by Fr. Roderick Vonhögen
An Unexpected Journey
It started with sheep. Lots of them. Rolling hills, green pastures, a scattering of trees—it could’ve been the south of the Netherlands or the English countryside. But this was New Zealand, and I was sitting in a van with no idea where I was headed.
A friend had promised to show me something unforgettable. But what could it be? The van creaked along backroads, through farmland, and finally stopped. We got out and walked through a tree-lined path. And then, there it was—the Shire. I stood staring at the lush, familiar hills of Hobbiton. This was the place that Peter Jackson had chosen to film the opening scenes for his Lord of the Rings saga. It was as though I had stepped into a childhood dream, into the pages of a story that had shaped me.
Tolkien’s world wasn’t just a fantasy. For me, it had always been a refuge. As a child, I was the bookish, awkward kid—always more at home in stories than on the playground. I discovered The Hobbit in my father’s bookshelf, a battered paperback with an odd pink cover and little dwarves sketched on it. I remember wondering, Why is Dad reading a kid’s book? Then I read it, and I couldn’t stop. Tolkien’s world became my sanctuary, a place of courage and wonder when the real world felt harsh.
Standing in the Shire all those years later, I felt that same magic. But this wasn’t just nostalgia. It was a reminder of hope—hope that even when life feels overwhelming, beauty and adventure wait beyond the next hill.
The Apple Trees of Hobbiton
One story our guide shared stuck with me. Years before The Hobbit films were greenlit, Peter Jackson had apple trees planted around the Shire set. Why? Because if the movies were ever made, the trees needed time to grow, making the Shire feel as if it had existed for generations. Planting those trees was an act of faith. No guarantees, no assurances—just hope that one day, those seeds would bear fruit.
Tolkien understood this deeply. His stories emphasize a quiet, persistent kind of hope. Samwise Gamgee exemplifies this when he carries Frodo through Mordor. Frodo himself embarks on a journey he doesn’t fully understand, driven by a faith that somehow his small actions matter. For Tolkien, hope doesn’t come with guarantees—it’s the conviction to press on, trusting that light will eventually break through the darkness.
Hope often begins in small, unseen acts of faith—long before we witness their fruits.
The Hobbit Hole and the Handkerchief
The Shire represents safety, comfort, and home—the place where both Bilbo and Frodo begin their journeys. Yet, to fulfill their callings, they have to leave it behind. Tolkien captures this tension beautifully. Bilbo’s first instinct is to cling to the familiar, to sit by his fireplace with a good book. But deep down, the Tookish part of him longs for adventure.
When Bilbo finally leaves, he does so in a rush. He even forgets his handkerchief, something I think we can all relate to. In the film, a dwarf tears off part of his cloak to hand to the flustered hobbit—a practical solution, but also a poignant moment. Bilbo’s journey is messy, inconvenient, and full of uncertainty. But it’s also transformative.
Standing there at Bag End, I realized how often I’ve been a “Bag-End Bilbo,” reluctant to step out of my comfort zone. And yet, just like Bilbo, when we step into the unknown, we find courage we didn’t know we had. That’s hope in action—taking the first step, even when we feel unprepared.
The Light in the Darkness
Later in my trip, I visited the filming location for Rivendell. I was excited to see the elven sanctuary that had always seemed so magical on screen. But when I arrived, I found…trees. Beautiful, ordinary trees. The arches and elven sculptures were long gone, leaving only a few faded plaques to mark the spot.
At first, I felt disappointed. Then I realized that Rivendell, like the Shire, was never meant to be permanent. It’s a place of rest and renewal, but not a place to stay. Even the elves, for all their grace and wisdom, must eventually leave Middle-earth. As Elrond says, “The time of the Elves is over.”
This impermanence reflects a central theme in Tolkien’s work: the inevitability of change. Rivendell is a reminder that hope isn’t about clinging to the past; it’s about finding the strength to move forward. And the road ahead can get dark and perilous. That is why Galadriel gifts Frodo a phial, containing the light of Eärendil's star. It’s a small, fragile light, but it’s enough to hold back the darkness. And that’s the essence of hope—not grand gestures, but a flicker of light that sustains us.
The Eucatastrophe of Christmas
Tolkien coined the term eucatastrophe to describe the sudden, joyous turn of events that transforms despair into hope. Think of Gollum’s slip that destroys the Ring or the Eagles’ timely arrival to rescue Frodo and Sam. For Tolkien, these moments weren’t contrived—they were acts of grace, reflections of his Catholic faith.
The eucatastrophe of human history, Tolkien believed, is the Nativity. At a time when the world seemed darkest, hope arrived—not as a warrior or king, but as a child in a manger. Like Frodo or Bilbo, Jesus comes not with power but with humility. His birth is surrounded by hardship, yet it marks the beginning of redemption. It’s a reminder that even in the bleakest times, joy can break through.
Carrying Hope Forward
On my last night in New Zealand, I stood under the stars near Queenstown. The sky was breathtaking, free from the haze of city lights. I thought of the Phial of Galadriel, that tiny vial of starlight Frodo carries into the darkness, and of the star that guided the magi to the newborn child in the story of Christmas. Both remind us that even in the deepest shadows, light can guide our way.
As we enter the Christmas season, we are called to carry that same light of hope. It doesn’t have to be grand—sometimes it’s as simple as planting an apple tree, taking the first step on a journey, or offering kindness to someone in need. Tolkien’s stories and the Nativity both teach us this: hope may be fragile, but it is always enough.
So this season, let us carry that light forward, trusting that, like the sun after the Winter Solstice, it will grow a little stronger with each passing day.
Father Roderick
P.S.: this is a summary of a short talk I gave for the Dutch Tolkien Society Unquendor on December 14, 2024. I hope you enjoyed it!
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