Faramir and the Weight of Glory

There's a scene in The Lord of the Rings (the novel, not the movie) that has been on my mind lately. It has no dramatic orc scrimmages or melees with arcane powers, so it’s easily overlooked, but for me it is a very poignant passage. If you recall, Frodo, Sam and Gollum have been wandering the Woods of Ithilien, looking for a path over the Mountains of Shadow and into the Land of Mordor, when Sam and Frodo are intercepted by Faramir and his band or rangers. Gollum, of course escapes and is caught later fishing in the forbidden pool by moonlight.

If that's sufficiently set the scene for you, try to remember the exchange between Faramir and Frodo, after they've brought him to their secret cave and before Sam inadvertently reveals to Faramir that they are bearing the Ring of Doom.

Earlier, Faramir had said in passing that, though he did not know what “Isildur’s Bane” was, he would not take the thing, even if it lay by the highway, not even if “Minas Tirith [were] falling in ruin and [he] alone could save her.” So when Sam later reveals the truth—that Isildur’s Bane is actually the One Ring and that Faramir actually has it within his reach—there's a moment of dramatic tension. Faramir stands up “very tall and stern,” and, though his eyes are glinting, he holds to his earlier word: “We are truth speakers, we men of Gondor. We boast seldom and then perform, or die in the attempt. Not if I found it on the highway would I take it, I said. ... even though I knew not clearly what this thing was when I spoke, I should take those words as a vow...”

Now: throughout this chapter, Faramir is characterized as sombre, wise, discerning and grave, but it’s this moment that reveals his true mettle. Something ancient and other-worldly in his nature shines in him sharply in this hour of testing, the same something that Sam later tries to articulate when he says: “You said my master had an elvish air; and that was good and true. But I can say this: you have an air too, sir, that reminds me of, well, of Gandalf, of wizards.”

Those who know well the mythic world of Middle Earth, will feel the full portent of Faramir’s response: “Maybe you discern from far away the air of Numenor.”

The reason this passage resonates with me so deeply is because I think that in this moment, Faramir is bringing us about close as we can come in fantasy fiction to what the Bible means when it talks about “the glory that is about to be revealed in us.” “Glory,” of course, is a really difficult concept for us to get. This is partly because it has such strong associations with light, which lends itself well to our modern penchant for “dazzle” but makes it difficult for us to imagine what is really in store for us in the age to come. Like C. S. Lewis once wondered—are we supposed to imagine that we’ll spend eternity walking about as living light bulbs?

Of course, in the Bible, glory is brilliant, and I don’t doubt that the Resurrected Jesus was blinding to look upon, but it’s worth remembering that in the ancient Hebrew, the word we translate as “glory”—kabod—literally means “weight.” This is probably why, over in 2 Corinthians 4:17, Paul refers to the eternal “weight” of glory (baros in the Greek) that our “light and momentary troubles" are working out for us.

Glory is as much "heavy" as it is "dazzling," as "weighty" as it is "brilliant."

Which brings us back to Faramir, because it’s not hard to imagine the weight one would feel in this princely man’s presence. In his piercing integrity, in his sombre dignity, in his far-reaching wisdom, in the “air of Numenor” that hangs about him we feel, or are meant to feel, I’m sure, something very heavy: his ears hear more than is said, his heart has deep capacity to feel, his mouth speaks only what he means. And for all this, though it is not blinding, necessarily, to look upon, there is a glory in his character.

I’ve never met a true Prince of Gondor, of course, but to a lesser extent, I have met Christians (not many—I have three men in mind here) whose presence was “weighty.” They cared enough about the truth to look intently past my masks, and to be transparent with their own; they cared enough about love that I knew they would call me honestly on my crap; their laughter rang sincerely and tears came genuinely; they meant what they said and held to their word, and when they acted there was godly intention behind it; and because of all this, it was “heavy”—both pressing but anchoring—to be in their company.

Whatever else “glory” means in the Bible, I hope that when it’s finally fully revealed in us, it will include a good full measure of these things.