"What a piece of work is man, that he should enjoy this kind of
thing!”
Dorothy
L. Sayers
"The
most curious thing about the detective story," writes W.H. Auden, "is
that it makes its greatest appeal precisely to those classes of people who are
most immune to other forms of daydream literature. The typical detective story
addict is a doctor or a clergyman.”[1]
There is plenty of evidence to back up Auden’s claim. Composer and clergyman
Erik Routley says, "Without it, I should have found the world a less
agreeable place.”[2] Hebrew
scholar Henry Wheeler Robinson reduced a railroad's bookstall to chaos in his
search for a story he had yet to read. Exclaimed an exasperated clerk
"Well,
sir,
all I can suggest is that you might try some serious literature for a change!”
And Eugene Peterson has commented, "I think one reason [why clergy read
detective stories] may be that right and wrong, so often obscured in the
ambiguities of everyday living, are
cleanly...delineated...The
story gives us moral and intellectual breathing room when we are about to be
suffocated in the hot air and heavy panting of relativism and subjectivism.”[3]
I
would like to suggest seven affinities between the genre of detective fiction
and Christianity and its local edition and expression, the small c church, the
offspring of the BIG C Church (“Elect from every nation, Yet one o'er
all the earth").
Crime and the Sacred
In
Genesis 1, God creates the verb “to be." In Gen. 3, humankind originates
the verbs “to have" and “to hold" and with them crime simultaneously
emerges. Nicholas Blake [Cecil Day Lewis] argues that the crime of murder
is a “highly formalized...religious ritual, with its initial necessary sin [the
murder, its victim], its high priest [the criminal] who must in turn be
destroyed by a yet higher power [the detective.]”[4]
Wryly
incongruous, death bursts in upon the traditional Edenic context, the trivial
round, cozy, genteel, fly in amber tweed and “tea at 4" decorum. This
Utopia's wheels fall off. Domestic and community dystopia, disarray and
conflict are the result and those in their shadows echo Lady Macbeth “Woe,
alas! What! In our house?" (Macbeth 2.03.88) Such a reaction is
intensified especially when an angry/revengeful or powerful/aggressive act
occurs within an ordinary space set apart to be an extraordinary
"God" place: an abbey, church, cathedral, seminary, basilica, convent
or monastery.
It is
precisely this incongruity that attracts the murder mystery writer. “The
history of religion,” notes Jon Breen, “has never lacked for the kind of malice
and violence in a crime story.”[5] Kate Charles writes “I think what motivated
me to set my books in the Church is that there seems to be such a rich contrast
between what that institution represents and what it should be and the people
who are there with all their failings. I have observed that people usually
behave worse in church than outside it...People who are powerless in their
daily lives sometimes exercise power in the Church in an obnoxious way.”
“What
better mask for the baser passions than holiness?” asks Sherlock Holmes.
"Where can political machinations function more fiercely and ferociously
than in a place where all is supposed to be mildness and light? Trust me, the
realm of faith is an ample
setting
for sin.”[6]
Perpetrators of Violence in the Faith Community
Who,
or what, in the faith community, might provoke another to violence? We could
include:
a)
The
incorrigible topophiliast [place lover] whose anguished ego explodes over real
or imagined offence against holy hardware, heritage, boundary and property
(“Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have set.” Proverbs
22:28).
b)
The
pastor or layperson, torn between duty and desire, whose profession of
faith fails to show commensurate behaviour (“The voice is
Jacob's voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau” Genesis 27:22). With
admirable irony, the Anglican Prayer Book indicts those “who profess and call
themselves Christians.”
c)
The
collision between the optimist, who believes change is for the better, and
pessimist, who thinks that change is usually for the worse. The latter is often
inhibited by organized religion's Seven Last Words "But we've always done
it this way!"
d)
The
clash between the revolutionary and the evolutionary change agent. The former
tends to see change as something to be imposed unilaterally, and takes a “sole
authourship” view of power, while the latter’s sees change as derivative, the
logical next step, incremental, consultative, based on a “joint authourship”
view of authority.
e)
The
decertified and disadvantaged parishioner, elsewhere unloved or unlovable,
whose dysfunctional behaviour disrupts and enrages.
Martin
Thornton comments on the above typology: “… it seems tragic that men and women
who accept this [differences in outlook and temperament in community as normal
and necessary to creative living] are put out by the slightest deviation and
distraction in parochial affairs.”[7]
Clergy and Police
In
detective fiction, clergy share this in common with police: frequently initial
contact with people occurs upon news of a death. Faye Kellerman writes of
detective Peter Decker “At first they would hear him because he told them the
unspeakable. Then a week
would
pass...two weeks...a month. They would come to view him as the link, the one
who would impart some logic into the madness, their conduit to the
investigation, the one they could call, yell at, scream at, cry with.
Eventually a relationship would grow - maybe a symbiotic one, maybe an
antagonistic one - but some kind of relationship.”[8]
Senior
police officers are often paired with junior associates, a pattern that is
well-known in both ministry of the baptized and the Ministry of the ordained
(Matt. 11:2; 21:1; Mark 6:7; Luke 10:11.) The great eighteenth century biblical
commentator Matthew Henry
Wrote
in 1721, “They went out two and two to a place, that out of the mouth of two
witnesses every word might be established; and that they might be company for
one another when they are among strangers, and might strengthen the hands, and
encourage the hearts, one of another; might help one another if any thing
should be amiss, and keep one another in countenance...Christ would thus teach
his ministers to associate, and both lend and borrow help" [my
italics]. Henry Nouwen, Roman Catholic priest, implemented an analogous pattern
in his ministry with the mentally challenged at the L’Arche Community. Michael
Ford reports, “The audience might forget what he had said in a few days, but
they would always remember the person who had come with him and that they had
witnessed together [about L'Arche]. It was a way of allowing the unique and
open gifts of [developmentally disabled] core members to encounter the more defended,
able-bodied members in the church or hall. That could have an experience of the
Spirit through the core member who might have little to say but whose presence
was powerful.”[9]
The Clergy Sleuth
Enter
God's emissary, instrument of repentance, forgiveness and reconciliation,
conduit to and messenger of grace -- the clergy sleuth. Clergy make good
detectives because of their familiarity with sin's realms and territories. “You
may think a crime horrible because you could never commit it,” says Chesterton’s
Father Brown. “I think it's horrible because I could commit it.” The medieval
detective Brother Cadfael reminds a fellow monk, “You'll never get to be a
saint if you deny the bit of the devil in you.” The religious professional is
“at all points, tempted" (Hebrews 4:15). “Because their life's experiences
immerse them in the vagaries of sin, men and women in holy orders are
splendidly qualified for detecting.”[10]
Adds William David Spencer: “the restoration of order is a divine task
entrusted to those society has come to trust.”[11]
“In the last analysis, [clerical detectives] are struggling human beings who
possess one or more attractive virtues, along with a minor vice or two.
Paradoxically, they are more innocent and other worldly than the rest of us
humans while managing to be just as human in their failings and, as a result,
endlessly forgiving. They are the straight, strong human conduit for a God who
forgives.”[12]
Clergy
sleuths generally come from only certain branches of the Body of Christ.
Sometimes they are Anglo-Catholic or “High Church Anglican” priests; as a rule,
however, the Protestant minister is too monochrome to suit the murder mystery
writer's dramatic purposes. And so, we turn our attention, first, to the Roman
Catholic priest and then to the Jewish Rabbi.
When
seen through literary eyes, the former's ordination admits him to a kingdom
that is not of this world. His state of life is alien to most. He is not as
other men. The priest is bound to the enigmatic, awesomely magisterial see of
Peter. His title “Father” is authoritative to some and a cruel joke to others.
Celibacy, which seems to some an enduring confidence trick, is a safe bet for
the crime writer. But it is the confessional's anonymity that is particularly
attractive to the mystery writer. Says
former priest and crime novelist William Kienzle: “I believe the nature of the
priesthood [sexual, celibate male] is itself a mystery to the non-priest,
Catholic and non-Catholic alike...Drifting through clues and red herrings works
even better when the sleuth is unencumbered by emotional hindrances. Priests
are not only celibate, they are also (mine are) able to figure out things for
themselves.”[13]
On
the one hand, the esoteric and somewhat mysterious nature of the priesthood
lends itself to the clergy sleuth character; but the common humanity of the
Jewish rabbi conforms with this literary type on another level. Harry
Kemelman’s Rabbi David Small says, “I would not presume to suggest what a
priest would or would not do, chief, but anything that a man might do a rabbi
might do. We are no different from ordinary men. We are not even men of the
cloth, as you call it. I have no duties or privileges that any member of my
congregation does not have. I am only presumed to be learned in the Law by which
we are enjoined to live.”[14]
So ethics are integral to faith. Guilt and innocence are the business of
religion and are God's concern. There is hardly a thought or act within the
human condition that the Talmud does not examine, measure and weigh. The Talmud’s
definition of murder is expansive. If, as a host, I fail to provide an escort
for a safe journey or am deficient in hospitality, I shed blood. If I publicly
embarrass another and blood drains from the face, I shed blood. If I pretend to
be a scholar, refrain from teaching or hand down unwise decisions, I commit
murder. My tongue is like an arrow. A sword may be returned to its scabbard,
yet not an arrow once it is shot. The Talmud's range reminds us of Oscar
Wilde's Ballad of Reading Gaol:
“Each man kills the thing he loves,
/...Some do it with a bitter look, / Some with a flattering word, / The coward
does it with a kiss, / The brave man with a sword.” The wide reach of rabbinic
ethics seems to resonate with the work of the detective.
Discretionary Work
It is
perhaps an understatement to say that detectives and clergy engage in work
among, for and with people when they are not at their best. We might call this
“discretionary” work. Such work relies upon the spoken word. The lawyer
persuades, the physician
interprets,
the teacher instructs, the social worker counsels. Likewise, in crime
detection, “diligent inquisition” (Deuteronomy 19:18) occurs. “Give me a grain
of truth and I will mix it up with a great mass of falsehood,” said John
Wilkes, “so that no chemist will ever be able to separate them.” Thus the
spoken word -- and, indeed, the unspoken word --contributes to the
identification of someone from among anyone. Speech is the ministry's stock in
trade, as illustrated by the old Punch
cartoon:
Vicar: “You must excuse my voice, but I've
had a cold and lost my voice.”
Parishoner: “That's a bad job, sir, for a man
as earns 'is livin' by 'ollerin’!” [Punch, Feb. 18, 1937].
According
to conventional wisdom, clergy are “word” people. They “read things out of a
book,” “give sermons,” and “tell people what to do and how to behave.” Anglican
worship has been described as “Always reading the minutes of the previous
meeting.”
And
yet, the largely derivative liturgical language, while it may induce a kind of
repetitive stress in some people, also witnesses to the futility of attempting
to express anew Gospel truths as memorably as our forerunners. T.S. Eliot is
said to have remarked that “To be original with the minimum alteration is
sometimes more distinguished than to be original with the maximum alteration.”
A
second characteristic of discretionary work is that it never ends. There is
always more evangelism and more pastoral work, another homily or sermon to
prepare and deliver. Likewise, there is always more crime. “But we never get to
the bottom...or ever will,” W. J. Burley writes of Chief Detective Inspector
Wycliffe.[15] “Sometimes
he envied people with jobs where they knew exactly what they had to do. One
might take pride in doing such a job well. He seemed to spend his time
floundering in a welter of activity which sometimes came close to something or
nothing. Only rarely was it possible to go home at the end of the day with any
feeling of completion; there was always the carryover to tomorrow.”[16]
This is a sentiment felt not only by the crime detective, but by most clergy.
For
the discretionary worker, work easily becomes the tiger from which s/he is
unwilling and then unable to dismount. Intimate relationships become
professionalized. Marriage vows and duties are pushed aside. Breakfasts and
suppers are eaten “on the run.”
Children's
birthday parties and anniversaries are sabotaged. Because "thy servant was
busy here and there, he was gone.” (I Kings 20:40)
Denouncement (From the French: “Untying the knot”)
Authour
Wilkie Collins said that the best thing to for him to do with his readers was
to “Make them laugh, make them cry, but make them wait!” And so murder mystery
detection proceeds “with unhurrying chase and unperturbed pace, / Deliberate speed
and majestic majesty.” (Francis Thompson) Can we not hear echoes of this
sentiment in the New Testament: "There is nothing covered that shall
not be revealed: and hid,
that
shall not be known" (Matt.10:26). "Behold, the hour comes,
yea, is now come" (John 16:23). "Brought to light
are the hidden things of darkness, and made manifest are the counsels of
the heart" (I Cor.4:5).
This
making known, this untying of the knot, in detective fiction proceeds according
to a definite pattern. Auden points out that “as in the Aristotelian
description of tragedy, there is Concealment [the innocent seem guilty and the
guilty seem innocent] and Manifestation [the real guilt is brought to
consciousness].”[17]There occurs
an epiphany, an insight, a bolt from the blue, the “aha!” moment. Auden
continues: “To surprise the reader when the identity of the murderer is
revealed, yet at the same time convince him that everything he had previously
been told is consistent with him being a murderer, is the test of a good detective
story.”[18]
The “guilty party” has traveled in the reader’s company hitherto incognito.
Then, s/he is unmasked. Comments Chesterton: "The fact or figure
explaining everything should be a familiar figure.”[19]
This
movement from hiddenness to revelation is deeply enmeshed in the Christian
story. God in Christ came incognito, shown to those who knew that they
knew nothing (shepherds) and to those who knew that they had much more to know
(wise men). The Jesus story is one of Concealment (Luke 2:43-45; 24:16) and Manifestation
(Luke 2:46; 24:31.) Those closest to him later fail to recognize him, in spite
of age- old clues (I John 3:1b) Soldiers dress him up in clothes that do not
belong to him. He is not himself. They then replace his own clothes on him. He
is himself. We are to recognize Jesus the Christ as he really is.
Vindication
But
our story ends. Its interrogation mark has been painstakingly straightened into
an exclamation mark. It shouts “victory!” The “All Clear!” sounds. “They that
dwell in the
land
of the shadow of death, upon them has the light shined” (Isa.9:21) The story's
purpose “is not darkness but light...The misunderstanding is only meant as a
dark outline of cloud to bring I the brightness of that instant of
intelligibility...The climax must not be only the bursting of a bubble but
rather the breaking of a dawn; only that the daybreak is accentuated by the
dark.”[20]
Nicholas Blake argues that "The reader will not miss a significant
parallel between the formalized denouement of the detective novel and Christian
concept of the last Judgment when, with a flourish of trumpets, the mystery
is
made plain and the goats are separated from the sheep.”[21]
“A
corpse or two” and a novel with death in it was necessary for Chesterton's
enjoyment. Likewise, the Book of Acts describes Christ’s death in terms of
“necessity,” what had to be (Acts 3:18; 17:3; 26:23). Yet Christianity's
good news is that there is no wasted goodness. It consistently presupposes
vindication, overruling, recovery: “That it may please thee to comfort and
relieve...giving patience...and a happy issue out of all their afflictions”
(Anglican Prayer Book, Morning Prayer.) On the far side of tragedy lies
goodness. Yet it must be allowed to run its full course before solution,
absolution and resurrection can be appropriated. “The strange and dreadful
strife” of Martin Luther’s Easter song must be allowed to build up, not
suffocated by false optimism. All the virtuosi of religious experience have
agreed on that.”[22] Tragedy
must have its say – and yet never have the final word. “Jesus sets the scene
for the discovery of good news: Jesus as victim, humanity as murderer, God as
judge...suddenly the victim takes the murderers’ places on death row and
himself receives the death sentence. Then that victim becomes counsel for the
defence!.. .this substituted, executed convict comes back to life.”[23]
Of the passion and Resurrection Fred Pratt Green writes "He and none other
sold once for silver, murdered here, our brother - he, who redeems us, reigns
with God the Father: glory to God on high.”[24]
For
three years, Conan Doyle’s John Watson mourns the death of his friend Sherlocke
Holmes at the hands of arch-enemy Moriarty. Then one day he accidentally bumps
into an old book pedlar. He later turns up at Watson's consulting room.
"Holmes, is it really you?" cries his shocked disciple. "Can it
indeed be that you are alive?" Dr. Watson witnesses a dead man walking.
So do
we.
Conclusion
“When
the service was over that day, 1 walked out of it into a God-enchanted world,
where I could not wait to find further clues to heaven on earth" writes
Barbara Brown Taylor. “I became a detective of divinity, collecting evidence of
God's genius and
admiring
the tracks left for me to follow...those were all words in the language of God,
hieroglyphs given to puzzle and delight me even if 1 never cracked the code.”[25]
“Everyday
life,” says Frank Kafka, “is the greatest detective story ever written.”
