FROM THE SHIRE TO THE ALTAR
Between the vibrant hardcover spines bearing the names of familiar authors and the thick binders of my teacher’s lesson plans lay an unassuming black paperback. Its title, The Hobbit, rendered in a humble typeface, seemed almost hidden amid the vivid hues of nearby books. I was in third grade then, entranced by stories of time travel and talking animals penned by Mary Pope Osborne and Lemony Snicket. Time and again, I would return to that same bookshelf in the corner of my classroom, seeking solace in those well-loved tales. But The Hobbit and its unknown-to-me author stood apart, a mystery among the familiar. Though I cannot recall what first led me to pluck it from the shelf, I vividly remember what kept it in my hands: a story that danced between whimsy and shadow, drawing me into an adventure alongside a timid hobbit, a wise wizard, and a courageous company of dwarves.
Through daring escapes from ravenous trolls, encounters with mysterious woodland sorcerers, riddles with sly creatures in dark caverns, battles with orcs, and confrontations with a treasure-hoarding dragon, Tolkien weaves a tale that continues to enchant me. It is not just a journey through fantastical lands but a meditation on courage, friendship, and the human heart. It would take years for me to fully appreciate these deeper threads, but to my third-grade self, The Hobbit was a grand escape into an unknown world, alive with rich characters, gentle humor, and exhilarating perils. As I grew older, each reread transformed the book from a simple tale that could be read in a day into a mirror, reflecting new parts of myself and the wider world. No longer was I a passive traveler; I engaged with its stories on my own terms, finding nourishment in its pages, as one might find sustenance in a hearty meal.
Around that same time, I found myself fed in another way. Enrolled in my Roman Catholic parish’s First Communion class, it felt as though my parents were force-feeding me religion rather than allowing me to explore it on my own accord. From a young age I was exposed to the liturgy and symbols of the Roman Church within the context of the Filipino-American diaspora—Sunday masses, weekly rosary recitations, and religious artifacts scattered throughout our home. While I had a certain fondness for ritual and aesthetics, I felt indifferent to their deeper meanings, preferring take things at face-value. The intricacies of dwarven diets in Middle-earth fascinated me far more than the symbolism of bread and wine at Passover, and the array of delicacies in Bag End’s pantry seemed infinitely more inviting than the dry, cardboard-like wafers of the Eucharist.
Our parish priest, rather than the lay catechist regularly assigned to us, led that day’s session. I cannot recall much of his talk except for this: he explained that the Eucharist is a fourfold movement—taking, blessing, breaking, and sharing. We take familiar foodstuff of bread and wine, bless them in the name of the Triune God so that Christ may be made present, break the bread to distribute, and share the elements with others. By breaking down the Eucharist into these movements, I was transformed from a passive observer to an active participant in the rite. In the transformation of the bread and wine, I was be to myself transformed, drawn into God’s embrace and deeper into the mystery of salvation only to be then sent out alongside many others to witness to that sacred giving. It was through this priest’s explanation that the divine generosity at the heart of the Eucharist was made known to me; it is in giving back to God, the Giver of Life, that the same gives back to us God’s very self. Though it wasn't the hearty loaves and endless barrels of wine I imagined Bilbo, Gandalf, and the dwarves enjoying, I knew that, in a profound and mysterious way, I was truly being fed.
If Tolkien fed my mind, then Christ fed my soul, both offering a feast that has enriched my life beyond measure. I returned to Tolkien's works time and again, and though I grew to love The Lord of the Rings with each reread and through Peter Jackson's cinematic adaptation, The Hobbit remained a constant refuge—a place of comfort, rich company, and spiritual nourishment. In much the same way, each Eucharistic liturgy offered not just the fellowship of those present but also the communion of those who have come before whose faith has been sustained by this life-giving food. Over time, I began to see echoes of one in the other, cultivating a Eucharistic hermeneutic that transformed The Hobbit from a tale of fantasy into a pilgrimage of faith, shaped by the same fourfold movement: take, bless, break, and share.
To be taken is to have the quiet rhythm of life disrupted, pulled toward new horizons and possibilities. We are brought from the comfort of the familiar into spaces that challenge us, just as Bilbo was swept from the safety of the Shire into an adventure through the world that redefined his sense of self. So, too, are the bread and wine taken from the sacristy, placed on the altar to be transformed from mere sustenance into the food of eternal life. We resist this taking, clinging to what is safe and known, but in being taken, we are guided by a force that sees the potential we cannot. Much remains hidden in these earthen vessels, from humble loaves to the untapped depths within us, waiting to be drawn into fullness.
To be blessed is to receive affirmation, a touch from beyond ourselves that acknowledges and celebrates what we cannot see alone. We cannot bless ourselves; true blessing comes from a source outside our ego, lifting us up and affirming the goodness within. Though Bilbo doubted himself, he found strength in the blessings of Gandalf and the dwarves, their gratitude growing as he led them through perils and helped reclaim what was lost. Similarly, the bread and wine are brought forth, blessed by the gathered community, and offered in thanksgiving to God, who blesses creation with its bounty and humanity with the gift of Christ’s presence. The blessing that empowered Bilbo mirrors the spirit of the Eucharist, where the simplest of gifts are transformed by love and gratitude.
Being broken does not necessarily mean being broken down, but rather being broken open. In being broken open, we allow the world to enter into our hearts, in turn becoming vulnerable, humble, selfless, and generous. Rather than retreating into the familiar, we embrace discomfort, opening ourselves to the vastness of creation and the fullness of life. In this breaking, complacency is destroyed so that we might act against injustice, ego is undone so that we might reach out and care for others. It is not the spirit that breaks, but the walls we build around ourselves. Humanity’s ego was broken when Jesus, the Word made flesh, broke himself open at the Last Supper and on the cross. In his own way, Bilbo’s ego was broken as he risked everything for the well-being of the dwarves, whose struggles he came to understand and whose resilience he came to admire. We break ourselves open so that our gifts may be shared, not hoarded.
In sharing, we give without asking, offering not just goods but stories, moments, experiences. True sharing is an exchange of hearts. The Eucharistic liturgy is a bridge between the seen and unseen, shared with those here on earth and those who have passed beyond, a gathering of all who partake in the sacred feast. It is not the presence of one, but the communion of many, that transforms the bread and wine. Similarly, it was within the fellowship of Gandalf and the dwarves that Bilbo was transformed. Without their companionship, he could not have braved the trials before him. In this light, those we journey with are also those we share with, breaking bread so that all may be nourished for the road ahead.
In my own way, I have been taken into the loving embrace of a God who is the very essence of Love, blessed with the gifts I have been given and affirmed in the truth of my identity, broken open to fully embrace the world and not retreat from it, and have shared myself with all whose paths I have crossed. Like Bilbo, I once lived as a recluse, isolated both socially and physically. Yet, through the nourishment I’ve received from others, I have come to live a Eucharistic life—a life of grace and communion—that has led me on a truly unexpected journey, not only from Rome to Canterbury, but from where I was then to where I am now.
