Korihor and the First Amendment

I noticed something peculiar as I was reading the Korihor story this week (Alma 30). Near the beginning of the story, the author makes a point of informing us that under the regime of the judges, "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" (v. 11). This information serves at least a couple different purposes in the narrative. It explains how this horrible atheist could go around teaching such pernicious doctrines without anyone putting a stop to it sooner. And it allows the author, along with the various characters in the story who sit in judgment of Korihor, to claim a certain kind of moral high ground: i.e., we deplore his beliefs, and of course everyone can see in the end what God thinks about them, but we’re not disputing his legal right to believe as he wishes.

But in fact, as the story unfolds, we're given no indication that Korihor's various arrests are due to anything except preaching his beliefs. When he goes to preach in the land of Jershon, we're told that the Anti-Nephi-Lehies "were more wise than many of the Nephites" (v. 20)—so wise, indeed, that instead of letting themselves be bothered by legal protections on religious freedom, they tie Korihor up and take him before the authorities. Not the legal authorities, mind you, not the judges, but the supreme religious authority in the land, Ammon the high priest. But since Korihor apparently hasn't committed any crime that would justify punishment under the law, Ammon has to settle for having him ridden out of the county on a rail.

Unfortunately for the Christians, Korihor proves as undaunted in the face of persecution as Alma, Ammon, and the other great Christian missionaries were. So after being driven out of Jershon, he goes to preach in the land of Gideon (one of the areas, you'll recall, where Alma's revival tour had enjoyed success), where again he gets arrested. This time he's questioned by the chief judge and the Christian high priest (not the same person—see v. 29). Why the high priest has any legal authority to question Korihor is far from clear. But he takes the opportunity to harangue Korihor for perverting the ways of the Lord, speaking against the holy prophets, and interrupting the rejoicings of good Christian believers. Korihor in turn uses the hearing as a forum to boldly testify against his accusers (not unlike, say, Abinadi?).

Again, Korihor apparently hasn't broken any laws that would let the chief judge sentence him and have done with the matter—or if he has been charged with some legal infraction we haven't been told about, the case isn't clearcut enough for the chief judge to rule on it satisfactorily. In any case, the text tells us that the high priest and the chief judge are dismayed "that he would revile even against God" (v. 29), suggesting that it is the expression of his religious, or anti-religious, beliefs that's getting Korihor into so much trouble with the authorities, not any crime he's committed. So they tie him up again and have him shipped off to a higher tribunal. And once again, for no evident legal reason, that tribunal consists both of the highest judicial authority—the chief judge, who is also the governor—and the supreme head of the Christian church, Alma the high priest. Again, if Korihor has been charged with any crime, we're not told what it is. Instead, the trial becomes an occasion for Alma and Korihor to debate religion, and it ends with Alma invoking the curse of God on Korihor, turning him into a deaf-mute (v. 51), after which he's "cast out," goes begging from house to house for support, and is eventually trampled to death in the land of Zoramites. Where the law proves unable to punish Korihor, God intervenes to do it instead.

What's happening here? We have here a regime that professes to believe in freedom of conscience as a matter of equality before the law. But that same regime has become tightly intertwined with a particular religious institution: the Christian church founded by Alma the Elder. This de facto religious establishment is horrified by atheism and clearly wants to use the power of the state to suppress it, but has trouble legitimating that suppression in light of the law protecting people's beliefs. Korihor poses a problem to the Christian-dominated regime, because unlike Nehor, who could be readily eliminated on the grounds of his having killed Gideon, Korihor apparently hasn't committed an obvious crime. We're told early on that adultery is a crime (v. 10), and we're told that Korihor has led people to commit "whoredoms" (v. 18), so maybe there's some potential there for charging him with an actual crime. But if the deviant sexual practices of Korihor's group stopped short of actual adultery, or if group members resorted to plausible deniability about their sexual practices—the way Mormons routinely did during the polygamy era!—you can see where the courts would run into problems. Perhaps they were trying to get Korihor on the equivalent of a "disturbing the peace" charge; hence that talk about him reviling against the prophets and the priests, interrupting the rejoicings of the Christians, etc. Again, though, the authorities seem to have had a hard time making an accusation stick, judging from the way his case keeps getting shuttled along.

The situation we see depicted in this story is similar to the American legal situation in Joseph Smith's day. There you have a Protestant-dominated society committed to notions of free religious exercise—partly because socially and legally disadvantaged Protestant groups like the Baptists got sick and tired of state churches, and partly because waving the banner of religious liberty lets Protestants flaunt their superiority over Catholics. But at the same time, members of a loosely defined Protestant mainstream have no compunction about using the power of the state to implement their moral vision for America and even to suppress competing religious groups, including atheists. Mormons themselves run up famously against this Protestant establishment. Mormon missionaries encounter vigilante actions or legal harassment similar to what Korihor faces: being run out of communities, being arrested on charges of disturbing the peace, being accused of “whoredoms,” being brought to trials that are really political referenda on their religious beliefs. During the government’s decades-long effort to stamp out polygamy, Mormons keep insisting that their constitutional right to religious exercise is being denied. Ironically, the Supreme Court, in the Reynolds decision, legitimates anti-polygamy prosecutions on the same principle we find in Alma 30:11 (as well as in D&C 134:4)—yes, freedom of belief is guaranteed, but the law still has power to punish people for their crimes. Just as that principle doesn’t keep a Christian quasi-establishment from arresting, and ultimately destroying, Korihor for his atheistic preaching, so it didn’t keep a Protestant quasi-establishment from trying to destroy the Mormon Church for practicing polygamy.

The same ambivalence about religious freedom that we see in America’s nineteenth-century Protestant establishment—and that we see today among conservative Christians, including conservative Mormons, who profess to revere religious freedom at the same time they wave the banner of a Christian America—that same ambivalence undergirds the story of Korihor. The author of this story and readers who embrace this story as a revelation of the will of God think they believe in freedom of religion; yet they also believe they are justified in using the power of the state, the power of ecclesiastical authority, even the miraculous power of God, to suppress—to violently suppress (because let’s be clear that Korihor meets a violent end)—religious or anti-religious teachings that they see as a threat to their own beliefs. Besides, the story assures us, Korihor knows his atheism is bogus—how could he not, when the evidence of God’s existence is so obvious?—so this isn’t a case of bona fide freedom of belief anyway.

As someone with liberal ideals, I find all this worrisome, in the same way I got worried a couple weeks ago when I realized that the person who wrote the chapter heading for Alma 23 doesn’t understand the difference between religious freedom and religious establishment. The story of Korihor is a story about the violation of human rights. The author of this story believes that for preaching his false gospel, Korihor deserves to be literally silenced, financially ruined, cast out of the community, and ultimately killed—all with God's blessing. Korihor’s followers are threatened with the same fate (v. 57). Rewrite those last two sentences with the name “Joseph Smith” instead of “Korihor,” and you’d have a recipe for nineteenth-century anti-Mormon literature. (I’m intrigued by the fact that, like Joseph Smith, Korihor is called through angelic ministration to preach against a false Christianity—v. 53.) But Korihor’s an atheist, so of course the same rules don’t apply. An author who suggested that Mormons deserved to be silenced, ruined, driven out, and killed for their religion would be justly decried by Mormon readers. But when we read a story in the Book of Mormon that confers the same fate on an atheist—well, that’s the will of God.

I trust it’s obvious that I don’t believe the story of Korihor is historical. I’m reading it, rather, as an expression of a certain set of values, and I’m trying to evaluate those values in light of my understanding of God’s will as made known to me through the Spirit. That’s what I believe it means to ponder the scriptures in a spirit of discernment. And at this point, my heart and mind are telling me that the values which justify the fate of Korihor are not God’s values. To borrow language from Alma 31, that idea sickens my heart and pains my soul (31:1, 30). Elsewhere, our tradition teaches me that God wills that there should be constitutional protections for the rights and privileges of all people, and that people should be responsible only to God, not civil authorities, for their religious opinions (D&C 98:5; 101:77-78; 134:4). That’s where I hear the Spirit talking. And the story of Korihor isn’t consistent with those principles.

Now, as I’m writing, I imagine some very orthodox person reading this and thinking, “Look, buddy, you can kick against the pricks all you like. But this story is the way things happened. This is how a prophet of God dealt with anti-Christ. Korihor suffered the judgments of God. And if you have a problem with that—if you don’t think that the punishment he received was merited—then you need to repent.”

In response to that—and to make a point—I’m going to deeply relax my posture of civility for a moment and disclose exactly what thoughts came out of my un-Christlike heart when I imagined someone saying that to me. My thoughts were: “If you actually believe that this story really happened—if you actually believe that one person turned another into a deaf-mute by cursing him, and if you believe that the values implicit in this story are a reflection of the will of God—then you are so intellectually and morally deficient that, ideally, you shouldn’t be voting, or raising children, or doing anything else that would bring other people under the influence of your idiocy. In fact (ready for the ironic kicker?), I wish I had the power to strike you dumb. And there’s even a nasty part of me that would think you deserved to end your days begging on the streets until one day someone finally ran you over.”

Now, if your reaction to that paragraph is a horrified, “How hostile! How offensive! How appalling he thinks that way!”—well, yes. Exactly. And that’s what’s wrong with the story we’re told in Alma 30. It’s hostile. It’s offensive. And it’s appalling that there are people who read this story without cringing at its puerile, violent sectarian fantasies. Whatever God intends us to learn from this story, it isn’t: “This is what God thinks ought to happen to atheists and unorthodox intellectuals.” I don't believe God approves of that any more than he approves of the sentiments I expressed in the previous paragraph.