Undying Love in Kiku’s Prayer
The work of Japanese Catholic novelist Shūsaku Endō thankfully received some recognition in contemporary anglosphere after Martin Scorsese directed Silence in 2016. Audiences, for the first time, were exposed to Endō’s masterfully crafted historical fiction and blown away by the existential questions contained therein. Despite the film’s critical success, Endō, as seen from Western eyes, remains somewhat of an anomaly in the world of literature, and this is due to the fact that the dominant theme of his novels is Christianity.
This analysis, however, is not about Silence, instead it’s about a recently translated work of Endō’s. Kiku’s Prayer, like Silence, is set against the backdrop of a Japanese shogunate hostile to Christianity; it continues the saga of Japanese Christians struggling to keep their faith in the face of remorseless persecution. Set mostly in Nagasaki during the violent transition towards the Meiji restoration, Kiku’s Prayer is a story of love, faith, and suffering with multiple layers that defy one’s normative understanding of all aforementioned topics.
Kiku, the protagonist of the story, is a village girl from Urakami. Described by Endō as somewhat of a tomboy, Kiku uncharacteristically falls for a boy named Seikichi, and as we shall see, this newfound romance is no mere thing. She often fantasizes about him and dreams of becoming his wife, but her optimism runs into several mammoth hurdles. First, Seikichi turns out to be a kirishitan–a Christian. Not only is Christianity prohibited in Japan, but the Japanese people have attached various stigmas to Christians and prefer not to associate with them. This, of course, does not stop Kiku from loving Seikichi; in fact, she often considers Seikichi’s kirishitan faith as a nuisance which he could do without. What really gets under her skin is Seikichi’s devotion to this strange lady (and a virgin, of all things!) called Santa Maria. Indeed, Kiku is bothered so much by this aspect of Seikichi’s life that she often sneaks into the newly constructed Ōura church and scolds the statue of Santa Maria.
Kiku’s desire to be with Seikichi is met with a tragic fate when the Japanese authorities launch a series of violent persecutions against the Christian population of Urakami. Upon seeing Seikichi in chains, Kiku is terrified for the boy’s safety, and it is here where an unusual relationship develops between her and the Santa Maria of the Ōura church. She often scolds and pleads to the Virgin Mary for Seikichi’s safety. “You’re a woman, too,” Kiku prays to Santa Maria, “So you must understand how I feel. I prayed to you every single day that nothing terrible would happen to Seikichi…. But … but you made terrible things happen to him. Since you’re a woman … you must understand how sad … how painful … how painful …”
Endō’s portrayal of the persecutions is filled with interesting perspectives on the East vs. West debate on sovereignty, authority, and various other things. For example, we are presented with a conversation between a Japanese magistrate and a troubled French Catholic priest over the question of the foreign missionaries preferring safety despite the brutal tortures being inflicted upon the impoverished Japanese converts. What kind of a pastor would subject his laity to endure terrible punishment while telling them that everything would be okay? Another angle that makes this question so interesting is that many of Endō’s characters are allegories for nations and cultures. The French priest Petitjean is the face of Western Christianity rendered helpless to the challenges set by the East. Kiku, on the other hand, symbolizes Japan.
Kiku’s approach to faith is simplistic, but in a manner that makes all grand theories or intellectualism obsolete; it can be said that her faith is more Christian than that of many significant Christians who value differentiation over compassion. Whenever her lover Seikichi is put under intense suffering, Kiku ceases to be herself and immediately rushes to Santa Maria, begging with tears for the Holy Virgin to pour forth empathy while appealing to their commonality of being women, as we see above. Her faith, however, does not stop there.
With Seikichi suffering, Kiku refuses comfort and embraces humiliation. Reminiscent of Dostoevsky’s Sonia Marmeladova, Kiku subjects her body to humiliation and pain while working in a brothel, just so that she could bribe Seikichi’s persecutors and save him from further suffering. The author of Crime and Punishment would immediately recognize this action as Christlike. Just as Christ endured humiliation for the salvation of His creation, so would Sonia and Kiku sell off their dignities for the sake of their loved ones.
The complete lack of abstractions in Kiku’s faith is telling to the reader who is so used to the sensory overload of grandiose ideas. The way Kiku goes out of her way, ultimately dying, for the person she loves is truly a sight to behold and a stern lesson for those squabbling at dinner tables. In Kiku’s faith, there is nothing but flesh and blood; to her, abstract narratives proclaimed from pulpits appear silly and confusing until they turn real in one’s life. And God becomes real only when one completely throws herself at His feet while relinquishing all control and certainty.
Many people came away from Silence and its ending of apostasy with dashed hopes, but they would do well to continue reading Shūsaku Endō’s remaining works. If they do, they would be rewarded with simple yet profound stories of redemption through self-sacrifice and compassionate love that breaks all barriers in ways one couldn’t imagine.