With the advent of Lent, I resolved to stop listening to all of the latest newscasts, to stop reading blogs about the unfolding financial crisis, to stop listening to interviews with political pundits.

And the silence was, at first, frightening.

Activities that had sapped my energy and prevented me from paying attention to the real world around me had accreted over months, and once vanquished, I was startled by the macabre grandeur of the air castles they represented. I’d gotten into my depraved state by occasionally checking a Facebook page, but soon found myself wasting hours. I’d tune in to a radio show for fun, and it rapidly became a daily addiction.

Where does all of this distraction come from? And why, in Heaven’s name, do we allow it such free rein for so long?

I’m reminded of a short story entitled “The Field of Terror” by Baron Karl La Motte-Fouque, in which a woman and her new husband inherit land that is haunted by demons. The man tries to work the field with oxen and a plough, only to have the plough destroyed, one ox go mad and dash off a cliff, and the other wound itself so badly that it had to be slaughtered.

The husband does not give up, however, and proceeds to work the field without help, relying on his own strength. Most importantly, he refuses to acknowledge the shape-shifting devils who continually attempt to frighten and divert him from his work.

The tale ends well, with the man finally confronting the chief demon and dealing honorably but unflinchingly with him on behalf of his family. And the result is that the field is exorcised and the family prospers.

But this has me thinking of the demons that now confront all of us. Just as in “The Field of Terror”, we are swarmed by spooks. These don’t materialize just at workplaces; they rule the radio and TV airwaves, the newspaper headlines, the internet blogs. Our demons craft speeches from the Oval Office and issue fatwas from Gaza. They are far craftier than the ones in “The Field of Terror” and far more difficult to ignore.

And yet, what might we not gain by turning our faces away from the braying of Melkor’s trumpets? What good might not come of silencing the fuss and fume of Screwtape & Co.?

The Desert Fathers knew that demons would follow them into the wilderness, but they also knew that they needed to clear out the noise and nuisance of the cities before they could do battle. You must _know_ your enemy before you can resist him.

So…I’m seeking silence so that I can know my Nemesis. I’m pursuing peace so that I can be present to family and friends; and so as to find a way forward that does not blame, that does not bully, that does not bellow. But I’m also wary of the corrosive pits of “tolerance” and “unity” that mask a blind adherence to political correctness and moral relativism. I’m seeking to stymie the really _dangerous_ spooks…the ones that declare themselves “enlightened,” “progressive,” and “here to help you.”

I reckon that truth, love, and hope don’t shelter behind slogans. They do not seek power through polemics, nor influence through fear. They don’t fill headlines with ad hominem attacks and claims of bipartisanship that mask a cynical move toward economic thralldom. They are no friends to Sauron nor to Saruman.

As J.R.R. Tolkien reminds us through the words of Aragorn, “Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.”

How, though, can we discern if we deny ourselves silence?

Truth, love, and hope abide in a happy and peace-filled home, in the smile of children, in the hum of honeybees beginning their spring rounds. Truth, love, and hope abide in resonant solitude, in deep thought; in prayer. They abide in respect for those who hate us, but in rejection of falsehood and corruption in all its silvered guises.

And with silence and prayer, we may yet come to see who among us is a friend and who is a spook. We may, with God’s grace, be able to shake the hold of the demons on ourselves and on those we love. We may once again see the stars that shine ever brightly, even above the very plains of Mordor.