The Patient Scholar

The thesis

I had a chat with Dan Levin the other day about my draft introduction. He pointed out that I had a great question, but no thesis, i.e., I had stated no point or purpose to the question. In this case, I had not stated what I expected to find in answer to my question.

Gerald Levin, in the Macmillan College Handbook (2d ed.) describes the thesis as “the central idea of a piece of writing.” He is careful to distinguish the thesis from a statement of intention or a statement of subject. It is rather the statement of purpose for the paper; in the case of a research proposal, a statement of what I intend to prove.

What is my thesis then? Peri has suggested a three-pronged approach to the question “Why does the LDS Church exercise political power?”: 1) describing an LDS political philosophy; 2) describing a rational actor explanation; and 3) describing a Foucaultian explanation. Surely though I must have suspicions about which explanation will be best, and the purpose of the dissertation ultimately, but also the thesis of the proposal, is that I intend to demonstrate that one is better than the others, and if it is note, discover why not.

The thesis in my study should be approached in the same manner as the hypothesis of a more quantitative study. I suggest a (hypo)thesis to test and test it.

So, my question is “Why does the church exercise political power?” and my thesis is “The church exercises political power because of a highly developed political philosophy. This philosophy permits the church to at once claim to believe in a total separation of church and state on the one hand, and on the other exercise political power, both externally and internally, in the pursuit of very specific policy ends.”

In order to prove, or disprove, the thesis I will avail myself of alternative modes of explanation: 1) attempt to tease out from statements of church leaders, official documents, and scripture, a political philosophy such as I have described above; 2) attempt to construct a rational actor explanation; and 3) attempt to construct a Foucaultian, disciplinary explanation.

Public administration and ethics

Last night was the fourth annual Dalmas H. Nelson Lecture on Public Law and Ethics. Dr. Terry Cooper from USC was the speaker. Dr. Cooper is the author of The Responsible Administrator, a book I read and reviewed for Ted Hebert’s administrative practice class (oh, so long ago now).

Dr. Cooper’s purpose in the lecture was to identify some “big questions” in administrative ethics. The first of his big questions is the one that is most interesting to me, and that is: “What are the normative foundations for public administrative ethics?” This is an especially important question, in light of the pluralistic world in which we live.

As part of his discussion on the this search for a normative foundation, Dr. Cooper suggested that one of the questions often asked is “Whose ethics should we adopt?” Whose indeed? For example, in Utah where 70% of the state’s population belongs to the LDS Church this decision may be somewhat easier to make: let’s just all subscribe to the dominant groups perception of what is ethical and what is not. Such a decision essentially belittles other groups’ ethical constructs, and in fact is an abdication of responsibility. As a profession, public administrators should be deeply concerned about creating their own set of professional ethics that can transcend individual ethics (though not replace them) and serve as a common foundation upon which ethical decisions can be constructed.

This notion appeals to me in that it requires us to look for those elements that are common to all public administrators’ perceptions of what is ethical behavior without raising one personal standard of behavior above another. (Dr. Cooper also spoke of learning from other administrators’ ethical practices; this reflection on others’ actions is not the same as entering into a qualitative judgement regarding the superiority of one ethical view over another.)

The day after Dr. Cooper’s lecture, the local chapter of the American Society for Public Administration held a one-day conference on ethics. The morning session picked up where Dr. Cooper had ended in his lecture the night before, with questions and discussion on some of the issues he had raised. One issue in particular has caused me some thought: Dr. Cooper referred to “administrative courage” or the ability to “speak truth to power” (a phrase borrowed from Aaron Wildavsky). Administrative courage, or ethical courage, is the strength of character necessary to inform those in positions of authority that their actions are inappropriate, wrong, illegal, unethical, when such actions occur, even at the risk of losing one’s job.

As an example, he discussed ethics training that he had given to a police department, where he suggested to the officers that they turn in their partners if these behaved inappropriately. As one might suspect, the officers were reluctant to subscribe to such a course of action, to which Dr. Cooper replied that he was simply asking them to sacrifice their jobs, rather than their lives, which, he reminded them, they had already sworn to do to uphold the laws.

But this is hard, isn’t it? Where can we find this type of courage? The question is particularly pertinent when we think upon those instances where public administrators have stood their ethical ground and then suffered for it. Perhaps we can find some of that courage in examining the lives of others, as Dr. Cooper suggested, and by having a well-developed professional ethic to which we can subscribe. And perhaps it can be found by engaging in profound and honest self-reflection, where we examine our own motives and values and reconcile them (or not) with our professional lives.

Draft introduction

Religion has always been an integral part of the American political experience. From the establishment of the first Puritan settlements to the invocation of “God bless American” uttered so frequently by the current president, religion and God have been familiar fixtures not only in the church house, but also in the state house.

Nevertheless, there is a difference between the Puritan settlements of old and today’s government “of the people, by the people, and for the people.” While the Puritans made no distinction between community and the kingdom of God on earth, the United States today is an ostensibly secular state. While Jefferson’s “insurmountable wall” may not be either as high or as solid as he might have wished, there are very definite delimiters between state and church action; at least there are in principle.

Practice is, of course often different that principle, and the observation of practical limits between church and state function reveals little that is brightly delineated. From the chief justice of a state supreme court who refuses to remove a monument bearing the Ten Commandments to the community church where candidates offer sermon-like stump speeches, the division between church and state becomes porous indeed.

And yet we have still before us the principled remains of Jefferson’s wall. We have still the establishment clause. We have still the appurtenances of secular state. And so generally we ask why Jefferson’s wall has become (or perhaps has always been) so porous? Why do Americans countenance such an intermingling of the secular state with community of the faithful?

This is more of a sociological question than one properly pertaining to political science. It does suggest questions more appropriate to the discipline, however. Thus, we ask ourselves why churches consciously choose to act politically? This question becomes even more pertinent when the beliefs of certain churches regarding government and God are viewed as part of the premise for church action.

Specifically, let us examine the case of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Members of the LDS Church accept as scripture the following statement:

We believe that religion is instituted of God; … but we do not believe that human law has a right to interfere in prescribing rules of worship to bind the consciences of men, nor dictate forms for public or private devotion… . (Doctrine and Covenants 134:4)

Perhaps even more clear (if possible) are these words from Joseph F. Smith, president of the LDS Church from 1901 to 1918:

We declare that from principle and policy, we favor: The absolute separation of church and state; No domination of the state by the church; No church interference with the functions of the state; No state interference with the functions of the church, or with the free exercise of religion; the absolute freedom of the individual from the domination of ecclesiastical authority in political affairs; The equality of all churches before the law. (Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Joseph F. Smith, 125)

The LDS Church accepts as a matter of doctrine the separation of church and state. Why then does the Church choose to involve itself politically in certain matters?

Fear and the doctoral program

I have had such a hard time getting any work done. I have always been more than happy to let other aspects of my life take precedence, and to let my work languish on the vine, waiting for the time when I will devote my efforts to it. I think I know why. I am afraid.

Why am I afraid? I am afraid because I don’t want to fail. This seems rather paradoxical; after all, isn’t my failure assured if I don’t do the work?

Of course it is. But my fear of failure has helped me construct, though not completely concsiously, a way out of that conundrum. I am busy; there is no hiding that; it is a fact. Most people don’t carry a full-time job, don’t have a spouse and children, don’t try to participate (more or less) in their church, and try to do doctoral work at the same time. My fear tells me that if I fail, I can use all of these other important commitments as my very legitimate explanation for failure. I simply have too much to do, and so cannot devote the time and energy necessary to my academic work. Consciense clear, problem solved.

This logic is flawed, of course. There are other people who have been in my situation, who are in my situation, or even worse, and they have successfully completed equally difficult tasks. So why can’t I?

Because I don’t want to lose face; I don’t want other people to know that I’m not smart. I don’t want my committee to discover that I’m not intellectually up to the challenge. And so I don’t work, because I don’t want to fail, because I don’t want Peri, or Matt, or Dan, or Maureen, or Prof. Alexander (can’t call him Tom yet; don’t know him well enough) to think that I’m not smart enough. Quite possibly they may think this already because I have taken so long in my program. But all doubt would be dispelled, wouldn’t it, once I failed my comps, or my topic defense?

So, my question becomes: How do I let go of my fear? I’m not sure I have a good answer to that beyond doing the work, doing it the best that I can (working with my committe) and then simply letting the story of my doctorate play itself out. The script is in need of rewrite, since I can’t actually engage the services of another lead actor; I’m pretty much it.