Freedom to reconcile - Ministry Exchange (MX)

Freedom to reconcile September 24, 2000
Matthew 18:21-35 CCFC Sunday Service

Scene 1: Legal counsel room, California State Penitentiary; the present.

Byun-ho is led into a small room by one prison guard. Another prison guard
stands watch. A large table takes up most of the room, and Byun-ho’s
defense lawyer has just risen from the other side of it to greet him. They
both sit down at opposite ends of this large table.

Thanks for coming. It’s been hard to be here. To have bars for walls in my
cell, to wear this orange jump suit, to have this number on my chest. I
hate it when my family comes to visit; I don’t like it when they see me
like this. I just don’t understand. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know
why I’m not back out there, back out working in my grocery store on
Wilshire Blvd. I’ve worked hard all my life, and it feels weird not to
work. My family needs me.

Well, I’m glad you’ve agreed to come and hear my story; perhaps it’ll give you a better idea on how to defend my case. I guess if you’re going to understand my story, you need to hear the entire story.

Scene 2: Korea, up to 1980.
I’ll start from the beginning. Mind if I stand? I was born in Inchon, Korea
in 1958. I guess you can say my American roots started there; General
McArthur landed there with American troops to fight in the War. He helped
to save our country; little did I know I would end up living in his country
someday.

We lived on the outskirts of Inchon, in a little fishing village. We didn’t have a lot growing up: we lived in this hut by the sea that always smelled of fish. It’s because my dad was a fisherman. He would go out sometime after dinner, and sometimes we wouldn’t see him until the beginnings of dawn. I don’t remember too much anymore. Getting old makes my memory a little hazy. What I do remember was that he was a stern man and nothing seemed to please him. I don’t remember having ever seen him smile. He just worked. My mother worked in the rice fields with all the other older women. My mother was affectionate, but she was sad. She often had bruises here and there; once time, she had a shiner around one eye and said she got them when she tripped in the rice fields. She seemed so clumsy back then. But, now I know what “tripping in the rice fields” meant. It was into this family that I was born. My parents gave me the name, Byun-Ho. Kim Byun-Ho. It means changing tiger; the name fits. One day, when I was only 7 years old, I was walking home from school along the village trail. One of the older kids called my father an alcoholic. My mother didn’t want me to fight, so I tried to walk on. But, he kept following me, calling my father an alcoholic. After a while, I couldn’t take it and I threw my bookbag down, and faced him for the fight. I charge him with fists, and he drew up with a swift kick to my chest, and I fell on my back. I chased him again with my fists, and again he kicked me down with a sidekick. I realized that this wasn’t working, so I didn’t charge. I picked up my bag and started to walk away and the other kid chased me, and right when he was on top of me, I turned around and kicked him where it hurt. He went down crying. Then, I kicked him in the head, and he went down into the dirt. I don’t fear; I adapted and changed. I am a changing tiger. I went off to the military when I was 20, and came back to Inchon when I was 22. But the village seemed so small after being in the military, and things at home were worse. My father had been drinking more and more, and living at home became almost unbearable. One night, he came home with a bamboo stick in his hand, red-faced and completely drunk, wanting to pick a fight with his only kid. I kept dodging and dodging. But, he swung hard at my ankles, and so I jumped and was a bit off-balance when I landed. My father charged me then, and there was nothing I could do. I shoved my palm into his nose, and blood ran down and stained his already-soiled off-white undershirt. I tried not to hit him, but I did. I had to leave. How could I face the village after that? I had heard much about America – Migook, the beautiful land. I had heard that it is a place where people can have their own homes and their own cars. It’s a place where everyone is happy and opportunity is full. Actually, any place is better than this place…

Scene 2: Los Angeles, up to two weeks ago
So, I found myself on a plane to Los Angeles. A friend of mine had
contacted a church in America before I came, and so I was greeted by the
pastor of the First Korean Presbyterian Church of Los Angeles. With my
English non-existent and my deep pockets going only about $20, it was good
to see a friendly face. And, I was amazed by what I saw. The pastor had his
own car! And the highways of asphalt stretched out for hundreds of miles,
cars everywhere. It was always sunny, and everyone was happy. It is truly
the beautiful land, the land of promise.

I started to attend the First Korean Presbyterian Church of Los Angeles, located in South Central Los Angeles. I didn’t go to church while I was in Inchon, but in America, it’s the place where I can meet other Korean people like me. They’ve been so nice to me from the start. The people of the church took me in and gave me a job washing and sorting the produce in a grocery store on Wilshire Blvd. During those first few months, I would sleep in one church member’s house to the next, until I had saved enough money to afford my own little apartment. My English was improving much faster than any of my church friends; they said that I had a gift with languages. I was baptized in the church shortly thereafter. And, after a few more years, I had enough saved to buy a car. It was a fun time. It was around this time, in 1983, that I met Jumi. She also went to that church. She started coming a few years after I arrived in America, she too having come from Korea. I noticed her the first day she came to church; she was so warm and friendly, and I guess she thought I was entertaining or funny, because she laughed at all of my jokes. Later, she tells me had to force some of those laughs. We had a great time together, and spent so much time together. The church people kept smiling and snickering when they saw us, but they also encouraged us to get married, and so after a couple of years, I knelt down near the pier at Santa Monica, and asked her to marry me. She made the right decision and said yes! And we moved out to Northridge, in a small apartment on Sepulveda Blvd. We had our first and second children in the first three years of marriage: Grace is the oldest, and John is the second. We gave them American names so that they can be Americans too. I’m an American living the American dream. I became a U.S. citizen and a deacon in the church. General McArthur, if you could see me now. After I got married, the people in the church gave me a micro-loan to start my own business. It seems that the grocery store business is something that I knew well, and so I wanted to start my own grocery store. And so, on June 12, 1984, the Wilshire Blvd. grocery store had its first day of business. But, running your own business has its tough times. We worked hard in those early years. Employees cost money, and so my wife and I came to work at 5 in the morning, and we didn’t leave until 11. We worked so many hours that we came home with bleary eyes and swollen feet, but we just wanted to make sure that we could have a family with a future. I was so busy that when my father died of colon cancer in 1986, I couldn’t leave work to be at his funeral. Probably for the best anyways. The worst part of the job was the customers, especially the black ones. You know how working on in South Central can be. It was always regular business until those black people would come in. They come in and they think they own the place. They demand this and that. They are just lazy, and they want to boss everyone else around. And, they are not good people. The people who steal from me all the time are the black people. They take a can of Coke here and there, or steal a piece of fruit. Whenever a black person comes into my store, they always leave with something. We worked hard for the family, and we started to get ourselves settled in America. Sometime last year, it was a Wednesday, I was working alone in the store. This man – this black man – came in with a ski mask and a gun, and he demanded that I empty out my cash register. My feet shook and my hands trembled, but I finally gave him the money. I didn’t want any trouble. He tied my hands and feet with some twine in the store, and put a dirty rag in my mouth. He kept calling me “gook,” and said that if I call the police, he would come again and do the same thing, accept I wouldn’t still be breathing. He left, and I didn’t become afraid; I became angry. The changing tiger will find a new way to beat the black people; I needed a new strategy. I put bars on the windows. I bought a video camera to record every person who comes in, and I bought a gun. I’m not going to be stepped on anymore. I’m an American, and here in America, sometimes you have to protect yourself. I didn’t work this hard for some black punk to rob me at gun point. Called me a “gook” eh? This will never happen again. I never told my wife or my kids about this incident; I buried this time in my heart, and vowed that it would never, never happen again. No black person will ever step on me again.

Scene 3: Grocery Store on Wilshire Blvd.; a month ago
A month ago, a black teenage boy and his little sister comes into the
store. I’ve seen his type before, wearing all black and a Raiders’ ski hat.
He comes in with his swagger and accent. “Hey gook, where can I get a
coke?” he asks. I said that he can get a Coke at the back of the store, but
that he should be quick about it, and make sure that he pays. After milling
around in the back of the store for 10 minutes or so with his little
friend, he comes pass the front register with his hands in his pockets and
says, “I don’t really want anything. See ya, gook.”

“Wait! Did you take anything?” “No, I didn’t, man,” he said. “You think I stole something because I’m black, huh?” And he kept walking for the door. So, I leaned over the counter and grabbed him by the arm, “You stole something! Let me check your pockets.” “What for? I didn’t take nuthin’.” “You didn’t, huh? Then, just let me see your pockets!” “No, man! What’s your problem?” And, he pushed me aside and headed for the door. “What’s your problem?!? Come back, or I’ll shoot!” I didn’t realize that I had pulled out the gun from under the counter. My hands were trembling. “Shoot me then, gook!” And he turned and walked off. Bang! Bang! Bang! There was a scream from the little girl, and she ran out of the store as quickly as she could. He fell at the front of the door with the pool of blood rapidly growing around his head and shoulders. I had hit him square in the back of the head with one of the bullets; he was dead, no question about it. I checked his pockets, and there was a wallet. And that’s it. Nothing else. I can’t believe there was nothing else. He was telling the truth. Oh my God! He was telling the truth, and the video camera captured everything. I need to find that tape! Where is that tape? There it is; I must break this apart and throw it away. I need to set it on fire! I need to move the body. But where? Where should I put it? Oh my God! What have I done! What have I done! Oh my God! Someone opened the front door of the store. The little sister had brought her mother. And her mother, on seeing her dead son on the floor, took a moment to brace herself against the front door. She slid down to the ground, and her eyes grew as large as saucers and she soaked in the scene, her only son lying on the ground dead. After a few seconds where it felt like an eternity had passed, she let out a howling cry, and picked up her son’s head in her arms, and wept and wept and wept. After a long moment of grieving, she noticed me. The little sister hadn’t stopped saying it over and over since she came into the store, but it wasn’t until now that I noticed what she was saying, “He did it! He did it! He killed Charlie! He did it!” And here I was, with the gun still in my hand (stupid! Stupid! I got rid of the video tape, but I forgot to get rid of the gun!) And I was guilty. Guilty. The little sister, the mother, and myself… we all knew the terrible truth: I killed an innocent man. She looked at me, and stretched out her arm toward me, with her finger extended toward me in accusation. “You… you… killed my son,” was all she could say. And all I could get out of my mouth was “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” And when she came to her senses, she picked up the payphone and dialed 911… The next few days were a blur. The police came and examined the scene, and I was put in handcuffs. They never found the videotape. I sat in a cell, much like the one I’m in now, and waited. On day two, the officer told me that I had a visitor, so I went out to see who it was, thinking it might be a lawyer. It wasn’t a lawyer; it was the mother. She sat opposite to me. “Hi, I’m Joan…” Before she could say anything else, I started to blubber. “Please, don’t press charges. Please. I beg of you! I have two kids and a wife who will starve without me. I’m so sorry! I’ll make it up to you! Please don’t press charges. Please. Please. Please…” The only thing that broke the following silence were my sobs. Then, her hard look gave way to something more tender, more compassionate. “I’ve been thinking a lot these days,” said Joan. “My pastor preaches about forgiveness all the time. And, I’ve been wrestling with my soul over what it means to forgive you. You… you took away my life’s joy! I would have done anything for that boy. But, you stole the breath from him, and gave him to God! Your life should be done; his was just beginning. But, you snuffed him out. “And, I know that you must think all black people are bad. I want you to know that black people and Korean people are all valued the same. Though it’s hard, my pastor is right. So, I’ve decided to forgive you. I will press no charges. You are free…” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! This black woman cared enough about me to let me go, even though I’ve harbored hatred for blacks in my heart for so long. I’m amazed! And I will treat black people with a new respect! My burdened heart was now leaping for joy! She wouldn’t press charges! I can enjoy the rest of my life with my family! I was in prison, but now I’m free! So, after they released me, I enjoyed my new found life, and vowed to be a better husband and father! I have a new lease on life! I’m free! And, I won’t hate black people. I went back home.

Scene 4: Sepulveda Blvd. Apt. complex; 2 weeks ago
A few days later, I was playing with John in the small yard in our
apartment complex. I wanted to play more with my kids after getting out of
prison; it’s funny how jail time gives you time to think about what’s
really important. We were playing catch with a baseball, and he threw one
too high for me. It sailed over my head and landed in a pitcher of water
that splashed all over this middle-aged white guy. It was so funny, that I
started to laugh. But, this white guy didn’t think it was that funny.

He gets up from his chair and marches toward my son, John – baseball in hand. He comes up to my son, nose to nose and shaking this baseball, and starts to chide my son. “You little gook! Why don’t you go back to your own country!” he said. Then, he pushed my son. Not only did he insult him, but he gave him a little push! I ran up and grab him, and start to yell at him. He seems rather indifferent until I say that I’m going to press charges of assault, and he started to get really scared. He says, “Please don’t press charges! I’ll do anything! I just got out of prison and I’m on parole. Something like this will keep me locked up forever. Please don’t say anything. I beg you! I’ll make it up to you! I just got back together with my family; separating again would be devastating! Please don’t do anything!” But, I would hear nothing of it. I pressed charges, and because of his past, he was sentenced to a year’s prison term. But, since he was on parole, he had to fulfill the rest of his old sentence time, which meant that he would go back to prison for nine more years. In total, he got stuck with ten. And he deserves every minute of it. A few days after that, I get a phone call in the middle of the night. On the other side of the phone was Joan, I could tell that she had been crying. She seemed confused, but also adamant. She had a new resolve in her voice: “Hi, Joan,” I said. “You wicked, wicked man,” she said. “I didn’t press charges because you begged me to. I let you go, forgiving you. Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your neighbor just as I had on you?” And in anger, she went straight to the police, and filed her charges, with her daughter as the main witness.

Scene 5: Legal counsel room, California State Penitentiary; the present
So, that’s why I’m in jail. This doesn’t make sense, does it? Doesn’t it
seem like I shouldn’t be here? She had already forgiven me; doesn’t that
mean I should go free? Am I in here because I made a little mistake in
pressing charges against that white guy, even though he said those awful
things to my son? What do you say? What would you say in my defense?