Analysis of mask mandate effectiveness

In our recent reports on COVID-19 masks and school reopenings, we intentionally avoided policy recommendations. We wanted to provide a neutral presentation of the available scientific evidence and opinion. However, the Provo City Council asked me to provide an informal assessment of the effectiveness of mask mandates. They are considering an ordinance in preparation of the return of college students. 

Before getting into the report, I wanted to say how impressed I have been at the decency and concern of our community and the city council. Last night, there was a 4-hour council meeting on this subject, with abundant public comment. Nearly every caller was concise and respectful. The council was deliberative and thoughtful. We need honest and respectful communication and collaboration to get through this, and the interactions over the past few days have made me hopeful for the future.

FAQs about the COVID-19 and masks study

When my students and I started our review of the science on COVID-19 and masks, I had no idea how much of a response it would trigger. Usually when I publish a research paper, it sails silently into the sea of science. For this report, I have been overwhelmed with inquiries, comments, and suggestions. I am really grateful that so many people care about this issue, and it confirms my observations that many sincere individuals want to get to the bottom of this issue. I'm also grateful that most of the response has been respectful and constructive, even when people disagree. Several questions keep coming up, so I decided to post this list of FAQs. Please take a look and then feel free to leave a comment if you aren't satisfied or if you have additional suggestions.

Seekers and tellers of the truth

Brother Cook asked me to speak in our church meeting last week. Because of COVID, the congregation has been split into four groups. Last names A though H meet on the first Sunday of the month. This was my first time back to church since March, and even though there were only ~25 of us in the chapel, it was moving to worship with friends long unseen. Social distancing was carefully implemented, and all but one congregant wore a mask. Brother Cook sanitized the pulpit and microphone with an antiseptic wipe between announcements and prayers. 

Videochatting with family in China, New York, and across town.

Why conservatives and libertarians should oust Trump this fall

I love and respect folks with all kinds of political beliefs. In my immediate family, there are people who voted for Trump, Clinton, Stein, McMullin, and Romney in the last election. Besides highlighting how I’ve got a big family (some of whom don’t understand multiple choice ballots), this diversity of thought demonstrates that decent and informed individuals can come to different political conclusions. I do not support tactics that dehumanize humans we disagree with. Whatever you believe, I respect you and hope to understand your reasons.

Is nuance doomed? Building common ground in the new year.

My New Years resolution for 2019 was to watch more TV. 

Since starting my postdoc in 2014, I've been pretty focused on productivity. Even the things I chose to do for fun--like lobbying the legislature and writing op-eds--resembled work. My focus on productivity didn't seem to be too much of a problem until one morning, I saw a man on the train to Farmington. I was feverishly putting the final polish on my presentation to the Utah DNR on "The effects of wildfire on water quality." This full-grown man was leaned way back over the next seat, belly hanging out and playing a Nintendo Gameboy. It looked like he was on his way to work, but he was only concerned about getting the the next level in Kirby's Adventure. He seemed alive. He seemed to be enjoying himself. He seemed comfortable with his place in the universe.

Channeling the example of my gameplaying friend, I actually fulfilled my resolution. You might even say I magnified it. In 2019 I watched the entirety of Stranger Things, The Good Place, Dark, Orphan Black, and I even started Battlestar Galactica and The Americans (those ones took more discipline). November and December were particularly productive. I finished The Expanse, Man in the High Castle, and See.

The shows I watched in 2019 were about everything from a kidnapping in a small German town to American Nazis in a multiverse. They lacked thematic or topical similarity, but they shared an important commonality: compelling and conflicted characters. The shrewd peacemaker Chrisjen Avasarala exploited the death of her soldier son to advance her political career. The blind Baba Voss learned to fight like Keanu Reeves from his years as a slave trader. The severely abused Helge Doppler helps kidnap children for experiments. Sarah Manning is a con artist and absent mother, Michael is a repentant demon, and Juliana Crane falls in love with a Nazi. The specific scenarios are outlandish, but the complexity and contradiction are straight out of real life. 

How come we like our TV shows to be morally ambiguous and complex but we expect public figures and political disputes to fall into neat categories? Liam Neeson is a racist, we can't read Harry Potter anymore, and Peter Handke is nothing but a genocide denier. With the decline of in-depth reporting and shortening of attention spans, is nuance doomed in the 2020s? 

Literature not news. Story not opinion. Parables not commandments. There must be a market for complexity and nuance. Humanity is crashing the whole Earth through what has been described as the Great Acceleration. We have the proverbial pedal to the floor, consuming more and more each year. There must an appetite for long-format discussions and reflections, or I fear we are doomed to trip over our good intentions. Reality is full of unexpected dynamics such as scale dependence, induced demand, perverse incentives, and nested feedbacks. When we are fed a simple story about what is wrong with the world or what might fix it, we should ask what are the tradeoffs.

I thought that TV could be a tool to remind us of our humanity, but things didn't seem to get better in the 2010s, even as TV experienced a renaissance. Haven't we learned from Netflix and Amazon Prime that a single act or belief doesn't define a person or body politic? Most are neither Nazis nor angels. It's a for better and for worse world. Why then do we seem increasingly allergic to nuance?

An unnamed mountain on the North Slope of Alaska. I study the effects of climate change in this area thanks to a field station that exists because of oil exploration.

The flat of the valley filled up with single-family housing. The fatbike Martin gave me after I smashed it up in a car crash I caused.

 I hate cars, but I love this view. I hate roads, but I love to watch my kids play in our cul-de-sac.

Henry and I lifted it to some dirt, but this ant probably still died.

This is my friend Dan.

In 2019, I had two experiences that demonstrated how absolutist our thinking has become (or has always been). 

In January, a reporter named Peter Sinclair put together a short format documentary on the permafrost climate feedback for Yale Climate Connections. Peter interviewed several of the top researchers on the subject plus myself and weaved our accounts into a complicated and uncertain story. Like most real science, the conclusion was more than could fit in a headline. The huge stock of organic matter in the permafrost zone is beginning to release carbon dioxide and methane to the atmosphere in response to anthropogenic climate change. However, none of the experiments or simulations the scientific community has evaluated indicate that the permafrost climate feedback will exceed direct human emissions. Also, the studies that have investigated different warming scenarios have found that most of the permafrost greenhouse gas release could still be avoided if human emissions are rapidly reduced.

The video got more than 15 thousand views in the first week (viral by scientific standards) and the comments hammered us from both sides. One side called pawns of big oil, climate change deniers, and accused us of taking "hopium". The other side called us alarmists, opportunists, and fear mongers. Though I haven't read through the 400+ comments on YouTube, here is a sampling from the first dozen or so:

Peter Sinclair’s video on YouTube was a cleverly crafted propaganda video, in which scientific authority and language was abused in order to give human beings connected to the Internet the impression that ice couldn’t melt because it requires heat. 

Yale shouldn’t take it upon themselves to spread Darkness and Lies, so should praise any and all information campaigns about these very important issues instead of trying to quell them. 

THIS IS PURE PROPAGANDA MIND GAMES. 

are you enjoying being a tool of big oil? There must be some outrageous payments, and other benefits. Private jets? Polynesian dancing girls? Your own polo team? Hot and cold running Cristal? 

7 minutes of pure fear mongering propaganda with a second portion of Chinese $$ thrown in. 

This video is confusing after four viewings. This video admits that Arctic methane meltdown is potentially dangerous, but at the same time this video claims the danger is “overblown”. . . The video's message is ambiguous if not completely elusive.

That last comment is the most thoughtful and revealing. We have gotten so entrenched in false dichotomies that any non-binary position is incomprehensible. Rather than considering the science, which doesn't take sides, it's as if the viewers spent the seven minutes trying to ferret out our political slant. Wait! Are they for us or against us?

In October, I waded onto the public stage again (a properly mixed metaphor given my lack of finesse) with a commentary on tolerance of socially conservative political positions. Addressed to the largest natural science community, the American Geophysical Union, we wrote about how polarized our larger society has become and how that could damage the scientific process and public acceptance of science if left unchecked. Unlike my experience with Peter's documentary, this time the response was more complex. I received personal messages from many researchers around the country thanking us for the thought-provoking piece. Not all of the thankers agreed with our tenets, but they supported discourse and expression of diverse ideas. However, the social media uproar followed the permafrost pattern. We were immediately compared with Nazis, accused of getting tangled in ethical gymnastics, and generally of being hateful and backward people. Again and again, it seemed that people were more interested in sussing out whether we had a nefarious political motive (who's side were we on anyway?) rather than considering or arguing with the ideas. More damaging, it was clear that our detractors thought that the other side (in this case social conservatives) had nothing to offer. No insights, no understanding, no nuance. They bad; us good.

Narratives become dominant when they are simple and intuitive. Reality is chaotic and shot through with interacting feedbacks. What ways have you found effective to communicate complexity in the face of false simplicity? As I've pondered this question over the past month, I've come across five interesting essays, podcasts, and other sources.

My mom sent me the first one, a homily on being willing to be changed.

Scott Carrier sent me the second one, a miniseries on his podcast where he intentionally travels beyond his socioeconomic bubble to encounter the other.

Jab Abumrad brought me the third one with his new podcast Dolly Parton's America.

Josh Barro broadcast the fourth one, asking where is the center?

And the apostle Paul brought me the fifth one. For me, his writings undermine self righteousness and dismissal of others. In Romans 3, he gives this brutal but egalitarian—even universal—condemnation:

As it is written, There is none righteous, no, not one: There is none that understandeth, there is none that seeketh after God. They are all gone out of the way, they are together become unprofitable; there is none that doeth good, no, not one. Their throat is an open sepulchre; with their tongues they have used deceit; the poison of asps is under their lips: Whose mouth is full of cursing and bitterness: Their feet are swift to shed blood: Destruction and misery are in their ways: And the way of peace have they not known: There is no fear of God before their eyes. . . For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God;

Not to be mistaken for a misanthropist, Paul follows with this:

Being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus. . . Where is boasting then? It is excluded. By what law? of works? Nay: but by the law of faith.

To inject nuance to this view of undeserved redemption, Paul adds the following in Corinthians:

There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the world, and none of them is without signification.

So none of us are without stain or weakness, but all of our voices have meaning and value. You biased and imperfect? Great! Me too. What can we learn from each other? How can we improve?

Another approach that can cut through dehumanizing simplification is music. With a few partisan exceptions, good art interrogates and interprets the world in a way that can overturn expectations and stereotypes. It confronts us with individual stories and universal experiences. Here are a few of the artists who do this most consistently for me:

John Prine's Sam Stone shows how your politics don't change how you respond to shrapnel and opium addiction.

Taj Mahal transcends divides by stretching a personal moment or offhand phrase into a romp.

Gillian Welch's spare honesty makes me weep over and over.

Townes Van Zandt just teaches through stories and confession.

Stromae is angry, but also indifferent, disappointed, and effective.

Christine and the Queens are fun and poppy.

So are the Pirouettes.

Mario Mathy's Jumping Dance could trigger world peace or a breakdown in the world order.

Gabe and Sonya's Tiny Home relishes the harmony and dissonance of interaction.

Anais Mitchell should be the secretary of the interior.

Greg Brown should be the secretary of defense.

And David Byrne is one of the most important prophets and visionaries of our time.

What do you think? Who do you listen to or watch when you start to forget that the other sides are people too?

“So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.”

-Robert Frost

Light in the dark. Celebrating the birth of our Lord on the shortest day of the year.

Earlier this month, Tennery Norton asked me to write an essay about Christmas. She works with a BYU radio program called Constant Wonder (kind of a Reasons to be Cheerful sans David Byrne). She invited me to connect Christmas with something from my experience as a scientist. 

My first thought was about permafrost and the tenacity of microorganisms because nothing screams Christmas like anaerobic respiration, right? I had recently participated in a permafrost synthesis project led by Sue Natali about microbes who stay active through the winter in the frozen soil of the Arctic and Boreal biomes. They grow slowly in the unfrozen films of water throughout the soil, but their combined respiration has already tipped the permafrost zone from a carbon sink to a carbon source. But I was feeling tired of permafrost and decided to think about something different. The transcript of the radio essay that aired last week is below.

Though it was not the season of Christ’s birth, we celebrate Christmas near the winter solstice. In the Northern Hemisphere, where this tradition began, the solstice is the darkest and coldest time of the year. As an ecologist, I can’t speak to the historical origins of this tradition, but I can describe what causes seasonal fluctuation in light and heat and what this means for the Earth system.

The Earth rotates on an axis that is tilted about 23 degrees to one side. This tilt was set during the Earth’s creation, billions of years ago. Planetesimals—the unorganized bits of dust, rocks, and other material present in the early solar system—coalesced under the force of gravity, and imbalance in the collisions tipped the growing planet a few degrees on its side. The Earth got a final push from an astronomical body about the size of Mars that slammed into its surface 4 and a half billion years ago. The impact transferred so much energy into the Earth that its surface melted into a global sea of magma, and a huge geyser of material was ejected into space. This debris eventually glommed together into our moon. The weight of the moon stopped the tipping of the Earth and stabilized the wobbles of its axis—a sort of gravitational Hula hoop.

The Earth’s tilt creates seasonal changes in the amount of sunlight reaching its surface as we revolve around the sun. The passionless geometry of a tilted sphere creates one of the only fair things about our mortal existence. Whatever latitude we live at, each of us receives the same duration of illumination from the sun: about 44 hundred hours each year. Whether you live on the North or South Pole where the sun rises and sets once a year, or on the equator where the length of each day is the same; half the year the sun is up, half it is down. Though this annual allotment of sunshine is completely fair (in a Solomon sort of way), the tilt of the Earth creates seasons—pulses of energy that ripple through all life on Earth.

When the Northern Hemisphere is tilted toward the sun, it receives more light and heat, a condition called summer. Longer periods of light stimulate the photosynthesizers—the land plants and aquatic algae that harvest carbon from the atmosphere and release oxygen. The Earth breaths in. The extra heat melts snow and ice, providing water for ecosystems and people and exposing habitat. This triggers migrations for insects, fish, mammals, and birds, some of which travel halfway around the world to find a place to breed or feed. The early sunrise makes it a little easier to get out of bed for us humans, whose modern schedules don’t change much with the seasons.

    

But after the summer solstice, the Northern Hemisphere turns away from the sun. The days shorten and the temperature drops. Without as much sunlight, the photosynthesizers can’t keep up with the consumers and decomposers who use oxygen and return a portion of the plants’ carbon to the atmosphere. The Earth breaths out. I have a harder time getting out of bed and many people experience seasonal depression and somber states of mind. This darkening lasts half the year. From June to December, each day is darker than the last.

At the moment that our hemisphere is farthest from the source of energy and light that sustains all life on Earth, we celebrate Christ’s birth. As a Christian, the timing of this remembrance seems important. Many scriptures liken our Savior to light. Some go as far as to say that he is light—a being in whom there is no darkness at all. But what defines Christ for me and what symbolizes my relationship with him is not the purity or intensity of his light. It is the location and timing of his light—the where and when.

John emphasized this when he first introduced the Savior. Christ is not only the light of the world, he is the light that “shineth in darkness.”

There are plenty of bright things in the universe. Until it swells and collapses some 5 billion years from now, our sun will never stop shining. Despite this constancy, the sun is often inaccessible to us individually, and sometimes, like at the winter solstice, it is distant from many of us at the same time. Apparently, it is not enough to be bright. It is not even enough to be constant.

Zacharias prophesied of John the Baptist who was a preparer and type of our Savior. He said, “thou, child, shalt be called the prophet of the Highest: for thou shalt go before the face of the Lord to prepare his ways… To give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

Christ doesn’t just broadcast light randomly into the universe like the celestial spheres I described before. What is so remarkable about the love of our Savior is the way he brings light to us. He delivers it personally, privately, quietly, and then he stays. Even when we sit in darkness on the far side of a planet. Even when it has been so long that we can’t remember what light feels like. He is there, with us in the darkness.

  

I can’t speak for you, but I find myself in darkness often. A friend diagnosed with cancer. A child unsure of a parent’s love or the love of God. A refugee without home or friends. A couple that hasn’t touched for months or years. A future that seems to hold no savor or anticipation. The disappointment of letting someone down who depends on you. Even in my ecological research, I am sometimes confronted with overwhelming sadness and darkness. Pollution in our air, water, and soil kills at least 12 million people every year—twenty times more than all homicides and wars combined—yet there still isn’t agreement or political will to abandon the dirty fossil fuels that are primarily responsible for this suffering.

In the face of all this darkness, it is easy to hate and resent the shadow. Indeed, this allergy to dark is rooted in an important instinct. As children of light, we are called to prevent or heal the suffering of needless, artificial darkness with all our force and resources. But some of the darkness we experience serves a purpose—or it can if we see it in the right light. One of the great paradoxes or miracles of our Earthly existence is that darkness provides a contrast without which the light would mean nothing.

In the modern world, we seem to have forgotten this distinction. We use our technology to banish all darkness, harmful and good. Our lust for constant light, even in times of natural darkness, has driven us to exploit all sources of energy, no matter the personal or communal cost. The fossil fuels that we extract from the Earth are metamorphosed light that was captured by plants hundreds of millions of years ago. Rather than waiting for the natural light to return in the morning or spring, we’ve harnessed this power to flood the world with artificial light. The pressure to be ever moving and ever connected pollutes our air, disrupts our climate, and disturbs our sleeping patterns as we worship our screens until the moment before losing consciousness. Ironically, excess artificial light now obscures God’s miracle of stars in the night sky for most people on Earth.

At least during our mortal existence, Christ doesn’t erase the darkness around and within us, though he can transform it, when we let him. If we hope to follow the Savior’s path, we must not fear the dark. Christ asks us to examine the sources of fear and hatred within ourselves—our internal darkness—and to be vessels of his love for those who feel far from it.

Celebrating Christ in the darkest days of the year reminds us that he “descended below all things, in that he comprehended all things, that he might be in all and through all things, the light of truth,” as we learn in modern LDS scripture. On a personal level, Christ coming at the time of greatest darkness and cold is a reminder that our greatest suffering and disappointment can prepare us for our deepest and most lasting peace. At this time of light in the dark, let us not forget Peter’s promise that Christ is “a light that shineth in a dark place, until the day dawn, and the day star arise in your hearts.”

Thoughts on the AGU debate about ideological diversity

It’s been a few days since our opinion piece on social conservatives in research was published in Eos, the news journal of the American Geophysical Union. I wrote the piece with two other BYU professors after a controversy about a faculty advertisement on AGU’s job board. In early October, AGU pulled the ad after a brief debate on Twitter because of BYU’s hiring policy that excludes most LGBTQ+ candidates.

We knew the article would be controversial and we were worried about its main message not coming across as we intended. After watching the responses online (mainly on Twitter but also through personal email) for a few days, I wanted to share some reflections and lessons I’ve learned. Jani and Jamie were co-authors on the piece, but because I don’t speak for them, I’ll use “I” from here on out.

I wrote the piece for two main reasons. First, I really believe that diversity is important in science. If groups or individuals don’t have the opportunity to participate fully in research, this creates a serious injustice and it degrades the quality and credibility of science. There are many groups and individuals who have been or remain excluded from full participation in science, including indigenous peoples, other ethnic and racial minorities, LGBTQ+ individuals, people from impoverished communities or countries, and women. Second, I really care about a host of environmental and social issues that science has something to say about. We continue to lose ground on climate change, loss of biodiversity, and alteration of biogeochemical cycles, and we are not moving quickly enough to reduce pollution, which kills ~12 million people every year—about 20 times the number who are killed by all forms of violence.^1,2

The central thesis of the paper is that partisan and ideological divisions currently keep us (AGU and the US generally) from addressing the socioecological issues above. Because these issues involve the whole human family and all of the Earth’s ecosystems, I want us to work towards equality and sustainability (which are inextricably interwoven) as quickly as we can.

From my experiences in Utah, Alaska, and throughout Europe, I view the largest threat to progress on these fronts as polarization and dehumanization of ideological opponents. I am optimistic about so many things in the world, but if we stop caring about other people and seeing them as complex humans, the gains we’ve made and the future of progress are in peril. While many factors contribute to separation and hate, the loss of relationships with ideologically diverse friends and colleagues is a major factor.

The article hoped to make a case that including people we disagree with ideologically is the best way forward, not because ideological diversity is more important than the other dimensions of diversity mentioned above, but because building relationships can fight against the dehumanizing separation that has divided our politics and threatens our communities. I don’t want people who support Chinese reeducation camps or LGBTQ+ exclusion to be a part of our community because I agree with their positions. I want them to be here so they can see there is another option (potentially decreasing hate and discrimination) and so we will be more likely to see them as real people (potentially decreasing hate and mistrust). Ideological diversity isn’t some smoke screen covering tolerance of intolerance, I sincerely believe that inclusion and compassion will move us faster and farther towards equity and sustainability than will exclusion.

Many people disagree with me on this, which is healthy and helpful. I just had never heard the case for inclusion made, and I wanted to add it to the discussion. There are many cogent and potentially better arguments that can be made, and I hope my community makes an informed and open decision after consideration of all these viewpoints.

But on to the lessons! Along with a bunch of inane observations like “wow, most people didn’t read the article before wading into this,” here are a few thoughts.

1. Take time to think over it in different ways: When a position or set of positions doesn’t fall neatly into the usual arguments, it can be disconcerting and challenging to both sides. I see why people often equated, “they don’t agree with pulling the discriminatory ad, therefore they must be anti LGBTQ+,” but that is honestly incorrect. Similarly, when I responded hastily to a Tweet that felt malicious initially, I often regretted it later. After letting the ideas soak and float around each other for a while, I often saw a deeper and more interesting point that the person was making.
2. Don’t misinterpret anger or even bigotry as bad intent: It is easy to get defensive and aggressive on Twitter but remembering how much pain and fear people feel can increase compassion and dialogue. I have felt very threatened by some of the things said about me and especially about my lab members since the article was published. Heck, I didn’t even know that Twitter gave “vulgar and offensive” warnings until I ventured onto some of the threads about @thermokarst. From that place of indignation, I said some things that weren’t as considerate or thoughtful as they should have been. My failure should remind me that others who are saying such things aren’t bad people, they are just experiencing a lot of pressure and frustration. This discussion has given me a greater understanding of the depth of pain that many people are living with, and I am grateful for that perspective. I truly empathize and care about all who have been hurt or are being hurt by intolerance and hate.
3. Do your best to not make (and not respond) to dumb arguments: In high school debate, you lose by default if you don’t address all your opponent’s points. In real life, instead of responding to bad arguments, bring up the good ones that aren’t being discussed. Fighting against arguments made in bad faith isn’t worth your breath. An early version of the Eos article addressed an argument I often hear about why there are so few conservatives in research: they’re not smart enough. This is a classic discriminatory argument that is factually untrue and just dumb. After feedback from several wise mentors, I removed the sentences responding to that argument that didn’t merit a response.
4. Judge ideas on their merit: Judging someone’s arguments based on their identity is good politics but bad science. One of the most common criticisms I’ve gotten is that I shouldn’t be a part of this discussion because of my gender, race, and socioeconomic background. You are free to only listen to certain people, but I am interested in every good argument, whether from the New Yorker, Mother Jones, Fox, Breitbart, or anywhere on the social or ideological spectrum. No side or perspective has a monopoly on good thoughts and practices. My scientific and religious principles require me to take truth and goodness wherever I find it.
5. Be nice to investigators: When someone comes to church for the first time, don’t complain about what they are wearing or how they talk (at least if you want them to come back). Likewise, if someone is interested in learning about your worldview, don’t complain about superficial or even substantial differences in vocabulary or understanding. When somebody is new (or not), being patient and persistent with clear explanations rather than waiting for a gotcha misstep will increase the listening and learning.
6. It is never too late to discuss and explain: I often hear the argument (and have sometimes made it) that “the time has past for discussion,” or that “there is no excuse for not knowing.” Whether it’s LGBTQ+ inclusion, climate change, abortion, eating meat, or any other important issue that not everyone agrees on, I believe we should always be willing to explain the issues and answer questions about why we should care. We can be indignant that our values aren’t understood and shared, or we can use the question as an opportunity for reflection and sharing. Before, during, and after important decisions, we should be ready to discuss, respond, and show compassion. Otherwise, the transitions will be harder or not happen at all and the decisions will be less likely to stick.
7. Make it personal: Everyone you interact with online or in person has a unique story. Remembering that there is a person behind each Tweet and idea—even the hateful ones—a person with successes and suffering, and a person that we do not know can help us treat each other with a little more kindness and compassion. Even if you think that is dumb (civility or kindness), thinking about the person will help you identify what arguments will help and which will hurt your cause. Everyone is a person.

Because I sometimes can’t help myself, I’ll bring up another super divisive issue in closing. Abortion is a surprising partial success story of the value of including others and making progress towards shared goals through ideological partnerships. There are radically different beliefs about how choice and abortion should be thought about. There are those who want to legally punish women who seek abortions, those who want to physically harm the physicians who perform abortions, and those who want to legally or physically limit those protesters. Amidst all this acrimony, the rate of abortion has fallen every year since I was born (you’re welcome). Neither side has given up its values, but the interaction between those extremes and thousands of nuanced positions in the middle have helped achieve a broader shared value of having fewer abortions. Addressing deep cultural issues requires more than just a law or change in the market. It requires meaningful discussions, real relationship, forgiveness, and reconciliation. That is why I believe we should include and love our enemies in our society and social circles.

Whatever happens with LGBTQ+ protections in the Supreme Court or eventually in Congress if we ever can break the partisan paralysis, we are still going to need dialogue and relationships to change hearts and minds. I don’t think you’re evil if you take a more coercive path (legal or cultural regulation), but I hope you’ll at least think about the importance of seeing the humanity and good on the other side.

1. Lelieveld, J. et al. Cardiovascular disease burden from ambient air pollution in Europe reassessed using novel hazard ratio functions. Eur. Heart J. 0, 1–7 (2019).

2. Landrigan, P. J. et al. The Lancet Commission on pollution and health. The Lancet 0, (2017).