Jewels, Light, and the Weight of Beauty in Tolkien

One of the most unexpectedly powerful threads running through our recent readings is how often jewels and beautiful objects become more than just decoration. In Tolkien, in the Bible, and in medieval texts like Pearl and Marbode’s lapidaries, gems are never simply pretty things. They hold memory. They hold holiness. Sometimes they even hold danger. What surprised me most is that these works treat beauty as something that carries moral weight, almost as if a jewel can reveal the condition of the person who looks at it.

In The Silmarillion, this idea appears most clearly in the Silmarils themselves. Tolkien does not introduce them as ordinary treasure. They contain the light of the Two Trees, meaning they preserve a kind of beauty that belongs to an earlier and purer world. They are not valuable because they are rare, but because they hold something sacred and unrepeatable. Yet the tragedy is that their beauty does not automatically inspire goodness. Instead, they awaken possessiveness. Fëanor’s love for his creation turns into obsession, and the oath he swears shows how quickly admiration can become a hunger to control. In this way, the Silmarils feel almost like a test. They reveal that beauty, when treated as something to own, can become destructive.

That pattern is echoed later in The Lord of the Rings, but with an important shift. In Lothlórien, the Fellowship encounters beauty that feels untouched, like a preserved memory of the world before it was worn down by time. Galadriel’s realm is filled with light, not the harsh light of conquest, but something softer and almost sacred. When she gives Frodo the Phial, the connection becomes even clearer: it contains the light of Eärendil’s star, which ultimately comes from a Silmaril. The same ancient light that once inspired wars and exile is now offered as a gift, freely given to someone who does not seek glory. It is one of Tolkien’s most meaningful transformations. The jewel-light of the First Age becomes, in the Third Age, not an object of obsession but a tool of endurance. Beauty is still powerful, but it is redirected toward mercy rather than possession.

Another reason jewels matter so much in these texts is that they are often connected to the idea of preservation. Light in Tolkien is constantly threatened by fading, darkness, or distance, and gemstones become a way of capturing what would otherwise be lost. The Silmarils trap the light of the Two Trees, the Phial holds the light of Eärendil, and even the pearl in Pearl becomes a symbol of something that cannot be corrupted by time. In all of these cases, beauty is not fleeting decoration, but something stored up against ruin. It is as if these objects exist to prove that the world once held a purity that evil could not fully erase.

At the same time, these readings also suggest that beauty is never neutral. A jewel can either become a reminder of divine order or an invitation to greed, depending on the heart of the person who desires it. This contrast is what makes Tolkien’s use of gems feel so powerful: the problem is rarely the object itself, but the human impulse to treat beauty as something to conquer or possess. Whether it is Fëanor’s obsession, the priestly stones meant to honor God, or the jeweled foundations of the New Jerusalem meant to glorify eternity, these texts keep returning to the same question. When we encounter something radiant, do we respond with reverence, or with hunger?

The biblical readings deepen this connection. In Exodus 28, jewels appear in the breastplate of the High Priest, set with twelve stones representing the tribes of Israel. What matters here is that the gems are not just ornamental. They symbolize identity and belonging. The people are carried into the presence of God through these stones. Beauty becomes part of worship, not as vanity, but as a way of expressing divine order. This helps explain why Tolkien’s jeweled objects feel spiritually charged. Like the priestly stones, they are crafted beauty that points beyond itself.

Revelation 21 and 22 pushes this imagery to its highest scale. The New Jerusalem is described as a city whose foundations are made of precious stones, radiant with light, filled with gold that shines like glass. It is a vision of paradise expressed through overwhelming material beauty. In that sense, Revelation suggests that the end of history is not the rejection of the physical world, but its transformation. The world becomes what it was always meant to be: brilliant, ordered, and filled with divine light. This resonates strongly with Tolkien’s constant theme of longing for a lost perfection. His characters do not just want safety. They want restoration. They want the return of something holy that once existed.

Pearl brings these ideas into a more personal and emotional register. The poem revolves around grief, but it expresses grief through jewel imagery. The “pearl” is both a literal symbol of something precious and a spiritual image of purity and transcendence. The dreamer sees a heavenly city that resembles Revelation’s jeweled Jerusalem, but he cannot enter it. That distance is what makes the poem so haunting. Beauty is real, but it is not fully accessible yet. This is the same bittersweet tone Tolkien often creates. Lothlórien is beautiful, but it cannot last. The Silmarils preserve light, but they cannot restore the Trees. The world is always reaching toward something just beyond it.

Finally, Marbode’s lapidary writings show that this way of thinking about gems was not unique to Tolkien or scripture. Medieval lapidaries treated stones as objects filled with meaning: they could heal, protect, and symbolize spiritual truths. The modern mind might see that as superstition, but what it really reveals is a worldview where nature is not neutral. The physical world is full of signs, and beauty is not separate from truth. Jewels are not just wealth, they are pieces of a meaningful cosmos.

Taken together, these readings suggest that jewels and radiant beauty are not merely aesthetic details. They are symbols of sacred longing. They represent the desire to preserve what is pure, the temptation to possess it, and the hope that one day beauty will no longer fade. Tolkien’s genius is that he takes this ancient symbolic tradition and makes it feel alive again. His jewels shine, but they also burden. They comfort, but they also tempt. They are reminders that beauty is never just beauty. It asks something of us, and it reveals what kind of people we are when we reach for it.

—Alex Schumann

Gems, Eternity, and Evil

    The main topic for the discussion in class were the Silmarils and how these gems embody eternity and light together. Gems, we decided, are supposed to be beautiful, incorrupt, and in the garden of paradise; they make visible and physical the effects of virtue. So how are the Silmarils the purest and highest embodiment of this Platonic ideal? Well, it seems we can’t see the full picture, as they are made of a material no one will know of until the Second Music of the Ainur. Only Feanor knows of this, the brightest of the Eldar in body, mind, and spirit, who was their maker. Moreso, these gems are not anything like any other in Tolkien's world. “as they were indeed living beings, they rejoiced in light and received it and gave it back in hues more marvelous than before” (Silmarillion, 67). The light, more specifically, is that of the two great trees, Laurelin and Telperion, whose creation began the Count of Time. The gems are actually made with the full light of both, which was never achieved while the trees stood due to their cycles and the “mingling hour.” Indeed, the Valar recognized the importance of such gems as well: “And Varda hallowed the Silmarils, so that thereafter no mortal flesh, nor hands unclean, nor anything of evil will might touch them, but it was scorched and withered” (Silmarillion, 67).

    These gems are thus fundamentally linked to the questions of good and evil in Tolkien’s world and provoke many questions relating to those two sides. For example, Tolkien states that for Feanor “loved the Silmarils with the greedy love.” But Feanor is not considered evil because he is still able to hold and use them until they are taken away from him. Only after the slaying of kin does Feanor become evil, with Tolkien thereby creating a separation between action and intention for evil. What makes the Silmarils most interesting, I think, is the fact they are desired by both evil and good. The Valar want Feanor to show the gems to them, while Morgoth “lusted for the Silmarils, and the very memory of their radiance was a gnawing fire in his heart.” He thus embodies that evil as we discussed in class: exerting one’s own will over the other, as he desires to make the gems his own, even if they do end up burning Morgoth’s hand when he takes them.

    But is evil then rooted in greed or coveting, rather than the exertion of one’s will? Indeed, Morgoth disrupted the Music of the Ainur “for he sought therein to increase the power and glory of the part assigned to himself.” That seems pretty greedy at a first glance. Feanor himself commits the first kinslaying as the Telperi prevent him from getting back his Silmarils, the things he covets most deeply. Finally, there are biblical parallels in that first transgression through the story of Cain and Abel: “the Lord looked with favor on Abel and his offering, 5 but on Cain and his offering he did not look with favor. So Cain was very angry, and his face was downcast.” Evil in Tolkien’s world, though, does not seem wholly rooted in greed, as certain actions such as Smaug’s destruction of Lake Town do not follow this model. But it is a common first step he uses a lot in his works, whether that be from personal biases or the source material his tales revolve around.

    Why does Morgoth desire the Silmarils with such ardor though? It is, I think, because of that fundamental quality we discussed in class: their eternity. That temptation to desire eternity, to be immortal, is one that Morgoth very much had. But as evil as it may seem, that temptation is not a fundamentally negative one, for it is very human. We see that quality in the author of “Pearl,” who writes this piece to eternalize his deceased two-year-old daughter, placing her in the Gates of Heaven as a pearl. This element of eternity is one Tolkien discusses a lot in his work, mainly through the contrast between the elves and men. And he presents eternity there too as not being evil, calling man’s ability to die “The Gift of Men.” Another instance of eternity would be Sam’s speech at Cirith Ungol, of “We're in the same tale still. It's going on. Don't the great tales never end?” Tolkien, however, never explicitly states why Morgoth desires such gems, and his want for them would seem irrational due to their anti-evil enchantment.

    Tolkien does take a side on eternity and its relation to good/evil though. He shows that particular evils cannot be eternal, and they will fall at some point. All of his evil threats (Sauron, Ungoliant, etc.) are all destroyed in time, mainly through their own faults working against them (Ungoliant’s hunger causing her to devour herself). While these villains have the possibility of remaining eternal (Sauron is a Maiar, a heavenly spirit), their own evil pursuits destroy that reality. The tale Sam references continues over and over again because that strand of eternity is repeated over and over again: the strand of evil falling by its own faults. That is not to say evil itself is not eternal. Indeed, it seems it always will be a presence in our world and in Tolkien's. But that’s not to say that its instances cannot be defeated.

-GG

What’s the deal with the Silmarils

We talked most of class about gemstones and how they relate to both J. R. R. Tolkien and biblical stories. Much of our discussion focused on the medieval Christian understanding of gemstones as fragments of heaven. This idea connects strongly to Tolkien’s legendarium through the Silmarils, the Arkenstone, the intricate metallurgy and gemstone work of the Elves and Dwarves, and of course the Rings of Power, to name a few. I have always been slightly confused about the Silmarils, because they are so desired by individuals within Tolkien’s world, but they do not have a clearly defined power, with two notable exceptions: the empowerment of Eärendil’s ship, and then judging by the incident with Maedhros and Maglor, they also harm those who do not take them rightfully. In The Silmarillion, there was this one passage about the Silmarils that I found very interesting. 

When Maedhros and Maglor attempt to steal the Silmarils, 

the jewel burned the hand of Maedhros in pain unbearable…he cast himself into a gaping chasm filled with fire, and so ended; and the Silmaril that he bore was taken into the bosom of the Earth…Maglor could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea…it came to pass that the Silmarils found their long homes: one in the airs of heaven, and one in the fires of the heart of the world, and one in the deep waters (323). 

This passage reminded me of the power of the Ark of the Covenant, as demonstrated by the story in 2 Samuel 6:1-7. The Ark is being transported and one of the oxen carrying it stumbles. One of the attendants of the Ark, Uzzah, reaches out to steady it and is struck down for the irreverent act of coming into contact physically with the Ark. God’s anger is described as burning Uzzah and killing him, in what sounds to me like how the Silmarils burned Maedhros’ hands and wounded him. An important difference here is that the Ark in both Christianity and Judaism, is a vessel for God. It is an extraordinarily divine presence. The Silmarils, although they do contain the essence of the Two Trees of Valinor, appear to be just gems, extraordinarily beautiful ones, but certainly not sacred vessels in the same way the Ark of the Covenant is within biblical lore. Perhaps this accounts for their limited ability to smite, as Maglor and Maedhros were not killed by the Silmarils. Maedhros threw himself off a cliff, certainly the pain of carrying the Silmaril was an inciting factor, but Maglor just threw the gemstone into the ocean, implying that Maedhros did not necessarily have to die for his act of stealing the Silmarils.

In my reading of The Lord of the Rings, I have always sort of understood Valinor to be a kind of heaven, or at least the closest thing to heaven within Tolkien’s universe. This assumption was for the most part guided by the fact that Valinor is often referred to as the Blessed Land in text. Having now also read Revelation 21-22, I was very struck by the similarities in the description of both Valinor and biblical heaven. In this passage of Revelation, the city of Jerusalem is “coming down out of heaven from God,” and the kingdom of Eden is restored to Earth. The holy city is described as being like a very precious jewel, like a jasper, clear as crystal, the city as gold. The passage also declares “blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city.” This passage reminded me of the descriptions of Valinor. In The Silmarillion when Eärendil goes to Valimar, the city at the heart of Valinor, Tolkien writes, “The dust upon his raiment and his shoes was a dust of diamonds, and he shone and glistened as he climbed the long white stairs” (318). Similar to the other passage describing Jerusalem, Valimar is beautiful and even the dust in the streets is like diamonds. In addition, the passage from Revelation about the tree of life, echoes how in Valinor there were the Two Trees which bring light (and are the source of the Silmarils). In this sense, the Silmarils can be understood as fragments or remnants of Tolkien’s heaven, much like medieval Christians imagined gemstones as earthly traces of the divine. Valinor also has the added parallel with heaven in that only particular people are able to get in. In biblical heaven it is the virtuous, while for Valinor it’s the elves and the ring bearers, who are rewarded for their suffering with the closest thing to Paradise in Tolkien’s universe.

The way that Tolkien treats the gemstones of Middle Earth, parallels the medieval Christian understanding of gemstones as not of humankind. The final home of the Silmarils is one in each of the three aspects of the world; they are not to be possessed by man.  A lot of the most powerful gems and artifacts were made by stronger, or powerful races than man, the Elves and the Dwarves for instance. The beauty of the Silmarils is such that it suggests a connection to a reality beyond the mortal world, which reinforces the idea discussed in class that gemstones can be understood in some contexts to be fragments of something heavenly and transcendent.

—JM

The Fall of the Noldor

            The downfall of the Noldor can be attributed to a variety of factors. For instance, the fall is often attributed to their refusal to heed the words of higher powers: Ulmo cautioned Turgon to “‘love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart’” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 125), but when Tuor came as an emissary of the Valar to deliver Turgon from his city, Turgon had become “proud” and he “trusted still in [the city’s] secret and impregnable strength, though even a Vala should gainsay it” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 240). In addition, the fall could come from their desire to create facsimiles of paradise: Fëanor created the Silmarils to preserve the glory of the Blessed Realm (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 67); Celebrimbor and the smiths of Eregion crafted the rings to make Middle-earth as fair as Valinor (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 287); and Turgon built Gondolin to mirror the beauty of Tirion (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 240). I argue, however, that these factors fundamentally stem from the same source: the desire of the Noldor to possess their own gems and, through them, claim mastery over their own selves.             The Silmarillion describes the Noldor as those who first discovered, shaped, and carved the gems of the earth (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 60). At first, they “hoarded them not, but gave them freely, and by their labour enriched all Valinor” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 60). But as the noontide of Valinor waned, and the words of Melkor wound in their hearts, the Noldor grew proud: they forgot “what they had and knew came to them in gift from the Valar” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 68), and they viewed their gems and their crafts as possessions to be owned only by themselves. The Lays of Beleriand highlights the covetous nature with which the Noldor grew to value their crafts: Fëanor uses possessive pronouns to describe them (“our gems are gone, our jewels ravished” (Tolkien, “The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor,” line 103; emphasis added)) and reframes the gifts they fashioned for the Valar as the work that should have remained theirs (“to contrive them gems and jewelled trinkets / their leisure to please with our loveliness” (Tolkien, “The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor,” lines 85-6; emphasis added)). These possessions, however, are not simply a sample of their crafts: they are also a representation of the people of the Noldor themselves. This symbolism is best encapsulated by the Silmarils: The Silmarillion describes the Silmarils as crystal that is to the “body of the Children of Ilúvatar: the house of its inner fire, that is within it and yet in all parts of it, and is its life” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 67). Thus, when Fëanor laments that the jewels have been “ravished,” he implies that the Noldor themselves have been violated. His accusation extends beyond Morgoth: even the Valar, to whom the Noldor once freely gave their treasures, become participants in the corruption of the Noldor’s own being.

            Consequently, when Fëanor stirs the Noldor to flight to reclaim the Silmarils (and their lost gems), he is also urging them to escape their servitude to the Valar (“guard us here / to serve them … hath held us slaves” (Tolkien, “The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor,” lines 83-4, 101)) and to become masters of their own selves (“‘But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils, then we and we alone shall be lords of the unsullied Light … No other race shall oust us!’” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 67)). But Fëanor fails to realize that the corruption of their gems was not because they were wrought for or given to the Valar: the corruption of the gems stems from their removal from Valinor, and so the fall of the Noldor is incited by their desire to remove themselves as well. Tolkien’s translation of Pearl offers a useful theological framework for understanding the relationship between gems and souls. In Pearl, the narrator prays for God to “[m]ake precious pearls Himself to please” of “[u]s inmates of His house divine” (Tolkien, Pearl, stanza 101). The pearls are a material representation of those who have died and now reside in Heaven; they--and other gems--are pure and eternal, just like incarnated souls imbued with the Imperishable Flame. As these jewels are fragments of paradise, they belong in Heaven:

            To that high city we swiftly fare             As soon as our flesh is laid to rot;             Ever grow shall the bliss and glory there             For the host within that hath no spot. (Tolkien, Pearl, stanza 80)

Thus, in leading the Noldor out of Valinor, Fëanor is also removing what ultimately belongs in paradise from paradise. This flight is mirrored in Genesis: Adam and Eve leave the Garden of Eden to walk east into the world (“So [God] drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims…” (KJV, Genesis 3:24)), just like how the Noldor sail from the Undying Lands east to darkened Middle-earth. Yet unlike Adam and Eve, whose exile came as divine judgment after the Fall, the Noldor embraced exile willingly, choosing separation from paradise before they were cast from it. Thus, Fëanor’s stirring of the Noldor to flight is the fundamental source of their fall.             Tragically, the Noldor could have found salvation from their fall if they had returned to Valinor and appeared before the Valar in “humble lowliness” (Tolkien, Pearl, stanza 34). But most of them did not. Their fate is reflected in the fate of the Silmarils: Eärendil and Elwing were able to enter the bounds of Valinor because they possessed a Silmaril (“it was by reason of the power of that holy jewel that they came in time to … the Bay of Eldamar” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 248)). They entreated the Valar for pardon, pity, and mercy (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 249), and the Valar lent them comfort and removed their griefs (Tolkien, Pearl, stanza 30) by providing aid to the Noldor at last. Eärendil and Elwing thus acted as messengers to deliver the fragment of paradise back to its rightful place--they were missionaries who brought a lost soul back to Heaven. Eärendil and Elwing never returned to Middle-earth because, like the Silmaril they bore, they had become things sanctified within Heaven itself; to depart would have been another fall. Maedhros and Maglor, however, were burned by the Silmarils because their ultimate goal was to keep the Silmarils out of Valinor and in their own hands (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 253). Just like the Silmarils they held, Maedhros and Maglor were lost to the world, for they refused to return to Valinor--they turned away from Heaven--where they would have found salvation for their crimes (“‘it may be that in Valinor all shall be forgiven and forget, and we shall come into our own peace’” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 253)).             Thus, the fall of the Noldor is a product of their very flight from Valinor. In desiring to master their gems, they desired to master themselves and so were blinded to their true natures as beings designed to reside in Heaven as part of its divine order. As a result, they refused to relinquish themselves to God and denied their own salvation.                 

—GMH

More Religious Symbolism in the Silmarils

 In class last Thursday, we discussed the symbolism and meaning found within the central story of the Silmarillion, that of the jewels themselves. The Silmarils, as created by Fëanor, are a set of three jewels, unrivaled throughout all of Middle Earth, so much so that protracted wars were fought over them. Most importantly, the Silmarils contain the light of the trees, Telperion and Laurelin, which provides to them a light and inner beauty that makes them so coveted. Due to this beauty, the Vala Melkor covets the jewels, going as far as to first rob the world of the light of the trees, leaving only the jewels to remain as their bearer, and then kill Fëanor’s father to steal them for himself.

Tolkien’s Christian (and more specifically, Roman Catholic) faith is hardly obscured in his works. Famously, he said that “The Lord of the Rings is of course a fundamentally religious and Catholic work; unconsciously so at first, but consciously in the revision” (Letters, 142). Based on this, it is wholly unsurprising that we would find religious symbolism and parallels in his works. At the same time, it is important not to fall into the trap of allegory. Tolkien also famously hated allegory, saying it detracts from the work and the universe. If you write with metaphors and symbols, then the reader can read what they want into those. If you work instead with allegory, however, then there is only one way to read your work, and that is as a whole, and mapped onto some other work or event. This type of writing is antithetical to Tolkien’s, as your read would never be deeper than the event it is based on, while his works seemingly have the depth of the real world.

With this being said, religious metaphor and symbolism does find its way into Tolkien’s writing with regularity, being a religious work. The Book of Revelation provides a description of the city of Jerusalem coming out of heaven in the end times, which in and of itself bears many similarities to things in Tolkien’s works. The city on Túna is described in a fairly paradisal way, being home to the Valar in Valinor. The city from Revelation bears the strongest resemblance to Gondolin, however. In Revelation, it is said “And he carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain, and shewed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem, descending out of heaven from God” (21:10, KJV) as well as “And had a wall great and high, and had twelve gates, and at the gates twelve angels, and names written thereon, which are the names of the twelve tribes of the children of Israel” (21:12). Gondolin, meanwhile, is a city hidden among the mountains, so hidden that one must be shown it, which has guarding it seven unique gates before the entrance one must pass through. Neither of these is a perfect fit, although I find Gondolin a more compelling candidate. Similarly, it is this lack of a perfect fit for things that makes Tolkien’s writing non-allegorical. The reader can read whatever of these Biblical stories into it as they want, or none. It is a part of what gives his writing the mystique of “Did his stories come from ours, or ours from his, somewhere way back in history?”.

One of the most compelling parallels I have noticed, however, is that of Silmarils with the forbidden fruit in Genesis. There are many similarities between the way Tolkien treats the Silmarils and the effects they have with the Biblical story of the first humans on Earth.

For starters, there is the obvious comparison that they both come from trees in some way. Genesis 2:17 states “but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die.” The Silmarils, likewise, contain the light of the trees, as created by Fëanor. In this sense, we could say that just as the knowledge the fruit contains is an emanation of the Tree, the light contained within the Silmarils is also an emanation of their respective trees.

The trees, and thus their light, originate in the home of the Valar, Valinor. Though I vaguely compared it to Jerusalem earlier, it is a more apt comparison to liken it to Eden, given that there, the Elves live alongside the Valar, the refracted lights of Eru made physical, or their gods. They are described similarly, as being a lush paradise unspoiled by mortals. This is not an uncommon comparison for scholars of Tolkien, and strengthens the association between the Silmarils and the forbidden fruit.

For a few minor points, the Silmarils themselves are described as being unrecreatable, that the knowledge of how to make them was lost alongside their actual creation. This serves as a storytelling element to make them rare and more desirable, but also reinforces their connection with knowledge. Additionally, Fëanor was one of the Noldor, literally meaning “those with knowledge” in Quenya.

The light of the trees, additionally, was “drank” by Ungoliant in Melkor’s plot. This phrasing makes the light seem like a food, or at least something that can be physically consumed, furthering the connection.

Most strongly in relation to Tolkien’s specifically Catholic faith, however, is the Silmaril’s connection to original sin. In his quest to reclaim the Silmarils, Fëanor swears a “terrible oath” that he and his descendants will reclaim the jewels no matter the cost. In doing so, they war for years, even going as far as the kin-slaying, the killing of other Elves in Valinor to steal their ships and pursue Melkor. The Elves that arrive in Beleriand to chase him later settle in Middle Earth after the end of the wars. Not every Elf in Middle Earth is a descendant of or one of those who did the kin-slaying, but many are, and their exile in mortal lands is a constant reminder of their separation from their paradise. In many ways, the consumption of the forbidden fruit by Adam and Eve and man’s subsequent mortality and separation from God is extremely analogous.

These types of comparisons are everywhere in Tolkien’s works if one looks for them, but leave a large amount of room for interpretation in them. It is this inspiration but also room for interpretation that, in part, makes his writing and world seem so magical and connected with our own.

-BTS

Jewelry and its Purpose

 Something that stuck with me after Thursday’s lecture was the question of why Faery clothing and jewelry are so radically different from our own and why that might be.  We discussed the idea that medieval-style jewelry might be embarrassing, or too ornamental for a place like corporate America, which necessitates conformative dress.  I also think the religious context of many jewelry items contributes to this difference between the medieval and the modern. In Medieval times, jewelry was often commissioned by the Church or the wealthy for commemorative purposes or as reliquaries.  The association between wealth, religion, and display, meant these pieces were exclusive and for a small, elite group. Today, religious jewelry serves a broader audience and is intended for everyday wear, so affordability and practicality matter more than show.  As a result, these pieces are smaller and less elaborate.  Anecdotally, I suspect there has also been a shift in the attitudes towards flashy religious pieces.  Growing up Catholic, many of my family members word scapulars and rosaries.  However, I was always told that those items were meant to be worn under clothes rather than seen, because showing them off defeated their purpose.  Religious practice was for the individual, not for others.

However, I think the key to the radical difference between Faery and modern jewelry lies in the purpose of medieval jewelry which we discussed in class.  In addition to reliquaries, jewelry served many purposes such as a ring used to seal a document, a brooch used to fasten clothing, or a pendant used to hold perfume or other scents.  This practicality, in addition to the value of jewelry as a status symbol during the Middle Ages, made it a prominent part of daily life which is not particularly relevant today.  We no longer have a widespread need to seal letters, we have buttons to fasten our clothes, and if we really need perfume on the go, a purse does the trick.  Digital banking negates the need to put your wealth into gems and precious metals, and technological advances have created a new kind of status symbol in cars and gadgets.  However, the intention of jewelry that exists in the Middle Ages applies in Middle Earth with one notable difference.  The jewelry of Middle Earth serves less physical but nevertheless important purposes.  They are vessels of power, and their appearance reflects this significance. 

For example, this week we discussed the Silmarils and their appearance and purpose. They were created by Fëanor as “he pondered how the light of the Trees [of Valinor], the glory of the Blessed Realm, might be preserved imperishable” (The Silmarillion, 67). The Silmarils were described as having a bright inner light, as if containing the essence of the Two Trees of Valinor, which gave light to the world before they were destroyed by the dark lord Morgoth. They were crystal-like and appeared to be on fire, and they were said to change color depending on the angle and intensity of the light.  Feanor created the Silmarils from three different types of light: the light of the Two Trees of Valinor, the starlight of Varda, and his own inner flame. Each Silmaril contained a different type of light and was set into a beautiful golden chain, called the "Nauglamir," which was also crafted by Feanor.  Their beauty conveys their power by drawing desire.  They attract a “greedy love” and were the cause of war at the hands of Melkor. 

Another example of powerful and beautiful jewelry is the Elfstone, Elessar, given by Galadriel to Aragorn, or the analogical Evenstar he is given by Arwen in the movies.  The Eflstone was a green gem set in a silver eagle-shaped brooch. It was a token of friendship and a symbol of Aragorn's future as the rightful king of Gondor.  The stone was also said to have healing properties, which were said to be able to cure wounds and illnesses.  The Elfstone, much like the Silmarils, was also supposed to contain light (specifically the light of the Sun).  Also like the Silmarils, this elaborate piece of jewelry contained a power to be wielded and envied. 

Lastly, I want to address the most important, yet most plain, unadorned piece of jewelry in Middle Earth: the One Ring. The One Ring is intentionally plain and unadorned in contrast to the highly ornate and decorative jewelry of Middle-earth because it is meant to be the ultimate tool of power.  The ring was created by Sauron to consolidate his power over the other races of Middle-earth, and its design reflects this purpose. Rather than being highly ornate, the ring is unassuming and inconspicuous, allowing its wearer to blend in and avoid drawing attention to themselves. The plainness of the ring also serves to mask its true nature as a powerful artifact, which is crucial to Sauron's plan to use it to dominate all of Middle-earth.

Furthermore, the simplicity of the ring's design makes it more relatable to a wider audience. Unlike the highly ornate and specialized jewelry of the elves or dwarves, the One Ring is a simple gold band that could be worn by anyone. This makes it all the more dangerous, as it can appeal to anyone who desires power or control, regardless of their background or allegiances. - JMR

Are the Jewels Worth the Dragon?

 . . . Though now long estranged,

Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.

Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,

and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,

his world-dominion by creative act:

not his to worship the great Artefact,

Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light

through whom is splintered from a single White

to many hues, and endlessly combined

in living shapes that move from mind to mind.

J.R.R. Tolkien, Mythopoeia

Lately we’ve been exploring the nature of dragons and their connection to the jewels which they are so famous for hoarding. I would like to address a few of the questions we grappled with during discussion. To begin with: What category of creature does “dragon” fall under: monster, animal, person– and is it the same category as Sauron or Morgoth? 

Dragons do not seem to fit into any one category: they are monsters but also animals, but have a human-like rationality; they are hybrid and unfamiliar, but can be predictable. The only category they fall into completely is “imaginary.” Monsters are artifacts. Like mixing up adjectives and nouns (like “green sun”), we can mix up natural elements in new ways to create monsters (like dragons) in our secondary world. Dragons are an example of subcreation, but the kind of subcreation that acts back on us, making them terrifying and dangerous. Like Feanor creating the Silmarils that subsequently corrupt him, we create dragons that scare and threaten us. Worse than these threats, however, is this crucial aspect of a dragon’s nature: hoarding jewels.

What are Tolkien’s jewels? We can see clearly from his description of the Silmarils that they are much more than pretty stones:

“Yet that crystal was to the Silmarils but as is the body to the Children of Illuvatar: the house of its inner fire, that is within it and yet in all parts of it, and is its life. . . . Therefore even in the darkness of the deepest treasury the Silmarils of their own radiance shone like the stars of Varda; and yet, as were they indeed living things, they rejoiced in light and received it and gave it back in hues more marvelous than before” (Quenta Silmarillion ch. 7). 

Jewels are good subcreations, through which the “refracted light” can shimmer. They are little incarnations, because the light inside is not from the subcreator, but the primary Creator. Now Morgoth, the destroyer of the subcreation of the Valar, would undoubtedly want to demolish these jewels completely. However, dragons are not creators or destroyers like Morgoth– they are not evil in the same way, wanting instead to hoard the gems, but not use them (for good or ill) or do away with them. Dragons effectively prevent anyone else from seeing the jewels in their splendor. 

“There he lay, a vast red-golden dragon, fast asleep; thrumming came from his jaws and nostrils, and wisps of smoke, but his fires were low in slumber. Beneath him, under all his limbs and his huge coiled tail, and about him on all sides stretching away across the unseen floors, lay countless piles of precious things, gold wrought and unwrought, gems and jewels, and silver red-stained in the ruddy light. . . . Dragons may not have much real use for all their wealth, but they know it to an ounce as a rule, especially after long possession, and Smaug was no exception” (The Hobbit ch. 12).

So why is it so essential that we defeat the dragon? If dragons are so dangerous, it certainly is tempting to leave them alone with their hoard and abandon all hope of seeing the jewels… but this is dissatisfying. We all want to see the dragon slain, don’t we? But even admitting that the dragon exists is embarrassing. Acknowledging the use of the imagination, especially to the extent of conjuring up dragons, is childish and unproductive, and we are embarrassed of that. We are afraid of the monster because we are afraid to use our imagination. And this fear may be warranted– dragons are indeed dangerous, as are the Silmarils and the Ring. But is this fear enough to let us be complacent with the dragon, and let him sit peacefully on his hoard?

No. The jewels are worth the fight. If the dragons are the worst of our imagination, the jewels are the best of it. If we give in to the fear of the dragon, we miss the jewels, which are more than just a subcreation of imagination: they hold the light! We are meant to see the jewels, and to want to make the jewels, as we are meant to subcreate because we are made in the image and likeness of the Creator. If we are afraid of our own imagination, we would never make good subcreations; if we never confront the dragon, we will never get to the jewels.

And if we cannot believe in the jewels– that the jewels are worth fighting a dragon for– how can we believe in the story of the greatest Jewel, the mother who held the Light in her womb? How can we believe in the story of the Incarnation, or the transformation of bread into flesh? A belief like this requires the imagination that the dragons guard by fear– only this time the stakes are much higher, since the imagination is not subcreating something new, but instead helping us to understand reality. Imagination used in this way fuels belief, and we must fight the embarrassment that condemns both imagination and belief as childish or unproductive. The glory and majesty of the jewels demand that we slay the dragon.

-LJE

Game of Thrones and Lord of the Rings and the Metaphysical

Fantasy is often cast aside as a frivolous genre, and it has been for a long time. Fairies, elves and orcs cannot be found in real life, so their purpose is not rooted in reality, their purpose becomes cloudy. Professor Brown brought up how many people find it a waste of time. My own opinion in the past generally dismissed fantasy as a frivolous genre, and I for a long time would have agreed. As a Creative Writing major, for a while, when other students would write fantasy stories, I would dismiss their work as somehow lesser than the realistic fiction I would write. I felt like those stories were not able to convey the human condition in the same way. As it were, most of the celebrated writers only wrote realistic fiction or nonfiction. I’m thinking about Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Austen. Tolkien was not in my realm of great writers.

In class on Monday, I brought up something, which turned out to be an important point. Game of Thrones made dragons cool again, I typed into the chat without really thinking. But now, I believe that statement and want to extend it further into a discussion on how and why fantasy was finally accepted by all sorts of TV viewers, making Game of Thrones became one of the most watched and awarded shows of all time.

My parents at first refused to watch Game of Thrones because of all of its “fantasy nonsense.” I think specifically it was the dragons that put them off, as the rest of the show could be seen as more of a period piece. Dragons were the creatures of nerds, of DnD players. However, when they finally agreed to watch it, they loved it, dragons and White Walkers being an essential part of the plot and all.

I think about asking my parents to read Lord of the Rings. They probably wouldn’t but if they did, they would also be hooked as the reason why Lord of the Rings was so successful was Tolkien’s ability to tell a story and build a world. His craftsmanship extended far beyond what Martin’s did, creating an entire Legendarium as well. Frodo’s journey through middle earth is a story anyone can relate to, despite not being a Hobbit. The wrestling with good and evil, the love story between Aragorn and Arwen are all elements that feel human. Genre does not matter if the story is good. A good writer, even those realistic fiction writers I mentioned, all have to do what Tolkien did, which is create a believable world. I know this because I have been trying to create a small world of my own for my thesis, and have found it extremely difficult. Tolkien’s work translated by Peter Jackson, won them both an Academy Award. Style matters because they are doing something hard.

However, what makes Lord of the Rings so special is its attention to the theological. It’s sub creations beg for the answers to philosophical questions and metaphysical questions realistic fiction just cannot. The creation of beings foreign to our existence goes against what God made. Game of Thrones subverts what Tolkien created into violent turmoil, seeing human. Essence as mostly evil. Fantasy deals with the grappling between good and evil. Frodo’s journey is a hero’s journey, that ultimately ends in failure as he cannot resist the one ring’s corruption. Where in realistic fiction can one be forced to deal with evil itself, without the use of metaphor and allegory. Tolkien does not need to use these as a crutch, he simply can create his world. Fantasy, good fantasy, I now see is beautiful due to its own creations.

IG

Religion, And Perhaps Why Fantasy Is Not Just Escapism After All

How did fantasy become such a childish matter?

In ancient times, such items as magical gemstones with healing properties were widely accepted as both useful and, perhaps to some, extremely important. Each gemstone has its individual usage and symbolism, which details how it should be used. Of course, there were skeptics in those times as well, of the power that gemstones really could possess, but at least ‘adult’ figures accepted them as real. What changed? How did a dragon sitting upon a pile of gold and gems go from being heroic and epic to frivolous and childish?

In the Bible, gems are mentioned in a few places. In Exodus, chapter 28, Aaron is to have a breastplate of jewels and gemstones, all set to represent the twelve tribes of Israel. The stones are all listed out:

The first row shall be a sardius, a topaz, and a carbuncle: this shall be the first row. And the second row shall be an emerald, a sapphire, and a diamond. And the third row a ligure, an agate, and an amethyst.And the fourth row a beryl, and an onyx, and a jasper… And the stones shall be with the names of the children of Israel, twelve, according to their names… every one with his names shall they be according to the twelve tribes. —Exodus 28.17-21

Here we can see that the stones are all important, for they have the names of the children of Israel. The fact that they also were specifically written out, in such a careful manner, so that the order of the rows are laid out so clearly leads to the conclusion that something about these stones must be precious and important.

A second place that these stones appear in the Christian canon of scripture is in Revelation, in chapter 21, where the entirety of the perfected holy city of Jerusalem is presented. Here, too, is a careful consideration of all the gemstones.

And the foundations of the wall of the city were garnished with all manner of precious stones. The first foundation was jasper; the second, sapphire; the third, a chalcedony; the fourth, an emerald;The fifth, sardonyx; the sixth, sardius; the seventh, chrysolite; the eighth, beryl; the ninth, a topaz; the tenth, a chrysoprasus; the eleventh, a jacinth; the twelfth, an amethyst. —Revelation 21.19-20

In Marbode of Rennes’s De Lapidibus, the jewels and the stones from these verses are all listed out, along with their respective meanings. For example, Jasper the first foundation, “reveals the greenness of faith / which in all perfect men / never grows deep within; / by its strong protection / the devil is resisted,”(Marbode, Lapidary of 12 Stones in Verse). This is just one example of how all the stones, and all of their powers and representations, are carefully and clearly written.

These precious stones do not only hold power in the Judeo-Christian traditions, but also in many others, such as the Greco-Roman and the Indian tradition. So many gemstones that were thought to hold power have been found in so many countries, and some people still believe certain jewelry to hold power through their religion. So why are so many modern adults so skeptical of anything holding power? And how does this digression on jewels and gemstones with religious power have anything to do with fantasy?

Other universes, such as the one that the Lord of the Rings takes place in, are often, by our parents, or perhaps by teachers, or any other ‘rational’ adults in our lives, called frivolous, and there simply for escapism. Maybe part of fantasy and its allure is, after all, simply a desire for escaping from our mundane reality, to where real monsters exist, which offer problems and a perspective greater than our next essay or midterm from which we are trying to escape. But escapism cannot be the only reason for why fantasy has become such a large part of popular culture.

Fantasy draws us in with the promise of adventure, and a calling to become the chosen one, which I doubt any of us will be able to experience, in all of its honors and trials, and dangers and difficulties, in our lives, unless of course one of us is indeed part of some fantastical tangent reality that coexists with our own. Perhaps, then, it is not escapism, but the call to something higher, some greater purpose that we all wish to serve. Or maybe we are simply trying to forget about our next assignments. But this drawing in that good fantasy can do so thoroughly might relate back to what people thousands of years ago wrote down.

The magic of the gemstones, not only in the Bible, but in every ancient tradition in which they are mentioned, do represent some higher order that exists in our own world. All the gems have a specific meaning, and they all hold some power, whether it be protection from the devil himself, or a representation of faith and hope.

Somewhere along the way, these gems lost their respect due to perhaps the disbelievers or the skeptics of religion. I am certain that this is not the whole picture, but, however the gems actually lost their magic and significance, anything magical, to many adults today, is considered childish. What they do not realize though, is that these traditions come from long before the tradition of childish fairy tales and Disney magic. They come from a higher order, one that all subscribers of fantasy wish to also become a part of. In this way, fantasy does, in fact, bring us much closer to religion than I, personally, and perhaps many others, could ever have imagined.
-CS

If I Can't Have It, No One Can!

The first time that I watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy in its entirety, it was the night before I had a midterm, it was a few weeks before finals, and I definitely had some work piling up that I should have been doing; yet, despite all of that, I sat down for about 10 hours with some friends to watch all 3 movies in a row. Alas I did not have access to the extended editions, but even so, the movies definitely made their mark, which is especially impressive considering that by hour 6 I was slightly delirious and more than likely realizing how late it was. When I think back to those movies though, there are definitely a lot of memorable moments or features that always make me want to go back and watch through them again; Legolas and Gimli’s “bromance,” getting to reconnect with the one and only Bilbo Baggins, Merry and Pippin’s evolution as comic relief to actual adventurers, and Samwise’s heroism and bravery are all definitely standouts. However, there is one thing I always come back to, and it makes me smile and shiver all at once: “My preciousssss.” Given, I just watched Andy Serkis read the Riddles in the Dark chapter of The Hobbit, voicing Gollum/Sméagol in his full creepy glory, but even without the recent reminder, I think that Gollum’s obsession over the Ring, and the Ring’s inevitable pull over almost anyone that tries to wield it, definitely speak to a broader theme that runs throughout Tolkien’s writings on Middle Earth.

            Gollum’s relationship with the Ring, especially when we first meet him in The Hobbit, is definitely a bit odd; he doesn’t constantly feel the pull of needing to wear the ring, just to possess it, as he “used to wear it at first, till it tired him; and then he kept it in a pouch next his skin, till it galled him; and now usually he hid it in a hole in the rock on his island, and was always going back to look at it. And still sometimes he put it on, when he could not bear to be parted from it any longer, or when he was very, very, hungry, and tired of fish.” These feel less like the actions of someone who wants desperately to keep the ring on his person; only when he feels like he really needs to wear it or wants some variety in his diet does he wear it. Instead, at least to me, this appears more like the behavior of a hoarder, or that by keeping it himself, he is actively making sure that no one else can possess it. He’s not keeping the ring for the pleasure of it, or even because he likes to be invisible (though clearly solitude is very important to him), but instead the idea that anyone else has the ring is so unthinkable that Sméagol inevitably becomes Gollum; his initial state of being enamored with the beauty of the ring turns into an uglier and darker selfishness, a need to be the sole caretaker of this object.

Even the way he dies shows how his one goal is to be the sole bearer of the ring, “But Gollum, dancing like a mad thing, held aloft the ring, a finger still thrust within its circle. It shone now as if verily it was wrought of living fire. ‘Precious, precious, precious!’ Gollum cried. ‘My Precious! O my Precious!’ And with that, even as his eyes were lifted up to gloat on his prize, he stepped too far, toppled, wavered for a moment on the brink, and then with a shriek he fell. Out of the depths came his last wail Precious, and he was gone.” Even standing above a pit of fire, Gollum is too caught up with the victory of winning back the precious to care about the precarious situation he is in; by falling in to Mount Doom, in a strange sense Gollum has won, as he has died the last Ring Bearer, and as he died, only then did the Ring get destroyed.

This type of obsession over an object of this power is echoed in the story of the Silmarils, as not long after their creation, “though at great feasts Fëanor would wear them, blazing on his brow, at other times they were guarded close, locked in the deep chambers of his hoard in Tirion. For Fëanor began to love the Silmarils with a greedy love, and grudged the sight of them to all save to his father and his seven sons; he seldom remembered now that the light within them was not his own.” The compulsion to own the Silmarils, and more specifically to keep them from others, is akin to the pull of the Ring. This isn’t to say that the Silmarils themselves are evil, or that the Ring is good; in fact, I am not trying to make any sort of moral comparison between these artifacts. What I am trying to point out is that, throughout Tolkien’s works, the idea that attempting to hoard something just for the sake of making sure no one can have it leads to that person’s destruction and has the potential to harm many others.

Fëanor’s greed for the Silmarils essentially doomed many of the Noldor to many ages of strife, and his sons had to die for their father’s folly, among other catastrophic consequences. Gollum’s greed, on the other hand, was on a smaller scale, but in a sense equally tragic; killing one of his closest friends, betraying his true nature, and essentially torturing Frodo and Sam on their journey to Mount Doom are only some of the things Gollum did to either protect or try to ensure his hold over the Ring. However, when objects of power are kept for the sake of protecting others, not to hide them from view, oftentimes they can do great things; Earendil and Elwing were able to use a Silmaril to enlist the aid of the Valar on behalf of Elves and Men; Galadriel used Nenya to ensure the survival of Lórien, and the Palantíri used to ensure cooperation and friendship between far-flung groups of people. Power isn’t evil in its own right, or at least not always; the will to hoard though, that’s a different story, and one that always ends in tragedy.

-       SGK

P.S. If you’d also like to watch a hobbit solve some Riddles in the Dark, this should do the trick: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSeVHqp2eQA

Don't Be Embarrassed

            Like some of you, I have a tiny blurb at the end of my resume dedicated to my interests in the hope that it will spark conversation with potential interviewers. Recently, and with a truly copious amount of convincing, I added “The Lord of the Rings and related works” to that interest line. While it’s true that The Lord of the Rings has long been a love of mine, it has only recently become a public interest of mine and I’m pretty sure that I had the same thought that many of you would probably have when adding this or a similar line to your resume: “Isn’t this just a little too nerdy and weird?” I asked my friend the same question, and while ironically she often ridicules my love of Tolkien, she also responded with something that left me at a loss for words: “If you love Tolkien, own it.” Coupled with our discussion on Monday, I really started to think about why people are embarrassed to admit that they enjoy fantasy. Even calling it an admission I think is wrong because that connotes a wrongness to it. I think a better question is this. Why don’t we shout from the rooftops that we love fantasy? The short answer is of course we should.

            I think a strange but entirely appropriate analogy applies: fantasy lovers are the timeless equivalent of bronies. I’m not disparaging the My Little Pony franchise, but I do think that people in each camp are treated similarly. Ridicule almost inevitably follows the divulgence of the interest, and I think for many it’s a go-to jab when they truly have nothing else to insult you with.  It’s a box that you can never reseal, but honestly why would you ever want to? Frankly I think it’s silly to be ashamed of enjoying a story that quite literally has an enormous golden dragon that is being attended to by demons wreathed in fire and shadow, all of whom are followed by an enormous host of orcs. One can always make the argument that dragons and demons and orcs are all fictional, but this isn’t really that different than glorifying tanks and attack helicopters and fighter jets in games like Call of Duty or Battlefield. Both sets of things the usual person has never seen in real life and I doubt that actual warfare is conducted in the way the games portray it to be (especially coming back to life after dying but I could be totally wrong). What I’m saying is this: if the characters and villains aren’t realistic but the encounters and the substance of the encounters are, there is nothing substantial to ridicule.

One fatal flaw of many fantasy novels is a predictable plot and monsters that lack seriousness, or even the simple ability to win against the hero. I’ve found that often when I’m reading fantasy, I can predict how the plot of the novel will progress and I frequently guess correctly that although it may seem like the hero has trouble defeating the villain, there was no actual chance the hero would lose. To put it concisely, either unwittingly or by design, much of fantasy is Faerie adapted for children, and Tolkien put it best saying “the common opinion seems to be that there is a natural connexion between the minds of children and fairy stories, of the same order as the connexion between children's bodies and milk. I think this is an error” (“On Fairy Stories”). In my opinion, it’s these stories that give fantasy the social stigma that it has. How could we call a story where the hero has no hope of losing anything but childish? Realism comes from the actual struggle a character can go through. 

The easiest example is Frodo and his journey to Mordor with Sam. While his task was to unmake the One Ring, he ultimately couldn’t do it. He claimed it as his own, and a reader with no prior experience or knowledge of The Lord of the Rings I think would be hit with instant dread. Bathed in the light of the volcano, with Frodo exclaiming “The Ring is mine!” (Return of the King 239), surely there is no hope of finally destroying The Ring. In The Fellowship of the Ring no one writing a children’s fairy story would have Gandalf defeated by the Balrog. Rather, they would have Gandalf defeat the Balrog, but of course after the obligatory struggle that makes it seem like Gandalf won’t win but makes a heroic comeback. Even in Beowulf, written possibly more than 1000 years ago, contains this realistic struggle between hero and monster. Called to fight so many years after the struggle with Grendel and Grendel’s mother, a naïve reader would think that Beowulf would surely defeat the dragon. That’s how a common fairy story for children would go. Thankfully, Beowulf is no common children’s story. While trying (and failing I think we can agree) to criticize Tolkien, I think Edmund Wilson best described what is wrong with a lot of fantasy within a statement about orcs: “There are ogreish disgusting Orcs, who, however, rarely get to the point of committing any overt acts” (“Oo, Those Awful Orcs”). We talked a lot about monsters needing to be actually scary, but I think what also makes monsters monsters is that they have a entirely real ability to completely destroy the hero’s journey. Wilson’s point is exactly what makes The Lord of the Rings worth being proud of enjoying because the ability to stand up to orcs, demons, a giant spider, and a fallen angel captures Truth, even if the player’s are “realistic,” the scenarios they’re put through sure are. So scream your love of Tolkien from the window, or don’t because while fantasy isn’t weird screaming randomly definitely is.  
-NP

The Serpent Guards Heavenly Jerusalem

Smaug, the great fire drake of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit, closely guards his coveted hoard of gems and gold deep within the halls of Erebor. Bilbo Baggins, a simple hobbit called upon by the mysterious Gandalf, unexpectedly assumes a pivotal role in the recovery of the dwarven treasure and mountain kingdom. While delightful on its own, the story contains deeper symbolism and meaning regarding the nature of life and the pursuit of the holy. The central role of gold and gems, the presence of a crafty serpent, and a common man bewildered by the call of a mysterious figure all mirror biblical The quest to regain Erebor from the vicious and deceptive dragon demonstrates the path mankind must tread to reach salvation.

The first clear indication of the parallel between Erebor and the city of heaven lies on the first page, with Thror's map. In the description on the following two pages, Tolkien explains that dwarvish maps are oriented with East at the top (the Hobbit, p. 2), just as Medieval maps of the orbis terrarium style were oriented East with Jerusalem in the middle and Paradise at the top in the Far East.

Beyond the position of Erebor, the contents of its vast caverns suggests its symbolic importance. In the Bible and Medieval reliquary and thought, gemstones and gold represent the divine. Early on, the dwarves sing of Erebor as filled with gold, silver, and gems that shine like stars (The Hobbit, p. 15). In the book of Exodus, God commands Aaron to wear a breastplate of twelve different gemstones when he appears before God; each gemstone is to represent one of the twelve tribes of Israel (Exodus 28). The book of Revelations describes how these same twelve gemstones comprise the foundations and -along with gold - provide the construction materials for Heavenly Jerusalem (Revelations 21 & 22). Throughout The Hobbit, Bilbo and company are seeking to acquire the physical representation of the Peoples of God and the building blocks of the city of Heaven. Tolkien knew that Heaven is made from these materials through his translation of a manuscript from the 1400's (Pearl, from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight).

Gandalf, as the one who recommends Bilbo to the dwarves, acts as an "angelic" figure in the original, Greek sense of the word: ἄγγελος, "messenger." Gandalf himself does not represent anything per se, much less the God. Instead, he acts as the vehicle or manifestation of divine will on mortals. It is not that he knows what is willed or will occur (The Hobbit, p. 17), it is that he knows what Bilbo Baggins is capable of, even if Bilbo himself is unaware or unwilling to utilize his talents (The Hobbit, p. 19). Gandalf mirrors the angel Gabriel descending from Heaven to the unsuspecting Mary to announce the coming of Christ (Luke 1:28-36). Notably, in the passage, the angel praises Mary's virtues as blessed amongst women (Luke 1: 28). The Virgin Mary is then confused by such a greeting, just as Bilbo Baggins was deeply confused and befuddled by Gandalf declaring he was an excellent burglar (Luke 1:29). The Virgin Mary even asks how she can be with child when she has not "known" a man, just as Bilbo ponders how he will successfully burgle from a dragon if he has never done it before (Luke 1:34). Following this event with the angel, Mary departs from where she was staying and travels to another town, in a similar manner to Bilbo (Luke 1:41).

Bilbo is notable only in that he is the quintessential hobbit; he enjoys food, has a comfortable home, and enjoys a rather simple lifestyle compared to nearly every other species (The Hobbit, p.3-5). He does not over indulge, but he enjoys material aspects of life: smoking, eating, sipping tea, visiting with friends, amongst many things (The Hobbit, p. 5). When confronted with things beyond the normal happenings of his life, he becomes flustered and bewildered (The Hobbit, p. 9-10, 17-18). It is the cajoling by the thirteen dwarves that gets Bilbo riled up enough to "suddenly [feel] he would go without bed and breakfast to be thought fierce," (The Hobbit, p. 18). With the entrance of Gandalf into his life, Bilbo is suddenly willing to forego the comforts of room and meals to pursue the objects of Heaven. He early on accepts that he will sacrifice in the pursuit of his goal. It is this act of willingly giving up what he loves to pursue a greater quest which brings him greater reward at the end of the story.

Finally, Smaug resembles Satan not only in his destructive nature and malice, but by his eloquent and hypnotic guiles. The very look of Smaug is hypnotic and enticing; Bilbo has an urge to reveal himself to Smaug and tell the truth from a few quick glance (The Hobbit, p. 206). Additionally, in Bilbo's attempt to disguise himself, he gets caught up in making up titles and accidentally reveals too much of his past to Smaug, which earns Laketown his wrath (The Hobbit, p. 205). During the encounter, Smaug's sly tongue and quick wits shake Bilbo's faith in the quest and the ability of the company to complete it (The Hobbit, p. 207). While Smaug is correct that carrying off the gold is futile, this is only a half truth. Bilbo is taken in by the half truth before he realizes that the dragon's talk is not entirely accurate. Smaug believes himself to be invincible, but his death would allow the quest to be completed. By noticing Smaug's pride for what it is, Bilbo is able to exploit the dragon's vices and get him to expose his weak point in his armor (The Hobbit, p. 208). Further, Smaug's armor is comprised of gemstones, yet on his left breast, before his heart, he has a single weak point (The Hobbit, p. 208).  Smaug, like Satan, armors himself with the virtues of God (De Lapidus, p. 119-21). It is by seeing through this falsehood that Bilbo recognizes Smaug's mortal weakness, allowing the quest to be completed and Erebor regained. 

Just as Smaug guards his horde of treasure at Erebor, so too does the Serpent guard the entrance to Heavenly Jerusalem. This is not done out of love for those inside the city, but of a malice for those who wish to enter. The Serpent guards the city by keeping out those who would waver in their faith, just as Smaug almost kills Bilbo as he wavers in his faith in the Company and the Quest.

MDH