It’s often been said that detective novels and other mystery books are the most moral form of fiction: a crime happens, the detective (amateur or professional) does his or her thing, the miscreant is caught and presumably punished and the fictional world of the book goes on its merry way, with everything back in balance.
That, at least, was the formula for the mystery writers of the Golden Age, the interwar period when Agatha Christie first sharpened her pen. Joined by others such as Dorothy Sayers, Ngaio Marsh and Margery Allingham, they created a form with rules of fair play, including that the murderer must be introduced early in the story, that all important clues must be shared with the reader as soon the detective discovers them and that supernatural explanations or previously unknown devices or poisons are out.
It’s worth noting that obscure but known poisons are allowed; Agatha Christie worked in a hospital pharmacy during World War I and frequently used her knowledge of pharmacology.
In any case, given the rules and conventions of fair play, readers can often spot the culprit relatively early in the book. Still, I love Golden Age mysteries. I read my favorites over and over again, knowing full well whodunit before I even pick them up. I’m not reading them to be caught up in the mystery; I’m reading to escape into the ordered world of Hercule Poirot and Miss Jane Marple, or to hear in my mind Lord Peter Wimsey piffle on, one more time. Their gift to me is not suspense, but familiarity.
That same kind of familiarity is one of the gifts of the rosary, with its cycle of 20 mysteries repeated in a predictable pattern. If it’s Tuesday, it’s the sorrowful mysteries; if it’s Thursday, it’s the luminous mysteries.
The luminous mysteries, instituted in 2002 by St. John Paul II, recount events during Jesus’ public ministry, and are among my favorites.
“Mystery,” of course, means something is unknown or even unknowable. How can God become human and live as a child in a human family (the joyful mysteries), or sacrifice himself for us in order to save us for eternal life (the sorrowful mysteries)? As some of my religion teachers would say, it’s a mystery.
But spending time in repetitive, contemplative prayer, thinking about those mysteries? I don’t think it’s hard to see why that can offer an oasis of calm, an easing of anxiety, in the midst of days that are busy and a world that seems to grow more unpredictable each day.
Prayer is how we communicate with God, and it rightfully takes many forms, from silent, centering prayer to the prayer of a job well done.
But it can also be the comfort of prayers that are familiar, that offer a sense of ease and predictability — much like my summer reading does.