Church of Sky

It was day four of our recent visit to Jeju, a volcanic island idyll off the southwest coast of the Korean Peninsula.  We had booked the trip several months ago, and it turned out to be propitious timing.  The dormant volcano, Mount Halla, looms large at the island's center, and over 350 parasitic cones dot the landscape.  The cones are places where smaller eruptions than Mount Halla's occurred.  These offshoots, where lava spewed out of fractures and fissures on Halla's flanks, are called oreum.

It so happens, these oreum are laced with natural caves and manmade tunnels, the latter having been carved out of mountainsides by forced Korean laborers during the Japanese occupation during World War II.  Here, Japanese soldiers awaited the great, final battle that never arrived.

With threats of Armageddon emanating almost daily now out of Pyongyang, I couldn't help but think how cozy it would be riding out the impending fury of hell in a seaside redoubt on beautiful Jeju, overlooking the vast Pacific.  Jeju is famous for its women divers who scour coastal seabeds without the aid of breathing apparatus.  Stacey is always looking for a new hobby.  Perhaps, this watery world even offered potential as a career change option.

Historically, the women divers of the island were the main breadwinners in Jeju's matriarchal family structure.  A woman was, quite often, deemed the "head of the household" while her husband would tend to children and home management tasks.  This lifestyle would require absolutely no adaptation whatsoever on Stacey's behalf.  She has been breadwinning for decades, and is eagerly anticipating many more rewarding years in the workaday world.  Why not underwater?  It's surely peaceful down there; especially, in the rocky shoals where submarines don't lurk.

I could sit safely ensconced in our subterranean haven feasting on bountiful Jeju tangerines while Stacey ventured forth daily to learn the island ways, holding her breath for up to two minutes while diving deeply with newfound friends, seeking out abalones and sea urchins to supplement our citrus diet.  If she ruptured her eardrums (an occasional, occupational hazard), I could attempt to abate the bleeding upon her return.  This was, most certainly, a landscape and seascape worthy of exploration.

A structural tribute to Jeju's famed women divers.

After three days of hiking, we decided to give our weary legs a rest.  The preceding evening, we had arranged an auto tour of the southwest quadrant of the island.  Our driver and guide would be the owner and builder of the guesthouse at which we were staying.  A more pleasant and gregarious man would be hard to find. 

He had, a few years back, laboriously constructed the building that sheltered us from the famous, howling, seaside Jeju winds that gusted and whipped furiously our first night on the island.  He had fed us delicious breakfasts featuring homemade tangerine preserves, segments of locally grown citrus fruits doused in heavy cream, and assorted tossed salad greens.  At our dinner table, he had grilled strips of Jeju's renowned black pig pork belly, accompanied by perilla leaves, sliced raw garlic, and chili paste.  The warmth of the compact, tabletop grill was appreciated following a cool day of hiking, and the sizzling and popping of pork grease was culinary music to our ears.

We were well provided for.  When he inquired as to what we'd like to see on our guided tour, we decided to let him set the itinerary.  He knew the island, and through osmosis of our three days in close proximity, we figured he probably had a good idea of what we'd find interesting.

I fully expected, as we set out, that we'd make a mad dash for a glorious, coastal overlook and the crashing surf.  Instead, he drove us inland, skirting oreum, and putting more and more real estate between us and the sea.  In hindsight, I realize that he was carefully setting the stage for the day ahead.

Our first stop was an out-of-the-way, rural church of contemporary, simplistic design, devoid of people on a Thursday morning.  Our guide explained that it was the brainchild of the well-known, Japanese-Korean architect, Itami Jun.  Jeju is a convergence of wind, water, stone, and sky.  Jun had incorporated these elements into his design.  The building sat surrounded by shallow pools of water with weathered, rounded stone bottoms, and rays of sunlight rebounded off its reflective roof.  The winds of Jeju are omnipresent, and ripples on the surface of the pooled waters shimmered in the breeze.

Church of Sky exterior view.

Our guide, using his cellphone, summoned a man who appeared, seemingly out of thin air.  The apparition unlocked a church door allowing us to enter, then faded away.  With no congregation present, it was a quiet, peaceful place.  We loitered a bit, absorbing the simple elegance of the surroundings.

Through a little sleuthing when we returned home to Seoul, I discovered that the church was originally named the Church of Sky (a name I like, and refuse to relinquish), but was later dubbed the Ark Community Church.  Its shape resembles Noah's ark.

The Jeju Weekly reported that the church is acoustically sublime, and that famous, classically trained musicians who frequent the island often perform there, even at regular Sunday services.  According to the report, a typical Sunday morning congregation consists of a mix of the usual faithful seeking redemption, and tourists in attendance more for an appreciation of the architecture and the music.

Church of Sky interior view.

After a couple more stops inland, we headed west to meet the remarkable Jeju coast.  It would, indeed, as I had expected, turn out to be a day of witnessing geological wonders, panoramic views, and booming surf colliding with craggy, windswept promontories.  Our day's activities were bookended fittingly by the humble symbolism of the little, inland church during the morning hours, and an exhilarating, all encompassing, view of Jeju's patchwork of fields, sea, stone, and sky from high atop Gunsan Oreum at day's end.