I have a vague memory of reading somewhere that stories are lies that tell the truth, and one of the best truth-telling liars I know is Chesterton. Through his small priest, Father Brown, he reveals truth after truth about God and man, and he's set to work some of the strangest parables within me -- one of which I'll try to explain.
The cold weather cracks my skin. For some inexplicable reason, my right thumb is always the first part of my hands to mark the season change. Right around the nail, sometimes just under, my skin opens and often bleeds. I apply all kinds of lotions and fake skin products throughout the winter, but I end up toying with dead flakes no matter what I do.
As I read the final part of The Secret of Father Brown, I peeled off a section of my right thumb, and it landed on page 807. I was reading page 806 at the time, and at once a parable set to work. It's not the parable of the knife playing an arrow, nor is it the parable of a missing suit of armor, but a parable nonetheless.
First, from the mouth of Father Brown on page 806: "The worldly man, who really lives only for this world and believes in no other, whose worldly success and pleasure are all he can ever snatch out of nothingness -- that is the man who will really do anything, when he is in danger of losing the whole world and saving nothing. It is not the revolutionary man but the respectable man who would commit any crime -- to save his respectability...If I had...nothing better than [that] philosophy, heaven alone knows what I might have done."
I've been sick recently, and I can't help but reflect on how the Father Brown stories have the same pinpoint effect as a sickness: both generally make me slow down and see details of my condition that I previously had ignored. Of the several story collections, The Secret of Father Brown has challenged me to see the deep truth of my condition.
It opens with Father Brown explaining his methods of crime detecting. Around a glowing fire, he admits a terrible thing: all the crimes he solved, the murders and thefts, the blackmailing and lies, he committed them all. The shock that this confession produces is understandable -- to the characters listening and, I have to give my own confession here, it was a shock to me as well. However, in his topsy-turvy way, Chesterton gives Father Brown the words we all need to hear.
The rest of the short book contains mysteries that consistently stirred up joy in my heart. Without the exception of even one story, Chesterton brought me to my knees in fooling me -- I never did predict the outcome (this is true for every single Father Brown story, not just the ones in this collection). The dumpy priest is the absolute best unlikely hero I've ever met. So much so, I found myself trusting every word he said, every theory he explained, every feeling he poured out.
And this confession of his, as was Chesterton's intent, nagged at the back of my mind from the beginning of the book to the end, when Father Brown fully explains it.
Of all the mysteries of the book, this one, this confession of a Christ-loving man, I had figured out -- but, again in the upside down tradition, it was the one I didn't want to solve because of what it means for me. It continued to nag at me through all the stories, and it nags me still.
What Father Brown explains is that the reason he is able to understand each criminal act is because he fully submits to the fact that he is capable of each one. He says it is a great spiritual exercise to put oneself in that darkness to realize that, in reality, we are not as clean and respectable as we would hope. On our knees, with our sins just before us, is where Christ accomplishes his work.
And so, what about the parable of the peeling skin? Let me explain from my knees: the respectability I build up around me is worldly; it is a thin, flaky membrane of worldliness that I allow to grow over me, and only the pure-burning love of Christ is able to unmake the illusion of my reputation. I come closer and closer to committing an actual crime if I allow myself to believe I am too good for it; it is the same for any kind of sin.
That piece of my thumb on the page was a piece of myself in the confession of Father Brown.
And here's something more: this small, fictional man has shown me the path of love. For how else will we love one another if we don't admit we're all breathing dust? The weakness we speak aloud to ourselves, and then to one another, becomes the strength Christ uses to bind us to him and his church.
The cold weather cracks my skin. For some inexplicable reason, my right thumb is always the first part of my hands to mark the season change. Right around the nail, sometimes just under, my skin opens and often bleeds. I apply all kinds of lotions and fake skin products throughout the winter, but I end up toying with dead flakes no matter what I do.
As I read the final part of The Secret of Father Brown, I peeled off a section of my right thumb, and it landed on page 807. I was reading page 806 at the time, and at once a parable set to work. It's not the parable of the knife playing an arrow, nor is it the parable of a missing suit of armor, but a parable nonetheless.
First, from the mouth of Father Brown on page 806: "The worldly man, who really lives only for this world and believes in no other, whose worldly success and pleasure are all he can ever snatch out of nothingness -- that is the man who will really do anything, when he is in danger of losing the whole world and saving nothing. It is not the revolutionary man but the respectable man who would commit any crime -- to save his respectability...If I had...nothing better than [that] philosophy, heaven alone knows what I might have done."
I've been sick recently, and I can't help but reflect on how the Father Brown stories have the same pinpoint effect as a sickness: both generally make me slow down and see details of my condition that I previously had ignored. Of the several story collections, The Secret of Father Brown has challenged me to see the deep truth of my condition.
It opens with Father Brown explaining his methods of crime detecting. Around a glowing fire, he admits a terrible thing: all the crimes he solved, the murders and thefts, the blackmailing and lies, he committed them all. The shock that this confession produces is understandable -- to the characters listening and, I have to give my own confession here, it was a shock to me as well. However, in his topsy-turvy way, Chesterton gives Father Brown the words we all need to hear.
The rest of the short book contains mysteries that consistently stirred up joy in my heart. Without the exception of even one story, Chesterton brought me to my knees in fooling me -- I never did predict the outcome (this is true for every single Father Brown story, not just the ones in this collection). The dumpy priest is the absolute best unlikely hero I've ever met. So much so, I found myself trusting every word he said, every theory he explained, every feeling he poured out.
And this confession of his, as was Chesterton's intent, nagged at the back of my mind from the beginning of the book to the end, when Father Brown fully explains it.
Of all the mysteries of the book, this one, this confession of a Christ-loving man, I had figured out -- but, again in the upside down tradition, it was the one I didn't want to solve because of what it means for me. It continued to nag at me through all the stories, and it nags me still.
What Father Brown explains is that the reason he is able to understand each criminal act is because he fully submits to the fact that he is capable of each one. He says it is a great spiritual exercise to put oneself in that darkness to realize that, in reality, we are not as clean and respectable as we would hope. On our knees, with our sins just before us, is where Christ accomplishes his work.
And so, what about the parable of the peeling skin? Let me explain from my knees: the respectability I build up around me is worldly; it is a thin, flaky membrane of worldliness that I allow to grow over me, and only the pure-burning love of Christ is able to unmake the illusion of my reputation. I come closer and closer to committing an actual crime if I allow myself to believe I am too good for it; it is the same for any kind of sin.
That piece of my thumb on the page was a piece of myself in the confession of Father Brown.
And here's something more: this small, fictional man has shown me the path of love. For how else will we love one another if we don't admit we're all breathing dust? The weakness we speak aloud to ourselves, and then to one another, becomes the strength Christ uses to bind us to him and his church.
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