Something special: J.R.R. Tolkien at St. Aloysius and C.S. Lewis at Holy Trinity

Just a few generations ago, it was not uncommon for people to display ornamental busts of historic figures they found inspiring. With this pair of paintings which I've created in hopes of offering them as devotional works for the Lenten and Easter Seasons, it's my thought that those who have been inspired by the faith lives of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis might have access to these images as a source of encouragement.

I know of no photographs of either man at his church, yet these were central scenes to their daily lives. I've done as much research as I was able in an effort to present accurate and realistic portraits. I especially thank The Very Revd. Nicholas Edmonds-Smith Cong. Orat and Dr. Holly Ordway for conferring with me on several points relating to church architecture. I am deeply grateful to both Tolkien and Lewis for their enrichment of my own faith, and I find their ecumenical friendship remarkable and important. In case it may be of interest, I'll share a little about my thoughts in depicting these two scenes.

Things you may notice in these paintings

There is some symbolism here. Tolkien readers will instantly understand the two trees, one lit in a silvery light and the other in gold. The cypress vine (also known as Star of Bethlehem) behind Lewis is my nod to the fire flowers from which Lucy's healing elixir was made.

Inside Tolkien's church, St. Aloysius Gonzaga, you glimpse candles which represent both the suffering and hopes of human existence. There is also a statue. Dr. Ordway, author of Tolkien's Faith, has kindly confirmed for me that it represents St. Teresa, the first female Doctor of the Catholic Church. The fact that she holds a book in her hand seemed to me a very happy coincidence in a portrait of an author.

Meanwhile, the plain interior window in the companion painting speaks to how Lewis found light through the church after a long and vigorous personal struggle. Lewis doffs his hat and holds out a hand, inviting an unseen fellow church-goer in the door of Holy Trinity in Oxford. This is my way of representing the openness of his invitation to readers to consider Christianity through both his fiction and apologetics. His "supposal" about Aslan, in particular, has spoken to generations of readers of all ages. He offers a very warm welcome.

My framing of Tolkien is a bit different. Catholicism lies at the heart of his fiction, but it is more private, and the choice is left up to the reader whether or not to follow him through that door into the sacred. Those who feel called to follow him there may find rich and meaningful depth and guidance.

If readers have a special kinship with one of these men, they might like to hang just one print at home, but if the two portraits are hung together as a diptych, you will discover that the two friends are actually looking at one another as they go their parallel but personal ways to their places of worship. They are inextricably linked in my thoughts.

Crossing bridges

"Tolkien and Lewis: Addison's Walk, 1931"

J.R.R. Tolkien was credited by C.S. Lewis as playing a significant role in his adult conversion to Christianity. Tolkien's explanation of the story of Christ as the one true myth resonated with the younger man as nothing had before. I have come to greatly wonder about the stirring wind that rustled the leaves on Addison's Walk on that famous night long ago. I think, perhaps, it may have been a movement of the Holy Spirit, particularly given the near-miraculous circumstance of a Northern Irishman from a Protestant upbringing forming so close a spiritual bond with the very sort of English Roman Catholic gentleman he'd been told to avoid at Oxford. Ecumenism was extraordinary in early 20th-century England. It seems powerful to me that these men crossed that bridge and lit the Secret Fire and the Narnian lamppost for the world as a result.

In the light they left us, ecumenical friendships seem to flower with a special freshness; not only are Tolkien and Lewis readers sharing conference stages and podcast channels to talk about all kinds of Christianity, but the heads of both the Catholic Church and the Church of England are embracing one another in ways that would have been unthinkable just a few years ago. This is hopeful and wonderful. Our fellowship matters, as the lives of "Tollers" and "Jack" evidence.

About the churches

Tolkien was a daily Communicant at St. Aloysius, which was built in 1875 in a critical step towards re-establishing a Roman Catholic community in Oxford following centuries of persecution and amid oppressive legislation against the faith. In the 1990s, the church became the Oxford Oratory - an offshoot of the Birmingham Oratory, whose joyful and merry community raised young John Ronald when he was orphaned. You can attend Mass there virtually, and the music may be the most beautiful you will ever hear in any church, featuring works by such composers as Tallis and Byrd. It very much reminds me of Tolkien's reference to chant in describing the music of the elves.

Holy Trinity Church was built in 1848, and is the burial site of C.S. Lewis, making it a place of heartfelt pilgrimage. You can see very fine footage of this lovely church in one of my favorite films, The Most Reluctant Convert, and I've promised myself that if I can ever find a way to attend a service there virtually, I will do so with Lewisian joy. I do believe that his Weight of Glory is one of the finest theological writings ever penned, and even as a young girl, I sensed I was on special ground when I first went through the wardrobe.

As for Tolkien, the theology that roots his work is like home-baked bread for me - a part of my heart since earliest childhood, and nourishment for walking in Arda Marred while glimpsing and longing for Arda Healed.

I'd like to close by wishing a very good and contemplative Lent to all who observe, and by celebrating all folk of good will who cross bridges to cherish every fellow traveler on the shared Road. May all hurtful divisions be rejected as unworthy and replaced by lasting and devoted love. May we honor these men well.