Dialogue

Dialogue 

                                                      by   Ham Sok Hon

                                                      Pendle Hill, December 1970

  Last August I attended the 11th Triennial Meeting of Friends World Committee at Sigtuna, Sweden, as the delegate from Seoul Friends Meeting. The theme of this meeting was, "Break the New Ground," which gave rise in me to great expectations. I came away, however, feeling somewhat dissatisfied and disappointed. The reason seemed to be in large part my lack of fluency in English, which made it difficult for me to understand others and also difficult for me to express my own ideas; all of this resulted in a lack of dialogue.  But thinking more deeply, I realize that language was not necessarily the decisive factor, because sometimes true dialogue is possible without language. So I decided to come to Pendle Hill in quest of a way of deepening dialogue and of opening myself to it.

  I now face again the feeling of disappointment and failure. I find that I have again been unable to truly open myself and engage in real dialogue, and now I must leave. But still, I feel I must continue to try. I have a message to give that comes through my failure. Those who have failed have something to say that may be more pertinent than messages from those who have succeeded, because in failure one gives more thought, concern, almost preoccupation, to the situation which is giving rise to failure. Just as a perfect stone fits readily into its own place in the masonry, the imperfect stone must be crushed first, and thereby fits into any hole where it is needed.

  Seven years ago I came to America, travelled to many parts of the country, and spoke with many people. one whom I cannot forget is the late Ernest Hooking, who was the head of the philosophy department at Harvard for twenty years. He was a great idealistic philosopher, and called a saint by many people. When 1 visited him, he was living on his own farm in a Massachusetts valley in a house built by his own hands which had taken him twelve years to complete. The reason my memory of him is indelible rests in a single incident: When we first met, I was a stranger; but he took me through his entire house, showing me every nook and cranny and even some intimate articles of his personal life. one of these was a notebook he had used as a schoolboy, containing a caricature he had drawn of his teacher, showing him as a pig. In telling me the story of this caricature, he explained that even though he meant it quite innocently, his teacher became quite angry when he saw it. He added that he still felt guilty about that unfortunate incident, and then said, smiling, "You are now indeed my friend, the sharer of my secret."

 

  It is easy to tell of one's successes, but difficult to confess failure or secrets of guilt. But to become a true friend, to engage in real dialogue, one must be able to tell one's failures, and defects. I am not yet strong enough to be able to tell my secrets at Pendle Hill, for which I am sorry, so I want to tell my feelings now by borrowing from the Bible, and by the analogies toll my own experiences. This is the end of my stay here, but I hope it will be the beginning of a true dialogue between us.

  

  I find that the Gospel of John speaks to my condition more than does any of the other gospels. This seems to be true of Quakers in general, for many of their principles seem to be based on John's messages. I learned those principles from one who speaks in me, not from Quakerism, so it can be said that I came to Quakerism because of my love for John. Of the many stories I find in John's gospel, three especially speak to my condition. The first is Chapter 4, in which Jesus encounters a Samaritan woman at Jacob's Well; the second in Chapter 8, in which an adulteress is brought before Jesus at the temple for condemnation; the third is Chapter 12, in which Mary anoints Jesus' feet with expensive perfume just a week before his death. In each case, the woman was despised, a "failure" in life. In each case, the form John used to portray the incident was that of dialogue. John differs from the other synoptic gospel writers in that he tried to show Jesus' inner character by choosing events from His life which he felt revealed this "inner Jesus." In these stories we can find many wonderful and illuminating insights, but of them all I find these three most exciting and penetrating. So much so that no matter how many times I read them, they never fail to affect me most deeply.

  In the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at Jacob's Well, Jesus takes the initiative in opening the dialogue, by asking her to give Him water. Why does He do this? He wants to give her the Water of Life, but He knows she cannot understand this if He engages her in strictly spiritual terms. And to Jesus, religious and secular life are not separated; He is now just a tired traveller wanting to rest and quench His thirst, but if He meets someone in spiritual thirst He cannot simply satisfy His own physical need. When we meet each other we must find a beginning for dialogue in the everyday realities of human life. So when He meets her He asks Himself, "How shall I reach her?" He has the power to know her inner mind; though outwardly she is just a woman getting water for her family He can see her soul thirsting inside, anㅇ she herself even unaware of it. So He opens the dialogue by asking for a drink. She responds, "What! You, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a Samaritan woman?" A natural answer for her under the circumstances, He knows that, "Outwardly, you have water to give Me, but inwardly, I have it to give to you!" and continues to engage her in dialogue. She does not understand, and seems to resist understanding, but He doesn't give up, and in fact continually shifts verbal ground to confront her as she tries to escape His meaning. Then He says, "Go home and call your husband, and come back," thereby changing the dimension from the secular to the spiritual. What does He mean by "husband," since she is not actually married? Her "husband" is in reality the Master of her mind — her innermost will. Until now she has never been treated or regarded as a human being of worth, even by her own self, and so, seeking love and acceptance, she has changed husbands five times, yet has never been able to find that which she seeks. Her soul is choked inside her, cowering within her, so she cannot venture to understand or accept Jesus' message, Jesus knows this, so when He says, "Call your husband," He is putting it into terms that touch her sensitive, vulnerable spot. He pierces her shell of indifference or insensitivity, and hits the target. Unable to endure this shell any more, she responds to Him with unconditional surrender: "Sir, I can see you are a prophet," exposing her innermost self, and from that moment true dialogue can begin.

  She says, "Our fathers worshipped on this mountain, but you Jews say that the temple where God should be worshipped is in Jerusalem," meaning, “What is the true religion?" This is not the question of a simple woman of low morals, but a question arising from the soul of a true human being. So Jesus replies, "God is Spirit, and they who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth." I think that this statement is the pinnicle of truth in the whole New Testament. There are many truths in the New Testament, but none higher than this. To whom does Jesus state this truth so clearly? Not to Peter, or John, but to a woman of questionable reputation who has lived with five different men! How difficult is true dialogue, yet how simple!

   Imagine the scene, as a drama: Here is a deep, deep well, the well of Jacob, surrounded by hard stone covered with the moss of ages, representing the historical culture of ancient Israel. With that as background, here stand three people: one is Jesus, another a despised woman, and the third a wandering disciple. As the climax approaches, the woman says, "I know that the Messiah is coming. When he comes he will tell us everything!" in an onrushing beginning of joyous understanding. Yet at the same time, she is not completely clear in her understanding of who He is. So he says,

"I am He, I who am speaking to you." He has never said it so clearly as this to anyone else. To understand her confusion, we must think of the outward appearance of Jesus in this scene: a young man of about 30 years, tired, dirty, sweating from a long walk, sitting down beside a well and asking a woman for a drink. She has doubtless envisioned the Messiah as majestic, radiant, perhaps walking on a cloud. So He must show her that the Messiah is outwardly nothing special, but one who can call out in her, this woman of five husbands and mean life, a soul slumbering in the deepest recesses of her being. He is telling her, "The Messiah is the only one who can understand the true nature of your soul and its agony. And I am He." And so she can finally understand, the I and Thou meet, and in so doing, is reborn a new woman.

   In the story of the Woman Caught in Adultery, John sets a very different dramatic scene. The time, instead of midday, is now early morning. Jesus, instead of taking the initiative, remains passive almost throughout the entire drama. In the Samaritan Woman at the Well, the issue is one of ignorance; now it is one of sin. Some of the older texts of the New Testament do not include this story, so some would doubt its historical authenticity, but I do not. If this story were left out, I think the New Testament would lose half its value because this story speaks to many conditions — is a lighthouse for many souls on the verge of shipwreck. John has preceded this story with a very interesting situation, at the end of Chapter 7, In it Jesus has been holding the attention of an enthralled multitude with many wonderful words and deeds, and their response is seemingly diligent and comprehending. But as evening falls, they all go back home. I am reminded of the Japanese poet Takuboku's saying: "What a pity it is that every man has his own house. It is like entering one's own grave, to go back home and fall asleep." So it is with these people. Then again, if they are going back only to sleep, perhaps it is not so unfortunate; but all evils are made in the night. There is a saying, "History is made in the night." We can interpret this two ways: truly great things come to us in the night. In the day we see the finite world, but in the night we can see only the eternal. Night is not made only for sleeping; true prayer and vision come at night. But also at night the base hand of man is given free rein. Man has not one eye, but two: one that can see eternity and infinity, and one that can see only the natural, physical world. With the eternity-seeing eye, one can find enough light — the Eternal Light that shines even in the darkness — to see deep into a man's soul. With the physical eye, one feels hidden by darkness, prevented from seeing and from being seen. Therefore one who has only eyes to see the material world feels free to do every evil at night, where there is no physical witness to deter him. But one who has spiritual eyes, seeing all, can do no evil day or night because he knows of the Eternal Witness. So it is that those in the crowd, seeing Jesus and hearing His word by day seem to understand and accept it, but at night they, with a few exceptions, return home and once again do evil things. Meanwhile, Jesus spends the night praying on the Mount of Olives. Then in the morning, Spiritual Man and physical man meet again. And it is at this strategic moment that the drama takes place.

   Imagine the scene. In the background, the magnificent temple stands, and in the foreground again are three principals: Jesus, who has spent the night in prayer with eyes bright as morning dew; the hapless woman, who has spent the night in lust under what she believes is the cover of darkness until she is pulled out of bed and dragged to the temple like a beast being led to slaughter; and the scribes and pharisees (representing the nation, the religion, the law,) standing proud and haughty in their self-righteousness, brandishing their virtue like a sword with which to destroy those whom they despise. The wrathful men are bringing this miserable woman before Jesus not really because of who she is or what she has done, but only to trap Jesus. She is only a snare to be used, a pawn in their strategy. In this false situation, with emotions seething, there cannot be any true dialogue, so Jesus says nothing, only writing in the dust on the ground. They continue to assault him with their false righteous indignation, asking what is to be done with her since she has broken moral law. He answers them with silence. Why silence? He wants to let their frenzy dissipate their reason return, their hysteria cool. So He gives them time to catch their breath, to collect themselves. Meanwhile, He writes on the ground. But in the true sense, He writes on their souls, his soft hands "laying on" their spiritual illness, just as the soft hands of a mother lay on a sick child. However degenerated man becomes, there is always a soul hidden in the deepest reaches of each. Jesus feels compassion for both accusers and accused; He sees them both as the same, with souls smothered by base lives. Strong scribes, weak woman, but inwardly both dying spiritually. So Jesus pities them all, and He touches their hearts, soothing them, writing in the sand. Perhaps He writes, "Sin", and softly wipes it away; perhaps he next writes, "Soul", gently wiping it away; and again perhaps writes "Forgiveness", wiping that softly away in turn. So the moment quietly pass, and, trembling still, the woman begins to breathe again, and can raise her eyes to see Jesus' face. And the scribes' rage and haughtiness and hostility melt away and they too begin to breathe more evenly, more gent]y, and as they begin to look at Him they can see in Him something holy and undeniable, something untouchable and unopposable. Just at this moment He lifts His head and says in a low voice, "That one of you who is faultless shall throw the first stone." No tone of accusation, no attempt to preach at them, only endless compassion and pity. one by one they slip away, wordless. To the speech of silence, they can answer only with silence. Then He gently turns to the woman and asks, "Where are they? Has no one condemned you?" She replies, "There are none." How wonderful! A sinner caught in the act of sinning cannot say, "No one accuses me." only from the mouth of one truly forgiven, cleansed by Divine Forgiveness, could such words come. So Jesus says, "Nor do I condemn you. You can go. Do not sin again." Why doesn't He accuse her? Outwardly she has wallowed in sin, but inwardly her spiritual throat is burning for the cooling quench of love. She has sinned so abominably only because she wants love, but doesn't realize how to get it. She has been seeking spiritual love through sexual love. Jesus sees this, and while He does not condone her actions He senses within her a groping for something good and beautiful. It is only her egoism that has twisted the groping into wallowing. He sees this, recognizes it as a universal tragedy, and so can forgive all of mankind "seventy times seven times." In my opinion, forgiveness is Jesus' first teaching. Without a forgiving mind and heart there cannot be any true dialogue. Mankind's breath, choked by egoism and ignorance for a million years since the cave dwellers, is opened by one exchange of dialogue.

 In the third story, John gives us the setting of evening — for the Jews, the beginning of a new day — just shortly before His crucifixion. Again there are three people in the foreground: Jesus, who knows and has tried to tell his disciples that he will soon die; Mary, perhaps a low or common woman, who has just poured expensive oil on His body, and Judas Iscariot, who nurtures a grudge against them. This time all three are silent. Jesus' attitude is not one of actively seeking encounter, or of patiently dispelling hostility, but one of quiet enjoyment of a touching moment of love. Mary has said nothing, because words are not needed and cannot express her feelings. Jesus has already made His final decision to accept death, and has intimated this to His disciples. They do not grasp what He means, but Mary does. She understands He is about to die. She knows this by intuition. Love knows intuitively; intuition comes from love. She loves Jesus more than anyone else. Jesus has said earlier, "She loves much because she was forgiven many sins." Because she loves, her inner eye is opened, so she can perceive what the others cannot. Outwardly Jesus is quiet, normal, but she sees His impending death. She hears Him say unspoken words of His coming agony. She cannot answer in words, so what can she do? Love senses the appropriate action in its own way. Love has its own word. only love understands other love. Her ｅxpression of that love is the breaking of the bottle and pouring of the precious oil on His feet, and the wiping of it with her hair. What was the oil? According to the disciple who sees her do it, it is an expensive luxury. She has been saving it all her life, now she uses it. It isn't just oil, but a crystallization of her own spiritual love. She breaks the bottle and pours it all on Him because the moment has come; its time has arrived. There can be no further use worthy of it for her. In a utilitarian sense, it is wasted. But for her there is no other use for it that can approach the importance of this moment; it must all be used here and now. Jesus understands this, so He rejects all the practical criticisms of the disciple Judas, telling him, "Leave her alone, let her keep what she has for the day of my burial." Because she understands Him, He understands her. But this action, this communion, makes Judas gloomy. Love works sometimes in an opposite way: that is jealousy.

   This dialogue seems ended, but in fact it is continued six days later, at the Last Supper. And this time the tragic player in the drama is Judas. In the Bible, there are many enigmas, and of all these the most enigmatic is the character of Judas. Many have tried to interpret his actions and make conjectures as to his motives, but it is all just that: conjecture. None seem to shed Divine Illumination on this tragic figure...

  Then one November evening at Pendle Hill I had a strange experience. The leaves had turned yellow but were not yet fallen, and it was raining softly. I sat in my room, my mind flitting from thought to thought, my mood despondent. "My life is a failure," I thought. "My last moment is approaching. Before my death, I want to speak my mind openly, but how can I open my mind, untangle my emotions? I need someone to confide in, to help me sort out my confusion, to whom I can open my mind and heart." People think one who succeeds in life has much to say, and that one who fails has no right to talk. But I think it is just the opposite. one who fails has something to tell. And there is usually no one to listen. To say nothing of judges, even teachers or parents cannot really understand the heart of one who has failed, cannot understand his feeling of being shut in, constricted, of being against a brick wall. And the one who has failed feels that if only just one person could understand, would listen to him, he could then face the world smiling and relieved. That evening I felt this way. If Jesus were now in the physical world I would have run to him and bared my soul to him, sitting at his feet like Mary. But alas, in all the world there is no such person now. I felt as if I must burst, like the barber of King Midas who was forbidden to tell of the king's long ears on pain of death and so went out and dug a hole in the field and whispered the uncontainable secret into the hole. "Shall I." I thought, "dig a hole in the ground and tell it my story?" Just then I thought I saw someone outside my window, so I drew the curtains aside and looked out. There was no one there, so I sat back down again. Again I had the feeling that someone was outside, and again I looked out, though I knew even then that there was no one there. My physical eyes could see no one, but I felt that someone was crouching under the tree. Into my mind flashed the question, "Isn't that Judas Iscariot!"- I sat down and began to meditate.

  Judas must have had much on his mind that he wanted to tell. He must have felt a desperate need for someone to understand him, someone he could talk to. I pictured in my mind the scene of the Last Supper, and remembered Jesus saying, "My soul is in turmoil." Clearly, I felt now, it must have been because of Judas that He felt that. When He said, one of you is going to betray me," he said it with a "deep agitation of spirit," hoping even in that moment that Judas would change his mind or heart. But isn't it strange, I thought, that all the disciples only said, "Lord, is it I?" To Jesus, the betrayal by just one of the twelve meant the dissolution of the entire fellowship of twelve, yet each of the disciples could only take this knowledge in a limited personal sense, feeling, "If it's not me, that I don't mind." They had surely forgotten His parable of the sheep, in which the shepherd who has lost only one sheep must leave the flock and search for that one who is lost! The twelve were quite egoistic. If they had had a community consciousness they wouldn't have asked, "Is it I?" They would rather have been sad for the loss of the wholeness. But they weren't. It is clear that they didn't understand their beloved Teacher fully. one man's betrayal is not merely one man's betrayal, it is the failure of the whole community. And so, when John leaned his head on Jesus' breast and Peter whispered to him, "Ask who He means!" John did, and Jesus said, "It is the man to whom I give this piece of bread," He must have done so with great compassion and sorrow. Judas, after receiving the bread, didn't stop to eat it but rushed out into the darkness. Perhaps he felt the crushing weight of disappointment and disillusionment. Judas was a clever and perceptive man, of rational mind, so he must have found it impossible to shake practical problems out of his mind. Perhaps when he looked at the other eleven disciples, always near Jesus' side, and heard them quarreling with each other about who would come first in the Kingdom of God, he felt contempt or even revulsion for them. He may have begun to brood, alone, thus closing the channel of dialogue between himself and the other eleven. Dialogue is the breathing of spiritual life. once it has stopped, it is just like the stopping of ventilation which allows the mold to grow. So, between man, when dialogue stops there begins doubt, conjecture, enmity, to fill the closed and empty channel. Because Jesus knew that, He warned the disciples many times. According to John's gospel, Judas' mind was deeply affected by seeing Mary anoint Jesus with her precious oil. It may be called a reaction of realism against idealism. When he said, "Why was this perfume not sold for thirty pounds and given to the poor," there was in the question both an argument and strong irony. The author of the gospel blames Judas as a thief, attributing the motivation of his question to a desire to steal the money. But this seems to me to be too cruel a judgement, lacking any trace of sympathetic attitude.  So, during the Last Supper, hearing each man ask only, "Is it I? Is it I'?" Judas' mind must have been finally and irrevocably turned away from the other eleven disciples and from Jesus. Taking no time to eat the bread, he rushed out. We can imagine the dark night and hie troubled and bitter heart. Until this day, I believed Judas was the betrayer of Jesus and so was an accursed man, but now I see it in another light, then Judas went out into the darkness, his heart must have been nearly bursting; not one of the eleven followed him out to ask what the matter was, or why he had left in such a hurry. Betrayal oh one's own Master could not have been conceived on the spur of the moment, or have come out of an abrupt, surge of emotion. The twelve had lived intimately together, eating, sleeping, and sharing. difficulties, sometimes preaching the Gospel together; living is an organic consciousness of Jesus' statement that, "I am the vine and you are the branches." But how could they now blame the responsibility for failure and betrayal on only one shoulder? Judas was in reality bearing the responsibility for all of mankind, not just one man's burden. His deed was just like a volcano which bursts, out from the deep heart of the earth. It was a mysterious explosion of human psyche. If one of the other eleven had followed him out and comforted him, the deed might never have been done. But none did. Seeing this, Jesus must have known there was now no way but to die. In one sense, Jesus was killed by the hand of the eleven apostles. What a tragedy, when dialogue stops! Until that moment, Jesus tried His best to re-open the channel of dialogue with Judas, but after that He accepted the events to come as God's will and turned toward his waiting death.

  As I meditated on this scene, I thought, "Where is Jesus now?" The foolish ones think He will come on a cloud — but the cloud is made of vapor, and air pollution! If He is anywhere, He must be where "Judas" is hiding in shame and agony, at "Judas' side!" Why is that? Because He is still trying to re-open the dialogue. After "Judas" opens his mind, then can the salvation of the world cone about. People speak of Heaven and Hell, but if a "Judas" is gnashing his teeth in Hell, the Kingdom of Heaven cannot ignore the awful grating vibrations! When the last son of the Devil is released, then can come the Kingdom of Heaven for all. Jesus, even when captured in the Garden of Gethsemane, called Judas "friend." Seeing that, we can know He would never forsake a Judas. Perhaps He died on the cross in order to go to meet Judas! Why? Because Jesus knew that Judas' way led only to death, so He must go out to meet that death. Judas' heart must be opened!

  In former times, we could manage this world by praising one who did good and punishing one who did evil. Religion, politics; it was the same in both. But now it is impossible to manage in that way. The old way of thinking was, "When we get rid of evil people, all will be well." Now we can understand Jesus' teaching, "Before you can take the splinter out of your brother's eye you had better take the log out of your own eye." Good is not the good of the individual, but the good of the whole. Evil is not the evil of the individual, but the evil of the whole. Problems lie in the whole. Because of that, we must think in terms of the whole. Because we must think in terms of the whole, dialogue with the one who fails is necessary! When it shall be that Jesus, taking Judas' hand and walking together, comes with him out of the depths of Hell, this will be what He meant when He said, "I go and prepare a place for you, and I shall come again and receive you to myself."

  I am the Samaritan woman. My "husbands" were five: my native religion, Confucianism, Buddhism, Presbyterianism, and the Non-Church movement; yet none of them was the master of my soul. Even my present "husband", Quakerism, cannot be the master of my soul.

  I am the adulteress. When I was accused by morality and religion, I had nothing to say.

  I am Mary. I know I could confess the seven devils of my mind at his feet, and if I could I would break the bottle of my mind and pour out my heart once and for all at his feet.

  And I am Judas Iscariot. I must open my mind, that which I cannot even open to my friends and family, I must open it to Him.

  Korea is also the Samaritan woman, the adulteress, Mary, and Judas. I and also my country have something to say. And yet again, all of mankind is these four failures, for they are universal. Where can I, where can we, meet the one who, receiving the cold kiss, could look at him and say, "My friend!"