Who protected the borders of the Shire? The hobbits were blissfully unaware of who they should thank for the long peace of their land. For many centuries, they lived happily in the Shire, never realizing what terrible creatures roamed just beyond their borders.
Aragorn said:
âLittle do they know of our long labour for the safekeeping of their borders, and yet I grudge it notââŠâ
The Shireâs frontiers were carefully watched by Gandalf and by the Rangers of the North, the remnant of the DĂșnedain. They held the darkness at bay, while the hobbits remained completely oblivious to the dangers lurking beyond their green pastures.
One of the most mysterious passages in the Bibleâ2 Thessalonians 2:7âtalks about âthe mystery of lawlessness that is already at work, and the one who now holds it back will continue to do so till he is taken out of the way.â
Someone is holding back spiritual darkness this very minute. We donât know who they are. They are skillful with their spiritual blade, and until they are there, chthonic monsters are kept at bay. We sip our coffee, walk in the park, enjoy the sunset, laugh with friends, watch the news, and think that the fates of the world are decided by the politicians.
They are not. The earth is preserved not by might but by salt. How much salt is needed for the earth not to spoil? Not much. A few grains. Even one blessed man may well be enough. Once, Abraham was bargaining with God about the fate of Sodom. He asked if the city would be spared for the sake of fifty righteous men. God said yes.
Abraham kept bargaining: Forty-five? Forty? Thirty? Twenty? Ten? Each time God said âyes.â Eventually, God sent his angels to rescue the last oneâLot. One grain of salt is enough to keep spiritual darkness at bay. Until that one is taken out of the way, all is well.
When chthonic monsters appear at our borders, it is a sure sign that too few Guardians remain. If the Shire is still lush and green, it must be because of Rangers still standing watch at the edges of the land. Rangers are invisible, unrecognized. When we do see them, we scarcely take noticeâthey look ragged, forlorn, and forgotten.
And who can tell? Maybe the good earth itself endures only because of one old man hidden away in the heart of New York, Moscow, or Beijing. Such is divine irony (from the Greek eironeĂaâto âfeign ignorance,â or to âplay the foolâ). We imagine that the peace of the world is preserved in the corridors of power, yet in truth, it may be upheld in a lonely hut somewhere deep in the Siberian taiga.
Chthonic monsters are not afraid of politicians or earthly power. They fear salt and lightâthose who wield the razor-sharp blade of the Spirit and drive them back by their very presence. Divine irony is inscrutable: it would utterly shatter us if, even for a second, we could glimpse the ones for whose sake the sun still rises over the horizon.
The Rangers of the North walk among us unnoticedâunshaven, weary, cloaked in dust. We, the hobbits of the world, laugh at them or dismiss them, never suspecting that our own laughter still rings because someone, somewhere, wields a power beyond our comprehension.
The true balance of the cosmos is preserved not by kings, but by rejected fools who carry the divine breath in their lungs. Their songs may be too quiet for us to hear, and yet strong enough to hold back chthonic monsters until the first gleam of Dawn.
