Chapter 9: Iustitia Dei Revisited

It was a normal morning in early 2010, and I was in my room playing Assassin's Creed. All my friends were obsessed with it, though I found myself bored by the open-world concept—my preference had always been for story-driven games like the Final Fantasy series. The endless mini-games and pointless meandering felt like distractions.

The graphics were undeniably impressive, though. I especially enjoyed the sensation of leaping from cathedral spires and landing impossibly in stacks of hay. In those moments of free-fall, I felt completely untethered from reality, immersed in a world utterly different from my own.

College had brought freedoms I'd never experienced—late nights, unquestioned comings and goings, a life finally feeling like my own.

My grades weren’t stellar, but they were solid enough that UCI was within reach. For my parents, that was sufficient. Video games, midnight gym sessions, even the drinking and parties I occasionally engaged in—all became excusable so long as my future remained secured with good grades.

In some ways they were surprisingly easy to please.

Perhaps I should have figured that out sooner.

As my character dove from a particularly tall building, his superhuman strength ensuring he'd survive what should have been fatal, I heard a knock on my door. I paused the game, annoyed at the interruption.

“What is it?” I called out.

“I need you to take me to the hospital.” My father's voice sounded strained, lacking its usual steadiness.

I opened the door to find him leaning against the frame, one hand clutching his side. His face had taken on an ashen quality I'd never seen before, pain evident in the tightness around his eyes.

Without a word, I grabbed my car keys.

My father had worked at NGK for over a decade, a QA technician checking sparkplugs to ensure they met standards. The company had announced its relocation months earlier, and he'd watched co-worker after co-worker get laid off during the transition. Just weeks before, he'd been called into his supervisor's office and offered a choice: take a severance package now or wait it out a few more months before inevitable termination. True to his character, my father chose to work until the end.

The week before his knock on my door, my brother was moving out—not for the first time. He had a predictable pattern of making dramatic exits, swearing never to return, only to reappear when circumstances turned against him. This particular exit followed the established script, including taking things that weren’t his.

The item this time was a big screen TV—the bulky, pre-flatscreen kind that sat on four small wheels. My father had helped my brother push this unauthorized acquisition into a U-Haul when he’d grunted in pain. But in typical fashion, he said nothing and continued helping, prioritizing my brother’s needs above his own discomfort.

The following days brought worsening pain in his side and a severe cough that rattled through our house at night.

My mother and sister joined us later at the hospital, and the initial diagnosis seemed straightforward enough: fractured ribs, somehow complicated by pneumonia. He would need to be admitted.

I remember feeling a bitter sympathy for my father—he worked too hard, gave too much, received too little. But this sentiment gave way to something else entirely when the doctor gathered us together the next day.

My father had cancer.

Multiple Myeloma, the doctor explained with clinical precision. He assured us it wasn’t hereditary, as if that were our primary concern.

Then came the prognosis, delivered with practiced composure: two years.

***

It was a strange thing to be faced with my father’s mortality. Despite my disbelief in his claims of being able to kill a bull with a single punch, I had never thought of my father was frail. He had been through war, through imprisonment. He had worked long hours for as long as I could remember.

But as the cancer took hold of him—and the treatments weakened his body—I was struck by the inevitability of death. Not just for him, but for all of us, including myself.

For as long as I could remember I had avoided thinking about death. My parents believed in reincarnation, but the idea was absurd to me.

Catholic school had taught me about heaven, hell, and purgatory. But the lack of answers to question that I posed, and the rampant hypocrisy I dealt with on a daily basis, pushed me towards atheism.

I supposed, though, I had been an atheist at a young age. The idea of anything or anyone out there, rewarding good and punishing evil felt like a fairytale that did not match the reality I lived in.

If a God existed—was I good enough to be rewarded? Or was I someone who deserved punishment?

I had pushed the thought out of my mind since I was a kid. I remember the feeling dread spreading over me—like spiders crawling under my skin—as I thought of the nothingness that awaited me at death.

***

Despite my avowed atheism, I had been confronted with my mortality. And that shook something loose in my soul.

I began searching for meaning beyond the material world. This led me to sign up for a world religion class at Orange Coast College. We studied Jainism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam and many other religions, but the professor dismissed Christianity with a wave of his hand.

“Everyone already knows it, so we don't need to cover it,” he had said.

I was fascinated with all the religions we got to study. But I was especially struck by Hinduism and Buddhism. Hinduism, with its pantheon of gods yet being essentially monotheistic, was intriguing to me. And the idea that we are all in some way connected to the same source of divinity—like a flame being passed from candle to candle—resonated within me as somehow... plausible.

Yet, despite its many intriguing aspects, Hinduism's role in the caste system repulsed me. I couldn't reconcile a divine philosophy with a human structure that condemned millions to lives of inescapable suffering. It wasn’t just humans using the religion to do so. It felt like a logical conclusion of the religion itself.

The other religion—Buddhism—felt the most familiar because of my parents. It felt philosophically sophisticated, intellectually stimulating, and spiritually thoughtful. However, I kept circling back to the same unresolvable questions:

Who determined the “right” and “wrong” that resulted in karma?

By what standard did they decide “right” from “wrong”?

Were there moral gray areas in which something was wrong but also right? Or right… but also wrong?

And, more than that, in the cycle of reincarnation, it all felt ultimately meaningless. If someone does wrong, then wrong will be done to them.

But who committed the first wrong?

What initiated this endless cycle?

It also seemed to imply that victims were somehow to blame.

If someone was raped, did that mean they had done something wrong in a previous life?

Or was this a new wrong being committed?

When should we say “that's karma coming back” versus “I am so sorry this happened to you—you deserve justice”?

Was the violent act itself somehow justice being meted out?

And if so, who or what was carrying out this justice?

There were no satisfying answers for me, even when I asked monks at Buddhist temples.

Meanwhile, my father's condition worsened. The treatments—aggressive chemotherapy followed by a stem cell transplant—took a visible toll. His once-dark hair began to gray and fall, his body withered even as his face ballooned from the steroids, and the man who had once claimed he could punch bulls to death now struggled to lift a glass of water to his lips.

I supposed cancer was tougher than bulls.

I began taking him to doctor visits at Cedars Sinai. The sterile corridors became a space for reflection as I waited during his treatments. I read books—contemplating on karma, death, reincarnation, and justice—all while watching my father slowly deteriorate.

The circular logic of karma and reincarnation felt hollow in the face of his suffering. If this was punishment for past deeds, what was the point really?

And if it wasn't punishment—if suffering was simply random—then the universe seemed cruelly indifferent.

I remembered Bao Thanh Thiên from my childhood—the judge in black and gold who dispensed perfect justice. I had longed for that kind of clear moral order. But Bao was fiction, and the Buddhist temples offered no judge, only an endless cycle of cause and effect stretching infinitely backward and forward.

I had always thought myself a good person, even as I hated the face that stared back at me each time I looked into the mirror. But that was exactly the problem. What did “good” even mean in a world without a fixed moral center?

If there was no divine justice—no iustitia dei—then weren't concepts like “good” and “evil” just cultural constructs, shifting like sand?

I had seen this play out countless times in my own straddling of two cultures. What white Americans laughed at was considered normal and good in a Vietnamese home.

And conversely, my parents deemed many things that white Americans viewed as good as wrong—like allowing love and friendship to be markers of a relationship between parent and child.

My parents scoffed at such an idea, while my friends insisted it was good, right.

Who was correct? Without an ultimate standard, how could anyone know?

My father was dying, and neither his Buddhist resignation nor my atheistic materialism offered any meaningful comfort. The world religions class had shown me various paths, but all seemed to lead to the same unsatisfying conclusion: life was either meaningless suffering or an endless cycle with no true purpose, no final arbiter to declare, “This is justice. This is good. This is evil.”

The First Noble Truth of Buddhism is this: Life is suffering. Dukkha.

To live, this Buddhist truth tells us, is to experience discontentment, loss, and impermanence. That is the condition of human life.

The goal, then, is to transcend—to become something above and beyond feeling. Not happiness, not justice, but escape.

It felt hallow, empty, and devoid of meaning.

***

It was August of 2011. I was at UCI, having just transferred there from Orange Coast College. I found myself at the first meeting of a transfer program course—and to be honest, I don't even remember why I decided to take it.

I walked into a grassy quad area where several picnic tables wew scattered beneath the shade of eucalyptus trees. The late summer sun filtered through the branches, creating dappled patterns on the ground. It was warm, but not yet unbearable.

At the end of one tables sat a girl whose presence somehow immediately drew my attention.

Her skin was light, but her features were unmistakably half-Asian—high cheekbones, dark brown hair with amber highlights that caught the sunlight, and eyes that held a curious blend of East and West that I found myself unable to look away from.

I was immediately attracted to her in a way that caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected to meet someone that would capture my attention so quickly. And when she smiled, it was bright and infectious, lighting up her entire face and crinkling the corners of her eyes.

Her parents sat protectively on either side of her. Her father was white—tall with short gray hair and a mustache. Her mother is Asian, petite, quiet, and with short curly hair.

We gathered in an awkward circle for introductions. When it was her turn, she spoke with that smile on her face.

“I'm Lauren,” she said. “I transferred from Irvine Valley College and I’m a literary journalism major.”

I caught myself staring a moment too long before looking away. Something about her felt significant, though I couldn't possibly know why yet.

As a group, we played this Jenga game where each block had an instruction written on it. I pulled out a piece that told me to rub my head and pat my stomach at the same time. I attempted this uncoordinated task, my hands not cooperating as they should but was eventually successful. Lauren laughed at me, but it was a kind laugh—not mocking, just amused.

Later we played Two Truths and a Lie. I shared mine, although I don’t remember what they were except one: the lie. The lie was “I was named after Michael Jackson.” It wasn’t true. I was named after Andrew Jackson. My sister had read about him in school and decided she liked the name “Jackson.”

It was ironic—being named after a historically racist president while growing up as a racial minority in America.

As the day wrapped up, I walked toward the parking lot to my car and I heard a voice call out behind me.

“Andrew!”

I turned around to see Lauren walking toward me, her long hair bouncing with each step.

“It's actually Jackson,” I correct her.

“Right! Jackson.” We said bye and I got into my car. I pulled out my phone and texted a friend of mine:

“I think I'm going to like UCI.” I smiled to myself as I thought of Lauren, her smile somehow warming my heart.

I didn’t realize that this random transfer program, which I almost hadn’t signed up for, would change the course of my life.

***

Lauren and I became friends through the course—grouped together with three others whose majors apparently didn’t align neatly with anyone else. The course itself was a throwaway, but the group became close.

We were an unlikely match—she, bright-eyed and open-hearted; me, still raw with doubt and shadow.

We came from different worlds and operated in different worldviews. And yet, the more time I spent with her, the more I was drawn to her.

Who she was.

How she saw the world.

What she believed.

How she spoke about life.

It was utterly foreign—and utterly captivating.

Even after the transfer program ended, we continued to text and spent time on campus. We made several attempts to get the group of five together again, but it never worked out. The two of us, though, kept finding our way back to each other.

During this time, my dad had—through a series of unexpected circumstances—begun to beat cancer, despite the prognosis. The doctors were hopeful. But the cancer still loomed like a death sentence.

His body would never fully recover. Still, with medicine, discipline, and the quiet force of his will, he bought himself more time.

And the longer he fought, the more devout he became about his religion.

My father had always been serious about his Buddhism—but it had always felt tacked on, like something cultural, not core to who he was.

My assessment of that changed with his illness. He began reading, listening, speaking about Buddhism with increasing intensity. It moved from what had been tradition to a lifeline.

I remember the story he told me growing up—the story that had made him a believer.

He was out on the battlefield as a young man. Bullets sprayed through the air around him. A friend beside him was shot and fell backwards—dead.

Then he felt it: a sharp impact to his head. He collapsed to the ground, dazed, staring up at the blue sky as the battle raged on around him. Just another casualty of a senseless war.

And just as he was sure he would die, something flew overhead: a woman sitting on a lotus flower—the mystical Quán Thế Âm Bồ Tát. Often Americanized as Quan Yin.

Quán Âm—the Bodhisattva of Compassion.

The one who perceived the cries and suffering of the world. The one who had reached the cusp of Nirvana, who could have escaped the cycle of birth and death—but chose instead to remain.

To stay. To listen. To heal.

For someone like my father—and for someone like me— Quán Âm was more than a symbol of mercy. She became a model of maternal sacrifice. A figure who gave up her own peace so others might find theirs.

As my father lay there, staring into the sky, she smiled down at him.

And with a wave of her hand, she dispensed a few drops of holy water that sprinkled onto his face.

And he was healed.

That incident—told to me many times from childhood into adulthood—became, for my father, concrete proof of the divine.

But she wasn’t just a goddess.

She was the one who stayed.

The one who heard suffering and instead of escaping—she came closer.

Quán Âm was the one who showed compassion in a religion where emotion was something to transcend.

And the Bodhisattva of Compassion had had compassion on him.

I liked Quán Âm. She was, perhaps, my favorite figure in Buddhist mythology.

But I never believed that story.

I never believed in Quán Âm.

And yet, sometimes, I found myself wondering—

If she truly was the one who turned back from the gates of Nirvana to hear the cries of the suffering…

Why didn’t she hear mine?

***

I learned quickly that Lauren liked tea. It had come up more than once in conversation, so I did some research. What were the best places to take her out to? I looked at reviews, talked with friends, and eventually landed on a spot in Fullerton—Tranquil Tea Lounge.

It was the perfect spot—casual enough to be a hang out, but specific enough that it could be a date.

I was working my weekend shift at the liquor store—my usual post—earning money for things like asking Lauren out to tea. After mustering up courage I'd been gathering for a weeks, I messaged her.

Me: Do you want to go get tea sometime? There's a spot in Fullerton. Tranquil Tea Lounge.

I waited, phone in hand, rehearsing our conversations in my head. I felt good about it. We hung out on campus. We texted frequently. I think I even bought her coffee from Starbucks at UCI. This wasn’t weird.

When she finally responded, her answer was no.

She followed with an explanation: she didn't want to date anyone she couldn't see herself marrying—and she couldn't see herself marrying someone who wasn't a Christian.

My first thought, I think, was something like: I can't believe she's rejecting me because of my religion! Or lack of religion, I supposed.

I recalled a conversation with a college acquaintance a couple years back. I worked at the Orange Coast College computer center as a helpdesk technician. A student that visited the center frequently would come up to me to talk—and sometimes point out girls he found attractive. They would range the spectrum of ethnicities: White, Black, Hispanic, Asian, Middle Eastern.

One day, he noticed a girl that was a friend of my brother’s. I knew her well enough that I knew she was single. So, I told him he should ask her out if he was interested.

“No.” He said, shaking his head. “She’s really cute. But I can’t date her.” I cocked my head, looking at him curiously.

“Why’s that?”

“Because—she’s white.”

“Okay…”

“And I can’t date a white girl. I would only date and marry a Middle Eastern woman. An Islamic, Middle Eastern woman.”

I remember being baffled by the idea. To constrain yourself to ethnicity and religion felt suffocating.

And here was Lauren, bringing up the same idea. She would not date me because I wasn’t a Christian.

Then she sent me another text: she could meet with me on campus and explain "the gospel" to me.

Lauren's offer should have offended me. It should have felt condescending, aggressive, intrusive. But strangely, it didn't. Something about the straightforward nature of her rejection—she wasn't playing games or making excuses—made me curious rather than defensive.

Her being cute may have had something to do with it too.

We met on campus in “the Circle.” UCI's main campus was built in a circular shape, with a park-like area in the middle. Students populated that area, hanging out, eating lunch, studying, napping, or cutting through to get to the other side of campus.

Lauren handed me her Bible, which had a floral cloth cover and pieces of colorful plastic sticking out to mark the books. I held the well-worn Bible in my hand and thumbed through it, eyeing her as we sat down.

Christianity, I remember thinking, such a simplistic religion. I had known Catholics for five years. Sat through Scripture courses. Endured mass after mass. Asked questions no one could answer.

I've read this book before.

“So, what type of Christian are you? You’re not Catholic right?”

“I’m just a Christian.” Lauren replied. What does that even mean?

A flurry of questions came out of my mouth in rapid succession:

Then what’s the difference between what you believe and Catholics?

Do you pray to Mary?

Are you saying that I am going to hell if I don't believe the same things you do?

What about people who never got a chance to hear about Jesus? Are they just going to go to hell?

How is that just?

My final question hung in the air between us. The same question I'd been asking since my father's diagnosis—about justice, about suffering, about why some are heard and others ignored.

I looked at Hinduism and did not see a solution. I had asked it of Buddhism and found no answer. Now I was asking it of Christianity, never expecting that I would receive a different response.

Lauren did not give me answers.

“Those are great questions,” she said, looking a bit overwhelmed by my barrage. “Why don’t you come to church with me.”

Church. I had been to so many mass services. But she looked earnest and I was curious about her “just Christianity.”

***

Coast Community Church was a small church that met at Thomas Paine Elementary School in Fountain Valley, which happened to be just a few miles from my parents’ home in Santa Ana. I entered the little multipurpose room and was struck by its informality.

People greeted me as I entered. There was no large crucifix, no looming White Jesus staring down at me. The congregation was dressed down—Southern California style: t-shirts, shorts, and flipflops. I saw several kids my age. One kid who was tall and athletic stood next to a kid who was shorter, skinny, and nerdy looking.

Lauren’s family greeted me, her other brother giving me a hug although I had never met him.

The service started and I looked over at the two kids again—they were singing together, arms raised in the air.

The pastor—Earl—rose to speak. I don't remember which passage from Romans he preached from, but I remember how time stretched beyond the expected 20 minutes into nearly an hour as he spoke. I sat transfixed, unaware of the minutes passing.

He described a room consumed by darkness—absolute, impenetrable black that filled every corner and crevice. His words painted a void so complete it felt familiar, like he was somehow mapping the landscape of my inner life.

“Now imagine,” Earl said, his voice dropping to just above a whisper, “a single beam of light cutting through that darkness.”

I could see it in my mind—that stark, impossible contrast. Light against darkness, each defining the other.

“That beam is your way out,” he continued. “Walk to it. Step into it. Follow it upward to its source—to Jesus himself.”

The metaphor unfolded with devastating clarity. The darkness wasn't just the evil of the world pressing in from outside. It was within me—the anger that sometimes blinded me, the self-hatred that had become so familiar I no longer recognized it as foreign, the violence that occasionally rose within me like a tide I couldn't control.

We—I—had turned away from the light. Hidden in darkness. Created it. And yet God, rather than abandoning us to the void we chose, had reached down. Not with judgment, but with compassion. Not with condemnation, but with sacrifice.

I thought of Quán Âm, who had stood at the threshold of Nirvana but turned back to guide others toward enlightenment. Her compassion was admirable, beautiful even.

But this was different. This wasn't just someone showing the way out. This was transcendence itself becoming immanent—the light descending into darkness, God himself stepping into human suffering.

Quán Âm had turned back from Nirvana to listen. But Jesus had stepped down from heaven to bleed—for me.

In all my years at Catholic school, sin had been presented as something I did—actions to confess, behaviors to modify. But sitting in that church, I finally understood it as something more fundamental—a condition I was born into, a darkness that existed within me from my first breath.

I had entered a world fractured by rage, violence, and terror. A creation beautiful yet broken, no longer as it should be. And that same brokenness lived within me—the capacity for rage that sometimes felt unbearably powerful, washing away consequences and restraint.

A rage like my mother's.

Divine justice—iustitia dei—wasn't simply about judging the external forces that had wounded me. It wasn't just about my mother, my father, my brother, or the countless people and systems that had pushed me down and treated me as Other.

If true divine justice existed, it would have to judge me too.

And it had—in the form of Jesus Christ on the cross.

Divine righteousness demanded judgment—and in Jesus, God absorbed that judgment Himself.