Hugh Nibley — A Tentative Theology
By: Nathan Smith
Tags: Mormon, Theology, Mormonism, Religion, Hugh Nibley

Recently I read The Essential Nibley, an abridgment of sorts of the herculean 19-volume collected works of Hugh Nibley (a de facto parent of Mormon intellectualism) into a more manageable or urgent form.

Like a lot of LDS, I’ve run into Nibley before, mostly before my mission and when I was much more defensive about Mormonism than I am now. I have complex feelings on Nibley, no stranger to controversy (not all of it academic), but no lightweight either. His work’s a bit dated now, as would much of any other field, and his methodology was undeniably an apologetic one — a defender of the faith even Salt Lake could consult. This means some of his work is not for me at this stage in my life. But that’s not to disrespect his seismic contributions.

Recently I decided to revisit Nibley, not as a historian, but a theologian. I’m convinced that history shouldn’t be theology as theology is a poetic engagement with the present; to any degree it engages the past or future, it does so from here, now. I want to know how Nibley experienced Mormonism, or how he used it to make sense of his world. What’s intriguing to me is that he had a strong conviction concerning Joseph Smith as a prophet, though he was no yes-man of the institutional church (I’m tempted to say he got away with a lot because of his family heritage in the Church). Even more interesting, however, is that, while Nibley considered history a sort of proof of Joseph Smith’s legacy, from a theological vantage, Nibley is at least articulating not a Wasatch-style Mormonism, but a gospel that reverberates through eternity, and thus history, unafraid to explain its Mormon worldview through non-Mormon sources — creating a strange yet intriguing hybrid of sorts. For Nibley, the endowment is not merely Masonry, or even vaguely Solomonic, but dances unabashedly with Egyptians, singing from the Book of the Dead of hypocephali and pharaohs passing past otherworldly guardians in their afterlives on their way to deity — as one example.

He’s also an interesting collision of intense reason and biblical literalism, seeing Noah’s flood as historical yet hardly global, only from Noah’s perspective. Or the earth may have shaken at Jesus’ crucifixion around the cross, but don’t attribute the Andes, Appalachians, and Rockies to it, you muppet! Nibley was literalistic, but deeply avante-garde for the Mormondom of his time.

A few quotes will show what I think is most interesting about the theological Nibley (at least thus far): for one, he was a strong believer in stewardship over ownership, that we possess nothing in our lives, giving it all back in death, but are at least caretakers thereof.

“[The Creators] worked through agents: ‘The Gods ordered, saying: Let [such-and-such happen] … ; and it was so, even as they ordered’ (Abraham 4:9, 11). “What they ordered was not the completed product, but the process to bring it about, providing a scheme under which life might expand; ‘Let us prepare the earth to bring forth grass’ (Abraham 4:11; italics added), not ‘Let us create grass.’ “‘Let us prepare the waters to bring forth abundantly. … And the Gods prepared the waters that they might bring forth great whales, and every living creature that moveth’ (Abraham 4:20). Note the future tense: the waters are so treated that they will have the capacity. The Gods did not make whales on the spot but arranged it so that in time they might appear. They created the potential. … ‘And the Gods watched those things they had ordered until they obeyed’ (Abraham 4:18). … “That important word ‘until’ tells us … that they took all the time that was necessary, no matter how long it might have been, measuring the period in terms not of a terminal date but in terms of the requirement of the task.” — Old Testament and Related Studies, 70, 74

Writing on the creation of the world by the gods in the Book of Abraham, Nibley points out this lovely detail in the text, and perhaps a rare moment of Mormon modesty, wherein the gods must lure creation into being (and from separate agents), rather than command it into existence from nothing. Creation in Joseph Smith’s more articulate thinking seems to be a humble act, an interaction rather than domination; to create — a world, a book, a fence — requires a humble understanding that the creation is not entirely yours.

“A basic teaching of the Talmud is that there is a definite correlation between the behavior of man and the behavior of nature. The universe is so organized, according to this, that when man revolts against God’s plan of operations, to which all other creatures conform, he finds himself in the position of one going the wrong way on a freeway during rush hour: the very stars in their course fight against him. The blight of nature follows the wickedness of man in every age. … The world [is] ripe for destruction, according to the principle that whenever men fall away completely from God, destruction must follow.” — Abraham in Egypt, 178–79

We read here Nibley’s sense of existence as a holistic, entangled whole; one part going awry results in cascading friction. Humanity’s actions matter on even a cosmic scale when they forget to live as the gods, who lured, never demanded — a divine absence of ego.

Nibley also provides an intriguing Christology, and perhaps the foundations for an atonement theology:

“‘Until Christ opened the way,’ says the Gospel of Philip, ‘it was impossible to go from one level to another [death and resurrection]. He is the great opener of the way because he gave us the plan by which we can progress. He is the way.’ That’s why we call him ‘the way, the road, or the gate.’” — Temple and Cosmos (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book and FARMS, 1992), 294

Here we find a distillation of Nibley’s Christology and atonement theology: Jesus as the one who brought forth (thus revealing) his own capacity, and ours, to live like the gods in harmony. Christ is the way, truth, life; Jesus embodied, and thus revealed Christ.

Finally, we may take a glimpse at Nibley’s view of rites and rituals within Mormonism:

“The ordinances [rituals in Mormonism] are mere forms. They do not exalt us; they merely prepare us to be ready in case we ever become eligible.”

— Temple and Cosmos (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book and FARMS, 1992), 1–41

I love Nibley’s perspective on temple ordinances here, and I believe it can be expanded to describe all ordinances or rituals prescribed in Mormonism. The difference in perspective from that which is traditionally pitched is startling to some, though.

Often Mormons describe ordinances and their effects in strongly bureaucratic or legalistic language. I think this is so because it’s the simplest narrative and triggers the strongest emotional response: if you can get a missionary to live in this narrative, that one cannot live with their family forever after death or go to the celestial kingdom without being baptized, they will act with tremendous urgency and even gusto. But their are also tremendous failings in this framework that must be addressed: tension that leads to needless emotional turmoil, and a tacit disregard for what it means to follow Christ.

I think the problem can be boiled down (simplistically but perhaps helpfully) to two conflicting perspectives: that of going to the celestial kingdom and becoming a celestial person; or, a focus on external factors over internal transformation. The former is described with metaphors such as comparing the three degrees of heaven in Mormon cosmology to going to a nice penthouse suite, versus a decent hotel, to a ratty motel 6; the latter is described with scriptural images, such as the transfiguration of Jesus before his disciples or even extra-biblical imagery, such as Enoch being suffused with — even becoming — fire. The “go to the celestial kingdom” theology treats life and the afterlife as a trip through TSA, ensuring you have the proper ticket, passport, signatures, and the like; the “become a celestial person” theology asks how you might act or respond in particular situations and experiences — it asks who you are. In the former theology, ordinances are your tickets/passports, and little more; you get them, and then be sure not to drink coffee, attend all your church meetings, and pay your tithing so you can go to the celestial kingdom and be with your family when you die. The implied alternative is that when you die, you can neither go to the celestial kingdom, and that not only can you not be with your family, but presumably God will separate your family as a result, preventing them from coming together. This is a perspective which, though “simple” (not quite always what we fetishize that word to mean) and “inspiring,” ultimately denigrates the process of .internal change necessary in following and ultimately becoming just like Christ. It’s a system of permissions and authorizations that has no place for personal transformation. It is also quite alien to much of scripture.

Both D&C 76 — “The Vision,” the foundational text for much of our theology on ordinances and the three degrees of glory — and D&C 88 describe the celestial kingdom (and the terrestrial and telestial kingdoms) not as places to go, but gatherings of individuals who follow a “celestial law.” Further this “celestial law” is not merely to receive an ordinance but to live in a certain mode of being. For example, the earth itself is described as living a celestial law, not for having been “baptized” in Noah’s flood (a whole other conversation), but for its very mode of being. For D&C 88, the planet itself is a symbol to contemplate in considering what this “celestial law” lived by celestial persons may look like in action. And ordinances (an older English term for “law”) ultimately serve in much the same way, offering illustrations and contemplative tools in exploring the celestial life.

Sealing spouses for eternity, for example, is no mere magic gesture, but an involved narrative; the loves are taken through the narrative of Adam and Eve, as the titular characters, and carried to a climactic embrace at the edge of a room that represents the celestial kingdom before they are ever brought to kneel at an altar to promise themselves to one another for eternity. Baptism, moreover, is also quite involved, recalling the moment Jesus awakened to his Christ-like nature, the exodus out of Egypt, and the waters of Mormon, when the people of the Book of Mormon consciously devoted themselves to abandoning their previous ways of violence and instead bearing up the downtrodden among them, strengthening the weak, mourning with those who mourn, and comforting those who stand in need of comfort. Rather than a trip to the heavenly DMV to get your license, this is a profound act of internal struggle and transformation, aided but never fundamentally affected by symbols and ritualized promises.

A theology of “becoming a celestial person” rather than “going to the celestial kingdom” also dovetails nicely with Mormonism view of the afterlife as an extension of life now, rather than a distinct break or departure therefrom. As the D&C 130:2 describes, the same “sociality” we enjoy now we will enjoy then, only eternally; the “afterlife” differs from “this life” in the same way today differs from yesterday or tomorrow. Mormonism invites us to live now the way we would want to live for eternity. In the celestial room of a Mormon temple, often there stand two mirrors facing each other, creating an infinite repetition of whatever or whoever stands between those two mirrors — a rich image expressing a simple truth: how we live now carries us into the eternity. When you die, you cannot take your passports with you any more than your riches, only the person you have allowed yourself to become.

Similarly, ordinances are bundles of complex symbols and narratives, always subject to further change and articulation, which help us to meditate upon and contemplate what kind of Christ-like potential rests within each of us, a potential we are invited to allow to suffuse every relationship we are a part of, including with people, objects, environments, events, time — all of it. Ordinances also provide us with concrete moments to consciously, deliberately commit ourselves to that kind of living, a kind of living which may go against the grain of our typical lives and ways of experiencing the world. Each week, members of the Church perform an ordinance called “sacrament,” similar to Communion or the Eucharist, wherein they consciously, deliberately re-commit themselves to the vision of their celestial life which they gradually articulate over an entire lifetime — and longer still.

I draw attention to this dual tension between competing theological perspectives for a number of reasons, most notably because one perspective is clearly more beneficial than the other; for the simple fact that one framework inflicts needless suffering and instigates unnecessary conflicts, while the other opens up space for redemptive internal transformation.

Hugh Nibley is a slightly foreign object in the twenty-first century (as we all will be to the next century), but he articulated an experience of the world that, I believe, can be ported across centuries. Indeed, he himself ransacked history unapologetically under this assumption, in search not of justification for a Wasatch or frontier religion or church, but for a gospel that spun the galaxies, ignited the stars, formed the planets, engendered life, and called humanity into an eternal progression to which there is no end.