If you’ve been around Ascension recently and heard me talk about my childhood, you’ve probably gleaned that I was an eccentric kid… sometimes willfully so. So it kind of checks out that in about the 4th grade I declared that my favorite book was not one of the Harry Potter books my peers like, or even Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, but The Silmarillion—the frankly too-dense-for-a-4th-grader anthology of myths that JRR Tolkien wrote as part of the backstory for his Middle Earth and The Lord of the Rings.
Now, who knows how much of that declaration was because I actually loved (or had even completed) The Silmarillion and how much of it was a ridiculously nerdy attempt at rebellion and “being an individual.” But regardless of my motivations, I’m glad I read the parts I did. Because through the idiom of mythology and fantasy fiction, Tolkien plants seeds in the imagination of his readers that lay the groundwork for understanding deep theological mysteries like the gift of the Holy Spirit we celebrate today on Pentecost.
The book starts off with this story where Ilúvatar, the Creator, is leading his first creatures in making the ‘Great Music’—an ethereal song that brings all of Creation into existence. This music is harmonious and flawless until Melkor—the most gifted of these first creations—becomes jealous for prominence, prestige, and glory and decides to weave discordant melodies into his part, trying to distort and corrupt the beauty of Creation.
But no matter what dissonant note Melkor plays in defiance—no matter what musical theme he introduces to mock the Great Music—Ilúvatar the Creator weaves a new melody in to meet it and counter it, exposing Melkor’s falsehood and restoring harmony. Melkor keeps this up, trying and failing to ruin the Great Music of Creation until the Creator stops, stands up, lifts his hand, and says, “NOT TODAY, SATAN. NOT TODAY.” (Okay, that last bit might be more RuPaul’s Drag Race, than JRR Tolkien, but you get the gist.)
Nerd stuff aside, I think this story from Tolkien’s mythology gives us new angles—new images—to help us unravel Jesus’ kind of puzzling remarks about the ‘Advocate’ or ‘Paraclete’ in the Gospel today. The relationship between Ilúvatar and Melkor and the music of creation is a sort of parallel reflection of the drama we see in the Gospel of John about the Advocate and the ‘ruler of this world.’
Jesus’ promise to send the Advocate—the Holy Spirit—is part of the Farewell Discourse at the heart of the Gospel of John. For all its beauty and spiritual richness, this last teaching to the disciples before the Crucifixion can be a bit cryptic and more than a little repetitive at times. But in it, Jesus promises the disciples that even though he is leaving them in one way, returning to the Father who sent him, he won’t leave them bereft of the divine presence that he has been in their midst. He promises to send the Holy Spirit as an Advocate who will “prove the world wrong.” And part of why this promise is important—part of why it matters so much is because it’s sandwiched amid warnings—warnings about the challenges the disciples will face in the future.
The disciples will go into the world carrying a hope—singing a song of the New Creation in Christ and his Resurrection. But that hope will be tested to its limits. Like Melkor challenging the Great Music with his mocking melodies, the “ruler of this world”—the Satan (literally ‘the Accuser’)—will mock and ridicule this hope as absurd. The ‘world’—those who deny this hope of a New Creation; who deny that life and healing (not death) have the last word—the ‘world’ will hear Jesus’ followers and write them off completely, like the crowd at Pentecost who dismiss the apostles as just a bunch of drunks.
Like Paul reminds the Romans, the whole Creation will groan in labor pains, waiting—longing for a redemption and renewal that it hopes for but does not yet see. The discordant notes of sin and death will seem to threaten the Great Music’s harmony, growing louder and louder, insisting that dystopia is Creation’s only ‘real’ future, and accusing those who hope otherwise of being naive or delusional.
Does that accusation—that dissonant chord—sound familiar? The Accuser that Jesus warns his disciples about is the same Accuser—the same ruler of this world—the same personification of evil—who we renounce afresh whenever we renew our baptismal covenant.
This is the same Accuser who tries to deprive us of our hope of new life in Christ by weaving melodies that drown out everything but despair. This is the same Accuser who weaves the tune that tells us, “It’s too late. The climate’s too far gone. We might as well give up.” The one who accuses us of being fools for trying to learn to steward and nurture God’s beautiful Creation. This is the Accuser who weaves the tune that tells us, “You’re on your own—alone and abandoned. It’s you against the world. No one’s got your back.” The one accuses us of being weak for imitating Christ’s self-sacrificial love.
These are the discordant tunes and false accusations that each of us will face if we go out into the world as followers of Jesus. They are tunes that will try to rob us of hope. But just like in The Silmarillion Ilúvatar the Creator counters and transposes every single one of Melkor’s false melodies, Jesus promises that if we rest and abide in the Holy Spirit our Advocate, the Advocate will counter every one of our Accuser’s lies and false charges.
The Advocate comes and reminds us of how Christ is present, now and ever, in our midst—proving the world wrong about the power of sin, the futility of righteousness, and the absurdity of hoping God will set all things right. This is the same Advocate who counters despair with a tune of renewal—who drenches us in grace in the water of Baptism—recreating our souls as the first fruits of the Spirit who will renew and redeem all of Creation. This is the Advocate who counters isolation and polarization with a tune of communion—who kindles in us a fire of fellowship that gathers and unites all of God’s servants knitting us together across even the biggest conflicts and divisions.
Jesus is right when he says to the disciples that they will be challenged and mocked and even hated because they contend that life and wholeness will win in the end—because they sing a song of a New Creation in Christ. The Accuser lodges charges—plays dissonant chords of hopelessness and division that ring in our ears when we walk through the world trying to drown out the harmonious song of hope and unity in Christ.
But the harmony of the Great Music of resurrection—the hope that is in us—that animates and enlightens and guides us on the right path—it’s not just the croak of our own weary voices crying out into the Void. It’s the song of the New Creation—the refrain of the Mystery of Faith—sung by the same Spirit sent forth by God to restore beauty and harmony and renew the face of the earth. It’s the rebuttal by the Advocate who dwells in our hearts and proves the world wrong—proves the Accuser wrong—when he claims we are fools for believing God’s promise.
This is the Advocate we celebrate on this day—the Holy Spirit given in its fullness to the Church today on Pentecost. As we go out into the world, our song of hope will be tested. But we can still go forth rejoicing in the power of the Spirit, because we have an Advocate, who dwells in our hearts saying, “Not today, Satan. Not today.”