“There is a seed of courage hidden (often deeply, it is true) in the heart of the fattest and most timid hobbit, waiting for some final and desperate danger to make it grow.”
J.R.R. Tolkien
Most of us are familiar with J.R.R. Tolkien’s epic literary masterpiece, the Lord of the Rings, having either read the books or seen Peter Jackson’s film version. In it, we follow a tale of apocalyptic proportions, where the perennial battle between good and evil is escalating to a monumental showdown, after which, one way or another, the world won’t be the same.
“The world is changed,” says Treebeard the ent, seeming to have some premonition of Middle-earth moving towards some declining fate. “I feel it in the water, I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air.” A kind of haunting fatalism seems to pervade Middle-earth, as indicated by Aragorn’s passing comment before reciting a piece of Middle-earth lore: “It is a fair tale, though it is sad, as are all the tales of Middle-earth…”
It’s no coincidence that one of Tolkien’s best abiding insights, one that pervades his entire mythological universe, is one that also pervades the texts of the Sacred Scriptures. We all know that the New Testament book of Revelation (also called the Apocalypse of St. John) paints a picture of victory amongst catastrophic defeat. St. Paul, in 1 Corinthians, tells us that “the time is running out” (7:29), that “the world in its present form is passing away” (7:31). This awareness of a world that’s fleeting and finite, that’s winding down and in which evil will be allowed to have its say and make its effects known (cf. Matt. 24:4-14) Tolkien expressed with the idea of history as a “long defeat.”
“I am a Christian,” Tolkien wrote, “and indeed a Roman Catholic, so that I do not expect ‘history’ to be anything but a ‘long defeat’—though it contains (and in a legend may contain more clearly and movingly) some samples or glimpses of final victory.”
Now, this is not exactly the kind of perspective that most of us like to think about too often.Worrying about the apocalypse will neither get the dishes done nor pay the bills. Moreover, the secular forms of our culture have done a pretty good job convincing us of the benign and undramatic character of existence, promising that there’s no problem that planning, education, and better administration can’t fix.
And yet, without saying that it requires us to be gloomy and, well, apocalyptic in our day-to-day lives and interactions, the normal condition of the self who inhabits this world is deeply and tragically existential. We are temporal and finite beings, haunted by the spectre of mortality, stalked by wounds and suffering for which no temporal and finite solution can be found. We do experience an existential doubt, anxiety, and despair that, if given solely “natural” or secular remedies, only delays the inevitable and exacerbates our existential condition. There will be a final defeat: my own death.
The question is how to address the problem of apocalypse without becoming weirdos or fanatics on the one hand, or giving in to the temptation of therapeutic denial on the other. From whence might come the “seed of courage” capable of overcoming our worldly “fatness” and spiritual “timidity”? How can we triumph over the “final and desperate danger” that all of us face simply by being human?
The first step is always a clear-eyed recognition of the truth of our condition. In this sense, the original Greek sense of apocalypse as an “unveiling” of the truth of something is apt. Precisely what we first need in our lives is simply the recognition and acceptance that there is a battle going on (cf. Eph. 6:12), that because of our sin and brokenness we really and always face a “final and desperate danger.” We must recognize that the structure of existence is “apocalyptic” in the Scriptural sense noted above, the spirit of which Tolkien captured so evocatively in his mythic portrayal of history as a long defeat.
Once we have done this—once we have recognized that ruin is the birthright of a broken, fallen world—we may be able to once again perceive the radicality of the “seed of courage” offered to us in Christ. The gift of faith comes to us—indeed, comes to be borne in us, in our flesh and in our hearts—in the baptismal font, in the immersion of our ruin, decline, and death in Christ’s salvific and redemptive ruin, decline, and death for our sake.
By this, an existence destined for death becomes destined for life. An existence haunted by apocalypse becomes haunted by the possibility of resurrection. Tragedy meets joy. A “seed of courage” has been implanted in the one who has “put on Christ” (Gal. 3:27), in whom “Christ lives” (Gal. 2:20).
Nevertheless, for all its grandeur and peace, the salvation and redemption offered in baptismal adoption does not eradicate completely the apocalyptic tension of existence. Though in ultimate terms, the victory has already been won, the battle is still on. Though death has lost its sting, the believer must still face dark mines, high mountains, desolate plains, and all-seeing eyes of evil. Existence remains haunted by apocalypse.
In this way, baptismal redemption and salvation is more like what Tolkien spoke of as “eucatastrophe.” Tolkien coined this term to express “a sudden and miraculous grace” which, while offering a triumphant resolution to tragedy, nevertheless does not itself triumph completely over the tragic structure of existence.
As he puts it, eucatastrophe “does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; [eucatastrophe] denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.”
In other words, tension and suffering will always remain. And yet, “our redemption is drawing near” (Lk 21:28). The “eucatastrophic” gift of faith allows us to inhabit the existential structure of apocalypse that persists, without losing heart and hope. It equips us to face suffering and temptation with hope and the power of grace. With St. Paul (cf. 1 Cor. 15:55), it enables us to mock death, to face the burdens of life with joy; albeit that “sorrowful joy” which does not cease to be laced with the poignancy expressed so vividly in Tolkien’s epic.
And so, abiding apocalypse ends up being about, not fearfulness or wild speculations, but rather keeping a silent, suffering, but joy-filled baptismal watch. It may sometimes more closely resemble life amongst the peace and joy of the hobbit’s Shire. But it may also be like the condition faced by Sam and Frodo, a struggling through existence in which the shadow of darkness looms grim and foreboding. In each case, what matters is abiding faithfulness to the baptismal eucatastrophe that has been given to us as the ultimate gift. All that’s left to us, as Gandalf counsels Frodo, is “to decide what to do with the time that is given us.”
~ Dr Conor Sweeny
Conor is a Canadian by birth, born and raised near Vancouver, B.C. He has a licentiate and doctorate in Sacred Theology from the Roman session of the John Paul II Institute for Marriage and Family. His current book is called Abiding the Long Defeat – How to Evangelise like a Hobit in a Disenchanted Age.
Conor lectures in sacramental theology and continental philosophy at the Melbourne Session of the John Paul II Institute. He is married with five children.