August 12th, 2002

Throughout history, humans have been fascinated by the fantastic. Miracles, heroes, and tales of magic all draw crowds of people, clamoring for an escape from the mundane reality of their everyday existences.

No one can be a poet just because they want to be. To write poetry, just like all the other arts, you have to be meant to--that is, God has to want you to. No one can write poetry--real poetry, mind, that's true and good and at least halfway deserving of the word "beautiful"--without God putting it in them; without Him speaking into their souls every single word.

A number of thoughts have been running through my mind of late, on the subject of J. R. R. Tolkien in relationship to the recent films put out, based upon the first and second books of his trilogy. I would be apt to suppose the dear man in a most wearying state of despondency if I did not believe him to be in Heaven by now. If he is, it is a wondrous mercy, and if not, alas!

“There is no greater love than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend.” Most everyone has heard these words before, I suppose. Indeed the statement has become so familiar to us as to make it hard for us to look deeper to grasp their full meaning.