In Harper’s BAZAAR, Demi Moore revealed her deepest fears while conversing with her longtime friend Amanda De Cadenet.

Demi: “All right, so what scares you?” Amanda: “Infidelity scares me . . . it scares me that it’s going to happen to me. And I’m scared of dishonesty. I just really don’t know what to do when people are dishonest. It is alarming to me.” Demi: “Why does it scare you so?” Amanda: “It’s like an ultimate fear, you know. Of being rejected, of being betrayed. I guess dishonesty and betrayal. Those are the things I’m afraid I wouldn’t recover from.” Demi’s answer to the same question: “If I were to answer it, just kind of bold-faced, I would say what scares me is that I’m going to ultimately find out at the end of my life that I’m really not lovable, that I’m not worthy of being loved. That there’s something fundamentally wrong with me.”¹

Demi’s admission is a cry for permanent significance, for enduring security and quality of life beyond this present-life. Her cry is really a longing for resurrection. Pulitzer Prize winner Ernest Becker—a self-proclaimed atheist—unearths what is beneath Demi Moore’s ultimate fear. What is it that we want when we elevate the love partner to the position of God? We want redemption—nothing less. We want to be rid of our faults, of our feeling of nothingness. We want to be justified, to know that our creation has not been in vain. We turn to the love partner for the experience of the heroic, for perfect validation; we expect them to ‘make us good’ through love. Needless to say, human partners can’t do this. The lover does not dispense cosmic heroism; he cannot give absolution in his own name. The reason is that as a finite being he too is doomed, and we read that doom in his own fallibilities, in his very deterioration. Redemption can only come from outside the individual, from beyond. Slow down and allow Becker’s words to sink into your psyche.

We want redemption . . . We want to be rid of our faults, of our feeling of nothingness . . . We want to be justified, to know that our creation has not been in vain . . . We expect them to ‘make us good’ through love . . . Doom . . . fallibilities . . . deterioration . . . Redemption can only come . . . from beyond.²

Demi’s and Amanda’s longing for the security of enduring love reveals a deeper longing. As we will see shortly, Tolkien’s writings teach us that their desire to be forever accepted as well as their fear of being betrayed without recovery are really longings for resurrection. We all know deep down—and it’s a knowledge we fight to suppress—that we live tragic lives. No matter how much wealth, fame, or deep friendship we enjoy, in the end, we die. We experience ultimate catastrophe. And in the depths of our souls, we long for resurrection.

The Grey Pilgrim rises

Our Present-earth interplay of life, death, and longing for resurrection is part of why we are captivated by Gandalf’s stunning plot twists. Entranced readers feel the Company’s desperate loss upon the Wizard’s defeat in the depths of Khazad-dûm. The Balrog’s whip snagged him, yanking him toward the abyss. “‘Fly, you fools!’ Gandalf cried, and was gone. The fires went out, and blank darkness fell. The Company stood rooted with horror staring into the pit.” ³ Upon hearing the fateful news, Faramir expressed: “It is hard to believe that one of so great wisdom, and of power—for many wonderful things he did among us—could perish, and so much lore be taken from the world.” ⁴ Tolkien masterfully wraps us into the Company’s deep grief. We join their tears and cry, “Gandalf cannot possibly be gone!” In LotR Book III, Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas suddenly encountered a mysterious old man. With further interaction, they made a stunning discovery.

His hair was white as snow in the sunshine; and gleaming white was his robe; the eyes under his deep brows were bright . . . power was in his hand. Between wonder, joy, and fear, they found no words to say. At last Aragorn stirred.‘Gandalf!’ he said.‘Beyond all hope you return to us in our need! What veil was over my sight? Gandalf!’⁴

Did you catch it? Tolkien continues pervasively employing the wonder word. Gandalf shared the details of his demise and powerful comeback. But what did Tolkien intend to communicate? Was this really death? The Professor allows Gandalf himself to clarify: “Behold, I am not Gandalf the Grey, whom you betrayed. I am Gandalf the White, who has returned from death.”⁶ Tolkien affirmed in correspondence: “Gandalf really ‘died’, and was changed . . . ” ⁷ Such bold, picturesque imaging with our old wise guide should really not surprise us. This gnarly issue of death—and how to ultimately conquer it—was woven into Tolkien’s over-arching story aim. Joanna de Bortadano wrote a letter, apparently asking about the real purpose and theme of The Lord of the Rings. She imagined Tolkien might have some allegorical intention, a point to make related to Atomic power. He responded:“I do not think that even Power or Domination is the real centre of my story. It provides the theme of a War . . . but that is mainly ‘a setting’ for characters to show themselves. The real theme for me is about something much more permanent and difficult: Death and Immortality; the mystery of the love of the world in the hearts of a race ‘doomed’ to leave and seemingly lose it; the anguish in the hearts of a race ‘doomed’ not to leave it, until its whole evil-aroused story is complete.”⁸ As we also discover in Tolkien’s writings, Elves and Men each held their respective assignments regarding life’s longevity in Arda. Such perspective on death and immortality motivated the narrative purpose. We can confidently recognize the intended applicability for our own Present-earth condition. I (Dan) have always been haunted by a verse in Florence and The Machine’s song ‘You’ve Got the Love.’ After the chorus’ repetition, “You’ve got the love, you’ve got the love,” Florence sings, “Time after time I think, ‘Oh Lord what’s the use?’ Time after time I think it’s just no good,‘Cause sooner or later in life, the things you love you lose…”⁹ Death is our final betrayer, and it is ruthless. It takes from us all that is good and joy-filled. It steals our family and friends. Death laughs at our loss. It mocks our many shared moments of laughter in our three-score and ten. Death buries all our wonder-filled experiences sixty trillion feet under the toxic landfill of unfulfilled hopes and incomplete stories. It robs us of every good gift that can be enjoyed on Present-earth.

Longing for Eden

As readers of Tolkien, we have stared evil in the face—via hearts and actions of Middle-earth creatures. We’ve discovered through Tolkien’s many tragic myths (see below) that “Sooner or later in life, the things you love you lose,” and what we lose is unrecoverable. At least, so it seems. The brilliance and beauty of Tolkien’s storytelling, though, is that his mythical world speaks hope into our irreversible despair. Slivers of light shine into our irrecoverable tragic tales. In a 1945 letter to his son Christopher, Tolkien unearthed what lies beneath our longings and fears:

We all long for [Eden], and we are constantly glimpsing it: our whole nature at its best and least corrupted, its gentlest and most humane, is still soaked with the sense of ‘exile’ . . . your obstinate memory of this ‘home’ of yours in an idyllic hour (when often there is an illusion of the stay of time and decay and a sense of gentle peace) are derived from Eden. As far as we can go back the nobler part of the human mind is filled with the thoughts of sibb [i.e., brother- or sisterhood], peace and goodwill, and with the thought of its loss.¹⁰

Tolkien believed the tragic events of our past, as well as our happiest experiences of yesteryear, affect us so profoundly because they are echoes of Eden lost. According to Tolkien, our longings to be loved and valued, to be secure and happy, all find their origin in Eden. We long to know we will come back from death someday. We long to be resurrected, to live forever in a place like Eden.

Dancing with dyscatastrophe

Tolkien’s work is replete with tragedy, especially Túrin’s tale. It is “woven with the fate of the Silmarils and the Elves; and it is called the Tale of Grief . . . in it are revealed most evil works of Morgoth Bauglir.”¹¹ The entire episode drips with gloom and death. Túrin’s warrior father, Húrin, was captured and cursed by the archenemy Morgoth. Locked in a high seat, Húrin was assigned to watch the doom unfold upon his wife Morwen, their son Túrin, as well as their daughter Nienor. Because of her husband’s absence, Morwen requested that King Thingol provide Túrin safety and fostering. The King granted this request, treatingTúrin as his own son. He assigned Túrin a faithful guardian and guide, Beleg Strongbow. Túrin battled against Morgoth’s forces, including the primal dragon Glaurung. We encounter swords clashing and slashing. Orcs rampage across blood-splattered pages. Death descends in scene after scene. One especially horrific example will suffice. Orcs captured Túrin. Beleg, accompanied by the Elf Gwindor, rushed to his rescue and crept into the Orc camp under cover of darkness. They freed Túrin from a tree and carried him quickly from the dell. All the while, Túrin remained fast asleep, overwhelmed with exhaustion. Beleg attempted to cut his remaining fetters. Accidentally, he pricked Túrin with the sword blade, and he suddenly awakened. Túrin was stunned and assumed it was a fresh Orc attack. In the chaos of stormy darkness, Túrin and Beleg wrestled. The sword blade was suddenly turned on Beleg, and Túrin mistakenly killed his faithful guardian and friend. As lightning flashed, he looked upon Beleg’s face and recognized his horrible, fateful error. Túrin was overwhelmed with grief. He “walked in sleep,” still moving but ever dazed. Now Gwindor the Elf accompanied Túrin and aimed to guide him far away. The grief Túrin experienced left him speechless, “and he walked as one without wish or purpose, while the year waned and winter drew on over the northern lands.” Eventually they came to the springs beneath the Mountains of Shadow. And Gwindor sought to encourage him:

‘Awake, Túrin son of Húrin Thalion! On Ivrin’s lake is endless laughter. She is fed from crystal fountains unfailing, and guarded from defilement by Ulmo, Lord of Waters, who wrought her beauty in ancient days.’ Then Túrin knelt and drank from that water; and suddenly he cast himself down, and his tears were unloosed at last, and he was healed of his madness.¹²

It’s a wonderful moment, yes, even eucatastrophic. Túrin immediately made a song in honor of Beleg, “the Song of the Great Bow, singing it aloud heedless of peril.” Throughout this entire tale, dyscatastrophe dances with eucatastrophe. Hearken back to the devilish cases we have seen in previous chapters. From fallen kings and a fallen Fellowship to dreadful dragons and odoriferous Orcs, everything and everyone seems fallen. Even the beloved heroes are sinful. Amidst the dance, Tolkien makes sure we see heroic Túrin for who he really is. His jagged nature is on display with monstrous magnificence. In Colin Duriez’ anaylsis, “Túrin’s flaw was a mixture of pride and rashness of action.”¹³ He was arrogant, stern, ungrateful, and unwilling to heed counsel. Ironically, the dragon Glaurung indicted Túrin during an eye-locked standoff: ‘Evil have been all thy ways, son of Húrin. Thankless fosterling, outlaw, slayer of thy friend, thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy, and deserter of thy kin.’¹⁴ SPOILER ALERT: Dyscatastrophe wins this dance round. Sadly, summary here of Turin’s tale ends in cataclysmic defeat. Death seems triumphant.¹⁵

Tolkien’s stories demonstrate a vital life-and-death truth: Only in true dyscatastrophe can eucatastrophe exist at all. Such sudden joyous ‘turn’ of deliverance is utterly dependent upon the reality of dyscatastrophe. As Lisa Coutras insightfully notes, “The joy of deliverance depends precisely on the expectation of defeat.”¹⁶ In his Essay on Fairy-stories, Tolkien highlights the necessity of genuine expectation of defeat in order for eucatastrophe to become a reality. “[Eucastastrophe] does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure.” Rather, eucatastrophic deliverance is of such a unique quality that it is “never to be counted on to recur.” So, the reality of dyscatastrophe is essential to its existence.¹⁷ Túrin’s tragedy is essential to Tolkien’s mythological world. Without his bloody dreadful story, there can be no eucatastrophe. And there is an even stronger significance to ponder. Deeper ramifications echo into the lives of Present-earth dwellers. Ancient heroes of Judeo-Christian history—especially the fatally flawed ones—experienced garish tragedy. Recall Abraham, Sarah, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Ruth, and King David. These legends of faith lived under sin’s curse, but they pursued the blessing of covenant promises. Tolkien was very familiar with their stories. Biblical scenes of sorrow, pain, suffering, and death often supply precursors, very early previews of the incarnational journey, sacrificial death, resurrection, and glory of the sinless Christ. Thoughtful scholars concur with Tolkien that sin and death—especially when displayed in tragic heroes—can deliver profound previews of Christ’s death and resurrection.¹⁸ Crafted as an integral portion of Tolkien’s sub-creation, Túrin’s story also supplies a fleeting glimpse into the shallows of the profound depths for the “man of sorrows” (Isaiah 53:3). He descended into his suffering unto death, “even death on a cross” (Philippians 2:8). Other Tolkien characters—like Frodo, Sam, Gandalf, and even Sméagol—might serve as stellar examples of ultimate sacrifice and love. But Turin’s heroic story of ultimate tragedy delivers a slight glimpse into the dyscatastrophe of Jesus’ death. He drank the full cup of God’s wrath. Tolkien’s recurring motif of journeying and coming home conveys confident hope of joyful return and redemptive resolution. Various characters vocalized the hope of death defeated and life eternal. As Arwen grieved the inevitability of Aragorn’s approaching death, Aragorn sought to comfort her with words that allow slivers of resurrection light to break through the ominous dark clouds of death: “In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! we are not bound for ever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory.”¹⁹Tolkien did not write for allegory, but he saw the powerful potential for story applicability in readers’ lives.

. . . God redeemed the corrupt making-creatures, men, in a way fitting to this aspect, as to others, of their strange nature. The Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-stories. They contain many marvels—peculiarly artistic, beautiful, and moving: “mythical” in their perfect, self-contained significance; and among the marvels is the greatest and most complete conceivable eucatastrophe. But this story has entered History and the primary world; the desire and aspiration of sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment of Creation. The Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Man’s history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy. It has pre-eminently the ‘inner consistency of reality’.

Yes indeed. Wonder-filled myths of golden dragon plunder, the Precious, and the Silmarils captivate our literary wanderlust. But Tolkien believed there is an even greater story, one oh-so-true myth. We like to say, One Myth to Rule them All. Tolkien believed we encounter the ultimate, true eucatastrophe in the Gospels. Christ’s wondrous life, death, and resurrection opened the way for our redemption. Tolkien continues, intentionally drawing us into poignant, Present-earth applicability:

There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many sceptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely convincing tone of Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness or to wrath.

Allow Tolkien’s understanding to soak into your soul. According to Tolkien, in King Jesus’ death and resurrection, we encounter the apex of the grandest story spanning all the ages. (Yes, Tolkien saw his story and all the other beautiful and horrific myths as sub-creations within God’s ultimate story.) There is a divine prescription for healing from the human curse of sin and death.

Across Tolkien’s tales, eucatastrophe in all its occurrences gives us a fleeting glimpse of resurrection hope. Sam’s star twinkles through that sliver of a break in the ominous, cloud-dominated sky. Wise men and women follow Samwise’s example. We humbly, gratefully discover hope and joy. We can look up, employing our hearts’ ability to see anew. We dare to trust in the One who is ultimately good. The King’s plans are full of loving providence, even in our most catastrophic episodes. He truly has our long-range, wondrous good in mind. Tolkien described it this way:

The joy would have exactly the same quality, if not the same degree, as the joy which the “turn” in a fairy-story gives: such joy has the very taste of primary truth. (Otherwise its name would not be joy.) It looks forward (or backward: the direction in this regard is unimportant) to the Great Eucatastrophe. The Christian joy, the Gloria, is of the same kind; but it is preeminently (infinitely, if our capacity were not finite) high and joyous. But this story is supreme; and it is true. Art has been verified. God is the Lord, of angels, and of men—and of elves. Legend and History have met and fused.²⁰

Did you catch it? Tolkien dubs Christ of Scripture “Lord . . . of elves.” The professor must have been grinning with joy as he said it. There is a joy-filled road for life’s current chapters.

1. 1 Harper’s Bazaar (February 2012).
2. Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death, 167-8.
3. The Fellowship of the Ring, 393.
4. The Two Towers, 329
5. The Two Towers, 116. 
6. The Two Towers,
7. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien (Letter 156), 201.
8. Ibid. (Letter 186), 246.
9. Lyrics from Florence + The Machine’s single “You’ve Got The Love” (2009
   album, Lungs).
10. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, 110.
11. The Silmarillion, 237.
12. Ibid., 250.
13. Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings: A Guide to Middle-earth, 54.
14. The Silmarillion, 256.
15. For a fascinating look at Tolkien’s take on a future chapter for Túrin, including his return and role in the final battle, see The Lost Road and Other Writings: Language and Legend Before The Lord of the Rings, The History of Middle-Earth 5, 165.
16. Tolkien’s Theology of Beauty: Majesty, Transcendence, and Splendor in Middle-earth, 152.
17. Tolkien On Fairy-stories, 75.
18. Tolkien’s Theology of Beauty, 158. 
19. The Return of the King, Appendix A, 389.
20. Tolkien On Fairy-stories, 77-78.