Easter Eucatastrophe

This month, as we continue to celebrate the seven weeks of Easter, we welcome a guest essay from Eric Wooten, a graduating senior in Course 1 (Civil Engineering) and an editor at MIT’s Christian student journal, et Spiritus!

Sometimes, there are passages of literature that burn themselves into our minds.  It might be for their wit, or their sonority, or any of a number of other reasons.  For me, eucatastrophic moments are especially poignant.  Nothing rings in my ears like the arrival of the Rohirrim to Minas Tirith in The Lord of the Rings.  After a long and loss-filled night for the soldiers of Gondor, the enemy has broken through the gates.  Soldiers flee in terror at the approach of the Captain of Mordor, and only Gandalf stands to oppose him.  The sense of impending doom has been mounting all through the night, and even though Gandalf forbids him entry to the city, it is hard not to tremble before the Nazgûl when he boasts of imminent victory.

Then the Black Captain rose in his stirrups and cried aloud in a dreadful voice, speaking in some forgotten tongue words of power and terror to rend both heart and stone.

Thrice he cried. Thrice the great ram boomed. And suddenly upon the last stroke the Gate of Gondor broke. As if stricken by some blasting spell it burst asunder: there was a flash of searing lightning, and the doors tumbled in riven fragments to the ground.

In rode the Lord of the Nazgûl. A great black shape against the fires beyond he loomed up, grown to a vast menace of despair. In rode the Lord of the Nazgûl, under the archway that no enemy ever yet had passed, and all fled before his face.

All save one. There waiting, silent and still in the space before the Gate, sat Gandalf upon

Shadowfax: Shadowfax who alone among the free horses of the earth endured the terror, unmoving, steadfast as a graven image in Rath Dínen.

'You cannot enter here,' said Gandalf, and the huge shadow halted. 'Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!'

The Black Rider flung back his hood, and behold! he had a kingly crown; and yet upon no head visible was it set. The red fires shone between it and the mantled shoulders vast and dark. From a  mouth unseen there came a deadly laughter.

'Old fool!' he said. 'Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!' And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade.

Already the Witch-King has nearly won.  All fled before his face except for Gandalf.  But we don’t see the seemingly inevitable fight between these giants.  The Black Rider’s upraised sword never issues its deadly stroke.  Night yields to dawn, and dread vanishes in the face of hope.  

Gandalf did not move. And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard of the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn.

And as if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin's sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last.

The horns, echoing across the fields of the Pelennor and into the mountain clefts of Mindolluin, signal the turning of the tides.  Night is passing; the day has come.  And in this battle, that hope inspired by the horns bears fruit in victory.  There are a few more turns before the battle is finally won, but the horns of Rohan are the ones that echo in my memory.  Here is that moment when the heroes seem the hardest pressed, yet endure to see salvation coming with the morn.  Tolkien coined a word to describe this sort of situation--he called it the eucatastrophe, the good unraveling. 

But the battle of the Pelennor fields is not the end of the War of the Ring, and the chief eucatastrophe of the story occurs later, when the One Ring falls into Mount Doom, defeating Sauron forever.  The sudden turn for the better in both of these cases is not guaranteed: by the time Frodo claims the Ring in Mount Doom, the reader has witnessed the deaths of Theoden, Boromir, Denethor, and a host of other named characters.  We had long yearned for the Ring to be destroyed, but when Frodo claimed it as his own, we despaired that it might not be.  It is the palpable risk of failure that gives the eucatastrophe its power, “which pierces you with a joy that brings tears.”[1] 

Tolkien’s works are not allegory – that is, there is no clear, intended symbolism in them – but they do reflect his Christianity.  On their own, the heroes of his stories generally fail, or nearly do: Frodo claims the Ring, Gandalf and Aragorn would be slain at the Morannon if not for Gollum’s accidental destruction of the Ring, and nearly every named character in The Silmarillion dies fighting the great enemy Morgoth.  Elvish lords die for pride, honor, love, and justice, but also of despair and wrath.  On their own, all the Noldor accomplish is the utter ruin of their people against the forces of Morgoth.  In their pride before a tragic battle, their mightiest host proclaims “Utúlie’n aurë!” –  the day has come!  Only years later, when the last, desperate survivors repent of their pride and appeal to the angelic Valar are they saved.  Only when they repent and call on a higher authority are they saved.

This strikes a chord with me, and I suspect it will for every Christian.  On our own, we remain dead in our sin.  Only through Christ can we be saved.  Because of this, the Resurrection is suitably described as the great eucatastrophe of our world, the moment where the dark grip of sin is rolled back, and hope and joy flood in.  That time between the Crucifixion and the Resurrection was surely the darkest moment the world has ever seen – the Son of God was dead.  Divinity had come to earth, and had been spurned.  Satan laughed, and treasures our Lord’s words on the cross to this day: “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani.”  The dust began to settle on the tomb.  But God had not forsaken his Son.  After three days Christ rose again, and now we live in the year of our Lord. 

One more parallel to the Lord of the Rings.  After the Ring is destroyed, Frodo and the hobbits return home to a Shire that has not remained unscathed.  Saruman has uprooted trees, destroyed neighborhoods, and murdered many.  Gandalf has left the hobbits; they are on their own.  And they rise to the occasion, having grown on their journey into noble and powerful lords themselves.  The journey did not end with the defeat of a great evil – the evil at home still remained to be vanquished.  Likewise, Christ has truly defeated death and sin and the devil.  But though that victory is sure, it has not been wholly accomplished yet.  Those who die in Christ are freed by grace from the penalty of our sins, but those sins still plague the earth.  The devil still prowls, and we still die.  We are in the dawn of the universe: night has gone, but full day has not yet arrived.  In the meantime, like the hobbits bolstered by their adventure, we have a part to play in the victory of Christ.  We are to spread the message of His sacrifice and rise and to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with our God.  He has deputized us into his service.  The night has passed, and all who choose can walk in the light.  Truly, utúlie’n aurë!

[1] The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 89