What do you get when you mix a computer nerd (with a PhD in computer science who’s known for his work on Voronoi diagrams, and who authored The Mind and the Machine: What It Means to Be Human and Why It Matters), an avid environmentalist (he also enjoys fly-fishing and beekeeping), a specialist in Old English and literature (he’s written a three-volume epic fantasy set in medieval Europe), and a scholar with an international reputation for his work on Tolkien and the Inklings (having co-authored Ents, Elves, and Eriador: The Environmental Vision of J.R.R. Tolkien with Jonathan Evans, Narnia and the Fields of Arbol: The Environmental Vision of C.S. Lewis with David O’Hara, and others besides)?
His name is Matthew Dickerson—and he’s a very cool cat.
In this interview—stuffed to bursting with quotes and ideas from Lewis and Tolkien—Matthew talks about the timelessness of their work, what Christianly minded lovers of the environment can do, why hope is better than despair; the need for hospitality in listening to the other; and the value of meekness and gentleness in our troubled time of increasing polarity. Among other things.
To learn more about Matthew Dickerson, you can visit his website, Facebook, Twitter, or instagram page. You can also check out his Amazon page to find his latest book, Aslan’s Breath: Seeing the Holy Spirit in Narnia.
Radix: To get us started—this is a bit of an open-ended question. These days, it seems like we’re constantly surrounded by difficulty. In fact, it’s probably fair to say that many people think now is the worst time in history. And while that may or may not be true, there certainly are serious challenges facing us—especially when it comes to technology. We could also point to things like consumerism, which shapes our desires in ways we’re not always conscious of.
Since you’re a scholar of Lewis and the Inklings—not just of them, of course, but of a wide range of topics—what do you think are some of the key things we ought to be thinking about in response to the challenges of our time?
Matthew Dickerson: Well, we can certainly draw some wisdom from Gandalf’s words to Frodo near the beginning of The Lord of the Rings. Before we even get into whether our time is uniquely difficult—or how it compares to other eras, which is always a tough question—Gandalf offers something deeply grounding. He tells Frodo, essentially, that we don’t get to choose the times we live in. We only get to choose what we do with the time we’re given.
That’s just a quick paraphrase—Gandalf put it more elegantly than that—but it gets at the heart of it. So when I start feeling overwhelmed by the state of the world—whether it’s war, or the devastation of creation through human activity—I come back to that idea. I ask myself: What can I do today? What am I called to do today that will align with the prayer, “Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven”?
Of course, I’m not going to bring that about by myself. A lot of my efforts will fall short—some may fall far short. But some, by God’s grace, might move us a little closer. And that’s the starting point for me. Before I try to analyze every global problem, I want to begin with a simpler question: What is my responsibility today? What can I do, in this moment, to help bring that kingdom closer?
And there’s another simple but profound question: How can I love my neighbor? That brings it home, makes it concrete. Instead of getting stuck thinking about floods in North Carolina, fires in Los Angeles, or wars in Ukraine—real as all of that is—it shifts the focus to my own community. What can I do that will actually make a difference here?
Radix: I love the idea of small things mattering, and making differences that count around me, here. Like, where I am.
MD: Yeah, it makes me think of C.S Lewis’ That Hideous Strength. In that novel, the little community at St. Anne’s is up against something enormous. The N.I.C.E.—the National Institute for Coordinated Experiments—is a global force. They have all the power, the wealth, the political and military backing. It seems impossible to stand against them.
One of the members of the St. Anne’s community, McPhee—who’s kind of the token rationalist and skeptic in the group, even though he’s on their side—is frustrated. He wants to do something. He’s itching for action, for some big confrontation with the enemy. And he basically says, “How are we supposed to win against this massive, global power when all we’re doing is sitting here growing decent vegetables?”
And I think that’s such an interesting moment, because in a way, that is the battle—not necessarily the gardening itself, but everything that life at St. Anne’s represents. They’re living in community, they’re loving and caring for one another, they’re stewarding the earth. They’re welcoming strangers, taking in refugees fleeing from war. All these small acts—they’re not glamorous or dramatic, but they’re deeply significant.
McPhee wants a military-style victory, something forceful and obvious. But Lewis is, I think, offering a different vision. He’s saying the real battle is the one fought through love of neighbor, through gentleness, hospitality, care for creation. That is the important battle. That’s what we’re called to win.
Radix: Speaking of small things, I know you’ve written extensively on the Inklings and the environment. Anything to say from that angle?
MD: I’ll say something that might make people uncomfortable—but you can cut it if you want. Like you said, we’re living with some pretty overwhelming problems. And I agree: people aren’t necessarily more evil now than a century or a thousand years ago. But we do have more power to cause destruction.
There have always been wars, but now one airplane can drop bombs that wipe out cities and destroy enough crops to feed hundreds of thousands. We can burn oil fields or poison oceans. So while human nature hasn’t changed, the impact of our actions has grown exponentially.
Environmental issues are one of the biggest challenges we face today. Millions still lack access to clean drinking water. We see food shortages, wildfires, droughts. Even recently, here in Vermont, we had air quality warnings from Canadian wildfires. The sunsets were this strange golden color from all the smoke.
I also work as a computer scientist. About a year and a half ago, I was dabbling in speculative fiction and thought I’d use AI to generate some concept art—just to play with ideas. I’d never use AI for a real book cover; I’d always hire a human artist. But after generating a few images, I started reading about the environmental cost of machine learning. And it was sobering. This technology we’re so excited about also consumes massive amounts of energy. So even there, we face tough questions about what kind of world we’re building—and what it costs.
There are two major concerns with machine learning: energy use and water use. Studies show that just having a modest chat with a chatbot—say, 50 lines—or generating a single image with AI, consumes about a pint of water. That water is often used in places like eastern Washington—high desert regions where water is already scarce and often diverted from dammed rivers.
By 2030, estimates suggest that 24% of global energy consumption could be going to data farms. When I learned that, I thought, “Okay, I can’t reverse global trends on my own, but I can stop participating.” So I quit using machine learning tools for art generation. It just didn’t sit right with me—to be using water in places where people go without clean drinking water, or to contribute to energy demands that lead to more dams or more coal being burned.
I know raising this makes people uncomfortable—and it’s not something the big data companies want us to think about. But these are the kinds of “small” daily choices that are part of the battle.
One of my favorite lines is from Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass: “All flourishing is mutual.” That really resonates with me. I’d put it this way: we all live both upstream and downstream from one another. Every decision we make has ripple effects—especially for those who are least privileged.
And that brings us back to That Hideous Strength. To McPhee, it seemed absurd to think that growing vegetables or caring for strangers could matter in the grand scheme. But for Lewis, that’s exactly where the battle is fought—through love, community, humility, and the care of creation.
Radix: Can I jump back for a second to this thing about power? I don’t think a lot of people think about that. There was this great site that started, I think, in the late ’90s, called Despair.com. They had clever, visual answers to all the motivational posters. They were brilliant. My all-time favourite was a poster with a picture of a raindrop falling into water, and it said: “No single raindrop believes it is responsible for the flood.”
I think that’s so brilliant—because when it comes to things like this, maybe “intellectual honesty” isn’t quite the phrase, but there’s a kind of fortitude, strength, character, to say, “No, I’m not going to use that, because of the cost to everyone.” And that shows a kind of responsibility. Which brings us back to St. Anne’s. Christianity is a religion of sacrifice.
MD: Toward one another, right? I think of that line: “I’d like to save the Shire, if I could,” even though, right, “at times I’ve found its inhabitants too dull for words,” I think is how he puts it. But then he says, to save it, someone has to give it up. And at the end of the story, Frodo says, “I have saved the Shire, but not for me.” He’s lost it for himself. That’s self-sacrifice.
We’re called to imitate our Saviour—and one simple way we do that is by giving up self. Paul says something really compelling in Romans 8: that we will share in Christ’s glory if we also share in His sufferings. That’s the shape of the Christian life.
So yes, that water drop image—and the idea of self-sacrifice—is central. It’s at the heart of Lewis’s stories. I mean, the name Ransom—what does it mean? And in Tolkien—what does Gandalf do on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm?
To focus just on Tolkien for a moment, one of the central themes running through The Lord of the Rings is the contrast between hope and despair. Denethor falls when he gives in to despair and loses hope. Theoden is restored when hope is rekindled in him. Gandalf keeps coming back to this—choosing hope, and holding on to it.
One of the biggest statements of despair is saying, my choices don’t matter. The problems are too big. Nothing I do can help. That’s your water drop metaphor, right? And maybe sometimes it’s true—maybe our little efforts don’t seem to change the outcome. But we’re still called to do what’s right. To choose hope over despair.
There’s that moment when Gandalf speaks to Denethor—or maybe later, to the captains of the West—when he says: “If even one flower grows fair, I have not wholly failed in my task.” Even if just one thing survives—if there’s something small and good left to care for—that is still reason enough. There’s a profound hope in that. A belief that even the smallest decisions matter. To act on that belief is to choose hope over despair.
Radix: I love the whole thing of choosing hope over despair—even when it’s hard.
MD: I think you see that at the end of Romans 8, where you get some of the most wonderful promises in Scripture: Nothing can separate us from the love of God, right? The resurrection runs all through Romans 8. Paul just keeps coming back to it with different metaphors, different expressions—all pointing back to the resurrection.
Because of that, he talks about this phenomenal hope we have. Nothing will separate us from God’s love. And the context for that is, “all day long we are being led like sheep to the slaughter.”
What are the things Paul says won’t separate us? Tribulation, distress, persecution, famine, nakedness, peril, the sword—why does he list all those things? Because those are the real things that will happen.
And not just to people who reject Christ, but to those who follow him. In fact, following Christ doesn’t get you out of suffering—it may actually lead you into more suffering.
There’s a dialogue between Gandalf and Théoden—after the Battle of Helm’s Deep. They’re on their way to Isengard, and they’ve just seen how the Ents have led the Huorns into battle. The fleeing Orcs run into the forest—and we never see them again.
Théoden is seeing creatures he’s only ever believed to be legend. Gandalf tells him, “You have allies you do not know about.” He’s giving him hope. But Théoden responds: “Yet also I should be sad, for however the fortune of war shall go, may it not so end that much that was fair and wonderful shall pass forever out of Middle-earth.”
It’s this melancholy lament. He’s acknowledging that war, even when just, still destroys beauty. Human sin brings terrible consequences. And Gandalf doesn’t correct him—he joins him in the lament. He says, “It may be. The evil of Sauron cannot be wholly cured, nor made as if it had not been. But to such days we are doomed.” That echoes what he said to Frodo earlier: “We don’t get to choose the times we live in.” And then Gandalf says, “Let us now go on with the journey we have begun.”
Isn’t that the answer? That’s choosing hope. To go on and keep doing what we’re called to do, day in and day out—because it matters. Even if, in the short term, our strategies fail.
We still care for the earth we’ve been planted in.
We still live in community.
We welcome the stranger and the refugee.
We welcome the McPhees, as well as the people who had been fighting for NICE.
We love our neighbours.
And that’s where the real battle is. Not in seizing power over the world. That’s not our job—that belongs to the powers of heaven. If we try to take that role—to be the ones who rule—it’s a profound act of arrogance. And it has very little, maybe nothing, to do with following the way of Christ.
Radix: Speaking of welcoming the stranger and our neighbour—it matters that we care for and behave rightly toward each individual.
MD: That’s the answer, right? The recognition that this soul is eternal should turn us around and motivate us to care for them as a body, too.
And that’s what’s so powerful and so important: it’s actually a spiritual insight. That we see our neighbour. And I mean “neighbour” in the Christian sense—not just someone we get along with.
It includes the person down the street we clash with. It includes someone of an entirely different culture, or skin colour, or religious belief. Seeing that neighbour with spiritual light—that’s precisely what motivates us to care for them as bodily beings.
Radix: Speaking of the neighbour and dialogue, something that’s always interested me in Martin Buber’s work is the idea that real dialogue doesn’t require agreement.
At first I thought, okay, dialogue means being open—porous—to one another, and then something beautiful happens between us when we get in that state, and allow the element, dialogue, to happen.
What if I disagree with you, though? Like, what then? But, Buber’s idea still holds. True dialogue means we’re open enough that either of us might be changed. It’s risky.
And that connects to hospitality, too. Want to speak more to the role of hospitality, whether in the Inklings or elsewhere? Especially how it can open space for meaningful conversation between people who aren’t necessarily close?
MD: Yeah, I go to faculty meetings sometimes, and there’s often this sense that if someone doesn’t agree with you, they must not be listening. So the response is often to repeat the same point, louder and more forcefully, as if that will win them over.
There’s an arrogance in that—an absence of generosity and hospitality. I remember being challenged by Richard Foster’s Celebration of Discipline, especially the chapters on silence and simplicity. They really made me reflect on speech: the idea of letting your words stand without having to defend them as if your worth depends on their being accepted.
There’s a kind of love and hospitality in simple, unguarded speech. It doesn’t mean you stay silent or avoid truth, but that you offer ideas without needing to win the argument. Especially in the church, we should model that kind of generous listening.
Jesus says in John 17 that people will believe in him because of the love among his followers. And yet, especially in the U.S. these last several years, political divisions have fractured churches as well as society.
I often think about the disciples Jesus chose—like Matthew, a Roman collaborator, and others who were probably revolutionaries. In first-century Judaism, religion and politics weren’t really separate categories. And yet, Jesus didn’t require them to agree politically; he told them to love one another. There’s no record of Matthew renouncing being a tax collector—just that he likely stopped cheating people. That’s a pretty powerful model of community across real disagreement.
Radix: It’s a really powerful thing.
MD: I’ll admit, this is challenging for me. It’s not easy. There are definitely people in the church I disagree with, on things I care deeply about. And yet, I’m called to love them. We’re all called to love the people who are in our church, not just the people we wish were in our church. I’m trying to remember who said that, but it stuck with me.
There are good illustrations of that kind of love and tension. One that comes to mind is from Prince Caspian. You’ll probably remember there’s a debate about whether or not to blow the horn, whether they should go seek help. Trumpkin, who doesn’t believe in Aslan, is firmly opposed. But when the time comes, he says, “Alright, I’ll go. I know the difference between giving advice and following orders. I’ve given my advice. Now I’ll follow the orders.” And I think that’s a powerful example of Christian virtue—especially coming from the one who doesn’t believe. He voices his opinion, and then he submits. That’s something.
There are similar moments in The Lord of the Rings. Book Two, Chapter Two begins with a major debate—the Council of Elrond. People have very different opinions, and yet, under the wisdom of Elrond and Gandalf, there’s real listening. Even with passionate disagreement, there’s mutual respect.
And then, if you jump to near the end—Book Six begins with “The Last Debate.” I think that’s literally the chapter title, right? That alone says something. Again, there are differing views. Even earlier in the story, between Gandalf and Aragorn—Gandalf believes the best path is through the Mines of Moria, while Aragorn prefers the Pass of Caradhras. And Gandalf yields to Aragorn. He defers.
Now, these weren’t political or moral debates, necessarily. But they were significant. And they show how real disagreement can still exist alongside respect, even trust. That’s something I think we need to recover.
Radix: Wow, that’s really cool. There’s another word that comes to mind: meekness.
MD: Yes—and if you read Galatians 5:22–23, where Paul lists the fruit of the Spirit, you’ll notice something interesting. There are actually two different Greek words in that list that can both be translated as gentleness, depending on the version you’re using.
One of them carries a dual meaning—it can mean kindness or a certain kind of gentleness. I think the NIV translates it as kindness, while the older King James Version translates it as gentleness. Then there’s another word in the list that’s translated either as gentleness or meekness, again depending on the version.
So out of the nine fruits of the Spirit, two—nearly a quarter—are closely tied to this idea of gentleness. Gentleness as kindness. Kindness as gentleness. Gentleness as meekness. Meekness as gentleness. There’s a whole cluster of meaning here that I think we’ve lost.
I’ve actually heard church leaders say, “We can’t afford gentleness anymore.” But I think to be gentle is to be Christlike.
My favourite dialogue in The Lord of the Rings—and that’s saying something, because there are many beautiful and powerful ones—is between Faramir and Denethor. Denethor is rebuking Faramir for not bringing him the Ring of Power. He accuses him of always trying to appear lordly, and then says something chilling: “Your gentleness may be repaid with death.”
It’s a threat—or maybe a prophecy. Either way, it’s heavy. And Faramir responds with just three words: “So be it.”
To me, that’s extraordinary. He’s saying that it would be better to remain gentle, even if it costs him his life, than to give up that one virtue.
And you know what? Denethor is right. Gentleness may be repaid with death.
Think of Jesus riding into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. In one of the Gospel accounts, there’s only one adjective used to describe him: gentle. He came into the city gentle, riding on a donkey. And his gentleness was repaid with death. That’s why this virtue makes us uncomfortable. That’s why some people insist we can’t afford it anymore—because deep down, they’re afraid of what it might cost. And yet, that’s exactly what it means to follow Christ.
When someone says, “We can’t afford to be gentle anymore—the times are too desperate,” what I hear is: “We can’t afford to be Christians anymore.” The reality is gentleness is central to the way of Christ.
This is why, to me, Faramir has always been the greatest hero. He lived during one of the darkest periods in Gondor’s history—generations of decline, war, despair. And still, he says, so be it. Denethor claims gentleness is a luxury they can no longer afford. He argues that desperate times call for ruthlessness. But Faramir resists that logic. He holds the line.
Gandalf, too, embodies this same gentleness. He believes in its power. And Faramir, of course, is Gandalf’s disciple. That’s even part of Denethor’s contempt: “You’re one of Gandalf’s.”
So when I hear someone say, “We can’t afford to be gentle anymore,” I hear them saying, “We can’t afford to be Christians anymore.” But following Christ means following him even when it costs us. Even when gentleness is repaid with death.
Radix: I’m always curious to ask this question—and you’ve heard me ask it before. If you could speak to all the pastors—like, magically, they’d all be in one room, kind of like Hermione’s bag where impossible things fit inside—and they had to listen to you, while smiling (because when people smile, they’re more receptive), what would you want to say to them?
MD: I mean, there are a few topics that are really near and dear to my heart lately. One is gentleness. And more broadly, I’d say the Beatitudes. Because there are many religious leaders in the U.S. today who argue that the Beatitudes are no longer relevant to the modern church. That the Sermon on the Mount is outdated. That we live in such hard times—the battle is too important—and that we can’t afford to be gentle anymore.
I think that’s a very dangerous idea.
So yes, gentleness is something that feels really urgent to me.
Another thing I’d want to speak about is what I believe to be one of the most destructive teachings prevalent today—especially in Western and American Christianity—and that’s prosperity theology. There are various forms of it, and I think they’re destructive in many ways.
Writers like C.S. Lewis and Tolkien provide such strong antidotes to it. They take the reality of suffering seriously, and they don’t tie it to moral failure. They don’t say, “If you’re suffering, it must be because you sinned.” They understand that suffering is part of the Christian life.
And then there’s a third topic I’ve been thinking and writing a lot about: lament. The importance of lament as a central Christian practice and virtue. It’s often lost in the church today because it makes people uncomfortable. But lament is one of the things that counters the lies of prosperity theology. Lament reminds us that it’s okay to grieve, to cry out, to be honest with God about pain and injustice.
So any one of those topics—gentleness, the Beatitudes, lament—I’d love to talk to pastors about. And I think all of them, in different ways, tie into the experience of war, and into how Tolkien and Lewis responded to war.
If I had the floor, I think I’d say what Paul says to Timothy in 2 Timothy 4: Preach the Word. Call people to spiritual transformation, even when it’s uncomfortable. Because people do want to accumulate teachers who say what they want to hear. And what people want to hear is: If you just do the right things, you’ll be happy and healthy and wealthy. Everything will go your way. Life will be good.
But that’s not the gospel message.
What I’d want to say is that the Sermon on the Mount and the Beatitudes are still relevant. In fact, they’re central to what it means to be followers of Christ. They didn’t suddenly become less important because our times are desperate. If anything, they become more important.
We don’t win the battle by taking control of society and forcing people to superficially conform to what we want them to look like. That’s not how Christ’s kingdom works.
We win the battle by loving our neighbor.
We win the battle by practicing gentleness, even when it leads to suffering.
We win the battle by caring for creation the way God intended us to—by tending it, stewarding it, allowing it to flourish.
We win the battle by caring for our neighbors as ourselves.
By welcoming the refugee.
By loving the stranger.
By embracing those who are different from us.
That’s what it means to live out Christ’s kingdom.
It doesn’t mean trying to make a country or community look Christian on the outside.
It means becoming like Christ on the inside.
Yeah.
That’s my sermon.
Radix: What a sermon! Thank you so very much for all this.