Review of The Battle for Middle-earth

(avg. read time: 6–12 mins.)

For my last review, I reviewed what I consider the worst book I have read on the subject of biblical and theological elements in J. R. R. Tolkien’s work. So it is only fitting that this time I should review what I consider the best book I have read on the subject. That book is:

Rutledge, Fleming. The Battle for Middle-earth: Tolkien’s Divine Design in The Lord of the Rings. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004.

This is the most comprehensive analysis I have seen of these elements in LOTR—as well as The Hobbit—to date. This is helped by what I think is the best approach for analyzing these things in a narrative. That is, as opposed to the popular practice of organizing chapters around themes and picking out texts that exemplify those themes, Rutledge follows the progression of the narrative and is thus able to chart the narrative progression of the relevant themes and elements. After all, these elements appear in narrative form, and they are properly analyzed as contributing to narratives and character development. I thus find Rutledge’s work to be the best model to follow and it is one I will seek to follow when I produce my own work on biblical and theological commentary on Tolkien’s narratives.

Given my own work on the subject, I appreciate how she opens the book with consideration of Tolkien’s letters. She includes references from Letters #69, #96, #142, #183, #213, and #297. There are yet many other references that could be included, and she does include some of them in the course of the book, but I still appreciate that this background was provided, and she did not simply settle for the popular quote drawn from Letter #142 that LOTR is a fundamentally religious and Catholic work. She is clearly not settling for the superficial, and the rest of her analysis bears this out. And while I disagree with some of the claims she makes about this or that text, I think this statement of her overall approach is spot-on: “There is hardly a page in The Lord of the Rings that does not have some degree of theological suggestion, but I have concentrated on the scenes that advance our understanding of Tolkien’s hints and allusions in significant ways” (16). I will not give my evaluations of all of her correlations, especially since I mostly agree with them, but there are several things we will note.

We see that on some occasions the correlations will be more distant analogies, as in the case of correlating the Church with the communities of resistance to the dark forces of the world that we see hints of early in The Hobbit. There is more of a case for this kind of correlation in LOTR, but this analogy is not unmerited in her analysis of The Hobbit.

We also see a motif to which she regularly draws attention: transfiguration. There are multiple scenes in Tolkien’s work where, even apart from the explicit influence of magic and cases like Beorn, characters appear to transform, whether objectively or in the eyes of others. They may appear more terrible, more glorious, more exalted, more burdened, and so on. Perhaps the most remarkable instance of this is when Tolkien transfigures Sméagol in the eyes of the reader when he returns to finds the Hobbits asleep. Rutledge is right to find many examples in LOTR, but there are times when she gets overzealous, and I think the first case when she notes it is one of those times. She claims that Gandalf undergoes a transfiguration when he announces the coming of the goblins at what would become the Battle of the Five Armies, but nothing in the narrative suggests such a thing. The only real transformation is that of the situation, which Gandalf is announcing.

But more positively, she is keen to note the influence of providence throughout the story of both The Hobbit and LOTR by reference to several textual indicators. Indeed, hers is the best published review I have seen of the subject in Tolkien’s fiction. As much as I like the analysis of Peter Kreeft in The Philosophy of Tolkien on this point, Rutledge’s study is the one I recommend for how she traces providence throughout Tolkien’s story.

However, even here, she can become overzealous. For example, when describing the scene in which Strider reassures Frodo as the Ringwraiths close in on them, “There is still hope … You are not alone,” she says this:

These words, taken together with Tolkien’s numerous hints, surely refer to something or someone more than Strider himself and the other hobbits. Again we may think of the story of Elisha’s servant, for there are unseen chariots of fire, so to speak, round about the hobbits on the hill; “those who are with us are more than those who are with them.” It is easy to overlook the double layer of meaning in Strider’s assurance; when he tells Frodo he is not alone, we think he means himself and the others. The storytelling is skillful; we will learn later what the flashes of lightning were, and why they gave Strider confidence that they had unseen allies. (82)

This meaning is easy to overlook because we have no reason to think that it’s there. Nothing in the context is suggestive of this. This is clearly a reference to Strider himself and, secondarily, the other Hobbits. This suggestion from Rutledge might have been excusable if not for the fact that the immediate context directly goes on to show the substance of the hope. It is not so much an intimation of providence or of unseen allies—though one could argue that the placement of the wood here at the time of need demonstrates the long hand of providence—but is a more concrete statement that Strider will not abandon Frodo and he knows how to fight the Ringwraiths with the wood that has been left. After all, the Ringwraiths fear fire. With this fire, there is hope that they will survive the night. To try to find something else going on this text simply does not work.

There are also a few cases where she overconfidently asserts the explicitness of biblical connections:

Even in the midst of a sarcastic Dwarf-Elf riposte, before they enter Fangorn, Gimli utters one of the clearest scriptural near-quotations thus far: “Where you go, I will go” (Ruth 1:16). (161)

[After Gandalf calls Gríma Wormtongue a snake] We hardly need point out that this is a direct reference to the Genesis account of the fatal serpent in the Garden of Eden (173)

There may be an implicit reference to Ephesians 6:13 in Gimli’s remark shortly after this: “I shall come yet where I can stand and fight.” (174 n. 36)

Probably the most egregious misreading is when she says of Gandalf’s statement “As I have been told”:

“As I have been told,” Gandalf says. That is suggestive. Who told him? The Valar? Yes, but who told them? There is Someone over the Valar. (273)

Here is the context of where Gandalf says this, which shows how baffling this misinterpretation is:

“Tell me, is there any hope? For Frodo, I mean; or at least mostly for Frodo.”

Gandalf put his hand on Pippin’s head. “There never was much hope,” he answered.  “Just a fool’s hope, as I have been told.” (V/4)

Rather, she has overly reflexively read the passive voice as some indication of providence at work. The Valar did not tell him this was a fool’s hope. He was told this in a previous conversation with Denethor. This is a sadly blatant misstep in an otherwise generally solid analysis, and it is regrettable that Rutledge was too eager to see theological cues where there were none, even though there are more than enough already.

On the other hand, besides her analyses of many passages that I agree with, one general element that I appreciate of Rutledge’s work is how she has drawn attention to the nature of the drama in Tolkien’s Secondary World that matches the Primary World. That is, there is a tripartite drama in Tolkien’s world that involves corporeal creatures, the forces of evil, and the unseen powers of Eru Ilúvatar and his servant Ainur, which matches the tripartite drama of the Primary World that involves humans (as well as other corporeal creatures), the forces of evil (especially the unseen), and God with his servant angels (57). While readers may too quickly overlook the presence of the third part in Tolkien’s drama, Westerners are too often more likely to overlook the second element in the Primary World drama, at least when it comes to the demonic. But in both cases, we need to take seriously that our story involves not only two levels or two parts, but three: the humans and the rest of creation, the level of angels and demons, and God, the Author who is above all, because of whom and for whom all exist.

Likewise, she is keen to note another correlation in the case of Elves. The Elves, especially the High Elves we encounter in Rivendell (such as Glorfindel and Elrond), are known for living in the worlds of both the Seen and the Unseen (87). This correlates with how Christians also work with wisdom of both the seen and the unseen, operating in both realms, knowing that there is more going on in heaven and on earth than we can see (as is the whole point of Revelation, but for shorter texts, note Phil 3:20; Col 1:13; Eph 1:14; 6:11–20).

But if there is one element that I would say is the most consistent problem with Rutledge’s analysis, it is the axe she grinds at every opportunity concerning “free will.” She readily admits that she is at odds with Tolkien’s own perspective here, but she nevertheless claims that his story operates in denial of the concept, illustrating instead the “bound will” (10–11). Indeed, her fixation on this point is such that she can scarcely let the phrase “free will” go by without putting it in scare quotes. Rather than allowing the author’s perspective to guide the analysis, she must fight against every intimation of free will, because she clearly has a theological axe to grind and cannot simply let Tolkien’s work speak for itself, even if she thinks the author was wrong. One of the clearest indications of her axe-grinding is this footnote:

There are technical names for these two differing interpretations of humanity’s relation to God. In oversimplified terms, the position emphasizing the human decision (“free will”) is called Pelagianism or Arminianism (semi-Pelagianism), after a British monk named Pelagius and a seventeenth-century Protestant called Jacobus Arminius. The other position, which gives priority to the divine will, was held by the apostle Paul. It is called Augustinianism after its defender Augustine of Hippo. Pelagianism is officially a heresy, but it has always been pervasive in the Church, never more so than in America where Free Will is a sacred doctrine. (67–68 n. 28)

I know Calvinists and Arminians all too often have these strange obsessions with denigrating each other’s views at every turn. But it would have been nice if it had not intruded on what was an otherwise good analysis of Tolkien’s work, especially since, as a Catholic, Tolkien does not fit neatly with either Calvinism or Arminianism per se (unless one simply operates by the assumption “If you are not X [what I am], then you must be Y [what I oppose]”).

This theological partisanship is all the clearer when she mockingly reads a text in the voice that people try to put on in derision of an interlocutor—you know, that voice—when she describes her opposing view in a way no one who holds that view would ever describe it about the incident with the Ring at the Prancing Pony Inn:

Note this, however: at this very point, almost as though Tolkien were quite consciously manipulating the reader, we are prompted by the narrative to think smugly of human capacity. See how the human being can resist temptation! Frodo is able to make the right choice! It’s all about freedom of the will! We are led right into the trap of self-satisfaction as we identify with the apparent virtue of Frodo’s resistance. This moment of self-congratulation lasts for only two pages. (75)

If one wants to examine what Tolkien had to say on the subject of free will, I suggest reading Letters #54, #64, #153, #156, #181, #210, #211, and #212.

Finally, there are some unfortunate technical errors. For example, she claims, without any clear evidence, that the Star of Eärendil, which provided the light contained in a Silmaril, is the star that Sam sees in Mordor (105 n. 23). She also says that Gandalf is a Vala, when he is clearly a Maia, a lower order of the Ainur (144 n. 69). Other lesser ones include the claim that Umbar was founded by Black Numenóreans (294 n. 68), when it was founded by Númenóreans as one of their first ports well before the Black Numenóreans were known by that name, and that the Noldor dwelled in Lothlórien, when the only known Noldor who dwelt there by the time of LOTR was Galadriel, while the others who were still in Middle-earth dwelt in Eriador (352).

But such issues aside, I must reiterate that this book is the best one that I have read of analyses of biblical and theological elements in Tolkien’s fiction. Its scope is impressive, its approach is ideal, and the illumination it provides has scarcely been rivaled. It is, unfortunately, diluted by some of the issues noted above, but my review has perhaps not conveyed clearly enough how good I think the majority of her textual analysis is. With the caveats noted, I recommend this book as the best one for studying these elements of The Hobbit and LOTR. As for Tolkien’s other works, well, that will be a story for another time.