Respect for the trees

     Evidently trees were very important to Tolkien. At least, they are in The Lord of the Rings, and throughout Tolkien’s legendarium. We see their significance in the ways the trees are personified, throughout the various forests pictured. We of course have the ents, the caretakers of the trees, and then there is the nature aesthetics of Lothlorien. The most striking aspect of Tolkien’s understanding of trees is simply their immense value. We get a sense throughout the stories that trees are so much more than simply a backdrop or setting, but a vitally important aspect of life. As Tolkien’s work celebrates the majesty of creation, trees are a terribly significant part of this. But why the significance? Ultimately the importance of trees comes down to both the relationship between trees and people and the sacred significance of trees and wood.

    Trees have a deep relationship with people. We couldn’t survive without them. They purify the air that we breath, and they grow the food that we eat. More often than not, however, humanity takes a stance towards the earth of possession and taking. We cut down the trees, we grow the food, we turn the land into something that serves our purposes. Tolkien, however, in his writing, requests an attitude towards the earth that is more thankful. This is perhaps localized most directly in the characters of the ents, as well as in the Old Forest and Old Man Willow. Here the Ents are the caretakers of the trees, which is necessary in light of people not caring for the trees. Trees are discarded, as well as the land used as orchards or groves, which the ent-wives care for. The Old Forest represents a body of trees malevolent towards “free creatures”, because of the evils they had been subjected to at their hands. We have a body of trees crying out against people for the ways the people have mistreated them. Tolkien does not create an idyllic people-earth relationship here, but instead imagines the trees speaking for themselves and having agency. It seems that was is being explored here is how we as people ought to relate to trees. Tolkien is arguing for a certain respect that is due something from which we receive. Trees provide for us, so we ought to provide for and respect them in return. It’s a curious philosophical statement, that says we owe something, even to something unmoving and silent. 

    The religious background of trees, would have been, for Tolkien, of immense importance. In the book of Exodus, the ark of the covenant, where God himself resides, is made of wood, covered in gold. Then again in the gospels, Christ dies on a cross fashioned from wood. So wood, in the scriptures, takes on a sacred quality. The wood of the cross on which Christ died continues to be venerated around the world as sacred. For Tolkien this is an intimate part of his understanding of the trees. The candelabra in Exodus is also described as treelike, having branches, and many kinds of trees and wood are mentioned throughout. This would have been of vital importance to Tolkien. Wood and leaf images are of great importance, as evidenced by the silver elvish brooch in the shape of a leaf. In the religious context, it is not only that we owe something to the trees, but that the trees are themselves sacred. What does it mean that the trees are sacred? This already gives them importance and value. It’s simply a way of saying that they are significant because of how they are made. In the same way that Tolkien might say that human beings are intrinsically valuable because they are created by God, so trees have the same significance and value, backed up by sacred uses in the scriptures.

    Ultimately Tolkien’s argument seems to be that trees are important, and that this demands a certain response. Tolkien himself had an immense love of trees, and this bleeds into every page of his writing. The sanctity of trees is in opposition to the way people treat and understand trees. The symbiotic relationship between trees and humanity demands that we steward and care for the trees. Tolkien represents this also by his connections between trees and Jewels, as mentioned earlier in the course. The significance of the trees, I think, is tied into a greater significance of the earth and everything in it. Throughout Tolkien’s legendarium there is a great significance to everything that exists. Nothing happens by chance and nothing is frivolous. This is immediately present in the songs and the importance of music, which finds its source in the very music of creation. It is also present in the fact that every story and character has a vital place in the immense backstory of the entire mythology. So for Tolkien, everything is significant and important, including the trees.

    What does this significant mean for us, the readers? It means respect. Respect for not only trees but everything we find in nature. It is bigger than simply what nature provides us and bigger than simply the fact that wood can have sacred uses, but it is the fact that nature is bigger than us. And this idea is bigger than Tolkien, but it is terribly important in Tolkien. Nature is greater than we give it credit for. All kinds of trees, massive forests, terrible forests all represent the deep, ancient reality that is nature. Humanity would do well to step into the earth learning from nature, rather than seeking to bend nature to its will. 

-CO

Given, Not Kept

One of the themes that we have been exploring this week in class is the role of light, gems, and the passing down of objects designed to keep evil away. These objects in Tolkien, as well as the biblical scripture that we read for our class, take the form of jewels, phials, and other beautiful but fragile things. What I found very interesting is how it was given and what follows from characters' choices. Whether given gracefully or hoarded through centuries, we can learn something not only about the giver and the receiver, but the symbolism of the light itself and what it represents. In Tolkien's Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings we are able to see this story in a new framework, focusing on the passage of light from being to being, and what that passage reveals about the one who carries it.

Let us start in the Silmarillion with one of the most important story points in the book: the crafting of the Silmarils. When Fëanor crafts them, he does something truly incredible. He manages to capture the light of the Two Trees into three brilliant gemstones. However, despite this, Fëanor chooses to be possessive of his craftsmanship, despite the hope that these gems would bring peace and beauty back into Arda. He is so possessive that he even refuses to give them to Yavanna when in dire need. His later vow to protect the Silmarils sets off centuries of madness and bloodshed. This is the first (almost) transition. In fact it is the refusal of transition. Fëanor sees the light and beauty as his own creation and thus poisons everything that the Silmarils were supposed to represent. The Silmarils do not represent evil; in fact they are so incredible that their light causes greed and jealousy to spread.

The story continues with Eärendil, who sails to Valinor to beg for mercy. This act is entirely different from that of Fëanor. Eärendil does not keep the Silmaril for himself, but rather uses its light as a light of hope. The light passes from place to place. It goes from being hoarded greedily to being shared in the sky by all of Arda.

By the time that light reaches Frodo in the form of the phial given freely by Galadriel, it is almost unrecognizable from the greed-inducing beauty that once defined these treasures. Galadriel gives the light freely to Frodo with no price, oath, vow, or curse. It is simply a hope given to a traveler on a doomed mission, offered with the blessing that it may be a light in dark places, when all other lights go out. At this point, the meaning of light has changed from mere beauty and power, as Fëanor hoped at the creation of the Silmarils. Instead it is a beacon of comfort and hopefulness to a weary traveler. The light that once inspired wars is now given with a blessing.

What makes this pattern feel so meaningful is the way it mirrors ideas already present in the biblical texts. IIn Revelation, The city of God is not just covered in gems but entirely constituted from them. Its foundations are twelve kinds of precious stone, its gates are pearls, its streets are translucent gold. The light is no longer kept in an object, but is everything and everywhere. Darkness ceases to exist. The jewels no longer have to be passed down. The preservation is over and light is all that exists.

Now this is a lot. What exactly does Tolkien try to communicate with this underlying story? Perhaps we are reading too far into this (but it is Tolkien, and impossible to read too far into). My best guess as to what he was intending to communicate is not merely a story of beauty, but one of morality in the face of great beauty. He challenges us with characters who do different things when confronted by infinite beauty. How does the character carry it? Fëanor holds it with greed. Eärendil holds it in compromise. Galadriel holds it long enough to give it away. And Frodo, who never even wanted it, carries it into the darkest place in Middle-earth and uses it to win.

The storyline shows us that light is no good to anyone if it is hoarded and kept secret. It only works when it is given freely to whoever needs it most.

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 Smaug Reveals

Bilbo, after an unexpectedly long journey, descends alone into the depths of the Lonely Mountain to face Smaug. Moving on Thorin’s command he looks for the Arkenstone while in contest with Smaug's calculated probing, careful not to reveal too much. When Bilbo suggests the dragon must have made “bitter enemies”, Smaug responds: 

“My armour is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!” (Tolkien, The Hobbit, 75th Anniversary ed. [New York: William Morrow, 2012], 207)

Smaug’s language is more than dialogue. He is composing an image of earned vanity: he’s old, dangerous, and importantly, still alive! His credibility is only verified – he is everything he says he is. The speech becomes a kind of autobiography, a performance of intimidation and self-knowledge. It succeeds. In the following moments, Bilbo is frightened. Tolkien’s choice in letting Smaug present himself gives another layer of insight Beowulf's dragon cannot give us: we expect a formidable beast, but we get a personality. 

Tolkien’s choice to give Smaug a voice runs parallel to the argument he makes in a 1936 lecture, “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics.” Tolkien’s claim is clear and direct:

“A dragon is no idle fancy. Whatever may be his origins, in fact or invention, the dragon in legend is a potent creation of men’s imagination, richer in significance than his barrow is in gold” (Tolkien, “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics”).

Here Tolkien implicitly justifies his own work in The Hobbit, noting the parallels between it and Beowulf. He views such monsters as “essential, fundamentally allied to the underlying ideas… which give it its lofty tone and high seriousness” (Tolkien). Tolkien’s lecture takes a strong position against the critics, stating the dragon is significant full stop – he is more than what he prevents and more than the treasure he guards. He carries meaning beyond that of an obstacle as a beast. In the journey leading to the Lonely Mountain Bilbo has proven capable of outwitting beasts. What he encounters in Smaug is something more unsettling: a creature with vanity, intelligence, and self-awareness. This is not simply an animal to be escaped, but an intelligence to be confronted. For Tolkien, monsters are not incidental to heroic literature; they are the source of their gravity. Without Grendel, Beowulf is only a warrior. Without Smaug, The Hobbit is merely a journey. The monster gives the hero significance. 

The point is that Smaug does not simply oppose the heroes; he exposes them. The dragon gives significance to the story because his presence forces hidden qualities to the surface. Bilbo’s courage only becomes meaningful when measured against genuine terror, while Thorin’s nobility becomes tragic once it collapses into greed. Even after Smaug’s death, the dragon’s influence remains. When Bilbo admits he has given the Arkenstone to Bard, Thorin erupts: 

“You! You!” cried Thorin, turning upon him and grasping him with both hands. “You miserable hobbit! You undersized—burglar!” he shouted at a loss for words, and he shook poor Bilbo like a rabbit. (Tolkien, The Hobbit, 75th Anniversary ed. [New York: William Morrow, 2012], 251)

Thorin, the king of Erebor, the formal speaker who proudly sang the “Far over the misty mountains cold” song all the way in Bag End is now at a loss for words after realizing what Bilbo has done. His speech being reduced to “You! You!”, Thorin is completely bewitched by Smaug, even after his death. The treasure, and everything connected to Smaug has now been internalized in Thorin. This internal pressure erupts when Bilbo tells him about the Arkenstone. The authority and restraint are gone from the Thorin we first meet. What we see instead is possession, anger, and fixation on what belongs to him. Smaug’s influence survives even after his death because the treasure itself has become infected by him. Tolkien’s dragon is not simply a beast to be defeated and moved past. Read alongside Psalm 90, which promises the faithful man “shall trample under foot the lion and the dragon” (Psalm 90:13 DRA), The Hobbit tells a different story: the dragon leaves something behind. Thorin carries Smaug out of the mountain with him. The greed that once belonged to the dragon now reshapes the king under the mountain himself.

Bilbo’s revelation under Smaug is quieter, but just as important. By the time he reaches the Lonely Mountain he has already survived trolls, goblins, spiders, and Gollum. Those encounters prove Bilbo can escape danger. Smaug is different. The dragon cannot simply be outrun or tricked in the same straightforward way. He speaks, probes, and attempts to uncover Bilbo’s intentions. The confrontation becomes psychological. What emerges in Bilbo during these exchanges is not sudden heroism, but composure. Bilbo enters the mountain terrified, yet he continues carefully and intelligently in the presence of overwhelming power. He keeps returning to Smaug despite fully understanding what waits for him below. Earlier monsters reveal Bilbo’s resourcefulness; Smaug reveals maturity. By descending alone into the mountain and confronting an intelligence far greater (and older) than himself, Bilbo stops feeling like a lucky hobbit dragged into adventure and begins to stand independently from the dwarves themselves. 

This change becomes fully visible with the Arkenstone. Bilbo ultimately gives it to Bard not because it benefits him, but because he recognizes something Thorin no longer can; treasure has begun to matter more than people. Smaug therefore leaves the opposite mark on the two characters. In Bilbo, the dragon reveals restraint and moral independence. In Thorin, he reveals possession and greed.

            -BN