Silence, by Shūsaku Endō, Part 7: In Response to Meg Hunter-Kilmer

There has been a mixed reaction to the movie Silence in the Catholic blogosphere, which came to me as a bit of a surprise.  The same issue that has riled up some toward the movie also applies to the novel.  The issue is whether the protagonist of the novel/movie, Sebastian Rodrigues, the Jesuit priest, is right in apostatizing at the climax of the novel in order to save the innocent Christian peasants from being slowing tortured and martyred.  I’m sure you can find articles and blog posts around the internet to read both sides of the issue.  I’m not going to search and link them here.

But I did come across a piece by Meg Hunter-Kilmer on the Catholic e-magazine, Aleteia, “More than apostasy: What we’re not talking about with “Silence.”  Ms. Hunter-Kilmer was a bit dismayed that the focus of the general discussion was only on the apostasy. 

There’s so much more in this film, as indeed there was in the book, so many moments of powerful faith and challenging rebuke, that to evaluate it all on how the director views Fr. Rodrigues’s apostasy is beyond unfortunate.

I sympathize with those viewers who are concerned with Scorsese’s apparent approval of apostasy as an act of compassion. I even understand that Rodrigues’ failure ultimately colored the whole film for them. There is a danger, for weak souls, that blithe acceptance of this action could lead to moral relativism and utilitarianism. But the fall of the hero doesn’t make the entire movie worthless, particularly not when you see how tortured he was afterwards.

  

So Ms. Hunter-Kilmer put together a series of questions about the movie and most apply to the novel.  I can’t answer about the movie, but I do want to answer those questions that pertain to the novel.  Meg’s questions will be indented here and my response will follow.

1. I don’t understand Rodrigues’ choice. This isn’t because I’m more virtuous than he is. It’s because I find it easier to endure other people’s pain than my own. I judge Rodrigues more harshly because he caved to a temptation that I don’t struggle with. How often do I do the same with real people?

He didn’t cave to a temptation.  He acted in mercy to save the tortured Christians.  He was more than willing to die.  He was actually looking for his “glorious martyrdom.”  But the Japanese authorities turned the table on him.  They put his Christianity to an existential crises: Refuse to act in mercy or deny Christ. 

2. Every time I recommend this book to someone, I tell them, “It reads like the Stations of the Cross.” I see Rodrigues persevering because he connects his suffering to Jesus’. But Ferreira calls this identifying of his pain with Christ’s arrogant. Is it possible for suffering to be redemptive if it isn’t united to Christ’s in that way? At what point does identifying with Christ become arrogant?

What was arrogant was that Rodrigues came to Japan and insisted on administering the sacraments against the government’s wishes.  The arrogance was twofold: His subversive infiltration and seeking a “glorious martyrdom.”  That was at the root of all the peasant’s suffering.  Remember Kichijiro asks why God has brought this on them.  It started with Rodrigues deciding to sneak into Japan. 

3. After his apostasy, Rodrigues was obviously miserable. Why didn’t he ever recant? Surely there must have come a point when there was no longer danger that others would be killed for his faith. Was it pride that kept him living that life, an attempt to convince himself that he’d done the right thing? With the final shot of the crucifix he’d kept for so many years, Scorsese implies that he maintained some sort of faith in the midst of all his actions to undermine Christianity in Japan. At first that shot gave me hope, a feeling that, in spite of the apostasy he’d felt compelled to commit, he really did love Jesus and long for him. But the more I thought about it, the more his life seemed a betrayal. It’s one thing if he convinced himself, as Ferreira seemed to, that the Gospel wasn’t true. But to work against the God he loved, to do it day after day for decades? That seems to me far more vile than the initial moment of failure.

The novel doesn’t ever get into why he doesn’t recant.  He is a broken man, and one presumes that the same trial would be put to him: the martyrdom of innocent peasants at the expense of his pride.  It should be pointed out that Rodrigues is not just a second version of Ferreira.  Ferreira developed into a satanic character.  Rodrigues becomes like Kichijiro, cowardly but Christian in his heart.

4. Most orthodox Christians, I think, would assert that the “voice of Jesus” telling Rodrigues to trample wasn’t really a locution but a temptation or a mental breakdown. How can we discern that in the moment? Ignatius himself tells us that God won’t call us to do something objectively wrong, which brings quite a lot of clarity in this situation. But when it’s more gray even than this, how can we know which is the voice of truth and which the voice of the world, the flesh, and the devil?

I think it depends how you read the novel.  Was the apostasy warranted at the expense of providing mercy?  Endo is bringing Rodrigues to an existential crises.  Most existential crises involve life and death.  Here Endo brilliantly applies existentialism to Christianity.  He places two vital commandments in conflict with each other: Matt 10:33, “But whoever denies me before others, I will deny before my heavenly Father” against Matt 25: 40, ‘Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.’  Rodrigues’ choice is to act in mercy or apostatize.  Which commandment supersedes the other?  If you believe the voice that tells him to apostatize is Christ speaking, then the right choice was to act in mercy.  If you don’t, then the right choice was to let the innocent peasants die.  My personal feeling is that one always acts in mercy, for blessed are the merciful. 

5. Most stories of martyrs depict them as dying joyfully and those who look on rejoicing that they’ve been found worthy to suffer for Christ. This film has quite a lot of agonized sobbing, even when one man is (mercifully) beheaded rather than killed in some incredibly slow and painful way. Is this a function of Scorsese’s fundamental failure to understand the faith? Have we over-romanticized martyrdom and this is more realistic? Is there a cultural component that I’m missing?

I haven’t seen the movie.  Let me add here that this existential crises is the only time I have ever heard it being put to Christians.  Most martyrs are asked to apostatize or die.  Here Rodrigues is asked to apostatize or let others die.  The outline of the novel is actually based on an historical event.  Ferreira and the character of Rodrigues (who in real life was called Giuseppe Chiara) existed and apostatized.  Endo imagined the details. 

6. In the scene in which the villagers were drowned, these men who had been depicted as dirty and repulsive, true savages, became dignified. When Mokichi sings (was it some version of the Tantum Ergo?) after 4 days of near-drowning, he reminds me what it is to live and die for Christ. For that scene alone, there’s a lot I would forgive this movie.

In the novel they are singing a Japanese Christian hymn: “We’re on our way, we’re on our way,/We’re on our way to the temple of Paradise…”  The true hero of the novel are the Christian peasants.  Rodrigues may be the protagonist, but he is no hero.

7. After his first interview with Rodrigues, the interpreter walks out of Rodrigues’ cell and makes a comment about Rodrigues’ arrogance, following it with a declaration that he would fall. It was all I could do not to pull out my phone and write that quotation down word for word. That idea transformed how I viewed martyrdom and, honestly, how I view myself. It had me looking up confession times and prepared me for confession better than any examination of conscience I’ve ever seen. Those who are humble don’t have so far to fall, so perhaps some of it is just that the devil puts less effort into them. But more than that, their faith is built on Christ. Rodrigues’s faith, sincere as it was, was shored up by his awareness that he was strong and brave and educated. Had he been weaker, Christ could have been stronger in him.

That’s a good observation. 

8. Who would you rather be on Judgment Day: Rodrigues or Kichijiro?

Both are sinners.  Both are human. 

9. Ferreira claims that the Japanese aren’t capable of accepting the Gospel, despite the 300,000 converts made in 50 years. It’s worth discussing this question, the central one of Endo’s life, of how inherently western Catholicism is and what can be done for more authentic inculturation. What struck me more, though, was his insistence that the Japanese hadn’t truly embraced Christ, only their false, nature-worship understanding of him. And yet they died for him. I think that to have that strength they must have known him. Even if they didn’t, even if they were worshiping the sun and calling it Jesus, is that enough? Does God demand doctrinal accuracy or are our best efforts enough?

Ferreira is manifestly wrong.  You have to remember that this is an historical novel, so we the reader know the history.  Christianity survived the 250 year persecution and when the oppression stopped they were still Christians.  Endo’s point is the Holy Spirited obviously guided the outcome.  Rodrigues’ clandestine effort was unnecessary and therefore presumptuous and prideful.  It didn’t trust in Christ.  One needed the Kichijiro’s and the martyrs, the cowardly and the courageous.  Both contributed to Christianity’s survival.  The historicity is very important in shedding light on the events within the novel.

10. Even at the beginning, Rodrigues told the villagers to trample on the image, yet he held out for months. Why did he hold himself to a different standard? Is it okay that he had higher standards for himself or did that lead to his downfall? How can we be merciful to others while striving for sainthood without falling in the same way?

Good questions and I can’t answer any of them.  All I can say is that Rodrigues’ lack of humility caused the events.  Pope Francis today might say that Rodrigues was pushing cultural "colonialism."

11. The hunger the villagers had for the Sacraments puts me to shame. Their joy at the coming of the priests, despite the risk they knew it brought, their desperate need to confess their sins–all this reminds me how much I take God for granted. See how they love him!

I believe that was chapter three in the novel.  That is among the most beautiful chapters of all Christian literature. 

12. Rodrigues’ act of apostasy is an obvious one and most of us would recognize (at least intellectually) that nothing justifies apostasy. But are there smaller acts of apostasy in my life that I’ve justified because they’re motivated by compassion or prudence or convenience? Are there certain actions that I recognize are inherently evil, or do I think that sometimes the ends justify the means? How has this impacted my opposition to abortion or torture? Have I compromised on something small and seen it snowball? What venial sin do I need to cut out in order to be safe from mortal sin in the future?

Personally I think refusing to aid the suffering was the greater sin.  I’m no theologian but I put to you the parable of the Good Samaritan.  One of those who passes by not aiding the dying man is a priest who avoids helping the wounded man because it will contaminate him and he will not be able to perform his liturgical functions.  That is almost a comparable example to Rodrigues.  To not act in mercy because of a legalism strikes me as Pharisaic. 

13. If you’ve read The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene, compare Rodrigues and Greene’s whiskey priest. What does the juxtaposition of those two characters tell you about pride and sanctity?

Both are flawed men.  Greene thought Silence was the greatest Catholic novel.  I don’t recall the whiskey priest being prideful like Rodrigues.  I thought the whiskey priest couldn’t resist his temptations.

14. What were the differences between Rodrigues and Garrpe? If their circumstances were reversed, would Rodrigues have died a martyr and Garrpe an apostate? Or was there something that separated them even before that? Do you think you could endure what Rodrigues did and remain faithful?

I don’t think Garrpe’s character is developed enough to answer that.  I don’t know how I would react in Rodrigues’ situation.  I think I would act the same.

Questions 15 and 16 don't really apply here.

17. The title of the film refers to the silence of God in the face of human suffering. Does prolonged silence from God weaken us in the face of such suffering? It didn’t in Mother Teresa’s case–why not? How could Rodrigues have reacted differently to this silence? How could you?

In the novel, I believe God’s silence is only imagined.  Even Rodrigues says at the end He was always speaking.  The silence of the title I believe refers to the 250 years of Christians in Japan living their faith secretly in silence.  It is an historical novel, first and foremost.

So for those that have read the novel, how do you feel about the apostasy?  

Silence by Shūsaku Endō, Part 6

Any discussion of this novel should involve its most recurring motif, silence.  Silence comes up in many ways in the story.  First, there are some basic natural silences.  There is the “eerie” silence of the empty village (p. 64) and the silence that hangs when Ferreira is first brought into Rodrigues’ cell (p. 141).  There is the silence of a village when the interrogating guards investigate: “Not a sound could be heard…Why was there no sign of life? Even the barking of the dogs had suddenly come to an end, and Tomogi was like an ancient, abandoned ruin. Yet I could sense the awful silence that enveloped the whole place” (p. 50).  It is interesting to note that Japanese aesthetics tend to be lean and sparse, where more is said by saying less, and the silence motif seems to be attuned to that aesthetic.  You can also see how the plot is lean and direct and absent of any embellishments.  Think of Haiku or other Japanese poetic forms.  They are lean and evocative.  Silence, the absence of sound, fits right into that aesthetic. 

Second, there is the inherent silence of peasants under interrogation:

The peasants stood erect, silent. Men, women, children—all were silent. And so the seconds passed. It was as if enemies were staring at one another. Looking back on it now, I realize that it must have been precisely at this time when everything became silent that we looked down on the village from the mountain.  (p. 51).

Here silence is the unuttered profession one’s identity.  If apostatizing requires spoken expression, silence is the shrewd alternative.

Third, there is the silence of not revealing your fellow Christian to the authorities.  'No, father, we didn't say a word about you,' said Mokichi, hands on knees, 'and if they come again, we'll still say nothing. No matter what happens we'll stand by you.' (p. 50).  Betrayal requires some form of articulation.  Not volunteering or withholding information is a form of silence.

Fourth, and perhaps most important, there is Rodrigues’ exclamation on the silence of God in the face of the peasant’s suffering.  When Kichijiro questions why God has put this suffering on his people, Rodrigues contemplates:

I suppose I should simply cast from my mind these meaningless words of the coward; yet why does his plaintive voice pierce my breast with all the pain of a sharp needle? Why has Our Lord imposed this torture and this persecution on poor Japanese peasants? No, Kichijiro was trying to express something different, something even more sickening. The silence of God. Already twenty years have passed since the persecution broke out; the black soil of Japan has been filled with the lament of so many Christians; the red blood of priests has flowed profusely; the walls of the churches have fallen down; and in the face of this terrible and merciless sacrifice offered up to Him, God has remained silent. This was the problem that lay behind the plaintive question of Kichijiro. (p. 55)

But that’s not exactly what Kichijiro brings up.  He questions why God is allowing this and what “evil” they may have done.  But he does not question God’s existence.  Rodrigues surmises it, and it’s in his mind.  Rodrigues brings up God’s silence repeatedly.  We see it again when Mokichi and Ichizo are crucified by the shore. 

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. (p. 61)

What is interesting is that around this silence is a wealth of sound.  There is the sung hymn, “We’re on our way, we’re on our way,/We’re on our way to the temple of Paradise…”  There is the sound of the rain, the sound of the waves (“it broke upon the ears,” and the sound of the Mokichi moaning, a “dark moaning” (p. 59). 

The moaning sometimes ceased. Mokichi had not even the strength to encourage himself with a hymn like that of yesterday. Yet after an hour of silence the voice was again brought to the ears of the people by the wind. Hearing this sound, like that of an animal, the peasants trembled and wept. In the afternoon the tide gradually comes in again; the black, cold color of the sea deepens; the stakes seem to sink into the water. The white foaming waves, swirling past the stakes, break on the sand, a white bird, skimming over the surface of the sea, flies far, far away. And with this all is over. (p. 59)

While Rodrigues insists on the silence, we see otherwise.  Another example is when Rodrigues is on the run.  He hears “the hoarse cawing of pursuing crows,” sees his face in a pool of water, which he imagines to be a face of Christ crucified, and hears the cicadas “singing hoarsely” in the woods (p. 67-8).  Rodrigues again questions God’s silence.

But now there arose up within my heart quite suddenly the sound of the roaring sea as it would ring in my ears when Garrpe and I lay alone in hiding on the mountain. The sound of those waves that echoed in the dark like a muffled drum; the sound of those waves all night long, as they broke meaninglessly, receded, and then broke again on the shore. This was the sea that relentlessly washed the dead bodies of Mokichi and Ichizo, the sea that swallowed them up, the sea that, after their death, stretched out endlessly with unchanging expressions. And like the sea God was silent. His silence continued. (p. 68)

What silence?  There are sounds all over.  And here we arrive at one of the central ironies in the novel.  Rodrigues is of the Jesuit orders.  The Jesuits are known for their discernments.  The spiritual exercises of Ignatius of Loyola—the founder of the Society of Jesus—are meant to be a means of discernment of God in our lives.  That a Jesuit cannot discern God is meant to be an irony.  Right in front of him in the water is the face of Christ and he doesn’t discern it.  And, by extension, the sounds of animals and nature can be seen as God’s voice.

And here I want to digress.  Silence is a Japanese novel written by a Japanese author.  It is unfortunate for me that I do not know Japanese culture well.  I think one should to fully appreciate this novel.  It’s not just the history, which no doubt is very important in an historical novel, but also the aesthetics, the literary allusions, the cultural memes, especially inherently the symbols.  There is a high degree of allusiveness in Japanese literature and art, probably due to its very leanness.  Less is said, but what is said is amplified by cultural and literary allusions and symbols.  In addition, the ancient Shinto and imported Buddhist religions naturally supply imagery and allusions.  Both Shinto and Buddhism have an element of animism in it, meaning that animals and nature are infused with spirits.  From Shinto, Kami https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kami are spirits in nature and they can be deities, dead people, or apparently natural forces.  Insects for instance are typically symbols for the spirits.  In the novel we recurring patterns of ocean and mountains and trees and frequently we see cicadas, flies, butterflies, and even a cockroach.  Endo is placing these right in front of Rodrigues.  These form the supernatural right in front of Rodrigues, God’s voice calling.  There is a single moment where Rodrigues almost discerns it, when he is in prison.

At night, as he sat in the dark listening to the sound of the turtle-dove in the trees, he felt the face of Christ looking intently at him. The clear blue eyes were gentle with compassion; the features were tranquil; it was a face filled with trust. 'Lord, you will not cast us away any longer,' he whispered, his eyes fixed upon that face. And then the answer seemed to come to his ears: 'I will not abandon you.' Bowing his head he strained his ears for the sound of that voice again; but the only thing he could hear was the singing of the turtle-dove. The darkness was thick and black. Yet the priest felt that for one instant his heart had been purified. (p. 106)

A dove is the symbol for the Holy Spirit!  That is about as clear an indication that nature and its sounds are voices from God.  And we know that God has been speaking to Rodrigues all along because he tells us in hindsight at the end of the novel:

Everything that had taken place until now had been necessary to bring him [Rodrigues] to this love. 'Even now I am the last priest in this land. But Our Lord was not silent. (p. 191)

It’s at the climax of the novel we see God speaking with His loudest voice.  Rodrigues in a new cell hears what he thinks is snoring, and after a while it grates on his nerves.  “That’s not snoring,” Ferreira tells him.  “That is the moaning of the Christians hanging in the pit” (p. 160).  The moaning links back to the “dark moaning” of Mokichi being crucified.  Notice there the other peasants try to relive his suffering as best they can.  At the climax Rodrigues is placed in a semi-existential circumstance, and here is where I think Existentialism comes in the novel.  He is willing to die for his “glorious martyrdom,” an act of egotism, but that is not the option placed before him.  What his soul most resists is apostatizing.  What is placed before him is the suffering voice of the tortured peasants, and he has to apostatize to relieve them.  Years before Ferreira was faced with the same situation.

'I, too, heard those voices. I heard the groaning of men hanging in the pit.' And even as Ferreira finished speaking, the voices like snoring, now high, now low, were carried to their ears. But now the priest was aware of the truth. It was not snoring. It was the gasping and groaning of helpless men hanging in the pit. (p. 167)

The voices of the suffering is the voice of God.  That is what Rodrigues realizes later when he concludes “God had not been silent.”  It was for him to answer the call.  It is one thing to lose one’s faith, but where does Rodrigues get the notion that God will come out of the sky and alter the situation?  In an almost parallel historical situation Christians had to face persecution and hide secretly in the catacombs for almost 250 years under ancient Roman rule.  God doesn’t work that way, and it’s naïve to think He would.  Of all the martyrs in the world (and we have almost daily today in the Christian world) God has never stepped out of the sky directly.  I am reminded of the great prayer of St. Teresa of Ávila:

Christ has no body now but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good. Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body. Christ has no body now on earth but yours.

That is the lesson that Rodrigues had to learn.  He has to listen to God’s call and work His work.  The peasants inherently knew this at Mokichi’s crucifixion.  Rodrigues finally learned it at the pit. 

In one of the novel’s many ironies, we see that the Japanese peasants intuitively know Christianity better than Rodrigues the priest.  When Mokichi and Ichizo are dying on the cross and they let out their moans, the Christian peasants come out to relieve their suffering.  When Kochijiro questions God, coward though he may be, it never leads to a loss of faith.  Even until the end he is a believer, though he apostatizes many times.  Rodrigues is the only one who loses faith.  When Rodrigues is captured and placed with several other Christian prisoners, the woman, though they are all haggard and starving, offers the priest a cucumber to eat, and she doesn’t pull it from a pocket; she pulls it from her bosom (p. 81), that is to say she takes it from her heart.  This is an allusion to John 15:5, where Christ says, “I am the vine, you are the branches.”  Cucumbers are fruits of a vine, and here the woman is the branch stemming from Christ the vine and the cucumber is the fruit of Christian charity.  What a touching scene.  The woman is doing the work of Christ, the very thing Rodrigues has to learn to do.  Since the cucumber is pulled out of her bosom, Rodrigues must feel her body warmth—Christian love—as he eats it.  

Silence by Shūsaku Endō, Part 5

You can read Part 1 of this series, here. 

You can read Part 2, here. 

You can read Part 3, here.

In an historical novel, there is a built potential for dramatic irony in that we the reader know how the history will turn out.  The beginning of chapter three, Rodrigues writes back home expressing how critical he thinks he is.

In this country June marks the beginning of the rainy season. I have been told that the rain falls continuously for more than a month. With the coming of the rain the officials will probably relax their vigilance, so I intend to make use of this opportunity to travel around the neighbourhood and search out the remaining Christians. I want to let them know as quickly as possible that they are not utterly abandoned and alone.

Never have I felt so deeply how meaningful is the life of a priest. These Japanese Christians are like a ship lost in a storm without a chart. I see them without a single priest or brother to encourage and console, gradually losing hope and wandering bewildered in the darkness.

Well, we know that for 250 years the indigenous Christians of Japan were abandoned and alone as per that last sentence in the first paragraph.  And we also know that despite being abandoned and alone they did not lose hope and wander bewildered.  When Christians came back to Japan it was remarkable how they found the rudiments of Christianity still relatively pristine.  This is a point that must be strongly emphasized to understand the novel: despite incredible persecution and separation from mother church the Christian faith had taken root and survived 250 years until the harsh conditions had eased.  The historicity shapes the novel.

The third chapter shows why Christianity survived all those years by dramatizing the peasant’s love for Christianity.  Once they learn there are real priests in their village, the peasants overwhelm them for their sacramental needs.  Here’s a description of the faith Rodrigues finds among the peasants.

But now let me give you some more detailed information about these people of the village of Tomogi. They are poor farmers who eke out a living by cultivating potatoes and wheat in little fields. They have no ricefields. When you see how the land is cultivated right up into the middle of the mountain facing the sea, you are struck not so much by their indefatigable industry as by the cruelty of the life they have inherited. Yet the magistrate of Nagasaki exacts from them an exceedingly harsh revenue. I tell you the truth-for a long, long time these farmers have worked like horses and cattle; and like horses and cattle they have died. The reason our religion has penetrated this territory like water flowing into dry earth is that it has given to this group of people a human warmth they never previously knew. For the first time they have met men who treated them like human beings. It was the human kindness and charity of the fathers that touched their hearts.

I have not yet met all the people of Tomogi. This is because from fear of the officials only two villagers can climb up to our little hut each night. Truth to tell in spite of myself! cannot help laughing when I hear the mumbling Portuguese and Latin words in the mouths of these ignorant peasants: 'Deus', 'Angelus', 'Beato' and so on. The sacrament of confession they call 'konshan'; heaven they call 'parais'; hell is 'inferno'. Not only are their names difficult to remember, but their faces all look the same-which c::mses not a little embarrassment. We confuse Ichizo with Seisukc, and we get Omatsu mixed up with another woman called Saki.

I have already told you something about Mokichi, so I would like now to say a few words about a couple of the other Christians. Ichizo is a man of about fifty who comes at night to our hut-and he always wears on his face an expression which makes you think he is angry. While attending Mass, and after it is over, he says not a word. In fact, however, he is not angry at all; this is just his natural expression. He is extraordinarily curious, and he scrutinizes carefully every movement and gesture of Garrpe and myself with his narrow, wrinkled eyes.

Omatsu, I'm told, is Ichizo's elder sister. Long ago she lost her husband and is now a widow. Twice she has come right up to our place with her niece, Sen, carrying on her back a basket with food for us. Like Ichizo, she too is extremely inquisitive and, together with her niece, scrutinizes Garrpe and me as we eat our meal. And what a meal! You couldn't imagine how wretched it is-a few fried potatoes and water. And while Garrpe and I gulp it down, the two women look on, laughing with evident satisfaction.

This chapter is actually lyrical in its dramatizing of love and faith.  The peasants harbor the Jesuits in a hut up a mountain.  They feed them, they nurture them, they love them, all at great risk to their lives.  This particular passage may be the loveliest in the entire novel:

The next event took place five days after the one I have recorded. It was late at night and we were secretly baptizing a baby that had been brought along by Omatsu and two men belonging to the Tossama. It was our first baptism since coming to Japan, and of course we had no candles nor music in our little hut—the only instrument for the ceremony was a broken little peasants' cup which we used for holy water. But it was more touching than

the liturgy of any cathedral to see that poor little hut with the baby crying and Omatsu soothing it while one of the men stood on guard outside. I thrilled with joy as I listened to the solemn voice of Garrpe as he recited the baptismal prayers. This is a happiness that only a missionary priest in a foreign land can relish. As the water flowed over its forehead the baby wrinkled its face and yelled aloud.  Its head was tiny; its eyes were narrow; this was already a peasant face that would in time come to resemble that of Mokichi and Ichizo. This child also would grow up like its parents and grandparents to eke out a miserable existence face to face with the black sea in this cramped and desolate land; it, too, would live like a beast, and like a beast it would die. But Christ did not die for the good and beautiful. It is easy enough to die for the good and beautiful; the hard thing is to die for the miserable and corrupt—this is the realization that came home to me acutely at that time.

The peasant child baptized projects to the peasants 250 years of endurance.  There is such joy there.  Christ is there for the child and for the peasants.  And men from other villages have heard about the priests and have come to urge them to meet their villagers.

From these men we heard astonishing news. In the district known as Odomari, the villagers had succeeded in escaping the vigilance of the officials, and they were still Christians to a man. And not only Odomari. The neighbouring district and villages of Miyahara, Dozaki and Egami, although to outward appearances they were Buddhist, were in fact Christian—a fact which was barely kept hidden. For a long, long time they had been awaiting the day when we priests would once again come across the distant sea to help them and give them a blessing.

'Father, we have not been to Mass. We have not confessed our sins. We have only said our prayers.' It was the man with the blood-stained feet who spoke.

'Come quickly to our village. Father, we teach our little children their prayers. They are waiting for the day you will come.' The fellow with the yellow teeth, opening a mouth that yawned like an enormous cave, nodded approval. The fish oil burned and crackled. Garrpe and I could not refuse such a plea. We had been too cowardly until now. It was embarrassing to think of our weakness in comparison with the courage of these Japanese peasants who had slept in the mountains and lacerated their feet in order to come to us.

The “astonishing news” that the village was “still Christian to a man” escaping the government’s persecution again projects to the 250 years of secret endurance.  The deep desire for Mass, for confession, for the sacraments is true faith.  They say their prayers and teach their children the prayers, and so it will go on for generations.  No other chapter will be so beautiful.  The story line will turn after this, but the faith will go on.

There is something that Susan Margret pointed out of chapter three, and that is the recurring imagery of the human face.  Here’s the exchange:

Susan Margret:

I have never been very good at figuring out symbolism in reading literature. Chapters three and four seem to be loaded with it. There are many references about faces and the face of Christ. Here are a few:

“The long years of secrecy have made the faces of these Christians like masks.” (Page 33)

“As for me, perhaps I am so fascinated by his face because the Scriptures make no mention of it.” (Page 44)

“This was the face of a crucified man, a face which for so many centuries had given inspiration to artists.” (Page 71)

“That face with its fearful eyes like a spider.” (The face of Kichijiro. Page 83)

I am wondering what Endo is trying to tell us about the face of Christ? Is he showing us the face of compassion, the face of suffering, or something else? In these two chapters there were also several comments about the silence of God.

Me:

Susan, that is so on top of it! I did not pick up on the constant reference to faces, and that connects to the reference of Christ's face in Piero della Francesca's painting. I'll have to go back and look but my gut reaction is that the peasant's faces represent Christ's face. And that through their faces God is speaking. Yes, because the silence of God is supposed to be ironic. He is speaking throughout. It's just that Rodrigues doesn't get it.

And while chapter four is not as lyrical as chapter three, it is extremely rich and dense.  Chapter four is the chapter of betrayal, of peasant crucifixion, of scatter and flight, and finally of capture.  It’s the last chapter we get Rodrigues’ first person narration.  There are three themes I want to explore that are prominent in the fourth chapter: Silence, Existentialism, and the Judas-like betrayal.  

Silence by Shūsaku Endō, Part 3

You can read Part 1 of this series, here. 

You can read Part 2, here. 

Here’s an exchange Susan Margret and I had on the Goodreads Catholic Thought Book Club.

Susan Margret comments:

I just finished reading chapter two. I am anxious to learn the story behind the character, Kichijiro. When the priests first land on Japanese soil, Father Rodrigues suspects that Kichijiro may have betrayed them. He compares Kichijiro to Judas. He appears to be weak, lazy, and deceptive, possibly even hiding his Christian status from the priests. Kichijiro is an interesting character and I am wondering if he does turn out to be a Judas.

Also, I was not familiar with the painting that Endō described in chapter one. Father Rodrigues describes the painting as Christ having one foot on the sepulchre and holding a crucifix in his right hand. He says he saw the picture in Borgo San Sepulchro. I looked it up and it is a painting of The Resurrection by Piero della Francesca. I don't know if Endō made an error or I was looking at the wrong picture, but Christ is holding a flag, not a crucifix.

My Reply:

Susan, what page is that painting mentioned? I passed completely over it, and I now can't seem to find it. This book is so tightly packed that everything has significance. I'll look up the painting.

Susan Margret:

Manny, I think I am reading a different edition than you are. The painting is mentioned in the second to the last paragraph in Chapter one. The paintings of Christ as a shepherd, Christ as a King, and other descriptions of the face of Christ are mentioned in this paragraph.

Me:

Susan, you are absolutely right.  That is the painting.  I even had the paragraph highlighted in my book.  I don't know if I highlighted in this current read or when I first read it five years ago.  Here’s what I have highlighted:

(1) "What did the face of Christ look like?  This point the Bible passes over in silence."

(2) "his face bears the expression of encouragement it had when he commanded his disciples three times, 'Feed my lambs, feed my lambs, feed my lambs ... ' It is a face filled with vigor and strength. I feel great love for that face.”

The first note was over the word “silence.”  That’s the name of the novel, so it carries significance.  You’ll find that the word “silence” comes up frequently as we read.  I’ll get to that in a later chapter when it’s more important to the story.  But you can see how the sentence is worded intentionally tries to emphasize the word “silence.” 

The second note focused on the commandment to feed Christ’s lambs.  That is Rodrigues’ mission in going to Japan, to pastor (etymology: pasture) the lambs, the innocent new Christians of Japan. 

But I glossed over the painting completely.  And that is the painting, and here it is the Wikipedia entry:   

I have to say that is a magnificent painting.  I’ve seen it before but I never really thought about it until now.  And you’re right, he holds a banner, not a crucifix.  Is it an error by Endo or does Endo have Rodrigues make a mistake, and if so for what reason?   It is Christ triumphant.  My only hunch (on the painting, not the error) has to do with the ending, and I don’t want to spoil that yet for anyone.  Just a hunch, though, not sure. 

Rodrigues’ says that the face in the painting “is a face filled with vigor and strength. I feel great love for that face.”  That is a magnificent face.  If you Google Image “The Resurrection Piero della Francesca” you can get large details of the painting, especially the face.  Look here:  It does have vigor and strength. 

Kudos to you Susan for picking up on the painting. 

There’s a couple of more things I wanted to point out in these early chapters.  Sorry for being long winded in this first week, but I think the opening parts of a book are important to understand since it sets up reading the rest.  I shouldn’t be so intrusive in the other weeks.

In my first comment above, I highlighted that last paragraph in the prologue where the narrator says, “Today we can read…”  I asked, when is today?  And who is “we”?  Who is speaking there?

This brings us to identifying the narrative perspective, or more commonly referred to as the point of view.  No question, this is a modernist novel, and Endo using shifting perspective to achieve several objectives.  Chapters one through four are clearly in the epistolary form, that is letters home written by Sabastian Rodrigues.  Chapters five through nine, the point of view shifts to third person.  Chapter ten is in the form of a diary, written by a character who I think doesn’t even show up in the novel before this.  And the Epilogue is in the form of another diary of another character who also doesn’t show up before.  And then we have that authorial intrusion in the Prologue, “Today we can read…”  Discussing why the shifts and how they create a unified aesthetic is a discussion best held after completing the work.  But I do want to point out these shifts so you can see it as you read.

Another element in these early chapters that should be noted is irony.  Irony plays an important part of the ending.  It’s subtly throughout the novel.  Here are three examples from Chapter 1.

First, Rodrigues repeats in his letter back home about the openness of the Japanese to Christianity:  “On this point Japan is undoubtedly, as Saint Francis Xavier said, 'the country in the Orient most suited to Christianity'.” (p. 16).   Further then he expresses his joy of meeting his first Japanese.  “Today I have wonderful news for you. Yesterday we at last succeeded in meeting a Japanese.”  So who does this Japanese who is open to Christianity turn out to be? 

What am I to say about this man, this first Japanese I ever met in my life? Reeling from excess of alcohol, a drunken man staggered into the room. About twenty-eight or nine years of age, he was dressed in rags. His name was Kichijiro.

The first Japanese turns out to be a drunken slob, hardly an ideal Christian.

Second, while the three Jesuits are stuck in Macau waiting for a ship that will take them to Japan, they finally get a Junk, a Chinese sailing ship, to take them. 

Anyhow, thanks to Father Valignano it looks as if we are going to get hold of a big junk. Yet how frail and passing are the plans of men! Today we got news that the ship is eaten up by white ants. And here it is terribly difficult to get hold of iron and pitch.  (p. 18)

“Frail and passing the plans of men” ironically will foreshadow the Jesuit’s plans.

Third, after Father Valignano expresses his belief that the situation in Japan has changed and that their mission should be aborted.  Juan de Santa Marta expresses his optimism:

'And yet our secret mission could with God's help turn out successful,' said Juan de Santa Marta, blinking his eyes fervently. 'In that stricken land the Christians have lost their priests and are like a flock of sheep without a shepherd. Some one must go to give them courage and to ensure that the tiny flame of faith does not die out.'  (p. 13)

That’s how the chapter opens.  But the chapter ends with the very person who expressed such optimism to die and not be able to make the trip at all.

At last our departure is only five days away. We have absolutely no luggage to bring to Japan except our own hearts. We are preoccupied with spiritual preparation only. Alas, I feel no inclination to write about Santa Marta. God did not grant to our poor companion the joy of being restored to health. But everything that God does is for the best. No doubt God is secretly preparing the mission that some day will be his.  (p. 22)

In all three cases the optimism is undercut with a harsh reality.  These subtle situational ironies set a rhythm and tone within the novel and foreshadow the ironic ending.  

Silence by Shūsaku Endō, Part 2

You can read Part 1 in this series, here.

It occurs to me that some people may have different introductions.  My edition, first published in 1980 by Taplinger Publishing Company, is the thirteenth printing and has a good size Preface written by the translator William Johnston.  If people have picked up the current edition that highlights the movie, you may not have the Translator’s Preface.  Does everyone’s edition have the Translator’s Preface? 

What I’ve seen is that some editions list a Forward by Martin Scorsese.  What I don’t know is if Scorsese’s Forward is in addition to the Translator’s Forward or in lieu of the Translator’s Forward.  I don’t know what Scorsese’s Forward says, but if you’re missing the Translator’s Forward, then you’re missing some information. 

The Translator’s Forward walks you through some of the history (which I’ve provided and gone beyond with my background post) but it also provides some context of Christianity in Endo’s life and in Japan.  For instance there is this statement Endo made in an interview:

“I received baptism when I was a child ..... in other words, my Catholicism was a kind of readymade suit ..... I had to decide either to make this ready-made suit fit my body or get rid of it and find another suit that fitted ..... There were many times when I felt I wanted to get rid of my Catholicism, but I was finally unable to do so. It is not just that I did not throw it off, but that I was unable to throw it off. The reason for this must be that it had become a part of me after all. The fact that it had penetrated me so deeply in my youth was a sign, I thought, that it had, in part at least, become coextensive with me. Still, there was always that feeling in my heart that it was something borrowed, and I began to wonder what my real self was like. This I think is the 'mud swamp' Japanese in me. From the time I first began to write novels even to the present day, this confrontation of my Catholic self with the self that lies underneath has, like an idiot's constant refrain, echoed and reechoed in my work. I felt that I had to find some way to reconcile the two. “

Johnston, the translator, goes on to explain:

'The mud swamp Japanese in me'.....Japan is a swamp because it sucks up all sorts of ideologies, transforming them into itself and distorting them in the process. It is the spider's web that destroys the butterfly, leaving only the ugly skeleton.

Besides Johnston’s point of how Japan transforms ideologies (which culture doesn’t?) the point I think is noteworthy in Endo’s comment is that Catholicism felt “in my heart that it was something borrowed,” that there was a real self “underneath.”  Well, that would be quite understandable, and I think it hints on understanding one of the themes in the novel.  That is, how does a religion from the other side of the world, take root in a vastly foreign culture? 

Johnston takes that theme and sets it beside another Shusaku Endo comment:

For a long time I was attracted to a meaningless nihilism and when I finally came to realize the fearfulness of such a void I was struck once again with the grandeur of the Catholic Faith. This problem of the reconciliation of my Catholicism with my Japanese blood ... has taught me one thing: that is, that the Japanese must absorb Christianity without the support of a Christian tradition or history or legacy or sensibility. Even this attempt is the occasion of much resistance and anguish and pain, still it is impossible to counter by closing one's eyes to the difficulties. No doubt this is the peculiar cross that God has given to the Japanese.

One of the themes in the novel is whether Japan is ready to receive Christianity, and how would it do so?  Was seventeenth century Japan ready for Christianity?  Well it was amazing how many converted in such a short order.  But obviously as will see in the end, the answer has to be no. 

Johnston also has a third quote which I think projects Endo’s thoughts on the future of Japan and Christianity:

 But after all it seems to me that Catholicism is not a solo, but a symphony ..... If I have trust in Catholicism, it is because I find in it much more possibility than in any other religion for presenting the full symphony of humanity. The other religions have almost no fullness; they have but solo parts. Only Catholicism can present the full symphony. And unless there is in that symphony a part that corresponds to Japan's mud swamp, it cannot be a true religion. What exactly this part is-that is what I want to find out.

What I think Endo is saying there is that Japan will one day have the grace of accepting Christianity—when it is ready—because whatever worldview it relies on now, is not the fullness of theology and humanity.  Only Catholicism can provide that.  As a Catholic, I find that the highest honor.  How wonderful. 

The Prologue formally starts the novel, and Endo starts with journeys in search of the Jesuit Christovao Ferreira, the leading evangelist in Japan, who if rumors are correct has apostatized.  There is the 1635 journey from Rome of five priests led by a Father Rubino (p. 7), and then the more central to the novel journey of 1637 of the three Portuguese Jesuits, Francisco Garpe, Juan de Santa Marta, and the protagonist of the novel, Sabastian Rodrigues (pp. 7-8).  These three had studied under Ferreira and could not believe their mentor had not chosen “glorious martyrdom” over apostatizing.  I don’t recall if the five Roman priests have any significance in the rest of the novel, but it’s interesting to note the different and contrasting rationales for their journeys.  While the Jesuits embark to investigate the Ferreira matter, the Roman priests go “to carry on an underground missionary apostolate and to atone for the apostasy.”  The priests go to atone while the Jesuits go for self-satisfaction.  I think it’s subtle, but there is a sense of egotism in the motivations of the Jesuits.

In broad strokes Endo outlines the Jesuits’ journey in the Prologue as they go from Europe to the Canary Islands then around the Cape of Good Hope to Gao in India and finally to Macau in China.  From Macau they will sneak into Japan (pp. 9-11).  But Juan de Santa Marta prematurely dies and while both Garpa and Rodrigues both make it onto Japanese soil, Garpa is soon split off, and so we have the journey of Rodrigues in search of Ferreira.  This journey constitutes the form of the novel, and it starkly—and I believe intentionally—recalls the form of the great early twentieth century novel, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.  Heart of Darkness too has a journey of a European into a far different cultural world in search of, if not a spiritual leader, a man of incredible wisdom (“a very remarkable man”) who has deteriorated into depravity.  Charles Marlow goes up the Congo and into the heart of the African jungle to find the dissolute Mr. Kutz.  Sabastian Rodrigues goes into Japan to find the apostate Christovao Ferreira. 

And Heart of Darkness itself was modeled on a prior great work, Dante Alighieri’s Inferno section of his Divine Comedy.  In Dante’s Inferno, Dante the character travels into the heart of Hell, not to find a leader—though perhaps one could make the case he’s symbolically in search of his beloved Beatrice—but to find his way out of his midlife crises.  At the end of their journeys Marlow and Dante gain wisdom, and so too will Rodrigues.  It is interesting to note that in the Inferno hell is shaped in the form of a spiraling pit in which Satan is at the bottom.  Rodrigues too will come to a pit, though a very different type of pit, at the climax of his journey. 

But Endo doesn’t begin the Prologue with the journeys per se, but with Christovao Ferreira and his character before his apostasy.  

News reached the Church in Rome. Christovao Ferreira, sent to Japan by the Society of Jesus in Portugal, after undergoing the torture of 'the pit' at Nagasaki had apostatized. An experienced missionary held in the highest respect, he had spent thirty-three years in Japan, had occupied the high position of provincial and had been a source of inspiration to priests and faithful alike.

He was a theologian, too, of considerable ability, and in the time of persecution he had secretly made his way into the Kamigata region to pursue his apostolic work. From here the letters he sent to Rome overflowed with a spirit of indomitable courage. It was unthinkable that such a man would betray the faith, however terrible the circumstances in which he was placed. In the Society of Jesus as well as the Church at large, people asked themselves if the whole thing were not just a fictitious report invented by the Dutch or the Japanese.  (p. 3)

Endo needs to make clear up front what the goal of the journey is and why it is so startling that Ferreira has apostatized.  He was a man “of indomitable courage.”  The word courage and its antonym, cowardice, are important themes—or perhaps more accurately they are motifs—in the story.  The Jesuit’s courage to face “glorious martyrdom” is constantly contrasted with drunkard Kichijiro’s cowardice.  Apostatizing then is a failure to uphold one’s courage in the face of adversity, usually life risking adversity, and give into humiliating cowardice.  Here is probably a good point to understand why the central characters are Jesuits.  The Society of Jesus, started by St. Ignatius of Loyola, are the soldiers of the religious orders, soldiers not in the sense of martial arts, but of spiritual warfare.  Here are the opening two sentences of their rule:

Whoever desires to serve as a soldier of God beneath the banner of the Cross in our Society, which we desire to be designated by the Name of Jesus, and to serve the Lord alone and the Church, his spouse, under the Roman Pontiff, the Vicar of Christ on earth, should, after a solemn vow of perpetual chastity, poverty and obedience, keep what follows in mind. He is a member of a Society founded chiefly for this purpose: to strive especially for the defence and propagation of the faith and for the progress of souls in Christian life and doctrine, by means of public preaching, lectures and any other ministration whatsoever of the Word of God, and further by means of retreats, the education of children and unlettered persons in Christianity, and the spiritual consolation of Christ's faithful through hearing confessions and administering the other sacraments.

Notice the military analogies: “soldier of God,” “serve,” “defense,” “propagate, ‘”retreat.”  Their prayers are referred to as “exercises,” and their particular charism is to go out into hostile environment and preach and serve, knowing that they may be martyred.  And so Jesuits were sent out across the world to bring the Good News to places that had never heard it, such as Japan.  They were (and still are) tough men who were trained to go into inhospitable places.  They are the Navy Seals of the religious orders.  When I think of the Jesuit ethos, I’m reminded of the English Jesuit martyrs, who were trained on the Continent but inserted into anti-Catholic England to minister to the remaining Catholics.  I remember reading that when a particular group of Jesuits were ordained prior to entering England, those attending the ordination fell to their knees because they knew they were in the midst of sure martyrs and therefore future saints.  Many of the Jesuits expected martyrdom.  And so we hear Rodrigues refer to it as “glorious martyrdom.” 

We should also keep in mind that Ferreira and Rodrigues are based on actual historical figures.  Any changes from the historical facts that Endo makes in the novel is probably for some significant reason.  The details in the novel surrounding Ferreira seem to coincide with the historical facts.  The only possible change is the length of time Ferreira has spent in Japan.  In that opening paragraph of the Prologue I quoted above, it says he had been in Japan for thirty-three years.  According to his Wikipedia entry, Ferreira had been sent to Asia in 1609, which would make the year the Narrator is speaking 1642.  The novel is supposedly set in 1643, but I think that’s close enough for historical accuracy. 

Now with Rodrigues, Endo makes a significant change.  The character Rodrigues is based on is the person Giuseppe Chiara, an Italian Jesuit.  What is the significance of switching the central character’s nationality from Italian to Portuguese?  I can think of two.  One, the Jesuit Order was started by Spaniards and Portuguese, and so I think the switch emphasizes the Jesuit ethos of spiritual toughness.  I’m sure Italian Jesuits were just as tough, but Endo is trying to associate Rodrigues with the Order’s ideal.  Second, and perhaps more important, making the central character Portuguese links in the colonization context of the back story.  The Portuguese and Spaniards (and Dutch and English) were colonizers, while Italy not being unified until the nineteenth century, did not have colonies.  The fear the Japanese rulers had of being colonized is accentuated with Rodrigues being Portuguese.

There were a couple of other interesting tidbits I picked up in the Prologue.  One was repeated use of the number thirty-three.  As I mentioned Ferreira had spent thirty-three years in Japan, and two pages later in Ferreira’s letter to Rome he mentions six priests “remaining in the mountains for thirty-three days” (p. 6).  That’s hardly a coincidence.  Endo then mentions that Rodrigues was born in 1610 (p. 9), and if the novel is set in 1643 that would make him thirty-three years old when the events unfold.  Thirty-three is Christ’s age at the time of His passion, so to give Rodrigues the same age is to interconnect them.  In what way is Rodrigues Christ-like?  That’s something to explore, but it could also be to highlight a contrast.  In what way is Rodriguez not Christ-like might be as pertinent a question.  As to the repeated use of thirty-three, I’m not exactly sure what it’s supposed to suggest.  It does give the story a Christian aura.

The other tidbit comes at the end of the Prologue.

Today we can read some of the letters of Sebastian Rodrigues in the library of the Portuguese 'Institute for the Historical Study of Foreign Lands'. The first of these begins at the time when he and his companions heard from Valignano about the situation in Japan.  (p. 12)

This transitions into the novel’s first chapters which are epistles back home from Rodrigues.  But the narrator says “Today we can read…”  When is today?  And who is “we”?  Who is speaking there?  This leads to the question of the novel’s narrative perspective, which is complicated and for another discussion.