By Father Peter Choy Wai-man
I have just returned from a pilgrimage to Nagasaki, a place where beauty and sorrow, faith and suffering, silence and witness are deeply intertwined. Before leaving, I already knew a bit about the history of Christianity in Japan: the arrival of missionaries, the growth of the Christian community, the persecution by authorities, the martyrs who gave their lives for Christ, and the hidden Christians who secretly preserved their faith through dark times.
However, standing in Nagasaki in person—walking on the land where those Christians prayed, suffered, hid, and even sacrificed their lives—is completely different from simply reading history. A pilgrimage brings more than just knowledge; it touches the heart and turns memory into prayer.
One of the most moving stories tied to Nagasaki is that of the Twenty-Six Martyrs of Japan, who were crucified on Nishizaka Hill in 1597. Among them were Franciscans, Jesuits, laypeople, catechists, and young children. They came from various backgrounds, yet were united by the same faith and love for Christ. Some were Japanese, others foreign missionaries; some were adults, others merely children. The authorities executed them to frighten the Christian community and stop the gospel from spreading. Yet, as so often happens in Church history, the blood of the martyrs became the seed of faith.
Standing before the martyrs’ monument, I could not help but ask myself: what gave them such courage? It is easy to admire martyrdom from a distance, but imagining the fear, pain, and loneliness they faced is another matter. They were not cold stone statues, but flesh and blood. Their bodies suffered, and their hearts must have trembled.
Yet fear did not destroy their faith. Their witness was not loud in the sense of worldly power, but it speaks with a strength that has not faded over the centuries. Their final testimony reminds us that Christianity is not just a set of ideas or a cultural identity; it is a relationship with Christ—one so deep that not even death can break it.
This pilgrimage also made me reflect on the film “Silence”, adapted from Shusaku Endo’s novel. Set during the 17th-century persecutions in Japan, two Jesuit missionaries enter the country to search for their lost mentor and the hidden Christian communities. As suffering deepens, a heavy question emerges: why is God silent?
This question belongs not just to the film, but to life and the journey of faith. The characters pray and plead, seeing the innocent suffer. They long for a sign, for God to speak with power, but often experience only silence. That silence is frightening. It is the same silence many believers face in different ways: after a medical diagnosis, after losing a loved one, when prayers seem unanswered, or when doing good still leaves one feeling abandoned.
Yet this pilgrimage helped me see that God’s silence does not mean absence. Perhaps God is not always found in triumphant signs from above; perhaps he is found in the suffering face of Christ within the poor, the persecuted, the frightened, and the weak.
The martyrs of Nagasaki were not spared from suffering, but they were given the grace to remain faithful through it. The hidden Christians rarely received public recognition, yet they kept the flame of faith alive in the dark. In them, Christ was not absent; he was hidden, suffering, and enduring alongside his people.
As I return from this pilgrimage, I bring back more than just admiration for the martyrs and hidden Christians—I bring back a calling to deepen my own faith. Their story is not just past history, but a challenge to the Church and to me today. In God’s silence, am I still willing to trust? In fear, am I still willing to love? When Christ is hard to recognise, am I still willing to seek him?
