Sam and Frodo’s journey through Mordor is rough reading: a lot of labored walking, overlaid with descriptions of desolation, fatigue, hunger, thirst, and dread. They are marching deeper and deeper into hell, only without the spectacle that Dante saw, just bleakness. It’s no small achievement that Tolkien manages to make these parts still readable, even while making the reader feel the Hobbits’ torment.
On this most recent reading, I was struck by how many times the word hope appears in Tolkien’s saga. The books are an extended meditation on this virtue, which is put to the ultimate test as the Hobbits come nearer and nearer to finishing their mission.
I don’t think I understood what hope actually meant until this reading. I’ve noted elsewhere that the language of human flourishing has been thoroughly degraded: in modern usage the virtues start to sound not just beside-the-point, but actively lame—prudence, meekness, humility, justice, temperance, etc. And that degradation seems purposeful. When you corrupt these words, you effectively remove those fixed stars in the sky and leave people to wander mostly aimlessly. We become the product of our temperament and circumstances, rather than any time-tested aspiration. One can see why this is useful to our enemies.
A similar fate came for hope: it turned Hallmarky, associated with optimism and a “positive attitude” and sentimental movies.
What does hope actually mean? In one of the most important lines in the books, Gandalf offers an implied commentary on this virtue by highlighting its opposite: “Despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not.” He could have added that despair is for those who presume to see the end beyond all doubt. To actually see the future requires godlike vision, which we mortals do not possess—so despair is an act of presumption.
Denethor embodies this vice. He is 100% convinced that Sauron has attained the ring and all hope is now lost. It’s over. It has never been more over. The only thing to do now is die on your own terms, unless you want to be a slave. Not even the “We are so back” moment of Théoden’s arrival at the battle can convince Denethor to fight on. He is so far gone that he even means to take his son to the grave with him.
Just as despair is a sin of presumption, hope is an act of humility. As long as you don’t know for certain how things will turn out, you press on just in case things might turn your way. You press on because you do not know for certain. This is the essence of hope.
Samwise’s hope and humility—his capacity for continuing forward—contrasts with Denethor’s despair and presumption. It’s not that Sam has no doubt. He has plenty. It dawns on him that even if they achieve their mission of destroying the ring—a very big if—they won’t have enough food and water to make it back out of Mordor. A voice in his head, sounding a lot like Denethor, encourages him to despair: “Don’t be a fool, Sam Gamgee … It’s all quite useless. [Frodo] said so himself. You are the fool, going on hoping and toiling … You might just as well lie down now and give it up.” Sam simply tells the voice to shut up.
The narrator elaborates on what happens in the heart of a hopeful man faced with impossible odds:
But even as hope died in Sam, or seemed to die, it was turned to a new strength. Sam’s plain hobbit-face grew stern, almost grim, as the will hardened in him, and he felt through all his limbs a thrill, as if he was turning into some creature of stone and steel that neither despair nor weariness nor endless barren miles could subdue.
There’s more to say about the virtue of hope—Joseph Pieper’s commentary in Faith Hope Love makes for compelling reading—but ultimately hope is a simple virtue which doesn’t require much scholarly analysis. You show hope by just going forward, in spite of all the reasons not to.
Hope on the March
Several key things happen in the most difficult part of the journey, which might be helpful to remember in our own trials.
1) When forward motion becomes most difficult, Sam decides to lighten the load. He lets go of everything that’s not necessary for the journey. This is not easy. The items are dear to him, “if only because he had borne them so far with so much toil.” But it’s time to leave them behind, even his precious cooking gear. All that remains in Sam’s pack afterwards is the elven rope, the water bottle, and the scant remnants of waybread (along with Galadriel’s phial and the little box in a pocket of his tunic, and Sting on his waist).
That’s not to condemn possessions, but simply to note the obvious fact that they have weight—and the crucial moments of life might require us to travel light, physically, spiritually, emotionally. Hope is fed when one gets rid of unnecessary burdens.
2) Speaking of feeding, the Hobbits also take a serving of the lembas bread on this final stretch. Tolkien’s description is telling:
The lembas had a virtue without which they would long ago have lain down to die. It did not satisfy desire, and at times Sam’s mind was filled with the memories of food, and the longing for simple bread and meats. And yet this waybread of the Elves had a potency that increased as travellers relied on it alone and did not mingle it with other foods. It fed the will, and it gave strength to endure, and to master sinew and limb beyond the measure of mortal kind.
Roman Catholics will recognize much of this language. It evokes the Eucharist. One would do well to approach the altar in such times. It will sustain hope and give strength to endure.
3) Finally, when Frodo can go no further, Sam utters his iconic line and throws his master over his shoulder. “Come, Mr. Frodo. I can’t carry it for you, but I can you and it as well.” This is a bold move—to take on other people’s weight during these desperate times—and something unexpected happens in the process:
As Frodo clung upon his back, arms loosely about his neck, legs clasped firmly under his arms, Sam staggered to his feet; and then to his amazement he felt the burden light. He had feared that he would have barely strength to lift his master alone, and beyond that he had expected to share in the dreadful dragging weight of the accursed Ring. But it was not so. Whether because Frodo was so worn by his long pains, wound of knife, and venomous sting, and arrow, fear, and homeless wandering, or because some gift of final strength was given to him, Sam lifted Frodo with no more difficulty than if he were carrying a hobbit-child pig-a-back in some romp on the lawns or hayfields of the Shire. He took a deep breath and started off.
So Sam carries Frodo up the mountain. And when he finally puts Frodo down, he “was amazed to see how far his last effort had brought him.” The mountain, interestingly, is not as tall as it had once appeared—which says something about the challenges that we might despair of achieving.
Though it must be the case that Frodo has lost some weight, it’s hardly a satisfying explanation for Sam's feat. Sam had been spent. He had hardly eaten in days, giving much of his provisions to Frodo, nor had he had much water. The latter explanation holds more power: “some gift of final strength was given to him.” And the sheer surprise of it gives him an added spiritual boon. This scene recalls the commandment of Jesus in Matthew 11:29-30: “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly of heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
To put others on your back is to discover mysterious strength, which again should fuel hope.
Conclusion
Two big surprises then greet the Hobbits as they reach the very limit of what they can endure: 1) Gollum shows up to provide unintended support, helping Frodo dispose of the Ring, and 2) Gandalf and the eagles arrive to give them a ride out of Mordor. These surprises are the hand of Providence—and it is only because the Hobbits had persevered that Providence will have any effect. Hope is not just an attitude, a sunny disposition—it is the active commitment to opening the possibilities. Providence depends on hope. This is another way of saying God helps those who keep moving forward and who give him a chance.
Thank you for reading. If you enjoy this newsletter, you’ll like my book.
The movie about Tolkien has a scene in the deeply shelled wasteland of the Western Front where he is lifted by his comrade out of a watery pit of despair and carried toward life. The parallel is evident.
Fantastic read, and very well timed. I happened to read it after this mornings rosary, and one of my primary meditations was on the idea of hope. I thought I had reached some satisfactory insight and was happy with myself, but this added some much needed clarity and nuance to my thoughts on the matter; and this will no doubt add greatly to my day. So thank you.