I stand on the threshold of Bag End and peer inside. There’s an armchair by the hearth and a kettle that’s “just beginning to sing”. There’s magic here, and friendship, and long-expected birthday parties.
I don’t particularly enjoy standing here on the threshold of Bag End, on the outside, where it feels like the eighth-grade cafeteria and the staff lunchroom and a new church lobby. Here, I feel indescribably small, and alone.
No matter. Whenever I want, I can step over the threshold of a story, close the door, and make a home for myself inside. Here, my heart is safe. Here, I find where I Belong.
I peer out from Bag End and watch the other hobbits passing by. No, I won’t share my safe place with you. Yes, I know the Enemy is gaining strength and yes, I have something in here with me that could defy the gathering darkness. Instead, I secure the lock and settle in, never understanding that the stories weren’t meant to be the safe place. Never dreaming they could be the threshold into something much, much deeper.
When we invite our children over the threshold of Bag End, we are inviting them into a world where dwarves and elves despise each other, where the little guy is underestimated, and the darkness is impossibly strong. As parents, we know that stories contain their own kind of magic: the ability to enrich and expand our hearts. They can teach us about faraway places without ever going there and give us empathy for people we’ve never met. When we reach that part in the story when dwarves and elves put aside their differences in exchange for friendship we think, perhaps our children can learn to see that misunderstood, lonely kid in the cafeteria. When the little guy takes on the darkness, we are showing them that they too can stand up for the light.
But the stories alone do not force us to confront our empathy and courage; love for characters doesn’t necessarily translate to love for other people. Loving people is messy. We could simply make a home for ourselves amongst the stories and never leave. It’s certainly safer there, where characters can’t hurt us. But in doing so, we would be missing out on a much deeper magic, the kind that can only be experienced through fellowship.
Only when Bilbo was forced to open up Bag End to a group of boisterous dwarves did he have to confront his own obsession with comfort. Likewise, only in fellowship am I forced to confront what I believe about empathy and courage by putting them into practice. I have found that stories can be a threshold into that deeper place. We may start out discussing characters, plot, and themes, but somehow, as if by magic, we cross the threshold into discussing beliefs, values, and struggles. My heart expands, my heart is enriched as I begin to see the world from another’s point of view, as I learn their story and share parts of my own, as we share life together.
Then, all too soon, I find that I have hunkered down into yet another safe place.
And the Holy Spirit confronts me.
“What is it with your obsession with safe places?” he asks. “Why do you insist on making them out of things that were never meant to be safe places to begin with?”
Slowly, he shows me: inviting our children and friends over the threshold is a good place to start, but what Jesus did was much deeper. He invited those who were outside his immediate circle of fellowship and brought them in. He ate meals with them. He talked with them. And he told them stories.
After leaving Bag End far behind, Sam Gamgee told Frodo,
I know we are going to take a very long road, into darkness; but I know that I can’t turn back. It isn’t to see Elves now, nor dragons, nor mountains, that I want—I don’t rightly know what I want: but I have something to do before the end, and it lies ahead, not in the Shire.
When we’re settled comfortably into our safe places, whether they be among books or friends, we may hesitate to invite outsiders in. Perhaps we’re afraid our Bag End will get wrecked, that the boisterous dwarves will “blunt the knives” and “bend the forks”. As we grow more comfortable, it gets harder to venture out into the wider world where the darkness seems, at times, impossibly strong. But we are living amid a wider world that is desperate to be told they belong. God has given us something to do before the end, and it lies outward.
I don’t have much, and I feel small most of the time, but I do have an overabundance of stories in my arsenal. In God’s hands, that’s enough to defy the darkness. Furthermore, if I want my daughter to invite others in, to her lunch table or her circle on the playground, how will she learn if I never invite those outside my circle to my table? When I make Jesus my safe place, I can go outward by welcoming others in, free from expectations and fear. Jesus is the safe place that cannot be wrecked. In him, we Belong.
There are stories all around us, each a threshold to invite others over. Every holiday and tradition from every culture has a story. Every book or movie you’ve ever loved is a story. There are book clubs, watch parties, and new traditions to be formed. And now is the perfect time—during the cold months, the season of not-enough-daylight, when people are searching for Belonging and A Reason to Stay.
As I stand on the threshold of Bag End, I peer over my shoulder to the wide world behind me. I could hunker down inside with the stories.
Or, I can open wide the door and see who God invites over the threshold.
- On the Threshold of Bag End - December 30, 2024
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- A Ballad of Prequels and Stakes - January 29, 2024
Thank you for inviting me over your threshold! You have a beautiful talent from God to connect with your readers about the most important message. You only write the stories and essays that God inspires in you. I love seeing your work in print and that you give all the glory to God.