Pastoral Letter: The Fruit of Abiding Prayer

Dear Simsbury UMC Family,

On February 7, we held together a simple, demanding phrase: when justice becomes life. And as Lent begins, we have also begun our shared practice of ABIDE—learning to remain in prayer.

Abiding prayer doesn’t stay private. Over time, it becomes communal breath. It holds what we cannot carry alone, and it brings what is wounded into God’s presence. That is why I’m writing today—because I hope our prayer and our shared reality meet, rather than drift apart.

On Wednesday, February 25, I traveled to Washington, D.C., for the Faithful Resistance Gathering. The day included a clear public witness—raising concerns about current immigration enforcement practices, especially where force and excess can threaten human life. I won’t speak around that. At the same time, I do not want to treat this as a partisan talking point or a slogan to win with. For me, it is closer than that.

This is not a debate for me.
It is a memory.
It is a face.

That morning, the sanctuary at Capitol Hill UMC filled quickly—so quickly that many were standing. Neighboring churches, having prepared in advance, opened overflow worship spaces and guided late arrivals there. Worship continued by livestream in those spaces as well. It felt like church—not logistics. I felt the body of Christ breathing.

More than 2,000 people gathered in the Capitol Hill area that day. Numbers fade. Faces do not.

I saw friends from the New York Annual Conference. I recognized classmates from Drew whom I had not embraced in years. I met again those with whom I have prayed, year after year, for peace on the Korean Peninsula. We live scattered lives, yet we are not severed. The Spirit keeps stitching us back together.

When the march began, I made eye contact with people I did not know. We were strangers, yes—but not closed off. We smiled. We walked in the same direction. The sign I carried read: “United Methodist Church stands for Justice.”

As I held those words, I found myself remembering the day I first stepped onto American soil at JFK. That march touched something deeper than a moment. It brushed against the longer arc of my own journey.

In 2000, I entered Seoul Theological University and began the path of theological study. Even then, I carried a quiet prayer. As a young person, I met pastors who had studied in the United States—people who were spiritually grounded, intellectually disciplined, and deeply humble. Later, when I encountered professors connected to Drew Theological School, my prayer grew clearer: I want to learn there. I want to worship and study among a wider communion of God’s people. I want to know God more deeply.

From acceptance letters to embassy interviews to boarding a plane, the road was not simple. I cannot recount every detail here. But I can testify to this: the God who knew my longing opened the way. My late father, who pastored in Korea and pursued doctoral study at Drew, shaped that longing in me. When I arrived to study there myself, it felt less like achievement and more like grace—grace opening a door.

On July 27, 2010, I landed at JFK. From that day forward, I was categorized as an international student and classified as Korean. Those labels fit on paper, but they did not carry my whole life. At times, I was warmly welcomed. At other times, I had to explain, to prove, to wait. I filled out forms. I paid fees. I updated documents. I waited again.

Eventually, I became a permanent resident. Yet I remain who I have always been: a Korean citizen by birth, an immigrant by experience, your friend and pastor walking alongside you in this community.

That is why I’m careful when I speak about law and process. I have learned—personally—that law matters. Procedure matters. But I have also witnessed how fragile the boundary can be. I have seen people who tried to follow every step suddenly labeled—a label: “illegal”—because of administrative error, delay, poor counsel, a change in employment, or structural vulnerability. The line between belonging and exclusion can collapse more quickly than we imagine. And when it does, it is not just a status that shifts. A whole life begins to shake.

For that reason, I cannot reduce this to a slogan. It is about life. And in such a place, our words must become more restrained, and our prayer must learn to stay.

Love that matures in Christ does not float on emotion alone. Mature love carries responsibility. It learns restraint. Christian mercy does not abandon justice and lawful order; it seeks a justice that protects life rather than diminishes it. Mercy does not discard responsibility. And responsibility, at its best, does not erase compassion.

The movement toward justice must be rooted in love and practiced through nonviolent peace. The cross teaches us not only what we seek, but how we seek it. We speak of justice, but we do not bless violence in its name. The justice of God’s Kin-dom leans decisively toward life.

This is where abiding prayer becomes real. To abide is not to retreat from the world. The longer we remain before God, the more clearly we see. Private prayer slowly becomes communal prayer. The wounds of others find space within us.

Then our prayer becomes lament.
Then our prayer may even become anger.

But it must be the anger of love—anger that refuses to surrender life to destruction.

This week, I invite us to widen our intercession. Pray first for those who have been harmed, for families who have lost loved ones, and for those living in fear. Pray also for those tasked with enforcing the law, that they may act with wisdom and restraint. And pray for those who craft policy, that their words and decisions might protect life rather than fracture it. Pray that our words will not grow sharp without becoming holy.

Within our congregation, we hold different political instincts. Some of us feel most urgently the need for safety and order. Others feel most urgently the need to protect the vulnerable. I hold both concerns before God. We are citizens, yes—but first we are disciples. Our deepest allegiance is not to a party, but to the Kin-dom of God.

That day in D.C., in the early warmth of approaching spring, I sensed the breath of worship.

And so I confess:

When we speak of justice, we will not forget responsibility.
When we speak of mercy, we will not abandon restraint.
When we speak of law, we will not erase the image of God.

May this confession become our Lenten prayer. May abiding shape not only our words, but our hearts.

In the grace and peace of Christ,
DH