Biblical and Theological Commentary on Tolkien's Letters, Part 6
Letters #208–#213, #246, and #250
(avg. read time: 16–32 mins.)
Letter #208 (10 April 1958 to C. Ouboter, Voorhoeve en Dietrich, Rotterdam)
This short letter addresses points that we have seen already, providing some concise clarification that was not present in earlier letters. He once again must respond to questions about what the “message” of the story is, and he once again puts forward the dominance of the theme of death and immortality related thereto:
the ‘message’ was the hideous peril of confusing true ‘immortality’ with limitless serial longevity. Freedom from Time, and clinging to Time. The confusion is the work of the Enemy, and one of the chief causes of human disaster. Compare the death of Aragorn with a Ringwraith. The Elves call ‘death’ the Gift of God (to Men). Their temptation is different: towards a fainéant melancholy, burdened with Memory, leading to an attempt to halt Time.
This is a point we have observed before about the difference between the biblical hope for immortality and what a state of perpetual existence in a broken, sinful world would be. The latter is what was prevented in the story of the Garden of Eden and it is what Tolkien describes in terms of “limitless serial longevity.” The former is that of everlasting life lived in union with God, also signifying being made like him in the ultimate fashion, in a new creation.
However, he clarifies that he did not set out to convey a message, “I was primarily writing an exciting story in an atmosphere and background such as I find personally attractive. But in such a process inevitably one’s own taste, ideas, and beliefs get taken up.” This is a point we have observed again and again about Tolkien’s work to this point and it is something to which we will return in future commentaries.
Of course, one area where there appears to be friction between Tolkien and the Bible is in his statement, “But certainly Death is not an Enemy!” Of course, as we see in 1 Cor 15:20–26, 53–57, that is exactly how death, as a power, is regarded. Tolkien will have some clarifying comments in Letter #212, but for now I must reiterate points that I made in the previous entry of this series. When Tolkien refers to death in this context, he is not referring to the allying force of sin as such, which is Paul’s referent in 1 Cor 15. Rather, this is a reference to death as the simple end of transient existence, the end for mortality. In the biblical case, the reference to death is informed by Eden and the whole sweep of the biblical narrative (such as texts cited in Paul’s chapter), particularly in terms of the connection of sin and death. In Tolkien’s case, this is simply referring to mortality vs. immortality in the world as it is.
Letter #209 (14 May 1958 to Robert Murray, S.J.)
This letter is Tolkien’s response to Murray’s inquiry about the “original meaning” and relationships between words translated as “holy” across Indo-European languages. The letter provides plenty of philological insight for those taken up with questions of “original meaning” of a term, etymology, morphology, phonetics, and so on. For example, he notes that a word-form can become utterly changed phonetically without changing its meaning, but a word can also be phonetically unchanged while undergoing a complete change in meaning: “Quite suddenly [Soon after AD 1400] (as far as the evidence goes) yelp which meant ‘to speak proudly’, and was especially used of proud vows (such as a knight vowing to do some dangerous deed) stopped meaning that and became used of the noise of foxes or dogs! Why? At any rate, not because of any change in ideas about vaunts or animals!”
He is thus keen to note, “We do not know the ‘original’ meaning of any word, still less the meaning of its basic element … there is always a lost past.” As his main example he goes through different words meant to refer to God/god in various languages. We do not know the origins of these languages or by what historical means they came to refer to God/god. Nor by studying such history of morphology or phonology—much less the speculations used to fill in the gaps in our knowledge—are we actually brought closer to who a person uses the word to refer to. Thus he says, “We are faced by endless minute parallels to the mystery of incarnation. Is not the idea of god ultimately independent of the ways by which a word for it has come to be?” In a footnote attached to this, he adds, “Because a single word in human language (unlike Entish!) is a short-hand sign, & conventional. The fact that it is derived from a single facet, even if proved, does not prove that other facets were not equally present to the mind of the users of this conventional sign. The λόγος is ultimately independent of the verbum.” The same principle is used in his further analysis of words for “holy.” The idea, the thing signified, is something above the signifier/word. Likewise, the Logos who became incarnate transcends a mere human who is the one known as Jesus (or various other names in other languages). He existed before the incarnation but became flesh and thus Jesus is the hypostatic union of God and human, which breaks the analogy he is drawing here, as the idea does not become identical with any signifier, much less a signifier in only one language.
Letter #210 (June 1958 to Forrest J. Ackerman)
This is a letter to which we will have occasion to return for a future entry, for it is Tolkien’s comments on a film treatment of LOTR. The comment that is of interest for the purposes of this commentary concerns lembas. Tolkien objected to the treatment referring to lembas as a “food concentrate,” as this expression has the air of attempting to make scientific what is not. According to Tolkien, it has two functions in his story. One is simply a device for making credible the long marches that must happen in the book. The other is what Tolkien regards as a much larger significance, “of what one might hesitatingly call a ‘religious’ kind.” This is one of the indications, which will be made clearer in a later letter, that the narrator’s comments about lembas on the final approach to Mt. Doom are meant to reflect the Eucharist and its virtues that nourish a person.
Letter #211 (14 October 1958 to Rhona Beare)
This letter is Tolkien’s reply to some questions Rhona Beare, a student at Exeter at the time, asked in anticipation of a meeting with other devotees (though it seems Tolkien was late in responding due to prior commitments). This letter and its unsent continuation examined below gives, inter alia, insight into Tolkien’s theological perspective on his work. As such, there is also insight into how he theologically related sub-creation to creation.
For example, his response to the question about Sauron’s “defeat” at the hands of Ar-Pharazôn shows his thoughts on power and evil as they manifest in both the Primary and Secondary Worlds. Of course, Sauron surrendered voluntarily to Ar-Pharazôn because his subjects had fled, and it was a prime opportunity to dominate Númenor from within by the power he had poured into the Ring. Of the Ring, Tolkien writes, “If I were to ‘philosophize’ this myth, or at least the Ring of Sauron, I should say it was a mythical way of representing the truth that potency (or perhaps rather potentiality) if it is to be exercised, and produce results, has to be externalized and so as it were passes, to a greater or less degree, out of one’s direct control. A man who wishes to exert ‘power’ must have subjects, who are not himself. But he then depends on them.” In a way, this statement about the Ring also indicates that it is a corruption of sub-creation proper. It goes back to Tolkien’s statements about the fundamental matters of his mythology and how Magic and Machine represent corruptions of the basic sub-creational desire. Sub-creation, if its spell is to work, must also be externalized from the mind so that the mind is able to interact with it like something real. But it is not a corruption and therefore does not fall into the paradoxical trap of domination outlined here in which one makes subjects but thereby becomes dependent on them. This trap is set for beings who do not so much desire to imitate God’s creative action, but desire to usurp God’s position.
Sauron was actually defeated when Eru Ilúvatar destroyed the Númenor Sauron had expended enormous power in corrupting in the changing of the world (along with any possibility of Sauron ever taking a fair form again). However, the incident only diminished Sauron—and the Last Alliance attacked before he and his domination were fully rehabilitated—it did not truly destroy him, even as the destruction of the Ring over 3,000 years later did not destroy him, but rendered him impotent in the world. Tolkien explains that this fact of the Secondary World was not his fault because it is a fact of the Primary World and one he had to take account of if his own sub-creation was to attain Secondary Reality. It is simply a derivative form of the problem of evil, particularly of the demonic kind. That such powers should persist in existing or even influencing the world subsequent to an outpouring of divine wrath actually gives this Secondary World a deep realism that is as sorrowful as it is for the Primary World. If the Primary World features indestructible spirits with volition (including abused volition), it is inevitable that a Secondary World with Secondary Reality that features similar spirits will also have them as indestructible.1
In response to Beare’s question of the identity of the Elder King to whom Bilbo refers, Tolkien notes that it cannot be the One because, “The One does not physically inhabit any part of Eä.” He then proceeds to close the letter with notes that clarify the nature of his Secondary World. He makes the regular note that Middle-earth is not so much an imaginary world disconnected from the Primary World, but an imagined history within the Primary World. But as for his religious picture, he claims it is not a new alternative he is offering. It is, rather, an imaginary rendition that expresses some of his beliefs in Secondary World form. Naturally, the Secondary World forms extend from the actual religious beliefs of the Primary World author, but they are neither overt nor allegorical representations of those beliefs per se. Tolkien does not expand on these points because he regards himself neither as a qualified preacher or theologian, whatever the theological merits of his work may be. In any case, the major theological themes he cites are not about power—which is essentially the catalyst of the story instead of the primary matter—but, “Death, and Immortality; and the ‘escapes’: serial longevity, and hoarding memory.” Indeed, though they have different forms in a world with Elves alongside Men, magic rings alongside swords and cities, and physical habitations of angel-like beings exist alongside (broadly speaking) the realms of others, these themes and their attendant problems are common to the experiences of both Primary and Secondary Worlds.
Letter #212 (unsent draft of a continuation of #211)
It is no surprise that Tolkien’s sub-creation prominently features sub-creation from the beginning of its story. The difference here is that the Ainur are sub-creators working according to a different pattern than sub-creators in the Primary World: “They interpreted according to their powers, and completed in detail, the Design propounded to them by the One. This was propounded first in musical or abstract form, and then in an ‘historical vision’.” While there is a sense in which Tolkien has described sub-creators as being imitative—with varying degrees of intention—of God’s creative activity, there is a definite pattern and instruction to follow here. Furthermore, the work of the sub-creators is of such a scale that they can see their contributions being taken up into the grand primary design (whereas for sub-creators of the Primary World such a vision is eschatological).
Even at the point of the historical vision the One showed to the Ainur, Tolkien states that it had only the ontological quality (or “validity” in his words) like a story. Simply put, “it ‘exists’ in the mind of the teller, and derivatively in the minds of hearers, but not on the same plane as teller or hearers. When the One (the Teller) said Let it Be, then the Tale became History, on the same plane as the hearers; and these could, if they desired, enter into it.” Such is ultimately what separates creation from sub-creation: the fiat of the Creator.2 While words have sub-creative power too, only the Creator has the power and authority to speak things into “primary existence” (the phrase “Let it Be” closely resembles the words of God in Gen 1). Only the Creator has the ability to hallow sub-creations and to take them up into the Primary Creation by fiat. At this point, sub-creations are no longer engaged with by imagination (such as the historical vision), but by every faculty.
At this point, Tolkien again returns to the matters of mortality and immortality in his mythology. We will not rehash points that have already been noted. But a couple points are worth noting. According to Tolkien, after setting out his basic framework of what Elvish immortality is and that mortality is regarded as the Gift of Ilúvatar,
it must be remembered that mythically these tales are Elf-centered, not anthropocentric, and Men only appear in them, at what must be a point long after their Coming. This is therefore an ‘Elvish’ view, and does not necessarily have anything to say for or against such beliefs as the Christian that ‘death’ is not part of human nature, but a punishment for sin (rebellion), a result of the ‘Fall’. It should be regarded as an Elvish perception of what death – not being tied to the ‘circles of the world’ – should now become for Men, however it arose. A divine ‘punishment’ is also a divine ‘gift’, if accepted, since its object is ultimate blessing, and the supreme inventiveness of the Creator will make ‘punishments’ (that is changes of design) produce a good not otherwise to be attained: a ‘mortal’ Man has probably (an Elf would say) a higher if unrevealed destiny than a longeval one.
This explanation validates what has been said previously about Tolkien’s thoughts on death in his sub-creation and how it relates to biblical theology thereof. But he also adds an interesting note here about how, even in the framework of death as punishment, it is still possible to see it as a “gift,” if it is accepted as such. We see here again the teaching of Rom 8:28 and other texts (such as teachings on discipline in Heb 12:2–13, joy in suffering in Jas 1:2–4, and suffering for doing right in texts such as 1 Pet 3:14–22). And of course, as I illustrated in my Tolkien review, such teachings were reinforced by his own experience of loss and hardship in his youth, being sustained by the Catholic faith his mother inculcated in him. Ultimately, this notion is animated by the fact that we follow the God who raised Jesus from the dead and so through his death on the cross, especially in how it functions as propitiation, God brought about a good that could not be attained otherwise and made Jesus the foundation of his grand salvific edifice. In the process, what God will bring about in the eschaton is not merely some return to Eden, but a bestowal of everlasting life that utterly conquers every trace of death, being the result of union with God that comes only by the work of God in Christ.
One point to return to in this description is his focus on the idea of “acceptance” of death as such. For Men in Tolkien’s story, this is what ultimately separates those who describe death as the Gift of Men and those who describe death as the Doom of Men. In this story’s theoretical framework, a good Man would die voluntarily when the time came “by surrender with trust before being compelled (as did Aragorn).” Although compulsion would not have been an issue for unfallen humans, Tolkien thinks this same attitude would have characterized the unfallen, for whom death would have signified only the end of transient, mortal existence and not that condition of godforsakeness under the power of death united with sin. And here Tolkien shows the distinct influence of his Catholic theology in how he links this idea with Catholic Mariology. On the one hand, the Immaculate Conception in Catholic theology insists that Mary was an unfallen human. On the other hand, the assumption of Mary is considered to be the appropriate end-of-life complement to her conception, whereby she voluntarily gave up continuing her earthly existence and was taken up into heaven. But lest there be any confusion about Mary’s status or about how she was in any way not dependent on Christ (for Mary is exalted by her relation to Christ and participation in the Incarnation), Tolkien clarifies, “The Assumption was in any case as distinct from the Ascension as the raising of Lazarus from the (self) Resurrection.”
Finally, Tolkien notes that his myth and the Christian story are different in how the different Falls are portrayed. As this contributes to the explanation for the different descriptions of death and animates much of what has been explained before, I quote it here in full:
In the latter [the Christian story] the Fall of Man is subsequent to and a consequence (though not a necessary consequence) of the ‘Fall of the Angels’: a rebellion of created free-will at a higher level than man; but it is not clearly held (and in many versions is not held at all) that this affected the ‘World’ in its nature: evil was brought in from outside, by Satan. In this Myth the rebellion of created free-will precedes creation of the World (Eä); and Eä has in it, subcreatively introduced, evil, rebellions, discordant elements of its own nature already when the Let it Be was spoken. The Fall or corruption, therefore, of all things in it and all inhabitants of it, was a possibility if not inevitable.
Letter #213 (25 October 1958 to Deborah Webster)
This is one of Tolkien’s more autobiographical letters, as Webster sought, like many a literary critic, to illuminate Tolkien’s work by reference to his life. But Tolkien makes clear that he thinks this venture to be an overwrought one and one that critics tend to have too much confidence in undertaking:
I do not like giving 'facts' about myself other than ‘dry’ ones (which anyway are quite as relevant to my books as any other more Juicy details). Not simply for personal reasons; but also because I object to the contemporary trend in criticism, with its excessive interest in the details of the lives of authors and artists. They only distract attention from an author’s works (if the works are in fact worthy of attention), and end, as one now often sees, in becoming the main interest. But only one’s guardian Angel, or indeed God Himself, could unravel the real relationship between personal facts and an author's works. Not the author himself (though he knows more than any investigator), and certainly not so-called ‘psychologists’.
This opening statement is rather an exaggeration on Tolkien’s part, since he goes on in this same letter to relate some facts about himself that he thinks are actually important for his work—although he does not himself attempt to unravel the complex relationship between his life and work—such as the fact that he is a Catholic Christian. In other words, while Tolkien does not dismiss the influence of his life on his work—which would surely be an absurd dismissal—he is rightly skeptical of the capacity of critics or even the author to convey this relationship well and accurately. There are links that one can be more confident in—whether it is generally between the theology and philosophy conveyed in Tolkien’s work and his Catholic theology or specifically in cases such as the references to the giant metal serpents in the story of the Fall of Gondolin and the tanks that debuted in WW1—but it is best to tread carefully.
On the point about the illumination his Catholic faith provides, he himself points to a couple examples that other readers have discerned. The invocations of Varda/Elbereth and the way Galadriel is often described take their inspiration from Catholic devotion to Mary (the latter is further confirmed in Letter #320). Likewise, the lembas, with its power to “feed the will” and having an even greater potency when one is fasting (by practice or by necessity, as in the story), is clearly correlated with the Eucharist.
Letter #246 (drafts: September 1963 to Mrs Eileen Elgar)
As Letter #245 addresses matters on immortality and mortality that have already been addressed, I move on to the next letter, which consists of a collection of drafts addressed to Mrs. Eileen Elgar. This is the same woman who received the letter commented on in the entry on Tolkien’s dislike of Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia (particularly The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe). Here, she has made some comments on Frodo’s failure to destroy the Ring, along with some other points related to this aspect of the story, including the character of Samwise Gamgee. However, since it is unclear what criticisms were made in regard to these other aspects of the story, I will not offer undue speculation here.
To the fundamental point about Frodo’s failure, Tolkien makes much the same points as he has in previous letters on the subject. He clarifies here that Frodo’s failure was not a moral one, which he says, “can only be asserted, I think, when a man’s effort or endurance falls short of his limits, and the blame decreases as that limit is closer approached.” In fact, this letter presents most succinctly the situation Frodo faces:
At the last moment the pressure of the Ring would reach its maximum – impossible, I should have said, for any one to resist, certainly after long possession, months of increasing torment, and when starved and exhausted. Frodo had done what he could and spent himself completely (as an instrument of Providence) and had produced a situation in which the object of his quest could be achieved. His humility (with which he began) and his sufferings were justly rewarded by the highest honour; and his exercise of patience and mercy towards Gollum gained him Mercy: his failure was redressed.
Likewise, to paraphrase a comment he will make later, Frodo is no more blameworthy for the breaking of his will by the overwhelming power of the Ring than he would have been for his body being broken by another overwhelming force. Still, another factor that he notes is that, despite the misled character of the criticism, Frodo actually agrees with that perception. His trauma is characterized by, “not only nightmare memories of past horrors that afflicted him, but also unreasoning self-reproach: he saw himself and all that he done [sic.] as a broken failure.” All the sacrifices that he had made, all that he had endured, and all the weight he bore with every decision had taken their toll on him and he could not go back to how he was before; he could not return to his simple Hobbit life in the Shire. The fact that the finger on which he wore the Ring had been bitten off was an ever-present reminder of those final moments in the Quest. He could not avoid feeling disconnected from this old familiar place he had returned to. He could not find healing or even “a truer understanding of his position in littleness and in greatness,” except by taking the ship to the Undying Lands, a spot on which was given to him by another act of sacrifice from Arwen.
Another element that Tolkien notes here in a footnote is the element of grace at work in the story through, “the enhancement of our powers as instruments of Providence.” Frodo had received grace at multiple points in the story including in his answering the call to take up the Quest at the end of the Council of Elrond (one which he was not specifically asked to answer), his recurrent resistance to the temptation to use the Ring when it would have been most dangerous to do so, and in his general “endurance of fear and suffering.” But the grace given here was to do what he was appointed to do, and it was sufficient for that purpose. He was not given grace so far beyond his capacity as to overcome the power of Sauron himself. God’s providence beyond that point ensured that the ultimate point of the Quest would be fulfilled.
Letter #250 (1 November 1963 to Michael Tolkien)
Of all of Tolkien’s extant letters, this is the one that probably reflects the most on his Christian life (though not necessarily his Christian theology). He is led to such reflection in response to his son telling him of his present struggles and feelings of depression. When his son expressed struggles with his faith because of problems he was having with the Church, Tolkien compared it to his old cynicism towards the academy:
The devotion to ‘learning’, as such and without reference to one’s own repute, is a high and even in a sense spiritual vocation; and since it is ‘high’ it is inevitably lowered by false brethren, by tired brethren, by the desire of money, and by pride: the folk who say ‘my subject’ & do not mean the one I am humbly engaged in, but the subject I adorn, or have ‘made my own’. Certainly this devotion is generally degraded and smirched in universities. But it is still there. And if you shut them down in disgust, it would perish from the land — until they were re-established, again to fall into corruption in due course. The far higher devotion to religion cannot possibly escape the same process. It is, of course, degraded in some degree by all ‘professionals’ (and by all professing Christians), and by some in different times and places outraged; and since the aim is higher the shortcoming seems (and is) far worse. But you cannot maintain a tradition of learning or true science without schools and universities, and that means schoolmasters and dons. And you cannot maintain a religion without a church and ministers; and that means professionals: priests and bishops — and also monks. The precious wine must (in this world) have a bottle, or some less worthy substitute. For myself, I find I become less cynical rather than more – remembering my own sins and follies; and realize that men's hearts are not often as bad as their acts, and very seldom as bad as their words. (Especially in our age, which is one of sneer and cynicism. We are freer from hypocrisy, since it does not ‘do’ to profess holiness or utter high sentiments; but it is one of inverted hypocrisy like the widely current inverted snobbery: men profess to be worse than they are.)
The fact that the Church is composed of humans makes problems inevitable, for the Christian faith entails a communion not only between us and God, but also between us and others who were made in God’s image, though fallen like ourselves. This is nothing new to Church history for anyone who has even a passing knowledge of it. Indeed, problems appear all across the NT, and problems are often the occasions for writing the various letters. Wrongs have been committed under the name of Christ from the earliest days, and it can be quite easy to find oneself off the path of wisdom to treat all of these things in a cynical fashion (which is often adopted as a defense mechanism because it is easier not to be disappointed with this mindset). But cultivating an awareness of one’s own sins, for which the practice of confession is helpful (Jas 5:16; 1 John 1:9), goes a long way in curtailing this mindset and attitude towards the Church. This returns, again, to Jesus’s teaching on judgment and the need to examine oneself first (Matt 7:1–5), not as a means of eschewing all criticism, but as a means of cultivating a proper perspective on how sin affects us all and operating in light of that awareness. Furthermore, Jesus also teaches in the Lord’s Prayer and subsequent teaching that forgiveness of our own sins is tied to the forgiveness we extend to others (Matt 6:9–15). This same point is conveyed vividly in the Parable of the Unmerciful Servant after Peter asks how many times to forgive a brother who sins against him (Matt 18:21–35). In light of such teachings and the habits of thought and action that they cultivate, one ought to become less cynical, not more, towards the Church and cognizant of how the Holy Spirit has been at work in surprising ways in this community of broken people.
Tolkien knew the trouble that scandals of the Church could bring, but he concluded that such was not a sufficient basis for him to leave the Church:
I think I am as sensitive as you (or any other Christian) to the ‘scandals’, both of clergy and laity. I have suffered grievously in my life from stupid, tired, dimmed, and even bad priests; but I now know enough about myself to be aware that I should not leave the Church (which for me would mean leaving the allegiance of Our Lord) for any such reasons: I should leave because I did not believe, and should not believe any more, even if I had never met any one in orders who was not both wise and saintly. I should deny the Blessed Sacrament, that is: call Our Lord a fraud to His face.
Tolkien was a firm believer in the tradition of ex opere operato, that the power of the sacraments derived from the work of Christ rather than from character of the human administrator (ex opere operantis). The power of the Eucharist could not be dimmed by his partaking of it with priests or with other people who might offend his sensibilities for one reason or another. It was precisely because of the Catholic tradition of making the Eucharist central to worship that Tolkien could not imagine leaving it for a Protestant tradition.
Indeed, it is to Communion that Tolkien points his son for the renewal of his sagging faith. After all, faith, as Tolkien describes it, “is an act of will, inspired by love.” By analogy, the act of Communion is inspired by love of the one whose flesh and blood is consumed in the ritual, thereby signifying our loving, identifying, incorporative, and participatory union with him. It is also a regular act of will, one that must be exercised constantly, not once for all time. As such, Tolkien recommends high frequency of Communion, “Seven times a week is more nourishing than seven times at intervals.” Fascinatingly, he also recommends a further exercise to Michael as part of his participation in Communion to strengthen his faith:
make your communion in circumstances that affront your taste. Choose a snuffling or gabbling priest or a proud and vulgar friar; and a church full of the usual bourgeois crowd, ill-behaved children – from those who yell to those products of Catholic schools who the moment the tabernacle is opened sit back and yawn – open necked and dirty youths, women in trousers and often with hair both unkempt and uncovered. Go to Communion with them (and pray for them). It will be just the same (or better than that) as a mass said beautifully by a visibly holy man, and shared by a few devout and decorous people. (It could not be worse than the mess of the feeding of the Five Thousand – after which [Our] Lord propounded the feeding that was to come.)
The effect Tolkien is going for here is a high contrast that magnifies the effects of Communion. Of course, as opposed to Paul’s teaching on grace being able to abound where sin abounds, Tolkien is not necessarily talking about sin, but irreverence, real or apparent (defined by his cultural context or transcending it). The better analogy is Paul’s description of the gospel as treasure in clay jars (i.e., the proclaimers) in 2 Cor 4:7. This image is one in which more attention is drawn to the treasure, to that which is displayed, rather than to what surrounds it or presents it.
Even so, such an exercise also serves as a reminder that the communion of Christ and his Church abides, even in those circumstances which are more than or worse than distasteful. In such situations we see all the more the faithfulness exercised in the will of God for the sake of his love, which is embodied in the Communion and the triune action it signifies, and it reminds us that we, as image-bearers of God, members of the body of Christ, and sanctuaries of the Holy Spirit, are to reflect that faithfulness with our act of will for the sake of love for God and God’s image-bearers. Furthermore, again for historical perspective, Tolkien reminds his son that the feeding of the 5,000 was no idyllic, perfectly serene and sublime setting. There was much that was messy about it, even beyond the “mess” of fragments left behind.
Tolkien also states his assurance in the Petrine claims of the Roman Catholic Church as the true tradition, the Church built upon the rock of Peter. One of his major assurances that this is so is because he thinks it has always defended the Blessed Sacrament and put it in its prime place in worship. In fact, he interprets the charge of Jesus to Peter in John 21:17 to “feed my sheep” to refer to the Eucharist. Likewise, he supposes, “It was against this that the W. European revolt (or Reformation) was really launched – ‘the blasphemous fable of the Mass’ – and faith/works a mere red herring.” Such is, indeed, a partisan Catholic perspective on the Reformation, one fit to match the counterpart partisan perspective that the Reformation happened because Catholics believed in works-based salvation and Luther saw that this was not biblical. The Reformation was considerably more complicated on both fronts, but this perspective is hardly surprising, as such partisan takes continue to this day. Of course, this is not to say that he considered Protestant Christians, like C. S. Lewis, or the Orthodox to be damned. He clarifies in a footnote:
Not that one should forget the wise words of Charles Williams, that it is our duty to tend the accredited and established altar, though the Holy Spirit may send the first down somewhere else. God cannot be limited (even by his own Foundations) – of which St Paul is the first and prime example – and may use any channel for His grace. Even to love Our Lord, and certainly to call him Lord, and God, is a grace, and may bring more grace. Nonetheless, speaking institutionally and not of individual souls the channel must eventually run back into the ordained course, or run into the sands and perish. Besides the Sun there may be moonlight (even bright enough to read by); but if the Sun were removed there would be no Moon to see. What would Christianity now be if the Roman Church has in fact been destroyed?
The imagery Tolkien uses here appears to be derived from the story of the elders the Spirit of the Lord came upon in Num 11:16–30. The Spirit descended upon the seventy elders gathered around the sanctuary, but he also descended upon Eldad and Medad, who had remained in the camp. When Joshua urged Moses to try and stop them from prophesying in the camp, since they were not among the elders who gathered at the designated holy place, Moses said he wished that all of God’s people were prophets and that the Spirit came on all of them. By analogy, Tolkien regards the Roman Catholic Church as the proper sanctuary, but the Spirit also comes upon others—including salvifically—outside of its boundaries. The wind blows where it wills, so it is with those born of the Spirit (John 3:8).
As Tolkien makes clear in the letter, what brought him “out of Egypt” and forged the strong bond he has with Catholicism was the example his own mother, who brought him into the Church through her sufferings for her faith and the early death such travails brought her. His place in the Church was further solidified by “the astonishing charity of Francis Morgan,” the man he knew as his father figure (since his own father died when he was four). By their influence, he was kept in contact with the Sacrament that has sustained him in the faith. But Tolkien is not without his regrets in his life as a Catholic, which he is doing his best to address at this time, including in writing this letter:
I brought you all up ill and talked to you too little. Out of wickedness and sloth I almost ceased to practise my religion – especially at Leeds [1920–1925], and at 22 Northmoor Road [1926–1930]…. I regret those days bitterly (and suffer for them with such patience as I can be given); most of all because I failed as a father. Now I pray for you all, unceasingly, that the Healer (the Hælend as the Saviour was usually called in Old English) shall heal my defects, and that none of you shall ever cease to cry Benedictus qui venit in nomme Domini [Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord; as said in Communion].
There is, of course, a growing trend, with some roots in early tradition, to believe in conditional immortality or annihilationism. It is understandable that Tolkien learned a tradition in which such spirits, including human spirits, were truly immortal and indestructible so that even the Creator would or could not end their existence, and thus he believed that such was a reality of the Primary World. However, it seems that the stronger logic and arguments favor conditionalism/annihilationism, including for angelic beings. If so, this particular statement, though not the overall claim about the problem of evil, actually presents a discontinuity with the Primary World.
Though The Silmarillion, 20, 25 also mentions the Flame Imperishable as that which vivifies Eä, Tolkien does not reference it here. Tolkien either forgot to mention it, did not think of it as relevant, or had thought of them as unified.