The long defeat

"...together through ages of the world we have fought the long defeat."

So says Galadriel, Queen of the elves of Lothlorien.  And she does mean 'through ages'.  Galadriel, for those not already in the know, was daughter of Finarfin, born in Valinor to the royal house of the Noldor.  When the Silmarils were stolen from Fëanor, she enthusiastically followed him and his sons into exile back into Middle Earth to make war on the thief Morgoth, the original Dark Lord.  She therefore participated in the long struggle of the returned Noldor and their allies against Morgoth - she saw his fortress Angband successfully besieged by the new-come elves, and she saw the siege itself destroyed and the kingdoms of the Noldor broken one by one.  As even the strong and hidden refuges of the Noldor - Nargothrond and Gondolin - were betrayed and overthrown, Galadriel lived on.  She saw the overthrow of Morgoth by the powers of Valinor, but she did not return there; she stayed in Middle Earth, and so she saw the new enemy, Sauron, arise.  She saw the might of Númenor and the  imprisonment of Sauron; she also saw his return in greater might when Númenor was destroyed.  She saw the Last Alliance, and the forces of Elendil and Gil-Galad ride against Mordor.  She saw the overthrow of Sauron, and she saw the failure of Isildur to finally destroy the ring of power which led inevitably to his return.  She was there as the elves and their allies retreated before the might of Sauron and the strength of the Númenorean successor realms failed, Arnor collapsing and Gondor becoming a mere shadow of its former self.  She fought the long defeat through all these ages of the world.

I'm aware that not everyone is interested in the history of Middle Earth, but bear with me, because really I just want to underline that one concept: the long defeat.

I've been struck in the last week that this phrase captures one aspect of what it means to be a Christian in the world.  We fight the long defeat.  There are victories along the way, but on the whole the picture is not of victory.  One week I look out at my little church and see something that looks a lot like the gospel, and I rejoice in victories won; the next week, I look out and see the effects of sin and a fallen world, and I realise that we're fighting the long defeat.  None of our victories are decisive.  None of our little triumphs are the triumph.

In Tolkien's world, the battle of the elves must necessarily be the long defeat, for two reasons.  Firstly, Morgoth was a foe entirely beyond them; he was a Vala, a sort of demi-god, and although fallen was still mighty.  The Noldor consistently imagined that they could make war on him successfully; Maedhros son of Fëanor, for example, planned an assault on his fortress of Angband.  But the war was doomed to failure.  At their strongest, the Noldor could restrict, but not overthrow, Morgoth.  It took 'divine intervention' for him to be overthrown, with the arrival of the armies of the Valar.  Sauron could not be defeated by the dwindling elves or their Dúnedain allies.  It took the divine providence which oversaw the latter history of the rings of power to bring him down.  (It would be interesting to develop the Old Testament/New Testament contrast here, by the way - victory by overwhelming divine force in the First Age, victory by self-denial and suffering in the Third).

The other reason the elves must be defeated is that the lies of Morgoth have a grip on them, and their allies.  Fëanor and his sons are affected by his lies, to the extent that they mistrust the Valar without reason, and rush into the Kinslaying at Alqualondë - which continues as a shadow over all their later doings, even the most heroic, preventing alliances which should have strengthened them.  Later,  Maedhros is betrayed in battle by the human sons of Ulfang, who have secretly given their allegiance to Morgoth.  The enemy is not merely arrayed against them, but his tendrils reach within.

This is the story of our real long defeat.  Sin and death and Satan are enemies beyond our strength; and moreover, we find so often that the tendrils of Satan's power extend not merely into the midst of our church communities but into our own hearts.  Every victory is temporary.  Every defeat is doubly bitter, because we are ourselves implicated.  Noble rearguard actions (think of the wind whistling in the fens of Serech) are often all we can manage as our enemy carries all before him.

We fight the long defeat, but not with the melancholy of Galadriel.  We fight the long defeat with the knowledge that at the end of it all there is final victory.  The pattern is cross and resurrection.  Jesus has passed through, and has secured our triumph.  Every defeat in this long defeat is a reminder of the cross.  But every reminder of the cross is a call to lift up our eyes beyond the parameters of our own personal and communal battles, and to remember that the war itself is won, and will be won.  We will stand on the field of Cormallen and celebrate total and final victory, one day.  Until then, with the certain knowledge that the day is coming, we fight the long defeat.

A holy sadness

Perhaps it is just the Lenten trek through Jeremiah, or perhaps it is something that has been growing over time.  Whatever the cause, I am developing a new appreciation for sadness.  There is something deeply real about sadness.  It is not grief, per se - it is not dragged out of you by a particular catastrophe.  It is the background awareness that much is not right (even if all is well in one's immediate surroundings), and that many are suffering (even if one's own life throws up only the most trivial inconveniences).  At its most basic level, sadness is a reaction - an appropriate reaction, although not the only reaction necessary - to a fallen world.

A man of sorrows.

There is a lot of sadness in the gospel.  It is not all joy and laughter, even if it is ultimately that.  "Then again Iluvatar 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,  [It became] deep and wide and beautiful, but slow and blended with an immeasurable sorrow, from which its beauty chiefly came."  (Seriously, read the Silmarillion).

Surely he has carried our sorrows.

Thinking a lot at the moment about what it means to stand with the world of sadness, but still within the light of the gospel.  Not to feel the sadness - to pretend that the sadness is completely undone - is, I think, to betray the world.  It is not to walk the way of the cross.  To indulge the sadness, on the other hand, is to be unbelieving.  Is everything sad going to come untrue? asks Sam Gamgee.  No, and yes.  Untrue, but not unreal.  Frodo has to go to the havens; the saved world is not for him to enjoy.  Sadness, but not all tears are evil.  Sadness does not have the last word, but it has the penultimate word.

To be sad, to be low, not for oneself but for the world.  Vicarious sadness.  Feeling the sadness that we all ought to feel.  And knowing that it is through sorrow that God brings joy.

Goblins and Gospel

J.R.R. Tolkien is one of my favourite theologians.  I wouldn't imagine that he would appear in many people's lists of favourite theolgians (I assume that other people keep such lists).  For starters, his stories have 'gods' in them, and don't mention Christianity at all.  In fact, this was a conscious choice for Tolkien.  "Myth and fairy-story must, as all art, reflect and contain in solution elements of moral and religious truth (or error)", he once wrote, "but not explicit, not in the known form of the primary 'real' world."  In fact, he felt that for myth to contain or reference Christianity explicitly was "fatal" for the story.  In the form of myth, art could never capture Christian themes if it set out to reference explicitly the Christian story.  That makes Tolkien a subtle theologian, but I love him for three main themes which he teaches me to feel, rather perhaps than to think, through his stories.

Firstly, Tolkien teaches me to feel the doctrine of creation.  The creation myth from the Silmarillion is, to my mind, absolutely beautiful and to a very great degree truth-full.  (I would say absolutely truth-full, but Tolkien's Roman Catholicism does peek through a bit in the role he assigns to his 'subordinate gods', the Valar - God is never quite so close to his creation as you feel he is in Scripture).  I can't really describe it, except to say that portraying creation not as one act, but as the whole of history, and not as a fiat but as a composition, touches my heart with the wonder of God's creative act more than any other text I've come across.  Tolkien really loved stuff - the stuff God has made (he had a much more ambiguous relationship with the sub-creativity of humanity).  He makes me want to love stuff too, for the sake of its Creator.

Secondly, Tolkien helps me to feel the doctrine of the Fall.  The Silmarillion is full of futility, and that same futility haunts the Lord of the Rings.  We need heroes, but whenever we have had them they have been broken.  Feanor is the greatest of the Noldor, but he dooms his people to exile and his family to destruction. Turin is noble, but ultimately is doomed by his own evil.  Numenor is great, but is pulled down by its own pride, as will be in time its daughter realms in Arnor and Gonder.  (As an aside, Tolkien's portrait of evil is profound - it is about wanting mastery, and in pursuit of mastery actually making yourself a vulnerable slave.  Sauron seeks mastery through the ring; but by investing his energy in it, he makes himself vulnerable in ways he would never have been otherwise).  An intervention is needed - at the end of the Silmarillion this is the Valar riding to war; in the Lord of the Rings, it doesn't really come, except in the sense of my third point below.  In both cases, Tolkien understands that brokeness is brokeness, and evil is evil - even when both are redeemed for good.  In the creation myth again, the theme of Melkor - the embodiment of evil - is woven into Iluvatar's (God's) overall purpose, but it is still ruinous.  And Iluvatar's counter-theme is "deep and wide and beautiful, but slow and blended with an immeasurable sorrow, from which its beauty chiefly came".  That seems to me to be the way the gospel deals with evil.

Thirdly, Tolkien gives me a picture of providence.  Throughout the Lord of the Rings, the 'goodies' are preserved and at crucial moments very definitely helped by an outside force (think Frodo in the tunnel, chanting the name of Elbereth).  The theme is shown profoundly in the two characters of Frodo and Gollum. Frodo wishes the ring had never come to him - "Why was I chosen?"  Gandalf can only reply that he "may be sure that it was not for any merit that others do not possess".  In fact, "Bilbo was meant to find the ring, and not by its maker.  In which case you also were meant to have it,  And that may be an encouraging thought."  Frodo represents providence working itself out in the light.  Gollum represents providence working itself out in shadow.  He has just as much of a role to play as Frodo.  Without him, the ring would not be destroyed.  But he is the unwilling tool of providence.  He is in some ways the Judas Iscariot of the book.  And all of this relates back to the music at the beginning of the Silmarillion - which encompasses all themes, even those which rebel against the Chief Composer.

Okay, I admit it, I am a Tolkien fanboy.  Now to get back to my 17th or 18th read through the Lord of the Rings (I lost count somewhere along the line)...

Advent texts: The Silmarillion

"Now Fingolfin, King of the North, and High King of the Noldor, seeing that his people were become numerous and strong, and that the Men allied to them were many and valiant, pondered once more an assault upon Angband; for he knew that they lived in danger while the circle of the siege was incomplete, and Morgoth was free to labour in his deep mines, devising what evils none could foretell ere he should reveal them.  This counsel was wise according to the measure of his knowledge; for the Noldor did not yet comprehend the fullness of the power of Morgoth, nor understand that their unaided war upon him was without final hope, whether they hastened or delayed."
Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin

"In those days Maedhros son of Feanor lifted up his heart, perceiving that Morgoth was not unassailable...  Then in the plains of Anfauglith, on the fourth day of the war, there began Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Unnumbered Tears, for no song or tale can contain all its grief... The field was lost; but still Hurin and Huor and the remnant of the house of Haldor stood firm with Turgon of Gondolin, and the hosts of Morgoth could not yet win the pass of Sirion.  Then Hurin spoke to Turgon, saying 'Go now, Lord, while time is!  For in you lives the last hope of the Eldar...'  Last of all Hurin stood alone.  Then he cast aside his shield, and wielded an axe two-handed; and it is sung that the axe smoked in the black blood of the troll-guard of Gothmog until it withered, and each time that he slew Hurin cried 'Aure entuluva!  Day shall come again!'  Seventy times he uttered that cry; but they took him at last alive by the command of Morgoth..."
Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad

"But at the last the might of Valinor came up out of the West, and the challenge of the trumpets of Eonwe filled the sky, and Beleriand was ablaze with the glory of their arms, for the host of the Valar were arrayed in forms young and fair and terrible, and the mountains rang beneath their feet...  Then an end was made of the power of Angband in the North, and the evil realm was brought to naught..."
Of the Voyage of Earendil and the War of Wrath