Roads go ever on and on
Whether in the transition between Matthew 9 and 10, or on the road to Bucklebury Ferry without Gandalf, striking out without your mentor is transformational. We are forced to the center of the narrative and asked to assume responsibility for the mission. These moments teach us how to bring our foundation with us, and let it carry us through the unexpected journeys ahead.
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Transcript
Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.
This bit of poem is by J.R.R. Tolkien, the author of The Fellowship of the Ring.
While other churches are delving into the Minor Prophets or the General Epistles for their seasonal study series, here at Grace, we’ve decided to spend the entire summer studying this first volume of the Lord of the Rings. Such a break with tradition might cause a bit of a stir in other places, but here it fits in nicely with our emphasis this year on creativity and the spiritual imagination.
And honestly, the Bible and the Lord of the Rings aren’t quite as unrelated to one another as you might first think. They are both rather long. They both contain unpronounceable names of people and places associated with distant legends of the elder days. And whenever you open either book, you are likely to encounter somewhat lengthy sections of poetry. And of course, there are maps, mostly at the beginning.
I have an old copy of the Bible printed in the early 1600s, and it contains a very curious map. One of the bodies of water is labeled the Middle Earth Sea, and there is even a tiny drawing of a kraken rising from the waves and menacing a ship.
Both books share common themes of sacrifice and salvation, and both have tales of valor and peril and epic journeys to far away lands. In our summer study of the Fellowship of the Ring we have reached the point where the hobbits have left their home in the Shire, sent by Gandalf on their long journey to Rivendell, the last homely house east of the sea.
Frodo is carrying the one ring, knowing that servants of the enemy are looking for it, and also looking for him. He takes a few friends along, and they begin to walk east toward the Bucklebury Ferry. They depart after sundown, leaving the lane. They walk miles through fields and the gathering darkness. The hobbits carry very little with them. Each has only a staff and a change of clothes, because the ferry is only a little more than two days away.
They don’t yet have any idea how long and perilous this journey will turn out to be. But one particular fact is worth noting. Gandalf doesn’t go with them. He has been unaccountably delayed, and his absence is significant. Going somewhere with Gandalf is a very different thing from going somewhere without Gandalf. And the reader feels this intensely. Gandalf is a powerful, comforting presence in the story.
He is someone with whom you feel safe. The person you turn to for encouragement and protection. But when Gandalf is gone, you’re on your own. As you might imagine, this was the story in the back of my mind when I first began to take a look at this morning’s lesson from Matthew’s gospel. It may not have been in your mind when I read it a few minutes ago, but it is now.
You may have noticed that a transition happens at the junction between Matthew nine and ten. It’s the point at which a formative journey begins. Jesus has been going about his ministry, traveling through the villages, speaking in the synagogues, and curing every disease and sickness of the people he encounters. The disciples have been tagging along, helping out wherever they can, but mostly watching and asking questions, glad to be included in a story filled with so many wonders.
They are a bit more than bystanders, but they aren’t quite yet the focus of anyone’s attention, and they may even feel some comfort in this, because it isn’t their story. Not yet. In chapter ten, this is all about to change. Jesus calls the disciples together and gives them authority.
That word authority is really evocative when we’re talking about stories. When the disciples receive authority from Jesus, it’s like receiving authorship. They stop being merely characters in someone else’s story. They are being told to write the story themselves.
Jesus has been traveling from place to place, and now he says to the disciples, “you go do that”. He’s been healing the sick, driving out evil spirits. And now he says, “you go do that. And as you go, proclaim the good news, the kingdom of heaven has come near.” That’s when the disciples realize that Jesus isn’t coming with them. They’re on their own.
They don’t have any money. They haven’t brought packs or staffs or a change of clothes. They don’t know what dangers may await them or how they will be received by the people they meet. They are still, in some measure, innocent, going out like sheep into a land of wolves. What they do know is that there is nothing that has been hidden which will not be revealed. Nothing which has been kept secret that will not become known. Riddles told in the dark will be answered in the daylight. And what has been whispered by hushed voices will be shouted aloud from the rooftops. That’s Matthew.
Now, something odd happens here in Matthew’s gospel, and it’s often overlooked. Matthew gets distracted. He starts remembering other things and writing them down. He’s collected so much about Jesus: sayings, promises, and warnings, and he’s trying to fit them all together. And then he remembers that John the Baptist has been put in prison. And so he starts writing about that. One thing leads to another, and Matthew never manages to resume the thread of the story about the disciples’ own journey. I find that more than a little frustrating because I want to know what happened.
Fortunately, we have Luke. Luke always comes to the rescue, or at least tries to. Luke read Matthew’s gospel and said, “wait a minute. What happened then? Somebody has got to finish the story.” So you and I have to turn to Luke’s gospel to get to the end. And what we do find out is pretty amazing. Bit by bit, Luke begins picking up all of Matthew’s loose ends, and then he adds a few of his own.
By the time he has finally woven all the trailing threads together, there are no longer just twelve disciples, but 70. Luke still fails to recount the details of their journey. But at least he tells us what they return and do. They come back to Jesus, filled with joy at their success, along with some measure of surprise. “Lord, in your name, even the demons submit to us.”
And Jesus, who has been keeping track of their journey, is understandably pleased. “I saw Satan fall like lightning” he tells them. “Don’t you see? I have given you authority. Snakes and scorpions, all the powers of the enemy, they can’t stop you. But if you really want to rejoice, know this: now your names are written in heaven.”
Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.
Tolkien knew that all journeys have a beginning and an end. And that sometimes the place where a journey ends may bear a strange resemblance to the place where it began. But it is never quite the same. Wanderings change the wanderer. Pilgrims are formed by pilgrimages. Saint Augustine wrote, the true city of saints is in heaven, though here on earth it produces citizens in whom it wanders, as on a pilgrimage through time, looking for the kingdom of eternity.
Once, long ago, when I was young, I attended a conference in Oxford to celebrate Tolkien’s 100th birthday. People came from all over the world to stay at Keble College and to hear Christopher Tolkien read from his father’s unpublished work. During the days of the conference we began to notice a few young people whom we didn’t recognize. They were flitting about the corners and the edges of the rooms. They didn’t have credentials. They would simply appear and disappear, sneaking cakes and cookies from the refreshment tables and poking their noses in at the doors while the dignitaries were giving their lectures.
Late one evening, a group of us encountered them on the lower steps of the narrow stair leading to the top of the college tower. They vanished up the stairs, and we followed, trying to find out who they were and what they were up to. What none of us knew was that the stairs were unlit and the door at the top was locked. All of us ended up crammed together in a very small space where there was no escape. We sat on the steps in the darkness, singing songs and telling riddles to each other for the better part of an hour, until weariness finally sent all of us off to bed.
The next morning at breakfast word had spread about the previous night’s encounter, and we discovered that the young people we had trapped at the top of the tower were Tolkien’s grandchildren. They had crept into the conference on their father’s coattails and were having a wonderful time. Now, more than 30 years later, those young imps are grown-ups, and I have no doubt that they have passed on the tale of the Dark Tower to their own families. And the tale has undoubtedly grown with the telling.
I like listening to stories about journeys and strange encounters, especially when I am safe at home by the fireside with a cup of tea close by. I’d like to go on journeys myself with friends and provisions and accurate maps. But unexpected journeys trouble me. They are disorienting. They bring discomfort, perplexity, and more than a flicker of fear.
Some of my journeys have been unwanted. They have been the result of a crisis or a deep loss. I have been compelled to go to places I never wanted to see. That is the way of the world. And none of us are safe from those experiences. They happen to all of us, just as the good journeys do. And taken together, all our journeys, good or bad, form us into the people we turn out to be.
The older I get, the more clear it becomes that I am already on such a journey filled with wonderful surprises and bitter disappointments. It began long ago and looks as if it may continue some time yet to come. Now and then I look around and realize that I am in a very strange place, and my destination is unclear. But I know there’s no going back. The only way to travel is forward.
So I stop. I take my bearings and consult my maps. And then from this particular vantage point on this summer day, I look out and I see you, all of you, who are on your own unique journeys as well. Here we are together. And what a motley bunch of wanderers we are. We share stories and sing songs. We say our prayers together. And in doing these things, we have grown to love one another. And so I have come to know how very blessed I am. And my heart fills with gratitude that you are my companions on the way.
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
The tale is Tolkien’s, or maybe Matthew’s, but the story it tells is ours.
The Rev. Beau Farr
June 14, 2026