1 Nephi: Scripture Reading and the Enlightenment

1 Nephi 3: Scripture Reading

The struggle  over the brass plates, wealth versus inspiration, would have struck home with Joseph Smith, who participated in the popular early nineteenth-century search for treasures and understood the survivalist's need for cold, hard cash. The history behind this trend is covered more than adequately elsewhere. 

Of more interest to me is the definition of the brass plates as "spoken by the mouth of all the holy prophets..delivered unto [the prophets] by the Spirit and power of God” rather than "spoken by God...delivered as incontestable words." 

Bible literalism is a relatively late development in the production, collection, and canonization of scriptures. It popped up throughout the Middle Ages (and earlier), of course, but didn't take off until the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The phrases in 1 Nephi--"spoken by" and "delivered unto them"--places the translator, at least here, on the non-literal side of the argument with the addition of a possible compromise. 

Nineteenth-century readers would have been as invested in this issue as modern readers, in part due to the Reformation; in part due to the Enlightenment. 

Martin Luther, for one, was

extremely argumentative.

The Reformation

Luther et al. challenged Rome's authority based on the belief that the scriptures were the only reliable source of God's truth. The matter was instantly made more complicated by not everyone understanding what the scriptures actually said (translations into everyday language were being made but not all translators had the same background in Greek, Hebrew, and Latin). Like all human beings everywhere, both Catholic and Protestant theologians also had a tendency to "translate" in terms of their own opinions. 

So Luther took transubstantiation literally while other Protestants pointed out that Christ was probably speaking figuratively. Okay. Sounds consistent. Except some of the pro-figurative Protestants insisted on literalism regarding Christ's whereabouts ("right hand of God") while some of the literalists insisted that the reference was only figurative. 

Nevertheless, almost all Protestants--even when they violently disagreed with each other--concurred that the scriptures were the source, not the traditions coming out of Rome (which traditions included the Pope).

The Enlightenment

In recent years, some writers have blamed the Enlightenment--empiricism, searching for proofs, separating faith from science--for ruining religion while Enlightenment believers have blamed religion for keeping everyone thinking medievally. 

I think the argument is as pointless as atheists arguing with fundamentalists. The Enlightenment—a highly varied movement itself—underscored the concept of a rational and reasonable deity. The associated assumptions have impacted everything from church organization to charity work to scripture reading. Many things we take for granted—such as forensics as evidence—are both older than the Enlightenment and were encouraged by the Enlightenment. Theology, likewise, has always focused on producing a coherent explanation of God and God's acts.

One of the Enlightenment's ideas was “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. 

Not everyone was a fan since there are obviously non-observable aspects of life. But "evidential" religion fit in with the Protestant Reformation's emphasis on going to the scriptures for proof. 

Back to Scripture Reading

Of course, using Bible passages wasn't a perfect solution in the nineteenth century because (a) the Bible’s clarity was being challenged by aforementioned scholars; (b) not every theologian agreed on the Bible’s meaning. An increasing number of Protestants pointed out that Saint Paul was probably speaking hypothetically or metaphorically or specifically or historically when he spoke about “election.”

There were plenty of people 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.

That is, many nineteenth-century religious communities were perfectly capable of rejecting the logical fallacy of either/or (one must either accept that all scriptural events are metaphors or one must accept that they are meant to mean exactly what a current translation argues, in a one word=one definition sense, without any room for debate or context). 

Nineteenth-century readers were also open to a third possibility: more revelations, more visions, more scriptures, and more to come. 

God may not change. But that doesn't mean that humans fully understand the nature of God. 

Mosiah 12 & 13: The Ten Commandments

In Mosiah 12 & 13, Abinadi quotes the Ten Commandments.

In nineteenth-century America, the Decalogue was a link to the Lost Tribes of Israel, a popular topic of the time. Many scholars and religious leaders and archaeologists in the nineteenth century maintained that some or all tribes had made their way to America, bringing with them important wisdom, most specifically the Ten Commandments.

In the aftermath of the Civil War as the United States became home to immigrants from places other than Northern Europe (and Canada), the Ten Commandments were presented as unifying standards, products of "natural law," which presupposes that humans across many cultures will identify similar behaviors as right or wrong. (See section on Natural Law below.) 

The hope was that this natural law--along with archetypes and legends, such as the Founding of Our Country--could bring various religions and sects (and states) together. Hence, the erection of numerous monuments before and after DeMille/Heston's The Ten Commandments. 

Transplanted Israelites alongside their ethical legacy were common currency in the nineteenth century. Despite sharing an interest in those ideas, the first readers of The Book of Mormon were more interested in the associated doctrines. As I will address later, Millenarianism flourished within Mormonism but never went entirely in the same direction as it did in other societies. To borrow from my popular culture background, Joseph Smith had a more Spike attitude towards life and human endeavors than an Angelus attitude, more "let's invest in human activity" than "let's watch the world burn."

Like Joseph Smith, many early Book of Mormon readers were coming out of the Calvinist tradition. An ongoing doctrinal controversy within that tradition was the relationship between grace and works or, rather, the exact nature of grace. Passages within The Book of Mormon return to this issue again and again.

In the Book of Mosiah, Abinadi is brought before the wicked King Noah and King Noah's priests. He uses the opportunity to pull a Martin Luther, to accuse the priests of claiming adherence to a set of behaviors they don’t actually practice: “I perceive that [the Ten Commandments] are not written in your hearts” (Mosiah 13:11). The argument bears resemblance to a current-day interpretation of ancient texts, Jesus’s words, and King Benjamin’s speech, the latter also from The Book of Mormon:

• Michael Coogan argues that the Ten Commandments are likely extremely old. Documentary evidence indicates that they preceded the various versions that appear in the first five Books of Moses. The classically numbered third commandment—commonly presented as “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain”—is more accurately rendered as “You should not use the name of Yahweh, your god, for nothing.” 

Both books are worth checking out. Joselit

discusses monuments--see above.

Coogan goes on to discuss how ancient religions customarily paired magic with theology. Speaking the name of one’s god was often part of a spell. Coupled with the classically numbered second commandment about idols, the third commandment of the Decalogue tosses out the idea of propitiation through such appeals: “The Israelites’ new god with the mysterious name was not a god who could be controlled by invoking his name in incantations or magic, any more than he could be localized in a statue” (Coogan). Paul, who knew his scriptures, built on this idea.

• Jesus uses the Ten Commandments to make a series of rather sarcastic points. (There is far more sarcasm in the Gospels than may make some religious commentators comfortable—it is a touching indicator that Jesus had a singular personality, though one can’t help but wonder if Heavenly Father turned to Jesus upon the Ascension and said, “You do realize many humans have absolutely no sense of humor. They are going to take a bunch of that stuff you said very, very literally.”)

Don’t commit adultery becomes If your right eye offend thee (with lustful gazes), pluck it out.

Although some scholars perceive Jesus as increasing the rules, I agree with those scholars who argue that Jesus is actually driving home a point that comes up with the Rich Young Man: If you truly think you are already completely righteous for keeping all the commandments, fine—now, try this on. Are you as good as you say? Are you honestly dedicated to what you claim to follow? If you keep pushing the envelope here, you might find that the essence of the law is better than a checklist. Because cutting out your eye is a dumb idea. Instead, try to use thoughtfulness and commonsense to be a decent human being. It’ll be easier.

As David Mitchell states about the eye of the needle directive, “Jesus was being sarky and going, ‘It’s about as easy for a rich man to get into heaven as it is to get a planet into a shoe.’” 

Trying to bargain will get a believer absolutely nowhere.

• King Benjamin’s speech early in Mosiah presents a series of if…then statements. The “then” statements are often treated as commandments by readers. They are not. They are “fruits” of adhering to the first commandment:

Believe in God; believe that he is, and that he created all things, both in heaven and in earth; believe that he has all wisdom, and all power, both in heaven and in earth; believe that man doth not comprehend all the things which the Lord can comprehend.

Believe that ye must repent of your sins and forsake them, and humble yourselves before God…(Mosiah 4:9, 10)

If you believe—

You will not have a mind to injure others.

You will treat your children well.

You will help others and have a magnanimous attitude. (Mosiah 4)

In sum, the Ten Commandments are used in The Book of Mormon as a way to resolve the connection between grace and works. Abinadi chastises the learned because they fail to practice what they claim to know/embrace, which chastisement could be taken as an argument in favor of works. However, as detailed above, the overall argument more resembles the points made by Coogan, Jesus, and King Benjamin: the Commandments only have merit as works if they reflect faith-based beliefs as part of character. 

Abinadi then makes an assertion about knowledge/works that would have signaled a battle-cry to nineteenth-century readers, namely a lack of knowledge does not preclude salvation, when he declares without qualification, “Little children also have eternal life” (Mosiah 15:25).

Such a statement may seem a given to readers now—but a gauntlet is being thrown down.

Natural Law

Coogan argues quite reasonably that the Decalogue specifically references ancient Israelite culture. I think he has a point, but I also think there is something rather impressive here about what C.S. Lewis referred to as the Tao; throughout history, people have considered certain things good and bad despite what society considers acceptable and non-acceptable. Slavery has sometimes been acceptable but nobody has ever advocated it as a lifestyle; violence was often far more acceptable but few cultures have ever supported violence/betrayal against a friend (other than those societies that substitute individual virtues with service to the State)...and so on.

Alma 27-30: Korihor & Alma, Atheism & Evidentiary Religion

The story of Korihor resembles many scenes in nineteenth-century America and Britain. Alma and Korihor are not arguing because they are so unlike each other. They are, in fact, arguing from a shared set of references. 

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 why is Korihor a problem?

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

Atheism in 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 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, and it was generally recognized that while not all deists were atheists, many atheists were nominally deists (taking into account that "atheism" has had different definitions in different time periods). No public, publishing colonial writer was obviously atheistic. Thomas Paine, for instance, called what he was arguing for "deism," and he was criticized for it.

Like with most religions of the era, deism rested on “evidential” reasoning—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.

Korihor's Atheism

Consequently, nineteenth-century believers would have comprehended 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, God was indiscriminate and didn't care about the morality the Bible appeared to preach.

Evidentiary Religion

Both Alma and Korihor argue from the perspective of evidentiary religion, a perspective nineteenth-century readers would have recognized.

On the one hand in the nineteenth century 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. Both sides argued that theology was backed up by external evidence (science/nature) and had to make rational sense (George MacDonald presents a variation of this approach when he argues that any interpretation of doctrine that violates commonsense is probably, you know, wrong; he also refuses to treat the Bible as the final stop). 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" (only the Millennialists). Rather, debates circled around a particular scripture’s original intent followed by evidence for that intent. 

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 underscoring evidentiary proof and as opening the door to revelation beyond the scriptures.

They also would have recognized his and Korihor's use of rational, point-by-point arguments.

So when Korihor is brought before Alma, Alma zeroes in on specific claims—namely, the claims that Korihor makes in reference to 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 draws on the natural world and the scriptures to make opposing points:

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)

What All These Issues Mean to Nineteenth-Century Readers

The chapters involve remarkably nuanced arguments but ones 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. 

And, as always, there were lots and lots of in-between believers: those who 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.

In sum, Korihor isn't at fault for arguing. He is at fault for being reductionist and dreary. 

The reaction here is one that underscores Millennialism--namely, many believers in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries honestly did not want to take rational "evidentiary" positions to their nth degree. Why should they get rid of miracles? Why should they get rid of Christ's godly nature? Why should they slice up the scriptures into so-called palatable bits like Thomas Jefferson did?

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.