Silence: Christian Identity and History

26 Martyrs of Nagasaki, Japan.

When it comes to literature, as with any other art form, there come to mind a few standouts of the many books I've read over the past year or so. I've let Dostoyevsky take me through Raskolnikov's anguish in Crime and Punishment. I liked the book so much that I eagerly took up The Brothers Karamazov, drawn to the story of intertwining lives as Alyosha, Dmitri, and Ivan find themselves amidst the brokenness of their family and how it shaped their (quite different) worldviews. Then there are the sci-fi greats: Frank Herbert brought me to Arrakis and I watched Paul Atreides ride sandworms to overthrow the villanous Harkonnen dynasty that usurped his family's claim to the planet they all call Dune. I picked up Walter Miller Jr.'s A Canticle for Leibowitz, which let the realm of monastic life provide a terrifying lens through which we view an apocalyptic and fatalistic future. All of these books have left a mark, introducing me to cultures, characters, and psychology like few other works can.

Of the genres that I have given little attention to remains historical fiction. With the exception of a few Bernard Cornwell books that I blazed through (it's not exactly deep stuff), I haven't found much in the way of genuine inspiration in the realm of real-life events and characters. Sure, I'll play Assassin's Creed on Playstation 3, but the fun of that is just as much in the futuristic premise as it is in traipsing through medieval cities in the Middle East and Italy. Still, I jump at the chance of a good read, especially one that comes recommended. Sadly, my latest recommendation comes not through the circles of intellectuals and academics that usually inspire me, but in the filmmaking of Hollywood. You see, a series of movies are coming out based on popular bestsellers, (no, I'm not talking about Star Wars). They include The Martian, a hard sci-fi by Any Weir about an astronaut stranded on the Red Planet. Unsurprisingly they chose Matt Damon to play the lead in the upcoming film. I hope it's good, although it's gonna be hard to shake the idea that he's not going to kill everybody. Because I think film is a legitimate art form and have a few favorite auteurs in the genre, I follow them for their latest releases. One of these is Martin Scorcese, who has released some of the greatest movies of all time, and even classics in recent times. He's also done some movies that really suck. The latest project of the New York director doesn't deal with shady gangsters, crime dens in Boston, or corporate greed. It doesn't even have Leonardo DiCaprio. It takes place in 17th century Japan, following a Portuguese priest facing the persecution of his faith. It's an adaptation of Shusaku Endo's magnificent novel Silence, which I finished last week.

It's shaken me deeply and moved me to write this reflection. The narrative comes to us from the surprising perspective of Endo's Catholicism, a rare and beautiful expression of a faith that has a fascinating and tragic history in his native Japan. It takes place mostly in the 1630s, decades after waves of persecution forced the once-thriving Christian community underground. After the initial evangelism of St. Francis Xavier and other Jesuits, hundreds of thousands of Japanese in Kyushu came to faith, attracting the attention of Europe, who eagerly appointed missionaries to continue this work that had born so much fruit. Yet after a newly consolidated shogunate ended the tolerance of this foreign religion, the local daimyos outlawed Christianity and forced all to apostize or face torture. We follow the Portuguese Jesuit Father Rodrigues, who undertakes a dangerous mission to seek out his old mentor, Ferreira, who apparently has apostized and abandoned his mission. Amidst the journey Endo brings us into the intensely personal journey that the priest faces as he ministers to a marginalized and persecuted people, as well as struggling to understand how God could allow their suffering and face all their questions and groans only with silence. We see Rodrigues' initial zeal quickly fade to desperation as the villagers he ministers to are rounded up, imprisoned, and killed because of his presence. Betrayal and hunger mark his journey, bringing him to psychological and physical stress that he hadn't faced before. What's more, his betrayer is an apostate Christian that repeated seeks absolution for his own weakness. Though Rodrigues resents him for his cowardice and weakness, he recognizes that the circumstances have imposed extraordinary hardships upon this man.

...Christ did not die for the good and the beautiful. It is easy enough to die for the good and the beautiful; the hard thing is to die for the miserable and corrupt--this is the realization that came to me acutely at that time. (38)

Throughout this ordeal, Endo brings different motifs, mostly from the natural world, to bear upon Rodrigues' spiritual journey and existential longings. The sun, clouds, and rain provide both nourishment and oppression as he goes from one hideout to another. It is brought up that the Japanese word for "sun" was once used to refer to God until the later missionaries corrected it. Yet this sun is indifferent; though it is powerful, it is all too distant. Water likewise provides both blessings and curses. The rainy season emphasizes the passage of time as Rodrigues goes from ministry to hiding to imprisonment by the local officials. Eventually, two of the Christian villagers are executed by being tied to poles to drown under the rising tide. The priest can do nothing but pray, and faces the painful silence of God, which he interprets as abandonment.

What do I want to say? I myself do not quite understand. Only that today, when for the glory of God Mokichi and Ichizo moaned, suffered, and died, I cannot bear the monotonous sound of the dark sea gnawing at the shore. Behind the depressing silence of this sea, the silence of God...the feeling that while men raise their voices in anguish God remains with folded arms, silent. (61)

Eventually Rodrigues is brought before the local magistrate, a man notorious for his ruthless pursuit and harsh punishment of Christians. After treating with him, Rodrigues finally meets Ferreira, now living with a wife and children in Nagasaki. To his shock and horror, the defeated and defrocked priest that was once Rodrigues' mentor says there was never a chance for their faith to take root in the country, which he likens to a swamp. Images of Judas and the suffering Jesus himself pass through his mind, up to the novel's heartbreaking conclusion.

Ultimately, Endo wrestles with the questions and concerns that all serious people of faith have in this broken world. The backdrop of a period of historical persecution is made all the more poignant in light of the 20th Century, when Nagasaki, once the historical cradle of a vibrant indigenous faith in Jesus, was destroyed in the horrific atomic bombing that ended the Second World War. Endo guides us into reflections on his own identity as a Christian, which he inherits in a land that describes itself as fundamentally incompatible with the faith of the missionaries. Using natural metaphors that his characters turn around multiple times (the magistrate, Rodrigues, and Ferreira all relate to these metaphors differently), Endo masterfully describes the paradoxes and hard questions that we must all wrestle with. I certainly admire the novel for this depth and tragic beauty, but it is also a very well-written work, full of rich symbolism as it moves from the first person voice of Rodrigues (in the form of letters written to his fellow Jesuits) to a more distant and isolating third person voice. I suspect that when I read it again (and I should), there will be more depth to mine, and more beauty to find.

One thing is for sure: Scorcese better not mess this one up.