Light on a Candlestick, City on a Hill: How and Why The Metaphor is Misinterpreted

One of the most distressing behaviors of my church and others is to misinterpret the phrase "Ye are the light of the world."

In fairness, many non-religious institutions do the same. 

In context--and context does matter--the phrase "ye are the light of the world" in Matthew 5 occurs within the Sermon on the Mount and follows the Beatitudes. That is, Jesus has just praised the meek and poor in spirit; the merciful and pure in heart; those eager for righteousness; those who are worried or mournful or unsure; those who are persecuted; those who are peace-longing. He goes on to use deliberate hyperbole to commend the same listeners to not settle for legalistic arguments in their beliefs but rather to live by beliefs wholeheartedly: to treat partners with respect; to not run around boasting about one's religious adherence; to forgive enemies; to love enemies; to give away goods. 

The following lines come between the above described passages:

13 Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.

14 Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid.

15 Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.

16 Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.

Note that the first analogy is not "light" but salt, a substance that is nearly indistinguishable from sugar despite the immense difference in result (if you have ever made that mistake, you know what I mean). Very little salt is needed to change the constitution of a dish. 

Note, also, that "ye are the light of the world" is not a command. Listeners are not being told to show themselves off on a hill (candlestick). Within the chapter and alongside many of Jesus's other parables and sayings, such a command would be patently ridiculous. In fact, grandstanding is specifically condemned within the gospels and Paul's letters. (The analogy of salt also doesn't contain a command, only a warning.)

Jesus is discussing a result. Just as candles aren't placed under beds, then the outcome of belief--how a person behaves or tries to behave--will be noticed. Just as salt can make a difference, so can acceptance of Christ's words in one's life make a difference, including accepting what the Beatitudes imply about what truly matters: what behavior should be honored, emulated, and given respect. 

Again and again, the New Testament makes the following arguments (see more extensive list below):

1. Jesus is the light.

2. Blessings come from God through Jesus Christ and Christ's example.

3. Behaving in the name of Christ is an action among people.

4. Saying, "This is in Christ's name" is not the same as an act being something Christ would sanction. 

Now, people have disagreed, in good faith, about the nuts and bolts of the above list, including the connection between works and grace. They disagree about priesthoods and rituals. They disagree about hierarchies and church managements. They disagree about the nature of God and the afterlife. 

My point here is that taken in context (rather than removed out of context as a kind of ha-ha texting "slam"), the light Christians shine/hold up/hold onto and Christ's example/teachings are expected to correspond, as much as ordinary, fallible, constantly trying and trying again humans can get them to correspond.

Arguing a "religious right" to do whatever one wishes because one claims the name of Christ and making that argument without humility (for standing laws) or empathy (for honest disagreement) or pureness of heart (by using sneaky methods) or good taste (okay, that one is subjective but I personally stand by it) is not a Christian act. 

It's prideful. 

This behavior is unfortunately quite common in our culture and not just in religions and on social media: that is, people see an outcome (being a light, getting a good job, getting the candidate they want, achieving a particular life goal), an end that may be defensibly good. So they move the result/outcome to the beginning of the process. Instead of "I will try to live better, work hard, get an education, vote, sacrifice to achieve what I hope will happen..."), the process becomes "I will make this happen today, right now, instantly and if it doesn't, the system has to change until I get what I want."

Again--there may be valid reasons to change a system. But "I didn't take the time--I don't have to--because what I want is already justified by my label" is not one of those reasons. 

Who is employing a label doesn't matter either. Right. Left. Religious. Non-religious. Whatever group. Doesn't matter. A label does not ensure anything by itself for anyone. 

The Calvinist-trained New Englanders who read The Book of Mormon would have recognized the difference between behavior as a reflection of grace/belief/actions/taking-the-time and behavior as a kind of instant gratification performance (they argued about the difference, which is how I know they would have recognized it). In sum, The Book of Mormon backs the position that beliefs and grace show themselves through character:

If it be called in my name, then it is my church if it so be that [they = the church as a group of people is] built upon my gospel. Verily, I say unto you that ye are built upon my gospel; therefore, ye shall call whatsoever things ye do call in my name; therefore, if ye call upon the Father [on behalf of] the church, if it be in my name, the Father will hear you. And if it so be that the church is built upon my gospel, then will the Father show forth his own works in it.

But if it be not built upon my gospel and is built upon the works of men or upon the works of the devil, verily I say unto you they have joy in their works for a season and by and by, the end cometh, and they are hewn down and cast into the fire from whence there is no return. For their works do follow them. (3 Nephi 27:8-12, my emphasis)

An earlier chapter and verse in 3 Nephi further clarifies what it means to shine a light. It isn't about buildings--buildings are tools to an end; not the end themselves:

Therefore, hold up your light that it may shine unto the world. Behold I am the light which ye shall hold up—that which ye have seen me do. (3 Nephi 18:24, my emphasis)

I was worried several years ago that the adoption of the name of Christ within my church's URL would be a problem. At the local micro level, it isn't. People try on a day-to-day basis to do what is right in their personal lives and with each other. I'm not entirely sure how much the theology (which I do believe in) has changed (from when I determined I believed in it). But the behavior is much the same. People are mostly trying to be good/better, including me.

And, to be entirely fair, many projects at the macro level, such as medical missions, continue to move forward as departments simply get on with things. 

But "using" Christ in some macro matters has become disturbing and unacceptable. 

It starts by mistaking ends for means. 

What the scriptures state about Jesus Christ and light:

1. Jesus Christ is the light. 

I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life. (John 8:12)

As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world. (John 9:5)

[A] light for revelation to the Gentiles (Simeon's blessing, Luke 2:32) 

The Lamb is [the city's] light. (Revelation 21:23)

Behold, [Christ] is the life and the light of the world. Behold, he is the word of truth and righteousness. (Alma 38:9)

I am the light and the life of the world. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. (3 Nephi 9:18)

2. Blessings come from God through Christ and Christ's example. 

For it is God who commanded light to shine out of darkness, who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. (2 Corinthians 4:6)

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning. (James 1:17)

But behold, I say unto you that ye must pray always, and not faint; that ye must not perform any thing unto the Lord save in the first place ye shall pray unto the Father in the name of Christ, that he will consecrate thy performance unto thee, that thy performance may be for the welfare of thy soul. (2 Nephi 32:2)

[T]he light which did light up his mind, which was the light of the glory of God, which was a marvelous light of his goodness -- yea, this light had infused such joy into his soul, the cloud of darkness having been dispelled, and that the light of everlasting life was lit up in his soul, yea, he knew that this had overcome his natural frame, and he was carried away in God -- (Alma 19:6)

Behold I am the light; I have set an example for you. (3 Nephi 18:16)

3. Behaving in the name of Christ is an action by an individual amongst other individuals.

And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me. (Matthew 8:5)

For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them. (Matthew 18:20, in which the context is forgiving others; again, a single scripture appears to justify dismissing people from that gathering; the context, however, maintains that unending forgiveness should be the norm.)

To the church of God which is at Corinth, to those who are sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be saints, with all who in every place call on the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, both theirs and ours. (1 Corinthians 1:2, my emphasis)

For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light. (Ephesians 5:8)

But behold, I say unto you that ye must pray always, and not faint; that ye must not perform any thing unto the Lord save in the first place ye shall pray unto the Father in the name of Christ, that he will consecrate thy performance unto thee, that thy performance may be for the welfare of thy soul. (2 Nephi 32:9)

Too many scriptures in Acts to list here.

Basically, Ammon and Alma/Amulek in The Book of Mormon.

4. Saying, "This is in Christ's name" is not the same as an act being something Christ would sanction. (I'm not a huge fan of "watch out--wrath is coming" verses, and I think the loving, positive verses within scriptures far outweigh the warnings, but such scriptures do need to be taken into consideration since they are part of the context.) 

For many will come in my name, saying, ‘I am the Christ,’ and will deceive many. (Matthew 24:5)

Nevertheless the solid foundation of God stands, having this seal: “The Lord knows those who are His” (2 Timothy 2:19)

You will know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes from thornbushes or figs from thistles? Therefore by their fruits you will know them. (Matthew 7:16, 20)

But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If, therefore, the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness! (3 Nephi 13:23)

For their works do follow them. (3 Nephi 27:12--the similar verse in Revelations is about good deeds following the righteous. Here, the verse is used to paint a darker image, rather like a rabid dog following the worldly-minded. Current-day New Englanders may picture Cujo.) 

Thoughts on The Book of Mormon from a Nineteenth Century Perspective: Penitence

What else did Joseph Smith NOT include in The Book of Mormon? 

He avoided much discussion of penance.

Penance is another of those issues within Christianity that has caused much upheaval. 

Catholicism's Sacrament of Penance can be interpreted from within what is called the Governmental Theory of Atonement--Christ died for humankind, every member within a social order, but as members of that social order, not necessary as individuals. That is, Christ did not suffer for each person's sins, which statement would have been a tremendous relief to my pre-teen self. (My mother made the Governmental Theory argument when I express horror at causing Christ pain, but I think she did so from what I will call the Mythic Version of the Atonement: Aslan dies for Edmund but not in some legalistic sense. He dies to free Edmund, not to even an imaginary score, whatever others claim.) 

In the "yes, but" approach to theology, despite the Sacrament of Penance being potentially tied to the social order, the confession is an individual act. I visited a Catholic Church with a friend a few years ago and witnessed individuals cued up for the confessional. The priest could only speak to one person at a time. My friend later showed me a modern confessional, which was two chairs separated by a transparent screen in a larger office. It was more therapy-session-like even than the image.

But it was two chairs, not a group meeting. 

Protestants in nineteenth-century America were entirely opposed to the Sacrament of Penance. They argued that it involved priests forgiving sins--and only God can forgive sins. The Catholic priest does utter the words, "I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." Contrary to criticisms of antimonianism (Catholics can do whatever, once absolved!), this absolution refers only to the offering of grace. The temporal consequences remain and may extend into the next life. 

Love those 19th-century titles!

However, even the use of priests (and, of course, a pope) was anathema to early Protestants. One ex-Catholic at the time, Charles Henry Wharton, wrote that confession (alongside the claim of papal infallibility, which claim took off in the nineteenth century) was based upon "the lust of dominion and the rage for dogmatizing." 

Protestants also objected to the intimacy of the confessional. Ex-Catholic Joseph Blanco White, writing in the 1820s, sounds almost modern on the subject: "There is something in auricular confession which has revolted my feelings [from childhood]...as a protection to my life and liberty, with scorn and contempt in my heart." Another, Antonio Gavin, writing in the eighteenth century, objects to the close questioning by the religious leader. He declares that priests have been told not to be so nit-picky, yet they are "motivated in practice primarily by...curiosity."

And still more Protestants and ex-Catholics published lots and lots of (largely false, though not entirely) "news" about Catholic priests taking advantage of the confessional to get women pregnant. The truth of most of these stories is debatable but the underlying reality remains: the confession was personal and intimate. Even today, according to Wikipedia, "Phone absolutions are considered invalid."

In terms of doctrine, while rejecting the Sacrament of Penance, early Protestants in America were conflicted. The problem of "okay, that person said sorry and asked for forgiveness--but how do we KNOW!?" couldn't be shaken. There is something (not altogether tasteful) within the human spirit that insists that "good" people can't just say they are good. The social order has to accept them as good. 

After all, Protestants in New England had thrown out the easiest way to KNOW: actions. They had a reason to throw out that easiest way--actions so often turn into performances and indulgences, markers of goodness rather than actual goodness--but the Calvinists didn't make their lives any easier by wanting some other type of proof. In her book on Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Ann J. Lane comes closest to explaining this "proof" as any writer I've encountered so far:

Only those few who underwent an experience of "conversion" might be among the elect and thus permitted to enter heaven...[conversion was] an experience of affirming the Calvinist religion...[which] probable membership [in the church already demonstrated]. 

I cannot speak for current-day Calvinism, but this "true" conversion was a factor in early American Calvinism and with the arrival of the Enlightenment, came down to specific moment, a recognized instant epiphany/change followed by an authentic public confession (how to recognize the confession's authenticity was a matter of some debate). There was a great deal of worry over children of parents who were born into the faith but who hadn't "truly" converted. Should the children be accepted or not?

Note the passive voice. Still--

The language "truly penitent," which appears in The Book of Mormon four times, would have been familiar to nineteenth-century readers. The idea of public confession (common also in Calvinism) also appears in The Book of Mormon (for those who enjoy connections to the Salem Witch Trials, one of the girls who made accusations made a public confession/apology as an adult). As with Calvinism, confession and baptism is the standard for admittance into membership. Forgiveness is reserved to an act between the sinner and God.

But what about about that proof? 

The Sermon on the Mount in The Book of Mormon emphasizes that neither the confession as a sacrament nor the exact type of conversion is the criterion for final judgment. We are drawn to what we want and create: “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also” (3 Nephi 13: 21).

Later scriptures in 3 Nephi continue to emphasize the same idea. Regarding a passage that has been taken radically out of context, the church of Christ is defined as follows:

If it be called in my name, then it is my church if it so be that [the church as a group of people is] built upon my gospel. Verily, I say unto you that ye are built upon my gospel; therefore, ye shall call whatsoever things ye do call in my name; therefore, if ye call upon the Father [on behalf of] the church, if it be in my name, the Father will hear you. And if it so be that the church is built upon my gospel, then will the Father show forth his own works in it. 

But if it be not built upon my gospel and is built upon the works of men or upon the works of the devil, verily I say unto you, they have joy in their works for a season and by and by, the end cometh, and they are hewn down and cast into the fire from whence there is no return. For their works do follow them. (3 Nephi 27:8-12, my emphasis)

In the end, the argument in The Book of Mormon is quite similar to Paul's argument in Corinthians (along with the notable second emphasized line from Revelations)--that whatever is built in the name of Christ will eventually burn away, leaving only the foundation of Christ. Paul is more accepting of human variation. But the conclusion between Joseph Smith and Paul is the same. 

Ultimately, people are not "saved" by proof. They are saved due to "their faith, and their repentance of all of their sins, and their faithfulness unto the end” (3 Nephi 27:19).

Thoughts on The Book of Mormon from a Nineteenth Century Perspective: The Atonement Complicated and Uncomplicated

Jesus Christ descends to the Americas in 3 Nephi. The New World is tied to the Old. 

Linking Europe and the Americas to Jerusalem and the Mediterranean world was part of Millennialism, which movement I will address when I reach the Book of Ether. 

For now, 3 Nephi is notable not only for a restatement of the Sermon of the Mount but for what it doesn't include.

In the early nineteenth century, Reverend Alexander Campbell stated about Joseph Smith:

"He decides all the great controversies--infant baptism, ordination, the trinity, regeneration, repentance, justification, the fall of man, the atonement, transubstantiation, fasting, penance, church government, religious experience, the call to the ministry, the general resurrection, eternal punishment, who may baptize, and even the question of free masonry, republican government, and the rights of man." (in Harrison 184)

The passage is correct (though it lacks the caustic bite that surely must have entered the reverend's voice when discussing Joseph Smith; the passage's context is a complaint). However, what I find most impressive is when Joseph Smith goes "off-script." 

For instance, Joseph Smith lays out a logical, step-by-step argument against infant baptism which argument is not out of sync with other theologies of the time.

Regarding the Atonement, however, his writings and The Book of Mormon evince a remarkable (and blessed) lack of worry about how exactly it occurs (there is little obsession with counting drops of blood). 

I haven't finished--but Page's

points about Gnosticism are spot-on.

A great many of the theologies running through America's beginnings (and earlier) come down to the nature of God, how exactly God operates. When people started blaming the Enlightenment for things, they usually focused on the movement's secular attitudes. But utterly unnecessary and daft religious ideas like Creationism also arose from the Enlightenment. The need to bring God down to a human level and explain His works/deeds as if they belong in some type of self-help book have resulted in astonishing levels of cognitive dissonance. 

The impulse goes back further than the Enlightenment, of course. Check out Gnosticism, which was not as feminist, edgy, or "enlightened" as some modern theologians want to claim. Once the premise "God couldn't possibly like physical matter!" is accepted, the conclusions to that premise get stranger and stranger and stranger. 

 

But I am straying into the issue of who or what God is, an issue I will address in a different post. 

 

The Atonement specifically focuses on the problem of why God would create sin or encourage sin or make sin possible.

 

If sin is a given, then once He forgives, why would any propitiation (even being sorry) be necessary, especially if He already knows who is saved? And, anyway, why would the elect even be able to sin? They might have tendencies towards sin (though some Calvinists debated this possibility), but they do not have the nature to sin because God would never do that to one of his elect. 

 

Congregationalists spent an unreal amount of time trying to figure out the problem of the above bolded statement (and arguing with each other about it)--that is, was sin something a person did or something a person thought or something a person might do but didn't or something that a person didn't do because that person was one of the elect? And if the person was one of the elect, was that person's behavior not sin because that person was already granted grace? Or because that person was created not to be that way? Was sin the product of choice or the product of inclination/nature and if the latter, where did that inclination come from?

 

It seems to be a nature-nurture debate, which I get. From a religious angle, however, I don't get it. I have tried (I'm still trying to parse Jonathan Edwards). But I don't understand how decent people can get up in the morning and think, "The problem isn't me correcting my faults or trying not to be a jerk today. The problem is what other people are going around thinking about their fault-ridden selves." 

 

In sum, I don't understand the compulsion to "fix" other people. I don't mean "other" people who are doing actively destructive things--like holding up banks--but "other" people whom a story about God or Utopia or Good has identified as failing. 

 

I understand the desire to spread "good news." I understand the desire to state what is going on in the world. And I understand the desire to comment on what is going on in the world. And I'm writing as someone who is literally paid to tell other people how to write better. But I still don't understand the (social media) desire to move from belief or concepts to slamming people's characters, from "here's my position/here's the craft/here's possible ways to transform yourself or your work(s)" to determining that the existence of a trait or idea in another must be eradicated. I understand the desire to help people be better; I don't understand the desire to "help" a person by turning that person into someone else or making them out to be someone else.

 

Back to the Congregationalists (who greatly impacted American theologies in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including the impact of arguing against Congregationalism) and their desire to "fix" sinful others: 

 

In fact, some Congregationalists argued against that desire. Accepting the providence of God meant full acceptance, including the inability to change anyone for the better. However, as the First Great Awakening approached and missionary work increased among Protestants generally, the attitudes of more proactive (extroverted) leaders took hold. Some of them softened Calvinist doctrines and adopted more Methodist ideas (Congregationalism was conflicted from the beginning by American versus Old World ideals). Some of them honestly saw missionary work as an extension of service--to educate and heal and support abolition because they were called by God. 

 

But some of the die-hards on the topic of election clung to the idea that people needed to be told stuff even if what they were being told was that some of them were doomed. They argued over ideas presented earlier in this post: how exactly God could ever let his elect be exposed to sin or the desire to sin or the possible damnation of personal sin or the expectation that anyone could get over sin. If Grace is working, then why is this happening to us?...seems to be the mantra.

 

Either these Congregationalists had a mind-blowingly extreme view of what constitutes sin or they believed they were damned anyway. Or they compartmentalized their lives, so theology existed separately from day-to-day actions. Or (since some of them were paid to deliver sermons) they were discussing the problem of evil in a way that other people found comprehensible/comforting, despite how odd/discomforting we moderns find it. 

Joseph Smith skips all of it. He was fundamentally an active, physical guy. Any theory that somehow dismisses sin *or* regulates it to a metaphysical discourse wouldn't have made much sense to him. He seems to have spent little time worrying about the Ransom theory of the Atonement versus the Governmental theory versus the Christus Victor theory (which last I tend towards myself and Joseph Smith seems to have utilized: the primary purpose of the Atonement is that Christ conquered--was victorious--over death, which implies a need to be victorious over sin). For Joseph Smith, the Atonement happened in order to allow us to do stuff, to move towards something, to be saved (as George MacDonald would state) not in our sins but from our sins, FOR something. (See Helaman 5:11.)

 

But, as referenced in earlier posts, to maintain this perspective, it helps to reject original sin while also proposing that the purpose of life IS for us to mess up.

 

That is, God wants us to experience risk. Knowing that us + risk would result in us doing very dumb things, he provided an Atonement, which makes it possible for us to keep exploring and risking and trying and experimenting rather than turning into, say, Gollum, going round and round and round without stop (hollowness). Grace while we do stuff, not grace + what we do.

 

Joseph Smith was not, ultimately, a man to shy from risk. He was also not a man who thought that constantly calculating the cost of sin was terribly useful. His primary response to messing up/sin was harrowing but it was the harrowing of a man who feels that he has disappointed/let-down a loving God, not that of a man who believes he is too low or "other" to be contemplated. 

 

He and Saint Paul (and George MacDonald) would agree. 

Notes on The Book of Mormon from a Nineteenth Century Perspective: Manichaeism in America, III

 The Book of Mormon and Satan

A Nephi solves a murder mystery!

Satan/devil is referred to throughout The Book of Mormon but usually as a lone element rather than a being with a court. Demons/devils are referred to approximately 10 times; Satan/devil approximately 100. 

A consistent thread runs through the references. Satan/devil has the ability to tempt, to “lead away,” “to captivate,” “to grasp.”

Agency, however, is continually placed back on the table; the individual may “yield” to Satan and “forget” God. Likewise, in Joseph Smith’s translation of the Old Testament, Pharaoh, not God, hardens his own heart.

The Book of Mormon is tackling an issue that showed up in the Salem Witch Trials. As I mention elsewhere, one reason that the Salem Witch Trials became such a seminal event is precisely because it was a kind of crossroads. Both older courts and more modern ones would have handled the matter better. But the times created a kind of vacuum. Are demons real? If they are real, how do we know? Who are actually the afflicted? The girls? Or the people they accuse? How do we know the accused aren’t suffering because of their righteousness?

An older court may have wondered who was actually possessed and spent more time listening to neighbors’ testimony. A more modern court would have ignored the spectral evidence entirely. Unfortunately, a confluence of events—some political, some personal—came together to create a storm of irrationality by anyone’s standards, including the standards of people of the day.

The nineteenth century was still grappling with many of the above questions. Joseph Smith, for one, accepts the idea of demons without giving up on human agency. That approach dovetails with the solution to grace and works that pervades The Book of Mormon, coming into focus in Helaman. We are the creators of our destinies—we bring our stories upon ourselves:

“[People] may be restored grace for grace, according to their works. I would that all...might be saved” (12: 24-25).

Supernatural forces are not dismissed. But in the tension between “bad stuff is due to outside forces” and “bad stuff is due to inside forces,” the inside forces are given more weight. So Samuel the Lamanite’s prophecying combines:

 “Behold, we are surrounded by demons, yea, we are encircled about by the angels of him who hath sought to destroy our souls” (13:37)

-with-

“And now remember, remember, my brethren, that whosoever perisheth, perisheth unto himself; and whosoever doeth iniquity, doeth it unto himself; for behold, ye are free; ye are permitted to act for yourselves; for behold, God hath given unto you a knowledge and he hath made you free” (14:30)

In the end, Joseph Smith appears to have found the world of supernatural evil rather dull--the opposite of founding cities and building temples and restoring/creating ceremonies and binding together families and imagining/revealing eternal glorious futures. 

He wouldn't have been offended by the teen leader who wanted to tell stories about possession and exorcism. 

He would have wanted to talk about something bigger and more interesting instead.
 

Notes on The Book of Mormon from a Nineteenth Century Perspective: Manichaeism in America, II

Why beliefs in negative spirits/demons/witches?

In part, panic will push people to look for explanations everywhere. I’m reminded of a scene from All Creatures Great and Small (1978) where James Herriot is furious with a local older farmer for pushing folk remedies on the young farmer that Herriot is trying to help. Herriot’s fury is fueled by his frustration, namely (prior to World War II and antibiotics) the fact that he can't offer anything much better.

In part, beliefs in a cosmically evil world persisted because Protestantism removed Saints (an entire pantheon of beings between humans and God) from theology, creating a void. Protestantism filled that void with demons. It then attempted to eradicate its solution with a focus on grace, the concept of instant sanctification, and a reasonable God. Those solutions, however, created their own problems: 

Beliefs in cosmic evil didn’t linger so much as get renewed during the late eighteenth to nineteenth centuries with Millennialism. Astrology, magic, miracles, supernatural encounters, visions, dreams—the good and the bad of transmundane beliefs—resurged in a push back against Enlightenment thinking. The feeling was that so much orderliness was stripping humans of the full spiritual experience. Beliefs in otherworldly things are still around; hence, the Satanic daycare accusations that took off in the 1980s. And I haven’t even discussed The Exorcist! (I’m not going to.)

Consequently, in recent years, some writers have blamed the Enlightenment 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 impact 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.

On the other side (supposedly on the other side), belief in things beyond the observable senses is part of the human condition. There's a reason human beings can imagine and plan and create connections between people and events and objects. In addition, there are far too many instances of human beings taking observable evidence as the end of a conversation and being wrong for a sensible person not to accept that life is more complicated than what is immediately on the table.

Blaming the Enlightenment OR blaming religious beliefs is a waste of time. Anything can be turned into a fetishistic object of worship, including non-supernatural events and people and things. Better to accept both sides of the human experience and THEN try to come up with a decent solution. 

Next: The Book of Mormon and demons/devils...

Notes on The Book of Mormon from a Nineteenth Century Perspective: Manichaeism in America, I

The tension between “I am responsible for my sins” and “it isn’t my fault—it’s coming from outside me” never entirely goes away. It certainly didn’t in the nineteenth century.

Calvinists believed in demons. Increase Mather produced the first American (colonial) collection of folklore when he compiled Remarkable Providences, an assortment of tales from the New and Old World about paranormal happenings. The fascinating aspect of the book is that although both Mathers are often blamed for furthering beliefs in witchcraft through their publications, the tales in this particular book come across more as “Woah! Didja hear about that poltergeist who caused all kinds of problems for that family down the block?!”

Two hundred years later, Increase and his son Cotton would be hosting ghost-hunting “reveals” on television.

Jonathan Edwards, who may in fact have believed in Satan less, being a product of Enlightenment thinking, seems more prone to use demons and hellfire as a scare tactic than Increase Mather, who thoroughly believed in them.

I was reminded of an incident in my teen years. I was at a slumber party where the adult leader—who was likely in her late twenties—wanted to tell us teen girls numerous “my roommate who was possessed by an evil spirit” tales. She wasn't doing it in a jokey, storyteller way--she wasn't telling urban legends--but rather as a believer who couldn't wait to relate her adventures. 

Finally, one of the girls said sternly, “I’m not okay with this. Let’s say a prayer.” She said a prayer and the discussion ended.

So modern-day teens who sorta, kinda, maybe believe in demons perceive them more as Edwards did (terrifying threats) than as Mather did (fodder for publication). 

What I remember most was the sheer disappointment on the leader’s face. She didn’t just think she was being entertaining. She wanted to tell stories about devils and demons.

In my novel Saint of Mars, my Catholic priest Rhys remarks to his personal lurking Cubus (an invisible being):

“[People prefer a] world populated by the familiar. You know, when Puritans established the Massachusetts Bay Colony, they left behind a landscape of elves and sprites and goblins. How lonely they were, adrift without their invisible companions. It is difficult to uproot what Father Hadaka calls yokai from place. Cubi [invisible sentient beings] offer a balanced Mars.”

 “Angels as well as demons,” Lider said, and Rhys smiled.

Even if they had to leave their local elves and fairies and sprites at home, the immigrants to New England brought beliefs in such beings with them as well as beliefs in magic. The educated preachers perceived any use of magic as negative—it meant that humans were attempting to undermine the grace of God by taking for themselves what only God could offer. If He wants you to suffer, you should suffer.

But beliefs in supernatural beings--and the methods to corral or at least appease those beings--were prevalent amongst "commoners," and they lingered. Accusations of witchcraft decreased as civil lawsuits became more and more of a norm. However, such accusations and related "news" continued well into the 1800s. The belief in vampires continued to provide communal explanations for tragedy--vampires as responsible for deaths from tuberculosis, for instance--into the late nineteenth century (I would argue that the same tales and beliefs transferred, in part, to space aliens in the twentieth century).

Next: Why beliefs in demons were embraced in the nineteenth century...

Notes on The Book of Mormon from a Nineteenth Century Perspective: Conspiracies II

Not fatuous. I highly recommend!

Any discussion of Mormons and conspiracies brings up freemasonry. 

Nineteenth-century Mormons and Joseph Smith were well-aware of the inherent tension of freemasonry.

On the one hand was the desire for secret or gnostic knowledge separate from metaphysical, "educated" theoretical blatherings amongst Eastern elites. Freemasonry returned rituals to Protestantism as well as the mysticism and active participation that not only the Enlightenment but late Calvinism seemed to be wiping out. The desire for knowledge and ritual is arguably a human one. Freemasonry likely mirrors the Ancient Roman soldier's interest in Mithraism. Like the Ancient Roman soldier, many non-educated (and educated) Americans wanted something real and powerful and non-labelly yet profound--something other than country club religion (which frankly, Ancient Roman paganism rather resembled for the elite).

Freemasonry appeared to deliver. (It also filled a gap in American culture as church and state increasingly separated after the American Revolution.)

 

And yet, on the other side, was an intense dislike of secret societies, which dislike often expanded to include a dislike of elites making backroom deals at the expense of the "common" man (see prior post). In the early 1800s, the "common" man was a farmer while Masons were often merchants and professionals. Not wealthy earners from our modern point of view. But not "common" enough. (However, that image is complicated by the sheer number of social organizations, freemasonry and otherwise, within the United States at the time.)

 

The tensions here resided in Gothicism, which began in the eighteenth century, and go a long way to explaining the popularity of Dracula and Ann Radcliffe.

 

On the one hand was a yearning for the ritualistic, knightly Catholic past, including its buildings and Saints and priests.

 

On the other was a dislike of Catholic doctrine (as understood by Protestants).

 

On the one hand was a desire for supernatural romanticism, elements of the human experience that the carefully constructed arguments of Protestantism and the Enlightenment seemed to be eliminating.

 

On the other was a paranoid dislike of secrecy and stuff happening behind closed doors (see pamphlets about Maria Monk).

 

So, on the one hand, The Book of Mormon promises that more mysteries are forthcoming. On the other, it contains an ongoing worry about conspiring groups.

 

The text continually marks the difference: namely, positive communities want to expand rights while negative societies want to remove them. The problem is arguably more difficult. But the characterizations remain consistent within the text.

 

The problem, eventually, in Nauvoo, was that Joseph Smith perceived polygamy and its rational outgrowth, subsequent temple ceremonies, as positives that joined more and more members together--while others saw such things as violations of basic Christianity and therefore, negative and destructive (and secretive) influences.

 

I am reminded of a scene in That Hideous Strength in which the main character, Mark, who has always wanted to be in "the know" of a secret society doesn't even recognize when he becomes part of one with the ragged beggar man.

 

C.S. Lewis returns here to an idea that he raises in Surprised by Joy. He paints in an entirely positive light the boys' secret brotherhood at the worst private school he attended. Yet the later "in-group" mentality of intellectuals and poseurs and social climbers, he paints wholly negatively. The first group didn't set out to be a society. The boys were merely trying to survive and helped each other out ("we few, we happy few"). The second group could only exist if an "outside" group was torn down; they couldn't advance unless others were put in their place.

 

As definitions--society that joins people together through ties of fellowship is good; society that bands together to mock and find things wrong with others is bad--these are quite usable even if the events to which they are applied can be quite complex. Such definitions appear in The Book of Mormon over and over again. 

 

Regarding freemasonry and the temple, Joseph Smith borrowed from whatever was to hand--as did lots of people. Like most things, one monolithic freemasonry organization didn't exist in the United States, especially since women, Native Americans, Jews, and Blacks created their own lodges. "Borrowing"--even appropriation--is not the same as a conspiracy. 

Notes on The Book of Mormon from a Nineteenth Century Perspective: Conspiracies I

The Book of Alma is filled with secret combinations associated with kingmakers and related plots. 

Secret societies or, rather, a belief in secret societies is a constant throughout history. Speaking quite personally, they utterly bore me. They are also often quite fabulous, disconnected from actual human behavior. I side with Elementary's Sherlock here that large groups of people cannot keep secrets. (They can be incompetent, which may look like a conspiracy.)

 

However, the sheer vacuity of secret societies doesn't stop people being enthralled by them, either wanting to be part of them or wanting to believe in them. Just about anything, including recent events in 2024, can be transformed into a conspiracy. 

 

Nineteenth-century readers were quite familiar with the so-called Burr conspiracy which occurred in the century's first decade. It was reported in multiple newspapers. It was likely the most famous national event of that time.

 

In sum, Aaron Burr, after he killed Alexander Hamilton, started gathering supporters to create a country out of the Mississippi Valley. Within fifty years, the United States would be divided North versus South. But at the time, the divide was between the Atlantic states and the states/territories to the West. The perception was that the Eastern states were run by elite politicians and moneymakers who wanted to rob farmers and ordinary people of their goods and money and land, a perception that was fueled, in part, by the Whiskey Rebellion (and yes, that perception lingers).

 

Burr's rhetoric and behavior (which may have been part of a kind of Ponzi scheme) were reported--in part by people who claimed to have joined the conspiracy (see Sherlock's point above). And he was ultimately found not guilty since his behavior seems to have fallen into blustering bombastic populist egotistic self-flattery that didn't result in any actual violent military action. He did leave the United States after his trial, however.

 

It is entirely speculative whether the average citizen, for whom Burr claimed to be acting, would have favored Burr in the long run any more than any other high-handed self-appointed autocrat. The Book of Mormon, for one, pairs elitism with local kingmakers. Captain Moroni heads to the country's capital to restore the government there, an act that many nineteenth-century readers would have endorsed. (In 1814, the Burning of Washington resulted in the president being temporarily ousted from the capital.) 

 

In other words, the Federal government was perceived by many groups, including what became the Mormons, as a necessary check to what James Madison called "the spirit of locality," that is, the bullying that can occur in a pure democracy (the inevitable bullying here is why the electoral college is still a decent form of democracy). The attitude of the Federal government at that time, however, was to restrict Federal involvement, as demonstrated in Barron v. Baltimore, in which a property owner's loss of income was not (fully) redressed despite the state violating the owner's rights; the Supreme Court determined that the problem was between the owner and the state. The issue wasn't a Federal one. 

The problem of rights and the individual is a complex one and indicates that libertarianism is not automatically a state v. Federal issue, at least not historically. Utah Mormons would later have a fraught relationship with the Feds. Some of the seeds of distrust were sown in the Nauvoo years when petitions for Federal protection against state harassment were, from the view of Joseph Smith and his followers, ignored. 

 

That disillusionment was to come. Early readers of The Book of Mormon would have encountered a more optimistic solution in The Book of Mormon's Captain Moroni. And it is notable that despite the time period's Millennial fever, many low to middleclass Americans were not interested in revolutions of the messy kind (however proud they were of their own revolution) but, rather, in balanced and rational governments so they could get on with life. 

Notes on The Book of Mormon from a Nineteenth Century Perspective: Joseph of Old

The story of Joseph in Genesis is one of the most complete. It stands out since it extols Jews of the Diaspora. 

One of the most fascinating aspects of the Old Testament is how contending texts sit side by side, as if different writers were having arguments with each other. So Ezra's exhortations to not marry outside the faith are set next to stories about Rahab and Ruth.

Likewise, Jews of the Diaspora--Jews outside Israel--were fans of the story of Joseph. Joseph of Egypt, who is forced to leave his home, saves his people. 

And the story was almost immediately used for literary purposes. As Bernhard Lang notes, the story of Joseph is the Bible's Odyssey or Iliad and consequently can be interpreted in any number of ways. The desire to expand on the story has never faded. The practice was certainly popular in the nineteenth century. Joseph of Old was used as...

Instruction for children. Lessons on chastity. Political discourse, including, in America, one of the earliest pamphlets against slavery by Samuel Sewall. 

And entertainment! Even before Andrew Lloyd Webber, the story was presented through plays and poetry.

In The Book of Mormon, Joseph of Old is directly linked in 2 Nephi 3 to Joseph Smith the translator. In Alma 46, somewhat more poetically, Joseph of Old's coat is used to symbolize the remnant of Jacob's house that will survive in the New World. 

The Gathering of Israel is an ongoing theme in The Book of Mormon. It is and isn't connected to Millennialism. 

Notes on the Book of Mormon from a Nineteenth Century Perspective: Alma Continued, Part I

Alma & Paid Clergy

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 who, they claimed, were 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.

Paid clergy is also linked to issues about leadership. King Benjamin spends several verses in Mosiah 2 defending his leadership: “And even I, myself, have labored with mine own hands that I might serve you, and that ye should not be laden with taxes” (verse 14).

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.

 Alma & Korihor

Alma’s argument with Korihor would have struck a cord with nineteenth-century readers who were familiar with debates over 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 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 & Atheism

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 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 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)

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.

Alma & Gideon

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 early C.E. years before Constantine and continued through the Middle Ages. 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.

Martyrdom was used differently and similarly by Catholics and by Protestants. For Catholics, it was an indicator of sainthood (and somewhat easier to prove than miracles). To Protestants, it was an indicator of confidence in one’s elected status. For both, it was an example to others.

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.

Alma & Helaman

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).

Washington and other Revolutionary leaders were famous when they were alive. In the early 1800s, a few were still living. Jefferson and Adams died on the same day in 1826. Washington had died several years earlier in 1799. Folktales immediately sprang up around him. Weems invented his story of Washington and the Cherry Tree for his book published in 1800 (it was dismissed as ahistorical almost immediately). Washington’s birthday was proposed as a holiday in 1832. Emanuel Leutz’s famous portrait of Washington Crossing the Delaware was painted in 1851. The March to Valley Forge was painted in 1883. The Prayer at Valley Forge by Arnold Friberg in the nineteenth-century tradition was painted in 1975.

Captain Moroni, as portrayed by Friberg (see above), is tough, handsome, big, muscular. I knew plenty of teenage girls at church when I was growing up who swooned over him (the seminary film from around that same time period took the devastatingly gorgeous route). Hey, they could have had worse love interests! Though they seemed to ignore the part of Moroni's narrative where he was never home because he was fighting and yelling at people so much (justifiably yelling, but still…)

The point, as raised above, 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.