One New Year's Eve at London's Garrick Club, British dramatist Frederick Lonsdale was
asked by Symour Hicks to reconcile with a fellow member. The two had quarreled in the past
and never restored their friendship. "You must," Hicks said to Lonsdale.
"It is very unkind to be unfriendly at such a time. Go over now and wish him a happy
So Lonsdale crossed the room and spoke to his enemy. "I wish you a happy New
Year," he said, "but only one."
Today in the Word, July 5, 1993.
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
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
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
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.
Tim Kimmel, Little House on the Freeway, p. 56-61.
A childhood accident caused poet Elizabeth Barrett to lead a life of semi-invalidism before she married Robert Browning in
1846. There's more to the story. In her youth, Elizabeth had been watched over by her tyrannical father. When she and Robert
were married, their wedding was held in secret because of her father's disapproval. After the wedding the Brownings sailed for
Italy, where they lived for the rest of their lives. But even though her parents had disowned her, Elizabeth never gave up on
the relationship. Almost weekly she wrote them letters. Not once did they reply. After 10 years, she received a large box in
the mail. Inside, Elizabeth found all of her letters; not one had been opened! Today those letters are among the most
beautiful in classical English literature. Had her parents only read a few of them, their relationship with Elizabeth might have
Daily Walk, May 30, 1992.
For the sake of each of us he laid down his life--worth no less than the universe. He demands of us in return our lives for the sake of each other.
Clement of Alexandria.
The Civil War was carnage. Then Jefferson Davis of the Confederacy died. And Ulysses Grant of the Union died. Their
widows, Varina Davis and Julia Grant, settled near each other. They became closest of friends.