The Despair of Denethor

“But against the Power that now arises there is no victory.”

In J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Return of the King, the character Denethor serves as the Steward of the city of Gondor, ruling the land and awaiting the return of its rightful king.  He is wise and smart and capable, but falls into bleak despair and, ultimately, a terrible end.

The crux of his painful fate is the palantír, a seeing stone accessible to the Stewards of Gondor.  Denethor initially avails himself of the stone hoping to seek knowledge of the dark lord Sauron: an effort to anticipate his assault and to protect and safeguard the City.  As Denethor’s personal tragedies mount—he loses his wife and then, much later, loses his favored older son Boromir—what he sees in the palantír drives him to abject despair. He views the armies of darkness all around, the capture of the hobbits, and the inevitability of the assault on Gondor

Ultimately, heedless of the counsel of the wise Gandalf the Gray, Denethor—believing that Sauron’s armies are inescapable and his might unstoppable—grabs his seriously-wounded younger son Faramir, climbs onto a pyre with him, and sets it alight.

His son survives and is rescued; Denethor burns alive and dies,

I have always found Denethor’s narrative in the story to be compelling largely because of a critical piece of storytelling: everything he sees in the stone is true.  The dark lord Sauron has amassed an impossibly large army.  The One Ring that Denethor believes could have saved them is in danger of falling back into Sauron’s hands.  More enemies are showing up and sieging the City with every passing moment.

The stone shows the truth.  It does not show the whole truth. 

Sauron’s armies are overwhelming, yes—but the true king of Gondor is on his way to save the City.  His son Faramir has been critically wounded but is not yet lost.  The Ring is almost in Sauron’s hands—but step by tottering step, the hobbits survive their perilous trials and are carrying it to its ultimate destruction. 

Despair emerges from the facts we perceive, and the interventions we cannot yet see.

Despair emerges from the bleak shadow of our fears that what we know is all there is.

Despair emerges from the belief that there is no way out, when the way out comes through providential grace, unexpected mercy, and unprecedented events.

Imagination can sometimes save us from despair; we can, periodically and with God’s grace, see beyond what is to envision what is possible.  But sometimes imagination isn’t enough.  We can’t envision what lies beyond what we perceive as terrible and ruinous; we just have to believe that it’s there anyway.

Despair disarms us, wounds us, renders us helpless. 

Despair says, you are powerless against the dark, and nothing matters.

Faith acknowledges that we are powerless, but that God is powerful, and that therefore anything is possible.  To acknowledge possibility is to destroy despair.  To say there’s a way, even if I can’t see it resists the seductive call of helplessness.

I write this because although despair saturates so much of the current moment, both inside and outside the church, we pay precious little attention to it.  Focused on pet sins, or internecine church battles, or the overwhelming onslaught of darkness on every side, it requires great intention, care, and endurance not to wilt.

Without going into great detail, I’ll say that I am currently in such a situation at work.  A sudden and surprising change has birthed the potential for seemingly bleak changes.  All of a sudden, the values I believe matter most feel that they’ve fallen under attack.  It looks as though terrible people might be rewarded for doing terrible things.

And it’s so easy to assume that’s what will happen.  Look at the world.  Terrible people are out there being rewarded for doing terrible things.  I have very little control over the circumstances around me.  It’s easy to feel like a helpless passenger, to give up hope and to launch the process of “what comes after everything is lost.”

Lately I’ve found great comfort in saying, with absolute no justification for it, “Maybe.  But maybe not.”

Everything I see is true, but it doesn’t mean I see everything that’s true.  Sacramental eyes tell me there is more: the kingdom is at hand here, now.  There is hope even in cisterns, in furnaces, in lion’s jaws.

There is hope when you can’t see it.

There is hope we can’t imagine.

Anything is possible.

Anything is possible.

Hold onto it.  Stay stubborn. Don’t give up.