Often
is lost in our day the power of reconciliation, but that is the secret of
Easter. Death has been defeated. Death of hatred and anger. Death of judgment
and prejudice. Death of sexism and brutality. Death has been swallowed up in
victory. Tim Kimmel in his book, Little
House on the Freeway, (p.
56-61) tells a powerful story of the power of Christ to bring reconciliation.
May it be so in our lives.
Shortly after the turn of the century, Japan invaded,
conquered, and occupied Korea. Of all of their oppressors, Japan was the most
ruthless. They overwhelmed the Koreans with a brutality that would sicken the
strongest of stomachs. Their crimes against women and children were inhuman.
Many Koreans live today with the physical and emotional scars from the Japanese
occupation.
One group singled out for concentrated oppression was the
Christians. When the Japanese army overpowered Korea one of the first things
they did was board up the evangelical churches and eject most foreign
missionaries. It has always fascinated me how people fail to learn from
history. Conquering nations have consistently felt that shutting up churches
would shut down Christianity. It didn't work in Rome when the church was
established, and it hasn't worked since. Yet somehow the Japanese thought they
would have a different success record.
The conquerors started by refusing to allow churches to meet
and jailing many of the key Christian spokesmen. The oppression intensified as
the Japanese military increased its profile in the South Pacific. The
"Land of the Rising Sun" spread its influence through a reign of
savage brutality. Anguish filled the hearts of the oppressed -- and kindled
hatred deep in their souls.
One pastor persistently entreated his local Japanese police
chief for permission to meet for services. His nagging was finally
accommodated, and the police chief offered to unlock his church ... for one
meeting. It didn't take long for word to travel. Committed Christians starving
for an opportunity for unhindered worship quickly made their plans. Long before
dawn on that promised Sunday, Korean families throughout a wide area made their
way to the church. They passed the staring eyes of their Japanese captors, but
nothing was going to steal their joy. As they closed the doors behind them they
shut out the cares of oppression and shut in a burning spirit anxious to glorify
their Lord.
The Korean church has always had a reputation as a singing
church. Their voices of praise could not be concealed inside the little wooden
frame sanctuary. Song after song rang through the open windows into the bright
Sunday morning. For a handful of peasants listening nearby, the last two songs
this congregation sang seemed suspended in time. It was during a stanza of
"Nearer My God to Thee" that the Japanese police chief waiting
outside gave the orders. The people toward the back of the church could hear
them when they barricaded the doors, but no one realized that they had doused
the church with kerosene until they smelled the smoke. The dried wooden skin of
the small church quickly ignited. Fumes filled the structure as tongues of
flame began to lick the baseboard on the interior walls. There was an immediate
rush for the windows. But momentary hope recoiled in horror as the men climbing
out the windows came crashing back in -- their bodies ripped by a hail of
bullets.
The good pastor knew it was the end. With a calm that comes
from confidence, he led his congregation in a hymn whose words served as a
fitting farewell to earth and a loving salutation to heaven. The first few
words were all the prompting the terrified worshipers needed. With smoke
burning their eyes, they instantly joined as one to sing their hope and leave
their legacy. Their song became a serenade to the horrified and helpless
witnesses outside. Their words also tugged at the hearts of the cruel men who
oversaw this flaming execution of the innocent.
Alas! and did my Savior bleed?
and did my Sovereign die?
Would he devote that sacred head
for such a worm as I?
Just before the roof collapsed they sang the last verse,
their words an eternal testimony to their faith.
But drops of grief can ne'er repay
the debt of love I owe:
Here, Lord, I give myself away
'Tis all that I can do!
At the cross, at the cross
Where I first saw the light,
And the burden of my heart rolled away --
It was there by faith I received my sight,
And now I am happy all the day.
The strains of music and wails of children were lost in a
roar of flames. The elements that once formed bone and flesh mixed with the
smoke and dissipated into the air. The bodies that once housed life fused with
the charred rubble of a building that once housed a church. But the souls who
left singing finished their chorus in the throne room of God. Clearing the
incinerated remains was the easy part. Erasing the hate would take decades. For
some of the relatives of the victims, this carnage was too much. Evil had
stooped to a new low, and there seemed to be no way to curb their bitter
loathing of the Japanese.
In the decades that followed, that bitterness was passed on
to a new generation. The Japanese, although conquered, remained a hated enemy.
The monument the Koreans built at the location of the fire not only
memorialized the people who died, but stood as a mute reminder of their pain.
Inner rest? How could rest coexist with a bitterness deep as
marrow in the bones? Suffering, of course, is a part of life. People hurt
people. Almost all of us have experienced it at some time. Maybe you felt it
when you came home to find that your spouse had abandoned you, or when your
integrity was destroyed by a series of well-timed lies, or when your company
was bled dry by a partner. It kills you inside. Bitterness clamps down on your
soul like iron shackles.
The Korean people who found it too hard to forgive could not
enjoy the "peace that passes all understanding." Hatred choked their
joy.
It wasn't until 1972 that any hope came. A group of Japanese
pastors traveling through Korea came upon the memorial. When they read the
details of the tragedy and the names of the spiritual brothers and sisters who
had perished, they were overcome with shame. Their country had sinned, and even
though none of them were personally involved (some were not even born at the
time of the tragedy), they still felt a national guilt that could not be
excused. They returned to Japan committed to right a wrong. There was an immediate
outpouring of love from their fellow believers. They raised ten million yen
($25,000). The money was transferred through proper channels and a beautiful
white church building was erected on the sight of the tragedy. When the
dedication service for the new building was held, a delegation from Japan
joined the relatives and special guests.
Although their generosity was acknowledged and their
attempts at making peace appreciated, the memories were still there. Hatred
preserves pain. It keeps the wounds open and the hurts fresh. The Koreans'
bitterness had festered for decades. Christian brothers or not, these Japanese
were descendants of a ruthless enemy. The speeches were made, the details of
the tragedy recalled, and the names of the dead honored. It was time to bring
the service to a close. Someone in charge of the agenda thought it would be
appropriate to conclude with the same two songs that were sung the day the
church was burned. The song leader began the words to "Nearer My God
to Thee."
But something remarkable happened as the voices mingled on
the familiar melody. As the memories of the past mixed with the truth of the
song, resistance started to melt. The inspiration that gave hope to a doomed
collection of churchgoers in a past generation gave hope once more. The song
leader closed the service with the hymn "At the Cross." The normally
stoic Japanese could not contain themselves. The tears that began to fill their
eyes during the song suddenly gushed from deep inside. They turned to their
Korean spiritual relatives and begged them to forgive. The guarded, calloused
hearts of the Koreans were not quick to surrender. But the love of the Japanese
believers --not intimidated by decades of hatred -- tore at the Koreans'
emotions.
At the cross, at the cross
Where I first saw the light,
And the burden of my heart rolled away ...
One Korean turned toward a Japanese brother. Then another.
And then the floodgates holding back a wave of emotion let go. The Koreans met
their new Japanese friends in the middle. They clung to each other and wept.
Japanese tears of repentance and Korean tears of forgiveness intermingled to
bathe the site of an old nightmare. Heaven had sent the gift of reconciliation
to a little white church in Korea.
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