#27 CA seceding, delivering bad news, I Corinthians 13:7, church music and architecture, quitting, "grit," Majorana fermion

Good afternoon.

            I was having lunch in late December with an old friend.  The discussion turned briefly to politics (a topic I mostly try to avoid of late because I am cognizant of its negative effects on my blood pressure).  My friend spontaneously opined that Abraham Lincoln should have let the South go.  That is an opinion I share; I've downgraded my ranking of the Lincoln presidency because Lincoln wasn't prescient enough to realize the long-term effect of keeping the southern states in the union.  (I write that somewhat facetiously.)

            A month or so earlier I had read a brief extract from a biography of Zachary Taylor (by John Eisenhower), who became president in March, 1849, and died in July, 1850.  Taylor, it seems, had a much more deferential attitude to Congress than did his predecessor, James K. Polk.  Polk, you may know, was responsible for the acquisition of more territory for the United States than every president except Thomas Jefferson (the Louisiana Purchase).  Through war and diplomacy, Polk added both the southwest and the northwest, and he didn't pay a lot of attention to Congress in the process of doing so.

            It takes little imagination to understand why Polk was upset at a comment that Taylor made after his inauguration.  Here is the biographer Eisenhower quoting Polk:

"'Something was said which drew from General Taylor the ex­pression of views and opinions which greatly surprised me.  They were to the effect that California and Oregon were too distant to become members of the Union, and that it would be better for them to be an independent government.  He said that our people would inhabit them and repeated that it would be better for them to form an independent government for themselves.  These are alarming opinions to be entertained by the President of the United States. . . .  General Taylor's comments, I hope, have not been well considered.'"

            Although not for the reason Taylor articulated, 167 years later there is occasional chatter about California seceding from the U.S.  I don't blame some Californians for contemplating the possibility.  If they were to do so—although there's no constitutional means for secession to happen—the rest of us who count ourselves as progressives are screwed, because the departure of that many Democrats from Congress would make it more conservative.  If Oregon and Washington followed suit—creating the Pacific States of America—the situation in the leftover U.S. would be even worse.

* * *

            As you know, we had bad news delivered to us on October 17 of last year.  The hospital social worker, sitting with us and the physician, described Krystin's medical condition and then flat-out said, "this is not survivable."  I realized then and later that that's the way I preferred to hear the information—and learned thereafter that I'm in the majority on that score.

            A study out of Brigham Young University contends that people generally prefer to hear bad news with candor and with little or no "buffer."  A buffer is a way to try to soften the blow, "a polite lead in."  Whether any buffer at all is seen is desirable varies with the situation.  If the bad news is about a social relationship, a small buffer may be preferred:  "we need to talk" and then get to the nub.  The small buffer allows the recipient of the news to understand that bad news is coming.  If the bad news is about a physical fact, the study participants wanted no buffer at all:  "your illness is terminal" or "the water is polluted."

            Those who must deliver bad news are usually uncomfortable in the position.  A different study commented:

That most people have difficulty communicating bad news is reflected in what's called the MUM effect ("keeping mum about undesirable messages"). . . .  "If sharing bad news was in no way negative for senders, then there would be no reason for senders to report feeling uneasy, reluctant, and hesitant to share bad news.  Indeed, these costs might very well represent the essence of the MUM effect."

One imagines that someone in the position of the hospital social worker is trained on how to deliver bad news and, with experience, can steel themselves to the effects it will have.  The guy clearly wasn't happy about what he had to tell us, but of course he never lost his composure or his steadiness in conversation, and he was sympathetic.

            The desire for frankness is not universal.  I can still recall that my mother never asked for nor received an honest assessment of her medical state when she was dying of cancer.  At one point her physician simply lied to her by telling her that she'd be able to attend an annual event a year later.  We all knew that wasn't true and so did he.  That refusal to acknowledge her situation—which I'm sure she knew, deep down—made it difficult for the rest of us to talk with her about it.  We had to tip-toe around the topic whenever it was the subject of conversation.

            One thought about the preference for receiving the news straight, no buffer, is that the person may know the news is coming anyway, so delaying or complimenting beforehand just creates anxiety.  "Dressing up bad news with a pretty bow doesn't make things any better.  In fact, it could make them worse."  Another element of the interaction that's important is tone.  Aggressive (e.g., in a job termination) begets aggressive; sympathy and kindness beget as positive a response as possible (which, of course, isn't going to be very much, in these circumstances).

            I'd just as soon not be in the position ever.  I hope I can avoid it.  Been there, done that, don't need any more experience on that score.

* * *

            Last summer Kathy and I attended the wedding of a daughter of long-time friends.  It was a traditional (Catholic) wedding and the Bible readings were ones we have heard many times at weddings.  (I want to make it clear at the outset that this is not a criticism of the couple who got married and their choices of readings at the ceremony.  My comments are in general.)  One of the readings has annoyed me for decades, and I've heard it at perhaps 75% of the weddings I've been to:  I Corinthians 13:7 (Paul's first letter to the Corinthians).  In the Revised (or English) Standard Version, it goes like this:

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

In the King James Version, it reads as follows:

(4) Charity . . . (7) Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

            I have for years found that claim about love to be ridiculous, silly, and downright wrong as a definition of love for a couple exchanging vows.  For example, love shouldn't bear or endure an abusive, drug-ridden relationship after prolonged efforts to deal with the problems, or a relationship that involves abuse of children.  We all know that love in real life does not bear, or believe, or endure all things.  One could argue, given increased divorce rates over the last 50 years, that in fact love bears and endures quite a bit less than it used to.  What I have learned, however, is the language of I Corinthians 13:7 isn't quite what the plain English would suggest.  There are two difficulties, one contextual and one translational.

            The contextual:  A friend directed me to a Biblical exegesis website.  "In 1 Corinthians 13, we find one of the most beautiful and familiar chapters in the Bible.  This chapter is typically read at weddings and anniversary celebrations.  It has even been set to music.  Yet, this was never the original intent.  Instead, Paul was writing a rebuke to a dysfunctional church for their abuse of spiritual gifts.  Typically though, this understanding is often ignored."  As my friend commented, "a marriage ceremony is definitely out of context for these verses!"

            The translational:  Paul wrote his letters in Greek (at least that's what the best scholarship seems to say—as opposed to Hebrew or Aramaic).  The word he used was agape, which the Oxford English Dictionary defines as "Christian love, as distinct from erotic love or simple affection; charity."  The Random House Dictionary has three definitions:  "1.  the love of God or Christ for humankind.  2.  the love of Christians for other persons, corresponding to the love of God for humankind.  3.  unselfish love of one person for another without sexual implications; brotherly love."  So the "love" in 13:7 isn't the love we usually associate with romantic relationships that lead to a marriage.

            A faculty friend who knows something about classical languages offered observations on the use of the words.  "I was going to say that 'love' is a particularly bad translation and like so many modern ones substitutes something general and vague for something pointed and relevant even if not 100% accurate in representing the Greek.  A term that came around a few decades ago, Caring, seems to me much of the right idea, and comes from Latin Charitas, like charity.  The Greek term agape has no corollaries in English."  He added, apropos of the use of I Corinthians 13:7 at weddings, "you are entirely right about that text for a wedding, but the modern translations are so vacuous it hardly matters what gets used."

            My friend also provided me a link to commentary on I Corinthians 13 in the King James Bible.

Some critics claim that the word "charity" is either wrong or outdated.  Newer translations use the word "love" instead.  The Greek word at issue is "αγαπη (agapē)".  Thayer defines this word as "brotherly love, affection, good will, love, benevolence" (Thayer's Greek Definitions).  The definition of "charity" is "benevolent goodwill toward or love of humanity" (Merriam-Webster).  The English word "charity" comes from the Latin "caritas", which means "Christian love" as opposed to sexual love (Online Etymological Dictionary).  Throughout history, Latin theologians such as Augustine have used "caritas" as a term of art to refer specifically to Christian love (On Christian Doctrine, 3.10.16).  Whenever "charity" appears in the KJV, it is in reference to Christian love toward fellow Christians.

            Of course I'm not going to go on a rant about this the next time I attend a wedding.  But I may not be able to resist a small shake of my head (largely because the priest/minister should know enough to suggest the passage not be used in the wedding ceremony). 

* * *

            My exchange with my friend about Corinthians inspired a few other reflections on matters indirectly related to the Bible.  He wrote, on the matter of being in church, "I haven't been in a church [for over two decades].  But confess I am often tempted to be, and with the right church (St. Agnes comes very close, since it uses Latin at High Mass) I might actually go.  Not for the theology but the liturgy.  That would be a high Anglo-Catholic church using Jacobethan English in Prayer Book and Bible, and they are few and far, far between."  That isn't a flavor of church service that many would like, but he's a classicist!

            I told him that what he and I appreciate, and what my son does not, is the liturgy and the music.  Even though I am not religious, I attended church as a youngster and grew familiar with the hymns and readings—and, to a modest extent, church architecture.  It's for that reason, I think, that Pat and I—16 years ago—so enjoyed Evensong at Westminster Abbey when we sat with the choir.  If you aren't raised in a religion, you don't have any of that history or the affection for the services (even though you might not believe in the theology).  I enjoyed the Catholic wedding that provoked my response to Corinthians; it helps when the priest is good (i.e., funny, thoughtful) at what he does.

My friend wrote back.  "You're a good example of what the church does for one whether one believes or not.  The liturgical churches—the ones with serious esthetic expressions unlike the evangelicals—do a great service for the spirit, for conduct, and even for (dis)belief, I think.  [I may not have believed in the theology] but I could see how it all fitted and worked together in The Church, and I respected that, without knowing until later precisely what my relation to the Church was."

There was an added benefit, in my opinion.  I opined to him that "I also think that my experiences in church are what allow me to admire the breath-taking art and architecture of the great churches/cathedrals, especially of Europe (although the National Cathedral in D.C., along with St. Patrick's and St. John the Divine in NYC inspire awe as well).  Even the St. Paul Cathedral!" 

* * *

For some reason I was struck by a column by an editor at the Chronicle of Higher Education on quitting.   Kelly Baker (Ph.D. in religion) wrote it after becoming irritated by a newsletter from her kids' school urging that the parents not let their children quit an extra-curricular activity even if they don't like it.  She realized that the clear message is that quitting is failure.  She argues, emphatically, that is not so and the world shouldn't look at it that way.  She compiled a list of ways quitting can be positive.

Ø Quitting can be brave.

Ø Quitting can be knowing your boundaries and limits.

Ø Quitting can be an affirmation that your time is valuable, so you care about how you spend it.

Ø Quitting can be about what matters to your life — or what doesn't.

Ø Quitting can be about shifting priorities.

Ø Quitting can be about respecting your values.

Ø Quitting can be about dignity.

Ø Quitting can be about economics.

Ø Quitting can save your life.

Ø Quitting can be about leaving abusive spaces or walking away from abusive people.

Ø Quitting can be about what you need or don't need, and about what you want or don't want.

Ø Quitting can be mundane or ordinary. Or it can be a radical declaration that you are done with one way of living and you're trying out a new way.

Ø Quitting can be a claim about who you are or who you are striving to be.

Ø Quitting can just be a choice.

For almost every one of those bullets I can think of having quit something.  (Not sure about the first one; I can't recall that I was ever "brave" for quitting something.  In the case of the alternatives in the antepenultimate bullet, I've never engaged in a radical declaration I was done with one way of living.  To put it mildly.)

            I have always been grateful to my dad for not making me play little league/park board baseball for more than about 3-4 games.  He was the captain of his high school (Minneapolis West) baseball team and had aspirations to professional ball (but WWII got in the way, in which he was shot in the shoulder by a German sniper, so that was the end of his baseball career).  But he remained a lifelong baseball fan and, when he became father to a son, he of course wanted me to play baseball.  I found it dreadfully dull and I hated standing out in the sun in the outfield.  I'm sure he was disappointed that I didn't want to play—but he didn't force the issue and he never said anything to me of any disappointment he may have felt when I quit.

            Dr. Baker makes several points I agree with.  "Quitting is not inherently a failure."  And:  "There's nothing heroic about sticking around. . . .  Suffering isn't heroic.  It's just suffering."  Nor is it necessarily good (or bad).  I'm sure she'd put qualifiers around these; it can be heroic but necessary at the bedside of an ill spouse or child or parent.  She asserts, I think correctly, that "choices have contexts and histories. . . .  We can't assume that all quitting is about failure.  We can't assume all sticking around is about success."

            She writes that she was, for a long time, one of those who bought into the American creed that winners never quit.  The result was that she stayed in terrible jobs, in terrible relationships, and endured experiences that she would not have had to if she'd just quit.  As the saying goes, you have to know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em.  Quitting can be cutting your losses.

            We also tend not to hear, or tell, the stories of stumbling or of failure (except perhaps to those to whom we are the closest).  So the culture expects to hear about winning, not losing.  (One comment on Twitter, in response to her column, was that quitting is an essential skill in mountaineering:  knowing when to turn back.  If you don't know, lives can be lost, including your own.)

* * *

            Coincidentally, a few months after the editorial on quitting there appeared a piece, also in the Chronicle of Higher Education, about "grit" and teaching character by David Gooblar.  Those of you outside education may not have noticed that there's been widespread reaction to Angela Duckworth's research on "grit," which is "a blend of perseverance and passion. . . .  Her theory suggests that character — and, in particular, the tendency to stay the course in pursuing difficult long-term goals — might be as important as academic knowledge and skills in determining student success."  Schools have been trying to measure grit in students and teachers as well as trying to incorporate grit in their curricula.

            Professor Gooblar related that he encountered "the grit debate when I was mulling the issue of how to teach character in a college classroom."  He maintains that "we as faculty members should be trying to help our students develop into more capable, ethical, and critical citizens — and not just helping them master certain knowledge and skills."  (That's not a contention that all faculty accept as a legitimate part of their job; one commented, "It's not enough that in order to be considered a good teacher I must simultaneously be a subject matter expert, a motivational speaker and a stand-up comic, but I must also take on the role of parent? . . .  If my professorial workload has become laden with the responsibility for creating intellectual character for every student who walks through my classroom (or virtual classroom) door, I want a raise."  There is also the not-trivial problem of measurement:  how do you decide when a student has learned "grit"?)

            Gooblar faults the hoopla surrounding grit.  One, it's too simplistic; even if it's as important as advocates say, there are still many elements that affect student success in school.  Two, the concept hasn't been adequately and systematically explored; even Duckworth opposes using it in schools at this point.  Three—and I think this is a central problem—it blames the student for failure and doesn't account for the many structural problems that many face "because grit maps so easily onto traditional American narratives of self-reliance and meritocracy — narratives used for centuries to justify a 'natural' racist, sexist, and classist hierarchy — it seems particularly problematic. . . .  Poor students are performing worse than rich students?  They're just not gritty enough."  (This reminds me of the distinction between emphasizing internal rather than external factors when assessing character and status.)

            In his article, Gooblar went on to explain how he thought that intellectual virtues should be taught in college classes, which I am not going to explore.  What he urges getting away from, however, is the simplistic notion of grit.  Several reader comments point out, however, that teaching "character" or intellectual virtues has to start before kindergarten, not in college.  The older the students, the less malleable they become—assuming there's some degree of malleability to start with, and most seem to believe that character *can* be taught—so by the time they're in college, their "character" is probably pretty well set.  Needless to say, parents play the most critical role when the child is growing from infant to pre-schooler.

            So it's perfectly acceptable to quit—but if you do, you have no grit.  (I'm sure that Dr. Baker would distinguish between quitting a specific activity and the long-term commitment required to acquire a good education—even if "grit" isn't the term she'd use.)

* * *

            There is out there in the world research that looks extremely interesting—and which I cannot even fathom.  Some of such research occurs in physics.  First, in 1928, Paul Dirac predicted antiparticles and that when they met with particles, they would be destroyed but produce energy.  The prediction was subsequently verified.  In 1937, Ettore Majorana predicted that "in the class of particles known as fermions, which includes the proton, neutron, electron, neutrino and quark, there should be particles that are their own antiparticles."  A U of California/Stanford research team believes it has found the Majorana fermion.  Just in case you wanted to know, "the particular type of Majorana fermion the research team observed is known as a 'chiral' fermion because it moves along a one-dimensional path in just one direction."

            I think this stuff is fascinating, even though I don't understand it.  Even something as apparently as recondite as Majorana fermions may have practical application.  "Far in the future . . . Majorana fermions could be used to construct robust quantum computers that aren't thrown off by environmental noise, which has been a big obstacle to their development.  Since each Majorana is essentially half a subatomic particle, a single qubit of information could be stored in two widely separated Majorana fermions, decreasing the chance that something could perturb them both at once and make them lose the information they carry."

            The guy who led the research has a puckish name for the particle:  "the 'angel particle,' in reference to the best-selling 2000 thriller Angels and Demons, in which a secret brotherhood plots to blow up the Vatican with a time bomb whose explosive power comes from matter-antimatter annihilation.  Unlike in the book, he noted, in the quantum world of the Majorana fermion there are only angels -- no demons."

* * *

I found this among the excerpts from the novels of P. D. James that I one time compiled.

"The tragedy of loss is not that we grieve, but that we cease to grieve, and then perhaps the dead are dead at last."  From Original Sin.

I think that may be right.

On that cheery note,

Gary