The Lord of the Rings, Considered

You know, late August is actually very pleasant. This had never occurred to me before, as for the past twenty years I had always been distracted at this time of year by the beginning of school. I must say, I do not particularly miss being so busy that I have no time to devote to worthwhile things beyond the scope of my studies. For the first time in many years I am re-reading The Lord of the Rings. I must say, it is a different experience reading the book when one is finally past adolescence. One never steps in the same river twice; nor does he read the same novel, apparently.

Tolkien's two deep and abiding passions, it seems, are nature and words. The strengths and weaknesses of his writing reflect these. He is fond of writing about landscapes — trees and hills and valleys and such — and I think he is quite good at this: certainly his descriptions of places are strong enough that I have always found the movies rather disappointing on that front. (New Zealand looks like a pleasant enough place, but it lacks the grand scope of Middle-earth. They are little islands, after all.) The other thing Tolkien clearly enjoys is poetry, and the books are littered with songs. Some of these are effective, and many are not. (One presumes that they all might be better with music, but then, that is a limitation of the medium.)

Tolkien's greatest strength as an author is his capacity for depth: as in a Netherlandish painting, the background (the histories, the geography, the languages of Middle-earth) is just as interesting as the foreground (the main characters and their travails). Indeed, the background is often more interesting. Tolkien's chief defect, I think, is a general lack of humor; even his intended levity (mostly hobbit matters) comes across as rather strained. Nor is he particularly good at writing about action — but then, few writers really are. The characters are best read as archetypes, as in myth, for in most cases there is little evidence of compelling underlying psychology. These faults — and all those songs! — aside, I'd still say The Lord of the Rings is not so easily dismissed as some literature snobs would have it. It is more than the sum of its parts.

Eucharistic Distraction

The first thing anybody must come to terms with, regarding any sort of understanding of the Eucharist that is not strictly memorialist, is that it doesn't make any sense. Whether you're for transubstantiation, consubstantiation, or the sacramental union, there remains that moment — that crucial moment — when the Body and Blood of Christ becomes present where once was only bread and wine. Ultimately the only justification for such a belief is Scriptural: if the Eucharistic narratives in three of the Gospels and Paul's first letter to the Corinthians are to be taken as true — and indeed, what is Christianity if they are not? — then we have some license to believe that Christ is truly present in the Eucharist. (The question, then, is whether Jesus was speaking literally. This is another topic of debate that is better discussed elsewhere.)

This is all to say that there is justification for a belief in the Real Presence, if one is willing to accept a number of things as a matter of faith. What I'm actually wondering about, today, is whether the Eucharist should ever feel different. What faith I have in the Real Presence is, apparently, quite fragile, for I find that the feeling of receiving Communion varies drastically, depending on the situation. We know, if Augustine is to be trusted, that the worthiness (or, as the case usually is, unworthiness) of the priest does not effect the efficacy of the Sacrament: ex opere operato, and all that. This I can believe, readily enough. The problem is that I find it difficult to take the Eucharist as seriously as I should when I am the only one attempting to do so. My experience of the Real Presence depends very much upon external factors: is the Host treated in a manner befitting the very Body of Christ? Do my fellow congregants approach it as the Body of Christ? Do the non-essentials — the aesthetic considerations, from the music to the architecture to the altar-cloth — serve to enhance or distract from the experience of partaking in the Body of Christ? None of these things, so far as I can tell, should change the efficacy of the Sacrament, and yet they all affect me an awful lot. I find this troubling. I must ask myself the question all those of a high-church persuasion must ask themselves: am I merely a shallow aesthete? Why am I so distracted by those things that are, after all, of little importance when compared to the awesome (and I use the word in its older, better sense) mystery of the Sacrament?

I don't know. If, dear reader, such questions do not interest you, I apologize for all this, which must seem like so much theological wankery. Here is something that everyone ought to appreciate, whatever their view of the Sacrament:

Thomas Tallis: Verily, Verily I Say Unto You (John 6:53-56)

St. Mary the Virgin (Observed)

Today the Episcopalians of Dixon, Illinois — whose organist I now, er, am — celebrated the feast day of St. Mary the Virgin. We did some fine hymns (including that versification of the Magnificat, set to "Woodlands", which is an eminently singable tune), and the assigned readings are also very good. Father's sermon addressed the place of Mary in the Christian tradition; in true High-Church Anglican fashion, he said enough things to alienate both Roman Catholics and Protestants. But I happen to think that in this issue — as in many others — the via media is the via optima. Taking into account Mary's special place in God's redemption narrative, one may reasonably consider her the greatest of the saints. Some Lutherans, and most other Protestants, forget this. (Recall, though, that there have always been Lutherans who have relied on the intercession of saints, with the proper understanding that God alone is the source of all grace.) But, on the other hand, not even the Theotokos is worthy of worship. Miffed Roman Catholics will insist that they do not worship but rather venerate her (a fine distinction, to be sure), but certain Romish ideas — such as the understanding of Mary as Co-Redemptrix — seem to me quite certainly idolatrous.

But enough of argumentative things. I'll refer you to the post I wrote at Annunciation, with a Pärt setting of the Magnificat and excerpts from a rather good sermon. And here is Mary's song (Luke 1:46-55), for your dose of sweet sweet Book of Common Prayer:

My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.
For he hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden.
For behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.
For he that is mighty hath magnified me, and holy is his Name.
And his mercy is on them that fear him, throughout all generations.
He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble and meek.
He hath filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he hath sent empty away.
He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel, as he promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed, for ever.