Just the Facts

Our church is preparing to conduct a survey in order to help make decisions about changes in our worship and Bible class format. The goal, it would seem, is to gather objective data ("facts") that will aid the leadership is making an objective decision. As I prepared the survey (yes, I am involved and therefore complicit), I couldn't help think of what G. K. Chesterton might say about such an endeavor.

In The Club of Queer Trades, Chesterton relates the adventures of the mysterious Basil Grant. The tales fit within the detective story genre, but Basil is the anti-Sherlock Holmes. He is a one-time judge who "lost his interest in the law" and started talking "more like a priest or a doctor." He started ignoring the legal crimes of the criminals in his courtroom and instead accused them of things like "monstrous egoism, lack of humor, and morbidity deliberately encouraged." He even tells one defendant, "Get a new soul. That one's not fit for a dog. Get a new soul."

Most people assume Basil has lost his mind, and he retires from public life. The rest of the short book asserts, however, that Basil is afar from insane. With his satirical wit, Chesterton drives home a favorite theme: in this insane world, the most sane people will appear insane. Chesterton playfully explores that theme by tweaking the detective story genre. He replaces the fact-worshipping detective character typical of the genre with a mystic poet who solves impossible mysteries that baffle his companions.

When he makes a snap judgment about a man on the street, for example, his partner complains, "this is very fanciful--perfectly absurd. Look at the mere facts. You have never seen this man before."

"Oh, the mere facts," Basil interrupts. "The mere facts! Do you really admit--are you still so sunk in superstitions, so clinging to dim and prehistoric altars, that you believe in facts? Do you not trust an immediate impression?"

Early in the book, Basil offers a short soliloquy on his unique approach to mystery solving. When Basil concludes that a suspicious letter is not criminal in nature, the following interaction ensues.

"It is. It's a matter of fact," cried the other in an agony of reasonableness.

"Facts," murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange, far-off animals, "how facts obscure the truth. I may be silly--in fact, I'm off my head--but I never could believe in that man--what's his name, in the capital stories?--Sherlock Holmes. Every detail points to something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree. It's only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up--only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars."

The content of this speech indicates what I think Chesterton might say about our church survey. Even if the survey is well written and the sample is large enough and the results clear, what will we do with the "facts" it yields? They'll likely point in all directions, and they might even obscure the truth. At the very least, the results of the survey, those neat little objective facts, should not be given undue authority. Wise leaders will need to interpret the facts and try to access the truth behind them. In order to honor that truth, they may even need to make decisions that seem to contradict the facts. Then, how will those wise leaders be viewed? As despots and tyrants pushing an agenda and ignoring the people? Or as mystics and poets straining for truth?

When we analyze the survey, may we humbly look through the thousands of twigs pointing in different directions to see the life of the tree behind them.

(P.S. I certainly recommend reading The Club of Queer Trades. The puzzling mysteries and Chesterton's satirical wit make it a joy to read.)