The Politicized Pulpit: South Korea's Churches at a Crossroads Between Radicalization and Renewal
Change won’t be easy, as it requires the Church to admit its shortcomings, potentially losing its power and members who prioritize political alignment over religious conscience.
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Welcome to Korea! Are you here for BTS?
“You must love K-pop!” These were the words that I heard when receiving an award for an extended essay on Korean war geopolitics, a topic seemingly far removed from the world of K-pop; they were words spoken to none of the awardees on stage but me, the sole foreigner. The presence of non-Koreans in South Korea is often depicted according to a certain, similar narrative—international fans and consumers, often young women, K-pop crazed or seeking out the latest K-fashion trend. That is not to say that cultural tourism is not significant in South Korea—according to the Korea Tourism Organization Report, roughly 42% of visitors in 2024 claimed that their visit was related to Hallyu, or the Korean wave. It does, however, highlight the prevalence of a certain trend: that the dominating image of foreigners in Korea reduces them to consumers of Korea’s pop culture. This is further compounded by the prominent narrative that Korea’s role on the global stage is that of a cultural exporter, supported by both the emphasis on cultural experiences for non-Koreans by the Korean government and the prevalence of hypernationalism. Although contributing to both Korea’s economy and their advancement on the global stage, such practices reduce non-Koreans to consumers rather than participants in Korean society. Rather than neighbors, friends, and peers, the portrayal of foreigners as tourists, fans, and Korea-enthusiasts places a glass roof on the potential for genuine social integration. One prominent case that highlights this phenomenon is that of global idol group BTS’s recent comeback and its portrayal in South Korean news outlets, particularly the depiction of foreign nationals that were said to be ‘flocking to Seoul’ for it. A plethora of news sources framed BTS’s comeback relative to the increase in tourism to Korea. The Korea Times boasted headlines describing how “Foreigners account for 25% of BTS comeback concert crowd” and The Joseon Ilbo wrote on how “Foreign Fans Flock to BTS Sacred Sites Post-Comeback”. Major news sources emphasized tourist presence as a dominant part of the comeback, often with little to no mention of the domestic influence (given that the projected revenue for the comeback was ~2.9 trillion won according to IBK forecasts) nor reference to the music itself. Moreover, fans were depicted as pilgrimaging to Korea not only for their love of BTS, but also for a more profound interest in the nation. K-pop tourism became synonymous with a larger cultural experience that includes exploring food, historical features, and sights whilst there. Their comeback album, Arirang, was described by producer Chairman Bang as the group’s “return in their most distinctly Korean form”, further synonymizing K-pop tourism with an overall affection for the nation by outsiders: to enjoy BTS is to appreciate and, importantly, consume Korean heritage and culture. Government initiatives coincided with this, encouraging tourists to engage with Korean culture whilst visiting for the concert: The Seoul Tourism Organization installed promotional booths at key tourist areas and hospitality campaigns were launched to expand multilingual services. Many of these initiatives were intertwined with traditional Korean cultural events such as palace tours and gugak performances, emphasizing Korean heritage in tangent to contemporary cultural pulls. The increase in tourism feeds a depiction of tourists as passionate about Korea as a nation, portraying their enthrallment in exploring Korea as a natural extension of their interest in ‘K-culture’, and bolstering a nationalistic rhetoric of Korea’s global success as a cultural exporter. Although useful for those navigating Seoul for the first time, it left a bitter taste in the mouths of those who permanently reside in the country. Those that had worked to achieve Korean proficiency were assumed to need translation services; those in Korea for work and school were grouped with tourists as ‘visitors’; and a label of ‘consumer’ was unilaterally assigned to many who were actively contributing to their local communities. Foreigners were defaulted as willing consumers rather than active participants as Koreans are. In this way, cultural exportation as the core identity marker for Korea creates a system that predominantly benefits two parties: the producers (the Korean Government and, in turn, citizens benefiting from economic growth) and the consumers (tourists in Korea for the sole purpose of experiencing, and spending in, Korea temporarily). But what about those who fall through the gap? When foreigners in Korea are presented as an attestation of Korea’s soft power, a glass ceiling on social integration is assigned by the temporality placed on them. The widely acknowledged exclusion of foreign residents from social participation seems undeniably connected to the emphasis on foreigners as cultural consumers; a novelty that designates foreign residents as observers from the outside, regardless of the status of their stay in Korea. The comeback concert’s lower turnout than forecasted however—only an alleged half of the predicted 100,000 attendees—perhaps suggests an overconfidence that presses to be addressed in South Korea’s navigation of global stardom. Is the emphasis on foreigners as Korea-loving fans an indicator that Korea is becoming globalized, or does it signal that Korea is not ready to truly embrace and integrate newcomers to the nation?
Does the Boycott March Onward?
Are boycotts effective at all? It is a question that needs to be raised after Coupang’s audit report on February 26th, stating that its total net revenues were $8.8 billion: up 11% Year-over-Year on a reported basis (or up 14% on a constant currency basis). Many will recall the Coupang boycott of late 2025, after a massive data breach that exposed private user information — likelihood says that you know at least one person affected by it. The Coupang breach leaked the information of 33.7 million customers—more than half of Korea’s population. In response, the company issued an apology and offered users compensation via coupons. The total usable money in these coupons amounted to 50,000￦ — albeit split into smaller amounts between various Coupang platforms (Coupang Eats, Coupang Travel, and Allux) and only 5,000￦ for all Coupang products. While some took up the offer, others viewed these actions as inadequate, as this compensation method would require users to return to the platform. Users also complained about the coupons themselves, citing limits on where they could be used and the lack of expiry notifications. The information leak and subsequent coupons were not the only grounds for the protest. Coupang’s “Rocket Delivery” system—which promises same-day or next-day delivery—is its key advantage over other delivery services in Korea, but is built off of alleged ethically ambiguous labor practices. This includes charges of work hours over the Korea’s 52-hour legal standard, extreme workloads, and employment blacklisting. This background added to the fuel to the fire of boycotting, and a significant percentage of people boycotted Coupang’s use. This grew to the point of becoming a buzzword: ‘Talpang’, or to withdraw from Coupang. Of course, there are ways in which the Coupang boycott worked. The audit does reflect that, stating “(t)he data incident is estimated to have adversely impacted Q4 2025 revenue growth rates, active customers and WOW (paid) membership, as well as profitability beginning in December.” Despite showing a growth in total net revenues, the result of $8.8 billion is actually short of the projected $9.1 billion: a lower growth rate than anticipated. However, this effect is expected to be short-term as the data breach incident becomes old news. As indicated in Coupang’s audit, it is predicted that the company will recover from their losses by the next quarter. It is not entirely surprising: Coupang has a tight grip on the delivery industry in Korea with its aforementioned “Rocket Delivery” system. The convenience of same-day delivery is one most consumers are reluctant to give up. This is amongst the examples of unethical practices that the company continues even after the massive leak, with another example being pressuring suppliers to cut prices and shoulder additional costs to meet profit margins. In addition, the fact that Coupang is US-based makes it harder to hold the company accountable in Korea. It is made even more difficult as they expand to other countries such as Taiwan. Could the Talpang movement have succeeded, despite these conditions? Given the initial impact the boycott had on Coupang’s profits, it is possible that a greater effect could have been achieved. However, the initial burst of action originated from the large data breach rather than the issues of labor and similar unethical business practices that continue. As such, once outrage around the data breach dimmed, the Talpang movement failed to retain people’s attention. This could have been remedied if the boycott was organized around a specific action, which requires a goal that it intends to achieve. The Talpang movement lacked concrete purpose to show disapproval towards the lackluster compensation, labor issues, or the information leak, and thus lacked a united front to achieve such ends. As such, the boycott lost momentum. This is not to diminish the effect the Talpang movement has had already; it has shown that people want Coupang to change in terms of how it treats its workforce and its customers. That said, a cohesive goal to work towards and continual participation would have helped for that impact to land and aid changes. Boycotts within Korea have generally been viewed cynically, for there is no guarantee that the target company will not repeat the action that caused mass disapproval. However, the end lesson here should not be that boycotting is ineffective: it is meaningful for customers to have a say in the market. While not the perfect solution to prevent unethical actions of major corporations, it can be improved with concrete goals and continued support to achieve change. There is a great need to reflect on previous shortcomings of boycotts and attempt to push for change, rather than assume the method itself is ineffective.
The Game South Korea Was Built to Lose
A 1970 mathematical simulation, four simple rules, and the demographic collapse no policy has managed to reverse. Imagine a world governed by four rules on a grid, infinite and blank. Each square holds a cell, alive or dead. You choose the opening pattern, but once the game begins, no one decides what happens next. The rules do. If a living cell has fewer than two neighbors, it dies of loneliness. More than three, it dies of overcrowding. Two or three neighbors, it survives. And if a dead cell is surrounded by exactly three living ones, it sparks to life. This is the Game of Life, invented by the British mathematician John Horton Conway in 1970. Well, actually, it is not really a game, since there are no players. You only place the opening pattern, step back and watch. Everything that follows was written into those four rules and that first arrangement of cells. Once the game is running, no intervention can rewrite what the initial pattern made inevitable. South Korea is a living proof of the game. In 2025, South Korea recorded a fertility rate of 0.80 children per woman, a slight rise from the record low of 0.72 in 2023, but still barely a third of the 2.1 needed to keep a population stable. Deaths exceeded births by nearly 109,000, the sixth straight year of natural decline. No country at peace has ever fallen this far. South Korea’s total fertility rate, 1960-2025. Sources: UN Population Division, KOSIS, Statistics Korea. Made in R Studio. The usual explanations are familiar: housing costs, private education spending, a labor market that punishes mothers. All real. But all symptoms. Conway’s game points to something deeper: the crisis was not caused by any single policy failure. It was encoded into the grid the moment the country’s initial conditions were set. The grid was set in the 1960s. When Former President Park Chung-hee launched his Five-Year Plans, South Korea’s GDP per capita was $79. To escape poverty, the government ran one of history’s most aggressive anti-natalist campaigns, on the theory that fewer mouths to feed would free capital for industrial growth. The 1960s slogans urged families to “have few children and bring them up well.” And by 1983, “Two is too many.” Sterilization drives and tax penalties drove the fertility rate from 6.0 to below replacement in 33 years. But unlike Park’s intentions, fewer children did not lighten the financial burden, as each child now carried the entire weight of a family’s future. South Korea has long valued education, but the new economic model extremized that reverence. Power concentrated in a handful of conglomerates—Samsung, Hyundai, LG—that hired almost exclusively from elite universities. With fewer children to spread the bet, parents poured everything into one path: the Suneung, the SKY universities, the corporate job. Education became a survival strategy, the axis around which society rotated. That axis pulled the country’s geography apart. The universities, the conglomerates, and the jobs were in Seoul. So, the young followed. Over half the population packed onto 12 percent of the land, while in the countryside, communities began dying of isolation. The term jibangsomyeol, or “regional extinction,” entered common speech: over 100 of 228 municipalities now risk disappearing. Just like Conway’s rules, this grid kills its cells two ways. In the emptying provinces, too few neighbors: aging villages with no one to replace the young who left. In Seoul, too many: apartments cost fourteen years of an average salary, and a child is a financial bet most young Koreans refuse to place. The old model of communal child-rearing, children raised by the village, vanished with the villages themselves, and the system that sustained large families rested on the overlooked labor of mothers: a bargain that traded women’s careers for the home, and that today’s young women are less willing to take. The government reversed course in 2006, but the rate had already hit 1.08; the pattern was locked. Yet that 0.80, up from 0.72 in 2023, has been read as recovery, making hopeful headlines. But Conway’s game has a name for this kind of hope: the blinker, three cells that flip back and forth forever. South Korea’s numbers work the same way: the 2025 rise reflects a bigger cohort born in the early 1990s passing through peak childbearing age, combined with post-COVID marriage catch-ups. Once that window closes, the pattern resets. The blinker. Conway’s simplest oscillator: it flips forever but never progresses. Courtesy of LifeWiki. Made in R Studio. Since 2006, the government has spent an estimated 280 trillion won on pro-natalist policies: cash bonuses, parental leave, housing subsidies. However, research by Hugo Jales found that over 74 percent of that spending goes to births that would have happened regardless. Breaking the pattern, then, will not come from more cash. It would require changes the policy has never attempted: an education system that no longer collapses childhood into preparation for a single exam, a labor market that does not force women to choose between career and motherhood, and a geography that gives young people reason to build lives beyond Seoul, so the grid is no longer split between cells dying of isolation and cells suffocating from density. Until those changes, the cells will keep dying, one generation at a time. But do not blame them, they are just following the logic of the game: a logic that was written into the grid before most of today’s young Koreans were even born.
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