Silence and Suffering

The other day I finished reading Shūsaku Endō’s Silence, a book which is haunting, beautiful, and difficult. Having seen Martin Scorsese’s film adaptation over a year ago, my initial excitement for reading the novel on which it was based dissipated as time passed, but was revived as I came across Karen Swallow Prior’s chapter on the virtue of faith in On Reading Well. Prior’s reflections reignited my interest in reading the book, and when I found a copy at our library I immediately picked it up (characteristically giving no thought to the impending spring semester).

I devoured the book in two days—no doubt it would have been one if I had no other responsibilities—and I found it incredibly compelling, despite having prior (pun intended) knowledge of its plot. In fact, my reading was probably improved by having read Prior’s reflections, as it tuned me in to one of the more subtle themes in Silence. Father Rodrigues, though often giving the appearance of piety, harbors within himself the besetting sin of pride. His condescension toward the Japanese villagers (and even higher government officials) is prominent, but disguises itself as pious reflection on Christ’s willingness to die not for the good and beautiful but the “miserable and corrupt”. Of course, Rodrigues does not consider himself—at least for the majority of the novel—to be in this category. Along with this, Rodrigues regularly compares himself to Christ, whether in his service to the poor villagers or in his expected “glorious martyrdom” which he often compares to the passion and suffering of Christ. 

What struck me about this was how close to appropriate this comparison is; the author of the letter to the Hebrews makes it clear that Jesus is able to empathize with us in our suffering. And yet, something about Rodrigues’ persistent identification with Jesus’ death feels like a fruit of pride. He will not apostatize like others, because he is a faithful priest in imitating Christ. He imbues his suffering with nobility that puffs him up to the level of superiority. Father Rodrigues shows us the fine line between finding comfort in the God-man who suffered for, and can empathize with, us in our pain, and seeking self-aggrandizement through over-identifying my suffering with that of Christ. 

Throughout the book, the priest wonders aloud at why God is silent in the midst of all the suffering he witnesses. Indeed, this is the central theme of the book (as the title would suggest), and the reader ought to find this question perfectly reasonable—though Rodrigues’ above-mentioned character should caution us against doing so uncritically. The book confronts the problem of evil head-on, but from a particular position: in a country where the Christians seem to be doing everything right, why is nothing working like it should? 

Why is there so much suffering as a result of obedience to God? 

But this may be capitulating too much to modernity’s concern with efficiency and the belief that, with the right combination of effort, strategy, and a little luck, everything should go according to plan. It’s no secret that the problem of evil has always existed (e.g. the book of Job), but it may be that in the modern world we have a particular difficulty with it. If ancient people expected suffering but tied it to personal morality and the transcendence of God, modern people don’t expect suffering and disbelieve in a transcendent God. Part of the air we breathe is the belief that technological advancements (or, to state it baldly, mere chronological advancement) have propelled us beyond the ordinary pain and suffering with which most people who have ever existed have had to deal. So in one sense, our version of the problem of evil is a result of a sense of entitlement—we’ve progressed to the point that we (however unconsciously) expect a relatively pain-free life, even though throughout history that has not been the case.

I say this not to make the question of God’s silence illegitimate; on the contrary, it is an extremely important question to wrestle with. But it’s worth noting that we do approach the question from a particular angle and with particular presuppositions. That is to say, we don’t have a view from nowhere. And, to return to Father Rodrigues, we could point out that the priest claims to be frustrated by the silence of God all the while meditating regularly on the face of Christ and even seeming to hear the audible voice of Christ (of course, modern skepticism and reader discretion behooves us to question the legitimacy of this experience). In an important sense, God is not at all silent. He makes his voice known in the faith of the peasants which Rodrigues not-so-subtly disdains, or at least shows condescension toward. As I read, I rather consistently felt the irony of Rodrigues’ insistence on God’s silence in the face of so much evidence of God’s action. Perhaps if his own self-perception were less bloated, he could see this.

One of the most respectable aspects of Rodrigues’ character is his consistency—even though he sometimes openly doubts the existence of God, he nevertheless makes regular attempts to pray, and echoes at times the words of the Psalmist in his laments over God’s apparent silence. This is by far the better way to grapple with the problem of evil and the sense of God’s absence; to act according to the relationship one has in Christ, even if that relationship feels strained or even like wish-fulfillment. All too often, our experience of suffering and evil can lead us to withdraw from God, rather than bring our pain to him to deal with.

Silence is a rich book. It tunes its readers into some of the most difficult questions for believers, and does not give easy answers. Like every good novel, the point is not to give clear answers to questions, but to bring the reader to ask such questions earnestly and to think about them seriously. One of the difficulties of living between the first and second comings of Jesus is the tension we feel: between the eschatological hope of new creation and the continued effects of the protological curse of Adam. Such tension brings out questions of God’s silence and makes them poignant, and we would do well to think about these questions in the context of a deep-seated trust in the person of Jesus, who has shown himself trustworthy through his death and resurrection on our behalf.