In his encyclical Dives in Misericordia (Rich in Mercy), Pope Saint John Paul II writes of Christ’s Resurrection:
Every Easter, I return to this astonishing truth: Jesus Himself experienced mercy. The Resurrection was not merely a display of power. It was the Father’s merciful love poured out upon the Son Who had passed through suffering and death.
This has changed the way I see my own wounds. Mercy does not appear without brokenness. Where there are wounds, there is the possibility of mercy and therefore no place for shame.
More so, there is no need to fear the call to an adventure that promises suffering. Such a call may in fact be an invitation to pass through the Cross and discover mercy for ourselves—mercy that cannot help but overflow to others.
There and Back Again: The Hero’s Journey
Every great story follows a pattern. A call, both frightening and exhilarating, disrupts ordinary life. To answer it, the unexpected hero must leave comfort behind. He may hesitate or even refuse before surrendering as he realizes his deepest desires align with the call.
He moves toward adventure, beginning a slow descent into suffering and loss. Amid tragedy, he is sustained by the strength that only truth, love, and the support of others can give. At some point, he falls—broken and too weak to continue. It is then that he is helped by another.
Thus, the hero’s journey does not culminate in flawless strength but in the moment when strength is no longer enough. It culminates in mercy, which transforms brokenness. And with that mercy comes victory and an ascent into light. The victory belongs not to power or perfection, but to love. The hero is transformed—and so is the world he loves.
Concerning (Two) Hobbits
One of the most beloved embodiments of this pattern is found in the quiet hills of the Shire in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.
Frodo Baggins was not trained for greatness. Raised by his uncle after the death of his parents, he was shaped by gardens, tea, and the steady rhythms of home. Yet, when a burden too great for any one creature is placed before him—the Ring of power—he steps forward to journey to Mount Doom. He does so not because he is fearless, but because he loves home. It is love that makes him willing to bear the cross of the Ring.
History, too, has its hobbits.
Much like Frodo, Karol Wojtyła lost his family at a young age. He loved home, the mountains, and friendship. When faced with the crushing weight of a totalitarian regime, he did not rush into battle. Rather, out of love for truth, his homeland, and human dignity, he entered the underground seminary—an act forbidden under Nazi occupation.
Over the decades, his yes deepened. He became a priest and then a bishop marked with a ring of fidelity. Later he was named a cardinal and finally the Bishop of Rome, carrying with him the weight of the Church.
The Long Road to Mordor, the Long Road to Rome
The weight of the adventure made neither man physically stronger, but smaller and weaker. Physical and metaphorical battles accompanied each step of their journeys, but so did nourishment and support.
The lembas of Lothlórien sustains Frodo beyond what seems possible. Likewise, Pope John Paul II daily received the Eucharist, the Bread that strengthens every pilgrim on the road home.
Support also comes in the form of light for both heroes. In exhaustion, Frodo offers the Ring to Queen Galadriel, who resists the Ring’s temptation, and instead gives him a phial containing the light of Eärendil’s star—a gift for the darkness that lies ahead. John Paul II similarly entrusted himself to a maiden who resisted temptation: the Blessed Virgin Mary, who always directed him to the light of Christ.
Attempts were made on both their lives. Frodo is stabbed by the Witch-king and nearly consumed by Shelob, saved each time by the courage of those who risk themselves for him. In 1981, John Paul II was shot in Saint Peter’s Square. Both survived. Both continued. Both were visibly marked by what they endured.
The Slopes of Doom and Death
In their fortitude, both men pressed forward even at their weakest.
Broken by the weight of the Ring, Frodo eventually collapses upon the slopes of Mount Doom, and his faithful friend Samwise carries him. Even at the very edge of the fire, Frodo could not finish the task by strength alone. His victory was not in conquering evil, but in enduring it.
Near the end of his pontificate, debilitated by Parkinson’s disease, John Paul II could no longer move without assistance. Like Frodo, he needed to be carried—not always by one pair of arms, but by the quiet fidelity of the Church. Though his final years were marked by feebleness, he did not resign. He remained, teaching the world how to suffer and how to die faithfully. His victory, too, was one of endurance.
Neither hero finished with power nor conquered evil by force, yet their weakness became the place where light broke through and radiated out to all. Frodo eventually sails west with the elves, bearing scars that Middle-earth could not mend. John Paul II lived the remainder of his life wounded, yet radiant in fatherly suffering. At his funeral, the Book of the Gospels resting upon his coffin was gently closed by the wind—as if the earthly chapters of his mission had come to its end.
This is Our Story
At Easter, we do not celebrate a Hero Who conquered by domination, but a Savior Who passed through suffering and came out the other side alive. On Divine Mercy Sunday, we are reminded that the story is completed by His mercy, not our perfection.
The call of the disciple is the call of the hero.
The question is not whether we feel heroic, but whether we will endure, receive help, and allow mercy to complete what we cannot. Will we let ourselves be carried when we collapse? Will we trust that the fire is not the end? Will we become, by grace, the heroes of our own lives?
Grace Bellon is a wife, mom, and high school theology teacher who has spent years walking with young people as they wrestle with faith, identity, and the ache for something more. She writes from the heart of a classroom, the hustle of family life, and the quiet corners where the Lord speaks most tenderly. She believes in miracles, mercy, and the delicate art of balancing home-cooked meals with takeout nights. Her sweetest joys are found in the company of one man who keeps her coffee cup full, her children who keep her laundry baskets fuller, and the Eucharist which fills her heart and soul.
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