I Love You, And ... VI

I write this with considerable trepidation, but I suspect* that most people who worry about God’s permission of evil—worry to the point of leaving religion—worry because they do not understand the why of the bad things that have happened to them.  Religious people seem to handle the problem of their personal sufferings in two ways.**

The people who see God’s hand in their own troubles, in the sense of seeing how their sufferings have made them better, keep their faith; and they have confidence that God operates the same way in other people’s lives as in their own—that God somehow ensures that tsunamis, too, shall be well.

The people who do not see God’s hand in their own troubles, who fail to see their sufferings making them better, leave or lose their faith—not because they feel personally injured by God (or not necessarily) but because, not seeing his actions in their own lives, they cannot fathom how God could be acting (except in evil or negligence) when he permits something like a tsunami, or a cancer, or an addiction.

Both of these views are incomplete, I daresay (though obviously I favor the first one; it is closer to my own).  But I suspect each view has its roots less in official philosophy than in something that happens very, very early indeed, something that has (superficially) nothing to do with religion: an approach to discipline that occurs early in childhood: I love you BUT versus I love you AND.

 

* Another question worthy of sociological study.

** Again, this is very anecdotal.

I Love You, And ... V

The story of two parenting styles—I love you BUT and I love you AND—is, I suspect* the story behind why many parents are so uncomfortable disciplining their children—so very, very uncomfortable that they keep on using empathetic discipline even when it isn’t working.  Even when it’s making them and their kids unhappy.

Because yes, I’ve seen this.  I’ve seen kids who are made unhappy by empathetic discipline—some of them are my own.  And part of it comes down to the fact that empathy—while precious and critical in the right time and place—can confuse a lot of kids when they hear it more loudly than they hear the “no” which is also critical in its time and place.

But the other reason that empathetic discipline can fail—and I’m convinced this is the problem a lot of the time—is that the parent is, like many an authoritarian parent, mired in the idea that love and discipline are somehow opposites.

We don’t like this in theology, do we?  Isn’t the whole problem of theodicy, at bottom, the problem of understanding how God can let bad stuff happen to me?  How can God love me and discipline me at the same time?  The Old Testament says something about “whom God loves he chastises”; it is one of those lines that tends to make us squirm.

* I have no data to prove this.  This goes into the category of “sociological questions I would like to study someday.”

As Our Nature Requires

"... I understood that in our Lord's intention we are now on his cross with him in our pains, and in our sufferings we are dying, and with his help and his grace we willingly endure on that same cross until the last moment of life.  Suddenly he will change his appearance for us, and we shall be with him in heaven.  Between the one and the other all will be a single era; and then all will be brought into joy.  And this was what he meant in this revelation: 'Where is there now any instant of your pain or of your grief?'  And we shall be full of joy.  And here I saw truly that if he revealed to us now his countenance of joy, there is not pain on earth or anywhere else which could trouble us, but everything would be joy and bliss for us.  But because he shows us his suffering countenance, as he was in this life as he carried his cross, we are therefore in suffering and labour with him as our nature requires."--Julian of Norwich, Showings (long text), ch.21 (p.215 in the Colledge and Walsh trans., Paulist, 1978--quotation marks added).

This Is a Bad Argument, II

  A friend posted this meme on social media recently.  I'm posting my answer here, unedited, because--well, I'm feeling lazy; and it's a neat illustration of how overly simplified arguments don't really answer much of anything.

I don't know that this is quite so ... encouraging? or discouraging! as it first appears.

I think the numbers are coming from here: https://www.prb.org/usdata/indicator/deaths/chart 

The final number, deaths for 2020, I'm less sure of.  CDC keeps a count here: https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/nvss/vsrr/covid19/index.htm.  As of today, November 23, they have 2,551,852 deaths from all causes.

If you do the math, use either of the November figures to calculate total deaths for 2020, you'll come to something similar to previous years: 2,837,145 if you use the number and date from the meme; 2,848,397 if you use the number from the CDC's website today.

Here are the two questions though that throw all that up in the air.  First, there's an ongoing upward trend in deaths as the U.S. population ages.  Given that trend, and how old the population was at the beginning of 2020 (compared to previous years), how much should we have expected the death rate to increase in 2020?

Second, the unfortunate fact of the matter is that deaths do not get tabulated right away.  There's a lag time between when a death occurs, when it's recorded, and when it hits the tables for a big organization like PRB or the CDC.  So the number of deaths suggested by projecting from the meme, or the CDC's current numbers, is definitely too low, perhaps a lot too low.

(That's why elsewhere, the CDC does not publish death counts for recent months--because they know they don't have all the data in yet.  E.g., here are counts for 2019 and the first six months of 2020, suggesting that they're not sure how many people died in July-October: https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/nvss/vsrr/provisional-tables.htm.)

Tl:dr, we'd need more data than I can find publicly available online to ACTUALLY know if we're seeing more people die than normal, or about the same, or less.

That's what I wrote.  But here's a thought to close with.  We'll be able to tell, eventually, when all sorts of other numbers come in, whether all this was worth it, or not.  We might even be able to project right now whether it is worth it.  Certainly if we end up with death totals that are similar to what we could have anticipated without COVID, there will be some questions about those "excess COVID deaths" that the media likes to talk about.  Probably the reason for a similar death rate to normal--if it does end up similar--will be that we're seeing fewer deaths from regular flus, etc., most likely due to people avoiding each other more.

But all of that is moot to the larger point, which is this.  Whether you're a COVID believer, or a COVID denier, you can't simply pick up numbers that look like they make your point.  You have to think about the context of the numbers, and consider what other relevant numbers are needed to complete the picture of the truth.

That said, I should note that the totals for the first six months of 2020 (see last link above) are not super encouraging.  They suggest about 200,000 more people died in the first half of the year than died in the previous year.  Wildly extrapolating, let's say 400,000 more people die this year than in 2019.  That would mean this:

That's a pretty sharp uptick compared to previous years, and I have trouble imagining that the U.S. population aged *that* much--suggesting that indeed, the extra deaths are due, directly or indirectly, to COVID and the fears and restrictions it entails.  (Of course, we may then see a corresponding downturn in deaths in 2021, since there will be fewer elderly people and people with preconditions alive, proportionally, than before.)

Will it actually turn out this badly, when all the numbers are in in another eight or nine months?  I don't know.  How bad would it have been if we had done nothing?  I doubt we'll ever know.  How much better could we have done if we had done things "perfectly", whatever that means?  There's no way of knowing that.

Tl;dr (again), and with apologies to Mark Twain: "It's easier to convince people with a little evidence that they're already right than to get them to consider all the evidence, especially when it doesn't give them certainty."

I Love You, And ... IV

But that sort of thing is routine—that’s how a parent communicates in cases where a child already knows the rules.  If your child already knows that we clean up before bed, or dinner, or nap—if they already know they need to take a bit of everything on their plate, and eat their vegetables before desert—if they already know not to hit their sibling, or take their toys—they don’t need a lengthy explanation—at most, they might need a reminder.

But of course, there are always new situations.  I mean, little Gianna didn’t know that stuffing Kleenex in the toaster oven* was wrong—she may have suspected that her parents would not be pleased—but she doesn’t know enough about electricity and fire and paper to understand why her actions with the tissue were an issue.

It’s tempting here to roll out “Sweetheart, I love you, but you can’t do that; you see, the toaster gets very hot sometimes, and it could burn the tissues and that would hurt you.”

And that’s fine; explaining in a context like this is fine—a good idea, even.  This is how preschoolers learn science.**  But there’s a major problem with that phrasing.

I love you, BUT …

That’s not right, is it?  Isn’t the correct formulation, I love you, AND …?

 

* As they used to say on Dragnet: “Ladies and gentlemen: the story you have heard is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.”

** Another true story.

On Not Pursuing Pain

"This vision [of alternating surety and oppression] was shown to teach me to understand that some souls profit by experiencing this, to be comforted at one time, and at another to fail and to be left to themselves.  God wishes us to know that he keeps us safe all the time, in sorrow and in joy; and sometimes a man is left to himself for the profit of his soul, although his sin is not always the cause.  For in this time I committed no sin for which I ought to have been left to myself, for it was so sudden.  Nor did I deserve these feelings of joy, but our Lord gives it freely when he wills, and sometimes he allows us to be in sorrow, and both are one love.  For it is God's will that we do all in our power to preserve our consolation, for bliss lasts forevermore, and pain is passing, and will be reduced to nothing for those who will be saved.  Therefore it is not God's will that when we feel pain we should pursue it in sorrow and mourning for it, but that suddenly we should pass it over, and preserve ourselves in the endless delight which is God."--Julian of Norwich, Showings (long text), ch.15 (p.205 in the Colledge and Walsh trans., Paulist, 1978).

I Love You, And ... III

Now of course, some kids really do need a light touch.  Some kids are very sensitive, and need all the hugs and kisses after being told that they can’t play with the Ming Dynasty vase or pull their sister’s hair.  If that’s your kid—fine.

That’s not any of my children.  At least, not once they passed about a year old.  My children do not listen if I “sweetie pie” them while saying no.

That does not, of course, mean that I yell to communicate my displeasure.  (Not on purpose, anyway.)  The goal is to be brisk, matter-of-fact, no-nonsense.

Mary Poppins, anyone?

“It’s clean up time, spit-spot!”

And then, if they demur, by running away or ignoring or throwing a temper tantrum, they—or the thing causing the mischief—go(es) into time out.

The Pastoralism Lives Loudly in the Dogma

A friend of mine asked what I thought of this piece: https://dwightlongenecker.com/pope-francis-the-dogma-doesnt-live-loudly-in-him/

It's an interesting one, though I don't know enough about the intellectual history of its bones to say whether it's right or wrong on the central point.  I was more interested, indeed, in some assumptions baked into the language of Fr. Longenecker--assumptions that I doubt he intended, since they are so nearly universal--but ones which are for all that, and precisely because of that, worth drawing out and responding to.

Some of the language in the essay lends itself to the idea that the dogmatic and the pastoral are to be balanced with each other, that there's a certain tension between the two.  It's reminiscent of the notion that Catholics are supposed to be neither conservative nor liberal but somehow to inhabit a tension of views between the two, to be a sort of moderate force, if only in virtue of being extremely liberal on certain things, and extremely conservative on others.

All that I think is profoundly wrong.  Dogma, properly understood, IS pastoral.  It exists not to condemn but to save.  If it is sharp, it's sharp like a scalpel, not like an ax--and likewise, pastoral softness can smother a person to death, or it can warm her like a blanket.  There is no tension here, except for those of us who have failed to integrate truth and charity.  But Jesus had both, perfectly integrated.  That's really one of the most fascinating things about the Gospels ...  God sent not his son into the world to condemn the world ...  But also, I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father except through Me.

(And this goes to the political point too, I think: a really integrated thinker politically is going to realize that people of good will, whether they are conservatives and liberals, agree on a lot of the ends, and the disagreement is one of means.  But that's probably a rabbit hole, and anyway, I'm much less confident that it's accurate.)

I Love You, And ... II

The flaw in many of the usual strategies—whether they are strategies that are more sympathetic, or more authoritative—is that they don’t address the heart of why a parent gives their children the rules that they do.

That flaw is epitomized in the line that I’m tempted to use over and over again: “I love you, but …”

The goal of any parent who says that—whether briefly, as stated, or through the more complex series of words and actions suggested in the previous post—is to communicate affection to the child while disciplining.  But there’s a real problem with this.

In the first place, sometimes, with some children, this can gravely backfire.  I’ve seen it with my own kids: Mama being affectionate while saying “no” can send the message that Mama doesn’t mean what she’s saying.

This is parenting death.

If your child is going to be a functioning adult, words have to mean things.  Words have signification.

Think about our national politics for the last twenty years or so, from “It depends on the meaning of is” to the fights over various tweeters (on both sides of the aisle).

In all seriousness, if you teach your children, even by omission, that your words do not have meaning, you are contributing to the death of the Republic.

No, really, I’m not kidding.

(To be continued, obviously!)

I Don't Think "New Normal" Means What You Think It Means

I hate it when people use the phrase new normal.  It's never a lead in to something nice.

"Teenage pregnancy is the new normal."

"Partisanship is the new normal."

"Hard drugs in college is the new normal."

"Masks and social distancing are the new normal."

Now, I don't mean to suggest that mask-wearing is as horrible a thing as teenagers regularly taking hard drugs.  The thought of my kids potentially getting hooked on cocaine in college is (rightly) far more terrifying than the thought that I might have to wear a mask to the grocery store for the rest of my life.

That doesn't mean the latter thought is agreeable, though.

In fact, every time someone says, vis-a-vis COVID, "Things aren't ever going back to normal"--I want to scream.

They always say it as if it was this epiphany.  Maybe so!  Maybe so.  But if so, it's an epiphany the way "I just discovered that my best friend is a big liar" or "my parents aren't my real parents" or "chickens are cannibals" is an epiphany: not a good one.

It's also, I think, a sign of defeatism.  If, as a society, we can invent the cotton gin and send men to the moon and eradicate polio and clone Dolly the Sheep and build the Empire State Building and create GMO food (whether or not you think these are all good things)--if we can do all that, we can beat a rinky-dink virus.  How?  When?  My guess is that eventually there will be a vaccine for it which, like the flu vaccine, is administered yearly to those who are willing to take it; and that eventually most people will build up immunities to common strains of it through catching mild versions during childhood.  Yes, it will take a while for all of that to come about; yes, some people will die, horribly, in the meantime; yes, some states will be on lockdown for as long as their governors feel they can keep them that way.

But eventually things *will* go back to the old normal.  Or at any rate--things eventually *can* go back to the old normal.  One just has to have the faith to think that human creativity can solve problems, the political will to back candidates who think things can be fixed as opposed to merely managed, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I Love You, And ... I

It's hard as a parent to tell you child no, but every parent knows that sometimes, it has to be done.  No running out in the middle of a crowded street, for instance, is a pretty universal rule, however libertarian or permissive your parenting style may generally be.

These days, though, a lot of parents want to parent more gently and--even though they know that it isn't good for their child to have everything--they want to let him or her down as gently and sympathetically as possible.  Thus strategies like the following:

"I know the street looks fun, Chiara--really, it does, doesn't it?  I can tell how much you want to go there.  But you know, sweetheart, it's a very dangerous place.  Do you remember when you got the booboo on your knee the other day?  Remember how that hurt?  If you run in the street, you could be hurt much worse--or remember when the doctor gave you a shot?  You don't want to have to--Chiara!  Chiara, stop hitting me!  Chiara!!!"

"Moscotti, it's really inventive of you to want to play in the street.  Why don't you come play on the dining room table with your sensory blocks?  That's almost as exciting!!!"

"Acutis, I love you sweetie pie, but--"

Now look, if you're a parent and you've used any of these strategies--please know that I'm laughing with you, not at you.  I've done things along these lines myself.  They all have their place--although parents would do well to notice when a strategy isn't working, either for this kid, or for this kid right now--but I think they're all fatally flawed.

Econ 101.06

Of course, the fact that people oftentimes make bad choices is not a reason not to help them.  Imagine a parent telling their one-year-old, “Theodore, the last time you had dinner you threw your bowl on the floor—and also the previous twenty times.  So no more dinners for you.  From now on, you find your own food.”

Obviously, this is ridiculous—and it’s a little less ridiculous when applied to adults.  But still, one shouldn’t simply say to someone who uses (say) their unemployment benefits to buy (say) the oxytocin* to which they’re addicted, “John Doe, the last time you had these benefits you used them for something which does you no lasting good—and also the previous twenty times.  So no more benefits for you.  From now on, you support yourself.”

But on the other hand, neither does one say to the flailing child, “Theodore, dear, since you keep throwing your food, Mama and Daddy will keep cleaning it up  Lucky you!”  *eyeroll*  No, one takes other measures—for instance, one returns to spoon feeding for a while, or gives the child only a few bites at a time, or waits until they’re really hungry to feed them.  All of these things are more painful and difficult—in the short term—for the parents, but they do keep the floors marginally cleaner and—and this is the really critical point—they teach the child to appreciate his food, and treat it with respect—in other words, they help the child grow up.

Likewise, simply continuing the welfare benefits of someone who routinely uses them for things not in their own best interest is—while sometimes inevitable, and kindly meant—less helpful than determining ways to help people that also help them to become all they can be.

* Come to think of it, I don’t know how feasible that is; but that sort of thing.

Econ 101.05

What is “the main problem” in economics, if it is not one of information?  Hayek implies that it is the social process, or something related to it, and that seems to me to be right.

People will formulate this answer differently, depending on the language they are used to using about human beings; a sociologist will put it differently from an economist who will put it differently from a soi-Aristotelian philosopher.

But here’s one soi-Aristotelian formulation of “the main problem” in economics: because people in general (including the present writer) possess key virtues like temperance and prudence only imperfectly, they are apt to choose things which are attractive in the short term, but which are not ultimately conducive to their long term happiness.

That’s why most forms of social and economic planning, including the (I hasten to add) necessary welfare, oftentimes have bad unintended consequences.

Weekend Muse

 Every now and then I listen to Barber's Serenade for Strings.  And I think ... oh, man, almost.  But more like this:

This Is a Bad Argument

It is time for another attack on one of my favorite fallacies.

Several times over the last week I've encountered the observation that Republicans are only complaining/suing/challenging in states that tipped narrowly blue--as if this proves that the claims of fraud are false.

But those are precisely the states one would expect Republicans to challenge--it is to their advantage to do so.  And merely because something is to someone's advantage does not mean that it is wrong for them to do or false for them to believe.

Frankly, arguments that purport to disprove something by asking cui bono when the bono and the cui are both patently obvious are garbage.  Cui bono is a great way to discredit an opponent rhetorically, for example, when the opponent turns out to be deriving some secret advantage through what he or she has claimed to be merely a good public policy measure.  But the trick works because the opponent has a real advantage, a real good they are (presumably) pursuing, which they have not admitted--which should lead one to reevaluate (though still not necessarily reject) their above-board arguments.  The trick works, in other words, because it is based on the dishonesty of the opponent who has been hiding something which the public should know.

But in these election challenges, no Republican making them hides the fact that they want Trump to win.  There's no secret here.

And even on the merits, setting aside the rhetorical component, the idea that red states should somehow have equal amounts of fraud, as if Wyoming has just as great a chance as flipping blue as Pennsylvania, is absurd.  Everyone knows that Wyoming is deep, deep red--and that's why, if (hypothetically!) you wanted to fraudulently flip a state for Biden, you would not pick Wyoming, but Pennsylvania.  Flipping Pennsylvania only makes Trumpsters suspicious.  Flipping Wyoming would make any person of good sense and good will suspicious--it would be foolish.

It would also be very difficult.  Red states are more likely to have Republican poll workers, who are going to be less likely to overlook the tossing out or adding in of borderline ballots.  No, if you were (hypothetically!) a Biden supporter who wanted to tip things illegally, you'd do it in a swing state.

(Incidentally, there's plenty of fraud in red states too.  In blood-red Missouri (for instance) St. Louis has notoriously posted dubious election results for decades.  But see above for why Republicans won't bother to challenge it--cui bono?--and why it's not enough to flip the state.)

Econ 101.04

“Woah there girl,” some readers will be saying.  “You’re here giving me a libertarian story about economics—at least, that’s what your Hayekian windup suggests—but you’re admitting that people don’t chose rationally?  Doesn’t that sort of undermine your own argument, a bit?”

Yes, and no.  It would kill my argument if I were arguing that the market is to be followed everywhere and always and in every way left free, because it is wiser than ourselves.  But I’m not arguing that.

Actually, I don’t think Hayek argues for that either—nor the much-maligned Adam Smith, for that matter—of which more, perhaps, later.  No, the point of the invisible hand is not that the market solves all problems.  The point is that people can’t really solve any economic problems.  Or, as Hayek puts it in his penultimate paragraph,

“The problem is thus in no way solved if we can show that all the facts, if they were known to a single mind (as we hypothetically assume them to be given to the observing economist), would uniquely determine the solution; instead we must show how a solution is produced by the interactions of people each of whom possesses only partial knowledge. To assume all the knowledge to be given to a single mind in the same manner in which we assume it to be given to us as the explaining economists is to assume the problem away and to disregard everything that is important and significant in the real world” (VII).

No central planner can know everything, and no one acting within the market can know everything either.  That is why Hayek closes by suggesting that “equilibrium analysis” of economies does not have “direct relevance to the solution of practical problems,” because “it does not deal with the social process at all” and indeed “is no more than a useful preliminary to the study of the main problem” (VII).

Hayek ends with a teaser, so I suppose I may as well.

Econ 101.03

“… the sort of knowledge with which I have been concerned is knowledge of the kind which by its nature cannot enter into statistics and therefore cannot be conveyed to any central authority in statistical form. The statistics which such a central authority would have to use would have to be arrived at precisely by abstracting from minor differences between the things, by lumping together, as resources of one kind, items which differ as regards location, quality, and other particulars, in a way which may be very significant for the specific decision” (IV).

In other words, Hayek claims that in economics there cannot be meaningful abstraction from particulars to universals.  You can go from looking at a thousand horses to saying something about what it is to be a horse, or from looking at a million lumps of coal to what it means to be a lump of coal, or a billion African violets to making legitimate scientific conclusions about the nature of the African violet.  But you can’t do that in economics.  Hayek thinks it is because economics is too complicated—because resources have all these other “tags,” if you will, affecting their value, besides their intrinsic qualities.  It would be as if you could change the nature of the violet by putting it in a different county, or separating it from other violets, or telling people it was a good substitute for an orchid in a girl’s corsage.  If you could change the nature of a violet—really change it—by doing any of those things, it would be devilishly hard to say what a violet really was (or was worth).

And that example shows what’s really at the bottom of Hayek’s claim that economic knowledge “by its nature cannot enter into statistics.”  The reason economic knowledge cannot by its nature enter into statistics is not because there’s too much information to handle right now for the people and systems we currently have—it’s because economic information is, at bottom, information about human choices—where we take the violet—how many other violets we put out on the shelf with it—how we market the violet—why we buy the violet—what we do with it afterwards—and those choices are not also good or rational choices, because human beings are … not … always … rational … actors.

Econ 101.02

Anyone who has managed to wander their way through the Hayek reading, or who perhaps is already familiar with its basic concepts, may be shaking their heads.  Why did I not assign “I, Pencil,” and have done with it?  And isn’t this by now a quite stale point—that the “market” invisibly assembles all sorts of bits of information and knowledge unavailable to even the most brilliant bureaucratic army, armed with their super-intelligent computers?  Hayek smacks down the idea of a centrally planned economy pretty well.  So what?  When a young American today says she is a socialist, she is not (usually) calling for a planned economy anyway.

Fair, and fair again.  But there are a few points in Hayek’s essay that are (or were) more original, and deserve a closer look.

First, Hayek not only says the market has too much information for a central planning agency to correlate and process.  He says that the market changes too much (section IV).  We are not talking about a mosaic, but a dance.

Secondly, Hayek thinks there is not merely a problem with the amount of knowledge a central bureaucracy would need (in order to properly plan an economy); he also observes that bureaucracies cannot have access to the kind of knowledge they would need.

“… the sort of knowledge with which I have been concerned is knowledge of the kind which by its nature cannot enter into statistics and therefore cannot be conveyed to any central authority in statistical form. The statistics which such a central authority would have to use would have to be arrived at precisely by abstracting from minor differences between the things, by lumping together, as resources of one kind, items which differ as regards location, quality, and other particulars, in a way which may be very significant for the specific decision” (IV).

Naps, Naps, Always Naps

I am a nap Nazi.

But truly.  The only reason I am writing these words is because my 1, 2.5, and 4-year-olds are all asleep, napping.

Mind you, I am nice about it.  They can bring stuffed animals, age-appropriate books, and occasionally the small toy to bed.  The younger two fall asleep every time anyway.  The oldest one--sometimes yes and sometimes no.

If he doesn't fall asleep, I let him get up after an hour.  If he starts to get restless half an hour in, I bring him more books.

At this point, he knows that if he yells and wakes up his little sister, he loses a privilege (the book he's reading, the water cup, the decorative sheet ...).  And yes, he's woken her up that way a couple times, which made for a few miserable afternoons and evenings.  But once the system was established ... ah, bliss.

And the fact that he knows he has "quiet time" every day means that when he's sick ... or has a growth spurt ... or when the weather gets colder and the days darker ... when he's learning a lot mentally and emotionally ... when we had a busy morning with friends or errands ... Whatever it is, if he needs the nap, he gets it, because he's already in the right place and circumstances for it.  And that--aside from the parental silence consideration--is why you Never Give Up the Nap.

Right now, he is sick, and it's definitely turning autumnal at last., so he falls asleep even with plenty of books in his bed.  But that cold weather, hat weather--the kids have been loving it, and so have I.  We are all a little more hibernatory this time of year.  I don't think he'd sleep this much, even sick, if it were spring.  But here we are.

More reasons to love fall!

Now, to warm up that cup of coffee again ...

Econ 101.01

A friend wondered in a comment here (back on one of the political posts) whether I would write more about economics, specifically about how conservative vs. liberal economic principles fit into the Catholic worldview.  And lo! it shall be done.

(A caveat, for non-religious readers: there will be Catholic jargon as well as economic jargon forthcoming in this series of posts, but the principles in question are ones about which non-Catholics should care as well.  If a phrase like "preferential option for the poor" tickles your secular fancy, and you don't see how that can be squared with stuff that people with R next to their name tend to say, this is can be your ride too.)

I'd like to start with a reading assignment, Friedrich Hayek's "The Use of Knowledge in Society."

You can read it here: https://german.yale.edu/sites/default/files/hayek_-_the_use_of_knowledge_in_society.pdf

here: https://archive.org/details/FriedrichHayekTheUseOfKnowledgeInSociety

or here: https://oll.libertyfund.org/titles/hayek-the-use-of-knowledge-in-society-1945

or enjoy a tl;dr here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Use_of_Knowledge_in_Society#:~:text=%22The%20Use%20of%20Knowledge%20in%20Society%22%20is%20a,Hayek%27s%201948%20compendium%20Individualism%20and%20Economic%20Order%20.

I'll give that one a few days to percolate, and then come back with what I think he's saying, and why I think it's foundational to economic conversations.

Immitatio Humana I

Here is a Chestertonian thought for you.

Perhaps one of the reasons that children like dinosaurs so much is that dinosaurs are, as it were, of the toddler age of the earth.

It was an era (eras? my memory of paleo-science-history is fuzzy) of sharp, bold contrasts, lizard-like giants and dwarfs composed of miniscule cells.  Giant ferns--giant ferns?--occupied a significant portion of the florasphere.  Volcanos were commonly active.  And of course, it all came crashing down in a giant temper-tantrum in the form of a meteor from outer space--that, at least, is one of the bedtime stories we are still told today.

If you are a toddler, is it not relatable?  Or perhaps I mean: if you are a parent, do you see your toddler in this?

Midweek Muse: Judith Triumphans

 I felt like Vivaldi, but not any Vivaldi that I'd heard recently.  And lo, the universe delivered:

There's a little history of the Oratorio here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juditha_triumphans.

If you don't know the original story, give it a read: http://drbo.org/chapter/18001.htm.

And here's the place where the oratorio was originally performed--also, incidentally, the place for whose singers a lot of Vivaldi's music was composed--https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ospedale_della_Pietà.  It's actually a rather fascinating glimpse at some historical horrors, and the way that they were turned, mostly, to the good, thanks to the institution of religious Ospedali.

Think It Out, IV

I feel it somewhat incumbent upon me to add, since I had political things to say earlier, that regardless of how things turn out tonight (or later) everything will be alright.

Obviously, if your worst possible fear is defeated tonight, everything will be alright.

And if you are simply poised between two unlikeable alternatives, and the less likeable one wins, there's always 2024.  It may be an unpleasant four years, but there are few things done which can't be undone.  Cf. HHS mandates.

And if you're afraid that the candidate of your party is actually more harmful to your cause than his opponent--well, I understand the concern.  But I decline to believe that either candidate is so utterly deadly for their party as to tar it beyond recognition between now and then.

But what if one of the candidates embodies your worst fears, and that candidate actually wins?

The problem with America isn't the two candidates; it's us.  And we are not going to become that much more civically minded, or that much less, in four years than we would have been had the other man won.  If you want to change America, start not with politics, but with education.

(If either candidate were doing and saying meaningful things about education, I'd be far more interested, invested, and concerned.)

There's your stoic words of comfort for the day.

A Showing

Lately I've been reading Julian of Norwich (ten out of ten would recommend) as opposed to merely quoting her best of lines.  Her private revelations ("showings") are part devotional, part medieval cognitive behavioral therapy, and part pure hilariousness.  Consider, for example, the following showing (her second, I think, although the text is meandering enough that it is a little hard to tell when one vision ends and the next begins).

Julian is shown a imaginative vision of the bottom of the sea, filled with moss and seaweed and peacefully flowing blue-green water.  (I am paraphrasing from memory, but it's a brief literary description to that effect.)  She's enjoying the view, more or less, when she gets her dollop of spiritual insight: that if she were just plunked down here with the sea plants she'd never get into any trouble and be reasonably happy in the contemplation of divine things as a result.

Julian, of course, went on to become an anchoress.

But she's not wrong ...

"I mean, if I were just at the bottom of the sea I'd stay out of trouble, now wouldn't I?"

Me too, Julian; oh, yes, me too.

Then Julian has a doubt: this is such a trivial insight, is it actually a divine revelation?  Did the thoughts come to her from God or from her own mind?

She is told, of course, that it is a real revelation, worth repeating--otherwise it would never have made it into manuscript.  But the doubt too, whatever one thinks of Julian's answer, is remarkably relatable.

Did this good idea that popped into my head come from God?  Naw, it's too trivial ...

Think again, mes frères religieux.