Above and Beyond
At six years old, everything interesting is above me, just beyond my reach. On this day, more frustrating than I could bear, my mom, dressed in a crisply ironed outfit, tugged me briskly past a cavernous terminal full of fascinating airplane-related things. We were getting on an actual airplane—something I tried desperately to imagine in the weeks prior—and yet, I had no opportunities to touch and explore. My parents talked about moving to America, but it may as well have been a move to the moon in my context-deprived child’s mind.
I could not fathom the reasons behind leaving a perfectly happy place of comfort. Everything I knew and enjoyed were in jeopardy. To a child living in Korea in the 1970s, America was a land most identified with canned food and chocolate bars (American products deemed superior and available on the gray market). Other children were wide-eyed envious that I could get all the Spam and Hershey bars I want in America; but during quiet moments, lying in bed and falling asleep, I thought about all of the things I cherished—playing soccer barefoot in dusty playgrounds, stopping in at a comic book store on the walk home from school, discovering new hiding places with my friends, going over to the cousins’ house for games, and watching my favorite animated robot boy hero TV show—and how they would all be left behind.
By the time we landed in the Los Angeles International Airport, I was done with airplanes. The journey was nothing like the hyped version my parents sold me, for which I bartered away my lifelong treasures, now discarded back in Korea. Furthermore, in this new land were giants—some white, some black, but all fearsome—and I, barely reaching their knees, felt insignificant. In the months afterward, I longed for one more airplane, one that would take me back to my country.
Forty years have floated by since I was fished out of my puddle and onto the “promised land.” I understand better the sacrifices my parents made to relocate the family to America, and I am convinced that I am better for it. Indeed, I consider this new land my home. I have pitched myself a modest tent, acquired cattle, and collected new treasures both material and filial. I root for the American team (even as I wish well the Korean efforts), inject myself into the culture, and at times forget my face is yellow. It’s not to Rachel Dolezal-esque appropriation; but a consequence of having to build homes, plant gardens, eat of their produce, take a wife, and increase (Jer 29:5-7).
Forty years of wandering changed the six-year-old boy who stepped timidly off the airplane: from a foreigner and stranger, to a citizen and resident. I acutely recognize that the temptation to syncretize God and country is a powerful draw, as many of the Hebrews’ Giants of Faith—Abraham, Noah, Moses—can attest. There is, though, something of that six-year-old that I have not lost: everything interesting—truly valuable—is above and, for now, just beyond my reach. A better country awaits me as I am found living by faith. And if I am faithful, I will be welcomed into a city whose citizenship and residence are promised by Christ.
All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. Hebrews 11:13-16
D. David Kim is the pastor of Good Hope Adventist Church, the second generation ministry of the Washington-Spencerville Korean church.