S1: Theology and Imagination

E4: Redeeming the Mojo of Language

On a good day, a Dwarf may say thorok lakh (good day), especially if he has a belly full of broth and a pocket enriched with gold. If an Elf caught you talking to a Dwarf, he would probably snarl kela (go away) while reaching for his bow. Running from the Elf, you may find escape in a nearby forest. If so, you would doubtlessly encounter the Ents. Though trees have no language of their own, the old oaks, firs, and willows may mumble something like burarun (the noise for disgust) at the Elves for being such bullies.

At no point must you engage the Orcs. One sight of your fresh meat will assuredly make them cry out mirdautas gajupat (it’s a good day to hunt). After their cry had reverberated to all points of the compass, nothing short of a horrid horde would gather. You are the main entre, and Orcs remain consistently hungry.

At this point, a Hobbit is not going to help you. His deniable claim will always work against you. 

“I don’t know you half as well as I should like, and like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.”[1] 

So, if you do find yourself confronted with a horde of Orcs, the world of Men will probably come to your rescue - because you are one of them. If the Men are particularly riled up, you may hear scorn for being so naïve.

You will suffer me!

Dwarfs, Elves, Ents, Hobbits, Orcs, and the world of Men did not originate with a Professor of Anglo-Saxon language, but their language was certainly his invention. J. R. R. Tolkien was undeniably one of the great philologists of the 20th century. He knew 35 different languages from Old Norse to Lithuanian; and, just for fun he learned Finnish.

 From his love of phonetics and its derivatives of dialect and articulation, Tolkien fully developed the Elvish language. 

Quenya was the higher speech of the Valinorean Elves, whereas Sindarin was for the lower class of Grey Elves. 

Contextualized in Catholic theology and unhindered imagination, Tolkien accomplished a linguistic duality that most philologists can only hope for. Quenya and Sindarin could be written and spoken.

 The collective letters of Tolkien shed light on his creative genius and grand design for something he called Middle Earth. It is here where Dwarfs, Elves, Ents, Hobbits, Orcs, and the world of Men lived, loved, fought, conquered, or died.[3] The whole collection contains 354 letters from 1914 to August 29th, 1973, four days before he died. 

In short, it took him approximately 59 years to fully develop the Elvish language.

From the first day a child is born into the world it takes at least seven years to grasp a native language with a reasonable level of comprehension.[4] Language may be new to the infant, but vocabulary is not new to those who raise the child. What Tolkien did was different. He invented new language not known to his parents, or any other human being. It was a grandiose and successful effort, but it was also fun. 

Since the triad of Greek Philosophers - Socrates (470-399 BC), Plato (428-347 BC), and Aristotle (384-322 BC) – the art of language has been punctuated with entertaining amusement. That is, until Wilhelm Wundt opened the Institute for Experimental Psychology at the University of Leipzig in Germany 1879. Though scientific jargon of “isms”, “ologies”, and “ists” had been around for some time, Wundt’s Institute accelerated their voluminous use. 

Language and its articulation were no longer fun. Vocabulary had been highjacked by academia and thoroughly sanitized. The mojo of language diminished.  

 I’m all for enriched language, of learning new words and inserting them into emails, texts, conversations, the occasional hand-written letter, and blogs. It’s the scientific jargon that gets in the way.

 There was a time before language was understood as something transmitted, received, analyzed, classified, and then instantaneously transcribed by the sender and receiver into meaning. 

It was a time even before the great Greeks. 

It was time where language had bounding mojo. 

We can even say it was, “Once upon a time”.[5] That is, a time beyond our time, or a different kind of time altogether. Perhaps, even a time before it was measured by clocks with sterile effect. 

A time before “O’clock” decided when it was time to wake up, have a bowl of cornflakes, and go to work with coffee in hand.     

 “Now the Lord God had formed out of the ground all the wild animals and all the birds in the sky. He brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name. So, the man gave names to all the livestock, the birds in the sky and all the wild animals” Genesis 2:19-20 NIV

At this point, I offer my sincere apologies and beg your pardon with repentance and reparation. I confess the need for using a few “ologies” and “isms” to make a significant point about the time that was, “Once upon a time”.

There was once a time when the first man (Adam) talked with God. Not through prayer or expressions of mysticism, but face to face. A good read of the third chapter of Genesis will shed light on this undeniable fact.

 At one of those times, God gave Adam the task of naming things. Appearing from the side wings, epistemology (how we come to know what we know) attempts to explain what’s going on. But this particular “ology” is nothing short of a blind mute, at least for now.

In the creation story, there is no epistemological process that explains how Adam came to know certain sounds, that when grouped together made words, and when placed with other words communicated something with meaning. 

God was not playing the part of philologist any more than Adam was playing the role of a good student. There was no philology, yet this is precisely what was taking place.

The first man was created with fully developed language, and he was using it like a creative genius. Unlike Tolkien, it did not take him 59 years. Like an expert ornithologist (study of birds) and zoologist (study of animals), Adam not only names the creatures, but he placed them in a taxonomy (classification). A lion could not be mistaken for an elephant any more than an eagle could represent a lizard.

Adam was on a creative roll. What happened next was nothing short of brilliant anthropology (the study of human beings).

So, the Lord God caused the man to fall into a deep sleep; and while he was sleeping, he took one of the man’s ribs and then closed up the place with flesh. Then the Lord God made a woman from the rib he had taken out of the man, and he brought her to the man. The man said, “This is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called ‘woman,’ for she was taken out of man” Genesis 2:21-23 NIV

Epistemology attempts to reenter the creation story in order to ask, “Adam, how do you know that?” The “ology” was still mute. Unfortunately, it would be many years before 

Immanuel Kant answered that muted question with clarity.[6] So, epistemology remained a blind mute, and the other “ologies” were not too far behind. It would not be until 1593 that anthropology would find a clear voice, zoology in 1663, ornithology in 1678, and taxonomy in 1831.[7]

 How did Adam come to know (epistemology) the wondrous creation standing before him was a human being, like him, but different? Any suggestion that he knew the difference by observing her nakedness is simply too vulgar and rather ignorant. After the fact, we can look back using hermeneutical methods (more scientific babble referring to interpretation) and conclude that ancient Hebrew and Greek language for “man” and “woman” carry far more depth than an observation of their naked bodies. So, what was involved in the epistemological process for knowing language, naming animals and birds, and identifying another human being that was different?   

I want to make a reasonable response to this question. However, I must add that it is reasonable based on internal evidence, that is, the text of Scripture itself. Simply put, Adam (and by implication Eve) had a remarkable imagination. 

Before epistemology became an epistemological process, imagination was compellingly central to accomplish the momentous task of naming birds, animals, and another human being.

Imagination is a human ability that gives form to thought.[8] So, before something takes a tangible form, it is first imagined. It would be correct to say that God imagined the heavens and earth before he created them. The same applies when God said, “…let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness” (Genesis 1:26 NIV). Not only did God first imagine Adam and Eve, he created them in his own image. So, the human ability to imagine came from God. It would be accurate to say the imagination of the first man and woman was made in the image of the imagination of God.[9]

 However, there is a distinction between the thoughts of God and human beings. “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord. ‘As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts” (Isaiah 55:8-9 NIV). 

If there is a difference in thought, imagination can only give form to the measure of that thought.

God created out of nothingness, whereas man names created animals and birds. Therefore, the first man and woman were not created equal with God. Though human imagination was made in the image of the imagination of God, it was inferior, and yet quite remarkable. 

…Then sin enters the creation story

Sin corrupted the world that God had created from his imagination and everything in it. What remained is best described by William Wordsworth in Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey (1798).[10] Through poetry, he paints a picture of the Tintern Abbey and its surroundings. It was magnificent. But through neglect and exposure it stood ruined. The stained-glass windows were gone. Hand-carved woodwork had rotted away. Elaborate flooring gave way to wild grass. The sight and sound of life was gone. Nevertheless, a few miles from the abbey where Wordsworth could not see architectural ruin, he recognized what the abbey used to be. In one striking and vivid line he writes, “What then I was”. 

He perfectly describes mankind in a fallen state. Though sin corrupted all creation, there remains a semblance of what we used to be, “Once upon a time”, albeit at a distance.   

 In his own words, J. R. R. Tolkien said:

“We have come from God and inevitably the myths woven by us, though they contain error, will also reflect a splintered fragment of the true light, the eternal truth that is with God. Indeed, only by myth-making, only by becoming a ‘sub-creator’ and inventing stories, can Man ascribe to the state of perfection that he knew before the fall.”

Acknowledged as a creative 20th century genius, Tolkien makes a noble confession that our imagination is not what it used to be, before sin corrupted a marvelous human ability made in the image of the imagination of God. Yet, his contribution to the world of literature is evidence that imagination is redeemable. 

Its mojo can be restored.

After all, St. Paul’s writes in one of his sweeping doxologies (sorry another “ology”), “Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine…” (Ephesian 3:20 NIV).

So, in what ways can we glorify God as a ‘sub-creator’ using our imagination?