Today marks the 11th anniversary of the Sewol ferry disaster in South Korea—a tragedy that claimed the lives of more than 300 people, most of them high school students on a school trip. As a father of a teenager myself, I can only begin to fathom the heartbreak, confusion, and enduring sorrow that the families and friends of the victims continue to carry.
Ironically, the name of the ferry, Sewol, means “passing time” or “flowing time.” And how painfully true that feels. Time has passed—야속하게도, even cruelly so—but the full truth about what happened that day has not yet come to light. Many still seek accountability. Many still wait for justice.
Earlier today, I came across a series of photographs shared by Korean photographer Jiwook Kim. They appear to capture a commemorative ritual, one rooted in traditional practices meant to comfort the souls of the deceased. It struck a chord with me—deeply human, tender, sacred.
And yet, I know that some Korean Protestants would object. They may accuse this act of remembrance of being “un-Christian” or “superstitious.” This reaction is not new. It happens year after year. But it begs a hard and necessary question: When did dogma become more important than compassion?
Why is it that some expressions of Christian faith are quick to judge how others mourn? Why is there so little room for sacred boundaries—spaces where we can simply accompany one another in grief, even if we don’t fully understand the language or form of that mourning?
The Christian tradition, at its best, calls us to empathy. The Apostle Paul writes in Romans, “Weep with those who weep.” That’s not conditional. He doesn’t say “weep only if you agree with their theology” or “weep only if their grief looks like yours.” Just weep.
Sadly, many in the Korean Protestant world remind me of Job’s friends—eager to offer religious explanations for suffering, to insist that pain must be deserved. They love to quote Job 8:7, “Though your beginning was small, your latter days will be great,” framing it as a positive affirmation. But in context, that line was uttered by Bildad, who insinuated that Job’s children died because of Job’s sin. That verse is not a comfort. It’s an accusation cloaked in theology.
To this day, some still try to explain the Sewol tragedy through the lens of judgment or national sin. But the time for such harmful narratives must end.
Let us remember the victims of Sewol by honoring their lives, supporting their families, and working toward truth and accountability. And let us also reflect on how we respond to suffering in our communities. Theology must never be used as a weapon to dismiss pain. Faith should lead us closer to compassion—not away from it.
Eleven years later, the wounds are still open. But so too is the invitation: to remember, to walk with the grieving, and to weep.
altimont 