As a young child, I was told I wasn’t a “reader.” It’s a label that seems impossible to me now, but at the time, it was a definition I nearly accepted. That changed in a small-town library when I pulled a copy of The Hobbit off the shelf.
I didn’t just find a story; I found a feeling I would spend the rest of my life trying to replicate. As I matured, that feeling evolved into a deep fascination with the man behind the myth—J.R.R. Tolkien—and the profound Catholic faith that acted as the bedrock for his world.
Tolkien didn’t just write “fantasy.” He wrote about the weight of manhood, the intoxicating nature of power, and the grueling path of redemption. I eventually carried The Lord of the Rings with me on military deployment, reading about the “Northern Courage” of men facing impossible shadows while standing in the reality of my own service.
In that intersection of faith and duty, two characters have always stood as the ultimate study for the modern practitioner: Boromir and Faramir.
The Two Pillars: Hardiness vs. Wisdom
Faramir and Boromir represent the two halves of the “Protector” archetype.
Boromir was “proud and fearless, often rash, ever anxious for the victory… and his own glory therein.” He was a man of immense “hardiness”—physical and tactical prowess that was undeniable. But his flaw was hubris. He believed his strength was a sufficient shield against the darkness. He didn’t just want Gondor to win; he wanted to be the hero who made it happen.
Faramir, by contrast, possessed Detachment. He was “wise enough to know that there are some perils from which a man must flee.” He understood that the greatest threat wasn’t the enemy outside the walls, but the pride within them. When he said he wouldn’t take the Ring if he found it on the highway, he wasn’t boasting; he was acknowledging a vow that held him.
The Anatomy of the Fall
The Ring did not tempt Boromir with evil. It tempted him with his own Duty. It used his desire to save his people as a hook, then snagged his ego to set the barb.
When Boromir attempted to take the Ring from Frodo, he experienced a total systemic failure. He violated the Code of the “Truth-speaker.” For a man of Gondor, whose word was meant to be a structural component of his soul, this wasn’t just a lapse in judgment—it was a spiritual rupture.
The Redemptive Podvig
The moment the “madness” passed, Boromir realized the wreckage of his honor. He was left with a choice: retreat in shame or engage in a Podvig—the spiritual struggle to “turn around” and return to the correct path.
He chose the latter. His last stand at Amon Hen is one of the most profound moments of redemption in literature because it was solitary.
Boromir had every reason to believe that if he died there, defending two “halflings” against an unbeatable horde, his deeds would never be known. There would be no songs for a man who died in a nameless forest. He was sacrificing the one thing he loved more than Gondor: his reputation.
In that forest, Boromir finally triumphed over the Ring—not by his “hardiness,” but by his sacrifice. He died with a smile because he had finally conquered his hubris.
The Lesson for the Practitioner
From that small library in a quiet town to the dust of a deployment, Tolkien’s message has remained my North Star: We are truth-speakers. We boast seldom, and then perform, or die in the attempt.
We live in a world that prioritizes the “Song”—the branding and the public accolades. But the true Podvig of the professional happens in the moments no one sees. It is the quiet decision to hold a line when there is no audience.
Like Boromir, we are flawed. We will encounter our own versions of the Ring—temptations to use our power for our own glory. The question is: when the madness passes, do we have the courage to find our own Amon Hen? Do we have the strength to let the Ego die so the Soul can live?
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