According to an ancient Jewish tradition, scattered somewhere among the eight billion or so humans inhabiting our planet are thirty-six righteous individuals, upon whom the very continued existence of the world depends. At every moment the whole of creation is balanced on the bent shoulders of these few kneeling individuals – the Tzadikim Nistarim, or “hidden righteous ones.” This remarkable teaching can be traced to a couple of passages in the Talmud, one of which reads: “The world has no fewer than thirty-six righteous people in each generation who greet the Divine Presence, as it is stated: “‘Happy are all they who wait for Him’ (Isa. 30:18).”

There’s a lot to like about this story. Particularly when the world seems to be spinning wildly out of control, it’s encouraging to imagine that nevertheless, there are hidden here and there good people humbly going about the work God has called them to; in secret and unseen ways expanding the kingdom of God, like a pinch of yeast extending its leavening influence through three full measures of flour. What if the waters of the deluge are being held back, not by Wall Street bankers, closed door meetings in Washington, or an elaborate missile defense system? What if instead, the world’s well-being is secured by the faithful prayers of an elderly woman in a nursing home, the sixth-grade teacher working in an inner-city school. or even, “a little priest” with “a face as round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling” and “eyes as empty as the North Sea”?  

It’s a possibility that has come to mind several times over the past few days, as I have been reading (for the very first time) G. K. Chesterton’s The Innocence of Father Brown. Chesterton describes the dumpling-faced priest as a figure who “might have provoked pity in anybody.” The great French detective Valentin observes Brown with just this sort of pity when the two encounter one another on a train to London: “He had a large shabby umbrella, which constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to know which was the right end of his return ticket,” and he comported himself generally with “a moon-calf simplicity.” I had to look up “moon-calf,” by the way. “Mooncalf: a foolish or absent-minded person: simpleton” (Merriam-Webster). You’re welcome.

In short, at first glance Father Brown appears to be that sort of wholly innocent and hapless representative of the church, who really for his own good probably should not wander far beyond the vestry gate. And yet here he is at the beginning of the first of the Father Brown stories, on a crowded train to London, carrying a priceless relic in a brown parcel. More alarming still, we learn that Flambeau, the greatest villain of modern times, is on the prowl. Flambeau is not only a criminal genius and a virtuoso of disguise, but also a figure of “gigantic stature and bodily daring,” possessing “fantastic physical strength.” Flambeau is every bit as impressive and imposing as Father Brown is docile and unassuming. 

Indeed, for the first few pages it’s not entirely clear what role Father Brown might play in the unfolding drama (apart from “unsuspecting victim”). As the story opens Flambeau is pursued by the great Valentin: “the head of the Paris police and the most famous investigator of the world,” a man possessing “one of the most powerful intellects in Europe.” And so, it would seem, the scene is set for one of those classic contests between superhero and supervillain: Sherlock Holmes vs. Dr. Moriarty; Superman vs. Lex Luthor; and here, Aristide Valentin vs. his arch nemesis Flambeau! But no, the hero will not be the great French detective. You and I already guessed that, since the title of each collection of Chesterton’s mystery stories features not Valentin but Father Brown.

Brown encounters Flambeau in three of the first four stories in The Innocence of Father Brown, and (here is another non-spoiler revelation) in each instance, Chesterton’s unassuming priest bests the most dangerous criminal in all of Europe. But then, it’s saying both too much and too little to describe the vicar as “overpowering” Flambeau. In each story Brown remains precisely who he is: a quiet, thoughtful servant of the church; pure in his intentions, sincere in his words and actions. His meek exterior, in other words, is not like the mild-mannered façade of Clark Kent, which is cast aside in moments of crisis. Brown does not overpower Flambeau, and yet there is a display of power here. In Brown we meet a meekness that “disarms the powers and authorities” of this world (Col. 2:15). Father Brown does far more than defeat Flambeau; he leads him to repentance.

The Father Brown books were meant to be light entertainment, not weighty explorations of philosophical and theological themes. Chesterton, however, is a thoroughly Catholic thinker, even when writing detective fiction, and the Father Brown stories are informed by a deeply Christian perspective. In the stories we learn, first of all, that the powers and authorities of this world are overturned, not by greater force and violence, but paradoxically, by the Christian virtues of innocence, meekness, and wisdom. Moreover, the stories suggest that those who battle crime are struggling “not against flesh and blood, but against rulers, authorities, and spiritual forces of evil” (Eph. 6:12). Certainly, this is Father Brown’s perspective on things. He confronts not crime, but sin. In more than one story the criminal in question is not only acting against society, but against the church. In at least one of the mysteries the villain is explicitly motivated by a hatred of God. This insight changes not only our sense of the scale of the criminal drama, but who we identify as culprit and victim. If civil lawlessness is in fact an epiphenomenon of a cosmic corruption, then it is not only the injured party but also the criminal who needs to be saved from violence and injustice. Each is damaged, in one way or another, by the evil at work in creation. And so, Father Brown pursues salvation rather than mere punishment. The outcome he hopes for is not a conviction, but a conversion.

If there is an overarching theme to the Father Brown stories it is that the one best equipped to turn aside lawlessness and evil is not a detective, nor a policeman, but a priest.

In February of 1923, the same year Chesterton published The Incredulity of Father Brown, a New York Times headline announced: “Only 1,700 Police to Patrol Streets.” In the story that follows, New York Police Commissioner Richard E. Enright warns that “we have about 1,700 men to patrol the miles of streets in this great city. They stand, the thin blue line, on that intensive battle line, the first line of defense against criminality.” This is a sort of law-enforcement alternative to the Tzadikim Nistarim. It is not the prayers of thirty-six righteous holding back the tide of anarchy, Enright says, but rather the “thin blue line” of the police.

It’s a powerful image, and a stirring bit of rhetoric. But it is also, I’m convinced, an analysis that both Father Brown and his creator would reject. If there is an overarching theme to the Father Brown stories it is that the one best equipped to turn aside lawlessness and evil is not a detective, nor a policeman, but a priest. They suggest that, ultimately, a just and orderly society is upheld not by the power of the law but by the mercy of the church. Many will be reminded of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, which makes a similar point. All of this is how – at the end of a Sunday evening spent reading whodunnits – I found myself thinking about various discussions of policing and public safety that have arisen over the last several years. Which sorts of persons, wielding which sorts of power, best provide for a safe, orderly, and just society? When we visualize that thin line running between order and disorder, should we imagine a reinforced national border? Or perhaps a mobilized coalition of ethically minded activists? Should we envision subways patrolled by police and National Guard units?  

Or might we even picture – I thought to myself – a priest?

Of course, the Father Brown stories do not advance an approach to police reform or a strategy for border security. They certainly do not provide anything like a detailed blueprint for reimagining public safety. However, Chesterton’s short stories do invite the Christian to think again (and in a wonderfully winsome way!) about the role the church might have in ensuring a safe and just society. Whatever Chesterton would have made of the debates over subway safety or border security, his stories challenge us to think about how and by whom the order and safety of society are secured, and by what means evil and violence are overcome.  

The obvious rejoinder to all of this is: But the Father Brown stories are fiction. To imagine things could work like that in the real world is a little naive. Or, we might even say, a little innocent. But the “innocence” of Father Brown is not naivete. Chesterton relates in his autobiography that the Father Brown stories were inspired by a conversation he had with a Roman Catholic curate. Chesterton was sharing an essay he was writing on public morality, and was afraid that some of the more salacious details would shock the pious cleric. Instead, Chesterton found “that this quiet and pleasant celibate had plumbed those abysses [of vice] far deeper than I…. And there sprang up in my mind the vague idea of constructing a comedy in which a priest should … in fact know more about crime than the criminals.” Jesus told his followers to be as wise as serpents and innocent as doves (Matt. 10:16). He might have been describing Father Brown.

So Father Brown’s innocence is not gullibility. Neither is the titular reference to his innocence ironic, as if said with a wink, and appearing in scare quotes. It is instead, paradoxical. This is appropriate. Chesterton has been called “the Prince of Paradox.” The central paradox of the Father Brown stories is in fact the paradox of the cross. It is the shocking and scandalous idea that the injustice and violence of this world are overcome, not by greater force and violence, but by meekness, humility, and a willingness to embrace servanthood. Indeed, a turning point in the third story involves Brown being mistaken for a servant. Rather than protesting, he does as he is asked, and in consequence, he is able to solve the crime. The way of the cross is not anarchy. Jesus declares that he “did not come to abolish the law but to fulfill it.” Nor does Jesus suffer under any delusions about the cost of confronting evil. As he approaches Jerusalem, he recognizes “the things that make for peace,” and he weeps (Luke 19:42).

Saying the church is responsible for an orderly society is not the same thing as saying there is no need for police, border security, or other sorts of government agencies. The church is entrusted with the office of teaching, and yet (thankfully!) there is a role for college professors. The church is charged with announcing good news, and yet there is a place for journalists. The church has long acknowledged a role for secular as well as ecclesial authority. This doesn’t mean the church is meant to direct the daily operations of the executive branch of government. Rather, it is simply to recognize (and Father Brown nods in agreement) that while the state can help enact justice, without the wisdom of the church it cannot determine the meaning of justice. Similarly, the state is limited in its ability to address the root causes of wrongdoing or to bring about any real remedy. The church, therefore, cannot farm out or subcontract its responsibility for the health and security of society to some other agency.

It is right for Christians to give careful attention to domestic policy and law enforcement practices. We love our neighbor well by advocating for just laws and by insisting that government agencies act in ways that are wise and fair. But Chesterton suggests that the church has its own, distinctive contribution to make to public safety. The community of faith can do more than advise others in their administration of the public good. In the Father Brown stories, as indeed in the biblical story, the work of peace and justice is not the province of the powerful and well-armed. Rather, the well-being of our neighbor and our world has been entrusted to “the little priest”; the Tzadikim Nistarim – the hidden righteous ones. Neither Chesterton’s stories nor these reflections resolve the many appropriate and complex questions having to do with the actual administration of public safety. But they are a challenge and an encouragement to the Christian to hear the call “To Protect and To Serve,” addressed first of all to the church.