Year B: The Martyrs of Japan
Lam. 3:46-48, 52-59 | Psalm 16:11 | Mark 8:34-38
Seminary of the Southwest | Austin, TX
Jonathan Hanneman
February 6, 2019
“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves
and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save
their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake,
and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”
422 years ago, nearly half a millennium, twenty native Japanese and six foreigners walked up a hill in Nagasaki, ascending toward a grove of unusual trees. It was no surprise that the branches were bare—only the waxy tsubaki and the thorny yuzu kept their leaves at this time of year. Nor, despite being arranged like a small orchard, did any bear a hint of withered fruit drying in the bright winter sun. Yet even from a distance, the trees remained strange. Unless their eyes deceived, the trunks appeared too straight, the branches too regular, too perfectly spaced for a natural tree. Trees like these were not to be found in Japan. No, they were foreign, imported from an older time, from another far away empire.
All our enemies
have opened their mouths against us;
panic and pitfall have come upon us,
devastation and destruction.
My eyes flow with rivers of tears
because of the destruction of my people.
How had it come to this? For fifty years Christianity had thrived in Japan. Ever since Fr. Francis Xavier and his friends arrived, the Church had found fertile soil, especially in these western regions of the Empire of the Sun. True, some of the daimyo had welcomed the missionaries under pretense, primarily to increase trade with the Spanish and Portuguese, but many of the people had truly embraced the teachings of Jesus. As many as three hundred thousand had turned to follow the Living Son, this one who rose from the West to return to the great God of Heaven. Surely, not even the apostles would have had such success during the early days of the Church.
Those who were my enemies without cause
have hunted me like a bird;
they flung me alive into a pit
and hurled stones on me;
water closed over my head;
I said, “I am lost.”
But why were they here? Why now? Did the twenty-six know? Had any of them even heard of the wreck of the San Felipe? The seas were treacherous, even for those familiar with their illusions. Ships sank all the time. And the Spanish galleon had run aground far away in Shikoku. Did its captain realize what he was saying—could he have guessed the consequences of his words? They had certainly spread beyond the fortress in Tosa. Had the common people heard now, too? Rumors had a way of creeping across the land. Behind the palace walls in Kyoto the lips of Toyotomi Hideyoshi drew thin. His eyes darkened with rage as the whispers reached his ears. “We Spanish use the missionaries to soften up a country. They think we’re here to help. Then their own people join our military in conquest.” The ruler had heard enough. Between the captain’s words and the Spanish occupation of the Philippines, he knew the foreigners couldn’t be trusted. All missionaries were to be expelled from the country immediately.
I called on your name, O Lord,
from the depths of the pit;
you heard my plea, ‘Do not close your ear
to my cry for help, but give me relief!’
You came near when I called on you;
you said—you said—“Do not fear!”
Seven months after San Felipe incident, the twenty-six reached their destination on that Nagasaki hillside. The strange trees stood starkly before the men and boys. Even from a distance, their eyes had not deceived them. The trunks were too straight, the branches too regular, too perfectly spaced for a natural tree. Despite being arranged like a small orchard, none yet bore a hint of withered fruit drying in the bright winter sun. Each Christian quietly took his place, one martyr per cross.
You have taken up my cause, O Lord,
you have redeemed my life.
You have seen the wrong done to me, O Lord;
judge my cause.
What strange fruit is this, embodied bread and wine suddenly hoisted onto the boughs, tied unnaturally each to its tree? What curious rustling of leaves, a host of quiet hymns murmuring on the breeze! The produce slowly sags, drawing heavily on the stiffened limbs. Two spears, like great pruning hooks, sink into each Christian’s side. The muddy ground runs red, new seed sown on once fertile soil.
You will show me the path of life;
in your presence there is fullness of joy,
and in your right hand are pleasures for evermore.
422 years later, we pause to remember. We remember the faithfulness of these nearly forgotten martyrs, Japan’s first, but by no means final. We remember their willing witness beyond lost hope. And we remember Christ’s call—a call to follow. A call to self-denial. A call to crucifixion. Because once you have taken up your cross, no matter your era, and no matter your station, the path leads but one direction: toward the breaking of illusion—and the tree of life.
“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves
and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save
their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake,
and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”