because God found us first, which is grace at work. God is doing all the heavy lifting. God making God-self known being the incontrovertible truth; the times that we do not feel God’s presence are not because God is not present, but because we are not aware of God’s presence. (At the same time, God’s immanence does not invalidate God’s transcendence, God as mystery, really Mystery of all mysteries, beyond reason and knowing. To be sure, God is both knowable and unknowable, never one or the other.)

Whenever and wherever we hosted people for a few days, we would carve out some time every night for a “God Hunt” exercise. While mostly adults, we have had children who were ten years old and even younger. The “God Hunt” exercise is basically an exercise about “God noticings.” How, when, and where did we notice God’s presence in our lives throughout the day? While our adult children visited us in Malaysia, this nightly practice became one of my best memories. At other times, I always looked forward and was curious about what younger children would share, as they are more grounded in more mundane, ordinary, and present aspects of life. Their unfiltered concept of God, which is what they instinctively experience, cuts through what is often the unnecessarily complex and bloated view of God to a simple, child-like, and immanent God. They become my teachers to notice God I would have missed.

I see God in random strangers through their smiles, acts of kindness to others, and otherness, how my children love and care for their dogs, a mechanic who would drive more than an hour to my house to try to resurrect my old car, and the friends who are concerned for my well-being. I can see and hear God through spring green grasses, a falling leaf, graceful orange California poppies on the neglected side of the road, and a fluttering butterfly circling me. The chaos and the craziness of the current world (or any other time for that matter) do not and cannot negate but elevate more of God’s loving presence in everyday life. God speaks and lets God’s presence be known through both consolation and desolation times.

Any way I can become more sensitized to notice God in my everyday life, which is filled with more ordinaries than extraordinaries, would enhance my ongoing journey with God. This discernment helps me make decisions in real-time, reflecting God’s presence and action in my life. This sensitized process would foster my loving willingness to consent to what God is unfolding for me. I would like to believe that “love to consent” is always better than “obey to consent.” The love is based on tangible experiences of God’s presence, which always come to me as grace, loving-kindness, and mercy. The love of God compels me to love God more, leading me to consent to what God may have in store for my unique path in life. I can agree with what Apostle John wrote, “We love because he first loved us.” (1 John 4:19)

“DAD, PLEASE . . . ”

Even though some time has passed, I wanted to share a story before we returned to the US. During a group spiritual direction yesterday, I was giving a short update, and the story came out unexpectedly. I noticed my vibe was upbeat and light, and others noticed that. We all got good laughs afterwards. So, I told myself I should write about it.

Two weeks before our move back to Pasadena, my youngest son, Brad, who just turned 27, texted me about having a video chat. He started with, “Hi Dad, I’m excited to have you and Mom back soon!” He wanted to talk about how we can live together healthily. When we left for Asia, we gave our house to our daughter and son-in-law, who mentioned their plans to build an ADU behind the house since the lot is large. I used to be the king of the house, but now I’d be returning under my daughter’s and son-in-law’s roof. So, Brad and I would be housemates, two grown men—he is now a responsible and honorable young man.

All four of our children, along with our son-in-law and daughter-in-law, reside in Pasadena, within a two-mile radius. We did not guide or advise them; it was their merry choice to live closer together. For years, we have been open and honest about God’s calling to Asia, receiving their full support and encouragement. Even so, as parents, we did the unconventional—we flew the coop. There is no greater joy for a parent than witnessing one’s children celebrate each other’s important milestones and accomplishments, and simply being goofy together. Earlier this year, all six participated in a half marathon together. We happily and proudly contributed to their signature achievement by hosting a samgyeopsal party.

Brad’s text tone was warm, gracious, and hopeful. An introvert, I knew it must have taken a lot of courage for him to send that text. At first, I was amazed by how he has grown and matured. I was SO proud of him. Then the reality set in. What does he have in mind that I am not aware of?

A day later, we had a fruitful conversation. Without going into the specifics of a few discussion topics, one thing he shared was how he felt when I called him across the house, “BRAD!” He felt neither honored nor treated as an adult, but rather as a child. I apologized immediately and assured him that I would stop that behavior.

Then, a few days after, Brad, Hannah, Jeremiah (son-in-law), and we zoomed together to share our expectations and how to live harmoniously and healthily once we get back. They had a few things to share with us. Nothing egregious or unexpected in my opinion. They would say this is concerning “one person.” And I knew they were talking about me, and we all laughed. “Dad, could you please not leave your used floss everywhere around the house?” “Dad, could you put away your face wash after use?” I assured them I would honor their requests.

A month into being back in the US, I think I am doing exceptionally well on all those fronts. (And my wife and our children confirm!) The tone of the Zoom was hopeful and excited and centered around the notion of “let us make sure to communicate and be considerate with one another.” What a novel idea, I thought. And it was coming from them. Although many of their requests pertained to my way of being in the house, I was immensely happy with how we conversed about the matters. Additionally, I was so encouraged that they felt free to share with me. It was comical, encouraging, and just felt healthy. That lifted my spirit throughout the day while in Malaysia.

After a week of settling back in the US, I found myself at Dodger Stadium, making a big mess by spitting a pile of sunflower seeds right under my seat... It feels good to be “clean” and orderly, yet from time to time, messy. A contradiction I am.

MULTIPLE BELONGINGNESS

As is often the case, my monthly session with spiritual director unearthed an awareness of who I am and how I am invited to live my life forward. After initial struggle and adjustment during my teenage years and beyond after immigrating to the US, I have fully embraced myself as a bicultural, a liminal being. Over time, the otherworldly vision of “my citizenship being in heaven” unleashed a soul of peregrine in me across various stages of life. Intuitively, I have accepted that life on earth is the life of a pilgrim. Essentially, we are all home away from our true home. The peculiar combination of a contemplative posture and a bohemian blood in me further cemented the conviction. Being bicultural was one thing. Now, I feel like I can embrace multiple belongingness intrinsically and with “Wu-Wei” (“not pushing the river”).

Living in Malaysia for the last fourteen months has unlocked the multiple belongingness. While I would never say that there is uniformity in the collective Southeast Asian cultures, similar uniquenesses set them apart from other Asian cultures. (The term “Southeast” Asia came from south of China and east of India.) During the program of eighteen months at the School of Spiritual Direction, I will have studied six months in Malaysia, the US, and Korea, respectively, by the time I am done with the program. While sounding simplistic and surfacy, the realization added meaning and even sounded prophetic, inviting me to embrace my multiple belongingness. What I do know is that I felt at home in Malaysia and the surrounding region. And I long to be back.

Last night, we were at Dodger Stadium, enjoying the unique pastime of American baseball of more than 40,000 people belching out in unison, “Take me out to the ball game” during the seventh inning stretch, and splitting and spitting hundreds of sunflower seeds. The combination of saltiness and nuttiness of sunflower seeds is unbeatable while fixated on the game. After a grinding out win against the Braves, my wife said, “It is good to be back in LA!” My spiritual director did tell me that going to the Dodgers game is more of an LA thing than going to Disneyland earlier in the day. Even the night's sparse skyline of LA downtown was sparkling in my eyes.

At the same time, I ache, yes, ache to be back in Korea. I miss the four seasons, especially the spring, nature, and of course, food. Korea is beckoning us to come “before the winter arrives.” God has guided us faithfully since 2019, summoning us with a clarion call. To use Frederik Buechner’s words, it is where “our deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger” meet.

Multiple belongingness allows us to feel at home in various contexts. It translates into a broader common ground, enhancing our ability to identify and understand. As the term implies, we experience a sense of belonging in multiple different environments. The foundation of my immigration-fueled bicultural identity has not been wasted; rather, it is more fully realized. I do not have to choose one identity over the others. Although I may have preferences at times, the choice is not solely mine. Instead, peace and contentment arise from knowing that we are already in the river and choosing to trust it.

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God,
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries,
And daub their natural faces unaware.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If “earth’s crammed with heaven” (and I do believe it is), then the invitation is to see “every common bush afire with God.” Seeing the sacred in the “common” or ordinary bush, wherever I may be, requires a set of heavenly eyes. Or should I say, pilgrim eyes? What then follows is a lifetime of worship conceivably at every common and mundane turn, of course, in my multiple belongingness.

“BLESSED UNDOING”

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

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

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

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

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

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