THE GIFT OF WILDNESS

The air is crisp and has lost its persistent humidity edge. Magically, when the calendar turned from September to October, the temperature dropped ten degrees (in Fahrenheit), and the sky seemed further out of reach, signaling that the azure October sky is here. After returning from the US in mid-August, I found all kinds of unidentifiable wild bushes encroaching on the private driveway up to our house, so I had to do some unwanted yardwork. Yardwork and I are not friends. One afternoon, having just gotten back from a workout, I headed down to the driveway in my workout shorts and sleeveless tank top, my go-to flip-flops, doubly ill-equipped with a flimsy saw and a clipper. After more than an hour of huffing and puffing as I underestimated the work, I finally did the yeoman’s job of clearing the bush and felt proud of my work.

Covered with dirt and sweat, I hurriedly showered, only to discover later that my exposed skin had developed a rash all over, further aggravated by uncontrollable itchiness. My wife glanced at me and quickly blurted, “Oh my gosh, did you work in poison ivy or something?” “I don’t think so,” I muttered, unsure. However, I felt relieved after I quickly looked up photos of skin exposed to poison ivy. One problem gone, but my itchiness and rash did not abate. I found a bug-bite relief stick in the cupboard. Desperate for any relief, I applied the balm generously all over my body and asked my wife to apply it to the areas I couldn't reach. Amazingly, the intervention worked beautifully, and I let out a sigh of relief.

October mornings have been some of the best mornings ever where we live. The clear, tall sky is unmatched as far as my eyes can see, with occasional low-lying silky fog filling the slender, slithering valley underneath our house. For a few days last week, I witnessed an impressive flock of birds that appeared to be migrating to a warmer region. As a novice, I had no idea what kind of birds they were. Even then, what gets me is not the sight, though, as mystical or breathtaking it may be. After my eyes are satiated properly, what slowly engulfs me is the sound of nature, with no manmade sound nearby. During summer, the sound of the insects is louder than the birds. This is without the aid of the deafening summer sound of cicadas, which we missed by being in the US. In October, insects and birds compete for the most dominant sound in the forest.

During my morning’s centering prayer, the sound of the insects and birds is my faithful friend, with refreshing, brisk air caressing my waking body. The sound grounds me to stay in the present, but my mind does not help me by going a hundred miles an hour, projecting and planning for the day, anticipating every foreseeable move. My chattering mind seems to know all the rabbit trails, pursuing every single one of them until I realize what I was doing and beckon my insects and birds to help me stay present.

The fall colors are peeking now, ever so cautiously, unsure whether this is the right time to make their grand entrance. The autumn foliage in Korea is not unlike a fire spreading from small campfires. One day you can see small patches of the fall hue near and far. The next day, it has spread to other areas, and you marvel at how quickly it is spreading. Soon, you will see the fire light up the entire mountains. If the spring colors are shy, pastel because they realize they don’t need to be more impressive than they already are, against a backdrop of dull late winter, the fall colors are vibrant, evocative, perhaps because they know they need to end with a bang before the arrival of winter monotone.

Henry David Thoreau wrote, “We need the tonic of wildness...At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature.”

One of nature’s gifts is wildness, wildness beyond comprehension–which no dualistic mind can understand–a mystery that is unfathomable and unexplorable. I can drink to that . . . without the need to understand, simply accepting and letting it be. The bushes, the insects, the birds, the colors all contribute effortlessly to the profound wildness today.

As someone who writes, I bring to “life” what is taken for granted, forgotten, or even dead in our collective memories by first paying attention and through the acts of remembering. We who are creatives, and we all are, get to bring life by creating meaning for existence and/or wonder, contributing to the growing collective consciousness, never complete knowledge, of humanity.

“THE THING WITH FEATHERS”

If one prayer has persisted in my heart in recent years, it has been “Preserve our path, God.” The prayer is futuristic but also present, connecting the past to the present and the future. The prayer embraces both anxiety and hope, as both anticipate future-oriented emotional and heart states.

Anxiety about the future has been weighing me down in recent weeks. While I am so thankful that a seismic question about where our home will be has been solved for the foreseeable future, there are still myriad other smaller but significant unknowns and uncertainties in life. Identifying the sources of the anxiety requires some honest interior work, but at the end of the day, experiencing anxiety is life being life, not the fatalistic kind, but authentic. I have recently been grappling with the wisdom that anxiety is a future-oriented emotion that can be a motivating fuel for embracing changes, problems, and opportunities. It can help me prepare and plan. When channeled right, anxiety can be a gift.

Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, I fleetingly fool myself into thinking that if I have better control over my life, I can reduce certain anxieties or have them gone altogether. I know that is a simpleton mindset, but it is a legitimate temptation to get rid of anxieties by seeking control over my life and what surrounds it, well beyond what I can muster. The other side of my mind tells me to let everything go and asks me rhetorically, “When was the last time you had control over your life, really?” To that, I simply smile sheepishly, for I know the answer. Even when I thought I had control as a leader of organizations, I knew control eluded me over and over again. Whatever the circumstances, thinking that I had control was and remains an illusion.

Then, there is hope. A few days ago, I shared my stream of consciousness similar to what I wrote above, not as coherently, with a group during group spiritual guidance. Among other takeaways, what was offered to me was a vision of hope. Hope was a passing comment, and it grabbed hold of me. Then the next morning, by random chance, the poem Hope by Emily Dickinson found me, which I had read and meditated on before.

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

And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —

I’ve heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet — never — in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of me.

Dickinson would not name a specific bird but leaves it to our free imagination. The “hope” bird perches in the soul, the deep center of who we are, and sings a familiar tune our soul recognizes. No exceptions. “Never stops” means it never leaves. What follows is a long run-on sentence punctuated by a series of hyphens. In a sense, Dickinson has so much to say in one breath, yet she takes time to unravel this hope bird by using hyphens, building momentum and inviting us to pause along the way and take it all in.

Then what stands out are a few capitalized words: Gale, Bird, Sea, and Extremity. The four words are personified, beyond mere concepts, making them alive and personal, and “Bird” is pitted against “Gale, Sea, and Extremity.” Hope is available at all times, infinite, and so close that we hear it “sings” to us. The little bird faces Gale, not just a sea, but “the strangest Sea,” and in “Extremity.” There is an evocation that the little bird is too feeble against the powers of Gale, Sea, and Extremity, and stands with no chance against them. Even then, hope is sweetest in the Gale and “kept so many warm” in the “chilliest land” down through the ages, and it “never—asked a crumb—of me.” That is who Hope is and what Hope does, as hope comes as grace, unearned.

Dickinson uses “never” twice, leaving no room for doubt and offering absolute assurance, also resorting to superlatives like “sweetest, chilliest, and strangest.” The one who wrote of telling the truth slant is downright assertive in this poem. There is a sense of personal conviction as she shifts to “I” and “me.” Both uses of the word “never” point to hopeful assurances, empowering readers with hope. Dickinson’s words do not tell me I should have more hope. Rather, they tell me what hope is and does, and leave me room to explore my experience of hope now and in the past. I suppose Dickinson, in the end, is saying the truth slant. And I MUST confess that I, too, have been kept warm by hope.

Today, I treat anxiety as a gale. Anxiety does not negate or cease hope, but precisely in the midst of anxiety now, I can embrace hope by reaching back to my memory bank of hope as I rediscover the familiar tune. Oh, then there is Hope of Easter. “Easter was when Hope in person surprised the whole world by coming forward from the future into the present.” Surprised by Hope, N. T. Wright.

Hope in person, or as a person, changes everything.

SPIRITUALITY OF DETAILS AND FLOW

Her unmistakable presence was more that of a fighter on a mission, with a West Coast twang rather than an author with ladylike elegance and tone, though she was introduced as a “goddess,” an attractive young lady author. Her eyes sparkled with a vision to change the world, the way she sees it. Contrarily, there was also a childlike wonder and joy. It was not that I expected one thing over another. I had no expectations about who or what kind of author Juhea Kim would be. All I knew ahead of time was that she was the winner of the prestigious Tolstoy Literary Prize in 2024 for her debut novel, Beasts of a Little Land. She was also the main lecturer at Sonagi Village, right by our house. Another thing I knew about her was that she was Korean American. That piqued my interest, along with the fact that she was going to be in my neighborhood.

After the lecture, I still do not know much about Juhea Kim. Apart from the content of her lecture (she is passionate about nature, animals, and love, and she is especially passionate about saving endangered Korean tigers, primarily residing in Russia, China, and North Korea, which the book is about), two things stood out to me. She knew early on that she wanted to be a writer so she could channel her resources and effort into saving nature and animals. That precise, lucid inner knowledge was inspiring. Sometimes we just know that we know. . .

Before she came up to the podium, a special performance was given by an ensemble of seven local jazz saxophone players and one drummer, spanning a wide age range. They were wearing matching T-shirts, black pants, and shoes. After the performance, as it was her turn to speak, Juhea Kim took the stage and offered a few brief remarks about the special number. She mentioned that some were leaning forward more than others when seated to perform. While playing, all of them were tapping their feet, with some tapping their heels and others tapping the forefoot. She was drawn to each person’s unique artistic embodiment to the point that she later said, “It was truly inspiring and gave me something to ponder and write about.” That observation won my respect for her even before the lecture began. The fact that she was “inspired” by such details inspired me. She possessed keen awareness and the ability to observe what was taking place in fine detail.

That same week, our dear friends’ daughter gave her final master recital in the Netherlands. When they shared the YouTube recording, I was captivated by her performance, which combined the concert grand and her signature toy piano, blending mime in the background. I admit her creative imagination flew way over my head, confounding my rigid mind. Though I could not see her eyes, I could see that she was in her element, flowing effortlessly with a certain kind of flair, obsession with details, and mastery.

Ahh, flow and details. My wife recently went through a personal online enrichment program to discover her artistic expression, not to improve her art techniques but to discover herself in the process. She also used the word flow, trying to shift from what was once unaware or unknown inhibitions to allowing herself to flow freely.

Details are what make life meaningful and grounded. Details are what make us, as humans. We all find meaning in details, the repeated details we call patterns or unique footprints. God is so big that God must be in the details. All the miracles and signs Jesus performed would be meaningless without the details that surrounded their contexts. We do not first live our lives by walking on air or flying 30,000 feet in the sky. Sometimes we are so low to the ground, grinding, slow, and detailed in life, that we get tired and worn out from crawling, much less walking. But the detail, or the ground, is precisely where grace is and where we find meaning. Grace would not be grace without details or fine print. Once we see it, we cannot unsee it. This awareness and a sense of meaning give us the courage to lift our eyes and fly. Somehow, we must live and appreciate the details to see the big and fly.

I am convinced that all of us are designed and thus meant to flow, flow freely and naturally—as we are, neither what others think of us nor what we feel we should be. God blesses us, and we are to channel God’s blessings beyond us as we let them flow through us. Our responsibility is to recognize what inhibits us and do what is necessary to remove what may be blocking. Of course, the removal process is ultimately not our doing, but purely grace-empowered. That way, what flows through us is not merely us or ours, but has its origin, the original spring, in God, the Giver. The amazing grace is that God honors each of our unique selves to flow, displaying God’s glory for the sake of the world. We are to be God’s flowing agents!

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TRADITIONAL AND REVOLUTIONARY

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Rose blooming, traditional. Rose blooming in September, revolutionary Both are wonders.

“The biggest paradox about the Church is that she is at the same time essentially traditional and essentially revolutionary.” Thomas Merton

The word evangelical, as in I am an evangelical Christian, has dropped out of my vocabulary for quite a while now. While it remains my spiritual heritage and I appreciate its gifts over the years, my Christian journey expanded to that of an ecumenical Christian. The School of Spiritual Direction I graduated from is rooted in an ecumenical tradition, which was a big draw for me. The Taizé community my wife and I visited ten years ago and fell in love with has been a model, global icon of ecumenical Christian brotherhood and community. Thus, even before I joined the school, I was well on my way to embracing the wider, more traditional, generous Christian traditions. One of the main culprits- I mean, guru- has been Thomas Merton.

Whatever the tradition we belong to, I am passionately attracted to and subscribe to the paradox Merton penned above—essentially traditional and revolutionary at the same time. You lose one. You lose everything. Clearly, Jesus was traditional and revolutionary at the same time.

Human traditions and revolutions revolve around trying to “save ourselves,” ironically, by attacking, harming, and even killing others who stand in our way. The true Church traditions and revolutions at their heart are about dying to self. True revolution arises out of suffering and death from the ground up, not by toppling the top.

When reading Kenneth Scott Latourette’s volumes of A History of Christianity along with other macro-Church historians, one can discern an undeniable, repeatable cycle in human and religious history: decay, death, renewal, expansion, and flourishing. And repeat. After each flourishing, decay invariably sets in over time. Death must happen for renewal to take place, followed by expansion. Thus, the stage between decay and death remains critical for any hope for renewal. On a side note, living in a four-season country now, I appreciate and witness the cycle from decay to death to renewal to expansion to flourishing right before my eyes. Decay, as in fall foliage and deciduous trees, reminds us that decay is a natural cycle of life. History repeats itself again and again, with traditions desperately trying to hold on (which is another irony: traditions would not be traditions without keeping them); unable to accept their own decaying status, death becomes the last unwilling resort.

Revolutions come by way of death since that is the only passage to renewal, expansion, and flourishing. “Listen carefully: Unless a grain of wheat is buried in the ground, dead to the world, it is never any more than a grain of wheat. But if it is buried, it sprouts and reproduces itself many times over. In the same way, anyone who holds on to life just as it is destroys that life. But if you let it go, reckless in your love, you’ll have it forever, real and eternal.” (John 12:24, The Message) In fact, this very verse spoke to me as I embraced “death” on a personal level. So I would project that the historical pattern mentioned above applies to each of our lives at a microscopic level.

During the height of the pandemic, which coincided with my one-year sabbatical, I experienced “death.” Out of death came a more foundational, thorough deconstruction of my faith, followed by newfound desires, rising from the ashes. Additionally, I experienced, to use the words above, renewal and, carefully, flourishing. As much as I was kicking and screaming to embrace death because I did not want to die, I eventually did, aided by the silence and solitude of the pandemic. (The timely aid of silence and solitude is another big topic. It is hard to die when one is too busy, noisy, important, and/or preoccupied with self.) Little did I expect that a spring of renewal would come. I knew in my head that if a grain of wheat is buried, it will sprout and reproduce itself, but I had not experienced anything close to Jesus' words until then.

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From my seat, I see revolutions needed at multiple levels of human societies. However, I would not be watching for headline-grabbing news about what systems and/or people are doing to bring about change from the top, but would be praying for unheralded, courageous death and listening from the ground up. Speaking of authentic traditions, if there is one tradition above all, it is the tradition of dying and dying well.

The word essentially Merton described above, rings true. All true revolutions in the past and the future share their common root in Jesus and how he brought about the only revolution we care about. N.T. Wright’s The Day the Revolution Began: Reconsidering the Meaning of Jesus’s Crucifixion sums up the ongoing impact of the revolution. I stand with Merton when he wrote: “[This] is the most complete revolution that has ever been preached; in fact, it is the only true revolution, because all the others demand the extermination of somebody else, but this one means the death of the man who, for all practical purposes, you have to come to think of as your own self.”

One side caveat to tradition and revolution is that revolution cannot happen without knowing the tradition well. Only those who know the tradition well can break the tradition and have the right to “start” the revolution. Jesus, knowing the tradition well and from the inside out, incited the unthinkable—bringing about one true revolution that matters and timelessly models by “letting it go and being reckless in his love.”

Furthermore, Wright writes about how this revolution works: “Jesus died for our sins not so that we could sort out abstract ideas, but so that we, having been put right, could become part of God’s plan to put his whole world right. That is how the revolution works.”

So, what say we?

Jesus was essentially traditional and ultimately revolutionary.

PRACTICE RESURRECTION

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As a relatively new grandparent, I can’t help but project what the world will be like as my grandchildren grow up. As I look back on my own carefree childhood and untamable teenage years in Korea and the US, I hear an elegiac echo of those earlier years. Not to be overly dramatic, what happened in Nepal and China recently raised an alarm bell, not to overlook the horrific tragedy that enveloped the region. It is an alarm bell that this may be only the beginning of something far greater in havoc and irreversible global consequences. Additionally, with natural and man-caused disasters filling the news daily, I have been feeling disturbed and even a low-grade panic, thinking about the fast-changing world for us, particularly for my children and grandchildren.

Coincidentally, a week ago, Wendell Berry, poet, novelist, activist, and cultural critic, died. My Facebook feed was flooded with Berry’s writings and the impact he has had. I first read his poem, The Peace of Wild Things, when we came to Yangpyeong a few years back and experienced “the peace of wild things” firsthand. (June 7, 2023 entry) Predictably, this well-loved poem appeared in the feed. I read it again. I mean, I meditated and lingered on it again this week.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

First, “despair for the world and fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be” summed the state of my disturbed heart. However, from the fourth line, the poem’s tone shifts, and I would like to think Berry drew inspiration from the Matthew 6 passage about the birds and the lilies when he wrote about “the peace of wild things” and “not taxing their lives with forethought of grief.”

Also, there is the present presence of still water, neither in the past nor in the future. Then my favorite line, from which I am drinking deeply today: “the day-blind stars waiting with their light.” Each of us, as stars, is blinded by the greater light and is waiting for our turn to shine. The great irony and invitation is that it has to be dark enough for us as stars to shine. It speaks to me because I, too, have been waiting. I ask myself, “In what darkness do I get to shine?”

The gentle, crescendoed movement from the forethought of grief to grounded presence to waiting is subtle and forceful, as only nature can teach. With all the existential lessons from the wild things, we get to “rest in the grace of the world, and are free.”

Additionally, below is from the last paragraph I wrote on June 7, 2023.

“The wild things” possess the gift and lesson of presence, and they do not tax their lives worrying about what is next. Jesus was so right. It makes my heart so glad and full to know that Jesus was not a “classroom” teacher. The grace-filled divine lessons are all around us if we take the time to pay attention to the natural world. “For a time I rest in the grace of the world, am free” is my confession as well.

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Speaking of Jesus using birds of the air and the lilies of the field to teach, I am also drawn to Jesus’ coming “not to found an organized religion but came instead to found an unorganized one,” according to Berry.

As I have read the Gospels over the years, the belief has grown in me that Christ did not come to found an organized religion but came instead to found an unorganized one. He seems to have come to carry religion out of the temples into the fields and sheep pastures, onto the roadsides and the banks of the rivers, into the houses of sinners and publicans, into the town and the wilderness, toward the membership of all that is here. Well, you can read and see what you think.

From Jayber Crow

The organic and unorganized nature of our faith resides squarely on the person and the mission of Jesus Christ. Jesus came to be among us wherever and whoever we are, loved us as we are, and gave up his life. Forming our human life, both natural and spiritual, offers us unparalleled freedom and responsibility. And the unorganized religion includes nature, nature in all its beauty and savagery, just like humans in their glory and ugly. The unorganized religion is decidedly non-dualistic in posture, holding all and every thing together, and that is how we experience grace and love in the midst of sin and suffering.

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Lastly, this excerpt from Berry!

So, friends, every day do something that won't compute...Give your approval to all you cannot understand...Ask the questions that have no answers. Put your faith in two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years...Laugh. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts....Practice resurrection.

From Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front [excerpt]

Our egotistic mind always computes, analyzes, and compares. And an egotistical mind cannot handle questions that have no answers, much less wait for a thousand years. . . Instead, let the urges go, relax, laugh, and be joyful! And “practice resurrection.” This imperative reminds us that we are not of the dead, beyond death. Having known decay and death, and now having embodied resurrection, we can live, love, and laugh freely.

WHOSE WORLD IS IT ANYWAY?

During the closing residency in Baguio City back in April, walking the labyrinth was a popular solitary activity for all. One day, a thorny bougainvillea branch jutted into the labyrinth's path, so I had to veer off to continue walking. A small inconvenience, I thought at the time, but the next day, the branch was cut off, making the path more walkable. My unexpected, fleeting thought at the time was, "Is bougainvillea in the way? Or are we in the way?” Whose world do we live in?

Since our house sits on the top of the hill, we have all kinds of birds perching, yakking, singing all day long, from crows to magpies to sparrows, and occasional muted herons gliding far away. A stray cat family is also nearby, I know. Once in a while, a stray cat would be bold and curious enough to come near our window and peek into it. Then, there is the most unwelcome, imposing centipede resting inside the shower stall once in a while in the mornings, who bravely ventured through the drainage all night. Whose world is it anyway?

We often see things as we are, rarely as they are. Perception rules the day while reality resides in the shadowy background. Blending into the already complex reality of many different “worlds,” humans, with all our unique and personal stories, enter as well, creating wonders and even havoc in a dizzying reality. There is no way I can understand and see everything clearly. The only thing given to me is my life and what I get to see, with all its treasures and troubles. That precisely is my only calling, to live my one and sacred life as earnestly as I can. At the same time, it would do me good to realize and remind myself that the best I can see is to see dimly. This permeates humility and wonder at the same time.

With this baseline understanding, our stories touch and connect, generating meaning and purpose for each of our lives. Since no one is an island, we create reasons for our existence by allowing others’ stories, including bougainvillea, birds, and cats, to enter ours, deepening and/or expanding our lives. To be sure, these touchpoints and connections also cause pain and suffering, and they are all part of the grand plan, if you will.

Over the weekend, my wife and I happily hosted friends from Singapore and the Philippines, recent fellow graduates from CenterQuest Asia. They were on their way to Mongolia to do a two-week contemplative pilgrimage, including trekking in the Gobi Desert. After the closing residency, I had been missing my CenterQuest friends, so this was going to be a treat. When my wife told me back in the US they were planning to swing by to see us, I had circled the dates in anticipation.

We picked them up from the Seoul Station in the heart of the city. After spending half a day walking, shopping, and eating our way through the city, we drove to our house in Yangpyeong. The weather was grey but cooler, so a perfect day to meander and enjoy each other’s company. We kept saying it was surreal to be together. After a home-cooked dinner, we sat around our dinner table and talked for hours, reminiscing about personal and collective journeys in the School of Spiritual Direction and looking ahead to our unfolding stories.

They were curious about our recent journey to Korea and Asia. As we shared, they were so engaged in deep listening that we kept going in opening our hearts and desires. Looking back, that remains a highlight for me, not because we shared, but because their attentive presence validated our presence in Korea.

Then one of the tangential storylines we shared was about Suji Enneagram and how we got involved and what we hope to do. As they listened, they asked us what our plan was for the next day. I shared what I thought we could do together. They asked us, “Could you run an impromptu Suji Enneagram workshop for us instead?”

They entrusted time and honest, vulnerable reflection the next day during the workshop. Our eyes met and saw beyond the eyes, peered into each other's souls. We saw as one, not as two or dimly, albeit briefly. It was the work of the Spirit, piercing into each other’s hearts and stories and making our hearts warm.

Our stories powerfully collided, creating sparks of intimacy and wonder, moving us closer to our true essence and to our Creator. Whose world is it? But firstly, it is the world of wonder and connection, not because it is without pain and suffering but precisely because of them. And the world is not the prescribed kind, unable to escape the “destiny of all” in the end, but the kind we get to participate in, discover as we go, and author our own life books. It is also the world of freedom with all the moving pieces of life and incomparable complexities, impacting and creating meaning for everything. Ultimately, everything and everyone belongs and has meaning for all if we let them. This world and the cosmos only belong to God, who sees everything perfectly in union and whose name is freedom, redemption, and love.

OPENNESS

As we flew across the Big Pond (the Pacific Ocean), I did not think of ourselves as merely going to the US and coming back to Korea. What helps me is the musing of all our collective travels (including fourteen months in Malaysia in 2024) as part of our unique and given pilgrimage. There is the actual exterior physical traveling which can be demanding but also exhilarating, but much more crucial is the interior pilgrimage, traversing inner landscape and terrains of life.

Leaving the US this time was much more difficult than last fall when our focus was so locked in as forward momentum was significant after years of discernment. This time, I experience more profound sadness of leaving and letting go, mourning the death of dreams of not being close to our children and grandchildren. At the same time, the calling to Asia is as brightly lit as ever, as far as our eyes can see. So we track forward while holding the tension. . .

In this vein, I found David Benner’s quote below valuable from Opening to God: Lectio Divina and Life as Prayer.

“Pilgrimage always involves both an exterior and interior journey. Any travel can be a pilgrimage, regardless of the destination or whether or not there even is a destination. The difference between a pilgrim and a tourist is the intention of attention and openness to God. This transforms a trip into a pilgrimage, and the result is that the self that sets out on pilgrimage will not be the same as the self that returns.”

I was never drawn to tour packages, and I don’t think that will change anytime soon. When I travel, I would like to blend in as much as possible, though I naturally stick out, take my own sweet time, and explore and move according to what my heart and stomach desire. Never mind the fact that I don’t want to be boxed in and corralled.

Pilgrimage embodies walking both literally and figuratively. Walking then means cleaving to the slowness of time and meandering. Therein lies the ancient wisdom of pilgrimage, embracing the slow, the meander, and even getting lost. As we slow down, we see and notice things we have not seen before and are in touch with ourselves and the world, which becomes the seedbed of transformation from the inside out.

Pilgrimage and travel move us beyond our self, shift our focus from inward to outward, then pull us back inward, transforming us from the inside out. Since the height of the pandemic in 2021, we have spent far more time in Asia than in the US. My self before this grand “pilgrimage” and my self after are not the same, as Benner observed. Even the travel back and forth to the US this time made me aware of the “intention of attention and openness.” Even the frivolous and superficial cultural nuances between the US and Korea opened up and led me to explore my interiority in ways I had not experienced before.

Incidentally, my wife relayed to me what her spiritual director shared with her about grandparenthood. “Grandparenthood is like getting a Ph. D in openness.” For me, this openness “opened” up my early fatherhood, which is filled with regret and immaturity, as well as joy and grace. I hold them all tenderly, knowing God would hold my fumbling and insecurities tenderly. Another layer of openness has me observe my children and their spouses as they raise their children. It is the opening to wonder and amazement at their ability and capacity as new parents, and at God giving them enough grace and light to take the next steps in the unknowns of parenthood. It is also the same opening and reliance on the grace and unfailing love of God, as both Father and Mother.

This openness comprises all three sides seamlessly as one: openness to God, openness to our self, and openness to others. If we consider openness as a flow of love, in that we are channeling the flow of existence as human beings created in God’s image and likeness, we get to experience ourselves as conduits of love. Being a father and grandfather from afar and holding Asia close to our hearts are not meant to pull me apart into an incapacitated state, but to be essential parts of my unique pilgrimage set for me. To what end? Thomas Merton’s words are succinct and wise: “I am His mission to myself and through myself to all men.”

TREE KNOWS ITS NAME

In preparation for the upcoming CenterQuest’s School of Spiritual Direction for Cohort 2, I was asked to offer a prayer of intercession for the cohort members on Zoom. The entire month’s prayer and fasting theme is based on Colossians 2:6-7. “As you therefore have received Christ Jesus the Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving.” (NRSV) As I meditated, imagery of a tree and what a tree can teach us arose in me. As I wrote a prayer based on my reflection, I would like to share it. I believe the prayer includes all of us. If you resonate with the prayer, join me for all.

As the root of a tree teaches,
may we know to hold on to what matters most…

Lord, hear our prayer

May we also learn to embrace darkness…

                                    Lord, hear our prayer

As the leaves of a tree remind,
may we know to let go when the time comes…

            Lord, hear our prayer

May we also provide shade and rest for the weary…

                                    Lord, hear our prayer

As the branches of a tree instruct,
may we explore and extend beyond the known, beyond our comfort, and into the light…

            Lord, hear our prayer

May we also offer birds to perch, gaze into the distance, and build nests…

                                    Lord, hear our prayer

As the fruits of a tree present,
may we produce selfless love that nourishes and saves…

            Lord, hear our prayer

May we also multiply goodness and love beyond…

                                    Lord, hear our prayer

As the tree is silent but speaks with eloquence,
may we know how to speak in silence and in words…

            Lord, hear our prayer

As the tree only knows the present,
may we also stand in the present during storms, droughts, and sunshine…

            Lord, hear our prayer

Finally, as the tree knows its name,
may we also know our name…

            Lord, hear our prayer. . .  that our name is love…

LOVING JESUS AND LOVING LIKE JESUS

“We find rest in those we love, and we provide a resting place in ourselves for those who love us.” Bernard of Clairvaux

In the midst of joy and the hectic, blissful challenges of welcoming and tending to a new life in Mia and happy bonding with Jaelen, my surprise foundational experience as a new grandfather is that of rest, the grounded rest that Bernard of Clairvaux wrote about. The rest is nested in love, the love that is “unyielding as grave and as strong as death.” Both Jaelen and Mia embody and exude this rest more purely and freely than any other. I do not know where this otherworldly love and rest come from, except for the undeniable fact that I feel and experience them.

For most of my Christian life, I have been taught to love Jesus. While spotty and flailing, my absolute best has been the Philéo kind, the human, the conditional, which Jesus expects and graces. Loving Jesus is only possible because it is graced. This morning, it dawned on me that loving Jesus should naturally flow into loving as Jesus did. This “dual” emphasis of loving Jesus and loving like Jesus is how we are supposed to live our lives. And this “supposed to” is not the grit-your-teeth kind, but the fully alive kind as humans. One of the prerequisites of loving Jesus is seeing Jesus in my everyday life, and loving like Jesus means seeing the world the way Jesus sees the world. The humanity of Jesus shows us how it is done, channeling the divine universal Christ in humanity to discern how to love in human clothing.

Our love for Jesus transforms how we see, listen, and love as Jesus loves. Because human love is always contextual and immanent, our love is grounded in the present and in practice, making it radical and tangible. For humans, divine love only makes sense as love when it touches humanity. Otherwise, it is merely a concept with no bearing on this earth.

Looking back, at the center of the greatest periods of transformation in my life was none other than love, the unconditional, pure love. Even then, I have repeatedly failed to love as Jesus did. Doing the right things often took precedence over doing the loving things. Loving like Jesus means being with the world God created and loves, including people, the broken-hearted, the poor in heart, the meek, and the oppressed. Loving like Jesus means inviting people to wake up from illusions and touch Reality. Loving like Jesus means asking deep, existential questions and holding free, generous space, rather than giving answers or offering solutions. Loving like Jesus means serving and sacrificing without losing our true selves. Loving like Jesus means discerning when to say yes and when to say no. Loving like Jesus means resisting, exposing, and fighting against evil: principalities, powers, and the rulers of darkness of this world.

As we love Jesus, we join Jesus in turning our eyes toward the world and loving it as Jesus loves. Love is both looking in and looking out, creating a love-havoc trail in its path. In the process, love transforms us from the inside out, and the same love extends to the farthest corners of the world. Love becomes both being and doing, contemplation and action, and renewal and service. Jesus is no longer the ultimate object of our love as if we were two separate beings; rather, we become united with Jesus as one, from which loving as Jesus flows.

BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES

“I suppose we gave the best years of our lives to our previous organization,” my wife said as we zipped around Pasadena to run errands. As we drove through a very familiar Pasadena neighborhood, I said, “I wonder how so-and-so is doing.” That led us to reminisce about our “previous” life, which was the context for my wife’s statement above. I immediately turned to my wife, grinning, and told her in confidence, unfiltered, with no air of second-guessing, “I don’t think so, honey. The best years of our lives are now and ahead of us!” Sensing my resoluteness, my wife smiled back and agreed, “You are right!” while patting my shoulder.

35 and 33 years, respectively, for me and my wife, are not short years. I do not doubt that I am who I am because of those years, and at the same time, I am aware that “systems and structures” of Christianity sadly stood in the way of discovering God and myself, the purest pursuit of all. Systems and structures, sometimes edifying and prudent and sometimes destructive and even diabolical, rise and fall. They all do. Sometimes they create spaces to experience God and others as honorably and helpfully as possible. Sometimes they become yet another encrusted layer of illusion, adding to the confusion about what true Reality is and, worse still, disguising systems as God. Both the blessings and limitations of such systems and structures can only be accepted through non-binary thinking. At the very least, we become more aware that God refuses to be contained within systems. God always has and will.

Now, my energy and vision are far more forward-looking than they have ever been. As a visionary, I like to look ahead, anticipate, dream, and naturally ask “why nots,” but this forward-looking energy is different: it feels comprehensive and wholistic, requiring my whole being and its history, and it is closer to who I truly am and becoming. A few months ago, I also stepped down from a non-profit organization I founded years ago and had served on its board ever since. While there was not much fanfare when I did step down, I felt a distinct sense of release, basking in the inner fanfare as the last systems layer peeled away from me.

During all our traversing across Asia while filling out arrival cards, I have now been listing “spiritual director, author, or even semi-retired” instead of “director, administrator, etc.” If someone were to ask, “What do you do as a spiritual director?” I feel I can explain what I do without using systems language to talk about God and my journey. If someone were to ask me, “What do you write about?” I feel I can use everyday language to share my discovery of God, of who I am, and of who I am becoming. I am ready to share and project my personal journey, which I know, with utter confidence, bears universal human traces.

I would like to believe I have paid my dues to be where I am, living as disenthralled as I can and inviting others to do the same. God knows I need much more of this. . . In this vein, I get to partner with the mission of Jesus (Luke 4:18, The Message), which I wholeheartedly embrace: “To set the burdened and battered free, to announce, “This is God’s time to shine!’”

Using Richard Rohr’s language, I have honorably retired the “loyal soldier” within me, the one from the first half of life. “When you first discharge your loyal soldier, it will feel like a loss of faith or loss of self. But it is only the death of the false self, and is often the very birth of the soul.” Rohr writes in his book, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life.

I remember stepping down from my previous organization and promising myself there would be no more striving. Instead, I wanted to live like a river, free as the sky, and throw myself into the grace-filled currents of God. Life is no longer about accumulating and pursuing after what I cannot, better yet, should not hold, but slowing down, loosening, and letting go. This season suits me well, not unlike David in his unceremonious shepherd’s gear. I was born for this, as I am not a structures guy and can be spontaneous and responsive to God moving in and around me. Thus, the best years of my life.

INTRODUCING MIA

Yesterday marked yet another first experience of my life. It is the kind of first I get to savor during this season of life: My girl had a baby girl. It was a rapturous gift. It was nothing short of a miracle. I know a thing or two (actually four) about babies. This experience, though, was different in that since I was not so intricately involved, I got to witness the unfolding miracle more panoramically, hover around in prayers, and do whatever was necessary to welcome the new addition to our growing extended family. I was a cleaner, courier, driver, shopper, dog-sitter, and cook, with humming joy. My crowning achievement was when Hannah ate miyeokgook (seaweed soup, the ultimate postpartum Korean food for new mothers) as her first meal I made from scratch. “Mmmm,“ was all I needed to hear.

We knew Hannah and the baby were healthy, though the baby was a few days overdue. None of us was concerned, but since Hannah wanted a natural birth, she was hoping the baby would arrive sooner rather than later. This was also my wife’s first, in that she was helping someone else’s labor and delivery other than her own. My wife was honored Hannah wanted her mom right by her; my wife responded with an enthusiastic yes. As contractions became more regular and stronger, Hannah, Jeremiah, and my wife went to the hospital after midnight. The rest of the family slept very poorly, eagerly waiting for the news to arrive.

Finally, my wife texted the family group chat at 10:17 am, “She’s born!” The group chat exploded with blissful shouts of thanksgiving, with capital letters and emojis galore. After running around all morning, I sat down for coffee and read the message. Tears welled up immediately, and I murmured to myself, “My baby girl had a baby girl.” Hannah’s life flashed before me like a melodramatic feel-good movie in a split second. Even then, it was hard to capture precisely what I was feeling and processing. It would be woefully inadequate to try to understand it and put it into words as my instinctive body took charge to be helpful all day.

A few hours later, I met Mia for the first time. I was quickly mesmerized by her eyes, nose, and tiny, long fingers as I held her and whispered a song, Barocha, by Michael Card. If perfection exists, she would be it. The cosmos was in her. God was in her. I thought to myself, there is a part of me in her, too. Yet she is her own unique, utterly independent person, a beloved of God. A human being can bear a human being, created in God’s image, for Mia to be Mia. What an incredibly befuddling divine mystery and partnership with humanity!

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It is the day after. I have been trying to land all my emotions and thoughts, not because I feel I have to, but because I want to. That is what humans do, or at least try to do, resulting in songs, arts, poetry, etc. I am still baffled by the mystery of it all and by what I am experiencing. Euphoric, for sure, is one. My graced and affectionate moments as a father gleamed before me. My immature and far-less-than-perfect yesteryear’s fatherhood also flashed before me, which I am holding tenderly, urging me to pray for Hannah and Jeremiah, modeling after the Perfect Father, as brand-new parents. As the world is both beauty and savage, I am excited and ache for Mia and her unfolding journey, not to mention Hannah and Jeremiah as parents. As part of God’s design, family plays a paramount role in shaping and growing our consciousness throughout our human and divine journeys.

Mia was conceived by God’s good, perfect plan, born in God’s impeccable timing, and aided by family and saints in the US and Asia, who prayed for a safe passage into this world. To be sure, Mia will shine her own light, a true reflection of the One True Light, constantly surrounded by family and saints cheering for her.

She already has.

In the meantime, I am connecting with Jaelen. .

WHAT WE NEED IS HERE

What we need is here

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

Wendell Berry

There are real things “high over us,” outside of our control, “passing” throughout the day. “Abandon” is not a fatalistic submission nor a shoulder-shrugging Que Sera, Sera, but an ancient wisdom or faith, if you will, that lays the groundwork for “holding them to their way.” Abandon is a heart-willing surrender to what is or to a posture that embodies “what we need is here.” Abandonment is the wisdom of freedom.

Abandonment in and to love is the worthiest pursuit in anyone’s life. To live such an uncalculated and non-transactional life is the ultimate freedom of love. I have tasted such abandonment just enough to yearn for more as I get older. In the meantime, I am learning to notice “geese appearing high over me,” a summer California sun working extra hard, and the bare, brown San Gabriel Mountains every day.

Yesterday, my wife and I drove Mom to Malibu for her favorite clam chowder at Malibu Seafood Fresh Fish Market & Patio Café. Situated right by the shimmering Pacific Ocean, the view is unbeatable. As we were finishing up, my eyes naturally followed a tiny East Indian girl holding her dad’s hand. Her black, sparkly eyes occupied half her small face, the rest hidden under her peach-colored sunhat, which was cutely mismatched with her strawberry shortcake-themed dress. She was obviously overtaken by something, as her raised, crooked finger confirmed.

As I traced her finger’s direction, I saw a beautiful yellow monarch butterfly (later, I discovered it was a tiger swallowtail) hovering around the nearby flower bush. She was mesmerized by the butterfly, carefully trailing, tugging at her dad. The elusive butterfly flew in circles, and Dad gave up, but the girl clearly was not done. Finally, the butterfly settled on a flower right in front of the girl as if to showcase its charm and to say hello, and the girl promptly did her Asian squat, signaling she was not going to budge anytime soon. By then, Dad realized what was taking place and joined her in squatting, trying to match his eyes’ level with hers. Both exhibited abandonments to love and to now in such a delightful way that my heart also fluttered with joy.

On the surface, abandonment to sleep cannot be guaranteed, especially as we try to get over jet lag. Deeper is the abandonment of control and the letting of the world move according to its own designs and needs. It is a worthy, necessary note to myself that I am not in charge of running the universe, much less my small world. Sleep awakens me from all my illusions, which is a striking irony. Sleep is God’s way of resetting, a daily lesson in letting go, letting be, and starting over.

To abandon is to be quiet in heart and to possess a clear eye. The prophet in Berry ushers in a quiet, bold declaration of rebellion and revolution: “we pray, not for new earth or heaven.” The obsession with the kingdom of the future subverts what it means to be in the kingdom of now, robbing saints of the opportunity to be poor stewards of God’s agenda in the now. According to Berry, the ancient and perennial faith teaches and holds the kingdom of now—how to live as humans now. Now and here are so close that they remain elusive or overlooked. Thus, abandonment to now is needed.

Thus, what we need is here.

TELL EACH OTHER TALES

“Kick off your shoes. Unburden yourself with song. Tell each other tales. Dance around the table. Leave the cleaning up for the morning. Then go outside and look at the stars.”
Noble Smith, The Wisdom of the Shire: A Short Guide to a Long and Happy Life  

We are back at Shire again. After an uneventful flight, which translates to great, from Korea to the US, we were welcomed by our children with warm, long hugs and kisses. We “met” our first grandchild, Jaelen Yunseul, for the second time as we departed for Korea when he was less than two months old. We were familiar with his development over the months since we last saw him in October, thanks to almost daily uploads on Google Photos. But to Jaelen, we were strangers who could not stop smiling at him. Perhaps our persistence won him over; thankfully, he warmed up to us quickly, giving us his signature smirk and his shy, curious eyes shining. (A day later, Jaelen let me hold him for a whopping thirty minutes during a boba run!)

For the first time, we met our second grandchild to come (name to be revealed soon), still in her (yes, it will be a girl) mommy’s (Hannah) tummy. As I lowered my head and put my hand on Hannah’s tummy, I whispered, “Hello, Grandpa Chong is here. I can’t wait to meet you.” Hannah’s due date is July 18, and it could be any day, as she has been experiencing Braxton Hicks (false contractions) regularly. My lover, Remy, Elizabeth’s Chihuahua, was also there to greet me, wagging his short, thick tail rapidly. A few nights before, I dreamt of hugging Remy so you could feel my love for him.

Our first meal was none other than In-N-Out burgers. I mean, what else? Other than authentic LA tacos. . . I devoured double meat, animal style, with raw onions, along with a chocolate milkshake. With my happy belly, I went to bed after 10 pm, which was a success, popped a melatonin, and slept close to 7 hours on our first jetlag night.

The next morning, we briskly walked through the Pasadena neighborhoods, aided by perfect walking weather, talking about our plans and dreams for our time in the US and for the rest of the year. On the morning of our departure for the US, I submitted my manuscript to a publisher in Korea, hopefully paving the way for my second Korean book. My plan was to be fully present with our children and family in the US.

After taking care of Grace’s passport photos, since she needs to renew her passport, we wanted some caffeine to get through the day. We drove to Peet’s Coffee at Hastings Ranch, Pasadena, once my office coffee joint. During the pandemic (which coincided with our sabbatical) and onward, I did most of my work and writing here. Needless to say, I am very fond of this humble, neighborly joint.

As we entered, I told Grace, “I wonder if my baristas are here.” Upon entering, I saw Paul, one of my favorites, and immediately felt happy and at home. He, a smooth operator, makes my coffee right, a medium Americano with extra room, with crema at the top. His voice range is similar to mine, a low baritone. He dons long, wavy hair with enough gray streaks to suggest he is probably in his late 50s. Except for our voice tone, our hairstyles are polar opposites.

“Hey Paul, good to see you; it’s been a while.”
He replied, “Hey, good to see you too. Where have you been?”
“Korea.”
“How is Korea treating you?” he asked.
“Very well. I am good and happy there.”
“Glad to see that you are still here, Paul.”
Paul responded in his low, booming voice, “I am a routine guy and happy to be here.”

Feeling connected, we both smiled, and I sat at my usual seat, the same cushioned chair and the same table, feeling strangely familiar, like being back at Shire after an epic journey.

As I was writing this blog, our oldest, Elizabeth, walked in. “How did you . . . ?” Before I finished my sentence, she said proudly, with a grin, “Mom’s phone location.” She just finished a yoga class nearby and swung by to say hi. We chatted for a while about her work, relationships, and other important family get-togethers while we are in town. I was happy that she swung by and, at the same time, felt sad that she or we could not do that in Korea.

Feeling good on caffeine, we hit the gym, our old LA Fitness, to get the blood flowing in the afternoon. LA Fitness has a different usual suspects list than Peet’s mellower one, though it is within a stone’s throw. Greeting styles are noticeably different from those in Korea. Here, you greet each other with chin-raising nods or fist bumps. In Korea, you greet with a full bow. For the first time since moving to Korea, I shot some hoops. After sinking a few baskets and hearing the swish, I murmured under my breath, “Oh my love, I missed you too.” The truth is, basketball saved me during the most trying times of my life. After the gym, we went to Trader Joe’s to shop for our dinner. Incidentally, hours earlier, I lobbied the Creative Director of TJ’s to consider opening in Korea, telling him I would gladly stand in line for its grand opening.

My day unfolded as naturally as my body remembered, and I was in autopilot mode all day, shifting from one thing to another seamlessly. I am back, singing my old, familiar song, dancing my way through, telling my tales, and looking at the stars.

THE TRIUNE GOD AND ME

Yesterday, I received a text message from Hoon, whom I featured and asked for prayers on his behalf in the April 18 entry, asking to meet for coffee. I replied enthusiastically, “Of course, I would love to.” Though we exchanged a few text messages in between, regarding his health, I was eager to see him in person.

The latest news about his vocal cords was not what I wanted to hear. Since April, he had one surgery done, but removing the tube from his vocal cords was deemed to be too dangerous. So the tube will remain for at least one more year, and then a plan is to reevaluate. Hoon sounded more assured this time of accepting his fragile condition as of now without giving up hope.

He did not have an update on his health at the forefront of his mind when he wanted to meet with me. After a brief, meaningful check-in, he was eager to pepper me with questions he deemed were more important. The gravity of his questions floored me. As I tried my best to respond, I framed my responses as my personal, developing understanding: “This is what I have experienced so far. And don’t take my response as the answer.” Somehow, our conversation flowed into a relationship with the Triune God. Notice it was not about a concept but about a relationship. Someone wise has said, “Try to explain it (The Trinity), and you’ll lose your mind, but try to deny it, and you’ll lose your soul.” It is loosely attributed to St. Augustine, but that attribution is not conclusive. Perhaps the invitation is to live and experience it? That way, it becomes a personal, intimate knowing, which is what the Bible says about knowing anyway.

Seeing Hoon’s wide-eyed attention and how serious he was, I rambled on about my latest “experience” with the Trinity. (I did not exactly say how I wrote below, but you can get the drift.)

I came from God and will return to God. My overarching life vision is to be in union with God as Jesus exemplified and prayed for his followers. I came from Love and will return to Love, growing in my love for God and for everything else in between. Another way of saying it is that my “home” is God, and I will return to my Home, who created me. (The concept of home has been at the center of my recent life’s journey.) The life that is given to me is the only arena in which to walk the journey of returning to God. God is our home not just at the journey's end, but every step of the way.

On my journey back to God, Jesus, through the incarnation, is the ultimate example, the inspiration, the way, the truth, and the life. He walked this earth, like any other human being, yet unlike anyone else. Jesus is the only “visual” and accessible God I try to become like. Thus, I follow Jesus’ footsteps to learn how to be in union with God. All that Jesus was and is, including his death, resurrection, and teachings, inspires and motivates me in how to live this life. Apostle Paul’s assertion makes sense to me: “I deliberately kept it plain and simple: first Jesus and who he is; then Jesus and what he did—Jesus crucified.” (1 Corinthians 2:2) I would also like to believe there is ample room for imagination, creativity, and freedom to envision how Jesus would go about living my life if he were me. The truth that Jesus never condemns and always loves compels and woos me to accept my sins and gifts and to continue the path before me.

The Holy Spirit, these days, is like wind. I don’t know where it comes from and where it is going. But I know and feel the wind on my face. The Holy Spirit is the ultimate, perfect Guide, Helper, and Intercessor in wayfaring toward the union with God. True to its name, the Holy Spirit rarely takes center stage but tirelessly provides, corrects, examines, and discerns, residing in me. Being in tune with the Holy Spirit in me is often elusive, full of trial and error, and foremostly invites me to pay attention, pay attention to what is happening around me and also in me. The Acts of the Apostles or the disciples can only be understood in tandem with the Acts of the Holy Spirit. As such, some of my acts are in step with the Holy Spirit. And some are my own, requiring the work of the Holy Spirit to correct, mend, and restore.

God invites, waits, and is present in all things, drawing everything back to God, including me. The oneness with God will happen in the end. At the same time, as God is everywhere and in everything, oneness with God can be experienced, albeit temporarily, giving us a taste of what can be, luring us for more on this earth. My eyes are squarely on Jesus, again as faithful as I know how, who walked this earth and experienced perfect divine union with God in an utterly human way. The Holy Spirit is the perfect Helper, inviting and guiding every step of the way if we seek, never demanding or coercing.

As our deep conversation waned, I took the liberty to change the trajectory of our conversation, sheepish about the impending topic. As the annual monsoon season rolled in, it has been extremely humid with manageable heat, thankfully. As we get ready for our trip to the US, many people have been advising us to get dehumidifiers. We came to our senses and finally purchased one and received another as a gift (one for each floor). But we still need someone to come to our house frequently and turn on the dehumidifiers and AC while we are away. I asked Hoon, and before I finished my ask, he knew where I was going and said, “I would be happy to help.” After coffee, he invited me to his place to tour his woodworking shop. Seeing his extensive professional-grade workspace and learning that he built his own home left me completely blown away. I could see how working with his hands has provided sanity and vitality. Driving home, in less than five minutes away on a country road, I was consoled that he had a significant, creative outlet to work with his skillful hands, surely an expression of his love for his young family.

A JOY MUSING

I just finished a six-week online course on Embracing Emotions through CenterQuest’s Lifelong Learning Community. This week’s blog is a further musing on joy.

Grace and I will be in Pasadena, California, from mid-July to mid-August, welcoming our second grandchild and celebrating our first grandchild’s (Jaelen Yunseul) first birthday. We anticipate a lot of family time, including some grandparent duties, which spell joy. 

Joy, as “the queen of emotions,” according to Karla McLaren, helps “one feel a blissful sense of open-hearted communion and connection to others, to ideas, or to experiences.” I appreciate the breadth of communion and connection that includes ideas or experiences. Joy is ultimately founded on the Trinitarian community; the uniqueness of my being meets the oneness of everything without losing my existential self. Joy, as a shared emotion, constantly seeks and waits to be one, one with the One or the One in Three and with everything.

Joy arises from both interior-led discipline, without demands, and exterior-led serendipity, without control. I echo Mary Oliver’s first two lines of her poem, Don’t Hesitate, “If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it.” The invitation is for me to be aware and to embrace the unexpected, the serendipitous, and the passing. I find this increasingly untrammeled and uncomplicated.

I “gave in to joy” through the cool ocean breeze on my face, making me “Aah,” on our most recent trip to the southern coast of Korea; the thought of facilitating Suji Enneagram with various groups; the sumptuous feasts that appeased my eyes and stomach, connecting me to nature’s bounty; special Father’s Day text messages; the happy daily ritual of peeking into our grandson’s world through Google Photos, praying for loved ones who are ill; promoting and interceding for CenterQuest School of Spiritual Direction Cohort 2; (btw, if you are interested in signing up for the program, there is still room as the registration closes by the end of July) and the anticipation of welcoming our second grandchild in less than two weeks.

Experiencing spring (fall is gorgeous, but I have come to treasure spring more) in Korea over the years has opened my eyes and my soul to a level of joy of connection and communion I did not know existed. Rainer Maria Rilke pens, “It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.” Particularly, the morning walks, aided by crisp air, along the farmland by the small river, occasionally spotting elegant, fierce white and grey herons, have been transformative. My love for poetry exploded during this season, as nature became one of the best teachers. No wonder many poets and mystics were avid nature walkers, drawing inspiration and imagination.

Joy is my world colliding with the worlds of others and otherness, painting new horizons and redefining the meaning of my existence. Joy is a “living frontier” that captures “the sheer intoxicating beauty of the world inhabited as an edge between what we previously thought was us and what we thought was other than us.” (David Whyte) Once crossed, what was once a living frontier becomes a living place of “intoxicating beauty.” The gift of beauty can be found in human nature as well as in nature, which is to say everywhere. Joy, then, is the emotion that naturally arises in discovering the connection and communion between the two, it seems.

Joy is a face of communion and love. It cannot be acquired by trying but by giving away, paving the way for graceful reciprocity, as communion invites and insists. Joy is elusive and fleeting, yet it offers a deep, momentary expression of mutuality and love. The impermanence of such joy does not bother me; it invites me to be present and to enjoy the gift of joy as it comes. Joy enters and leaves as it likes, serving as a glorious reminder of whose we are and how to navigate this life with zest, openness, and childlike wonder.

RIVER, OCEAN, AND WIND

In recent years, I’ve probably dealt with more sadness than any other emotion. As we downsized most of our belongings into four large suitcases to move to Korea, we had to shed most of our stuff, not to mention leaving our four adult children behind in the US. There is the letting go of material belongings and the familiar, close network of relationships for 50 years. No other sadness, however, comes remotely close to leaving our children. Then, the biggest sadness came from the death of a dream, a dream of living in proximity with our children and grandchildren.

The biggest work of sadness came from letting go of dreams rather than the realities of saying goodbyes. Sadness involves the release of what is, tied and amplified by the extension of what could be. Thus, what I projected or envisioned my future-to-be died: the dream of being near our children and growing grandchildren, the dream of growing old with friends, and even the small dream of hiking all the national parks in the US with a lifetime senior national park pass, etc. It is the letting go of the future “fields of gold,” poetically sung by Sting.

A few days ago, my wife and I finished watching the K-drama, When Life Gives You Tangerines. There is a scene in which the father walks his daughter down the aisle. As it unfolded, I knew what was coming and promptly cried, joining the father in the drama. More than 30 years ago, when my first daughter was about two years old, I was in Chicago, parked in front of Maggiano’s Little Italy restaurant. (The fact that I remember the scene so clearly tells me it was a big deal.) As I was about to leave, the song Butterfly Kisses by Bob Carlisle came on the radio. It was my first time hearing it. I quickly became a wreck, unable to drive, crying my eyeballs out, envisioning the day I would walk my daughter down the aisle. I was not prepared for my own tears at the time.

A few years ago, when my second daughter got married, I only cried three times. :) The second time I cried at the wedding was when I was beaming in happiness and crying in sadness at the same time, walking my daughter down the aisle. It was a time of release for her to live her life with her husband and children by her side, not my projection of her future.

“Sadness isn’t just about loss and letting go. It’s also about restoring your flow and your ease so that you can reset yourself,” Karla McLaren writes. The idea of resetting resonates with me. Looking back, there was definitely a restoration of flow and ease. And I have no illusion that it is a one-time release either. Acknowledged sadness, as I experienced at the recent Closing Residency during the ritual of leaving, is beauty itself. It opens the circuit of my entire being, allowing me to flow. As we empty, God fills and renews.

With this feeling of awakened-ness and flow, the new dreams began to emerge: the dream of being healthy and happy with my wife right by my side, the dream of witnessing wonders in Asia, the dream of deep communion with communities in Asia, and the dream of companioning people to fully come alive.

After the release, rejuvenation arrives, according to Karla McLaren. I am like a house host who lets the old, welcomed guest named “sadness” honorably leave, then the same guest returns with the gift of “rejuvenation and renewal.”

In recent years, the imagery of the river spoke to me deeply. For an inordinate amount of time, I told myself, “Chong, trust the river you are on. Trust the flow.” As of last fall, the river imagery transformed into a vast, wide-open ocean. At least while on the river, whether moving fast or slow, you see where you are going, the bends, the banks, the villages, the trees, and occasionally the sky. As I am on the vast ocean, scared and excited, sometimes with no bearings on where I am, the imagery of wind recently grabbed hold of me.

Wind is more unpredictable, unplanned (so it seems), and breathtaking outworkings of the Spirit of God. Someone in my Group Spiritual Guidance companioned me, “wind is the invisible impacting the visibles.” When one is on the ocean, one is dependent on the wind, being carried and impacted. I know full well that there is nothing I can do or can’t do to prepare for welcoming wind in my life. So, I am willing to tell myself today, “trust the wind, son.”

FLOW & BLOW

“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time. The mind that responds to the intellectual and spiritual values that lie hidden in a poem, a painting, or a piece of music, discovers a spiritual vitality that lifts it above itself, takes it out of itself, and makes it present to itself on a level of being that it did not know it could ever achieve.” Thomas Merton

Finally, the long-awaited season two of CenterQuest’s Asia Poet Society huddled over Zoom last week. We welcomed four new poets to the group, adding to the original six, all graduates from the recent cohort. As one of my biggest surprises in recent years has been the discovery of my love for poetry, I circled this date with great anticipation and excitement. As I had the privilege of facilitating this time, we had spontaneous fun composing acrostic poems based on the word FLOW as a warm-up. The main theme I chose was “close,” as in near or intimate. We wrote for 12 minutes, came together, presented each of our poems, and then companioned one person at a time.

Art, or in this case, poetry, allows us to find ourselves. Our words, the economy, and the luxury of words dig, search, and draw something from deep or even the subconscious. When words show up, we are surprised “on a level of being that it did know it could ever achieve.” It is the kind of experiential union with myself that beckons me back. Our modern mind looks for reasons and rationale to prove, with precision and certainty to follow. So we think. Comparatively, our imprecise intuitive soul suffers until it is given room to operate and express in words, art, or music. Our words can be both frustratingly limited and delightfully limitless.

On numerous occasions, I have been surprised by the impact and invitation of one word or phrase buried in the sentence being conceived. I have been surprised by heart-tugging, soul-grabbing images while trying desperately to translate them into words. Sometimes words feel so intimate that I might as well be naked. Sometimes, lucidity arrives at a time least expected. The last line of the poem I wrote ends with this sentence. “Close is an elusive, earthly home between longing and belonging.” Close is a seductive, blissful space of being human, having arrived, and yet not arrived. To use biblical imagery, close is the Kingdom of God, residing between now and not yet.

My words are clearly my own, but at the same time, I am aware of the fact that they are not mine. They reflect perennial wisdom gleaned and processed in the context of my own life, spilling into the page for my rumination and inspiration, perhaps benefitting others. I am very aware of the “communal” human process that spans centuries and millennia. In this sense, I am part of a proud and prudent human tradition of expression, one that can never be contained in trying to make sense of life and its meaning.

Art also allows me to lose myself. I would not find myself without losing myself first. They are so interdependent that it must be “at the same time.” Art is not an addition to what we already are without losing oneself. Art must take some things away to add. I translate losing ourselves as suffering, a suffering of letting go. Art rediscovers who we are by both losing and finding ourselves. Richard Rohr talks about the two great agents of transformation: love and suffering. In the end, we are transformed only by love and suffering. To paraphrase Meister Eckhart, our spiritual maturity does not take place by addition, but by subtraction. I resonate deeply with the idea that art embodies this spiritual truth of losing oneself. I want to think that suffering unites humanity by leveling the playing field, thus providing solidarity. It is on this foundation of solidarity that art speaks and unites across all humanity at all times.

I honestly have no idea where this love for poetry and art will lead me. As of now, I am content to let it flow and blow, like “the wind of God” (John 3:8, The Message).

A GRAND SILENCE BEER CLUB

As I expected the afterglow from the Closing Residency would fade, I find myself trying to hold on to the ebbing glimmers of sweet memories. It is the air, the view from the mountain top, the bamboo forest, and the wild colors of the spring. It is also the look, the eyes, the teary smiles, shared meals, and just being around people who are on a similar journey of taking their God-given selves seriously, with and for one another, and for the sake of the world.

On one of the nights after compline, a few of the brothers planned to get together during the grand silence. After a few rounds of banter and an exchange of ideas over lunch, five of us decided to kick off an early graduation celebration with a cold brewski together, representing four different countries. The one hurdle was the grand silence that would kick in right after compline. We quickly brushed that aside and rationalized by agreeing that our celebration was more important.

I do not know how I forgot about the celebration, but after receiving a text message from one of the brothers, “Chong, are you coming?” I bolted from my room to the secret spot they found, a small kitchen tucked away in the men’s wing. As I entered, the room was already glowing and “flowing,” and the guys were merry and boisterous, far from being silent. I slid right into the mix, amused and excited, and someone promptly popped a can and handed it over to me, shouting, “Congratulations, Chong!” We clinked our cans; theirs were mostly empty already. The beer tasted sweet and smooth to boot. Some guys were already in their comfortable pajamas and white tank tops, signaling that this was the last event of the day. Our conversations flowed like decades-long friends. We exchanged our stories, sharing first impressions during the Opening Residency and during online learning. As if to embrace grand silence, the night “slowed down” (sports lingo to say we were in the zone) and we savored our precious time. Though this was technically our second face-to-face meeting, since we had bared our souls during the previous 18 months, we might as well be bosom buddies.

We regrettably ended our celebration after midnight. After saying goodbye to them, I needed to make my way back to my quarters, which were about 100 meters from one end of the building to the other. I left their building, then quickly realized the connecting doors to other buildings were all locked. I decided to venture out altogether and walk across the labyrinth and the yard to see if I could enter from the other side. The security guard did his job meticulously, as I could not find any openings, including the windows. My head was scanning for plan B or C—what would Jason Bourne do? :) I knew my wife was asleep, so waking her up was not an option. Besides, I did not have my phone with me. I glanced at the building and saw that some lights were still on in the building where my room was.

Cupping my hands to muffle the sound, I called out softly toward the lit second-floor window, "Hello? Is anybody there?" After a few desperate pleas, to my delight, I saw someone looking out the window. Then, just as quickly, the curtain was drawn closed. I did not have time to say, “Hey, it’s me, Chong.” My heart sank. Just then, my wife whispered from inside our room, “Honey, what are you doing?” I walked to the other side of the building, where the entrance door was, and another woman had also heard the commotion and was about to open it. After my wife told the woman she had everything under control, she could not help but laugh about the incident. I felt like a rascally teenager, but I was still basking in the men’s secret beer party.

After the adrenaline settled and thanks to the beer, I slept like a “teenager” baby. The next day, after Lauds and during breakfast, when I met the brothers’ eyes, we exchanged mischievous, approving smiles, as if to say we now had our own proud secret. After hearing my locked-out story the night before, they busted out laughing.

Soon thereafter, I found out who had been looking out the second-floor window and shut the curtain. She told me she was scared because she thought I was a hooligan. We also busted out laughing. It was a fine day. It is a sweet memory.

THE GIFT OF ANGER

This week, I thought of Heimdall and Gandalf. Heimdall is a lesser-known Marvel character, a friend of Thor, and a sentry to Asgard. Of course, need I elaborate on Gandalf as an ancient sage in The Lord of the Rings? Both are fictional characters, but imagined heroes based on perennial reality: an honorable sentry and an ancient sage.

Anger, when functioning well, serves both as an honorable sentry and an ancient sage. The sentry in me protects the boundaries and preserves the values I hold dearly. One of the defining moments of Gandalf was when he faced Balrog and bellowed, “You shall not pass!” Thus, anger is an honorable gift to celebrate. When anger is provoked, it has a mission to accomplish or a job to do if I activate the sentry and sage in me.

One particular incident took place some thirty years ago. I was a missionary sent by my home church, working in the organization I founded, less than an hour from the church. I remember the missions pastor visiting us one day. He was essentially asking me and others to get more involved in the home church. More than the words, the way he spoke to me offended me, as if he were above me, position-wise, in front of my staff. (I did know the propriety, especially in Korean culture, but I have refused to accept the norm and expectation.) I “stood” my ground and firmly and calmly told him that I could and would not, because of a conviction of mine that when a local church sends off missionaries, they are to do the work in the “field,” not serve both. Additionally, I told him that I would be serving with no days off all week.

Another episode comes to mind. When the organization I started began to gain influence nationally, one significant, older Korean missions leader essentially wanted to fold our organization under his. It was a power play, I knew. This, too, infuriated me. I gave him a firm no in a culturally appropriate way. Inside, I remember being profoundly upset.

Looking back, several of my values were crossed. The accepted hierarchical norm of placing pastors above missionaries infuriates me. I knew he could have cut off or reduced our support, but I couldn’t care at the time. My theological conviction, then, was that the “Church” includes both local churches and what people call “para-churches,” a term I detested. (Now, my definition of “Church” is much bigger.) When I smell a “power play” at work to me or to others, I am infuriated. Parochialism and uniformity suffocate me. I have a tendency to resist the well-worn paths. When everyone thought I should go to seminary, I didn’t. When some thought I should not start another new missions organizations, I didn’t listen. I am far more comfortable and excitable blazing new trails and learning as I go. Doing my emotions work over the last two weeks, I discovered that independence had been a value of mine since childhood. While both incidents were of medium anger, I knew I was offended and thus “fought” back.

The “righteous anger” Jesus embodied throughout his human life empowers me, and I love this Jesus. I resonated with the concept of “letting my anger flow freely,” according to Karla McLaren, The Language of Emotions. This idea of letting anger flow freely is the work of a sage. The image and invitation for me are to let anger flow out of me freely as it comes, neither repressing nor over-expressing. As my anger is not someone else’s and someone else’s anger is not mine, I would like to think that we all benefit and grow in our collective consciousness from all our “righteous” angers. When channeled well, anger is brave and wise. Anger tirelessly works to safeguard and preserve each of our God-given selves’ paths.

LIFE'S PARAMOUNT QUESTIONS

I have always been fascinated by the questions Jesus asked. Though he did not need to, in his divinity and in his humanity, his questions were genuine and compendious. I have been mulling over and rehearsing some of Jesus' questions for the last several days as I ransacked the questions in the Book of John. I believe his questions pierced the hearts of those he spoke to and sparked introspection unlike any other. I also believe Jesus is still asking the same questions of today's hearers. Knowing the state of our souls perfectly, he waits patiently, without condemnation, until we “come clean” and are honest with ourselves. When we do, we discover our souls’ true longings, which have always been aligned with what Jesus desires in and from us.

What do you want?
According to John, this question is the first words spoken by Jesus in the Book of John. It must have seared into John’s mind that decades later, the first sentence out of Jesus’ mouth that John wrote was this question. It is easy to blow by this question and not take it seriously. I did. I was taught that what I want or desire was not important. All I needed was complete and undivided obedience. Later in life, this question changed my life. As I began to take my desires seriously, a whole new world opened up for me. My current life trajectory would not be possible without asking this question over and over again.

Do you want to get well again?

Technically, this is a closed question, at least in the translation. We have two responses: yes or no. Jesus is compelling us to say yes and to consider what getting well means for us. Being well or getting well is impossible without Jesus’ healing, because Jesus is the source of our wellness. In the original Greek, the word for well means “whole.” Jesus is after our wholeness: body, mind, emotion, and spirit. I am in the middle of a six-week online course called Embracing Emotions. I have long known that emotion is the most deficient aspect in pursuing my wholeness. Then there is the word again. “Again” represents unceasing hope and grace, like the morning sun, whether we see it or not. Grace will not be grace unless it is forever unconditional.

Where shall we buy bread for these people to eat?
Here, Jesus wants our participation. He is not merely asking where. Like a good Jew, he is communicating slantly, “testing Philip,” and inviting us to do something about people’s needs—the world’s needs. It seems that the world’s hunger must have local immediacy as the starting point. Sure enough, like good Jews, the disciples, or in this case, Peter, went to work and found a boy with five barley loaves and two fish who was willing to share. Unconvinced, Peter asked Jesus, “But what good is that with this huge crowd?” After ignoring Peter’s question, Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” After our service, Jesus does his work of making us relax, followed by a miracle. Today, Jesus still asks us where we will find bread for the world’s hunger. The invitation is to do our small part of “finding a boy.” Miracles are dependent on our small actions. 

Who are you looking for?
For most of our lives, we look in the wrong places and at the wrong people. I did. I looked at ego-building and maintenance efforts, so I could save myself and fool myself into thinking I was good or godly. Worse still, I convinced myself that I was doing God’s work in God’s way. One lesson I learned is that we do not look to the right place—Jesus—until we fall, and fall hard. From there, the only way is to look up, as we can no longer save ourselves. Paradoxically, that is a great place to look, look up. I think I understand why Julian of Norwich said, “First there is the fall, and then we recover from the fall. Both are the mercy of God.”

Do you love me?
All other questions by Jesus melt away with this uncomplicated, intimate, and yet heart-pounding question. At the end of the day and our lives, this is the only question that matters in our human and spiritual journey. Here, Jesus is personalizing the Great Commandment, which demands or invokes our obedience. I can no longer hide behind the plural “you.” By asking, “Do you love me?” with his eyes locking with mine, I have no other place to hide than to meet his eyes. The eyes of Jesus are filled with compassion as I have failed over and over again, like Peter. There is a saving grace in that our love does not have to be the “agapao” kind, but the best human “phileo” kind. Every single day and moment, the hound of heaven in Jesus goes around and asks everyone who would stop to listen, “Do you love me?” How we respond to this question can change our lives.