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Have you ever dreamed of something during your childhood?

At a time when your fluffy hair was still soft and the smell of milk had yet to fade, did you ever receive a single sheet of paper from a teacher?

“Do you have any future aspirations?”

“What is your dream?”

That was the first question you received about your future as a child.

A question that lets children eager to grow up spread their wings of imagination, making them vaguely think about what they might become, setting their direction ever so slightly.

Countless children who received that question moved their tiny hands to write down letters.

Or, for those who couldn’t write, they might have asked their parents, their friends, or the teacher. Sometimes they wanted to be something but didn’t know the exact name, leading them to burst into tears, flipping through dictionaries or books to find it, only to end up scribbling nonsensically or drawing.

Imagine.

A clumsy flower drawing on the paper that asked about your future aspirations.

A make-shift house and tree, with several roughly drawn people smiling in response to the question about your dreams.

This is the level of a child’s dream.

Clumsy and unrefined.

A haphazard collection of pieces not even fit to be a sketch.

Yet because of this, it is a bundle of possibilities, a piece of paper that can transform into anything and be drawn as anything.

However, very rarely do these dreams continue in a straight line.

There are times when a dream, clumsily thought up and resolved upon in childhood, becomes deeply embedded, when the environment fits perfectly, and when the world seems to push you down that path, aligning exactly with the small future aspirations you once wrote down.

Such occurrences may feel a little special but are by no means rare.

They are common forms that can be found around you.

This man was also like that.

In his childhood, he thought about his future and faced the question seriously.

And he synthesized everything he saw and heard, the experiences he acquired directly and indirectly through books and television.

He arrived at one conclusion.

One conclusion.

A drawing barely recognizable, a form so faint it was difficult to discern.

A vague dream without grandeur or specific goals.

He wrote down future aspirations.

He drew his dream.

And now he is fulfilling it.

***

“Sicut erat in principio et nunc et semper et in saecula saeculorum—-”

As it was in the beginning, now and forever, and in the ages of ages.

“Sicut erat in principio et nunc et semper et in saecula saeculorum——”

As it was in the beginning, now and forever!

The words of the Glory Patri resound.

Now, there are neither pastors nor believers, neither shepherds nor sheep in this empty space.

In the forgotten corner of the village’s ruined church, the sound of hymns spreads.

Oh, as it was in the beginning, now and forever.

Amen, Amen, Amen.

“Sicut erat in principio et nunc et semper et in saecula saeculorum—-!”

Ah—men!

Even if no one sits on the decaying, rotting folding chairs.

Even knowing that the white dust settling will eventually obscure any traces with the passage of time.

A space once filled with color may one day turn gray, and even that gray may fade away, becoming scattered over time.

He calls.

He calls out the sound of hymns.

The lines of the Glory Patri.

Ah.

The body of a child.

How does the voice of a boy who has yet to experience voice changes climb so high?

It rises as if to pierce the high ceiling, reflecting off the round walls and overflowing into music that fills the church. As if longing for the past when it once flourished, as if to soothe that longing, simply as one person.

Oh God, hear this sound.

Hear the prayers filling the church.

Grant us strength and safety to overcome the malicious entities that disturb our order and customs. Embrace me like the warm rays of spring sun so that I don’t flounder in trials, and share your compassion and kindness, filling the world with love.

“Amen.”

Amen.

Ah, the music is truly sweet and delightful.

It’s a sound that feels uplifting, as if one could meet God through it.

This is not merely the beauty of the voice itself, but what lies within that voice.

Therefore, one cannot help but praise and laud.

Clap clap clap clap.

Beneath the rotting wooden floor with gaping holes, people appear.

They suddenly rise, lifting their hands to their chests and clapping vigorously.

As if to praise the hymn sung by the boy.

The boy—no.

As if possessed by the form of Park Jinseong.

Their faces, appearing to be Asian, are expressionless, yet their clapping is vigorous with emotion.

Their eyes seem to lack focus, and when you look closely, their will or truth appears absent, seeming empty. Yet, at times, a flicker of light brushes past that resembles madness and hatred—a shapeless blade aimed not at a specific target but at all.

It is more akin to a flamethrower than a gun.

A desire to burn everything, not just a single entity.

A grief-stoked resentment, fueled by loss.

This is the emotion observable in a ghost, eroded by the ravages of time.

Park Jinseong approached those possessed by spirits at the place where the pastor would preach when the church was still intact. Then, holding the Bible in one hand, he slowly began to recite its contents before them.

“Quoniam invenitur ab his, qui non tentant illum, se autem manifestat eis, qui fidem habent in illum.”

The Lord meets those who do not test Him and reveals Himself to those who believe in Him.

“Perversae enim cogitationes separant a Deo, probata autem virtus corripit insipientes.”

Those with twisted thoughts distance themselves from the great one and those who test His power are revealed as foolish.

“Amen.”

Oh, faithful sheep, hear this sermon.

The flipped Bible.

The inverted letters and the turned cross.

Hear the sermon given in this ruined church.

“Quoniam in malevolam animam non introibit sapientia nec habitabit in corpore subdito peccatis. Spiritus enim sanctus disciplinae effugiet fictum et auferet se a cogitationibus insensatis et corripietur a superveniente iniquitate. Spiritus enim diligens hominem est sapientia et non absolvet maledicum a labiis suis, quoniam renum illius testis est Deus et cordis illius scrutator verus et linguae eius auditor.”

This is a sermon.

A sermon warning to be cautious of your wisdom and wickedness.

And the sheep cry out in response to the shepherd’s question.

“Quoniam Deus mortem non fecit nec laetatur in perditione vivorum!”

“For God did not create death, nor does He rejoice in the destruction of the living!”

Ah!

I hear it.

His voice has come here.

Listen closely.

Do you not hear?

[Etiam, venio cito.]

Indeed, I shall soon come to this place.

The voice echoes in the air of the church.

A sound that can be heard with the mind, not just the ears.

It penetrates the trembling pupils, reverberates in the heart, even the voices of those possessed by spirits can be heard moving.

“Veni!”

The shepherd who held the flipped Bible urged Him to descend here.

Those possessed by spirits cheerfully shout out.

“Amen. Veni, Domine Iesu!”

They chorus as one voice.

Amen!

Come here!

O flipped Savior.

O twisted Trinity.

 

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