Joy and Sadness of Holy Week

One of the writers in the Catholic Times offers a meditation on the new life Jesus gives us.

Tim

As I’ve lived my life, I’ve found that there are now more people who have gone to heaven than those with whom I’ve formed new bonds. It seems that many of the people I loved and respected are now in heaven. In fact, since death is a reality we all face at this very moment, regardless of age, I look to Father Gerhard Loepf’s *Understanding Death, Resurrection, and Eternal Life* for some insight.

We often think of Jesus’ death as the final act of a transcendent hero. However, Father Röpke points out that Jesus’ death was one of utter “helplessness.” He was neither a superhero who made a dramatic escape from the cross nor a magician who could erase suffering in an instant. Like us—no, even more poignantly than us—He stood face to face with death. In that moment of utter helplessness, Jesus entrusted Himself completely to the Father. Through this very “surrender,” He personally demonstrated that death is an act of the deepest trust, a leap into the hands of God.

Death feels like vanishing forever into pitch-black darkness. But this book states unequivocally: The true name of death is “encounter.” The moment we close our eyes, we do not face darkness, but the face of the One who formed and loved us. Like the moment we finally embrace someone we have longed for, death is the most intense encounter where every fragment of life comes together and our true self is fully revealed. Therefore, death is not a source of fear, but perhaps the greatest source of anticipation.

Of course, we cannot simply be filled with excitement. For in that moment, we stand before the mirror that is God. A mirror before which nothing can be hidden. The mistakes I have made, my selfishness, and the moments I failed to love are laid bare. This is what “judgment” truly is. Yet it is not a courtroom drama where a judge bangs down the gavel. It is the feeling of shame we experience in the face of overwhelming love—that, in itself, is judgment. “Why couldn’t I have loved more?” This book tells us that this agonizing regret is itself the “purifying fire.” It is not a punishment but a healing. It is the process of shaping us into people of complete love.

Will we, having been resurrected, float around like ghosts? No. This book tells us that we are resurrected along with our “physical bodies.” This means that all the joys and sorrows I experienced in life, the people I loved, and the stories I built through hard work—all of it enters into God. The love and devotion we shared in this world, even the smallest efforts that went unnoticed by anyone, do not disappear. They all become the building blocks of resurrection and shine eternally.

There is another fascinating point. In God’s time, there are no clock hands as we know them. At the moment we take our last breath, we step out of the framework of time and enter the “eternal present.” That moment is the end, the Second Coming, and the Resurrection. We do not wait tediously in a cold grave for our turn; rather, the moment we die, we enter God’s Eternal Time.

Knowledge of God:

 How can human beings come to know the invisible God? A Korean diocesan priest gives an answer in the Catholic Times Weekly. This is a fundamental question. In other words, it asks: "How can humans attain a knowledge of God?" Regarding this fundamental inquiry, Catholic theology offers the following insights:

First, it posits that humans can attain a knowledge of God through nature—God's creation—by means of the natural light of reason. This is known as "natural theology".

Second, it states that humans can attain a knowledge of God through His Word and His testimonies (miracles and deeds), guided by the light of reason illuminated by faith. This is known as "supernatural theology".

Third, it asserts that humans can attain a direct intuition of God's very essence—through the "light of glory" (a divine light transcending human nature, emanating from God's essence itself)—thereby experiencing the mystery of God Himself. This is known as "mystical theology". 

What is theology? It is the academic systematization of the knowledge of God. What is the purpose of theology? It is to assist us in attaining a proper knowledge of God. Theology helps us to truly know God so that we may truly believe in Him. Through the beauty of nature—God’s creation—

What must we do to truly believe in God? The answer is simple: we must engage in theology. But how, then, does one practice theology? First and foremost, one must master natural theology. Natural theology is nothing other than "gazing upon nature—God’s own book. "It is "entering into nature, the Garden of Eden created by God." The very moment we step into nature, the accumulated impurities of our bodies and minds are washed away.

The Book of Wisdom states, "From the grandeur and beauty of the created world, one can come to know its Creator" (Wisdom 13:5).

Encountering and deeply contemplating the beauty of nature—unfolding across this living star we call Earth—is an act of encountering God. Remembering the beauty of a sunset glow glimpsed by chance one day, and immersing oneself in that beauty, is an act of encountering God. Recalling the vitality and grandeur bestowed by the sea and the verdant forest, and truly feeling that life force, is an act of encountering God.

Observing the trees and flowers in our own backyards with close attention—perceiving their beauty and wonder—is a profoundly sacred act; it is, indeed, an act of encountering God. Through the beauty of nature, human beings experience a single ray of light from God Himself—the very embodiment of Beauty.

In the sound of the wind murmuring low across the earth, Native Americans sensed the very breath of God dwelling within all things; and Henri Bergson, immersed in the beauty of a sunset glow, intuited within that ecstatic moment an undivided, eternal present. Saint Francis of Assisi, who discovered God’s presence in all creation, likewise called the sun and moon his "brothers" and sang of the Creator’s breath dwelling within the perfect order inherent in all things. Furthermore, the Desert Fathers, amidst the boundless, tranquil horizons of the desert, shed all superfluous sensory distractions to experience a spiritual elevation—a direct encounter with the sole reality: God.

These wondrous experiences serve as the very threshold leading into the mystery of faith: the act of beholding the invisible face of God reflected in the mirror of nature.

How to Become a Neighbor?

 

Co-director of the Family Humanities Research Institute writes about new ways to see family in the Korean Catholic Times Weekly.

Children read the world’s classification charts before they read textbooks. They grow up in a reality where the place one lives determines one's worth, where a parent’s financial status functions like a measure of ability, and where grades become a ranking of character. We call this “order,” but in children’s eyes, it is a hierarchy. Invisible lines are drawn. This side and that side, the high-achieving child and the one who isn’t. Children grow up learning this way of distinguishing people.                                       

Even in the time of the Gospels, there was a line. The Gospel of Luke tells us that Jesus sat at the table with sinners in the house of Levi, the tax collector. At that time, Jewish society divided people into “the clean” and “the unclean” through purity laws. The dining table was not merely a matter of etiquette but a boundary in the way of seeing life.

The way children today divide their friends based on grades and apartment size resembles how people in those days divided others according to purity laws. The line has changed, but the method of classification is all too familiar.

Yet rather than explaining or challenging those boundaries, Jesus simply sat down at that table with them. That table was a place where boundaries were erased through his very presence. It was not a place that screened who could enter, but a place where no one was pushed away. The radical nature of the Gospel begins at the table.

Luke 10 continues with the story of the “Good Samaritan.” A lawyer asks, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus does not provide criteria for classification. Instead, he reframes the question: “Who proved to be a neighbor to this man?” It was not a study of how to identify a neighbor, but a study of how to become a neighbor. 

Jesus’s “question” and the practice of “emptying oneself.” Standing by one another and discerning, rather than determining hierarchy and boundaries, goes so far as to say, “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, wife and children…”  This statement is not a call to reject one’s family, but rather an invitation not to absolutize blood ties. It is a call to face the reality that even family can become a basis for division.

Jesus’s teaching was not a technique for determining who is more right, but a practice in learning whose side to stand on. Jesus’s method of “questioning” and “emptying” is perfected here. It is a matter of discerning which lines to erase, rather than what to add.

This practice is first put to the test within the family. On the day a child’s grades drop, asking about their feelings before discussing the results. It is the attitude of not accepting an atmosphere where those who excel academically are treated with greater respect. It is the choice not to laugh off discriminatory jokes about your neighborhood or background. Children learn through their parents’ reactions. They discern where lines are drawn and where they are erased.

The world teaches hierarchy, and we raise our children within it. Yet we cannot help but ask: Is this really the only path? The Gospel invites us to look at boundaries anew. It prompts us to reflect on the lines we’ve drawn so easily and held onto for so long. Were they drawn to push someone out, or did they harden as we claimed to be protecting something? And it silently shows us another place—a place where we sit together.

Perhaps family is not a finished community, but a place of practice where we gradually erase those lines. Could our dining table today be a place not for judging others, but for listening to one another’s lives and discernments? That question lingers quietly.

Today is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week. To commemorate Jesus' entry into Jerusalem to complete the Paschal mystery, during the Mass, before the procession of palms, we listen to the Gospel concerning the Lord’s entry into Jerusalem. However, the Paschal mystery is not completed by the entry alone. Therefore, in the Liturgy of the Word, we also read together the passion narrative of Jesus Christ.  A professor at the Seoul Seminary offers readers of the Catholic Times a reflection on the first day of Holy Week.

Today's two Gospels form a stark contrast. If the Gospel of the entry shows Jesus’ 'Messianic aspect,' the passion narrative shows Jesus’ 'miserable state' as he is crucified. For example, when Jesus entered Jerusalem, the crowds shouted, 'Hosanna to the Son of David!' and cheered, whereas in the passion narrative, the crowds shout, 'Crucify him!'  showing completely opposite reactions.  

The entry and the passion seem contrasting in this way, yet they together form a single mystery. Though the content appears opposite in that the praised King meets a miserable end, the two are ultimately united in the Paschal mystery: there is no resurrection without death, and no glory without suffering. This Paschal mystery, in which Jesus, welcomed and exalted, humbles Himself unto death to complete the work of salvation, is hinted at in the entry Gospel with the expression 'humble King.'  

The word used in the Gospel of Matthew to mean 'humble' is 'praus (πραΰς).' Praus is the Greek translation of the Hebrew word 'ani (עָנִי),' meaning humble, in the verse from Zechariah cited by Matthew: 'He is righteous, humble, and rides on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey'  Etymologically, 'ani' derives from 'anah (עָנָה),' which means to be afflicted or oppressed.  

The humility referred to by 'praus' is generally, not simply the attitude of 'lowering oneself' in the usual sense of politeness and courtesy, but etymologically refers to the attitude of 'enduring'—persevering to the end regardless of any persecution and suffering. In this context, true humility means not just lowering oneself, but quietly enduring and accepting the pain that comes to us. Therefore, when the Bible refers to the one to come as a 'humble king,' it can be interpreted as a hint that, although he is a king, he will endure all kinds of persecution and harsh suffering, bear it silently, and obey even unto death. 

The root word 'ani' for humility, used by Praus, is also related to 'anavim (עֲנָוִ֥ים),' which is translated as 'the poor' in Psalm 37:11. Anavim is the plural form of 'anav (עָנָו),' and anav itself is rooted in 'anach,' which means to suffer persecution and pain. In other words, the humble (Praus) and the poor (anavim) are not unrelated. The poor celebrated in the Psalms are those who must endure persecution and pain as they are. They are so miserable that they can only place their hope in the Lord. They are in a position where they can only trust the Lord alone and endure all the evils that afflict them. The poor, in the midst of suffering, seek the will of the Lord and, in accepting their miserable reality, are inevitably humble. In short, the poor are humble, and the humble are those who seek the Lord's will in suffering and obey it. 

The reason Jesus, entering Jerusalem, is called the humble (πραΰς) king is because he prayed, 'Not my will, but yours be done' (Matthew 26:39), and obeyed the Father's will. Ultimately, the Paschal mystery will be fulfilled through those who are poor, humble, and obedient, like Jesus. Following the humble king.

Devotion to St. Joseph in Korea

The reason Asian churches in China, Vietnam, Korea, and Thailand have a strong devotion to St. Joseph was the subject of an article in the Catholic Peace Weekly. 

The Catholic Church celebrates the feast day of St. Joseph every March. St. Joseph's place in the Far East (East Asia and Southeast Asia) churches, including Korea, is especially important. This is because missionaries in the Far East entrusted their mission to Saint Joseph amid persecution, even 200 years before Pope Pius IX declared St. Joseph as the guardian of the universal church in 1870. The reason why St. Joseph became a "guardian of the Far East" through the two-pronged decision made at the mission sites in the 17th century.

The first came from missionaries dispatched by the Pope from the Paris Outpost of the Paris Foreign Missionary Society Established between 1659 and 1660, they were vast areas that encompassed Vietnam, China, and Korea. Bishop Francois Palou and Bishop Ranveer de la Mott held their first synod in Ayutthaya, the capital of the Kingdom of Siam, in 1664, before entering and dedicating the mission to St. Joseph.

Bishop Pierre Lambert de la Motte (1624-1679).  along with Bishop François Pallou (1626-1684), founded the Society of Foreign Missions of Paris (MEP, for Société des Missions Etrangères de Paris). They are considered to be among the founders of the Church in Vietnam and candidates for canonization. 

As a result, the name of the first seminary, along with the cathedral built in Ayutthaya in 1665, became St. Joseph's Seminary (the birthplace of Malaysia's Penang Seminary). In 1855, the first seminary of the Korean church was also St. Joseph's Seminary, which inherited its name and spirit. The first synod held in Tonkin, Vietnam, in 1670, also established this tradition by stating that "St. Joseph is appointed as the patron saint of the kingdom in accordance with the Ayutthaya Charter."

Another branch started in 1668 at the place of exile in China. About 20 missionaries from various religious orders unanimously selected St. Joseph as the patron saint of missionary work in China after a 40-day meeting. This is because Joseph's silence, who fled to Egypt with baby Jesus and Mary to escape King Herod's blade, resembles the situation of the persecuted Chinese church.

On August 17, 1678, Pope Innocent XI proclaimed Saint Joseph the patron saint of China and neighboring countries (including Korea) at the request of the Far East's major superiors and missionaries.

The Korean church also inherited this trend and had a devotion to St. Joseph from the beginning. The same has been true since the Archdiocese of Beijing's independence in 1831. Pope Gregorio XVI stipulated that Saint Joseph be served as a co-guardian, even after the Blessed Mary became the new patron saint at the request of Bishop Saint Angbert, the 2nd Joseon Archdiocese, in 1841. This is also why the first Western-style cathedral built in Korea, in 1892, was dedicated to Saint Joseph.

Faith, Hope and Charity

In "Questioning St. Thomas Aquinas on the Path to Happiness," in the Catholic Times Weekly, a philosophy professor offers readers some thoughts to reflect on. He gives us a drama with the lengthy title <The Story of Manager Kim, Who Owns a Home in Seoul and Works for a Large Corporation>. This story moved many office workers to tears. Those who watched the drama or heard about it were reminded of their own past, present, and future. This is because it naturally portrayed the struggles of an office worker torn between fierce performance competition and the anxiety of restructuring, as well as the conflict between company policies and personal conscience.

Scenes repeat themselves: facing promotion pressure, engaging in subtle power struggles with colleagues, and having his spirit crushed by rumors of restructuring, only to pull himself together again. On the surface, the protagonist, Manager Kim, appears to be a successful middle manager, but deep down, he is someone who constantly asks himself, “What is truly right? What am I working for? What is the ultimate standard for my life?”

Watching Manager Kim, who loses his grasp on the success that seemed almost within his reach and succumbs to frustration, I found myself wondering whether one’s personal abilities and strengths alone are sufficient for a person to attain true happiness. What came to mind then was Thomas Aquinas’s explanation of the “Theological Virtues”—namely, faith (fides), hope (spes), and charity (caritas). What advice might St. Thomas offer to those of us, like Manager Kim, who are frustrated and adrift?

Thomas Aquinas’s theological virtues do not confine the countless frustrated Manager Kims to the narrative of “survival, promotion, and downfall.” Instead, these virtues act as an amazing force that transforms the ordinary day of a modern working person who believes in Christ into a drama of a personality unified by friendship with God. 

Thomas makes a sharp distinction between virtues suited to our natural state as “social animals” and virtues that purify those striving to draw near to God. Thomas emphasizes the need for “other virtues proportionate to supernatural happiness, in addition to moral virtues proportionate to natural happiness,” and calls these virtues “virtus theologiae.” This is because the object of these virtues—which are also translated as “virtues directed toward God” or “theological virtues”—is God Himself. (I-II, 62, 1) These include “faith” in the intellect, “hope” directed toward God in the will, and “true love” that unites us with Him. (I-II, 62, 3)

These virtues are “instilled by God into the human soul” so that humans may become worthy of eternal life. Therefore, Thomas called them “infused virtues” to distinguish them from “acquired virtues” (such as the intellectual or moral virtues proposed by Aristotle), which are obtained through repeated human actions.

Paschal Time Baptisms in Hong Kong

[UCAN] The Hong Kong Diocese expects about 2,500 people, including adults and infants, to receive baptism ahead of Easter Sunday.

According to the Pope's Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples’ mission newsletter 'Fides,' reported on March 13, “The number of those to be baptized this year is similar to last year.” The report stated that many young catechumens decided to receive baptism after hearing the living testimonies of believers who had already been baptized at Catholic schools or local parishes.

Cardinal Bishop of the Hong Kong Diocese recently urged catechumens in catechism courses held in several parishes to “be bearers of hope.” On March 8, at the Christ the King Church, he told catechumens, “Receiving baptism means accepting Christ, the water of life.”

He also said, “Baptism is only the beginning of the life of faith. You must enter a deeper relationship with the Church to personally encounter the Lord and become bearers of hope through the graces of the Holy Spirit and faith.”

A catechumen at St. Anthony’s School said, “I felt called to be a Christian while participating in the formation and pilgrimage program for catechumens provided by the school.” A catechumen at St. Francis University decided to be baptized after participating in the university’s pastoral program.

Once a British colony, Hong Kong is now a Special Administrative Region of China. Known at one time as one of the freest cities in Asia, Hong Kong’s autonomy and freedoms have been significantly curtailed following large-scale pro-democracy protests in 2019. The movement was suppressed by the pro-Beijing government’s harsh security measures. Hundreds of pro-democracy figures, including politicians, activists, and journalists, were arrested and tried, and many left Hong Kong to escape oppression.

In 2020, the Chinese government introduced a National Security Law, which restricted many freedoms and rights that had been guaranteed under the 'one country, two systems' framework when the U.K. returned Hong Kong in 1997.