Fantastic Forgiveness
The
Bible says: “The LORD taketh pleasure in them that fear him, in those that hope in his mercy.” Psalms 147:11 (KJV)
In his book, Little House on the Freeway Tim Kimmel writes: “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 Sum” 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 -- unintimidated 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.
Daily Chronological Bible Reading: Psalm 134,
146-150
