How The Lord of the Rings Has Shaped Me

An old adage goes: if you want people to know the truth, just tell them. But if you want someone to love the truth, show them its beauty in a story. Oftentimes, people who know the truth choose to suppress it, but when it’s resplendent in a glorious tale, nobody can ignore it.

Lord of the Rings stands as the capstone to this idea. Its fictional story has shaped culture, regaled millions, and revealed a teenage Texan more about the real world than almost any other book—aside from the Bible.

Much to my chagrin, the world does not take advantage of the treasure trove which is J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. It can be hard to explain why this book compels so many, because on a first glance, it appears monotonous and slow. Even I failed to complete it on my first go around at age 8. But having returned to it like a deep and rich well, there are ancient truths that are revealed in such a potent manner. Of all these, the three which have most prominently impacted me are the following: the best humans do not think of themselves first; evil is oppressive, luring, and despair-inducing; and finally, goodness is true, beautiful, and everlasting. 

Firstly, the self-sacrifice of virtuous humans. Pride is an ugly beast, and it all too often traps me in its vice. Whether through snobbery, thinking I am superior to others intellectually or in other facets, or sometimes acting as though I ought to be the center of the world (a far worse crime than the geo-centrists ever committed), I fall into the predatory clutches of pride. Lord of the Rings strongly condemns this in its example of virtue and heroes.  

Last spring, I visited a college (which will go unnamed) and attended a class on Lewis, Tolkien, and Chesterton—right up my alley. I sat in the back as the professor broke down some of the many themes in the Fellowship of the Ring and interacted with his class about them. One of them pierced me to my soul and convicted me severely. 

In the chapter “The Council of Elrond,” all the good guys get together to decide what they’re going to do about the malevolent ring of power. Eventually, they come to the inevitable conclusion that it must be utterly destroyed in the fire which forged it, which happens to be conveniently located in the dark land of Mordor. A bell tolls in the distance as the council contemplates who will bear the ring and carry this heavy burden. In his chair, Frodo remains quiet, desiring deeply to return to the rolling green hills and simple life in the shire, to visit with his aging uncle, to rest. He’d already never be the same after making the relatively short journey to Rivendell from his home. But as the silence grows, Frodo knew deep down in his heart that over and against any wish of his own, he must be the one to take the ring to Mordor. As he announced his intent to do so, a deep feeling of pride (the good kind) welled up in wise Gandalf as he saw his mentee make the most noble and honorable choice someone could make. The professor talked about how this is a reflection of Christ’s example of humility as shown in Philippians 2, where Christ, though he was God, rejected all the recognition that he was due, and chose to empty himself, becoming a man and dying on a cross. Christ’s kenosis, his self-emptying, is the supreme example of humility. Frodo poignantly demonstrated the difficulty and nobleness of such a choice, while the revelation of my unacknowledged pride bubbled inside me. That moment changed and crashed into me like a monster wave and left me tumbling the surf. I believe the Lord used Tolkien’s work to show me my sin, and, although I am not perfect, I have striven since to follow Christ in his humility. In his kenosis. 

Our culture loves to focus on self, but Tolkien knew that Christ’s example is the true one, one of the core principles of Christianity, which declares, as Tolkien’s good friend C.S. Lewis writes, “Give up yourself, and you will find your real self. Lose your life and you will save it. Submit to death, death of your ambitions and favorite wishes everyday and death of your whole body in the end: submit with every fiber of your being, and you will find eternal life.”

Secondly, it taught me concerning the nature of evil. Evil is not a thing in and of itself, it is parasitic, a privation of the good, something devoid of any noble quality. This Augustinian-esque doctrine is evident all over Tolkien and reminds that good and evil are not equal and opposing forces, but that goodness will triumph one day and forever defeat the wrong.

But meanwhile, evil is oppressive. Claustrophobic. Terrifying. There is no attempt in LOTR to hide the true nature of evil: it’s bleak, horrifying, and it creates despair. People die brutally, severe torture is discussed in relative detail, and the terror of an attack from an enemy is described accurately and appropriately awful. 

It’s also sickly attractive. There would be no tension in the story if the ring’s evil could not tempt anyone, and many, including heroes, fall prey to it. But despite it all, the heroes still fight for the victory of what is good and true and beautiful. 

And that leads me into the final point: the supremacy and rightness of what is good. More than being escapist, LOTR teaches us how to be better humans in this world. It demonstrated for me what masculine virtue is and can be, it inspired in me the fire to fight for what is right no matter the despair that rises from overwhelming odds, and it taught me that transcendent goodness and beauty will never be tainted. Yes, the clash between the forces of good and evil will be mighty, and sometimes all will seem lost, but this does not diminish the worthiness of fighting for the right side—not the winning side.

Whenever I feel that nothing I can ever do will put a dent in the advance of the darkness, LOTR reminds me that fighting simply to win the battle is not why we struggle against evil, but that I fight for what is good because it is good.

All these combine to strongly influence my worldview and my actions. Rather than being purely escapist, it has taught me how to be a better man in the real world. The nourishing well this story provides is deep, and I drink from it eagerly and often, refreshing my soul.