Cults are bad. It’s common knowledge that if you join one you’ll end up dead, sexually assaulted, broke, and, according to that Netflix documentary, subsidizing a Korean dance studio.
But when I was in high school in Los Angeles, my dad joined a Korean Christian cult and changed from a serial asshole into a pretty awesome guy. Something closer to Jesus.
Religious cults are super popular in Korea. Not as popular as K-pop or K-beauty, but then these also have their own cult followings. My dad’s was the first U.S. branch of a bigger cult started in Korea in the 1980s by an elf-like old guy with dyed black hair.
The cult made my father, a very practical business owner, believe in unhinged “ultimate truths,” like eternal life. These people believed they literally would never die. My dad believed it too — really believed it. He canceled his life insurance policy and tore up his will. Maybe that idea of never dying is what made him change so completely: He didn’t want to be cold and scary until the end of time.
When I was a kid, my dad was always hitting my brother and me with his hand or a bamboo stick. If we cried because we were hurt and bleeding, he’d say, “Shut your mouth.” And pretty much any time we had an opinion of any kind, he would smack us to fix our “bad” behavior. “You’ll thank me later,” he said.
I remember one evening during a family dinner with my grandmother, I said something that triggered my dad. “Don’t talk back,” he said. “I’ll teach you a lesson in table manners.” Then he slapped me hard across my head and turned to my grandmother to continue the conversation, as if nothing had happened. It hurt like hell.
Several years later, after joining the cult, he became nice. It was drastic. My dad, who had been as emotionally expressive as asphalt, would talk to me about a Bible lesson from the cult and suddenly start weeping. I’d cringe and think, “What a weirdo.” But I stuck around.
He started affectionately saying, “Oh, my daughter” and would even tuck me into bed with, “I love you.” I didn’t respond. I wasn’t a child anymore and still heard “shut your mouth” when I looked at him.
One day, he asked me to trust him and attend his cult. I didn’t feel like I had a choice. It started off small and casual in a rented office space where the cult offered free classes. They taught the Bible as literature, explaining metaphors hidden in parables. I actually put some of that stuff in a college essay and got an A.
As the study progressed into the last cryptic book of the Bible, Revelations, things got more bizarre. Turned out, the elf-like pastor was the messenger sent from Jesus Christ! And Koreans were the new chosen people! It was up to us Koreans to save the world.
I was intrigued for a hot second. But I was also a college student seriously studying Los Angeles nightlife. I was torn between the cult and alcohol and drugs. It was an easy choice.
I ditched L.A. for New York, got a law degree, worked as an attorney, met my husband and had two children. When I visited my parents, I’d go back to my father’s “church,” but things had changed. A lot more people were there, and the mood was no longer casual. It was orderly, almost militant. During Sunday service everyone wore white, sat equally spaced apart and aggressively shouted “Amen!” when the pastor spoke.
By this time, my dad had a high position at the church as an elder, which meant he gave a lot of money. It also meant he was allowed to sit in the front row in a dark suit instead of his summer whites. From where I sat, rows behind him, I could see only the back of his head, but I could picture him — calm and content, maybe a tear forming in the corner of his eye during prayer.
Who was this guy? I couldn’t get used to this new, godly version of the man I grew up with. I didn’t believe it. And then 2020 happened.
My dad’s cult became world famous for spreading Covid. It was blamed for roughly 60% of the total infections in South Korea. I guess it was all that spit splattering from the aggressive “Amens.” The elf pastor was also accused of stealing millions from the church to build a home. My father was in total denial and said it was all lies.
I flew to California to visit my parents and celebrate the first birthday of my daughter, Romy. On one of my last days there, my father gave Romy her first bubble bath. As he added more and more bubbles, she flapped her arms with delight. “Scoop them!” he said in that sing-songy voice people use when talking to babies. Romy’s hands overflowed with suds. I can still hear the sound of my father’s deep laugh when he saw how excited she was. I smiled, in shock. It probably sounds like a totally normal moment to you, but I’d never seen him act like this before. Like a real dad.
I felt as though his adoration was somehow directed at me. Like he was trying to make up for everything through my daughter. And it worked. I actually felt loved by him for the first time.
A month later he was dead. I guess the cult was wrong about the “we never die” part.
In the summer of 2020, my dad was killed when he went for a walk and was hit by a van that ran a stop sign without slowing down. The police never found the driver.
The cult sucked up my dad’s time and money, and tricked him into believing things that were extravagantly silly. It’s terrible that he was controlled and gaslit. But if he hadn’t joined it, I might never have seen him act like a legit grandfather. Maybe cults aren’t 100% evil after all?
J. Hwang lives in New York City with her husband, Sam, and two kids, Benjamin and Romy. She writes about the Korean diaspora, her family’s history in North Korea and the Korean War, and humorous tales of motherhood. She received a B.A. in English Literature from UCLA and a J.D. from Brooklyn Law School.
Love this story. And that fabulous photo make me want to dig up my parents’ old pics.
A fresh & original perspective from a clever writer! I look forward to reading more from this burgeoning author.