theo|digital

I’ve got a book review today up on Scot McKnight’s blog, Jesus Creed.  I walk through Dwight Friesen’s Thy Kingdom Connected:  What the Church Can Learn from Facebook, the Internet, and Other Networks.  I found it to be a reasonable early attempt at what I might call “digital faith seeking understanding.”  The book is less about Facebook, et al and more about what those cultural metaphors show us about God, the church, and the Kingdom.  I have some concerns, but a good read overall.  Check out my review.

There’s some growing buzz in the last two days about Oxford anthropologist Robin Dunbar’s research into social groups. Dunbar is currently a fellow at the same college C.S. Lewis inhabited (Magdalen), and is noted for saying that human beings cannot having a meaningful circle of friends greater than 150 people.

The limit is called “dunbar’s number,” and its origin is pretty biological: Dunbar measured brain size (actually: the relative size of the neocortex to the medula) of both primates and humans. Because the neocortex is related to information processing about our relational networks, the size and the number of people we can know may be related.  This is the social brain hypothesis. (read the original 1998 research)

Don’t check out yet.  This is where it’s fun.  Dunbar went on to check to see if his number played out in real life, mostly looking at old stuff—hunter-gather communites, etc.  But recently he’s been looking for more current examples, which includes Facebook.  His study isn’t out yet, but the Times reports his initial findings.

“The interesting thing is that you can have 1,500 friends but when you actually look at traffic on sites, you see people maintain the same inner circle of around 150 people that we observe in the real world,” said Dunbar.

“People obviously like the kudos of having hundreds of friends but the reality is that they’re unlikely to be bigger than anyone else’s.”

Interesting stuff. But there are some big caveats. The number 150 just isn’t that solid. Women and men differ, for one things (women can maintain more active relationships). And according to his original research, the number only expands to this size when a group has an self-identity (e.g. “we’re a tribe!”) and is stressed in certain ways (e.g. “can you believe that typhoon we made it through??”). Otherwise it’s even smaller. Are these identifiable circles modeled on Facebook? (my answer: no, not yet. They can be privately:  you can set up friend groups that only you can see.  But in a group sense, only fan pages and mutual-interest groups are close, and that’s not much).

Even more, Dunbar’s original study showed that complex hierarchy in social structures complicate things (maybe reduce the number). Confusing. Is Facebook a flat structure or hierarchical structure? (my guess: despite appearances, it’s not truly flat. The question is in serious tension. the hierarchy is based on a simple structure of social capital (i.e. number of friends and quality of content), but interacts significantly with real world social capital, and conflicts with structured hierarchy – your boss might less pull on Facebook than you do).

So can we only have even less? 100 real friends? Despite my poking at the actual number (which other researches place lower or higher as well: 125, 230, etc), there’s something to the wider concept. We intuitively know that we only have stronger ties with close group of friends . Those people with 1,200 friends on Facebook who “say yes to everybody” that Friends them—they’ve got fans, but not 1200 friendships.  Me? My rule is that I have to be able to introduce you to someone else in a social situation. That means I regularly ignore friend requests (probably have rejected hundreds, not because I didn’t like the person I met at the party, but because in a week I’m positive I won’t remember their name and it won’t matter that much). I guess I’m committed to this modeling social reality stuff.

Church question. But let’s accept the 150 number again. What particularly strikes me is that people like Dave Fitch and many others are pretty confident that the size of a relational-missional church cannot grow beyond this size without losing their key characteristics. I tend to agree: I believe if you cannot know whether the person sitting behind you in worship is “new” or not, you’ve lost hospitality—an essential core value.

Maybe we’ve been noticing Dunbar’s number.

Other links or notes:

• Dunbar has an upcoming book
• Jacob Morgan writes that Dunbar’s number is irrelevant for today’s world:  that we need lots of weak connections (what we call “networking”) over lots of strong
• Forbes picks up on this before others did
• Meanwhile, another Oxford scholar (and Baroness!), mentioned in the House of Lords that she thinks Facebook is rewiring our brains.

My train journey is coming to an end. We made it through the heavy snow drifts of the Sierra Nevadas and the first vineyards alight the California landscape. Familiar names to unfamiliar places are slipping by: UC Davis and Mountain View. And as I pack my bag, moving haltingly in the tight space to reach my scattered things, I feel a tinge of jealousy for passengers that arrive on days that are not so wet and grey. The rain has thrown a dim film on the world. The low light mars my pictures from the train-in-motion, and I eventually give up, setting the camera beside my chair and framing pictures with my mind instead. The rain specks remain fixed on the windows.

Pete my official Amtrak Sleeping Car Attendant has been friendly but awkward the entire trip. He pokes his head in occasionally with an offer for bottled water or fresh towels, but he has a little script he says, smiling into the distance. Interrupting him for a question hits a 404 Not Found error—he abruptly stops talking without making eye contact, shakes his head a little and slides your door shut briskly. He’s like an early software model—able to do a few things well, but ready to crash on getting unexpected input (like, “Pete, can you tell me more about the connecting bus service in San Francisco?” = Melt down). Oh well. I’ve decided to have compassion, but I’m a little unsure how much to tip him. I read online that 5 dollars a night is a pretty good tip. I spent two nights, so I decide I’ll go ahead and give him the $10.

Susan, the Dining Car Attendant, walks by my open door and says “bye!” She is carrying a purse and her jacket, and I wonder if she has people in San Francisco she can stay with.

All in all, I’m sad to leave the California Zephyr. Two days is enough time to start to feel at home, and now I know why people take the train. It is the antidote to an information-glut life, running at high-speed. The first goal is to sit and stare out the window; watching the trees and rivers and mesas as they float by. It’s a calming way to travel, nothing to filter or sort or answer or know. And nobody made you take your shoes off to do it.

Goodbye California Zephyr. Let’s do it again some day.

I awoke to white sands and early dawn; our train rushing through a speckled desert, barren and cold. An 18-wheeler was pacing us on the parallel Interstate, his running lights sharp and eager and colored against the grey silhouette of distant mountains.

My Palm Pre refused to respond to the power button, and I realized I had forgotten to plug it in overnight. Unless I wanted to leave my roomette, the time was going to remain a mystery until she got enough juice to wake-up herself. Maybe it was a godsend. I sat on my bunk and stared at the increasing light for thirty minutes, unscheduled and unhurried.

I ate breakfast with Mike and Mike. The elderly father and adult son are traveling together from Denver, cracking jokes about each other. I’ve ordered eggs and turkey sausage and the elderly Mike turns to me and says, “We should be coming up on the Mustang Ranch soon! Do you know about the Mustang Ranch?”
I shake my head.
“It’s a brothel!” Mike winks.
“Dad!” says younger Mike. “How would you know about that?”
“I’ve been there!” announces older Mike, a grin on his face.

–
We stop in Reno right below the Harrah’s Casino. I grab my jacket to head to the platform—if I hurry I may be able to take a picture of a slot machine. I’m stopped before I start: two large men are standing in the hallway blocking my exit. The one on the left wears a Phantom skater skull-cap and a yellow hoodie. The larger guy on the right has rows of earing studs and a ragged gottee. They both move quickly; reaching into their clothes they pull out—badges. “Nevada Police” says Lefty. “We’d like to talk to you.”

Apparently part of the Reno experience is automatic entry into a Western. I learned from the conductor that Birdeye, Nevada is the site of the first ever train robbery. 40,000 gold coins were nabbed from the Overland Express in 1870 by John Chapman and some pals. John was a Sunday School teacher.

Turns out that Left and Right are Narcotics Agents with the Reno Police Force, and every day they search this train, looking for people who are traveling all the way (Chicago to San Fran or back) and who bought tickets on short notice. It’s not actually drugs they’re looking for, they explain apologetically. It’s cash. The drugs flow West -> East, and the cash returns East -> West. Their search of my room takes about 30 seconds, and they are apologetic, wishing me a great trip, and then speeding back down the hall towards Coach.

Welp, okay.

Each time the train pulls out of a station, the initial acceleration so gentle that I barely notice we’ve started moving unless I’m looking carefully.

The Colorado river was frozen over for much of our trip through the mountains—enough so that it was only detectable by being slightly more flat than the surrounding land.  Now that we’ve made it down stream on the other side of the continental divide, we have churning water next to us, silent and wild.  It’s cool.

Ross is the cafe car attendant. I went down there before dinner to see what it was, really. Ross was sitting there alone–nobody apparantly hangs in the cafe car near dinnertime. Turns out he lives in Joliet and he’s reading the Grapes of Wrath and he previously graduated from chef school, but currently microwaves hot dogs for a living. One of those ironies.

The sunset tonight was heartstopping. Jet-red sand cliffs sped past in sheer lines, highlighted with snow and dotted with sage. One couple sat in the viewliner car in the booth next to me and kept trailing off their conversation in favor of the windows.

The dark has fallen again, and my dinner reservation is soon: 7pm. I’m told that once we pass Salt Lake City, the chances of having any kind of signal are null, so my thoughts will probably have to continue in Word instead of WordPress.

20 January 2010
Just west of Denver, CO, in the front range.

Our train is climbing the pine-specked foothills of the front range, swallowing switchbacks and tunnels. The sky is grey but tinged with sun… maybe we’ll see some blue yet. It’s only 9:15am.

“Ladies and Gentlemen: at this time, the Café Car has re-opened.”
That’s the snack shop. It’s different than the dining car, and sells stale coffee and microwaved hot dogs. Since the full-service dining is included in my fare, I’m not likely to spend much time buying snacks.
–

At lunch I’m seated with a couple from Ann Arbor, MI (they are familiar with the campus church in my network, New Life) and an arts entrepreneur who is on her way to host a panel at the Sundance Film Festival. She does this kinda thing all the time. We talk about robotic art (yep) installations and the upcoming popularity of hybrid artists who have engineering training but do artistic works. I think of Vienna Teng, but I don’t bring her up.

We’re about to leave Glenwood Hot Springs, CO. All aboard!

First light was a little confusing.  It came slowly, and I thought I was waking again to a especially hard shake of the train car.  Really, I woke only a few times, and had no trouble returning to sleep.  The bed is made with only a light sheet and blanket, but comfortable regardless.

And then at 7am sharp, the conductor announced that we were 20 minutes from Denver.  It was as good a time as any to wake up, and I was surprised to find there was no wait for the shower down the hall.  Tight quarters (everything is still mini—like an airplane bathroom), but plenty of hot water.

It’s funny to be in Denver… I’m right next to Coors Field.  Oh – here we are pulling out.  Bye Denver!  Hello Rockies!

Princeton, Illinois is our first announced stop, although we stopped in Naperville earlier on the way out of Chicagoland.  It is “not, I repeat, not a smoke stop,” our conductor says.  That will be Galesburg—45 minutes after Princeton.  I have been watching the small towns slip by between the long stretches of dormant fields.  The last one had a pudgy building titled “Feed Store,” a clearly identifiable local bar, and a red church all sitting on main street as if they were waiting at the barber’s for a trim and some local gossip.

A few minutes ago I became aware that I’d been thinking that we had another train near us.  Maybe it was distant, but it had been with us for a while.  The thick dissonance of a train whistle was faint but detectable in echoes and between the clear click and rush of our own noise.  My only question:  how could another train follow us for as long as it had?  Do they let them follow that closely?  There doesn’t seem to be another visible set of tracks.  After about 30 minutes, whistle still with us, the solution occurred to me.  WE’RE a train.  We’ve got our own train whistle.  We don’t have some sorta of train shadow.  We’re the ones making the noise.

Problem solved.

–

Ate dinner with an elderly man named Rich, and a young guy from coach named Nick.  Both were polite in the classic sense.  I guess I was too.  “Pass the pepper, please.”  I thought it would be easier to come up with things to talk about, but the conversation was mostly a bust.  Rich is a regular Amtrak rider, so you had that to talk about for a while.  Nick’s first time on the train too, but he didn’t have a lot to say.  He’s going to Denver to look for work.  He has family there.

I had a steak, which is pretty unusual for me, but among the options (shrimp scampi, buffalo meatloaf, turkey and stuffing) it didn’t seem like there was much of a choice.  Overall, sorta fun doing the dining car thing for the first time, but I hope the experience improves.  I think just having daylight out the windows will make it more fun.  Once it gets fully dark the glass becomes glossy black.

And now I’m laying here in my car made into a bed, wondering if I’m going to be able to sleep with the train rocking back and forth.  They said you could get used to it, but it’s not how I thought it would be—rhythmic and soothing.  More jarring and sudden in unannounced spurts.  We’ll see.

My internet signal has vanished, so this may have to wait until morning.

Car 0531 Room 9 on the California Zephyr.  My first train ride.  1 hour in.

The city has already buzzed past our windows, its glass and industrial center followed by its suburban entourage bricked and tidy and now, just an hour into our ride, we’ve reached the Land.  It is white and quiet and wide.  Rows of cropped wheat remain steady across the landscape, writing contours on the snow like a comb through sand.  Farmhouses and their weathered barns sit like postcards, imaginary and beautiful and far, far away.

The dining car attendant has just made an announcement on the public address system.  She will shortly be by to take dinner reservations.  First class passengers have priority, and can choose a time between 5:30 and 9pm.  I suppose I will ask for 6:30 or 7.

Today I’m doing something I’ve never done before.  The California Zephyr is one of the longest train routes in North America, and I’m about to ride it.  All 2, 438 miles of it—from Chicago’s Union Station to the edge of San Francisco.  The route traces through Chicago, Omaha, Denver, Salt Lake City, and Reno before arriving in California, and it became famous for its views of the Rocky Mountains and the American West.  Apparently for the car attendants too, who at the height of train travel post-WWII played the role of perky young stewardesses, offering smiles and full-service attention, from coffee to babysitting the kids while you were in the lounge.  Today it’s obviously changed a bit, but you can still ride as a first class passenger in a sleeper Superliner, which includes amenities like the morning paper, fresh towels and sheets, and priority all-you-can-eat reservations in the Dining Car.  As an antique experience that I’ve never had, it felt perfect for a short vacation, offering something novel while providing a chance to be by myself and write and pray and think.

The trip officially takes 50 hours–mine leaves on 2pm Tuesday in Chicago, travels for two overnights, and arrives in San Francisco at 4:05pm.  Although nobody really believes that’s when it’ll get in.  Amtrak trains have the distinction of having “on-time” being a bonus.  I think if it’s up to 3 hours late, Amtrak practically considers that on time.  Past that you can start to complain a little, although it’s not like you’re gonna just get out and walk.  A few weeks ago, this very train route made the news for having a train that was stopped by snow and showed up over 18 hours late.  Ouch.

And while coming in the following day might be cause enough for some attention, what’s funny to me is how uneventful the poor timing is normally.  Nobody cares.  Part of this is that they are simply meeting expectation–there’s nothing new here.  But media ecology’s approach to technological progress in society probably has the best explanation.  People don’t think of trains as transportation.  They’re art.

That’s because newer technologies (i.e. I’m leavin’ on a jet plane) have supplanted the train as the primary means of cross-country movement in the U.S.  And newer technologies often don’t replace previous technologies as much as modify their role in our cultural perceptions.  For Marshall McLuhan, this means that some older technologies remain in place as–but as art!  His most famous observation on this:

The machine turned nature into an art form.  For the first time man began to regard Nature as a source of aesthetic and spiritual values.  They began to marvel that earlier ages had been so unaware of the world of Nature as Art.

Think National Parks as vacation destinations.  This is a result of the assembly line.

And that’s why people don’t care if trains are late.  I’m riding the train because it a novelty item, and I learned about it reading blogs that are devoted to people who do just that.  Newer technologies have modified our perceptions.

ps – can’t wait to see what this is like.  More if I can from the train, but chances are pretty low I’ll have good access as I’d be depending on what flashes of Spring 3G I can catch from the train car.