Summit Ministries

By J. F. Baldwin

He drew a deep breath. "Well, I'm back," he said.

With these two sentences, J.R.R. Tolkien closes his masterpiece, The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Unlikely words to end an epic that dramatically describes the triumph of good over evil—and still more unlikely when one considers that they are the actions and words of one of the heroes of the story, the one who saw the quest to its end.

After saving the world—not just mankind, but dwarves and hobbits too—it would seem that the hero might have more to say to his sweetheart than, "Well, I'm back." But Sam Gamgee—the hobbit who almost single-handedly willed the destruction of the evil ring that threatened the world—is not your ordinary hero.

More accurately, Sam is far too ordinary to be an "ordinary hero." When men and women (or even hobbits) save the world, they are supposed to be larger than life; they should talk with sweeping hand gestures and cause ordinary villains' knees to quake. Heroes shouldn't be (as Sam is) no more than four feet tall, with exceptionally hairy feet. And yet it is Sam who saves the world.

Not that he doesn't have help. Other brave hobbits pitch in—Frodo and Merry and Pippin—and heroes like Gandalf and Aragorn play significant roles in the quest. But the reader is left with the strangest haunting belief that Sam was the "realest" hero all along. Tolkien encourages this belief by beginning the trilogy with Sam in the shadows (practically off-stage), and slowly turning the spotlight on the little gardener. As the story ends, the spotlight fades not on Frodo or other more likely creatures, but on Sam—an ordinary hobbit in his ordinary home.

In the last issue of New Attitude, we looked at a story that seemed completely devoid of heroes: A Tale of Two Cities. This issue, we are faced with just the opposite: a story with too many heroes. But there are other differences as well.

In A Tale of Two Cities, no one seemed heroic until one man stepped forward and performed the ultimate act of heroism: sacrificing an innocent life to save the guilty. In The Lord of the Rings, acts of heroism abound; every "good" character is a hero at some point in the story. Sometimes the acts of heroism are larger than life, as when Gandalf sacrifices himself to save the rest of the fellowship of the ring. More often, however, the acts of heroism are acts we are tempted to describe as "commonplace": Pippin loyally stands by Frodo, even when he knows it may lead to danger.

Further, in Tolkien's trilogy some creatures act heroically throughout. Sam does not suddenly awake to find himself acting heroically at some late point in the story. Rather, his heroism quietly manifests itself from start to finish. This is in direct contrast to the sudden, unexpected, solitary act of heroism in A Tale of Two Cities.

This contrast is significant. Tolkien and Dickens have created two very different types of heroes. Which is more believable? Do we have an easier time accepting the one-time heroism of Dickens's character, or the "habitual" heroism of Sam Gamgee?

This question is best answered with another question: Would you expect an abortionist to dive into a burning building to save an infant? Or a miser to open his home to the poor? Not likely. Why should we expect someone who has never shown a tendency toward heroism to suddenly act heroically? Why, if someone has never developed the habit of heroism, would they change their ways?

It is much easier to believe a "lifetime hero" choosing to act heroically. Such men and women can make heroism seem effortless, for the same reason that Rich Mullins makes music seem effortless: they work at it, practicing hard every day.

Christians are called to be this type of hero. "When Christ calls a man, He bids him come and die," says Dietrich Bonhoeffer. This does not mean that sometime in the distant, hazy future each Christian will face martyrdom. We are not let off the hook so easily as that.

Rather, Christ expects His followers to sacrifice themselves every day. "If anyone would come after me," He says, "he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me" (Luke 9:23). We don't get to live for ourselves for seventy years and then flame out in one glorious martyrdom—instead we must deny our selfish whims daily.

This denial—this heroism—often may not be dramatic or even interesting. We may be called to serve others in very mundane ways: driving a retiree to the library or cleaning up after a bunch of third graders. The action doesn't matter. The dying to ourselves does. And it matters every day.

Christ, as always, sets the example for His followers. He prepared for His ultimate sacrifice by sacrificing Himself every morning, afternoon and evening—doing everything from feeding 5,000 to washing His disciples' feet. His heroism was extraordinary—but it was built on days and days of "ordinary" self-sacrifice. It is not an exaggeration to say that when He died on the cross, He died out of "habit"—the habitual subjugation of His will to that of His Father's.

In his grudging, unwitting way, Sam Gamgee provides an odd reflection of Christ's habitual heroism. Other characters in Tolkien's trilogy provide reflections of other aspects of Christ's sacrifice, but only Sam humbly sacrifices himself each day.

His heroism begins as soon as the adventure begins. As the unlikely group of hobbits set out, Frodo (Sam's best friend and "master") complains that his pack is too heavy.

"I could take a lot more yet, sir. My packet is quite light," said Sam stoutly and untruthfully.

Sam's action is not (perhaps) comparable to slaying dragons. His self-sacrifice may seem prosaic. But it becomes weighty when his willingness to sacrifice proves ordinary—that is, something he does each day. The sum of his self-sacrifice is greater than each part.

Toward the end of the adventure, Sam and Frodo are rushing desperately across a wasteland. As they bed down for the night, they find themselves in desperate straits.

Sam gave Frodo water and an additional wafer of [food], and he made a pillow of his cloak for his master's head. Frodo was too weary to debate the matter, and Sam did not tell him that he had drunk the last drop of their water, and eaten Sam's share of the food as well as his own.

Again, Sam shows himself willing to sacrifice each day, both in dramatic and mundane ways. Not only does the preceding passage fail to shock the reader—we have actually come to expect such actions of Sam!

And because we have come to expect such heroism of our hairy-toed friend, we are hardly surprised when he is willing to make drastic sacrifices, including sacrificing his life.

Frodo was lying face upward on the ground and the monster was bending over him, so intent upon her victim that she took no heed of Sam and his cries, until he was close at hand. As he rushed up he saw that Frodo was already bound in cords, wound about him from ankle to shoulder, and the monster with her great forelegs was beginning half to lift, half to draw his body away.

On the near side of him lay, gleaming on the ground, his elven-blade, where it had fallen useless from his grasp. Sam did not wait to wonder what was to be done, or whether he was brave, or loyal, or filled with rage. He sprang forward with a yell, and seized his master's sword in his left hand. Then he charged. No onslaught more fierce was ever seen in the savage world of beasts . . .

Why didn't Sam wait to wonder what was to be done? Because he had formed a habit: the habit of heroism. By sacrificing himself in small, prosaic ways every day, Sam became an "ordinary hero"—someone for whom the heroic thing is the ordinary thing to do. Sam didn't have to wonder if he was brave enough or loyal enough, because (though he wouldn't put it this way) he had been brave and loyal all along. He need not search himself for some spark of heroism—he kindled the heroic flame each day.

What a strange little hobbit. What a strange little hero stranded in an epic battle between good and evil. All he does is all we're supposed to do: struggling to stay true to Colossians 3:23. "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord . . ." Whether it's big or small, dramatic or prosaic; die to yourself—each day.
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