A Power that Gives Life

The Religious Peace Scholar of the Catholic University of Korea, in the Ark's Window column in the Catholic Times, reminds us that all things change.

To change means to move, and to move means that a force is acting to cause that movement. In physics, the physical quantity (such as length or time) applied to an object when moving a bicycle or lifting a stone is called “force.”

Force also has directionality. The force used to push a cart and the force used to pull it are equal in magnitude but differ in direction. There is a gravitational force that pulls objects toward each other, and there is a repulsive force that pushes them apart. The same force can be used to build a building or to bring it down.

There are forces that give life and forces that take it, even when their magnitudes are the same. There are also forces such as political power and financial power. These are forces that shape human relationships through money, status, and honor. Military power manifests as the offensive or defensive capability of an individual or a group. A nation’s strength is also determined by its power, wealth, and military might. These are the forces that ordinary people in the real world take for granted.

These forces share a common trait: they compete by prioritizing magnitude. Since superiority is determined by size and intensity, hierarchies emerge, and discrimination is accepted as normal. People strive to suppress others and rise above them. Everyone competes to build up their own power. Yet the more they do so, the more anxious those building it become. The paradox of “security anxiety”—where the pursuit of security paradoxically breeds anxiety—is an inevitable consequence of everyone, not just oneself, accumulating power for their own sake.

And that is not all. The demands of a results-oriented society that urges us to create two more after making one, the shackles of neoliberalism that champion free competition, and the contradiction where “human intelligence” is pushed aside the more artificial intelligence is developed—these contradictions continue to amplify. Short-sighted humans use this power to enjoy short-term gains, only to find themselves enslaved by it before they even realize it. They even drive non-human beings into a world of death. Is there any hope? What kind of power should we pursue, and in what direction?

Physicist Michael Faraday (1791–1867) believed that all forces were merely various forms of a single, universal force. He viewed a vast reality—existing prior to and independent of objects yet lacking the properties of objects—as the source of change in the physical world. From this, he developed “Field Theory,” which posits that this “field of force” manifests as individual natural phenomena. In other words, lowercase “forces” emerge and move within the capitalized “Force”.

However, while physics explains the structure and principles of force, it does not inquire into its value or direction. In contrast, there are those who question the value of force and seek to move in the direction that value other points. Movements aimed at finding and embodying the right values within the force that moves all things have also persisted. Religion is a prime example.

Jesus said, “He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” (Matthew 5:45) This is a call to recognize the values of universality and fairness within the vast field of God’s power, and to transcend discrimination and alienation.

Since there is no dichotomy of good and evil, or justice and injustice, within God’s power, there must be no more killing of others. Both the great and the small, the many and the few, are part of God’s perfect world. God is the source of life, sustaining all living things. We are called to realize this principle and move toward a path of sustaining all life, rather than killing others. This is likely the message of the Solemnity of the Resurrection of the Lord.

Resurrection is not a selfish concept reserved for those who kill others to save themselves. A life that reveals the fundamental truth that God’s sun and rain shine upon and fall upon everyone is a life of resurrection. This is because God is a power that gives life, not a power that takes it.

The Meaning of Sunday!

‘Sunday’ in Remembrance of the New Creation Begun by the Resurrection is an article presented in the Catholic Times.

Sunday is the ‘eighth day,’ the day following the Sabbath, and signifies the new creation that began with Christ’s resurrection. 

Sunday is a day of rest. If asked about its origin, many people would likely answer, “Because God created the world and rested on the seventh day.” However, the day that commemorates this “seventh day”—the Sabbath—is Saturday, not Sunday.

As you well know, the third commandment of the Ten Commandments is “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.” Yet, if we look at the Bible, the Ten Commandments state, “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy” (Exodus 20:8). The Bible tells us to keep the “Sabbath,” so why are we keeping “Sunday”?

The Sabbath is a day to praise God and to remember God’s work of creation. There is another reason why the Sabbath was established. The Bible tells us, “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and that the Lord your God brought you out of there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. This is why the Lord your God commands you to observe the Sabbath” (Deuteronomy 5:15). The Sabbath is, in fact, a holy day that commemorates “God’s salvation”.

Some of you may be thinking of “Passover.” That is correct. Just as Jesus, as the “Lamb of God,” became the sacrificial offering and fulfilled the Passover through the Eucharist, so too was the Sabbath fulfilled through Jesus.

In fact, the Sabbath was used as a pretext by those who opposed Jesus to attack Him. This was because the miracles Jesus performed and the activities of His disciples were seen as violating the Sabbath regulations. To such people, Jesus taught, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath” (Mark 2:27), thereby proclaiming that Jesus, the “Son of Man,” is the “Lord of the Sabbath.”

The Bible records that this event—in which Jesus, the Lord of the Sabbath, conquered death through His resurrection and saved us from sin—took place “as the Sabbath was ending and the first day of the week was dawning” (Matthew 28:1). The Church teaches that “the day following the Sabbath, the ‘eighth day,’ signifies the new creation that began with Christ’s Resurrection,” and that “for Christians, this day has become the first of all days, the first of all feasts, the Lord’s Day, and Sunday” (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2174).

The Sabbath has been replaced by Sunday, which reminds us of the new creation that began with Jesus’ resurrection. Therefore, from the early Church onward, believers have kept Sunday holy rather than the Sabbath. This is why the Sabbath of the Ten Commandments was replaced by Sunday.

St. Ignatius of Antioch, a Church Father of the early Church, states, “Those who lived according to the old order have now gained a new hope; they no longer observe the Sabbath but live by observing the Lord’s Day,” adding, “Through the Lord and His death, our life has sprung forth on this day.”

Sunday is the Lord’s Day, the day Jesus rose from the dead. On this day of new creation, how are you being reborn?

Happy Easter!

 

 

The empty tomb is a mystery that is filled with emptiness. St. Augustine deeply understood the mystery of this “empty tomb.” The fact that the tomb is empty does not mean that Christ simply vanished, but that He rendered the realm of death null and void. In short, death has been conquered by death. Although John, the disciple whom the Lord loved, arrived before Peter, he stood outside the tomb and did not enter. This was both a sign of respect for his mentor, Peter, and a prudent spiritual attitude, waiting for the fulfillment of the Old Testament prophecies. Peter, who followed behind, entered the tomb without hesitation.

Here we find an important symbol: the “linen cloths” and the “face cloth” lying inside the tomb. St. Gregory the Great explains, “The fact that the linen cloths were neatly arranged proves that no one had stolen the body.” A thief would have hurriedly taken only the body, but the Risen Lord left the garments of death neatly arranged. This is clear evidence that the Lord has conquered death and has taken on a body of eternal life that will never die again.

“Then the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went in. And he saw and believed” (John 20:8) speaks of an inner transformation from external signs to inner conviction. St. Thomas Aquinas emphasizes that this “seeing and believing” was not merely a confirmation of a physical emptiness, but the moment of spiritual realization of the biblical promise. This is because, up until that point, they had not fully grasped the Scripture’s teaching that Jesus must rise again from among the dead.

We are no different. What do we see in the tomb of our lives—that is, in the emptiness of despair, suffering, and wounds? If we see only “nothingness” and “loss” there, we remain outside the tomb. However, when we courageously step into that empty space, just as Peter and John did, we realize that, while traces of death remain, life has emerged and is present with us. This is the perspective of a believer who witnesses the Resurrection.

The Resurrection is the eternal light that illuminates our inner being. The spiritual writers of the Philokalia, the spiritual treasure of the Eastern Orthodox Church, do not confine the Resurrection to an event that occurred two thousand years ago. For them, the Resurrection is “the rekindling of the inner light through the purification of the heart (Hesychia).” St. Gregory of Sinai says this: “The Resurrection of Christ must take place daily within our souls. When the heart, once bound by passions, begins to shine through prayer, that is the moment when Lazarus rises within us, and the moment when the Lord opens the tomb and emerges.”

The Resurrection is not an external spectacle, but a spiritual event in which the Lord breaks through the tomb of “self-centeredness” within us. The Philokalia advises: “Guard your heart. For that is where the Lord was laid to rest, and at the same time, the place where He will rise.” When we quiet the turmoil of our hearts and abide in God’s presence, the light of the Risen Lord will shine upon our souls brighter than the sun.

What, then, should we carry as we step out of the church? The linen cloths of the empty tomb proclaim that the Lord is no longer bound by the power of death. Salvation has already been accomplished, but it was only on Easter Sunday morning that we fully realized this. Let us live as witnesses of the Resurrection. Let us leave behind the habits of sin and the shrouds of hatred in the tomb. The Resurrection is not a memory of the past but “the power of the present that transforms me.”

The Resurrection begins when I forgive my neighbor. When I reach out to those in despair, the heavy stone of the tomb rolls away. Let us welcome the Risen Lord into our hearts today and run out into the vast field of the world. Just as the Lord went ahead of us to Galilee, He is already waiting for me in the midst of my daily life. 

The Pain of Holy Week and Love

The writer of this article on the website Catholic News Now and Here has studied liberation theology and engaged Buddhism and is exploring social spirituality. He serves as a research professor at the Institute for Theology at a Korean university while participating in a Christian network advocating for a world free from discrimination and hatred. 

As spring arrives ahead of Holy Week (Passion Week), Good Friday, the world is groaning in the flames of war. For some, every week is “Holy Week”—no, every single day is a “cross,” and they are suffering. A recent paper published in the international medical journal *The Lancet Global Health*, titled “Violent and Nonviolent Deaths in the Gaza Conflict,” estimates that between October 7, 2023, and January 5, 2025, approximately 75,200 Palestinians in the Gaza Strip died from direct war violence, including about 22,800 children and adolescents under the age of 18. Based on field investigations in Gaza, this figure is actually 34.7 percent higher than the official statistics of the Gaza Health Ministry, directly contradicting long-standing claims by Israel and the United States that the ministry’s statistics are false.

The exact number of casualties from Israel and the United States’ attacks on Iran remains unclear. However, the Iranian human rights organization HRANA announced that from February 28 to March 23, at least 1,443 civilians were killed, including at least 217 children. These figures likely include around 100 elementary school children from Shahzareh Tayebeh Elementary School in Minab who were killed on the first day of the war by a U.S. Tomahawk missile strike.

What matters is not abstract “numbers,” but concrete “people.” In response to accusations from perpetrators that the death toll has been exaggerated, the Gaza Health Ministry has published on its website the names and personal information of the deceased in both Arabic and English. This is a way for the victims to assert their existence and for others to mourn their absence. Reading through the names of children and adolescents on that website, one imagines their youthful faces. For children born into war, living in war, and dying in war, “life itself was war.” Many of them likely perished without ever knowing what life outside of war was, or why they had to die.

Witnessing such horrific war and ecological devastation fills us with overwhelming fear. One common human response to such fear is “paralysis.” When the pain is so great that it feels impossible to escape, people choose “numbness.” This applies not only to their own suffering but also to the suffering of others. Fearing that feeling others’ pain might endanger their own lives, people shut the doors of their senses. This is what Dorothee Sölle criticized as “apathy toward suffering.” We may feel a moment of compassion when we see news of others’ pain, but fearing the burden of that pain, we quickly retreat into our daily lives. We treat others’ suffering as unrelated to us, excusing ourselves by saying there is nothing we can do.

For Christians, Holy Week is a time to meditate on the suffering and love of Jesus Christ. Jesus’ suffering was the result of love, and his love began with a non-dual sensitivity to the suffering of others. One day, as Jesus and his disciples approached the town of Nain, they encountered a funeral procession for a young man—the only son of a widow. Seeing the woman who had lost both her husband and her only son, Jesus felt “compassion,” approached her, and said, “Do not weep,” comforting her before bringing the young man back to life.

The expression translated as “compassion” in this story does not fully convey what Jesus felt in that moment. Different Bible translations render it as “pity,” “have mercy,” or “feel sorry,” but none fully captures his heart as he faced the grieving widow. The Greek word used in the Gospels, *splagchnizomai* (σπλαγχνίζομαι), goes beyond simple sympathy or compassion—it refers to a pain so intense it feels as though one’s intestines are being torn apart. It is a heart that feels others’ suffering so deeply that it is accompanied by physical pain—a heart that grieves and aches together with them. That is the heart of Jesus.

Reflecting on Jesus’ heart, one recalls the meaning of “tears” taught and embodied by Pope Francis during his lifetime. On April 16, 2016, when the Mediterranean Sea was called “the world’s largest mass grave” due to the deaths of refugees, the Pope visited a refugee camp on the Greek island of Lesbos, comforting and caring for refugees. He then returned to the Vatican with three Muslim refugee families, a total of 12 people. On the plane, the Pope showed reporters a drawing by an Afghan refugee boy. It depicted a sun weeping as it looked down on a sinking boat and refugees struggling in the water. Holding the drawing, the Pope said, “If the sun can cry, we can cry too.” People called this empathetic teaching the “theology of tears.”

Sölle described “apathy toward others’ suffering” as “the inability to love.” This means that sensing others’ pain and sorrow is both the premise and the purpose of love. 

 The world is filled with crosses. To grieve and suffer together with all beings nailed to these social and ecological crosses, with a heart that feels as if it is being torn apart—and to seek and act upon whatever we can do so that there will be no more unjust deaths—that is the heart of Jesus we must learn during Holy Week and especially today, Good Friday.

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.