The original entries on this topic went in Book/Chapter order, starting, naturally, with 1 Nephi.
However, as I got further into Alma, I found that approach more and more difficult to sustain. The entries on this blog will group certain ideas while still referencing books and chapters.
1 Nephi 4-6: The Wilderness
Nineteenth-century
readers would have reacted positively to the idea of wilderness as
freedom. This perspective is often applied only to white settlers in
North America--and Manifest Destiny, articulated in 1845, was used to
justify the practice of white settlers steadily moving west. However,
lots and lots of people—including escaped ex-slaves—also moved west.
Irish immigrants, Blacks, and displaced Native Americans occupied the
fringes of society as well as a number of religious groups.
It helps to realize that those
“fringes”--what was labeled “the West”--kept moving. At one point in the
1800s, “the West” was western New York and Ohio. It then became the
Mississippi River Valley and then what we now refer to as the Mid-West.
(California became a self-described utopia and sophisticated “other”
coast fairly early on—though it was also perceived as part of “the
West.”)
The
Gold Rush, naturally, contributed to the idea that going to the West
equaled a new start, but that metaphor impacted North American pioneering
as early as the Mayflower (possibly earlier, if one goes back to the Vikings). It links to the Puritan idea of “exodus” from a corrupt
society. Methodist preachers, circuit riders, were immensely popular in
the nineteenth century while their stable, elite, (well) paid,
stationary counterparts on the east coast were perceived as missing the
plot.
Consequently, nineteenth-century readers would have reacted
positively to Lehi’s decision to move his family away from perceived
urban corruption into a potentially dangerous wilderness. And the thread
of violence that inhabits these chapters would have made more sense to
nineteenth-century readers than it often does to modern readers. The
“Wild” West was truly “Wild” in some cases and the attitude “better left
alone to take care of themselves” from state and Federal governments (pre-Civil War) was prevalent. (I will return to this attitude later.)
Although
indigenous people and trackers and traders saw the wilderness as an
approachable and useful setting, the mindset for many North American newcomers--when faced with so much risk--was more medieval than Enlightened, namely:
One goes into the Wilderness and dies heroically (and/or becomes a hermit--see Saint Anthony--and dies sacrificially) or one goes into the Wilderness and fights off all contenders as part of a social order.
The
tensions here between freedom and organized leadership, pacifism and
violence continue through The Book of Mormon. Nineteenth-century readers
could relate.
Enos & The Wilderness
Heading into the wilderness to gain insight is not merely a product of modern life and Sondheim’s Into the Woods.
The ancient world is full of gurus stepping away from agricultural and
urban centers to find themselves and effect contact with deity.
However, one major difference exists between then and now. For much
of history, that stepping away was a risk, challenge, and sacrifice. The
praying petitioner was stripped of day-to-day concerns and
self-protection. It is possible that hunter-gatherers included unorthodox members who traveled alone for the fun of traveling alone.
It is also possible that such members were considered practically
pathological and usually ended up dead.
When
Saint Anthony the Great made his way into the “wilderness”—as numerous gurus had done before him—what mattered was the arduous nature of the experience. Nature was not one’s friend. Nature was, quite literally, the thing that would end your life.
In
All the Trouble in the World,
P.J. O’Rourke writes about Petrarch’s hike up Mount Ventoux, “During
his brief sojourn upon the Ventoux peak, the poet stood astride the
medieval and modern ages—the first European to climb a mountain for the
heck of it, and the last to feel like a jerk for doing so.”
Acclaims
to nature exist in early Western and Eastern literature.
In one of my master’s courses, the professor and some students tried to
convince the rest of us that nobody was awestruck by the Grand Canyon
until Western civilization told them they should be. So much nonsense!
(Academic theories, despite the jargon, are often disturbingly self-centered.) Multiple Native American tribes centered their religious ceremonies in
the Grand Canyon. They weren’t exactly doing it in the middle of Kansas.
Okay, maybe they did—but my point stands: a remarkable natural
occurrence is a remarkable natural occurrence, from waterfalls to the
aurora borealis. Observant humans have always commented on nature’s
awe-inspiring products—just look at cave paintings.
What changes are the tropes, the ways in which those
wonders are addressed. Human beings are social animals. Once one person
goes into the wilderness not to be challenged or to die but to
be inspired and comforted, everybody is going to start going for the same reason, and they will use the language (as both writers and translators) that relates to that trope.
Both
patterns run through the nineteenth century. Jonathan Edwards—despite
terrifying a generation of Congregationalists with “Sinners in the Hands
of an Angry God”—was a big believer in nature’s spiritual influence. A
Puritan’s goal was to undergo a personal conversion and/or reckoning.
Nature could help that individual comprehend God’s glory and God’s love.
The connection between contemplation and nature would take off with
the Transcendentalists. Though he likely would have disapproved of some
of their notions, they are Edwards’ philosophical heirs.
Nineteenth-century readers would have related to both purposes
attached to nature: inspiration/comfort—personal challenge/sacrifice.
Both run through Enos’s experience: sunk deep into my heart, wrestle, hungered, guilt swept away, pour out, struggling, unshaken, labored.
