I spent my student years more than forty years ago. As one who came of age in the 1980s, I lived through the era of youthful turbulence and rebellion. Like many others, I passed through rock bands and became deeply immersed in heavy metal. I poured my passion into both acoustic and electric guitars. For a young man longing to prove his masculinity, the strings of a guitar were more than sufficient to absorb the fiery energy of youth.

That relationship with the guitar has continued to this day. Even now, it remains a companion and an extension of myself. As a result, my guitar skills are, at the very least, above average. Today, I serve as a pastor in the field of ministry, providing spiritual nourishment and exercising leadership. About five months ago, I also began offering a guitar class as a form of voluntary service for those who wished to learn later in life. Although all the participants are over sixty years old, their passion is remarkable—more than enough to make teaching deeply rewarding.

Around the same time, I developed an interest in building and repairing guitars. I asked myself what kind of hobby I could continue even into my seventies. Guitar making seemed too demanding, so I chose repair, relying on the manual skills I already had. Since then, more than ten guitars have been given new life and are once again producing sound.

One repair, in particular, remains vivid in my memory. I restored a classical guitar and replaced its strings with new nylon ones. I worked carefully, restrung the guitar, and began tuning—but no matter how many times I tried, the tuning would not hold. A whole day passed, then a week, yet the tuning remained unstable. I checked the knots repeatedly, suspecting I had tied them incorrectly, but nothing changed. Finally, I asked a classical guitarist I often perform with, and he told me calmly, “You’ll need to wait at least fifteen days before the tuning settles.”

That experience reminded me of a conversation I once had with a church member during my early days as an associate pastor. Not yet fully aware of that person’s spiritual condition, I suggested a certain ministry role. The response I received was memorable: “Pastor, I’m still a ‘nylon believer,’ so I don’t think I’m ready yet.”
Understanding the nature of nylon strings, I immediately grasped the meaning—faith that tightens and loosens, unstable and inconsistent.

Over the past seventeen years of solo pastoral ministry, countless “nylon believers” have passed before my eyes like scenes in a montage. I began to wonder whether my pastoral report card consisted of nothing but such believers.

Yet recently, while replacing nylon strings once again, I found unexpected comfort and insight. The strings that would not tune easily eventually stabilized as time passed. Once their tension settled, they became capable of producing classical music—gentle, yet powerful, like a quiet but unstoppable current of water.

After that realization, I looked again at church members who had passed through our congregation and moved on elsewhere. I could see that many of them had settled into their lives of faith, now firmly in place like well-stretched nylon strings. I also came to understand this: nylon strings that have settled can endure even greater tension. They gain elasticity strong enough to bear what comes next.

Therefore, as I step into pastoral ministry in this new year of 2026, I resolve once again to serve these “nylon believers.” I commit myself to building a broader and more spacious community where they can be beautifully played—where their lives of faith can become music. 

And I will continue this journey, walking together with the Lord.