Cathy Brueggemann Beil is the author of The Samurai and the Tea: A Legacy of Japan’s Early Christians, an historical novel “of a Japanese-American Catholic boy who rediscovers the importance of the Faith after being mystically transported back to the scenes of important events in the history of Japanese Catholicism.”
Beil had this to say (via e-mail) about her novel:
“The Samurai and the Tea centers around Michael, a 14-year-old Japanese American boy. His father is of German descent and his Japanese American mother died when he was a toddler. Michael struggles with the fact that he looks different from his father and that many even think he was adopted. The one thing this young boy finds pride in is the history of the Samurai, whom he considers brave. Michael longs for the set of Samurai swords belonging to his grandmother. Instead, she presents him with an ancient tea ceremony set. He is appalled at such a gift but honors his grandmother with a tea ceremony.
“The moment he places his lips on the rim of the chawan he is transported to the days of Pearl Harbor. Using the chawan, Michael does travels through time to important events in Japanese history: He witnesses the brave Japanese American soldiers die for their country on the battle fields of France. He meets Dr. Takashi Nagai, before and after the devastation of Nagasaki, the most Catholic city of Japan, by an atomic bomb. He learns that honor is the real mark of bravery and that it was often the standard carried by his Catholic ancestors.”
What inspired Beil to write the novel?
“I became interested in the story after doing an article on the Tiananmen Square Massacre. (The article appeared in St. Anthony Messenger magazine in 1990.) During my research I became fascinated with the spirit of the Asian people, particularly their early Christian converts.”
She provided me with the following excerpt from The Samurai and the Tea:
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kneeling in the snow near the twenty-six crosses, Michael prayed without words. His mind was empty of language or expression. His heart was beating; no, it was bursting, with the conviction that he was in the presence of God.
He prayed without words because words were not sufficient. A mantle of holiness covered the hill. And for just a moment, sanctity flushed away the flimsy words from his soul.
He felt pain in his hands, but the word, “ouch,” never reached his lips. Opening his palms from the praying position, he saw blood running through his fingers.
The broken bits of the chawan, forgotten for those few moments, had sliced into his flesh. Michael watched as his blood fell to the ground, blending with the blood of the martyrs.
“Here, let me help you,” it was the sword maker’s sister. She picked the broken bits from his wound. Producing a small square of blue satin from her cloth kimono bag, she wrapped the pieces and placed the bundle back in her bag. Then, she withdrew a second cloth and wiped the blood from his hands.
“Come with me. It is over now, we must return to our homes.” Michael got up and followed her without speaking.
She led him down the road to the village. They walked in silence past many others who were returning from the martyrs’ hill.
It wasn’t until they entered the doorway of a small, thatched roof hut that Michael found his voice. “Why are you helping me?”
“What else would you have me do?” the woman asked sadly. Then she said, “Dozo, please, sit.” And Michael folded his legs and sat on the floor.
She knelt at the hibachi in the middle of the room to heat a kettle of water. Using a cloth, she carried the hot kettle to where Michael sat. She put it down and, taking the cloth, ripped two narrow strips from it. She dipped the remaining cloth in the water and wrung it out. Wiping his hands with the hot cloth, she said, “What we have witnessed has changed us forever. But it must be a change for good, or our loved one dies in vain, does he not?” Her eyes penetrated his and Michael felt she could read his every thought. She unwrapped a bundle and removed a pot that held some sort of paste. It was the color of seaweed and smelled terrible. She rubbed it between her fingers and then wiped it over his cuts.
“But it is too awful,” Michael tried to explain. “I mean ?Thomas, Anthony and Louis were only boys. It just isn’t right!”
The old woman smiled a smile of sadness. She wrapped Michael’s hand with one of the narrow strips of cotton, and then repeated the process with his other hand.
“It is impossible to have known God, to have tasted His heavenly gift, and turn away from our fellow man. Shikata ga nai, it does not matter about fair,” she said.
Michael watched as she bound his wounds and he ached for his father and grandmother.
The woman made a bed of quilts for Michael and told him to rest. He lay on the bedding and exhaustion poured over him. His eyes grew heavy as he watched her clear away the material she had used to treat his wounds. I never asked her name, he thought. But he was so tired.
She was still busy as his eyes closed. Was he dreaming or did she bring him a bowl of tea? He felt the warmth of the liquid as it touched his lips. When he opened his eyes to take the bowl, he saw the neat, tiny crosses lining the familiar rim of the amber chawan. He drank of the tea and then he closed his eyes in sleep.
He heard noises as he slept. Faint at first, the noises grew gradually louder. Michael stretched his arms and rubbed his eyes with his fists. The roughness of the cotton bandages scratched his face. But there was no pain from his wounds.
He opened his eyes and saw a young boy, about five or six years old sitting next to him. The boy was holding a cricket cage. It was finely crafted from twigs and a sheath of bamboo shoots and resembled a country cottage. The noise Michael had heard was the singing of the crickets inside the cage.
“Mother, he is awake,” the boy shouted.
A pretty young woman entered the room. “You have returned from the land of sleep. We were worried about you.”
Michael looked around for the old woman. She wasn’t there. Then, he noticed that the room itself was different. There was no hibachi in the center of the floor. The blankets he was covered with were of a different color. He looked at the bandages the old woman had applied. Prying them loose, he uncovered his hands. He was not surprised when he saw they were healed. He was, again, in another time.
“How long have I been here?” he asked.
“Since kanashimi no hairi.” Michael understood the strange Japanese words, but kanashimi no hairi, which meant, “entering into sorrow,” confused him.
“You mean, sorrow for the martyrs?” he asked.
The little boy and the woman looked at each other and then at Michael. “Go, Ichiro” the woman said to the boy, “Tell your father.”
“Yes, Mother.” The boy scrambled to his feet and ran out the door, taking his crickets with him. The air grew heavy with silence. The woman looked at him and said, “You are Kakure Krishitan?”
“Hidden Christian?” Michael was puzzled by her words. “I am a Christian, yes. But I have not been hiding.”
She opened a lacquer box and pulled something from it. “These tamoto kami, sleeve gods, were found under the sleeve of your kimono.” She handed them to Michael and he saw that they were small crosses cut from paper. “We knew when we saw them that you were a Kakure Krishitan.”
Michael didn’t know what she meant by Kakure, hidden, and he had no idea where the sleeve gods had come from. The old woman must have slipped them in his kimono while he slept.
Then, voices were heard at the door. Ichiro ran through as soon as it opened. “Slow down, Ichiro,” said his mother.
“But Mother, Honorable Father has good news!” A man entered the room, behind Ichiro. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “Slow down little one.” Then he said to his wife, “He is excited, Yuko. I do indeed have news.”
Yuko smiled and said, “Then we both have news, my husband.” And she turned to look at Michael. Her husband did the same.
“I am Peter. I see you have met my family. What is your name and how did you come to be here?”
“My name is Michael, and I’m not sure how I came here. The last thing I remember is falling asleep. When I woke up, here I was.”
“What a sleep you have had then,” Peter laughed aloud. He looked to his wife and said, “Let us eat and I shall tell you of my news.” He motioned for Michael to come with them.
At the table, the family bowed their heads and Peter recited a prayer. Yuko passed a serving bowl of rice around the table.
Peter then told of his news. “A Bateren, a priest, has come to Nagasaki!” Yuko gasped and looked sharply at her husband.
“Dozo, please, Yuko. It is true. I have seen him with my own eyes.”
“How did you learn of this?” Yuko asked. “You have not asked questions publicly have you?”
“I have spoken only among the Kakure Krishitan. Perhaps we are finally to be blessed after so long.”
Michael could remain silent no longer. “What are you talking about? You speak of “Hidden Christians” and talk as if you haven’t seen a priest before in Nagasaki.”
Peter said, “Since the ban on Christianity we have had to remain hidden from authorities. We have lived faithful to the memory of our ancestors, who died for Christ centuries ago. I am a catechist. My home is honored to house the nandogami.”
He explained that the nandogami were closet gods, hidden from the authorities, but close at hand for the faithful. Peter rose and went to the closet. He brought six lacquer boxes back to the table. Handling the objects reverently, he opened the first box saying, “These are gozensama.”
Michael caught his breath. Inside, beneath a woodblock print of Christ on the cross, was a scroll with a painting of twenty-six crosses bearing the bodies of twenty-three men and three boys. Peter continued with his explanations, but Michael was barely listening. He forced himself to look away from the picture of his friends and tried to pay attention as Peter returned the last item, a small metal statue of the Blessed Virgin, to the box.
He opened the second box. In it was a cloth bag. Peter opened the bag and gently emptied it of sixteen small pieces of wood. “These are ofuda,” he said.
Each block of wood was etched with a cross, a number from one to five, and Japanese writing on the front. On the back, the Japanese characters indicated joyful (oyorokobi), sorrowful (okanashimi), or glorious (gororiya-sama). The sixteenth piece had the joyful symbol and the word, amen.
“These blocks represent the fifteen mysteries of the Holy Rosary,” Peter said.
Michael knew that Catholics prayed the Rosary with beads, strung together. Each mystery, or decade of beads, focused on a point in the life of Christ and His Blessed Mother. The ofuda was the Rosary in disguise.
Each box contained items that were important to the people and their faith. One held a vial of holy water they called, San Juan-sama. Peter explained that the Christians treasured these items as they lived their faith in secret.
The fifth box held omaburi. Inside it, were smaller boxes of fine quality, containing pieces of paper cut in the shape of a cross. Michael thought it looked like the container that held the Sacred Host the priest had brought to his mother as she lay dying.
I’ve remembered something, he thought. I’ve remembered something about my mother!
Peter was saying, “Each year we are forced to trample the fumi, a sacred Christian image. We pray in our hearts as we trod on our God. This we do to remain hidden. We have been without the Bateren for too long. We have been subjected to the tactics of the Christian Suppression Office without mercy. Were you spared of these things?”
“No,” Michael said solemnly. “I have witnessed the murder of my friends.”
“Then you know that we have carried on in secret. We have preserved the faith, hidden, for more than 200 years. And now, there is a Bateren, a priest, in Nagasaki! A great Cathedral has been built to honor the 26 martyrs.”
“A cathedral!” Michael and Yuko cried in unison.
“Yes, it has been named, “Oura Cathedral,” it is the Church of the 26 martyrs.” Michael thought again of the twenty-six as he had last seen them, hanging on their crosses.
Long after Yuko had cleared away the meal, they talked. Ichiro finally fell asleep in Peter’s lap. He picked him up and put him to bed. Then they spoke in whispers about the plans for the next day.
“We are going as a group into Nagasaki. We are going to approach the Bateren.” Michael listened, but he asked questions too.
“There is so much I do not know. I have spent much time on my own,” he told Peter.
“The Holy Virgin has stood in our midst,” Yuko said.
“Yes,” agreed Peter, “but we have lost many through the centuries. In the Shimbara Rebellion thousands of Christians were killed rather than surrender. We lost 37,000 Christians and farmers combined, when Hara castle fell to shogunate forces in 1638. It has been said that many men, women and children were decapitated, their heads placed around the surrounding field. That siege lasted three months.” Yuko made the sign of the cross and shook her head.
Peter continued, “During the final month of the siege, the Christians fired hardly any bullets. They chose instead, to melt them for crosses rather than to attack the enemy. They carried banners with Portuguese inscriptions such as “Louvada seia o Santissimo Sacramento” (Praised be the most Holy Sacrament). To this day, crosses, along with rosaries and bronze icons can be found in the ash and ruins.
“The rebels were starving near the end and the ammunition they had left was not enough. They had only barley and seaweed to eat.”
Yuko said, “Many farmers joined the Christians at Shimbara. During that time, the authorities were forcing the farmers to turn over the bulk of their crops. Those who refused were forced to wear mino, coats made of straw, and set afire. The authorities laughed as the victims writhed in pain. They referred to this as mino odori, raincoat dancing.
“The farmers knew the Tokugawa shogunate was persecuting Christians. Crucifixion was a common form of punishment, as was being boiled alive or left to suffocate over a burning pit. And so the farmers joined the Christian rebellion at Shimbara. At the end, it was said the farmers performed as Christians and died in prayer.”
“How many years ago did this happen?” Michael asked, though he knew Peter had said 1638. He congratulated himself on inconspicuously finding out the present year.
“Over two hundred years ago…” Peter rubbed his chin, “Let’s see, it is now 1865… that means it was two hundred and…” he scratched his head.
Yuko laughed, “Shall I find the abacus, Husband?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.
“It was two hundred and twenty seven years ago. Abacus my foot!” Peter replied, but he too, was smiling.
A knock at the door silenced them. Yuko quickly gathered the nandogami and returned them to the closet. Only then, did Peter answer the door.
“Yuko, bring sake to our guests,” Peter said, swinging wide the door. A dozen or more people entered and there was much bowing and greeting.
Once they had settled with sake cups in hand, plans began for the next day. Peter was evidently in charge.
“We will go to the Oura Cathedral. We must be very careful not to expose ourselves to the authorities or their spies,” he said. All heads nodded and bowed in agreement. “But we will approach this new Bateren and learn if indeed, he is one of us.”
Talk continued for over an hour. Then Yuko produced blankets and everyone made a spot to rest inside their home. Michael could not sleep until he asked Peter, “May I come too? I would like to meet the Bateren.”
Peter smiled and said, “Your companionship honors us. Now sleep.”
The morning came and a flurry of activity filled the little home. Peter estimated that the journey to the Nagasaki cathedral would take them a couple of hours. Though Ichiro pleaded with his father, he was not allowed to go. “You must protect your mother. You must guard the nandogami.”
Ichiro was pleased with this order. He stood in a kata stance; much like Michael had done so long ago. “I will guard them, honorable Father!”
The journey to Nagasaki was bittersweet for Michael. He couldn’t help enjoying the excitement of the others as they anticipated meeting, after 230 years, a priest to minister to them. And yet, he also remembered the last journey and the way Thomas had died.
They heard the Angelus bells ring before they saw the church and Michael knew that it was noon. It took nearly half an hour before they actually saw it. The gothic facade of the beautiful Oura Cathedral stood before them and they stared in wonder at the edifice erected for their martyrs.
“Dozo, please, may this be the church of our honorable God,” said Peter. The others whispered, “Amen,” and followed as he led them around the church. They went stealthily to the rear door, wary of being seen. Peter crossed himself and knocked on the heavy wooden door.
The door opened before them and there stood a priest. Michael saw the surprise in the man’s face at the sight of Japanese people knocking on the door of a foreign church.
He sensed the hesitancy of his companions to state their business. One of the women placed her hand over her heart and knelt before the priest, saying “Tell us, is this the 17th day in the month of sorrows?”
“Lent? Yes, today is March 17th, during the time observed by Christians as a season of fasting and penitence in preparation for Easter,” said the priest.
“O Deous sama, O Yaso sama, Santa Maria sama,” cried the woman, “you are one of us.”
“But who are you and who is your earthly leader?” Peter wanted to know. “Is he from the kingdom of Rome?”
“You mean the pope?” asked the priest. “He is the Vicar of Christ on earth, our Sovereign Pontiff, Pius IX. And I am Fr. Bernard Petitjean, from the Mission Etrangeres de Paris.”
Peter still seemed unsure and asked further, “Have you no children?”
“You and your Japanese brothers, both Christian and pagans, these are the children the Good Lord has given us. But we cannot have any other children, because as priests, we must, as did the first Apostles, remain celibate.”
Hearing this they fell to their knees and cried, “They are virgins! O Deous Sama, thank you! Thank you!”
Michael, who had remained standing, saw tears roll down Fr. Petitjean’s cheeks. The priest realized that Christianity had not been lost, but had been preserved in secret by the people of Japan for two and a half centuries.
Fr. Petitjean urged them to stand, “Please, do not kneel before me. Come in. Come in,” Holding wide the door to the church of the martyrs, the priest stood aside as the people rose.
“His heart beats as ours,” they whispered. A thought came to Michael that he’d never had before. He had always focused on the differences between himself and his father. These Japanese, who had suffered for centuries because they chose to embrace a Western religion, were weeping with joy at finding this Frenchman. Fr. Petitjean looked like any ordinary European. Much as my own father might look if he were to face these same Japanese, he thought. Only his heart beats as mine!
As they entered the church they saw a large statue of the Blessed Virgin with the Child Jesus. “The feast of Gotanjo, Christmas, we celebrated,” Peter said and walked to the statue and bowed deeply. They stayed for nearly an hour talking to the delighted priest.
Through tears he told them, “St. Francis Xavier was right about your people. He said, ‘there will not be another nation to surpass the Japanese… a people who prize honor above all else.’”
Michael liked the priest and the fact that he was not ashamed to be moved by the loyalty of the people of Japan. The resolve of his ancestors amazed him too. That they had gone into hiding and kept the flame of Christianity burning for more than two centuries was a miracle in itself.
In the days that followed Fr. Petitjean was introduced to thousands of Kakure Krishitans. “There are 25 Christianities in the area,” Peter told him, “and seven Baptizers.”
Since the ban on Christianity had not been lifted the Christians had to be discreet, but they managed to spread the word that there was a priest available.
After two days, Peter told Fr. Petitjean they must return home. He gave directions to his village and Fr. Petitjean agreed to come as soon as possible to meet the Christians there. They knelt before the priest in the Oura Cathedral and received his blessing.
When they returned to Peter’s home, the village surrounded the travelers, clamoring for news of their trip. Peter told them that the Bateren would come to the village. The priests had returned to Japan!
Michael wondered if Peter was as tired as he. Later that evening, after Yuko served them a meal of rice and fish, she boiled water for tea.
Michael was not at all surprised to see three amber chawan with the little white crosses. He had come to expect at least one in every place he traveled. He had broken the one from Thomas, but Kosuma Takeya’s sister had told him that her brother had originally made four of them. There were three left after he broke the fourth. The set from his grandmother contained two. He wondered what had happened to the other one.
Yuko scooped powdered green tea from the natsume, tea container, and put it into the chawan. Michael watched each graceful movement as she poured the hot water over the powder and gently whisked the tea. She turned the chawan so the front faced Michael and then handed it to him.
“Goshouban sasete itadaki masu, I will join you,” Michael said. He turned the chawan then lifted it to his lips. He strained to keep his eyes open as he sipped the tea. Just as his legs began to tingle, his eyes started to water. Despite his efforts, he blinked. He knew that when he opened his eyes, Peter, Yuko, and the time he had spent with them would be gone.
Beil’s The Samurai and the Tea can be purchased through Amazon.com.
Also, Catholics interested in learning about the dangers of the occult may want to check out Moira Noonan’s book Ransomed From Darkness: The New Age, Christian Faith and the Battle for Souls.
amazon,amp,clamor,mystery,Novel,plo,religion,Train,vicar
Related Articles
No user responded in this post
Leave A Reply
Please Note: Comment moderation maybe active so there is no need to resubmit your comments