Søren Kierkegaard, the so-called “Father of Existentialism,” is one of the most misunderstood thinkers of modern history. When I was working on my doctoral dissertation, I read countless books and academic articles that treated him as a functional secularist who wore the garb of Christianity but was actually a progressive secularist who preached self-creation along the lines of the French atheist Jean-Paul Sartre. To complicate matters further, much of Kierkegaard’s philosophy is explicitly psychological, as he deals with anxiety, despair, and various facets of the inner life. However, his approach to psychology is very different from the practice of modern empirical psychology, which tends to treat individuals in terms of systems rather than spirit and personal responsibility. This means that Kierkegaard’s legacy presents a hotbed of issues regarding Christianity and atheism, spirituality and materialism, systems and individuals. In discussions regarding metaphysics and psychotherapy, and the more immediate realities regarding what we do with our chronic anxieties, Kierkegaard provides us with a major battleground for how we understand ourselves.

So, who is the real Kierkegaard, and what, exactly, is his psychological framework?

Vincent McCarthy begins to provide an answer in this passage from Kierkegaard as Psychologist:

For a variety of reasons, therefore, it would be a mistake to call Kierkegaard a psychologist in the contemporary usage of the word. He is neither a trained therapist in one of the established schools nor a social scientist. The laboratory for his experiments is himself, in inward self-examination. He is from the old school of pastoral and literary psychology and brings a definite Christian metaphysics to his analysis. The reality of such things as soul, sin, grace, forgiveness, and the encounter of the human spirit with the divine Spirit are his starting point.^[1]

With this passage, McCarthy seems to rightly recognizes the significance of Christian metaphysics for Kierkegaard’s psychology. However, he ultimately relegates this emphasis to an accident of language, regarding Kierkegaard’s core psychology as substantially secular. McCarthy demonstrates this stance on multiple occasions throughout Kierkegaard as Psychologist, such as with his general hermeneutical suggestion that we can “seek a twenty-first-century way to reformulate these [dogmatically-grounded] truths in light of the postmetaphysical prophecy of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra that has largely come to pass…”^[2] Likewise, in reference to Kierkegaard’s analysis of despair, he states that, “One does not, however, have to accept the Christian doctrine of sin in order to make sense of what Kierkegaard is saying.”^[3] This attempt to secularize Kierkegaard is further seen in his chapter on the relationship between Kierkegaard and Heidegger regarding anxiety, in which he explicitly links Kierkegaard’s concept of anxiety with a Sartrean existence-before-essence anthropology, which is only reasonable if Kierkegaard’s theological presuppositions are discarded. Such an approach does great disservice to Kierkegaard, and consequently to broader conversations concerning philosophy, theology, and psychology, by failing to recognize the foundational role his distinctly Christian presuppositions play in his psychology.

While it is certainly true that individuals might adopt the language of their setting while moving in a fundamentally different direction, I argue in my dissertation that this is by no means the case with Kierkegaard. While his pseudonymous author of The Concept of Anxiety does not claim to be a theologian, he does claim to keep Christian dogmatics “in mente,” and it is clear by the end that central arguments in The Concept are ultimately in harmony with what Kierkegaard elsewhere pens with his own name, “To need God is nothing to be ashamed of but is perfection itself, and it is the saddest thing of all if a human being goes through life without discovering that he needs God.”[4]

In the following weeks, I will publish a series of articles that draw from the distinctly Christian psychology of Søren Kierkegaard in discussion of a variety of topics, including anxiety, despair, faith, identity, and how Kierkegaard’s approach to psychology relates to contemporary therapy culture.

Make sure that you are at least a free member of Mythic Mind to follow along with the series, and become a Fellow or Companion to participate in the upcoming course, “The Psychology of Søren Kierkegaard: Life in Anxiety and Despair,” which begins at the beginning of October. Watch the introductory video and view your membership options below.

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Andrew Snyder, Ph.D., is a professor of theology and philosophy, founder of the Mythic Mind Fellowship, and host of all three Mythic Mind podcasts.

[1] McCarthy, Kierkegaard as Psychologist, 15.

[2] McCarthy, Kierkegaard as Psychologist, 63-64.

[3] McCarthy, Kierkegaard as Psychologist, 144.

[4] Kierkegaard, Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses, 300.

“Last of all Húrin stood alone. Then he cast aside his shield, and seized the axe of an orc-captain and wielded it two-handed; and it is sung that the axe smoked in the black blood of the troll-guard of Gothmog until it withered, and each time that he slew Húrin cried aloud: ‘Aure entuluva! Day shall come again!’ Seventy times he uttered that cry; but they took him at last alive, by the command of Morgoth, who thought thus to do him more evil than by death.”

From Chapter II of The Children of Húrin

I have long struggled with the story of The Children of Húrin from Tolkien’s Silmarillion. It is one of the Great Tales of Middle-earth, alongside the tale of Beren and Lúthien and The Fall of Gondolin. The Children of Húrin is incongruent with the rest of Tolkien’s legendarium; and a new reader, first picking up The Silmarillion, will often be struck at how dark the tale is. The story has no eucatastrophe, and certainly no happy ending. It is a tragedy of the same order as Oedipus, the story of the Volsungs, or any Shakespeare play. However, I hope to show in this essay that this story only reads this way if it is read from the perspective of Húrin and his children. If one takes the perspective of providence, then it becomes one of Tolkien’s clearest meditations on tragedy and providence.

The story begins at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, where all the hosts of Beleriand unite but are defeated. Húrin is captured as he defends Turgon’s escape to Gondolin. Morgoth curses his family and forces him to watch as his wife and children suffer. It then follows his son Túrin, whose life is plagued by foolish pride, leading to exile, accidental murder of a friend, unknowing incest with his sister, and ultimately, suicide. Only after this is Húrin released, with his house extinct, and forced to wander.

The rest of the legendarium certainly has its fair share of woes and despair. The Akallabêth, Beren and Lúthien, even The Lord of the Rings all have moments of great sadness; but the hope and goodness in them is visible and easy to find. Tolkien has this talent of mixing a sense of loss with his victories and a sense of hope with his defeats. Númenor falls, but the Faithful establish Arnor and Gondor. Mordor is defeated, but Frodo’s wound will not heal. The Children of Húrin, however, has no such sense of triumph and no such sense of hope. Húrin has no descendants, his kingdom is in ruin, and he is left with nothing but the knowledge of how his children suffered. The story feels pagan. On the surface, Túrin has more in common with Oedipus or Sigurd the Volsung1 than with Aragorn or Frodo… on the surface.

With this story, Tolkien sought to tell a tragedy with all the force of Sophocles and all the darkness of the Sagas. But we need not think that tragedy is inherently pagan. A cursory glance at the Old Testament is all you need to see that suffering, death, and despair are part and parcel of the human experience as seen through a Christian lens. The darkness is embedded in the Tale, and we ought not to pretend it’s not there. The Old Testament represents a downward spiral to subjugation and dispersal of the people of God with only glimmers of the Redemption to come. It is only when the story of the Old Testament is put in the context of the salvation which comes in the New that we can see a purpose to all the darkness and suffering. And so, I would submit, we ought to read the story of Túrin this way. Túrin, as a human, views history through a narrow lens; but the hand of providence acts at a larger scale than he can see. The discrepancy between these two perspectives begets tragedy.

Neither Túrin nor Húrin can see how their story ends. The despair that results in Túrin casting himself upon his sword and Húrin casting himself into the sea is a result of their inability to see the hand of Ilúvatar in the course of events. Their brief lives are, in their view, closed off from the rest of history like the narrow view of a camera that has a hard stop at the edges of its pictures, providing no glimpse beyond its limits. But we, as the readers of this great history, have the advantage of seeing how the course of history moves beyond their lives. Húrin’s steadfastness, his faithfulness which he eventually abandons at the end, is the initial domino that leads to the downfall of Morgoth himself. “Morgoth had him chained and set in slow torment; but after a while he came to him, and offered him his choice to go free whither he would, or to receive power and rank as the greatest of Morgoth’s captains, if he would but reveal where Turgon had his stronghold… But Húrin the Steadfast mocked him”. It is for this specific reason that Morgoth curses his house and drives them into despair. Húrin, though he never betrays Turgon, is broken and bereft of hope as he watches his children fall into ruin from the Dark Tower. However, because of his steadfastness, Gondolin’s fall is delayed long enough for his nephew, Tuor to be raised in the elven stronghold and marry Idril, Turgon’s daughter. And from Tuor and Idril springs Eärendil the Mariner, who sails to Valinor on behalf of the Two Kindreds, which ultimately results in Morgoth’s final defeat. Had Húrin yielded, Gondolin surely would have fallen far earlier, preventing the union of Tuor and Idril.

Tolkien thus uses dramatic irony, a classic device in the genre of tragedy, to emphasize the narrowness of Húrin’s vision, as well as Túrin’s. Their vision is obscured by the shroud of the curse of Morgoth, and so they can see no redemption to their suffering. Túrin, blind to the hand of the Valar even in his own life scorns them: “‘The Valar!’ said Turin. ‘They have forsaken you, and they hold Men in scorn. What use to look westward across the endless Sea to a dying sunset in the West. There is but one Vala with whom we have to do, and that is Morgoth…’” Túrin, in his pride and self-will does not help alleviate his own sufferings, often making things worse; but it is hard to claim him as entirely blameworthy for making statements like this one. He is a tragic hero, with all the flaws and sympathy of the great tragic heroes of old. In telling his story, Tolkien reveals the tragic state of human life in all its glory and all its grief. But he also shows us that “day shall come again”, in the words of Húrin. The great irony which begets the tragedy is that Húrin speaks an unwitting prophecy, foreshadowing the Daystar2 who shall sail his ship to the Blessed Realm to petition the gods on behalf of elves and men. However, he cannot see this. Blind to the hand of providence, he can only see the cruel hand of pagan fate which has brought his house to ruin. Neither does Túrin see it. But the reader of the tale sees how providence has acted in them, imbuing their tragic fates with meaning and hope that is invisible to those within the story.

The Children of Húrin is one of Tolkien’s masterpieces, a poignant reflection on tragedy as it arises from our inability to see beyond the scope of our experience. Tolkien sets a classical tragedy in the context of Christian providence and thus transforms it and redeems it. The suffering of Húrin and his children pierces our heart like the cries of Antigone; and, taken alone, it leaves us with the same emptiness. But, when we see beyond the veil of death and take the perspective of providence, the hand of providence is revealed and Húrin’s cry, “Day shall come again!”, blossoms forth in triumph.

Jack Keoseyan is an Orthodox Christian lover of literature and philosophy. He is a software developer by trade and enjoys reading, fly-fishing for trout, and attending his local Orthodox parish. Keep up with him at his Substack and at mythicmindfellowship.com

The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time is the only video game with 99/100 on Metacritic, which raises the question: what was so great about the original game, especially regarding its storytelling? As we approach the release of the remake for this 1998 Nintendo classic, I aim to examine the game’s symbolic significance and its relevance to our contemporary culture.

Each Legend of Zelda franchise entry carries with it the same core archetypes: Good versus evil, saving the princess, defeating the dark lord, even pulling the sword from the stone, like King Arthur with Excalibur. It is a variation of the hero myth. By those attributes alone, it sounds very familiar, almost too cliché to be enjoyed. However, Ocarina of Time aligns its setting and player’s perspective to help us recognize how the flow of time molds our beliefs.

It should go without saying that the point of view of a main character should help inform the meaning of a story. Often, the characters’ choices outline the themes of the work. In much of modern storytelling, however, the setting primarily serves the hero’s journey rather than existing as a standalone narrative. In The Last of Us, for example, the post-pandemic United States shapes Ellie and Joel’s present circumstances, but its history ultimately contributes to support their emotional story. The collapse of civilization is important because of the consequences for the characters, but not because the chronology is a standalone, parallel narrative. Yet, there is utility in lore building to help give a story depth, and one can find a clear jumping off point in popular ‘good vs evil’ stories.

Luke Skywalker goes from the barren desert of Tatooine to the many planets of the galaxy. Harry Potter goes from being the boy under the stairs to the boy wizard at Hogwarts, the school with the moving stairs. The beliefs emerge from lived experiences, the encounters with their adversaries and allies. They live an adventure, but one of moral choices and conflict. The gamer who picks up Ocarina of Time and plays as the hero character, Link, is shaped by the changing virtual world just as much as by what directly happens to Link within the game.

At the start, we see that Ocarina of Time pulls from the visual cues of Disney’s Peter Pan. Young Link begins as a boy in a green tunic, the only child in the forest without a fairy. He lives in a forest with other children that never grow up. They are hidden from the dangers of the world in the safe haven of the old forest spirit, The Great Deku Tree. But the tree is dying and the dark lord Ganondorf is coming. Young Link sets off on his adventure to save the kingdom of Hyrule. There is a visual pattern similar to the Book of Jonah in the Old Testament where a child enters the belly of the beast. The first three dungeons of Ocarina of Time involve entering the mouth of a large being or monster (Inside the Great Deku Tree, Dodongo’s Cavern, and Jabu Jabu’s Belly).

*As a side note, game design, much like traditional storytelling, follows a ‘rule of threes’. This game has a similar moment to the story of Jonah. He is trapped for three days and three nights in the belly of the whale. In Ocarina of Time, Jabu Jabu is a massive whale creature and patron guardian deity. Link is pulled into the mouth of Jabu-Jabu. There are three dungeons you must clear to obtain the three spiritual stones. You also see a similar, slightly inverse image of this idea in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The Basilisk snake creature slithers out of the mouth of the Salazar Slytherin statue. The golden snitch also falls out of Harry’s mouth after he catches it at the Quidditch game. While these are not likely intentional callbacks to a singular mytholigical reference, they are patterns common in fairytales that reveal an early catalyst of change for a character, but not any mark of hardened moral sacrifice or the human suffering of a powerful, mature hero. Ancient mythology and fairy tales work in reinforcing an action with a divine creature.

As the story progresses, young Link enters adulthood by pulling the Master Sword from the stone in Hyrule Castle’s Temple of Time. This is an image of destiny. He is willing to risk his life (and ultimately the rest of his childhood by skipping it) as a sacrifice for the sake of the world. Instantly, it is clear that this world he entered seven years later as Adult Link is the opposite of the world he once knew. Ganondorf has nearly destroyed Hyrule. Its people are zombies, ghosts roam Hyrule Field, and the dungeons are far darker and more dangerous.

The whimsical atmosphere and sense of peace that Hyrule had are completely gone. Instead, the game’s later dungeons reflect a lost history of Hyrule kingdom and hint at the suffering in echoes of its troubled past.

For example, the surreal cult chants in the soundtrack of the Forest Temple emit the tone of a mystical forgotten area and ominous atmosphere. It is a strong fortress that was clearly once inhabited by magic wielding beings, where ghosts fade in and out of painting frames. Much is left to interpretation, but through excellent sound design and visual in-game textures, it suggests that this liminal space shouldn’t be accessed if one were to dive into this place’s ancient history. It feels as though the game has allowed you to see something that was never intended to be seen by the other inhabitants of Hyrule.

Oftentimes in video games, the entrances to these flagship landmarks tell us a lot about symbology. The bottom of the well, the bottom of the lake, and the inside of Death Mountain canyon are all dungeon locations. These places are hard to find by common means, as is evident in the names. They are hidden intentionally or indirectly to obscure truth, hide pain, or mask evil doings.

This works in the reverse direction, too. What is sacred is usually hidden. The Door of Time in Hyrule Castle protects the sacred realm, a divine dimension created by the goddesses. No soul can waltz through the door, even if they claim to be of high earthly status or strong moral character. Access to this place in the wrong hands can result in catastrophe. Darkness has its own sinister motivations to cloak itself, just as the light has enforced its own proper layers of protections.

These are also common psychological patterns in our own dreams, revealing what we protect or what we hide. These are the unconscious layers of doors we are opening, abstract spaces that contain people and ideas, which lead us to funny or strange places. Pushing against evil can also be met with this kind of structural resistance. A foe may enforce their narrative with lies and hide something deep so that it takes much digging to find it, and even then, it might be too late.

Ocarina of Time is a story of two halves, a life split into two phases. A life from a child who saw the innocent joy of others, and the thrill of the adventure almost as a form of play. He saw Hyrule Market brimming with joy, Lon Lon Ranch’s peace with nature as Malon sang and horses galloped on the pasture. But with the flow of time, these fruits of life didn’t survive in darkness. The adult Link saw suffering, the loss of what’s good, the evil enclosing Hyrule. He saw the heavy sacrifices that were needed to keep the pain at bay. His worldview of Hyrule totally shifted after he pulled the Master Sword from the stone.

Is this not how a human being shifts as they age? Our culture is heavily invested in nostalgia. Social media algorithms feed us images of old toys we had and what Christmas in our neighborhood used to feel like. We witness the joy of other children with the same youthful purity of heart, and we think back to when we were once children, when things were easier. But with growth comes pain, mistakes, death, sin. Perhaps new and old Zelda fans will rediscover in 2026 what this game is trying to tell us — You don’t look at the world the same way at 28 as you do at 8 — but maybe, in some ways, you should.

Young Link exhibited strength and courage despite such a low experience level — the same courage of Samwise Gamgee, or even Neville Longbottom standing up to the evil snake Nagini. It is worth noting how these popular stories promote young (and oftentimes naive) courage as a virtue, even if you aren’t necessarily as trained or skilled as someone older or with greater feats. This should teach us that the pessimistic, hyper rationalist post-modern beliefs should not be inherent or always morally justified, especially when courage and faith exist as the only plausible antidotes to the broken world we live in.

Christ taught that to enter the kingdom of Heaven, people must ‘change and become like little children’. At first it almost seems like bad advice, as children do not hold wisdom or much life experience. Why not become powerful leaders of men or influential figures of this world?

It is imperative to not mistake this calling to ‘become like little children’ as a pass to become impulsive or spoiled. Discipline and experience are still important. Instead, it is a calling to re-connect with the part of your inner soul that you recognized when you were a child: the part that first recognized the highest values in life, like love and friendship, the part that can recapture the magic of the world that was faded with life’s complicated obligations. Be like Young Link, recognizing the joy yet still holding steadfast in courage, and be willing to sacrifice. To have child-like faith is to keep to the simple yet eternal truth of hope and to remember what is worth fighting for.

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Max Holtman is a software developer and musician from the Midwest who writes about games and movies. Max can be found on X at maxholtman, on YouTube at max_music, and at maxholtman1@gmail.com.

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Hey everyone,

We have come a long way since the Mythic Mind podcast began about five years ago. Patreon and Substack have served our Fellowship well during that time, but, as we continue to grow both in numbers and functions, we are starting to approach the next chapter.

At the beginning of August, we’re launching our own independent website — our new central hub for essays, book clubs, podcasts, courses, and, most importantly, community.

This move will allow us to:

• Create better member experiences with everything united on a single website.

• Gain more creative freedom without relying on third-party oversight.

• Build deeper features like in-house courses, private discussions, and exclusive series. Eventually, patron and guest creators will be able to lead courses directly through the site as well.

What this means for you:

• Existing free and paid content will be available on the new site

• Current patrons will receive special migration instructions and founding member perks. If this does not yet include you, there is still time to hope aboard at patreon.com/mythicmind so you can take advantage of these insider offers.

• There will be new benefits for paid subscribers and free subscribers will continue to get public writing and updates through our new site. We will continue to cross-post our free articles to Substack for the foreseeable future, but the new hub will likely make for a better overall experience.

I’ll be sharing more over the next couple of weeks — including previews of the new site and what’s coming next.

This next chapter of Mythic Mind is going to be a big one: more dynamic studies, more book clubs, more articles, new podcast series, and, most importantly of all, even richer community around the stories and ideas that matter.

Thank you for being here. I look forward to writing more about this soon.

Andrew Snyder

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Dr. Andrew Snyder is a professor of theology and philosophy, founder of the Mythic Mind Fellowship, and host of all three Mythic Mind podcasts.

Some time in the early sixties (Christopher has a hard time dating it exactly), Tolkien penned this work seemingly in an effort to explain some of the philosophical problems he created for himself in the lore surrounding the elves and men in Middle Earth2. It takes the shape of a philosophical dialogue, in much the same tradition as those of Plato, Cicero, Berkeley, and others, though the drama of the dialogue is distinctly Tolkienian. Athrabeth translates to “converse” or “debate”, and so the title is “The Debate of Finrod and Andreth”. It is set very early in the history of Arda, prior to the Battle of Sudden Flame in the First Age of the world; and the debate is between a high elven lord, Finrod Felagund, and a human wise-woman named Andreth, of the House of Beor. Finrod, who is one of the elven lords most friendly with the men, opens the dialogue mourning the “swift passing” of men. Finrod is grieved by this brevity; but Andreth observes that their “passing was swifter before we found this land.” Finrod, surprised, then asks “Then are you content here?”. “‘Content?’ said Andreth. ‘No heart of Man is content. All passing and dying is a grief to it; but if the withering is less soon then that is some amendment, a little lifting of the Shadow.’” Thus begins the dialogue.

Tolkien created a world in which death is no less a tragedy than it is in the primary world and yet, according to the lore of the Eldar, death is Eru’s “Gift” to men. In his famous 1951 letter to Milton Waldman, Tolkien explains that “the doom of the Elves is to be immortal, to love the beauty of the world… to last while it lasts, never leaving it even when ‘slain’... The Doom (or the Gift) of Men is mortality, freedom from the circles of the world.” This creates a tension in Tolkien’s lore: if Death is a Gift of Eru to Men, then why do men fear it so? If Death means “freedom from the circles of the world”, why does it strike them (and us) as unnatural and abominable? On the other hand, if the elves’ immortality is so wonderful and enviable, then why does Tolkien (via the lore of the Eldar) frame Death as a gift from the Creator? Tolkien, by creating these two peoples who are essentially kin and yet essentially estranged because of the problem of mortality, sets the background and creates opportunity for a poignant and rich reflection on Christian anthropology. A highly sophisticated and deeply Christian anthropology, rooted in Patristic theology, is woven into the fabric of Tolkien’s Arda. Tolkien’s Athrabeth reveals a theology in which the Fall is seen primarily as ontological and cosmological, not merely as a breach of command and punishment. Tolkien’s theology therefore necessitates, within the secondary world of Arda, the Resurrection of the Body and the Incarnation of the Son of God.

In the midst of his grief, Finrod attempts to account for the lore of his people concerning the children of men: “we proclaim that ye are our kin, in a kinship far closer… than that which binds together all other creatures of Arda…. If we consider the briefness of life in all Middle-earth, must we not believe that your brevity is also part of your nature?” In typical high elvish fashion, he completely fails to understand the weight of the fear and hatred of death which men experience. For him, it is easy to see death as a gift. Ages of life bound to the earth in which elves witness the marring of Arda have yielded a kind of grief in memory of things past. For the elves, being bound to the circles of the world is a problem and death is seen as something of an escape not allotted to them. But Andreth, for whom the human experience of death is all too near, maintains that “Men are not now as they were, nor as their true nature was in their beginning. … [The Wise] say plainly that men are not by nature short-lived, but have become so through the malice of the Lord of the Darkness”. In response to this, Finrod assumes that must mean that, if this be so, then men shared a fate more akin to the elves: i.e., life which endures as long as the world, but no longer, but that the Shadow took that from them. He asks: “You say: ‘we were not made for death, nor born ever to die.’ What do you mean: that ye were as we are, or otherwise?”. Andreth is surprised by this: “We considered only dying and not-dying. Of life as long as the world but no longer we had not heard”. Tolkien thus introduces two types of immortality. The immortality of the elves is such that they last as long as Arda; and as Arda will have an end, so will the elves. But Andreth speaks of another kind of immortality: “we knew that in our beginning we had been born never to die. And by that, my lord, we meant: born to life everlasting, without any shadow of any end.” Finrod disputes this: “You claim… to have had imperishable bodies, not bounded by the limits of Arda, and yet derived from its matter and sustained by it. And you claim also (though this you may not have perceived) to have had hröar and fëar3 that were from the beginning out of harmony. Yet harmony of the hröa and fëa is, we believe, essential to the true nature unmarred of all the Incarnate.” From Finrod’s perspective, death represents the separation of the soul from the body; and therefore true immortality would necessitate the immortality of the body, not only of the soul. This is inconsistent with the lore of the Eldar which states on one hand that Arda will have an end and on the other that the gift of men lies in their not being bound to Arda’s fate. But if the true fate of men is to have life which is truly everlasting, then this would necessitate Arda being everlasting. Therefore, the fate and nature of men is bound up with the fate of Arda. This is where we begin to see Tolkien’s Christian theology really come to the forefront.

In the early fourth century AD, Saint Athanasius of Alexandria wrote a treatise entitled On the Incarnation of the Word. I have chosen to focus on this text as the voice of Patristic theology in this essay for a few reasons. For one, it is vastly influential on Christian theology, both East and West, and is widely respected as one of the great defenses of Christian orthodoxy related to the Incarnation of the Son of God. For another, as will be seen, its themes of death as an ontological enemy of human nature and the restoration of that corrupted nature resonate deeply with Tolkien’s themes as expounded on explicitly in the Athrabeth. It is certainly the case that Tolkien was deeply acquainted with Patristic (and, of course, Medieval) theology, especially that of the West, and my central claim is that Tolkien weaves this theology into the very fabric of his legendarium.

At the beginning of On the Incarnation, Saint Athanasius makes an interesting claim. He explains that, by virtue of being created, humans are brought from non-existence into being. This initial state of non-being means that “by the principle of its own coming to being it would not be able to endure eternally”4. And so Athanasius seems to be saying that men are, by nature, mortal. He even states this explicitly: “For the human being is by nature mortal, having come into being from nothing.”5 However, Athanasius emphasizes that “because of his likeness to the One who Is, … he would have remained incorruptible.”6 That is, the grace of being in the Image of the Creator makes man incorruptible in spite of his mortal nature. Athanasius then makes clear that the cause of Death, then, is sin: “But human beings, turning away from things eternal and by the counsel of the devil turning us towards things of corruption, were themselves the cause of corruption in death.”7 And so Athanasius has presented the Fall as a consequence of sin; but he clarifies that repentance and moral purity are not enough to rectify our nature. He writes: “What should God do? Demand repentance for human beings for their transgression? One might say that this is worthy of God, claiming that just as they were set towards corruption by the transgression, so by repentance they might again be set towards incorruptibility. But… repentance [does not] recall human beings from what is natural, but merely halts sins. If then there were only offence and not the consequence of corruption, repentance would have been fine.”8 And so, much like Tolkien, Athanasius has presented a philosophical problem that is not limited to a transgression-and-penalty, but rather is concerned with Death as an ontological infection of human nature. Andreth and Athanasius agree that “we had been born never to die.” But the Evil One (call him Melkor or Satan) has changed “the doom of a whole people” and robbed them of their inheritance.

In the Athrabeth, then, Tolkien offers further philosophical explanation of this problem. Finrod argues that, due to the nature of man and his intended fate, eternal life is something of an ontological necessity. Speaking of the hröa (body) and fëa (soul), he says that “to divide them is a grievous hurt, and yet each must fulfil its right nature without tyranny of the other. Then this must surely follow: the fëa when it departs must take with it the hröa, as its eternal spouse and companion, into an endurance everlasting beyond Eä, and beyond Time… This then, I propound, was the errand of Men, not the followers, but the heirs and fulfillers of all: to heal the Marring of Arda, … for that Arda Healed shall not be Arda Unmarred, but a third thing and a greater, and yet the same”9. If this be so, then grievous was the wounding of Man’s nature! Tolkien, in the voices of Finrod and Andreth, meditates on the calamity of the Fall. Finrod says “mighty indeed under Eru were Men made in their beginning; and dreadful beyond all other calamities was the change in their state.”10 This is not a matter of mere transgression and penalty, but a calamity affecting the whole cosmos.

Thus Finrod and Andreth are left to speculate how the nature of men might be restored, forced to rely on hope, or Estel, that Christian virtue which does not rely on uncertain expectation of good, but rather trust in Him who “will not suffer Himself to be deprived of His own, not by any Enemy, not even by ourselves.”11 Athanasius, writing from the other side of the great Eucatastrophe12, can give us the answer; and yet, Andreth speaks of a rumor, an inkling13 of the salvation to come, espoused by those of the “Old Hope”. When asked of this, Andreth says that “it was not in the might of Men, or in any of the peoples of Arda, that the old hope was grounded…. They say that the One will himself enter into Arda, and heal Men and all the Marring from the beginning to the end.”14 Enter Athanasius.

Tolkien has thus explicated the central problem of the human condition and how it affects the cosmos and implied the solution. Man, whose nature contains both hröa and fëa, body and soul, was created to be immortal, but Death has brought us unto corruptibility. The Death inflicted upon us is bound up with the fate of the world, and marred our nature and all of creation. Therefore, the solution must come from without, from outside Eä itself, from the One who must enter His creation in order to heal it. And Athanasius teaches us about this: “Being the Word of the Father and above all, he alone consequently was both able to recreate the universe and was worthy to suffer on behalf of all and to intercede for all before the Father. For this purpose, then, the incorporeal and incorruptible and immaterial Word of God comes into our realm.”15 By taking on our corruptible nature, “delivering it over to death on behalf of all, he offered it to the Father”. He gave “them life from death, by making the body his own and by the grace of the resurrection banishing death from them as straw from a fire.”16 For Athanasius, the very purpose of the Incarnation of the Word is to heal His own creation and heal our nature because He “will not suffer Himself to be deprived of His own”. The Resurrection of the body, by defeating Death undoes the marring of Arda and restores the grace bestowed upon our nature of being in the Image, true Children of Ilúvatar.

In this essay, I hoped to use this text of the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth to demonstrate the degree to which Tolkien’s fantasy is foundationally Christian and points to the mysteries of our salvation. Tolkien’s project of the escape and consolation of fantasy is not meant to deprive us of reality nor to distract us from the Truth. Rather, through the medium of stories told of a secondary world, Tolkien points to the True Story of the primary world. If I have convinced you of nothing else, reader, I hope I have convinced you: tolle lege! Take up and read these works of Tolkien and of Saint Athanasius. I have only scratched the surface of these works. They bear reading and re-reading.

Jack Keoseyan is an Orthodox Christian lover of literature and philosophy. He is a software developer by trade and enjoys reading, fly-fishing for trout, and attending his local Orthodox parish. This is his first article on Substack, but he hopes to publish more here.

This essay was originally drafted to analyze and compare the views of Fantasy held by Tolkien, Lewis, and Chesterton. However, as I began to write it, it became something much more meditative. This short essay articulates the end to which I think Fantasy strives. It does so from a Christian framework with Christian presuppositions.

Story is, I think, the first occupation of Man. Man, made in the Image of God, partook (insofar as he was able) of God’s creative nature and presided over the bestowal of identity within creation. Our grandfather named the beasts. He did not give the lion its fangs nor its claws, but he did give it its name. He recognized its identity.

Any identity within time is something revelatory; it is something unfolding through its inherent nature and characteristics. The story wherein these things would be revealed was not completed within Eden, but begun. Their fulfillment became something anticipated. The lion was not only something known but something which would be more fully known, and its name was the first word of the story in which that would be told. We speak names over creation as a picture of the Eternal Word who creatively sustains all things through His own expression. Our verbalizations of creation, our story-telling, is the first exercise of our image-bearing role.

In transgression, Man violated his identity, exiling himself from unity with creation and diminishing his dominion over it. Even so, we never forgot our original role. We continued to hear Nature’s silent song through which she sings the glories of her Creator. And so, we continued to name. We named the roaring strikes of thunder and the turbulent swells in the open waters. We named the rich soil with its plentiful harvests, as well as the scorch of the west winds. We never stopped telling our stories: our explanations of the reality around us and our participations in the songs which Nature sings.

We sang of Heracles, a son of a god who tamed the wilderness for the thriving of humanity; Pandora, through whose curiosity the evils of the world emerged; Orpheus, who descended into Hades to retrieve his lost bride; Odin, who sacrificed himself on a tree for the pursuit of wisdom. These songs are interpretations of the world in which man lives. They’re Nature’s voice translated. They’re participations with Divinity’s revelation, imperfect though they may be.

We, broken, feel a wound. And though we cannot yet know what it is to be whole, we can trace the crevices of the privation within ourselves. We explore its emptiness and learn something of its shape. Though the shape we find is only a crude estimation, it nonetheless resembles the image of Truth from whose presence we have been estranged. Myth is a shape cast by shadow.

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Yet, the form of our privation has now been made known to us on a cross in Judea, and we can see the place to which all the expectations of myth pointed. There were still monsters after Heracles. Odin remained powerless to stop Ragnarok. Orpheus failed in his quest to save his bride. Myth traced the wound, but it could not heal it. Yet, Christ does. As C.S. Lewis wrote in a letter to Arthur Greeves on October 18th, 1931:

...[the] story of Christ is simply a true myth: a myth working on us in the same way as the others, but with this tremendous difference that it really happened.1

Christianity is myth fulfilled. It does not abolish mythic imagination, but validates it. Myth has not been abrogated, but baptized by Scripture’s clarifying word. The things to which it points are no longer guessed at, but known. And so, we continue in that ancient pursuit of Adam and our ancient ancestors by inventing new songs and participating with the voice of Nature, as we join in singing the glories of God.

This baptized pursuit finds its form in Fantasy. Fantasy is the form of story that feels the ache within the heart, looks at the world, and asks: What if it were ordered rightly? What if the lamb could lie with the lion? What if the dead could live again?

It embodies what is invisible, gives voice to what is silent, and language to what is inarticulate. It sensitizes us to the underpinning logic of the world so we might converse with dragons. It is rehearsal for already-won beatitude, where our lost blessings are reclaimed. It pulls back the veil from our still-dimmed eyes and reveals the creative Truth governing all things.

This is Fantasy’s telos, the goal to which its form was made. When it rejects its goal, it in essence rejects itself. It becomes something deprived.

Fantasy, rightly done, is sub-incarnation — eternal truth clothed in an imaginative image. It exists so we might look at it and leave with faces shining.

About the Author

Kyle Metz is an aspiring fantasy novelist. His view is that Fantasy should be a sign in the wilderness, pointing the way back to the road and towards Calvary. He is building his own publishing house and will be releasing an illustrated edition of At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald this summer. If you’d like to follow what he’s doing, you can follow him on X at @_kylemetz or subscribe to his substack A Story Told.

Whether you have read the books or only seen Peter Jackson’s movies, the odds are that you have at least a basic familiarity with The Lord of the Rings. These odds are increased by the fact that you opened this article. It is often assumed that finishing The Return of the King marks the end of one’s journey with Tolkien, to which I respond with movie Gandalf’s line, “End? No, the journey doesn't end here.”

The Silmarillion. To many, this text is utterly unknown. To others, it piques interest, but looms as a daunting force as formidable as the fortress of Angband (which is a reference you will one day understand). Unfortunately, this off-putting characterization is often pushed by large “LotR meme accounts” that are aimed at nothing more than engagement. However, for those who have traversed its pages, from the beautiful glory of the Ainulindalë, the creation account of Tolkien’s world and the beginning of evil, to the awakening, glories, failures, romance, and redemption of Elves and later Men, to the rise and fall of the Atlantean Númenóreans and the first downfall of the Dark Lord Sauron, The Silmarillion is an epic like no other. In a letter to the publisher Milton Waldman, Tolkien shares his early intentions for his legendarium as follows: "I had a mind to make a body of more or less connected legend, ranging from the large and cosmogonic, to the level of romantic fairy-story – the larger founded on the lesser in contact with the earth, the lesser drawing splendour from the vast backcloths.”

With a particular aim of creating an English mythology, Tolkien interweaves grand metaphysics with the particular and the heartening. This allows particular characters and events to shine with the cosmic significance that individuals always carry, yet the grand does not consume the lesser, nor is the grand lost in abstraction. Tolkien has, by himself, produced the kind of work that has historically required the collected wisdom of an entire people spread across centuries. As with any collection of such myths and legends, some sections may resonate with you more than others, but all carry the weight - and excitement - of a grandeur that merits our attention.

It is true that The Silmarillion is not a summer beach read, but do not let the memes prevent you from venturing forth. The truth is that if you can read The Lord of the Rings, you can read The Silmarillion. They are written in different styles, with the former focusing on a very specific time within the Third Age of Middle-earth and the latter covering a significantly larger scope of time, events, and players. This main difficulty with this genre comes from keeping track of names, many of which are similar. However, as long as you have patience, such things come together for you as you continue through the narrative.

Now that you have some idea of what The Silmarillion is and that you can read it, the question remains: Why should you read it?

The simple answer is because Tolkien wanted it to be read. His original intention, expressed in the earlier cited letter to Milton Waldman, was that The Silmarillion would be published along side The Lord of the Rings because they are such interdependent texts. The Silmarillion was not intended to be “extra” material just for the nerds, but rather the fundamental context for The Lord of the Rings. It is here that we learn of the rise and initial fall of Sauron, the founding of Gondor, the origin stories of Gandalf and Saruman, and the reason for the Elves’ departure, much lamented by Sam as he and Frodo journeyed through the Shire. It is here that we learn of Elbereth, the Lady of the Stars invoked by the Elves and twice by Frodo, and Eärendil the Mariner, whose light shines into the darkness of Shelob, offspring of the primordial evil Ungoliant. While it is true that The Lord of the Rings is a masterpiece in its own right, it is but the ending of a story that began long ago, both as a narrative within Tolkien’s legendarium and as a creative germ within Tolkien’s imagination. Afterall, the first enduring character of Tolkien’s legedarium was not Frodo or Bilbo Baggins, but Eärendil, who navigated from the ~9th century Anglo-Saxon Crist of Cynewulf:

Hail Éarendel, brightest of angels,
above the middle-earth sent unto men,
and true radiance of the sun,
bright above the stars – thou of thy very self
illuminest for ever every season!

With this imagery, Tolkien’s own Middle-earth began to take shape. When we return to the source material, born of philology, a love for myths and legends, escapism in the war-torn trenches, and genuine inspiration, the more familiar story of The Lord of the Rings becomes even richer in enchantment and, dare I say, reality. "After all,” Tolkien writes to Waldman, “I believe that legends and myths are largely made of 'truth', and indeed present aspects of it that can only be received in this mode; and long ago certain truths and modes of this kind were discovered and must always reappear."

Pick up The Silmarillion. Read it. Savor it. Delight in it. Let it break your heart. Let it mend your heart. Let it inspire you with hope and courage that is not put to shame by the Shadow.

Read it by yourself if you must, but I encourage you to read it in community with others that its value be multiplied within good fellowship. If you do not have such a community, I welcome you to join Mythic Mind in our 8-week study of The Silmarillion, which begins the week of February 15, 2026. Each week will include an asynchronous video to serve as a companion guide, ongoing Discord chats, and weekly live meetings to discuss the reading. I believe this will be a very rewarding venture, and I hope you will join us. To participate, simply become a Tier 3 patron at patreon.com/mythicmind. You can either enroll monthly for the duration of the course or enroll annually to receive a discount and join us in more studies throughout the year. See the course overview below:

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About the Author

Andrew Snyder holds a Ph.D. in theology with a dissertation on Søren Kierkegaard’s theology of self-formation. He is a professor of philosophy and religion, the host of the Mythic Mind podcast, and the founder of the Mythic Mind Fellowship. You can follow him on Twitter @andrewnsnyder and subscribe to his personal Substack on The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien at Andrew N. Snyder

To join the Mythic Fellowship, head over to patreon.com/mythicmind.

Introduction

For anyone that is a fan of the great epics, you will likely remember that there is a description of Achilles’s shield forged by Hephaestos, but most general readers likely missed a lot of the imagery there and how it connects to our own times. In this short essay, I will briefly explain what some of the scholarship says about the connections of these images to Homer’s own time. Furthermore, I will provide this context to also explain the rich word-painting given in the 20^th-century rendering of this poem by the great W.H. Auden.

Homer’s Pre-Classical Greek Society on the Shield of Achilles

Homer’s description of the Shield of Achilles is one of the most famous examples of ekphrasis in all of Western Literature. But what do the highly detailed scenes on the shield actually mean? Hardie breaks down the scenes into 2 categories: 1) the cosmological scenes that describe the trifold division of the Universe, the heavens, earth, and sea (483–p, 607) 2) The scenes regarding human life and civilization (490–606) which is what the large majority of the lines are used for describing Homer’s “high imaginative literary composition.” In this short essay, I would like to focus on the second category of the art in Achilles’s shield. Specifically, I would like to briefly explain Homer’s potential purpose in providing an artistic contrast of cultures in war and in peace.

Taplin provides some helpful backdrop regarding the purpose of Homer’s ekphrasis within the context of the 24 books of the Iliad. He provides us with three potential reasons for the shield being focused on scenes, mostly, of peace in the city (πόλις) and the agrarian life (ἀγρός): 1) The shield being based on a real artifact 2) to provide relief from the protracted battle narratives 3) that the poet simply wandered where the Muse led him. As for which view provides the most orthodox account, Taplin explains that in context, the description takes place after a lengthy day of battle that has been ongoing since book 11, so the description of the shield is, at least in part, a sort of poetic relief for the warriors and the readers. However, he turns to the famous epic similes as evidence for the third reason being the most plausible.

Homer’s similes often take place in the context of gruesome, macabre violence, but here it takes place in the context of a peaceful and emotional narrative. Regarding the nature of epic similes in of themselves, Taplin highlights that “the standard view of the elaborated simile is that after starting off from a point of comparison they develop paratactically at the poet’s pleasure. The poet follows his fancy and develops the picture without much care for his reason for using it.” This line of reasoning might sound anti-climactic to us readers with deep late-modern roots, but given what we know about Homer as being a part of a longstanding oral tradition, it is easy to accept that Homer may have, at least in part, given this ekphrasis as a “poetical speech, meant for themes more majestic than common life, full of synonyms and alternative forms, with a rich and adventurous vocabulary compounded from many sources.” Though common life is depicted here, the themes symbolized in the depictions most certainly are majestic in their own right. It is in this peaceful, artistic part of the Iliad that we get a break from a large bout of action within the plot of the Iliad (books XI through XVII) as Thetis looks over Hephaestus’s shoulder, watching him make the shield.

Turning to Willcock, we gain further insight into this dimension of Achilles’s shield. Homer’s language here is that which “creates a world; and it is his own world, the world of the similes, the world of the eighth century B.C., not the Mycenean Age. It is a world, for the most part at peace, and the occupations portrayed on the Shield are of the life in the city and life in the country-satisfying and social life, enjoyed by those who take part and watch.” Within this world, Homer masterfully crafts for us two cities which “far surpass anything those human artists could achieve.” The first city, being very relevant to Taplin’s perspective, is The City at Peace (491–508), which provides us with a wonderful depiction of the polis when it is not at war. Here we see vignettes of the lives of Homeric Greek culture on full display, telling us a bit about the society in which the poet lived.

But what of the scenes of warfare (509–19)? If this is meant to be a peaceable break from the battle, primarily driven by the poet going off with the Muse, then why the scenes of siege and two armies? Simply put, “the shield is a microcosm, not a utopia, and death and destruction are also there, though in inverse proportion to the rest of the Iliad.” Beyond the city, we see the same realism depicted in the agrarian scenes, where the common peace of pastoral life is invaded by wild, savage beasts. This account is not contradictory to the peaceful vignettes but provides stark realism when viewed in contrast. In short, Homer was no utopist.

When we bring these scenes of life together, we get Homer’s journey with the Muse leading us through scenes of city life (491–6), cities at war (509–19), violent devastation of the agrarian world (520–34), scenes of ghouls fighting over the dead (535–40), seasons (541–89), and dance (590–606). It is certainly likely that Homer is giving us a poetic break here, but I am not certain that he intended to do so. Perhaps Homer is just running with where the Muse takes him in his own reflections on the society in which he exists. Is this necessary to the plot of the Iliad? No, but that hardly seems to matter. For Homer set out to tell a great tale through the method of his dactylic hexameter, and these scenes have sparked a great literary tradition of ekphrasis and works commenting on various ancient shields. Such work is sufficient in of itself merely because it exists and draws us to be deeper in the virtue of wonder, as such is a healthy part of humanity. In short, Homer simply created the Shield of Achilles out of himself.

Auden’s Post-World War II Society on an Ancient Shield

When we compare Auden’s account of Hephaestos forging Achilles’s shield, we see some very different images than that of the original Homeric shield. Needless to say, the poets are both giving us the images that they had to work with. If we go to Auden’s time, we realize that he has lived through both World War I and World War II. He was just a boy when World War I happened, but he was a middle-aged adult during World War II, and this poem was first published in 1952, 7 years after the end of the war. World War II may have ended in triumph and victory from the perspective of the Allies, but it most certainly had devastating effects on everyone, especially the citizens in the countries of the Axis Powers. I am not sure if he is specifically talking about those countries or not, but the bleak tone of the poem certainly seems to have something to do with that. Furthermore, the Cold War was very much alive and active during the time that this poem came out, and though Fascism was largely defeated in World War II, Marxism was still very much alive, and very much an enemy of the Western Tradition in this time.

As for the lines, we see that Auden tells us a lot just in the opening stanza. He closes this stanza by telling us the following:

But there on the shining metal

His hands had put instead

An artificial wilderness

And a sky like lead.

Here, Thetis is looking over the shoulder of Hephaestos as he crafts the shield, but he is not crafting “marble well-governed cities,” but rather is crafting a type of society that is barren and hollow. This immediately sets the tone and establishes the themes of the poem to be that of fallout, destruction, and despair rather than the beautiful imagery of Homer’s Greece.

Stanza three is actually quite interesting as well, as the voice of a loudspeaker comes through, bursting forth quantitative data about warfare, leaning more into the pure reason and logic of the bleakness of war without much regard to the emotional impact. If you ever read Auden’s poem The Unknown Citizen, you see similar themes, as the citizen’s name is just a number, and all we know about him is that he seems to be an ordinary, law-abiding citizen, but seemingly more in a dystopian society rather than one that is worth being a part of. He is much like Guy Montag in the early pages of Fahrenheit 451.

As for stanza four, we get the religious aspect of the poem or lack thereof. There is no shrine, no altar, no temple, but rather Thetis sees barbed wire, which “enclosed an arbitrary spot.” More interesting than that, we do seemingly get a religious allusion here:

As three pale figures were led forth and bound

To three posts driven upright in the ground.

This seems to be an allusion to Christ and the 2 men hung up on the crosses next to him, drawing on imagery of the Feria sexta in Passione Domini. But the religious imagery here is different than the Crucixion in a way, for though Jesus was condemned with Jews and Romans watching, these pale figures are condemned with a crowd made up of one unified late modern or postmodern religion: secularism. Auden’s connections to religion seem to be showing that religion has died off in his lifetime, and that secularism is winning out.

Going to stanza eight, Thetis is looking at an empty field where there are violent children who hold fast to these violent actions through the axioms of postmodernism, which are rapidly creeping into Auden’s society in the final 2 decades of his life. As for common Western virtues, the children here are completely unaware of them, but they “never heard of any world where promises were kept, or one could weep because another wept.” The imagery in this stanza is very harsh because the poem is meant to be very realistic, pulling no punches when it comes to the cruelties of the bloodbath that is the 20^th century.

The poem closes, finally naming Thetis and Hephaestos as characters. But in this closing stanza, the god of the Forge hobbles away, leaving Thetis to cry “out in dismay.” A truly despondent ending for the decadence sweeping the world in Auden’s time. This poem reminds me of the imagery in the second stanza of Eliot’s The Waste Land:

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water.

Conclusion

Poets tend to work with the images given to them in their localize context, which is ultimately by the providence of God. None of us can truly escape the impressions that are taken in by our faculties of the Imagination, and such is the inevitable outpouring of the soul of the poet. The place and time that they live in, the things that they’ve seen and experienced, what the culture is like and why it is the way that it is, are all major factors that shape what the poet receives from the Muse, and what they breathe forth. Auden and Eliot are like Homer in that way; but based on the ekphrasis Homer gives us of Achilles’s shield, the former certainly seem to see much less hope and overall humanity in their time when compared to the latter.

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Purchase Josh’s (now asynchronous) Introduction to Paradise Lost class here: patreon.com/joshtraylor

2025 was a very significant year for the Mythic Mind Fellowship, as we doubled in size from 40 to 80 paid patrons, had our first member-led courses, and launched two additional podcasts: Mythic Mind Games and Mythic Mind Movies & Shows. As we look toward 2026, we have new ventures planned, including regular Substack posts, new courses and book studies, and possibly a new show or two, contingent on growth in patronage. However, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, let’s take a look back.

Several members of the Fellowship recently met together to discuss standout books, movies/shows, and games that we engaged with over the last year, and during that conversation we decided that we should publish a list of recommendations to share with you. As it turns out, not everything from the recorded chat was uploaded to the list, and some things are on the list that were not discussed, so you’re best off making use of both! If you have not listened to or watched this episode, look up Episode 127 of the Mythic Mind podcast or watch the video here:

I could not get the full tables to work well with Substack, so I have a few links for you:1

• Click here for book recommendations

• Click here for video game recommendations

• Click here for movie/show recommendations

I hope these lists are helpful, as they certainly are helpful to me as I make plans for 2026!

If you are not already subscribed to this Stack, go ahead and do so as you await our next article, which is only a couple weeks away. If you would like to join the Mythic Mind Fellowship, I welcome your support at patreon.com/mythicmind.

About the Author

Andrew Snyder holds a Ph.D. in theology with a dissertation on Søren Kierkegaard’s theology of self-formation. He is a professor of philosophy and religion, the host of the Mythic Mind podcast, and the founder of the Mythic Mind Fellowship. You can follow him on Twitter @andrewnsnyder and find his often-neglected personal Substack on The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien at Andrew N. Snyder.

Join the Mythic Mind Fellowship and/or enroll in a course at https://www.patreon.com/mythicmind

After the opening preamble of Paradise Lost, there is a natural flow from a description of the fall to a narrowing focus on the cause itself, Satan, who is the speaker in the first dialogue scene of Milton’s great poem (84). Book 1 describes Satan’s temporal and spiritual condition after being cast out of heaven with the demons that followed him, but I want to focus on how Satan takes command as the hellacious leader of a legion of numberless fallen angels (344). Because for Milton, Satan represents the tyrant of hell just as God represents the monarch of heaven and all created order.

But if Satan is the authoritarian ruler of hell, then why is he given such a presence in the narrative? The choice of Milton to give Satan a major role in the drama and dialogue throughout Paradise Lost has been the subject of much scholarly debate over the years.¹ For context, I will briefly mention that I side with the view C.S. Lewis takes in A Preface to Paradise Lost, which essentially states that Milton made Satan a major character in the epic because he is supposed to be someone that we can relate to and identify with.² As Lewis states: “it is a very old critical discovery that the imitation in art of unpleasing objects may be a pleasing imitation.”³ For this reason, Milton unashamedly puts Satan’s charisma and charm on full display, conveying in Satan “the glamour, even the majesty of evil, without diminishing, so to speak, the evil of evil.”⁴ This naturally makes us modern readers uncomfortable, especially in an age where people have a tendency to be overly sympathetic to villains; yet Milton’s Satan is not one who is meant to be sympathized with, but rather he serves as an image just as the shades in Dante’s Inferno, whom reading about is like gazing into a mirror in which we are to see and reflect upon our own sin as we meditate on the imagery in the poetic narrative. In Paradise Lost, Satan isn’t uncomfortable to us because Milton chose to portray the king of hell as charismatic, charming, and witty; he is uncomfortable to us because he reveals to us the worst in ourselves: that we have also fallen and have sinned against God. Like Satan, we live with monomaniacal concern with the self and our supposed rights and wrongs as a necessity of the Satanic predicament.⁵ In essence, we are all tyrants in our own way, especially in how we relate to God.

As for the tyrannical role of Satan, a major aspect of this is his sophist rhetoric, which works in concord with his role as “dread commander” (589).⁶ Satan’s speech in book 1 calls the demons, who appear to be defeated, to rise and get back to work (186–91). Rallying the crowd of vanquished demons that lie before him, there is a sense in which Satan embodies some of the worst of modern scientism, where he sees the fall as a first experiment that failed, but that with progress and an elevation reason, they can find a solution to muddle God’s plan: “The mind is its own place and in itself can make a Heav’n of hell, a Hell of Heaven” (254–5). This kind of proto-Nietzschean imagery⁷ certainly led the 19^th-century criticism, such as the opinions of Blake, that Milton was “of the Devil’s party without knowing it”,⁸ but Milton was no fanatic of Satan, rather, he is trying to teach us many things about fallen beings in general.

One specific dimension of this is that Satan is the ultimate archetype of the danger in following a charismatic leader. As humans, many of us are made to be followers rather than leaders, but in a pre-fallen world, we don’t have the breakdown of following the wrong leaders, for God sits rightly at the top of the hierarchy of creation as the uncaused cause of all; and worship, rightly so, is fully rendered as it is deservedly due to him. But as for Satan, we see the first perversion of leadership gone wrong. During one of his speeches, Satan commands the demons: “Awake! Arise, or be for ever fallen!” (330). Though Satan likely knows he cannot defeat God, he does believe that he can craft a way to get back at God. Therefore, he brings out his lofty speechcraft, assuring them to rise up and offend God as much as possible, rather than accepting their defeat. However one interprets Satan’s view of his relationship to defeating the heavens in this scene, it is apparent that Satan does possess the power of the most dangerous charismatic cult leader of all time, because Milton immediately describes the demons’ responses to Satan as their leader, and this highly detailed and descriptive response goes on at length (331–621). Beyond a drawn-out description of almost 300 lines in the middle of book 1, Satan speaks at the end of book 1, eliciting another descriptive narrative from the demons (663–798) which carries us all the way to the infernal court of Pandemonium (792), the high capital of Satan and his peers (756–7), which is the setting of book 2.⁹

The demons do not speak in their response, but rather Milton illustrates for us the power which Satan has over them. His leadership is not just of a great general, but that of the most horrific cult of personality of all time. Satan has a commanding presence, and his talons dug deep into the will of the demons, a power that leaders such as Julius Caesar, Vlad the Impaler, and Hitler could have only dreamed of harnessing and possessing for their self-justified ends. There are many lines in book 1 that capture this vividly, but I have selected two brief passages to illustrate this point:

“They heard and were abashed and up they sprung

Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch

On duty, sleeping found by whom they dread,

Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake.

Nor did they not perceive the evil plight

In which they were or the fierce pains not feel,

Yet to their general’s voice they soon obeyed

Innumerable” (331–8).¹⁰

This first passage takes place after Satan’s initial exhortation to the demons, after he has completed his dialogue with Beelzebub. In context, this passage shows us the power of the tyrant to take rightfully defeated beings and turn them into minions for his cause. It only takes Satan several crafty lines of dialogues to completely change the disposition and motivation of the fallen angels, getting them back on board with his ideology which got them all in this mess to begin with: that it is “Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven” (263). With cunning wit and manipulation, Satan has led the demons to buy into his narrative, making the sharp accusation that God “Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav’n (124). Satan has projected himself onto God, and the demons, in their broken state, accept and rally behind. Where the passage above shows Satan’s initial rallying of the troops, the passage below serves to illustrate this further:

He spake, and to confirm his words out flew

Millions of flaming swords drawn from the thighs

Of mighty cherubim. The sudden blaze

Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged

Against the high’st and fierce with grasped arms

Clashed on their sounding shielfs the din of war,

Hurling defiance towards the vault of heaven” (663–9).¹¹

The second passage selected describes the response of the demons as they prepare to take counsel in Pandemonium. After they raised ten thousand banners and a forest of spears into the air (545–7), symbolizing their now unified purpose under the command of Satan (559–62), they respond to the command of their mighty chief in full rebellion, ready to plot and attempt to ruin whatever providential plans God has in store for creation. Here we see something that is alarming and unfortunately true in world history time and time again: that a tyrant who knows how to manipulate others to his ends is a force to be reckoned with. This is the type of person in the world who can do more damage with their speech craft than most people could do with anything physical, and Satan embodies the most extreme form of this, for he is not just an earthly instantiation of evil, but rather is the supernatural, cosmic symbol of evil itself. Satan is the originator of pride, rebellion, and evil itself as he led the fall of angels before Eve would ever partake of the “fruit of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste brought death into the world and all our woe with loss of Eden” (3– 4).

Though Satan is the tyrant over hell and possesses supernatural power that we do not have the capacity of being for, we still are tyrants in our own right. Because for Milton, Satan is disturbingly relatable to us: for heaven understands Hell, but Hell does not understand Heaven, “and all of us, in our measure, share the Satanic, or at least the Napoleonic blindness. To project ourselves into a wicked character, we have only to stop doing something, and something that we are already tired of doing; to project ourselves into a good one we have to do what we cannot and become what we are not.”¹²

Overall, we see that Milton’s Satan is nothing like Dante’s Satan, who is half-frozen at the bottom of hell, completely static in his misery,¹³ but rather this Satan is alive with a charismatic presence in which he can make quick work of summoning the full legion of fallen angels to his command and will, exerting them to take on a sort of will to power after their defeat, rather than wallowing in their own misery and eternal defeat, such as Dante’s Satan does. We should not simply dismiss our connection to Satan and project that into Milton but rather understand that Milton is putting Satan directly in front of us as a reflection to know what we are as members of Adam’s rebellion. But also to know that we don’t have to continue in Satan’s path forever, rather we can be redeemed by the one greater man who will restore us and regain the blissful seat (4–5).

¹ Stanley Fish, Surprised by Sin: The Reader in Paradise Lost, 2^nd Edition, (Harvard University Press: Cambridge, MA, 2003). Fish identifies the two camps as one proclaiming that Milton was of the devil’s party with or without knowing it (Blake and Shelley), the other proclaiming that the poet’s sympathies are obviously with God and the angels loyal to him (Addison and C.S. Lewis). In this work, Fish’s thesis is to reconcile these two camps into one.

² C.S. Lewis, A Preface to Paradise Lost, (HarperOne: New York, 2022), VI. C.S. Lewis credits his friend, the great 20^th-century literary scholar, Charles Williams, for recovering the “true critical tradition after more than a hundred years of laborious misunderstanding.” This is a direct criticism of and declaration of opposition to the Blake and Shelley camp of Milton interpretation in the 19^th-century.

³ Lewis, 117.

⁴ Gordon Teskey, “Introduction,” in Paradise Lost, edited by Gordon Teskey (W.W. Norton & Company, New York, 2020), xxviii

⁵ Lewis, Preface to Paradise Lost, 127.

⁶ The following epithets are also used to describe Satan in book 1: great admiral (294), general (337), great sultan (348), great emperor (378), mighty chief (566), and dread commander (589).

⁷ Satan essentially asserts a kind of Will to Power throughout books 1 and 2 of Paradise Lost, as he commands his demons to abandon the objective morality of the Chrisitan framework and to rise and create their own meaning through the assertion of power in creation.

⁸ William Blake, “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1793),” in Paradise Lost, edited by Gordon Teskey, (W.W. Norton & Company, New York, 2020), 412.

⁹ I cannot recommend Chapter 14 of A Preface to Paradise Lost enough for insight into Moloch, Belial, and Mammon and how their responses reflect a further downward spiral into the Satanic Predicament.

¹⁰ Milton, Paradise Lost, 14.

¹¹ Milton, Paradise Lost, 24.

¹² Lewis, Preface to Paradise Lost, 126.

¹³ See Inferno Canto XXXIV, lines 28–69 for a vivid description of Dante’s Satan.

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Book Club

We have just begun our first free book club! Based on a patron vote, we are reading Augustine’s Confessions and discussing a couple books every other Monday 9PM ET. Our first meeting was 4/28, which means that our second will be 5/12. If you missed the first meeting and you would like to join us for the next, you are welcome to do so! You only need to join us on Patreon at any level - including free! Of course, a few dollars of support is appreciated, but it is not necessary. If you just want to listen to the conversations, be sure to subscribe to the Mythic Mind podcast and/or my YouTube channel.

Courses

We have three courses beginning in the imminent future:

1. Introductory Latin led by Hannah Gilmore (12 weeks, beginning week of 5/11)

2. Paradise Lost led by Josh Traylor (12 weeks, beginning week of 5/11)

3. A Brief History of Ideas led by Andrew Snyder (6 weeks, beginning week of 5/18)

Whether you are able to follow along with us in real-time or you prefer to make use of the content on your own schedule, you will have indefinite access to the material once you enroll in a course. Also, Mythic Mind patrons get a 50% discount on courses from other Fellowship creators.

Looking ahead, I have three additional courses on the horizon. If you would like to participate in more than one of my courses, the best deal will be to purchase an annual Tier 3 (Apprentice) subscription, which will give you access to all courses that begin during that payment term. In addition to A Brief History of Ideas, this currently includes:

1. Plato, Stoicism, and Till We Have Faces (8 weeks, beginning week of 7/13)

2. The Elder Scrolls and Philosophy (6 weeks, beginning week of 9/14)

3. The Wisdom of Tolkien: The Silmarillion (undecided length, beginning early 2026)

Podcast

Alternating weeks with the book club, we will be producing a series on Star Wars. Mythic Mind has primarily focused on literature up to this point, but I thought it would be worthwhile to add some other media in the mix. This will begin with a May 4th livestream conversation at 9PM ET. Following that, we will have a long-discussed conversation on The Knights of the Old Republic before turning our attention to the movies, which will be discussed (at least mostly) in order of release. Some of these episodes may just be me, but several will likely be in community. If you would like to participate, you only need to become a paid patron at any level.

Also, there will likely be some major podcast news coming out by the end of the month, but I will save that for now.

I hope you follow along with us through the book study, a course or two (or three), and the podcast. There are so many things happening in the Mythic Mind Fellowship, and I am glad that you are with us on these new directions.

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The opening lines of Paradise Lost tell us what the poem is about, and that Milton’s purpose is to accomplish two things: to “assert Eternal Providence” (25) and to “justify the ways of God to men” (26).1 I will briefly focus on what Milton’s justification of the ways to men, though this second stated purpose is certainly deeply connected to the assertion of God’s providence.2

To understand what he means here, we must understand that John Milton was a Christian humanist in the century after the Renaissance humanist intellectual movement. He was educated in what is perhaps the greatest school for boys in England at the time, Saint Paul’s School, and not only studied at Christ College, Cambridge, but spent much time being educated in continental Europe after completing his B.A. and M.A. degrees from the University of Cambridge.3 It was in this period of Milton’s life that he devoted five years to reading through a massive corpus of European literature, in which during that era, he certainly would have encountered Dante’s Divine Comedy.4 This leads us to a question that is popular in the Milton scholarly community: was Milton a fan of Dante? A challenger to Dante? Or both? Such a question is interesting to explore, and I will not get into it here, but I do know one thing: Milton’s purpose to justify the ways of God to men in his epic poem is one thing him and Dante have in common.5

In concordance with the opening lines of Paradise Lost, Dr. Markos states that Milton’s purpose for his Christian epic was to “define and shape the dialogue between humanism and Christianity, Athens, and Jerusalem, Platonism and the creeds of the church.”6 Milton, though radically opposed to Dante in many theological convictions, is on his team here, facing off against those who would share the same conviction as Tertullian: what indeed has Athens to do with Jerusalem? What concord is there between the Academy and the Church?7 In Myth Became Fact, C.S. Lewis, in Miltonian Spirit, answers this question for us.

Myth is the mountain whence all the different streams arise which becomes truths down here in the valley; in hac valle abstractionis. Or, if you prefer, myth is the isthmus which connects the peninsular world of thought with that vast continent we really belong to. It is not, like truth, abstract; nor is it, like direct experience, bound to the particular. Now as myth transcends thought, Incarnation transcends myth. The heart of Christianity is a myth which is also a fact.8

We must not be nervous about ‘parallels’ and ‘Pagan Christs’: they ought to be there – it would be a stumbling block of they weren’t. We must not, in the false spirituality, withhold our imaginative welcome. If God chooses to be mythopoeic–and the sky itself a myth–shall we refuse to be mythopathic? For this is the marriage of heaven and earth: Perfect Myth and Perfect Fact: claiming not only our love and our obedience, but also our wonder and delight.9

Many chapters, likely an entire monograph, could be written on each of these quotes above, but Lewis said best what Milton illustrated for us in the opening lines of Paradise Lost: that there is not just a connection between Athens and Jerusalem, and the Academy and the Church, but that they are deeply intertwined. What Dante and Milton both have done so well is to utilize pagan imagery to show us what they got right, and where they fell short. And this should make sense to the Christian worldview, for if God created the Universe ex nihilo and created man in the Imago Dei, then why would we not see shadows of the substance of Christ within pagan imagery? “For truth is limited neither to the Scriptures nor to the sacred tradition; the Bible, though it tells us all we need to know to find salvation in and through Jesus Christ, does not attempt or purport to be an encyclopedia of all knowledge and wisdom.”10 Pagans are not without epistemic abilities, their metaphysics and epistemology just fall short of the revelation of the Logos incarnate.

John Milton’s Christian approach to paganism and classics is put on full display as a banner in line 26 of book 1. Here, he sets out to embody the spirit of St. Paul in the New Testament, where the apostle quotes Aratus and Epimenides as a showing that these pagans weren’t wrong about everything, but provided small glimpses of truth into a mystery that would only be fully realized in Christ alone.11 By the time we reach Milton’s telos, he has already shown that the Holy Spirit, not Calliope, is the Muse of his epic poem (6, 17– 26). In fact, after invoking the “Heav’nly Muse” in line 6, he further describes this Muse as the Holy Spirit in the lines leading up to his two highest poetic purposes:

“And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer

Before all temples th’ upright heart and pure

Instruct me, for thou know’st, thou from the first

Wast present and with mighty wings outspread

Dove-like sat’st brooding on the vast abyss

And mad’st it pregnant. What in me is dark

Illumine, what is low raise and support,

That to the heighth of his great argument

I may assert Eternal Providence

And justify the ways of God to men” (17–26).12

Here, Milton is showing us a pagan-to-Christian typological connection: Homer and Virgil, who invoked Calliope for their epics knew that they had to call upon the divine for inspiration.13 Hesiod referred to the muse of epic poetry as the “most important one of all, Calliope, for she attends upon respected lords,”14 but the Holy Spirit is the true Calliope. All that the ancient poets were calling upon and did can only be fulfilled in the true poetic Muse, the third person in the trinity, the Holy Spirit, who is Milton’s muse just as he was Dante’s muse in his journey through the Empyrean.15 It is with this invocation of the Holy Spirit that Milton sets out not just to do what Homer and Virgil did, but to do it better, because paganism is perfected by Christianity, and therefore the pagan epic is perfected by the Christian epic.

1. John Milton, Paradise Lost: Second Norton Critical Edition, Edited by Gordon Teskey (W.W. Norton C Company: New York, 2020), 6.

2. More could be said about the categories in which we break Milton’s first 26 lines of Paradise Lost into, but I chose these for simplicities sake.

3. Gordon Teskey, “Introduction”, Paradise Lost (W.W. Norton C Company, New York, 2020), xx–xxi.

4. Louis Markos, Heaven and Hell: Visions of the Afterlife in the Western Poetic Tradition, (Cascade Books: Eugene, OR, 2013), 132.

5. Markos, 131–132. Markos asserts that there “is not a single clear, unambiguous tribute or reference to the Commedia in the twelve books of Milton’s epic, but rather that they seem similar due to using the same source material and having the same ambition of baptizing the pagan imagination into the fullness of Christianity, which is the ultimate fulfillment of everything that paganism did get correct via natural theology.

6. Markos, 132.

7. Tertullian of Carthage, Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol 3: Prescription Against Heretics, Trans by Peter Holmes (Christian Literature Publishing Co.: Buffalo, NY, 1885). https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/0311.htm.

8. C.S. Lewis, “Myth Became Fact”, God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics (William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company: Grand Rapids, MI, 1970), 66.

9. Lewis, 67.

10. Louis Markos, From Achilles to Christ: Why Christians Should Read the Pagan Classics (Intervarsity Press: Downers Grove, IL, 2007), 10.

11. Markos, From Achilles to Christ, 17. See Acts 17:27–28; Titus 1:12 for the biblical usage of pagan quotations.

12 Milton, Paradise Lost, 5–6.

13. Ovid referred to Calliope as “Chief of all Muses”, Calliope was believed to be Homer’s muse, and Virgil directly invokes Calliope in Aeneid book 9. Dante calls upon Calliope in Purgatorio canto 1, but Dante calls upon the Holy Spirit in Paradiso.

14. Hesiod, Theogony, (Penguin Books, London, England, 1987), 25.

15. Dante Alighieri, Paradiso, Trans by Robert and Jean Hollander (Anchor Books: New York, 2007), 913.

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The BBC recently put out an audio drama adaptation of C.S. Lewis’s That Hideous Strength. This is one of my favorite books, so I was naturally excited about the prospects here. I wanted this to succeed. With that being said, I certainly had a degree of skepticism, as the profoundly anti-modern philosophy of Lewis’s dystopian fairytale is hardly what I would associate with a major media institution such as the British Broadcasting Corporation. After all, England unironically has its own N.I.C.E. (National Institute for Health and Care Excellence). It turns out that my skeptical impulses were correct: the celestial wisdom of Lewis was lost to the forces of this silent planet.

[In case it needs to be said, I will be discussing major spoilers regarding the book as well as BBC’s adaptation.]

To be fair, it is impossible for anyone to condense a tome like That Hideous Strength into a two hour adaptation without cutting out a considerable amount. This could raise the question as to whether it should have been condensed to two hours, but I’ll accept this limitation for the time being. With that in mind, the pacing is decent, even if it misses some of the meandering feel that is quite significant for the story. Also, I enjoyed the music transitions. Beyond that, there is not much left for me to praise.

First, let us consider what That Hideous Strength is so we can evaluate what it is for and where exactly the adaptation misses the Mark (pun intended). In his prologue to That Hideous Strength, Lewis explicitly states that this is a fairy tale primarily meant to illustrate his arguments in The Abolition of Man. In other words, this is not a story that happens to have some points for philosophical reflection. This is a philosophical story that, apart from that philosophy, is not that story. Furthermore, this novel is inseparable from the dialectic established by the previous two books. It is sometimes said that That Hideous Strength can be read in isolation, but I strongly disagree. Sure, the basic plot can be followed, but the essence of the story is tied to the broader metanarrative, which frames this story as a philosophical and archetypal tale. In what follows, I will discuss a few major ways that the adaptation utterly hollows out the story.

In Out of the Silent Planet, Elwin Ransom becomes associated with the masculine, martial influence of Mars. In Perelandra, Ransom is a martial agent brought into relation with the feminine, life-giving influence of Venus. In That Hideous Strength, which takes place on the isolated, disordered planet Earth, the story begins with the word “matrimony,” thereby giving us the masculine-feminine relationship established between the previous two books. However, the particular marriage in view is cold and disordered because, again, this is a story of Earth rather than the heavens. In the book, Mark and Jane Studdock are essentially estranged, but, through their individual stories, they become reconciled as they become rightly aligned with their heavenly ideals in conjunction with the jovial influence manifested in Ransom. (I tried removing the passive voice of that sentence, but it is actually important here.) Almost any hint of this fundamental aspect of the story is simply missing.

Amidst the discordant relationship between Mark and Jane, the book quickly brings us to Mark’s academic context. It is particularly important to note that Mark is a sociologist. If this is mentioned in the adaptation, it is brief, passing, and unremarkable. In the book, however, it is mentioned on many occasions to drive in the point. For Lewis, “sociologist” is generally a pejorative term. In particular, he is opposed to sociological philosophy, which is connected to his broader critique of democracy-as-philosophy. Lewis defends democracy as a pragmatic good for restraining tyranny, but he believes it is demonic if taken as an accurate representation of what reality is actually like. Reality is hierarchical. Some things are better than other things. Some people live better lives than others. Most significantly, ideals stand above particulars. Sociologists, however, tend to think democratically: “Here is what people believe/how people act; therefore, here is what we should view as normal.” This is the same problem he has with evolutionary philosophy: “Here is what is happening; therefore, here is what should be happening.” Thus, when Lewis emphasizes that Mark is a sociologist, he is telling us something significant about his character arc. Furthermore, Mark the sociologist is obsessed with getting into the inner circle of the “progressive element” of his college. If you have any experience with academia, you know what this circle is. As you get further into the story, you really come to understand what this circle is. Riffing off of Dante, this progressive element of modern academia is the outer circle of Hell that spirals down into the National Institute for Coordinated Experiments, which is led by likes of “Frost” and “Wither,” names that remind us of Dante’s frozen inner circle. Thus, Lewis is making a very polemical point here regarding the places of power in modern academia. This entire element of the story is utterly absent from the audio adaptation. There is not one mention of the “progressive element,” and it is not difficult to figure out why this is the case. (For more on Lewis’s critiques of democracy-as-philosophy, you can read his essay “Equality” or “Screwtape Proposes a Toast.”)

Next, let’s talk about Ransom. In the book, Ransom the Pendragon is this overwhelming figure who represents the priest-king Jupiter, whose influence governs the relation between Mars and Venus. When Jane first encounters Ransom, she is unmade in his presence and, as she leaves that meeting, she is enraptured in his heavenly influence and becomes awakened to the celestial beauty in which she might participate. By the end of the story, she fully embraces this beauty as she rejects the terrestrial influence of sin in favor of the redemptive grace of God. In the BBC’s version, however, Ransom is a rather underwhelming man who laments his crippling weakness and occasionally and awkwardly offers to pray for Jane, who remains unconverted. This is not just a matter of leaving a few things out for the sake of time. This is an absolute subversion of Ransom’s character and the Christianity that makes him such a profound figure.

Now, let’s briefly discuss the main players at the N.I.C.E. First, there’s the deputy director John Wither. Lewis describes Wither as having an eerily amicable, somewhat senile, hauntingly otherworldly presence. As the story progresses, he is revealed to be downright demonic, to the point that it is not clear if there is still much “John Wither” present at all. In BBC’s version, all hints of the demonic are removed. He is just an ordinary guy who happens to be a smooth-talking leader of a bad organization. Next, there’s Fairy Hardcastle. In the book, her primary character is one of un-feminized, disordered sexuality, providing us with another manifestation of the N.I.C.E.’s rejection of “the normal.” Unsurprisingly, the BBC was unwilling to enter into this territory, and she too was just an ordinary woman who happened to work with some bad people. Lastly, let’s consider Professor Augustus Frost, the materialist psychiatrist who understands everything in those terms. Of all the N.I.C.E. leaders, he likely received the best treatment in the adaptation, although even he was considerably weakened. For example, at the end of his story in the book, he is frozen by his lack of agency that is the inevitably result of his materialism, which in turn is a demonic deceit. Something like this happens in the adaptation, but Lewis’s philosophical critique is entirely missing. Aside from a couple passing statements made by Ransom, the diabolical nature of the N.I.C.E. philosophy is entirely obscured, thereby providing us with an unremarkable group of villainous mad scientists.

Finally, let’s talk about the finale. In the book, the company at St. Anne’s is regularly confused about what exactly they are meant to be doing. For the most part, they are okay with that, because they trust Ransom who in turn trusts God and his heavenly court. The one who has the greatest struggle with this arrangement is Andrew MacPhee, who is entirely absent from the BBC’s adaptation. As we approach the end of the story, it becomes increasingly clear that they are not really meant to do anything apart from remaining faithful. As with Babel of old, it is Heaven that will smash the pride of man. Thus, the forces of heaven descend upon Merlin with an act that will be his undoing and his redemption. Operating through Merlin, the heavenly Powers bring the curse of Babel upon Belbury and the N.I.C.E. implodes in its confusion, which is both a curse and a consequence of their stance against the Real. In BBC’s version, there is no descent of Heaven. Jane, in scorn of her Venusian ideal, takes charge and hops in a car with Merlin to save Mark while pitiful Ransom laments not having the strength to go with them. Then Merlin, apparently with his own magic, jedi mind tricks the guards and curses Belbury with confusion. They then rescue Mark, who never becomes a martial figure, and the story ends.

Lewis’s story is one of romantic idealism and philosophical critique of the modern tendencies in academia and science to forsake the Real, the Ideal, and the Normal in favor of evolutionary “whatever comes next is good” philosophy. BBC missed this entirely or, more likely, they excised it because it would be impossible to include it without the recognition that they are far more aligned with Belbury than they are with St. Anne’s.

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About the Author

Andrew Snyder holds a Ph.D. in theology with a dissertation on Søren Kierkegaard’s theology of self-formation. He is a professor of philosophy and religion, the host of the Mythic Mind podcast, and the founder of the Mythic Mind Fellowship. You can follow him on Twitter @andrewnsnyder and find his often-neglected personal Substack on The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien at Andrew N. Snyder.

Join the Mythic Mind Fellowship and/or enroll in a course at https://www.patreon.com/mythicmind

As a kid, video games were ubiquitous. I can’t remember a time before the NES and SNES were set up or the GameBoy (equipped with the Handy Boy) was not a hallmark of long drives. I remember being enchanted by the “realistic” graphics of the N64 and PS2, and eventually moving into PC gaming, regularly asking for a new graphics card for Christmas. The reality is that I played video games far too much, and I now regret that I did not spend more of my youth reading. While waxing and waning with other responsibilities, this practice largely continued through young adulthood until I was married, at which point I started playing considerably less. Then, once the twins were born, gaming time became nearly non-existent. A significant cause for this was mere necessity as I sought to fulfill the greater desire of providing for and spending time with my family, and this meant working a lot, as I continue to do to this day. However, as I continually consider questions about the nature of enchantment and the power of wonder, I am starting to conclude that, properly ordered within life’s demands, there can be some good in playing games.

It is not an overstatement to say that my life was changed by reading Tolkien. Not being an active reader as a youth, I discovered Tolkien later in life, just a few years before writing this article. I was, of course, familiar with Tolkien-inspired media, such as the Jackson films and various games, but I am still fairly new to reading Tolkien’s own words. From the moment I opened The Fellowship, I knew I was engaging with something real, although I did not yet have the categories for articulating what that meant. It did not take long for me to finish The Lord of the Rings and then move on to Tolkien’s other works, including “On Fairy-Stories,” in which he describes fantasy as sub-creation rather than merely being “made up.” We make in the image of, and with the materials made by, He in whose image we are made. Good fiction is dealing with that which is.

I once thought that I would have to turn to non-fiction when I wanted to learn something from a book, which is a natural prejudice of our times. Non-fiction deals with truth and fiction is “made up,” right? Well, this is certainly what I thought for a number of years.

Before picking up Tolkien, I was already starting to spend some time with fairy tales and folklore, mining such tales for their hidden meaning and value. My appreciation for good “made up” stories was beginning to grow, but Tolkien helped me to understand that good fiction is not “made up” at all, but that it is rather a secondary creation that is true inasmuch as it relates to the way things are on a metaphysical level. Of course we don’t believe there are such things as orcs and elves and dwarves in the way they are portrayed in Tolkien’s texts; however, there is something fundamentally true about the character of the story, the fibers of his world, and the interactions of the peoples that are involved, which is why one can read The Lord of the Rings as an act of Christian discipleship as much as anything else. When we escape in the right way and into the right substance, we are not merely running away from the primary world, but we are rather escaping to a place of value that we might recover something of value. For better or worse, no one leaves the perilous realm unchanged because it is there that we come to terms with ourselves and decide what that relationship looks like. In “On Fairy-Stories,” Tolkien clarifies that it is not the denizens of faerie that are supernatural, as they are actually hyper-natural, but that it is we, with our transcendent souls, that are supernatural. The perilous realm brings us not to Heaven or Hell, but to the road that we must walk. It may be the path to salvation or damnation, hence the differing impacts of Galadriel on Boromir and the other members of the party. This is where our relationship with truth becomes solidified. Thus, Tolkien provides us with a framework for relating to truth even in worlds that are not found in history. This is immediately relevant for our primary topic.

In the same essay, Tolkien also discusses why literature is a superior medium for fantasy compared to cinema. In a movie, the audience is given the full story, including plot, visuals, casting, music, etc. There is no room for the viewer to get involved in the process of sub-creation. A book, however, does provide this room. When you read a book, assuming you have not first seen a cinematic adaptation of the book, you fashion so much of the story in your own head. Based on your background, other books you have read, the thoughts floating around in your conscious and unconscious mental spaces, and everything else that you bring with you to the text, you cast the characters and decide exactly what the text looks, sounds, and feels like. We could all read the same story but have different mental adaptations as we contribute to the story through our own process of sub-creation alongside the primary author. It seems to me that much of the same could be said regarding video games. Whether we are talking about a story-driven roleplaying game or something more in the “sandbox” arena, there is space for the player to decide who they are, what their background and motivations entail, what kind of impact they will have on the world, and whatever else may be relevant to the particular game. All of this brings us into the act of sub-creation, which can be a great aid in helping us to become more enchanted in our primary world experience.

Of course, it should be noted that the potential of the reader’s sub-creation is directly related to the materials they are provided in the text, and the same could be said of video games. Sometimes the material is so corrupted that one who engages with it is likely to be far more destructive – first and foremost to their own selves – than creative. Some books are just bad. Some games are just bad. They are very unlikely to move us in the direction of being more integrated selves situated to bear primary world responsibilities and accomplish worthwhile things. Maybe the philosophy at hand is particularly heinous, or maybe the nature of the material is so tedious and addictive that we are likely to throw away time with very little hope of gaining something in return. Sometimes, and likely most of the time, the fault is not so much with the material as it is with the one who engages with it. As with any vice, it is easy to prioritize whatever lesser goods that may come from games over the greater goods that are before us. However, that many – and you and I – can go wrong with games does not mean that games themselves are an evil. It has been said, “Do not suppose that abuses are eliminated by destroying the object which is abused. Men can go wrong with wine and women. Shall we then prohibit and abolish women?” As far as I can tell, this is an apocryphal quotation attributed to Martin Luther, but the principle certainly holds up, even if the citation does not. That we can go wrong with video games does not mean that videos games are of necessity wrong.

There is a way to go right with games. Instead of letting them pull you into the abyss of empty amusement, they can be tethered to virtue, truth, and beauty and, in turn, become points of connection between you and goodness. Games can become touchpoints with our culture – and with ourselves – for dealing with significant topics that apply to primary life.

As with most mediums, you are likely to find what you are seeking. If your desire is rightly ordered, you will find another step on the upward journey. If your desire is wrongly ordered, you will slip further toward the abyss. Discernment rarely involves an all-or-nothing mentality. It instead involves having honest conversations with yourself and with others. In your heart, you generally know when something is upbuilding and when it is not. If you authentically seek the good, you surely will find it, as seeking the good is evidence that you already have found it in some measure.

For more on this topic, watch this conversation I recently had with Josh Traylor and Master_Samwise or listen to episode 78 of Mythic Mind wherever you get your podcasts.

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About the Author

Andrew Snyder holds a Ph.D. in theology with a dissertation on Søren Kierkegaard’s theology of self-formation. He is a professor of philosophy and religion, the host of the Mythic Mind podcast, and the founder of the Mythic Mind Fellowship. You can follow him on Twitter @andrewnsnyder and find his often-neglected personal Substack on The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien at Andrew N. Snyder.

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Introduction

Although one might think that Sophocles is using the characters for other meanings, I will make specific claims about the characters Tiresias and Oedipus. In section one, I will argue that Sophocles is using Tiresias to represent the idea that it is wise to trust in the mystery of fate. In section two, I will show textual evidence that in this scene, the character Oedipus is, in part, representative of the dangers of one who lacks intellectual humility, specifically, in how that relates to his own demise through the rejection of Tiresias’s admonitions and the blatant denial of truth when it is revealed to him. I will also argue that he is a tragic protagonist who takes the pursuit of prophetic knowledge too far, because some knowledge is reserved for the gods and their appointed prophets. Furthermore, I argue that this knowledge should remain with its intended recipient, Tiresias the prophet, who is deemed worthy by Apollo to possess this responsibility.

In this scene, Oedipus essentially demonstrates the hubris of one who fails to display intellectual humility regarding divine matters and divine knowledge. There are some that will argue that Oedipus is more than a tragic hero. They see him as a virtuous paragon, a leader who courageously takes up the investigation solely out of a love of his polis, Thebes, and is tragically exiled for saving his city through self-sacrifice. Though I think Oedipus is a tragic hero in that he is a courageous leader who is trying to save his city, and that he has some admirable virtues and character qualities; I do not think he is such an exemplar as some would say. There is much to be criticized about Oedipus, and I certainly do not think that the early scenes of Oedipus the King portray him as an ideal protagonist whom we should only pity, but that Sophocles puts his hauteur on full display, revealing his fatal flaw which foreshadows his future demise. This essay is also not meant to deal with the character of Oedipus wholistically throughout the play, but rather how the textual evidence presents him during his dialogue with Tiresias. To understand the scene (338–526), it must be noted that the context of the preceding lines (1–337) will be accounted for in this interpretation. But due to the limited scope, I cannot say much about Oedipus in later parts of the play. Therefore, any mention of other parts of the drama will remain limited and will not be explained or analyzed.

I – The Wisdom of Tiresias

Oedipus the King has been the foundation to the overarching conversation of fate and free will for over two millennia, especially regarding the “tragedy of fate.” In fact, this debate was a major topic of contemporary relevance in Sophocles’s time. Looking at the drama in this context, it shines light on many significant dialogues within the drama. Specifically, that of Oedipus and Tiresias, the prophet of Apollo.

Of course, one can hardly discuss such a scene without mentioning the Greek concept of fate and freedom. In general, we have two choices for interpretation with Sophocles: 1) Sophocles the religious critic and reformer, and 2) Sophocles as the Religious Traditionalist. In the former, Oedipus is presented as the tragic hero of the play, and Sophocles is critical of the old way of seeing Apollo and the gods. Whereas in the latter, Sophocles is defending the religious tradition that predates him, where the gods are more capricious, rather than fixed, such as in the Homeric epics.

Regardless of which scholarly camp one finds themself in, there is a mix to be understood here. Yes, there are elements of the traditional religious views, which we see explored with the role of Tiresias being a kind of bridge between the gods and humans; yet we also see elements of Oedipus being presented as a tragic hero in the play, in which he is brought down by both a fatal flaw and misfortune. In this way, Sophocles is attempting to develop a sense of compassion for Oedipus, but I do not think he is presenting him as merely a scapegoat to be pitied, or a perfect hero. One thing that is clear is that there is a motif worthy of exploration in this scene: there is a large chasm between the knowledge belonging to the gods, and the knowledge of man.

Immediately, as Tiresias enters the scene, we see Oedipus addressing him in this way: “Master of all the mysteries of our life, all you teach and all you dare not tell, signs in the heavens, signs that walk the earth” (341–43). This direct address is immediate and appears to show that Oedipus is at least a mildly religious man who appears to have a reverence and respect for Tiresias, for prophecy, and for the gods. But is Oedipus genuine in his religious claims here? Or is he merely attempting to cater to Tiresias for the purpose of getting his way? It seems initially that Oedipus is genuine, because in context, he does not seem to have a reason to want to manipulate Tiresias. There is also no contextual evidence to suggest that Oedipus assumes Tiresias will be reluctant to tell him the prophecy. Furthermore, in the prior scene, as Oedipus is speaking out to the crowd in Thebes, the leader amongst the crowd speaks-up for the people, and Oedipus’s response is telling: “but to force the gods to act against their will–no man has the power” (318–19). This scene provides some immediate context to the focal scene of this essay, that on its own implies that Oedipus has some respect for the power of the gods, and acknowledges man’s inherent limitation; showing humans as being ontologically inadequate to thwart their will, in some murky, undefined way. But just as the text demands that we ask about his motives when initially addressing Tiresias, it had also already demanded a question of Oedipus’s motives in the public light. Perhaps, Oedipus is playing the role of a modern politician rather than a philosopher-king, and is merely trying to appease the crowd, and accomplish things in the spotlight for his own glory.

As for Tiresias, his introductory lines immediately signal that he is reluctant to provide the prophecy. In his entrance, Tiresias presents his central motif for the entire scene: “How terrible-to see the truth, when the truth is only pain to him who sees!” (359–60). This serves as the backdrop for the entire conversation, which will ensue for the remainder of this scene. And it appears that Sophocles is using the character Tiresias as a mouthpiece for the view that we should not long to know our own fate and future, that there is an immeasurable gap of knowledge between the divine and the human, and that even the leaders of the day, such as Oedipus, are meant to be left in this sense of alienation rather than knowing prophetic details with certainty. Steven Lattimore rightly identifies this:

It is not that the gods will help or inform Oedipus-they cannot; their knowledge and very existence are too alien from his, and the extreme economy of expression which comes naturally to beings who know all this unintelligible to those who must learn, step by step. All too anthropomorphic in form and feelings (like Athena in the Ajax), Teiresias represents the gods of Oedipus Tyrannus and dramatizes this alienation.

Sophocles writes the prophet Tiresias as being divinely inspired, who has a genuine word from Apollo. This puts him in a category of being that makes his knowledge not that of a god, but beyond that of man. It is a knowledge that exists in a celestial, daimonic space which should not be fully comprehended by man in this life. Essentially, Tiresias is a paradoxical figure: He is certainly a man who matches Oedipus on the human plane of existence, where he matches him in fault (άμαρτια), yet this is juxtaposed with him being able to see the things of a god. This indicates that Tiresias is something more than mere man, at least in his foreknowledge. I must note that I do not fully agree with Lattimore’s assumption that he necessarily sees the same things as the divine, because prophecy, for the role of the prophet is to behold a tiny glimpse into the Divine Nous; however, I do think Lattimore raises an important point regarding the way in which Tiresias and his prophetic role serve as a symbol of the chasm between divine knowledge and human free knowledge.

This is very reminiscent to the conversation between Raphael and Adam in Book VIII of Paradise Lost, in which the archangel exhorts Adam to “Be lowly wise” and to “think only what concerns thee and thy being.” Much like Milton would illustrate two millennia later, the figures such as the prophets in Greece, or the Angels in Christian literature serve as being on a plane of existence somewhere between Earth and the heavens. Though Tiresias exists in bodily form on the Earth, his knowledge is somewhere above it, yet not on-par with the heavens.

Another key phrase that demands our attention is amid Oedipus’s outburst against Tiresias, before he finally reveals the prophecy to him. Tiresias echoes the seemingly deterministic phrase: “What will come will come. Even if I shroud it all in silence.” (388–89). Initially, this line could be read evidentially to support a type of hard determinism, but a closer reading shows that Tiresias’s phrase is more of a de dicto statement rather than a de re, where he is speaking of these events as a mere tautology in which the events are hypothetically determined, rather than actually determined. We cannot simply say that Tiresias is a fatalist, but rather that he is saying the future will happen inevitably as time unfolds, but not that everything in the universe is completely controlled and atomically pre-determined by the gods in its totality, in a very mechanistic sense. The tension between fate and free will is more complicated than that, and the way that the characters are woven into that dramatic tension is much more mysterious than that explanation, which I find to be a bit reductionistic.

That said, I think these lines point to a deeper meaning in the drama: that at some point, humans must accept their limitations, and rest in the mystery of fate. What does it really add to Oedipus that he acquires this knowledge? I am not saying that the message of this dimension of Oedipus the King is an ignorance is bliss philosophy, where there is no place for reason, wonder, curiosity, and discovery, nor that Sophocles and Tiresias are some sort of proto-Epicureans. However, Tiresias does seem to indicate that there is a limit to reason, and a kind of wisdom in resting in what we cannot know. From the introduction to the plot when the priest exhorts Oedipus to act and raise up the city (57–59), through to the climactic moment of Oedipus’s self-revelation (1301–10), he is isolated from his fellow men, on a detective’s journey where the culprit and solution of the play is himself, where he reaches this end by the recurring “daemonic insistence: I must find out, I must reveal, I will know.”

Though Tiresias does eventually tell Oedipus of his terrible fate, he seems to do this to make Oedipus as an example to others and show them that they need to be careful what they wish for, that understanding the fate of the gods is beyond human reason, and that it is for our good that we do not know. It would hardly be plausible that Tiresias is merely intimidated by Oedipus, as when the ad-hominem attack comes (380–383), Tiresias’s response back is direct, collected, and even leaves a clue about the revelation to come: “You criticize my temper… unaware of the one you live with, you revile me” (384–385). It is important to note that since Tiresias knows the prophecy, which he reveals just a few lines later, he not only possesses the knowledge of Oedipus’s fate, but also of the atrocity which he committed, and that the consequence of this atrocity is the very fate he will bear in the climax and conclusion of the drama, and throughout the events of Oedipus at Colonus. Since we know that Tiresias already possesses not only the foreknowledge of Oedipus’s future fate, but also the knowledge of what Oedipus being the cure and corruption of the land (401), we can conclude that Tiresias does not reveal Oedipus’s fate to him out of feelings of intimidation, but rather to make an example of him.

This ties into my criticism of Oedipus: it is not with his pursuit of knowledge in general, but his pursuit of knowledge specifically regarding divine matters. Oedipus serves as a symbol, like a Promethean flame, in which he presses onward towards knowledge, even if that pursuit of knowledge is miserable. This is a classic example of why man’s pursuit of knowledge is sometimes his own downfall. Oedipus must know the truth, and he cannot accept the mysterious aspects of fate and free will, which should be a warning to us all. This is much like the general truth to what Horace says in his famous lines to Leucon: “do not seek (it is a crime to know) the end which the gods have given to me and to you (ne quaesieris (scire nefas) quem mihi, quem tibi finem di dederint).” Though the Epicureanism of Horace can be taken to extremes, there is deep, rich wisdom here that a character like Oedipus would benefit from adhering to. Instead of seeing the events play out in his life, he ends up pursuing knowledge too far, not accepting that there is a place in which we should become comfortable with locating divine mystery and resting in what we can know and cannot know. Where Oedipus is trying to understand what he cannot, and pursues what he should not, Oedipus should take the advice of the Delphic Injunction: “Know thyself (Γνῶθι σεαυτόν)”. But Oedipus does not know himself in his place in the cosmos. He should have been hearing the words of Tiresias and been like Moses taking off his sandals before treading on holy ground (Exodus 3:5). Being mere human, Oedipus should rightly acknowledge his place before the divine, rather than continuing his pursuit of the things reserved for the divine. Rather than knowing himself in his place before the gods, he takes his first major step in the downward spiral of a tragic hero defeated by his own fatal flaw.

II – The Hubris of Oedipus

In his book From Achilles to Christ, Louis Markos takes the approach that Oedipus is not just a tragic hero, but an ideal, self-sacrificing hero, which he summarizes in the following passages:

Though generations of readers have tried to pin on Oedipus a “tragic flaw” that leads to his downfall, a careful reading of the play shows that Oedipus’s demise is not brought about by his negative qualities-his pride or rashness or paranoia. Rather, it is his good qualities-his love of his people and devotion to the truth-that propel him to uncover secrets about himself that a less brave or dedicated man would have left alone.

Oedipus is, supremely, the riddle solver, and he will not let fear or danger hold him back from a pursuit that will lead him to the truth. Oedipus loves Thebes as much as Hektor loves Troy, and he will not allow her to suffer from a plague-even if in healing that plague he brings about his own destruction.

With all due respect to Markos, I do not come to the same conclusion about seeing Oedipus in this light. I must admit, there is no denial that Oedipus is a prudent man of action looking ahead to rid this plague from the city. He immediately launched into a pursuit of solving this case (150) and that is further shown in his urgent sending for Tiresias (326–28). Not only that, but Oedipus has the fortitude of a leader in being willing to bear such burdens; however, I do not think Oedipus is merely a classical paragon, though he is certainly a tragic hero in the sense that he has a fatal flaw. Though Markos seems to believe that his downfall is not caused by a fatal flaw and his negative character traits of pride, rashness, and paranoia, I think this scene illustrates exactly those things, and that they do lead to Oedipus’s demise.

In this scene, Oedipus’s hubris (ύϐρις) is manifested, providing an imaginative and dramatic illustration of why a mere mortal man should adhere to the god-breathed words of a prophet. Oedipus is fitting Aristotle’s definition of a tragic hero: having admirable traits, yet also a fatal flaw (άμαρτία) which ultimately leads to his demise by the end of the drama. Reading Oedipus the King the way Markos suggests is much too optimistic, and such a thesis would need to explain away Oedipus’s haughtiness not only in his dialogue with Tiresias, but with Creon and Jocasta as well. When we consider the evidence in these three separate scenes, specifically looking at his dialogue with Tiresias, then we see the tragic hero as that of a man refusing to entertain the possibility that Tiresias is correct, much less adopt the truth for himself. Oedipus is the source of the very curse which he spends the rest of the drama pursuing, yet he remains in an outright denial of this, leading Tiresias to eventually leave the scene.

I believe that there is much to be said about how Oedipus’s conceited ignorance fits as a motif of this scene. First, Oedipus has the audacity to instantly reject Tiresias’s answer and flip the script. When Oedipus is finally revealed to be the killer, his immediate reaction is to turn the blame around on Tiresias, rather than to take the time to assess this accusation and reflect on the events of his life before coming to Thebes. Much like the people Socrates met on the streets, our protagonist often acts as if he knew what he does not, which reveals his fatal flaw through the dramatization of the conflict between intuition and logic. Oedipus responds in three different forms: he denies it (414), attacks the sensibility of Tiresias (423–27), and shifts the blame to his brother in-law, assuming that Tiresias’s prophetic accusation is all a plot to drive him from the throne of Thebes (431–457).

Oedipus’s first response is to live in a sort of ignorant denial. After making a couple of remarks about this being a made-up story (402–3, 406), the protagonist explicitly and directly denies Tiresias by saying “That’s obscenity, twice-by god, you’ll pay” (414). Though Oedipus moves beyond brief denial, this the starting point of his reaction to the situation, which indicates that he carries with him a sort of self-blinding arrogance which surges up when he first hears of himself as the curse, and the cause of dreaded plague of Thebes. But denial is only the initial step that Oedipus takes before he vaults into a deeper rejection of Tiresias’s prophecy.

Beyond denial is the symbolism of Oedipus’s spiritual blindness, which begins with Tiresias’s lines “you and your loved ones live together in infamy, you cannot see how far you’ve gone in guilt” (418–19), which is juxtaposed with Oedipus attack on Tiresias’s literal, physical blindness: “You’ve lost your power, stone-blind, stone-deaf-senses, eyes blind as stone!” (423–24). Robert Kane makes a strong case for Tiresias’s statements revealing that the primary emphasis falls, “not on the enormity of Oedipus’s misdeeds, but on his failure to see them.” Though Tiresias continually brings explicit revelations to light, the failure of Oedipus to react to these charges properly shows that he is steeped in not just a denial, but a true spiritual blindness to his own fault in which he cannot see anything but absurdities in Tiresias’s claims.

Oedipus’s blaming of Creon is “a substitution of reasoning for perception where having drawn an intelligent deduction from what he sees, he is quick to treat this deduction as a manifest fact.” Though Oedipus’s logic is considerably tight within itself, his perception is off. Therefore, his beginning point for the trajectory of his logic is also completely off, skewing the entire line of reasoning. Though Tiresias instantly defers him away from this accusation (432), Oedipus launches directly into a lengthy, poetic speech in which he refers to Creon as “so hungry to overthrow me he sets this wizard on me, this scheming quack, this fortune-teller peddling lies” (438–41). I cannot help but read these lines of dialogues and be reminded of people with narcissistic tendencies when they are caught in a lie, or in one of their manipulative schemes. In true dramatic fashion, Oedipus not only fails to stop and ponder the various possibilities around him, but launches into a rant, as if he is a blameless victim who has done no wrong, and that Creon and Tiresias are conspiring against him. This escalates further when Oedipus brings out the ad-hominem attacks, calling Tiresias a “pious fraud” (443) and attacking his reputation: “when did you ever prove yourself a prophet?” (444). It is in this moment which Oedipus chooses to commit the ad-hominem fallacy, rather than to play Socrates. In all reality, he should begin from a posture of humility, asking probing questions which will lead to the truth, or at least further reveal and confirm claims of falsehoods. Instead, he immediately goes on the offensive.

At the end of these dramatic lines, Oedipus prides himself on being the one who “stopped the Sphinx! With no help from the birds, the flight of my own intelligence hit the mark” (452–53). These lines further reveal the vain qualities that Oedipus is displaying in this section; that after tearing his accuser down, he puffs himself up, priding himself on the vein glory of his accomplishments. Though this could be taken as merely a defense where Oedipus is citing his accomplishments to show his love for the city, I think the context of the preceding lines suggest that Oedipus is not responding in a defensive posture of humility, but rather an offensive attack from his own pride.

In Tiresias’s response, he calls out what I’ve been arguing for, in saying this of Oedipus:

You with your precious eyes, you’re blind to the corruption of your life, to the house you live in, those you live with-who are your parents? Do you know? All unknowing you are the scourge of your own flesh and blood, the dead below the earth and the living here above, and the double lash of your mother and your father’s curse will whip you from this land one day, their footfall treading you down in terror, darkness shrouding your eyes that now can see the light! (470–488)

Notice the lines “you’re blind to the corruption of your life,” this is the very point I have made earlier, in that Oedipus is blind to his own perception, in which he fails to take a posture of humility.

From here, Oedipus and Tiresias have a brief back-and-forth dialogue for a few lines, which ends in Tiresias exhorting Oedipus to “Go in and reflect on that, solve that. And if you find I’ve lied from this day onward call the prophet blind” (524–26). Now obviously, these lines foreshadow the literal blindness that Oedipus puts upon himself in the climactic scene of the drama (1405–14), but I believe there is a dual meaning here: that Tiresias is also referring to Oedipus as being blind to listening to the prophecy regarding his own fate. Furthermore, the remaining plot of the drama unfolds, showing that Oedipus did not learn from Tiresias, as his dialogues with Creon (573–750) and Jocasta (778–997), reveal that he is continually heading down a path of self-destruction, only to find that Tiresias was correct when he foreshadows that “No man will ever be rooted from the earth as brutally as you” (488–89). Oedipus’s hubris is his fatal flaw, which continues to set him on the path of self-destruction where he will go from a king to a blind, lonely exile.

Conclusion

In Oedipus the King, Sophocles uses the prophet Tiresias to show that one should not investigate too far into their own fate, as this is not only knowledge that was not meant for the limited faculties of human reason, and that it also causes a certain kind of self-destruction to occur within one’s soul. The knowledge Tiresias possesses is for him and the gods alone, and Oedipus is not entitled to the answer. In this scene, Oedipus displays a strong lack of intellectual humility. He is swelled up with pride and ignorance as he refuses to accept the revealed knowledge. Though Oedipus was given the opportunity to take time and assess Tiresias’s claim, he makes the wrong choice and remains on the path to his own downfall. I have shown that Oedipus is not a paragon of virtue that we should admire in every way, but rather that he is a true tragic hero with a fatal flaw that leads to his downfall. He is a character with many admirable classical virtues; yet this scene, amongst others, puts his hubris on full display, and that it is something that we should be critical of.

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In the last two posts I talked about how even though many of us love The Lord of the Rings, there is a growing gap between our admiration of the characters, and our understanding of them. 

Specifically, I showed that LOTR is founded on a more classical understanding of the virtues, while modern society leans much more utilitarian. This will become even more evident when we compare and contrast Dune by Frank Herbert, with LOTR. 

I will start by saying that I really enjoy Dune as a book (I have more complicated thoughts about the movies), because of the fantastic world building and the questions Herbert asks. 

But Dune and the LOTR stand on opposite ends of a spectrum (all the more interesting when you realize they were only published ten years apart). 

While it may not appear so on the surface, I will argue that at its heart, Dune is hugely utilitarian, while I’ve already claimed LOTR is full of virtue ethics. Our character focus this time will be Aragorn. Not only is he a warrior king, and the ultimate friend, but he is full of compassion, humility and mercy. Furthermore, he stands completely opposite to Sauron. Instead of seeking to dominate and enslave, he wins men’s loyalty, he protects and he heals. But more on him later. We’ve already talked a lot about the ethics of LOTR, so let’s take a look at Dune. 

The opening premise of Dune is that a quasi-religious sect of gifted women have manipulated the genetics of mankind in the ultimate breeding program in order to produce a messiah-like figure who can lead the empire. Everything about the Bene Gesseret is about manipulation and control, most obviously the use of the Voice, which overrides an individual’s will. But they have also gone so far as to plant certain religious doctrines on multiple planets so that any of their members can manipulate that population if the need arises. 

Enter Paul Atreides. Because of the movies, there has been some interesting debate on social media of whether Paul is a hero or an antihero. (I think the fact that it can be argued either way is telling) But one of the most popular interpretations is that he is a good man in difficult circumstances. He did not choose to be born as this potential messiah-figure. On the planet Arrakis he finds himself fulfilling the prophecies of the Fremen people because of his genes and his mother’s training. He finds himself in a position of overwhelming power and the question is what he will do with it. Paul is resistant to that power, and seeks a way to relinquish it. This is why people argue that he is, ultimately, a good man. 

But I would argue that it takes more than simply having a conscience to be a good man. Paul does have a conscience…but if he is a good man, he is only so in a utilitarian way, not in a virtuous way. His mother has raised him to be calculated. He does not try and conquer his fear in order to cultivate the virtue of courage, but simply because “fear is a mind killer.” But there is more to it than that. Here’s where Frank Herbert does Paul dirty. Because of his unique genetics and training, when Paul eats the spice on Arrakis, it gives him the ability to see the future. Paul’s decisions in the second half of the story are entirely based on preventing certain futures and trying to instantiate one. This screams “greatest good for the greatest number of people” and “least harm to the least number of people,” which is classic utilitarianism. Paul does not base his decisions on what is good or evil right now, in this moment, in these circumstances, with this person. He bases his decisions on future consequences, which only he can see. 

In contrast, exercising the virtues requires particularity and accountability. As Alasdair MacIntyre puts it: 

“I am answerable for doing or failing to do what anyone who occupies my role owes to others and this accountability terminates only with death. I have until my death to do what I have to do. Moreover, this accountability is particular. It is to, for, and with specific individuals that I must do what I ought, and it is to these same and other individuals, members of the same local community, that I am accountable (126).”

But nobody else has or could occupy the role Paul occupies and there is little accountability for him. In a way he becomes the exception to every rule. Furthermore, the decisions he makes become based on the future and the empire as a whole, as opposed to the present and the people directly around him. 

Of course, the question of how our ethics would be affected if someone (or multiple someones) could actually see the future, is an interesting one. But if we think it would alter what is right and wrong, I think we have a greater meta-ethical question on our hands. The assumption that we have to know the consequences before we make a moral decision is a dangerous one. Virtue ethics argues that moral decisions have both internal and external consequences, and we need to factor in both. But the internal consequences of moral decisions are the only ones fully inside your control. (From last post, Elrond could never know all the external consequences that would come from pushing Isildur into the lava or from not pushing him in, though he could guess at some of them. But he could be certain of the internal evil of murdering Isildur.)

Now let’s return to Aragorn. Like Paul, Aragorn was also born into a specific genetic line and heritage, with a looming destiny on his shoulders. In a way, he is also a messiah-like figure. But the way he makes decisions is so completely unlike Paul. Aragorn does nothing out of self-preservation. Nor does he do anything to establish himself as king. Like I said above, he is the heir of Elendil, the only one who can claim the throne in Gondor, one of the few men whom Sauron actually fears. He has this huge destiny, and yet he does not hesitate to put his life on the line for his friends, over and over. And that is what makes him worthy to be king. I think his virtue shines the clearest when Merry and Pippin get taken by orcs. 

“‘With hope or without hope we will follow the trail of our enemies. And woe to them, if we prove the swifter! We will make such a chase as shall be accounted a marvel among the Three Kindreds: Elves, Dwarves, and Men. Forth the Three Hunters (Two Towers, 12)!’” 

As the chase goes on, the chance of them catching up and saving their friends grows smaller. 

“Gimli ground his teeth. ’This is a bitter end to our hope and to all our toil!’ He said.

’To hope, maybe, but not to toil,’ said Aragorn. ‘We shall not turn back here (Two Towers, 21).’” 

Aragorn’s choice to pursue the orcs was not based on their chances of success, but on his responsibility to Merry and Pippin. He throws absolutely everything into trying to save them, including all of his own future hopes and plans. 

Part of understanding what drives Aragorn is understanding that he does not live in the future, but the present. He may be king one day, but he is not king now and so he does not live as if he were. He lives in the present, and takes very seriously every duty and responsibility that is placed on him, no matter how small, whether that be protecting the Shire as a Ranger, helping lead the Fellowship, or simply being a loyal friend. 

“Why does it matter?” You ask. 

Because as Gandalf says, “‘[E]ven the very wise cannot see all ends (Fellowship, 65).’” (I think it is worth noting here, that several characters in LOTR are said to be gifted with foresight, as well, though we don’t know exactly what that means.)

As much as we think we can predict the future, we cannot. We cannot predict other people’s choices. But we can be responsible for our own actions. Part of the tragedy of Denethor is that he should have focused on his responsibility to his people, no matter the outcome. He did not see that that would have been a victory in itself, as Theoden did. 

Contrary to what society says, the roles we play (father, daughter, sister, boss, employee, student) are not irrelevant, cultural restrictions on us. They are the very avenue to cultivate virtue in our lives and our communities, and thus push the darkness back. 

I think many of us relate to Eomer when he says:

“It is hard to be sure of anything among so many marvels. The world is all grown strange. Elf and Dwarf in company walk in our daily fields; and folk speak with the Lady of the Wood and yet live; and the Sword comes back to war that was broken in the long ages ere the fathers of our fathers rode into the Mark! How shall a man judge what to do in such times?’

‘As he has ever judged,’ said Aragorn. ‘Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood, as in his own house (Two Towers, 33).’” 

MacIntyre puts it this way: “Someone who genuinely possesses a virtue can be expected to manifest it in very different types of situations…(205)”

But there is another massive difference between The Lord of the Rings and Dune which helps explain why the moral frameworks differ so greatly. They disagree vastly on what sort of narrative the human life is. 

According to Tolkien, the human situation is such that one can fulfill one’s moral obligations, even in the face of incredible darkness, and be victorious, even if that only means dying well (Boromir, Theoden). In many senses, The Lord of the Rings is a heroic saga. Our heroes fulfill the duties of their roles at great peril to themselves, and defeat evil.

Herbert’s Dune plays out much more like a Greek tragedy, where Paul is put in an impossible situation with conflicting demands. The way Herbert sets it up, there does not seem to be any way for him to honor his father, follow his conscience, and prevent the future holy war. His goal is always to minimize the damage, because there is (seemingly) no way to prevent it altogether. This resembles the plays of Sophocles in which “there are indeed crucial conflicts in which different virtues appear as making rival and incompatible claims upon us. But our situation is tragic in that we have to recognize the authority of both claims (MacIntyre 143).” 

I think a lot of people have given up on virtue because they have subconsciously accepted the narrative that life is so full of conflicting moral demands, one cannot fulfill them all. “There is a…modern tradition which holds that the variety and heterogeneity of human goods is such that their pursuit cannot be reconciled in any single moral order…(MacIntyre 142).” 

But I think that is a manifest lie. It can be overwhelming to try and navigate the highly charged modern moral landscape. But I suspect that a lot of the overwhelm stems from a mental moral image that is zoomed out too far. The lesson we can learn from Aragorn is to be fully present when and where we are and to fulfill our responsibilities to the people directly around us to the best of our ability. When you cultivate virtue in the small areas of your life, I think you will find it there to help you when the big crises hit. 

SOURCES:

MacIntyre, Alasdair. After Virtue. University of Notre Dame Press, 2007. 

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Fellowship of the Ring. Ballantine Books, 1994. 

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Two Towers. Ballantine Books, 1994. 

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About the Author

Elisabeth Dawson is an award-winning author of science fiction and fantasy. Raised in the remote mountains of New Guinea, she has lived in California, Florida, the Bahamas, and Brasil. She currently lives in Idaho with her best friend and roommate, drinking lots of tea and learning crochet. She holds a B.A. in Biblical Studies and is currently pursuing a Master’s of Philosophy at Biola University.

www.ebdawson.com

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I’ve been examining the virtue ethics in The Lord of the Rings. In Part 1, I sketched an overview of how differently Tolkien’s characters think and make decisions as compared to the modern self. Now we are going to start zooming in on certain characters in particular. Our first character study will be Elrond, because I believe he is a character particularly difficult to grasp with modern sensibilities. However, the virtue I want to attribute to Elrond is not necessarily one you will find in traditional lists of virtues (unless I am being obtuse). I think rather, in some ways, it has become a virtue because of the breakdown of how we think and talk about morality in modern society, and I like to think that Immanuel Kant would have called it one of the chiefs of all virtues (even though he was not a virtue ethicist). It is the virtue of respecting autonomy.

When people list their favorite characters from LOTR, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Elrond make the short list. I don’t think it’s because readers don’t like him, but because he is less “shiny” of a character. In fact, he often is the butt of jokes in the LOTR fandom, the most common two being 1) no one listens to him and 2) he should have pushed Isildur into the lava. I think when we examine the questions behind these two jokes we actually get to the core of Elrond’s character, and perhaps why he is under-appreciated.

Let’s start with number two first. I cannot say whether people who joke about pushing Isildur into the lava to destroy the one ring, really believe that he should have or not. But I have to admit the thought has definitely crossed my mind. We can’t help but watch that scene in the movie (he does counsel Isildur to destroy it in the books but it does not say they are literally inside Mount Doom together) and think that so much evil could have been prevented in that moment. If Isildur didn’t have the strength of will to destroy it, then shouldn’t Elrond have intervened in some way? But would it have been right? What would that action have done to Elrond, himself? I think we are far too accustomed as a society to tell ourselves that some evil actions are acceptable for the greater good (particularly because it has been preached to us). But in Elrond’s situation we need to remember a few things:

1. He didn’t know what the future would bring. Sauron was dead. It is pretty clear that nobody knew at that point how much his life force was tied to his ring, or that he would be able to return.

2. To push Isildur into the lava, or even to try to physically force him to relinquish it would be to override Isildur’s autonomy. And that is exactly what Sauron was known for—bending people to his will and enslaving them.

It is significant that in the final climax, Tolkien spares Sam such a choice. It is a mercy for Sam that Gollum comes and forces the ring from Frodo, and that decision destroys both him and the ring. Such an action would have destroyed Sam as well (whether physically or spiritually) and I think it would have destroyed Elrond.

Allowing Isildur to make his own decision to keep the ring was not a weak moment for Elrond. It took incredible strength. And when we begin to look for it, we see that respecting other people’s autonomy is a theme for Elrond throughout the series, and a mark of his goodness and his wisdom.

This is where the first joke comes in—that nobody listens to him. He gives his wisdom and counsel, but allows people to make their own decisions.

•         When Thorin and company come to Rivendell, Tolkien notes that Elrond does not approve of Dwarves’ love for gold. Still he gives them aid and allows them to leave, with tragic consequences for Thorin and his house.

•         When the Fellowship is being formed, Elrond is set against Merry and (especially) Pippin going because he fears the Shire will be in danger soon and wants to send them back. It is good that he yields, because Merry and Pippin play a valuable role in the redemption of Boromir and the salvation of Faramir and Eowyn. But Elrond wasn’t wrong about the Shire, either, as (in the books) the hobbits return to find it in peril.

•         Only after Frodo volunteers to take the ring, does Elrond reveal that, “‘I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will (Tolkien, 303)’”

•         When the Fellowship is formed, he makes sure they are all going of their own free will, every step of the way: “The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths, as chance allows…no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road (Tolkien, 315).”

•         The more I think about it, the more I have to admire this aspect of Elrond’s character. I don’t know whether you have ever been tempted to override another person’s autonomous agency, but in all transparency, I have. It is incredibly hard to watch people make decisions which you think will yield destructive fruit. It is agonizing to watch people you love do so. Yet, some have argued that violating another person’s will is one of the defining elements of evil.

•         In her landmark defense addressing the problem of evil, philosopher Eleonore Stump notes: “The stronger the human willing is that is violated in the evil a person endures, the worse the evil seems. Evils that (as we say) break the will of their victim…are horrifying to us ( 7).” Stump also notes that, “It is important to be clear that not every contravention of a person’s will counts as a violation of his will. Violating a person’s will is more nearly a contravention of something at the core of a person’s volitional structure. For want of a better term, I will call this core ‘the desires of the heart (7).’”

This is part of the danger and horror of the ring. It becomes the core desire of a person’s heart, so that forcing it from them, even for their own good, becomes an act of violating their core desires.

Unfortunately, this whole concept of respecting the autonomy and agency of others is becoming foreign to our society, which not only leans too quickly toward utilitarianism (as if good and evil were quantifiable calculations), but has built a whole economy around manipulation of other people. There are two reasons for this (both explained and expounded on much more eloquently in Alasdair MacIntyre’s book After Virtue).

The first reason is that the overwhelming acceptance of emotivism((basically the concept that moral judgments are expressions of emotion) in our society has made manipulation of others a societal norm. “For evaluative utterance can in the end have no point or use but the expression of my own feelings or attitudes and the transformation of the feelings and attitudes of others. I cannot genuinely appeal to impersonal criteria, for there are no impersonal criteria. I may think that I so appeal and others may think that I so appeal, but these thoughts will always be mistakes. The sole reality of distinctively moral discourse is the attempt of one will to align the attitudes, feelings, preferences and choices of another with its own (MacIntyre, 24).” In other words, if I can’t appeal to anything objective for my morals, and my emotions are my morals, and I want someone to agree with me, I have no grounds to reason, only manipulate them into feeling the way I feel.

The second reason for the prevalence of manipulation is that the “morally neutral” bureaucracy that our economic system is founded on must use manipulation to achieve its goals because any real telos has been stripped from it (MacIntyre, 74). For the only telos it can claim is productivity and efficiency, neither of which is a Good in itself. The typical manager cannot appeal to common goods (human flourishing, the good of the community, the good of the family, justice, honor, integrity) because all of these are disputed. Thus, as MacIntyre says, the chief function of the manager becomes “that of controlling behavior and suppressing conflict…(27)”

“For the whole concept of effectiveness is, as I noticed earlier, inseparable from a mode of human existence in which the contrivance of means is in central part the manipulation of human beings into compliant patterns of behavior; and it is by appeal to his own effectiveness in this respect that the manager claims authority within the manipulative mode (MacIntyre, 74).”

Here is where we bring in Kant. There are as many as six different versions of Immanuel Kant’s famous categorical imperative, but one of them goes as follows: “So act that you use humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, always at the same time as an end, never merely as a means (Kant, 496).”

There is much debate about what he meant by that.  Alasdair MacIntyre interprets him as follows: “For Kant…the difference between a human relationship uninformed by morality and one so informed is precisely the difference between one in which each person treats the other primarily as a means to his or her ends and one in which each treats the other as an end. To treat someone else as an end is to offer them what I take to be good reasons for acting in one way rather than another, but to leave it to them to evaluate those reasons. It is to be unwilling to influence another except by reasons which that other he or she judges to be good (23).”

What would it mean in our lives if we never treated another human being only as a means to get what we want (whether that be happiness, pleasure, power, success, attention etc.)? This is what we see in Elrond, and it is all the more remarkable because of the thousands of years of history that he has seen. His wisdom is that he does not revert to control or manipulation. He sees men, dwarves, and hobbits, even with their incredibly short life spans, as autonomous beings worthy of respect who need to make their own choices.

Sources:

Kant, Immanuel. “Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals.” Ethical Theory: An Anthology. Russ Shafer-Landau. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013, 496.

MacIntyre, Alasdair. After Virtue. University of Notre Dame Press, 2007.

Stump, Eleonore. Wandering in Darkness. Oxford University Press, 2010.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Fellowship of the Ring. Ballantine Books, 1994.

About the Author

Elisabeth Dawson is an award-winning author of science fiction and fantasy. Raised in the remote mountains of New Guinea, she has lived in California, Florida, the Bahamas, and Brasil. She currently lives in Idaho with her best friend and roommate, drinking lots of tea and learning crochet. She holds a B.A. in Biblical Studies and is currently pursuing a Master’s of Philosophy at Biola University.

www.ebdawson.com

Connect on Twitter

To join the Mythic Mind Fellowship, head over to patreon.com/mythicmind

You can also specifically support this Substack with a paid subscription.

Seventy years after its initial publication, The Lord of the Rings remains a hugely popular series, and for good reason. However, with new Lord of the Rings content being published, conversations about Tolkien’s work and characters have me convinced that there is an ever widening chasm between most fans’ admiration of the story and their understanding of what it was that made it so great.

I am anything but an expert, but the more I study philosophy, the more I see the depth of riches hidden in the pages of Tolkien’s work. I’d like to share a little of that here with you.

My thesis is this: The Lord of the Rings is bursting with virtue ethics. Maybe this is not news to most of you. I think most of us would agree, if asked, that the main characters in LOTR are virtuous. But that is not exactly what I mean. While Western society has maintained an idea of what virtue is, in many ways it is such a very different idea from what virtue used to mean. For example, today virtue and vice are most commonly associated with abstinence and dissipation, when the original conception of virtue was relevant to every aspect of life, but particularly in how you behave and relate to other people. The reasons for this are complicated, but absolutely worth digging into. A large part of it has to do with the emergence of the modern self, individualism, and the disintegration of traditional communities.

In his landmark work After Virtue, Alasdair MacIntyre explains that in modern society “the dominant lists of the virtues have changed, the conception of the individual virtues has changed and the concept of a virtue itself has become other than what it was (226).” In our day, morality has become more closely associated with rules than with character. (MacIntyre, 232) “[T]he tradition of the virtues is at variance with central features of the modern economic order and more especially its individualism (MacIntyre, 254).”

According to MacIntyre, community is absolutely essential for the practice of the virtues: “For if the conception of a good has to be expounded in terms of such notions as those of a practice, of the narrative of a human life and of a moral tradition, then goods, and with them the only grounds for the authority of laws and virtues, can only be discovered by entering into those relationships which constitute communities whose central bond is a shared vision of and understanding of goods (258).” There is a lot to unpack there, and I do not have time to address it all. The key point I want to focus on is that, according to MacIntyre, virtues are practiced in relationships as part of a greater community seeking a shared vision of what is good. This is why MacIntyre pinpoints the virtues of a given society as closely associated to roles and responsibilities in that society (123-126). (I happen to also believe the virtues need to be grounded in objective morality) But in elevating the individual above the community, our modern society celebrates the undermining of roles and the casting off of responsibilities.

Furthermore, our modern world is obsessed with product and outcome. I fear too many of us admire the characters in LOTR because their decisions lead to good outcomes, not because we recognize the virtue of them owning up to their responsibilities and fulfilling the duties of their roles in society.

This might be a little bit shocking to our modern sensibilities, but Tolkien is not interested in controlling outcomes, not even to ensure the good over the bad, but in acting rightly. (This is most clearly demonstrated in the characters of Elrond and Aragorn, who we will examine in Part 2 and Part 3 of this series). In fact, the characters most preoccupied with calculating decisions to try to produce a certain outcome are Denethor and Saruman. Not exactly models to be emulated. The heroic characters make decisions based on what is right, what is just, and the roles and positions that they play in their communities and societies, regardless of outcomes.

“[A]lthough the virtues are just those qualities which tend to lead to the achievement of a certain class of goods, nonetheless unless we practice them irrespective of whether in any particular set of contingent circumstances they will produce those goods or not, we cannot possess them at all (MacIntyre, 198).”

But isn’t it our duty to try to minimize evil and destruction and maximize good? I think this question shows how deeply utilitarianism has taken root in our society (which I will explore further in Part 3).

In contrast…

•         Sam follows Frodo and sticks with him, because he loves him, but also because he considers him his master (a relationship we do not understand today).

•         Eomer remains completely loyal to Theoden, even when his king is being led astray by Wormtongue, and even to the point of imprisonment. His first act, when released, is to lay his sword at Theoden’s feet.

•         Faramir returns to fight for Osgiliath out of respect and loyalty for his father and commander.

After the battle for Minas Tirith, when Gandalf advises a doomed attack on Mordor, Aragorn says he will go with Gandalf but cannot command the other captains to do so. Their responses are incredibly telling:

“‘As for myself,’ said Eomer, ‘I have little knowledge of these deep matters, but I need it not. This I know, and it is enough, that as my friend Aragorn succored me and my people, so I will aid him when he calls. I will go.’

‘As for me,’ said Imrahil, ‘the Lord Aragorn I hold to be my liege-lord, whether he claim it or no. His wish is to me a command. I will go also (Tolkien, 162).’”

The deciding factor for both of these men was not what they thought of the plan, but what they felt was due to Aragorn.

What we see over and over in LOTR, is characters fulfilling their roles and obligations with honor in the midst of darkness and uncertainty. These roles include the role of king, the role of captain, the role of warrior, but perhaps most importantly, the role of friend.

In fact, ultimately, what wins the day over and over is not strategy, wisdom, or numbers, but friendship, which Aristotle believed to be a crucial virtue (MacIntyre, 155-156).

The friendship of the members of the Fellowship is a deciding factor, again and again, throughout the story. It is a deeply sacrificial friendship, and is a perfect example of a tight-knit community seeking the good together. It is remarkably Aristotelian, as well, in that it was not affection that first drew them together (aside from the hobbits), but commitment to the same good. (Affection followed, of course.)

So much for a general overview of Tolkien’s virtue ethics. The following pieces will focus on particular characters, what drives their decisions, and what we can learn from them. In Part 2 I will take a closer look at Elrond (who often goes unappreciated), bringing in a little bit of Kant and Eleonore Stump. In Part 3 I will examine Aragorn, comparing him to the protagonist of another hugely popular work, contemporaneous with Tolkien, and discussing utilitarianism. We will see where we go from there.

I hope you’ll stick around, because it’s going to be a great deal of fun!

Sources:

MacIntyre, Alasdair. After Virtue. University of Notre Dame Press, 2007.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Return of the King. Random House, 1994.

About the Author

Elisabeth Dawson is an award-winning author of science fiction and fantasy. Raised in the remote mountains of New Guinea, she has lived in California, Florida, the Bahamas, and Brasil. She currently lives in Idaho with her best friend and roommate, drinking lots of tea and learning crochet. She holds a B.A. in Biblical Studies and is currently pursuing a Master’s of Philosophy at Biola University.

www.ebdawson.com

Connect on Twitter

To join the Mythic Mind Fellowship, head over to patreon.com/mythicmind

You can also specifically support this Substack with a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

These days, maps are everywhere. From the nightly weather forecast on the local news to the smart phones that we carry in our pockets, maps have never been more accurate or accessible. But do we ever stop and think more deeply about the maps that surround us? Do we appreciate how lucky we are to have maps at our fingertips?

More than a mundane tool of the digital age, maps deserve some genuine contemplation. In order to show them the respect they deserve, here are ten reasons why you should spend more time looking at maps.

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1. Maps help us get where we want to go

Since navigation is the most basic function of maps, this is the best place to start. With a bird’s eye view of the world, maps help us travel to our desired destinations. Indeed, we’ve come to rely on maps so much that sometimes it can seem like we have forgotten how to drive across town without a GPS. By looking at maps of our own cities, we can become better acquainted with our communities. We can also realize that “able to be seen from space” is meaningless when you can see your mailbox on Google Earth…

2. Maps teach us about the world

Few types of illustrations are as helpful for learning as maps. After all, Napoleon may have been defeated at Waterloo, but what good is that knowledge if you have no idea where “Waterloo” is? Maps bridge the gap between the real world and information in books or reams of data. Any field of knowledge with a geographic component can make use of a map. If you’re curious about the world, looking at maps is an essential part of learning about the planet we call home.

3. Maps make conceptual things real

We’ve covered a couple concrete reasons for looking at maps, but now let’s turn to the philosophical. At first glance, this reason to look at maps might seem strange. How do maps make “unreal” things “real”? Well, consider political maps, with countries and states. There are no big black lines marking borders between territories in the real world. But by drawing borders on maps alongside things that do exist—like mountains, roads, and cities—they can become just as real in our minds.

4. Maps reveal the unknown

In the 21st century, it is easy to think that humans have fully conquered nature. We can fly through the air, dig straight through mountains, and travel far beneath the ocean waves. But maps remind us that, for all our knowledge, we still haven’t figured everything out. Maps have always had blank spaces, incorrect shapes for coastlines, and misaligned locations. Even though there are no more landmasses to discover today, humans are continually improving the quality and precision of our maps. Closer to home, maps show us places that we have never been and invite us to explore. Millennia of development have not removed the aura and the allure of the unknown from maps.

5. Maps reflect history

Although this may seem like a similar reason to maps teaching about the world, maps reflecting history includes the maps themselves, and not just the information they convey. As maps have developed, everything from the materials and colors to the details and place names make maps historical artifacts. Each map is a snapshot of the knowledge and experiences existing at the time it was created. This quality of maps is still familiar to people today, even if we don’t realize it. For example, we use maps to record our personal histories. The sticker maps of the 50 states on many RVs is a good illustration; each new state that is added to the map represents a unique memory.

6. Maps are artistic

Throughout the centuries, maps have not only been tools, but works of art. Mapmaking required not only geographical knowledge, but artistic skill as well. Is there an empty area of ocean? Fill it with a sea monster. Need to fill in space in the corner? A mythological figure will do. Looking at maps allows us to appreciate these great works of art. Of course, the artistic element has largely been removed the digital maps we use today. Yet what satellite maps lack in human artistry is made up for in their display of natural beauty. From towering lines of mountains to the barrenness of the deserts, the earth is the work of a divine Artist.

7. Maps are symbolic

Not many people give thought to what maps symbolize for humanity. Far more than a generic tool, maps carry deep significance in human culture. When we are lost far away from home, we look for a map to guide the way to safety. Hence, maps represent comfort, rescue, and familiarity—especially in the midst of trials. In a different sphere, maps also represent the spirit of discovery and searching out the unknown. Great leaders and explorers carry maps, not to guide them, but so they can fill them in. Looking at—and using—maps draws us into their symbolism.

8. Maps show how humans perceive the world

Throughout history, human conceptions about the world have evolved and varied by culture. Is Atlas bearing the world on his shoulders? Or is it turtles all the way down? Maps reflect how these ideas have changed across times and civilizations. Every society orients its map to show what it considers important. In Medieval Europe, East was placed at the top of the map because this was the direction of Jerusalem. Going back further, the ancient Egyptians put South at the top of their maps because the Nile flows from South to North. Today, our highly detailed satellite maps are a reflection of the empirical age in which we live. Regardless of the time period, maps provide a visual illustration of how human philosophy impacts our perception of the world.

9. Maps remind us of our place in the world

The ninth reason to look at maps is that they remind us of our place in the world. It is easy to get caught up in the motions of everyday life and forget about the rest of humanity. But maps remind us that there are other people and places, and these people can live very differently from ourselves. By looking at maps, we are taught to be focused less on ourselves and to consider the needs of other people—whether they live across our city or across the globe.

10. Maps transport us to other worlds

Humans may be bound to this universe by our bodies, but our minds are free to roam across any world we can imagine. Maps bring these fantasy worlds a little closer to reality by providing a visual depiction of realms which exist in the imagination. Put simply, maps make fantasy reality. Just consider the map of Middle Earth in The Lord of the Rings to see how important maps are to fiction. Tracing the path of the Fellowship away from Rivendell, across the Misty Mountains, and onward to Lothlórien makes it almost feel like a real journey.

From utility to philosophy, maps are more than meets the eye. Everyone can benefit from looking at a map. And it is easy to get started. Instead of scrolling social media in that extra ten minutes between tasks, try scrolling across a map. And from there, the limit to maps is only the human imagination.

So go look at a map—any map. Phone maps, mall maps, road maps. You won’t regret it.

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Judah Bruse is a graduate student from Rapid City, South Dakota. Officially, he received a BA in Humanities from John Witherspoon College and is studying for an MA in American Government online at Regent University. Unofficially, his interests range from aviation to zoology. You can follow his random thoughts on Twitter at @judahbruse.