When I
was thirteen, I was an awkwardly tall introvert with a loud laugh and an absurd
love of fantasy books. I live in
a small town, but I am lucky enough to be within a half-mile of the library. My library is small, but every week I used to comb through the books in the juvenile section and bring home two or three. I lived for stories, loving each one I found. It was at this time, when I was thirteen, that
I discovered three old paperbound books with taped-on covers and broken spines
titled The Lord of the Rings. Seeing that they were fantasy – and classic
fantasy at that – I decided to read them.
As soon
as I’d finished all three books, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was the
story I’d been waiting for. It was as
though all of the other books I’d read were simply the appetizers, and I’d
finally gotten to the main course. I
couldn't put my finger on it, but this story filled me up and made me feel
whole. It was as though it managed to show me
everything evil in the world without filling me with despair. It convinced me that no sacrifice for the
sake of good is ever in vain. Suddenly,
it seemed to me that there was no darkness so big or so formidable as to make
me despair of doing good.
I was inspired. I was unstoppable. And I promised myself that I would be one who fought for good, no matter how great the sacrifice.
I was inspired. I was unstoppable. And I promised myself that I would be one who fought for good, no matter how great the sacrifice.
As the
years passed, however, I began to see more of the world. Despite my inner promise, a despairing fear
crept into my mind. I saw that although some
people were willing to sacrifice a little, or sometimes even a lot, it was never enough. People are selfish, and I was selfish, and I began
to suspect that the sacrifice embodied in Tolkien’s book, though inspiring,
wasn't realistic when applied to the real world. I just wanted confirmation that my courage wasn't misplaced, that what I had so firmly believed in for so long wasn't impossible - that somewhere, in some time, there lived a person brave enough to sacrifice for us.
As I realized that such a person doesn't exist, my thoughts and expectations gradually changed. I began to think, "If our sacrifice is never enough, is it really worth it? If true sacrifice – sacrifice brave enough to change the world – was impossible, was any other kind of sacrifice nothing more than a kind action?" Our world, I knew, was broken and dying, and so gradually the optimistic courage of thirteen was replaced by a despondent longing for what I knew could never be.
As I realized that such a person doesn't exist, my thoughts and expectations gradually changed. I began to think, "If our sacrifice is never enough, is it really worth it? If true sacrifice – sacrifice brave enough to change the world – was impossible, was any other kind of sacrifice nothing more than a kind action?" Our world, I knew, was broken and dying, and so gradually the optimistic courage of thirteen was replaced by a despondent longing for what I knew could never be.
If only, I thought to myself, there was someone who could sacrifice enough to save us all. The world needs someone to hope in, someone to believe in, someone real and true enough to save us from ourselves. This change in my worldview wasn't intentional. It was gradual - so gradual that I didn't even realize it was happening until it'd already happened. I read stories differently, with a sort of bittersweet knowledge that I didn't have a hero like that to believe in. As cheesy and unrealistic as it sounds, this is really what I thought, and how I felt - I promise I'm not exaggerating.
Then I suddenly connected the story of Jesus to Lord of the Rings. I had always known and believed the story of the cross, but suddenly, it hit me in a way it hadn't before. Jesus was the hero, the ultimate hero, proof that true sacrifice is not only possible, but has already been done. Jesus destroyed the ring of power, rose to the throne as Isildur’s heir, battled the balrog, and rid the world of Sauron. Perhaps it doesn't seem important or revolutionary to you, but to me, it did. If there was someone, someone, who could be the sacrifice, then I didn't have to lament the inability of humans to be the perfect hero.
The satisfaction and bravery I felt at thirteen returned to me in a rush, and I realized that if such sacrifice was possible, I no longer had to despair at the darkness in the world. Instead of acting as though sacrifice is something to be avoided, and darkness is reason for despair, I suddenly felt that it is these things that give us a chance to do, and be, something of purpose.
And that is why The Lord of the Rings has always been more than a story to me – it is a reminder of the good left in humanity and a call to sacrifice everything to preserve this good. The story of the ring of power is more than simply an inspiring story of heroism – it is a reminder of the true and concrete heroism of Christ.
Ironically, it was fantasy that helped me to see past the hopelessness of humanity to the reality of true sacrifice.
