In conclusion, Tolkien stressed that Christianity, the True Myth, had reconciled all lesser myths to itself. The lesser myths, in the form of fairy story or romance, were ‘derived from Reality, or are flowing into it’. However inadequate in themselves, they still offered a glimpse of the greater truth from which they spring or into which they flow. Since the ‘Christian joy, the Gloria’ has redeemed Man it has also redeemed the sub-creativity of Man:
This story is supreme; and it is true. Art has been verified. God is the Lord, of angels, and of men—and of elves. Legend and History have met and fused.
But in God’s kingdom the presence of the greatest does not depress the small. Redeemed Man is still man. Story, fantasy, still go on, and should go on. The Evangelium has not abrogated legends; it has hallowed them, especially the ‘happy ending’. The Christian has still to work, with mind as well as body, to suffer, hope, and die; but he may now perceive that all his bents and faculties have a purpose, which can be redeemed. So great is the bounty with which he has been treated that he may now, perhaps, fairly dare to guess that in Fantasy he may actually assist in the effoliation and multiple enrichment of creation. All tales may come true: and yet, at the last, redeemed, they may be as like and as unlike the forms that we give them as Man, finally redeemed, will be like and unlike the fallen that we know.12
The views expressed in this final paragraph came to imaginative fruition in Tolkien’s short story, Leaf by Niggle, which he wrote during the war at a time when he was finding it difficult to make progress on The Lord of the Rings. It was therefore appropriate that ‘On Fairy Stories’, Leaf by Niggle and his poem ‘Mythopoeia’, the three of his works which expressed most evocatively his view of the relationship of myth to truth, should be published together under the title Tree and Leaf many years later.
Colin Gunton, a theologian at King’s College London, believed that Tolkien’s view of fairy stories in general was especially true of The Lord of the Rings in particular: ‘May not, then, one reason for taking Tolkien’s splendid tale seriously theologically be that it is in so many respects “a far-off gleam or echo of evangelium”; perhaps, indeed, not so very far-off a gleam?’13
Meanwhile, Stratford Caldecott, in his essay on ‘Tolkien, Lewis, and Christian Myth’, discussed Tolkien’s view of fairy stories with both depth and poignancy:
The Gospels contain a fairy story—even the sum total of all fairy stories rolled together, the one story we would most wish to be true in all literature. But although we cannot make the story true by wishing, and must not deceive ourselves into thinking that it is true because we wish it, we still cannot rule out the possibility that it did all actually happen. It may be that the very reason we wish it were true is because we were made to wish it, by the One who made it true. God created us incomplete, because the kind of creature that can only be perfected by its own choices (and so through Quest and trial) is more glorious than the kind that has only to be whatever it was made to be by another.14
This was discussed explicitly by Tolkien in a letter to his son:
Of course I do not mean that the Gospels tell what is only a fairy-story; but I do mean very strongly that they do tell a fairy-story: the greatest. Man the story-teller would have to be redeemed in a manner consonant with his nature: by a moving story. But since the author of it is the supreme Artist and the Author of Reality, this one was also made to Be, to be true on the Primary Plane. So that in the Primary Miracle (the Resurrection) and the lesser Christian miracles too though less, you have not only that sudden glimpse of the truth behind the apparent Ananke of our world, but a glimpse that is actually a ray of light through the very chinks of the universe about us.15
These, then, were the theories which Tolkien was endeavouring to put into practice in the writing of The Lord of the Rings. Indeed, it is no coincidence that his lecture on fairy stories, his long letter to his son on the same subject, and Leaf by Niggle, his short story on the same theme, were all written in the years in which he was writing The Lord of the Rings. It was scarcely surprising therefore that The Lord of the Rings should resonate with the same sense of Christian orthodoxy that permeated The Silmarillion, the latter being both its parent and the source of the myth-pool from which it drew so richly.
Charles Moseley wrote in his study of Tolkien that ‘Tolkien’s Christian understanding of the nature of the world was fundamental to his thinking and to his major fiction.’ He then proceeded to describe the Christian metaphysics which underpin Tolkien’s sub-creation:
Neither propaganda nor allegory, at its root lies the Christian model of a world loved into being by a Creator, whose creatures have the free will to turn away from the harmony of that love to seek their own will and desires, rather than seeking to give themselves in love to others. This world is one of cause and consequence, where everything matters, however seemingly insignificant: action plucks on other actions, and the end of this self-love is the reduction of freedom, the imprisonment in the self, and the inability to give or receive the love that is the only thing desired. . . Christianity sees the universe as a place of struggle between good and evil where individuals are crucial.16
A similar view was expressed by Paul Pfotenhauer in his article on ‘Christian Themes in Tolkien’.17 The fact that Sauron’s evil presence is always felt though always in the background, Pfotenhauer argued, may help us to recognize the demonic in our own midst. Meanwhile the more significant, yet more hidden, presence of the One, ultimately determining the outcome of events, may help us to recognize Divine Providence. Like several other writers, Pfotenhauer stressed the importance of Augustinian theology to The Lord of the Rings as well as singling out the recurring theme of the Suffering Servant who gives himself willingly, even unto death, that others might live.
Throughout the years since its publication, many other writers have written of the Christian orthodoxy which breathes life into The Lord of the Rings, notable examples being Willis B. Glover’s essay, ‘The Christian Character of Tolkien’s Invented World’18 and C.S. Kilby’s talk on ‘The Christian Interpretation of Tolkien’.19
However, the fact that Tolkien consciously spurned allegory and preferred instead to leave the Christianity in his work implicit rather than explicit has led to much misunderstanding. Patrick Curry, author of Defending Middle Earth, has declared that Tolkien’s Christianity ‘cannot be allowed to limit interpretations of his work to Christian ones. My own, as you will find, is an explicitly non-theistic reading, and I believe that that is more typical among his many readers than otherwise.’20 Regardless of whether Curry’s view is shared by many of Tolkien’s readers, it was certainly not shared by Tolkien himself. In the same letter in which he had described The Lord of the Rings as ‘fundamentally religious and Catholic’, Tolkien explained that, paradoxically, his decision to remove all references to institutional religion was the result of his desire that the work should remain theologically orthodox: ‘That is why I have not put in, or have cut out, practically all references to anything like “religion”, to cults or practices, in the imaginary world. For the religious element is absorbed into the story and the symbolism.’21 In another letter, written shortly after The Lord of the Rings was published, Tolkien gave the ultimate practical reason for omitting overt references to religion: ‘The Incarnation of God is an infinitely greater thing than anything I would dare to write.’22 He overcame the problem and at the same time enhanced the mystery of the myth by placing the history of Middle Earth long before the Incarnation.
Tolkien still described the historical setting of The Lord of the Rings in specifically theistic terms, however: ‘The Fall of Man is in the past and off stage; the Redemption of Man is in the far future. We are in a time when the One God, Eru, is known to exist by the wise, but is not approachable save by or through the Valar, though He is still remembered in (unspoken) prayer by those of Númenórean descent.’23 Although the world of Middle Earth is nominally ‘pagan’, in the sense that God is only approachable through
what are perceived as ‘the gods’, it is ‘pre-Christian’ only in a temporal and peripheral sense. In the eternal sense with which Tolkien is principally concerned it is a Christian world created by the Christian God who has not, as yet, revealed Himself in the fullness of the truth made explicit in the Incarnation and Resurrection. Consequently, although the characters in Middle Earth have a knowledge of God that is less complete than that which has been revealed to the Christian world, the God who is dimly discerned in Middle Earth is nonetheless the same God as the One worshipped by Tolkien himself. The God of Earth and the God of Middle Earth are One. This follows both logically and theologically from Tolkien’s belief that his sub-created secondary world was a reflection, or a glimpse, of the truth inherent in the Created Primary World.
Having ascertained that the only ‘true’ reading of The Lord of the Rings is a specifically theistic one, there is a wealth of spiritual meaning to be found in its pages. To reiterate Tolkien’s words, it is a question of discerning ‘the religious element. . . absorbed into the story and the symbolism’.
In general terms the religious element falls into three distinct but inter-related areas: the sacrifice which accompanies the selfless exercise of free will; the intrinsic conflict between good and evil; and the perennial question of time and eternity, particularly in relation to life and death.
The spirit of sacrifice is omnipresent throughout the three volumes of The Lord of the Rings, particularly in the actions of the principal heroes. It reaches the level of the sublime as Sam and Frodo approach the gates of Mordor:
Frodo seemed to be weary, weary to the point of exhaustion. He said nothing, indeed he hardly spoke at all; and he did not complain, but he walked like one who carries a load, the weight of which is ever increasing; and he dragged along, slower and slower, so that Sam had often to beg Gollum to wait and not to leave their master behind.
In fact with every step towards the gates of Mordor Frodo felt the Ring on its chain about his neck grow more burdensome. He was now beginning to feel it as an actual weight dragging him earthwards. But far more he was troubled by the Eye: so he called it to himself. It was that more than the drag of the Ring that made him cower and stoop as he walked. The Eye: that horrible growing sense of a hostile will that strove with great power to pierce all shadows of cloud, and earth, and flesh, and to see you: to pin you under its deadly gaze, naked, immovable. So thin, so frail and thin, the veils were become that still warded it off. Frodo knew just where the present habitation and heart of that will now was: as certainly as a man can tell the direction of the sun with his eyes shut. He was facing it, and its potency beat upon his brow.24
The parallels with Christ’s carrying of the Cross are obvious. Furthermore, such is the potency of the prose and the nature of Tolkien’s mysticism that the parable of Frodo’s burden may even lead the reader to a greater understanding of Christ’s burden. All of a sudden one sees that it was not so much the weight of the Cross that caused Christ to stumble but the weight of evil, symbolized by Tolkien as the Eye of Sauron.
Frodo’s response to the burden was not to cast it off but to carry it willingly, though fearfully, into the very heart of Mordor. He had not sought the burden, but once it had been laid upon his reluctant shoulders he accepted it, and the sacrifice it involved, becoming a suffering servant to a greater good. In many ways, however, Frodo’s companion, Sam Gamgee, is an even greater hero, the more so because he is cast in the role of Frodo’s servant, serving his master with a selfless love: ‘Sam’s mind was occupied mostly with his master, hardly noticing the dark cloud that had fallen on his own heart. He put Frodo in front of him now, and kept a watchful eye on every movement of his, supporting him if he stumbled, and trying to encourage him with clumsy words.’25
The character of Sam Gamgee is representative of another powerful sub-theme running through The Lord of the Rings: the exaltation of the humble. ‘My “Sam Gamgee”,’ Tolkien wrote, ‘is indeed a reflexion of the English soldier, of the privates and batmen I knew in the 1914 war, and recognised as so far superior to myself.’26 This was reflected in The Lord of the Rings where Sam emerges, in some respects, as ‘far superior’ to Frodo. As they approach Mount Doom, Frodo begins to despair of ever achieving the quest and it is only Sam’s strength and encouragement that keep him going. When Sam himself is faced with the temptation to despair, arguing with himself about the futility of continuing, he overcomes and resolves to carry his master to the Cracks of Doom himself if necessary: ‘I’ll get there, if I leave everything but my bones behind. . . And I’ll carry Mr Frodo up myself, if it breaks my back and heart.’27
When, due to Frodo’s physical exhaustion, Sam is forced to put his resolution into practice, the strangest thing happens:
As Frodo clung upon his back, arms loosely about his neck, legs clasped firmly under his arms, Sam staggered to his feet; and then to his amazement he felt the burden light. He had feared that he would have barely the strength to lift his master alone, and beyond that he had expected to share in the dreadful dragging weight of the accursed Ring. But it was not so. Whether because Frodo was so worn by his long pains, wound of knife, and venomous sting, and sorrow, fear, and homeless wandering, or because some gift of final strength was given to him, Sam lifted Frodo with no more difficulty than if he were carrying a hobbit-child pig-a-back in some romp on the lawns or hayfields of the Shire.28
Earlier, Sam had experienced a similar sensation when, believing Frodo had been killed by Shelob, he had taken the burden of the Ring upon himself: ‘And then he bent his own neck and put the chain upon it, and at once his head was bowed to the ground with the weight of the Ring, as if a great stone had been strung on him. But slowly, as if the weight became less, or new strength grew in him, he raised his head, and then with a great effort got to his feet and found that he could walk and bear his burden.’29
Again, images of the Cross are unmistakable, and particularly Christ’s promise that those who take up their Cross to follow Him will find their burden light.
Another Christian image of sacrifice which recurs throughout The Lord of the Rings is the reflection of Christ’s teaching that there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for a friend. Notable examples include Boromir’s heroic death in order to save his companions, a death which followed shortly after his repentance for his earlier effort to seize the Ring by force from Frodo. There is also Gandalf’s apparent death on the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm as he fought to save the rest of the company from the Balrog—followed, of course, by his ‘resurrection’.
This recurring theme of selfless sacrifice was discussed by Sean McGrath in an essay which was appropriately titled ‘The Passion According to Tolkien’:
The Lord of the Rings myth depicts the dynamics of this fundamental option to give up our lives for the sake of a higher good, that lies at the heart of human ethics. The pretty poison that lures us away from God’s design toward a kind of temporary personal omnipotence is subtler than the evil at work in Middle Earth. In my daily life in middle class North America, no winged Nazgul block out the sun with their huge black wings; no emaciated Smeagols remind us of the price of unchecked selfishness,—or do they? This ‘escapist’ literature presents in vivid dramatic pictures what is otherwise intangible and inexpressible: our battle for salvation, for overcoming the all-pervasive, crippling legacy of sin. It gives form and substance to our very real quest and projects it into an imaginary universe where the ultimate questions are blazingly clear. . .
. . . in Frodo’s agonizing pilgrimage to Mordor and the cracks of Doom the depth of our sacrifice is at last adequately portrayed. For when God asks us to transcend our present state of being he is asking us to break and spend ourselves as relentlessly as Frodo gives his entire being to the quest.30
Perhaps, however, the depth of sacrifice is again portrayed most adequately by the humble figure of Sam Gamgee. Stratford Caldecott suggests that ‘in some ways, Sam is more central to the story than Frodo, and certainly
more so than Aragorn’:
As soon as we start to read the book as Sam’s Quest, we notice that the maturing of Sam and the healing of the Shire go hand in hand. This makes perfect sense if, as Tolkien once wrote (Letters, no. 181), the plot is concerned with ‘the ennoblement (or sanctification) of the humble’. It is, at bottom, a Christian myth, in which ‘the first will be last and the last will be first’. Sam is a ‘humble man’, close to the earth, without pretension. For him to leave the Shire, out of love for his Master, involves a great sacrifice. It is fidelity to that sacrifice, and to his relationship with Frodo, that remains the guiding star throughout. The plans of the Wise and the fate of Middle Earth are never his concern. He only knows he has to do his bit to help Frodo, however hopeless the task may seem. At a crucial moment in Mordor he must carry the Ringbearer, and even the Ring itself. He moves from immature innocence to mature innocence: and finally, in his own world (that is, in Tolkien’s inner world of the Shire), this ‘gardener’ becomes a ‘king’—or at least a Mayor.31
Tolkien: Man and Myth Page 11
