Toward Faith
Faith—since it is faith we are primarily hoping to have Alma 32 teach us about—has the last word in Alma 30-31, in fact, quite literally: the word “faith” does not appear in these two chapters at all until the very last word of the very last verse of chapter 31. That the word subsequently appears in chapters 32-34 some twenty-six times (by my count) highlights how really odd this singular appearance in chapters 30-31 is. Its placement as the very last word of these otherwise faith-less chapters sets up a kind of teleological reading (please don’t read anything metaphysical into the word “teleological” here!): Alma 30-31 not only can (in light of chapter 32’s heavy emphasis on faith), but also ought to (in light of the subtle teleology of Alma 30-31), be read as working toward the question of faith.
The contextual emergence of the theme of faith on this reading imposes on the reader a particular framework for approaching chapter 31 at least: because 31:38 ties faith to “the prayer of Alma” specifically, faith must be understood as emerging through a contrast of prayers, of Alma’s prayer with that of the Zoramites. Whatever will have to be said about faith in the process of reading Alma 32-34(35), it must be said that it emerges first through a contrast of prayers.
Of course, it is hardly a unique interpretive approach to this chapter to take it up in terms of two contrasting prayers. Perhaps little has been said about Alma 31 besides that it sets up a contrast between the prayer of humility and the prayer of pride. But already the common interpretive approach is deepened, complicated, or radicalized: rather than taking the difference between the two prayers as a question primarily of humility/pride, the chapter presents the difference as a question primarily of faith/infidelity.
Two interesting differences between the two prayers immediately strike me in light of this. First, the Rameumptom prayer constantly employs the verb “to believe,” while Alma’s prayer never uses it. Second, the Rameumptom prayer is explicitly a prayer of gratitude (it never petitions), while Alma’s prayer is explicitly a prayer of petition (it never thanks). Each of these points deserves closer attention; I’ll take them in turn.
First, then: Why does Alma’s prayer of faith consistently avoid the language of belief, while the faithless prayer of the Zoramites uses that language constantly (the verb appears five times in the Rameumptom prayer)? At the very least, this anticipates or decides in advance on a distinction between faith and belief that will be vital in chapters 32-34. But more, obviously, needs to be said than just that. The five instances of the verb “to believe” in the Zoramite prayer are all conjugated in the present and in the first personal plural: “we believe” four times, and “we do not believe” once. This confessional flavor, combined with the mantra-like repetition of the phrase, gives the Rameumptom prayer a kind of creedal spirit, and perhaps, then, the distinction between the prayer of faith and the faithless prayer can be said preliminarily to be grounded in a difference in attitude towards (the) creeds.
Of course, it remains to be said what it is about creeds as such that seems to be at odds with Alma’s prayer of faith. A couple of quick points, then. The five creedal statements here are all, as are most statements in most creeds, statements about transcendent facts: whereas Alma simply talks in his prayer about what he has seen immediately before him, the Zoramites make claims about things that have not—indeed cannot have—experienced personally. Moreover, the creedal prayer lays a heavy emphasis on the communal or collective, while Alma’s prayer has a manifest focus on the (I hate this word) individual—or let me say: on the subject. Thus while belief would seem to be grounded in a collective appeal to transcendence in a desperate attempt to guarantee the current status of the present political state by drawing on the unknowable, faith would seem to be primarily a question of a subjective dissatisfaction with the state of the situation in which one finds oneself. In a word, belief would seem to be a politically motivated attempt to cover over the gap in the current state of knowledge by claiming special relation to some kind of transcendent power (the five statements of belief are followed by a privileged case of knowledge in the Zoramite prayer: “thou has made known unto us,” etc., in verse 16); while faith would seem to be an apolitical (almost anarchistic, though the word has far too much baggage to be of much use) wager with regard to the situation that is undertaken by a singular subject (might the word “fidelity” be interchangeable with “faith”?).
Second difference: Why, in this text, is petition associated with faith, while gratitude is associated with faithlessness? I immediately think of Derrida here: thanks or gratitude cancels a gift by economizing it, by subsuming it within a calculus or by making it a kind of wage. Might it be that in order to be gifted, in order to be a given-to, it is necessary not to raise a prayer of thanks, but rather always to be asking for something? Indeed, might the very position of gratitude not be always dangerously close to self-satisfaction, to being at ease in Zion? This difference between the two prayers—one that entirely caught me by surprise—radically reworks the meaning of faith. To be faithful to what God is or does or reveals, etc., is not to recognize it in some kind of “mere” mental assent, but to give it place, to allow it to enter into the situation by subjectively assuming a radical position (or a position of radicalism?). Faithfulness or fidelity is a question, then, of being (subjectively) inflected by the (God’s) truth rather than merely to give some kind of cognitive assent to an unknowable “fact.” The faithful prayer would then always be petitionary. Or so, at least, Alma 31 here would suggest.
Korihor and Zoramite Idolatry
This preliminary analysis of the distinction between the two prayers of Alma 31 lays a heavy emphasis on the relationship between the singular subject (here: Alma) and the situation in which s/he finds her/himself (here: the encounter with the Zoramites). This calls for something besides theoretical abstractions, to which I have primarily given myself here thus far: I would like to turn, for the remainder of this post, to the details of the situation of Alma and Amulek’s preaching (in chapters 32-34) as provided by chapters 30-31. Whatever narrativity can be read into the scene of preaching (again, in chapters 32-34), it ultimately must be grounded in as thorough a knowledge as possible of the situation as presented in chapters 30-31. I would like to write up, then, a kind of encyclopedia of the Zoramite situation.
The last verses of chapter 30 and the first verses of chapter 31 make it abundantly clear that the Zoramites cannot be thought apart from Korihor. Not only are there a few striking parallels between the doctrines of Korihor and the doctrines of the Zoramites (at least as embodied by their creedal prayer), but a few textual hints clinch the connection, as well as the narrative interconnection that is laid out explicitly.
After Korihor’s confrontation with Alma, the text tells that he “went about from house to house begging for his food” (30:56), “begging food for his support” (30:58). One of the places he goes, of course, is to the city of the Zoramites, “a people who had separated themselves from the Nephites and called themselves Zoramites, being led by a man whose name was Zoram” (30:59). While begging there, “he was run upon and trodden down, even until he was dead” (30:59). The event’s description is remarkably ambiguous, but the violence of the Zoramites toward the (now) poor Korihor is at least a foreshadowing of the political dynamics of the Zoramite people that will set up the preaching situation at the beginning of chapter 32. If this would seem to align Korihor in his beggarly condition to the rejected of Zoramite society, however, there is a hint in the first verse of chapter 31 that seems to give him a rather different relationship to the Zoramites: “Zoram, who was their leader, was leading the hearts of the people to bow down to dumb idols.” The appearance of the word “dumb” here is significant because it is so obviously an echo of the curse that had only just before come upon Korihor: even as the Zoramites kill Korihor through a collective act of violence, they bow down to worship his image.
Two points of clarification. First, I’m not at all suggesting that there were actual Korihor statues among the Zoramites! I mean, rather, that the text draws a connection between the Zoramites objects of worship and the cursed figure of Korihor. Second, my language above purposefully draws on the theory of Rene Girard: Korihor’s death, though the event is described rather elliptically, clearly involves a kind of collective murder, and, as Girard points out again and again, collective murder is almost universally associated in the ancient world with a kind of double regard for the victim—the victim is guilty (Korihor the cursed, the poor, etc.) and deified (Korihor the object of worship, the dumb idol, etc.). This double relationship, as laid out by Girard, is especially helpful here because of the explicit mention of idolatry: the idol inspires a horror that is intertwined with veneration and honor.
Nephite and Lamanite idolatry is, for the most part, an unexplored topic. In part this is because the subject appears (in explicit references, at least) quite infrequently in the Book of Mormon. But here it is, at the very turning point from the Korihor story to the Zoramite encounter, and it marks, as I hope I have shown, the very connection between these two stories. It also serves as a major aspect of the situation in which Alma and Amulek will be preaching: they preach to an idolatrous people. How might this idolatry be approached?
Without getting too involved in another theoretical aside, I will say that I see idolatry as best approachable by drawing on the work of three different thinkers: Marion, Lacan, and Girard. Marion, of course, has a great deal to say about idolatry, having written several studies of the idol (versus the icon). The best way of summarizing Marion’s work on the idol is to point to his description of the idol as the invisible mirror of the visible: to worship an idol is to worship one’s own image (the reflection of one’s own gaze), but in essential ignorance that that is what one sees. Lacan essentially agrees with his (incessant!) discussions of the mirror stage: idolatry (narcissism) is to believe that one is encountering the Other (or the other guaranteed as the other by the Other) while one is really only looking in a mirror (the other as myself inverted so as to be an other). For Lacan, this is an imaginary (or image-inary) relation: my neurotic relation to the mOther makes it impossible for me to realize that I am only dealing with myself. Girard also takes up the theme of the mirror, though perhaps somewhat less rigorously (because anthropologically). For Girard, idolatry is a political affair by which the perpetrators of collective violence allow the deified victim to reflect the stability or security of the state, though the image they worship is only a mirror image of their own violence.
What all of this implies, I think, about the Zoramite situation is this: Alma and Amulek are preaching to a people that cannot see what they are doing. Because the mirror of the idol is, as a mirror, invisible (that is, they cannot see the mirror as a mirror), it is almost impossible for them to understand what Alma and Amulek are saying. In Lacanian terms: the Zoramites cannot disambiguate between the imaginary and the symbolic, between language that is caught up only in itself (the way they speak and the way they therefore assume that everyone speaks) and language that has real referentiality (the way Alma and Amulek speak). Perhaps this means that Alma and Amulek essentially have the task, in chapters 32-34, of psychoanalyzing the Zoramites. (Indeed, perhaps this is the best way to read 31:5: it is not the violence of the real or the blanketing imposition of the law that will cure the Zoramites of their neurotic relationship to God, but the word, a sort of talking cure that will have a “powerful effect upon the minds of the people.”)
Korihor Himself
If all of this begins to lay a foundation for thinking the Zoramite situation, it does not at all really even begin to grapple with Korihor, who seems to play the part of the Zoramite god! And indeed, I spent the great majority of my time with Korihor over the past week. What follows, then, is something between an exegesis and a hermeneutic (as brief as possible!) of Alma 30, followed by a few simple thoughts attempting to connect the Korihor narrative back up with the Zoramite situation through the connections laid out above. My apologies for the length of this post!
Alma 30 deserves a series of seminars in and of itself: it is a remarkably complex chapter, ridiculously rich in philosophical themes, frighteningly revelatory for someone interested (like me) in Lacanian psychoanalysis, obviously vital for the unfolding history of the Lehite peoples, and profoundly contemporary with us in its concerns.
The narrative opens with an account of burying the dead. This is not, it should be noted, the arbitrary effect of later arrangement of chapter breaks: not only does the break between chapters 29 and 30 correspond with a chapter break in the 1830 edition of the Book of Mormon, the “Behold, now it came to pass” with which chapter 30 opens marks an essential break. Moreover, the broad parallelistic structure that can be read into the entire Book of Alma breaks itself into two parts at precisely the gap between chapters 29 and 30. There seems to be no real reason to doubt that the Korihor narrative is “purposefully” introduced by the account of the burial of the dead.
This way of introducing the story has several effects on what follows. First, Korihor’s teachings are situated in relation to war, in fact, to a particular war: one in which the difference between the righteous and the wicked is materially obliterated by the universality of death (see Alma 28:10-14). Second, the Korihor narrative begins with the work of mourning (to use a Freudian phrase), with the response to a fundamental loss. Third, because the response to the deaths is said to have involved fasting, an inclusio is set up that connects the mourning/fasting of the people at the beginning of the Korihor narrative with Korihor’s own depraved “begging for food” at the end of the narrative. Fourth, the extended discussion of the burial rites allows the editor (Mormon?) to complicate what will become the first narrative point of the Korihor tale proper: the place of the law. Each of these four points is vital.
Let me begin by fleshing out the second point mentioned above: the Korihor narrative begins with the work of mourning and is thus grounded in a loss (in “the lost object”). The Nephite work of mourning, the text makes clear, has a kind of stabilizing effect: “And thus the people did have no disturbance in all the sixteenth year of the reign of the judges over the people of Nephi” (30:4). This language is curiously psychological: it is not that everything goes right, but that there is “no disturbance,” no neurotic episodes. The object mourned, of course, remains lost (the work of mourning is the slow process of coming to grips with this loss), and that means that the Nephites remain, so to speak, collectively neurotic, though they manifest no visible signs or symptoms of their being oriented by the lost object.
Korihor essentially takes advantage of this condition. Korihor understands the belief in Christ to be the neurotic response to the lost object: the “foolish” and “vain hope” that binds them is for him their ultimately unhealthy way of dealing with death (and especially with a death that does not seem to regard the distinction between the wicked and the righteous). The first point outlined above is thus obviously closely connected with the second I am here discussing: Korihor’s teaching that “when a man was dead, that was the end thereof” amounts to a call to the Nephites to come to a very different understanding of the loss they have experienced. More will have to be said about Korihor’s concept of death below.
If all of this would seem to suggest that Korihor is more or less right in his critique of the Nephites, it must be said that it is the theme of eating/fasting—the third point mentioned above—that helps us out of the dilemma. Not only does this theme set up an inclusio that defines the boundaries of the narrative (an inclusio, in fact, that makes the last couple verses of chapter 30 more a part of chapter 31 than a part of chapter 30’s Korihor narrative), but it also plays on the theme of loss and death: to fast is to refuse fulfillment or enjoyment in order to perfect it (as in D&C 59:13) and is thus a kind of death that anticipates resurrection, a loss that anticipates restoration (as in, say, Job). It is this refusal of consumption that has the potential to disambiguate between the idol and the icon or between the imaginary and the symbolic: fasting disrupts the demand-fulfillment relation in order to restructure it as a desire-fulfillment relation. Korihor does not see this.
In fact, Korihor’s not seeing this is vital: it makes it clear that even if the Nephites are collectively neurotic, he has absolutely no idea how to solve their problem. He suggests to them a kind of American version of Freud (which could just be called hedonism): (sexual) demands must be satisfied. There are, then, three ways of approaching the situation illuminated by the mourning rites. First, one can see the fasting as a good full-blown rejection of fulfillment. This seems to be how Korihor sees the Nephites understanding work of mourning, and he may be right (the remarkable success Korihor has may be evidence that they did indeed see the Law of Moses as a kind of rejection of fulfillment as such). Second, one can see the fasting as a bad full-blown rejection of fulfillment. This seems to be how Korihor himself understands the work of mourning, and it is against this that he makes his criticism. And third, one can see the fasting as a reworking of fulfillment, as a disentangling of fulfillment from demand to associate it with desire (which can only be created through some kind of postponement or disruption). Giddonah and Alma seem to see the work of mourning this way (Giddonah refers in verse 22 to the people’s “rejoicings” rather than their mourning, and Alma speaks in verse 35 of what “causes such joy in their hearts”).
This typology of interpretations of fasting aligns the Nephites in Zarahemla, taken collectively, more or less with Korihor: they together miss the restructuring of fulfillment, and so they together are bound by two dialectically intertwined forms of idolatry (the Nephites worship the idol while Korihor philosophizes with a hammer, but they are both determined by the idol). The fourth point mentioned above bears out this intertwining: it is the keeping of the law that binds Korihor and the Nephites in Zarahemla together textually. This intertwining is effecting by the continuity of the discussion of “the law” in verse 3 with the discussion of “the law” in verses 7-12: both the Nephites and Korihor keep the law, remain within the legal as such.
This continuity between the Nephites and Korihor is fascinating. It implies at least that Korihor is essentially Nephite, that he is a continuation of, rather than a break with, their way of structuring the world. In a sense, then, Korihor is less an independent figure in this narrative than he is a facet of Nephite collectivity: he is their flaw, the whole in their logic, the gap in their structure, the revelation of their weakness. This way of seeing things here sets up Alma’s relationship to Korihor in a different light: Alma’s battle with Korihor is less a one-on-one struggle with an outlandish apostate figure than it is a grappling with the situation of the Nephites. Alma is working against the dialectical unfolding of Nephite law, rather than with it against the singular apostasy of a flamboyant Anti-Christ. (Again, the remarkable success of Korihor in Zarahemla is a confirmation of this.)
In the actual confrontation between Alma and Korihor—now understand as a subjective confrontation on Alma’s part with the logic of the legal (system)—two (intertwined) themes emerge as central: immanence/transcendence and grace/economy.
The theme of transcendence versus immanence emerges in the first set of teachings attributed to Korihor (verses 13-18), but it becomes central in his response to Giddonah (verses 23-28): Korihor describes the transcendent God (god?) he sees the Nephites worshiping when he speaks of “some unknown being, who they say is God—a being who never has been seen or know, who never was nor ever will be” (30:28). That this “unknown being” is paired with the verb “to offend” (the people fear that they might “offend some unknown being”) makes this question of transcendence doubly important because it ties this critique of the Nephite God to the (almost Foucauldian) power structure Korihor critiques: “Yea, they [the Nephite people] durst not make use of that which is their own lest they should offend their priests” (30:28). Korihor’s interpretation of the Nephite Church as a power structure meant to keep the people from claiming authenticity is thus rooted in his claim that the Nephite religious elite transcendent-ize themselves through “their traditions and their dreams and their whims and their visions and their pretended mysteries” (30:28 again). Korihor’s critique would seem to pit an obviously correct immanence against the Nephite transcendence.
Importantly, Korihor again and again ties the theme of transcendence/immanence to knowledge: the transcendent is precisely what cannot be known and it is precisely as such that the religious elite among the Nephites employ it in order to maintain their power of the Nephite common folk (see the variations of the word “know” in verses 24, 26, and 28, all negative—a question of not knowing—and thus tied to the theme of transcendence). Korihor’s critique is essentially that this assumed transcendence, with its abrogation of knowledge, grounds an economy: “that ye may glut yourselves with the labors of their hands,” all of this a question of “that which is their own” (30:27-28). The Nephite religion, as Korihor sees it: transcendence, as a rejection of knowledge, secures economy.
Alma’s response to this is amazing. He employs variations of the word “know” in his response and ties them in every instance to immanent facts (he always employs the word in a positive rather than negative sense): “You, Korihor, know x, y, and z.” He thus uses knowledge itself, with its undeniable connection to immanence, in order—here’s the surprise—not to argue for or against transcendence, but to point out that the economy Korihor describes simply isn’t there: “Then why sayest thou that we preach unto this people to get gain, when thou, of thyself, knowest that we receive no gain?” (30:35). Rather than addressing the question of transcendence, he thus assumes an immanent pose in order to show that Korihor’s economic reading is simply wrong.
What this does: rather than meeting Korihor’s implicit argument about transcendence—namely, that the very presence of any kind of transcendence in Nephite religion implies its economic nature and hence its essential falsity—Alma reduces the phenomenon Korihor critiques to its essential givenness. That is, Alma reveals the complete lack of economy at the heart of Nephite religion (as Alma practices it, at least) and so reveals the grace that “governs” it through and through. And this reveals what it is that Korihor (and the Nephites as a whole?) can’t deal with: grace, or, indeed, immanent grace (to drop the title of a recent book . . . ). Why immanent? Because Alma, so soon as he has clinched the graceful nature of the phenomenon under discussion, says: “For behold, I say unto you, I know there is a God, and also that Christ shall come” (30:39).
Then the confrontation turns to the question of testimony and signs, and I can do little more than point to Adam’s remarkable little paper, “Testimony and Atonement,” published in the latest issue of Element, and to mention by way of anticipation that Alma still seems to be obsessed with Korihor’s desire for a sign when he talks to the Zoramites in chapter 32.
All that remains after that is the actual deliverance of the sign and the curious “scene of writing” that follows—a scene that is perhaps the richest part of the entire chapter! The curse/stroke part of the narrative forces us to grapple with the essential difference between speaking and writing, a difference that is highlighted in the curious fact that Korihor for the first (and only) time use the word “know” in a positive sense when he writes (verse 52). This is all the more important when Alma goes on to tell Korihor that the curse must not be removed because he would go right back to teaching the very same thing he had been saying all along: Korihor can only grapple with immanent grace in writing.
I think this sudden ability to recognize immanent grace is tied to what happens when one writes, what has often (but definitively by Roland Barthes) been called “the death of the author”: to write is to divorce oneself from what one has to say because the text takes on a life of its own, independent of the author. In that the author’s presence is stripped in the work of writing, it becomes possible for immanence to be disambiguated from (the metaphysics of) presence: Korihor’s being unable to speak, but able to write, at last allows him to recognize a distinction his failure to recognize which has destroyed him. This distinction is also, I think, the distinction between Lacan’s imaginary and symbolic: one speaks with an imaginary voice, but one writes symbolically, and once Korihor is stripped of the former, he can at last recognize what is really (real-ly) at work in the latter.
If all of this—even the stroke and Korihor’s dumbness—are tied essentially to the unfolding dialectic of Nephite law, then every aspect of this story bears on the situation of preaching for Alma and Amulek (and the others whose words are never quoted): their task is to confront this same ambiguous understanding of the word (and it is precisely “the word” that will be the central theme of Alma 32). Korihor’s apparent influence on the Zoramites will perhaps prove to be key to interpreting the sermon to the latter.
Various Notes
The above is an attempt to deal with the text on the whole. There were many, many things I encountered in the text that deserve mention but that didn’t find their way into my attempt to write something logical and coherent. I offer them here as a collection of textual notes and questions. And they are only from chapter 30, with which I was able to spend a great deal more time.
30:2 — The Nephites do not number the dead. Does this call for a reflection on the infinite as such? And if so, why is it connected with death? Is this essentially an infinite loss?
30:7 — Belief enters the story here as it does later in the Zoramite story, but it enters here as being specifically under the protection of the law. It is thus statist by nature, and faith is non-statist, radical, etc.
30:8 — Nephite law is grounded in a hermeneutic? This deserves so much more attention!
30:13 — Hope is tied to “looking.” What is Korihor’s doctrine of hope? What does his critique of hope ultimately amount to?
30:16 — Korihor specifically mentions frenzied minds and mental derangement and in connection with one’s relation to one’s “fathers.” Is this Freudian or anti-Freudian?
30:17 — The editor (Mormon?) breaks Korihor’s initial teachings in two parts, direct quotation (verses 13-16) and third person summary (verses 17-18). How might this affect the meaning of the passage?
30:17 — The use of the word “crime” here is interesting: though it is a report of Korihor’s belief, it ties back to the statement in verse 11 that “men should be judged according to their crimes.” This tension deserves careful attention.
30:18 — Korihor’s teachings seem to lead specifically to sexual crimes. (Freud again!) Why is that?
30:18 — Korihor’s climactic teaching about death is phrased in a really curious way: “when a man was dead, that was the end thereof.” What can be read into this phrasing? See below at 30:59.
30:25 — Between two statements about the limits of knowledge, Korihor makes a direct argument against one point of Nephite doctrine: the meaning of the fall. What is interesting is that this question is profoundly (again!) Freudian: it is all about one’s relation to one’s parents. Moreover, it ought to be asked why Korihor retreats to the singular non-gendered term “parent” here, avoiding the incessant language of the fathers everywhere else in his critique.
30:28 — To have “brought them to believe” is an interesting claim Korihor makes. Again belief is tied to the state, though it is a non-existent state Korihor is talking about.
30:32 — Alma says he has worked with “mine own hands for my support.” See below at 30:58.
30:33 — The mention of law here deserves more attention.
30:42 — The “lying spirit” Alma mentions amounts to a counter-accusation: Korihor had claimed that the Nephites were given to pretended mysteries, etc., and now Alma points out that (self-)deception is actually what grounds Korihor. (The interesting thing is that Korihor accused the religious leaders of intentional deception, while Alma accuses Korihor of unintentional deception.)
30:43 — Signs are tied explicitly to power.
30:44 — God as such is tied only to “things” in this verse, while “a Supreme Creator” is tied only to motion (relations?). What is at work here?
30:46 — What is meant by the curious phrase, “the spirit of the truth”?
30:47 — There is an echo here of Laban’s death: it is better that one soul should perish, etc. And yet it is not clear why this needs to be mentioned here. Is it there only to tie this story to the Laban encounter? Is it important for this story to be tied to the (writtenness of the) brass plates?
30:58 — Korihor goes about “begging food for his support.” There is clearly a textual tie here to verse 32, where Alma works for his support: Korihor’s wrong claim that Alma did not work for his support is now ironic in that Korihor himself has to beg (not work) for his support.
30:59 — Korihor’s death is reported in a somewhat odd fashion: “trodden down even until he was dead.” But it thus echoes the odd phrasing of verse 18: “when a man was dead.” This is vital in light of what follows in verse 60.
30:60 — Following the echo of verse 18 in the last verse, there is another here: “And thus we see the end of him,” etc. The two verses together thus recall in its entirety the odd climax of Korihor’s Zarahemla teachings: “when a man was dead, that was the end thereof.” What should be read into this amazing connection?
Some quick observations / responses:
1. Thanks for pointing out the contrast between Korihor’s use of “believe” and the absence of the word in Alma’s prayer. I’m not yet sure where to go with that, but it is well worth thinking about.
2. Thanks, also, for pointing out that the Rameumptom prayer is a prayer of gratitude and that Alma’s is a prayer of petition. I find this particular point extremely interesting, though I don’t have much to say about it right now.
3. Finally (?) thanks for pointing out that the final word of chapter 31 is “faith.” Very nice!
4. I find provocative, but strange, what you say about the possibility that in order to be given-to, perhaps it is necessary not to give thanks. In the Lord’s prayer, thanks are conspicuously absent. It has praise—mostly—and some petition, but no thanks. (Interestingly, the petition of the prayer in 3 Nephi is reduced: no petition for daily bread.)
5. Random point: I’ve never been sure what to make of Alma 30:11: “A man was punished only for the crimes which he had done; therefore all men were on equal grounds.” Surely this is not a definition of equality as only being punished for the crimes you commit. Perhaps something much narrower is intended, “To be equal before the law is not to be punished for a crime that someone else would not be punished for.” However, even that seems like an unusual definition of legal equality. Very libertarian before the fact. So what do we make of it?
6. It is also interesting, in relation to that definition of equality, that the editor ascribes the belief to Korihor that “whatsoever a man did was no crime” (30:17). Is he using “crime” in a different sense here, or in the same sense? I prefer to take it in a different sense: legal crimes in verse 11, moral crimes in verse 17, but I’m not sure my preferences are right.
7. How are we to read this question in verse 22: “Why do ye teach this people that there shall be no Christ, to interrupt their rejoicings?” Is the final phrase a hypothetical answer to Giddonah’s question: “Why do you teach this people that there shall be no Christ? So that you can interrupt their rejoicings?” Or is he asking “Why do you teach this people that there will be no Christ, a Christ who will interrupt their rejoicings?” Or is he asking “Why are you trying to interrupt the people’s rejoicings by preaching that there will be no Christ?” Are there other possibilities?
8. I’ve always been struck by the Nietzschean tone of 30:23.
9. 30:25 is also a place to think about: Is he imputing a doctrine of original sin to the Nephites? Is there any chance that he is talking about another parent?
10. Does Alma focus on the question of whether he is charging the priests with lying and living off of the labor of the people because that rather than blasphemy is the crime, given what was said earlier about freedom of belief?
11. Alma’s prayer switches to petition on 31:30. However, the first 4 ½ verses (26-30) are verses of lament rather than petition.
Jim posted a link to this post and (as yet quite brief) discussion to LDS-PHIL, to which Mark Wrathall responded. I thought a word or two of his response is worth posting right to this discussion. His comments have to do with the petition vs. gratitude discussion, with which he was (as I am!) a little uncomfortable:
“It seems to me (perhaps contra Derrida) that the ability to thank someone in the right spirit is an important way of not economizing the gift, of acknowledging the something cannot be repaid. And not because I couldn’t give back a material equivalent, but because the giving of the gift is the kind of thing which does not have a merely economic value. When I say “thank you” in the right spirit, I am acknowledging this. Why not see the right kind of thanking, not as a “’mere’ mental assent,” but as part of being “inflected” by a recognition that God acts in the world to bless us in ways that we haven’t earned and couldn’t earn?”
Thanks, Mark.
Surely context is one reason for the absence of gratitude in Alma’s prayer. His lament is a response to what he sees among the Zoramites. His petition is also a response to what he sees there. There isn’t a whole lot to be grateful for when it comes to thinking about the Zoramites. He is praying for them and for success in converting them.
So much indeed…. I’ll make some general remarks in this comment, and perhaps add some misc. notes in another comment.
Sign-seeking. I’m fascinated by Joe’s remark about Alma using what I’ll call “empirically verifiable reasoning” to thwart Korihor’s claims. It seems, then, that there’s an important difference between looking for signs in a sort of half-hearted way (regarding idolatry, it’s interesting that idolatry is typically coupled with idleness, at least in the BoM… ) vs. looking for signs that have already been given (30:44; cf. “the lights in the firmament” in Genesis 1:14 which are explicitly given as “signs”…). I think this is an interesting way to think about the self-deception that Joe discussed: the sign-seeker is blind to the signs that are already there even while asking for a new sign. This way of asking for a new sign leads to two more topics I’ll discuss more below: “the foolish traditions of the fathers” and “giving place.” Meanwhile, I think Alma 30:15 might be taken as the key claim lurking in the background that Alma 32 is directly responding to (“ye cannot know of things which ye do not see; therefore ye cannot know that there shall be a Christ”). As a bit of a preview, my (current) take on Alma’s response to this is in drawing a distinction between what might be called a private sign (i.e., the swelling of the seed which can be felt and experienced, but not seen) vs. a more public, visible sign (the sprouting of the seed, which is the point at which faith becomes dormant, at least “in that thing” per 32:34…). Some time ago I posted some preliminary thoughts related to this at the Feast blog here.
Foolish traditions. In searching the term “tradition” as used in the BoM, it seems only wicked people pejoratively refer to traditions of the fathers as “foolish” (or “silly” in 30:31)—righteous people tend to use the term the more euphemistic term “incorrect” to describe such traditions (cf. Mosiah 1:5; Alma 3:8; 9:17; 17:9; 21:17 26:24; 37:9), although in the following passages the (seemingly) more judgmental term “wicked” (and even “abominable” ) is (are) used by more righteous authors: Alma 23:3; 24:7; Helaman 5:19; 15:4, 7. I’m inclined to think that it is always wrong to forget the traditions of one’s fathers (cf. Alma 9:8-17 esp.), so the question left is how to discern which traditions are correct and which are incorrect. I think this fleshes out the context of the question of 30:15 about knowing (or hoping for) things that can’t be seen. Also, I think it’s worth noting that an underlying theme of the BoM (again, esp. in Alma 9:8-17) seems to be that it is better to be faithful to incorrect traditions than to forget the traditions of one’s father (I’ve been thinking about this in relation to the Akedah, as another way of thinking about fidelity trumping a more metaphysical/propositional notion of truth…).
Giving place. I think the theme of “place” is rather fascinating in these chapters. I’m running out of time, so I’ll keep this brief: Alma 32:27-28 is the key passage I’m thinking of where what is critical, through desire and/or belief, is that “ye give place that a seed may be planted.” This contrasts with the way that poor are dis-placed in 32:1-6 and the way in which Korihor is described in 30:42, “ye have put off the Spirit of God that it may have no place in you” (cf. Alma 34:35, “the Spirit of the Lord hath withdrawn from you, and hath no place in you . . . and this is the final state of the wicked”—as another aside, I think this “final state” is an interesting phrase in the context of Joe’s questions about Korihor’s “end”; in this sense, I think the tree of everlasting life imagery at the end of 32 and in chs. 33-34 forms an interesting contrast to this “end”; also, how might we think about the tree of life in relation to the 3 degrees of glory—do Telestial people partake of the tree of life and damn themselves? does the angel w/ the sword stand aside at some point and let everyone partake of the fruit, whether to damnation or not? or perhaps it’s just silly to try and mix metaphors and scriptural books like this…).
Wow, Joe. I think you’ve hit upon a number of profitable topics that will generate some good discussion this week. I only have time right now to make one observation/response. I really liked how you brought out Korihor as a “facet” of Nephite society rather than the exceptional apostate, and I think that the text supports the Freudian reading you give of the situation. What was interesting to me was that I had a similar reaction to the story of Alma’s father and his experiences in Mosiah 26-27. I think the traditional approach is to view the society at Zarahemla as essentially “orthodox” and to see the rebellions of the younger generation as the exception, but actually I find it more likely that it is the faithful church which is the exception in the broader context of Zarahemlite society. (A whole rising generation breaking away from the teachings of their fathers suggests that there was a fair amount of cultural movement and interaction going on among many peoples [bringing with it the new ideas and systems of belief which rejected the concept of Christ]. Also, the rising persecutions of believers and the persecutions of AlmaTY and the sons of Mosiah after their conversion at least presents the possibility that their position is that of the minority in the society as a whole). What all this means, then, in conjunction with your observations, is that we might benefit from remembering that the history of the Book of Mormon is most often the history of the minority, the faithful (narrative) thread resisting the popular cultural and social structures. I just found it interesting that there are hints of the same situation in the stories of each Alma.
Another quick thought: Joe, you point out that Alma’s concern with signs and knowledge in chapter 32 has its thematic beginnings in this section in his dealings with Korihor. As I was mulling that over, I thought it interesting that Korihor’s explanation in verse 53 centers around his original belief in a devil who appeared in the form of an angel. In other words, the problem that Korihor’s case puts before Alma is that of discerning between good and evil in a manner that avoids the slipperiness inherent in the interpretation of (visual) signs. The fact that Alma himself has also had an angelic vision might make Korihor’s (self) deception an even more pressing matter to Alma. Korihor and Alma have had in some ways the same formal experience: the difference lay in content, and specifically in the actions each took in response to their experience. Thinking through this point has subtly reshaped what I see as the context of Alma’s concerns entering ch. 32—it seems to thematically emphasize his concern for discernment throughout the chapter.
For those not on lds-phil, here’s a response I wrote to some questions Blake Ostler posed for Joe:
> [Blake:] I’m still asking why you believe that the Korihor narrative is related to Alma 32. Other than mere proximity in the book in terms of chapter placement, I just don’t see anything that really connects them in terms of themes or literary allusions. I can see the issues presented by the Zoramites as related to what Alma teaches about faith in ch. 32, but I just don’t see a connection regarding Korihor in ch. 30.
Why isn’t the rather striking sign-seeking connection significant enough to warrant relating these chapters one to another? (Alma 37 is the only other chapter in Alma that discusses signs, and there in a rather different sense.)
> [Blake:] That said, isn’t Korihor’s chief problem self-deception? At first, Korihor denies that there is a God (Alma 30:37). Later Korihor states: “I do not deny the existence of God, but I do not believe that there is a God.” (30:48). Thus, he moves from outright atheism to a kind of agnostic stance. Later, Korihor confesses that he “always knew there was a God” (30:52). However, he also confesses that he believed his own lies: “I taught [falsehoods about God’s existence] because they were pleasing unto the carnal mind; and I taught them, even until I had much success, insomuch that I verily believed that they were true; and for this cause, have I withstood the truth” (30:53). Thus, Korihor admits that he always knew that God existed; but he believed his own lies about God’s existence because he was so persuasive that he even convinced himself! Korihor is self-deceived in the classic sense. He both knows that God exists and believes his own rhetoric that God does not exist.
I think Joe’s point is that Zoramites have essentially the same problem regarding self-deception (that they think God has favored them over their brethren), only Joe is using Freudian/Lacanian terminology rather than the term “self-deception.”
> [Blake:] I also don’t see any connection or tie-in between Derrida’s notion of gift-obligation to give thanks cycle and what the text says about the Zoramite arrogance in their elect status before God that the Nephites don’t enjoy. The arrogance is not in their thankfulness, but in their presumption that God loves them more because they are holier people. I like what you say about the mirror principa (in fact, I like it a lot); but I don’t see thankfulness being the culprit here as you seem to suggest. In fact, while Derrida has a point about thanksgiving and obligation imposed by giving a gift, I believe that it is fundamentally headed in a direction that just doesn’t serve. What D&C 88 has to say about rejoicing in acceptance of a gift seems much more insightful to me: “33 For what doth it profit a man if a gift is bestowed upon him, and he receive not the gift? Behold, he rejoices not in that which is given unto him, neither rejoices in him who is the giver of the gift.” If we don’t rejoice in the gift that is given, then we haven’t truly received the gift [at] all. In fact, we give a gift in return just by rejoicing in the sheer gift that is given to us. The gift is only allowed to exist as a gift when we accept it and recognize it for the sheer gift that it is.
Blake, I like the issue you raise by contrasting the kind of gratitude-for-a-gift advocated in D&C 88 and the twisted kind of gratitude displayed by the Zoramites. I do, however, think that Derrida can be quite helpful in thinking this tension. I take(/appropriate) Derrida as describing a danger that comes with a certain kind of thankfulness, namely an overly-presumptive thankfulness that bends the meaning of a gift to suit one’s own purposes (or, better: neuroses/self-deceptions). God has blessed the Zoramites, but they interpret this gift poorly and offer gratitude for an imaginary gift rather than the real gift that was given. It is the danger of this kind of imaginary interpretation that I see Derrida and Marion pointing to in their warnings about metaphysically-laden ways of receiving a gift. The point of a gift is that we can’t ascribe a good reason for the giver giving it to us because if we do, this will always be something we impose onto the giver’s motivations. And once we do this, then the gift aspect of the gift is undermined (i.e., economized). It seems to me that this is precisely what is common to both Korihor and the Zoramites, a kind of self-deceptive bending towards one’s own motivations/imaginations that covers over what is real (and thus what is unknown about the giver and the gift). I think Adam Miller’s “Testimony and Atonement” article in Element v. 2(2) does a really good job of linking this kind of bending-towards-one’s-own-desires to sign-seeking (i.e., Alma 32), so I highly recommend reading (or rereading that article). In short, the problem with sign-seeking is that it mistakes the sign for the real event underlying the sign (i.e., revelation), and so the problem with sign-seekers is that they pursue signs rather than the source of the signs themselves (i.e., God—I think Adam aptly quotes Timothy on this point, “having a form of godliness but denying the power thereof”), which is, again, essentially what Korihor and the Zoramites are doing.
Okay, I’m trying to get back to this discussion now. Much to respond to!
Jim #1:
I very much like your points 5 and 6. The question of Nephite equality is one that needs to be addressed seriously by someone (Bushman has a paper that opens the lid of the can but that never deals with all the worms that then come crawling out). Where does one begin? And—I suppose I have to ask this question to keep myself focused—how much does the question of equality bear on Alma 32? (I ask that as a genuine question, though the more I think about it, the more I’m convincing myself that the answer is: A good deal!)
Your point 11 has a parallel in the Zoramite prayer. They begin with their creed (which climaxes with the one point of knowledge they are willing to claim), and only in the second half of the prayer do they begin to thank. Perhaps each prayer should be split in two: the Zoramite creed can be set against Alma’s lamentation (how interesting!), and the Zoramite gratitude can be set against Alma’s petition. I wonder where this kind of breakdown might lead.
Robert #4:
I like the distinction you draw between signs sought and signs given. I’ve wrestled over the past week with the signs of verse 44 (I take it that this verse draws on the shared theology of Genesis 1 and Psalm 104), and I think you’ve provided the key to dealing with these issues, though a good deal of work remains to be done riddling it all out. I imagine that we ought to do that work, since we will be grappling with this question of signs at much greater length in Alma 32.
I’m wondering, moreover, about what to make of the distinction you make between private and public signs. Is your concept of a private sign something like what I discuss as the content of fundamentalist discourse in my “four discourses” paper? In that case, it is precisely the publication of a sign that makes (like the divulging of a name bound by secrecy) it a kind of adultery because one attempts to justify one’s faith/fidelity as well as the truth by an appeal to what must remain entirely a private affair. Hmm… very helpful.
The obvious Freudian themes behind any and every mention of the “traditions of the fathers” makes your comments on this point very provocative. It seems to me that you outline perhaps four relations to one’s inherited traditions, to one’s fathers: (1) uncritical obedience = boredom(?), (2) critical obedience = love, (3) un/critical disobedience = hate, and (4) simple forgetting = ?. I want to think about this more carefully, because I imagine the several possibilities would outline the several possible ways of responding to/interpreting grace.
I too think that “place” will be a vital theme in our study of Alma 32, but I’m not at all yet sure where that will take us. Here is a list of the references to place in Alma 30-35: 30:42; 31:13, 21; 32:5, 22, 27, 28; 34:26, 35, 38; 35:13.
Jenny #5:
Very helpful thoughts here. Might we be able to say that the minority status of the faithful is tied to the radicalism that characterizes them? I can’t help but wonder whether our assumption that the Nephites were generally righteous is a consequence of our own misunderstanding of faith, of our thinking that members of the Church are faithful because they are members rather than that there are few who are (radically) faithful. (I imagine that this same phenomenon is what leads us to feel that all is relatively well in Zion and to dismiss time dedicated to teaching and instruction in the Church: we don’t really see the need to do much more than kick back and play hangman with the youth or to talk about hunting with the elders or to discuss how to find decent childcare services with the sisters because we figure that “those who need to hear the lesson aren’t there.”)
Jenny #6:
Alma and Korihor having had essentially parallel experiences—that will have been the vital insight here! As you say, it is this pairing that will color all of what Alma is doing in Alma 32.
It seems vital to me, reflecting on your insight, that Alma knows nothing of Korihor’s experience until Korihor writes it from within his imposed silence. Nothing, I say, but that’s not quite right: Alma accuses Korihor, while they are still talking, of being influenced by a “lying spirit.” So perhaps it would be better to say that Alma only has his wager confirmed at the end of the encounter when Korihor writes from within his imposed silence. This eventuality highlights the forward momentum of this narrative: Alma is left with this shocking parallel to his own experience, and that shock carries over into his words to the Zoramites.
This makes me wonder whether it wouldn’t be best to see the editor/narrator of this broader story (Alma 30-35) drawing out the narrative connections between Korihor and the Zoramites at the end of chapter 30 and the beginning of chapter 31 precisely in order to draw attention to the narrative momentum of chapter 30 and to help that momentum’s carrying into chapter 32 be recognized by the reader. The Korihor experience must be interpreted as Alma’s coming to see, perhaps for the first time, really, how slippery the interpretation of signs (of “private” signs?) really is, and that is what determines how Alma handles subsequent experiences.
I wonder how that might affect our interpretation of 31:5 with its emphasis on the word (the tangle of the imaginary and the symbolic) over the sword (the real, or the violence of the real)…
Robert #7:
I won’t bother to copy into this discussion any of the further discussion with Blake.
But I do want to draw out of your response here what seems to me to be an implicit point: the best way of sorting out the apparent disparagement of gratitude in this narrative is to think about a distinction between (sorry for all the Lacanian terminology here everyone!) imaginary and symbolic gratitude (to put it in Marion’s terms: idolatrous and iconistic gratitude). I think that is a good way to avoid simply saying that Alma 31 dismisses gratitude in prayer. Of course, if gratitude must be fundamentally reconfigured in order to be infused with grace (to be so many “groanings which cannot be uttered,” etc.), then it is not clear how it could be transferred from the oral to the written without being exposed to the danger of slipping into the idolatrous.
Yikes! I don’t know that I’m going to be able to keep up with this, but let me keep trying.
#2 (Mark via Joe): I don’t disagree with Mark’s point. Indeed, it is an important corrective to a possible misunderstanding of Joe’s observation—with which I also do not disagree.
I am not sure, however, how much either has to do with the text when we take it the pericope of chapters 30-31 as a whole. (Of course “not sure” is not the same as “sure not.”) Like my observations about equality and the possibly ambiguity of “crime,” there may be something interesting there, but I’m not sure that it is important to chapter 32 or to the story as a whole.
#4 (Robert C): Your note that “foolish” and “silly” describe the traditions of the fathers only for the wicked and that the righteous refer to those traditions as “false” or, when needing to condemn them, as “wicked” or “abominable” is very helpful. It is another of those things that I don’t have any idea what to do with except, for now, to file it a way waiting to see where it is relevant.
I do think, however, that you’re right that it at least suggests that we ought not to forget the traditions of our fathers. (Doesn’t the Lectures on Faith argue that knowledge of God comes either through revelation or, most commonly, through the tradition?
I hope you will develop somewhere your reflection on place.
#5 (Jenny Webb): Isn’t it always the case that the faithful church is the exception? Can it be otherwise?
That sounds arrogant because it sounds like I assume that we are in that faithful church (the Church of the Firstborn?). Looking around my ward and thinking about my faithfulness in my callings, I have to confess that I hope but doubt that I am. It is much easier to profess righteousness than to practice it.
#6 (Jenny Webb): It is as if, in chapter 32, one of Alma’s worries is that the poor who cannot worship at the Rameumpton may be easy prey for someone like Korihor.
For some reason I’d never before see the parallel between Alma being converted by an angel and Korihor being “converted” by an angel. Thanks. So—big surprise—the story really begins in Mosiah 27: Alma is converted by an angel (Mosiah 27) and preaches the gospel (Alma 4:19ff.); Korihor is converted by an angel (Alma 30:53) and preaches the anti-gospel (Alma 30:6ff.). Clearly we should read this confrontation typologically. Can we understand chapters 32-33 as the response to that type? If so, how does the first part of 32 fit into the scheme?
#7 (Robert C): Good responses. I think I may be more on the side of Mark and Blake, however. I’m not sure just how much Derrida’s discussion of the gift is relevant. Besides, in the discussion between Derrida and Marion on the gift, I’m more sympathetic to Marion, for whom the gift is possible.
#8 (Joe Spencer): I think the idea of seeing a parallel between the parts of the two prayers (creed : thanks :: lamentation : petition) could be fruitful. I pointed out earlier that the petition (and the absence of thanks) can only be understood in relation to the lamentation. The parallel reminds us that the same thing is true of the Zoramite prayer: the gratitude of that prayer can only be understood in its relation to its creedal claims.
I wonder whether you ought not to read chapter 6 of Marion’s In Excess (“In the Name: How to Avoid Speaking of It”). That is, to my mind, where Marion most explicitly explores an alternative to deconstruction and, therefore, I think, something also to replace the imaginary/symbolic alternation. He speaks of de-nomination: that which both names and unnames. (He also gives one of the best short accounts of negative theology I know of, one that undid my understanding of it.)
Jim says: “It is as if, in chapter 32, one of Alma’s worries is that the poor who cannot worship at the Rameumpton may be easy prey for someone like Korihor.”
Very well put. Very provocative.
As for Marion’s last chapter in In Excess: I actually reread it maybe two or three months ago, but in a broader attempt to reconcile Badiou and Marion (I was not particularly trying to think about Marion and Lacan). Without going back right now to that particular essay, my general take on Marion and Lacan is that Marion’s idol and icon can be mapped respectively onto Lacan’s imaginary and symbolic. That is to say, I understand what Lacan calls a symbolic relation to be a relation precisely in which one speaks “in the name.” I find it powerfully significant that the last few dozen pages of Being Given mark a kind of tournant psychoanalytique for Marion, one that I assume (without having yet begun to read it) is coming to fruition in The Erotic Phenomenon (that is, if the title is any indication!).
In short, I wonder whether it our understandings of Lacan rather than of Marion that diverge. At the very least, I take Marion (with whom I began) as a key to reading Lacan rather than vice versa.
Joe, thank you so much for sharing these insights with us; I particularly like your observation about petitioning and gratitude in the prayers.
The fact that the Rameumptom prayer uses the language of belief and Alma doesn’t causes us, I think, to question *words* and the work that they can or can’t do. This problematizes the entire endeavor of reading the words of Alma 32, which is also complicated by, as you observe, the fact that “Korihor can only grapple with immanent grace in writing.”
“the whole in their logic”
Not sure if that was deliberate, but it was perfect either way.
Re Jim’s #3: I can think of some ways that Alma could have expressed gratitude in this situation: being grateful for the opportunity to teach them correct principles, for example, or that he got there before they were destroyed by God’s wrath.
Jim writes, “Alma is converted by an angel (Mosiah 27) and preaches the gospel (Alma 4:19ff.); Korihor is converted by an angel (Alma 30:53) and preaches the anti-gospel (Alma 30:6ff.).”
Thanks for sharing that insight; I suspect that it is vitally important to understanding what is happening here.
Some random thoughts:
30:2 The dead are not numbered, but the years are. Why?
30:7 and 8: It appears that the scripture (“Choose you this day”) is used to explain why a law against men’s beliefs would bring them onto unequal grounds. How does that scripture do that work? (Or is the scripture cited for some other reason?)
30:9 The “or rather” makes me think that some part of what came before it was perhaps mistaken or misleading or unclear. (Or is there another explanation of “or rather”?) What was it?
30:7-11 Why are these verses here? The surface answer is that it explains why Korihor couldn’t be punished, but the aside in v12 with the addition of just a few words (“And the law could have no hold upon him because there was no law against a belief.”) could just as easily have accomplished that.
30:20 They apparently did have a law against a man’s belief! Were they “more wise” because they rejected his message (contra v18) or more wise because they threw him out instead of allowing him to preach? Is it possible to read v7-11 in a way that doesn’t imply that the author/editor approved of their law? Or are the high priests who kick him out acting contrary to the law by punishing him for preaching? Or was exile not considered a punishment?
30:22 Why do we hear what the high priest in (of?) Gideon said to him but not what the HP in Jershon said to him?
30:26 What is going on with the end of this verse? Why does it end with a dash and no “but” statement like all of the other ones do?
30:30 What precisely is blasphemous about what he said? (Or: What does what he said teach us about the definition of ‘blasphemous’?) Or does it mean that in addition to what he said before, he also blasphemed?
30:35 I’m intrigued by the alignment of joy and deception–does it mean that it can’t deceive them since it is causing such joy? Is the presence of joy evidence of no deception?
30:42 I’m thinking about the contrast between “possessed with” and “put off” and, later in the verse, that the Spirit has a place “in” you but the devil “over” you. It seems to be a significant difference but I am not sure how to articulate it.
30:44 Why would the “regular form” of the motion of the planets witness to a creator?
30:47 In what ways were his words flattering?
30:51 Why is he writing TO Korihor? Is the writing act significant? Is he not clear on what exactly had happened? Is he deaf as well as dumb (and, if so, why isn’t this mentioned?) Could this possibly be a comical moment? Is it a commentary on the written word?
30:52 If, at his most delusional, Korihor still believed this “angel,” then he knew that there was a higher power making demands on humans, so what then of v17?
30:53 Does “I taught them . . . insomuch that I verily believed that they were true” imply that he didn’t believe them at first? If he didn’t, why did he teach them?
30:56 What is the link to begging? Had K made his money with his mouth before all of this?
30:58 Something is bothering me about the speed of their repentance. (Or is it just the abbreviated account?) And what function does the repetition of the mention of begging for food serve?
Given the end of the chapter, we assume that K had not genuinely repented. But cf. v52-54. Can we determine what was missing (or present) that means that this was not genuine repentance?
Um . . . none of those smiley faces were intentional. I am not sure what sins I committed to cause them to appear.[Fixed: I took off the auto-emoticons function. For a group that uses parentheses as much as we do, it is a dangerous thing to have them on!]I’m not sure when I’ll have time to properly respond, but several of Julie’s questions have my brain inundated with thoughts I have not had before—thank you, thank you, Julie!
I’ve really enjoyed the discussion so far – and I’m really looking forward to Joe’s concise summary of it’s main points :)
A couple of (general) thoughts of my own about Alma 30:
vs. 9, “Now if a man desired to serve God, it was his privilege; or rather, if he believed in God it was his privilege to serve him . . .”
Granted Joe’s insightful comments about the distinct uses to which the word “belief/believe” is put in Alma 31, I’m unsure about the extent to which we’ll be able to avoid reading the word (at least one some occasions) as a synonym for faith. It seems to me that in Alma 32.16, for instance, “belief” may well be intended as synonymous with faith (though I suppose we’ll have to work that out when we get there – and I’m certainly willing to be persuaded otherwise).
I bring that up here because I think that vs. 9 offers an interesting take on the meaning of belief that may be helpful in working out the meaning of faith and/or belief in Alma 32. Here, the “or rather” of the verse pretty explicitly defines “believing in God” as the “desire to serve God.”
It interests me that this parallelism casts belief in terms of desire rather than knowledge or evidence. We “believe” to the extent that we “desire.” Here, one could “know” without “believing” what one knows. (Or, perhaps more interestingly, one might “believe” with certainty what one doesn’t “know” objectively because belief would fundamentally be a question about the certainty of one’s desire?) In this context, it might make sense that Korihor can both say that that he doesn’t “believe in God” (see vs. 37-38) and that he “always knew there was a God” (vs. 52).
(Note, though, that Alma doesn’t stick very well to this distinction in vs. 41 when he claims “I know that believest, but thou art possessed with a lying spirit.”)
vs. 13, “Why do ye look for a Christ? For no man can know of anything which is to come.”
This is one of a number interesting passages in Alma 30 where someone claims to know not some objective thing or fact but what other people do or can know (cf. 42, 48, etc.). This bit of reflexive epistemology is an interesting issue. The argument between Alma and Korihor seems to have at least as much to do with making claims about what the other person does or does not know as it does with making claims about what is objectively the case.
This ties nicely with the central role played by deception in the chapter. The possibility of lying and deceiving is at the heart of the charges and counter-charges. Deception is possible because we (normally) don’t know what the other person knows or doesn’t know.
Note, though, that it’s not just deception itself, but the possibility of deception that is here gumming up the works. Perhaps the trouble isn’t directly with what one knows or doesn’t know, but with one’s relationship to not knowing what the other does or doesn’t know (about what you do or don’t know about what they do or don’t know, etc.)? Perhaps the trouble has to do with working out a way of properly relating to this intersubjective recursivity?
Also: when one lacks a desire to serve (i.e., when one is filled with a desire to fulfill one’s own interests), one might find even the possibility of deception to be paralyzing. More on this in a moment.
vs. 6, “. . . he was Anti-Christ, for he began to preach unto the people against the prophecies which had been spoken by the prophets, concerning the coming of Christ.”
Korihor repeats (more or less) this same line about the connection between Christ, the future, and prophecy in vs. 12 and (indirectly) in vs. 22.
To be anti-Christ is to be anti-prophecy. Could we say that to be anti-Christ is to militate against the possibility of speaking/acting in the future anterior tense?
Doesn’t Korihor’s position primarily consist of an appeal to a “flat” temporality in which everyone is just what he/she is (cf. 17) and when you’re dead, that’s it (cf. 18)?
This kind of flat temporality certainly denies a place to hope and faith which are both modes of acting in the present on the basis of what “will have been” true. Hope, according to Korihor, is by definition “foolish and vain” and is experienced as a kind of yoke or bondage to be shrugged off at all costs (vs. 13).
This flat temporality also seems to deny a meaningful place to the temporality of desire, which – as vs. 9 indicates – is the very stuff of belief.
Further, to come back to my previous point about the paralyzing nature of the possibility of deception when our own interests are given priority: isn’t this another version of foreclosing our relation to the future (i.e., foreclosing hope, faith, etc.) out of fear?
My best,
Adam
Adam, could this kind of flat temporality also be seen thematically in the situation of the Zoramites and the Rameumptom? Their beliefs that God is eternally static (31:15), that “there shall be no Christ” (31:16), and that their salvation is also in a sense static (their election is already a done deal, 31:17) all seem similar to the point you make about Korihor’s position. And as such, Alma could then be concerned with introducing a temporality of desire/hope/faith in his response.
Jenny,
You’re almost certainly right about this. But I haven’t yet re-read Alma 31 :)
Tomorrow . . .
A couple of brief thoughts about Alma 31:
vs. 5, “the preaching of the word had a great tendency to lead the people to do that which was just . . .”
Keeping an eye on Alma 32, it interested me that in this verse a line is drawn directly between the word and justice so that, rather than a “word/faith” pair we get a “word/justice” pair.
Not that this second pairing excludes the first, but that it perhaps gives us a clue about how to read the “word/faith” pair in Alma 32. In many ways, the question of justice/injustice is obviously central to the socio-political context for Alma’s conversation with the Zoramite poor.
I suppose the question we’ll need to answer is: what exactly is it about the word that prompts faith/justice? And how would we go about thinking faith/justice as a pair?
A final thought about this: does the word lead people to do what is just because of the particular mode of power appropriate to it’s deployment – a mode here characterized by its “leading” of people and by its being a power that operates on “the mind” rather than the body?
So that we have a constellation of concepts here: the word, faith, justice, and the mind. The word as operator, faith/justice as the effect, and the mind as the site/object being effected?
vs. 36-37, “. . . they were filled with the Holy Spirit. And after that they did separate themselves one from another, taking no thought for themselves what they should eat, or what they should drink, or what they should put on.”
Unlike the Zoramites who can’t think about anything but “their costly apparel, and their ringlets, and their bracelets, and their ornaments of gold, and all their precious thing which they are ornamented with” (vs. 28), the missionaries find themselves suffering from a kind of “ornament amnesia.”
It’s interesting that vs. 28 and vs. 37 are both presented as the direct results of the prayers variously offered by the Zoramites and Alma. The Zoramite prayer fastens their minds on their own status of ornamentation while Alma’s prayer produces the aforementioned ornament amnesia.
This distinction leads us directly back to the question of justice.
Moreover, it leads us directly back to the effect of the word on the mind. What effect does the word have on the mind? It will “cause you to take no thought for yourself.” It will bring to an end a certain kind of compulsive thinking in which we keep checking – again and again and again – to make sure that all our ringlets, and bracelets, and ornaments of gold are properly in place.
In vs. 38 this freedom from “ornamentally compulsive thinking,” this ego-amnesia, is tied to the way that their afflictions (e.g., their ornamentlessness) are “swallowed up in the joy of Christ.” Especially important though is the fact the final words of the chapter (as Joe originally pointed out) attribute this ornamental amnesia “to the prayer of Alma; and this because he prayed in faith.”
OK, I’ve got a few moments now, let’s see what I can get typed up regarding the many thoughts I’ve had this week:
Joe #8: “it is precisely the publication of a sign that makes (like the divulging of a name bound by secrecy) it a kind of adultery because one attempts to justify one’s faith/fidelity as well as the truth by an appeal to what must remain entirely a private affair.”
I’ve been thinking about this issue more, esp. b/c I just read for Sunday school Mosiah 18 where Alma goes about teaching the word “privately among the people . . . that it might not come to the knowledge of the king” (vv. 1, 3). For convenience, here is a scriptural search for the term “private” at lds.org.
This also lead me to looking how the Greek terms idios and monos are used in the New Testament, and I have to say I’m quite fascinated with John 16:32 where Jesus, as the visible God, says “ye shall be scattered, every man to his own, and shall leave me alone: and yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me.” I think this is esp. interesting in light of the previous discussion of the Paraclete. I’m inclined to think of the private witness of the Spirit as parallel to Alma 32:16’s description of “they who humble themselves without being compelled to be humble . . . without stubbornness of heart,” though I’m still perplexed by the later phrase in that verse, “without being brought to know the word, or even compelled to know.” That is, my conjecture is that public signs are what compel one to believe.
Also, I think this private-public issue should be carefully thought in light of Alma 33:8’s warning not to pray to be heard of men….
Regarding Alma’s lament in Alma 31:
First, I think it Enoch’s vision in Moses 7 has some very interesting parallels to this—the weeping and the preaching of the gospel (Moses 7:19, 27) as well as Satan’s chain that darkens the earth with his rejoicing angels (Moses 7:26) and Korihor’s rather heart-wrenching words explaining how he was deceived by Satan appearing as an angel (Alma 30:53). Also, the use of the term knowledge in Moses 7:32 (“I gave unto them their knowledge, in the day I created them”) is intriguing though perplexing to me….
Next, I think when contrasted with the first, self-righteous part of the Zoramites’ prayer, Alma’s lament seems to be a good illustration of Adam’s “Testmony and Atonement” thesis regarding the danger of mistaking the signs of God for God himself. The creedal statements of beliefs become, like the law for the Pharisees or the “lips that do honour me” in Isa 29:13, a substitute for a real testimony or experience. I also think this contrast highlights an interesting example of the frequent abase themselves / exalt themselves pattern (i.e., Alma’s lament as abasing himself). To try and link this up with the Lacanian discussion above, it seems that by abasing oneself first, one comes into contact with a real experience that can then be symbolized, whereas the imaginary pattern is to exalt one’s own desires at the expense of what is real—or something like that, perhaps….
I’m wondering how the foregoing might be thought in terms of the scientific method, and in terms of how one reads scripture. To seek for a sign to confirm one’s belief seems similar to having a pre-existing theory (theological or scientific) that one tries to confirm with experimental/empirical/textual evidence. On the other hand, perhaps this is just a description of the scientific method badly applied. If one first “agnostically” allows experimental/empirical/textual data to speak, and then one begins to form rational conceptions, models, or hypotheses based on this data, isn’t that similar to the process that Alma suggests in Alma 32, and the process that leads Alma to lament here in Alma 31? Hmmm….
My apologies, everyone, for not getting back to this discussion, as well as for the further apology I’m about to make for not getting to it right now. Yesterday and today took me by surprise for extreme busy-ness, and I’ve much to say still about all of this.
What frightens me most is the fact that the task of summarizing this marvelous and yet ridiculously fragmented discussion lies ahead.
I’ll try both to respond and to summarize tomorrow.
Regarding the equal/nonequal grounds bit in Alma 30:7-11 (sparked by many comments above):
What’s wrong with reading this in terms of an acts/beliefs dichotomy: one is punished for one’s (publicly verifiable) acts, and not one’s (private) beliefs, so what one merely says (whether imaginary or symbolic..?) regarding one’s beliefs does not have bearing on how one’s acts are judged? I think Jim suggested this was a bad way of reading this, but I don’t understand why.
I think a couple interesting cross-references regarding this topic are as follows:
• 1 Ne 17:35 – “the Lord esteemeth all flesh in one; he that is righteous is favored of God” (I think “righteous” should be read here with a strong action connotation, as with the term “serve” in Alma 30:7-11…)
• Mosiah 27:3ff; 29:38ff – Mosiah establishes “equality” (so “that every man should have an equal chance through the land; yea every man expressed a willingness to answer for his own sins”) as he moves the Nephites away from monarchy
It’s hard for me not to read “equal” in a liberal, “the law is blind” sense in the above passages (as I think Joseph and the early church would’ve been esp. inclined to read this), so I’m anxious for others to help me see other possibilities or weaknesses in this reading.
Also, regarding use of the term “crime,” my sense is that this is generally used in the BofM as a synonym for “sin,” and I would be inclined to emphasize the word “done” in Alma 30:11: “For there was a law that men should be judged according to their crimes. Nevertheless, there was no law against a man’s belief; therefore, a man was punished only for the crimes which he had done; therefore all men were on equal grounds.” (If crimes were only illegal acts, I think the second sentence beginning with “Nevertheless” seems awkward.) If this is indeed the case, then I don’t think there’s a problem with Korihor’s use of the term “crime” in verse 17 (“and whatsoever a man did was no crime[/sin]”).
Joe, I’m glad it’s you and not me in charge of summarizing all of this …
As I was re-reading ch. 30 again, there were several phrases that struck me simply because we see them echoed in Alma 32. Here’s the list:
30:13 “O ye that are bound down under a foolish and a vain hope”
30:15 “How do ye know of their surety? Behold, ye cannot know of things which ye do not see”
Korihor’s criticism here inversely parallels the language that Alma will later use to describe faith. As an anti-christ, it appears that Korihor is textually inscribed as an anti-faith-in-christ. I think Korihor’s legacy is ultimately contextual rather than historical—he doesn’t have much success among the people of Jershon or Gideon, he doesn’t appear to have established a following that will impact future Nephite history (like Nehor), yet Mormon includes his story precisely for the thematic context (and contrast) it provides for Alma’s sermon in Alma 32.
30:39 “I know there is a God, and also that Christ shall come”
30:40 “And now what evidence have ye that there is not God”
30:46 “I am grieved … that ye will still resist the spirit of the truth”
A few things in Alma’s response also echoed language and concepts that Alma will expand on later. When we’re discussing what Alma means by words like “know” and “evidence,” it might be useful to recall how he employed them here. Also, ch. 32’s discussion of the effects of giving the seed a place in one’s heart (see verse 28) appears to be thematically connected to 30:46—resisting the spirit of truth being parallel to not giving the seed a place. It again might be useful to recall Korihor and his actions when discussing how one gives place to the seed, and also again later in 32:38-39 where Alma speaks of what happens when the tree is neglected (Alma’s assessment of Korihor in ch. 30 appears to be that Korihor had, at least to some degree, knowledge and understanding both of the Nephite culture and of their religious practices, something that indicates he could have had “a tree” growing at one point).
There has been so much provided this week by everyone—I wish I had more time to respond to some of the comments I found so interesting. Thanks to all.
Jenny
Julie asks: “Is it possible to read v7-11 in a way that doesn’t imply that the author/editor approved of their law?”
I think that my reading a continuity between the Nephite obedience of the law with its hints of (Freudian) neurotic religion and the law that allows for Korihor’s preaching is a step along this pathway, at least.
Julie says: “I’m intrigued by the alignment of joy and deception–does it mean that it can’t deceive them since it is causing such joy? Is the presence of joy evidence of no deception?”
Yes, I like this very much. Joy (the real?… oh how I can’t wait to get to Alma’s “Is not this real?”!!!) as what ruptures language and hence the very possibility of deception? Joy = jouissance?
Julie asks: “If, at his most delusional, Korihor still believed this “angel,” then he knew that there was a higher power making demands on humans, so what then of v17?”
Clark Goble has been talking on LDS-PHIL about reading Korihor as being involved in a rival cult rather than being rooted in “Dawkins-like atheism.” That might explain things. But I wonder if it isn’t better to simply see the text as showing that it is precisely the loquacious pretension of atheism to atheism that betrays (as Alma sees) its essentialy theism. Over against this, what Korihor sees as Alma’s essential theism turns out, marvelously, to be a thoroughgoing atheism (in the sense that Alma has an antifoundationalist or non-Aristotelian theology). Korihor turns out to be exactly what he criticizes, and the thing he criticizes turns out to be exactly what he pretends to espouse.
Julie says: “Something is bothering me about the speed of their repentance. (Or is it just the abbreviated account?)”
Yes, me as well. I’ll take comfort in the last words of chapter 35, where it is clear that whatever repentance took place did not last very long. Perhaps they are too much like the Korihor they have taken as reason for repentance.
Adam says: “It interests me that this parallelism casts belief in terms of desire rather than knowledge or evidence.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you for this insight! It occurs to me now that we have to read every instance of “believe” in chapter 31 through this connection. That is, the Zoramite pretension to belief is a pretension to desire. Maybe, in fact, it would be best to read the Zoramite words concerning belief over against Alma’s petition (and, so, the Zoramite gratitude over against Alma’s lament… chiastically, in essence): Alma’s petition is driven by his desire, but he finds no need to state that desire, only to ask; while the Zoramites can’t stop talking about their desire precisely because it is ultimately false.
Adam asks: “Doesn’t Korihor’s position primarily consist of an appeal to a “flat” temporality in which everyone is just what he/she is (cf. 17) and when you’re dead, that’s it (cf. 18)?”
I think this is a very good way of putting it. It is fascinating that Korihor’s teachings give death an odd stasis: “when a man was dead,” etc.
Adam summarizes: “So that we have a constellation of concepts here: the word, faith, justice, and the mind. The word as operator, faith/justice as the effect, and the mind as the site/object being effected?”
I like this very much. What is so interesting is that this constellation is set against another, which I would riddle out thus: the sword as operator, signs/law as the effect, and (again) the mind as the site/object being effected. Could these two constellations be said to be idolatry and iconism, religion and atheism/atheology, the imaginary and the symbolic, etc.?
Faith as amnesia… brilliant!
Robert’s ongoing reflections on the private and public meet up nicely with a book I began reading yesterday, which I’ll take the privilege of recommending: Eli Zaretsky, Secrets of the Soul: A Social and Cultural History of Psychoanalysis. Zaretsky’s argument is that as Calvinism was to the first industrial revolution (Weber’s famous thesis in The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism), Freudian psychoanalysis was to the second industrial revolution. Zaretsky thus articulates psychoanalysis as a thematization of the personal (read: “private”) as such, as well as a methodology for disentangling the personal (again: “private”) from the familial (read: “public”). I in turn want to read this as suggesting that psychoanalysis (I’m obviously following/clarifying Badiou here) is essentially the thought of the radically subjective subject as radical (that is, of the “person” as a radical or revolutionary). With all the psychoanalytic themes we’ve been reading into Alma 30-31 (and will be reading into Alma 32), might it be best to see Alma’s work here as that of disentangling those to whom he preaches from the familial/public so as to free up the possibility of radical (and radically subjective) fidelity/faith? (On that count, it is interesting that Amulek will be involved in the preaching, since he specifically undid his family in the name of radical fidelity to this… movement.)
Finally, Jenny: thanks for these connections between Korihor’s argument and Alma’s words in ch. 32. Very helpful.
In reviewing Mosiah 18:19-20 today, I was quite struck by the contrast between the minimalist(/atheological/”atheistic”) nature of what was taught in the church under Alma (“nothing save it were the things which he had taught, and which had been spoken by the mouth of the holy prophets . . . . Yeah . . . nothing save it were repentance and faith on the Lord”) and the theologically-laden prayer of the Zoramites….
Yes, during Sunday School today, I was very much attuned to themes of atheology and radicalism. Without getting too much astray here, it proved quite interesting to compare Alma’s revolutionary church with Limhi’s statist people. Whereas the former broke with all legalism, the latter emphasized and used legalism in order to get things done. Moreover, while each group escapes with a text in hand (the Jaredites plates on the one hand, Abinadi’s speech as written by Alma on the other), only one has the ability to read theirs (the other group is left with an untranslatable text).
One way to read the encounter in Alma 32 would thus be this: the group that approaches Alma is attempting to do something radical but just can’t see how it must be done, and Alma’s task is to riddle out for them what it means to be a radical or radically faithful.
Joe,
This may be neither here nor there but I’ve been thinking a little about rhetorical “strategery” lately and I’ve been thinking in particular about the words “radical” and “revolutionary.”
I like both of these words for a lot of reasons (especially knowing precisely what you’ve got in mind when you use them), but I wonder if they’re so loaded as to be counter-productive in many of our gospel oriented discussions. If I were to use either of those words with my Mother, she’d just roll her eyes and (rightly from her perspective?) start thinking about something else :)
I’m not sure what other words to suggest in their place, but I wonder if we might be able to find some vocabulary that might convey the same ideas without the “liberal/hippie” baggage?
If anyone’s got any ideas about this, I’d be extremely interested to hear them.
My best,
Adam
I wonder about these terms as well. Though I’m convinced that “revolutionary” is more conducive to Mormon culture than “radical,” primarily because Joseph spoke of “laying a foundation to revolutionize the whole world”; and the rhetoric of the American revolution can always be drawn on to soften the blow.
But then I wonder whether “radical” has such a negative connotation among members of the Church. If I were to say that the early saints were a group of radicals, I think that might be objected to, but I’m not sure I see anyone objecting to the claim that Mormonism made a radical shift, or that Mormonism is radically different from other religions, etc.
In a word, isn’t it how the word is couched rather than which word is used?
I think that first quoting a well-regarded yet “safe” authority (e.g., Joseph Smith or a recent prophet or member of the 12) that uses such a term—say, along the lines of Joe’s examples—is a good way to do this, at least that’s how I’d Couch it….