The Hand of God

                                                                                 THE HAND OF GOD

                                                                                      a short story

                                              “He has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved son….” Col.1:13 (NRSV)   

Father John, pastor at St. Anslem, rises and stands at the podium in the church hall: “Friends, tonight we continue our lectures on ‘Tolkien and Catholicism.’

As you probably all know, our regular presenter is ill, so he has asked a colleague, Dr Randal Burton, professor of Anglo-Saxon studies at the university, to fill in. He will continue with The Fellowship of the Ring, the first book of the Lord of the Rings’ trilogy.

"Not Burton,” I gasp. Tolkien will roll over in his grave,” My leaning chair thumped the wooden floor.

In the Winter Semester I had audited” Modern Poetry” from Burton. One morning he stumbled late into a class on T.S Eliot’s Listing at the lectern, he opened his text and read the opening of the poem:

                                                         April is the cruelest month, breeding      

                                                         Lilacs out of the dead land….

Suddenly, he made a U-turn: “Well, that was true of Eliot undergoing a nervous breakdown in Bern, but what about you. When did you have yours?"

Of course, no one answered; instead, Burton rambled on about Eliot.

But this evening in St. Anslem’s Hall, Burton wears a tweed sports coat, a tie, and grey trousers; a pipe sticks out of his lapel: J.R.R. Tolkien incarnate.

Clutching his water bottle, Burton assumes the podium. “Thank you, Father, for that kind introduction. We all know Tolkien best for Lord of the Rings, movie or book, but much more abounds for the master storyteller.

His adopted British mother Mabel, a Catholic convert and a diabetic long before insulin, put the Tolkien children under the care of a Father Francis Morgan. Despite Morgan’s cajoling, Tolkien, a convert now, married Edith M Bratt, a Protestant.

Not that there’s anything is wrong with that. Why, my wife Gabriel was a Baptist; she’s home simmering over our fight we just had over how Catholic was Tolkien.”

A digression, I think. But watch out, people!

Burton gulps his bottle.  “I don’t know what to do about Gabriel!” he sobs.

Father John rushes to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, we all need a break. See you in fifteen minutes!”

I jump from my seat, grab a strong, black coffee and sit beside Burton muttering, “Trevor, help me.” I did owe him for being a reference into graduate school.

“Ca..cal..call Gabriel,” he stuttered, spilling the hot coffee on my leg.

I whip out my cell phone and punch in a number. “Mrs. Burton, It’s Trevor O’Malley; I had dinner with you and Randal. He just broke down at a lecture in St. Anslem’s Hall. He wants to see you.

“I’m at an anniversary party for Lord of the Rings, but I’m on my way!” she says.

Watching for Gabriel, I give Randal my coffee; as she enters, he quietens.

Clothed in silver-green, Gabriel has long blond hair. A medallion hangs from her neck like an amulet. Her gown touches her sandals.  

But reality breaks In. She glides over to Randal and whispered a name in his ear. I catch only the first syllable: “gold.”

Suddenly he sits up, straightens his tie and addresses his costumed wife: “Goldberry, I’m ready.” He follows me back into the hall still full. As I took my back seat, Dr. Burton grips the podium: “In Lord of Rings Middle-Earth is pre-Christian, but as Tolkien scholar Holly Ordway has said, Tolkien’s Catholic faith still flows through the trilogy like an underground stream.

Let me give you an example. Here is Tolkien’s lyrical description of Goldberry, enchanting companion of woodsman, Tom Bombadi in The Fellowship of the Ring: ‘The sound of her footsteps was like a stream falling gently away downhill over cool stones in the quiet of night.’

Now here is a verse from the Old Testament: ‘The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtle-dove is heard in our land.’ As Tolkien would say, the excerpts begin and end with joy.

Like the morning dew, awe settles on Dr. Burton’s audience: ‘Who can tell me the source of the scripture?’

“Yes?” he says pointing to girl with the black-eyed Susan dress.

“Song of Solomon,” she sings out.

“Correct! Burton affirms.

That example comes through intuition but this volume, indeed the trilogy itself, contains numerous biblical allusions such as Galadriel, a royal elf, assuring Frodo and fellow hobbits about their quest: ‘Good night my friends… Sleep in peace. Do not trouble your hearts overmuch with thought of the road tonight.’

Suddenly Burton’s wife rose and exclaimed: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. John 14:1”

“Yes!” responds Burton, smiling at Gabriel.

Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have entered the steam of faith that anchors one of the most profound and Catholic writers in world literature.

The audience stands, and with a tide of applause thank Dr. Burton who had risen from the ashes of disgrace to touch the very hand of God.   

Bernard Callaghan        

bandscall@eastlink.ca