Worship, Language, and the Liturgy

One of Tolkien's most stunning innovations seems to be his ability to create fairy in a manner which retains its alignment with christian theology while incorporating an understanding of the real mythos in the great works of English Heritage. It seems that for Tolkien Language exists as a form of a roadmap to an understanding of that which is holy. Language itself therefore becomes a format of subcreation. On this blog a post raises the question of whether “worship” in Tolkien's framework is evil due to the fact that the word is only used in negative contexts throughout the books. While the post continues in an analysis of Tolkien's concept of “following” which in some way demonstrates an alternative to “worship”. Furthermore this piece examines how true and noble reverence is illustrative of the key role of free will in subcreation. Thinking about this problem led me to think about Tolkien's naming of his gods and the power of language and names throughout Tolkien relative to the problem of what worship constitutes. In his project, Tolkien acts as a reverent sub-creator in naming and following preexistent lists of names that once within them held a story. Furthermore, in attempting to reconcile this problem with Tolkien's understanding of the reality of his stories which he insisted existed not only within the world as he created them but within the words which he drew from. Language is a consistently fluxing phenomenon and Tolkien understood it as such, however it also seems that for his universe, words possess a latent power and might themselves be considered worship.  

We might start with the fact that Tolkien's philology is by nature not secular, and it might be helpful to, in lacking an understanding of a field which has essentially died in the modern godless present by comparing it with new ideas regarding Language. Philology has been replaced by more critical methods of the analysis of language. In particular the emergence of a completely atheological understanding of the interconnectedness of words seems to have hints of Tolkien's understanding of subcreation, insofar as that linguistic relationships seems to very clearly be illustrative of the idea that names and words themselves contained multitudes and might only be understood by the way the weave together with others in a web of intricacies. Essentially this idea would fully legitimize the understanding presented by Tolkien that within words there are worlds which are both grounded and their own. However, to Tolkien the subcreation of these worlds themselves would be an act of divinity. Rather than a corruption and a twisting as is illustrated by the acts of Melkor, it instead acts as something holy and transcended. As such, the names themselves as presented in the Valquenta, have power and this is where Tolkien very clearly bifurcates from the more modern presentations of linguistic analysis insofar as he seemingly finds that certain points within language contain a divine richness. Even in the reverence with which names are dealt with in the stories convey this. The summoning of ages past and the communication of relationships are not the only thing that words hold for Tolkien, but these microcosms that modern theories mainly seek to analyze are present within Tolkien  “mr. frodo” is the easiest example. Furthermore Tolkien does much better as shows us a world contained in words, and his fascination with the naming of gods and that ephemeral sensation. Rather than attempting to logically and rationally explain such a phenomenon Tolkien attaches it to the material world through the divine.

The practice of saying names and the presence of songs is an essential component of not only Tolkien’s storytelling method, but also the manner in which the plot unfolds. The beauty of Sam's song stands tall in the tower of art, and also communicates what Tolkien's vision of worship might actually be. The liturgy here becomes useful. In essence the reason that the liturgy is such an important element of Christianity is that it is what retains and fuels the presence and faith of god. The action of reading and of song, are holy within this framing. The liturgy and act of language also intersect with Tolkien's project of the sub-creation of a mythology for England. The main manner in which christianity existed and persisted within the creation of England was through the continual recitation of the psalms and this core practice of Christianity. Language contains holiness and it is in this framework  that we can better understand what Tolkien sees as worship. The practice of subcreation through language exists in a striking parallel with the ideals of the bringing of Glory to God displayed within the early English mythos. Absent the images of a dying and martyred Christ, Anglo-Saxon iconography shows a noble Christ on the throne in glory and power adorned by the beauty of God's creations. In such a manner, Tolkien's worship is the practice of the power within those words, the act of song was a spiritual experience, and maybe the earliest one possible, the act of sub creation is that in echoing of the creative processes of beauty from their roots, unlike the theft of the lights, words function as paths and echoes of gods glory, and the worlds we make from that are as real as the transcendent nature of godliness itself. For Tolkien, speech itself becomes mighty words that have magic. How do we make stories and songs real? By telling them, guided by the path and practice of linguistic beauty.

—PR

Invocation and Worship: Reverence for Elbereth

 Though Tolkien is a devout Catholic and clear in his personal letters that the Lord of the Rings is fundamentally a Catholic and religious work, the theme of worship appears very subtly; however, it repeats itself consistently, particularly with invocations to the celestial being Elbereth. Elbereth, also known as Varda Elentári in the High-Elven tongue or Gilthoniel in Sindarin, is one of the Valar – divine beings akin to gods in the pantheon of Middle-earth. Her name is a beacon of hope, an invocation for divine intervention, and a symbol of reverence in times of despair.

Elbereth: A Celestial Beacon

Known as the Star-Kindler, Elbereth's primary role involves the creation of stars, celestial bodies that often symbolize hope and guidance in the universe. She is a symbol of light against darkness, a theme deeply embedded in the trilogy. Through her worship, we see how divine reverence is subtly interwoven into the narrative, often connected with hope, salvation, and the ultimate triumph of good over evil.

The Elves, more than any other race in Middle-earth, venerate Elbereth, and her name is called out in song and in dire moments of need. In "The Fellowship of the Ring," when Frodo and his companions first meet the High Elves in the Shire, their leader, Gildor Inglorion, refers to Elbereth in a hymn: "Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear! O Queen beyond the Western Seas! O Light to us that wander here Amid the world of woven trees!" (Book 1, Chapter 3) This song is a testament to the Elves' devotion and their perception of Elbereth as a source of inspiration and guidance. The invocation of Elbereth's name is a plea for protection and a reminder of the light she kindles in the starlit sky, offering solace to those "wandering amid the world of woven trees." This call for divine assistance echoes Tolkien’s perspective on God in his letters, where he writes, “God is (so to speak) also behind us, supporting, nourishing us (as being creatures).” (Letter 54) The concepts of God and worship are not at the forefront of Tolkien’s work; they are behind, ever so slightly pushing the narrative and nudging characters along when they need help, showing readers that in this story, just as in life, God does not lay everything out clearly in front of you – He appears ever so momentarily to guide you, just long enough to remind you that He is there.

The Hobbits, primarily Frodo Baggins, also invoke Elbereth's name, even though Hobbits are not traditionally a religious folk in the conventional sense. In the face of imminent danger, when confronting the Black Riders, Frodo often calls upon Elbereth on Weathertop, yelling, "O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!" (Book 1, Chapter 11) This cry symbolizes his resistance against the impending darkness and his faith in the existence of a higher power. Even though Frodo might not fully understand the divine stature of Elbereth, his invocation is a desperate plea for assistance, which indirectly weaves the concept of worship into the narrative.

Worship: Not in Temples, But in Hearts and Deeds

Tolkien's subtle approach to the theme of worship is worth noting. There are no temples, no direct rituals of worship; instead, worship is shown through the characters' words, songs, and deeds. The reverence for Elbereth reflects the innate desire embedded within us for hope, light, and salvation.  Touching on the subtle nature of religion and worship, Tolkien writes, “The Lord of the Rings is a fundamentally religious and Catholic work… that is why I have not put in, or 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.” (Letter 142) I don’t think Tolkien wants to push his Catholicism on his audience – he intends his books to be read by those of all faiths (or no faith at all), which is why worship is such a veiled theme – his readers must come to know it by themselves. For example, consider Gandalf, whose sacrifice allows the Fellowship to escape from Moria, and who later returns in a transformed state, perhaps representing the resurrection of Christ. Or Frodo's self-sacrifice – he bears the burden of the Ring and suffers to save Middle-earth, which reflects Christ's sacrificial love. Similarly, the world of Middle-earth reflects a monotheistic worldview, with Ilúvatar or Eru representing a single, all-powerful creator. The Valar serve as powerful, angelic beings rather than competing gods, suggesting a celestial hierarchy that aligns with Christian cosmology.

The worship of Elbereth in "The Lord of the Rings" provides an exploration of faith and reverence in Tolkien's universe. Her celestial persona and the invocation of her name illustrate how worship in Middle-earth extends beyond ritualistic practices – Elbereth serves as a beacon of hope, a plea for assistance, and a courageous act of resistance against the overwhelming forces of darkness – just as Tolkien intended. Worship presents itself in this all-encompassing form, as he writes, “Those who believe in a personal God, Creator, do not think the Universe is in itself worshipful, though devoted study of it may be one of the ways honoring Him… our ideas of God and ways of expressing them will be largely derived from contemplating the world around us.” (Letter 310) Another compelling example of Elbereth’s worship is Samwise Gamgee's invocation during his encounter with Shelob, the giant spider. With a final plea of "Gilthoniel A Elbereth!" he smites Shelob. (Book 4, Chapter 10) Sam’s decisive cry coupled with his strike ties his faith and reverence to a tangible act of resistance against darkness, echoing Tolkien's embodiment of worship as something active and alive, intertwined with deeds and courage.

Despite the grim and desperate situations, the characters' reverence for Elbereth is a testament to their enduring faith in the triumph of light, embodying a central theme of Tolkien — that even in the darkest times, faith, like the stars kindled by Elbereth, overcomes evil. 

- ACLL

The Duality of Immortality

Every author who writes about immortal creatures has a different take. The author of Gulliver’s Travels, Jonathan Swift, took the view that being immortal is one of pain, of forgetting. Other authors have taken the view that being immortal is a life of loss, of the people you love constantly dying around you, of everything you love, in fact, changing, while you never do the same, such as in The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, by V.E. Schwab. Even Marvel takes into account immortal beings, and the struggles of such life. The point is, every story about immortals describe the prospect in a different way, and what the Lord of the Rings does, is it looks at both sides of the story – not through mortal and immortal, or men and elves as described in class, but between the good and the bad – the elves and Gollum. Here Tolkien shows the duality of immortality, the ability for it to be utilized as a way to, in a way, perfect society, to consistently better oneself and those around you, or to forget all that you’ve ever known, to spiral deeper and deeper into madness and despair. And of course the elves’ aren’t perfect, but comparative to Gollum, they’ve achieved much more with their immortality.

And a big part of that is due in part to, well, first of all, the ability to retain an able body and mind, but mostly the fact that they have a society. A group of beings that all share the gift of immortality, and what that chiefly does is take away the loss of their surroundings. Despite their immortality the elves retain their relationships, their surroundings, everything they love, throughout their lives. It’s what makes Legolas’ relationship with Gimli so unnatural. It’s what makes the elves themselves so separate from every other race. Time doesn’t move faster for them, but it might as well, because the humans and hobbits and dwarves around them are constantly dying and being replaced. So similar to Gollum, they curl inwards, but instead of a single being, they have an entire society to lean on, to build. And even as Gollum creates their own canon inside their head, their own world, so to do the elves create their own world, building out their arts and ideas and civilization, until they become so disconnected with the land and peoples around them, that they leave. Similar isolation, similar end results, but extremely different usages of the power of immortality.

So what can we learn from this duality? Of course, there’s the value of community, but the hobbits could teach us that. There’s the value in bettering oneself and using the gifts that you’ve been given in a productive and useful way, but the elves themselves don’t always do that. I think the important lesson to take from Tolkien’s dual portrayal of immortality is to value the gifts we’re given – the way each and every various race of beings in Middle-Earth does. To make the most of each opportunity as it comes our way, and instead of hoarding our treasure, as Gollum does, share what we have with the world around us. Because that’s what the Lord of the Rings is, at its heart, at its clearest level – a tale of adventure, of wonder, of exploration. Yes, there are lessons to be learned, morals to be questioned, and various ideals and methods of the world to interrogate. The elves and their passion for various topics of learning are important – how they make use of their immortality, how they structure their society – but there’s a reason this epic is told through the eyes of a hobbit. Because it’s meant to show us to enjoy the world around us, to explore and learn more with each new day. 

-MR

Tower Talk: Seeing and Being Seen

What role do towers serve in The Lord of the Rings? As is everything within The Lord of the Rings, they don’t exist just to look pretty. Towers, as does most everything else, have their symbolisms as well. There are four towers in particular that I want to examine: Angrenost, Minas Anor, Minas Ithil, and Barad-dur. 

There is, firstly, the role of towers as fortresses and outposts. Meant to be unassailable and impregnable, each tower serves a strategic purpose. Often, they are not only for defending, but for a related task, watching. Angrenost, to the northwest corner of Gondor, and better known as Orthanc, was kept by Gondor after ceding Rohan to the Northmen for its strategic value in guarding the mountain gap. Minas Ithil, later renamed Minas Morgul after its fall into the hands of the Nazgul, was built to keep watch on the lands of Mordor. Minas Anor, better known as Minas Tirith, kept an eye on both Mordor and Minas Morgul. Barad-dur, the tower of Sauron, was meant to keep an eye on… well, everything. It’s kind of what it’s known for, actually. It’s not just their height, however, that makes them useful for watching. Each of these towers housed one of the four palantiri of the South-kingdom, with the exception of the Master Stone, lost in the waters of the Anduin. The palantiri are seeing and scrying stones, used for communication and observation. They are linked to each other, and in so doing, the purposes of these towers are also inextricably linked. Apart from their looks, these towers might not be so different from each other as they might seem. 

Towers also serve an aesthetic purpose. So, yes, part of their meaning may lie in looking pretty. Of course, Barad-dur is more ominous than Minas Tirath. At first glance, you might think “ah yes, Minas Tirith is good and Barad-dur is bad.” It is more than just that, however. We must consider the idea of artistry and sub-creation as well. Architecture is no exception. Comparing Minas Tirith to Barad-dur, there is a clear architectural difference in how they are presented. Minas Tirith, originally named Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun, is marbled, resplendent, and strangely maritime in its construction. But Barad-dur is large and terrible, dark with its clawing spires. It is not to say that architecture is only present in one and not the other: both are certainly their own aesthetic styles. However, the architecture of Barad-dur is hostile, full of spikes pointing outwards and surfaces that, if it were a model, you wouldn’t want to touch with your bare hands. In contrast, the architecture of Minas Tirith is defensive, protective, seeking to guard whatever is inside its walls. As expressions of both artistry and goals, one conveys ambition while the other conveys guardianship. Towers reflect the mindscapes of their sculptors, and function as sub-creations under the created world of Eru and the Valar. Barad-dur reflects Sauron’s ambitions and greedy; Minas Anor the bastion of Anarion to guard against Mordor; Minas Ithil the resistance of Isildur and his fall; Angrenost the decline of the Numenor and the corruption of Sauron. 

- CLP 

Is Worship Inherently Evil?

And out of it the world was made. For Darkness alone is worshipful, and the Lord thereof may yet make other worlds to be gifts to those that serve him, so the increase of their power shall find no end.

-Sauron to Ar-Pharazon in The Silmarillion

Throughout The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion, the term ‘worship’ is only used to describe those who honor evil, whether that be the Black Numenorians worshipping Sauron or Gollum worshipping Shelob. Eru Ilúvatar – the most powerful being of all – is never described as being ‘worshipped’ by the Valar or any other being (groups like the Numenorians did still honor Eru, but that is different from worship), yet Melkor and Sauron – Ilúvatar’s creations – are both described as having worshippers. To describe those who honor Good, Tolkien uses the word ‘follow’ instead of ‘worship.’ Because this word choice is so distinct, I believe it to be an intentional showcase of Tolkien’s belief that to be worshipped, blindly submitted to because of perceived power, requires one to be corrupted and robbed of free will. To be followed, however, is a choice freely made and, therefore, a demonstration that one has earned their following by being Good. 

To Tolkien, the word ‘worship’ means that one’s free will has been corrupted by another, which is why he believes it to be inherently evil. When Aragorn and the party come to speak with The Mouth of Sauron, The Mouth is described as being a member of the Black Numenorians:

….. for they established their dwellings in Middle-Earth

during the years of Sauron’s domination,

And they worshipped him, being enamored of evil knowledge.

Tolkien attributes the cause of the Black Numenorians’ worship to their infatuation with evil knowledge. Specifically, Tolkien uses the word ‘enamored,’ which connotes the end-state of someone after they have fallen in love. When one falls in love, it is often described as an uncontrollable feeling that causes the feeler to commit acts that do not correspond with their nature, hence the cultural phrase crazy in love. It can be said that one who is in love does not possess true free will, as the feeling reorganizes their priorities and influences their decisions. It is important to note that Tolkien is not saying all free will is lost to the point where the person does not have responsibility for their actions, just that it is heavily influenced. Tolkien himself has experienced the influence of his free will due to falling in love. In a letter to his son Micheal written on March 6, 1941, Tolkien recounts the three-year period where he did not speak to his future wife, as they were separated:

[Not writing to your mother] was extremely hard, painful and bitter, especially at first. 

The effects were not wholly good: I fell back into folly and slackness and misspent a good deal of my first year at College.

To be distracted by anything – assuming he has first hyper-fixated on it – is out of character for Tolkien; once more, ‘slackness’ is not a character trait he has ever been known for. Because Tolkien acted so out of character when he was in love – and separated from this love – to the point where he could be described as crazy in love, it is no surprise that he understands how love could reorganize someone’s priorities (in his case, make them not study what they originally dreamed of studying), and dominate their free will. Therefore, his choice to use the word ‘enamored’ when describing the cause of the Black Numenorian’s worship of evil knowledge is intentional to show that the Black Numenorians have been corrupted by Sauron; he now dominates their free will when they are in this state of infatuation.

When Tolkien speaks of those honoring another, that is to recognize that one has demonstrated their Goodness and deserves the service of others, he uses the term ‘follow’ to describe this relationship; he believes that those who ‘follow’ have made this choice out of their true free will because their leader has not corrupted this very free will. In order for one to be followed, one has to allow their followers to remain uncorrupted, which makes one Good. Therefore, to ‘follow’ describes the relationship of those in service to Good. When Eowyn asks Aragorn not to go to Dunharrow to enlist the aid of the dead because she believes this act to be suicidal, Aragorn responds:

‘It is not madness, lady.’ he answered; ‘for I go on a path appointed.  

But those who follow me do so of their own free will, and if 

they wish now to remain and ride with the Rohirrim, they may do so…’

By saying ‘those who follow me do so of their own free will,’ Aragorn makes the explicit connection between following and free will; specifically, that in order to truly follow, one must have free will. Furthermore, Aragorn describes his responsibility as ‘a path appointed,’ implying that he has a duty to go to Dunharrow; that duty being in service to what is Right, or Good. In describing his journey in this way, Aragorn makes it clear that he is in service to Good, and that he has not corrupted those in service to him; therefore, Aragorn is Good, and meets both the criteria to have followers and not worshippers.

So, is worship inherently evil? When worship is used to describe the honoring of anything that is not God, it is inherently evil. However, Tolkien changes the meaning of worship when he describes the worship of the Christian God; for clarity, the term ‘divine worship’ will be used to describe this specific form of worship. True divine worship requires free will, but it also requires one to submit. As these are both tenets of typical worship and the act of following, they fit in neither of those categories described above. Therefore, Tolkien creates a new category for the worshippers of the Christian God; divine worship is the choice to submit to God and is inherently Good.

-SCJ

Tolkien’s Reckoning with Biblical Narrative Causality

People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact, it’s the other way around. Stories exist independently of their players. If you know that, the knowledge is power. Stories, great flapping ribbons of shaped space-time, have been blowing and uncoiling around the universe since the beginning of time. And they have evolved. The weakest have died and the strongest have survived and they have grown fat on the retelling…stories, twisting and blowing through the darkness. And their very existence overlays a faint but insistent pattern on the chaos that is history. Stories etch grooves deep enough for people to follow in the same way that water follows certain paths down a mountainside. And every time fresh actors tread the path of the story, the groove runs deeper. This is called the theory of narrative causality and it means that a story, once started, takes a shape. It picks up all the vibrations of all the other workings of that story that have ever been. This is why history keeps on repeating all the time. (Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad.)

The greatest and most well-read story of all time is unquestionably the Bible. The Christian Tolkien, most conspicuously in his tales of the Elder Days, trod time and again the contours of his stories, most especially the Silmarillion (and his other unfinished tales of the Elder Days). This was no base allegory, especially notable given his professed disrelish of the form. His stories, such as the Adamic, Noachean, Gomorrite (I’m choosing not to say Sodomite for obvious reasons, and I can’t find an adjectival form of Lot) tale of the fall of Númenor, manage to synthesize aspects of various Biblical substories while telling a distinct and original one of his own. And yet the inextricable force that is narrative causality keeps moving.

While narrative causality as such obviously doesn’t exist in what we might call Roundworld, the most pervasive stories certainly perpetuate themselves, such as through the subconscious. The devout Tolkien went to mass daily (he wasn’t one of those “convenient” Catholics who only go to church every Sunday), presumably hearing scripture at all of them. In light of that, the Bible would surely have suffused the work even if Tolkien had had little intention of it doing so. He seems to be aware of this, categorizing the Lord of the Rings as “a fundamentally religious and Catholic work”, something that was especially revealed to him as he looked over the story again to revise it. The Lord of the Rings is notably less biblical than the Silmarillion, but the allusions are there. Take Frodo’s hike up Mount Doom. Even discounting all the Christlike imagery of him carrying his cross up the hill, it can’t be a coincidence that all this happened on March 25^th. But these are thematic elements, not narrative elements, as we see so much in the Elder Days.

So a thousand heroes have stolen fire from the gods. A thousand wolves have eaten grandmother, a thousand princesses have been kissed. A million unknowing actors have moved, unknowing, through the pathways of story. It is now impossible for the third and youngest son of any king, if he should embark on a quest which has so far claimed his older brothers, not to succeed. Stories don’t care who takes part in them. All that matters is that the story gets told, that the story repeats. Or, if you prefer to think of it like this: stories are a parasitical life form, warping lives in the service only of the story itself. (Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad.)

While I’m hesitant to call the Bible a “parasitical life form”, the tendrils of its stories certainly latch on. When you follow the contours of a Biblical story, you can find yourself merely retelling that same story. This was the great fear of Tolkien in using allegory, and his great criticism of C.S. Lewis. So let’s look at how Tolkien used Biblical tales without being reduced to retelling them.

The Flight of the Noldor in many ways parallels the Biblical Fall of Man. Aman is Edenic, and the Noldor, by committing a grievous sin, go into exile. But, unlike in the Bible, where the exile is merely (in a sense) self-imposed, the Noldor exile is self-maintained. They are free to go back, but are too committed to a self-consuming vengeance. Unlike God, Mandos, in proclaiming his Doom, cautions that, should they continue on their path, Valinor will be fenced against them. It’s not yet. Unlike Adam and Eve, the Noldor knew the consequences of their actions and continued on them despite this. This arguably makes it worse. Though Finwë is Adamic, and his failings (and poor parenting) set the stage for the Elves’ original sin, he finds himself murdered before it can transpire. (Here, Tolkien embellishes on the Bible’s narrative, effectively making the serpent kill Adam.) Thus, his son Fëanor is also Adamic, and so Adam’s roles as father and as (original) sinner are bifurcated, keeping Tolkien’s work original while drawing narrative power from the Bible’s undergirding. Fëanor is also Cainian. It would be a little on the nose if he wasn’t also Adam—he commits the first kinslaying, just as Cain killed Abel. (It wasn’t the first murder, thanks to Morgoth, who, in addition to killing Finwë, had already wrought untold death and destruction on Middle-Earth, and thus presumably killed at least a few Moriquendi.) After Mandos’s proclamation, some of the Noldor turn around, while most head to their resolute doom. Imagine that in the Bible, if God was like “I did not like this. If you keep eating these apples I will have to cast you out and curse you with ephemerality on Earth.” and then Adam and Eve were like “Okay we will stop eating these apples.” It ruins the story, because of course they would never follow the Doom. But Tolkien has created a world in which such a path can be taken due to the sin of pride. It parallels the Bible, but it is emphatically its own story, as we have seen in trying to impose the narrative of one on the other.

Lewis (or Tolkien’s caricature of Lewis) might have merely aped the Word of God, but Tolkien went beyond that. He extemporized on the omnipresent Word of the Bible, filtering it through his lenses and making it his own, just as the Vala took the Music of Eru and extemporized on it at the dawn of time. They knew that not only did the themes and music wholly originate from Eru, but they did as well, and still they made aspects of the music uniquely their own, if not ultimately distinct from the Source. The Music of the Ainur, then, parallels Tolkien’s own creative process, and his successful overcoming of the Biblical Problem of Narrative Causality, (if I may be permitted to expand on Pratchett). By weaving together different narratives from across God’s Word, (the Christian God being more prosaic than Eru,) Tolkien creates something distinctly his own. -LAL 

The Frame Will Not Fit the Story if Built by the Reader

In class, we have long battled the topic of Tolkein’s sexism, with supporters often pointing to Eowyn’s fate as a wife and not a warrior as the prime example of a sexist trope not typically reserved for men. While I cannot deny the pervasiveness of sexist tropes in American literature, I do wish to approach this topic in an alternate format. Is Tolkien truly sexist, or is the frame that we apply to his story – based on our understanding of stereotypical sexist roles in our society – not fit the story because it is not the frame Tolkien created for his world?

As has been reiterated many times before, Tolkien adores storytelling through frames. Hence, the entirety of The Lord of the Rings is told through the perspective of hobbits, even though hobbits retain very little perspective of the outside world. For a world built vast and detailed, this may seem strange; why pick the group of people that engages with none of this world when telling a story that deals with the fate of the entirety of this world? But Hobbits value something that Men and Elves do not, gratitude for the everyday lived experience, which results in the ability to see elements of good even when it appears there are none. As Sam rids himself of his gear with Frodo at the foot of Mount Doom, he attempts to alleviate Frodo’s pain with positive memories:

‘Do you remember that bit of rabbit, Mr. Frodo?’ he said. ‘And our place under the warm bank in Captain Faramir’s country, the day I saw an oliphaunt?’

If Samwise Gamgee was solely remarking about his love of food, he would have cited many of the glorious feasts he attended, including but not limited to Bilbo’s birthday party. But, Sam cites a ‘bit’ of rabbit – not the whole animal – as the aspect of the memory he cherishes the most, almost as if the small quantity of the rabbit is the element that makes this particular moment so significant to Sam. Specifically, Sam understands that the limited enjoyment of the rabbit made tasting it all the more special, solely because the moment was small and fleeting. To Elves or Men, a ‘bit of rabbit’ is such a small – and assumed to be meaningless – part of existence that it hardly becomes noticed, especially when one is concerned with the Fate of one’s own race on Middle-Earth. Sam ends by recounting the day he saw the Men of the South pass by with their oliphaunts, an animal he has always wanted to see. The circumstances surrounding this memory are not pleasant; The Men of the South would surely act with cruelty towards the hobbits if they had spotted them, and Faramir did not give any inclination that he had kind intentions when he captured the hobbits. With these two factors in mind, this memory should have been overshadowed by the fear that the hobbits felt that day, yet Sam chooses to focus on this small and fleeting moment and frame the memories with it. Furthermore, the concept that Sam even appreciates seeing an oliphaunt – an elephant-esque animal bred for war by men who follow evil – shows just how much he, and other hobbits, can pull the little aspects of good out of the much greater bad. Tolkien wants this mindset to be his frame from The Lord of Rings; he wants the readers to view this world, no matter how evil it could grow to be, as still having glimmers of goodness at the heart if only one stops to look in the same fashion as Samwise Gamgee.

Like with hobbits, Tolkien applies a frame to men and women; the frame is the axiom that the ultimate goal is always to become a spouse and a healer. Because women are already encouraged to fulfill those roles in society due to systemic sexism, this may come across as Tolkein’s own internalized misogyny materializing in The Lord of the Rings. However, Tolkein’s egalitarian application of this frame to all genders implies that, regardless of his classification of the differences between the genders, he wants them to have the same reward. When Tolkien writes to his son Michael about women on March 6, 1941, he advises his son to know of “the one great thing to love on Earth: the Blessed Sacrament ….. There you will find romance, glory, honour, and fidelity, and the true way of all your loves upon earth …” As Michael Tolkein is a man, this quote shows that Tolkein clearly sees marriage between men and women as the ultimate goal because it provides one with romance, glory, honor, and fidelity, regardless of gender. Tolkien does more than promise marriage as the ultimate reward; he also shows that healing is on par. In Chapter 8 of Book 5 in The Return of The King, Aragorn heals Eowyn, and the versions of the phrase “The hands of the King are the hands of the healer, and so shall the rightful King be known” are touted three times throughout the chapter. By putting healing as a requirement for the right to rule and reiterating this point so frequently, Tolkien shows that he views healing as an essential element of worthiness, one that is so important that lack of it means someone cannot attain power. We typically think of power as the manifestation of one’s own worthiness; Tolkien is telling us that we are wrong – for it is the ability to heal that makes one truly worthy. Once more, ‘the King’ (invoking a male ruler) implies that the essential element of healer, stereotyped as a woman’s job in our culture, determines both a man’s and a woman’s worthiness. Therefore, healer is an egalitarian role in Tolkien’s world and demonstrates the worthiness of everyone by Tolkien’s frame.

As we have established that Tolkien frames the roles of spouse and healer as egalitarian rewards in his world, it can be concluded that he gives Eowyn the ultimate reward when she marries Faramir and retires from battle to become a healer, just in the way that Aragorn receives the ultimate reward when he marries Arwen and rules/heals Gondor. In Tolkien’s world, the rewards for these two heroes are the same regardless of their gender because Tolkien fundamentally believes that everyone who has proven themselves deserves this specific reward. It is only when one removes Tolkien’s frame and applies the frame of our society – in the form of a history of sexist gender roles – onto the female characters do we see the phenomenon where the frame no longer resonates with the reader, but that is solely because this frame was never meant for The Lord of the Rings in the first place. Therefore, The Lord of The Rings is only sexist if one frames the story themselves, not with the frame Tolkien provides.

-SCJ

Endings as Beginnings

 There is no such thing as a true end for Tolkien. In fact, every end is naught but a beginning of something new. This applies to all sorts of ends, from the deaths of characters to the end of stories. 

The strange thing about character deaths in the Lord of the Rings is that they are often accompanied by song. Today, we might consider singing at a funeral to be disrespectful and not fitting for the solemnity of the occasion. However, odes and evocations are standard in the Lord of the Rings. After the perceived death of Gandalf at Moria, Frodo begins to sing a song about Gandalf and his journeys, his burden, and his courage (bk. II, chp VII). Sam chimes in with his own verse about his fireworks shortly after. While this does not occur immediately after Gandalf’s fall, having been two chapters ago, it remains that the “death” of Gandalf sparked the creation of a song. Out of all the sources it could have come from, it comes from Frodo, who did not sing even in Rivendell. Later on when Boromir dies, Aragorn sings an elegy for him, which Legolas joins in (bk. III, chp I). This does occur during the funeral they hold for him, not so delayed as the previous example. Another case of death inspiring the creation of music. 

Music of praise, it should be remembered. All the songs sung are songs of praise, each song an artistic sub-creation. That is to say, something is created and begun in the moments after the end of another. In this act of artistry and creation, the ideas of Boromir and Gandalf - and by this I mean the notion of them, their conception and form - continue even after their physical (and in Gandalf’s case, false) end. 

The endings of stories also beget beginnings. At Rivendell, Bilbo tells Frodo that “books ought to have good endings,” but what does he mean by a good ending (bk. II, chp. III)? Some sense of closure, perhaps, but according to Frodo there is something more. Later on when Sam and Frodo are journeying beneath the shadows of Cirith Ungol, Sam asks Frodo what kind of tale they’re in. After some conversation, Sam lands upon an interesting note: that they are in the same tale that Beren, the Silmarils, and Earendil are in. He asks Frodo “don’t the great tales never end?” (bk. IV, chp. VIII). To this Frodo responds, “No, they never end as tales… but the people in them come, and go when their part’s ended. Our part will end later - or sooner” (bk. IV, chp. VIII). Here is the meat of the matter: the great tales, the best stories, don’t end: they continue. Even after the last word has been said - or sung - the stories continue afterwards. As Frodo says, the people in them come and go, and they will keep coming and going, creating a cycle of continuation as stories are carried onwards by the people within them. 

Stories - and people - live onwards after they end. People sing songs about those who have passed, stories continue past the last page, and we write blog posts about stories with last pages written by the now deceased. 

 - CLP 

Why Do We (Sub-)Create?

 As we finish the quarter and look towards our final projects, I want to explore the importance of creation and subcreation in Tolkien’s works and in our own lives.  We have discussed at length the religious themes and spiritual undertones that guide the Lord of the Rings books, from the battle between good and evil to themes of sin and enlightenment to cities in Middle-Earth that directly mirror biblical ones.  The impact of Christianity on his writing is undeniable as even he referred to the books as “a fundamentally religious and Catholic work; unconsciously so at first, but consciously in the revision” and that is why the text itself does not contain references to religion, but rather has religion woven into its fabric (Letters, 142).  Tolkien's subcreation is not merely an exercise in world-building, but also a reflection of his moral and ethical convictions. Themes of courage, sacrifice, redemption, and the consequences of power permeate his works. Through subcreation, Tolkien weaves these timeless moral truths into the fabric of Middle-earth, providing readers with profound insights and contemplation.  

So, I would like to end the quarter where we started, by providing a possible answer to the question of what on earth J.R.R. Tolkien was doing when he wrote the Lord of the Rings.  Or, more accurately, why do we, as humans, have a fundamental desire to create and subcreate?  After all, I believe the entire class opted to create an original work rather than write the essay.  Because, as I see it, as human beings, that is what we do.  We make pretty things and if we are lucky, we get to share them with the world and see the world through them.  I was struck today by our discussion of the perspective of devotional objects and how they dictate what we see. Devotional objects such as crucifixes, rosaries, icons, and statues play a significant role in personal and communal worship.  While these objects are used as focal points for prayer, meditation, and contemplation, facilitating a sense of spiritual presence and connection, some may fall into the trap of viewing them through others.  Anyone who grew up Catholic could probably tell you about losing focus at mass on Palm Sunday.  One minute you are engrossed in your own palm and listening to the priest, and the next you are trying to figure out how Mrs. Smith folded hers into a cross shape or seeing how many times you can tickle your sibling with the tip of your leaf before your mom notices and you get in trouble. Or something like that. All that is to say that when we lose our focal point, we lose our purpose.  The process of creation uniquely allows us to hand select our focal point and to see the world and our place in it as we wish to.  Our own final projects, which are intended to evoke the same level of depth as Tolkien’s own works, allow us to explore his world in a new way, just as Tolkien has allowed us to view the world in a new way through his own writings.  

In class, we discussed the purpose of life which is not about us as humans, but rather more divine and beyond us.  The world exists in all its glory therefore we must have some purpose and creator.  However, I would argue that the purpose of life is, in fact, about us.  Life is about what we choose to create and how we choose to create it.  Even a Catholic priest, whose life is devoted to the Church, writes a homily every week to inspire his congregation.  His creations are devoted to God, but the aspects of the Gospel he chooses to highlight and the feeling he leaves the churchgoers with is, in some rights, his own.  The act of creating allows us to see the world in a new way, and grant that same sight to others. When we tap into our imagination, we release our unique vision and interpretation of the world first to ourselves as the creators and then to others. Through this lens of creativity, we become more attuned to the beauty, intricacies, and hidden meanings that may have gone unnoticed. By actively shaping our creations or subcreations, we actively shape our perspective, enabling us to see beyond the surface and embrace the wonders that lie beneath. The act of creation becomes a transformative journey, not only for us the creators but also for our audiences, as it invites us to see the world with fresh eyes.  Whether that is because we are perfect beings created in God’s divine image is up to the creator and the viewer.  But the process of subcreation itself, the purpose of life, I would argue, is fundamentally about us.  For “Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme of things not found within recorded time.” - JMR

The Meaning of Worship: Sacrifice

For a book which Tolkien described as "fundamentally a religious and Catholic work," (Letter 142), the Lord of the Rings has no mention of religion, worship, a clergy, or gods. So how does religion and Catholicism work its way into the book? Tolkien himself asserted that the Lord of the Rings "is about God, and His sole right to divine honor," (Letter 183). This only raises another question: how do the inhabitants of Middle Earth worship God? That is, how do they give divine honor to God? Common to the heroes of the Lord of the Rings, yet not present amongst the villains, is sacrifice. Galadriel her home, Sam his quiet life, Eowyn her love, and Gandalf, Boromir, and Theoden their lives. Amongst all of them, each sacrifices something that comprised the nature of God. Each reduces their own honor and being for the betterment of others. In doing so, they recognize that they are ultimately not the recipients of divine honor.

When speaking to Frodo and Sam at the Mirror of Galadriel in Lothlorien, Galadriel reveals her motives for aiding the fellowship and what it will cost her. She reveals that the destruction of the Ring will destroy the beauty of Lothlorien. She reveals that she will willingly sacrifice the beauty of Lothlorien for freedom (The Fellowship of the Ring). Not only is she sacrificing her home, but she is sacrificing the closest place to heaven in Middle Earth; the descriptions of Lothlorien of gold and silver trees with gem like flowers and water (The Fellowship of the Ring) closely mirror descriptions of Heaven found in the Bible (Revelation 21). Galadriel, sadly, relinquishes the most heavenly place on Middle Earth to secure her and her people's freedom. In doing so, she accepts that it is not her place to permanently preserve or posses such beauty.

Sam takes on the burden of the Fellowship and the quest to destroy the Ring without complete knowledge of what he is doing. He has little knowledge of the world beyond the Shire (The Fellowship of the Ring) and does so more out of love for Frodo than a hatred of evil. Throughout his adventure, especially as he approaches Mt. Doom, Sam longs for the quiet and tranquil life he had in the Shire with his fiancé (The Return of the King). By the end of the journey, Sam has sacrificed nearly seven months after having departed from the Shire (Appendix B). As much as Sam longs in the moments along the journey and in Mordor for his home in the Shire, if he had stayed, the quest would not have been completed and the Shire would have been reduced and destroyed, just as Gandalf comments to Pippin on their way to Minas Tirith (The Return of the King). Sam's life in the Shire was one of sedentary and complacent calm. Little happened, and he valued that. Yet in casting off this slothful life. In accepting the burden of the quest of the Fellowship, he sacrificed the calm, tranquility, and peace of the seemingly idealic Shire to face the burdensome reality of the world.

The greatest sacrifice shown in the Lord of the Rings is to give one's life for another. Tolkien calls death "the Gift of Men" from God. While each of these three men does not chose death, they do not shy away from death when they are needed. Each also has different motives. For Boromir, it is an act of repentance for falling prey to the allure of the Ring (the Fellowship of the Ring). Theoden, as an elderly king, sees his inevitable death fast approaching; he faces a choice more of the manner of his death than the time. His death is a death as a result of him honoring his oaths and confronting evil in the slim hope that it might save those he loves (the Two Towers). In choosing a move violent and unpleasant death, Theoden permits his family and subjects to have a new and greater life of freedom. Theoden's sacrifice is not just his life, but his comfort, surety, and kingship. Finally, Gandalf gives up his life in order to saves the Fellowship and defeat the Balrog. His ultimate death not only kills the immediate evil of the Balrog, one of the last remnants of the evil of Morgoth, but he also serves the greater purpose of the destruction of the evil of the Ring. Gandalf's sacrifice is even greater as his spirit is greater than those of elves or men due to his nature as an Istari (Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle Earth). Gandalf's sacrifice is of power, spirit, and life.

While Eowyn was prepared and willing to sacrifice her life for Theoden, she is survives her confrontation with the Witch King and is instead faced with another sacrifice: love. From the moment she laid eyes upon Aragorn, she was convinced that she was in love with him (The Two Towers). Yet, as Aragorn explained to her, he was in love with and in love with another (The Two Towers). Scorned and faced with the Spector of unrequited love, Eowyn falls into a deep sadness and becomes determined to fall in battle if Aragorn will not return her love (The Return of the King). After succeeding in vanquishing the fellbeast of the Witch King but failing to fall in battle, Eowyn meets Faramir in the House of Heeling (The Return of the King). After many consecutive days of conversation, Faramir convinces Eowyn to let go of her one-way adoration and to instead accept a mutual love (The Return of the King). In doing so, Eowyn gives up the unconditional love and adoration which she gave to Aragorn. Aragorn, as a mortal man, should not be held in such high esteem.

The villains of the Lord of the Rings are so averse to self-sacrifice that they become uncompromising and weak through division. The kidnapping of Merry and Pippin gives an insight into how orcs deal with each other. Throughout the Hobbits' captivity, the Orcs argue yet reach no conclusion; no matter how many times they go back and forth over why the Hobbits are to be kept alive or should be killed, the two sides stick to their positions (The Two Towers). This inability to agree ultimately divides the large party of Orcs and allows the riders of Rohan to mow them down in the field, while the two Hobbits escape thanks to a treacherous Mordor Orc (The Two Towers). Notably, Tolkien's commentary on Gollum falling into the fires of Mt. Doom suggests that the sacrifice must be willingly made. Tolkien argues that Frodo claiming the Ring in Mt. Doom was not a moral failure, as he had no self control at that point due to forces greater than himself (Letter 246). Tolkien argues that one cannot claim or be held to acts or events which one has no control over. Therefore, a great loss beyond one's control is not an act of worship or sacrifice.

Throughout the course of the Lord of the Rings, it is the continual, voluntary sacrifices of the heroes that ultimately allows the divine plan of Eru to come to fruition. Some of these sacrifices are rewarded, while others must stand as a permanent loss. As a true expression of devotion, these acts must be willingly done and must reduce the honor, power, or being of the person. In this way, the peoples of Middle Earth show their devotion and play their part in the workings of God.

MDH

Cult transcending culture: a global religion for (at least some of) the peoples of Middle Earth

 “Cult” has spooky undertones, but, according to the tomes of Merriam and Webster, in its earliest English sense it just means worship. It comes from the Latin root colo (colere, colui, cultus), literally agricultural cultivation. Colo apparently already took on the secondary meaning of religious devotion in antiquity, along with another alternative meaning of education, which may be the one that gives rise to our word “culture.” While culture can literally mean the fine tastes resulting from education, the sense that I find more common and which I’m interested in exploring in relation to cult is as a constellation of linguistic, artistic, and technological features that give identity to a group of individuals, often in close geographic proximity to one another. That’s the type of culture we might refer to in “French culture” or infamously “Self, Culture, and Society.” “Popular culture” and “internet culture” are pushing the envelope a little, but they can fall into this category as well.

Cult as a convention of worship and culture as a collection of conventions come together as two related aspects of communities of people. Worship is communal, even in cases of private devotion. Ascetics, like Catholic anchoresses, rely on outside supporters to bring them food and, in some religions, to fulfill communal rituals like Communion. Personal prayers that diverge from liturgy still have to adhere to a communally established religious paradigm, which may be more or less strict in its tolerance for originality—semantics of worship can be especially important in Nicene Christianity, where terminological distinctions like homoiousios vs. homoousios and adore vs. venerate are the difference between heresy and orthodox practice. Cults of worship are themselves the collections of these phrases and practices, implicitly built on religious beliefs, held to be valid by a community of coreligionists. While these may often aspire towards universal truth, they are distinctly channeled through the cultural features of their community, expressed through particular languages, in particular artistic and architectural mediums, and with particular understandings of social order and the cosmos.

I want to situate Tolkien’s approach to religion between the two opposing poles of cultural specificity and theological universality. In most respects, Tolkien highly values cultural heterogeneity. In one of his wartime letters to Christopher Tolkien, he bemoans globalization’s effect of destroying the interesting things about the world: “The bigger things get the smaller and duller or flatter the globe gets. It is getting to be all one blasted little provincial suburb… But seriously: I do find this Americo-cosmopolitanism very terrifying.” (Letters, n. 53). He specifically views linguistic homogenization as a problem, and only half-jokingly wishes for a second Tower of Babel—a very interesting reframing of a Biblical curse to suggest that linguistic diversity has religious value or might even be an ideal.

While Tolkien certainly doesn’t want everyone speaking in English, he might want everyone praying in Latin. In line with his Catholic faith, religious universality is very important to Tolkien. In a 1968 letter drafted to his son Michael, Tolkien reflected on the aftermath of the groundbreaking Second Vatican Council and Pope Paul VI’s continued reforms. While the 70-year-old Tolkien found many of the changes frustrating, he writes: “I find myself in sympathy with those developments that are strictly ‘ecumenical,’ that is concerned with other groups or churches that call themselves (and often truly are) ‘Christian’. We have prayed endlessly for a Christian reunion, but it is difficult to see, if one reflects, how that could possibly come about except as it has, with all its inevitable minor absurdities.” (Letters, n. 306). “Catholic” literally means universal and the early ecumenical councils were so-called because they attempted to settle on religious doctrines for the entire world. The Greek concept of “oikomene” referring to the entire inhabited world is actually similar to Germanic variants of “Midgard,” which Tolkien draws his Middle-Earth from. Overall, Tolkien’s sympathies are very much in the traditional Catholic direction of one unified religion for the entire world, though he does tolerate “minor absurdities” that color variant groups that still follow the important universal ideals.

The religious dimension of Middle-Earth is subtle and almost entirely lacks rituals or clerical structures, but Tolkien still imbues it with the ideal of a universal cult of worship, transcending cultural differences. In Book III, “The Departure of Boromir,” Aragorn and Legolas join together to improvise a poetic eulogy for the fallen Gondorian warrior, joining together their cultures and races in a single act of “worship”: “The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes/…/From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies…” (Houghton-Mifflin p. 417). Interestingly, Gimli declines to take part, which Aragorn anticipates by not giving him a chance to recite a third and final stanza. I’m not sure exactly what to make of that, but it does seem to suggest that dwarves are in some way excluded from the “true religion” of elves and men despite the apparent universalizing ideal—perhaps related to their illicit creation by Aulë, recounted in the Silmarilion, and their exclusion from the special divine connection that elves and men have as Children of Illuvatar. Gimli is allowed to sail to Valinor with Legolas at the end of the book though, pretty much the highest form of divine approval! This case does show religious unity across particulars between Aragorn and Legolas at least, especially as their alternating stanzas mesh perfectly with one another and don’t really bear marks of either of their authorship (of course Tolkien actually wrote all of the stanzas).

Due to the exclusion of dwarves, the above case might fall short of being fully “ecumenical.” The strongest thrust for a totally Middle-Global cult of worship comes right at the denouement of the story, when Sam and Frodo have achieved their quest of seeing the Ring destroyed at Mount Doom. The day of Sauron’s defeat becomes Middle Earth’s closest equivalent to a religious holiday, and all the “good guys” of the story come together to praise the Hobbits’ brave actions together. Aragorn, as the newly enthroned leader of the western world, calls forth a minstrel, who delivers an address about the Hobbits like a Bible sermon: “‘Lo! lords and knights and men of valour unashamed, kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Riders of Rohan, and ye sons of Eldron, and Dúnedain of the North, and Elf and Dwarf, and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my lay. For I will sing of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom.’” (Houghton-Mifflin p. 954). This fulfills Sam’s hopes that their actions will become a story with a happy ending. Interestingly, almost all the “good guys” we’ve encountered through the book are here participating as listeners: including multiple types of elves and men, along with hobbits and dwarves. We are missing Eagles and Ents, but those cases can be excused since the Eagles had just left Minas Tirith and it would have taken the Ents forever to walk there from Isengard. With the outer story of Lord of the Rings coming to a happy conclusion, Tolkien’s rosy ideal of complete religious union also comes into shape.

As a digression, I want to reflect on my own perspective on religious universality and cultural specificity as an observant Jew. One well-known area where we diverge from Christianity is in our lesser emphasis on universality. We also believe in one God for the entire world—that’s arguably the most important part of the religion—but we embrace the cultural trappings of our particular relationship with God as essential to Judaism. We view the Bible’s commandments as specifically aimed at us as a cultural unit (some of the words used in the Bible for its concept of nationhood are עם, גוי, לשון, and specifically to the Jewish people בני ישראל , and עברים). Those rules are not obligatory for members of other “nations,” with the exception of the seven Noahide laws, which are mostly common sense like not murdering. We see many of our customs as sacred as well as culturally native, like the Hebrew language, Kosher food, and the calendar of holidays. I think Tolkien’s aesthetic appreciation of cultural quirks aligns with my own appreciation of the many forms of native religion, diverse “cults of worship” to the same divinity, that can arise when religious forms are brought more towards the specific rather than the universal. The “flavor” of religion comes from all the wacky details! Despite Catholicism’s inclination to the universal, it certainly has rich particulars as well, accumulated over 2000 years of history and manifested in different cultural forms for, say, Ireland and Mexico.

-Daniel Steinberg

Elves worship as elves, Man as man and Hobbits as ?

 I believe most of us would make good hobbits. Indeed, it’s not for no reason that Tolkien presents this story from the view of the Hobbits, they are the race we can most readily identify with: they do not seem all that honorable like Numenoreans, nor vicious like orcs, nor all that down to gain military glory like some man in Middle Earth. Hobbits like good tiled earth, good pipe-weed, good celebrations, good food and they generally like to be left to themselves: think of Bilbo at the beginning of the Hobbit who just wanted to have yet another day of drinking tea and sorting his house affairs. Being insular in their nature, they had little contact with ‘queer folk’ and had thus little, or rather no knowledge of the worship practices of Middle Earth. Outside folk had also forgotten about the hobbits. But were Hobbits sinful and had they no appreciation for creation? What of this changes with the destruction of the ring and the Scourging of the Shire?

Are Hobbits lazy like Saruman and his ruffians thought? As the prologue to The Lord of the Rings says, they did not like complicated machinery although they were skillful with their hands. They do like good food, good beer, good pipe-weed and seem to favor tea over climbing trees, but I don’t think we have textual evidence that they are generally actually lazy – as I once thought. Hobbits just didn’t fall for the regime of ‘total-work’ Pieper describes as being the norm in the modern world and this seems to be compatible with the association of the Shire with rural England. Indeed, I think we ought to see their natural tendency to comfort as not wholly evil. Although this isolates them from the outside world and its worship practices, Hobbits also end up preserving a taste for leisure and saw work as a means for life rather than the other way around. One can think that because of their size and the strength of others, maybe it was for the best that Hobbits – who, descending from pre-Numenorean man, might not have had more intentional worship in the first place – isolated themselves since that allowed them to preserve at least their leisurely life. Hobbits’ non-dominating attitude towards nature, their appreciation of nature and leisure are rustic forms of appreciating creation, although not particularly conscious of the transcendental origin of nature and leisure. In this way, I think it’s fair to say that, to some extent, in The Lord of the Rings their love of food and parties, for instance, is not for the sake of their work, that it’s also a contemplative celebration of the ale brewed, the pipe-weed grown and an attitude of not being busy, which is in Aristotle and Medieval Christianity seen as proper leisure and fundamental in itself for man’s life. (Leisure, p.64, 67, 69) But, Hobbits’ leisure is not faultless, indeed, their lack of conscious worship would be an important shortcoming in their leisure following Pieper’s ideas. Now, we move to what the War of the Rings accomplished for the Shire and how that impacts their worship, and consequently leisure.

From both the prologue and the last few books of The Lord of the Rings we can see that the four Hobbits are both acknowledged, for instance, by Gondor for their deeds and thus put their race on the map so to speak. Ioreth recognizes their worth, ‘they are small, but they are valiant,’ and in Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Merry, the halfings are praised: ‘Long live the Halflings!’ (LOTR, Steward and The King) In their worship, ‘fulfilling the chief purpose of life’, Gondor would call on all created things to join in their chorus, ‘all mountains and hills, all orchards and forests, all things that creep and birds on the wing’ and halflings. (Sanct. Myth, p.10) In this way already, halflings are part of the ‘church militant’ of middle earth that one is united to when praising God and the splendor of creation. But is this true from the Shire-folk’s perspective, that they are more united in worship to the outside world after the War of the Ring? In class, we explored the idea that, indeed, they are. It’s clear that the hobbits that went on the quest of the ring are drawn out of the shire and towards man’s and elvish worship of creation. Maybe the clearest example is that of Frodo and Sam who adopt throughout their travel into Mordor the elvish practice of invoking Elbereth and experience first-hand the power of prayer, and also when Frodo replies to Faramir that hobbits have no custom akin to that of looking towards Numenor before meals, Frodo feels ‘strangely rustic and untutored’ and joins them. In the persons of Frodo, Merry, Pippin and Sam, the Shire joins the wider practices of worship and praise in Middle Earth. But does it stop there? No, the events of the War of the Ring, specially the Battle of Bywater, bring the outside world to the Shire. Not only do these awaken in the Hobbits a desire to write down their traditions, ‘the greater families were also concerned with events in the Kingdom at large, and many of their members studied its ancient histories and legends,’ which might be seen as a door to praising the deeds of Men and Elves and consequently to calling on them to join the Shire’s chorus in praising the splendor of creation. Additionally, those that fought in the Battle of Bywater had in that joined Aragorn’s, Gimli’s and Legola’s rejection of the evil of Sauron and proclaimed the greatness of unmarred and well-tended creation. Those who died had a martyr’s death. An important difficulty in this view that the Shire is brought into communion with the rest of Middle Earth is discussed below.

But the Shire-folk at large seemingly didn’t change their habbits with the Scourging of the Shire and the destruction of the Ring. They continue keen in their love of celebrations, ale, pipe-weed and at the same time they do not invoke or sing of Elbereth, and, as far as the text goes, do not say grace before eating. So, the extent to which the four hobbits’ experience of these and other forms of worship in the outside world impact the Shire is at first glance limited. This seeming failure of the Hobbits to save the Shire from ignorance of worship has been explored in a previous post that partially called into question the reading we did in class of the hobbit’s travel as a pilgrimage that connected their people to the worshipful world outside the Shire. There a proposition is made: we don’t need to lose our Hobbit-ness to worship. This is getting at an important thing the Scourging of the Shire and the destruction of the ring accomplish for the Shire-folk. Their leisure is sanctified. In the reconstruction of the Shire, they are doing God’s work more intentionally; they are actively choosing for the good and the beautiful against the evil that Saruman brought. And so, when resting, I can only imagine that they will all the more look at Creation and say: it is Good, a contemplative celebration which Pieper – not Pippin – points out as one of the essential attitudes of leisure. (Leisure, p.68) In learning about and praising Merry and Pippin’s adventures in parties, the Hobbits will be praising their and the fellowship’s great virtuous deeds and, in a way, they will be praising proto-saints or at least proto-apostles.  If not of Christ’s passion, their deeds can be seen as at least a prefigurement of the early Christians fighting the ‘good fight.’ So even if the Shire didn’t, or couldn’t, adopt the elvish praise of Elebereth and their lembas, nor Gondor’s saying grace, their leisure was sanctified so that it constitutes not lazyness or praise of a good, quiet material life, but a more conscious praising of the good, beautiful and the truth in creation. 

Hobbits worship as Hobbits, not as elves or man. Going to Gondor, Rohan, Lothlorien and Mordor, and these coming to the Shire, the fellowship united their people with the outside world in worship. But, they are in communion with middle earth not because they worship in the same way as other peoples, but because at the end of the day they worship the same One, which in the primary reality is the God of the sabbath.

-PT

Works Cited:

Pieper, Josef. Leisure : the basis of culture ; The philosophical act. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2009. Print.

Birzer, Bradley J. J.R.R. Tolkien's sanctifying myth : understanding Middle-earth. Wilmington, Del: ISI Book, 2003. Print.

Tolkien, J. R. R., and Douglas A. Anderson. The Hobbit and the lord of the rings. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014. Print.