In a world and at a time when men have discarded the idea of intellectual truth, it is through the soul and in the imagination that they can, and must, be reached.
In a recent address to the Latin Mass Society of England and Wales, Cardinal Raymond Burke called for a return to Summorum Pontificum and greater access to the TLM. He noted that the sacred liturgy is the “highest expression of our life in Christ, and, therefore, true worship cannot but reflect true faith”; and he recalled that, as far back as St. Paul, abuse in the celebration of the Eucharist was “directly related to doctrinal and moral divisions among members of the community.” I would go further and state that the Church’s best hope for her sanctification and evangelization is the TLM.
Why? Because the liturgy expresses fundamental relationship.
[It] is not merely a teacher of truths—it is also a formator of souls. In its richly layered symbolism, dramatic poetry and ritual action, the Mass molds the imagination as much as it enlightens the intellect; one who regularly participates in it learns not only facts or concepts but a distinct way of interacting with God, his fellow man, and indeed all of creation.
That quote is not from Cardinal Burke but from Professor Ben Reinhard’s new book The High Hallow: Tolkien’s Liturgical Imagination. And that brings me to hobbits.
The book gives excellent insight into Tolkien’s Middle Earth mythology and shows that Tolkien’s power and appeal come from his liturgical consciousness, with the right ordering of creation to the Creator. Reinhard argues (and, to me, convincingly) that this is why Tolkien’s works resonate so deeply with so many. It is also the reason why the TLM affects so many so deeply and the Novus Ordo doesn’t—and perhaps even can’t.
For any mythology to “work,”—that is, accurately and convincingly reflect the relationship between a Creator and creation—it must be based on truth and express that truth in ways that intuitively make sense. There must be not only an intellectual truth but an imaginative one as well. The more a mythology corresponds to both the intellectual and imaginative truth, the more “successful”—the more persuasive and fulfilling—that mythology will be.
Catholicism, as an explanation of creation, is a “mythology,” albeit the true one. Tolkien’s Middle Earth legendarium is also a mythology. It is not true in the sense that the creation and creatures in it actually exist, but it is true in the sense that the relationship between that creation and those creatures to their Creator (that is, their liturgy) is accurate. It “works.”
For Tolkien, liturgy meant the TLM. It permeated his life. He memorized it and could quote extensively from liturgical texts, often using them in letters and conversation. It was indeed much, if not all, of who he was. He could not see the world in any other way.
The Silmarillion shows that the most important element of liturgy is the concept of “the cosmic liturgy—the idea that all of creation participates in an endlessly unfolding hymn of praise to the Creator.” The fall of the Edenic island of Númenor occurs because the evil Valar (angel) Sauron corrupts the liturgy, turning it inward to worship Morgoth (the Lord of the Dark). In Middle Earth, a shadow of true worship remains, at least among some elves; but for the rest, with no Revelation, much less Incarnation, no true worship is possible.
As central characters in this war, the hobbits begin as “sheltered, but they had ceased to remember it,” as Aragorn states. They were ignorant of their spiritual benefactors and so had no worship of any kind. To be raised from their complacency, the hobbits had to encounter true religion, which meant contact with the mysterious and the awe-ful. As Reinhard observes, “Very nearly every adventure the hobbits have does this in one way or another.”
As Tolkien himself stated in a letter: “In The Lord of the Rings the conflict is not basically about ‘freedom,’ though that is naturally involved. It is about God and His sole right to divine honor.” Or, as Cardinal Burke said in his address, “Only by observing and honoring God’s right to be known, worshipped, and served as He commands does man find his happiness.”
What does this have to do with the TLM and the Novus Ordo? Tolkien’s appeal is not so much to the intellect—although, as Reinhard argues and I believe, it is intellectually consistent with truth—but to the imagination. In a world and at a time when men have discarded the idea of intellectual truth, it is through the soul and in the imagination that they can, and must, be reached.
Tolkien disliked the changes in the liturgy after Vatican II. Perhaps this was the usual dislike of change in a man of his age at the time. But I believe it was because Tolkien was a man whose whole professional and personal life was so imbued with the power of the imagination that he instinctively saw how the changes would ruin man’s ability to respond to his Creator.
It is difficult, maybe impossible, to reach modern man through the intellect alone. His intellect has been so malformed by the culture and education that arguments rarely work. You must go beyond—or deeper than—intellect. You must go into his heart and soul, that is, his imagination, that realm of symbolism, ritual, ceremony, and gesture—things which we subconsciously yet more powerfully take into ourselves.
It is no good telling modern man that something wonderful or holy is happening during the Mass. His mind has been numbed practically out of existence. He must experience that there is something profound here. You must appeal to his sense of wonder and awe, his sense of the numinous, of something different.
As Reinhard says in his book, the danger for modern man,
is that he is neither pagan nor Christian, but post-Christian; cut off from beauty, significance, and “the wonder of things”.… In place of a world dominated by materialism, mechanization, and an ever-growing thirst for power, [Tolkien] gave us a world defined by wonder and reverence—and sacrifice.
In an age when fewer and fewer Catholics stay with their Faith and more and more people classify themselves as “nones,” this appeal is vital.
This, to me, is the significant difference between the TLM and the Novus Ordo. If you meet modern man “where he is at (sic),” he will stay there. The gravity of modern culture has too much weight. If you give him trendy music, trendy words, trendy vestments, trendy decor, you will get a trendy Catholic. He must be lifted out of himself in some way.
The Novus Ordo does not do this. While still intellectually true, there is little difference between what modern man experiences in the Novus Ordo Mass and what he experiences outside of it. The language is the same, the architecture is the same, the actions are the same, the whole atmosphere is the same—so he stays the same. Because the Novus Ordo uses the language, forms, and approach of the modern world, the Church is fighting the battle on the enemy’s terms.
For modern man to be brought to proper liturgical consciousness, he must encounter “the mysterious and the awe-ful,” just as the hobbits did. That is not how I would describe the Novus Ordo; it is my experience of the TLM.
As with any imaginative experience, it must be repeated for it to sink deeper. I have read The Lord of the Rings several times; each time, I experience something more. I see different truths and have deeper insights. This is because there is so much there. The same is true with the TLM. Your first experience will probably be, as with a first reading of The Lord of the Rings, that this is something foreign, perhaps even something weird; but it is somehow different and even enticing. But a “re-reading” of it, going to it for a month or two, will draw you in.
By doing the same thing, saying the same thing, over and over again, it becomes part of your consciousness, part of your being, as it was with Tolkien. You can’t do that with a Mass which allows a smorgasbord of prayers and responses, made more difficult by impromptu interjections of the priest, choir director, and other “facilitators.” You are too active for anything to sink in.
Tolkien called this elusive power of the imagination “faery.” It is inherent in tradition, and it is why Tolkien saw it as the key to all the pagan myths—and why he saw so many of them as groping for the Truth that was in Catholicism. Without it, any story—including the Gospel—won’t hold us. He said, “‘Faery,’ is as necessary for the health and complete functioning of the Human as is sunlight for the physical health.” Or, as Cardinal Burke put it another way: “The source of difficulties is a loss of knowledge of sacred tradition as the irreplaceable vehicle of transmission of the sacred liturgy.”
Reinhard contends that Tolkien’s great achievement has been to reclaim the imagination of the modern world, calling him “the greatest imaginative evangelist of the twentieth century.” I would concur. If the Church is to reclaim her prowess as an evangelizer, she, too, must reclaim the imagination of man. I don’t know if Cardinal Burke has read Tolkien, but the two of them are on the same page.
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Republished with gracious permission from Crisis Magazine (June 2025).
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The featured image, uploaded by Henry Lithgow, is a photograph of Cardinal Burke in 2023. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
