Ham Sok Hon's Letters from America 3 (고국에 있는 벗에게3)

Ham Sok Hon's Letters from America 3 (고국에 있는 벗에게3)

 

 

Ham Sok Hon (1901-1989) visited America during the early 1962's. A total of 22 letters are reproduced below.

 

Letter No. 10. (5/28)

 

Today is April 22, Easter. With my landlord, Mr. GLASSER, I want to the service at a downtown Methodist church - a snug place of worship fitting in with the rural setting. It had no elaborate decorations. The pastor was a white-haired believer who has served the church twenty years or so. Immediately I liked him for appearing without a gown. Nearly all seats for a congregation of 200 were taken. All in their Sunday best, many women with a flower in their coiffures. Flowers were placed in three large vases before the altar. No whispering, no look of worry on any face. Since I haven't seen Christmas in America I can only guess, and I have a feeling that more of a holiday mood will prevail on that occasion. No touch of festivity now, although more people must have turned out than usual. Undeniably, the people were happier than usual. There seemed no artificiality; the general impression was that it was very much a part of everyday life. The pastor happened to christen his own grandson, born just a few weeks back. Although a hater of all rituals, as I watched the old pastor praying solemnly, hand firmly on the infant's hand, I wondered for a moment if some ritualism might be necessary. But the next moment I firmly dismissed the thought. It is precisely because of this illusion that a rite has something in it that I had decided against ritualism. Though it may appear to have something in it, it has nothing. Truth is not to be experienced through that approach. Ritual is only a surrogate for experience and as such is a fooling of the common man. A leader with no substance to offer is liable to give solemnity to ritual. Strict observance, indeed. Not for the ones who will run for a drink the moment it is over. I repudiate them one and all.

 

The pastor preached with feeling. I will never know how much of it went to the hearts of the farmers. Between what I saw of the service and my conversations with church members later I was happy to gain some insight into their faith; into religion in rural America. Perhaps because of its rural location, I found a soundness, quite unexpected in America, which after the pinnacle of materiel civilization.

 

Most fanners here go to church. Nothing about them was decadent, enervated, scheming, vulgar, or crude. In Korea, wailings and excited calls for repentance and for forgiveness of sin are familiar sounds in the "Houses of the Cross.," Here these things didn't seem likely. on the other

hand, I did not run across faces with "I know all there is to know about this Christianity," 'What else is there to religion?" [sic] "What else is there to religion?" "Where is God, show me" written all over them. I may find things quite different elsewhere. It is a big country, a free country, this America, after all.

 

Easter in the heart of the Prairie (?) was quite an experience. People were telling me that it was snowing just a few weeks back, yet it was spring now. Green spots are appearing over the plain stretching out farther than the eye can see. The dandelions are golden by the roadside, and the willows are turning green, with new buds on every branch, along the stream. The birds are loud and clear, and life is stirring under the sky. Whether Jesus did actually die on the cross and came back to life or not, surely April is the month of resurrection.

 

Resurrection did not begin with Jesus. Rather, since resurrection is a fact in this world and since Life is not mortal, there was Jesus’ experience. Did he actually come back alive? Can it be just a story? No point in arguing. Quite apart from the reality of Jesus as a man, the historical fact remains clear for all to see, an experience that one among the mortals killed another and the latter regained his life. The experience was not shared by just one person or two. Many shared in the experience and indeed through this experience came about a moral and spiritual strength. Which changed history. Countries fell and countries rallied from ruin. This is significant enough. It is not that a dead body came back to life.

 

Men longing for the flesh and its passions would like to have resurrection in that way. But what is resurrection for the flesh? The flesh will remain flesh even it becomes alive again. Lazarus, returned to life, died again. The big meaning of resurrection is that Life is immortal; that Life is not only is immortal, but grows. The spring of this year is not a return of the spring of last year Rather it is another step forward in history an evolution.

 

I am not saying all this for evangelistic purposes. I hate the priest and the minister. How can Christianity claim monopoly on the truth? A truth self-evident to all, regardless of his religion, is the truth. As long as Man breathes he is going through a resurrection at all times, and Jesus is the one who pointed this up best. Everything will come to its death. This Prairie, and even the United States will fall some day. But anything dead is bound to return to life, and grow. So our country, our nation as it will keep on shedding its old shell —as it will undergo fresh revolutions. What will stay shriveled when the snake sheds its skin and when the frog emerges again from underground? Resurrection goes on.

 

 

 

Letter No. 11. (6/3)

 

On the night of April 24, I quite Beaver Crossing for San Francisco. Passing over the Rockies and the Colorado canyon I was happy to see a country I had known only in books and which I had pictured in mind. The feeling behind the Chinese with "to have been born in Koryo to see the Diamond Mountain,” was forced upon me. Every majestic peak, every rock of exquisite shape, was a reminder of Paektusan and Kumgansan (“Diamond" Mountain) back home. But when it comes to human terms I was frustrated.

 

Nature over here is not much different except in scale, and by the way, the streams are hardly a match for ours; the waters are murky. None of the rivers and streams I have seen in America are clear. When can you find water as clear as that of Korean mountain streams? Indeed the clarity of it alone makes the country fit for raising the Hwarang, the Silla cavaliers. After the American scenery, I realized what Dr. NITOBE had in mind when at his death bed he longed, as his last wish, for the murmurs of the Japanese mountain brooks. If I were to have my way I would rather pass into eternity on starry night lying on a rocky pillow by the waterfall at Man'ok-tong, in the Diamond Mountain, to the accompaniment of the thundering cascade. Not necessarily Manp'ok-tong, any mountain gorge will do!

 

Good as Nature is, the workings of man are quite different. True, America is a rich country. No river bend nor foothill, is left neglected. The roads are good -- it hardly needs mentioning that anything that needs building up has been built up. Anything that needs damming has been dammed up. Anything that needs man's care has been properly taken care of. That goes for the remotest mountain fastness. From the plane I could see the whole American continent as a checkerboard. The road systems are marked off in neat squares by roads stretching; straight to all four corners. Even the farmer in the remotest corner is busy in soil conservation.

 

Soil conservation might seem some big project. What is actually involved for the individual farmer is that he builds drainage ditches with stone and cement, sods slopes to check erosion instead of cultivating them. Although this is a rich country with plenty of resources, every farmer takes it upon himself to conserve. I was not out to learn about soil conservation, but while visiting a farmer's home the conversation turned to the subject. I asked for more details for I, too, could have been involved in soil conservation some time before in Korea. The farmer drove me around to show me works of conservation in every corner of his farm.

 

 

Once I came near being a conservationist myself. Years back a conservation program was about to get under way on the recommendation of an American adviser who was particularly keen on the problem. I was approached to head a training project for the required conservation workers. After I met the American nothing more was said about the program. I heard later that members of a certain influential party took charge of the whole thing eyeing its fat budget. They pocketed the money and that was all. Land and money just going to waste. Is it because the mind itself is full of holes and cannot hold anything? Conservation of soil may have to start with conservation of the mind.

 

Another thing I envy America is the fact that everything has ample margins. Every field has some land left over around the edges. Every road has wide shoulders. In the cities each house has a lovely lawn in front rather than rising right up from the sidewalk. In the forests huge trees lie around decaying and no one bothers to haul them away for fuel. Leaves fall, layer upon layer, and melt into the soil. Perhaps there are no hills and streams as maltreated as those of Korea. Every single leaf or twig that falls is raked up. The land is raked clean of all grass and fallen needles until the top is scraped raw and bleeding. Where else can you find a place like that? I was pondering on the words of God who blamed the Israelites for working excessively and warned that ho would bring war so that the land would be desolate, and their cities waste, then shall the land rest, and enjoy her Sabbaths." Perhaps natural disaster comes as a resistance to man's exploitation of nature. In any case, life itself cannot go on the way the hills and plains are all stripped and leached out.

 

Man can relax in a lush and rich natural setting. Conversely, only with a sense of leisure can people properly conserve nature. For this I envy America no end. I wonder if we shall ever be a people with a sense of leisure who can enjoy well conserved nature?

 

 

 

Letter No. 12. (6/4)

 

By the time I arrived at San Francisco I had gained enough perspective to compare American cities. Starting with Honolulu, I had visited Los Angeles, Washington, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Richmond, Iowa City, Lincoln. As I was going to rounds I just noted this and that as being American. Faced with the question of which I prefer, Washington or New York, I did not know what to say. But by now I began to sense differences among them. ,Honolulu and Los Angeles are new, their architecture all modern. Washington and Boston, by contrast, are historical their architecture classical. While the former gives a feeling of being two-dimensional, lacking weight, the later, not quite having attained venerable age, nonetheless seem to carry weight. The difference may be of cultural tones.

 

The older buildings in Washington and Boston represent a time when thought centered on how to reflect some of the meaning of contemporary life. on the other hand, modern times are a product of men given whole-hog to expediency. Being a country of plenty, its buildings have a great deal of decoration inside as well as outside. There is richness unthinkable to a people who barely manage to put up a thatched hut which more or less provides shelter from the weather. Something is done to the lintel, the insignificant door knob, the corners of a desk. Vessels are not just for holding food; more of them are set out in the room for decoration. Here again mode distinguishes era. Somehow modern wares while functional do not seem to have meaning.

 

New York stands by itself; it is an industrial city. Between the rows of high building rising to scores of stories, a steady river of cars is running. There are not too many trees along the streets, or much space. The view from the top of the 1,200-foot Empire State building brings to mind a stone quarry.

 

Unlike the other cities, San Francisco has its beauty. Even KHRUSHCHEV admitted to it despite the wildness he displayed when he brandished his shoe at the UN General sheltering a bay cutting deep in land off the vastness of the Pacific. San Francisco is further favored with a climate like spring all the year round. Everybody loves his place of birth, but none are more proud than San Franciscans. A Korean resident informed me that they cannot resist the temptation to put a new coat of paint on once very few years, lest they feel ashamed before their neighbors.

 

Strangely enough, Easterners generally hold San Franciscans on a level lower than theirs. Be that as it may, I encountered a strange sight there, at the University of California, one of the best schools in America, with a student body of 25,000, and a noted nuclear research center as well. I observed a class in ethics. When I stepped in, there were several students sitting around smoking, waiting for the professor. I looked up on the board and saw "No Smoking,' with "No" blocked out -- I guessed it must have been the work of a prankster. The professor came in and class started, but the students kept on smoking, and one student gave me the impression that he was there for the sole purpose of making love to a coed, while still another coed and her puppy along. Why all this, and in ethics class at that! Is this American? Is this true freedom? Can this be beautiful? The bell rang in the, meantime and the class broke up.

 

 

 

Letter Nov. 13. (6/11)

 

There is an old pastor, YI Un-Suk, at the Korean church in Chicago. During his thirty-year stay in this country his hair has turned gray. It was a strange feeling to think that a young Korean has grown old ministering to a church in an alien country. Yesterday being Sunday I was asked to give a sermon. A small place that can seat 30 to 40 persons. A bundle of white carnations was on the pulpit. The service got off to a start when the minister, pointing to the while flowers, ex¬plained that it was Mother's Day. He laid to the white carnation three aspects of motherly love - sweetness, purity and endurance. A breeze drifted in through the windows, bowing the silent flowers and filling the room with their fragrance.

 

As for my sermon, I was neither equipped nor prepared, and was planning to speak what came to mind as I faced the congregation. I took mother as the subject.

 

The Gospel of Luke first speaks of how Mary conceived by the Holy Spirit and, when the story goes on to how Jesus evolved as Christ, points to the faith and love of Mary as having had a lot to do with the event. The Gospel of Matthew, on the other hand, opens with Jesus' family tree. For some reason known only to Matthew he listed only male ancestors and left out their wives. Ha did mention four females -- all controversial. one got with child by her father-in-law; another sold her country to an enemy agent and ended up marrying him; a third married an alien and left her country; a fourth was the vixen who had her husband murdered and became a concubine of King David. Why those reprehensible personalities? I believe the point is that in terms of the flesh Jesus himself carried a heredity of sin. How then could the personality of the son of God grow out of this mess? It was the pure heart and strong love of Mary that made it possible. Mary's heart was like a white hot crucible, wherein all the dross of history was burnt away, leaving a new crystal. This is Jesus' personality. I suppose this is the real meaning of the Immaculate Conception.

 

The mother of a child is not the only mother; the church is a mother; we refer to the church as the mother church. The country, too, is a mother -- mother country. By extension, mankind, the world, is a mother. It is the mother, fecundated with Life by heaven who raises her son. Who is the son? The master of the new age, a saviour who delivers mortals from death. So every son is a Moses, a Jehovah, a Jesus, a Krishna. Today as we remember our mothers who bore and reared us, we should ourselves try to be mothers in faith and love. Our history is sordid, but perhaps not more so than Jewish history. If so we, too, stand to become a Mary to produce a Jesus.

 

I believe salvation for the world lies in how we live, for we are carrying the sins of the world. How do we go about it? We have to let old history melt away in our hearts so that a new history may be created. For this we have to have the kind of faith and love Mary had.

 

After the service, the pastor had the flowers passed out to the mothers. It was a moving scene to see each son pin a flower on his proud, beaming mother. Still there were some flowers left in the vase. Seeing the remaining flowers I could not help thinking of my mother. My last message to her as she stood by the gate and told me not to worry about her -- when I was leaving home on March 26, 1947, headed south for the 38th parallel. They started to sing the hymn, ‘I am coming home as I cannot forget my mother's prayers..." but I could not join in, for I was in tears. I suddenly remembered that she had prayed through the night when I was in prison. Where is she praying now? In heaven? If "my mother's prayer follows me," as the English version has it, hers may have come as far as Chicago, I wanted to get a flower myself, but I did not dare ask until a young man offered me one. That surprised me. Well, this is Chicago.

 

 

Letter No. 14. (6/14)

 

Room No. 305, Hotel J. in Durham, North Carolina. I got in the day before yesterday from Chicago.

 

It was a dirty city, Chicago. A seemingly endless sprawl on a plain south of Lake Michigan. Its houses are blackened, probably by smoke from its booming industry. The elevated railways pass over many parts of the city and the noise is deafening. I just couldn't come to like it; it struck me as a likely place for gangsters. There are many Negroes and the sections where they live are squalid with piles of refuse.

 

But closer up Chicago has its better sections. The lakeside residential district is of a quality rare even in America. Lake Michigan stretches out like the sea, as far as the eye can reach. Its surface may be clear today but dark tomorrow; it may be ruffled on day, stirred another. By the lake with its changing faces huge trees stand in clusters interspersed with lovely houses, where local millionaires make their homes. The Northwestern Seminary is here and the Bahai Temple. Looking out over the lake I remembered the Chinese poem beginning, "The mulberry orchard, an ocean blue ...” As I walked the street it was secret fun to recall the line, "Thorn shall not be left here one stone upon another, not one stone that shall not be thrown down." But anyhow it was a beautiful sight.

 

In the Negro quarters where they say it is not safe to stroll alone, the buildings of the University of Chicago rise upon spacious as to be invidious in comparison to Korean cities --- where young students and co-eds come and go briskly. The roots of the Negro quarters give them a different image. I was told Negroes first settled here because Lincoln came from Illinois, where fugitives were welcome from the South after the abolition of slavery. Thus is purity hidden in faith, and beauty underlies squalor.

 

I came to Durham seeking two things: its race problem and Duke University. I visited the school yesterday. Originally it was a university for women, established jointly by Methodists and Quakers. In the 1920's a Mr. Duke donated a large sum of money which went into expanding the campus, and the university was re-named after him. Mr. Duke made his fortune raising tobacco. His statue, with a sheaf of tobacco in his arms, stands in the school yard.

 

The scale is imposing. Representative of its architecture is the Gothic church at the center, from the top of which the whole area comes into view, a thickly wooded plain apparently reaching to the horizon. Massive buildings are scattered around like islands in the sea. The guide pointed out the medical college, law college, men's dorm, women's dorm and so on. The forests were the best. There is a library with two million books, the largest in the South. one section is devoted to Whitman, quite apropos to the surroundings. Seeing this undertaking, though not one of the largest in America, it was awesome to think that one man's enterprise could reach such proportions.

 

Summer is here now. It is sultry and close to 95 degrees outside, but inside the air conditioned buildings it is cool enough for spring wear. What first strikes the visitor to America is that the laws of nature have broken down: some people are wearing thin summer clothes while other have fur coats on. Ice is not found in winter only; flowers are not limited to spring. Man takes off from his terrestrial globe. Is this civilization? Is it progress or is it going backward? Good or evil? one thing does not change -- the body temperature. This is the law of life. The American food at the hotel didn't make me forget the bowl of barley back on my farm in Korea.

 

 

Apr 22~ July 16 1962 Chosunilbo