Why were Laman and Lemuel so obedient?

This year, as I’ve been reading Nephi’s account of his life (1 Nephi 1 – 2 Nephi 5), I’ve been struck by the fact that even though Nephi represents Laman and Lemuel as perennially doubting and murmuring—they never actually turn back, they never actually split from the rest of the family (when the split finally comes in the promised land, it’s Nephi’s group who leaves), and while Nephi's account emphasizes their murmuring and rebellion, they always, until the very end, do what Lehi and Nephi want, and not always under duress. They follow their father into the desert despite thinking it's foolish. Likewise, they think the mission to get the brass plates is foolish—but they go. At certain points (e.g., 1 Ne. 22:1), we see them coming to Nephi for instruction, apparently willingly, accepting his role as their teacher, the role he claims he’s been divinely appointed to. Lehi and Nephi are preoccupied with the question of why Laman and Lemuel can’t be more obedient; during this year’s reading, I’ve wondered why Laman and Lemuel are as obedient as they are.

A couple different possibilities have occurred to me, which may not necessarily be mutually exclusive. The first possibility is that Laman and Lemuel feel that they have no choice but to go along—or, when things become absolutely intolerable for them, to violently rebel. Maybe these characters are younger than we often imagine them to be. Maybe they’re too young to break away from their father; maybe they lack the know-how to go back to Jerusalem and make a living for themselves. Maybe they’ve been brought up to take Lehi’s patriarchal authority so thoroughly for granted that they don’t seriously question it—like soldiers, who may grumble non-stop about their commanding officers, and on occasion may be pressed to mutiny, but otherwise wouldn’t actually consider disobedience an option. (With that in mind, I was intrigued when Lehi tells Nephi that he has “required” Laman and Lemuel to go get the brass plates [1 Ne. 3:5].) Maybe Lehi has aroused such violent opposition in Jerusalem that Laman and Lemuel have to flee with the family for their own safety; and then once they’re in the middle of the desert, they don’t really have a choice except to stick with the group even though they suspect their father makes far too many decisions on the basis of dreams. (At one point I thought: What if we imagine a scenario in which the Liahona, like Joseph Smith’s golden plates, is never actually seen by the group as a whole, so that Laman and Lemuel have to accept on Lehi and Nephi’s say-so that they’re being guided by a mysterious compass?)

Then there’s the problem of how authority works in this little group. From the time of his conversion experience in the wilderness in 1 Nephi 2, Nephi is convinced that God has appointed him to be a ruler and a teacher over his brothers (2:22). Lehi appears to accept that claim. Laman and Lemuel, as we know, resent it, to the point where on a few occasions when Nephi tries to assert his authority, they try to kill him. What’s happening here is that this miniature, fledgling society is being strained from its very beginning by a power struggle, an intense conflict over how authority should function in the group. Who gets to inherit the patriarch’s mantle? Who gets the conch? Laman and Lemuel claim the “natural” right to lead by virtue of their being the oldest sons. Nephi claims that God has given him the right to lead. Lehi sides with Nephi. The result is a festering resentment by Laman and Lemuel and their allies (the sons of Ishmael), who feel that their rights have been trampled on. In moments of crisis, when it seems to the aggrieved group that Nephi is making intolerably unreasonable or unrealistic demands, in some cases endangering the group, then resentment breaks out into mutiny: they tie Nephi up and leave him to die, they try to drown him in the ocean, etc. Of course, Nephi’s account of all this represents his understanding of the power struggle, which is simply: God has appointed me to lead; Laman and Lemuel reject my authority (exhortations, pleadings, etc.) because they reject God.

That’s one way of understanding why Laman and Lemuel obey as often as they do. The second possibility that occurred to me is that Laman and Lemuel genuinely accept Lehi’s, and even Nephi’s, prophetic claims—they genuinely have faith, to a point where they’re willing to abandon everything they own and trust their father to lead them into the wilderness. But their faith isn’t as unwavering as Lehi’s and Nephi’s. They struggle to maintain their faith and optimism in the face of life-threatening difficulties and the unexpected, seemingly unrealistic demands that their prophets spring on them from time to time. Their faith isn’t as dogmatic as Lehi’s and Nephi’s, we could say. Things happen that make them wonder: Was I right to put my faith in these people? Has this been a huge mistake?

Seen this way, Laman and Lemuel are like a lot of the people who join Joseph Smith’s fledgling faith community. They’ve had experiences that have prompted them to put faith in the Latter-day Saint movement—and their faith is powerful enough that they’re willing to make sacrifices. They’re willing to leave their homes, they’re willing to move to a new place. But then, having encouraged the Saints to invest an incredible trust in him by virtue of his prophetic claims, Joseph does things that strain their credulity and lead them to wonder if they’ve made a mistake: he illegally creates a bank, which then fails, wiping out members' savings; he sleeps secretly with other women, issuing public denials all the while; he stays safely in Kirtland while the members who are building up the gathering place in Missouri face mounting persecution. Some members, including some high-ranking leaders, people who have worked closely with Joseph, feel so disillusioned and betrayed and angry that, like Laman and Lemuel, they turn to physical violence.

Lehi and Nephi—and, I’d say, Joseph Smith—have little to no sympathy for those among their followers whose faith isn’t as unshakable, as dogmatic, as theirs. Lehi and Nephi expect 110% commitment. When they say go move mountains, you get your shovel. When they speak, the debate is over. We’ve been commanded by God—how can you balk? Note that what’s at question here isn’t so much Laman and Lemuel’s faith in God—though, inevitably, that’s how Nephi understands the problem. What’s at question is Laman and Lemuel’s ability to maintain faith in particular human beings who claim to speak for God. Of course, Lehi and Nephi have no doubt about their own prophetic callings. (Well, actually, Lehi has at least one moment of doubt when Nephi’s bow breaks; if Nephi ever has doubts, he doesn’t tell us about them, though perhaps we should read the Psalm of Nephi in 2 Nephi 4 as suggesting otherwise.) And because of their dogmatic outlook, Lehi and Nephi seem unable to empathize with people who don’t throw themselves wholeheartedly and unquestioningly behind what they (Lehi and Nephi) are convinced are revelations from God. So even though Laman and Lemuel have made the sacrifice of leaving everything behind and walking off into the desert; even though they keep participating in projects that they’re not really sure are going to pan out; even though they listen to Nephi interpret the scriptures and their father's visions—Lehi and Nephi keep haranguing them. They get preached at over and over: how can you be so hard-hearted? Why can’t you be more righteous? You're swift to do iniquity... I fear for your souls...

And you know what? It doesn’t work. That’s the message this story conveys, probably in spite of the author’s intentions. Preaching at people whose faith isn’t as dogmatic as yours doesn’t work. It may whip them in line long enough to accomplish a particular task. It got Lehi’s family to the promised land. But it did nothing to ameliorate the tensions and resentments and alienation that finally split the group apart. In fact, I don’t think it’s hard to argue that the preaching fueled those resentments. Lehi’s and Nephi’s dogmatism—their insistence that the rest of the group submit to their claims of divine authority without doubt, without murmuring, without flagging, with absolute commitment—that dogmatism helps set in motion the conflicts that split this group apart and will ultimately, hundreds of years later, destroy an entire civilization. Nephi doesn’t realize it, but he’s helping to sow the seeds of his own people’s destruction.

What was the alternative? I don’t know. I’m not sure the Book of Mormon has an answer to this problem. Maybe it can’t do more than pose the problem: maybe new revelation is needed to find an answer. But if the goal is a society where everyone is one in heart and mind—then dogmatic claims to divine authority don't seem to be the solution, if the Book of Mormon has anything to teach us about that. That solution only works if you somehow “cut off” those who won’t submit to your authority, if you somehow eliminate them from the picture. In the Book of Mormon, and in LDS history, that “cutting off” takes various forms: excommunicating dissenters; taking your little group off to form their own community somewhere else; looking forward to the day when God will kill off the wicked and leave the righteous to inherit the land. It should be no surprise that this vision of how to make a unified, righteous society culminates in violence. This vision requires violence of one kind or another. What I hear in the Book of Mormon is a warning that the violence unleashed by this vision can escalate until it destroys everything you thought you were working for.

I don’t want to be too harsh on Nephi. There’s something to be said for his kind of unshakable faith. I can see from the notes I penciled into the margins of my Book of Mormon four years ago that the last time I read this, I was inspired by Nephi’s model of confidence, of maintaining his convictions in the face of adversity, of relying on the scriptures and personal revelation to make meaning out of potentially disorienting setbacks. Also, I was (and am) moved by Nephi's dilemma: How do you get through to people whose hearts seem closed? How do you open their eyes to a more ambitious or an unexpected vision of what God wants? I can certainly relate to that problem. But this time around, I feel I’ve been led to pay more attention to the dark side of Nephi's confidence—its perhaps inevitable tendency to alienate and divide.