Shortly after the turn of the century, Japan invaded, conquered, and occupied
Korea. They overwhelmed the Koreans with a brutality that would sicken the strongest
stomach. Many Koreans live today with the physical and emotional scars from the
Japanese occupation.
One group singled out for concentrated oppression was the Christians. Evangelical
churches were boarded up, foreign missionaries ejected, many pastors were jailed,
and church meetings forbidden. 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 the pastor’s church . . . for one meeting.
Word traveled quickly. Long before dawn on that promised Sunday, Korean families
starving for an opportunity of unhindered worship 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
that served as a fitting farewell to earth and a loving salutation to heaven.
The first few words were all the prompting the terrified worshippers needed.
With smoke burning their eyes, they instantly joined as one to sing their hope
and leave their legacy.
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 hatred would
take decades. For some of the relatives of the victims, 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. Hatred choked their joy. It wasn’t
until 1971 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 perished, they were overcome with shame. 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 the 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 hurt fresh. The Koreans’ bitterness
had festered for decades. Christian brothers or not, these Japanese descendants
represented a ruthless enemy.
Speeches were made, 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 "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 Japanese could not contain themselves. 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, callused 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.
Tim Kimmel, Little House on the Freeway, pp. 50-54
