On the one hand was the belief that all theological knowledge rested exclusively on the scriptures. On the other was the perspective that tradition--the analysis and insights of Church theologians over the years--counted. 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.
Alma
The story of Korihor is odd because many of Korihor’s positions are ones that The Book of Mormon and Mormonism defend. He argues that “a child is not guilty because of its parents." He lambasts priests for binding “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.
It is a remarkably nuanced argument 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.
More 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 birth 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 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 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).
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)
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.
Many early nineteenth century readers of The Book of Mormon had direct links to the Revolutionary War. It was to them what 9/11 and COVID is to Americans in the early-twenty-first century, and the Civil War was to people like Stephen Crane and those who put up the Lady of Victory statue in Portland, Maine (there seems to be a thirty-to-forty year gap between events and official remembrances).
The point, as raised in the previous post, is that humble, self-sacrificing martyrs were not terribly popular with early-nineteenth-century readers. The self-sacrifice of Helaman’s Anti-Nephi-Lehies--often applauded by modern readers--would have seemed a justifiable thing for other people to do. Helaman's fighting “sons” (who also earned some swooning from my peers) got Friberg’s artwork rather than the seemingly pacifistic parents. (In line with Friberg, even now-a-days, the LDS Jesus is rarely as emaciated as El Greco’s Jesus: Michaelangelo won here.)
Positions regarding pacifism versus warriors-for-the-Faith go in cycles, sometimes within a few decades. And they can vary regarding the same person, depending on that person's role. Although George Washington et al. were glorified and romanticized in the nineteenth century as leaders during the Revolution, they were heavily criticized when they became politicians and issued opinions on other people's wars. (Not everyone favored George Washington getting a birthday since such a holiday smacked of the type of tribute paid to kings and emperors, which carried a different resonance than that paid to generals and captains.)
Early nineteenth century American culture tended to defend the fight-till-you-drop position when it came to leaders and communities, a perspective that applied not only to wars but to stands against local and Federal government bodies.
Alma
There are few martyrs in The Book of Mormon and even fewer (if any) of the self-sacrificing variety. Nearly all those killed for their faith go down fighting.
Martyrdom is in many ways a medieval tradition, far less popular in the ancient world or the modern one. It took off in the Middle Ages, and the Protestant Reformation almost entirely upended it.
At the time of the Reformation, in England specifically, martyrs came about on both sides: Protestants (under Queen Mary) and Catholics (under Queen Elizabeth). Both sides perceived martyrdom as the ultimate argument: how can one argue with THAT? Consequently, both sides realized that the martyrdom of someone in the opposing religion had to somehow be called into question, especially if the martyr went down with style.
But the problem of good people sticking to “wrong” doctrines to the point of death continued. Both sides, therefore, increasingly took the position that martyrdom was about conscience: integrity regarding one’s beliefs rather that treason against a seated monarch.
The end result was useful to the doctrinal arguers since determining whether a martyr REALLY believed what he/she said while dying is an unending (and unresolvable) debate. From a later perspective, however, this focus on conscience became an integral part of the modern age.
Nineteenth-century American readers would have perceived Gideon’s death in Alma 1—Gideon is slain by the self-aggrandizing Nehor—as less about a martyr’s final words and more, quite dramatically, about an old man’s final stand:
7 [B]ut the man withstood him, admonishing him with the words of God.
8 Now the name of the man was Gideon; and it was he who was an instrument in the hands of God in delivering the people of Limhi out of bondage.
9 Now, because Gideon withstood him with the words of God, [Nehor] was wroth with Gideon, and drew his sword and began to smite him. Now Gideon being stricken with many years, therefore he was not able to withstand his blows, therefore he was slain by the sword.
Nehor is then tried for a specific crime rather than for his overall bad behavior. In both the ancient world and the modern one, Gideon would not be a Saint but, rather, a means of justified punishment.
Paid clergy come in for a great deal of criticism in The Book of Mormon. When I was growing up—again in upstate New York—this criticism was often leveled at Catholicism. Nineteenth-century New Englanders would have associated such criticisms with Congregationalists and religious leaders in well-to-do churches on the East coast. The issue of paid clergy was wrapped up in the separation (or non-separation) of church and state. Various states supported specific churches for a number of years after the Revolutionary War.
Established East Coast religious leaders meanwhile defended the need for educated clergy against “populist” demagogues. The East Coast leaders were rapidly losing adherents with the growth of Methodism and circuit riders—circuit riders were also paid but it was generally recognized that their efforts far outstripped their salaries.
Although Congregationalists and similar church leaders most obviously and directly objected to non-educated (or, rather, only Bible-educated) leaders promoting emotion-laden theology, participants in revivals also had concerns. Nineteenth-century readers would have responded to criticisms in The Book of Mormon not only of educated paid clergy but of popular clergy. Well-off sects and revivalists who achieved followers through charismatic sermons would have come in for criticism:[Nehor came] declaring unto the people that every priest and teacher ought to become popular; and they ought not to labor with their hands, but that they ought to be supported by the people. (Alma 1:3)
In sum, a “minister” has gone down the wrong path when that role becomes its own excuse, not something done in one’s spare time.
The issue will come up again later with Korihor. False doctrines are open to debate but “priestcraft”—preaching for the sake of riches—is entirely condemned.
The Book of Mormon is full of ideas about leadership: the dictatorial approach versus the magnanimous approach; the authoritarian approach versus the communal approach; the buddy approach; the charismatic approach; the mystic’s approach.
Joseph Smith, Jr. struggled with all these approaches. Unlike the problem of grace and works, which The Book of Mormon appears to have solved to his satisfaction (he takes the ideas and runs with them), it never fully resolved for him the problem of leadership. When he left Nauvoo to escape capture by Federal agents, he chose to return as a man of his people (not a coward). It was not a choice Brigham Young would have made (“Yeah, right, come and get me”) but it is indicative of the former man’s inner conflict over his role, so much so that he turned to his second self, his brother Hyrum, to make the ultimate decision.
“Let us go back and give ourselves up, and see the thing out,” said Hyrum.
“If you go back, I shall go with you,” Joseph said, “but we shall be butchered.”
“If we live or have to die,” Hyrum said, “we will be reconciled to our fate.”
“I am going like a lamb to the slaughter,” Joseph Smith later stated, “but I am calm as a summer’s morning. I have a conscience void of offense towards God and towards all men.”
Martyrdom shall be addressed in a later post.
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