Worship and the Crossing of Thresholds

The crossing of boundaries is a fundamental aspect of The Lord of the Rings. The reader crosses into Faërie, the company crosses into Lórien, and Frodo and Sam cross into Mordor. The physical crossing is a crucial aspect of the story, but often, there is an aspect of worship that accompanies it. The singing or crying out about Elbereth, a name which can be seen as analogous to the Virgin Mary or another saint, often signals an important transition or revelation.

Catholicism is no stranger to the blending of the world with the immaterial as a result of worship or divine intervention: Moses received the ten commandments at Sinai, many Marian apparitions have been documented, and Tolkien discusses a vision he received in letter 89. In all of these cases, the fabric of the world seems to shift, where a portal is opened, blending the material and divine worlds. Tolkien describes how he seemed to perceive guardian angels being represented as individualized rays of light that extend into each person. This vision, like those of the mystics, seems to break the boundaries of the natural world and perceive something that exists beneath: the personalized connection of the angels and man.  

The Lord of the Rings, while a “fundamentally religious and Catholic work,” does not explicitly define a religion that those of Middle-earth worship (Letter 142). However, there are many aspects that can be construed as religious; most clearly, the references to Elbereth Gilthoniel, which means Elbereth Starkindler. While it is not fully clear what she is, she seems to behave or be understood like a saint. As with crossing into Faërie and encountering the different life that exists there, their initiation and understanding of the fantastical world they live in begins with a song about Elbereth. Here, the reader and Frodo meet the Elves and the first concepts of religion. Frodo’s experience with the elves becomes mystical, seemingly like a “waking-dream” (I, ch. 3). This near-dreamlike state, which has many similarities to how mystics and possibly Tolkien describe divine visions, becomes the vector for Frodo to peer beyond the immediate world he knows and learn about what resides beyond the Shire: of elves, of things old and new, and of many more things. It is not a coincidence that the Elves, who are most commonly associated with Faërie, are the ones who start to bring him in, commencing with a song about Elbereth. However, it is also with the name of Elbereth that they say farewell before vanishing. The boundary of his known world begins to become fluid, letting that which he previously could not interact with permeate. 

Accompanying the crying out of Elbereth as a battle cry at the Battle of Weathertop, another barrier is crossed. Frodo slips the ring on his finger, which changes the nature of his environment, where he becomes invisible to others, but the black riders become clearer and more defined. It is in this transitional state that Frodo invokes Elbereth’s name, as if invoking a saint, though the result is his swooning into unconsciousness and suffering a grave wound. It is in this moment that a great change occurs within Frodo. He literally becomes unconscious, signifying a gap, but he is struck with a great wound that must be healed. Not to mention the power of the ring is shown, where it, like the elves or mystic visions, can change the edges of the world and what permeates it.

The departure from Lórien is punctuated by Elbereth’s name, signifying the crossing of a threshold and the beginning of the rest of the journey. As they depart, they see the Lady Galadriel fade in the distance, being described as one would describe the Virgin Mary using aspects of the Litany of Loreto. The strong religious undertones emphasize the leaving of the mystical place of Lórien: a place that has strong connotations with paradise and similarities to the poem, “The Pearl.” Indeed, Elbereth’s name and the fading of Galadriel as a Madonna-like figure punctuate the ending of their time in a paradise-like land and the continued travel on their journey, except with the gifts they have now received. Thus, Elbereth does not only signify the beginning of a certain unveiling or part of their journey, but it also signifies the leaving of such mystical places. Seeming to correspond to how prayer brings them into the vision, but it is the ending of the prayer, which is signified by, in this case, a saint-like figure’s name, Elbereth, that pulls one out of the vision.

The song to Elbereth, at the close of the last chapter of The Return of the King, with the close of the Third Age, marks the departure of Frodo, Bilbo, and a great many elves. While it ends the time of many in Middle-earth, this sequence begins their journey aboard their ship westward. Here, it marks the ends of the novel, but in other ways, it marks the start. The appendices follow, and one can now behold “white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise” (VI, ch. 9).  In some ways, this parallels the beginning of the journey into Faërie, brought on by the elves with their song about Elbereth, except Frodo leaves with them. The parallel exists that it is through song and prayer that one becomes exposed to religion and the knowledge that comes with it, and at the end, while they may finish the story, the elves, like the story, exit with them, accompanying them beyond.  

The religious aspect of Elbereth throughout The Lord of the Rings corresponds to the crossing of a threshold — the lifting of a veil or a major change in the adventure, whether at the beginning or the end. Religion functions similarly in the primary world. Tolkien perceived what he recorded as a vision that illuminates how he conceives of guardian angels connecting to every human being. In each of these instances, religion aids in the crossing of boundaries, changing what permeates into the world. 

— ESW

Locating Tolkien's Sacred Worldview

The degree to which The Lord of the Rings and the Tolkien legendarium as a whole were influenced by Christianity has often been a subject of debate. Tolkien himself claimed that The Lord of the Rings was a “fundamentally religious and Catholic work,” although not intentionally at first. Rather, religion and Catholicism were implanted into the story not overtly, as in C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia (the lion is Jesus do you get it), but rather subconsciously through Tolkien’s greater worldview. Tolkien holds strong beliefs about love, language, and culture, that while derived from his Christian beliefs, are not religious in nature. In this way, The Lord of the Rings needs no religious allegories or metaphors to be Christian but rather must be imbued with the very values of Christianity. When Tolkien tells stories of love, sacrifice, faith, and courage, he is lauding the very same virtues that he derives from the Bible. Admittedly, however, Tolkien’s worldview is incredibly complex, as it is influenced by numerous different theological, philosophical, and academic schools of thought. So, how can we best understand Tolkien’s beliefs, on his own terms?

A great place to start is The Letters of JRR Tolkien. These letters provide perhaps the most candid picture of Tolkien, as they represent his most guarded communications and are often written to his close friends and family. While not much can be said surely about what Tolkien thought from his literature, and even much of his academia, many of these letters seem to be credible accounts of his own personal philosophy. In these letters he speaks directly, often revealing his most firmly held beliefs and his greatest challenges. In letters 54, 89, and 142, Tolkien talks about God and faith. By examining these letters, we may come to a better understanding of Tolkien’s worldview, and perhaps better understand how The Lord of the Rings follows from his Catholic underpinnings. 

Tolkien writes letter 54 to his son, Christopher Tolkien. In the letter, his purpose seems to be advice-giving. He begins with an interesting distinction between our two positionalities relative to God. As ‘souls with a free will,’ our purpose is in a way to ‘face God.’ In other words, as rational beings with the power to make decisions, humans are built to comprehend and worship God, as well as make moral decisions and engage in sub-creation. In another way, however, God is behind us, ‘supporting us, nourishing us.’ Not only do we owe our health, prosperity, and safety to God, but we owe our very existence. God is very much ‘behind us’ in the metaphysical sense. Causally, God sit behind each and every action and can be rightfully praised for all good things. At this point, Tolkien shifts tone and gives Christopher advice for if he ‘cannot achieve inner peace,’ which Tolkien admits few can and himself ‘least of all.’ He suggests that his son seeks out song, ‘the gift of glee, which God gave him.’ Tolkien ends the letter cuttingly: “All down the ages men (of our kind, most awarely) have felt it: not necessarily caused by sorrow but sharpened by it.

In letter 89, Tolkien writes again to Christopher. He tells Christopher of a vision, ‘or perhaps a perception which at once turned itself into pictorial form in [his] mind.’ Sitting in a church, he describes perceiving ‘the light of God.’ He describes it as composed of millions of motes, with only one directed to his own mind. He goes on to describe how it seemed as if a single ray of light seemed to appear, which he calls the Guardian Angel of the mote: ‘not a thing interposed between God and the creature, but God’s very attention itself, personalized.’ Tolkien claims that this personalized light is in a way itself a finite being, in the same way that ‘as the love of the Father and Son.’ In my opinion, this passage represents an interesting an unexpected facet of Tolkien’s religious belief. I interpret this passage as describing a direct, personal line between us and God. Particularly I attached to the line ‘not a thing interposed.’ In a way, this seems a more Protestant interpretation, all though it by no means runs at odds with Catholic doctrine. 

Letter 142 was sent to Roben Murray in response to his critique and commentary on The Lord of the Rings. It is in this letter that Tolkien directly addresses the question of religion in his work, and it is indeed here where he claims LOTR is ‘fundamentally’ Catholic and religious. He admits to neither adding nor removing religious imagery from the text and rather claims that religion is ‘absorbed’ into the story itself. However, this isn’t because he intentionally wrote the story that way, but rather because of the way that he is. Tolkien says that his faith has taught him all that he knows, or in other words has shaped his most fundamental beliefs. Lord of the Rings is a religious and Catholic story, but only insofar as Tolkien himself is religious and Catholic. At first this seems a weak connection; that LOTR is only a Christian story by a technicality. This, however, underestimates how heavily Tolkien is influenced by his faith, and how heavily LOTR is influenced by Tolkien. Religious life and sacred belief are his guiding principles, and his whole self is poured into his literature. For Tolkien, every story, every moment, exists within the context of the ‘greater story’: the immaculate conception, crucifixion, and resurrection. Everything in a way mirrors or reveals some part of this ‘greater story.’ LOTR is no exception: when Tolkien wrote it, he echoed universal, eternal truths.

—JW

Resolving Pagan Imagery with Tolkien's Faith & Judging “Worship” of His Work.

While Christian Imagery is omni-present throughout Tolkien's work and methodology, Pre-christian imagery and mythos are also quite prominent. This dilemma at times makes it difficult to fully resolve how Tolkien’s stories fit into his vision of faith and creation. Tolkien himself was quite well versed in pre-christian thought and expression, particularly in England. Furthermore, in the essence of his mythmaking, Tolkien also reveals a philosophy of language and history beneath his mythos via his writing process. As a man of faith, Tolkien possessed an understanding of writing and creation that was deeply connected to his faith. In beginning his writing processes with Languages and building out of them, Tolkien expressed that faith and creation gain inner consistency and merit through their engagement with the living environment around them. As a result of this fact, we can reconcile Tolkien's inclusion of and reliance upon pagan imagery with his Christian faith through his understanding of how Christianity took root in England as well as what faithful sub-creation entails.  

For Tolkien, worship is an action rather than simply a belief or an experience of the intellectual kind. Rather, Faith occurs as a moment of transcendent lived engagement with both the human condition and our surroundings. This transcendent moment is not entirely different from the force which gives words, names, and even the arcs of  his stories weight in our hearts and cultural memories. Thus, it seems sensible that despite holding a Christian Faith, Tolkien would treat pre-christian myth with reverence to the lived experience it generated and even the manner in which it shaped Christianity’s development in early England.  Essentially, Tolkien's treatment of the pre-christian mythos stems from his understanding of norse myth and the process of naming. I wrote a blog post several weeks ago detailing how Tolkien's process of naming and use of language, as well as sub-creation itself interact with his concept of worship through language. In addition, we have to understand what differentiates Tolkien’s understanding of both language and faith distinctly. If we treat sub-creation as Tolkien’s expression of divinity, we can assess reinterpretations and adaptations of his work as either faithful to the spirit of his stories, or as the thieving work of Morgoth’s disciples. For Tolkien, engagement with the context around words and the world is the essence of sub-creation. Our aim as creators and thinkers is to find stories and spirit within the essence of the world and its ideas in order to join the music and experience the light of divine creation.

In exploring the notion of worship in Tolkien as a practice executed through Language and sub-creation we can not only explore Tolkien's notions of divinity. We can also assess the work that has been done with The Lord of the Rings that acts as “noble and faithful worship” of the series and work which does not fall under this category. The clearest two examples to contrast in this regard are the Peter Jackson Lord of The Rings films as opposed to the Amazon Rings of Power series. While at the beginning of such a sentence the reader might already decide which of the two was a faithful interpretation and which failed, but the details of each of the examples' creative processes reveal how success and failure are determined.  In beginning with the characters' names, Tolkien’s starting point for the origins of mythology becomes language, a cultural heartbeat which he felt through the mythos and literature of England. An example of an inspiring work for Tolkien is Beowulf and its associated mythology. Beowulf  is an interesting case due to the fact that despite being an “Anglo-Saxon” story it describes nordic peoples far from home. For Tolkien, this interconnected mythos is equally as important as “high literature”. For Tolkien such a story provides a beautiful  format for sub-creation. Within its language, its meter, and the essence of this piece, Beowulf and other works of myth provide loose ends upon which to construct, implications through which to engage in the music and share the light of their sacred trees.  

Returning to the two cases of subcreation with which we are confronted, while neither exist as perfect efforts, the Film adaptations by Peter Jackson are inherently more successful because of the process in which they were made. The films  attempted to capture the spirit that Tolkien’s words awakened. This was done with the aim of bringing its joy and features into a breathing world in a new medium, respecting the essence of each story, rather than attempting to package and sell “never before seen” elements of it.  Jackson’s films engage in an honest attempt to reconstruct Tolkien’s world for the viewer through its maps, its characters, and  its relationships Despite its failures in the understanding of evil, and even at times the cycles of History Tolkien attempted to document, they retain its essential features, and explore the world on the basis of its own limitations. Amazon, however, perceived the series as a group of elements to which audiences were attracted(interest in orcs, interest in elves, etc)  rather than a holistic body of languages and relationships which in their singular essence create a spirit. This approach evidently failed. While Tolkien’s starting point was language, and Jackson built on that language, Amazon began with a then preexistent Tolkien  “brand”. The Series’ primary point of engagement was the iconography of the films, followed by focus group data and a basic understanding of some of the stories in the Silmarillion.

Tolkien mastered the art of finding words that served as emotional and cultural touchstones in relation to lived human relationships. The space between linguistic relationships(in terms of one word relating to another word, or groups of words) and the transcendent singular human experience of them in relation to the world, the gap that Tolkien fills through repetition and verbal experience, is the same space that Amazon ignored. For Tolkien, worship and subcreation exist in the revelling of this moment, and thus such an act must come from intimate experience with and reverence for such an area. Here arrives the inclusion of pre-christian Mythos within Tolkien’s work.

The liturgy as well as all notions of Christian faith did not emerge into a vacuum, particularly not within England. Instead, as is argued by Dr. Rachel Fulton Brown, it emerged through the psalms, upon pre-existing traditions of riddles, jokes and singing within mead halls and gathering places. In such an environment, Tolkien’s mythological understanding and methodology would not retain its luster, as well as its legitimacy if it was not respectful of the presence of pre-christian tradition in its relationship with the mythos of England. For Tolkien if language and faith are a transcendent experience, of course it would be sensible to place that experience within the context that it was born. Furthermore, such an understanding would yield itself compatible with reverence to pre-christian tradition rather than ignorance to it, or abstracting these practices under the vague blanket of “Paganism”.

-PR

“Here ends the Silmarillion”

As we have finished up the quarter with this inspiring class, I’d like to discuss the endings of a story with the last chapter of Quenta Silmarillion in this last post.

The very famous last words Tolkien said in the Quenta Silmarillion are: “Here ends the SILMARILLION. If it has passed from the high and the beautiful to darkness and ruin, that was of old the fate of Arda Marred; and if any change shall come and the Marring be amended, Manwe and Varda may know; but they have not revealed it, and it is not declared in the dooms of Mandos.” (QS 244) One can not analyze the ending of the QS without taking into account those comments. I will be analyzing a few essential concepts within this, as the significance of the ending lies precisely in examining their relationships with each other.

First of all, we have the contrast between “the high and the beautiful” to “darkness and ruin”. It may seem that the distinction is almost too simplistic, as what is “high and beautiful” is undoubtedly implying the Age of Trees in Valinor before the Darkness and loss of the Silmarili, while the “darkness and ruin” must point to the destructions occurred due to the Oath of Feanor and the malice of Morgoth. However, from another perspective, it is also possible to claim that, considering the discussion on the right of Free Will, despite depicting the fate of Arda in the First Age, Tolkien also indicates that the storyline of QS is a process in which the Free Will of beings in Arda being gradually self-exploited and self-deprived. Indeed, Free Will is the power of sub-creation endowed upon the free folks by Eru; yet, it operates in the plot of QS as a rather neutral force, simultaneously motivating the characters to transcend themselves and allowing them to fall to their worst indiscriminately. In this case, what is “high and beautiful”, such as the creation of the Silmarili, and “darkness and ruin”, such as the pursuit of the Oath, can be understood as dual expressions of Free Will within the mythological structure.

Moving on from this, we get to the idea of the “Marring” or “Arda Marred”. In the published version of QS, Tolkien has never explained deliberately what exactly the idea of being Marred implies in his world, yet it is deductible from other evidence. Also in the last chapter, it is described that “...and thence in many a fleet the Eldar set sail into the West, and came never back to the lands of weeping and of war,” and “...they knew that those jewels could not be found or brought together again unless the world be broken and remade.” (QS 243) In this case, the departure of the elves and the eternal loss of the Silmarili are both indications of the idea of Marring, with Beleriand becoming the land of “weeping and war” instead of the original hope of finding freedom through sorrow, and the continent even sinks to the ocean at the end. On the other hand, Tolkien mentions that even though Morgoth is thrown into the Door of Night forever as a banishment, “Morgoth Bauglir, the Power of Terror and of Hate, sowed in the hearts of Elves and Men are a seed that does not die and cannot be destroyed; and ever and anon it sprouts anew, and will bear dark fruit even unto the latest days.” (QS 244) Considering the deeds of Sauron in the Second and Third Ages, it seems that from the very beginning of the tale, when Morgoth (still Melkor by then) attempts to put Feanor and Fingolfin into hating each other, til the War of the Ring, the seed (i.e. the desire to deprive others of their Free Will) has always been growing and prospering among all races in Arda. 

At this point, it seems that we can draw this as the conclusion that Arda is meant to be Marred and has to be Marred in this narrative, just as the Silmarili are destined to be lost to all and never retrievable. One might ask, based on this, does this reflect that the voyage of Earendil or the War of Wrath is not in fact meaningful, if the inherent “high and beautiful” vision cannot be repaired? Again, from the point of view of the Free Will and the transcendental nature of the Silmarili, it is also possible to argue that the final resting places of the Silmarili are the ultimate manifestation of their nature of being the sacred gems/products of transcendence. Just imagine, if the Silmarili eventually return to Valinor, who, if not Feanor himself, is capable of breaking them and giving the light of the Trees back to where it belongs? If they are unbreakable, how are the elves going to keep them? Will they become artifacts or are they going to be worshipped as sacred relics? If, as Tolkien indicates, the Silmarili are alive and filled with consciousness, then they are neither museum exhibitions nor ritual objects, but the embodiment of the sacredness itself. In that case, no one, including the Valar, has the right to utilize or wield them. Therefore, becoming Gil-Estel in the sky and being hidden in the heart of the earth and deep ocean all reflect the idea that they become part of Arda, or the creation of Eru, and so is their fate, which does transcend all fate of the living beings.

 

—YW

No Orc Would Say That

When Sam needs a password to announce his return to Frodo in the orc tower, he does not call upon a Westron word or a hobbit phrase but the name of Elbereth. “Elbereth I'll call,” is what he tells himself. “What the Elves say. No orc would say that.” His logic in this moment is tactical, not spiritual. The name works as a ward because evil cannot bear to say it. Sam is not choosing to use the most sacred name in the book in a moment of devotion or to reach for anything beyond himself but for security and confirmation of identity.

This is stranger than it first looks. The Lord of the Rings contains several explicit invocations of Elbereth, and they often seem to be Tolkien’s version of prayer or a call for protection. The name of Elbereth most commonly occurs when characters have been pushed to their limits and are reaching for something transcendent. The password scene goes against that reading by removing the act of reaching for a power beyond oneself. Sam’s relationship with Elbereth is marginal at best. He is a gardener from the Shire using sacred language the way a soldier uses a countersign during war to confirm their identity. And yet it still serves its purpose and works for what Sam is trying to accomplish. The name carries some power that does not depend on the faith, intention, or even understanding of the person speaking it. That pattern is not unique to this scene. The moments where the sacred actually does something in the book are not the moments where someone is most explicitly trying to worship. Tracing those moments shows where Tolkien actually located the sacred in his world

Faramir is the opposite case of Sam’s use of Elbereth as a password. In Henneth Annûn, before the meal, Faramir and his men turn west and stand for a moment in silence, looking, as Faramir explains, toward Númenor, beyond it to Elvenhome, and to “that which is beyond Elvenhome and will ever be.” Frodo, hearing this, feels “strangely rustic and untutored,” as though he has no practice of worship beside these men who have a form and discipline to their practices. There is a lot of irony here as Frodo has already cried Elbereth’s name against the Witch-king at Weathertop, and he will do it again at the Ford. He has more contact with the sacred than almost anyone in the book, but Faramir’s habits and practices make him feel like a beginner. This version of saying grace before the meal is beautiful and it does nothing in the narrative. The invocations that do seem to work by repelling Nazgûl, breaking Shelob’s assault, shattering the will of the Watchers at the gate are those that arise without intention or form.

The most interesting of these to me is Sam at Shelob’s lair, where Tolkien writes that his voice cried out “in a language which he did not know.” In his “Meditation in a Toolshed,” C.S. Lewis argues that there are two ways of knowing an experience. One can look at it from the outside, as an anthropologist would observe a ritual, or look at it from within, as a person experiences it. His point is that modernity often wrongly dismisses the view from within which can help us understand the importance of the worshiper’s knowledge of what their own worship means. But the Shelob scene goes somewhere Lewis does not. Sam does not seem to be looking externally or internally. The words surface in him from somewhere he cannot name or access. The question of which perspective is more valid does not arise, because there is no perspective. There is only the language breaking through Sam.

This is what Tolkien means, in his letter to Robert Murray, when he writes that the religious element in The Lord of the Rings has been “absorbed into the story and the symbolism.” His characters, he notes elsewhere, have “little or no ‘religion’ in the sense of worship,” and invoking Elbereth is, at best, like what a Catholic does when calling on a saint. But the password scene pushes past that analogy. Prayer to a saint implies some form of a relationship because the person praying most often knows the name of the saint and has an intention for the appeal they are making. Sam brings neither. In a letter responding to W.H. Auden, Tolkien writes that the book is “about God, and His sole right to divine honour.” The password implies that divine honour is not produced by devotion but exists in the name the way light exists in the phial. An orc cannot say Elbereth’s name for the same reason it cannot face the phial. Not because it chooses not to, but because the name and the corrupt are ontologically incompatible.

Mount Doom tests this idea and somewhat clarifies its limits. Inside the Sammath Naur, Sam draws out the phial of Galadriel and it is “pale and cold” in his hand, casting no light into the dark. He does not call on Elbereth. The text seems to say this is because “all other powers were here subdued.” Her reach, which is real everywhere else in Middle-earth, does not extend to the heart of Sauron’s domain. But the Ring is destroyed anyway, and not by her name or her light. It is destroyed by the long chain of mercy that runs through the story from Bilbo sparing Gollum, to Frodo sparing him at Emyn Muil, to Sam sparing him on the slopes of the mountain. In his letters Tolkien describes this as Providence working through what looks like accident. Elbereth is a Vala, powerful within the world’s structure but not its deepest foundation. Underneath her, something else moves. Providence. Not a name one can speak but a current running through choices so small they look like accidents at the time.

I find that the password scene contains this whole theology within it. What Sam grasps instinctively, that no orc would say that, works because the name does not require him to mean anything by it. The same principle runs through the book. Frodo cries the name at Weathertop before he has time to think. Sam at Shelob speaks a language he cannot understand. At Mount Doom, the Ring is destroyed not by name or light but by mercies whose givers could not have known what they were giving. The sacred in Middle-earth is not something the worshiper produces. It is already there, woven into what names can be spoken, what light can be carried, and what survives at the Cracks of Doom when every other power has been subdued. When Tolkien writes that the religious element has been absorbed into the story, this is what he means. It does not arrive through the believer. It is the structure the believer is moving through.

- Z.S.K.

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