in search of areté

Nargothrond, West Beleriand. Seventh Age. – Scholars and experts in all things Tolkien are in general agreement that the most beautiful writing in all of Tolkien’s legendarium is Ainulindalë: The Music of the Ainur. This remarkable chapter opens The Silmarillion, Tolkien’s life-long endeavor and his chief love. Ainulindalë is a creation story, one which is drawn from, embellishes, and slightly distorts the true myth account found in the Book of Genesis in Jewish and Christian bibles. The style is high and lofty: one is caught up in the imaginative genius of the creator of Middle-earth, at times hoping that he is filling in gaps in the method employed by God to bring our own Middle-earth into being.

There is another short work by Tolkien that, for me, is even more compelling and gripping. It is found in Book X of The History of Middle Earth, Morgoth’s Ring: The Later Silmarillion, Part One: The Legends of Aman. The essay is entitled Athrabeth Finrod Ah Andreth, or The Debate of Finrod and Andreth. To my knowledge, this remarkable dialogue is only found in this book, which was edited by Christopher Tolkien. Like Ainulindalë, Athrabeth Finrod Ah Andreth provides an intimate glimpse into the heart and theological mind of the wizard who was J.R.R. Tolkien.*

The debate is between Finrod, the elven brother of Galadriel, who was also known as Edennil, the Friend of Men. Of him it was written,

Finrod (son of Finarfin, son of Finwë) was the wisest of the exiled Noldor, being more concerned than all others with matters of thought (rather than with making or with skill of hand); and he was eager moreover to discover all that he could concerning Mankind.

Andreth, of the race of Men, is introduced as

a woman of the House of Bëor, the sister of Bregor father of Barahir (whose son was Beren One-hand the renowned). She was wise in thought, and learned in the lore of Men and their histories; for which reason the Eldar called her Saelind, ‘Wise-heart’.

Tolkien tells us that,

In the days of the peace before Melkor broke the Siege of Angband, Finrod would often visit Andreth, whom he loved in great friendship, for he found her more ready to impart her knowledge to him than were most of the Wise among Men. A shadow seemed to lie upon them, and there was a darkness behind them, of which they were loth to speak even among themselves.

The debate covers a variety of subjects but one of the more fascinating is the discussion concerning redemption of Arda, i.e., creation. Their conversation had begun with the issue of Death, which Andreth held to be a curse placed upon Men by Melkor, the satanic lord of Middle-earth whose Ring was Middle-earth itself and into which he had placed much of his power. Finrod disputes such a notion of Melkor’s power and tells Andreth of his first-hand knowledge of the natures of Melkor and Eru (God):

‘We know Melkor, the Morgoth, and know him to be mighty. Yea, I have seen him, and I have heard his voice; and I have stood blind in the night that is at the heart of his shadow, whereof you, Andreth, know nought save by hearsay and the memory of your people. But never even in the night have we believed that he could prevail against the Children of Eru. This one he might cozen, or that one he might corrupt; but to change the doom of a whole people of the Children, to rob them of their inheritance: if he could do that in Eru’s despite, then greater and more terrible is he by far than we guessed; then all the valour of the Noldor is but presumption and folly . . .’

Andreth struggles to believe Finrod’s reasoning, however, and instead admits of her despair – the loss of hope – for Men. The debate now turns to the matter of hope, redemption, and a new creation.

‘Have ye then no hope?’ said Finrod.

‘What is hope?’ she said. ‘An expectation of good, which though uncertain has some foundation in what is known? Then we have none.’

‘That is one thing that Men call “hope”,’ said Finrod. ‘Amdir we call it, “looking up”. But there is another which is founded deeper. Estel we call it, that is “trust”. It is not defeated by the ways of the world, for it does not come from experience, but from our nature and first being. If we are indeed the Eruhin, the Children of the One, then He will not suffer Himself to be deprived of His own, not by any Enemy, not even by ourselves. This is the last foundation of Estel, which we keep even when we contemplate the End: of all His designs the issue must be for His Children’s joy. Amdir you have not, you say. Does no Estel at all abide?’

‘Maybe,’ she said . . . ‘It is believed that healing may yet be found, or that there is some way of escape. But is this indeed Estel? Is it not Amdir rather; but without reason: mere flight in a dream from what waking they know: that there is no escape from darkness and death?’

‘Mere flight in a dream you say,’ answered Finrod. ‘In dream many desires are revealed; and desire may be the last flicker of Estel. But you do not mean dream, Andreth. You confound dream and waking with hope and belief, to make the one more doubtful and the other more sure . . .

‘What then was this hope, if you know?’ Finrod asked.

‘They say,’ answered Andreth: ‘they say that the One will himself enter into Arda, and heal Men and all the Marring from the beginning to the end. . . . How could Eru enter into the thing that He has made, and than which He is beyond measure greater? Can the singer enter into his tale or the designer into his picture?’

‘He is already in it, as well as outside,’ said Finrod . . .

‘For, as it seems to me, even if He in Himself were to enter in, He must still remain also as He is: the Author without. And yet, Andreth, to speak with humility, I cannot conceive how else this healing could be achieved. Since Eru will surely not suffer Melkor to turn the world to his own will and to triumph in the end. Yet there is no power conceivable greater than Melkor save Eru only. Therefore Eru, if He will not relinquish his work to Melkor, who must else proceed to mastery, then Eru must come in to conquer him.

‘More: even if Melkor (or the Morgoth that he has become) could in any way be thrown down or thrust from Arda, still his Shadow would remain, and the evil that he has wrote and sown as a seed would wax and multiply. And if any remedy for this is to be found, ere all is ended, any new light to oppose the shadow, or any medicine for the wounds: then it must, I deem, come from without.’

________________

* The story is told of one of Tolkien’s sons who was completing paperwork prior to being inducted into the English military during World War II. When required to state his father’s occupation, Tolkien’s son wrote, “Wizard.”

Avallónnë. Seventh Age. – As I think about these days in which we live, about the voices that hold sway over Christendom from the pulpit, and the captivating reasonings in well-constructed books, as well as in the reams of words written here online – as I reflect on these matters, I am reminded of Tolkien’s words in The Lord of the Rings, Book III, a chapter entitled “The Voice of Saruman.”

The Riders of the Mark have accompanied King Théoden of Rohan and Éomer his nephew, Gandalf and Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli to the stairs of Orthanc, the stronghold-turned-prison of Saruman, now the Wizard of Many Colors. The Riders eavesdrop on the speech of Saruman to their king.

Suddenly another voice spoke, low and melodious, its very sound an enchantment. Those who listened unwarily to that voice could seldom report the words that they heard; and if they did, they wondered, for little power remained in them. Mostly they remembered only that it was a delight to hear the voice speaking, all that it said seemed wise and reasonable, and desire awoke in them by swift agreement to seem wise themselves. When others spoke they seemed harsh and uncouth by contrast; and if they gainsaid the voice, anger was kindled in the hearts of those under the spell. . . .

“The Riders stirred at first, murmuring with approval of the words of Saruman; and then they too were silent, as men spell-bound. It seemed to them that Gandalf had never spoken so fair and fittingly to their lord. Rough and proud now seemed all his dealings with Théoden. And over their hearts crept a shadow, the fear of a great danger: the end of the Mark in a darkness to which Gandalf was driving them, while Saruman stood beside a door of escape, holding it half open so that a ray of light came through.”

Those who would mesmerize us with words and ear-soothing tones may still be found among us, drawing us under their spell with their seductive speeches and attractive demeanor. They are strong, powerful, and popular; by agreeing with them, we reason, we will share in those qualities. Those who speak roughly or without the allurement of rhetorical skills are dismissed as unfaithful, ignorant rabble. We will give them no hearing and will hearken instead to velvet-tongued orators whose voices we find comforting.

Such modern-day Sarumans hold open a door, and from the door emanates a warm, inviting, and seductive light. But the door is only half open, and thus we cannot see that the light streaming towards us is not generated by the glory of the Son but by the fires of hell.

Avallónnë. Fifth Age. – Stratford Caldecott, in his excellent work The Power of the Ring, explores “The Spiritual Vision Behind The Lord of the Rings.”

In his introduction, Caldecott explains not only Tolkien’s purposes for the book but also the Oxford professor’s feelings about the times in which he lived. It is to be remembered that Tolkien always denied his work was drawn from the events of the 20th century but was also quick to add that The Lord of the Rings had applicability to many times and settings. The times have not changed but only intensified in the thirty-plus years since Tolkien’s death, and what was applicable then is no less so now.

In the following quotations from Caldecott, all emphases are mine.

What the book celebrates – and mourns – is a world and a tradition that appears to be passing away in a great war, or series of wars. These wars are fought in a good cause, against an enemy that cannot be allowed to win. Yet the real danger is not that the free world might be defeated; it is that we might be corrupted, brutalized and degraded by the conflict itself, and in particular by the means employed to secure victory. . . .

“Our mistake in the great wars of our own time has been to accept the false idea that the end justifies the means, and that ‘if a thing can be done, it must be done’ (Letters, 186). For, as Tolkien wrote to his son in 1944, the Allies were attempting to defeat Sauron by using the Ring. The penalty would be to breed new Saurons, and to turn Men and Elves into Orcs – ‘Not that in real life things are as clear-cut as in a story, and we started with a great many Orcs on our side.’ (L, 66)

If Caldecott’s and Tolkien’s observations are important for the free countries of the world in which we now live, they are even more important for those of us who seek to reflect and represent the Kingdom of God to an unbelieving world. Even as the free peoples in Middle-earth were engaged in spiritual warfare against Evil, so Christians struggle against principalities and powers unseen but not unknown.

Orcs in the Pulpits and Pews

Our struggle is also to maintain holiness as we battle the Enemy. It is here that the statements above have application: we are prone to corruption, to justify unrighteous means, and do something simply because we can. The relentless attacks of the Enemy and the continual need to defend ourselves by putting on the armor of God can be wearying. The subtle, insidious temptation is to allow ourselves to be slowly and quietly diminished, robbed of joy and spiritual power, rather than edified and brought to maturity in Christ Jesus.

At the same time, a blindness to slight deviations from righteousness develops in full light of day, our sight dimmed by ignorance, introspection, isolation, or some other malady. Questionable practices, perhaps excused due to desperation or exasperation to evangelize the lost and edify the church, are allowed for the sake of achieving godly purposes.

Technology lures us in and shifts our focus from “what” and “whom” to “how” and “how much.” As we utilize media and sophisticated productions to reach the lost, we become almost addicted to and enslaved by it. The church’s version of “keeping up with the Joneses” – “keeping up with the Baptists”? “with the “Emergents”? “the Seeker friendlies”? – threatens us with shallowness. We have form but no substance.

The words of Faramir, the Dúnadan of Gondor, should cause all of us to examine our own means and methods in our ministries:

‘Yet now, if the Rohirrim are grown in some ways more like to us, enhanced in arts and gentleness, we too have become more like to them, and can scarce claim the title High. We are become Middle Men, of the Twilight, but with memory of other things. For as the Rohirrim do, we now love war and valour as things good in themselves, both a sport and an end; and though we still hold that a warrior should have more skills and knowledge than only the craft of weapons and slaying, we esteem a warrior, nonetheless, above men of other crafts.’”

Even as the men of Gondor were gradually lured from their holiness and righteousness, so we are drawn away from our first Love. It is not a sudden, abrupt change of course but a slow, imperceptible drift: the current is always present and should never be far from our hearts and minds.

The Church cannot allow herself to be corrupted, or afford to adapt the ways of the world in ministry, or do something simply because we can without regard for the need or effectiveness. God has told us not only what to do, but also how to do it.

We ignore this and will suffer for it. For to do God’s work in our own way is to not do God’s work at all.

Avallónnë. Fifth Age. – In a chapter entitled “Myth and Sub-creation” in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Sanctifying Myth, Bradley Birzer explores Tolkien’s beliefs regarding myths, both pagan and true. “Tolkien mythologized nearly everything in his life,” Birzer writes. In more familiar and (I believe) accurate terms, it might be said that Tolkien saw the spiritual dimension in every area, aspect, and act of his life.

Birzer continues:

For Tolkien, mystery surrounds us. But modernity has deformed our perception of this reality. His mythologizing of the world, Tolkien believed, increased our ability to see the beauty and sacramentality of creation. . . .

Indeed, for Tolkien, myths expressed far greater truths than did historical facts or events. Sanctified myths, inspired by grace, served as an anamnesis, or a way for a people to recall encounters with transcendence that had helped to order their souls and their society. Myth, inherited or created, could also offer a ’sudden glimpse of Truth,’ that is, a brief view of heaven. At the very least, sanctified myth revealed the life humans were meant to have prior to the Fall.

Two fundamental aspects of Tolkien’s mythology must be stated from the outset. First, as every reader of Tolkien has found – either to his delight or to his chagrin – Tolkien created a world vastly complex and nuanced. . . .

“Tolkien believed his legendarium to be a single entity revealed to him over time. To him, The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings were a continuation of the same story, inseparable, and, when divided, incomprehensible.

The second aspect of Tolkien’s mythology that must be understood is his firm conviction that God authored the history of Middle-earth, in all its manifestations. Tolkien thought that he merely served as a scrivener of God’s myth. ‘I have long ceased to invent,’ Tolkien wrote in 1956. ‘I wait till I seem to know what really happened. Or till it writes itself. . . . The Other Power then took over: the Writer of the Story (by which I do not mean myself), “that one ever-present Person who is never absent and never named.”‘ . . .

“After all, both Tolkien and Lewis argued, God spoke through the minds of poets, ‘The story of Christ is simply a true myth,’ Lewis wrote to his friend Arthur Greeves. ‘One must be content to accept it in the same way, remember that it is God’s myth where the others are men’s myths, i.e., the Pagan stories are God expressing Himself through the minds of poets, using such images as He found there.

Birzer argues that two essays by Tolkien – The Monsters and the Critics and On Fairy-Stories – reveal additional depth to Tolkien’s understanding of myth.

Tolkien’s examination of Beowulf, the subject of the first essay, has become a standard in the field of Beowulf criticism, and Anglo-Saxon scholars and critics typically either agree with it or abhor it. For Tolkien, who had committed to memory almost the entire poem, Beowulf represented one of the great moments in western history. . . .

“Beowulf, Tolkien had argued, is as important for the historian and the theologian as for the English teacher. Two things should immediately prove this, he thought. First, the story contains a dragon. Rarely in literature does one find them. Contrary to our popular memory of legends, no ‘wilderness of dragons’ abounded in medieval literature. Instead, when such a bestial worm does present itself, the critic should take its significance to the story and its symbolism seriously. Indeed, the appearance of a dragon signifies a number of things – most of them evil. A dragon personifies ‘malice, greed, destruction.’ Second, Tolkien noted that few authors would devote over 3,000 lines of high poetry to something ‘not worthy of serious attention.’ Instead, the ‘high tone, the sense of dignity, alone is evidence in Beowulf of the presence of a mind lofty and thoughtful.’

“Beowulf’s greatest strength, Tolkien believed, lay in the author’s understanding that the theme should be implicit rather than explicit.

For Tolkien, the Beowulf poet beautifully intertwined pagan virtues with Christian theology. . . . Most certainly a Christian, the author used the poem to demonstrate that not all pagan things should be dismissed by the new culture. Instead, the Christian should embrace and sanctify the most noble virtues to come out of the northern pagan mind: courage and raw will.

“Tolkien’s belief that the best of the pagan world should be sanctified reflects St. Augustine’s thinking. In his On Christian Duty, St. Augustine wrote, ‘[If philosophers] have said aught that is true and in harmony with our faith, we are not only not to shrink from it, but to claim it for our own use from those who have unlawful possession of it.’

Tolkien warned that fallen man can pervert fairy stories, fantasy, and myth, making them something for the promulgation of evil. Therefore, Tolkien concluded, one should leave fantasy to the mental imagination and to the written word. To take fantasy to the animated visual arts, such as with motion pictures or the theater, must result in either ’silliness or morbidity.’

“Indeed, as high art forms, fairy stories and fantasy offer much to human existence. First, fairy stories illuminate the vast inheritance our ancestors have bequeathed to us. Second, fairy stories give us a new sense of wonder about things we have taken for granted or which have become commonplace. . . . Fairy stories and fantasy allow one to see ‘things as we are (or were) meant to see them.’

Yet, because we are fallen, restless, and susceptible to pride, Tolkien argued, even the well-intentioned can pervert the high calling and gift of creativity. In such perversions, man turns art into power; adulterated by sin the prideful man uses his gifts not to exalt creation and the creator, but to serve himself. . . .

“With such religious implications and significance in its artistry, Tolkien concluded, the best fairy story and sub-creation provides the reader with what he labeled the euchatastrophe, the unexpected joy. . . . The ultimate fairy story, or true myth, then, is the incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection of Christ. . . . ‘The heart of Christianity is a myth which is also a fact,’ C.S. Lewis argued along Tolkienian lines. ‘The old myth of the Dying God, without ceasing to be myth, comes down from the heaven of legend and imagination to the earth of history.’

“With the Incarnation of Christ, ‘art has been verified,’ Tolkien claimed. ‘God is the Lord, of angels, and of men – and of elves. Legend and History have met and fused’ with the arrival of God in Time, and man has been blessed beyond earthly comprehension.

The story, especially The Lord of the Rings, became much more than a myth for any one people or any one nation. It, instead, became a myth for the restoration of Christendom itself.”

Avallónnë. Fifth Age. – Professor Bradley Birzer explores Tolkien’s perspective on faerie (myth), truth, and man in his introduction to J.R.R. Tolkien’s Sanctifying Myth.

To enter faerie – that is, a sacramental and liturgical understanding of creation – is to open oneself to the gradual discovery of beauty, truth, and excellence. . . . To enter faerie is, paradoxically, both a humbling and exhilarating experience. This is what the Oxford don and scholar J.R.R. Tolkien firmly believed . . .”

The English Roman Catholic G.K. Chesterton, who served as a significant source of inspiration to Tolkien when he was a young man, once wrote that ‘he not only felt freer when he bent; he actually felt taller when he bowed.’ Likewise, Tolkien shows in ‘Smith of Wootton Major’ that it is an understanding of the transcendent that allows Smith to full become a man. This was a teaching to which Tolkien ascribed his entire life.

“For Tolkien, one of the best ways to understand the gift of grace was through faerie, which offered a glimpse of the way in which sacrament and liturgy infuse the natural law and the natural order. Faerie connects a person to his past and helps order his understanding of the moral universe. . . .

“Not only does faerie teach us higher truths; it also bonds us together in communities, of which there are two kinds: the one which is of this time and place, and the one which transcends all time and all places. . . .

“Myth, Tolkien thought, can convey the sort of profound truth that was intransigent to description or analysis in terms of facts and figures, and is therefore a more powerful weapon for cultural renewal than is modern rationalist science and technology.”

Tolkien believed that myth can teach men and women how to be fully and truly men and women, not mere cogs in the vast machine of modern technological society . . .

“Besides offering an essential path to the highest truths, myth plays a vital role in any culture because it binds together members of communities. ‘It is quite easy to see why a legend is treated, and ought to be treated, more respectfully than a book of history. The legend is generally made by a majority of the people in the village, who are sane. The book is generally written by the one man in the village who is mad,’ Chesterton wrote in Orthodoxy.”

To the modernist, ‘myth,’ like religion, merely signifies a comfortable and entrenched lie. For the postmodernist, myth simply represents one story, one narrative among many; it is purely subjective, certainly signifying nothing of transcendent or any other kind of importance.

“For religious fundamentalists, myths also represent lies. Myths, the argument runs, constitute dangerous rivals to Christian truth and may lead the unwary astray, even into the very grip of hell. . . . It is likely, the fundamentalist concludes, that all myth comes from the devil and is an attempt to distract us from the truth of Christ . . .”

For Tolkien, however, even pagan myths attempted to express God’s greater truths. True myth has the power to revive us, to serve as an anamnesis, or way of bringing to conscious experience ancient experiences with transcendence. But, Tolkien admitted, myth could be dangerous, or ‘perilous,’ as he usually stated it, if it remained pagan. Therefore, Tolkien thought, one must sanctify it, that is, make it Christian and put it in God’s service. . . . This motif of ’sanctifying the pagan’ has been repeated throughout history by Christians in a multitude of ways, and was instrumental in contributing to the wildly successful spread of the faith.”

It is both fitting and worthwhile to recall the comments of C.S. Lewis in his review of The Lord of the Rings at this point:

The value of the myth is that it takes all the things we know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by the veil of familiarity. The child enjoys his cold meat, otherwise dull to him, by pretending it is buffalo, just killed with his own bow and arrow. And the child is wise. The real meat comes back to him more savoury for having been dipped in a story; you might say that only then is it real meat. If you are tired of the real landscape, look at it in a mirror. By putting bread, gold, horse, apple, or the very roads into a myth, we do not retreat from reality: we rediscover it. As long as the story lingers in our mind, the real things are more themselves. [Tolkien] applies the treatment not only to bread or apple but to good and evil, to our endless perils, our anguish and our joys. By dipping them in myth we see them more clearly. I do not think he could have done it in any other way.” (quoted in Colin Duriez’s Tolkien and the Lord of the Rings: A Guide to Middle-earth)

Avallónnë. Fifth Age. – One of the good things about owning and having read so many books (30+) by or about Tolkien and Middle-earth is having the immediate opportunity to re-read them from time to time. Upon doing so, I find that I have forgotten some things while other observations of the various authors, unimportant to me in the past, have now taken on a new perspective – or, rather, I have taken on a new, broader, and/or deeper perspective.

I recently picked up Bradley Birzer’s 2002 work, J.R.R. Tolkien’s Sanctifying Myth and began wandering through his insights into Eä and Arda. At the time of writing, Birzer was (among other positions) Professor of History at Hillsdale College in Michigan. Included in this post are comments from Joseph Pearce, author of Tolkien: Man and Myth, who wrote the Foreword to Birzer’s book:

According to Tolkien’s own ’scale of significance,’ expressed candidly in a letter written shortly after The Lord of the Rings was published, his Catholic faith was the most important, or most ’significant,’ influence on the writing of the work. It is, therefore, not merely erroneous but patently perverse to see Tolkien’s epic as anything other than a specifically Christian myth.”

Professor Birzer grapples with the very concept of ‘myth’ and proceeds to a discussion of Tolkien’s philosophy of myth, rooted as it is in the relationship between Creator and creature, and, in consequence, the relationship between Creation and sub-creation. . . . Tolkien’s epic goes beyond mere ‘fantasy’ to the deepest realms of metaphysics. Far from being an escapist fantasy, The Lord of the Rings is revealed as a theological thriller.

It is perhaps noteworthy that most of the self-styled ‘experts’ amongst the literati who have queued up to sneer contemptuously at The Lord of the Rings are outspoken champions of cultural deconstruction and moral relativism . . . For most modern critics a myth is merely another word for a lie or a falsehood, something which is intrinsically not true. For Tolkien, myth had virtually the opposite meaning. It was the only way that certain transcendent truths could be expressed in intelligible form . . .

“Integral to Tolkien’s philosophy of myth was the belief that creativity is a mark of God’s divine image in Man. . . . Only God can create in the primary sense, i.e., by bringing something into being out of nothing. Man, however, can sub-create by molding the material of Creation into works of beauty. Music, art, and literature are all acts of sub-creation expressive of the divine essence in man.

[T]he evil powers in The Lord of the Rings are specified as direct descendants of Tolkien’s Satan, rendering impossible, or at any rate implausible, anything but a Christian interpretation of the book. In the impenetrable blackness of the Dark Lord and his abysmal servants, the Ringwraiths, we feel the objective reality of Evil. Sauron and his servants confront and affront us with the nauseous presence of the Real Absence of goodness. In his depiction of the potency of evil, Tolkien presents the reader with a metaphysical black hole far more unsettling than Milton’s proud vision of Satan as ‘darkness visible.’

Tolkien is, however, equally powerful in his depiction of goodness. In the unassuming humility of the hobbits we see the exaltation of the humble. In their reluctant heroism we see a courage ennobled by modesty. In the immortality of the elves, and the sadness and melancholic wisdom that immortality evokes in them, we receive an inkling that man’s mortality is a gift of God, a gift that ends his exile in mortal life’s ‘vale of tears’ and enables him, in death, to achieve a mystical union with the Divine beyond the reach of Time.

“In Gandalf we see the archetypal prefiguration of a powerful Prophet or Patriarch, a seer who beholds a vision of the Kingdom beyond the understanding of men. . . .

“In the true, though exiled, kingship of Aragorn we see glimmers of the hope for a restoration of truly ordained, i.e., Catholic, authority. The person of Aragorn represents the embodiment of the Arthurian and Jacobite yearning – the visionary desire for the ‘Return of the King’ after eons of exile. . . .

And, of course, in the desire for the Return of the King, we have the desire of all Christians for the Second Coming of Christ, the True King and Lord of all.”

I would take issue with Pearce on at least one point, i.e., the role of Gandalf. Pearce’s description of the wizard as “Prophet and patriarch, a seer who beholds a vision of the Kingdom beyond the understanding of men” would seem to be more true of Elrond Peredhil. Gandalf is a more fitting picture of the role and activity of angels in the world or, perhaps better, the ministry of the Holy Spirit in believers as He encourages, strengthens, and empowers Christians in the battle against the Kingdom of Satan.

(See also “Being a Dúnadan” and “Wandering in Our Wilderness”)

Avallónnë. Fifth Age. – A Dúnadan’s life is troubling and troublesome, at once troubled and troubling. It seems that the two are inseparable.

The conflict arises because the path, mission, or life’s work of a Dúnadan is troublesome or troubling to others; this, in turn makes it troubled and troubling for the Dúnadan. Since it is the work of a Dúnadan to guard others even when they don’t feel the need to be guarded, and to correct them even when they have asked for no correction, life becomes complicated for all involved.

Most commonly, however, a Dúnadan is troubled and troubling by just being who he or she is. Because they see things differently, having a different perspective and evaluative grid, they don’t seem to fit in and never blend in for long. They are the ones who have a different, “deeper” or “too spiritual” view of things at Bible studies. Without trying, they pose a threat to cherished traditions by asking if there is a biblical warrant or allowance for them. Once again, they disturb the comfortable without even meaning to just by being themselves: they are spiritual iconoclasts. It is not what they intend to do but a result of how they see things, and they genuinely believe that what they are saying will benefit those to whom they’re speaking. Many, if not most, Dúnedain are not intentionally trying to upset anyone; in fact, they are often surprised – or hurt – that someone has taken offense or is angry.

Every Dúnadan’s purpose is determined by what God has revealed in Scripture. Knowing that infallibility is a quality of the Bible and not the one reading the Bible, a Ranger nevertheless speaks with a settled yet tentative confidence. His function is similar to that of the inner ear of the body: it is to maintain balance and to alert other parts of the body to do what is necessary to continue balancing itself. The other parts of the body do not, on an individual basis, always welcome this correction: it is sometimes met with anger and rejection.

So it is with the role of the Dúnadan: his mission is to keep the body balanced, not to point out to others that they are wrong just to prove his own imagined or perceived superiority. This is not always how we come across, unfortunately, nor is it how others respond to us most of the time. And so the conflict begins. Or continues.

The result is that others look at the Dúnadan with a suspicion bordering on contempt, at times, and the Dúnadan is isolated or marginalized as much as possible. This is not at all what the Ranger wants: like everyone else, he or she feels a need to be appreciated and accepted. But a Ranger will not purchase popularity at the cost of faithfulness. And so the Dúnedain are frequently perceived as aloof, arrogant troublemakers. And the individual Ranger feels frustrated and sorrowful – not because of the isolation and rejection but due to the harm he fears will come to others.

It is not always a happy existence; hence, the closeness and strong friendships that develop between two Rangers whenever their paths might cross.

Some have written of late about the inherent conflict between pastors and prophets (prophet being defined in these writings as one who confronts and rebukes the church when it strays, i.e., a Ranger). Such a dichotomy is spurious and perhaps an attempt to justify divisions and discord in the church. Exegetical gymnastics might find a basis for a distinction but the bulk of Scripture does not support it. If a pastor is not correcting and rebuking his flock as needed, then he is not pastoring, no matter what the nameplate on his office door declares. The pastor is responsible to comfort the disturbed and to disturb the comfortable. You don’t get to do one without the other: it is a marriage of love and truth. Not only can a pastor and a Dúnadan complement one another effectively, they can be and often are the same person.

The proof? Well, how did Jesus treat His disciples? Was He a comforter or a confronter? A pastor or a prophet? Obviously, he was both. We are called to no less.

Modern Day Dúnedain, as hinted above, stand in the line of the prophets of the Old and New Testaments. They are not proclaiming new truth or foretelling the future like Isaiah or Malachi; they are not performing miracles or slipping into ecstatic states or trances like Elijah or Nathan. A Dúnadan is a prophet in the sense that she is one who speaks forth the word of God and the truth of God to the people of God. A priest, you will remember, speaks to God on behalf of the people; a prophet speaks to the people on behalf of God.

The gift or role – ultimately, the responsibility – of being a Dúnadan is no different than that which accompanies any of the other spiritual gifts: it is for the building up of the body. All gifts are body gifts and, as such, are meant for the benefit of other members of the body rather than for ourselves. (”One another” is the theme of the New Testament church, not “me, me, me.”) So a Dúnadan is no more – or less – special and necessary to the church than an evangelist or one who practices hospitality. The Dúnedain are stewards of a gift and are charged with being faithful, as is everyone else.

If those of us who are Dúnedain are different at all, it is because of this: we “get it.” If we didn’t “get it” we couldn’t be Rangers and wouldn’t have the gift. By “getting it” I mean two things: first, we “get” it not because we are special or superior in any way but because it comes with the gift. We are not special, I repeat, but are only gifted in a particular way. We are not “better than” simply because we “get it.”

The “it” of “getting it” is the incredible importance of this life. It is the awareness of the spiritual battle, the eternal impact of what we and others do in this life, the haunting fear of a failing church or a falling brother in Christ. “It” is understanding that this truth has to be lived: it is the air we are to breathe, the water that refreshes us, and the food that sustains us. This is the normal Christian life: to be “carried along” or compelled to say or do what we say and do. “It” is to walk in the Spirit, abide in Christ, live by the Spirit, have the word of Christ dwell richly in us, be conformed to the image of Christ, walk even as He walked. It is for all believers, all Númenoreans, not for a select few.

Because we “get it” we don’t really care that much about knowledge for the sake of knowledge ; we especially don’t care about systems of theology that have answers for everything. We know that much of life – of the Christian life – is about learning to live with and ask the right questions. (God is not predictable no matter what your doctrine may demand: He is free and will do as He freely chooses to do. He will not violate His own character and His ways are clearly not our ways.) A Dúnadan has to live by faith because he recognizes the severity of his own limitations and the utter limitlessness of God.

We “get it,” too, because we are more interested in behavior than thinking. Love is the ultimate motivation and the compass by which we – all Christians – are called to live. It is a true love, i.e., a love defined by the truth and character of God – and it is the greatest good because it glorifies God by manifesting His essence. And we “get it” because we know we will never arrive and that we are probably doing less with what we have than others are doing with what they have.

Finally, we “get it” most of all because of the eternal perspective that we didn’t ask for but are compelled to live by. We are very much strangers and aliens in this life, residents of another kingdom. At times a Dúnadan may be guilty of neglecting the “lesser” things of life but this is a mistake: God determines what is important and significant, not us. Dúnedain are intensely involved with this world even as a firefighter is involved in a blaze: it’s not his house that is burning but he will risk his life to save it. We are charged with being faithful in a stewardship that God has determined, not the one we desire or like the most. God has said that this world matters.

But the eternal worldview is paramount. It guides our every step – although we stumble and misstep frequently – and provides us with the direction we implore others to follow. We are often ignored, but that does not change the job description of a Dúnadan in the least. We are called to faithful stewardship and answer to the One who died for us. Like everyone else, we hope to hear “Well done, good and faithful servant . . .” when we behold Christ face-to-face.