Darwin in Hungary

It's a good indication of how this year has gone, that I've not posted here in almost a year. The combination of teaching and writing my Master's paper (in addition to my two other part-time jobs) has been completely overwhelming. Much as I did when I was working with congregations, I have to remind myself that the goal is not to do the best I possibly can, but to do the best I can under the circumstances. This year, there have been circumstances in full supply.

Near the end of the second year of our program, we are expected to produce a research paper of about 40 pages, something that acknowledges the work that has already been done in our area and contributes significantly to that body of literature. Because I have continued to hold out hope that I could contribute something of value to research involving Eastern Europe, my adviser and I settled on something related to the reception of Darwin's work in Hungary. Although my Hungarian language skills have been better, I figured that this would be a good opportunity to put them to use, and perhaps sharpen them a bit for my dissertation. The reality has been that having to read everything in an especially difficult foreign language slowed my progress enormously, a fact that was not surprising to anyone but me.

As challenging intellectually as the research was, I was also surprised to find that the hardest part was actually the emotional challenge of it. After years of feeling very competent as a writer and preacher in my ministries, I have had to face the insecurity of being a beginner once again. My approach to research was unfocused. My note-taking was disorganized. My writing was completely different from what was expected of me by other historians. One classmate reassured me that the process was going to push every one of my insecurity buttons, and she was right. It turns out that I have more buttons than an airplane cockpit.

The good news (and one of the lessons we're supposed learn, I suppose) is that we don't really go through the process alone, although it's easy to feel that way. The faculty and my classmates have been very helpful and supportive and, although there's so much that I wish were better about the paper itself, it has been an intense and amazing educational experience. If I were to start researching that same paper today, my approach would be quite different, based on all that I've learned about the conventions of historical writing.

Since other duties are calling, I'll just post a link to the paper itself, in case anyone else is interested in seeing what the work of a new historian looks like. It's not pretty, but hey -- doesn't everything start out a little rough around the edges?

The Reception of Darwin’s Work in Hungary’s Nineteenth-Century Popular Press

Beginner's Mind in Transylvania

It's always challenging on many levels to be back in my spiritual homeland, and this latest visit is no exception. I'm halfway through a month-long visit to Hungary and Transylvania to root through the archives of the Unitarian Headquarters in Kolozsvár and also in the Library of the Romanian Academy of Sciences, where enormous amounts of historical documents are now stored after being seized decades ago by the Romanian state. My graduate research is about the Rev. János Körmöczi, who was a physicist (like me) and became the Bishop of the Unitarian Church (not like me). I lived in this city for two years (1996-98) as English teacher at the Protestant Theological Seminary, and I have a lot of amazing memories from that time and the several visits that have followed.

Culture clashes are always good for a laugh or two when I'm in Eastern Europe, and I have my share of embarrassing moments as well. Perhaps because this visit is longer than usual and I've been mostly left to my own devices, I'm feeling very aware of having to struggle through this month mostly alone. I learned years ago that, even when my Hungarian was flawless, people knew from my coloring that I wasn't one of them, and often simply spoke right back to me in English. As tempting as the thought of "going native" is (sorry about that choice of wording), I have to accept that I won't simply be able to melt into the crowd, and that I will likely always inspire those kinds of behaviors that arise when people know that an outsider is watching them.

I learn a lot about the United States, for example, when I see people in other countries behaving the way they think we want them to behave. Hungarians are incredibly generous when it comes to hospitality, and sometimes try to extend "American-style" hospitality to us... that is, what they think it means to be an American.

So what do they think it means to be an American? As far as I can tell, my friends seem to believe that it means being able to spend large amounts on money on a whim. To be able to just pull out our wallets and fork over the cash for an iPod, or buy expensive clothes without saving up for them or really even thinking about it. And it embarrasses me to think that this what people think we're about or, even worse, that it actually is what we're really about.

I mentioned that this trip has been harder than most. I've had a couple difficult run-ins with people that required me to navigate angry situations in a foreign language -- the first one in Hungarian, the second in Romanian. Neither of them were fun, and both left me feeling depressed and a little ashamed of not having handled them better. I pride myself on being a good diplomat, but functioning in a foreign language, especially one like Romanian in which my abilities are still pretty basic, inevitably leads to misunderstandings... practically every day, in fact. As innocent as these encounters were, my handling of them just made me wish I was back home, where I can navigate confidently and comfortably.

This is going to sound like a change of subject, but it's not: Hungarians and Romanians are the world champions when it comes to gorgeous, decadent desserts and strong coffee. (My love for this place isn't only academic, after all.) When I was teaching here, I was a regular in a swank coffeeshop right in front of the seminary, and I've found an equally decadent one very near where I'm staying. One of my greatest pleasures is to sit down with a beautiful pastry and a big cup of coffee, and read while I dose my anxieties with sugar and caffeine.

I had to acknowledge that, in truth, I can do this anytime I want; I can plop down the money for a treat like this, or a couple of beers, or a nice dinner, without really having to worry, even with the dollar as weak as it is. And that this ability is a comforting bit of home. I don't enjoy spending when I'm back in the States, can't even stand to walk through a mall, but I admit how much comfort I find in this when I'm discouraged with my language skills or tired of being reminded that I'm an outsider. It's one of the few ways I can be in control here when I'm feeling like an alien.

And, if you were hoping that I'd get back to the subject of history of science, here you go. I was reading a feminist critique of science by theorist Donna Haraway, who is apparently brilliant but really hard to understand, who spoke about just these issues in the world of science. The perspective of science has historically been that we can look at the world from a neutral perspective, seeing nature just "as it is" without our identity or opinions getting in the way. This way, science could be the same for everyone -- each of us would see the same thing and report it in the same way. Scientific knowledge has become what we call "privileged" knowledge in this way -- more powerful than other kinds of knowing, we believe, because of this "objectivity", and practically the same thing as truth.

Haraway's critique of this is what philosophers of science and historians of science have also come to see: that there really is no such thing as being a neutral observer, and it has in fact been destructive to assume that science and technology offer such an objective perspective. Instead, she urges us to consider "situated knowledges", ways of knowing that acknowledge that we each have identities and histories which affect how we see and understand things. True, they differ from person to person, but they are at least honest that it isn't possible to just melt into the background and "consume" nature and other cultures without being touched by them. Haraway's paper was a big help for me this week in realizing that I won't be able to navigate Transylvania, or its amazing history, without the tensions and vulnerability of engaging with another culture, no matter how good my language skills are. Encounters like these don't come without risk, and there's no escaping being touched by this experience, but the saving grace for me is that every unpleasant encounter is always balanced out by several gracious and kind encounters with the people here. These moments of big-heartedness and open-mindedness are ultimately why I keep coming back, despite the challenges; as hard as it's been, it's always worth it.

A Long Tradition of Heresy

I've never identified very strongly with Unitarian Universalism's self-image of a community of heretics, partly because I felt like I got most of my rebellion out of my system years ago, and there are so many other things to think about these days. But it's not surprising that my studies are dredging up important voices who challenged the church's authority, and that I've been revisiting that heritage.

Our word "heretic" comes from the Greek word hairein, which means "to choose". Rather than simply inheriting belief from their family, culture or religious tradition, heretics shape their own conclusions or choose another source of guidance. One of the papers I'm writing this semester is about Galileo Galilei, Giordano Bruno, and Menocchio, a 16th century Italian miller featured in Carlo Ginzburg's history The Cheese and the Worms. I'm exploring how heresy trials proceeded differently (and how we make them into history differently) for different figures. Each of these men were ultimately silenced -- Galileo professionally muzzled, and Bruno and Menocchio killed -- for daring to challenge the official religious doctrines of their time. We'll see how this research goes... I have a lot of reading to do in the next two weeks, and not just for this paper.

I'm also facilitating a conference call this evening about the Unitarian traditions of communion and catechism in Transylvania. It's been good to revisit these theological questions, because school has really pulled me away from thinking about religion as much as I did when I was doing it full time. Part of the heretic's struggle is about listening to our discernment when it contradicts our traditions, or goes against the current of all the people around us. I've heard so many painful stories in my ministry from people who have had to learn to trust the voice inside them, and work to keep that voice honest and courageous. Because our religious identities are also so tied into our families and our ethnic identities and ideas about what it means to be a good person, it's not just like quitting one club and joining another -- it's like pulling up all your roots and transplanting yourself into new ground, which may or not sustain you.

See? This is why I love studying science and religion together -- I get pulled into such amazing topics.

I'm also realizing that I haven't blogged about my amazing trip to Transylvania over winter break... that's going to have to wait until I get more of my homework done!

Timing is Everything...

…even more so in blogging than in comedy, not that the two don’t overlap somewhat. (So says the guy who hasn't posted an entry in almost three months... that's irony, folks.)

The Nobel-winning co-discoverer of DNA Dr. James Watson drew fire about six weeks ago for his controversial claims that people of African descent have lower intelligence. After that story had hit the papers, I began a blog entry about Watson, wanting to explore how society responds when our scientific celebrities are caught with their foot in their mouth.

When it became clear that my post would be late enough not to be a very fresh perspective, I gave up on it and paid attention to my mounting load of homework instead. This past weekend, however, I was in Boston at the annual conference of Public Responsibility in Medicine and Research (PRIM&R), the organization of Institutional Review Boards, who provide protective oversight to human subjects research. I’ve been serving on a Madison hospital’s IRB for the past year, and this was my first exposure to the international network joining all of these local IRBs.

I was struck during one keynote lecture, though, that Watson’s remarks may actually be worth another look, now that we’ve had some time to absorb the controversy. I was interested in the conference lecturer’s use of another quote by Watson: “We used to think that our fate was in our stars. Now we know, in large measure, our fate is in our genes.” After reading this quote, the speaker laughed at how not only was the content of the quote discredited, but implied also that Watson had discredited himself even as a potential source of scientific wisdom. Not only had his remarks on race revealed him to a fool, but they also apparently disqualified him to speak even on the subject of his scientific expertise.

The last morning’s keynote speaker, another excellent lecturer, explored the history of racial and ethnic issues in diseases like Tay-Sachs disease and sickle-cell anemia. Because Tay-Sachs disease, for example, was so strongly identified with Ashkenazi Jewish heritage, Jewish communities found ways to engineer the matchmaking process to reduce the number of babies born with this usually-fatal condition. In more liberal Jewish families, abortion was considered an option when it was possible, but Orthodox Jews instead took part in a fascinating project with the organization Dor Yeshorim to conduct blood tests on Jewish teens and prevent genetic carriers from marrying one another. The success of this project, however, led it into some controversial waters of its own –- it was later suggested that Jewish youth should also be tested for common (but less fatal) heritable diseases like Gaucher’s disease and cystic fibrosis. Despite the success of Dor Yeshorim’s work, it suddenly became clearer to the general public how risky this social engineering could be.

I recall this keynote lecture because the speaker quoted another brilliant Nobel laureate, Dr. Linus Pauling. Back in 1968, Pauling suggested another approach to reduce the incidence of disease: carriers of the sickle-cell mutation should be tattooed on their foreheads with some symbol of their genetic status to prevent them from falling in love with one another.

Well, not surprisingly, I was disappointed to read such a draconian suggestion from a respected scientist and humanitarian. It has started me thinking once again of this category of scientific celebrity: why is it that we come to see respected scientists as infallible sources, and why is it that we also give them a blank check to broadcast opinions on subjects unrelated to their field of study?

"The Lives of Others"

Since I've been remiss in sharing my interests about Eastern Europe lately, I wanted to share that I saw a powerful movie on this topic a couple of weeks ago, on a rare evening with no more homework to do. Or perhaps I was neglecting to do the homework I had.



Das Leben der Anderen (The Lives of Others) is set in 1984 East Berlin, and follows the moral trajectory of Gerd Wiesler, a idealistic member of the Stasi, East Germany's secret police. As Wiesler follows the lives of a celebrated playwright and a successful actress and their social circle, he begins to see the petty personal motives behind their surveillance, and finds himself feeling understanding and sympathy for them. He begins to intervene in subtle ways, covering his tracks so that he continues to appear the model spy to his supervisors.

This is not an easy film to watch, and it's hard not to be overwhelmed by the dehumanizing work of the Stasi, perhaps even more painful because we see that everyday people, capable of sympathy and little acts of kindness, filled its ranks. It's also hard not to come away with a sense of dread for our own time, and the recognition of how easily this history repeats itself. I agree with the most damning criticism of the film, that a Stasi agent could almost certainly not get away with Wiesler's fabrications, because agents always had other agents spying on them. If the film could have successfully portrayed this complex level of oppressiveness and still tell a credible story, it would have been brilliant.

But I highly recommend the movie, nonetheless. It's extremely well-made and acted, and the moral journey of its characters is expressed in the subtlest ways. And it doesn't sugarcoat how demoralizing and dehumanizing the police state is... an important reminder for those of us willing to sell everything for the promise of security.

The Privileged Place of Religious Thought

Whew, I've had a full month. Before the semester started, I made some time for a drive back to the St. Louis area to see my family and help take care of business there. The trip was not helped by the fact that I had fallen down a flight of stairs the day before while doing my laundry, but all in all it was nice to visit, and nice to be reminded how much I appreciate living in Madison.


My family has a complicated religious identity. Both sides are Catholic -- one Irish and French, the other Irish and German. Many of us, especially my parents' generation and younger, have left Catholicism for something else. Most of my apostates-in-arms haven't chosen another identity to replace it, although a few of us have ended up in various flavors of Protestantism. Except for one notable family member, this religious diversity has never really been a problem for us -- the one statement I hear again and again is, "I'm just glad they've found something that works for them." Church is understood to be a mostly positive force in people's lives, and loyalty to family trumps loyalty to a particular religion. I've been very lucky to have such a loyal family, and I'm sure that my affirmation of religious diversity started with my their respectful treatment of one another and of me.

During this most recent visit back to the nest, I had a conversation that reminded me of how high a value my family places on respecting one another's various beliefs. Aside from reminding me how fortunate I am, it also got me to thinking about the special status religious thought holds.

If someone held a mistaken scientific perspective, like "I've heard that you can open your electronic car door lock with your cellphone," we wouldn't likely be reluctant to correct them. But religious beliefs seem to be beyond reproach for many of us.

Female genital mutilation is perhaps a more concrete example. I know that some people have been hesitant to give this ancient practice the criticism it deserves, partly because of its (false) association with Islam. It's not actually advocated by Muslim teachings, but is a tribal practice that pre-dates Islam. I'd like to think that, if it were admitted that it's based in men's fear of female sexuality, we'd be quick to censure it. But cultural relativism, buttressed by the special power that religious belief holds, actually kept many people from criticizing this crippling practice.

I'm guessing that this "hands-off" approach has been how our nation has tried to make peace with its own religious diversity, by placing religion in a special category. The new visibility of atheism in our culture may threaten this privileged place, though, and I'm waiting to see what the result is.

In the meantime, I'm taking some amazing courses and expect that I'll have a lot to write about once I've gotten my bearings. I'm going to be starting my research on the influence of Soviet ideology on science in Eastern Europe, and hopefully also looking at the spread of Enlightenment ideals in this same region two centuries earlier. And the quote for the day is from my Latin class, Sapere aude! -- Dare to know!

Not All History Is Grim

Some very cool anthropology reported today in the New York Times: the origins of modern humanity are not as simple as many of us have thought.

For more than a century, futurists have been predicting that science has essentially already uncovered everything interesting. Even before the work of Einstein turned our understanding of the universe on its ear, people were lamenting the end of significant discovery. A big, wet raspberry to all of them!

Today's story raises a challenge to the popular assumption that Homo sapiens (the ironic description of modern humanity) descended in a relatively neat lineage from our distant ancestors. Rather than Homo erectus emerging from Homo habilis almost 2 million years ago, a fossil discovery in Kenya suggests instead that the two species co-existed in the same lake basin for around half a million years. And, for some reason, apparently remained separate species. Our ancestry is more complex than we laypeople have generally realized.

Incidentally, there's a post over at Ed Brayton's blog about the oversimplifications and misunderstandings we find in news reports about this finding. Good, articulate stuff from Ed, as usual.

Anytime we feel bored by the universe, when we feel smug about our mastery of the world within us and around us, creation reminds us just how messy and deeply cool all of this is.