Lord, why are you silent? Why are you always silent?
—Silence by Shusaku Endo
There is a film that should disturb us. Directed by Martin Scorsese, it is called Silence, and is based on the novel of the same title written by Japanese writer Shusaku Endo. The story follows the life of a Portuguese Jesuit who travels from Macau to southern Japan in search of their mentor, also a Jesuit.
Throughout the novel, the priest asks, amid the sufferings undergone by the Christians, why God has allowed all this.
The “Kakure Kirishitan” as they were called, are at the core of Endo’s masterpiece on faith and its loss, on despair and the overflowing hope in times that did not allow anyone to think of life after faith.
In the novel and in the film, one can attribute silence to the Christians who retained their faith even during the era of persecution. I am one of those who hear the silence in the novel as emanating from the heart of the Christians who found ways to hide the most material of the representations of their belief in their God. Rosaries were not thrown away but kept sacred somewhere; pictures of Jesus were tucked or embedded among secular photos of flowers, mountains and other objects.
The connection of the early Japanese Christians to sacred images and objects was intense and unusual. This explains, in part, the practice of the Japanese shogunate to order the believers to step on images of Jesus Christ or Virgin Mary order to prove that one was not a Christian. Called “fumie” (literally, images) to step on (fumi), these images were so loved and venerated that many Christians did not step on them, even as they knew they would be tortured and eventually killed.
I could not comprehend how the Japanese could hold on to their faith given how flippant and childish the test for their faith was. There are scholars who see, in fact, in the fumie the Christian God’s love for His believers. This God would always understand.
I would understand this hardiness and unique faith of the Japanese some years back. It was in the fall of 2008 that I, through the invitation from my Japanese brother-in-law, Sadahito Tanaka, traveled to Nagasaki. That year was the beatification of the so-called 188 Martyrs of Japan.
I arrived in Nagasaki the morning of the 23rd of November. It was the day before the event. In the city of Nagasaki, I decided to wear my huge ID, identifying me as a Catholic, a mark that would had been dangerous in the 17th century in Japan. The city of Nagasaki, however, had earlier announced that pilgrims could ride for free any kind of transportation in the city.
On the eve of the beatification, the television and radio issued a weather report about a rainy 24th of November. The announcement advised everyone to buy raincoats, as no umbrellas would be allowed in the soccer stadium, for they would obstruct viewing of the ceremony.
The next day, there were no umbrellas among the huge crowd. My fear that Christians would be shamed if the stadium was not filled was also put to rest. The stadium was filled to overflowing.
At the Offertory part of the Mass, a long procession of people walked solemnly to the altar. Each person was carrying an urn, which bore soil from the respective hometown of the 188 Martyrs. Immediately after the blessing, a huge canvass unfurled behind the altar. On it were the images of the 188 Japanese who were tortured and killed for believing in a different God. The choir started to sing. A multitude of doves was released. Then bells started to ring.
By this time, the rains had stopped. I saw upturned faces, tears streaming quietly down their cheeks. The others were all bowed down. In the silence, you could hear the prayers that were said in secret hundreds of years in the mountains, forests and isolated islands of Japan.
E-mail: titovaliente@yahoo.com.
Image credits: Jimbo Albano