Twice-Told Tales: Tolkien's Númenor, America, and the Church

The views expressed in this article are of the author only and do not necessarily represent those of the Center for Pastor Theologians.


The Rise and Fall of Great Civilizations

What if one of the most profound warnings about power, pride, and the fate of nations wasn’t found in a political treatise or a history book but buried in a fantasy novel? Tolkien’s tale of Númenor—an island kingdom blessed, proud, and doomed—may not have been written as prophecy, but it reads like one. It forces us to ask: what happens when a great civilization, convinced of its own exceptionalism, begins to forget the limits of wisdom, morality, and mortality itself?

J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote that his legendarium is “mainly concerned with Fall, Mortality, and the Machine.”[1] Nowhere is this clearer than in his tale of the rise and fall of Númenor—the great island kingdom. Raised from the sea by divine gift, Númenor was blessed beyond all others in wisdom, power, and prosperity. Yet, in the end, Númenor was destroyed, not by war or invasion, but by its own pride. Fear of death leads to rebellion, hubris leads to grasping, and what was once the pinnacle of civilization is swallowed by the sea. Tolkien resisted allegory; I cannot help but think that this story tells much regarding the rise and fall of great nations.

Númenor’s Rise: Exceptionalism and the Gift of the West

For those less familiar with Tolkien’s world, Númenor was created by divine powers as a reward for noble men who had fought evil in an ancient war. It was the most advanced and beautiful kingdom of Men, located on a great island between the lands of mortals and the immortal realms. Númenóreans were granted long life, wisdom, and prosperity. They were sailors, explorers, and teachers to less advanced peoples. Their early greatness was defined by stewardship and generosity, not conquest.

However, even in Tolkien’s myth, great blessing carried the seeds of temptation. Tolkien writes, “their long life aids their achievements in art and wisdom, but breeds a possessive attitude to these things, and desire awakes for more time for their enjoyment.”[2] What began as gratitude for their gifts turned into resentment that they could not have everything—especially the immortality of the Elves. Númenor’s exceptionalism became entitlement.

Númenor’s Fall: Decline, Catastrophe, and Judgment

Númenor’s story darkens as pride takes root. Their noble voyages turn into colonization. Their outposts in Middle-earth become centers of power and exploitation.

Númenor’s final rebellion is cosmic in scale. Seduced by Sauron—the deceiver—they build a massive fleet to invade the immortal lands and seize everlasting life by force. The result is catastrophic: Númenor sinks beneath the sea, wiped from the world.

Tolkien called this story a “second Fall of Man.” Like Adam and Eve in Eden, Númenóreans sought to become like gods and instead found death. Mortality, meant as a gift, became a curse in their eyes. The tragedy was not mortality itself, but their refusal to accept limits.

Theologically, this reflects a deep biblical theme: the desire to transcend human limits ends in alienation from God and destruction. Scripture warns us repeatedly against pride and the folly of trusting in earthly might rather than God.

The Machine, Mortality, and the Seduction of Power

Tolkien, shaped by the horrors of World War I, carried a deep skepticism toward unchecked power. He understood that the pursuit of dominion over others was not merely a political danger but a profound spiritual one. In a letter to his son, he confessed, “The most improper job of any man . . . is bossing other men. Not one in a million is fit for it.”[3] This wariness of power’s corrupting influence permeates his works, where the allure of control so often leads to ruin.

Indeed, Tolkien devoted some of his most popular volumes to exploring how power seduces, intoxicates, and ultimately destroys those who grasp for it. Númenor’s fall, then, is not simply a tale of military ambition or political failure, but the story of a soul sickened and hollowed out by its own pride.

Tolkien feared what he called “the Machine”—not just technology, but any attempt to bend the world to our will. Númenor’s turn from humble stewardship to industrial conquest reflects this fear of Tolkien’s. The desire to control everything, including death itself, proves fatal.

Today, America faces its own temptations toward the Machine: the unchecked pursuit of progress, dominance in AI, the manipulation of nature. These can bring good, but also great peril if unmoored from moral restraint. The theological truth is simple but hard: we are mortal. There are things we must not do, powers we should not seize because we cannot rightly handle.

Christian theology affirms that our mortality is not a flaw but a design—we are created beings, meant to live in dependence on God. Our attempts to deny this often end in idolatry: worshiping human power, science, or nation instead of the Creator.

Echoes of Númenor: Reflections on America

Lately, I’ve found myself returning to this story—not by design, but because I happened to be rereading The Silmarillion at what feels like a particularly pivotal moment in American life. As our nation wrestles with profound questions of identity, power, and purpose, I couldn’t help but see echoes of Númenor. After nearly 250 years of this grand experiment, what does it mean to flourish—or to falter?

America, too, was born from a sense of destiny. The idea of America as a beacon of liberty and democracy is central to our national story. And there is much to be proud of: the defense of freedom, the lifting of millions out of poverty, technological marvels, and a generous spirit in times of global crisis. But exceptionalism carries a risk: mistaking blessing for superiority, and mission for domination.

Is this not unlike America’s own complex journey? From a republic founded on liberty, America expanded westward, often at great cost to indigenous peoples, under the banner of Manifest Destiny. In the 20th century, America became a global superpower, using that power both for good—defeating tyranny, promoting democracy—and at times falling into moral compromise—supporting unjust regimes, prioritizing economic interests over human rights.

Consider America: our incredible technological power, our global influence, even our dreams of “mastering death” through science—these carry risks. Are we building toward renewal or overreach? No nation, however exceptional, is exempt from the spiritual laws of pride and humility.

A Call to the Church

Tolkien’s story is not just political or mythical—it is theological. It asks: How do humans respond to power and our own limits? Númenor failed because it could not accept being mortal, being created. It could not trust the divine order.

This speaks urgently to the church, especially in America. We have been blessed with influence, resources, and a voice in public life. But with blessing comes temptation: to trade the gospel’s prophetic voice for political power, to serve our culture instead of transforming it.

The church must remember that its mission is not to preserve a nation but to proclaim the Kingdom of God. Scripture tells us, “Our citizenship is in heaven” (Philippians 3:20). When the church seeks earthly power, it risks becoming like Númenor—corrupted by pride, fearful of loss, grasping at control.

The church must ask itself hard questions. Are we the Faithful of Númenor, who resisted Sauron and stayed true, even when marginalized? Or are we those who, out of fear or pride, align with worldly power and lose our distinctiveness?

Tolkien offers hope. Not everyone in Númenor fell. A remnant survived—Elendil and his house—who became the seed of renewal. Likewise, the church is not called to “win” history, but to be faithful, even in exile. The church must also resist its own version of the Machine: obsession with influence, numbers, control. Our vocation is not empire-building but humble service as pilgrims bearing witness to another kingdom.

Tolkien believed in a beautiful term he called eucatastrophe—the sudden turn from disaster to redemption. For the church, our hope is never in politics or power, but in the strength of our crucified God. Our task is to live as those who know the true kingdom is not of this world.

Learning from Númenor

Tolkien didn’t write prophecy, but he told the truth. Civilizations rarely fall from outside attack alone; they rot from within—by pride, greed, and forgetting what matters. America is not destined for Númenor’s fate, but neither are we exempt. It would do Americans well to remember that.

Most importantly, as Christians, it is important to remember that the church’s task is not empire-building or political victory but faithfulness. Like the remnant of Númenor, we are called to stand, repent, and point toward the one true King. Hope isn’t found in preserving power but in being found faithful when the storm breaks.

In a world chasing immortality and control, the church proclaims a paradox: life is found in dying, power is perfected in weakness, and our true home is not here but in a Kingdom that cannot be shaken.


[1] J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 131 to Milton Waldman, 1951, in The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, ed. Humphrey Carpenter (Houghton Mifflin, 1981), 145.

[2] J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, xxviii.

[3] J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 52 to Christopher Tolkien, 29 November 1943, in The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, ed. Humphrey Carpenter (Houghton Mifflin, 1981), 64.


Andrew Ray Williams (PhD, Bangor University) serves as Lead Pastor at Church on the Hill in Fishersville, Virginia. He teaches across multiple institutions, including Portland Seminary, Life Pacific University, and Bethel Seminary, and is a member of the St. Basil Fellowship of the Center for Pastor Theologians.