Magnolia’s Existential Coincidences

[This first appeared on The Jagged Word on July 28]

Magnolia was the first movie I watched that opened up for me how films could tell stories of sin and redemption without explicitly proceeding from a Christian worldview. Admittedly, Magnolia is more on the sin than the redemption side. And yet, the raw emotion on display is what makes each character so compelling.

The opening collage of coincidences too striking to be coincidences informs the interwoven stories of the characters in the film. How much coincidence is enough to push someone over the edge into believing that something greater is at work? Is it fate or something stranger?

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In Praise of Escapism

[This first appeared at The Jagged Word on July 14.]

It is endlessly tiresome to consider all the Christian think-pieces that come out after any significant secular film, trying to find a metaphor or an allegory under every narrative. There are certainly films outside of “Christian movies” that contain Christian themes and tell stories that intersect or are parallel to the Story. But we can try too hard. Consider all the nonsense straining to connect the Force to a possible conception of the Christian God. Or as The Matrix Reloaded and Revolutions proved, whatever intimations of Christianity the first film might have had, it was really just a gumbo of spiritual eclecticism. Sometimes a film is just a film.

And I think that might be okay. There isn’t anything inherently wrong with entertainment for entertainment’s sake. The problem comes not when entertainment is not taken seriously enough but when it’s taken too seriously. In our culture, entertainment, politics, sports (and everything else) are elevated to pedestals far too high for them to remain without tottering and falling. They are our cultural idols which have their own temples, rituals, iconography, and gnostic lingo. People who do not worship God in Christ do not worship nothing. Rather, since creatures must worship, they will worship anything and everything. And personal gods are always jealous gods, before whom their adherents will force everything else to bow—like a college student taking a single class in cultural criticism and being unable to think in any other terms. To someone whose only tool is a hammer, everything is a nail.

To 21st century North Americans, with our particular modern hammers, everything is Political. Everything is a Game. Everything is (or must be translated into) Entertainment (cf. Neil Postman). That’s too much weight for any of those things to bear. We must not take them so seriously. When it happens in cinema, every film, actor, and director has to “make a statement.” But in my (admittedly anecdotal) experience, it’s when a film tries to “say something” that it fails, both commercially and as good film. People know when they’re being propagandized, and unless they’re totally on board already, they don’t like it—not to mention that it usually creates bad art.

So, instead of being “meaningful” and “profound,” just give me a good story. Interestingly, good stories are usually meaningful, even profound. But even if they’re not—even if they’re just fun—that’s good enough. For example, Baby Driver is a fun little flick that flirts with delving into deep, childhood grief. It’s a romance and a comedy and an action movie. But it doesn’t try to be too much, and I’m okay with that. It shifts effortlessly (pun semi-intended) between serious crime-and-car-chase and witty dialogue and humor (“he puts the Asian in home invasion” or Mike Myers/Austin Powers Halloween masks instead of Michael Myers Halloween masks). There are a lot of heist movie character clichés, but Jon Hamm, Kevin Spacey, and Jamie Foxx are good enough actors to play those clichés as they should be played: all the way to 11.

I’ve also been enjoying the Department Q films on Netflix. Based on books by Jussi Adler-Olsen, these Danish films are excellent detective/crime movies. They are, like Bosch and True Detective (Season One, at least; I didn’t hear good words about Season Two), more character studies of the detectives than they are narrative-focused (although the stories keep moving).

The most recent one, Department Q: A Conspiracy of Faith, does have an underlying discussion about what any kind of religious faith is for, since one of the detectives, Assad, is a Muslim, and they are investigating a small religious cult’s connections to the abductions and murders of children. The final scene in particular surprised me as I was moved emotionally more than I expected to be.

But finally, they’re simply good stories. And a little entertainment and distraction and escapism is all the more needed when everything is being co-opted politically and culturally. If it’s good, it’s good, even if it doesn’t check all the right political and social boxes. Yes, a fictional world that is constructed to tell a good story can turn our eyes more critically back on the real world. Yes, films and other entertainment can help us see things more clearly. But that’s not their primary purpose (or it shouldn’t be).

For example, Get Out is a pretty good picture of a horrifying alternate reality. But people want it to say too much. And I suspect it’s a much better description of the sorts of people who take every opportunity to prove they’re “woke” than of the veiled racism that may or may not exist in every social interaction. I think both the people who see it, on the one hand. as a necessary and fundamentally important exploration of racist social structures or, on the other hand, as a shallow, typical, and unreal progressive social statement are missing the point that it’s a tense and fun ride while it lasts.

Simply stated, let me have my escapism. When politics is taken too seriously, the president is either destroying everything or saving everything, and this is the Most Important Election in our lifetime. When sports are taken too seriously, people get far too angry and bitter about wins and losses and teams and rivals. When films are taken too seriously, we have to find profundity in everything, even if it’s not there. Not everything affects everyone. Not everything is political. Not everything is a game. Not everything is entertainment.

But such things can be ordered correctly only if one has the true God. Idolatry inverts the right order of everything. Only when the crucified and resurrected Jesus has made His Father our true God again by faith is everything put back into its proper place. The true God, the Creator, subverts all our attempts to make created things bear too much weight. The true God subordinates truly subordinate things. Then we can actually worship the only One who should be worshiped, while the penultimate things remain penultimate; politics becomes a way of ordering our civil life together in this creation, sport remains play, and entertainment remains escapism that is freed to hint at the true Story of things by its narrower sub-reality. And that is as it should be.

In the new creation, there will be no politics (as we commonly understand it) because its full and only polis will be the eternal, visible reign of God. There will be then no entertainment that subverts the good, true, and beautiful, nor will there be entertainment that points us beyond that eternal moment. And while there may be play in its truest sense, it will never be subjected to our corrupted hero-worship and tendency to make created things the measure of reality. So, for now, while we wait in this distorted and corrupted creation for that new and restored creation, a place for everything, and everything in its place—even movies.

Longing for Happiness

[This first appeared at The Jagged Word on July 7.]

Sometimes you watch a bunch of movies in a row and the same actor appears in all of them (like that time I watched probably five movies in a row with Benicio del Toro (or the Puerto Rican Brad Pitt, as I like to think of him—or maybe Brad Pitt is the North American Benicio del Toro. Anyway.)

Other times, it’s not actors but themes that start to appear and coalesce from more than one movie. So I watched two movies in consecutive nights that deal with the relationships between parents and children. The first, with a father and a daughter, was Toni Erdmann, a nearly three-hour German comedy (yes, really, a funny German film). The second, with a mother and son, was 20th Century Women, a sort of inverted coming-of-age film that takes place in Southern California in 1979 (based semi-autobiographically on writer/director Mike Mills’ own childhood). If I were going to pick a favorite, it would be 20th Century Women, simply for the brilliance of Annette Bening—maybe just for the brilliance of her facial expression throughout the film.

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Longing for Life

[This first appeared at The Jagged Word on June 30.]

Here’s one for a long and ongoing conversation. Ordet is a 1955 Danish film (and 1956 Golden Globe award winner for Best Foreign Language Film) about a family living in a small town in Jutland, where the division between the organized state church and a conversionist sect becomes the catalyst for everyone’s crisis of faith. This is a hard film to watch for people (like me) who have been inoculated to older (purer?) cinema by technological advances, high production values, fast pacing, and color.

Even so, it is clear that there is nothing unnecessary in this film. Every piece of the set was specifically put in place by director Carl Theodor Dreyer (even to the point of Dreyer going shopping for wardrobe pieces with his actors and actresses), and every shot is exactly the minimum. Many of the scenes are, in fact, a single shot, which sets it apart even further from modern, continuously changing scenes. Dreyer has minutes, not seconds, per shot. In the end, the set is so sparsely decorated that the viewer’s focus is forced toward what Dreyer views as essential.

Adding to the force of the film (at least for a Lutheran pastor) is that the writer of the play on which the film is based, Kaj Munk, was a Danish Lutheran pastor who preached against the Nazi occupation of Denmark and was murdered by the Gestapo in 1944 for his opposition. The stone cross erected where Munk’s body was found appears twice in the film.

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Indie Cliches

[This appeared first at The Jagged Word on June 23.]

On my last post, John Joseph Flanagan (who must have been a 19th century Irish priest in a former life—no, I do not really believe in reincarnation) commented,

I think you should consider filling your mind and exposing your eyes to more uplifting entertainment than horror movies and stories about zombies. After awhile in the cesspool of life, one can become really quite soiled you know. And if you just happen to be a Christian or at least profess to follow Jesus, you might consider the choices you make as indicative of your character and the virtues you embrace. “Guard your heart, ” the Bible tells us. Even Christian liberty can be abused, and to open yourself to the garbage you write about will surely lead to a dark path indeed, and away from the faith and far away from your Lord.

The fact is, he’s right, for the most part (despite the high school condescension). Which is what I tried to say about mere slasher films. The point is not that horror is, in general, a particularly great film genre. The point is that some horror films contain themes that a more straightforward narrative genre may not be able to approach. And, of course, this is true of any genre. Comedy? It’s incredibly difficult to find a comedy that’s actually funny, let alone one that says something good or true. Most of it consists of vulgarities and sexually explicit “jokes.” And it’s not only that such things are usually unfunny; they’re simply tiresome. It’s rare to find a film that approaches things from a unique perspective—which, considering the fact that nearly everything’s been done before, would have to be the goal. What is new is generally not new; it’s simply looking at old things from a different angle.

That said, what could be more “uplifting” and “indicative of [my] character and the virtues [I hope to] embrace” than a father who exhibits a pretty darn good likeness of repentance and self-giving sacrifice? Besides that, if you want something really edifying and uplifting, I’d suggest Genesis 9; Genesis 29-30; Ezekiel 23; and the Book of Judges.

On with the trivialities.

Indie films of which I’ve never heard are, by definition, a mixed bag. Who knows whether something’s going to be good or not—although I am usually hesitant to watch something that no one has ever recommended to me. So it was with trepidation that I pressed play on Little Sister. What to expect of a movie whose cover has a cartoon version of a pink-haired girl praying and a gothic-lettered title? What to make of a film that begins with a Marilyn Manson quote and then a pot-smoking Ally Sheedy? Whatever else it is, it’s not a purely conventional movie.

And because it’s not conventional, it is exceedingly human. These aren’t stock characters and their responses are unexpected because of it. Colleen, played by relative unknown (at least to me) Addison Timlin, is in the novitiate of the Sisters of Mercy in Brooklyn (which convent, incidentally, was closed in 2008, and which is also the name of a UK goth-rock band). At a ridiculous performance “art” representation of the 9-11 attacks (including, naturally, the over-serious Brooklynite hipsters and two women with planes on their heads dancing around a building that becomes a third, burqa-covered dancer), she is mockingly asked whether she’s really a nun. Only moderately uncomfortable, she says yes.

This is the first indication that she is not, predictably, suffering anything like a crisis in her decision to become a nun. No wonder it’s an indie! This is not to say she doesn’t feel the friction between her old life of black clothing, goth makeup, and punk and shock-rock and her new life of prayer and service. In her old room, painted black, she turns right-side up her white crucifix. And her nunnish cardigans don’t quite work with her Misfits t-shirts. And yet, there’s continuity: when asked if her not drinking is a “nun thing,” she says, “No, it’s a Colleen thing.”

She decides to return home when she hears that her brother, a Marine, has come back, scarred literally and figuratively from war. He hides out in a dark little house on her parents’ property, behind hooded sweatshirts and black sunglasses, playing his drum set. The narrative turns on her relationship with her brother, so close when they were young, but now strained by time and experience; her relationship with her mother, who at some point tried to commit suicide (and is now self-medicating on top of her prescriptions); and her relationships with her brother’s fiancee and her best friend from high school. All of these relationships are far more complicated than in most indie comedies, and that is what makes it appealing. None of the characters does precisely what you expect them to do at the times when you expect them to do it—a credit to the writer/director, Zach Clark (whose work is, again, unknown to me).

Finally, this is a film that should be much more widely known, if for nothing else than its ability to walk right up to clichés before inverting them into something recognizable as simple human complexity (with oxymoron intact). The clichés that minor characters utter are viewed with disdain by both Colleen and her brother, Jacob. This is as it should be in life generally—perhaps especially when it comes to Christianity. Clichés kill what is good or true by repetition into oblivion. War, religion, depression, tragedy, politics; Little Sister shows that all of them are minimized, even neutralized, when they become clichés. Once in a while, an unknown indie comedy pays off.

Fatherhood on the Train to Busan

[This first appeared on The Jagged Word on June 16.]

I search out movies the way I search out music: not according to genre, but according to what strikes a human chord. I like music that says something, not music that fits a commercial niche. I don’t want to be sold something; I want to be told something.

So when it comes to horror movies (in which there are, of course, many sub-genres), I need something beyond making me jump. That can be fun for a little while, because the scare is not real. Perhaps we like those films because it’s a way for us to release the stress of real-life fears and we can still turn off the tv at the end. I recently saw Lake Bodom, a Finnish-Estonian horror based around an unsolved murder of four teenagers in 1960. It’s well done and the tension is stretched taught. But, in the end, it’s not much more than a Scandinavian slasher film. If that’s your thing, I’d recommend it. But I can do without the mere spreading of blood and gore across a forest.

On the other hand, there are horrors that touch something far deeper than our fright reflex. Recently, I’ve been impressed by It Follows, The Babadook, and The Taking of Deborah Logan, films that deal with STDs, the death of a father and husband, and dementia, respectively.

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The New(?) Sexual Revolution

[This appeared first at The Jagged Word on June 9]

I want documentaries to document. And I want tension: tension between viewpoints; tension in the progression of the story; tension between the filmmakers and the subjects. Propaganda may be interesting for any number of reasons, but not because of its tension. It has a single-minded purpose and a tunnel-vision perspective. It consciously excludes anything that argues against the obvious purpose. But human beings and the events they observe are complicated. So if there’s no tension, I’m not interested. And I appreciate it when documentaries can document that tension without turning into propaganda.

A documentary that documents a disturbing modern tension is Liberated: The New Sexual Revolution, which screened in April at the Newport Beach Film Festival. The story takes for its starting point the thousands of students who attend Spring Break in Florida. It begins by following a group of Australian boys as they plan out their drinking and partying. The foggy atmosphere of alcohol and sex probably won’t surprise anyone. What might surprise is the flippancy, arrogance, and casual attitudes of the people who appear in the film. But this isn’t a sanitized version of Girls Gone Wild. This isn’t voyeurism dressed up by pearl-clutching and gasping. The only emotion aroused is sadness. Here is the hook-up culture presented without varnish, and there’s nothing sexy about it.

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Jagged Movies

[This appeared first at The Jagged Word on June 2]

Who am I and what am I doing here? Or, to beg a phrase, What the hell is going on!

Why am I talking about films and theology? You definitely don’t need another person, Lutheran or not, telling you what to think about movies.

Good. Because I have no desire to do that. And, beside that, I have no training. I didn’t go to film school. I’m not really sure what a best boy is, or what he does, or if it has to be a boy. I can’t talk the technical language of a professional film critic. However, with that said, I am a short film programmer for the Newport Beach Film Festival, which involved watching more than 300 short films last year. So I’ve seen a thing or two.

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The Dogma is the Drama


Amen and amen.

Let us, in heaven’s name, drag out the divine drama from under the dreadful accumulation of slipshod thinking and trashy sentiment heaped upon it, and set it on an open stage to startle the world into some sort of vigorous reaction.  If the pious are the first to be shocked, so much the worse for the pious–others will pass into the kingdom of heaven before them.  If all men are offended because of Christ, let them be offended; but where is the sense of their being offended at something that is not Christ and is nothing like him?  We do him singularly little honor by watering down his personality till it could not offend a fly.  Surely it is not the business of the Church to adapt Christ to men, but to adapt men to Christ.

It is the dogma that is the drama–not beautiful phrases, nor comforting sentiments, nor vague aspirations to loving-kindness and uplift, nor the promise of something nice after death–but the terrifying assertion that the same God who made the world, lived in the world and passed through the grave and the gate of death.  Show that to the heathen, and they may not believe it; but at least they may realize that here is something that a man might be glad to believe.

[Dorothy Sayers, “The Dogma is the Drama,” Letters to a Diminished Church20-21]




[Yes, there are “spoilers.”]

Silence is not a “Christian” movie.  If it were, no doubt the climax would see Inoue and his translator converted, the Japanese Jesuit mission judged an astounding success, and both Ferreira and Rodrigues refusing to trample the fumie (the pictures of Jesus or Mary produced in seventeenth century Japan).

It is also not an easy movie to categorize.  I should say, it’s not an easy story to categorize.  I’ve read the novel by Shusaku Endo twice, and because the film adheres so closely to the book, they can be considered as one story told in two media.

But what kind of story is it?  On the surface, it’s about a man riven with love for the Japanese and his Christian mission toward them, but who cannot seem to help them, no matter what path he chooses.  If he holds fast to his faith, they suffer.  If he apostatizes, they suffer, perhaps more deeply.

The title hints at the significant theme underlying the entire story: the silence of God.  For Rodrigues, though there is sound all around him, he does not hear the only Voice for which he longs.  That contrast of silence and sound is one of the masterful devices of the film.  There is very, very little music.  The sound comes (as it does in the book) from rain, waves crashing, the screams of those being tortured, the chants of Buddhist monks, and the hymns of the martyrs.

Endo’s genius (with Scorsese following) is that both the book and the film are silent about whether there really is an answer according to the terms that Rodrigues sets.  Where is God?  Is He speaking?  Is He speaking in the silence, as Rodrigues seems to hear in the voice of Christ toward the end of the movie and the book?

Even now that face is looking at me with eyes of pity from the plaque rubbed flat by many feet.  “Trample!” said those compassionate eyes.  “Trample!  Your foot suffers in pain; it must suffer like all the feet that have stepped on this plaque.  But that pain alone is enough.  I understand your pain and your suffering.  It is for that reason that I am here.”

“Lord, I resented your silence.”

“I was not silent.  I suffered beside you.”

“But you told Judas to go away: What thou dost do quickly.  What happened to Judas?”

“I did not say that.  Just as I told you to step on the plaque, so I told Judas to do what he was going to do.  For Judas was in anguish as you are now.”

But Our Lord was not silent.  Even if he had been silent, my life until this day would have spoken of him.

The question is, of course, is this actually the voice of Christ?  Or is it the voice Rodrigues wants to hear, and so does?  Because this is neither a “Christian” novel, nor a “Christian” movie, we are left to ponder this for ourselves.

But that’s not the only question raised by the story.  Immediately, the question is, what would anyone do when faced with torture if one does not place a foot on a picture?  One of the Japanese interrogators puts it this way in the book:

“The sooner you get through with it, the sooner you’ll get out of here,” roared one of the officials.  “I’m not telling you to trample with sincerity and conviction.  This is just a formality.  Just putting your foot on the thing won’t hurt your convictions.”

The officials kept insisting to the Christians that to trample on the fumie was no more than a formality.  All you had to do was put your foot on it.  If you did that, nobody cared what you believed.

Is it “no more than a formality”?  Was it no more than a formality for the Christians in Rome to worship Caesar and to deny Christ, even if, in their hearts, they still held to Christ?  When, in an earlier scene, the Christians do trample on the fumie, they are then told that it is not enough, that they must spit on a crucifix and call the Mother of God a whore.  What is in a word, an action, a footstep, an image?  Jesus says that to deny Him before men means His denial of us before the Father.  Is that a spoken denial?  A denial in action?  A denial of omission, or of commission?  Silence requires an examination of all these questions.

And what about Christianity in “foreign soil,” in the “swamp” of Japan, as is repeated more than once?  Is Christianity a tree that grows well in one soil, but not in others?  Is it merely a Western religion, that cannot adapt to Eastern conditions?  This is a thoroughly modern question, as any overview of Christian missionary work can attest.  Is Rodrigues correct, or are Inoue and Ferreira?  Fascinating that reviewers on the other side of Christian faith have criticized the film precisely for the reasons that Ferreira says Christianity doesn’t belong in Japan: evangelism itself implies imperialistic and chauvinistic motives.  And, in a parallel move, that Scorsese has been unfaithful to Endo’s book by focusing on Rodrigues’ struggle, while using the Japanese “other” as a mere foil.  These questions are, in fact, at the heart of both the film and the novel, even 50 years ago when Silence was published.

Endo seems to be working through all of these questions and more himself.  This becomes clearer when reading his other books, where he touches on many of the same themes– though, perhaps, nowhere as powerfully as here.  In a few of his short stories, and elsewhere, the names of Inoue and Kichijiro (the inquisitor and cowardly Judas figure, respectively) reappear, indicating that Endo was working through–both before and after Silence–what these characters mean.

Endo, himself a Roman Catholic, struggles with the nature of a Japanese Christianity.  This is complicated by the historical reality of syncretism in Japan, where Christians did combine elements of Buddhism and ancestor worship with Christianity.  The Kakure Kirishitan were those who secretly held their faith and later, when persecution ceased, were reunited with the Church; while the Hanare Kirishitan continued to be separated and practice the syncretistic religion they had received.  [I recommend the fascinating preface by William Johnston in the Taplinger Publishing edition of Silence.  It includes excerpts from interviews with Endo, as well as examination of his views of Christianity and Japanese culture.]

In one sense, this film takes far more seriously the struggle of flesh and the Spirit than many of the movies that have been marketed to Christians in the past few years, which is perhaps why so few Christians have heard of or seem to be going to see this film.  Compared to something like God’s Not Dead, this film is more substantial, significant, and considered.  And because there are no easy answers, it is far truer to life in this creation.  There is no easy, happy ending.  And, for some reason, that has caused some Christian reviewers to condemn it (as if a film had to have a prescribed ending in order to say something to Christians).

This is much more Job than Heaven is for Real.

Which means that it is far more Scriptural than anything else that comes to mind in “Christian” cinema.  And yet, that’s not to say that it should be viewed as anything more than a semi-fictional exploration of faith, doubt, apostasy, and faithfulness.  In other words, this is not Christian propaganda, or proselytizing, or hagiography.  Endo is not, by his writing, praising or promoting some point of view.  This, I think, is why modern Christians are having trouble with both the novel and the film: they cannot categorize it, so it must be something less than edifying–which, perhaps, says more about Americanized Christianity than it says about the Faith (or the film) itself.  The general comfort in which we live–analogized by the fact that I sat in a leather, reclining theater seat to watch the film–has distanced us from the questions of the novel in such a way that the themes are as foreign to us as Japan seems to the Portuguese missionaries, and Christianity to the Japanese persecutors.

Since when is the Christian Faith so fragile that a fictionalized struggle–which is, at the same time, a real struggle–can threaten its adherents?  Maybe since American Christians have quarantined the Faith into neat boxes with 90 degree corners and perfectly straight lines.  Have we lost the ability to think?  (I fear that to ask the question is to receive the answer.)

I wonder, though, if there is not still another level to the story that makes Rodrigues into a Christ-figure, despite himself.  That is, perhaps very real apostasy–very real sin and denial–are sins for which Christ died.  If Christ’s suffering and crucifixion was graphically specific to graphically particular sins, then Rodrigues (again, in spite of himself) bears on his own shoulders the weight of the Japanese apostasy by taking it on himself.  They are set free from the same sin by which he condemns himself.

But even that action is not unambiguous.  And Scorsese complicates it by the absolute silence at the moment of Rodrigues’ apostasy, followed by the crow of a rooster.  Is Rodrigues Christ (as Ferreira tempts him to be)?  Is he Peter?  Or is he Judas (though Rodrigues has continually imagined Kichijiro in that role)?

Endo (and, in near perfection, Scorsese has followed him) has taken historical events and told the story in such complex layers that they have become, like our own lives and motivations, nearly impossible to disentangle.

But maybe that is precisely the point: to discern God’s voice in the myriad deceptions and longings and motivations of our own minds and hearts is a frustratingly silent enterprise.  Like Job in the vast majority of the book that bears his name, God refuses to speak to him.  He prays and rages and asks for an answer, a reason, anything.

God is silent.

But when God speaks, it is not to defend Himself and His ways.  Nor does His answer come where we think it should: in our suffering, or our love, or our desire to be faithful.  Neither is it to give us answers to our whys, or to intervene in the ways we wish He would.  There is an intervention, without a doubt.  But it is in the Son’s suffering, the Son’s love, the Son’s faithfulness.  It is in the Son’s forsakenness, the Son’s being emptied, the Son’s death.

And it is indeed in silence.  A silence more terrible than Rodrigues experiences.  But the counterpoint to the silence of God in the face of Jesus’ cry of dereliction on the cross is not His silence in the face of our cries.  Since the seraph closed the Garden’s entrance to Adam and Eve, that is nothing new, and it is not redemptive in itself.  The final word is not in how God, though appearing silent, speaks through us.  It is in the voice of the messenger sitting on the stone jarred loose: He is not here; He has risen, just as He said.  To look for another Word, or another Promise, or another Intervention is not faith, but a failure to take God at the Word He has given.  It is unbelief at its most pious: to look for a word from God in some other place than where He has actually spoken.

Neither the book nor the film should lead us to facile and superficial judgments on persecution, blasphemy, or apostasy.  Endo–as he himself said–was writing fiction, not theology.  But the best fiction can lead us into the deepest theological waters, as Silence leads us to meditate on God’s silence.  And perhaps God’s silent refusal to answer the questions we think are so profound can lead us to ask the question whose answer He has already given: whose answer is always and only the forsaken, suffering, dead, and resurrected Christ for us.