The Stadium and the Expired Tickets

Yeunhee Chang

Doctor of Ministry

The Dream

I dreamt I was following a crowd into a huge stadium. People were standing in long, long lines to hear Rev. Sun Myung Moon speak, and I was among them — waiting, like everyone else.

Then I noticed Holy Mother Han standing to the side, handing out tickets for entry. I ran up to her. "Mother, I want one too!"

She looked at me with such disappointment — as if to say, You too?! — and slammed the tickets she was holding hard into my hand. Then she turned and walked away, quietly, sadly.

I looked down at the tickets that had fallen to the ground. I picked them up and saw that they were all outdated, marked over in red. I looked up in the direction she had gone.

No — wait. I don't want these. I want to follow you.

I ran after her and sat down beside her. She turned her face away and began to sniffle. I said softly, "Mother, I want to be with you. What do you want to do?"

She said her legs were hurting. She wanted to go for a walk.

"I'll help you," I said.

In my waking life, my father had a hip problem. Whenever we went shopping together, he would hold onto the cart to help balance himself — using it to lean on rather than a cane. I quickly grabbed a shopping cart and explained this to Holy Mother Han — that she could hold on to it the same way, and we could walk together like that.

She placed her hands on the cart. I put my arms around behind her and we pushed it forward together, slowly, and I watched carefully for any moment I could help steady her.

When I awoke, the hand that Holy Mother Han had slammed the tickets into was hurting. It felt as if someone had truly, physically struck it.

Reflection

Dream Analysis

The stadium represents the grand, public era of the movement — the age of massive gatherings and Rev. Moon's public ministry. Being handed tickets marked in red signals a symbolic "stop." The expired tickets suggest that the old ways of participating, the old modes of access, are no longer valid. Holy Mother Han's disappointment reflects the weight of having to convey this — a quiet grief over followers who are still seeking entry to something that has already passed.

The turning point comes when you abandon the tickets entirely and choose to follow the person rather than attend the event. Running past the stadium entrance to simply sit with her is a movement away from institutional participation toward personal relationship — away from the historic spectacle toward her present, living reality. Her sniffling reveals a deeply human vulnerability: a leader carrying a grief that few around her fully see.

The shopping cart reframes everything. After the grandeur of the stadium, it is deliberately humble and ordinary — and that contrast is the point. Her legs hurting speaks to the exhaustion of the path she is walking. That you instinctively reach for the same method you once used with your own father brings a quiet, familial tenderness into the moment. You are offering a figure of great authority the same intimate, practical care you gave your own parent.

The dream closes not with a vision but with a shared rhythm — the two of you pushing forward together. You are no longer a spectator waiting for access. You have become a co-walker, providing stability and momentum from behind. It is a dream of maturation: the tickets are expired, and the real path forward is not through the stadium doors, but through humble, empathetic service.