Star Trek V, the Liahona, and Jacques Ellul's technique

Despite what my recent Star Trek comics binge might lead you to believe, my Star Trek fandom is actually kind of spotty in its coverage. It’s not so complete that I’ve ever actually seen Star Trek V (though I hear I’m not missing much), but it’s absolutely complete enough to be familiar with its most famous line. A being claiming to be the ultimate, galaxy-wide monotheistic deity asks for transport on the Enterprise, prompting a skeptical Kirk to ask “what does God need with a starship?”

the Liahona

Whatever the quality of the rest of the movie—and I’m not in a rush to find out—this is a pretty good line! If the being is laying claim to a certain pangalactic omnipotence, why do they need mortal technology in order to help them complete their divine task?

Readers of the Book of Mormon might ask themselves a similar question early in its narrative. One day, Lehi, the semi-protagonist of this part of the story,

arose in the morning and went forth to the tent door, [and] to his great astonishment, he beheld upon the ground a round ball of curious workmanship; and it was of fine brass

Within the ball were two spindles; and the one pointed the way which we should go into the wilderness. (I Nephi 5:11-12; CofC Revised Authorized Version)

However, this ball (later named the Liahona) is more than a compass—or GPS. The family soon discovers that:

the pointers which were in the ball… worked according to the faith and diligence and heed which we gave to them.

And there was also written upon them a new writing, which was plain to be read, which gave us understanding concerning the ways of the Lord; and it was written and changed from time to time, according to the faith and diligence which we gave it. (I Nephi 5:34-35)

So, what does God need with a brass ball? At this point in the narrative, God has already used visions, dreams, angels, and the Holy Spirit to communicate divine messages to Lehi and his family. It’s a pretty neat piece of technology that God drops off outside of Lehi’s tent one morning, but it seems really inefficient. If Lehi already has a direct line to God, what’s the purpose of the Liahona?

building the Liahona

As I’ve noted in a few other posts, I’ve recently finished a reread of Steven Peck’s collection of Mormon short stories Wandering Realities. One of Peck’s stories imagines a Babylonian jeweler (and convert to Yahwism) who is tasked with creating this neat piece of technology. I have some real theological issues with parts of the story (i.e., the way that it not only Christianizes but Mormonizes first temple Yahwism), but I love this conceit for a story, and it really drives the question I’m exploring even further. Peck emphasizes that this Liahona must have been a carefully designed machine of some kind (even if it’s one designed for divine operation):

The nested rings were attached with rollers that allowed the entire ring to rotate smoothly and without a sound. Words in Market Egyptian were written upon the innermost ring. These Az placed in relief instead of carving them, which would have been infinitely easier. When different layers of the nested rings were turned, the windowlike frames could be moved in such a way that any combination of words could be exposed, depending on which windows were open to the most inner ring and which rings did not expose the inner ring. Through the glass, the exposed words written on the inner ring could be read through the windows. The words changed as the rings were turned, and as the window frames moved within the device they framed new word combinations.

And yet, Az (our protagonist) has a heck of a time trying to figure out manufacturing the Liahona in the first place. He gets vague hints through dreams, visions, and prayers, but not a clear instruction manual, and the process of designing and creating it is stressful, sleepless, and kind of miserable.

All of this drives Kirk’s question (adapted for this situation) home even further. Why a Liahona? Why inspire a man through vague hints to build a machine to communicate the divine will to a family that has a solid track record of receiving the divine will without the help of any kind of machine? Why not cut to the chase, either by providing Az with a clear set of instructions, by building the machine directly by the divine hand, or by just directly revealing to Lehi what his family needs to do instead of mediating it through a weird little device?

The first book within the Book of Mormon (even without Peck’s very noncanonical story) presents us with a God who is interested in technology but can’t be bothered with efficiency…

small-t technique and big-T Technique

… and that’s what I find really interesting about it. I’ve spent a lot of time recently reading Jacques Ellul, a French sociologist and theologian who isn’t shy about blending his secular and sacred vocations. Perhaps because he explicitly provides a model for doing so (just got a new book of his called Theology and Technique that I’m really excited for), I’ve been interested in using Ellul’s thinking to ask theological questions about technology.

Ellul’s a technology skeptic. More accurately, he’s skeptical of technique, a term that he and other Continental European thinkers use to capture not just tools but also any formalized means to an end. This broad understanding is helpful, both because it helps us avoid a theology of technology that is overly focused on the digital, and because if we want to use the Book of Mormon (or the Bible) to develop such a technology, we’d need a broad understanding of technology anyway.

In his book The Technological Society, though, Ellul makes a distinction between two kinds of technique. One, small-t technique or technical operation, he’s not necessarily critical of:

The technical operation includes every operation carried out in accordance with a certain method in order to attain a particular end.

This, Ellul describes as natural human behavior and as not necessarily bad. However, it should be distinguished from big-T technique or the technical phenomenon:

The technical phenomenon is the main preoccupation of our time; in every field men seek to find the most efficient method. But our investigations have reached a limit. It is no longer the best relative means which counts, as compared to other means also in use. The choice is less and less a subjective one among several means which are potentially applicable. It is really a question of finding the best means in the absolute sense, on the basis of numerical calculation.

This technical phenomenon is what Ellul is broadly concerned about. It’s a self-directing, morality-ignoring, human-subjecting drive for efficiency. It yields and adapts to technical systems rather than ask what the right choice in a given situation is. It lifts up technique and technology above any other consideration and is willing to ignore everything else.

bringing it all together

Ellul gives us a framework for understanding God’s approach to technique in the Book of Mormon. For God, technique—whether a tool or any other means to an end—is inevitable. Yes, we can ask Kirk’s question about what God needs with the Liahona, but what I appreciate about the Liahona story is that it teaches us that there is no access to God without mediation. Even a dream, even a vision relies on human techniques—language, images, cultural understanding. No connection with God is truly a direct connection with the divine, free from any kind of mortal interference. Maybe the lesson of the Liahona is that that isn’t a bad thing. We shouldn’t make wild claims about the inability to feel the Holy Spirit over Zoom or whatever “back in my day” argument that we want to make.

Yet, God’s total disregard for efficiency also ought to give us an Ellulian skepticism of big-T Technique. Sure, we can’t access the divine through some kind of mediation, but the technical phenomenon that Ellul describes leaves no room for the divine in its all-consuming emphasis on efficient behavior within human systems. No, we shouldn’t make wild claims about the inability to feel the Holy Spirit over Zoom, but we can—and should—ask ourselves about the kinds of technical systems that Zoom helps perpetuate and whether those systems are compatible with our theological views.

This blog post really only lays a foundation, and I think elaborating on these two conclusions would be necessary before we can extract any Ellulian theology of technology out of the Book of Mormon. I don’t have time to do that now, though I’d love to try more in the future. I’m so taken with the basic idea, though, that I didn’t want to wait before sharing these first thoughts.

• Star Trek
• Star Trek: The Final Frontier
• Liahona
• technique
• technology
• Jacques Ellul
• Steven Peck
• Book of Mormon
• The Technological Society
• Theology and Technique