William and Mildred Wells were married scientists, conducting research on the spread of disease in the 1930’s. They were both outsiders to the scientific establishment, particularly of the fledgling field of microbiology. They postulated that germs were floating invisibly in the air, not at a high enough density that any specific breath was dangerous, but that if you were in an enclosed room with even a small amount of a disease-carrying germ in the air, you could get sick if you took enough breaths. William and Mildred Wells discovered and proved the existence of airborne disease, and demonstrated that ultraviolet light could kill airborne pathogens.

This flew in the face of modern scientific understanding at the time, which suggested disease could only be spread by the large droplets that come from coughing and sneezing. This understanding, which is what led to the practices of covering your nose and mouth when you sneeze or cough, and washing your hands frequently, is still largely how we imagine disease spreading.

We don’t tend to think of disease as just floating in the air, dangerous until it’s zapped with a lightbulb. It honestly sounds a little fake. Yet, this was something that was scientifically proven in the 1930’s, and then was functionally forgotten. Unlike covering coughs or washing hands, preventing disease by opening windows, meeting outside putting UV lights in air filters, or wearing masks while indoors if you’re sick, didn’t make it into modern American public health understanding… until about 5 years ago. 

Because Covid-19 is, of course, airborne. 

Researcher Carl Zimmer wrote a whole book about the Wellses and why their research was so marginalized, and almost forgotten completely. Zimmer postulates that the main reason that the Wells research was never mainstream in their lifetime was because they were jerks. The Wells, William, in particular, was unbelievably difficult to work with (described by peers as paranoid, demanding, condescending, and cruel). When they were invited to present their pioneering but controversial research, William and Mildred were hostile to anyone who asked questions or pushed back against their ideas. They shouted down colleagues, refused to engage in scientific debate, saying that their research was clear and anyone who didn’t believe it couldn’t be taken seriously. They knew they were right, and didn’t feel like they should have to defend themselves. 

Eventually they stopped being invited to speak at conferences, or being published in journals. They stopped being included in the public scientific discourse, because, no matter how brilliant they were, or even how right they were, they weren’t interested in the work of bringing people alongside them. They were eventually fired from Harvard’s research lab, even with the full knowledge of how meaningful their work was for public health. They never got the kind of formal recognition that would have paved the way for more funding, more research, and a larger audience. 

Their research lived on in obscure or unpublished writings, occasionally uncovered and resurfaced by researchers digging deep in archives. Thank God for that. While not immediately, their research did eventually inform those studying how Covid-19 was spreading, and eventually the guidance shifted to what we now all remember from months 3-24ish of the pandemic: social distancing, seeing others outside, masking, and new air filters everywhere. 

It’s an uncomfortable reality to recognize, but it’s pretty undeniable: the Wells’s research saved a lot of lives, and also, it probably could have saved a lot more if they had been nicer. If they had been team players, collaborators, willing to engage with their critics, it wouldn’t have diluted their great accomplishment, they wouldn’t have lost credit to someone else; most likely they would be household names, and even if they weren’t, they would still be the people who discovered the science that halted a global pandemic before it got off they ground. 

But they weren’t. And they didn’t. 

There’s a temptation among those of us who were lucky enough to have gone to grad school (I know who reads this blog) to think that because we are the ones who read the books, wrote the papers, passed the exams, people should just listen to us. When volunteers, Church Ladies, Monday morning-emailers and the like tell us how we should lead, what the kids should be doing, what church should look like, it makes sense that we occasionally have the urge to ask for their citations. To tell them that we are right, and that we shouldn’t have to defend ourselves.

And yet. 

We take a deep breath. We hold our tongues and do our very best to keep from rolling our eyes. On our best days, we even manage to really listen. And it feels pointless occasionally, if all these people have such good ideas, why not let them do it? Why continue to have the same circular conversations with new volunteers, trying to convince them that your experience and education actually did teach you something, and that they should at least try it your way? 

The Wells didn’t do any of that work. They were right, they could scientifically prove it, so they didn’t feel like they had to negotiate about it. They had their iron-clad truth, that should have been enough for people, and they were offended that they had to keep explaining themselves. 

So they didn’t explain themselves. And they didn’t really convince anyone. And it not only cost them, it cost the whole world. I lost my boss to Covid-19 in December of 2020, and I wonder if masking a little bit earlier, going outside a little bit sooner could have interrupted the chain of transmission that ended his life. All of us who lost someone could wonder. 

Those who research how people come to reject conspiratorial beliefs and misinformation point to the power of compassionate conversation and empathetic exchanges. It’s hard work, it’s thankless work, it can feel frustrating and vulnerable to continually explain your deeply held beliefs to someone who just isn’t getting it – but it’s the only way to bring a community along with you. It’s exhausting, and it’s how change gets made.

It’s worth the work. I’m grateful for all the scientists who do willingly engage in this kind of work, for the teachers I had, formally and informally, who patiently walked me into deeper knowledge of the world, of God, and of my neighbors.

And I am grateful for all of you who’s eyes glaze over at your Monday morning inboxes, filled with suggestions and feedback. Filled with questions as to why you keep referring to God that way, why the kids can’t just go to the nursery the whole service, why church resources are going to mission and outreach when they’ve been asking for a new piano. I imagine you rubbing your eyes, getting up to refill your cups with mediocre church coffee, taking a deep breath as you sit back down at your laptop, typing,

“Hey, thanks for reaching out, that’s a great question…” 

Its the good work, and it matters. God bless you as you do it.