Introduction
I
am increasingly troubled by how little people seem to know--or
care--about history and context. Our current social climate encourages
partakers of social media to develop stories about other people and
about the past without questioning those stories or (even, sometimes)
collecting information. Checks against such imposed narratives--"Is that
really within your purview?" "Do you have enough information?"
"Shouldn't you find out more first?"--are often bypassed to deliver
(supposedly caring, well-intentioned, emotionally justified) verdicts,
including labels, which verdicts often go back to what I call "first
cause," a modern-day version of original sin:
Everything has gone wrong due to an inherent flaw in a person, plan, or social order.
Though
medieval in origin, original sin didn't become a deal breaker (first
cause) until the nineteenth century--the Immaculate Conception became
dogma in 1854--when it was possibly brought forward not only by debates
between churches but by a growing interest in psychoanalysis and
scientific endeavors.
Which just proves that the nineteenth century
was a very interesting time! And deserves more attention. Which brings
me to The Book of Mormon.
Due to the spiraling focus on
meaning-shorn-of-context, The Book of Mormon steadily seems subjected to
a kind of self-help manual approach. This approach works for some
people, and, in fairness, for much of history was a recognized approach
by believers and doubters as they used the scriptures to talk about
other stuff, including themselves.The approach lends itself to fresh and
thought-provoking dialog. It also, unfortunately, lends itself to
"since everything is relative and nobody can really know anything, you
should believe about this passage what the 'expert' or 'proper'
leader/authority/scholar tells you to believe."
That approach
doesn't work for me. I far prefer context because I admire people of
the past and believe they deserve to be understood as more than
participants in an ideology or springboards to the reader's ego.
The
context for The Book of Mormon, of course, is difficult and
controversial. These posts will not address the issue of The Book of
Mormon's translation. I have no investment in that argument in any
direction. The primary question behind each entry is, rather, What
religious climate existed at the publication of The Book of Mormon that
made it such a fascinating and satisfying book to its readers?
1 Nephi 1-3: Scripture Reading
Like Lehi, Joseph Smith, Sr. was perceived
by his family as prophetic man, before his youngest son took on that
role. Whatever his role with The Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith would have
been invested in Lehi and Nephi's story. The issue of obedience is
raised since Nephi--like Joseph Smith--is rebelling against traditional lines of authority.
He is not only stepping outside the family hierarchy but outside
acceptable social hierarchies. Consequently, he takes pains to
distinguish social rebellion from spiritual rebellion. He may commit the
first by necessity—he never, he claims, commits the second. (Joseph
Smith, of course, committed both, but his family, at least, mostly
didn't mind.)
The struggle with wealth versus inspiration
over the brass plates would also 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 "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 many cases,
nineteenth-century religious communities were clearly searching for a
compromise, an interpretation that could resolve difficult theological
queries. Unfortunately, the issue of Bible meaning was and is often
presented within 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 (there is that word again).
An attempt to present the scriptures as being more than merely figurative or proscriptive and within a context is refreshing.
1 Nephi 4-6: The Wilderness
Nineteenth-century
readers would have reacted positively to the idea of wilderness as
freedom. This perspective is often applied only to white settlers in
North America--and Manifest Destiny, articulated in 1845, was used to
justify the practice of white settlers steadily moving west. However,
lots and lots of people—including escaped ex-slaves—also moved west.
Irish immigrants, Blacks, and displaced Native Americans occupied the
fringes of society.
It helps to realize that those
“fringes”--what was labeled “the West”--kept moving. At one point in the
1800s, “the West” was western New York and Ohio. It then became the
Mississippi River and then what we now refer to as the Mid-West.
(California became a self-described utopia and sophisticated “other”
coast fairly early on—though it was also perceived as part of “the
West.”)
The
Gold Rush, naturally, contributed to the idea that going to the West
equaled a new start, but that metaphor impacted American pioneering
early on. It links back to the Puritan idea of “exodus” from a corrupt
society. Methodist preachers, circuit riders, were immensely popular in
the nineteenth century while their stable, elite, (well) paid,
stationary counterparts on the east coast were perceived as missing the
plot.
Consequently, nineteenth-century readers would have reacted
positively to Lehi’s decision to move his family away from perceived
urban corruption into a potentially dangerous wilderness. And the thread
of violence that inhabits these chapters would have made more sense to
nineteenth-century readers than it often does to modern readers. The
“Wild” West was truly “Wild” in some cases and the attitude “better left
alone so take care of themselves” from many governments, including the
Federal government (pre-Civil War), was prevalent.
Although
indigenous people and trackers and traders saw the wilderness as an
approachable and useful setting, the underlying mindset for newcomers
was:
One goes into the Wilderness and dies heroically (or becomes a hermit--see Saint Anthony--and dies sacrifically) or one goes into the Wilderness and fights off all contenders.
The
tensions here between freedom and organized leadership, pacifism and
violence continue through The Book of Mormon. Nineteenth-century readers
could relate.
1 Nephi 7-11: The Tree of Life
Lehi’s vision of the Tree of Life followed by Nephi’s personal vision of same.
More than anything else, these chapters would have connected to the
intense individualism of American thought in the nineteenth century.
This is the era of de Tocqueville, who arrived in the United
States and observed separation of church and state in action. “Good
golly,” he exclaimed (I am summarizing), “when religion is not imposed
by the state, people are, what do you know, more religious!”
The American Revolutionary was also a lingering narrative of intense
individualism—rebellion against (or exodus from) the corruptness of the Old World. Even Puritan thought, which now strikes
modern people as rather dictatorial, was about individual salvation, a single person coming to understand God’s grace through lifelong, intense personal analysis.
It is difficult to entirely capture—we
are
products of the early C.E. era, after all—the break here from communal
sin and suffering that encapsulates social orders in antiquity. That
urge remains, of course, what with Witch Trials and their modern
equivalents:
one bad apple rots the entire barrel! Twitter appears to be the ultimate expression of badgering everyone everywhere into some kind of compliant order.
But even Twitter is the product of individual offerings.
Individualism existed in antiquity and forms the basis of most
narratives, but the social order—and therefore the social role—of
populations was entirely presupposed. Kings were not scribes. Scribes
were not peasants. Peasants weren’t anybody. If the king is saved, you
are all saved. Might as well get on-board.
The Common Era concept of the individual as agent, who works
out an individual salvation, is something that nineteenth-century
readers would have entirely comprehended and embraced and that modern
folks rather take for granted, even when they criticize the ideology.
Lehi’s
Tree of Life rests on the premise of the individual agent. Although the
“strait and narrow” path connotatively gives rise to images of
intolerance and exclusivity, in Lehi’s dream it is a path that each
person must walk alone, even if there are others ahead and behind: each
of Lehi’s children and even his wife are referenced separately. The path
is a person’s integrity or personal path in life—choice of profession,
artistic endeavor, prophetic calling (see Joseph Smith)—whatever
self-definition a person embraces and endures and sacrifices for.
The
“great and spacious building”—on the other hand—is the ultimate
collective. People get there individually but they stay in the “safe”
Borg-like “in-group” that mocks individuals and scorns the difficult
pathway that each individual treads.
Consequently, the “great and spacious building” houses detractors,
sneerers, people who love labels, mockers, revilers, obnoxious
cliques—those who prefer to watch others drown rather than make a life
for themselves. (All members of the great and spacious building point in
the same direction, as a mob would.)
There are other possible interpretations, of course, including the
search for a single path to God’s grace, a search that was also dear to
the Smith family. Although communal living was all the rage,
nineteenth-century readers still would have perceived such a search in
individual terms, one that this group, this community carries out for the sake of each
member. (Despite the Donner party haunting American mythology, most
successful pioneers moved west within specific groups—religious groups,
town groups, family groups.)
And few nineteenth-century readers would have balked at the fruit of
the tree being happiness, love, and joy (as opposed to discipline,
humiliation, and subjugation). Gotta love those Americans and their
life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness mindsets! (Even the Puritans perceived the happiness and beauty of nature as the key to comprehending God’s grace.)
1 Nephi 12-13: Catholicism
When
I was growing up, there were still church members who saw the Catholic
Church as the “Great and Abominable Church” (I grew up in upstate New
York, so our congregation included ex-Catholics).
That is a far less palatable idea now, of course, and I got tired of
it early on. Although some members liked to blame the Great Apostasy on
the Council of Nicaea, it was obvious from reading the scriptures and
history that (1) any apostasy within the early church occurred within that early church well before the end of the first century C.E. (See all of Paul's letters.)
(2)
The Council of Nicaea actually preserved the most orthodox and
non-crazy ideas, which later became springboards for Protestantism (in
fact, Protestantism was around long before Martin Luther made it
popular).
What would nineteenth-century folks have thought about the phrase?
Well, actually, they would have associated the “Great and Abominable
Church” with Catholicism. And the narrative of Chapter 13 lends itself
to that interpretation (though not entirely).
Although the Reformation was nearly 300 years old at this point, it
was still fresh in the American mind. Puritans left England due to
persecution from the remnants of Catholicism, Anglicanism in the form of the Church of England. Europe was still a
bastion, in the American mind, to Catholic influences. Truly radical
Protestantism, went the thinking, couldn’t take root until the supposed
stain of Catholicism was wiped away. This attitude lingered well into
the twentieth century.
In
fact, New Englanders got extremely nervous when Catholics, including
the Catholic Irish, began to settle in Boston. Joseph Smith and his
family left New England before the furor really ramped up but there is
overlap.
The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk,
a fictitious tale of scandal in a Catholic nunnery (rape, dead babies,
secrets, catacombs) came out in 1836 (and was presented as non-fiction).
It is to Joseph Smith’s credit that he didn’t get caught up in going
after Catholics specifically, which a number of pundits and muckrakers
of the time did (see Awful Disclosures above). It’s unlikely that
he knew any Catholics anyway. But the man also thought in analogical
terms. Like Paul with paganism, Joseph Smith’s overall writing is more
focused on underlying causes of pride, such as fancy education and
wealth and close-mindedness re: the Congregationalists that he grew up
around, than specific doctrines or history.
1 Nephi 14-22: Grace & Works
The
Book of Nephi begins a struggle over hell and grace and punishment that
continues throughout The Book of Mormon. It was an ongoing struggle in
the nineteenth century as well as today! That struggle is arguably part
of the human condition.
Nineteenth-century readers would have had personal contact with this
struggle, being familiar with Arminianism—God’s grace is universal—and
Calvinism—pre-ordination of salvation. In America, the struggle came
down to Methodism versus what had become by that time Congregationalism
(the latter term now has a broader use).
On
the one hand, hell as punishment is a given. However, in Nephi’s
interpretation of Lehi’s dream, the quality or character of hell is
defined: “And I said unto them that the water which my father saw was
filthiness; and so much was his mind swallowed up in other things that
he beheld not the filthiness of the water” (1 Nephi 15:27, my emphasis).
Although
the passage about hell may seem rather harsh—and a bit skimpy on the
grace side—nineteenth-century readers would have seen it as bolstering
the idea of universal grace: hell is not the place where people
who didn’t complete all the correct rituals or joined the right
congregation go (it isn’t group-identity hell). It isn’t a place where
people go whether or not they worked hard not to go there. It is the
place where individual “filthy” people go.
Religious designation is not a qualifier. Neither is race. Neither is birthright. This perspective would have been perceived in the nineteenth century as provocative. (Readers are being prepared for a complete rejection of infant baptism.)
2 Nephi 1: The Promised Land
2
Nephi 1 raises the idea that people will thrive in the promised
land—the Americas—if they keep the commandments; they will perish if
they sin.
It is a difficult idea, in part because it has, to an enormous
degree, been disproved by historians. The fall of Ancient Rome, for
instance, was classically blamed on the sinful decadence of the later
emperors (see Gibbon). A monk in England’s Early Medieval Age, Gildas,
likewise blamed the conquest of England by Anglo-Saxons on the sins of
the residents left behind when Rome withdrew its military protection.
But Rome actually survived (as in, continued to last longer than the United States has currently been around)
appalling behavior by appalling emperors who were degeneracy
personified. There were many more factors involved in Rome’s decline,
including plague and, oh yes, “barbarians.” (It’s not as if Asterix et
al. changed their minds about self-governance one morning because “Oh, now,
the Romans are behaving righteously.”) And Rome is arguably still
limping on today. The Anglo-Saxons did not in fact invade. They more
likely arrived in England slowly over time as settlers. And since the
Anglo-Saxons had pretty much all converted to Christianity by the tenth
century, it is hard to see (now) what Gildas was complaining about.
On the other hand, unrighteous behavior makes it harder for a group to cohere—trust—build a coalition (see C.S. Lewis’s hell in
The Great Divorce, in
which residents move further and further apart), making it harder for
that group to come together to stave off invaders. Likewise, in a
merit-based culture, the argument “sin=bad results” makes some sense.
People
earn their positions in life.
But a merit-based culture focuses on the individual as opposed to the
group: what the individual has stupidly done—like drugs or
embezzlement—can explain where that individual ended up. So sure, bad
things happen to bad people. But bad things also happen to good people. And good people do dumb things. And good things happen to bad people.
And…I could keep going.
From a nineteenth-century perspective, 2 Nephi 1 is an explanation
rather than a condemnation (though the premise of the explanation can
lead to circular, begging the question illogical condemnation). The Native
Americans were obviously struggling as they were increasingly pushed to
the margins of the American landscape. Why? A common explanation in
Protestant America for anybody’s struggle/demise, which still exists in
religious and non-religious discourse today:
Somebody must have sinned in the past!
The more interesting point, to me, is that this
explanation/perspective is almost instantly qualified—and will continue
to be qualified—in The Book of Mormon: “for if iniquity shall abound,
cursed shall be the land for their sakes, but unto the righteous, it shall be blessed forever” (2 Nephi 2:7, my emphasis).
The central idea here—people are drawn to what they themselves
create and desire and pursue—will come up again and again and again.
This point of view is blessedly uncommitted to the idea that God uses
nastiness to further His aims. People make out of the world their own
heavens and hells.
The implications of the argument, I would argue, were not lost on the translator.
2 Nephi 2: Grace & Works Again
As
mentioned earlier, The Book of Mormon continually tackles the problem
of hell, grace, works, and damnation. More on grace & works will
follow. However, 2 Nephi 2 deserves to be mentioned upfront.
In 2
Nephi 2, an answer to the grace-works problem is proposed with
startling clarity. From a nineteenth-century perspective, it would have
been both familiar (innocence and rebirth were common tropes in American
discourse) and highly unusual:
- "Salvation is free" (2 Nephi 2:4).
- Agency is defined as "to act for themselves and not to be acted upon" (2 Nephi 2:26)—the purpose of the Atonement to preserve agency is introduced.
- "Adam fell that men might be, and men are that they might have joy" (2 Nephi 2:25).
In the 1800s, the last line was a direct contradiction of the classic
view of Eden and Adam’s fall as linked to original sin. With the Book of Moses,
Joseph Smith would directly tackle the Garden of Eden and entirely
remake its purpose and consequence. The fundamental change here is one
of the doctrines that will make Mormonism a “restorationist” religion rather than a religion in the classical Christian tradition.
2 Nephi and Jacob: Grace & Works Background
2 Nephi and Jacob delve into grace and works.
Two problems underscore much religious discourse. Nineteenth-century Christians in America grappled with them directly:
- The problem of grace versus works—that is, the problem of a deity's mercy versus human merit.
- The problem of the elect or elite, those who supposedly deserve God’s mercy and intervention.
At this point, I will turn to etymology—then I will return to the nineteenth century.
In James’s statement, “Faith without works is dead” the word “works” is based on a Greek word, ergon, which refers to “energy.” The word is connected to the business of agriculture and
trade—that is, it is connected to multiple roles that people may take
in a community. (I did not know this background information for myself:
see this site here.)
That is, faith without energy is meaningless because faith without energy means a person is dead.
We wake up in the morning. We get out of bed, feed the cats, carry out jobs, open mail. Everything is something we do
as living people. And during all of that, we ponder stuff, which
arguably is also an action in which neurons leap the boundaries between
synapses. Faith is, in fact, ongoing agency, a position that The Book of
Mormon has already committed to doctrinally.
However,
by the time the Protestant Reformation was in full force, “works” no
longer meant “the decisions I make everyday about my life” or, even,
“charity” (which is the context for James). It meant what John McWhorter
references when he talks about “performances” by so-called protesters.
Since they aren’t protesting anybody who dares to disagree with them—and
the so-called authorities applaud them (and sometimes feed them)—and
their protests rarely, if ever, end with an actual sacrifice of
privilege (few higher educators are giving up actual offices or jobs),
much less the adoption of a differing lifestyle—they are, in essence,
showing off.
That is, “works” as defined by Martin Luther et al. became actions
that by themselves don’t appear to have a moral component but have been
turned into a moral necessity: good people jump through these hoops; use these phrases; perform these routines; makes these mea culpas.
The
issue becomes complicated because not all rituals are meant to be
works. Sometimes, they are meant to be reminders of faith or inductions
into cultural belonging. A signal of commitment.
And
Protestants rapidly split into those who despised all rituals, including
any custom that took place in any church or within any religious group,
and those who said, “Uh, you folks are kind of throwing out everything
at once.” (Forensic anthropologists are not very happy with Protestant
zealots in England who threw out Anglo-Saxon saints’ bones that can now
not be tested.)
See the posts Why Choosing the Supposedly Correct Side is Difficult.
To nineteenth-century American readers, “works”—on the one
hand—smacked of Catholicism and the corrupt Old World and stuff like
worshiping saints. On the other hand, early Protestantism almost
immediately created its own sets of “works.” Good religious people
embrace the following lifestyle and use the following language and
support the following celebrities/political causes…
And the truth is, every culture, by the nature of being
composed of non-dead and human people, is going to have “performances,”
stuff that people do because that’s part of being a member of a
community. (We even create “performances” in our personal
lives/routines.) If we decide that only “meaningful” actions should be
carried out, we run the risk of ending up as humorless as, well, a bunch
of Woke Puritans who burn Maypoles, close down theaters, get offended
over single words and phrases, and lecture others on supposedly bad
thoughts.
Joseph Smith was not a guy who lacked a sense of humor.
In
opposition to “works” is the principle of grace. Saint Paul argues that
we are saved by grace. Full stop. Not “after all we can do.”
We are saved by grace. Propitiation is off the table. God doesn’t bargain. And humans aren’t meant to be grifters. Give it up.
Yet even Paul struggled with the reality of communal living and the irritation of people doing petty things like, say, suing each other. And he also had a sense of humor.
In
sum, if one sets aside the "performance" side of works, the issue of
grace v. works/action/energy still remains: Do humans earn God's
attention? Or does God offer attention? Does God react based on merit?
Or is merit human wishful thinking?
God is bigger than us and can do what He wishes, so we are saved. But
sometimes people are jerks. And sometimes they walk away from God. And
sometimes they think they have walked away but they haven’t. And
sometimes they think they haven’t but they have. And how fair is it
really for a jerk to be saved? (According to Jesus Christ and the
parable of the workers, Entirely fair and so not your business.) And since we do get up every morning and do stuff, shouldn’t that stuff be moral? And if we claim to love God, shouldn’t there be a connection between that love and the moral stuff we do?
Do we work our way towards the infinite by a checklist? Or by learning and growing? Or by being loved and accepted?
I consider Christianity one of the most fascinating religions on record simply because it hauls this problem to the surface and doesn’t fully answer it.
The Book of Mormon and its translator, for instance, will return to the
problem over and over again. Why not? The Book of Mormon’s initial
readers were struggling with it as much as Paul’s audience and modern
believers.
To be continued…
