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| Thomas M. King's Enchantments: Religion and the Power of the Word |
King contrasts story outcomes with events in the real world, many of which are clearly not meant to be. The world is accordingly less intelligible than a book. A lot of the time, what happens is not what is really meant to occur.
Deep down, we would all like to live in a world in which what is is always what is meant to be, and what happens is always what is meant to transpire. Religion tells us of just such a higher world, up above ours. King puts it this way (p. vi):
Santayana has said, "Another world to live in — whether we expect to ever pass wholly over into it or not — is what we mean by having a religion."
We have a sense of the discrepancy between what actually happens in our world and what is truly meant to be. It is by means of this inbuilt sense that we simply know when a storybook narrative hits the nail squarely on the head ... and when it doesn't.
One of my favorite stories is J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. Hifalutin' critics sniff at it, yet it has entranced millions over the decades since it was published, spawning a triptych of marvelous movies in recent years. Why? Because it tells of the victory of what is meant to be over that which currently is.
What is meant to be is the peace of the Shire, the dwelling-place of hobbits Bilbo Baggins, Frodo, Samwise Gamgee, Merry and Pippin, et al. Indeed, what is meant to be is the harmony of all Middle Earth. What is actually happening in Middle-earth, however, is that a force of evil, represented by the power-mad Sauron, is seeking to control everything, by regaining The One Ring. Sauron's lust for power ruins the peace. All struggles for power are inimical to peace. So the plot of the tale concerns the need to destroy the Ring once and for all, lest it turn its bearer as contentious and power-mad as Sauron.
Evil, by this broad definition, is that which stands in the way of what is meant to be. If what is meant to be is universal harmony and peace, then struggles for absolute power destroy peace and constitute evil. That is the moral logic of The Lord of the Rings.
Is there a heavenly book, a story written by a divine author that inevitably shapes events on earth? Are there things that are simply meant to be? Is there an eternal being whose very words make things so?
Yes and no. What is meant to be — the peace and harmony of the Shire and all Middle-earth, metaphorically — is possible only if there is a King, with us his willing subjects. Then and only then do actual destiny and what is meant to be coincide.
King Aragorn, whose return the destruction of The One Ring enables, is like King Arthur or any other good king. The primary function of a monarch is not so much to rule as to unite. To turn a multiplicity into a unity is what distinguished England's Queen Elizabeth I, whatever her double dealings with rival France or duplicities with Mary Queen of Scots. Our first president, though he eschewed a crown, knew this. How many of us can name a single ideological position or policy initiative of George Washington's? How many think he wasn't, with Lincoln, one of our two greatest presidents?
Making a unity of an internal multiplicity is, for Thomas King, the distinguishing mark of a spirituality, any spirituality. "In this study," he writes (p. 59), "spirituality has been identified as any method that deals with the impulses and moods that act apart from the will." Our impulses, moods, humors, and appetites are the "spirits" that dwell within us. If such psychic forces control us, independent of the will, then the kingly, uniting self can effectively disappear — just as Frodo vanished whenever he put on the Ring. Sauron (or the Devil) can then run rampant.
Religion is a gateway to spirituality. The Christian religion speaks of Christ the King. Christians are told to submit their inner multiplicities of impulse and appetite to taking up and bearing their cross on a daily basis. King describes the earnest attempts of great Christians such as St. Ignatius of Loyola and Thomas Merton to do just this — to become knights-errant of the cross, as it were.
Their noble attempts to escape the World of Sense Experience and live by Word Alone ultimately broke down in failure, though. A bad thing? Not really. In each case, a Dark Night of the Soul betokened the birth of a true spirituality:
Now the knight must create his or her own judgments and a new way of life. Inner spirits (moods and impulses) can no longer simply surrender to words; now the process is reversed: words — if words are involved at all — must arise from the spirits. That is, the impulses and moods must now create a truth, a personal truth. As one proceeds with this awesome task of creating a truth, one gives birth to a new and indescribable self, a self that is not patterned after examples found in a book. It is a self so awesome and personal that it arises on the border between freedom and madness. In the world of time one is confronting an eternal presence, and, though one speaks only to a human friend, one knows one is speaking to the eternal God. One speaks to God as to a friend and to a frriend as God — and one is amazed aat both the Presence one addresses and the self that speaks. (p. 63)
Before Aragorn took up his mantle as king, he was a wandering knight: a Ranger named Strider. He operated under the blessing of otherworldly Elven Folk. He lived by Word Alone. Knights seek justice, but only kings can unify.
In a way, The Lord of the Rings can be read as Aragorn's Night of the Soul, in the course of which he regained the ability to make decisions on his own. The reforging of the shattered ancient sword of kings, Narsil, as Aragorn's sword Andúril symbolized his newfound — rediscovered — sense of personhood, integrity, and authenticity. Then he was ready to tread the Paths of the Dead without fear, and eventually to become King of Gondor.
In so doing, Aragorn found his destiny and made real what was meant to be. Like Ignatius after his own personal or spiritual rebirth, Aragorn "gave primacy to a sort of sure intuition whereby 'the devout soul, without questioning and without desire to question, follows what has been manifested to it' ... a personal and wordless manifestation of God that cannot be generalized" (p. 63).
Aragorn, like other knights-errant, came to "a moment wherein they find a depth in themselves that is so unique that all the guiding principles they have received no longer apply" (p. 64). Aragorn could no longer accept what the Elf-Lord's prophesies held in store for him. They were but words, and now words alone could not decide. Spirit ruled Middle-earth.
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