What makes a king?
Commentary
By the time this issue of Emphasis reaches your desk, we will probably know whether Peter Jackson's film The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, the final installment in his acclaimed cinematic trilogy, has been nominated for and won the Oscar for "Best Picture" of 2003. But as I sit at my desk putting the finishing touches on this article, the North American release of the film is still two days off and the Academy Award nominations are almost a month away. Nevertheless, it seems a safe bet that Jackson will finally get his Oscar, if not for this film alone then (with slight disregard for the rules) for the trilogy taken as a whole.
Jackson's films have launched a virtual Tolkien-industry (to call it a "cottage industry" as some have is to vastly understate its size). A search of "the Lord of the Rings" in only the book section of Amazon.com in mid-December 2003 yielded 1,177 titles, a number of which explored religious themes within Tolkien's work. This subset of books ranges from serious scholarly treatments to popular devotional guides to denunciations of the elements of wizardry and magic in the novels. A recurring debate within some of these books regards which character is the "Christ-figure" of the saga. Is it Frodo, who carries the "one ring" to its destruction at great personal cost and suffering? Is it Samwise Gamgee, who embodies the ideal of servant ministry in his commitment and aid to Frodo during the quest? Or is it Aragorn (the most common choice), who first appears as Strider, the ragged Ranger from the North, but who is revealed to be the long awaited descendant of Isildur and rightful heir to the throne of Gondor and is crowned near the end of The Return of the King? Is it one of these, another, or none?
Interest in moral, ethical, and philosophical aspects of these works has not been a purely Christian endeavor, however. If you concur with the view that Tolkien's purpose in writing the Middle Earth saga was to create a mythology for England to guide it through the Second World War and the Cold War that followed in its aftermath, then you will probably agree that Jackson has crafted the definitive version of that mythology for the global media cultures that now find themselves enmeshed in a "war against terrorism."
Yet I doubt that Jackson was any more sufficiently clairvoyant to have had that as his purpose when he began work on the films years ago than Tolkien was able to foresee the dread horrors of a nuclear age poised on the knife's edge balance of a doctrine of "mutually assured destruction" when the seed of the novels germinated in the sentence he scribbled on an exam book in 1930 or 1931, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit." But sometimes we achieve more than we intend. And therein lies both the promise and, frankly, the peril of The Lord of the Rings films at this cultural moment.
Isaiah 50:4-9a
This scripture lesson incorporates most of the third of four so-called "Servant Songs" from the collection of exilic oracles collected in the book of Isaiah (42:1-9; 49:1-6; 50:4-11; 52:13--53:12). Each of these four oracles concerns a figure (whose identity either as an individual or a community has been the subject of much scholarly debate) called by God to be a servant in the first instance to Israel but ultimately to all peoples (49:6).
Although this servant responds faithfully to God's call, his ministry is consistently met with opposition from others (50:6). In the portion of this song omitted from the lectionary reading (50:9b-11), the servant anticipates a time when these opponents will be subject to judgment. Yet the oracle does not depict this judgment as a direct action either by the servant or by God. Rather, it is a natural outcome of their own actions ("Walk in the flame of your fire, and among the brands that you have kindled!" 50:11b), or perhaps a result of neglecting what they might have received from the servant ("This is what you shall have from my hand: you shall lie down in torment," 50:11c).
The role of servant here relative to the exiled community is to be their teacher. In keeping with the major themes of this portion of Isaiah, this instruction was primarily to serve as a means of comfort rather than harsh correction (50:4b). It is remarkable, then, that the servant's ministry is met by such harsh opposition. No reason for this rejection is provided within this song. Was it because the exiles wanted revenge on their enemies rather than comfort? Pairing this text with Jesus' Passion suggests this as a possibility, but again no reason is given in the oracle itself.
Equally remarkable, at least in terms of normal human reaction, is that the servant is willing to suffer their personal attacks. The reason the servant gives for not retaliating is confidence that God will help and vindicate him (50:7-9a). Perhaps the servant is modeling for the exiles what their response to their own opponents should be. Rather than striking back against them, they should instead trust that God ultimately will vindicate them as well.
Philippians 2:5-11
If the Son of God were to enter the world in human form, what would you expect him to be like? For those of us living in the twenty-first century, there would seem to be two possible answers. Either under the influence of two millennia of Christian tradition we would impose what we already know about Jesus onto that question, or in the absence of that tradition we would probably reject the very idea as ludicrous superstition. For those living in the first-century Mediterranean world, however, neither of those expectations would have been likely. They would not have rejected the idea as ludicrous because their traditions contained many stories of gods either taking human form or fathering human children. Why, Caesar Augustus had taken the very title (among many others) of divi filius, "divine son." But such sons of the gods were conceived after the pattern of Caesar Augustus, not Jesus of Nazareth. If they were in any way "servants," it was because they exercised dominion so as to maintain order.
The "Christ Hymn" preserved here in Philippians stands those first-century notions completely on their heads. Rather than this divine status being something that should be "exploited" for either personal or political gain, Christ instead "emptied himself" of the "form of God" in order to instead take on the "form of a slave" (2:6-7). Rather than exercising dominion, Christ instead "humbled himself" by obedience to God. Rather than using his status to live in luxury being served by others under his command, Christ maintained obedient submission to God even "to the point of death ... on a cross" (2:8).
Yet in a turn that no doubt seemed ludicrous to many in that culture, these actions by Christ become the very path to exaltation. By becoming the servant of all, Christ was given "the name that is above every name" (2:9). By forsaking dominion, Christ receives dominion over all that is "in heaven and on earth and under the earth" (2:10). But even in this exaltation and dominion, the glory continues to be ascribed to "God the Father" rather than the divine Son. "Equality with God" is still something that is not to be "exploited." It is a conception of what makes a "Lord" or a king that, even after two millennia of Christian tradition, remains as foreign to twenty-first-century culture as it was to the first-century world.
Luke 22:14--23:56 or Luke 23:1-49
What are the major differences between the Passion narrative as recounted in the Gospel of Luke as compared to the accounts that are read during the other years of the lectionary cycle? There are of course numerous discrepancies between all four canonical Gospels, some minor and others quite significant, but what are the things that are peculiar to Luke's account that give it its particular character? There seem to be three points in the story where Luke diverges most from his fellow synoptic evangelists, and interestingly in each case issues of political kingship figure prominently.
The first area is initially marked by a minor variation from Mark and Matthew, but the differences become more significant as the narrative progresses. Only Luke reports that the Jewish council formally filed a charge of insurrection when bringing Jesus before the Roman court. That charge was based on three allegations: that Jesus was "perverting our nation" (probably agitating political unrest), "forbidding" the payment of imperial taxes, and claiming to be "a king" using religiously significant language within the Jewish community (Luke 23:2). Although the charge of insurrection is implicit in Pilate's questioning of Jesus in the other Synoptics ("Are you the King of the Jews?" Mark 15:2; Matthew 27:11), Luke reports that Pilate explicitly rejected this specific charge against Jesus on three occasions during the proceedings (Luke 23:4, 14-15, 22). The second of these attempts at dismissal is based upon Herod's interrogation (23:6-12, unique to Luke's account) that likewise found no basis for the allegation. The inherently political quality of the charge for Luke is finally underscored by the statement of the centurion in charge of the execution squad at the moment of Jesus' death: "Certainly this man was innocent" (cf. "Truly this man was God's Son!" Mark 15:39; Matthew 27:54). If Jesus is innocent of the charge of insurrection, then he is not a king after the pattern of the Caesars, or even Herod for that matter.
Second, only Luke recounts a conversation between Jesus and the women of Jerusalem who are mourning already as he is being taken to the execution site (Luke 23:27-31). Luke clearly bases Jesus' instruction to "mourn for yourselves and for your children" rather than for him on his earlier predictions of the coming calamity in the apocalyptic discourse of 21:5-36 (cf. especially 23:31 with 21:29-31). It is hardly incidental that the destruction of Jerusalem and its temple predicted by Jesus in that discourse came to pass roughly within a generation of his crucifixion when Rome crushed a genuine Jewish insurrection against their rule. Jesus was certainly not a collaborationist, but he repeatedly warned of the calamity that would ensue if the people tried to end the oppression of Roman occupation by military uprising. For Luke, the Roman Empire could be transformed by the message of the gospel but not overthrown by crushing its military with even greater military strength.
Finally, while all the canonical Gospels report that two criminals were crucified along with Jesus, only Luke recounts a conversation among the three of them (23:39-43). This conversation makes explicit the contrast between the two possibilities for dealing with the evil and cruelty of which crucifixion was so emblematic. The first of the criminals challenges Jesus to act in accord with the dominant Messianic expectation by saving them from crucifixion, and implicitly from all the oppressions of imperial Rome. The second criminal rebukes the first, but nevertheless believed that Jesus' kingship was in some sense real even as he hung on the cross ("Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom"). Jesus then affirms his understanding by promising, "Today you will be with me in Paradise." Jesus will indeed "come into his kingdom" that very day, but it would not be accomplished by destroying his enemies. Rather, people like that second criminal will join him in his realm through divine mercy and forgiveness.
Application
In adapting over 1,200 pages of novels to even more than 12 hours of film (as the extended versions will run on the special edition DVDs), some things must necessarily be left aside. Jackson's films remained very faithful to Tolkien's novels, but his selections of what to emphasize by what he omitted slightly shifted the center of gravity of the work. At the heart of this mythology both on the page and on film is the absolute conviction that one cannot destroy the destructive power of evil by turning its own destructive means against it. The power of the "one ring" to destroy all others must literally be unmade in order to be undone. To do otherwise would be to fall under its corrupting power. Even the great wizard Gandalf knows that any attempts he might make to use the ring's power against its evil maker, Sauron, would only serve to unleash more of its destructiveness on Middle Earth. That is why the hobbit Frodo embarks on the quest to unmake the ring by casting it into the volcanic abyss where it was forged.
But this is no pacifist manifesto. The quest to bring the "one ring" to Mount Doom in Mordor only succeeds because of the "return of the king" of Gondor, Aragorn, who wages and wins battles against the forces of the dark lord Sauron to provide the time and cover that Frodo needs to bring the ring to the place where it was made. It is these battles, and Frodo's own battles to reach his goal, that Jackson uses to drive the energy of the films. To desire to see good triumph over evil in precisely these ways is an impulse that lies deep within us.
It was also an impulse rooted deep within both the Jewish people who felt oppressed by Rome in the first century and even by the Romans themselves, although obviously in opposing ways. For the Jewish nationalists in Roman Palestine, Caesar and his imperial legions were just as much the embodiment of evil as Sauron and his Orc armies were to the people of Middle Earth. They longed for a king who would come backed by divine power, who would be able to defeat Rome on its own military terms and establish a just political realm. Although not seeing itself as evil, Rome nevertheless would have conceded that it enforced the Pax Romana at the tip of a sword. Any claimants to the throne that threatened that peace were to be crushed by overwhelming power. However each side identified evil, both agreed it had to be destroyed.
But to celebrate such destruction of evil, to delight in the turning of its own destructive means against it, is to risk corruption by the very evil we seek to destroy. The most powerful symbol of this corrupting power in The Lord of the Rings is the character Gollum. In actions and monstrous appearance, he is the very embodiment of the duplicitous destructiveness of evil. But Gollum had begun life as Smeagol, a hobbit like Frodo himself, and been brought to such wretchedness by centuries of possessing the "one ring." Frodo's uncle, Bilbo Baggins, had had opportunity to kill Gollum in the prequel novel, The Hobbit, but had instead taken pity on him and allowed him to live. In an exchange key to the novels, but omitted from the films, Frodo tells Gandalf near the beginning of the quest that he wished Bilbo had killed Gollum. But Gandalf replies, "... the pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many" (The Fellowship of the Ring, 68-69).
As Ralph Wood, in his fine book The Gospel According to Tolkien (WJKP, 2003) notes, " 'The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many' is the only declaration to be repeated in all three volumes of The Lord of the Rings. It is indeed the leitmotiv of Tolkien's epic" (150). And in a way that I will not reveal to those who have yet to read the novels or see the final film, it is the "pity of Bilbo" -- the fact that Gollum still lives -- that literally determines the fate of the quest. In the end, evil is vanquished not because the life of an evil one was taken by a heroic returning king, but because an evil life was spared by an act of pity.
It is at this point that Tolkien's work is its most Christian. What makes Jesus the divine king is precisely what so confounds Pilate's ability to recognize any kingship within him. For Rome, power could be used to build but it was ultimately the ability to destroy one's enemies. For Jesus, power resides in the ability to be a servant for others -- even at the cost of personal suffering to the point of death -- because it is by such acts that both God is glorified and the world is redeemed. Evil is undone rather than destroyed by acting with mercy toward those corrupted by evil even as they turn its destructive force against him. Aragorn is most like Christ the King not because of his success in the battles at Helm's Deep and the Pelennor Fields, but because he is willing to risk almost certain death at the Black Gates of Mordor if it will provide opportunity for Frodo to complete his quest and free the peoples of Middle Earth from the evil shadow of Sauron that is cast over them.
The hope for Middle Earth and for our Earth lies ultimately not in destroying evil, but in undoing it by acts of mercy for those who have been evil's victims and corrupted by its powers. That is the lesson of Tolkien's novels when the stress isn't placed on the battles, and it is the lesson of our scripture lesson of Christ's Passion. God's plan for the redemption of the world depends not upon the divine ability to crush and destroy evil, but on divine pity, mercy, and forgiveness for those who have been crushed and almost destroyed by evil. That is also the deep truth that we need to hear if we are to prevail in a "war against terrorism" rather than be corrupted by it.
An Alternative Application
Isaiah 50:4-9a; Philippians 2:5-11. Both the first lesson and the epistle for Passion Sunday have been identified as "songs" in terms of their formal structures. These songs describe those who are rejected by many in the world but nevertheless are confident God will vindicate them. They have much in common with other songs, both sacred and secular, in that regard. One thinks particularly of African-American spirituals and "the Blues." How does music help us give expression simultaneously to suffering and hope? What other resources are available to us either in the hymnody of the church or the scriptural tradition of the Psalms?
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 31:9-16
Psalm 31 is an eloquent testimony to the grinding force of grief and pain. That is one reason this psalm is so appropriate to be read at the beginning of Passion Week. It is not hard to imagine Jesus experiencing the feelings the psalmist has described for us. Since the Gospels offer us virtually nothing of the inner life of Jesus, his private ruminations, we are forced to rely on others who have known suffering to help us understand and appreciate the inner agony that must have been the Lord's.
The psalm also serves as a sort of blueprint or a map of the process that begins with grief but ends in comfort. For all those who suffer, there is a hopeful message offered here that what begins in lonely agony can end with a sense of peace and the assurance of God's presence. For those who are themselves at the beginning of a journey of pain that hope can become an important source of encouragement.
There is great sermonic value in approaching the psalm in these two ways. First we kindle the imagination and allow the psalmist to help us understand Jesus' suffering. Then, we move directly from Jesus' agony to our own as we allow the words of the psalmist to trace the path of our own suffering.
In pulling these two themes together we are able to establish a basis for beginning to understand what Paul meant when he wrote about "sharing in the sufferings of Christ" (Philippians 3:10) and when he wrote, "I am completing what is lacking in Christ's afflictions" (Colossians 1:24).
In other words, this psalm allows us to be drawn into the passion narrative. Jesus not only suffers for us, but also with us and us with him. And just as his sufferings are redemptive, so ours may be as well.
Obviously we must take care at this point. This is not an invitation to martyrdom or for injury to be inflicted on the self in search of some greater glory. The idea is not to induce suffering, but rather to offer meaning and hope in the face of suffering that is already at work.
The psalmist gives us words that allow us to express the depths of our pain: "My eye wastes away from grief ... My life is spent with sorrow ... my bones waste away ... I have become like a broken vessel" (vv. 9-12). The psalmist also gives us words that direct us towards our comfort: "Be gracious to me, O Lord ... I trust in you ... My times are in your hand ... Let your face shine upon your servant ... save me in your steadfast love" (vv. 9, 14-16).
But it is the gospel that gives our suffering meaning. Our pain is part of the suffering that God does for us and with us. In the heart of God there is a cross that is filled with the agonies of human suffering. Out of that pain flows a torrent of gracious love that sweeps away our sinfulness and makes possible a life of purpose and dignity.
Our sufferings are part of that. Whether our pain is psychological or physical, whether it comes from our actions or the acts of others, whether our pain has an understandable cause or exists in us as a mystery, the meaning of it is found in the cross of Christ. It is there that we will be able to say with the psalmist, "Save me in your steadfast love."
Jackson's films have launched a virtual Tolkien-industry (to call it a "cottage industry" as some have is to vastly understate its size). A search of "the Lord of the Rings" in only the book section of Amazon.com in mid-December 2003 yielded 1,177 titles, a number of which explored religious themes within Tolkien's work. This subset of books ranges from serious scholarly treatments to popular devotional guides to denunciations of the elements of wizardry and magic in the novels. A recurring debate within some of these books regards which character is the "Christ-figure" of the saga. Is it Frodo, who carries the "one ring" to its destruction at great personal cost and suffering? Is it Samwise Gamgee, who embodies the ideal of servant ministry in his commitment and aid to Frodo during the quest? Or is it Aragorn (the most common choice), who first appears as Strider, the ragged Ranger from the North, but who is revealed to be the long awaited descendant of Isildur and rightful heir to the throne of Gondor and is crowned near the end of The Return of the King? Is it one of these, another, or none?
Interest in moral, ethical, and philosophical aspects of these works has not been a purely Christian endeavor, however. If you concur with the view that Tolkien's purpose in writing the Middle Earth saga was to create a mythology for England to guide it through the Second World War and the Cold War that followed in its aftermath, then you will probably agree that Jackson has crafted the definitive version of that mythology for the global media cultures that now find themselves enmeshed in a "war against terrorism."
Yet I doubt that Jackson was any more sufficiently clairvoyant to have had that as his purpose when he began work on the films years ago than Tolkien was able to foresee the dread horrors of a nuclear age poised on the knife's edge balance of a doctrine of "mutually assured destruction" when the seed of the novels germinated in the sentence he scribbled on an exam book in 1930 or 1931, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit." But sometimes we achieve more than we intend. And therein lies both the promise and, frankly, the peril of The Lord of the Rings films at this cultural moment.
Isaiah 50:4-9a
This scripture lesson incorporates most of the third of four so-called "Servant Songs" from the collection of exilic oracles collected in the book of Isaiah (42:1-9; 49:1-6; 50:4-11; 52:13--53:12). Each of these four oracles concerns a figure (whose identity either as an individual or a community has been the subject of much scholarly debate) called by God to be a servant in the first instance to Israel but ultimately to all peoples (49:6).
Although this servant responds faithfully to God's call, his ministry is consistently met with opposition from others (50:6). In the portion of this song omitted from the lectionary reading (50:9b-11), the servant anticipates a time when these opponents will be subject to judgment. Yet the oracle does not depict this judgment as a direct action either by the servant or by God. Rather, it is a natural outcome of their own actions ("Walk in the flame of your fire, and among the brands that you have kindled!" 50:11b), or perhaps a result of neglecting what they might have received from the servant ("This is what you shall have from my hand: you shall lie down in torment," 50:11c).
The role of servant here relative to the exiled community is to be their teacher. In keeping with the major themes of this portion of Isaiah, this instruction was primarily to serve as a means of comfort rather than harsh correction (50:4b). It is remarkable, then, that the servant's ministry is met by such harsh opposition. No reason for this rejection is provided within this song. Was it because the exiles wanted revenge on their enemies rather than comfort? Pairing this text with Jesus' Passion suggests this as a possibility, but again no reason is given in the oracle itself.
Equally remarkable, at least in terms of normal human reaction, is that the servant is willing to suffer their personal attacks. The reason the servant gives for not retaliating is confidence that God will help and vindicate him (50:7-9a). Perhaps the servant is modeling for the exiles what their response to their own opponents should be. Rather than striking back against them, they should instead trust that God ultimately will vindicate them as well.
Philippians 2:5-11
If the Son of God were to enter the world in human form, what would you expect him to be like? For those of us living in the twenty-first century, there would seem to be two possible answers. Either under the influence of two millennia of Christian tradition we would impose what we already know about Jesus onto that question, or in the absence of that tradition we would probably reject the very idea as ludicrous superstition. For those living in the first-century Mediterranean world, however, neither of those expectations would have been likely. They would not have rejected the idea as ludicrous because their traditions contained many stories of gods either taking human form or fathering human children. Why, Caesar Augustus had taken the very title (among many others) of divi filius, "divine son." But such sons of the gods were conceived after the pattern of Caesar Augustus, not Jesus of Nazareth. If they were in any way "servants," it was because they exercised dominion so as to maintain order.
The "Christ Hymn" preserved here in Philippians stands those first-century notions completely on their heads. Rather than this divine status being something that should be "exploited" for either personal or political gain, Christ instead "emptied himself" of the "form of God" in order to instead take on the "form of a slave" (2:6-7). Rather than exercising dominion, Christ instead "humbled himself" by obedience to God. Rather than using his status to live in luxury being served by others under his command, Christ maintained obedient submission to God even "to the point of death ... on a cross" (2:8).
Yet in a turn that no doubt seemed ludicrous to many in that culture, these actions by Christ become the very path to exaltation. By becoming the servant of all, Christ was given "the name that is above every name" (2:9). By forsaking dominion, Christ receives dominion over all that is "in heaven and on earth and under the earth" (2:10). But even in this exaltation and dominion, the glory continues to be ascribed to "God the Father" rather than the divine Son. "Equality with God" is still something that is not to be "exploited." It is a conception of what makes a "Lord" or a king that, even after two millennia of Christian tradition, remains as foreign to twenty-first-century culture as it was to the first-century world.
Luke 22:14--23:56 or Luke 23:1-49
What are the major differences between the Passion narrative as recounted in the Gospel of Luke as compared to the accounts that are read during the other years of the lectionary cycle? There are of course numerous discrepancies between all four canonical Gospels, some minor and others quite significant, but what are the things that are peculiar to Luke's account that give it its particular character? There seem to be three points in the story where Luke diverges most from his fellow synoptic evangelists, and interestingly in each case issues of political kingship figure prominently.
The first area is initially marked by a minor variation from Mark and Matthew, but the differences become more significant as the narrative progresses. Only Luke reports that the Jewish council formally filed a charge of insurrection when bringing Jesus before the Roman court. That charge was based on three allegations: that Jesus was "perverting our nation" (probably agitating political unrest), "forbidding" the payment of imperial taxes, and claiming to be "a king" using religiously significant language within the Jewish community (Luke 23:2). Although the charge of insurrection is implicit in Pilate's questioning of Jesus in the other Synoptics ("Are you the King of the Jews?" Mark 15:2; Matthew 27:11), Luke reports that Pilate explicitly rejected this specific charge against Jesus on three occasions during the proceedings (Luke 23:4, 14-15, 22). The second of these attempts at dismissal is based upon Herod's interrogation (23:6-12, unique to Luke's account) that likewise found no basis for the allegation. The inherently political quality of the charge for Luke is finally underscored by the statement of the centurion in charge of the execution squad at the moment of Jesus' death: "Certainly this man was innocent" (cf. "Truly this man was God's Son!" Mark 15:39; Matthew 27:54). If Jesus is innocent of the charge of insurrection, then he is not a king after the pattern of the Caesars, or even Herod for that matter.
Second, only Luke recounts a conversation between Jesus and the women of Jerusalem who are mourning already as he is being taken to the execution site (Luke 23:27-31). Luke clearly bases Jesus' instruction to "mourn for yourselves and for your children" rather than for him on his earlier predictions of the coming calamity in the apocalyptic discourse of 21:5-36 (cf. especially 23:31 with 21:29-31). It is hardly incidental that the destruction of Jerusalem and its temple predicted by Jesus in that discourse came to pass roughly within a generation of his crucifixion when Rome crushed a genuine Jewish insurrection against their rule. Jesus was certainly not a collaborationist, but he repeatedly warned of the calamity that would ensue if the people tried to end the oppression of Roman occupation by military uprising. For Luke, the Roman Empire could be transformed by the message of the gospel but not overthrown by crushing its military with even greater military strength.
Finally, while all the canonical Gospels report that two criminals were crucified along with Jesus, only Luke recounts a conversation among the three of them (23:39-43). This conversation makes explicit the contrast between the two possibilities for dealing with the evil and cruelty of which crucifixion was so emblematic. The first of the criminals challenges Jesus to act in accord with the dominant Messianic expectation by saving them from crucifixion, and implicitly from all the oppressions of imperial Rome. The second criminal rebukes the first, but nevertheless believed that Jesus' kingship was in some sense real even as he hung on the cross ("Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom"). Jesus then affirms his understanding by promising, "Today you will be with me in Paradise." Jesus will indeed "come into his kingdom" that very day, but it would not be accomplished by destroying his enemies. Rather, people like that second criminal will join him in his realm through divine mercy and forgiveness.
Application
In adapting over 1,200 pages of novels to even more than 12 hours of film (as the extended versions will run on the special edition DVDs), some things must necessarily be left aside. Jackson's films remained very faithful to Tolkien's novels, but his selections of what to emphasize by what he omitted slightly shifted the center of gravity of the work. At the heart of this mythology both on the page and on film is the absolute conviction that one cannot destroy the destructive power of evil by turning its own destructive means against it. The power of the "one ring" to destroy all others must literally be unmade in order to be undone. To do otherwise would be to fall under its corrupting power. Even the great wizard Gandalf knows that any attempts he might make to use the ring's power against its evil maker, Sauron, would only serve to unleash more of its destructiveness on Middle Earth. That is why the hobbit Frodo embarks on the quest to unmake the ring by casting it into the volcanic abyss where it was forged.
But this is no pacifist manifesto. The quest to bring the "one ring" to Mount Doom in Mordor only succeeds because of the "return of the king" of Gondor, Aragorn, who wages and wins battles against the forces of the dark lord Sauron to provide the time and cover that Frodo needs to bring the ring to the place where it was made. It is these battles, and Frodo's own battles to reach his goal, that Jackson uses to drive the energy of the films. To desire to see good triumph over evil in precisely these ways is an impulse that lies deep within us.
It was also an impulse rooted deep within both the Jewish people who felt oppressed by Rome in the first century and even by the Romans themselves, although obviously in opposing ways. For the Jewish nationalists in Roman Palestine, Caesar and his imperial legions were just as much the embodiment of evil as Sauron and his Orc armies were to the people of Middle Earth. They longed for a king who would come backed by divine power, who would be able to defeat Rome on its own military terms and establish a just political realm. Although not seeing itself as evil, Rome nevertheless would have conceded that it enforced the Pax Romana at the tip of a sword. Any claimants to the throne that threatened that peace were to be crushed by overwhelming power. However each side identified evil, both agreed it had to be destroyed.
But to celebrate such destruction of evil, to delight in the turning of its own destructive means against it, is to risk corruption by the very evil we seek to destroy. The most powerful symbol of this corrupting power in The Lord of the Rings is the character Gollum. In actions and monstrous appearance, he is the very embodiment of the duplicitous destructiveness of evil. But Gollum had begun life as Smeagol, a hobbit like Frodo himself, and been brought to such wretchedness by centuries of possessing the "one ring." Frodo's uncle, Bilbo Baggins, had had opportunity to kill Gollum in the prequel novel, The Hobbit, but had instead taken pity on him and allowed him to live. In an exchange key to the novels, but omitted from the films, Frodo tells Gandalf near the beginning of the quest that he wished Bilbo had killed Gollum. But Gandalf replies, "... the pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many" (The Fellowship of the Ring, 68-69).
As Ralph Wood, in his fine book The Gospel According to Tolkien (WJKP, 2003) notes, " 'The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many' is the only declaration to be repeated in all three volumes of The Lord of the Rings. It is indeed the leitmotiv of Tolkien's epic" (150). And in a way that I will not reveal to those who have yet to read the novels or see the final film, it is the "pity of Bilbo" -- the fact that Gollum still lives -- that literally determines the fate of the quest. In the end, evil is vanquished not because the life of an evil one was taken by a heroic returning king, but because an evil life was spared by an act of pity.
It is at this point that Tolkien's work is its most Christian. What makes Jesus the divine king is precisely what so confounds Pilate's ability to recognize any kingship within him. For Rome, power could be used to build but it was ultimately the ability to destroy one's enemies. For Jesus, power resides in the ability to be a servant for others -- even at the cost of personal suffering to the point of death -- because it is by such acts that both God is glorified and the world is redeemed. Evil is undone rather than destroyed by acting with mercy toward those corrupted by evil even as they turn its destructive force against him. Aragorn is most like Christ the King not because of his success in the battles at Helm's Deep and the Pelennor Fields, but because he is willing to risk almost certain death at the Black Gates of Mordor if it will provide opportunity for Frodo to complete his quest and free the peoples of Middle Earth from the evil shadow of Sauron that is cast over them.
The hope for Middle Earth and for our Earth lies ultimately not in destroying evil, but in undoing it by acts of mercy for those who have been evil's victims and corrupted by its powers. That is the lesson of Tolkien's novels when the stress isn't placed on the battles, and it is the lesson of our scripture lesson of Christ's Passion. God's plan for the redemption of the world depends not upon the divine ability to crush and destroy evil, but on divine pity, mercy, and forgiveness for those who have been crushed and almost destroyed by evil. That is also the deep truth that we need to hear if we are to prevail in a "war against terrorism" rather than be corrupted by it.
An Alternative Application
Isaiah 50:4-9a; Philippians 2:5-11. Both the first lesson and the epistle for Passion Sunday have been identified as "songs" in terms of their formal structures. These songs describe those who are rejected by many in the world but nevertheless are confident God will vindicate them. They have much in common with other songs, both sacred and secular, in that regard. One thinks particularly of African-American spirituals and "the Blues." How does music help us give expression simultaneously to suffering and hope? What other resources are available to us either in the hymnody of the church or the scriptural tradition of the Psalms?
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 31:9-16
Psalm 31 is an eloquent testimony to the grinding force of grief and pain. That is one reason this psalm is so appropriate to be read at the beginning of Passion Week. It is not hard to imagine Jesus experiencing the feelings the psalmist has described for us. Since the Gospels offer us virtually nothing of the inner life of Jesus, his private ruminations, we are forced to rely on others who have known suffering to help us understand and appreciate the inner agony that must have been the Lord's.
The psalm also serves as a sort of blueprint or a map of the process that begins with grief but ends in comfort. For all those who suffer, there is a hopeful message offered here that what begins in lonely agony can end with a sense of peace and the assurance of God's presence. For those who are themselves at the beginning of a journey of pain that hope can become an important source of encouragement.
There is great sermonic value in approaching the psalm in these two ways. First we kindle the imagination and allow the psalmist to help us understand Jesus' suffering. Then, we move directly from Jesus' agony to our own as we allow the words of the psalmist to trace the path of our own suffering.
In pulling these two themes together we are able to establish a basis for beginning to understand what Paul meant when he wrote about "sharing in the sufferings of Christ" (Philippians 3:10) and when he wrote, "I am completing what is lacking in Christ's afflictions" (Colossians 1:24).
In other words, this psalm allows us to be drawn into the passion narrative. Jesus not only suffers for us, but also with us and us with him. And just as his sufferings are redemptive, so ours may be as well.
Obviously we must take care at this point. This is not an invitation to martyrdom or for injury to be inflicted on the self in search of some greater glory. The idea is not to induce suffering, but rather to offer meaning and hope in the face of suffering that is already at work.
The psalmist gives us words that allow us to express the depths of our pain: "My eye wastes away from grief ... My life is spent with sorrow ... my bones waste away ... I have become like a broken vessel" (vv. 9-12). The psalmist also gives us words that direct us towards our comfort: "Be gracious to me, O Lord ... I trust in you ... My times are in your hand ... Let your face shine upon your servant ... save me in your steadfast love" (vv. 9, 14-16).
But it is the gospel that gives our suffering meaning. Our pain is part of the suffering that God does for us and with us. In the heart of God there is a cross that is filled with the agonies of human suffering. Out of that pain flows a torrent of gracious love that sweeps away our sinfulness and makes possible a life of purpose and dignity.
Our sufferings are part of that. Whether our pain is psychological or physical, whether it comes from our actions or the acts of others, whether our pain has an understandable cause or exists in us as a mystery, the meaning of it is found in the cross of Christ. It is there that we will be able to say with the psalmist, "Save me in your steadfast love."
