WEBVTT - Ché Ahn - Oct 30 - 9:00 am

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<v Speaker 1>My father, Byung-Kook Ahn, was born on April 4, 1924,

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<v Speaker 1>in Pyongyang, today the capital of North Korea, then a

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<v Speaker 1>city alive with spiritual fervor in the wake of remarkable revivals.

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<v Speaker 1>He was the firstborn grandson of devout believers, and his

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<v Speaker 1>childhood was shaped by faith long before he understood its cost.

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<v Speaker 1>He came to Christ as a young boy and answered

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<v Speaker 1>the call to pastoral ministry as the Korean War erupted

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<v Speaker 1>in 1950. To understand my father's life, one must understand

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<v Speaker 1>the world in which he came of age. In 1945,

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<v Speaker 1>the Japanese Empire fell to the Allied forces of World

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<v Speaker 1>War II, the United States, the Soviet Union, and Great Britain.

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<v Speaker 1>With Japan's surrender came the dissolution of its 35-year colonial

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<v Speaker 1>rule of Korea. For Koreans, this was a long-awaited liberation.

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<v Speaker 1>But liberation arrived tangled in geopolitics. President Roosevelt had died

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<v Speaker 1>earlier that year, leaving the young and unprepared Vice President

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<v Speaker 1>Harry Truman to assume the highest office in the final

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<v Speaker 1>months of World War II. As Truman negotiated with Stalin,

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<v Speaker 1>The Soviet Union insisted on controlling all of Korea. Stalin

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<v Speaker 1>argued that Korea, once Japan's territory, should now serve as

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<v Speaker 1>a buffer between Russia and their former enemy. Stalin and

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<v Speaker 1>Truman compromised. They divided Korea at the 38th parallel, leaving

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<v Speaker 1>the North under communist rule and allowing the South to

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<v Speaker 1>be free. This compromise reshaped history, much like how Germany

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<v Speaker 1>would be divided. with East Germany falling under the shadow

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<v Speaker 1>of communism. In stark contrast to its northern counterpart, South

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<v Speaker 1>Korea would be rebuilt as a democratic nation with a

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<v Speaker 1>system modeled after the United States, having a president in

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<v Speaker 1>the Blue House, a legislative assembly, and a Supreme Court.

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<v Speaker 1>In 1946, the dictator Kim Il-sung sought to reunify the

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<v Speaker 1>peninsula under communism. Soon after, Persecution swiftly shuttered the doors

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<v Speaker 1>of the church that my father was pastoring. To make

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<v Speaker 1>matters even worse, my dad was imprisoned along with numerous

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<v Speaker 1>other pastors under the oppressive North Korean regime. My father

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<v Speaker 1>was just 26 when the Korean War broke out in 1950.

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<v Speaker 1>After the war ended in 1953, he remained trapped in

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<v Speaker 1>the North as the Korean Demilitarized Zone, DMZ, effectively separated

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<v Speaker 1>North from South Korea. No one was permitted to leave.

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<v Speaker 1>That's when the hand of God intervened. A government official

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<v Speaker 1>authorized the release of prisoners, including my father. In the

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<v Speaker 1>great exodus that followed, more than a million North Koreans

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<v Speaker 1>fled to the South. My father escaped with his parents

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<v Speaker 1>and siblings, carrying nothing but his faith and the trauma

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<v Speaker 1>of war. In Seoul, they worshipped at Youngnak Presbyterian Church,

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<v Speaker 1>which became a spiritual refuge for countless northern believers displaced

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<v Speaker 1>by the war. My father despised communism, not out of

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<v Speaker 1>pure ideology, but out of lived horror. He had a

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<v Speaker 1>hard time speaking about the evils he had witnessed. By 1963,

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<v Speaker 1>the height of the Cold War, the Democratic Party was

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<v Speaker 1>staunchly anti-communist, and my father aligned himself accordingly. But before

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<v Speaker 1>all of this, I had barely known him. My mother, sister,

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<v Speaker 1>and I remained in South Korea while my father journeyed

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<v Speaker 1>to the United States in 1958. He had applied to

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<v Speaker 1>be a pastor of the first Korean Southern Baptist Church

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<v Speaker 1>in all of North America, a small congregation located in

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<v Speaker 1>downtown Washington, DC. When he got the job, it felt

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<v Speaker 1>like winning the lottery. as this was a one-way ticket

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<v Speaker 1>out of the post-war poverty of Korea. It put us

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<v Speaker 1>on the fast track toward living the American dream. Nevertheless,

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<v Speaker 1>visa issues delayed immigration for the rest of our family

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<v Speaker 1>until November 1960. I was four years old, two months

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<v Speaker 1>shy of my fifth birthday, when our plane touched down

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<v Speaker 1>on American soil. I did not recognize the man waiting

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<v Speaker 1>for us outside the airport. There were no photographs of

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<v Speaker 1>my dad other than a faded black-and-white wedding portrait of

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<v Speaker 1>my parents. Our separation, expected to last briefly, had stretched

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<v Speaker 1>into almost three years. During that time, my maternal grandparents

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<v Speaker 1>had helped my mother raise my sister and me. Their

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<v Speaker 1>home had been my first world. As we exited the plane,

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<v Speaker 1>my mother pointed out a man standing near the terminal

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<v Speaker 1>and said, That's your dad. Go shake his hand. So

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<v Speaker 1>I nervously ran up as my mother instructed and offered

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<v Speaker 1>him my hand. I know you're my dad, I told him,

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<v Speaker 1>but you don't look like my dad. It was an

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<v Speaker 1>honest statement from the lips of a child, but it

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<v Speaker 1>foreshadowed the emotional distance that would define our relationship for

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<v Speaker 1>much of my life. Reuniting with my father was difficult.

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<v Speaker 1>He held two jobs just to provide for our basic needs,

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<v Speaker 1>in addition to the supplemental income from my mom's job

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<v Speaker 1>as a maid. My dad worked weekdays as a dental technician,

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<v Speaker 1>a trade he had learned during the Japanese occupation, and

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<v Speaker 1>he was fully dedicated to pastoring on the weekends. I

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<v Speaker 1>understand now, after nearly half a century in ministry, the

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<v Speaker 1>weight of that dual calling. But as a child, I

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<v Speaker 1>understood only the distance. He never said, I love you,

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<v Speaker 1>or showed affection in a way I remembered. Trauma lived

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<v Speaker 1>in him. The Japanese occupation, the Korean War, imprisonment, These

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<v Speaker 1>left wounds that time could not easily mend. When I

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<v Speaker 1>once asked him what war had been like, he answered

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<v Speaker 1>quietly and curtly, I cannot talk about it. His pain

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<v Speaker 1>surfaced in his temper. When I was five, I decided

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<v Speaker 1>to take a bunch of small plastic army soldiers from

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<v Speaker 1>a friend's house. When my father saw me playing with

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<v Speaker 1>the dozen or so toy soldiers at home, he instantly

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<v Speaker 1>knew they weren't ours. His anger exploded. He spanked me

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<v Speaker 1>hard for each soldier I had stolen. I saw something

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<v Speaker 1>in his eyes that frightened me, rage born not of malice,

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<v Speaker 1>but of years of fear, scarcity, and unspoken suffering. That

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<v Speaker 1>moment began a long season of physical discipline. Bad report cards,

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<v Speaker 1>intentional and unintentional mistakes, fed into a pattern of abusive

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<v Speaker 1>behavior until I left home at seventeen. At the very start,

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<v Speaker 1>our family lived in poverty typical of most immigrants who

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<v Speaker 1>came with nothing to this nation. Our first year together

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<v Speaker 1>was spent in a cramped one-bedroom apartment on 16th Street

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<v Speaker 1>in the capital, just a short walk from my dad's church.

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<v Speaker 1>My parents slept in the bedroom, and my sister and

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<v Speaker 1>I slept on the floor in the living room, which

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<v Speaker 1>we were used to doing in Korea. Then we moved

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<v Speaker 1>into a two-bedroom apartment in Tacoma Park, Maryland. The landlord

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<v Speaker 1>told us we had to vacate the apartment when my

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<v Speaker 1>mother got pregnant with my brother. The year after, with

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<v Speaker 1>a generous loan from a church member, my father bought

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<v Speaker 1>a modest three-bedroom house in Silver Spring. To us, it

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<v Speaker 1>felt like a mansion. My father had attended Bible college

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<v Speaker 1>in Korea, but did not complete seminary until after immigrating

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<v Speaker 1>to the United States. He enrolled at Howard University, an elite,

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<v Speaker 1>historically black institution in the capital. The seminary was deeply

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<v Speaker 1>engaged in the civil rights movement, theologically liberal, and it

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<v Speaker 1>influenced my father for years to come. The small Korean

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<v Speaker 1>congregation that my father pastored met after regular church hours

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<v Speaker 1>in a chapel of an American Southern Baptist church in Washington, D.C.

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<v Speaker 1>Most of the members were Korean graduate students sent by

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<v Speaker 1>their government to study so they could return with specialized

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<v Speaker 1>degrees and rebuild their nation. Accordingly, they were generally young

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<v Speaker 1>singles on a temporary assignment. That meant there were no

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<v Speaker 1>other kids at church. So my sister and I sat

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<v Speaker 1>through the adult services week after week, bored and lonely,

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<v Speaker 1>until a young American man named Michael took us under

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<v Speaker 1>his wing for a Sunday school class of two. My

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<v Speaker 1>father's church continued to grow. Later, he would become the

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<v Speaker 1>president of the Korean Southern Baptist Convention. I believe that

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<v Speaker 1>my father had the calling of an apostle. He ended

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<v Speaker 1>up becoming a well-known Korean pastor, and he even befriended Dr.

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<v Speaker 1>David Yonggi Cho, founder of the Full Gospel Central Church,

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<v Speaker 1>preaching at his church in Seoul and playing golf with him.

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<v Speaker 1>Beneath my father's sternness, he was an extraordinarily generous man.

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<v Speaker 1>He never took a pastoral salary. His income as a

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<v Speaker 1>dental technician funded the church. He sponsored relatives from both

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<v Speaker 1>sides of the family to immigrate to America. He went

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<v Speaker 1>on to help me purchase my first home in California

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<v Speaker 1>and supported my graduate studies at Fuller Seminary. My grandmother

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<v Speaker 1>later paid for my doctorate. Generosity was my father's love language,

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<v Speaker 1>though I did not recognize it until adulthood. In 1996,

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<v Speaker 1>God healed what decades had fractured. My father and I reconciled.

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<v Speaker 1>He told me he was proud of me as a pastor.

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<v Speaker 1>He told me at long last that he loved me.

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<v Speaker 1>I wept and then began to laugh with joy that

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<v Speaker 1>filled my heart. I share more of this story in

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<v Speaker 1>a later chapter. My father lived to be 86. On

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<v Speaker 1>June 6, 2010, he went home to be with the Lord,

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<v Speaker 1>whom he had served through war, exile, hardship, and perseverance.

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<v Speaker 1>My dad's life was one of endurance, faith, and sacrifice,

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<v Speaker 1>an apostolic legacy that shaped the calling I would embrace.