reflections on silence by shuasaku endo
In the midst of darkness, this little one was a light ray. Tiny, with a Minnie Mouse voice, this daughter of my spirit had finally made the long trek westward, into the bowels of this man-made hell, situated in the south-central Pennsylvania boondocks. She, like my other children, was just a baby when I was cast into hell, and because of her youth and sensitivity, she hadn't been brought along on family visits until now.
She burst into the tiny visiting room, her brown eyes aglitter with happiness; stopped, stunned, staring at the glassy barrier between us; and burst into tears at this arrogant attempt at state separation. In milliseconds, sadness and shock shifted into fury as her petite fingers curled into tight fists, which banged and pummeled the Plexiglas barrier, which shuddered and shimmied but didn't shatter.
"Break it! Break it!" she screamed. Her mother, recovering from her shock, bundled up Hamida in her arms, as sobs rocked them both. My eyes filled to the brim. My nose clogged.
Her unspoken words echoed in my unconsciousness. "Why can't I hug him? Why can't we kiss? Why can't I sit in his lap? Why can't we touch? Why not?"...
...Over five years have passed since that visit, but I remember it like it was an hour ago: the slams of her tiny fists against that ugly barrier; her instinctual rage against it -- the state-made blockade raised under the rubric of security, her hot tears.
They haunt me.
(pages 22-23, Abu-Jamal, Mumia. Live From Death Row. Published November 1994)
Has God been silent? This is a question we raise repeatedly throughout this novel. It would be unfitting to dismiss the idea of 'God's silence' as the predominant theme in this book, which is itself titled Silence. Rodrigues has reflected long and hard on God's silence. I, too, have reflected on the perceived silence of God.
On September 11, 2001, was God silent as the two towers fell, slowly slipping in silence, images flashing like movie frames, like a photo album, one fading into the next, the smoke rising, the proud arrogance of that haughty queen slowly breaking apart, crumbling on the ground, unmasking the great tower to be nothing more than a child's toy...the smoke clearing, the bodies fallen, no names yet, the paramedics, the firemen, the police, searching for survivors. The final tally: 2,966 dead Americans, 19 dead terrorists. Watching the numbers scroll across the screen, white on black, flickering with each new increase, the sickening feeling rising up, an aching pain, the bitter tears brought to eyes, the trembling hands, the rushing thoughts, is this real, is this really happening? And then, most frightening of all, why God? Why? Why, why, why? like the sound of beating rain, tap, tap, tap, eternal and frightening. Where was God then?
As men, women, children shuffled forwards, slowly, lazily, heads downcast, tattered striped uniforms hanging on emaciated frames, smoke rising in the distance, waiting to be gassed and burned or chosen to live for a little while longer, as their sad eyes were on the ground, no longer willing to look into the sky for God, where was God then? Why was he silent?
As the man himself, Jesus Christ, Yahshua ben Yosef, hung from a cross of wood, large iron nails piercing through the bones of his wrists and ankles, his blood flowing profusely, his body in such great excruciating agony... esteemed, respected men of faith and the law (imagine your pastors and priests and rabbis and imams) looking down on him, mocking him, shaking their heads in disappointment, condemning him, shaking their fists with rage at this blasphemer... Where was God? He had a choice, too, Yahshua did: to fight against the authorities, the judges, to lead a great revolt against the oppressors. Instead, he chose to be condemned, and executed in a manner reserved only for slaves and traitors. And God was not with him then. At that moment, Yahshua took on the sins of all the world, and became as black as death and hell themselves, and God cannot look upon sin. Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani? My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Why have you forsaken me? Yahshua was neither the first nor last to feel the echoing thunder of God's silence... He was alone in that moment, as pain coursed through his veins and all around his accusers witnessed his execution... Yahshua was alone.
Why does God let the innocent suffer? Why is God silent? If he is all-powerful, El Sheddai, why does he stand by, and do nothing? "I was put in here [in this prison] and heard the voices of those people for whom God did nothing. God did not do a single thing. I prayed with all my strength; but God did nothing." (page 168) Think about that. God did nothing.
Sometimes God does not intervene with a poof and a bang. Rather, he will ask us to do what is impossible, and with him we do it. He asks us to give up everything--our pride, our standing, our honor, our way of life. He asks us to drop everything and follow him. All our baggage must go. He works in the most unusual of ways. ...I was reading a devotion somewhere in my Study Bible, in the book of Job. For those of you unfamiliar with his story, Job was a righteous man who was prosperous in everything, but God allowed Satan to do many harmful and evil things to Job, to his family, his property, and to the man himself. The devotion stated that God doesn't make bad things happen. But he does allow them.
Let that sink in: God lets evil things happen. It's a strange thought, and yet proven true. Why then? Because we have a choice. God made that clear when he created man and put him in his garden. We can choose between good and evil, right and wrong, and we do so every day of our lives. We choose with every thought, every action. Often we choose what we believe to be right, but what is wrong in the end. God won't stop those with evil intent from doing evil deeds. It saddens him; grief runs through our Lord like a great river, a mourning so deep and meaningful we cannot truly understand it.
We ask these questions, these doubts arise in us, all of the time--but most especially when something terrible has happened to us, to someone we love, to those whom we rally around and support. Why is this happening? It is the litany of all who have seen evil happen. The speaker of a short story I wrote recently muses "If he existed, he would be either a psychopathic sadist or a devastated optimist. Look what his people have done, to him, to each other." (pages 7-8, "Look Out; I'm Coming Home". 2008.) I will not pretend that this is representative of my own constant beliefs. Instead, it is a mirror of the feelings we suffer when we wonder at the tragedy and atrocity around us.
God has been silent in Silence. Rodrigues, as aforementioned, continually reflects on this:
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; abd ub the face of this terrible and merciless sacrifice offered up to Him, God has remained silent. (page 55)
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. (page 61)
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 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. (page 68)
At that time, too, God had been silent. When the misty rain floated over the sea, he was silent. When the one-eyed man had been killed beneath the blazing rays of the sun, he had said nothing. But at that time, the priest had been able to stand it; or, rather than stand it, he had been able to thrust the terrible doubt far from the threshold of his mind. But now it was different. Why is God continually silent while those groaning voices go on? (page 168)But then, God breaks the silence, in the most painful way.... He speaks to the priest. God speaks to Rodrigues when he is at his moment of crisis, unsure of what to do, his heart and mind begging him not to step on the fumie but Ferreira and all this wild, wild pain, the sounds ringing, thundering in his ears, threatening his sanity, breaking apart the crucible, until he is over it, looking down at the tired face of Christ.... God breaks the silence. And not to tell him "Be strong; don't do it." But to tell him to break apart from everything he's been taught and believes in, and to do what every instinct in him screams against.
"Trample! Trample! I more than anyone know of the pain in your foot. Trample! It was to be trampled on by men that I was born into this world. It was to share men's pain that I carried my cross." (page 171) This he says to that poor man. This statement, like much in literature, may be taken both literally and figuratively. Literally, Christ is there to be trampled on by men; after all, that's why the government had that image made. Figuratively, Christ came to Earth to have the men of the world 'trample' upon him, condemn him, murder him.
God broke the silence. And in the most unexpected, most surprising, most unconventional way imaginable. God is not silent.
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