When Silence Listens!
- Samuel Lee
- Jul 16
- 4 min read
In these times, when polarization is increasing and opinions are expected to be louder and more explicit, I am reminded of the book Silence by the Japanese author Shūsaku Endō. While today we are encouraged to speak out, to take sides, and to show our allegiances openly, this book tells the story of a priest who remains silent. Not out of cowardice, but out of love. Not because of indifference, but out of deep compassion.
Although I suspect many readers are already familiar with this book, I wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone who has not yet read it. It is a deeply moving work, well-suited for the summer months—not as light reading, but as a quiet companion for reflection.
The book Silence is, first and foremost, about God’s silence: Why does God sometimes seem absent when people are suffering? But it also speaks to human silence—about the inner struggle of a believer who must act in the absence of clear answers. What does it require of a person to remain faithful, precisely when God’s voice falls silent?
The story follows Sebastião Rodrigues, a Portuguese Jesuit who travels to Japan in the 17th century to support persecuted Christians. He begins his mission full of zeal and idealism, determined to suffer for Christ if necessary. But reality confronts him with a different kind of suffering. Rodrigues is captured, and to his horror, it is not he but the Japanese believers around him who are tortured. His captors present him with a harrowing moral dilemma: if he renounces Christ—not with words, but by symbolically stepping on an image of Christ—the torture will stop. Not for himself, but for others.
And then he does it. In silence. Not a dramatic betrayal, but an inner battle that ultimately leads him to an act of love. What follows is not an execution, but a silent life in exile. Rodrigues is given a new name, continues to live in Japan, marries, and disappears from the view of his former ideals. Later, missionaries came to Japan hoping to find him. But when they met him, they no longer recognized him. To them, he was someone who had betrayed his calling—someone who had abandoned his faith. Perhaps this was an even deeper form of torment: a silent, ongoing suffering—being misunderstood by those he once called his own. But was his choice truly betrayal—or rather a radical gesture of sacrifice within a reality they could never fully comprehend?
What moves me about this story is how familiar it feels. In our society, silence is often viewed with suspicion. Those who remain silent are quickly seen as uninterested, or worse: complicit. But sometimes silence is a form of care—of listening before speaking, of seeking wisdom instead of rushing to judgment. Still, this reflection is not meant to reject speaking out. On the contrary: our world urgently needs people who raise their voices against injustice, who stand bravely for truth, justice, and mercy. It is good that there are voices who clearly and publicly express their faith and values.
Or perhaps they choose to offer a listening ear and a compassionate heart, rather than a loud voice or a raised fist. And that, too, is needed. We need both: people who speak with strength, and people who are quietly present.
There are also others who live out their action in silence. Who don’t seek a stage, don’t sign petitions, don’t post statements. Perhaps because their love shows itself in hidden care. Perhaps because they carry the suffering of others, wordlessly. Or because they realize that speaking at a certain moment could do more harm than good. Maybe they are in a complicated personal situation, making it simply impossible to speak. Or perhaps they choose to offer a listening ear and a compassionate heart, rather than a loud voice or a raised fist. And that, too, is needed. Because in this world, we need both: people who speak with strength, and people who are quietly present.
Whether you speak loud or stay silent—let it be out of love
Silence shows us that sometimes God, too, is silent. That God’s voice is not always found in thunderous words, but sometimes in the quiet presence of shared suffering. That is hard to bear, but perhaps precisely there—in that silence—God is most near. Not as the triumphant savior, but as the suffering Christ, who is silent and weeps with us.
The lesson of Silence is therefore not that we must remain silent instead of speaking. But that we must learn to discern between the two. That following Christ does not always reveal itself in words or deeds that are visible. Sometimes it is the hidden choice, the gesture no one understands, the inner struggle never shared, that is the most faithful.
Whether you speak or stay silent—let it be out of love. Let it be rooted in listening, in surrender, in connection. Because Christ can be present in both. And sometimes, just sometimes, silence speaks louder than a thousand words.
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