Ki-Shō-Ten-Ketsu: Japanese Rhetorical Structure

When learning Japanese, have you ever tried to understand a folk tale? I remember trying to read a simple version of Urashima Taro (浦島太郎). The story initially grabbed my attention, but as it progressed, I found myself increasingly confused—what was the point of this tale?

Later I discovered something important about Japanese communication style (of which I am still very much a beginner). The confusion I had with Urashima Taro, although it may be intentional on the author's part, wasn't due to poor writing but more so with my expectations. I was applying a Western rhetorical lens to Japanese literature.

This experience made me think about how we communicate across cultures. In particular, how does our understanding of Japanese rhetorical patterns affect our ability to evaluate Japanese preaching and teaching?

Ki-Shō-Ten-Ketsu is a well-known Japanese rhetorical structure, which Urashima Taro seems to follow. The structure originated from Chinese poetry structure, systematized by Yang Zai¹.

While this structure has been part of Japanese education for generations, John Hinds documented and analyzed it for Western linguists in his 1983 article "Contrastive Rhetoric: Japanese and English"².

There are four movements in Ki-Shō-Ten-Ketsu:

1. Ki (起): Introduction—sets the topic or scene
2. Shō (承): Development—expands on what was introduced
3. Ten (転): Turn—introduces unexpected shift or new perspective
4. Ketsu (結): Conclusion—brings closure (but may ask questions rather than summarize)

An important point to note is that this structure is taught in Japanese elementary schools as part of fundamental writing education. Most Japanese people have learnt this pattern, which means it shapes how people naturally organize their thoughts when communicating—even if they're not consciously thinking about it.

For Urashima Taro, the rhetorical flow looks like this:

Ki (起): Taro encounters some children on the beach tormenting a turtle. He saves the turtle which triggers an adventure.

Shō (承): The turtle takes Taro to the 'Dragon Palace' (竜³). He meets a beautiful princess, Otohime, who welcomes him with great hospitality—kindness like he showed the turtle. Time passes while he is enjoying himself.

Ten (転): Taro feels homesick and decides to return home. The princess gives him a box (玉手箱), warning him never to open it. When he arrives back at his village, he discovers everything and everyone he knew has disappeared—centuries had passed while he enjoyed a few days in the palace. This shocking revelation is the "turn"—it completely reframes the meaning of everything that came before. What seemed like a pleasant reward for kindness has become a tragedy.

Ketsu (結): Taro, overwhelmed by despair and confusion, opens the forbidden box. He instantly ages into an old man (or turns to dust in some versions). The story ends abruptly, without resolution or explanation.

Notice there is no clear moral or explicit lesson. We're left with questions hanging in the air: Was this punishment for abandoning his home? Was it simply the price of entering another world? Should he have refused the turtle's invitation? Or is this just fate—the inevitable consequence of crossing boundaries between worlds?

From a Western perspective, this feels incomplete or poorly constructed. We expect stories to teach clear lessons or at least resolve their central tensions. But one Japanese blogger noted something interesting: when you properly engage with this tale, "it feels like you thought you were in the shō (development) but suddenly you've arrived at the ketsu (conclusion)."⁴ The story intentionally creates this disorientation—even for Japanese readers. The difference is that Japanese readers recognize this as a sophisticated rhetorical move, while Western readers often perceive it as a structural flaw.

Hinds tested whether this rhetorical difference affects evaluation. He had Japanese and English speakers rate the same newspaper articles—articles that followed ki-shō-ten-ketsu structure. His results confirmed what we might suspect: Japanese readers rated these articles highly for unity, focus, and coherence, while English readers consistently rated them poorly on the same criteria². The same text, evaluated through different rhetorical frameworks, produced opposite judgments.

This negative bias suggests several implications for cross-cultural ministry. We spend years acquiring language proficiency, but adjusting our cognitive framework—the very way we process and evaluate communication—is far more difficult.

First, it's important to exercise generosity when interpreting our Japanese colleagues' work. Just because you haven't heard the point stated clearly doesn't mean it isn't there. In theological education, we often learn about the noetic effect of sin—the way sin distorts our thinking and perceiving. Romans 1:18-23 describes how humans "suppress the truth," and Ephesians 4:18 speaks of being "darkened in understanding." Sin affects not just our will but our very capacity to know and reason rightly.

Here's the connection: just as sin creates a bias in our thinking that we must recognize and resist through Scripture and the Spirit's work, so too does our cultural-rhetorical framework tend to create a bias when we encounter communication from another culture. We naturally assume our way of organizing thought is "clear" or "logical," while other patterns seem "unclear" or "wandering." This natural tendency operates similarly to the noetic effect of sin—by creating an unconscious bias that distorts our perception.

This doesn't mean all rhetorical structures are equally valid for all purposes, nor does it mean we can't evaluate truth claims across cultures. Rather, it means we need the same kind of epistemic humility in cross-cultural ministry that we need in addressing the noetic effects of sin: an awareness of our own limitations, a willingness to have the foundation of our assumptions challenged, and diligent effort to understand before we evaluate.

Second, conclusions often function differently. To quote from Hinds (p. 190):

An English language conclusion, according to Willis (1969: 41), cannot be 'bizarre or unduly startling. The tone must be consonant with the tone of the whole passage'. McGrimmon (1976: 106-7) states that the conclusion can emphasize the main points in summary; it can draw a conclusion based on Information presented in the preceding paragraphs, or it can evaluate what has been presented. The conclusion of 'Harmony in Driving' (a newspaper article Hinds analysed) violates all of these constraints. It does, however, adhere to the definition of conclusion advanced by Takemata(1976: 26-7) for Japanese language compositions: 'A conclusion need not be decisive [danteiteki]. All it needs to do is to indicate a doubt or ask a question.'

The conclusion in the ki-shō-ten-ketsu framework often feels weak to the Western reader but sophisticated to the Japanese. When a Japanese preacher ends a sermon with a question rather than a clear application, they're not being vague—they're inviting the congregation into continued reflection. When a Japanese theologian doesn't summarize their main points at the end, they're not being unclear—they're assuming their readers can synthesize the material themselves.

Third, it's crucial to be careful not to equate rhetorical form with theological content. A sermon following a different rhetorical structure than we expect isn't necessarily less "biblical." The Apostle Paul adapted his communication style for different audiences (1 Corinthians 9:19-23). Jesus taught through parables that often left questions hanging. The biblical authors used various rhetorical structures appropriate to their cultural contexts.

The key question is not "Does this follow Western expository structure?" but rather "Did this communication lead people to encounter Scripture truthfully?" To answer that question well, we need to first work hard to understand what is actually being communicated—which requires understanding the rhetorical framework being used.

This is why missionaries need both theological faithfulness and cultural humility. We cannot sacrifice biblical truth for cultural accommodation, but neither should we mistake our own cultural preferences for biblical mandates.