(avg. read time: 42–85 mins.)
With the completion of my commentary on The Lord of the Rings, the published edition of which is forthcoming, the obvious next step in Tolkien’s fiction is to provide commentary for the book he had initially wanted to publish alongside it: The Silmarillion (with which LOTR has literally hundreds of links). This is my personal favorite book by Tolkien, even though I acknowledge that LOTR is better written. While LOTR had hinted at the depths of Tolkien’s fictional history and worldbuilding before the Third Age, The Silmarillion plumbs those depths much more extensively.
The complicated and convoluted textual history behind the stories in this volume published posthumously has been rather thoroughly explored by Christopher Tolkien in the series The History of Middle-earth, as well as subsequent volumes. Unlike in the published version of my LOTR commentary, I am not planning to include as many notes from the volumes in the HOME series as are pertinent to my interests, as each of those volumes will be getting their own commentary, and this commentary is about The Silmarillion as a finished, published project, not as much about its development in addition to its final form. That is not to say such notes will be completely absent, however.
While we still need to keep in mind that Tolkien means for these stories to be set before the time of Israel and to be told mostly from an Elvish perspective, there is much that is pertinent to our interests here in this book. In fact, it is denser in that regard than LOTR. In part, this is due to the inclusion of the creation story, how it frames the rest of the narrative, and the more explicit presence and action of Eru Ilúvatar, as God is known in Tolkien’s mythos. Conversely, the more pronounced theological resonances are also due to the presence and action of Melkor, Tolkien’s equivalent of Satan and Sauron’s superior. Tolkien once said of the conflict of LOTR that also to The Silmarillion in that the conflict,
is not basically about ‘freedom’, though that is naturally involved. It is about God, and His sole right to divine honour. The Eldar and the Númenóreans believed in The One, the true God, and held worship of any other person an abomination. Sauron desired to be a God-King, and was held to be this by his servants; if he had been victorious he would have demanded divine honour from all rational creatures and absolute temporal power over the whole world. (Letter #183)
Melkor’s fall consists in his wanting to be worshiped as Creator, not even alongside God, but in place of God. This basic conflict provides plenty of fertile ground for theological reflection, which will also manifest in other versions of the stories preserved in the HOME series. Likewise, Tolkien explained in Letter #131 how his mythology fundamentally relates and addresses the problem of the relationship between Art (and sub-creation) and Primary Reality (cf. Letter #153). He divides this fundamental concern into three categories of problems in terms of Fall, Mortality, and Machine:
With Fall inevitably, and that motive occurs in several modes. With Mortality, especially as it affects art and the creative (or as I should say, sub-creative) desire which seems to have no biological function, and to be apart from the satisfactions of plain ordinary biological life, with which, in our world, it is indeed usually at strife. This desire is at once wedded to a passionate love of the real primary world, and hence filled with the sense of mortality, and yet unsatisfied by it. It has various opportunities of ‘Fall’. It may become possessive, clinging to the things made as its own, the sub-creator wishes to be the Lord and God of his private creation. He will rebel against the laws of the Creator – especially against mortality. Both of these (alone or together) will lead to the desire for Power, for making the will more quickly effective, – and so the Machine (or Magic). By the last I intend all use of external plans or devices (apparatus) instead of developments of the inherent inner powers or talents – or even the use of these talents with the corrupted motive of dominating: bulldozing the real world, or coercing other wills. The Machine is our more obvious modern form though more closely related to Magic than is usually recognised.
Several other letters we will reference along the way will further demonstrate Tolkien’s theological reflection and how it shaped both LOTR and The Silmarillion that gave that story its context.
The commentary itself is divided into four parts. Part 1 covers the Ainulindalë and the Valaquenta. Parts 2 and 3 will cover different portions of the Quenta Silmarillion, the central and longest part of The Silmarillion. And Part 4 will cover the Akallabêth and the final section “Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age.”
Creation
The story of the Ainulindalë concerns the titular Music of the Ainur by which Eru Ilúvatar created the universe. The Ainur are angelic beings who were Ilúvatar’s first creations, whom he teaches the Music he composed for the creation of the world and the history that would unfold therein. This is not meant to be a re-presentation of creation as Tolkien thinks it happened, particularly since that is not how Tolkien sought to relate his theology to his work, lest it cross the line into allegory. But given the central matter Tolkien identified of the relation of Art and Primary Reality, it is only appropriate that the matter be raised from the very beginning with the Ainur acting as sub-creators par excellence and the initial fall being a sub-creative one. The specific description of these angelic beings even correlates with biblical poetry in reference to the sons of God singing and rejoicing when God created all things (Job 38:7). It also comports with Western theological tradition in linking music in multitudinous ways to a theology of creation (see here for example).
Even in this imaginative presentation, various elements remain consistent with Tolkien’s Primary World theology. First and foremost, only God is the Creator. Even though the angelic creators take more of an active role in the formation of the world than any biblical text declares, none of them are creators as such. They are simply sub-creators on a level other creatures are not capable of being. The distinction between God’s unique action as Creator and the imitative and subordinate action of creatures with (sub-)creative faculties is foundational to Tolkien’s theology of sub-creation, as observed throughout our series on the subject (as well as in the published version in the forthcoming book).
Second, besides the implications of sovereignty and defining of purpose that are uniquely the province of the Creator, as we have observed in biblical and extra-biblical texts in this series, and which sub-creators can only imitate in limited fashion for their lesser sub-creations, one of the crucial aspects that sets God’s creative action apart from sub-creative action is that only God creates ex nihilo. In the rest of this story as the Valar participate in making many things and Melkor and his subordinates corrupt many things, all of them are working with pre-existing matter. Only Eru Ilúvatar has aseity, being self-existent, and everything else derives existence from him. As Tolkien says in a footnote of Letter #153, “Creation, the act of Will of Eru the One that gives Reality to conceptions, is distinguished from Making, which is permissive.” Only God creates by sheer will and word.
Third, on that same front, in this story and in the Bible God creates by speech-act. In The Silmarillion this is conveyed by his creation of the Ainur, his composition of the Music they are taught to sing, and his giving reality to the vision of the world they see with the words “Eä! Let these things Be!” Tolkien’s theology of sub-creation is consistent with the biblical vision in which the word/Word is generative of creation. The sub-creative capacity of language derives by imitation from the actual creative power of the Word. John’s Prologue illuminates that the one who was the Word became incarnate and dwelt among us, being the one known as Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of God. The word designating him in John 1:1–18—λόγος—is typically translated as “Word,” but it has a wide range of meaning. When we think of “word,” we typically think of written or spoken language, but the notion conveyed by the Greek term also encapsulates thought, plan/will, wisdom/logic/order, and so on, and even the basic translation of “word” admits multiple possible connections, such as with the gospel as God’s word (for more on such connections, see here). Indeed, one of the advantages of calling Jesus the λόγος is precisely because it has such broad significance and can convey so much in one word, including, in certain contexts, the idea of God’s plan or promise and its coming to fruition, so that the one through whom God created is also the one through whom he will make the new creation and provide salvation. The word/Word also being the ultimate directive of history—in line with the vision of history shown later in this chapter—also resonates both with the Gospel according to John and with statements such as we have seen in Hebrews and its prologue (especially 1:2).
Fourth, although the Flame Imperishable (also called the “Secret Fire” when the creation story is more briefly recounted in the Valaquenta) is never fully personified in Tolkien’s mythos, it is a roundabout presentation of the Holy Spirit working in creation.1 In this case, what gives life to Eä, the universe, is both the declaration of Eru and his animating creation by sending the Flame Imperishable to burn at its heart. This fire is the light from which all other lights come and the life from which all other life springs. As fits with what is especially evident in Johannine texts (see here, here, and here), there is a close association here of life and light, as this fire is the light that enlivens. Other spirits are derivative of this original fire, and it is what sustains all of existence. This is analogous to how one of the fundamental confessions of the Church, the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed, refers to the Spirit as “the Lord, the Giver of Life” (a work of the Spirit I have often noted here).
Fifth, although God alone is the transcendent Creator, we see here a vision of others participating in creation, which represents the pinnacle of sub-creative activity. God alone is the source of the action, himself being the Creator of the other actors, but he allows and invites others to take part in the work. Tolkien describes the situation in this story in Letter #181 as, “They shared in its ‘making’ — but only on the same terms as we ‘make’ a work of art or story. The realization of it, the gift to it of a created reality of the same grade as their own, was the act of the One God.” In the story, only these angelic creatures participate in God’s act of creation at this level, as Eru composes the music for them to learn and to sing, and he incorporates their parts into the larger whole of his grand creation. This is the protological equivalent of what Tolkien held to as an eschatological hope (as he articulated in his essay “On Fairy-Stories” and as he represented in his short story “Leaf by Niggle”) that the Secondary Realities of sub-creators would be taken up by God and incorporated into the new creation, thereby giving them Primary Reality. Of course, this eschatological hope is also represented in this story, as we will see later.
Sixth, the angelic Ainur are created before the rest of the world. This is in line with traditional Jewish and Christian beliefs. Again, it is implied by Job 38:7, which provides an analogy for this story. Likewise, the Fall of angels like Melkor (i.e., the Satanic figure) precedes the Fall of humanity.
After the creation of the Ainur, Ilúvatar propounds his music to them with each knowing different parts and having differing extents of comprehension of the Music. As the narrators says, “But for a long while they sang only each alone, or but few together, while the rest hearkened; for each comprehended only the part of the mind of Ilúvatar from which he came, and in the understanding of their brethren they grew but slowly. Yet ever as they listened they came to deeper understanding, and increased in unison and harmony” (“Ainulindalë”). This further accentuates the Ainur’s dependence on Ilúvatar, for they are products of his will, and no single one embodies his infinity. Some know more than others. Some are gifted more than others in certain respects. And so they are dependent on Ilúvatar for existence, for direction, for defining themselves, and for other companions he makes for each of them. Even combined, the entire populace of the Ainur do not comprehend the entirety of Eru’s mind. But the angelic community does help each of them come to better understanding of their roles within the Music and of the Music as a whole. This is linked with better understanding the will, wisdom, and overall order/harmony of Eru Ilúvatar that he aims to bestow on creation.
Another aspect of Tolkien’s theology of sub-creation that we have explored previously appears here in that Ilúvatar shows his love and appreciation of the gifts he himself has bestowed on his creation. This includes the Music itself that will give harmony to the various parts, but it also includes the individual powers given to each to express “his own thoughts and devices,” as well as the fundamental goodness of existence that is the source of their capabilities, “since I have kindled you with the Flame Imperishable” (“Ainulindalë”).
This is one of many examples of what we have noted previously of Tolkien’s work being based on orthodox Christian ontology. As Augustine argues in his Enchiridion 11–15 (and other places), evil is parasitic of good and there can be no absolute evil in the way that there is the One who is Absolute Good (or as 1 John 1:5 says, “God is light and in him there is absolutely no darkness at all”; cf. Jas 1:17). All things that exist are good for that reason if nothing else simply because they partake in the good of existence by God’s will (evilness being a subsequent and parasitic characteristic). And they partake in this good precisely because their basic existence derives from God, as signified here not only by their powers and capabilities coming from God, but also by the flames of their own spirits being kindled by the Flame Imperishable.
Looking Ahead to New Creation
As this Music—which Eru composed and the Ainur sang and contributed to—is the means by which Eru created the universe, it is obviously beyond all other music ever made. But even here at the beginning of the story there is a note of eschatology anticipating the still greater new creation:
Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music, though it has been said that a greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days. Then the themes of Ilúvatar shall be played aright, and take Being in the moment of their utterance, for all shall then understand fully his intent in their part, and each shall know the comprehension of each, and Ilúvatar shall give to their thoughts the secret fire, being well pleased. (“Ainulindalë”)
The Children of Ilúvatar consist of Elves, Men, and (by implication well after this chapter in the story) Dwarves. We will see later that the Dwarves are the children of Ilúvatar’s adoption, but the other two kindreds were introduced as a mystery in the Third Theme (according to this version) of the Music of the Ainur. The Ainur had nothing to do with their origin. They are beings like themselves, different in kind to be certain, but existing independently of them as directly derived from the creative activity of Eru Ilúvatar like the Ainur were (cf. Letter #156).
The eschatological setting of this expectation of the Second Music is made obvious by the reference to this Music coming “after the end of days.” This is the most prominent way in this story that we see protology anticipate eschatology, as the original creation foreshadows the new creation that will surpass it. There is a tendency across the Bible, which I have noted in my dissertation as well as this series, to correlate protology and eschatology, creation and eschaton. This correlation exists because the same God who is the Creator is the God who is the Judge at the coming judgment, the Savior who enacts the promises of salvation, and the Lord who is King over the hoped-for kingdom. Likewise, texts like the Prologue of John (besides aforementioned references to John, see here and here), the prologue of Hebrews (besides the previous reference, see here), and Col 1:15–20 make this connection particularly prominent in declaring that our Lord and Savior, who has brought eschatological promises to pass and will yet fulfill more of them, is the same one who is the Creator. (also see here for more on Paul, as well as here, here, and the series here on how such links are conveyed as part of larger concerns in Revelation).
This expectation stems from estel, the hope that is trust in Eru Ilúvatar, that he will bring his designs for the Children to realization for the good of the creation he loves (cf. Rom 8:18–28).2 Once the design for them is realized, they will have much to add that the Ainur could not have even conceived of, given that they had no part in their creation. Their very existence and their contributions to the story of history attest to the surprising creativity of Eru Ilúvatar and his direction of history, as his is the only wisdom that understands and guides these creations of his (Letter #131). To the Ainur, including those who would enter into the material world and its history, Tolkien says the Children were, “an incalculable element: that is they were rational creatures of free will in regard to God, of the same historical rank as the Valar, though of far smaller spiritual and intellectual power and status” (Letter #181).
The eschatological amplification of the reality of new creation is further signified by the expectation that themes Ilúvatar propounds in that Second Music to give to his creation to sing will “take Being in the moment of their utterance” (“Ainulindalë”). This differentiates from this initial act of creation because the Music, after it is fully sung, first becomes manifest as a vision of history, after which it is given reality by Ilúvatar’s declarative word. In between the initial singing, the vision, and the declaration, Melkor had introduced discord, as we will see below. But in the Second Music there will be no discord and no delay; as Ilúvatar’s will shall become fully manifest in his creation, the creative Word will make these creatures more immediately, completely, and competently participatory in his designs for the new creation. At that time, they will have attained the wisdom appropriate to the completion of the story of the present world so as to “understand fully his intent in their part, and each shall know the comprehension of each” (“Ainulindalë”).
Moreover, the Secret Fire, another name for the Flame Imperishable, will give life to their thoughts, so as to make them real and participate in the life of Primary Reality. The Creator/creature distinction remains even in the new creation. But their participation in God’s action of creation will be more immediate and close-knit that the Creator generously allows them to partake of the Word and the Flame Imperishable to make real in ways that they never could as sub-creators previously. By this point, they will be more like their Creator and will be more closely united with him than ever before. In all, this expectation well resembles that time, in appropriate Secondary World form, when “the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the seas” (Isa 11:9).
A Sub-creative Fall
As I have mentioned previously, one crucial aspect of this story that resembles the Christian story of creation is the Fall of a Satan-like figure prior to the Fall of humanity. But again, the correspondence is not one-to-one, as in this case the fall takes place even before the creation of the world with the Ainu named Melkor:
But now Ilúvatar sat and hearkened, and for a great while it seemed good to him, for in the music there were no flaws. But as the theme progressed, it came into the heart of Melkor to interweave matters of his own imagining that were not in accord with the theme of Ilúvatar; for he sought therein to increase the power and glory of the part assigned to himself. To Melkor among the Ainur had been given the greatest gift of power and knowledge, and he had a share in all the gifts of his brethren. He had gone often alone into the void places seeking the Imperishable Flame; for desire grew hot within him to bring into Being things of his own, and it seemed to him that Ilúvatar took no thought of the Void, and he was impatient of its emptiness. Yet he found not the Fire, for it is with Ilúvatar. But being alone he had begun to conceive thoughts of his own unlike those of his brethren. (“Ainulindalë”)
Tolkien describes Melkor as “Diabolos/Diabolus” on multiple occasions (Letters #153, #211), which is, of course, a reference to Satan (he even refers to his “Satanic rebellion” in Letter #156). He also says of him that he, “ultimately became the inevitable Rebel and self-worshipper of mythologies that begin with a transcendent unique Creator” (Letter #200). He likewise refers to his fall as a “sub-creative” one (Letters #131, #153), as is appropriate for his story and theology of sub-creation. Melkor best exemplifies the dynamic of Fall that occurs within this story about Art (including sub-creation) and Primary Reality.
The common picture of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) Fall is based on the traditional interpretations of Isa 14:12–22 and Ezek 28:12–19. I will not dive into the debates surrounding the interpretations of those texts here, as that would take us too far afield, but I see no reason why Tolkien would not similarly follow these traditional interpretations. Based on those texts, Lucifer is often thought of as the greatest of the angels or at least one of the greatest before his pride led him to usurpative desires to be worshiped as God. And so he fell.
For Melkor, as noted, he was the most gifted of the sub-creative Ainur, having a share in the gifts of the others (which is not to say he was the greatest in all of those respects). But being the greatest of the Ainur was not enough for one tempted by pride, as there was still One above him. He desired more than being the mightiest of the sub-creators. Rather, he wanted to be the Creator and to be worshiped as such.
This desire manifests here in two ways. On the one hand, he adds discord to the Music, wishing to direct it in his own way. He thus began rebelling against what he learned from Ilúvatar and from others who sought greater accord with his themes. And this was for the benefit of his own glory, as it worked to his end to take over the place of the Creator. On the other hand, his desire to be the Creator manifests in his seeking the Flame Imperishable. As the Flame was how Ilúvatar enlivened the Ainur, Melkor saw it as the power of creation that he hoped to harness for himself and for the imposition of his own will.
That last point shows how Melkor in his pride came to regard his wisdom as better than Ilúvatar’s. He could not understand why the Void had been left as a void. And if he could not understand it, that meant he did not believe there was any good reason for it (as opposed to having the humility to wait and learn). It appeared as if Ilúvatar was simply being wasteful with all this emptiness where he looked for the Flame Imperishable. To this point, he had obviously hidden his desire away, and so he thought Ilúvatar was one like him to withhold from others so as to prevent them from overcoming him.
Of course, Melkor could not comprehend that the Flame Imperishable was not an entity external to Ilúvatar so as to be manipulable by anyone with sufficient power and will. The Flame is simply with Ilúvatar as the divine power. When he sends the Flame forth later, it does not cease to be with him, any more than the Spirit being sent forth from the Father means that he ceases to be with the Father. The Flame is how Ilúvatar enlivens others and how he manifests his spiritual presence in creation in order to enliven it. Melkor does not have such power within himself, as no one but the Creator does, but he refuses to accept that he cannot be the Creator with all the implications of worshipfulness and sovereignty thereby entailed.
Discord in the Music and Beauty in the Sorrow
The narration has only addressed one of the three themes of the Music thus far. Other volumes in the HOME series will address what the themes correlate to (which changed over the years), but that matter need not detain us here. Still, we should examine what the narration tells us about the other two themes of the Music:
Then Ilúvatar arose, and the Ainur perceived that he smiled, and he lifted up his left hand, and a new theme began amid the storm, like and yet unlike to the former theme, and it gathered power and had new beauty. But the discord of Melkor rose in uproar and contended with it, and again there was a war of sound more violent than before, until many of the Ainur were dismayed and sang no longer, and Melkor had the mastery. Then again Ilúvatar arose, and the Ainur perceived that his countenance was stern; and he lifted up his right hand and behold! a third theme grew amid the confusion, and it was unlike the others. For it seemed at first soft and sweet, a mere rippling of gentle sounds in delicate melodies; but it could not be quenched, and it took to itself power and profundity. And it seemed at last that there were two musics progressing at one time before the seat of Ilúvatar, and they were utterly at variance. The one was deep and wide and beautiful, but slow and blended with an immeasurable sorrow, from which its beauty chiefly came. The other had now achieved a unity of its own; but it was loud, and vain, and endlessly repeated; and it had little harmony, but rather a clamorous unison as of many trumpets braying upon a few notes. And it essayed to drown the other music by the violence of its voice, but it seemed that its most triumphant notes were taken by the other and woven into its own solemn pattern. (“Ainulindalë”)
Melkor’s disruption becomes more and more prominent until others are attracted to join him. His designs to take over the Music entirely do not succeed, but he has made his mark, nonetheless. And unlike the work of the Creator and those in accord with him, it has no beauty. There is a bland order to it stemming from one who can only corrupt and not create. But even its most forceful, triumphant notes cannot rise above the Music as composed by Eru Ilúvatar.
This is a presentation of divine providence, as we will explore later. Even the rebellions and apparent triumphs of evil are taken up into the grand design, the great symphony, to blend into goods that the singers of discord could not fathom. This is represented by music described as, “deep and wide and beautiful, but slow and blended with an immeasurable sorrow, from which its beauty chiefly came” (“Ainulindalë”).
Such is what happens when eucatastrophe meets dyscatastrophe, the true light of the world meets its characteristic deceptive darkness, and the delivering love of God meets a rebellious world. When the response to eucatastrophe is the joy of deliverance that comes from beyond the walls of the world and Primary Belief, the result is a holistic redemption for the believer. The condition becomes a lasting part of who the believer is, and thus the mix of joy and sorrow characterizes the believer’s existence as they await the consummation of hope. This is the quality that eucatastrophe in a fairy story produces, as Tolkien articulated in his famous essay, as he said of eucatastrophe that it is,
the good catastrophe, the sudden joyous ‘turn’ (for there is no true end to any fairy-tale): this joy, which is one of the things which fairy-stories can produce supremely well, is not essentially ‘escapist,’ nor ‘fugitive.’ In its fairy-tale—or otherworld—setting, it is a sudden and miraculous grace: never to be counted on to recur. It does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.3
Because of the peculiar joy that eucatastrophe produces, what Tolkien considers the true mark of a fairy-story, it is—in effect—a kind of evangelium. That is to say, it is a proclamation of the gospel, the good story with glad tidings. The joy of deliverance and the delivering joy found in eucatastrophe replicates, in fragmentary fashion, the joy of deliverance and delivering joy of the gospel. The way Tolkien describes it in the next paragraph is notable, for he says that the mark of a good fairy-story is that “however wild its events, however fantastic or terrible the adventures, it can give to child or man that hears it, when the ‘turn’ comes, a catch of the breath, a beat and lifting of the heart, near to (or indeed accompanied by) tears, as keen as that given by any form of literary art, and having a peculiar quality.”4
The source of this joy produced is transcendent in that it comes from beyond the walls of the world. It is that same source as that of the gospel concerning the Word who came from beyond the world to the world to dwell among us and to give to the ones who receive him the power to become children of God (John 1:1–18). It is that joy which comes from some sense—even if only briefly perceived—of union with God (given the source of the joy). But there is also the poignant quality of grief to this joy, which adds to its unique character. Its character is that of resurrection, where sorrow and joy are reconciled in the new life of healing, for it emerges from confronting the cause of sorrow and coming out the other side with new vitality.
In this way, there is an implicit peek ahead to the ultimate eucatastrophe on the plain of history in the gospel story as a whole and its own eucatastrophe of Jesus’s resurrection. There are also other moments that crystallize this dynamic of eucatastrophe on the historical and sub-creative planes that each in their own ways point in fragmentary fashion to that event that will be the definitive mark of the beauty of the story of God and his creation. In the scope of Tolkien’s own story, this is exemplified at various points, but it is most poignant in this moment from LOTR:
And all the host laughed and wept, and in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold, and all men were hushed. And he sang to them, now in the Elven-tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet word, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness. (VI/4)
Such is the beauty of the work of the providential Author when glimpsed in crystallized fashion like this moment.
Providence Foreshadowed
As a result of the conflicting music, Ilúvatar puts a sudden halt to it, leaving others fearful at what he might do. When he spoke, he declared:
Mighty are the Ainur, and mightiest among them is Melkor; but that he may know, and all the Ainur, that I am Ilúvatar, those things that ye have sung, I will show them forth, that ye may see what ye have done. And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined. (“Ainulindalë”)
We have already seen this come true in many ways in LOTR and (to a lesser extent) The Hobbit, as I have shown in my commentaries. This is simply revealing the higher divine levels of operation involved in such events. This is perhaps Tolkien’s best description of the workings of divine providence in his fiction.
To reiterate what I have said elsewhere in my commentaries, by “providence” I mean actions of divine agency in both senses of the word in theological tradition: preservation and governance. In terms of preservation, God’s providence means God’s action in taking care of creation by sustaining it, providing for it, giving gifts to it, and planning for the same in order to preserve it; the most remarkable cases of this come in instances of timely provision. Miracles, as such, have often been described as acts of providentia extraordinaria (whether as the category itself or a subset of that larger category of extraordinary acts of providence), in distinction from acts of providentia ordinaria.5 In terms of governance, God’s providence refers to his ultimate authority over and action taken in directing the course of history, for preservation and other such purposes according to his will, though the account one gives for this will be complicated by the influence of evil in the world. Still, in various ways God guides history to his ultimate/eschatological purposes, and this is seen in foreshadowing and fragmentary fashion in some events in the course of history, especially when various forces and/or wills come together in instances of remarkable timing that achieve some great end, or in cases where something seemingly insignificant has its significance exponentially multiplied by the context of subsequent events.
As the ultimate Author, God is constantly at work both to sustain his creation to keep it going toward its goals and to guide all the storylines contained therein towards the authorial purposes to weave the grand Story. Eru Ilúvatar in Tolkien’s sub-creation works similarly in this story and Tolkien’s other stories. Of course, the extent to which he exercises direct control varies, and the forces and agents he uses to bring about his purposes are many. Nor in the Primary World does God always act in the ways we have deemed miraculous (though that term has admittedly been used ambiguously), but he often works on more subtle—and often seemingly ordinary—levels. Yet all of these levels and kinds of action are contained within the parameters of what is called “providence.”
Beyond his other stories, Tolkien wrote about Providence in various letters of his. He even described Frodo in Letter #246 as “an instrument of Providence.” In cases in his letters when he might otherwise be inclined to despair about the course of history, he resorts to his trust in God’s providence, referring to history being in God’s hands (Letters #61 and #102). He also wishes for God’s guidance of Christopher’s ways (Letter #81). And, of course, he saw in retrospect God’s providence in guiding his own writing (Letters #142, #163, and #328).
Moreover, one can see how his belief in Providence and his eschatology shape his philosophy of history, as in Letter #64 written to his son Christopher:
I sometimes feel appalled at the thought of the sum total of human misery all over the world at the present moment: the millions parted, fretting, wasting in unprofitable days – quite apart from torture, pain, death, bereavement, injustice. If anguish were visible, almost the whole of this benighted planet would be enveloped in a dense dark vapour, shrouded from the amazed vision of the heavens! And the products of it all will be mainly evil – historically considered. But the historical version is, of course, not the only one. All things and deeds have a value in themselves, apart from their ‘causes’ and ‘effects’. No man can estimate what is really happening at the present sub specie aeternitatis [“under the aspect of eternity,” or more loosely, “from the perspective of eternity”]. All we do know, and that to a large extent by direct experience, is that evil labours with vast power and perpetual success – in vain: preparing only the soil for unexpected good to sprout in. So it is in general, and so it is in our lives. [editor’s cutoff here] But there is still some hope that things may be better for us, even on the temporal plane, in the mercy of God. And though we need all our natural human courage and guts (the vast sum of human courage and endurance is stupendous, isn’t it?) and all our religious faith to face the evil that may befall us (as it befalls others, if God wills) still we may pray and hope. [cf. Letter #101] I do. And you were so special a gift to me, in a time of sorrow and mental suffering, and your love, opening at once almost as soon as you were born, foretold to me, as it were in spoken words, that I am consoled ever by the certainty that there is no end to this.
Tolkien obviously does not think that history progressively builds to its eschatological crescendo, but he does think that events in history give glimpses—particularly in the form of eucatastrophes—that offer foretastes of that crescendo in which the defeat of evil will be final and permanent. His eschatological view of history gives him comfort that the sprawling labors of evil are all in vain.
Likewise, in Letter #69 (also to Christopher), he wrote:
A small knowledge of history depresses one with the sense of the everlasting mass and weight of human iniquity: old, dreary, endless repetitive unchanging incurable wickedness. All towns, all villages, all habitations of men – sinks! And at the same time one knows that there is always good: much more hidden, much less clearly discerned, seldom breaking out into recognizable, visible, beauties of word or deed or face – not even when in fact sanctity, far greater than the visible advertised wickedness, is really there. But I fear that in the individual lives of all but a few, the balance is debit – we do so little that is positive good, even if we negatively avoid what is actively evil. It must be terrible to be a priest!
In both of these letters, Tolkien shows that it is too simplistic to call his view of history “pessimistic.” It is a rather complex and thoroughly Christian view of history, one which is all too aware of the intransigent problems of history at the individual, collective, and systemic levels, but which is all too hopeful of a delivering eschatological conclusion. This is further supported by the underlying conviction demonstrated in subtle ways throughout his fictional work that God is providentially guiding history to its ultimate end, even when such action is often not obvious.
Likewise, one should note Letter #195, in which he uses the reference to the “long defeat” from Galadriel but gives it a context that is more informative than those who insist it reflects a pessimism towards history. Here it is in context:
One point: Frodo’s attitude to weapons was personal. He was not in modern terms a ‘pacifist’. Of course, he was mainly horrified at the prospect of civil war among Hobbits; but he had (I suppose) also reached the conclusion that physical fighting is actually less ultimately effective than most (good) men think it! Actually I am a Christian, and indeed a Roman Catholic, so that I do not expect ‘history’ to be anything but a ‘long defeat’ – though it contains (and in a legend may contain more clearly and movingly) some samples or glimpses of final victory.
As with the other letters noted here, Tolkien’s philosophy of history is shaped by his Christian eschatology. It is precisely because Tolkien is Catholic that he does not believe that any human processes will lead to final victory. But it is also precisely because Tolkien is Catholic that he always accompanies such statements about the power of evil in human history with statements about final victory guaranteed by his Lord Jesus Christ. And because of his beliefs about divine providence, he can believe that there are, in fact, glimpses of this final victory through God’s work in the present time.
This opening chapter of The Silmarillion shows how the work of divine providence entails that all things, every force and every being, even those in opposition to God, are within God’s realm of preservation and governance, and all of them will ultimately redound to the accomplishment of God’s purposes. It is often difficult to see this providence while in the process of events, but sometimes in hindsight we can see God’s orchestrating hand. The supreme example of this is, of course, the three-stage narrative of major gospel events of the cross, the resurrection, and the ascension or exaltation of Jesus. The cross, by any measure of the time in which it took place, certainly seemed to signify an utter failure and disaster for Jesus and the purported purposes of God in him if the story had simply ended there. But the resurrection and exaltation that followed thereafter showed that the cross was a supreme mode of divine providence working even in the circumstances of humans working together with the demonic forces of sin and death to thwart the purposes of God by seeking to destroy God Incarnate.
The notion of “providence” is also often invoked in contexts where seemingly small actions and events can have results in kinds and scales that we cannot comprehend. A well-known biblical example of this is in Genesis with the story of Joseph and his brothers that occupies the last major section of that book. Out of jealousy and bitterness, Joseph’s brothers decided to sell him into slavery, yet we see by the end of the narrative that God worked through this event—and even Joseph’s imprisonment—to accomplish the salvation of many lives and, ultimately, the slavery in Egypt followed by God’s long-promised exodus, and all that pertained thereto. All of this came as consequences of Joseph’s brothers selling him into slavery. As in this text from The Silmarillion, we are told that what his brothers meant for evil God meant for good beyond what they could have imagined (Gen 50:20).
One can see such providence as well in the story of Esther, a book that famously never mentions God by name (that is, before the Greek additions sought to correct that omission) and features several seemingly small actions and placements of people moving the story to its resolution. As in much of Tolkien’s stories (outside of The Silmarillion, obviously), God is not named, per se, but he is certainly not absent. And indeed, we see this providential work all the time in our lives and in broader history in how seemingly small or insignificant happenings turn everything around for someone or for a group of people. One conversation can change someone’s life. One act of prudence or imprudence, wisdom or foolishness, kindness or apathy can profoundly affect a person’s life. God can use any such small openings for the work of his purposes, so that they become surprising instruments of his governance, even when that opening might have been evil action.
At the same time, this whole Music and this crescendo of a scene show Ilúvatar’s providential commitment to upholding the place of free will in relation to his own will, as well as the corresponding relation of sub-creation to divine creation. Tolkien writes on this matter most extensively in Letter #153, noting that one of the ways he has used the term “sub-creation,” is, “in a special way to make visible and physical the effects of Sin or misused Free Will by men.” He has already referred in this letter to sub-creational counterfeits, but it could also refer to how Saruman and Sauron—in their own ways—have used Magic and Machine to corrupt and destroy the earth and living creatures around them, including in how they imitated Melkor in breeding Orcs. Like sub-creation—good or bad—volition is derivative and limited by circumstance. Only the transcendent God is “the one wholly free Will and Agent” (Letter #156). But for volition/free will to exist at all, Tolkien insists, “it is necessary that the Author should guarantee it, whatever betides: sc. when it is ‘against His Will’, as we say, at any rate as it appears on a finite view. He does not stop or make ‘unreal’ sinful acts and their consequences” (Letter #153).
In other words, for volition to be real and effective, it must have real consequences, whether the choices or consequences are good or evil. In the Primary World, the capacities designed to aid humans in the vocation of image-bearing are not removed even when humans use them for sin (even for grievous sin on massive scales). In the Secondary World, even Melkor does not have his ability to make removed, despite the most perverted use to which he puts it in corrupting creation to make Orcs his fearful slaves who acknowledge him as lord and creator. Eru Ilúvatar allows such things into existence as an extreme upholding of volition, even though Melkor’s corruptions must be naturally—though not irredeemably—bad. Tolkien makes this important qualification because, “by accepting or tolerating their making – necessary to their actual existence – even Orcs would become part of the World, which is God’s and ultimately good.” (Thus, again, we see the impact of orthodox Christian ontology with which Tolkien sought to be consonant.) Even such choices would ultimately be taken up by Eru and directed to good ends that Melkor could not fathom.
The Vision of History
After the Music is completed, Ilúvatar shows the results thereof to the Ainur, saying, “This is your minstrelsy; and each of you shall find contained herein, amid the design that I set before you, all those things which it may seem that he himself devised or added. And thou, Melkor, wilt discover all the secret thoughts of thy mind, and wilt perceive that they are but a part of the whole and tributary to its glory” (“Ainulindalë”). This emphasizes the sub-creators’ contributions in their participation in creation, but it frames that work as part of the grander design of Ilúvatar (which should inspire humility; cf. Letters #87, #328). This is especially made clear by the fact that even those plans of Melkor by which he thought to contradict the plan of Ilúvatar will ultimately become incorporated into the grand design and contribute, unwittingly and unwillingly, to its glory. This is as Tolkien himself wrote in Letter #64 quoted above about the vanity of evil designs.
As Ilúvatar lays out the vision produced by the Music before them, he speaks of many of the things therein to the Ainur. By this means of the vision and Ilúvatar’s instruction, the Ainur collectively know much of the world’s history, including its future from any given point in time. But the narrator also reminds us,
Yet some things there are that they cannot see, neither alone nor taking counsel together; for to none but himself has Ilúvatar revealed all that he has in store, and in every age there come forth things that are new and have no foretelling, for they do not proceed from the past. And so it was that as the vision of the World was played before them, the Ainur saw that it contained things they had not thought. And they saw with amazement the coming of the Children of Ilúvatar, and the habitation that was prepared for them; and they perceived that they themselves in the labour of their music had been busy with the preparation of this dwelling, and yet knew not that it had any purpose beyond its own beauty. For the Children of Ilúvatar were conceived by him alone; and they came with the third theme, and were not in the theme which Ilúvatar propounded at the beginning and none of the Ainur had part in their making. Therefore when they beheld them, the more did they love them, being things other than themselves, strange and free, wherein they saw the mind of Ilúvatar reflected anew, and learned yet a little more of his wisdom, which otherwise had been hidden even from the Ainur. (“Ainulindalë”)
Even the collective knowledge of the Ainur does not amount to omniscience, which is the possession of Ilúvatar alone. And he reserves the right to make rather surprising introductions into the Music and the Vision that the Ainur could not have foreseen. The most prominent of these at this point in the story are the Elves and Men, the Children of Ilúvatar. Such surprises call forth ever more glory from the Ainur in praise of him.
Also included in this category are miraculous events. The verbiage used here to refer to events that were unpredictable for the Ainur resembles what Tolkien offered as a possible definition of “miracle,” which he says is God’s prerogative “to produce realities which could not be deduced even from a complete knowledge of the previous past, but which being real become part of the effective past for all subsequent time” (Letter #181). Indeed, Tolkien intentionally links that part of his letter to this part of his story in the subsequent sentences.
By extension, this is also a roundabout way of referring to the occurrences of eucatastrophes in the course of the story. Tolkien himself makes the connection between miracles and eucatastrophes in stories in Letter #89. In this context, he notes the most important quality of miracles and eucatastrophes. In the Primary Miracle of the resurrection of Jesus, as well as the lesser Christian miracles, “you have not only the sudden glimpse of the truth behind the apparent Anankê6 of our world, but a glimpse that is actually a ray of light through the very chinks of the universe about us” (Letter #89). Note how reminiscent this statement is of his description of the eucatastrophe producing “a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.” Miracles and eucatastrophes are revelatory in that they unveil an enduring reality beyond the apparent bounds of the world, a reality that encounters the world of disorder, dysfunction, and death with order, proper function, and life. This briefly unveiled reality is that of God’s intention for the world, known in the Primary World as the kingdom of God and new creation (a subject I have explored many times here, often in connection to resurrection).
Fittingly, we are told elsewhere in this chapter that the Ainur did not see the entire vision of history. Thus, some say they did not see, per se, the Later Ages beginning with the Dominion of Men, or the Ending of the World. They may have heard of some matters in those times, but much room has been left for surprise, especially in affairs of eschatological significance, like the gospel story that is on the other side of the Dominion of Men from the perspective of this story.
When Melkor sees the Children, the desire that led to his Fall reemerges:
And he feigned even to himself at first, that he desired to go thither and order all things for the good of the Children of Ilúvatar, controlling the turmoils of the heat and the cold that had come to pass through him. But he desired rather to subdue to his will both Elves and Men, envying the gifts with which Ilúvatar promised to endow them; and he wished himself to have subjects and servants, and to be called Lord, and to be a master over other wills. (“Ainulindalë”)
Melkor could not realize his desire to create or be the Creator. He could not use the Flame Imperishable for his own ends. He could not overthrow the Music either, as his own cacophony was taken up into it. But now that he sees the Children of Ilúvatar, about whom he previously knew nothing, he sees another way to fulfill his desire by dominating these other creatures, enthralling them to himself. This would express his spite against Ilúvatar and allow him to pretend to be Creator by dominating the wills of others and coercing them to worship him as if he was the Creator. This will be a subject to explore later, especially in other volumes, but the basic point is that he can only accomplish this goal at substantial cost to himself, as he must expend his power and weaken himself to exert domination over others.7 He can only become a parody of what he envisions himself to be, even if he can wreak cosmic havoc in the process, all in vain.
The other Ainur respond to the Vision as well. An especially noteworthy comment here from the narrator concerns Aulë, the Craftsman of the Valar. He is particularly taken with the fabric of Earth, as Ilúvatar had given him “skill and knowledge scarce less than to Melkor; but the delight and pride of Aulë is in the deed of making, and in things made, and neither in possession nor in his own mastery; wherefore he gives and hoards not, and is free from care, passing ever on to some new work” (“Ainulindalë”). Aulë thus exemplifies a purer form of sub-creation in acceptance of his existence subordinate to Eru, the source of his gifts in Ilúvatar, and the participation of his designs in the grander design of the One. And so he is generous in his making, not only in the number of works he makes, but also in the sharing of his works with others for their benefit and their wonder.
Eä
To this point, Ilúvatar has been the source of the Music and the source of the Vision, even though the work was implemented and contributed to by the Ainur. But the Music begins and ends at his behest, as does the vision. And now the actualization of the vision will be the work of Ilúvatar. For all the combined might and knowledge of the Ainur, they cannot make their speech actually creative. It is only by Ilúvatar’s empowerment and allowance that they can contribute at all.
And so now Ilúvatar says, “I know the desire of your minds that what ye have seen should verily be, not only in your thought, but even as ye yourselves are, and yet other. Therefore I say: Eä! Let these things Be! And I will send forth into the Void the Flame Imperishable, and it shall be at the heart of the World, and the World shall Be; and those of you that will may go down into it” (“Ainulindalë”). And with that creative speech, the world is given reality. The language of “Let these things Be” is similar to what one can find in Gen 1, particularly as the jussive also appears throughout that chapter, particularly as the opening declaration of each day. Even as the declarative word gives reality to the universe, known as Eä, so the Flame Imperishable animates the world. This presence of Eru thus sustains the universe at every moment of its existence. This is another crucial work of God the Creator that we have noted in biblical texts in the aforementioned series.
The Valar and the Completion of the Work
Those among the Ainur who accept Ilúvatar’s invitation to enter the universe include some of the higher Ainur thereafter called the Valar, as well as many of a lower order thereafter called the Maiar. And here we should clarify what these beings are. Tolkien wrote much about them over the decades. In early drafts that I aim to address another time, he simply spoke of them as “gods” without implying that they were on the same level of being as Eru Ilúvatar. While they, except for the obviously evil ones, were not morally reprobate like gods often are in pagan myths, there was a time when Tolkien thought of them as having children like those gods. But eventually he tilted more towards representing them as angelic, albeit functioning like lesser gods beneath the only God who alone is worshipful. In his own words, here are many statements of his on the matter from a dozen letters written over the course of twenty years:
Letter #131: The cycles begin with a cosmogonical myth: the Music of the Ainur. God and the Valar (or powers: Englished as gods) are revealed. These latter are as we should say angelic powers, whose function is to exercise delegated authority in their spheres (of rule and government, not creation, making or re-making). They are ‘divine’, that is, were originally ‘outside’ and existed ‘before’ the making of the world. Their power and wisdom is derived from their Knowledge of the cosmogonical drama, which they perceived first as a drama (that is as in a fashion we perceive a story composed by someone else), and later as a ‘reality’. On the side of mere narrative device, this is, of course, meant to provide beings of the same order of beauty, power, and majesty as the ‘gods’ of higher mythology, which can yet be accepted – well, shall we say baldly, by a mind that believes in the Blessed Trinity.
Nowhere is the place or nature of ‘the Wizards’ made fully explicit. Their name, as related to Wise, is an Englishing of their Elvish name, and is used throughout as utterly distinct from Sorcerer or Magician. It appears finally that they were as one might say the near equivalent in the mode of these tales of Angels, guardian Angels. [He also refers in this letter to a “fall of Angels” in reference to Melkor and his subordinates.]
Letter #153: The immediate ‘authorities’ are the Valar (the Powers or Authorities): the ‘gods’. But they are only created spirits – of high angelic order we should say, with their attendant lesser angels – reverend, therefore, but not worshipful, and though potently ‘subcreative’, and resident on Earth to which they are bound by love, having assisted in its making and ordering, they cannot by their own will alter any fundamental provision. They called upon the One in the crisis of the rebellion of Numenor – when the Númenóreans attempted to take the Undying Land by force of a great armada in their lust for corporal immortality – which necessitated a catastrophic change in the shape of Earth. Immortality and Mortality being the special gifts of God to the Eruhini (in whose conception and creation the Valar had no part at all) it must be assumed that no alteration of their fundamental kind could be effected by the Valar even in one case: the cases of Lúthien (and Túor) and the position of their descendants was a direct act of God. The entering into Men of the Elven-strain is indeed represented as part of a Divine Plan for the ennoblement of the Human Race, from the beginning destined to replace the Elves.
Letter #156: So God and the ‘angelic’ gods, the Lords or Powers of the West, only peep through in such places as Gandalf's conversation with Frodo: ‘behind that there was something else at work, beyond any design of the Ring-maker’s’; or in Faramir's Númenórean grace at dinner.
I wd. venture to say he was an incarnate ‘angel’ – strictly, an ἄγγελος: that is, with the other Istari, wizards, ‘those who know’, an emissary of the Lords of the West, sent to Middle-earth as the great crisis of Sauron loomed on the horizon. By ‘incarnate’ I mean they were embodied in physical bodies capable of pain, and weariness, and of afflicting the spirit with physical fear, and of being ‘killed’, though supported by the angelic spirit they might endure long, and only show slowly the wearing of care and labour.
He [Gandalf] was sent by a mere prudent plan of the angelic Valar or governors; but Authority had taken up this plan and enlarged it, at the moment of its failure.
There is only one ‘god’: God, Eru Ilúvatar. There are the first creations, angelic beings, or which those most concerned in the Cosmogony reside (of love and choice) inside the World, as Valar or gods, or governors; and there are incarnate rational creatures. Elves and Men, of similar but different status and natures.
Letter #181: There is, of course, a mythological structure behind this story. It was actually written first, and may now perhaps be in part published. It is, I should say, a ‘monotheistic but “sub-creational” mythology’. There is no embodiment of the One, of God, who indeed remains remote, outside the World, and only directly accessible to the Valar or Rulers. These take the place of the ‘gods’, but are created spirits, or those of the primary creation who by their own will have entered into the world. But the One retains all ultimate authority, and (or so it seems as viewed in serial time) reserves the right to intrude the finger of God into the story: that is to produce realities which could not be deduced even from a complete knowledge of the previous past, but which being real become part of the effective past for all subsequent time (a possible definition of a ‘miracle’).
Letter #183: In my story Sauron represents as near an approach to the wholly evil will as is possible. He had gone the way of all tyrants: beginning well, at least on the level that while desiring to order all things according to his own wisdom he still at first considered the (economic) well-being of other inhabitants of the Earth. But he went further than human tyrants in pride and the lust for domination, being in origin an immortal (angelic) spirit.
Letter #200: I note your remarks about Sauron. He was always de-bodied when vanquished. The theory, if one can dignify the modes of the story with such a term, is that he was a spirit, a minor one but still an ‘angelic’ spirit. According to the mythology of these things that means that, though of course a creature, he belonged to the race of intelligent beings that were made before the physical world, and were permitted to assist in their measure in the making of it. Those who became most involved in this work of Art, as it was in the first instance, became so engrossed with it, that when the Creator made it real (that is, gave it the secondary reality, subordinate to his own, which we call primary reality, and so in that hierarchy on the same plane with themselves) they desired to enter into it, from the beginning of its ‘realization’.
They were allowed to do so, and the great among them became the equivalent of the ‘gods’ of traditional mythologies; but a condition was that they would remain ‘in it’ until the Story was finished. They were thus in the world, but not of a kind whose essential nature is to be physically incarnate. They were self-incarnated, if they wished; but their incarnate forms were more analogous to our clothes than to our bodies, except that they were more than are clothes the expression of their desires, moods, wills and functions. Knowledge of the Story as it was when composed, before realization, gave them their measure of fore-knowledge; the amount varied very much, from the fairly complete knowledge of the mind of the Creator in this matter possessed by Manwë, the ‘Elder King’, to that of lesser spirits who might have been interested only in some subsidiary matter (such as trees or birds). Some had attached themselves to such major artists and knew things chiefly indirectly through their knowledge of the minds of these masters. Sauron had been attached to the greatest, Melkor, who ultimately became the inevitable Rebel and self-worshipper of mythologies that begin with a transcendent unique Creator. Olórin … had been attached to Manwë.
Letter #212: The Valar or ‘powers, rulers’ were the first ‘creation’: rational spirits or minds without incarnation, created before the physical world. (Strictly these spirits were called Ainur, the Valar being only those from among them who entered the world after its making, and the name is properly applied only to the great among them, who take the imaginative but not the theological place of ‘gods’.) The Ainur took part in the making of the world as ‘sub-creators’: in various degrees, after this fashion. 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’. In the first interpretation, the vast Music of the Ainur, Melkor introduced alterations, not interpretations of the mind of the One, and great discord arose. The One then presented this ‘Music’, including the apparent discords, as a visible ‘history’.
Letter #257: In O. [Oxford] I wrote ‘The Music of the Amur’, defining the relation of The One, the transcendental Creator, to the Valar, the ‘Powers’, the angelical First-created, and their part in ordering and carrying out the Primeval Design. It was also told how it came about that Eru, the One, made an addition to the Design: introducing the themes of the Eruhîn, the Children of God, The Firstborn (Elves) and the Successors (Men), whom the Valar were forbidden to try and dominate by fear or force.
Letter #268: Gandalf was not ‘dying’, or going by a special grace to the Western Land, before passing on ‘beyond the circles of the World’: he was going home, being plainly one of the ‘immortals’, an angelic emissary of the angelic governors (Valar) of the Earth.
Letter #286: There are no ‘Gods’, properly so-called, in the mythological background in my stories. Their place is taken by the persons referred to as the Valar (or Powers): angelic created beings appointed to the government of the world. The Elves naturally believed in them as they lived with them, But to explain all this would simply hinder my getting on with publishing it in proper form.
Letter #320: I think it is true that I owe much of this character to Christian and Catholic teaching and imagination about Mary, but actually Galadriel was a penitent: in her youth a leader in the rebellion against the Valar (the angelic guardians).
Letter #325: The angelic immortals (incarnate only at their own will), the Valar or regents under God, and others of the same order but less power and majesty (such as Olórin = Gandalf) needed no transport, unless they for a time remained incarnate, and they could, if allowed or commanded, return.
With all of that said, once the Valar enter Eä, they make a surprising discovery,
for it was as if naught was yet made which they had seen in vision, and all was but on point to begin and yet unshaped, and it was dark. For the Great Music had been but the growth and flowering of thought in the Timeless Halls, and the Vision only a foreshowing; but now they entered in at the beginning of Time, and the Valar perceived that the World had been but foreshadowed and foresung, and they must achieve it. (“Ainulindalë”)
The One had created them, composed the Music, formed the Vision, and then he gave it reality and life by his word and Imperishable Flame. He had enabled the Valar to participate in his work to this point. And he had given them their knowledge, wisdom, powers, gifts, and coworkers. He had even given them the raw materials to work with and a living world, without which they could have had nothing, being unable to create ex nihilo like Eru. And now as he had allowed them to sing the Music he composed and to contribute to it, he allows them to take an active role in shaping the world according to the Music they sang and the Vision they saw produced as a result.
Unfortunately, even as they sub-create in earnest with the knowledge, wisdom, powers, gifts, coworkers, and materials Ilúvatar gave them, their work was marred by the ever-present pestilence of Melkor’s corruption. As the narrator tells us,
Yet it is told among the Eldar that the Valar endeavoured ever, in despite of Melkor, to rule the Earth and to prepare it for the coming of the Firstborn; and they built lands and Melkor destroyed them; valleys they delved and Melkor raised them up; mountains they carved and Melkor threw them down; seas they hollowed and Melkor spilled them; and naught might have peace or come to lasting growth, for as surely as the Valar began a labour so would Melkor undo it or corrupt it. (“Ainulindalë”)
Again, this will be more pertinent for the commentary on Morgoth’s Ring, but this is notable for how it shows Melkor’s anti-creative tendencies. He had been given more powers and gifts than any of the Ainur, but because he cannot be the Creator, and because he cannot humble himself before the One who is, he puts his abilities to use only for corruption, deformation, and ruin. He wanted to be God on his terms, and so he becomes a parody of the real Creator and his obedient sub-creators. His efforts to dominate and to be worshiped by others will ultimately make him dependent on those he wanted to force into servitude.
Valaquenta
After a recap of the creation story (the most notable aspect of which is that the Flame Imperishable is now called the Secret Fire), the next chapter provides an account of the Valar and, more briefly, the Maiar and the enemy Ainur who also entered the world. While not all of the Valar and Maiar have as clear of connections to matters that are of direct interest for this analysis (i.e., biblical and theological consonances), Tolkien’s many quotes above make clear that they are presented in a Christian framework, being acceptable to a mind that believes in the Blessed Trinity. They are the sort of being that Ps 82 (as it has often been understood) would not have been said against. Although I may return, provided there is expressed interest, to go through this chapter more thoroughly to see how the Christian framework has shaped the presentation, including so as to avoid more problematic elements about the analogous gods, here I am more interested in working from particular statements that serve as highlights for the interests of this analysis.
Manwë
What set the Valar and Maiar apart as those properly so called was the fact that they were faithful to the will of Eru Ilúvatar, while Melkor, Sauron, and Balrogs were not. Indeed, Manwë encapsulates this, as the account says he, “is dearest to Ilúvatar and understands most clearly his purpose” (“Valaquenta”). This is why he is the King of Valar, and he became so by the voluntary recognition and submission of others rather than by purposed domination, as Melkor sought against his fellow Ainur. His kingship signifies the common acknowledgment of the other Valar and Maiar that Ilúvatar’s will is supreme and definitive for their mission and directive of their action.
Of course, even Manwë does not have a perfect understanding of Ilúvatar. Those elements of surprise that Ilúvatar introduces into the Song and the Vision, as well as those elements he has held for him alone to know, are mysteries even to Manwë. The same applies to Námo/Mandos, who is said to be most knowledgeable of the future among all the Valar, knowing all things that shall be, “save only those that lie still in the freedom of Ilúvatar” (“Valaquenta”). Neither of them had access to what the medievals called the “Goddes privitee” (cf. Letter #181). Ilúvatar alone is omniscient. Ilúvatar alone is omnipotent. Ilúvatar alone is supreme. Manwë is his supreme vicegerent. That is what most sets him apart from any analogy that might be drawn to any analogies among the pagan gods. He exemplifies what the chief angels would be like if they had not gone wrong like those of the divine council chastised in Ps 82.
Varda
The wife of Manwë and the Queen of the Valar is also noteworthy for our purposes. The centricity of Ilúvatar as defining the Valar and as the One who alone is worshipful is further highlighted by her description. For it is said of her, “Too great is her beauty to be declared in the words of Men or of Elves; for the light of Ilúvatar lives still in her face” (“Valaquenta”). Her ineffable beauty is the result of Ilúvatar’s light in her. Its roots are in him and his glory, and it leads others to glorify the One who is the source of her beauty. That light that is the source of her beauty is also the source of her insight, which enabled her to see Melkor’s mind before others. Melkor feared and hated her most of all the Valar, in part due to her connection with the light he could not control and to her divine beauty representing what he could never imitate with his heart set against Ilúvatar.
Varda is more often known as Elbereth, as she was chiefly called in LOTR. I had mentioned in my LOTR commentary that she is one of Tolkien’s Marian figures. One can see this in how she is invoked in various places, of which Tolkien says that for help the Elves, “may call on a Vala (as Elbereth), as a Catholic might on a Saint, though no doubt knowing in theory as well as he that the power of the Vala was limited and derivative” (emphases original). The hymn sung to her in I/3 of LOTR is reminiscent of the hymn “Hail, Queen of Heaven, the Ocean Star.” Tolkien himself noted how a reader had perceived hints of Tolkien’s Catholicism in how Elbereth’s invocations are reminiscent of Catholic devotion to Mary (Letter #213). And given her superlative and surpassing beauty, it is also important to remember Tolkien’s comment in a latter to Robert Murray about Mary as being the one “upon which all my own small perception of beauty both in majesty and simplicity is founded” (Letter #142).
This is not to say that Varda simply is the equivalent of Mary in Tolkien’s fiction. That does not make sense in either the Secondary World or Primary World contexts. Varda is one of the chief angels, not the human mother through whom God the Son became incarnate. Indeed, she never conceives children (in this version of the story anyway), much less in a miraculous fashion as a virgin. But she is one of the figures in Tolkien’s story that has links of inspiration to Mary in Roman Catholic tradition, which bears fruit in appropriate Secondary World forms.
Aulë
We have already observed how Aulë represents a purer form of sub-creation than Melkor. As the narrator tells us in this chapter:
Both, also, desired to make things of their own that should be new and unthought of by others, and delighted in the praise of their skill. But Aulë remained faithful to Eru and submitted all that he did to his will; and he did not envy the works of others, but sought and gave counsel. Whereas Melkor spent his spirit in envy and hate, until at last he could make nothing save in mockery of the thought of others, and all their works he destroyed if he could. (“Valaquenta”)
That second sentence reveals the source of all other differences between Aulë and Melkor. He acknowledged that his very existence, gifts, and abilities, as well as those who with whom he could share his craftwork, all came from Eru. His work was not that of creation but of sub-creation, and he knew it was best to submit his work in humility to the One from whom came all that he needed to do it. He thus followed Eru’s will in gratitude, knowing that he was gifted for Eru’s purposes, and his gratitude and humility kept him from being envious of those who were gifted in ways he was not. As with the Church, the gifts are given for the benefits of others, they are complementary of each other so that no one claims all gifts, no one should envy the gifts of others, and the purposes of God for the good others direct how the gifts should be used (Rom 12:3–8; 1 Cor 12).
By contrast, Melkor gave himself over to his pride and, as said here, his envy and hate. As these impulses are sinful, they inevitably become anti-creative. Rebellion against the Creator—as sin is in that it fundamentally denies that God is God and pushes people away from God like they have the wrong magnetic polarity—results in some form of destruction of creation and its order. Such is the end of the corrupting influence of sin, which is to say that sin is linked with death that separates from God.
Nienna
The most remarkable of all the Valar is the one known as Nienna. One can make many analogies and links between the Valar and various gods. But it is not obvious that one can do so with Nienna. She rather embodies those virtues that Tolkien associates with his Christian upbringing and discipleship, which shape his stories at critical points, as well as at the very foundations of conception and framework, in light of what he has said about fairy-stories, especially their eucatastrophes (as we have reviewed elsewhere).
Of Nienna, we are told,
She is acquainted with grief, and mourns for every wound that Arda has suffered in the marring of Melkor. So great was her sorrow, as the Music unfolded, that her song turned to lamentation long before its end, and the sound of mourning was woven into the themes of the World before it began. But she does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope. Her halls are west of West, upon the borders of the world; and she comes seldom to the city of Valimar where all is glad. She goes rather to the halls of Mandos, which are near to her own; and all those who wait in Mandos cry to her, for she brings strength to the spirit and turns sorrow to wisdom. The windows of her house look outward from the walls of the world. (“Valaquenta”)
Nienna is not exactly one who can be “the life of the party.” Understandably, she rarely attends them. Indeed, her sorrow stems from before the beginning of the world’s history. Having foreseen what Melkor would do, she was already grieving. And so she would continue to mourn when Melkor’s physical marring of Arda (the name in this mythos for the Earth) became actualized in history. This implies that she had a rather prominent part in the Third Theme of the Ainulindalë. And her mourning came not for herself but out of her sensitivity for the suffering of others.
Through it all, she shows virtues that reappear throughout Tolkien’s mythos, especially in LOTR, which I noted many times in my commentary for that book (as well as in my Hobbit commentary). In what follows, I will thus not repeat everything I said for the many, many occasions those virtues arose in the course of those texts. But I will mention some of the highlights.
It is noteworthy that she exemplifies the dynamic of the chief virtue of fairy-stories in the eucatastrophe, of which Tolkien says, “It does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.”8 Notice how reminiscent this quote is of the aforementioned description of Nienna. While she does not have any sort of boisterous expression of her joy, her perspective is one turned beyond the Walls of the World to the transcendent Timeless Halls whence she came from Eru Ilúvatar, which she did for the comfort of those she knew would suffer. Her unique touch guides from sorrow to wisdom, from grief to hope, for her transcendent joy by which she inspires others has that character of resurrection, where sorrow and joy are reconciled in the new life of healing, for it emerges from confronting the cause of sorrow and coming out the other side with new vitality. Likewise, in Letter #89 Tolkien gives his most poetic description of Christian joy in describing the emotional effect the resurrection produces for those with Primary Belief, which is to say it “produces tears because it is qualitatively like sorrow, because it comes from those places where Joy and Sorrow are at one, reconciled, as selfishness and altruism are lost in Love.” This is the same quality of resurrection life that he noted in “On Fairy-Stories.” The memory of sorrow, as such, is not wiped out, but it is taken up into a new life of healing.
Of course, from Nienna’s perspective in history, she can only point forward, rather than having the gospel events as a past reference point. But she not only teaches virtues of pity and endurance in hope, which thereby also bring courage and wisdom. She also lives those virtues. After Melkor casts down the Two Lamps of the Valar in the early history of the world, thereby bringing much chaos and turning their great joy to sorrow, Yavanna sprouted the Two Trees of Valinor, which Nienna watered with her tears. Similarly, when Melkor and Ungoliant poisoned the Two Trees and drained them of their light, Nienna cleansed the filth of Ungoliant with her tears, which also brought forth the last fruit and flower of the Two Trees in the form of the Sun and the Moon. She thereby shows how crucial grief and sorrow are to healing (as we also see exemplified in the lament psalms [see here for example] and Lamentations itself). Given that she teaches endurance in hope, she obviously does not mourn as one who has no hope, but she mourns as one who does (cf. 1 Thess 4:13–18). Indeed, we see in her the reflection of the words of Jesus, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matt 5:4; cf. Luke 6:21).
In between these actions in her story, she even spoke in support of Melkor when he asked for his release after three ages of imprisonment. She had already seen how much damage he caused, she knew he could cause more, and because of the Music and the Vision, she might have anticipated some measure of what he would yet do. He was the chief cause of the many griefs that made her weep from before the world of space and time began even to the present. For all of this, she showed mercy to him, and asked others to do the same. What he did with the opportunity provided by her forgiveness was not her prerogative, but to offer forgiveness or not was, and she chose to show the divine virtue of mercy and pity. (For more on this whole subject, see my sermon series here, here, and here.)
The virtues she has to teach are some of the most pervasive elements in Tolkien’s fiction. When it comes to pity, Tolkien saw “pity” as a word of “moral and imaginative worth” (Letter #153). Properly speaking, “Pity must restrain one from doing something immediately desirable and seemingly advantageous” (Letter #153). Elsewhere, he said pity “is also an absolute requirement in moral judgement (since it is present in the Divine nature)” (Letter #246). In that same letter he said in a footnote that pity “to be a true virtue must be directed to the good of its object. It is empty if it is exercised only to keep oneself ‘clean’, free from hate or the actual doing of injustice, though this is also a good motive.”
Of course, pity itself is the expression of mercy. The theme of mercy is one that I have explored on many occasions. Besides the aforementioned links, I have done so most extensively here, here, here, and here. It is typically expressed as a divine characteristic or as an expectation of divine action. In extension to human instruction, there are times when, in addition to the terminology of forgiveness, there is emphasis on showing mercy because one has received mercy from God, because God will show mercy, and/or because of bearing the image and likeness of the God who shows mercy (Matt 5:7; Luke 6:36; Jas 2:13).
This pity is grounded in Tolkien’s own formation by Scripture and observance of the Mass. In the case of the former, despite its frequent misuse for rebuking any negative statement not affirmed by the person using the text, one text that likely resonates here is Matt 7:1–2: “Do not judge, so that you should not be judged; for by the judgment you judge you will judged, and by the measure you measure it will be measured to you” (personal translation). Similarly, Rom 3:9–18 (as well as the more famous 3:23) speaks to the common lot of sin that enslaves all of humanity, so that neither Jews nor gentiles are immune. Paul also reminds us of how we will all appear before the judgment seat of God in Rom 14:10. Whatever judgments we make in the present time should be tempered with discernment in accordance with right thinking rather than superficial appearance (John 7:24).
For this matter, Tolkien’s Letter #250 to Michael Tolkien is particularly apropos. His son had written to him to express the struggles he was having with his faith and with the Church. One ought to read the letter as a whole for the insight it gives into Tolkien’s faith and his specifically Roman Catholic devotion. One can see in it how Tolkien was, at least in this way, like his written character. First, he compares the Church to the academy, which should no doubt still resonate today for how much people continue (both rightly and wrongly) to bemoan the states of both institutions, even suggesting they should be done away with. Both the Church and the academy are also degraded by the fact that they must be occupied by humans marred by imperfection and sin. Failings in the Church inevitably give the sense of being worse because the aim of the Church’s mission is higher than the academy or any other institution filled with humans. But in the end, Tolkien insisted,
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 they are also fallen like we are. 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 as a means of 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). The importance of this text for the theological-ethical framework of Tolkien’s story is made apparent in multiple letters when he discusses the climactic scene on Mount Doom and all that led up to it (Letters #181, #191; cf. Letters #192, #246).9 He even speaks in Letter #191 of how the Quest was saved “by Mercy: by the supreme value and efficacy of Pity and forgiveness of injury.”
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. In turn, one should become more cognizant of how the Holy Spirit has been at work in surprising ways in this community of broken people.
Second, Tolkien noted in the same letter that scandals caused by others are problems, of course, but he reminded his son (and those of us now reading his letter):
‘Scandal’ at most is an occasion of temptation – as indecency is to lust, which it does not make but arouses. It is convenient because it tends to turn our eyes away from ourselves and our own faults to find a scape-goat. But the act of will of faith is not a single moment of final decision: it is a permanent indefinitely repeated act > state which must go on – so we pray for ‘final perseverance’. The temptation to ‘unbelief’ (which really means rejection of Our Lord and His claims) is always there within us. Part of us longs to find an excuse for it outside us. The stronger the inner temptation the more readily and severely shall we be ‘scandalized’ by others. 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. (Letter #250)
He then told his son that the only cure for “sagging or fainting faith” is the Communion/Eucharist. He even told him to take it in circumstances that affront his taste, including with priests he does not like, people who annoy him, and others who might make him ask “what are they doing here?” Indeed, he says, “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.” All of this helps to remind us who we worship, who we are (as someone our Lord came to bring into his kingdom), who others are (as those our Lord came to bring into his kingdom), and to participate in that same grace by how we interact with others with fitting mercy and pity.
Nienna also teaches endurance in hope. This is a key expression of courage, as biblically there are several times when courage is described in terms of comfort in the face of trial (1 Sam 23:16; John 16:33; Acts 23:11; 27:22, 25; 2 Cor 5:6, 8; 10:12; Heb 13:5–6). Perseverance is likewise a key component of faithful living, and hope helps to motivate it. It is where courage and hope meet. Courage can be said to motivate perseverance by pushing it forward in required action. Hope can be said to motivate perseverance by pulling it forward to its goal.
And as we have seen most extensively in the commentary about Denethor, it is not for nothing that hope is a virtue in the Christian worldview (1 Cor 13:13; 1 Thess 1:3; 5:8; 1 John 3:1–3; cf. Letter #64). As we have indicated already in the description of estel, it is so in the Bible as well that hope and faith are inherently linked. In texts like Hebrews, especially ch. 11,10 faith can even be characterized in terms of hope. One can see this similarly in Rom 4:18, following as it does the exposition on righteousness and faith in Rom 4:9–17 (cf. Gal 5:5; 1 Pet 1:3). Hope is the capstone of development from tribulation in Rom 5:3–5, building as it does from tribulation to perseverance to proven character to hope (cf. Rom 15:13; 2 Cor 1:7–10; 3:12; Phil 1:18–24; 1 Thess 1:3; 1 Tim 4:6–10; Heb 6:11–20; 10:23–25). Perseverance is likewise linked to hope in Rom 8:24–25 after the content of hope has been summarized. As with this scene, we are reminded in 1 Thess 4:13 that hope also should set us apart from those who have no hope in terms of how we grieve. Where you set your hope shapes your character, as it orders your values, directs your virtues, and centers your vision for the future, which is why Paul says to those who are rich in the present not to set their hope on their riches but on God (1 Tim 6:17 in the context of 6:6–19; cf. 1 Pet 1:13–16). The cruciality of hope is why Peter instructs us to always be ready with an answer for the hope that is in us (1 Pet 3:15).
Olórin
As it turns out, Nienna’s most influential student was none other than the Maia Olórin, who would later come to be known as Gandalf. As the narrator says,
Wisest of the Maiar was Olórin. He too dwelt in Lórien [the place in Valinor, not Galadriel’s realm], but his ways took him often to the house of Nienna, and of her he learned pity and patience.
Of Melian much is told in the Quenta Silmarillion. But of Olórin that tale does not speak; for though he loved the Elves, he walked among them unseen, or in form as one of them, and they did not know whence came the fair visions or the promptings of wisdom that he put into their hearts. In later days he was the friend of all the Children of Ilúvatar, and took pity on their sorrows; and those who listened to him awoke from despair and put away the imaginations of darkness. (“Valaquenta”)
We have seen elsewhere how Gandalf embodied and promoted the divine virtue of pity. He was also a frequent enkindler of courage and hope, as he learned from Nienna. This is particularly evident when Gandalf pushed against any impulse to despair. The most vivid quote in that regard is this one from Book II:
It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not. It is wisdom to recognize necessity, when all other courses have been weighed, though as folly it may appear to those who cling to false hope. Well, let folly be our cloak, a veil before the eyes of the Enemy! For he is very wise, and weighs all things to a nicety in the scales of his malice. But the only measure that he knows is desire, desire for power; and so he judges all hearts. Into his heart the thought will not enter that any will refuse it, that having the Ring we may seek to destroy it. If we seek this, we shall put him out of reckoning. (II/2)
We thus see that his mindset, as with Nienna, is one for which as long as there is any trace of hope, there is no room for despair. And no one knows enough about the future to be reasonable in their despair. This is why he hoped for Gollum’s cure, even if he did not think it likely. This is why Nienna supported Melkor’s release, regardless of how probable she might have thought his actual repentance was.
This quote also provides an example of another pervasively articulated characteristic of Gandalf: his wisdom that (imperfectly) reflects divine wisdom. This is especially evident in those moments when he counsels recognizing necessity and in following the way of wisdom that superficially looks like foolishness. It is also evident in how, along among the Wise, he was drawn to learn of the Hobbits, and so he became involved in guiding those who would be crucial instruments of divine providence as they arose to trouble the counsels of the Wise and the Great.
Melkor and Sauron
We have already commented on Melkor previously, but this quote well summarizes his corruptive character as one so thoroughly fallen. It also reiterates respects in which he was like Lucifer/Satan in his prominence followed by his prideful fall:
In the powers and knowledge of all the other Valar he had part, but he turned them to evil purposes, and squandered his strength in violence and tyranny. For he coveted Arda and all that was in it, desiring the kingship of Manwë and dominion over the realms of his peers.
From splendor he fell through arrogance to contempt for all things save himself, a spirit wasteful and pitiless. Understanding he turned to subtlety in perverting to his own will all that he would use, until he became a liar without shame. He began with the desire of Light, but when he could not possess it for himself alone, he descended through fire and wrath into a great burning, down into Darkness. And darkness he used most in his evil works upon Arda, and filled it with fear for all living things. (“Valaquenta”)
His desire to become sole possessor of the Secret Fire and the Light—i.e., to be the Creator—ultimately led to him becoming anti-creative in his dedication to sin, including in terms of pride, hate, malice, envy, and covetousness. He had many gifts, but he scorned virtues like pity and humility, such virtues as would have given him proper regard for those who were beneath him and alongside him, as well as of the One who was above him.
But, of course, Melkor was not the only force of evil. We will meet Ungoliant later. And we are also told of the Balrogs, demons of shadow and flame. But most prominent of all Melkor’s associates was none other than Sauron, of whom we are told, “In all the deeds of Melkor the Morgoth upon Arda, in his vast works and in the deceits of his cunning, Sauron had a part, and was only less evil than his master in that for long he served another and not himself. But in after years he rose like a shadow of Morgoth and a ghost of his malice, and walked behind him on the same ruinous path down into the Void” (“Valaquenta”). This well encapsulates Sauron’s legacy, especially after his master had left the world stage (though his corrupting influence remained). Since I have already written quite a lot about Sauron in my commentary on LOTR, I will not reiterate everything here. For this commentary, I will simply note newer material as we go.
Clyde S. Kilby, Tolkien & The Silmarillion, (Wheaton, IL: Shaw, 1976), 59. Cf. J. R. R. Tolkien, “The Qenya Lexicon,” Parma Eldalamberon 12 (1998): 81 (available online at: https://archive.org/details/parma-eldalamberon-12/page/81); J. R. R. Tolkien, Morgoth’s Ring, The History of Middle-earth 10, ed. Christopher Tolkien (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1993), 345. For more on the Holy Spirit in Tolkien’s work, see Austin M. Freeman, Tolkien Dogmatics: Theology Through Mythology with the Maker of Middle-earth (Bellingham, WA: Lexham, 2022), 32–36.
“Estel we call it, that is ‘trust’. It is not defeated by the ways of the world, for it does not come from experience, but from our nature and first being. If we are indeed the Eruhini, the Children of the One, then He will not suffer Himself to be deprived of His own, not by any Enemy, not even by ourselves. This is the last foundation of Estel, which we keep even when we contemplate the End: of all His designs the issue must be for His Children’s joy” (Tolkien, Morgoth’s Ring, 320).
J. R. R. Tolkien, “On Fairy-Stories,” in The Monsters and the Critics, ed. Christopher Tolkien (London: HarperCollins, 2006), 153 (emphases original).
Ibid., 153–54.
In our exploration of “On Fairy-Stories,” we have already noted Tolkien’s descriptions of miracles from Letters #89 and #181.
A Greek term that has the sense of “necessity” or “constraint.”
One minor example from later in The Silmarillion itself is this comment from ch. 9 in the “Quenta Silmarillion”: “For now, more than in the days of Utumno ere his pride was humbled, his hatred devoured him, and in the domination of his servants and the inspiring of them with lust of evil he spent his spirit.”
Tolkien, “On Fairy-Stories,” 153 (emphases original).
Also see his unpublished letter to David Masson: https://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Letter_to_David_Masson_(12_December_1955).