Alma 27-30: Korihor & Alma

The story of Korihor resembles many scenes in nineteenth century America and Britain. Alma and Korihor do not argue because they don't understand each other. They are, in fact, arguing from a similar frame of references. 

In the nineteenth century that frame of reference was the Bible and close scripture reading. 

On the one hand was the belief that all theological knowledge rested exclusively within the scriptures. On the other was respect for tradition, the analysis and insights of Church theologians over the years. Others argued that theology had to make rational sense, no matter what the scriptures appeared to say (George MacDonald presents a variation of this approach when he argues that any interpretation that violates commonsense is probably, you know, wrong). In the meantime, scholars were arguing, "Hey, maybe that interpretation isn't contextually what Paul meant in the first place." 

Congregations split between the revivalist focus on individual testimony and those who thought such a focus was self-indulgent. Nobody was going so far as to say, “God is telling me to create new doctrine" (not yet). Rather, debates circled around the idea of the "primitive" church, a particular scripture’s original intent, and the connection between doctrines and what a scripture (appeared to have) stated. 

When Alma states, “[B]ehold, I have all things as a testimony that these things are true," nineteenth-century readers would have recognized the statement as opening the door to revelation beyond the scriptures.

He is using rational, point-by-point arguments--as is Korihor. In fact, Korihor argues positions already taken by The Book of Mormon: “a child is not guilty because of its parents"; priests bind “yokes” on others.

So what is Korihor’s sin?

He is an atheist. The problem isn’t his positions but the deductions he forms from his positions.

Context:

One important aspect of any religion is that what may appear uniform to outsiders and even to future adherents does not appear that way to insiders and believers at the time. The early Christian world split in two, in part, over the question of whether Christ was a spiritual manifestation (equal) of God or a son (non-equal) of God. Likewise, Buddhists almost immediately took up different explanations of "rebirth" at the beginnings of Buddhism--what rebirth entails, how it comes about.

The differences may matter. The arguments, however, often appear entirely incomprehensible to everyone else.

Deists in eighteenth to nineteenth-century America are a good example of the gap between outsiders’ and insiders’ perceptions.

Deists in nineteenth-century America now appear as somewhat bland, honorable, club-attending, gentle Christians. The "Founding Fathers" were largely deists—isn't that nice?

To early Americans, deists were radicals. Since no public, publishing colonial writer (even, who got castigated for his writing, called what he was arguing "deism") was obviously atheistic, those with that particular bent went with deism to express their views (not all deists were atheists but many atheists were nominally deists).

Deism also rested on “evidential” religion—the idea that the natural world and rational argument could prove philosophical and, if necessary, religious truths. The idea influenced generations of believers, from literalists using the natural world and the Bible to prove the equivalent of Creationism to near-atheists using the natural world and Bible studies (coming out of Germany) to prove the non-existence of miracles.

And everybody in-between.

Many in-between religious believers honestly didn’t want to go in either direction. They didn’t want to discard rationality and evidence from the natural world—but why should that mean getting rid of the unseen, unknowable, and unprovable?

Since quantum mechanics hadn’t yet shown up in the sciences, they had a point.

Korihor

Consequently, nineteenth-century readers would have related to The Book of Alma's alarm at Korihor’s contention, “How do ye know of their surety? Behold, ye cannot know of things which ye do not see; therefore ye cannot know that there shall be a Christ” (30:15).

Korihor also proposes antinomian arguments (no moral law exists as a norm), which arguments have haunted religious and philosophical thought since the beginning of time. Jain Buddhists, for example, were concerned that rebirth of a person without a definite “I” soul would result in nihilistic or dismissive attitudes towards current bad behavior.

In nineteenth-century America, everybody was accusing everybody else of antinomian arguments: the Calvinists got accused of it for proposing that God has already determined salvation—therefore, moral goodness of the individual didn’t matter. The Universalists got accused of it for saying everybody would be saved—therefore, people didn’t have to try hard and individual moral goodness didn’t matter.

Debates between educated clergy over antinomianism and evidence based on the natural world (as well as other issues) spilled over into popular discourse. Many in-between believers embraced many of the same ideas as Calvinists and Universalists and even Deists while refuting others; that is, they had no trouble embracing grace while admitting, “Yeah, people shouldn’t be jerks.” Nineteenth-century readers would have easily balanced the “same” elements of Alma and Korihor’s arguments against their differences.

When Korihor is brought before Alma, Alma zeroes in on specific claims—namely, the claims that Korihor makes in reference to “evidence” from the natural world and one’s senses. Alma uses the "evidence of absence" argument: you claim there is not a God but all we have is your word for that. Like Korihor, Alma also draws on the natural world and the scriptures as proof to make an opposing point:

The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator. (44)

The chapters involve remarkably nuanced arguments but one that early nineteenth-century readers would have related to—this is the tail end of the era in which Congregationalists were still trying to square predestination with free will and works. Many arguments between Protestant sects and, for that matter, between various Calvinists rested on points of doctrine.

It is a truth of religious argument that the arguers are usually speaking the same language. They often understand each other better than outsiders understand them.