New Directions in Rhetoric and Religion: Exploring Emerging Intersections of Religion, Public Discourse, and Rhetorical Scholarship 1793622825, 9781793622822

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New Directions in Rhetoric and Religion

New Directions in Rhetoric and Religion Exploring Emerging Intersections of Religion, Public Discourse, and Rhetorical Scholarship

Edited by James W. Vining

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www​.rowman​.com 6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL, United Kingdom Copyright © 2021 The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Vining, James W., 1973- editor. Title: New directions in rhetoric and religion : exploring emerging intersections of religion, public discourse, and rhetorical scholarship / edited by James W. Vining. Description: Lanham : Lexington Books, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021025745 (print) | LCCN 2021025746 (ebook) | ISBN 9781793622822 (cloth) | ISBN 9781793622839 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Rhetoric—Religious aspects. Classification: LCC BL65.L2 N49 2021 (print) | LCC BL65.L2 (ebook) | DDC 210.1/4—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021025745 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021025746 ∞ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Contents

Introduction 1 James W. Vining SECTION I: RHETORICS OF RELIGION IN PUBLIC ACTIVISM 1 Christian Communal Parrhesia and the Case of the 1965 Bloody Sunday March Joshua H. Miller 2 Baylor Abroad: Revisiting the Racial Legacy of Baptist Evangelism Jeff Nagel 3 Social Christian Theology Animating Civic Rhetorical Activism Sara M. Dye and Michael-John DePalma 4 A Site of Sacred Resistance: Eco-Spiritual Appeals, Environmental Justice, and the Adorers of the Blood of Christ Christopher Thomas SECTION II: RHETORICS OF RELIGION IN CONTEMPORARY PUBLICS 5 Religion and Rhetoric in Moments of Crisis: Obstacles and an Opportunity in Timothy Keller’s “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” Raymond Blanton

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6 Constitutive Rhetoric, Islamist Discourse, and the Power of “Peoplehood”: An Analysis of Regime-Sponsored Nationalist Songs in Post–June 30 Egypt Farah Mourad 7 To Splinter and Split: Mapping the Use of the Term “Evangelical” on Twitter in the Age of Trump Emily Murphy Cope, Holland Prior, Jeff Ringer, and Megan Von Bergen 8 Let’s Pray for President Trump in Church: An Analysis of Franklin Graham’s Trump Posts on Facebook Tiffany Thames Copeland and Wei Sun SECTION III: CONSIDERATIONS FOR FUTURE SCHOLARSHIP ON RHETORIC AND RELIGION 9 What I Wish Rhetoric Scholars and American Evangelical Christians Would Learn by Studying Religious Rhetoric: A Rhetorological Exercise Mark Allan Steiner

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10 The Religious and Rhetorical Afterlives of John Quincy Adams Elizabeth Kimball

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11 The Atheist Dilemma: Studying Non-theists in Rhetorical Studies Kristina M. Lee

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12 The Problem of Religion and Promise of Theology in Rhetorical Scholarship James W. Vining

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Conclusion: Rhetoric’s Affective Reckoning: Holy Icons and Sacred Idols Christian Lundberg

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Index 285 About the Editor and Contributors

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Introduction James W. Vining

Religion continues to be a significant aspect of public life and discourse. Religion and its rhetorics can be seen in contexts as broad as the daily news, popular culture, business, advertising, education, politics, and social movements. Sociologist Peter Berger’s (1979) famous “secularization thesis,” the belief that modern societies would inevitably be secular societies as religion faded away in the face of modernity, has been largely dismissed (Cavanaugh et al., 2012; Grasso, 2012), even by Berger (1999) himself. Today, scholars generally acknowledge that religion continues to be vital in the modern world, in both our private and public lives (Grasso, 2012). Instead of fading away or being relegated to a private realm, modern religion, according to religion scholar Jose Casanova (2003), “has, assumes, or tries to assume a public character, function, or role” (p. 111). There is a growing sense that the role of religion in public life warrants attention from rhetorical scholars. Laurnet Pernot (2006) and Craig Calhoun (2011) justified their work on religion in public discourse by claiming there is a need for rhetorical scholarship on public discourse that employs religion because the secularization theory has proven false and religion has maintained a prominent, and often powerful, role in public discourse. Furthermore, they urged other rhetorical scholars to contribute to this line of study—building on the calls of Burke (1970), Booth (1991), Jost and Olmsted (2000), and Zulick (2008) who argued that the study of rhetoric and religion would provide important insights into the nature of rhetoric. Over the past decade, there has been a growing body of articles, panels, books, and conferences on rhetoric and religion, providing valuable insights about religion, rhetoric, and public life (DePalma and Ringer, 2015; Camper, 2020; Rhetoric & Religion, 2018; Rhetoric, Race, and Religion, ND; Studies in Rhetoric & Religion, ND). 1

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This edited volume builds upon this scholarly conversation by looking forward to new directions in the study of religion and rhetoric. These new directions emerge from a variety of causes: the complex and fluid nature of religion, rhetoric, and public life, the rapid changes occurring in today’s globalized, digital, and politically polarized world, and the growing wealth of insights available through rhetorical scholarship. This volume brings together a diverse group of rhetorical studies scholars—English and communication studies, established and emerging, with various areas of expertise, and different theoretical and methodological approaches—to help guide the reader in these new directions. While diverse in their offerings, the scholarship in this book is unified by the broad themes of religion, rhetoric, and public engagement. In other words, these works each offer unique insights into the ways that the so-called “religion” uses and is used by public rhetorics. In doing so, the chapters reflect both the discipline’s growing understanding of religion and rhetoric and the changing public and religious contexts we find ourselves in. This volume is divided into three sections, each consisting of four chapters. While the threads of rhetorical scholarship, religion, and public rhetoric connect all twelve chapters, each section provides additional focus for the reader. The first section addresses rhetorics of religion at work in public activism. The second section explores rhetorics of religion in contemporary public discourse. The third, and final, section consists of four chapters that address the ways which rhetoric scholars study religion. In the first chapter of this volume, “Christian Communal Parrhesia and the Case of the 1965 Bloody Sunday March,” Joshua H. Miller argues that rhetorical scholars should more actively engage with the work of religious and biblical studies scholarship. He calls scholars to do this in two ways: first, to develop rhetorical theories from canonical religious texts; second, to explore theological rhetorics from marginalized groups. To illustrate the possibilities that await scholars of social action rhetoric, Miller explores the biblical concept of parrhesia as theoretical framework for understanding the 1965 Bloody Sunday March. Chapter 2, “Baylor Abroad: Revisiting the Racial Legacy of Baptist Evangelism,” contributes to conversations about rhetoric, race, and religion through historical and textual examinations of the Baptist mission as expressed at Baylor University’s international missions. In this chapter Jeffrey B. Nagel provides a close look at an aggressive public activism by a religious community that is deeply rooted in the religious community rather than in the public. This careful study highlights the significant role of race in the university’s rhetoric of religious social engagement. The third chapter, “Social Christian Theology Animating Civic Rhetorical Activism” highlights the various ways theological rhetorics animate social

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movements. Sara M. Dye and Michael-John DePalma analyze theological similarities and differences in the rhetorics of two different religious-based social advocacy movements. They persuasively argue that the theological differences in these religious social advocacy movements influence the movements and their rhetorics. “A Site of Sacred Resistance: Eco-Spiritual Appeals, Environmental Justice, and the Adorers of the Blood of Christ” is the final chapter of the section on the study of religious rhetorics in social activism. In this chapter, Christopher Thomas reveals and explores the complex intersections of religious, feminine, material, and environmental rhetorics at work in a Catholic sisters’ protest of an oil pipeline. This chapter highlights resources spirituality can bring to activist rhetorics. Chapter 5, “Religion and Rhetoric in Moments of Crisis: Obstacles and an Opportunity in Timothy Keller’s ‘Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace,’ ” begins the volume’s section focused on rhetorics of religion in contemporary publics. Raymond Blanton contributes to the conversation by exploring religion and rhetoric in a moment of a crisis that was monumental in the American public. The chapter argues that the national crisis of September 11, 2001, called forth rhetorics from religious leaders that highlight the nature of rhetoric and religion. In chapter 6, “Constitutive Rhetoric, Islamist Discourse, and the Power of “Peoplehood”: An Analysis of Regime-Sponsored Nationalist Songs in Post– June 30 Egypt,” Farah Mourad expands the conversation beyond the North American context by investigating religious rhetoric in Egyptian political propaganda. This piece reveals several rhetorical functions of religion when utilized of over popular media to support national pride and government action in the context of the Middle East after a powerful wave of popular uprisings. In chapter 7, “To Splinter and Split: Mapping the Use of the Term Evangelical on Twitter in the Age of Trump,” Emily Murphy Cope, Holland Prior, Jeff M. Ringer, and Megan Von Bergen explore the use of the term “Evangelical” in America during the Trump presidency. The authors conduct an extensive study the use of “Evangelical” on the social media platform Twitter, concluding that the term has splintered and split providing inventional opportunities worthy of the attention of rhetorical scholars. Chapter 8, “Let’s Pray for President Trump in Church: An Analysis of Franklin Graham’s Trump Posts on Facebook,” provides another look at rhetoric of religion at work on social media during the Trump era. In this chapter, rather than looking at the popular use of a religious label, Tiffany Thames Copeland and Wei Sun explore the influence of partisan political comments on social media by a prominent conservative religious leader. Their study

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highlights both the rhetorical tactics of the original posts and the responses of Graham’s followers. While each chapter in the volume offers insights for the study of rhetoric and religion, the chapters in the final third of the book most clearly propose theoretical and methodological considerations for future scholarship on rhetoric and religion. In chapter 9, “What I Wish Rhetoric Scholars and American Evangelical Christians Would Learn by Studying Religious Rhetoric: A Rhetorological Exercise,” Mark Allen Steiner, a respected rhetoric scholar at a state university who also has a long history with American Evangelicalism, makes an appeal to both communities. This chapter, inspired by Booth’s (2004) rhetorology, proposes the study of religion and rhetoric as a practice of listening and dialogue between religious communities and rhetorical scholars. “The Religious and Rhetorical Afterlives of John Quincy Adams,” the tenth chapter of the volume, examines the rhetorical histories constructed around an American who embodied the intersections of religion, rhetoric, and public engagement explored in this book. In this careful analysis of historical constructions around John Quincy Adams, Elizabeth Kimball offers a methodology for more fruitful and healthy rhetorical scholarship on religion and public engagement. Chapter 11, “The Atheist Dilemma: Ethically Studying Non-theists in Rhetorical Studies,” addresses four ethical concerns over the treatment of non-theists in rhetorical scholarship on topics of religion. Kristina M. Lee identifies an increased openness to work on non-theists, but details concern about a lack of outlets for rhetorical works on atheism and ethical concerns about stereotypes and framing of atheism and religion within rhetorical scholarship. Additionally, the chapter includes suggestions to address these concerns. The final chapter of the third section, “The Problem of Religion and Promise of Theology in Rhetorical Scholarship,” addresses multiple challenges of using the term “religion” in rhetorical scholarship. Following the example of some religious studies scholars, I explore the possibility of focusing on theology in rhetorical scholarship. This chapter introduces the concept “textual theology” and proposes the identification of textual theology through close reading of the text as a method of studying religiously influenced rhetorical texts. Christian Lundberg concludes the volume with a chapter that not only reviews the key takeaways from various studies but synthesizes and adds texture to the conversations the reader has engaged with on the pages of this important work. This tour-de-force of a conclusion introduces important contexts and conversation partners as it looks at rhetoric, religion, and public engagement through the lenses of commitment and investment, the sacred and the holy, idols and icons, and incarnation and interpretation. Lundberg’s

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positioning of religion and rhetoric in relationship to discussions of affect and rhetoric further demonstrates the ways religion can inform our understanding of rhetoric and rhetoric can inform our understanding of religion. In total, these chapters build upon the growing scholarship on rhetoric and religion. The diverse groups of rhetorical scholars contribute to the discipline’s understanding of ways religious communities rhetorically engage the general public and ways rhetorics of religion function in contemporary publics. They have also offered insights to assist rhetorical scholars in further study of religion. As the urgency of understanding religion, and particularly the role of religion in public rhetoric, shows no signs of slowing down, we believe this collection is a needed contribution to the conversation.

REFERENCES Berger, P. L. (1979). The heretical imperative: Contemporary possibilities of religious affirmation (1st ed.). Garden City, NY: Anchor Press. Berger, P. L. (1999). The desecularization of the world: Resurgent religion and world politics. Grand Rapids, MI: Ethics and Policy Center. Booth, Wayne C. (1991). Rhetoric and religion: Are they essentially wedded? In W. Jeanrond & J. Rike (Eds.), Radical pluralism and truth: David Tracy and the hermeneutics of religion (pp. 62–80). New York: Crossroad Publishing. Burke, K. (1970). The rhetoric of religion: Studies in logology. Berkeley: University of California Press. Calhoun, C. (2011). Afterword: Religion’s many powers. In E. Mendieta & J. Vanantwerpen (Eds.), The power of religion in the public sphere [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Camper, Martin. (2020). The future of the history of rhetoric is religious. Journal for the History of Rhetoric, 23(1), 104–105. Casanova, J. (2003). What is a public religion? In H. Helclo & W. M. McClay (Eds.), Religion returns to the public square. Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press. Cavanaugh, W. T., Bailey, J. W., & Hovey, C. (2012). In W. T. Cavanaugh, J. W. Bailey, & C. Covey (Eds.), An Eerdmans reader in contemporary political theology [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. DePalma, M. J., & Ringer, J. M. (2015). Introduction: Current trends and future directions in Christian rhetorics. In M. J. DePalma & J. M. Ringer (Eds.), Mapping Christian rhetorics: Connecting conversations, charting new territories [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Grasso, K. L. (2012). Introduction: Theology and the American civil conversation. In K. L. Grasso & C. R. Castillo (Eds.), Theology and public philosophy [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. *James, W. (1881). Reflex action and theism. In The will to believe: And other essays in popular philosophy. New York: Longmans, Green, and Co.

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Jost, W., & Olmsted, W. (2000). Introduction. In W. Jost & W. Olmsted (Eds.), Rhetorical invention & religious inquiry: New perspectives. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Pernot, L. (2006). The rhetoric of religion. Rhetorica: A Journal of the History of Rhetoric, 24, 235–254. Rhetoric, Race, and Religion (ND) Rowman & Littlefield. https​:/​/ro​​wman.​​com​/A​​ ction​​/SERI​​ES/_/​​LEXRR​​R​/Rhe​​toric​,​-Rac​​e,​-a​n​​d​-Rel​​igion​. Rhetoric & Religion in the 21st Century: Possibilities, Publics, Partnerships. (2018). https​:/​/si​​tes​.g​​oogle​​.com/​​a​/utk​​.edu/​​rheto​​ric​-a​​nd​-re​​l​igio​​n​/hom​​e​-1. Studies in Rhetoric & Religion (ND) Baylor University Press. https​:/​/ww​​w​.bay​​lorpr​​ ess​.c​​om​/se​​arch-​​resul​​ts/​?s​​eries​​=stud​​ies​-i​​n​-rhe​​to​ric​​-and-​​relig​​ion. Zulick, M. D. (2008). Rhetoric and religion: A map of the territory. In The Sage handbook of rhetorical studies [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com.

Section I

RHETORICS OF RELIGION IN PUBLIC ACTIVISM

Chapter 1

Christian Communal Parrhesia and the Case of the 1965 Bloody Sunday March Joshua H. Miller

On March 7, 1965, peaceful protesters gathered to march from Selma to Birmingham, Alabama. After the death of a fellow civil rights advocate, the march “was designed to mobilize the nation and to have a major impact in highlighting the issue of voting rights” (LaFayette and Johnson 2013, 122). As the procession of 600 marchers advanced over the Edmund Pettus Bridge, they found law enforcement officials waiting on the other side. The marches proceeded, stopping in front of the officers. After a brief standstill, “The police dispersed cans of smoke, nausea gas, and tear gas into the crowd. The items only exacerbated the problem: the people grew disoriented; they could not see; they could not breathe. The marchers fled on foot, but the police and mounted posse pursued them” (Combs 2014, 35–36). According to Garth E. Pauley (1998), “Estimates of the total injured ranged from 90 to 100. The injuries included broken ribs, wrists, teeth, and severe head gashes. John Lewis, chairman of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), sustained a fractured skull” (34). The event would grow in infamy and become known as Bloody Sunday. Photographic images of Bloody Sunday circulated around the country showing the “devoutness” and “courage” of the marchers and the “threatening” policeman (Gallagher and Zagacki 2007, 122). These images captured “moments of embodiment and enactment” to produce compelling rhetorical artifacts (115–6). This chapter focuses on the marchers’ courageous actions to contemplate and illustrate potential new directions for the study of rhetoric and religion. To analyze the march, I use both rhetorical and theological scholarship to develop a critical lens of Christian communal parrhesia. I argue the 1965 Bloody Sunday March’s boldness crafted authority for voting rights efforts, warranted the existence of social inequality, and invited interlocutors to view themselves as members to a powerful, yet oppressed, community. My 9

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focus on the Bloody Sunday March offers insight into the visual, bodily, and communal dimensions of the Civil Rights Movement’s rhetoric—rhetoric that scholars have generally studied using speeches as the primary text for analysis (Gallagher and Zagacki 2007, 114). Rhetorical critics must grapple with communal and bodily dimensions of the movement’s courageous rhetoric to appreciate fully the rhetoric, effort, and pain required to advance the movement’s cause. Scholars need to account for the risk-taking done by the many unnamed black folks fighting for freedom. Fortunately, scholars have started the important work of illuminating the rhetorical efforts of individuals susceptible to being forgotten to history (e.g., see Brooks; Hendrickson; Jensen and Hammerback). Focusing on the 1965 Bloody Sunday March, this chapter furthers recent rhetorical scholarship that articulates the many rhetorical contributions of the lesser-known or unknown advocates and activists of the civil rights struggle. This chapter’s theoretical contributions focus on the concept of parrhesia. Because the Bloody Sunday marchers enacted devotion to their cause and displayed courage, this march itself provides an opportune vehicle for rhetoric scholarship to reflect upon and develop its understanding of what constitutes parrhesia. Situating the Bloody Sunday march as an act of parrhesia, a type of “bold elocution” (Hasian 2014, 122) and “risky outspokenness” (Martin 2012, 63), this chapter intervenes in theoretical conversations about the term to illuminate its communal, constitutive, and bodily dimensions. To do so, I turn to the Christian tradition of parrhesia—a tradition largely neglected in rhetoric scholarship. Probing Christian parrhesia provides a more nuanced conceptualization of the term, because it showcases parrhesia as communal and bodily in addition to a form of ethos, which functions both instrumentally and constitutively. This chapter expands the term’s utility for rhetorical critics, allowing critics to apply the term as a theoretical lens to social movements and protest rhetoric. This chapter also enriches rhetorical scholarship’s understanding of biblically inspired rhetoric, which includes the prophetic tradition. According to Harvey (2018), the New Testament’s parrhesia is “a continuation of Old Testament prophetic voice” (21). Both traditions emphasize boldness, truth telling, “going beyond the normal, ‘appropriate’ means of persuasion” (23) and involve situations of “injustice or potential catastrophe” (Boland and Clogher 2017, 122). Boland and Clogher (2017) articulate these traditions’ differences center on audience and how the rhetoric frames the origin of their truth. Parrhesia address on those who wield power. Prophetic rhetoric admonishes society and its people for falling away from God and “speaks for the deity” (121). This case study also illustrates avenues for future rhetoric and religion scholarship. First, it shows the utility of developing rhetorical theory from canonical religious texts. By highlighting rhetorical concepts articulated in

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religious texts, rhetorical scholars can connect the work being done in the communication discipline with scholarship being conducted in religious studies departments. These interdisciplinary efforts can deepen understanding about why and how people communicate and protest as well as widen the audience for rhetoric and religion scholarship. Second, this chapter will also highlight the benefit of analyzing rhetorical articulations of theologies from the margins. Theologies, in part, persuade people about their duty to community, how they should behave publicly, how they should advocate, and about what they should advocate. Rhetoric and religion scholarship should infuse analyses of texts with the assumptions of various strains of liberation theologies to illustrate the numerous ways theology might animate, or dampen, public advocacy. I develop these contributions. First, I illustrate parrhesia’s current position in rhetoric scholarship and elucidate a concept of Christian parrhesia, emphasizing how scripture’s use of the term can add to rhetoric scholarship’s appreciation of its range. Second, I apply those insights to the case of the Bloody Sunday march, arguing that using parrhesia and placing themselves in harm’s way cultivated a sacrificial ethos—the demonstrated willingness to suffer harm and lose in pursuit of one’s goal. This sacrificial ethos enhanced the persuasiveness of the marchers’ appeal for voting rights and an altered social climate. I conclude by reflections on the lessons gleaned from the case study and the potential future of scholarship on rhetoric and religion. CHRISTIAN PARRHESIA AND RHETORIC Rhetoric scholarship on parrhesia generally starts with Foucault’s work on the term. For Foucault (2001), parrhesia refers to the act of speaking freely and boldly; it contains five specific dimensions: frankness, truth, danger, criticism, and duty (12-20). Foucault’s parrhesia, according to Arthur E. Walzer (2013), “occurs when a speaker, at risk to himself or herself, speaks an unwelcome truth or gives unwelcome advice to a powerful person or group” (4). Frank speakers (parrhesiastea), in Foucault’s account, assume risk and danger to speak everything on their mind to critique those in power and do so because they have the duty to share their truth. Rhetorical critics have used Foucault’s five characterizations of parrhesia as a lens to analyze discourse (See Henderson 2007; Rossing 2014). For example, David R. Novak (2006) draws on Foucault to argue Malcolm X’s later speeches constituted frank speech. Yet, although Novak uses Foucault’s five dimensions, he writes: “While the elements of parrhesia, as Foucault delineated them, remain constant, they are fluid and malleable in the sense that each is contextspecific given the particular political, social, and economic conditions of the

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moment” (26). Novak’s argument about the fluid nature of frankness, truth, danger, criticism, and duty based on specific contexts provides a rationale for continuing to explain the appearance and function of parrhesia in public discourse. Moreover, because Foucault’s work only constituted “a history of one sense of parrēsia” (Gehrke 2013, 359), continued investigation into the many fluid and malleable senses of parrhesia remains a productive endeavor as it can enhance the utility and portability of the concept for rhetorical critics. Embracing the fluidity of the term remains apt, because parrhesia’s expansive history limits scholars’ ability to provide a definitive characterization of the term. The complexity of the relationship between rhetoric and parrhesia highlights the fruitful nature of a continued endeavor to expound upon the rhetorical functions of parrhesia. In a commentary on Walzer’s work positioning parrhesia as rhetorical, Pat J. Gehrke (2013) explains that both rhetoric and parrhesia “carry multiple connotations over time and within a given time” (355). Even Foucault (2005) agrees, writing about parrhesia that “there is a whole range of modalities” (407). Moreover, Susan Jarratt (2013) defines Foucault’s lectures on parrhesia “as work-in-progress rather than as a fully formed system” and emphasizes Foucault’s “openness to reformulations of the terrain mapping rhetoric and parrēsia” (366). To appreciate fully parrhesia’s range and expand upon Foucault’s work-in-progress, more sustained treatment of all trajectories of the term remains critical. As this chapter illustrates, excavating a tradition of parrhesia that stems from scripture can highlight the term’s utility as a persuasive tool for social advocates and as a theoretical lens to examine a variety of public discourse. Scholars can do much more to theorize biblical parrhesia and its rhetorical functions. This chapter productively incorporates biblical parrhesia within rhetoric scholarship and places classical biblical parrhesia in conversation with Greek and Roman texts on parrhesia. Craig Hovey (2007), a Christian theologian, locates a flaw in Foucault’s study of parrhesia—“his almost complete neglect of the New Testament” (72). Specifically, Hovey indicates that Foucault’s analysis fails to locate parrhesia within a tradition of “public resistance to political power and authority” that “bears on the confrontation of Christ’s witnesses with power” (72). Accordingly, Foucault only described one version of scripture’s use of parrhesia, even though more than one use of the term exists. Gordan Mursel identifies two trajectories of the term in scripture: one focuses on a “Christian’s relationship with God” and the other on Christians’ “relationships with their neighbours” (10). John Udris (1997) identifies two trajectories of the term in scripture: one focuses on “a characteristic of one’s being before God,” and the other on “the preaching and proclamation of the gospel” (11–2; see also Scherz 2015, 185). Foucault emphasized, according to Hovey, the former understanding of parrhesia. As

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such, elucidating biblical parrhesia as a form of proclaiming the gospel in the early Church continues Foucault’s project by providing additional nuance to his characterizations of parrhesia. Such an endeavor reinforces parrhesia’s persuasive nature and emphasizes imbalanced power relations, challenging social orders, and acquiring risk. The biblical text’s parrhesia reveals the term’s persuasive and rhetorical dimensions. Walzer (2013) locates a “rhetorical” parrhesia in several classical works, including Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria (13-5). In that text, Quintilian (2001) writes the following about parrhesia: If they are feigned and artificially produced they are undoubtedly to be regarded as Figures. The same may be said of Free Speech, which Cornificius calls Licence, and the Greeks parrhesia. For what is less “figured” than true freedom? Yet flattery is often concealed under this cover. (9.2.27–28)

Walzer reads this passage as evidence that parrhesia has a rhetorical legacy based on how speakers cultivate it as a figure in their speech—an inventional choice to enhance the persuasiveness of discourse. Philodemus’s (1998) On Frank Criticism provides additional evidence that certain rhetorical traditions view parrhesia as a figure cultivated by a speaker, referring to parrhesia as “an image” that “should be administered appropriately” (Frs. 2-3). Philodemus also writes that parrhesia provides “reasonable arguments” and constitutes a type of subtle “artistry,” aligning parrhesia with the art of rhetoric (see Frs. 1, 57, and 68-9). Both Quintilian’s reference to parrhesia as “artificially produced” and Philodemus’ notion of “image” frame parrhesia as specific type of character that a speaker portrays—a type of persona. Similarly, the Bible’s parrhesia as proclamation similarly aligns the term with persona and therefore rhetoric. For example, Acts 19:8’s portrayal of Paul’s ministry work links parrhesia with persuasion and argumentation: “Paul entered the synagogue and spoke boldly [parrhesia] there for three months, arguing persuasively about the kingdom of God” (New International Version). The duration of Paul’s bold proclamation underscores this form of parrhesia’s emphasis on not only speaking frankly but also on a careful and incremental approach to earning an audience’s assent. Moreover, Udris (1997) writes that biblical parrhesia is “a candour which can compel, charm, and almost irresistibly enchant” (10). Defined in this manner, parrhesia constitutes a stylistic choice that carries persuasive functions and force. In the Christian tradition, parrhesia generally involves an imbalanced power relationship and the articulation of a truth that challenges the “knowledge” of those in power, which can subvert existing power relationships. Theologian David Tiede (1981) positions the force of parrhesia or boldness as clearest in the presence of unequal power relations, writing, “Paul is still

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delivered to Rome in chains. But it is when dragged before kings and princes and handed over to the religious leaders and to prisons that this boldness of the witness is most evident” (49–50). By identifying Paul’s boldness as “most evident” when Paul was chained, Tiede highlights how an imbalance of power contributes to Paul’s parrhesia. Moreover, according to Gae Lyn Henderson (2007), this characteristic of power imbalance enables the subversion of the socially-construct and dominate “truth.” Henderson writes, “A contemporary parrhesiastes interrogates guises of generalized truth to give voice to experiential, localized, multiple truths” (423). By voicing alternative truths to what constitutes the dominant truth, parrhesia breaks any perceived objective knowledge, highlighting what might have appeared objective as subjective. As such, according to Stuart J. Murray (2005), “parrhesia risks creating new [modes of truth-production], and, in the process, new truths and new social relations: a new social subjectivity” (64). The truth-telling dimension of parrhesia posits not objective truth but articulates subversive views, which can curtail the perceived objectivity of another view. In doing so, parrhesia invites interlocutors to adopt new knowledge and ideas for how society can and should be ordered. Parrhesia’s challenge to existing truths that undergird social order and power relations carries with it danger and risk (Hasian 2014, 126; Hovey 2007, 68). Murray (2005) paints a vivid picture of the relationship among parrhesia, subverting social order, and risk, writing: Parrhesia is not socially-sanctioned, but quite the contrary—the parrhesiastes speaks, her speech is a grave risk, and she is liable to be condemned, vilified, debased, sometimes expelled from the human community, criminalized, and pathologized; she risks being stripped of her dignity, left naked and vulnerable, reduced to a bare life whose brutal rape and murder can be a matter of social indifference. (64)

By critiquing existing social order and those in power, parrhesia places a speaker at risk for retribution. The biblical account of parrhesia as proclamation also emphasizes risk and danger. Acts 4:29 states, “And now, Lord, take note of their threats, and grant that Your bond-servants may speak Your word with all confidence [parrhesia]” (New International Version). This passage contextualizes parrhesiastea as done under threat and thus in situations where courage is needed to spread God’s word. With parrhesia, inherent risk exists “in speaking or acting truthfully without reservations, especially when the manifested truth deviates from the hegemonic normative order” (Van Doorn 2015, 639). The Bible’s parrhesia as proclamation as associated with risk and danger, in part, explains the model of Christian martyrdom. Risking life and limb showed conviction to one’s truth about salvation in Jesus.

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Because the parrhesiates risks life and limb, parrhesia’s rhetorical function aligns with how it artfully crafts and develops a particular ethos. As a speaker adopts the persona of the parrhesiates, they also cultivate ethos and virtue based on how they critique those in power and place themselves in danger (Scherz 2015, 182). For the parrhesiates, the choice to critique an audience member in power then fosters an ethos revolving around risk and danger. For example, in an essay about spiritual narratives about early modern women, Henderson (2007) argues that “although the female author, writing from prison, cannot summon the ethos of religious office or political position in support of her interpretation, she does project the ethos of a parrhesiastes, who at great personal risk proclaims her version of truth” (440). Taking on personal risk foments ethos for the speaker. According to Carlos Lévy (2009), parrhesia is “both a passion, since it entails an emotional investment, and a virtue, insofar as it is still linked to courage” (314). As a form of ethos, parrhesia is both instrumental and constitutive. First, the parrhesiastes’ willingness to undertake risk functions instrumentally, by securing an ethos, which enhances the persuasiveness and argumentative qualities of their speech. Understanding the connection between risk and ethos remains important, because, according to Hasian (2014), “the veracity of the parrhesiastic’s claims depends on his or her own credibility” (124). Foucault (2001) locates this credibility in the parrhesiates’ courage to face danger and risk. He writes, “If there is a kind of ‘proof’ of sincerity of the parrhesiastes, it is his courage” (15). Connecting courage with a form of proof aligns Foucault’s statements on parrhesia closely with what Chaim Perelman and Lucie Olbrechts-Tyteca (1969) call argumentation from sacrifice—an argument “based on the sacrifice which one is willing to make in order to achieve a certain result” (248). According to Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca, demonstrating one’s willingness to sacrifice compares arguers and bestows upon the arguer willing to sacrifice prestige—the greater the sacrifice, the greater the prestige. When rhetors display their willingness to suffer and sacrifice, they develop a specific form of sacrificial ethos. Risking life, health, or reputation to critique those in power and an existing social order then bestows prestige or ethos upon the parrhesiastes, which augments the persuasive appeals and thus instrumental capability of parrhesia. Second, one of the constitutive functions of parrhesia rests in how its use models ways in which potential disciplines might give witness, inviting onlookers to adopt and enact particular subject positions. The biblical text portrays parrhesia as not only influencing those being criticized but also those spectators who watch the criticism. Acts 4:13 states, “Now as they observed the confidence [parrhesia] of Peter and John and understood that they were uneducated and untrained men, they were amazed, and began to recognize them as having been with Jesus” (New International Version). The

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text suggests that the confidence of Peter and John demonstrated to those observing of Jesus’s existence. Their confidence invited onlookers to change. Through parrhesia, Peter and John provide an example of how audience members might witness for Jesus and how these potential believers might define themselves as followers of Christ. The observer’s own amazement at what Peter and John did provides them with the rationale to act in the same manner if they wish to generate the same effect. Viewing parrhesia as solely a form of speech—fearless, frank, or free— therefore limits its scope and utility. The risk a speaker undergoes to enact parrhesia ensures that this form of discourse has bodily qualities. Murray (2005) defines parrhesia as a “corporeal speech that creates its own possibilities for social and political transformation” (60). Parrhesia “is bodily, and the body is wagered in the struggle. The distinction between the body and the content of one’s speech is blurred” (62). As such, in the Christian proclamation tradition, parrhesia acquires new meaning as an enacted rhetoric. Parrhesia retains an extra-discursive and bodily character—character that contributes to parrhesia’s persuasive and rhetorical functions. Hovey (2007) describes parrhesia as an enacted practice, writing “free, true speech might not simply be a category of acceptable expressions, but a practice: the Christian practice of being witness to the gospel, of proclaiming Christ to the world” (66). By characterizing parrhesia as a practice, Hovey re-centers the trust of parrhesia away from being solely about speech in a manner that places more emphasis on bodies and actions. Udris (1997) also connects parrhesia with bodies, citing two biblical passages to do so. First, Udris contends that parrhesia denotes a way of standing and walking. One passage in Leviticus states, “I broke the bars of your yoke and enabled you to walk with heads held high” (New International Version, Lev. 26.13). About this passage, Udris writes, “Those who have tasted liberation are no longer bowed by the weight of their oppression but can walk upright—literally, ‘with parrhesia’ ” (10). Scripture also uses parrhesia to describe “righteous” people who “stand with great confidence” (Udris 10). These descriptions of parrhesia alter understanding of the term away from discourse lacking in ornamentation to a where the body itself figures into parrhesia’s characterization. How one moves contributes to their perceived confidence and boldness—critical factors for enacting parrhesia. The image and even dress of the parrhesiastes factor into the biblical characterization of the term, which should further encourage rhetorical critics to attune to the bodily and visual dynamics of parrhesia. Udris (1997) references 2 Corinthians 3:12 to show how parrhesia relates to image. 2 Corinthians 3:12 states, “Since we have such a hope, we are very bold [parrhesia], not like Moses who put a veil over his face” (New International Version). About this passage, Udris contends that “the combination of the term and the image of Moses with his veiled face is no coincidence” and further claims “in Jesus all

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covering-up is cast aside in favour of ‘face to face’ contact, and confidence takes a quantum leap forward” (13). Parrhesia’s boldness and confidence rests not only in how the parrhesiastes speaks but also in how the parrhesiastes acts and looks while acting. Visual markers then influence the force of parrhesia and reflect upon whether a speaker can enact the courage and boldness necessary to function as a parrhesiastes. Here, parrhesia references more than speech; it refers to movement, action, enactment, and embodiment. In addition to its characteristic as an enacted and embodied form of discourse, parrhesia can reference groups of people, not just single orators. For example, Acts 4:31 states, “And when they had prayed, the place where they had gathered together was shaken, and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak the word of God with boldness” (New International Version). The passage defines an entire group speaking with boldness or, in other words, using parrhesia. The tradition of articulating group forms of parrhesia continued into the fifth century as a type of chanting. According to Peter Brown, Christians chanted slogans as a form of political and theological decision-making. Such acclamations carried with them an aura of divinely inspired unanimity. In them, the crowd expressed a group parrhésia, tinged with supernatural certainty. They could address the governor directly, by chanting to him en masse in the theater or on the occasion of his arrival. (149)

Chanting together as a mode of parrhesia protested social order. Instead of being a characteristic of an orator, a counselor, an adviser, or a friend, parrhesia acquired additional meaning of a characteristic as a group protest of a Church congregation, a group of congregations, or an entire movement. This communal dimension of parrhesia enhances its utility for rhetorical critics, because it allows them to apply parrhesia as a theoretical lens to understand social movements and group protest rhetoric. Specifically, this communal dimension of parrhesia enables critics to use the concept as a critical lens to examine the group sit-ins, marches, boycotts, and collective actions of the Civil Rights Movements, and of any social movement, as opposed to being solely a concept to analyze that movement’s courageous leaders. Together then, Christian parrhesia has instrumental, constitutive, bodily, and communal dimensions. The following section uses this understanding of parrhesia as a lens to analyze the Bloody Sunday March. BLOODY SUNDAY’S PARRHESIA Prompted by the Jimmy Lee Jackson’s, a civil rights activist, murder, 600 marchers led by John Lewis and Hosea Williams set off from Brown

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Chapel in Selma on a journey to Birmingham. The procession was shortlived as the marchers soon walked into Major John Cloud and both mounted and on-foot law enforcement officers (Combs 2014, 35–36). Combs credits the violent police actions that would transpire after the marchers continued to advance peacefully with the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965, solidifying the Bloody Sunday March as a significant historical text as well as a text capable of illustrating parrhesia’s persuasive and rhetorical functions (11). Rhetors, like President Barack Obama, continue to commemorate the bravery of these ordinary folks, and rhetorical critics have shown interest in analyzing these moments of commemoration (Prasch 2019). In the following analysis, I use the concept of communal parrhesia to unpack and understand the contributions that these unnamed marchers made. I argue that, by marching on that Sunday, the protesters boldly enacted their devotion to their cause and willingness to suffer, solidified their sacrificial ethos, and modeled for others how they might join the struggle to change an oppressive social order. To elucidate these functions of parrhesia at play in the Bloody Sunday March, this section first highlights the instrumental ways in which the courageous procession potentially enhanced the protesters’ argument for social change and then examines how the march constitutively invited and justified community formation and continuation. Parrhesia’s Instrumental Functions As the marchers crested over the top of the bridge, their collective decision to continue marching toward the armed police officers and place themselves in harm’s way further provided evidence of their commitment to challenging the status quo’s social order and to their courage to continue fighting for voting rights. Proceeding forward displayed their shared willingness to face danger and acquire risk. In front of a line of law enforcement officers, the marchers found themselves in a precarious situation—one of unequal power relations; the unarmed protesters retained less control over the situation than the armed and mounted police officers. About this encounter, LaFayette and Johnson (2013) write: At the top of the bridge, marchers could see the swarm of blue uniforms of the state troopers. It looked like a posse had appeared with a herd of horses and riders armed with clubs and whips. Although a wave of fear swept across the marchers who could see this daunting spectacle, they steeled their will. Hosea and John displayed defiant resistance as they continued walking across the bridge. Both were deeply admired by their fellow leaders, as they had the capacity to overcome their fears with nerves of brass. (124–5)

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Bridges symbolize division but also unity; they divide but also conjoin. The protesters procession hinted at the possibilities of unity and connection in a segregated world, but it also showed the risk of advocating for change. As the protesters marched, their movement on the bridge also symbolized their movement from safety toward danger. In their act of defiance, the protesters placed their safety and well-being in the control of others as a critical component of their protest rhetoric, which demonstrated the marchers’ courage and brave willingness to challenge and continue to rebuke the status quo. Reflecting on the march, Combs (2014) writes, “As the marchers boldly advanced, Major John Cloud ordered them to turn around. Hosea Williams asked for a ‘word’ with Major Cloud, but the Major responded that there was nothing to talk about” (36). Although Combs does not use the word “parrhesia” to describe the procession’s act of advancing forward, her reference to a bold advancement highlights how the marchers enacted this element of parrhesia. The marches constructed boldness through a decision to move physically toward potential danger. Despite the looming threat of the police officers, the marchers continued, showing their steadfastness and resolve. Williams further enacted his dedication to the cause by asking for a conversation, even after Cloud’s order to end the march. Continuing to march toward danger created a sacrificial ethos, which provided onlookers with a persuasive rationale to support altering the current social order and expand voting rights based on the willingness of the marchers to put themselves in harm’s way. Illustrating that rhetorical scholarship can gain new appreciation of the plethora of potential functions of parrhesia by attuning to its bodily dimensions, the marchers enacted parrhesia by placing their bodies on the line to critique the social order in Selma, which worked instrumentally by offering onlookers an understanding of the marcher’s devotion to their cause and willingness to sacrifice themselves and their bodies to obtain it. Enduring violence enacted the protesters’ willingness to sacrifice and place themselves in danger and evidenced supporting the marchers’ critique of the systematic injustices of the current social order. When the police assaulted the marchers, the members of the procession displayed their commitment to the cause of nonviolent civil disobedience in the face of tremendous danger and providing additional force to their personae as parrhesiastea. Thomas R. Wagy (1979) vividly detailed the violent response of the police in his account of the march, writing, “the troopers attacked the blacks with clubs, tear gas, and smoke bombs. As the terrified marchers scrambled back across the bridge, Clark’s mounted posse joined the assault, wielding bullwhips, ropes, and lengths of rubber tubing wrapped with barbed wire” (405). By withstanding violent action in a nonviolent manner, the marchers demonstrated and enacted their willingness to sacrifice their lives and their bodies to articulate their critique and to cultivate change. This willingness

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fomented sacrificial ethos to enhance the persuasiveness of their critique of the social order in Selma, throughout the South, and in the United States. The marchers’ blood and screams highlighted their pain and their sacrifice and showed onlookers how discriminatorily and violently the white police treated them and, by extension, how society treated their communities. Combs (2014) provides an example of the marchers’ sacrifice and danger, writing, “At the head of the line, Lewis bore the brunt of the initial attack. A large Alabama state trooper repeatedly struck John Lewis on the head with a club. Lewis lay bloodied on the ground; his skull fractured” (36). Lewis’s willingness to feel pain demonstrated the strength of his convictions. Yet, without the situational danger, Lewis’s enactment of parrhesia would not have had the same force as it had because of the blows levied at his body. The police officers’ violent actions highlighted the risk and danger associated with protesting for civil rights, evidencing the marchers’ critique of the problematic social order. Enacting parrhesia can contribute to the logic of a social critique by providing evidence of that status quo’s ills and by augmenting the force of the criticism by vividly illustrating the extent and horrors of those ills. In addition, the potential communal dimensions of parrhesia can contribute to the instrumentalist functions of activism, protests, and social movements, because a number of people who participate in the act of parrhesia also might amplify the group’s charge that unequal power relationships persist in society. As the procession approached the line of police officers, their movement visually demarcated how an entire community remained under threat from the policing apparatus and structure of injustice in their community. The group, although large in number, remained unarmed and at risk when confronted with their armed opposition. The willingness of an entire group to critique society’s power structure framed the ongoing marginalization as a communal problem and therefore a reason for the community, rather than an individual or adviser, to challenge that system. Yet, because the police could, using tear gas and clubs, enact violence upon the peaceful marches, the procession itself evidence the protests claims that an unequal power relationship existed in Selma (Wagy 1979, 405). Despite the march’s numbers, the police controlled their movement and had the ability to enact violence upon them. The marchers and the presence of their many bodies functioned within their bold criticism of the social order to demonstrate that the social order maintained an unequal relationship between members of the black community and the police force. Extending how scholarship views the communal aspects of bodily parrhesia, the Bloody Sunday March reveals that rhetorical critics also must attune themselves to questions of how many people boldly and frankly critiqued those in power and how the number of those people might contribute to the overall force of the frank criticism. In addition to this instrumental

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function of parrhesia, the marchers’ bold actions also highlight lessons concerning how parrhesia might operate constitutively. Parrhesia’s Constitutive Functions The courageous procession also functioned constitutively, inviting marchers and onlookers to join in a parrhesiastic community that, although marginalized, retained significant tools to cultivate change and challenge the structure of white supremacy in the South. Preparing for harm and danger offered the group of marchers a sense of unity in knowing they could place themselves at risk with others to critique their marginalization. David J. Garrow (1978) writes about the marchers’ training as follows: Having been informed earlier that morning of the techniques for best protecting one’s body from blows and from the effects of tear gas, and with their newly arrived medical corps trailing the procession in four ambulances, the marches headed down Sylvan Street from Brown’s and turned right on Water Street. (73)

LaFayette and Johnson (2013) also describe how the marchers “were told to bring wet handkerchiefs in case they were teargassed so they could cover their eyes and noses. They were trained to use nonviolence no matter what happened to them” (124). The act of learning in a cooperative manner to face and survive danger potentially cultivated a communal understanding that together the marchers could boldly challenge their marginalization. The joint training illuminated that the community still had the ability to organize, craft forms of protest, and train for those forms of protest, even though the power structures of Selma marginalized the soon-to-be marchers. In this manner, the training itself offered connection among the individual members of the community to show its potent collective strength while simultaneously highlighting that the need for training to combat violence meant that the community lived under threat, danger, and a marginalizing social order. When groups of people prepare their frank criticisms, they invite others to view themselves as both living under oppressive social conditions and a part of a community that retains the ability and resources necessary to challenge those conditions. Marching toward danger as a strategy of resistance also functioned to invite community engagement and activism to challenge white supremacy. Before the violence commenced, the marchers, led by John Lewis, knelt and prayed together, which modeled to onlookers and fellow activists how they should engage with those who hold more power (Garrow 1978, 73–74). Encouraging onlookers and potential members of a community of resisters to remain nonviolent when faced with potential violence, the marchers stopped in front of the police, and “John Lewis and others sent the word back through

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the line of marchers ‘to bow down in a prayerful manner.’ John Lewis and Hosea Williams knelt to pray; at their urging, others knelt with them” (Combs 2014, 36). In their reflections on this moment, LaFayette and Johnson (2013) state that the marchers shared a common spirit of being nonviolent battering rams and threw the weight of their souls against this violent confrontation. Hosea and John knelt down, and the hundreds of marchers likewise knelt in a wave behind them. John began to pray out loud. (125)

The collective move to kneel and pray positioned the marchers, as a group, in a vulnerable and at-risk position in relation to the police officers. Moving together, the group enacted and embodied a bold criticism of the current social order and the power relationships within that order. Specifically, the unnamed protesters who followed Lewis and William to kneel and pray invited onlookers to follow suite, which offered a way and reason to galvanize additional dissent against the oppressive social structure in Selma. In this manner, bold acts of critique can define and foster views about how members of a community should act and behave when challenging oppression. The potential for or actualization of bodily harm against a group of people displays and demonstrates the unequal relationship between the dissenters and those in power remain. Yet, potential or actual bodily harm also can form the grounds on which members of an oppressed community might connect with one another and foster knowledge that members of that community might still protest and unify around their shared risk and danger. In Selma, the act of proceeding toward the police officers empowered the black community of Selma, by demonstrating that its members still controlled some aspects of their fate even though they remained marginalized. When the marchers saw the police officers lined and ready, they choose to proceed, displaying that they still had autonomy, even though it might be limited. As they walked toward the police, their actions evidenced the fact that potential protesters, marches, and members of the community could continue to work to alter their social world. The marchers boldly showed that communities, and the individuals that comprise them, could still organize and use their bodies in acts of protest. Simultaneously, the marchers highlighted that their bodies remained under threat and that they could still put their bodies on the line to challenge societal injustices. Even after the police assault the marchers, the marches collectively displayed their resilience. LaFayette and Johnson (2013) recall that, as the marchers fled the violence, “from blocks away, through the breeze, the sweet sounds of voices could be heard singing ‘We Shall Overcome.’ An objective analysis would conclude that the protesters were defeated. However, from the songs in their souls, one could hear victory” (125).

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Through the marchers’ communal display of parrhesia, they boldly critiqued in a way that could foment community bonds by uniting potential members of a community or movement around shared risk and danger. In inviting unity around shared risk, the procession also displayed to individuals that they still had access to resources, namely their bodies, that could help them challenge the oppressive social structure of Selma. In doing so, the bold actions of the marchers positioned the black community of Selma as marginalized, yet powerful. Importantly for rhetorical scholarship, the marchers’ example of parrhesia highlights how frank criticism can invite the formation of communities and offer the rationale for reaffirming, re-empowering, and continuing those communities. CONCLUSION When 600 people marched for voting rights and in the aftermath of a murder of one civil rights activist on March 7, 1965, they enacted a communal form of parrhesia and boldly critiqued the existing social order of the South from a position of less power and at great personal risk. Doing so bolstered the persuasiveness of their protest. The marcher’s enactment of their willingness to suffer demonstrated their commitment to the cause, providing them with an enhanced and sacrificial ethos. Offering their bodies as collateral displayed devotion and boldness, which should illustrate to rhetorical critics that the aspect of parrhesia that Foucault described as danger calls for an elucidation of parrhesia’s bodily dimensions. Instrumentally, placing the body on the line can evidence the rhetors’ claim of systematic injustice and highlight unequal power relations; the marchers’ sacrifice of their bodies in the face of police brutality illustrated that the black marchers were not equal to the white police officers. Enacting parrhesia cultivated an ethos based on devotion and displayed the existence of unequal power relations, which, in turn, instrumentally supported the marchers’ purpose to magnify the problematic social order. Constitutively, parrhesia can invite and provide the rationale for community. As the would-be marchers prepared for the possibility that they would face violence and remain nonviolent, they invited connection with each other around a shared sense of being at risk and a shared understanding that they could, together, face that violence. Training for violence and marching toward the police empowered their community by illustrating its members’ control over their own bodies and thus potential resources for social change. The marchers’ decision to advance toward the police and place their own bodies at risk modeled for onlookers how they might contribute to the fight for civil rights. In addition, Lewis’s act of kneeling to pray invited interlocutors to view themselves as capable of

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facing violence in a nonviolent, showcasing to those interlocutors how they could do the same. More broadly, applying parrhesia to the 1965 Bloody Sunday March provides insight into the communal and bodily dimensions of the Civil Rights Movement’s courageous actions and rhetoric. Scholarship on 1960s fight for freedom often focuses on the movement leaders and their speeches, and this prioritization can stymie a full appreciation and understanding of the nuanced rhetoric and the wide-ranging rhetorical endeavors that enabled social change during that time. Utilizing the Christian and communal tradition of parrhesia, emerging from an examination of the biblical text, can remedy this potential shortcoming of rhetoric scholarship’s discussion of the Civil Rights Movement. The communal and bodily dimensions of parrhesia provide both the scope and portability of the concept necessary to reveal how the courageous actions of the many nameless activists, organizers, and marchers contributed both instrumentally and constitutively to the movement. Although these individuals may not have contributed bold words, they offered their bodies up as collateral by participating and joining the ranks of those who would do the same, evidencing the movement’s arguments and justifying the continuation of community. Their courageous actions helped undergird the movement, and an expanded notion of parrhesia provides one rationale for why this would be the case. When critics attune themselves to parrhesia’s bodily and communal dynamics, they can productively reveal the rhetorical characteristics and functions of parrhesia and use those functions to examine the rhetorical contributions that unknown foot-soldiers provide to movements and their communities. Christian parrhesia should encourage scholars to examine beyond the singular orator or adviser and reveal that groups, congregations, and movements can together act as parrhesiastea, enabling critics to use the figure as a theoretical lens to examine social movement and protest rhetoric. Previous scholarship applies parrhesia to individual rhetors such as female authors (Henderson 2007), Malcolm X (Novak), a stand-up comedian (Rossing), and an investigative journalist (Hasian), but including a conceptualization of its communal dimensions offers this lens as a tool for understanding social movements and their tactics, including when #BlackLivesMatter protesters blockade a highway to articulate that systematic injustices persist in their communities or a community marches for voting rights in Selma. Thus, incorporating the Christian tradition of parrhesia in rhetorical scholarship enhances the portability of the term in ways that allow critics to understand a wider variety of texts using it as a critical lens. More broadly, this chapter highlighted the utility of interdisciplinary scholarship on rhetoric and religion, specifically engaging with work being conducted in religious studies departments. To more fully detail parrhesia’s

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scope, this chapter developed a theoretical lens based on biblical scholars’ understandings of scriptural, mainly New Testament, uses of parrhesia, which were neglected by Foucault’s engagement with the term. Attuning to the dynamics of parrhesia found in scripture reveals its potential communal and bodily dimensions. The Christian tradition of parrhesia expands parrhesia into the realm of community, the body, movement, and image. This added insight about the term affords critics with the ability to apply the concept to times when people use their bodies to articulate a truth to power and put their bodies on the line to create change. To develop these insights, I engaged with theologians who examine parrhesia and the biblical text’s uses of the term. I also used the biblical text itself to unpack Christian communal parrhesia as a critical lens. Future scholarship on rhetoric and religion should continue in this vein of inquiry, producing rhetorical theory from sacred texts (and not just the biblical text) while engaging religious studies scholars. Parrhesia should also push scholars to think about imbalanced power relationships and be willing to boldly challenge them. I am convinced that scholars must continue to study religion, rhetoric, marginalization, oppression, and possibilities for liberation. Because people and communities read and draw inspiration from scripture in distinct ways, scholars should examine how groups draw from sacred texts to maintain domination but also work toward liberation. For example, Susan Zaeske’s (2000) chapter on how marginalized communities read The Book of Esther shows scripture models how one might engage with and challenge structures of marginalization. Doing this work will require additional focus on those on the margins who draw on sacred texts as they advocate for social change, such as queer Christians who work to challenge heteronormative denominations and black folks who gather to march across a bridge. Doing so will also require rhetorical critics to focus on how those with power use sacred texts to stymie progress, such as those who reference scripture to defend restrictive immigration policies or to defend segregation. This work can provide productive theoretical depth to rhetoric concepts as it traces the rhetorical traditions of sacred texts and how those traditions become animated in contemporary advocacy. For instance, scholarship on the prophetic tradition shows the different textures of the concept as it plays on in different communities, traditions, and for distinct ideological purposes (Darsey 1997; Johnson 2012; Sounders 2014; Spencer 2016). Furthermore, a focus on marginalization will show the significance of rhetoric and religion in a world full of people advocating for freedom, liberation, and change. With trans individuals arguing for protection and safety, with people saying #metoo, with black folks proclaiming their lives matter in congregations and in the streets, and with immigration activists pursuing more just laws, rhetorical critics have a role in understanding how drawing from sacred texts can curtail these efforts but also how using sacred texts

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can animate efforts to challenge marginalization. Let us be bold in using our scholarship to challenge racism, heteronormativity, sexism, ableism, and all forms of injustice, offering an inclusive and transformative alternative. REFERENCES Boland, Tom, and Paul Clogher. “A Genealogy of Critique: From Parrhesia to Prophecy.” Critical Research on Religion 5 (2017): 116–132. Brown, Peter. Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1992. Combs, Barbara Harris. From Selma to Montgomery: The Long March to Freedom. London: Routledge, 2014. Darsey, James. The Prophetic Tradition and Radical Rhetoric in America. New York: New York University Press, 1997. Foucault, Michel. Fearless Speech. Los Angeles: Semiotext(e), 2001. Foucault, Michel. The Hermeneutics of the Subject. Translated by Graham Burchell. London: Picador, 2005. Gallagher, Victoria J., and Kenneth S. Zagacki. “Visibility and Rhetoric: Epiphanies and Transformations in the ‘Life’ Photographs of the Selma Marches of 1965.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 37 (2007): 112–135. Garrow, David J. Protest at Selma: Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978. Gehrke, Pat J. “On the Many Senses of Parresia and Rhetoric.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 43 (2013): 355–361. Harvey, Lexie. “Commitment to the Truth: Parrhesiastic and Prophetic Elements of Paul’s Letter to the Galatians.” Res Rhetoric 5 (2018): 20–34. Hasian, Marouf, Jr. “Tim McGirk, Parrhesiastic Rhetoric, and Mass-Mediated Representations of Hadiths.” The Communication Review 17 (2014): 117–142. Henderson, Gae Lyn. “The ‘Parrhesiastic Game’: Textual Self-Justification in Spiritual Narratives of Early Modern Women.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 37 (2007): 423–451. Hovey, Craig. “Free Christian Speech: Plundering Foucault.” Political Theology 8 (2007): 63–81. Jarratt, Susan C. “Becoming Rhetorical: Figuring Foucault’s Parrēsia.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 43 (2013): 361–367. Johnson, Andre E. The Forgotten Prophet: Bishop Henry McNeal Turner and the African American Prophetic Tradition. Plymouth: Lexington Books, 2012. LaFayette, Jr., Bernard, and Kathryn Lee Johnson. In Peace and Freedom: My Journey in Selma. Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky, 2013. Lévy, Carlos. “From Politics to Philosophy and Theology: Some Remarks about Foucault’s Interpretation of Parrêsia in Two Recently Published Seminars.” Philosophy and Rhetoric 42 (2009): 313–325. Martin, Randall. “Paulina, Corinthian Women, and the Revisioning of Pauline and Early Modern Patriarchal Ideology in The Winter’s Tale.” In Shakespeare, the

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Bible, and the Form of the Book: Contested Scriptures, edited by Travis DeCook and Alan Galey, 57–76. London: Routledge, 2012. Murray, Stuart J. “The Body of Free Speech: Risk and Rhetorical Practice of Parrhesia.” Subject Matter 2 (2005): 59–72. Novak, David. “Engaging Parrhesia in a Democracy: Malcolm X as a Truth-teller.” Southern Communication Journal 71 (2006): 25–43. Pauley, Garth E. “Rhetoric and Timeliness: An Analysis of Lyndon B. Johnson’s Voting Rights Address.” Western Journal of Communication 62 (1998): 26–53. Perelman, Chaim, and Lucie Olbrechts-Tyteca. The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on Argumentation. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1969. Philodemus. On Frank Criticism, translated by David Konstan, et al. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998. Prasch, Allison M. “Obama in Selma: Deixis, Rhetorical Vision, and the ‘True Meaning of America.’” Quarterly Journal of Speech 105 (2019): 42–67. Quintilian. The Orator’s Education, translated by Donald A. Russell. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001. Rossing, Jonathan P. “Critical Race Humor in a Postracial Moment: Richard Pryor’s Contemporary Parrhesia.” Howard Journal of Communications 25 (2014): 16–33. Scherz, Paul. “The Legal Suppression of Scientific Data and the Christian Virtue of Parrhesia.” Journal of the Society of Christian Ethics 35 (2015): 175–192. Souders, Michael. “The Prophetic Imagination and the Rhetoric of ‘Freedom’ in the Prosperity Gospel.” Journal of Communication and Religion 37 (2014): 93–116. Spencer, Leland G. “Bishop Leontine Turpeau Current Kelly: Toward an Ironic Prophetic Rhetoric.” Western Journal of Communication 80 (2016): 519–538. Tiede, David L. “Acts 1:6–8 and the Theo-Political Claims of Christian Witness.” Word & World 1 (1981): 41–51. Udris, John. Holy Daring: The Fearless Trust of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. Broughton Gifford, Wiltshire: Cromwell Press, 1997. Van Doorn, Niels. “Forces of Faith: Endurance, Flourishing, and the Queer Religious Subject.” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies 21 (2015): 635–666. Wagy, Thomas R. “Governor Leroy Collins of Florida and the Selma Crisis of 1965.” Florida Historical Quarterly 57 (1979): 402–420. Walzer, Arthur. “Parrēsia, Foucault, and the Classical Rhetorical Tradition.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 43 (2013): 1–21. Zaeske, Susan. “Unveiling Esther as a Pragmatic Radical Rhetoric.” Philosophy & Rhetoric 33 (2000): 193–220.

Chapter 2

Baylor Abroad Revisiting the Racial Legacy of Baptist Evangelism Jeff Nagel

Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. —Matthew 28: 19–20

Beginning alongside the first European colonizers of North America, the faith and practice of Baptist missionaries remain intertwined with the evolution of American political and religious thought. Today, major universities, including Baylor University in Waco, Texas, still operate in communion with Baptist faith and practice, teaching individuals Christian values while providing first class education. Premised on the long tradition of evangelism in Baptist thought and teaching, Baylor University engages in a particular brand of study abroad programs for its students, focused on learning, teaching, and Christian fellowship. This chapter argues that the schism within Baptist thought in the early 1980s and the legacy of racism and slavery in Southern Baptist practice continue to fundamentally shape the practice of mission work at Baylor. Although the Baptist faith is not the only proponent of evangelism, the unique historical context of institutional practice deserves special attention to this unique genre of social activism. Despite Baylor seeking separation from the more fundamentalist Baptist practitioners, its rhetorical framing of missionary work reveals an inherent similarity to earlier Baptist thought in evangelism as both racially charged and a form of cultural tourism. This chapter focuses on an examination of Baylor’s own descriptions and presentations 29

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of its study abroad program. These texts display a continuation of key rhetorical elements that have remained within Baptist mission work since its inception. This chapter earns its significance in three ways. First, given the relative dearth of rhetorical examinations of Baptist rhetoric, this chapter weaves together historical engagement and rhetorical theory to identify the historical tropes that shaped Baptist belief and practice. Second, this chapter renews attention to the intersection of race and religion, particularly in the legacies of racism by hegemonic and privileged institutions and practitioners. Additionally, it examines race as a major obstacle to the continued study of religious rhetoric because of the infectious influence it plays in rhetorical and material actions. Third, and finally, it examines historical traces of evangelical activity within the United States. Such an endeavor takes on renewed importance under the Trump Presidency, wherein evangelical thought and political activity remains significant and influential (Johnson 2018). Through its focus on the interlaced topoi of race, religion, and historicism, this chapter offers a powerful tool to critics of the rhetoric of religious institutions and their modes of activism. Close attention to factors such as these provides valuable insights into the legacies of violence and exclusion that continue to haunt seemingly inconsequential social practices. Furthermore, it directly responds to the question of how to move the study of rhetoric and religion forward, highlighting the deep connections between religious practice and social and ideological forces. This chapter begins with a brief history of Baptist missionary work and beliefs on evangelism, before turning to address the historical issues embedded within these practices. The chapter then examines these general Baptist trends in the specific context of Baylor University, before turning to analyze Baylor’s “International Missions” as the most current expression of Baptist missional work. Drawing from historical and rhetorical analyses of Baptist evangelism abroad, this chapter argues that Baylor’s program continues a problematic relationship between missionaries and those they reach out to, furthering racialized and culturally insensitive understandings of vibrant and distinct cultures. Baylor is used as a case study to argue that this rhetorical framing of missional activism goes far beyond the confines of Waco, Texas, and that Baylor is an exemplar but only one example of such practices. Institutions including the Oklahoma Baptist University and the Houston Baptist University offer just two more of the many dozens of religious institutions that foster missional work abroad. The result is that a program that ostensibly serves as a defining life moment of emotional and intellectual growth instead recreates Western understandings of Otherness through rhetorics of disease, fear, and superiority.

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BAPTIST MISSIONALS AND THE QUESTION OF EVANGELISM While some Baptists crossed the Atlantic to America early on, it was not until the Great Awakening of the eighteenth century that there was a massive increase in the numbers of practitioners. This widespread growth resulted in regional and cultural differences in practice, with James Leo Garrett, Jr. noting that “Baptists in the South, even in the colonial era, never fully embraced all the doctrines” of more conservative strains of Christianity (1983, 89). With the arrival of Calvinism in the mid-nineteenth century, Baptists began to teach that “God’s sovereignty is always coupled with and qualified by that of God’s gracious purpose to save” (90). This growth coincided with what historian Martin E. Marty refers to as “Baptistification,” which is used “to describe the democratizing impetus whenever laypeople challenge their leadership in a confessional tradition” (quoted in Reid 2004, 588–589). Today, Southern Baptists are the second-largest religion in the United States (behind Roman Catholics) with over 38,000 churches and 15 million members and had three of the four largest accredited seminaries (Humphries 1994, vii–viii). As importantly, they possess significant institutional, educational, and social capital. Despite the growth of Baptist faith and the number of individuals who describe themselves as being Baptist, there still exists much internal dialogue and conflict over what that term really means. Timothy D. Gilbert notes that factors such as “congressional polity, the democratic nature of Baptists, and the autonomy of the local church make it difficult to represent what Southern Baptists believe about any issue” (1994, 284). Robert Stephen Reid argues that “Baptist rhetoric” is centered around a constitutive identity grounded in the ideals of freedom: A Baptist unity of identity arises from its historic rejection of outside authority, that the notion of Baptist commonality is deeply rooted in its tradition of dissent from the normalizing effect of confessional consensus, that Baptists find radical extension of choice preferable to the structure of tradition, and that Baptists may indirectly prefer the chaos of re-genesis to the synthetic order that finds its identity by continually reinstituting one fixed moment of genesis. (2004, 591)

Linked to the notion of personal and divine freedom for the individual, Baptist faith is less a set of particular doctrines than a philosophy toward approaching the world that is based upon absolute power to interpret and live the Word of God (Shurden 1993, 4–5). This principle is the central guide post of Baptist teaching. It works to devolve power of teaching and interpreting

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the Scripture to individual churches or even individual members, hindering efforts to define a singular strain of Baptist thinking. One central principle that governs Southern Baptist thought is arguing practically instead of analytically. This often results in “stressing precedent more than logic in defense of its ways” (Dockery 1993, vii). John P. Newport notes that Baptists believe in “rejecting modernism on the left with its disavowal of supernaturalism and rejecting fundamentalism on the right with its scholastic reliance on reason,” attempting to create a framework for views that help guide individual interpretations (1993, 111). Although some have argued that this denominationalism risks creating enclaves of “exclusivist privilege freighted with religious assumptions of moral superiority,” the shift from absolutist and rational atonement toward a “modified Calvinism” of universal atonement reframes religious doctrine so that all can be saved through faith and good works (Reid 2004, 591; Basden 1994, 111–112). It is this transitional theological statement that opens the question of whether this saving should include outreach or even full “evangelism.” Although Baptists believe that all can be saved through good works and that this must necessarily involve some proselytizing, there exists significant internal debate over whether or not Baptists should be considered “evangelicals.” David S. Dockery notes that since “Southern Baptists have primarily talked to themselves” and removed themselves “from both the ecumenical wing and the evangelical wing of Christendom,” they have grown separate and distinct from other denominations of evangelical Christians (1993, vii). Baptists tend to reject the term “evangelical” for three reasons: to avoid being labeled as a form of “Fundamentalism,” to maintain “the selfimage of denominational independence,” and to sustain a preference for the terms “  ‘conservative,’ ‘evangelistic,’ and ‘missionary’ rather than for ‘Evangelical’ ” (Garrett, Jr. 1983, 87). While Baptists seek a defined separate identity from evangelicals as a group identity, there is still significant emphasis on evangelism and bringing forth the Word as a mode of societal change through activist practice. Despite this debate over terminology, there exists no debate that missionary work has long been a defining feature of Baptist faith and practice. Former Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) president Paul W. Powell has argued that “the major emphasis should remain where our Lord put it—on evangelism—not on eschatology” (1991, 12). While the first-ever Baptist mission was founded in England in 1792, the rise of missionary work in the Americas more closely mirrored the growth and spread of Baptists themselves (Rosenberg 1989, 68). As a more formal Baptist structure developed, the SBC in particular established a Foreign Missions Board (FMB), responsible for the day-to-day work of monitoring and running a massive bureaucracy of mission work at home and abroad. By the 1980s, “the expanding numbers

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of missionary personnel, both foreign and home,” was considered a defining feature of Baptist development by the twentieth century (Garrett, Jr. 1983, 94). Missional work, therefore, remains a vital component of Baptist practice both in the United States and around the world. This growth logically mirrored an increased focus in Baptist teaching on the role of going forth and being missional as part of a good Christian life. Paul W. Powell especially has argued that Baptists “should be committed, like Paul, to take the gospel out” to all peoples (1991, 21). Because of their continued belief in democratizing the structure of the church, there is continued emphasis on the necessity for outreach and to avoid being the Christians that “far too often . . . hide behind stained-glass windows, muffling the cries of an anguished world with blaring music” (Powell 1991, 53). Being “missional” and reaching out is a fundamental part of Southern Baptist culture and identity. Missional here is contextually defined as “the attitude of obedience to sharing the gospel around the world that all believers should possess” (Stetzer 2009, 176). This external focus remains a key component of how Baptists relate to the outside world. This central characteristic can be seen in the development of formal Baptist mission statements, including SBC charters written in 1845, modified in 1925, and reaffirmed in 1963. The Preamble to the 1845 constitution of the SBC argues that the convention originated “for the purpose of carrying into effect the benevolent intentions of our constituents . . . and directing the energies of the whole denomination in one sacred effort, for the propagation of the Gospel” (“Proceedings” 1845). This founding document continues to be interpreted as a source of original faith, with Baptists like Paul W. Powell arguing that “because Christ lives in us and works through us, he is able to do his work in the world” (1991, 53). Others have noted that since 1845, Baptists and their approach “always rallied around the command of Christ to carry the gospel to the entire world,” and this bearing witness continues today (Stetzer 2009, 176–177). The 1925 and 1963 versions of the SBC constitution are more specific, noting that “missionary effort. . . is also expressly and repeatedly commanded in the teachings of Christ,” and that it is thus “the duty of every Christian man and woman, and the duty of every church of Christ, to seek to extend the gospel to the ends of the earth” (Lumpkin 1969, 397–398). These institutional frameworks provide the basis for and guidance about denominational practice, offering and promoting missional outreach as central to Baptist practice. The favoring of democratized practices is a unique force in relationship of Baptist faith and evangelistic practice. Referred to as the notion of “priesthood of all believers,” Baptist doctrine preaches that all persons are able to read and interpret the Scriptures because they are filled with the Holy Spirit (Hobbs 1990, 17–18). Timothy George explains that the idea of a “priesthood

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of all believers has more to do with a Christian’s service than with [their] status” (1990, 92). These emphases on outreach and teaching remain vital to Baptist practice today and help explain the vibrancy of teaching at universities and seminaries alike. This understanding of each Baptist being their own priest and thus their own church has important connotations for missional work. As a former head of the FMB has said, “Our Task is evangelism that results in churches. But it is a continuing emphasis. The evangelism that results in churches results in evangelism that results in churches” (Rosenberg 1989, 71). If evangelism is central to the Baptist understanding of religious identity, then recognizing each individual member as their own priest in spreading the Word is vital to maintain and expand the Baptist faith abroad. THE SOUTHERN BAPTIST CONVENTION AND FUNDAMENTALIST TAKEOVER General discussions of Baptist faith cannot be more specific in a historicized context from before 1976, when a marked shift in organized Baptist institutions redefined faith, practice, and religious thought for many denominations. Catalyzed by Harold Linsell’s The Battle for the Bible (1976), what is now known as the “Controversy” began with the election of Adrian Rogers as president of the SBC in 1979 (Newport 1993, 112; Yarbrough 2000, 53). Driven by concerns over Biblical interpretation and education, more conservative and fundamentalist Baptists took over the SBC and other key offices, ensuring that only those who agreed with them were able to make decisions and hold formal office. Kenneth Chafin argues that “it was the fundamentalists’ flawless use of rhetoric, in the classical sense, and not their theology of beliefs about the Bible, that allowed them to accomplish their goals” (1999, xi). Whether persuasive oratory or shrewd use of bureaucratic politics, the “conservative resurgence” in the SBC stabilized around 1990 and included significant shifts in policy and consolidations of power. Fundamentalist Baptists relied on a few significant distinctions that allowed them to apply a litmus test onto the legitimacy of other believers’ practices. Guided in a belief “that a separatist stance is needed to protect the purity of the gospel,” this group of conservatives relied on a series of religious tropes to define and distinguish themselves (Newport 1993, 112). In one of the few rhetorical criticisms to engage with the writing and speech of Southern Baptists, Carl L. Kell and L. Raymond Camp examined the texts and speeches of those in the insurrectionary movement. They found that a “master rhetoric of Fundamentalism” combines with “the rhetoric of inerrancy” to create “the rhetoric of exclusion,” which is targeted primarily

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at women, queer individuals, Masons, and a catch-all category of “liberals” (Kell and Camp 1999, 28). Exclusion is defined as “a series of arguments that expel any individual or group who is not in harmony with the dictates of Scripture,” and allowed the fundamentalist Baptists to formally expel those that disagreed with them or rejected any of their religious teachings (29). By shifting toward a more bureaucratic mode of governance premised perfection, order, and exclusion, the fundamentalists sparked a radical shift from previous Baptist dogma. “Strongly influenced by fundamentalist and evangelical teachings,” the new strain of Southern Baptists “undercut loyalty to SBC seminaries, agencies, and ministries in terms of both ideology and methodology” (Newport 1993, 113). Even after a 1987 “Peace Committee” attempted to limit the divide and ecclesiastical violence, fundamentalist sects and the SBC have continued to go far beyond the minimum requirements of their position. This has included the banning of speaking in tongues and limiting the rights of the divorced, women, and people of color from being in Southern Baptist communion and especially from teaching theology (Rosenberg 1989, 78). Banning women, persons of color, and other groups from theological seminaries was just one part of a broader rearrangement of Baptist educational principles, and signaled the decline of the “priesthood of all believers” (Yarbrough 2000, 69–70). Reflecting on the schism in Baptist thought and faith, Fisher Humphreys concludes that “the majority tradition of the new Southern Baptist Convention will not include . . . the development of higher education as exploration rather than indoctrination” (1994, 167). Despite such a proclamation, numerous institutions of higher learning continue to operate in communion with the SBC, doing their best to balance the demands of both religious and secular on their teachings and practices. One place that especially felt the impact of the “Controversy” was the FMB and its efforts abroad. Kell and Camp note that following the 1979 elections, “there have been significant changes regarding missions and missionaries . . . [what] was once prized as the principal goal of the organization” has wilted as “various missionaries have apparently become disenchanted, resigned, or have not yet been reappointed” (1999, 119). In a more recent example, in October 1991, the new “conservative trustees” cut funding to all missions in Switzerland (Yarbrough 2000, 71). While the new Baptist elite often frame themselves as dispensationalists (that the world’s end is inevitable because of human fallibility), their political aim has been to downplay the more insular aspects of their faith, and “they do their best to postpone its demise as long as possible so that . . . the Lord’s work might prosper until the end” (Newport 1993, 118). This can be best seen in the rise of fundamentalist “Baptist Republicanism” led by Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell, and a split from Billy Graham’s evangelism that tends to deemphasize political action (Smith 1997, 3; Harding 1987, 167).

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Today there is no one “Baptist ideology,” if there ever was such a thing. Fragmentation and enforced exclusions that resulted in the aftermath of the “Controversy” began a continuing process of individual churches separating or redefining their personal teachings and faiths (Cothen 1993, 366–368). Baptists today are scattered both physically and ideologically, and “large independent or nondenominational congregations that have often labeled themselves Baptist” even though they “have never been affiliated with the Southern Baptist Convention.” These mega-churches are highly visible in the South and are just one of many ways the Baptist faith has grown and changed (Kell and Camp 1999, 119). These changes seem more than superficial, fundamentally changing Baptist theology and practice. There remains, however, a consistent underlying principle in Baptist missional work that perseveres from founding into the present: a problematic relationship with race exacerbated through an understanding of missional work as a neocolonialist taming of the wild Other. SOUTHERN BAPTISTS AND “THE JUDGMENT OF HISTORY” While the teaching of Baptist evangelism does not create a unique problem, it does suffer from an inherent tension in all missional work. Ellen Rosenberg argues that “it is hard to emphasize common humanity . . . while simultaneously proclaiming the superiority of one religious system and associated behavior over another” (1989, 69). The result of this tension is a debate between “saving souls” and “feeding hungry people and caring for sick ones, and even thinking about changes in social structures that contribute to hunger and sickness” (206). Back to the founding of American Baptism, Baptists seem to have always preferred the former, even at the expense of the later. The result is a continuing tradition of conversion premised on the perceived personal superiority of the converter, and this dynamic has realized itself at numerous points of the development of Baptist missional work. Since the first Baptist missionaries in the New World, this relationship has been apparent. While not unique to Baptists, the early spread of religion across the continent was due to desire to convert indigenous populations, forcibly if necessary (Garrett, Jr. 1983, 91–92). By 1845 and in the midst of Civil War–inspired political and social tension, Southern Baptists separated from their northern peers because of their continued support of the Confederacy and belief that slavery was “instituted and commanded by God,” distinguishing them as “Southern” Baptists (Copeland 2002, 7). As E. Luther Copeland articulates, “The origin of the Southern Baptist Convention . . . has infected the major aspects of Southern Baptist life” (xv). This is especially

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true for the FMB, as it “sanctioned the myth of the American mission . . . that America was uniquely qualified to save the world” (33). Compared with Northern Baptists and the American Baptist Convention, who supported desegregation and actively campaigned for and with Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and other civil rights activists, the Southern Baptist faith have reverted to a “new paternalism” (Martin 1999; Copeland 2002, 45). Rooted in a racialized understanding of Western ideology, the FMB has fostered a series of practices that ensure that “paternalistic attitudes and racial prejudice are tenacious” and integral to missional praxis (Copeland 2002, 47). This legacy of empowered colonization continues to shape FMB and SBC discourses and practices to this day. There are several distinct trends that occur within the FMB that seem to remain relevant today as modes of racialized Baptist evangelistic practice. As far back as the late 1880s, the FMB “ceased both the appointing of black missionaries and the assisting of black missionary societies” due to concerns of antipathy of whites toward black people and the discovery of medical advances which made it possible for white people to evangelize Africa safely (Copeland 2002, 34). This erasure of black missionaries was coupled with “relegating national colleagues to a nearly invisible or at least secondary position,” meaning that both the work and the benefits centered around the white Baptist missionaries (44). The benefits brought by white people were considered to be more than whatever specific task they had at hand. As Copeland notes, it “meant the propagation not only of Christianity but also of Western . . . civilization” itself (44-45). Civilization operates as a synecdochic trope: whites not only bring both safety and medicine to the wild and untamed Other but also bring them literal salvation through Christ. Copeland summarizes the SBC position succinctly: “slavery offers them the priceless boon of eternal salvation . . . the conversion of African slaves is the best hope for the evangelization of Africa and their return to their homeland as evangelists” (161). Any and every action is justified to create this reality because of their divine mission and the granting of eternal salvation. These rhetorical tropes tend to dictate the actual practice of SBC missionaries as well. Copeland argues that the combined rhetorics of disease and inferiority maintain “colonial practice” that establishes Western superiority (2002, 46). Most missions tend to focus on large, urban populations since “American-type amenities are available in cities . . . and this makes recruitment easier” (Rosenberg 1989, 70). Apart from limiting their targeted areas, missionaries tend to limit their actual engagement with the local populace as well. Missionaries tend to live “in segregated European suburbs, gaining no competence in local languages because of insufficient contacts with people and refusing to eat African food with Africans” (Copeland 2002, 45–46). These divisions through the rhetorical framing of missionary work and

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continues through its activist practices and the disinterest Baptist missions have for connecting with those they serve. This separation is not only true for missions abroad but also in how Baptists relate to disenfranchised groups within their own midst. This is especially true in how Southern Baptists engage the black community. After supporting both the Confederacy and the practice of slavery, Southern Baptists continued racialist and dehumanizing practices toward black people. For example, during the height of the Civil Rights Movement in the 1950s and 1960s, pastors and individuals who advocated desegregation were exorcized from the church (Copeland 2002, 28–29). After the murder of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., race riots, and a general increase in the population of black Baptists, in 1968, the SBC finally affirmed “God’s love” for all races but coupled that with reaffirming local church discretion on these issues (29–30). The result was more lip service than action, and the renewed fundamentalist push in Southern Baptism only exacerbates this, with “many black pastors hav[ing] expressed fear that the current controversy, and the ultraconservative swing could result in lost ground for race relations” (Rosenberg 1989, 72). While Southern Baptists should not be held to any unique standard for evaluating tolerance of others, the early framing of the denomination around white superiority and the missional drive to cull the wildness from the world results in a continuing worldview structured around Baptist superiority and the need to keep the inferior Other at bay. BAYLOR AS “BAPTIST” AND THE MISSIONAL TRADITION One of the most famous institutions for Baptist higher education is Baylor University, located in Waco, Texas. Texas, as Newsweek humorously observed, is “where Southern Baptists have literally inherited the earth, and faith is as partisan as football” (quoted in Rosenberg 1989, 15). Following the Newsweek quote, Rosenberg goes on to note that “the 2.3 million [Southern Baptists] are not evenly distributed through the state, being concentrated in the northern and eastern sections, where there are fewer Germans, Hispanics, and, for that matter, cows” (15–16). Chartered by the last Congress of the Republic of Texas in 1845, Baylor University has always been defined as a private Baptist institution. Because of the traditional devolution of interpretive power in Baptist faith and a general respect for the educational process, Baylor has long enjoyed significant latitude in administrative decisions. This has been reinforced by the fears of moderate Baptists who view the formal establishment of higher education as a method for resisting “heterodoxy.” Reforms include the amicable separation of Southwestern Baptist

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Theological Seminary from Baylor in 1907, and show a continuation of Baylor’s educational values that are not disrupted by its religious ones (Smith 2016, 135–136; Cothen 1993, 250). Despite these noble desires to have a purely educational institution, the broader ideological clashes in the Baptist faith have still spilled over to campus conflict. As in the 1920s, “radical Fundamentalism’s Southern representative” J. Frank Norris “spent the better part of his time accusing Baylor University professors of hiding their belief in evolution” (Smith 2016, 81). Another major conservative Baptist, Paige Patterson, listed professors he felt were “representative of the nature and extent of the problem” in Southern Baptist society, and the list prominently included several religion professors at Baylor (Cothen 1993, 78). By 1981, the “Controversy” was fully underway and fundamentalist Bailey Smith was re-elected as head of the SBC over former Baylor President Abner McCall, and fundamentalists were appalled at what was being taught in religion and science classes at Baylor (121–122, 5). With the growth of conservative Baptism, in 1984, Baylor students presented the university with a three-page “student manifesto” that specific instructors “be reproved and instructed in sound doctrine” (Bird 1984, 1). They went on to denounce the teaching of evolution among other actions, and pronounced that to call Baylor a Christian university “blasphemes the name of Christ” (3). By 1990, the pressure was so great that the trustees felt they needed to act in a more formal manner to resist the fundamentalist assault on their institution. The result was that they “change[d] the charter of Baylor University to prevent a possible conservative takeover of its board” (Yarbrough 2000, 68). The reform centered around reforming “the university charter to replace the current 48-member board of trustees with a 24-member board of regents who will have ‘sole governance’ of the institution,” a move which violated the Baptist General Convention of Texas (Druin 1990, 1). More conservative seminaries were founded in response to this perceived loss, which included Truett Seminary at Baylor, although it remains considerably more liberal than some others. For example, Dr. Diana Garland (wife of former interim President of Baylor Dr. David Garland) was removed from the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky, after becoming an advocate for female clergy and paid maternal leave, among other issues of equality (Lauve-Moon 2016, 1–2). While notions of women’s rights and equality had been prominently developed in Baptist faith for decades, after 1990, the rise of conservative Southern Baptist control of higher education limited, and in many places rolled back, gains that had been made. The relationship today between Southern Baptists and Baylor is an uneasy one, which pits the university’s desires for total academic autonomy with the SBC’s continued powerful influence across central Texas.

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Despite repeated clashes with the SBC and fundamentalist Baptists more generally, Baylor University still believes in and attempts to foster a distinctly Baptist approach to higher education. This necessitates a large and active outreach and study abroad program, operated by Baylor as a single entity called “Global Missions.” Within this, students may choose between “Urban Missions” located in and around the city of Waco, or “International Missions,” which operate outside of the United States. International Missions range across five continents and over twenty countries for the May to August 2020 summer semester, when the majority of outreach occurs in order to best accommodate a standard academic calendar (Baylor University, “All Opportunities”). This structure of youthoriented work is similar to other Baptist universities, such as the Avery T. Willis Center for Global Outreach within Oklahoma Baptist University or “international missions” within the Spiritual Life Department at Houston Baptist University (“Avery T. Willis”; “Missions”). These programs utilize many of the same rhetorical moves and tropes as Baylor’s program, making it a useful case study of the broader use of modern Baptist missional activism. Baylor defines its International Mission program as “foster[ing] meaningful opportunities for Baylor faculty, staff and students to integrate faith with discipline-specific learning and hands-on service to help solve real-world problems.” Referred to elsewhere as “voluntourism,” the emphasis of these programs is on combining faith and good works in “discipline-specific” environments (Rosenberg 2018; Baylor University, “2017 International”). Each trip is often tailored for particular majors, skills, or even genders, as students are asked to take what they have already learned and finally put it into practice. The websites through which the program operates are a mixture of official information, testimonials, and pictures from past versions of similar trips, all of which combine into establishing a narrative of community, togetherness, and personal development for both Baylor students and those communities with whom they interact. Despite these lofty aspirations, the rhetoric employed by the International Missions program falls back into earlier Baptist tropes that further a notion of racialized inferiority, stripping these communities of their agency and recentering importance of the Baylor students themselves. While some missions note the “reciprocal relationship of learning” focused on teaching one another, there remains a rhetorical framing that separates the charitable work being done from the people who receive it (Baylor University, “Kenya Women’s”). Students’ actions are always discussed in concrete and specific terms such as “constructing solar powered battery charging stations” or “using GPS to map power lines,” where they are separated and made distinct from “meeting Haitian leaders” or working with the community (Baylor

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University, “Haiti Engineering”). Elsewhere students are described as being able to “impact the lives of hundreds of children and their families,” but do so “by serving alongside our . . . ministry partners,” and again failing to engage with the very people to whom they are supposedly reaching out (Baylor University, “Columbia Community”). This rhetorical distance from the local populace echoes Baptist traditions of being literally separate from those communities they were supposedly there to help. Much like the Baptist missionaries from the mid- to late-twentieth century, Baylor couples its distance from the people will an emphasis on the personal empowerment of those students who attend. For a trip to Zambia, the central purpose of going is “to connect missions engagement with a student’s vocation & calling—showing them how their skills, talents, and passions can be used to make a positive impact on the world through sharing knowledge and skills” (Baylor University, “Kenya Women’s”). Again, the emphasis is placed on “showing them . . . their skills,” focusing exclusively on the students’ development and not on what their outreach might mean for the people they are supposedly there selflessly to help. This trope appears across different missions, as it is also hoped students will “gain a broader worldview, a greater understanding of American and Malaysian cultures . . . and an experience in the power of music to transcend cultural barriers” (Baylor University, “Malaysia Music”). For Baylor, the only important thing is the interesting and eye-opening experiences its students will have, and little to no mention is made of the local populace or why the mission trip is even there in the first place. The most concrete example of this personal empowerment is a continued refrain about the “experience” that the students will have. The description of a trip to Haiti and the Dominican Republic repeatedly references how students “experience meeting brothers and sisters in Christ from another culture,” and also how they will “get a first-hand observation of global poverty that will change how they think about missions, community, and love itself” (Baylor University, “Haiti Engineering”). A personal testimony confirms this personal shift by invoking experience both literally and as a trope. The “team leader” states several things students should form personal connections with, including “how to use their burgeoning engineering skills as a service,” “their understanding of vocation and service” “to feel what it is like to meet and befriend Christian brothers and sisters from a different culture,” and “to glimpse the depth and breadth of global poverty and formulate a personal and professional response to it” (Baylor University, “Haiti Engineering”). This notion of being there to “experience” different places and cultures is a distinct rhetorical move in order to create separation between the inferior groups that need basic services, and those that are there to “glimpse . . . global poverty.” Students are not asked to truly evangelize these communities, but instead

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merely to consume them in order to better growth in their own personal relationships with God. Beyond the literal and rhetorical distance established between the missional students and the communities to whom they are reaching out, the notion of personal experience forms a trope of cultural tourism. As one description notes, “there is also an informal educational component,” and this is where students are really encouraged to identify with each trip. A trip to Ghana brags that students “will do things like visit a cultural market, visit a tribal palace museum, and tour a slave castle museum.” These locations are divorced from a substantive historical engagement; they are framed merely as exciting vacation destinations, where one can “try lots of exciting and unique foods [and] experience local culture” (Baylor University, “Ghana Basketball”). They also continue the haunting specter of Western colonialism, focusing on “tribal” and “slave” museums, emphasizing these locales as inferior, undeveloped, and never fully removed from their violent colonial histories. This both legitimizes the missional work and establishes an untamed Other to be gawked at and experienced. Nowhere is this clearer than on the Global Missions homepage, where the search terms are listed as “  ‘Spring Break’, ‘Haiti’, ‘Accounting’, or select ‘All Opportunities’  ” (Baylor University, “Global Missions”). The opening suggestion for students is that they should be more interested in something they can accomplish over “Spring Break,” implicitly referencing having parties and a good time, instead of doing actual work or helping the people of “Haiti.” This is also present in the supplemental information provided in each trip description. After the substance of each trip is briefly defined, there is normally a small section devoted to the supposedly interesting components of the trip that try to sell student interest, since apparently the actual outreach is an insufficient pull. These sections further identify the students’ desire as tourism oriented, focused more on drive-by culturalism than critical engagement with the places to which they are traveling. Framed as a “FYI” (For Your Information), Baylor informs the reader that a trip to Zambia for developing women’s leadership also includes “excursions in Dubai, UAE . . . and a Safari experience in Zambia!” (Baylor University, “Kenya Women’s”). Much like the references to museums and a “cultural market,” the continued emphasis is to “experience” these cultures in a tourist-like snapshot of fun activities and photo opportunities, instead of a real engagement with the people that live there. In this regard, a safari experience could not be a more fitting metaphor. Even when the people are made present and legible within Baylor’s presentation material, they remain a part of the cultural tourism and merely serve as objects to experience or cultivate. A trip to Columbia is excited to announce that not only is the offer “open to students of all majors and classifications,” but that it is especially “great for students interested in using their

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Spanish skills!” (Baylor University, “Columbia Community”). The people of these countries are completely erased, becoming merely passive zoo-like attractions or objects upon which the Baylor students can practice a foreign language, but not a place where this language is part of a real people and real culture. In another trip, it is announced that “students will be . . . establishing a network of Haitian community leaders and forming them into an association for financial accountability” (Baylor University, “Haiti Engineering”). This serves two rhetorical functions, the first of which is an erasure of the agency of the people of Haiti. They cannot be financially accountable themselves, but instead require Baylor students to organize and lead them. The second purpose is to establish the inferiority of those abroad. Haitians have no system of accountability, Zambian women are incompetent and need to be taught how to lead, Colombia has no community organizations, and so on are the repeated motifs in each trip. This can even mirror the older rhetorics of disease established by early Baptist missionaries. For the Ghana trip, Baylor rhetorically asks “what about Ebola,” and establishes that as a frame of disease, underdeveloped, and inferiority, before reluctantly and curtly concluding that it is “not an issue” (Baylor University, “Ghana Basketball”). While they do conclude that there is no risk, the invocation of Ebola reminds the reader of the disease and places it in close proximity to the place of the trip. Students will be safe, but it is emphasized that these are places where disease and inferior development exist. Much like the Baptists that came before them, Baylor students only encounter these places abroad through heavily constructed rhetorics of inferiority, danger, and wildness that frame their interactions and responses to the people they are supposedly there to help. CONCLUSION Despite a long history and profound social importance as the second-largest Protestant religion in the United States, there remains little work done on Baptists or their activist work at home and abroad. While the relationship has been fraught at times, Baylor University remains a large and vocal source of Baptist work and their study abroad programs are the latest in a long history of missional work in the Baptist tradition. More importantly, it serves as the largest and most vocal of similar Baptist outreach efforts, such as those at Oklahoma Baptist University or Houston Baptist University. The Southern Baptist community has grown and changed, most notably toward the end of the twentieth century, but their earlier history built on slavery and racialized mission practices continue today. Baylor’s mission abroad programs draw from and continue a history of problematic relationships between Baptists

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and those communities to which they reach out. Historical engagement with Baptist missionary traditions identifies several consistent and recurring tropes: representing the Other as diseased and dangerous, as incompetent, or as absent entirely, and presenting the missionaries as saviors, as givers of culture and development, and as tourists simply there to “experience” the Other. While Baylor remains the central focus of this chapter, its framing of its study abroad programs is by no means unique among Southern Baptist institutions or their approaches to activism. Oklahoma Baptist University and Houston Baptist University are both in communion with the SBC, and offer forms of global outreach is markedly similar ways. The Avery T. Willis Center for Global Outreach at Oklahoma Baptist University offers “opportunities for students to reach out . . . all around the globe” so that their “global perspective will be challenged through the integration of [their] faith and education” (Oklahoma Baptist University, “Avery T. Willis”). Houston Baptist University defines their missional purpose similarly, centered around “the nature of these experiences–interaction with other cultures, reflection, discussion, and service” in the hopes that they “produce a teachable arena where a student’s ideology and understanding of scripture come face to face with the world” (Houston Baptist University, “Missions”). Both schools rely on the notion of cultural tourism, centering their focus more around pristine experiences for their students to “come face to face with the world” in the same way that Baylor wants students to confront global poverty so that they can form their own personal reactions to it. Drawing from a long and distinct line of rhetorical tropes of disease, danger, and inferiority, these schools demonstrate that the problem of Baptist missional work is much broader than any one institution. While Baylor and the SBC have clashed on doctrinal issues, they both remain committed to furthering the Baptist faith and missional work dictated therein, and are thus both actively complicit in the racialized understanding of the world that they promote. Drawing on pre-existing tropes of danger, disease, and inferiority, Baptist missions shape their message as one of cultural tourism, whereby students can go and “experience” poverty, disease, and people of color without having to actually interact with them in a serious manner. Those they help have no agency or are erased completely, working to constantly reposition the predominately white and privileged undergraduates as masters, liberators, and saviors of those people that they are ostensibly going to go help and be with in communion. As scholars and educators, we must do better to be sensitive to the ways organizations rhetorically construct and engage with other peoples and other cultures, and must be more cognizant of how past conceptions continue to corrupt and dictate the practices of tomorrow. This analysis has continued relevance for the field of communication writ large. Despite being the largest Protestant faith in the United States, rhetoricians and communication scholars have thus far spent limited time critically

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engaging Baptist texts and speeches. With a few notable exceptions, the field would benefit greatly from continued robust inquiry into a powerful social and cultural force across the southern and central United States. Missionary work has also experienced limited engagement despite its activist role and its being practiced more broadly than a few denominations or types of faith. While religious rhetoric has remained a vital source of invention for work ranging from the presidency to intersectional activist group analysis, the specifics of diverging groups have thus far escaped serious inquiry. While this chapter should not be considered an absolute examination of Baptist rhetorical form, similar studies of distinct parts of Baptist teaching across diverse religious tenets remain a ripe place for further studies.

REFERENCES Basden, Paul. “Introduction.” In Has Our Theology Changed?: Southern Baptist Thought Since 1845, edited by Paul Basden (Nashville, TN: Broadman and Holman, 1994), 1–7. Basden, Paul. “The Atonement.” In Has Our Theology Changed?: Southern Baptist Thought Since 1845, edited by Paul Basden (Nashville, TN: Broadman and Holman, 1994), 96–104. Baylor University. “2017 International Mission Trips.” http:​/​/www​​.bayl​​or​.ed​​u​/mis​​ sions​​/inde​​x​.php​​?​id​=8​​68420​. Baylor University. “All Opportunities.” https​:/​/ww​​w​.bay​​lor​.e​​du​/mi​​ssion​​s​/ind​​ex​.ph​​​p​ ?id=​​86808​​9. Baylor University. “Colombia Community Development.” http:​/​/www​​.bayl​​or​.ed​​u​/ mis​​sions​​/inde​​x​.php​​?​id​=8​​68451​. Baylor University. “Ghana Basketball Ministry.” http:​/​/www​​.bayl​​or​.ed​​u​/mis​​sions​​/ inde​​x​.php​​?​id​=8​​68430​. Baylor University. “Global Missions.” http:​/​/www​​.bayl​​or​.ed​​u​/mis​​sions​​/inde​​x​.php​​?​ id​=8​​67920​. Baylor University. “Haiti Engineering.” http:​/​/www​​.bayl​​or​.ed​​u​/mis​​sions​​/inde​​x​.php​​?​ id​=8​​68435​. Baylor University. “Kenya Women’s Leadership.” http:​/​/www​​.bayl​​or​.ed​​u​/mis​​sions​​/ inde​​x​.php​​?​id​=8​​68429​. Baylor University. “Malaysia Music.” http:​/​/www​​.bayl​​or​.ed​​u​/mis​​sions​​/inde​​x​.php​​?​id​ =9​​25721​. Bird, Craig. “‘Student Manifesto’ Presented at Baylor.” Baptist Press, December 19, 1984. http:​/​/www​​.sbhl​​a​.org​​/bp​_a​​rchiv​​e​/bp_​​relea​​ses​.a​​sp​?r​e​​lYear​​=1984​. Chafin, Kenneth. “Foreword.” In In the Name of the Father: The Rhetoric of the New Southern Baptist Convention, edited by Carl L. Kell and L. Raymond Camp (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1999), i–xviii. Copeland, E. Luther. The Southern Baptist Convention and the Judgment of History: The Taint of an Original Sin (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2002).

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Cothen, Grady C. What Happened to the Southern Baptist Convention?: A Memoir of the Controversy (Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 1993). Dockery, David S. “Preface.” In Southern Baptists & American Evangelicals: The Conversation Continues, edited by David S. Dockery (Nashville, TN: Broadman and Holman, 1993), 1–8. Druin, Toby. “Baylor University’s Trustees Change School’s Charter.” Baptist Press, September 24, 1990. http:​/​/www​​.sbhl​​a​.org​​/bp​_a​​rchiv​​e​/bp_​​relea​​ses​.a​​sp​?r​e​​lYear​​ =1990​. Garrett, Jr, James Leo. “  ‘Evangelicals’ and Baptists – Is There A Difference?” In Are Southern Baptists ‘Evangelicals’?, edited by James Leo Garrett, Jr., E. Glenn Hinson, and James E. Tull (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1983), 31–128. George, Timothy. “The Priesthood of All Believers.” In The People of God: Essays on the Believers’ Church, edited by Paul A. Basden and David D. Dockery (Nashville, TN: Broadman Press, 1990), 85–96. Gilbert, Timothy D. “Christian Ethics.” In Has Our Theology Changed?: Southern Baptist Thought Since 1845, edited by Paul Basden (Nashville, TN: Broadman and Holman, 1994), 280–288. Harding, Susan F. “Convicted by the Holy Spirit: The Rhetoric of Fundamental Baptist Conversion.” American Ethnologist 14, no. 1 (1987): 167–181. Hobbs, Herschel H. You Are Chosen: The Priesthood of All Believers (San Francisco: Harper & Rowe, 1990). Houston Baptist University. “Missions.” https​:/​/ww​​w​.hbu​​.edu/​​stude​​nt​-li​​fe​/sp​​iritu​​al​ -li​​f​e​/mi​​ssion​​s/. Humphreys, Fisher. The Way We Were: How Southern Baptist Theology Has Changed and What it Means to Us All (New York: McCracken Press, 1994). Johnson, Andre E. “‘What Do You Have to Lose?’: Donald Trump, Religious Freedom, and the African American Vote.” In The Rhetoric of Religious Freedom in the United States, edited by Eric C. Miller (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2018), 183–200. Kell, Carl L., and L. Raymond Camp. In the Name of the Father: The Rhetoric of the New Southern Baptist Convention (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1999). Lauve-Moon, Katie. “The Case of Dean Diana Garland: Taking a Stand at Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.” Women Leading Change 1 (2016). http:​/​/lib​​rary.​​ tulan​​e​.edu​​/jour​​nals/​​index​​.php/​​ncs​/a​​rticl​​e​/​vie​​w​/317​​/220.​ Lumpkin, William L. Baptist Confessions of Faith (Valley Forge, VA: Judson Press, 1969). Martin, Dana. “The American Baptist Convention and the Civil Rights Movement: Rhetoric and Response.” Baptist History and Heritage 34, no. 1 (1999): 21–32. Newport, John P. “Southern Baptist Responses to American Evangelicals.” In Southern Baptists & American Evangelicals: The Conversation Continues, edited by David S. Dockery (Nashville, TN: Broadman and Holman, 1993), 110–124. Oklahoma Baptist University. “Avery T. Willis Center for Global Outreach.” https​:/​/ ww​​w​.okb​​u​.edu​​/glob​​al​-ou​​treac​​h​/i​nd​​ex​.ht​​ml.

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Powell, Paul W. Building An Evangelistic Church (Dallas, TX: Annuity Board of the Southern Baptist Convention, 1991). “Proceedings of the Southern Baptist Convention.” (Richmond, VA: H.K. Ellyson, 1845). http://www​.sbhla​.org​/sbc​_annuals/. Reid, Robert Stephen. “Being Baptist.” Rhetoric & Public Affairs 7, no. 4 (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2004), 587–601. Rosenberg, Ellen M. The Southern Baptists: A Subculture in Transition (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1989). Rosenberg, Tina. “The Business of Voluntourism: Do Western Do-Gooders Actually Do Harm?” The Guardian, September 13, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​guard​​ian​.c​​om​/ne​​ ws​/20​​18​/se​​p​/13/​​the​-b​​usine​​ss​-of​​-volu​​ntour​​ism​-d​​o​-wes​​tern-​​do​-g​o​​oders​​-actu​​ally-​​do​ -ha​​rm. Shurden, Walter B. The Baptist Identity: Four Fragile Freedoms (Macon, GA: Smyth and Helwys, 1993). Smith, Andrew Christopher. Fundamentalism, Fundraising, and the Transformation of the Southern Baptist Convention, 1919–1925 (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 2016). Smith, Oran P. The Rise of Baptist Republicanism (New York: New York University Press, 1997). Stetzer, ed. “Toward a Missional Convention.” In Southern Baptist Identity: An Evangelical Denomination Faces the Future, edited by David S. Dockery (Wheaton, IL: Crossway Books, 2009), 175–202. Yarbrough, Slayden A. Southern Baptists: A Historical, Eccesiological, and Theological Heritage of a Confessional People (Brentwood, TN: Southern Baptist Historical Society, 2000).

Chapter 3

Social Christian Theology Animating Civic Rhetorical Activism Sara M. Dye and Michael-John DePalma

Every recent study of the religious landscape in the United States calls attention to a major increase in religious diversity over the past ten years. The growth of religious diversity in the twenty-first century demands increased attention to the ways religious motives animate civic rhetorical activism— for good and for ill. For more than a decade, scholars in rhetorical studies have demonstrated persuasively that religious commitments influence civic engagement in a range of significant ways. Research on religious rhetorics and civic engagement has provided valuable insights into the functions of religious discourse in civic deliberation (Crowley 2006; DePalma et al. 2008; Medhurst 2005, 2009; Ringer 2016). Scholarship in this vein has also provided critical knowledge about the vital function of religious rhetorics in compelling political and social movements (DePalma and Ringer 2015; Duffy 2015; Houck and Dixon 2006; Miller 2013). Recent historical work in the field, too, has captured the dynamic interplay between religious commitment and rhetorical activism, showing the ways in which religious discourses are mobilized to advocate for more just social conditions (Camper, forthcoming; Duffy 2015; Shaver 2012, 2015; Zimmerelli 2012, 2015). From this body of scholarship, it is evident that religion has important implications for civic rhetorical activism. What scholars of rhetoric have yet to adequately examine, however, is the relationship between particular theological perspectives and the forms of civic rhetorical activism that they animate. In other words, it is clear that religion often plays a significant role in various kinds of civic rhetorical activism, but it is not yet understood how particular religious perspectives motivate and influence the shapes of civic engagement. Research that traces the ways theological perspectives motivate civic rhetorical engagement is responsive to two critical concerns voiced by scholars 49

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of religious rhetorics. Several scholars have called attention to the importance of fine-grained and thoroughly contextualized definitions of religious communities, identities, and subjects when researching religious rhetorics of any kind (DePalma 2020; Fernheimer 2010; Cope and Ringer 2015). Similarly, scholars of religious rhetorics have called for increased attention to the diversity of religious rhetorics in our religiously pluralistic context (Geiger and Pugh 2015; Lynch and Miller 2017). Studying the ways that specific theological perspectives influence particular forms of civic rhetorical engagement can enable scholars in our field to construct a nuanced and carefully contextualized map of diverse forms of theologically motivated rhetorical action. Such a map could serve to complicate reductive representations of religion, religious communities, and religious identities and make visible the vast range of perspectives that animate any given religious tradition and the religious landscape writ large. Thus, following Russel Hirst, we see attention to the relationship between theology and rhetorical engagement as necessary and full of generative possibilities for the field of rhetorical studies. As Hirst rightly asserts, “when we study the rhetorical theory, pedagogy, and practice of religious believers, we should investigate as thoroughly as we can the relationship of the rhetor’s theology to his or her rhetoric” (2013, 184). By doing so, he explains, “our views of many things in rhetoric’s history shall become broader and more accurate” and “our understanding of the relationship between rhetoric and theology, and rhetoric and religion in general, will continue growing, better equipping us to explore such links, intersections, and paths” (184). Given these rich possibilities, our chapter examines how theological motives animate rhetorical activism at two sites of rhetorical advocacy: Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative. Andover Settlement House, the first settlement house in Boston, Massachusetts, was founded to institutionalize cooperative moral action among citizens of various classes in order to improve social conditions and social dynamics in the final decade of the nineteenth century—a period characterized by widening economic disparities, rising tensions over labor conditions, and increasing social division. The Texas Hunger Initiative, founded in 2009, is a grantfunded project of Baylor University that conducts university-based research to determine what anti-hunger efforts are effective and provides the support and expertise to coordinate anti-hunger work in communities. In our chapter, we examine how Christian theological perspectives animate civic rhetorical engagement at these two sites of rhetorical advocacy during two different historical periods, the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries. In doing so, we aim to deepen understanding of the relationships between religious theological perspectives and civic rhetorical activism at these important sites of rhetorical activism. Our goal is also to provide a model of scholarship that foregrounds

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a focus on religious theology when studying the rhetorical activism of religiously motivated community advocacy groups. In what follows, we provide profiles of Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative. In profiling these sites, we outline the rhetorical advocacy work of each community organization and the theological perspectives that animate their approaches to civic rhetorical activism in their respective contexts. Next, we provide examples of theologically motivated strategies mobilized by each organization in carrying out their advocacy work—namely, embodied rhetorical presence, storytelling, and collaborative diversity. We conclude our chapter with implications of our study for future scholarly and pedagogical work on religious rhetorics and civic rhetorical activism. ANDOVER SETTLEMENT HOUSE AND SOCIAL CHRISTIAN THEOLOGY In January 1892, William Jewett Tucker and Robert Archey Woods founded Andover Settlement House in the South End of Boston, Massachusetts. At the time Andover House was founded, Tucker was an influential professor of sacred rhetoric at Andover Theological Seminary and Woods was one of Tucker’s students at Andover Seminary. Woods, a graduate of Amherst College, had spent six months at Toynbee Hall in East London studying the inner workings of the settlement house movement, and he brought his experience and enthusiasm for settlement house work to Andover Seminary. Tucker furnished the vision and influence to garner the support needed to create Andover House, and Woods brought the knowledge and experience required to run Andover House’s day-to-day operations. Tucker chaired the Board of Andover House and Woods served as its Headworker. In the years leading up to the founding of Andover Settlement House, questions concerning how to conceptualize individual religious believers’ responsibilities for addressing unjust social and economic conditions were central for the faculty at Andover Theological Seminary. As they witnessed ever-increasing economic inequality, violent conflicts over labor conditions, and mounting cultural fragmentation, Tucker and his colleagues struggled to come to terms with how to best train preachers who could respond productively to the injustice, conflict, and upheaval surrounding them. In an 1892 essay entitled “Life in Himself,” Tucker captures this widespread sense of unrest when he writes, Nothing is more evident than the certain sense of fear which has begun to seize the heart of our generation. We are literally afraid of the world in which we live.

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It is so great, so uncontrollable, in many ways so unintelligible. Who shall solve the problems of our civilization? Who shall master the forces that have passed beyond our control? (193)

In the midst of poverty, social fracturing, economic conflict, trade union protests, fights for labor reform, and major shifts in religious thought and affiliation, many citizens looked to the church for how best to respond to the social conditions around them. In some cases, citizens grew skeptical, doubting Christianity’s capacity to offer solutions. These unprecedented challenges forced church leaders, ministers, and theologians to consider what Christianity might mean for citizens who were attempting to navigate the changing religious and social conditions around them. It is out of this context that Andover Settlement House emerged. Tucker and Woods created Andover House as a site for advancing the Kingdom of God on earth, and they used it to cultivate a Social Christian ethic in prospective ministers who lived in the midst of Boston’s poverty. In their search for a response to the tumult around them, they came to see that “the times demanded a larger and closer application of . . . the simple Christianity of Christ, to the great problems of life as they confront us in our cities” (Bevington 1892, 130). Andover Settlement House was thus established in an effort to institutionalize cooperative moral action, improve relations among citizens of various classes, and reform economic and living conditions for residents of Boston. It was the means through which Tucker and Woods sought to embody the “Christianity of Christ” in responding to the social, economic, and political problems in their immediate context. For both Tucker and Woods, the activist work at Andover House was guided in many respects by the theology of nineteenth-century Social Christianity. Tucker had a significant role in shaping Social Christian theology through his work as an editor of the Andover Review, a publication that sought to “advocate the principles and represent the spirit and method of progressive orthodoxy” and to “show the obligations of theology to the social and religious life of the time” (qtd. in Williams 2015, 174). Andover Settlement House, for Tucker and Woods, was an institutional expression of Social Christianity—a means of embodying this theological perspective in the context of their community. As Daniel Day Williams explains in The Andover Liberals: A Study in American Theology, Andover Settlement House “symbolized the liberal Christian’s belief in the religious quality of moral action, his conviction of the organic relationship between men’s souls and their environment, and his faith that God’s work is the progressive incarnation of His spirit in men and their society” (1970, 153–154). The Social Christian theological perspective that animated the work at Andover Settlement House foregrounded the notion that love of neighbor

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meant working to create more just economic and social conditions, improving human relations, and reforming institutions. These expressions of the “Christianity of Christ,” these acts of loving neighbor, from the perspective of Social Christianity, were the primary means through which to establish the Kingdom of God on earth. The Social Christian theology that undergirded the work at Andover Settlement House emphasized the need to promote radical reforms in politics, business, and culture because from the view of Social Christianity, institutional evil was in need of redemption. In contrast to traditional Protestant Christian thought during the nineteenth century, Tucker, Woods, and other adherents to Social Christian theology resisted placing responsibility for moral depravity solely, or even primarily, on the shoulders of individuals, but instead viewed moral questions as linked to economic and cultural systems. THE TEXAS HUNGER INITIATIVE AND TWENTYFIRST-CENTURY SOCIAL CHRISTIANITY Social Christian thought is also a primary animating force in the Texas Hunger Initiative’s approach to civic advocacy. The Texas Hunger Initiative was founded in 2009 by Jeremy Everett in partnership with the Baptist General Convention of Texas and Baylor University’s School of Social Work. The Texas Hunger Initiative works in collaboration with educational, religious, government, and community partners to research and develop coordinated efforts to eradicate hunger and food insecurity. As Everett was founding the Texas Hunger Initiative, he was confronted with the political realities of the late Bush, early Obama era in the United States: the economic crisis of the Great Recession; the accompanying fear, political contention, and finger-pointing of that crisis; a deadlocked federal government; and increasing poverty rates. As bad as the poverty and food insecurity rates were across the country, they were (and still are) statistically significantly worse in Texas. When the Texas Hunger Initiative was founded in 2009, the rate of “very low food security” (i.e., hunger) in Texas was 6.4 percent, significantly above the national average of 5.7 percent (Nord et al. 2010, 20, III). The 2018 data from the USDA Economic Research Service records Texas’ hunger rate at approximately 5.4 percent while the national average for 2018 was 4.3 percent (Coleman-Jensen et al. 2019, 23, 19). Despite the data’s demonstration that the rate of food insecurity is trending down, a national average hunger rate of 4.3 percent is the equivalent of 5.6 million hungry households (5). Put plainly, millions of American families and individuals struggle to have stable, reliable sources of food.

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The National Commission on Hunger, to which Everett was congressionally appointed, described in its 2015 report “Freedom from Hunger,” a variety of root causes of hunger: labor market forces, job availability, family structure, education, violence, historical context (which includes race, ethnicity, and gender), and personal responsibility (12–17). The Commission also outlined populations that are at a significantly higher risk of hunger: seniors, single-parent families with small children, veterans and military members, people with disabilities, Native Americans, those affected by high incarceration rates, and immigrants (19). Unsurprisingly, the Commission’s research and U.S. Census Bureau data indicate that many U.S. populations vulnerable to hunger are also vulnerable to poverty. For example, in 2018, the official poverty rate in the United States was 11.8 percent (Semega et al. 2019, 1). However, poverty rate differences among races are striking. In 2018, white Americans experienced poverty at a rate of 10.1 percent, while the poverty rate for black Americans was more than double that at 20.8 percent, and the rate for Hispanics was 17.6 percent (15). The poverty rate for non-citizens was 17.5 percent (16). For Americans with disabilities, the rate was 25.7 percent (17). Family units comprised of married couples experienced poverty at a rate of 4.7 percent, where a single woman experienced poverty at a rate more than five times that (24.9 percent) and a single mother experienced poverty at a rate of between 39.1 percent and 47.7 percent, depending on the age of her children (the rates for single fathers vary from 18.7 to 19.7 percent) (14). In response to these needs and the necessity for a coordinated effort to address them, Everett founded the Texas Hunger Initiative—housed in the School of Social Work at Baylor University, a private, Christian research university located in Waco, Texas. The two primary aims of the Texas Hunger Initiative are articulated by Everett in terms of the immediate and the longterm. In the short-term, the organization wants to help reduce food insecurity and poverty via innovative programming and partnerships. The long game, however, is to change the cultural understandings of poverty and hunger that contribute to the perpetuation of stereotypes, unjust systems, and inequitable policies. The work of the Texas Hunger Initiative is diverse and wide-ranging. The organization designs and implements innovative child hunger programs, engages in policy work with local, state, and federal officials, builds Hunger Free Community Coalitions, and consults with other anti-poverty organizations across the state and country. All of the Texas Hunger Initiative’s work, however, is united by the desire to foster diverse collaborative relationships that will, combined with research and innovation, lead to systemic changes that benefit low-income and vulnerable populations. The work of the Texas Hunger Initiative is animated by twenty-first-century Social Christian theology. Not only is the organization housed by a Baptist

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university, but, more importantly, Everett originally experienced a sense of calling to the poor as a college student, and his motivations for his work during the past two decades—in seminary, in community development work in San Antonio, and in the founding of the Texas Hunger Initiative—are the direct result of his religious commitments and theological beliefs surrounding that sense of calling. Everett’s heritage is largely evangelical and Baptist. However, in his highly formative seminary years, he encountered the work of Social Gospel thinkers such as Walter Rauschenbusch, liberation theologians like Gustavo Gutierrez, and moderate and progressive evangelical thinkers and writers like Tony Campolo and Jim Wallis. All of these figures called the Christian church to consider more seriously the implications of the life and work of Jesus for action in the civic sphere, especially in solidarity with the poor and marginalized. Such a theological understanding entails considering the Kingdom of God not as an eschatological vision but as a present reality to be intentionally furthered here and now, with food for the hungry and liberation for the oppressed. The work of the Texas Hunger Initiative is thus an institutional embodiment of Everett’s twenty-first-century Social Christianity. Influenced by Social Gospel theology, liberation theology, and other progressive Social Christian theological perspectives from the late twentieth century to the present, contemporary Social Christianity has reacted against the evangelical fundamentalist movement of the 1980s and 1990s by reemphasizing elements of the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Social Gospel movement, particularly the call for the Christian to be actively engaged in justice work in civic contexts. A central commitment that underlies much of Social Christian thought, Everett’s theology, and the work of the Texas Hunger Initiative is the imago Dei, or “image of God.” The biblical book of Genesis describes humans as created in the imago Dei, and for Everett and many other Christians interested in social justice, this belief forms the foundation for understanding all humans as equal and thus provides the impetus for understanding that the furthering of the Kingdom of God must entail working toward full equity and justice for all people. Because justice is mostly denied to oppressed and marginalized people, Everett and other socially oriented Christians take their cues from the life of Christ, who associated himself primarily with those on the margins of power-wielding society. SOCIAL CHRISTIAN THEOLOGY ANIMATING CIVIC ACTION: THREE STRATEGIES FOR RHETORICAL ACTIVISM The nineteenth- and twenty-first-century Social Christian theological perspectives undergirding Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger

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Initiative animate three strategic approaches to civic rhetorical activism employed by these advocacy organizations: embodied rhetorical presence, storytelling, and collaborative diversity. Each organization is situated in radically different historical and geographic contexts, and each organization was created in response to the needs of those particular contexts. The communities they serve(d) and the purposes of each organization are clearly distinct. Both organizations, however, employ similar strategic approaches to rhetorical activism. Learning this fact is apt to surprise readers (It did us!). If responsiveness to context is the only or primary criterion guiding approaches to activism, it seems unlikely that these two organizations would employ similar tactics to engage in rhetorical activism. Likewise, if the specific type of work that each organization was created to carry out is the primary consideration in determining the shape of each organization’s approach to rhetorical activism, it is surprising to learn that each organization is using the same kind of strategies to approach their advocacy work. However, as we began to recognize that theological motives were primary in motivating and shaping approaches to rhetorical activism in both organizations, the logic of their work emerged, and we began to see why each organization was employing the strategies of embodied rhetorical presence, storytelling, and collaborative diversity. The nineteenth-century Social Christianity that guided the work at Andover Settlement House anticipates the twenty-first-century Social Christianity that plays a significant role in animating the work of the Texas Hunger Initiative. As Williams rightly asserts, what Tucker and his colleagues at Andover Theological Seminary “called ‘Social Christianity’ was never given a complete formal theological statement” (1970, 149). What it did provide, however, was a new orientation to social relations and social conditions in Christian thought. In theorizing and advocating for a Social Christian perspective, Tucker and his colleagues demonstrated that the “working of the economic system appeared as less and less just. . . . Divergence of interest rather than harmony between interests of different classes was more apparent. A rising labor movement demanded attention to industrial conflict and growing poverty” (Williams 2015, 139–140). In naming these conditions, Tucker and the faculty at “Andover began to question the practical effect of their individualistic ethics. They spoke . . . more of the pressing needs of society, and urged newer and more radical methods of social reform” (139–140). In doing so, they laid part of the groundwork for what would later become Social Gospel theology and later twenty-first-century outgrowths of Social Christian theological perspectives. Social Gospel theology and contemporary Social Christianity, in other words, stem from nineteenth-century Social Christianity. Knowing that contemporary Social Christian perspectives developed from earlier Social Christian thought, it becomes less surprising to learn that strategic approaches

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to civic rhetorical activism employed by Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative are similar. Though distinct in various ways and separated by more than a century, the primary emphases on improving human relations and reforming social conditions are key points of common ground in Tucker’s, Woods’s, and Everett’s Christian theologies. We thus use the terms “Social Christianity,” “Social Christian theology,” or “Social Christian perspective” to refer to this shared theological territory in subsequent sections of our chapter. Social Christian theology significantly inflected the ways residents at Andover Settlement House approached civic rhetorical activism in Boston’s South End. Tucker and Woods employed the strategies of rhetorical presence, storytelling, and collaborative diversity because they viewed them as approaches through which to improve human social relations and reform social conditions, thus enabling human flourishing and ultimately making way for the Kingdom of God on earth. The Texas Hunger Initiative’s employment of embodied rhetorical presence, storytelling, and collaborative diversity, likewise, stems from the Social Christian perspective that animates a range of work carried out by the organization. In the remainder of this section, we discuss ways Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative employ the theologically animated strategies of embodied rhetorical presence, storytelling, and collaborative diversity in their advocacy work. In doing so, we aim to provide insight into the relationship between the Social Christian theological perspectives and approaches to civic rhetorical activism at Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative. Embodied Rhetorical Presence. A rhetorical strategy that is integral to the work of Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative is embodied rhetorical presence. By embodied rhetorical presence, we mean intentional symbolic action in which a rhetor positions his or her body (or an organization positions its members) strategically in a particular context in order to build identification and enact persuasion in that context (see, for example, Cintrón and Schneider 2019; Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca 1969; Shaver 2018). The strategy of embodied rhetorical presence at Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative aimed to place people and groups in close physical proximity who might otherwise remain distant—spatially, ideologically, religiously, politically, experientially. Through living, working, and navigating shared community problems in proximity, neighbors who hold differing perspectives are afforded opportunities to forge meaningful relationships with one another in their efforts to reform shared community concerns—goals that stem from the Social Christian theological perspectives at Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative.

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At Andover Settlement House, the strategy of embodied rhetorical presence stemmed from Tucker and Woods’s Social Christian theological motive to improve human social relations and reform social conditions through their work. The strategy of embodied rhetorical presence recognized the transformative power of proximity for fostering connections among human beings from different classes, religious backgrounds, races, and political orientations. Not only was the establishment of the settlement house itself an enactment of embodied rhetorical presence, Tucker and Woods were also intentional in training residents to enact the strategy of embodied rhetorical presence in their day-to-day work at Andover Settlement House. They did so because they recognized that authentic connections with residents in South Boston were essential for addressing social problems in their local context. In order to respond appropriately to the needs and pressing concerns in a particular context, Tucker and Woods believed that immersion in community contexts was necessary. Immersion created opportunities to live and work in close proximity to residents of a community, it afforded occasions for building relationships with members of a community, and it provided access to community knowledge that might otherwise be concealed to outsiders. In the following passage, Tucker articulates this dimension of rhetorical presence: Evidently the great requisite in any attempt to modify wrong social conditions is the perfect understanding of those conditions. And the knowledge of any such conditions is best gained by practically subjecting one’s self to them, at least to the extent of making them the daily environment of his life. Residence is the key to the situation in any locality. It is wonderful how many things come to one, in the way of the daily intercourse with his neighbors, which would entirely evade the most careful search from without. It is the unsought information which tells the best story of a neighborhood. And far beyond any gain in the way of knowledge is the sense of identification with others which comes through residence among them. (1893, 361–362)

For Tucker and Woods, the power of settlement houses generally and Andover House in particular is that the means of responding to local needs were invented in response to deep understanding of the local context—understanding, once again, that was fostered through deep personal connections between workers and neighbors. Social problems, in their minds, could only be adequately addressed in relationship with residents who held community knowledge and expertise. Thus, the “conviction that a personal contact of life with life is what is most needed in the solution of modern social problems” led Tucker and Woods to establish a system of visiting that provided opportunities for Andover Settlement House residents to regularly enact rhetorical presence in a range of communities in Boston’s South End (The Christian

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Union 1892, 1041). In the Neighborhood in Nation-Building: The Running Comment of Thirty Years at the South End House, twenty-one kinds of visiting—all of which afforded opportunities to enact embodied rhetorical presence—are listed. This work, for example, included visiting tenement homes and factories to conduct safety checks and examine living and working conditions; visiting elementary schools to provide educational support and perform medical examinations; and visiting homes for the purpose of general friendly visiting and to provide childcare, prenatal care, and health education. Embodied rhetorical presence is also a theologically animated strategy that is central to the advocacy work at the Texas Hunger Initiative. The staff of the Texas Hunger Initiative are committed to being present with communities and community partners. They believe that in order to establish trust and gain an accurate understanding of the community, community advocates must be present, interacting face-to-face with community members. The two general principles that undergird the Texas Hunger Initiative’s commitment to presence—that presence leads to the most ethical and most effective forms of civic work—align with Tucker’s and Woods’s understanding of presence and proximity. Ethical considerations regarding presence with communities are largely rooted in the knowledge that “the most lucid analysis of social problems comes from those who are directly affected by them and that people-powered movements led from the frontlines of impact are the most reliable drivers of systemic change” (Reinsborough and Canning 2017, 3). Most forms of civic engagement now embrace the understanding that work with or on behalf of a community without the direct knowledge of and participation from that community is a form of the “White-savior complex,” a reference to (mostly) white missionary and service efforts that seek conversion and/or moral reform and/or cultural change via tools and processes of colonization. To avoid the tendency of such remote work to foster harm and oppression, the ethical social change agent must have participatory knowledge of and partnerships with people in the community and a deep awareness of the contextual nature of social, cultural, and economic life and problems. Similarly, proximity is simply more effective in accomplishing relationship-building and information-gathering. Drawing inspiration from the “incarnational organizing” of civil rights activists, Everett realized in the early days of the Texas Hunger Initiative that the organization needed to be present in the communities it wanted to help. As Everett explains, with incarnational organizing, “civil rights organizers would live in the communities where they registered people to vote in order to strengthen trust and to forge collaborative efforts” (128). Everett realized a similar commitment to embodied rhetorical presence “was [THI’s] path forward” (128). “Instead of working completely out of Waco,” he explains, “we would open regional offices that would be the hubs for our work across the state” (128). The embodied rhetorical presence enacted by opening field

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offices across the state aimed to establish the organization’s “situated ethos” (Shaver 2018) and demonstrate its long-term commitment to solidarity with low-income and vulnerable communities. Committed long-term presence with communities was, for Everett, a central means by which to enact the Texas Hunger Initiative’s theological commitments. Animated by a desire to emulate the life of Christ, Everett aimed for the advocacy work of the Texas Hunger Initiative to honor all people made in the image of God by respecting and learning from them and by leveraging privilege and power for the sake of solidarity with the marginalized. Working from this Social Christian theological motive, the Texas Hunger Initiative opened regional offices across the state, allowing the organization to learn about the different demographics, political and religious cultures and contexts, and manifestations of poverty in diverse contexts: border areas like McAllen; El Paso in the southwest; urban areas like Houston, Dallas, and Austin; San Angelo in central Texas; and in West Texas, in Lubbock. The establishment of field offices across the state of Texas and the frequent travel by the Waco-based Texas Hunger Initiative central office staff to regional offices for site visits, town halls, meetings, and research demonstrates to communities that the Texas Hunger Initiative recognizes the complexity of poverty’s situated nature and is eager to humbly learn from community members and partners about the unique, situated context of different regions and then to join those partners in their work. Committed to this theologically motivated work, the Texas Hunger Initiative is able to join local community anti-hunger and anti-poverty efforts in solidarity. Storytelling. A second rhetorical strategy animated by Social Christian theology at Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative is storytelling. In using the term “storytelling,” we are drawing from Lee Ann Bell’s notion that storytelling can function to “challenge the stock stories, build on and amplify concealed and resistance stories, and create new stories to interrupt the status quo and energize change” (2020, 25). It is clear that the leaders of Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative grasped the power of storytelling to transform visions of human relations and social arrangements. In constructing narrative arguments that both highlight the ways unjust systems cause human suffering and demonstrate the methods and impacts of their advocacy work in the lives of people in the communities they serve, Tucker, Woods, and Everett utilize storytelling as a vehicle through which to reimagine human social relations. They also employ storytelling as a medium by which to envision the shapes that social reform ought to take on a broad scale—ends in line with Social Christian theological perspectives. Tucker and Woods viewed the settlement house model as an institutional embodiment of Social Christian thought, and they saw settlement houses as a

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vital channel for cultivating and enacting a Social Christian ethic not only in South Boston but nationally and internationally as well. Given this perspective, they were committed to sharing stories of Andover Settlement House far and wide in order to make visible the human needs and community problems they were facing—needs and problems also common in other parts of the United States. Through storytelling, they also sought to show the impacts of settlement house work on the lives of people in their community. In publishing books and articles in a wide range of academic journals and newspapers, Tucker, Woods, and other residents sought to share the stories of human need and the impact of Andover Settlement House in order to persuade educators and community leaders across the country of the need for and value of settlement house work. For more than thirty years, residents at Andover House gathered research in Boston’s South End that enabled them to tell the story of Andover Settlement House through the publication of essays, edited volumes, and books that made a strong case for reform and the value of settlement houses in America’s cities. Woods, for example, published The Poor in Great Cities (1895), The City Wilderness: A Settlement Study (1898), Americans in Process (1903), The Settlement Horizon (1922), and The Neighborhood in Nation Building (1923). Tucker, too, published articles and book chapters that directly addressed the value of Andover House (see, for example, “The Work of Andover House in Boston”), but he also published several books that forwarded the values, vision, and theology that undergirded the work at Andover House. Personal Power (1910), The Function of the Church in Modern Society (1911), and My Generation (1919) are examples of such texts. Tucker, Woods, and other residents also gave several lectures across the nation in an effort to promote economic and political reform and advocate means by which to improve social relations across economic, religious, and cultural groups. In the context of these lectures and publications, they told stories of place that revealed the conditions of housing and workplaces in neighborhoods, narratives of belief about the values and attitudes held by community members on issues such as child labor, education, and health care, and stories of community reform undertaken by Andover Settlement House workers. Storytelling is also a theologically animated strategy that is central to the Texas Hunger Initiative’s advocacy work. The Texas Hunger Initiative subverts what Bell calls “stock stories” by revealing “concealed” stories in order to change perceptions of poverty and hunger and gain increased support for anti-hunger work. Stock stories are “the tales told by the dominant group, passed on through historical and literary documents, and celebrated through public rituals, laws, the arts, education and media” (2020, 23). Concealed stories are those “hidden from mainstream view” that focus on “people who are marginalized, and often stigmatized, by the dominant society” in an effort to

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“critique or ‘talk back’ to mainstream narratives, portraying the strengths and capacities within marginalized communities” (2020, 23). Everett employs these forms of storytelling as modes of rhetorical action that aim to change “hearts and minds” about poverty by taking larger cultural and religious (and even more specifically, evangelical Christian) narratives about those living in poverty and subverting them. Everett and the Texas Hunger Initiative’s theological commitments to equality and humility necessitate challenging stock stories that cloud the clarity with which people perceive one another as fellow humans created in the image of God. Such storytelling requires readers to attend to perspectives they may not have considered, perhaps pointing out unexpected areas of common ground and urging humility. Laying stock and concealed stories side by side, Bell explains, “provides a vantage point for seeing differently, unsettling the presumptive truth in stock stories and showing them to be as partial and incomplete as any other story—thus open for contestation” (2020, 59). Everett’s stories challenge inaccurate and oversimplified assumptions about often stereotyped people, and many of his stories challenge multiple assumptions at once. To challenge the pervasive assumption that laziness is a (if not the) primary cause of poverty, for example, Everett, in his book I Was Hungry, reveals a concealed story about a former neighbor, Juanita, whose husband walked two miles roundtrip every day for dialysis for his severe kidney disease while she, a legally blind woman who was unable to drive, took a 5 a.m. city bus every morning to work, sewing fatigues for troops in Iraq, took a 6 p.m. bus home, and then used a cane to walk to nearby restaurants on the weekends to sweep for extra money (2019, 45–46). Everett notes that, contrary to popular discourse, it is people like Juanita and not the mythic “welfare queen”—who is allegedly “living large off government programs”—who are more “emblematic” of people in poverty (51). Everett also enacts his commitment to establishing common ground between people all made in the image of God by telling narratives that reveal concealed parts of stories that feature a person, situation, or community his primary audience is likely to be sympathetic toward. In doing so, he subtly complicates and subverts the expectations of his audience. One example of such storytelling is a story about a veteran who needs SNAP access to return to a “fulfilling life” after he returns from war (63). Everett knows that many people who adamantly support the military and veterans are also people who do not necessarily support (or understand) government assistance programs like SNAP. Everett also tells a story about a rural working community that has experienced great decline and increased unemployment as its primary manufacturing plant has closed, forcing many people to rely on government programs. After describing this scenario, Everett challenges readers’ assumptions about the utilization of government assistance programs, asserting that

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“anyone suggesting that a social safety net existence is something that people prefer has never spent quality time with the poor” (20). He also uses this story to challenge the myth of the American Dream, stating that for the poor, “Opportunities for upward mobility are scarce, if not altogether nonexistent. The American myth of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps evidently does not apply to people who cannot afford boots” (20). Throughout his book, Everett tells stories that arouse the sympathies of his readers, complicate simplistic understandings of poverty, and challenge stock stories/myths that are barriers to anti-hunger work. On the whole, Everett’s storytelling is intended to foster humility by muddying the certainty with which readers or hearers hold onto stock stories and to provoke action toward the furthering of the Kingdom of God, a kingdom of justice and equality. Collaborative Diversity. A third theologically motivated strategy at Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative is collaborative diversity. For these organizations, collaborative diversity is an approach through which to reorient human social relations from competitive to cooperative in order to imagine innovative, grassroots approaches to social reform—aims that grow out of Social Christian theological perspectives. Collaborative diversity is rooted in the idea that appropriate and sustainable responses to social problems require the diverse knowledge, expertise, experiences, and perspectives of community stakeholders from various groups (e.g., political, religious, professional, class, racial, and regional). In order to generate viable responses to community problems, cooperation among community stakeholders is imperative. Collaborative diversity assumes, in other words, that no single group—religious, social, class, political—is equipped to address such concerns on its own. Addressing shared community concerns requires collaboration among diverse constituents. Collaborative diversity demands such an approach in order to empower community stakeholders to lead reform efforts and create lasting change. The strategy of collaborative diversity was fundamental to the ways residents of Andover Settlement House were trained to approach their work in Boston’s South End. Guided by their Social Christian ethic, Tucker and Woods viewed the work of the settlement house and its residents as a pathway for both improving social relations and addressing community problems. Thus, they emphasized the need for Andover Settlement House residents to establish cooperative and reciprocal relations with a diverse range of community members and organizations in their South Boston neighborhood. As Tucker states, I cannot overestimate the advantage of co-operation between the adjacent classes in society. . . . It is the coming together of those who are separated by

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the slighter differences in conditions—which are often the great barriers—the mutual helpfulness of those whose lives really touch, that constitutes the permanent hope of any neighborhood. It is the acknowledgement of neighborship which realizes that fine social ideal—the community. (1893, 369)

Tucker believed that collaborative diversity with community stakeholders from various spheres of the neighborhood would enable Andover Settlement House residents to build strong cooperative partnerships for addressing shared community concerns. Through the building of these diverse collaborations, community members and residents of Andover Settle House could together mobilize a range of resources—in the forms of knowledge, access, and influence—to engage in advocacy work. Tucker and Woods understood that such an approach was necessary not only to invent innovative responses to complex community problems but also for community stakeholders to gain a sense of solidarity and personal investment that would motivate efforts to work for long-term change. The strategy of collaborative diversity led the residents at Andover Settlement House to partner with a vast range of community stakeholders in Boston’s South End. Tucker and Woods were not ideologically, politically, or religiously partisan in their pursuit of collaborative partnerships. They sought to form diverse alliances and were open to partnering with any organization, club, agency, program, or institution that aimed to improve human relations and reform working and living conditions for community members—central concerns of Social Christianity. In building collaborative partnerships with philanthropic, religious, or government agencies, differences in political, religious, or philosophical thought was not a constraint. John A. Bevington, one of the first residents of Andover Settlement House, articulates the thinking undergirding the strategy of collaborative diversity at Andover Settlement House when he writes, “where it is practicable we endeavor to establish friendly relations with different movements so we may work together, helping to solve problems, to improve conditions, and give a general uplift and wider outlook to the unfortunate, the oppressed, and the degraded people of our city” (1892, 130). An important factor that allowed Andover House workers to pursue partnerships with a diverse range of organizations (e.g., trade unions, religious charities, civic organizations), many of which held ideas and values that would have differed from those held by Andover House residents, is that influencing the local community for good by all means necessary was the central aim of Andover House. Motivated similarly by a Social Christian perspective, collaborative diversity is also a primary strategy in the advocacy work of the Texas Hunger Initiative. The Texas Hunger Initiative’s consistent and urgent call for collaboration is a direct outgrowth of the organization’s commitments to honoring

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the unique image of God in everyone, establishing common ground with community partners, and humbly acknowledging dependence on community partnerships to carry out their work. The Texas Hunger Initiative operates under the assumption that “Hunger is too big and too complex for any of us to address by ourselves; we have to work together in a coordinated effort if we are going to beat this thing” (Everett 2019, 122). Everett calls this his “pitch,” and it is perhaps the Texas Hunger Initiative’s most frequently reiterated idea, since it is what they believe most distinguishes their work from similar organizations. Diverse collaborative partnerships take many shapes at the Texas Hunger Initiative. For example, there are collaborations between central office and field offices, between field offices and their regional community partners such as school districts, between the Texas Hunger Initiative and elected officials, between researchers in the Texas Hunger Initiative research fellows program, and between the Texas Hunger Initiative and other local, state, and national anti-hunger organizations. A particularly clarifying, but not unusual, example of the Texas Hunger Initiative’s diverse collaboration is demonstrated in a story from Everett’s book. He describes how the Texas Hunger Initiative’s El Paso regional office received a call from a school district worker in a rural mountain community in West Texas. The children of this community did not have reliable, stable sources of food during the summer months and, because of the rural and mountainous environment, implementing the USDA’s standard regulated summer meals program was impossible. The Texas Hunger Initiative’s El Paso regional office staff called the central office with the dilemma. The Texas Hunger Initiative’s central office, who had recently begun working to foster collaboration with the business sector, decided that this was “the perfect opportunity to leverage our new friends in the corporate sector and pair them with Baylor researchers from our business school who had backgrounds in supply chain logistics” (Everett 2019, 129). At that point, the Texas Hunger Initiative’s director of research (from the central office) collaborated with other Baylor researchers, the El Paso Texas Hunger Initiative field office staff, the school district employee, and the district employee’s community partners to collect data, work out an assessment, and develop a plan of action. Walmart, a corporate partner, contributed by paying for the project and providing logistical help. The work of the THIWalmart-Baylor-local school district collaboration eventually took shape and was innovative and successful. Everett ultimately highlights that this project worked because of the diversity of its collaborators: “[the Texas Hunger Initiative] could not have come up with a solution by ourselves. We needed to be guided by [the school district employee] and his community. We needed our friends in the corporate sector and faculty researchers to lend their gifts for the cause of the hungry” (130).

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The range of diverse collaborators who contributed to this project is notable, but the inclusion of Walmart is especially interesting. As Everett notes, “Many [colleagues in hunger and poverty work] believe that nonprofits need to detangle themselves from corporate support” because there are many corporations that “have harmful manufacturing practices, pay poverty wages, and constantly look to make wealthy stakeholders wealthier at the expense of the common good” (126). Everett agrees that this is often the case; however, he also believes that “many corporations are also doing good, and when we cut out an entire sector that employs millions of people from being part of the solution, we are doing the common good a great disservice” (126). The Texas Hunger Initiative thus seeks to foster the broadest possible base of collaborative partners. The reality is that multi-sector, bipartisan collaboration across ideological and other divides is not as common as conventional wisdom’s emphasis on collective power would lead one to assume. Plenty of organizations collaborate with like-minded individuals and organizations. But, as is referenced daily in the news media and in general conversation, we are operating in a substantially divided, partisan, polarized culture. The Texas Hunger Initiative staff explain that the difficulties of collaborating are especially true in the economic and social context of the United States. The Texas Hunger Initiative’s multi-sector, collaborative nature is unique because it is incredibly difficult to enact. Everett describes how even nonprofits who share similar goals, organizations that “should be strategically aligned and working together seamlessly,” are often forced to “compete against one another because they are applying to the same potential funders” (11). Thus, while the Texas Hunger Initiative’s collaborative strategy does not seem revolutionary, and, to be sure, is not theirs alone, it is unusual in both its centrality and the breadth of its enactment. What is distinctive about the Texas Hunger Initiative’s approach to collaborative diversity, however, is the particular Social Christian theological perspectives that animate their strategy. Animating their commitment to diverse collaborative partnerships is commitment to the imago Dei. Everett writes that “a cornerstone of the Christian belief system is that we are created in the image of God. That is our starting point, our point of origin. We need to honor that each of us is created in God’s image, whether black or white, Muslim or Christian, man or woman, Republican or Democrat” (23). Theologically motivated commitments to equality, common ground, and the humility to admit that poverty is too complex for one person, organization, or sector to solve on its own, mean that, for the Texas Hunger Initiative, no one created in the image of God can be written off as an unfit partner. As one Texas Hunger Initiative staff member stated, “I don’t care if you’re Republican, Democrat, Catholic, Baptist, Agnostic—do you want to feed these kids, yes or no?” (Dye 2020). If the answer is yes, collaboration is possible.

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CONCLUSION Our analysis of the ways religious motives animate the activist rhetorical practices of two community organizations opens innovative pathways for thinking about the dynamic interplay of religious motives and activist rhetorical practices in the sphere of community advocacy work. In studying civic rhetorical activism in past and present contexts, it is important to attend to the range of values motivating civic engagement. It is commonplace to account for the political ideologies, philosophical commitments, positionality, and social and historical context of rhetors engaged in civic work. Attention to such concerns should remain integral to our studies of rhetorical activism. It is vital, however, that we also attend to the ways in which religious motives animate civic work. Attunement to religious motives has the potential to provide more accurate and nuanced understanding of why rhetors and community organizations engage in rhetorical activism. A focus on religious motives undergirding civic rhetorical engagement likewise has the potential to provide insight into the reasons particular strategies or approaches are mobilized in activist work, as was the case in our study. As Martin Medhurst explains in “Religious Belief and Scholarship: A Complex Relationship,” We may legally separate Church from State, but we have never separated religion from government or public policy. And we never can—for the simple reason that all law, all policy, is ultimately grounded in values and values must come from somewhere, usually from revealed religion. Law and policy also come from deeply held beliefs, assumptions, and presuppositions, many of which are also, ultimately, religious in origin. (2004, 41)

Given the centrality of religious belief to the motives and shapes of civic engagement historically and in contemporary contexts, it is crucial for scholars of rhetoric to examine how and in what ways religious commitments might inflect rhetorical activism in our studies of civically engaged rhetors. Studies of theologically motivated rhetorical activism also have the potential to complicate reductive representations of religious identity. Several scholars of rhetoric have acknowledged the importance of offering more nuanced portrayals of religiously committed writers and citizens (Daniell 2015; Vander Lei 2015). All too often, religiously committed rhetors have been cast as problems to be addressed in classroom contexts. Such writers are also characterized as naive and dogmatic. Another narrative about such rhetors is that religious commitment stifles civic engagement and undermines public deliberation (Ringer 2016). Studies that attend to the relationship between theological commitments and civic activism have the potential to provide a counter-narrative to these stock stories and provide more complex representations of religiously committed rhetors. The civic work of Tucker, Woods, and Everett highlighted in our chapter illustrates this potential.

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The religious identities and theologically animated practices of Tucker, Woods, and Everett provide(d) them with rich resources for addressing civic, community, and global concerns. As advocates and actors for social change, Tucker and Woods drew from their religious convictions to do work for the social good. Andover conducted investigations into the living and working conditions of the poor, advocating for safer, healthier environments. Tucker and Woods also fostered support for labor unions and co-ops and helped the settlement house’s low-income community gain greater access to municipal funding. Everett and the Texas Hunger Initiative likewise have drawn on religious beliefs and values to help form multi-sector collaborations between religious, secular, Democratic, Republican, educational, research, corporate, and nonprofit partners. In partnership with their collaborators, the Texas Hunger Initiative has been able to conduct research and implement programs to increase access to government assistance programs, and they have created greater access to nutritious food for children and families across the state of Texas. In doing so, they have built a model for such anti-hunger work that can be adapted across the United States. Finally, our study provides valuable insights for teachers of writing and rhetoric who aim to prepare writers to become rhetorically responsible citizens in their communities and in the world at large. In order to foster responsible rhetors who are well prepared for ethical engagement in communities, teacher-scholars in our field could benefit significantly by learning more about the nature and shape of religious rhetorical activism as it occurs in the context of community advocacy work. Fine-grained studies that focus on the motives and rhetorical practices mobilized in community advocacy work can teach us how to best cultivate writers who are well equipped for generative civic engagement in our twenty-first-century religiously pluralistic democracy. The insights revealed in this study provide valuable guidance on this front. Across more than a century, both Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative successfully utilized similar rhetorical strategies to accomplish civic ends. Contemporary teachers of rhetoric and writing can learn from both the ways in which the work of these organizations was motivated by their theological perspectives and from the strategies they utilized: embodied rhetorical presence, storytelling, and collaborative diversity. First, writing instructors can benefit from considering students’ religious beliefs as sites of rich rhetorical possibility. Just as the theological beliefs of Woods, Tucker, and Everett animate their work for social good, so, too, can religiously committed students draw from those commitments and beliefs as motivation and inspiration for social good work. Second, the rhetorical strategies employed by Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative were and are effective. If rhetoric and writing instructors desire to prepare students to be capable citizens, discerning and teaching the strategies organizations

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are effectively using to foster greater civic good is an excellent method to accomplish such work. Creating assignments that utilize embodied rhetorical presence can lead students to more fully consider the possibilities for how presence can function rhetorically: to foster learning, to communicate solidarity, to surprise. Students can be challenged to consider how aligning their beliefs/values with their actions might lead them to orient themselves differently in physical space. Reconsidering storytelling and narrative in the writing classroom as critical modes of social change is also worthwhile work. Teaching narrative as persuasive tool for social change can enable students to challenge myths and stereotypes, to reveal concealed narratives, and to imagine new, better futures. Lastly, considering the diverse collaborations promoted by both Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative can lead students and teachers to imagine what possibilities for partnerships and collaborations are being overlooked. Seeking unlikely allies with whom common ground can be established is a strategy utilized by Woods, Tucker, and Everett. All three of these theologically animated strategies contribute(d) greatly to generative rhetorical activism at Andover Settlement House and the Texas Hunger Initiative, and they remain rich rhetorical resources that citizens might mobilize and adapt to enact change for the greater good. REFERENCES Bell, Lee Anne. Storytelling for Social Justice: Connecting Narrative and the Arts for Antiracist Teaching (2nd ed.). New York and London: Routledge, 2020. Bevington, John A. 1892. “Andover House.” Far and Near 19 (May): 130–131. Camper, Martin. Forthcoming 2021. “Analyzing the Methodist Debate over Women’s Preaching (1833–1873) with the Classical Interpretive Stases.” In NineteenthCentury American Activist Rhetorics, edited by Patricia Bizzell and Lisa Zimmerelli. Modern Language Association. Cintrón, Ralph, and Jason Schneider. 2019. “Things of the World: Migration, Presence, and the Arts of Presencing.” Philosophy & Rhetoric 52 (2): 115–141. Coleman-Jensen, Alisha, Matthew P. Rabbitt, Christian A. Gregory, and Anita Singh. 2019. Household Food Security in the United States in 2018. ERR-270. U.S. Department of Agriculture: Economic Research Service. Cope, Emily Murphy, and Jeffrey M. Ringer. “Coming to (Troubled) Terms: Methodology, Positionality, and the Problem of Defining ‘Evangelical Christian.’” In Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting New Territories, edited by Michael-John DePalma and Jeffrey M. Ringer, 103–124. New York: Routledge, 2015. Crowley, Sharon. Toward a Civil Discourse: Rhetoric and Fundamentalism. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2006. Daniell, Beth. “More in Heaven and Earth: Complicating the Map and Constituting Identities.” In Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting

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New Territories, edited by Michael-John DePalma and Jeffrey M. Ringer, 243– 261. New York: Routledge, 2015. DePalma, Michael-John. Sacred Rhetorical Education in 19th Century America; Austin Phelps at Andover Theological Seminary. New York: Routledge, 2020. DePalma, Michael-John, and Jeffrey M. Ringer, eds. 2015a. Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting New Territories. New York: Routledge, 2020. ———. “Charting Prospects and Possibilities for Scholarship on Religious Rhetorics.” In Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting New Territories, edited by Michael-John DePalma and Jeffrey M. Ringer, 262–287. New York: Routledge, 2015b. DePalma, Michael-John, Jeffrey M. Ringer, and James D. Webber. 2008. “(Re) Charting the (Dis)Courses of Faith and Politics, or Rhetoric and Democracy in the Burkean Barnyard.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 38 (3): 311–334. Duffy, William. “Transforming Decorum: The Sophistic Appeal of Walter Rauschenbusch and the Social Gospel.” In Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting New Territories, edited by Michael-John DePalma and Jeffrey M. Ringer, 222–239. New York: Routledge, 2015. Dye, Sara M. 2020. “Investigating the Relationship between Religious Motives and Rhetorical Activism: An Ethnographic Study of the Baylor Collaborative on Hunger and Poverty.” PhD Dissertation, Baylor University. Everett, Jeremy K. I Was Hungry. Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos Press, 2020. Fernheimer, Janice. 2010. “Talmidae Rhetoricae: Drashing up Models and Methods for Jewish Rhetorical Studies.” College English 72 (6):57–89. Geiger, T. J., and Melody Pugh. 2015. “Christian Rhetorics: Toward a Hopeful Future.” Composition Studies 43 (2): 216–224. Hirst, Russel. 2013. “The Influence of Theology on the Rhetorical Theory of Austin Phelps.” Advances in the History of Rhetoric 16 (2): 165–188. Houck, Davis W., and David E. Dixon, eds. Rhetoric, Religion and the Civil Rights Movement, 1954–1965. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2006. Lynch, Paul, and Matthew Miller. 2017. “Twenty-Five Years of Faith in Writing: Religion and Composition, 1992–2017.” Present Tense: A Journal of Rhetoric in Society 6 (2): 1–195. Medhurst, Martin J. 2004. “Religious Belief and Scholarship: A Complex Relationship.” Journal of Communication and Religion 27: 40–47. ———. 2005. “Forging a Civil-Religious Construct for the Twenty-first Century: Should Hart’s ‘Contract’ Be Renewed?” In The Political Pulpit Revisited, edited by Roderick P. Hart and John L. Pauley II, 151–160. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press. ———. 2009. “Evangelical Christian Faith and Political Action: Mike Huckabee and the 2008 Republican Presidential Nomination.” Journal of Communication and Religion 32: 199–239. Miller, Keith. Martin Luther King’s Biblical Epic: His Final, Great Speech. University Press of Mississippi, 2013. National Commission on Hunger. 2015. Freedom from Hunger: An Achievable Goal for the United States of America.

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Nord, Mark, Alisha Coleman-Jensen, Margaret Andrews, and Steven Carlson. 2010. Household Food Security in the United States, 2009. ERR-108, U.S. Department of Agriculture, Economic Research Service. Perelman, Chaïm, and Lucie Olbrechts-Tyteca. The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on Argumentation. South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1969. “Personality in Social Reform.” 1892. The Christian Union 45 (May): 1041. Reinsborough, Patrick, and Doyle Canning. Re:Imagining Change: How to Use Story Based Strategy to Win Campaigns, Build Movements, and Change the World (2nd ed.). Oakland, CA: PM Press, 2017. Ringer, Jeffrey M. Vernacular Christian Rhetoric and Civil Discourse: The Religious Creativity of Evangelical Student Writers. New York: Routledge, 2016. Semega, Jessica, Melissa Kollar, John Creamer, and Abinash Mohanty. 2019. Income and Poverty in the United States: 2018. U.S. Census Bureau, Current Population Reports, P60-266. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing. Shaver, Lisa J. 2012. “‘No Cross, No Crown’: An Ethos of Presence in Margaret Prior’s” Walks of Usefulness.” College English 75 (1): 61–78. ———. “The Deaconess Identity: An Argument for Professional Churchwomen and Social Christianity.” In Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting New Territories, edited by Michael-John DePalma and Jeffrey M. Ringer, 203–221. New York: Routledge, 2015. ———. Reforming Women: The Rhetorical Tactics of the American Female Moral Reform Society, 1834–1854. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018. Tucker, William Jewett. 1893. “The Work of the Andover House in Boston.” Scribner’s Magazine 13: 357–372. ———. 1910. Personal Power: Counsels to College Men. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co. ———. 1911. The Function of the Church in Modern Society. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co. ———. 1919. My Generation: An Autobiographical Interpretation. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co. Vander Lei, Elizabeth. 2015. “‘Where the Wild Things Are’: Christian Students in the Figured Worlds of Composition Research.” In Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting New Territories, edited by Michael-John DePalma and Jeffrey M. Ringer, 65–85. New York: Routledge. Williams, Daniel Day. The Andover Liberals: A Study in American Theology. New York: Octagon Books, 1970. Williams, Mark Alan. 2015. “Transformations: Locating Agency and Difference in Student Accounts of Religious Experience.” College English 77 (4): 338–363. Woods, Robert A. 1923. The Neighborhood in Nation Building: The Running Comment of Thirty Years at the South End House. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co. Woods, Robert A., ed. 1898. The City Wilderness: A Settlement Study. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co. ———. 1903. Americans in Process. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co. Woods, Robert A., and Albert J. Kennedy. 1922. The Settlement Horizon: A National Estimate. New York: Russell Sage Foundation. Woods, Robert A., William T. Elsing, and Jacob A. Riis. 1895. The Poor in Great Cities. New York: Scribner’s Sons.

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Zimmerelli, Lisa D. 2012. “‘The Stereoscopic View of Truth’: The Feminist Theological Rhetoric of Frances Willard’s Woman in the Pulpit.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 42 (4): 353–374. ———. 2015. “Heaven-Touched Lips and Pent Up Voices:’ The Rhetoric of American Female Preaching Apologia.” In Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting New Territories, edited by Michael-John DePalma and Jeffrey M. Ringer, 180–202. New York: Routledge.

Chapter 4

A Site of Sacred Resistance Eco-Spiritual Appeals, Environmental Justice, and the Adorers of the Blood of Christ Christopher Thomas

Women religious have always responded to the pressing needs of a historical moment, whether for education, health care, peace, civil rights, or environmental sustainability. Catholic sisters, from a variety of orders, are a growing populace within the broader environmental justice movement who see their religious beliefs and practices as also informing a deeply spiritual kind of environmentalism. Some are contemplatives who run retreat centers for prayer and reengagement with nature, while others are activists for teaching and ministering to those suffering around the world. Counter to dominant discourses circulating within public culture that conceptualize religion broadly and Catholicism specifically as dangerous for the environment, the activism and labor of these “green sisters” employ spirituality and religious doctrine as a mandate for protecting human communities and biological systems. Even though Popes Benedict XVI and John Paul II expressed concern about a coming ecological crisis, it was Pope Francis who affirmed the labor of these women’s vocation with Laudato Si’: We are faced not with two separate crises, one environmental and the other social, but rather with one complex crisis which is both social and environmental. Strategies for a solution demand an integrated approach to combating poverty, restoring dignity to the excluded, and at the same time protecting nature. (Francis 2015, 139)

Heeding the call of Pope Francis, women religious have unearthed new ways for understanding a spiritual tributary of environmental 73

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justice—one that conceives of religion as more than the scene within which environmental justice takes place but, also, as an agency for their appeals. By working to integrate spirituality with sustainability, women religious’ environmental justice activism both relies on and challenges traditional Catholicism to enable women’s collaborative environmental communication. Religious environmentalism—environmentalism (both the ideology and social movement centered on protecting ecological values and functions) that is driven by spiritual beliefs—is a productive way of understanding women religious’ theological forms of resistance and empowerment (Gottlieb 2006; Douglas 2009). These eco-spiritual appeals work to advocate for environmental sustainability and justice through political judgments grounded in religious thought and practice. Eco-spiritual appeals are not inherently gendered; however, I want to suggest in this chapter that women’s eco-spiritual appeals rely on a feminine style that prioritizes custodianship, interconnectivity, and immanent value. Constructing and advancing eco-spiritual appeals for environmental justice is an important practice for green sisters committed to organizing and leading grassroots movements for the protection of creation. However, the details regarding women’s contributions to religious environmentalism are quite limited and the topic underexplored. When women’s eco-spiritual appeals are discussed they are often in passing, within a long list of contexts with which they exist, or in reference to ecofeminism’s broader contributions to gender and environmentalism. This chapter provides a vocabulary in an effort to expand these conversations to better account for women’s collaborative rhetorics of resistance as they manifest and take shape through religious environmentalism. To better extrapolate the theological forms that make up women’s eco-spiritual appeals, I examine the Adorers of the Blood of Christ—a Catholic order of women—and their protest against the Atlantic Sunrise Pipeline, a natural gas pipeline expansion project that would travel 183 miles through Pennsylvania including a path directly through the Adorers’ farmland. The Adorers, however, live, work, and worship on a portion of the land planned to host the pipeline expansion and argue that the project contradicts their deeply held religious beliefs. In addition to the immediate disruption the pipeline would inflict on the land, the sisters maintain that the pipeline promotes fracking, which they consider environmentally dangerous. In response to the project, the Adorers built a simple, open-air chapel directly in the path of the proposed pipeline in protest of its construction and its potential impact on the environment. On July 9, 2017, over 300 people gathered in a cornfield on the Adorers’ land for a chapel dedication service. Beyond unveiling the chapel, the ceremony was meant to dedicate the space as a “site of sacred resistance” wherein local faith

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communities could use the space to reflect on holy and just uses of land as well as publicly declare that “creation care is a sacred act” (Neumann, n.d.). This analysis focuses on the chapel dedication service—also called the “Stand with the Sisters” protest—to further explore the ways women craft and utilized their religious knowledge and experience to collective advance appeals for environmental justice. I argue that the Adorers’ “Stand with the Sisters” protest puts forth ecospiritual appeals that work to constitute the land as a sacred space that challenges pipeline proponents’ instrumental framing of the land as purely an economic resource. I characterize many of the Adorers’ eco-spiritual appeals as relying on discourses and practices of custodianship that work to build interconnectivity between human communities, biological networks, and God. Doing so, I contend, permits the women to rely on traditional feminine styles of communication that invite others to reflect similarly on the spiritual significance of the land. Thus, I examine not just the context within which the “Stand with the Sisters” protest occurred but, also, look at the material rhetorics (e.g., the physical structure, building materials, rituals) of the chapel employed to constitute the land as a site for sacred resistance. Developing the concept of eco-spiritual appeals and their application to the Adorers’ protest contribute to ongoing conversations within environmental justice as well as rhetorical studies by giving credibility and authority to women religious’ collaborative rhetorics of resistance. To accomplish this task, the chapter follows in three sections. First, I extrapolate some of the formal features of Catholic women’s eco-spiritual appeals, their discourses of custodianship, interconnectivity, and immanent value, as well as their reliance on religious rituals to constitute land as sacred. Second, I examine the “Stand with the Sisters” protest and find that the Adorers eco-spiritual appeals work to construct a shared space with spiritual and political significance through collaborative embodied performances and rituals. And finally, I conclude with discussing the importance and contributions of eco-spiritual appeals to both women’s collaborative rhetorics of resistance as well as its usefulness in de-secularizing traditional conversations of environmental justice. CATHOLIC WOMEN’S ECO-SPIRITUAL APPEALS The environment, for many scholars of Catholicism, is part of an integrated universe that displays evidence of divine creativity and compassion (e.g., Gottlieb 1996; Moody 2002; Hart 2006; Taylor 2010). Humans’ beliefs and approaches to the environment, though, have changed over time. John Hart (2006) categorizes the development of Catholic environmental thought into

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three stages: caring for the common good (Catholicism that views nature as instrumental); concern for creation in crisis (Catholicism that responds to environmental degradation related to human factors, such as rampant consumerism); and creation concern and community commitment (Catholicism advocating conservation and compassion, often extending “community” to non-humankind). What began as a perspective centered on human dominion over nature (which became, for some, domination of nature) gradually diminished through the introductions of the concept of “stewardship”—the belief and practice that humans care for creation and act as “tenants on God’s property” (Hart 2006, 85). Steven Douglas problematizes the Catholic concept of stewardship, arguing that it still positions humans above the rest of creation. Instead, he suggests, a “custodianship ethic” that better recognizes our “ecological interdependency with Creation” (Douglas 2006, 722). Custodianship limits humans to using creation to “meet our needs without compromising the needs of other people, species, or ecological integrity” (Douglas 2006, 722). As a theological form of Catholic religious environmentalism, custodianship relies on establishing identification based upon a shared natural and spiritual interconnectivity with creation. Even with the expansion of Catholic environmentalism, the authority to use and, potentially, renovate religious thoughts and practice into ecologically based theological forms resides in the hands of dominant institutions (e.g., the church) and elite leaders (e.g., the pope). To consider the religious environmentalism of women-centric grassroots movements, this chapter looks at the construction and advancement of the eco-spiritual appeals by concerned citizens, community activists, and environmental and religious advocates. Most notably, women religious are part of a “much quieter movement” that uses their “ecological repair efforts” to help those disproportionately impacted by pollution, toxins, and resource depletion (McFarland Taylor 2007, 1). These green sisters have responded to multiple ecological and societal crises in the United States and globally from the building of orphanages, the staffing of hospitals, the teaching of school children, caring for the elderly, and commitment to peace and civil rights. Studies that examine the religious environmentalism of women find that they often identify personal connections to nature (with specific references to their communities) as an organizing principle for their custodial ethics and practices (Groenendyk and Curry 2006, 23). And while the collection of these findings give salience to arguments regarding individual women’s reasons for becoming religious environmentalists, there is a need to also understand how those motivations get articulated into gendered eco-spiritual appeals. Catholic women’s eco-spiritual appeals both rely on and renovate discourses of interconnectivity to ground their custodial thoughts and practices toward the land for which they care. Rosemary Radford Ruether

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suggests this more “holistic vision” integrates “accurate descriptions of cosmological and earth-based ecological relations” with “feelings and ethical mandates of love, concern, and commitment” that “call us to a new way of life” (Radford Ruether 2005, 369). The “powerful patterns” of Christian thought that emphasize care and cooperation can be taken up in discourses that attempt to “overcome and heal” ecological crises (Radford Ruether 2005, 363). McFarland Taylor’s analysis of Sisters of Earth and the broader green sisters movement finds that women religious constitute themselves as custodians of land through rhetoric that also links up with a Catholic communalist ethics and culture of cooperation. For example, the nuns spoke about “greening the vows,” a reconceptualization of traditional Catholic vows that affirms the web of life and interdependence of ecosystems through discourses of “relationality and community, mutuality and interdependence” (McFarland Taylor 2007, 75). A sense of “oneness with creation” helps to conceptualize “ecology and justice as integral parts of one system” (Radford Ruether 2005, 373). Custodianship seeks identification among a diverse range of spiritual and religious perspectives by appealing to the interconnectivity between the “impoverishment of the earth and the impoverishment of human groups” (Radford Ruether 2005, 373). Things such as sacramental objects, home altars, chants, garments, sacred iconography, and performance of the sacred story are all elements “embedded in Catholic liturgical and paraliturgical traditions” that get borrowed and used by Catholic women’s eco-spiritual appeals (McFarland Taylor 2007, 40). Catholic custodianship is often practiced through material forms of rhetoric, whether that be through evocations of religious symbols and objects, rituals, habits, or prayers. For example, during McFarland Taylor’s attendance of the opening ceremony of the Sisters of the Earth biennial conference, she noted that the use of rituals communicated a “common spiritual sense of earth’s sacredness” (McFarland Taylor 2007, 25). Ceremonial prayers were offered by representatives from each of the regions present, during which each woman presented a “symbol of her bioregion” (McFarland Taylor 2007, 26). Cranberries and salmon, for example, were renovated from simple sources of nutrition into power invocations of earthly images that represented a group of people and their land. Land, here, operates as more than the scene for women’s collaboration but, also, as a sacred place where “God’s presence is visible in the created gifts of nature” (McFarland Taylor 2007, 45). The sisters’ “green” ritual reflected a spiritual collaboration among women with different region-specific cultural values that could “manifest on the physical landscape of their communities” (McFarland Taylor 2007, 21). Through women’s eco-spiritual appeals women religious are able to constructed an understanding of the environment that sees land as a sacred place and, as

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such, requires custodial efforts from its inhabitants to care for not just other humans, but all of creation. By relying on pre-existing religious traditions and rituals, women religious’ eco-spiritual appeals communicate a shared relationship to land and, in doing so, are able to establish common ground with which to collaborate for environmental justice. McFarland Taylor’s ethnographic research into the green sisters’ movement finds that the women often constructed (both literally and figuratively) their land as a sacred site. For instance, the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary built the “Monroe house,” a home base or headquarters for the congregation’s leadership and as a site of the novitiate as well as elder care for retired sisters. The Monroe house was more than a physical structure that housed the women; it was also an example of how the sisters “put their vows into action” by “modeling sustainability through sacred home remaking” (McFarland Taylor 2007, 88). The women’s choice of “straw-bale construction,” for example, reflects their “conscious effort to live ‘simply,’ use few resources, and practice a more ecologically sustainable lifestyle” (McFarland Taylor 2007, 88). The use of simple and sustainable resources is just one example how women’s religious environmentalism manifests to both display an appreciation for the web of life and constitutes their spiritual labor to be custodians of the land. Further articulating their “green” vows, the women built a home structure that displayed the material and symbolic significance of the land with which it was built upon. It is important to note that while these theological forms reappear in Catholic women’s religious environmentalism, they are not the only characteristics of their eco-spiritual appeals. As McFarland Taylor suggests, it is “important to recognize that religious sisters employ a multiplicity of activists’ approaches” that work from “within authority structures and institutions of power” or work from “without,” and sometimes “doing both at the same time” (60). This is, in part, because vowed women navigate varied relationships with the authority of the Catholic Church. Women, historian Mary Farrell Bednarowski writes, have a long history of functioning simultaneously as “outsides and insiders” within American religious institutions (16). This chapter seeks to examine how green sisters’ eco-spiritual appeals for environmental justice both rely on and renovate notions of the Catholic tradition to constitute land as a sacred site of resistance. In the following section, I examine the Adorers’ chapel dedication service and their protest against the expansion, construction, and placement of the Atlantic Sunrise Pipeline. The sisters collectivize around a shared sense of custodianship toward the environment that gets articulated through various material rhetorics. Constructing their land as a sacred place of resistance also acted as an invitation for other religious groups and secular environmentalists to gather at the site in support of the Adorers and in opposition to the pipeline.

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THE “STAND WITH THE SISTERS” PROTEST The Adorers of the Blood of Christ, dating back to their founding by St. Maria De Mattias, have always been steadfast in their dedication to helping the less fortunate and caring for and protecting the environment. After orders of the Adorers migrated to the United States in 1893, the missions were founded in Ruma, Illinois, to teach children and young women, in Wichita, Kansas, to care for the sick, and in Columbia, Pennsylvania, to establish a ministry for the elderly. In the 1960s, with sweeping changes in Catholic life and spirituality, the Adorers became less isolated and sought to integrate themselves into society, both in their ministries and outward appearance. It was not until 2000 that the U.S. provinces in Kansas, Illinois, and Pennsylvania merged into one U.S. region. Since then, the Adorers have become active and vocal participants in public deliberations and disputes about social justice and environmental sustainability in their communities. Thus, when Williams Partners announced an expansion of its Transco natural gas pipeline across rural Pennsylvania—including land in Lancaster County—the Adorers responded with collective force. The expansion of the pipeline, currently running over 10,000 miles from Texas to New York, would increase its overall capacity by 1.7 million dekatherms per day (Williams Partners 2017). The additions to the pipeline worried many landowners because of the disruption that construction would have on the land and its potential environmental consequences. When a handful of the landowners, including the Adorers, refused to sell their land to Williams Partners, the company filed an emergency order to immediately seize control of the land. The request was refused by a U.S. district judge in July of 2017. Soon after, the Transcontinental Gas Pipe Line Co., a Williams Partners subsidiary, filed for an injunction against the Adorers for the company’s right to seize the women’s land by eminent domain (Holahan 2017). In response to the injunction, a grassroots opposition group called Lancaster against Pipelines (LAP) approached the sisters and together—over a dinner of liver and onions—devised a plan to build a chapel in the pathway of the pipeline. On July 9, roughly 300 people attended a chapel dedication ceremony hosted by the sisters and LAP. The service entailed presentations by several Adorers, singing by members of another religious order of women from Kentucky, speeches from community members, and a reading of the Adorers’ Land Ethic. More than a service in support of creation, the chapel dedication helped to consecrate the land as a “site of sacred resistance.” To better understand the texture of the Adorers’ collaborative rhetorics of resistance, I assemble a bricolage of fragmented texts to give value and authority to the women’s eco-spiritual appeals. In particular, I focus on the timeframe in which the sisters became involved with grassroots efforts

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against the pipeline to the recent court decision. In spite of that ruling, the Adorers’ chapel dedication service still provides a useful case study for exploring how women’s collaborative rhetorics of resistance are enabled through eco-spiritual appeals. The sisters’ unique theological forms remain grounded in a custodial ethic, taking up and renovating Catholic beliefs, traditions, and ritual to craft and advance arguments for environmental justice. I examine the Adorers’ chapel dedication service more closely to highlight the ways that the “Stand with the Sisters” protest constructed the land as a sacred place of resistance in opposition to pipeline proponents’ framing of the land as an economic resource. Through their collaborative rhetorics, the Adorers’ chapel dedication service constituted the space as a sacred site of resistance through the natural and built environment. First, the chapel (the physical structure itself) acted as a symbol with various, sometimes contradictory, meanings and purposes. The placement of the chapel in the cornfield drew attention to the relevant environmental justice concerns of the pipeline such as the risks to biodiversity and agriculture, as well as hampering the women’s ability to be custodians to God’s gifts. In many accounts, the chapel represented what is at stake when natural gas drilling is allowed on the women’s land. Not just nature—the ground, the crops, the water—but the pipeline also threatened the sustainability of creation. In one interview, the structure is described as “not a traditional chapel” but “a marker” that says, “ ‘This is sacred,’ as was the mountaintop with Moses and the burning bush” (McCausland 2017). The chapel also offers a place with spiritual capacities to transform the women into activists through resistive prayer: “It’s just a place for us to be able to come, to be calm, to be focused, to be intentional about our resistance and our willingness to go very, very public with that resistance in a prayerful, nonviolent way” (McCausland 2017). The chapel, here, operates pragmatically as a space where the women can worship but its symbolic significance is constituted by the historical context with which chapels are seen as a place of religious inspiration, community, and reflection. The materials used to construct the chapel operate similarly to scared home making to constitute the Adorers’ land into a sacred site of resistance. The altar was a refashioned picnic table the sisters used for outdoor meals and the pulpit was constructed from a “slab of walnut perched atop a section of the trunk of a locust,” both of which were salvaged from fallen trees in the area (Argento 2017). The cross was made from foraged branches with a rainbow of ribbons hanging from its cross member. Using these materials to build a space of spirituality echoes a similar biblical tradition called “brush arbors,” once used by enslaved Africans for worship and, later, revived by Methodists and Cumberland Presbyterians to create group identity and communal belonging around shared holy rituals and social activities (Lyon

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2016). Brush arbors are simple displays of spiritual commitment to both God and congregation, building a place where religious folk could gather to communicate their faith and share in collaborative activities that shape their communal identity, traditions, and practices. The use of “natural” materials to build these brush arbors was not just pragmatic but represented the builders’ respect for creation. For the Adorers, the materials used to build the chapel were those that were most available to the women. “It fits us,” Sister George Ann Biscan of the Adorers shared in an interview with The York Daily Record, “We live simple lifestyles” (Argento 2017). Certainly, the choice to use locally sourced and sustainable materials speaks back to the Adorers’ “simple” life and their reverence for creation. More than that, though, the materials were chosen because they celebrated the gifts of creation. The practice reinforces the women’s shared connection to the land, their custodial efforts to be sustainable inhabitants of it, and their commitment to exhibit the religious environmentalism they seek in others. Second, the chapel dedication ceremony was symbolically and materially important in communicating the Adorers’ collective opposition to the pipeline. Numerous news outlets describe the chapel as a “simple” open-air chapel, often referring to the structure as an arbor with four posts, a trellis roof, a wooden alter and pulpit, and eight wooden pews. The chapel sits in a clearing among rows of corn and sectioned off by wooden stakes—some with birdhouses sitting atop them—and various colored ribbons tied to the ropelike fence. In an interview with media group PennLive, LAP co-founder, Matt Clatterbuck described the purpose of the event: They are holding this dedication ceremony to basically declare, “Hey, the Earth is sacred and we as Catholic nuns believe we have a responsibility to protect it and they’re inviting others to come and basically pray on the space and sort of consecrate the space.” And, so, we’ll dedicate that today and sort of raise awareness about the issues and then they’re inviting folks of any religious tradition to come and start just praying and using the space as a worship space. (PennLive​ .c​om 2017)

Clatterbuck’s description seems to both define the pragmatic purposes of the chapel but also the multiple symbolic meanings of the event. The chapel, by its very nature, is an invitation for spiritual reflection. More than that, the chapel clarifies the Adorers’ opposition to the pipeline as its positioning is directly in the path of the pipeline expansion. The chapel and its service help to inspire similar religious reflection and environmental critiques in others, thus transforming the space into one with both spiritual and political potential. For some of the women, however, the chapel was not a political space but a spiritual one. Although the motivations and agencies were similar,

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some of the Adorers frame their use of the chapel and participation in the ceremony more as fulfilling a responsibility to look after others and the land. Rather than see themselves as “activists,” some of the women saw themselves as “residents protecting our land . . . protecting the health and safety of our community” (Berger and Thompson 2017). The move to de-politicize the space, arguably, is a rhetorical tactic to counter the perception that the Adorers were merely signing onto “every political trendy cause imaginable” (Shepstone 2017). For one natural gas blogger, the Adorers did not have any choice in the matter because they are being “used as a fractivist tool” by the “radical Lancaster Against Pipelines group” for the “purposes of a pipeline stunt” (Shepstone 2017). Here, the women’s agency is removed all together and their participation in the dedication service as well as the building of the chapel was influenced and lead by LAP. Pipeline proponents continually discussed the chapel as a roadblock to the pipeline’s success and, thus, framed the Adorers’ and their supporters as preventing the new jobs and revenue from the project’s completion. Proponents speak of the chapel as merely a blockage to the pipeline’s construction, a framing of the structure that removes any sign of spiritual and religious purpose. The material and symbolic significance of the land is removed and, in its place, an instrumental view of the land as a resource for energy extraction and economic stimulus. The various symbolic meanings of the chapel and its purpose were constraining for the women’s eco-spiritual appeals but simultaneously permitted them to adapt their collaborative rhetorics of resistance to respond to and challenge pipeline proponents’ arguments. In addition to constituting the natural and built environment into a site of resistance, the Adorers employed further collaboration through ritualized song, prayer, and speech. First, prayer was an important tool in helping transmit the women’s shared spiritual significance onto the land. In a Facebook post made to the Adorers of the Blood of Christ page, the chapel “vigil” is described as a “peaceful, prayerful resistance to protect” the “Holy in all of life” (Adorers of the Blood of Christ’s Facebook Page 2017). More than a space in which prayer occurs, the chapel dedication service worked to create a shared place where spirituality and protest co-exist. The result was a building of interfaith coalitional moments. In the same post made to the Adorers’ Facebook page, the sisters clarify that their “call is to come and hold Vigil at our outdoor Chapel . . . . We are not calling for an encampment . . . . Rather, we are seeking friends of all faiths who are willing to participate in a powerful, prayerful Vigil for the Earth” (Adorers of the Blood of Christ’s Facebook Page 2017). The invitation to others to share their custodial beliefs helped to widen the scope of the pipelines effects and show a broad consensus against its construction. Other women’s religious communities responded to their invitation and joined the Adorers’ protest. For example, Jamie Beth Schindler of the

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Lancaster Action Now Coalition saw the pipeline as violating her core Jewish beliefs. During her speech at the chapel dedication service Schindler lauded the Adorers and expressed her pride in being part of a dedicated group of women: “I’m here to lend my voice and my support to the consecration of this land and to the people . . . who have made it their mission to protect the earth and the water from those who value profit over our health, well-being and safety” (Guha 2017). In one flier put out by a community organization called We Are Lancaster County, the chapel dedication service was open to people of various faiths: “People of good will, from all faith traditions, are invited to participate in this dedication service as a Site of Sacred Resistance against corporate exploitation of Creation” (Neumann 2017). The Adorers framed the space as a sacred site of resistance through prayer, an act that also brought together protesters opposing the easement access from diverse religious faiths and included area farmers and townsfolk, Mennonites from Lancaster, and other religious communities of women. Second, the use of music was an important source of local knowledge that offered up experiential evidence of environmental injustice. For example, the opening song entitled “Susquehanna Lament” told the tumultuous history of pollution in the Susquehanna River, a tributary that could potentially be impacted by the Atlantic Sunrise Pipeline expansion. The song opens with: When I reached the Susquehanna river/I looked a down to take a drink/ Cup my hands, filling them with water/that’s when my heart began to sink/this is not the way it was before/when the native people first found this shore/I can’t stand what has been done/oh my, Susquehanna lovely Susquehanna /who can drink your water when the poisons run. (PennLive​.c​om 2017)

The use of song to articulate localized knowledge is an important component to environmental justice activism and is used to display then community’s history with environmental discrimination and degradation. The Adorers’ use of the song—while circumstantial—can be interpreted as a local cultural knowledge being put to use for political protest. The song speaks not only to the maltreatment of the river through industrial and agricultural pollution but highlights the cultural, historical and environmental significance of the waterway to the surrounding communities. While there is not much evidence speaking to the Adorers’ motives for using the song, their playing of “Susquehanna Lament” can be read—somewhat, at least—as both resistive and empowering performances of the women’s rhetorical agency. The Adorers also invited the Sisters of Loretto from Kentucky to sing during the chapel dedication service. And the choice to invite the Sisters of Loretto seems quite intentional, given their previous opposition to Williams Partners in 2013. In that case, Williams Partners eventually pulled out of the

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project citing “market forces” for their decision (Sadowski 2017). However, many news outlets and advocacy groups lauded the Sisters of Loretto’s efforts to oppose the pipeline and accredited them with its defeat (West 2013; Diener 2016). The Sisters of Loretto’s presence at the Adorers’ dedication service spoke to both the challenges of battling Williams Partners but also gave hope to the collaborative environmental justice efforts of women. In addition to sharing reflections on their own grassroots struggle against Williams Partners, two sisters from the Kentucky group led the audience in a singing of Amazing Grace. Even with “Amazing Grace” being among the United States’ most well-known and recorded pieces of music, the song’s circulation has been diverse (NPRMusic 2002). However, the song’s religious significance dates back to the spiritual conversion and enlightenment in much of the nineteenth century. The song’s ties to protest and social justice, historians note, occurred during the same due to its use in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin and was quickly embraced by abolitionists during the time to indict plantation life and slavery. While dissimilar circumstances and context, the use of “Amazing Grace” cannot be taken as simply coincidence. The song’s use during the Adorers’ chapel dedication service acted as an agency to articulate a collaborative spiritual commitment to the sisters’ religious environmentalism. The use of music, overall, worked as a cooperative and communal mode of resistance and empowerment with which the Adorers were able to inspire particular action and reflection in the audience. And, third the serviced held a ribbon ceremony that worked to consecrate the land as a site for collaborative resistance and spirituality. The final event of the service was a ribbon tying ceremony in which people were invited to tie various color ribbons around the rope-like fence sectioning off the area for the chapel. The ribbon ceremony is quite similar to the Catholic ritual of lighting prayer candles to extend one’s prayer or to show solidarity with the person on whose behalf the prayer is offered. Here, the audience who have come to witness the Adorers’ religious environmentalism are invited to become active participants in their protest. The tying of a ribbon is not an outward, confrontational tactic of resistance but, rather, a performance that celebrates the individual person’s self-determination to speak out against the pipeline as well as their shared and collective commitment to being custodians of the land. In addition, the ribbon tying portion of the service served as an important moment of interfaith and secular coalition-building. In her reflection at the chapel dedication, Sister Janet McCann, a member of the congregation’s leadership team in St. Louis, encouraged those who tied a ribbon to continue fighting against the Atlantic Sunrise Pipeline. For Sister McCann, the ribbon tying represented a collective voice of resistance “from all sorts of people, from all sorts of faith tradition and people from no faith tradition who have a love for the earth” (Sadowski 2017). The ribbon

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tying was an important production of the Adorers’ eco-spiritual appeals that relied on identifying the interconnectivity among people—regardless of religious affiliation—based upon a covenant to protect the environment. Taken together, the ribbons clarify the audience’s collaborative custodial commitment to share their thoughts and prayers for proper usage of the land and to hold continued vigil in support for the Adorers’ cause and in care of creation. Ribbon tying has continued to sustain interfaith and secular coalitions beyond the chapel dedication service and work to continually reaffirm the chapel itself as a site of sacred resistance. Since July 9, 2017, many news outlets reported that various people of faith stop by the chapel to pray and leave a ribbon as a token of their solidarity (Holahan 2017; Guha 2017; Neumann 2017; Argento 2017). And that continuous prayer is important to both sustaining the sacredness of the chapel but also supporting the sisters’ legal arguments that the pipeline would impede the free practicing of religion. “Our hope,” one core organizer of LAP explains, “would be to have continuous prayer vigil that’s held there, however many people we could get at anyone given time . . . and basically hold that site in prayer and keep construction from happening” (McCausland 2017). Adorers constructed the chapel as a site of sacred resistance, open and accessible to a wide array of religious beliefs and practices. And this resistance is community-based: “Change is only going to happen from the bottom up,” LAP leader Mark Clatterbuck explains, “it just comes down to local community doing it. No one’s going to come in and save us. It’s not going to be some judge” (Zauzmer 2017). The chapel, then, transforms into a space with universal purpose (prayerful resistance) but filled with polysemic meaning through the various religious practices of its participants. BREAKING NEW GROUND Thus far, I have argued that the “Stand with the Sisters” protest, the building and placement of the open-air chapel, and the contexts surrounding the Adorers’ opposition to the Atlantic Sunrise Pipeline help us to understand more fully the dynamics of women’s eco-spiritual appeals for environmental justice. To do so, I have begun to develop “eco-spiritual appeals” and contextualized the concept to Catholic women’s religious environmentalism. In particular, the Adorers utilize Catholic beliefs, traditions, and rituals to consecrate their land as sacred and, thus, unable to house the pipeline expansion. Through material rhetorics, such as choice in building materials and religious rituals, the women’s eco-spiritual appeals constitute their land as both politically changed as well as spiritually significance. As a result, the women sustain interfaith and secular coalitions to prolong the pragmatic use of the

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space and continue to use the space for prayerful protest. While certainly not the only characteristics of women’s eco-spiritual appeals, custodianship is a central tenet to the Adorers’ collaborative rhetorics of resistance that worked to identify a common thread among humans, nature, and God that encourage mutual spiritual reflection and environmental critique. Overall, the Adorers’ eco-spiritual appeals contribute to existing conversations over environmental justice, gender, and rhetorical agency. Exploring religious environmentalism within environmental justice contexts helps to de-secularize environmental justice and more closely consider the legacy and relevancy of spirituality to its grassroots movements and campaigns. The presence of religion within scholarship, similarly to gender, is made in passing but is habitually overlooked as an agency for resistance and empowerment. Julia Watts Belser contends that while religious voices have played a critical role in “birthing” the environmental justice movement, scholars have “often paid less explicit attention to the intersections of justice, violence, an environmental harm.” For Roger Gottlieb, it is not surprising that the beliefs, rituals, and moral teachings known as religion help activists unearth their “own distinctive ecological vocation” (2006, 7). Worship sites, such as churches and temples, act as central hubs for organizing grassroots struggles. It was local church leaders, along with the support of the United Church of Christ and Rev. Benjamin Chavis, who led the infamous 1982 protests against the dumping of PCB in Warren County, North Carolina. Religious figures and organizations were also important for environmental justice efforts by working to bring “social justice” issues into the fold of environmentalism. Most notably, the United Church of Christ’s Commission on Racial Justice’s 1987 study first helped to quantify the disproportionate environmental hazards in lower-income communities of color and provided credibility to local communities’ claims of discrimination. Additionally, rhetorics of religion have served as resources to respond to and address environmental crises and injustices. For example, the Principles of Environmental Justice adopted at the First National People of Color Environmental Leadership Summit in October 1991 opens with a statement that exemplifies this practice: “Environmental justice affirms the sacredness of Mother Earth, ecological unity and the interdependence of all species, and the right to be free from ecological destruction” (First National People of Color Leadership Summit 1991). Thus, activists, organizations, and grassroots movements have utilized discourses of spirituality and organized religion as agencies to bring people together, communicate risks and threats to the community and environment, as well as act as an organizing force to articulate spiritually influenced and driven environmental beliefs and worldviews. If religion is discussed, it is largely used to define the scene with which environmental justice takes place; the church is an important space where

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raising awareness and grassroots organizing takes place. Moving beyond the church, spirituality and religion play a more active role in the styles and forms of environmental justice grassroots activists. Taking on this task helps to challenge the dominant and totalizing belief that religion is the cause of environmental degradation. Such a perspective was made in Lynn White’s controversial 1967 essay, “The Historical Roots of Our Ecological Crisis,” published in Science magazine. In particular, White blamed Christianity for establishing a dualism between “man and nature” that justified human’s control and instrumental use of the environment. Responding to White’s conclusion, Marcia Bunge argues that Christianity—specifically, Catholicism— contains “ample grounds for environmental responsibility.” While true that religion and, in particular, Catholicism have been used to serve antienvironment purposes, their beliefs, traditions, and practices may also enable people to be custodians of the earth. The Adorers are certainly an example of how religion can operate as a rhetorical agency for environmental care and protection by articulating a deep spiritual connection to their land based upon Catholic beliefs of custodianship and interconnectivity. This chapter has given authority and power to women’s eco-religious appeals for environmental justice and, as a result, contributes significant findings to scholarly understandings of gender, Catholicism, and rhetorical agency in two ways. First, the Adorer’s eco-religious appeals challenge dominant notions of gender within the Catholic Church as well as dominant imagery of nuns within popular culture and politics. Women’s rhetorical collaboration may be a helpful entry point into de-secularizing environmental justice because, similar to women’s role within environmental justice, religion remains a conversation framed largely through dominant institutions (the church) and individual male speakers (the pope). However, gender becomes a helpful entry point and rhetorical agency with which to communicate eco-spiritual appeals. Lori Ann Neumann, a representative from LAP, explained to The Huffington Post, “There’s been no clear way of how to stop the pipeline,” but the “movement is large and growing, and with the nuns coming in to add their moral authority we’re hoping the word gets out to more and more people” (Blumberg 2017). The Adorers’ status as religious women affords them credibility to evoke certain pathos in their appeals, drawing on their moral authority with God and within their community to offer up critiques and solutions to problems. Eco-spiritual appeals for environmental justice may provide useful texts to go further than identifying the motives for women’s activism to also see how their distinct theological forms manifest in public deliberations and are deployed to address particular situational, cultural, and political constraints. The Adorers’ fight against the pipeline, sadly, is far from over. After losing their case in federal court, the sisters continue to fight Williams

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Partners from building the pipeline beneath their cornfield by filing claim against Transcontinental Gas Pipe Line and the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission under the Religious Freedom Restoration Act. However, in September of 2017 a U.S. District Court judge determined the courts did not have jurisdiction to rule of the case because religious freedom claims must be made during the FERC’s administrative proceedings regarding the pipeline (The Adorers of the Blood of Christ 2017). The sisters have filed for an appeal to the Third Court of Appeals in Philadelphia and are still waiting for a decision. The sisters’ grassroots efforts, arguably, have been more action packed. On October 16, 2017, bulldozers came to the Adorers’ cornfield to being clearing the land for construction but were met by twenty-three people standing in their path. Rhetorical remnants from their chapel dedication echo among the women’s showdown—the sisters stood with members of LAP and the Lancaster County community, in front of the chapel built from materials on their land, and held hand singing hymns until they were all arrested and charged with defiant trespassing (Zauzmer 2017). In early November of that year, in response to a motion filed by LAP and other advocacy groups, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit issued an administrative stay against the pipeline, but was immediately challenged by Williams Partners and the court allowed construction to resume, pending a final decision. For now, there is a lot of uncertainty about the success of the Adorers’ efforts and their resistance to the Atlantic Sunrise Pipeline. That uncertainly, however, will not prevent the sisters from protesting: “Even if our fight is just the foundation for the next fight that does win . . . it’s all important” (Zauzmer 2017). REFERENCES Adorers of the Blood of Christ. 2017. “Adorers to Appeal Judge’s Decision in Pipeline Case.” The Adorers of the Blood of Christ Website. Accessed October 10, 2018. http:​/​/ado​​rers.​​org​/a​​dorer​​s​-to-​​appea​​l​-jud​​ges​-d​​ecisi​​on​-in​​-p​ipe​​line-​​case/​. Adorers of the Blood of Christ’s Facebook Page. 2017. “Adorers of the Blood of Christ: A Call to Action!” Facebook, October 15, 2017. https​:/​/ww​​w​.fac​​ebook​​ .com/​​adore​​rsus/​​posts​​/1941​​0907​5​​27746​​39. Argento, Mike. 2017. “Nuns vs. the Pipeline: A Midstate Chapel is Part of the Fight Now.” The York Daily Record. Accessed October 1, 2018. http:​/​/www​​.witf​​ .org/​​news/​​2017/​​07​/nu​​ns​-vs​​-the-​​pipel​​ine​-a​​-mids​​tate-​​chape​​l​-is-​​part-​​of​-​th​​e​-fig​​ht​-no​​ w​.php​. Berger, Rose Marie, and Heidi Thompson. 2017. “Developers Are Trying to Build a Pipeline Through a Watershed: These Nuns Built a Chapel in Its Path.” Sojourners. Accessed October 1, 2018. https​:/​/so​​jo​.ne​​t​/art​​icles​​/deve​​loper​​s​-are​​-tryi​​ng​-bu​​ild​-p​​ ipeli​​ne​-th​​rough​​-wate​​rshed​​-thes​​e​-nun​​s​​-bui​​lt​-ch​​apel-​​its​-p​​ath.

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Blumberg, Antonia. 2017. “Nuns and Advocates Protest Planned Pipeline by Erecting a Chapel in Its Path.” The Huffington Post. Accessed October 1, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​ .huf​​fingt​​onpos​​t​.com​​/entr​​y​/nun​​s​-cha​​pel​-p​​ipeli​​ne​_us​​_5963​​d218e​​​4b005​​b0fdc​​76b21​. Bunge, Marcia. 1994. “Biblical Views of Nature: Foundations for an Environmental Ethic.” In Care of the Earth, edited by Tina B. Krause. Chicago: Lutheran school of Theology at Chicago. Catholic Church, Pope Francis. (2015). Encyclical Letter Laudato sí of the Holy Father Francis: On Care for Our Common Home. [Vatican City]: Vatican Press. Diener, Laura Michele. 2016. “Meet the Jeans-Wearing, Nature-Loving Nuns Who Helped Stop a Kentucky Pipeline.” Yes! Magazine. Accessed October 1, 2018. http:​/​/www​​.yesm​​agazi​​ne​.or​​g​/peo​​ple​-p​​ower/​​meet-​​the​-j​​eans-​​weari​​ng​-na​​ture-​​lovin​​g​ -nun​​s​-who​​-help​​ed​-st​​op​-a-​​ke​ntu​​cky​-p​​ipeli​​ne​-20​​16040​​7. Douglas, Steve. 2006. “Religious Environmentalism in the West: I: A Focus on Christianity.” In The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Ecology, edited by Roger Gottlieb, 717–737. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Farrell Bednarowski, Mary. 1999. The Religious Imagination of American Women. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. First National People of Color Environmental Leadership Summit. 1991. Principles of Environmental Justice. Washington, D.C. Gottlieb, Roger S. 2006. “Religious Environmentalism in Action.” In The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Ecology, edited by Roger Gottlieb, 467–509. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Groenendyk, Kathi, and Janel Curry. 2006. “A Communal Perspective: Women, Faith, and Nature.” Journal of Communication & Religion 29, no. 1: 18–37. Guha, Auditi. 2017. “Standing in the Way of a Gas Pipeline Project: Nuns and a Makeshift Chapel.” Rewire. Accessed October 1, 2018. https​:/​/re​​wire.​​news/​​artic​​le​ /20​​17​/07​​/12​/s​​tandi​​ng​-wa​​y​-gas​​-pipe​​line-​​proje​​ct​-nu​​ns​-ma​​ke​shi​​ft​-ch​​apel-​​built​/. Hart, John. 2006. “Catholicism.” In The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Ecology, edited by Roger Gottlieb, 65–88. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Holahan, Jane. 2017. “300 Show Up for Nun’s Chapel Dedication to Express Opposition to Pipeline.” Lancaster Online. Accessed October 1, 2018. http:​/​/lan​​ caste​​ronli​​ne​.co​​m​/new​​s​/sho​​w​-up-​​for​-n​​uns​-c​​hapel​​-dedi​​catio​​n​-to-​​expre​​ss​-op​​posit​​ion​ -t​​o​/art​​icle_​​606cf​​44c​-6​​503​​-1​​1e7​-a​​c31​-3​​7f3a4​​26095​​1​.htm​​l. Lyon, Keith D. 2016. “God’s Brush Arbor: Camping Meeting Culture During the Second Great Awakening, 1800–1860.” Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Tennessee. http:​/​/tra​​ce​.te​​nness​​ee​.ed​​u​/utk​​_grad​​​diss/​​3941.​ McCausland, Phil. 2017. “Nuns Build Chapel—And File Lawsuit to Block a Natural Gas Pipeline.” NBC News. Accessed October 1, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.nbc​​news.​​com​/ n​​ews​/u​​s​-new​​s​/nun​​s​-bui​​ld​-ch​​apel-​​file-​​lawsu​​it​-bl​​ock​-n​​atura​​l​​-gas​​-pipe​​line-​​n7933​​61. McFarland Taylor, Sarah. 2007. Green Sisters: A Spiritual Ecology. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Moody, Michael. 2002. “Caring for Creation: Environmental Advocacy by Mainline Protestant Organizations.” In The Quiet Hand God: Faith-Based Activism and the Public Role of Mainline Protestantism, edited by Robert Wuthnow and John Hyde Evans, 237–264. Berkley: University of California Press.

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Neumann, Lori Ann. n.d. “Chapel Dedication.” Accessed October 1, 2018. http:​/​/ www​​.wear​​elanc​​aster​​count​​y​.org​​/chap​​el​_de​​​dicat​​ion. NPRMusic. 2002. “‘Amazing Grace’: A New Book Traces the History of the Beloved Hymn.” Weekend Edition Sunday. Accessed October 10, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.npr​​ .org/​​templ​​ates/​​story​​/stor​​y​.php​​?stor​​​yId​=8​​94060​. PennLive​.co​m. 2017a. “Lancaster Against Pipelines, Area Nuns, Dedicate Prayer Chapel.” YouTube. https​:/​/ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​com​/w​​atch?​​time_​​conti​​nue​=1​​38​&v=​​​nlL9j​​ nMAAO​​0. PennLive​.co​m. 2017b. “Musicians Help Dedicate Prayer Chapel.” YouTube. https​:/​/ ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​com​/w​​atch?​​time_​​conti​​nue​=1​​03​&v=​​​HG2fx​​c2nMo​​U. Radford Ruether, Rosemary. 2006. “Religious Ecofeminism.” In The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Ecology, edited by Roger Gottlieb, 362–375. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sadowski, Dennis. 2017. “Religious Order Welcomes Gas Pipeline Opponents to Pray at New ‘Chapel.’” The Catholic Telegraph. Accessed October 10, 2018. https​ :/​/ww​​w​.the​​catho​​licte​​legra​​ph​.co​​m​/rel​​igiou​​s​-ord​​er​-we​​lcome​​s​-gas​​-pipe​​line-​​oppon​​ ents-​​to​-pr​​a​y​-at​​-new-​​chape​​l​/436​​08. Shepstone, Tom. 2017. “Sister Act Pipeline Stunt Anything But Funny.” Natural Gas Now: For Our National Economy and our Environment. Accessed October 1, 2018. http:​/​/nat​​uralg​​asnow​​.org/​​siste​​r​-act​​-pipe​​line-​​stunt​​-anyt​​h​ing-​​funny​/. Taylor, Bron. 2010. Dark Green Religion: Nature Spirituality and the Planetary Future. Berkley: University of California Press. Watts Belser, Julia. 2013. “Environmental Justice and Interreligious Ecotheology.” Religious Studies News. Accessed October 10, 2018. http:​/​/rsn​​.aarw​​eb​.or​​g​/spo​​tligh​​ t​-on/​​theo-​​ed​/en​​viron​​ement​​al​-ju​​stice​​/envi​​ronme​​ntal-​​justi​​ce​-an​​d​-int​​e​rrel​​igiou​​s​-eco​​ theol​​ogy. West, James. 2013. “Meeting the Singing, Anti-Fracking Nuns.” Mother Jones. Accessed October 1, 2018. http:​/​/www​​.moth​​erjon​​es​.co​​m​/env​​ironm​​ent​/2​​013​/0​​8​/ nun​​s​-blu​​egras​​s​-pip​​​eline​​-lore​​tto/#​. White, Lynn. 1967. “The Historical Roots of Our Ecological Crisis.” Science 155: 1203–1207. Williams Partners. 2017. “Overview.” Atlantic Sunrise Expansion. Accessed October 1, 2018. http:​/​/atl​​antic​​sunri​​seexp​​ansio​​n​.com​​/abou​​t​-the​​-proj​​ect​​/o​​vervi​​ew/. Zauzmer, Julie. 2017. “Nearly Two Dozen Activists Have Been Arrested Where Nuns Are Protesting Pipeline.” The Washington Post. Accessed October 1, 2018. https​ :/​/ww​​w​.was​​hingt​​onpos​​t​.com​​/news​​/acts​​-of​-f​​aith/​​wp​/20​​17​/10​​/19​/a​​t​-cha​​pel​-w​​here-​​ nuns-​​prote​​st​-a-​​pipel​​ine​-2​​3​-arr​​ested​​-incl​​uding​​-seve​​ral​-i​​n​-the​​ir​-​70​​s​-and​​-80s/​​?utm_​​ term=​​.96db​​2db11​​481.

Section II

RHETORICS OF RELIGION IN CONTEMPORARY PUBLICS

Chapter 5

Religion and Rhetoric in Moments of Crisis Obstacles and an Opportunity in Timothy Keller’s “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” Raymond Blanton

Religion has, is, and will very likely continue to be a persistent presence in American life. Yet, neither religious rhetoric nor the rhetoric of religion has been at the forefront of rhetorical scholarship in America. In response, I argue that a purposeful and productive path forward is to interrogate the interrelationship of religion and rhetoric in moments of crisis—where religion is perhaps most rhetorical and rhetoric is perhaps most religious. In moments such as this, as has been true throughout history, people turn to religion, in this case, the church, for answers to their questions, particularly those that bear upon the notion of evil, suffering, and grief. While some find satisfactory answers, others do not. But nevertheless, it is in these moments of crisis that religion displays its rhetorical essence, both in the traditional sense of persuasion as well as the new sense of identification, and subsequently, that rhetoric is animated with much religious fervor. Altogether, my intention is to deepen our understanding of this relationship as well as broaden our rhetorical practice related to its implications. In short, I want to briefly consider three interrelated obstacles and counter with an opportunity. As to the obstacles, I draw upon some critical and rhetorical precedents to identify three potentially destructive (while intending to be constructive) tendencies in the study of rhetoric and religion. Namely, when we approach the study of religion with an anti-spiritual attitude, it can lead to a type of critical bigotry or intolerance (the sort we tend to despise) that manifests as a practice. In practice, then, religious works, along with the people and places they represent, are secularized and, quite possibly, distortions or deletions of intellectual history ensue. Altogether, this attitude and practice function 93

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collectively as a trained incapacity. Then, having named these obstacles, I counter with an opportunity to deepen our understanding of rhetoric and religion in American public discourse in a moment of momentous crisis. Specifically, I examine Timothy Keller’s “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” sermon, delivered from a pulpit in Manhattan just five days after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, in New York City, in which Keller provides a representative anecdote that distinctly animates the interplay of religion and rhetoric in crisis in Jesus’s encounters with sisters Martha and Mary at the tomb of their brother Lazarus. OBSTACLES: AN ATTITUDE AND A PRACTICE THAT CULMINATE IN A TRAINED INCAPACITY Before I consider Timothy Keller’s sermon, I want to contend that in order to substantively move religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion to the forefront of rhetorical scholarship in America, we must become and remain mindful of three interrelated obstacles that may lead us astray in this endeavor—an attitude, a practice, and an obstruction. For the attitude, I call upon Thomas Frentz (2006), who argues in “Memory, Myth, and Rhetoric in Plato’s Phaedrus,” that a spiritual perspective may not only be important but essential in helping us to determine meaning in religious works. Potentially, when this attitude is left unchecked we miss meanings that can lead to the practice of secularizing or distorting aspects of intellectual and rhetorical history. For the practice, I call upon Carol Poster (2006), who argues against the practice of secularization in the life and work of Richard Whately in “An Organon for Theology.” For the obstruction, I call upon civic-minded theorist Kenneth Burke (1984) to illustrate that when an anti-spiritual attitude toward religion combines with the practice of secularization, we are critically obstructed with a trained incapacity. My first critical consideration comes from Thomas Frentz’ study of memory and myth in Plato’s Phaedrus, where he asserts that approaching certain texts with a decidedly spiritual attitude can be useful for interpreting meanings in rhetorical and cultural texts. To be clear, like Frentz, I am not advocating any particular spiritual position, only that a spiritual attitude is sometimes necessary to get at the more nuanced elements of meaning in a text. To ignore such, as Frentz states, “is to miss the meanings” (Frentz 2006, 260). In our context, summoning this notion from Frentz, I contend we should be willing to concede the possibility that rhetoric may touch elements of our soul as well as our society. And while doing so, I preemptively sense the scholastic and secular tension. During my dissertation defense, for example, which considered the role of pscyhagogia, the leading of the soul in Plato’s Phaedrus, I

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was asked to consider an alternative word other than soul. Similarly, as one cautionary comment of Frentz’ manuscript suggested, “Uttering the word ‘spirit’ in print is a capital offense and must be punished by the black batons of secular humanism” (Frentz 2006, 260). Frentz retorts, “I am out to convert rhetorical scholars to bracket those black batons and consider looking at textual meanings through some spiritual lens. In saying this, I am definitely not advocating any specific religious worldview, but rather, pointing out that in certain complex texts there seem to be very important regions of meaning that only become apparent when viewed from a generalized spiritual perspective. To ignore the perspective is to miss the meanings” (Frentz 2006, 260). In other words, in the attempt to bring religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion to the forefront of rhetorical studies, we should keep in mind the forewarning of Frentz to guard against an unwilling spiritual attitude. My second consideration is Carol Poster’s (2006) “An Organon for Theology: Whately’s Rhetoric and Logic in Religious Context,” as it illustrates the implications of approaching religious works with an unwilling spiritual attitude. In keeping with Frentz’s notion to “miss the meanings,” Poster contends, “Both the isolation of Whately from his fellow Noetics and Tractarian and Evangelical opponents in rhetorical studies and the secularizing of Whately by contemporary scholars are distortions of the intellectual history of a profoundly religious era, and one in which issues of faith and doubt were at the forefront of most intellectual endeavors . . . Whately’s rhetorical and logical theories in general . . . must be recontextualized within a theology in which human reason and moral sense were considered parts of the divine economy, implanted by God, leading to God, and created in his image” (Poster 2006, 77). In light of this, I urge us not to gloss over Poster’s concluding image of the marriage of human reason and the divine economy for it is at the heart of both the history of religious rhetoric as well as the rhetoric of religion under consideration in the representative anecdote of Keller’s sermon. If at all possible, allow this sentiment to shape your spiritual attitude and keep it close as you consider the substance of this chapter. And while this union of reason and the divine is beyond the scope of this chapter, it is nonetheless pertinent and persistent herein. Collectively, then, an antispiritual attitude combined with the practice of secularization can lead to a critical obstruction, a trained incapacity. For a more detailed perspective on my third consideration, I turn to Kenneth Burke’s use of Thorstein Veblen’s concept of a “trained incapacity” in Permanence and Change (Burke 1984, 7). What makes this concept so relevant, as Burke indicates, is its relationship to the question of right and wrong orientation. And our orientation is at least partially if not fundamentally about attitude—perhaps most simply illustrated in the title of Burke’s Attitudes toward History. Simply put, a “trained incapacity” is a term designed to help

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us understand the complexities of seeing subjects from only one dominant perspective. In essence, a trained incapacity is “whereby one’s very abilities can function as blindness” (Burke 1984, 7)—thus my initial use of the term “myopia.” In context, Veblen focuses the concept on those who through extended training have “built their scheme of orientation about this kind of effort and ambition that they cannot see serious possibilities in any other system” (Burke 1984, 7). Here, I apply the concept to illustrate an obstacle in the study of religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion. Moreover, in rhetorical study, consider the prevalence of “rhetoric of” discourse. Implied in this idea is a presumption that we know all we need to know about rhetoric. On the contrary, perhaps religion might help us more broadly conceptualize rhetoric. An example of such an approach is found in Mapping Christian Rhetorics, which asserts that religious rhetorics tell us something about “rhetoric itself—its boundaries, its characteristics, its functioning,” meeting at the intersections of rhetoric and Christianity to locate religion more centrally within the realms of rhetorical studies in the twentyfirst century, by acknowledging works that have been overlooked or ignored (DePalma and Ringer 2014, i). Put another way, as outlined by Foss and Griffin on a different but nonetheless related matter of rhetorical theory and practice, at times, a “few master theories may come to dominate a discipline without a clear understanding of the ways in which they limit our understanding” (Foss and Griffin 1992, 330). Furthermore, allow me to offer one more substantive example of how a trained incapacity might undermine or hinder critical work. To be plain, given that one of the true marks of critical work is being able to make explicit distinctions of difference, I want us to consider the ways in which critical considerations of similarity may be overlooked. Truth be told, we want to be the kind of person, first, and scholar, second, who offers judgments that “humanize, that make us better people,” but we find the “Critical Life” difficult to turn off (Pelias 2000, 224). Of course, there are other examples that demonstrate the substance and importance of religion and rhetoric in American public discourse, from John Durham Peters’s Speaking Into the Air to Peter Simonson’s study of the intellectual history of mass communication, reminding us that an understanding of religious texts, perspectives, and vocabularies, used by the likes of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt Whitman, William James, Kenneth Burke, James W. Carey, and John Durham Peters, has been effective in helping us make sense of “communication and social life” (Simonson 2010, 6). In sum, these obstacles pose a serious threat to both our comprehensive understanding as well as our practice of rhetoric and religion. As an exercise, returning to Frentz, perhaps we should consider: “An increasing number of contemporary rhetorical scholars are reconsidering the relationship between rhetoric and the unconscious. And whether the

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unconscious is viewed as the repository of repressed drives, the fantastic realm of some preconscious imaginary, or even the seat of hard-wired spiritual potentials, the possibility that rhetoric might touch our souls as well as our societies seems to be an idea whose time has come around—once again” (Frentz 2006, 259–260). AN OPPORTUNITY: TIMOTHY KELLER In the introduction to Timothy Keller’s “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace,” a sermon delivered at Redeemer Presbyterian Church in Manhattan on September 16, 2001—just five days after 9/11—Keller references the Apostle Paul and his letter to the Thessalonians to frame two particular problems we make in the face of crisis, particularly grief. The first is to avoid grief altogether. The second is to grieve without hope. Broadly, Keller is concerned with facing these tendencies by providing a model for how to confront crisis, namely, to learn to grieve with hope. To this end, Keller provides a representative anecdote, an opportunity to contemplate the interplay of religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion in crisis to deepen our understanding and broaden our practice. In essence, Keller’s “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” sermon confronts how humans experience and endure crisis, drawing upon the then of the ancient church and the historical Jesus and the now of a grief-stricken city, nation, and world. Keller bridges the present with the past to offer hope for the future. What makes this sermon particularly worthy of consideration is that Keller spoke not only as a minister comforting grieving congregants but also as a citizen of New York City (NYC). In other words, Keller is grieving while delivering the sermon, which makes for a compelling case for ascertaining the nuances and particulars of religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion, particularly an underlying call to civic action for all. Specifically, I contend that one of the central tenets of Keller’s sermon is that the hope of the Christian message should lead us to become better neighbors and citizens, namely, it should improve our neighborhoods and cities. For instance, in the introduction to his sermon, Keller prays for the city of New York, particularly that the contemporary church would acknowledge and turn away from its proclivity toward self-absorption and avaricious consumerism to become more humble servants of the city. He calls the people to become the kind of neighbors and citizens the city needs. I argue this is not an utterance meant merely for the moment. Rather, this is an insight on an oft-misplaced fundamental within religious rhetoric, one that Keller focuses on throughout this sermon. That is, to act upon the world with sacrificial compassion, particularly in crisis.

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In part, I believe this tenet has gotten lost in the melee of our mediated madness. It is lost when we tilt our full attention toward only political vitriol and dissonance. It is lost when we list our focus toward only the hypocrisy and moral failings of prominent public figures, religious or political. Do these occur? Affirmative. Are they worthy of our critical attention? Indeed. Are they the only story in the realm of religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion? Unequivocally, no—and Keller gives us the opportunity to consider a framework for religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion in American public discourse. For Keller, the relationship between the Christian church and the city is not only culturally and theologically significant, it is utterly absolute—it is foundational to the Christian message and call. And it is no less essential in the face of crises of all sorts. In what follows, I walk us through Keller’s religious rhetoric to frame his rhetoric of religion. SEPTEMBER 11, 2001 During my divinity school days, I worked part-time as a personal trainer at the Abington, Pennsylvania, YMCA. I had shifts on Tuesday mornings. It was just another day—September 11, 2001. The regulars were on their respective treadmill and elliptical machines listening to music and watching television. And then it happened. A breaking news story appeared on one screen and then another and so on. A small crowd of people began to gather around the monitors in disbelief. At 8:46 AM, American Airlines Flight 11 struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center (WTC). At 9:03 AM, United Airlines Flight 175 struck the South Tower of the WTC. At 9:37 AM, American Airlines Flight 77 struck the Pentagon. And at 10:03 AM, United Airlines Flight 93 crashed into a field in Stonycreek Township, Pennsylvania. In just over an hour, America was changed forever, as it has been many times before and most likely will again in the future—crisis is an essential part of the human experience. My thoughts immediately turned to my father-in-law. He was on his way to surprise my wife with a visit. Shortly after takeoff, his flight was grounded and he was left to rent a car and drive with strangers for much of the way. I then learned that my sister-in-law, a commercial airline pilot for United Airlines, was slated for an early morning departure out of Boston on September 12, bringing to mind Flight 175 that had departed from Boston just hours before. Though neither my wife nor myself are native to New York or the east coast, we both felt deeply connected to these events because we lived at the epicenter of the 9/11 attacks, in Philadelphia—uniquely positioned as geographical witnesses to each of the three crash sites. We frequented New York and Washington D.C. regularly.

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In the aftermath of the events, Mayor Rudolph Giuliani of NYC, among other public leaders, encouraged people to return to and support the city. So just several days afterward, I traveled to Manhattan to see what could be done to help. I remember standing at the boundary line of the barricades just blocks from what would become known as Ground Zero. I remember the shock and disbelief etched upon the faces of onlookers. I remember the reams of missing person fliers lining telephone booths, store windows, and street poles. The following week, I traveled to Washington, D.C., to see firsthand the damage at the Pentagon. A month later, I organized a small group of seminary friends (where I was a student) to travel to NYC to see the Broadway musical Rent. Then I planned an excursion to Manhattan for New Year’s Eve with friends from all over the country, where we stood for hours in the bitter cold of Time Square on 45th Street, waiting for the crystal ball to drop and the confetti to fall to welcome in the new year. While in the writing stage for this project, I co-led a small group of students on a study tour to New York City, visiting the National September 11 Memorial Museum in lower Manhattan. For further perspective, I also spent some extended time with some native New Yorkers—a close friend, whose father was a NYC police officer, and his family. In their recounting, I was given a name and a face through which to see the tragedy in a more personal manner: Bernard D. Favuzza, an analyst for Cantor Fitzgerald at the time of his death. Bernie, as they referred to him, was a husband and father of two. He was just six months from retirement. They recalled that he often left before four in the morning to beat the city traffic. He had been out to dinner with these very friends I was with the night before the attacks and had entertained the possibility of calling in sick. When news of the first plane broke, messages were left for Bernie with the hope that he had indeed stayed home. He had not. Cantor Fitzgerald, which occupied the 101st to the 105th floors of One World Trade Center, just above the impact zone, lost almost two-thirds of its workforce. Though some of us are directly acquainted with the victims of these events, and others only indirectly, nonetheless, many if not all of us identify with the pain caused by these events as Americans. American identity is and has always been a complex entity, particularly given the historical realities of indigenous communities and slavery. We are a nation of immigrants. And yet, at present, we continue to navigate and negotiate a range of political crises bound to these complexities of what it means to be an American. Moreover, the visceral nationalism that emerged in the aftermath of these events, with our national flag and anthem at the center of recovery, has today become further evidence of our continued national identity crisis. In sum, historically, crisis gives humans a particular time and place to clarify or perhaps establish their individual, communal, and national identity,

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to determine what they believe to be true or what they most aspire to be. We need only recite religious creeds or think of our nation’s constitution to experience this distinctly. As such, having reflected on my recollections of these events, I encourage you to recall yours. Collectively, my intention is to take Keller’s “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” as an opportunity to help us discern the particular ways that our experiences with religious rhetoric during this crisis may have shaped our private rhetoric of religion. I will guide us through the liturgy of Keller’s sermon, which begins on September 16, 2001. SEPTEMBER 16, 2001 On Sunday, September 16, 2001, while New York City firefighters, volunteers, and countless others worked to recover from the collapse of the World Trade Center and the destruction of the adjacent sixteen acres of business district, Timothy Keller, senior pastor of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in Manhattan, delivered a sermon titled “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace.” The tragedy had left millions of Americans adrift, and the church, at least initially, became a venue for seeking answers. From his pulpit, Keller sought to provide some. Born in Allentown, Pennsylvania, in 1950, Timothy Keller earned an undergraduate degree from Bucknell University in 1972, a Master of Divinity degree from Gordon-Conwell Seminary in 1975, and a Doctorate in Ministry from Westminster Theological Seminary in 1981, where he also served as a professor of practical theology beginning in 1984. He married Kathy Louise Kristy in 1975, the same year he was ordained as a minister. Between 1975 and 1984, Keller served as pastor of the West Hopewell Presbyterian Church and as director of Mercy Ministries for the Presbyterian Church in America’s Mission to North America between 1984 and 1989. During this time, he published two books—Resources for Deacons in 1985 and Ministries of Mercy in 1989. In that year, he was asked to serve as organizing pastor of Redeemer Presbyterian. With fewer than 100 initial attendees, the church had grown to 1,000 in about three years. By 2001, Sunday attendance averaged around 3,000, with more than 5,000 present on Sunday, September 16 (Keller 2003, 392). Textually, and biblically, Keller grounded his September 16 sermon in the account of Jesus’ encounters with sisters Martha and Mary and the death and resurrection of Lazarus from John 11:20-53. William S. Barker and Samuel T. Logan, whose Sermons That Shaped America: Reformed Preaching from 1630 to 2001 considers a broad collection of sermons in American history, selected Keller’s “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” as their final contribution for two particular reasons. First, the sermon provides a biblical response to the historic events of September 2001—to crisis. Second, the sermon is exemplary of Keller’s preaching style, which embodies his religious rhetoric

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and a framework for rhetoric of religion. “The congregation is constantly engaged,” Barker and Logan write, “because there is immediate application throughout the sermon” (Barker and Logan 2003, 393). That application, of course, focuses on confronting human crisis as it relates to grief. In turn, Keller confronts the tendency to avoid grief or to grieve without hope by providing a detailed consideration of perhaps the most recognized passage on resurrection (other than the Passion)—the death of his friend Lazarus and his encounters with sisters Martha and Mary at his tomb. Specifically, Keller notes, “Jesus moves through the ruins with four things: truth, tears, anger, and finally, grace. The truth he wields with Martha; the tears he sheds with Mary; the anger he directs at the tomb; and the grace he extends to everybody” (Keller 2003, 397). A REPRESENTATIVE ANECDOTE: “TRUTH, TEARS, ANGER, AND GRACE” Conceptually, I argue that Keller’s sermon functions as an ideal representative anecdote from and through which to consider the rhetorical significance of religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion in American public discourse for two specific reasons. First, as Kenneth Burke attests, a representative anecdote should be both clear and complex and possess scope and simplicity. It should confront the grand convergence of human relations (Burke 1969a, 324). This sermon satisfies these criteria as it is situated in a watershed moment of American crisis. Second, building on Burke’s critical theory, Barry Brummett’s notion of the representative anecdote as a “trained awareness” of types of dramatic form, with the potential to empower people to extract order from chaos—to decipher what we, as a people and culture, most deeply fear and hope (Brummett 1984, 174)—offers further substantiation in that it grants us access to religious rhetoric in the midst of that moment. Put differently, Keller’s sermon assists us in making sense of the disorder of crisis and grief while providing an inroad to understanding rhetoric and religion in American life. In the ensuing sections, I consider the specific facets of Keller’s sermon, from call to worship to opening prayer and on through the biblical passage under consideration, to heighten our awareness, appreciation, and understanding of how Keller animates religious rhetoric and rhetoric of religion. CALL TO WORSHIP Keller opens “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” with a recitation from the gospel of John, setting the substantive tone for the entirety of the sermon.

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Grounded in peace, Keller calls the grieving to action using two imperatives— do not be troubled and do not be afraid. At first glance, this might seem callous. Why tell the distressed and anxious not to be troubled or afraid? Here, Keller relies on something I became acquainted with as a seminary student (and we studied at the same institution—Westminster Theological Seminary) the indicative/imperative relationship, a subtle but important grammatical mood prevalent in the Koine Greek of the New Testament. Because the indicative mood is definitive, certain, and factual—my peace I give you —it provides explicit purpose and meaning to the subsequent imperative—do not be afraid. For further instance, in biblical texts, when we come upon a “therefore,” we are usually dealing with an indicative/imperative construction. Ask: what is the “therefore,” there for? Immediately following his recitation from John, Keller draws similarly upon the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians. “For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again,” he states, “grieve, but don’t grieve as those without hope” (Keller 2003, 395; see also 1 Thessalonians 4:13-15). In this instance, the indicative of Christ’s death and resurrection drives the imperative not to grieve hopelessly. In Keller’s call to worship, then, we find a foundational dimension of religious rhetoric that helps shape a rhetoric of religion that can be studied in his sermon, his theological reasoning, as well as a trait of sermonic rhetoric more broadly. This is merely one way of distinguishing styles of religious rhetoric, grounded in an understanding of the original language. On the contrary, when the indicative/imperative relationship is neglected, intentionally or not, we can, lacking a spiritual attitude and understanding of this dimension, miss meanings in part or alter them entirely. Put differently, when this relationship is inversed and the imperative precedes the indicative, it reads as conditional moralism, that is, God will bless you if you do this. One of the signature markers of Keller, and Reformed theology more broadly, is found in this grammatical mood. Exegetically, and theologically, as both an attitude and a practice, this relationship determines whether a sermon is a mere moral homily or a substantial message for change grounded in hope—a hope that comes not from our efforts but from an already accomplished grace—the indicative of the historical Jesus. Moreover, Keller’s invocation of Thessalonians also establishes the themes of crisis and grief in the sermon. Specifically, he confronts a pair of mistakes commonly made in the face of both—avoidance and hopelessness. This harkens back to the indicative of peace being given in the person of Christ, and therefore, to respond accordingly, to grieve with hope as the alternative is to grieve without hope that leads to inevitable despair. “Your grief will make you bleaker and weaker or it will make you far more wise and good and tender” (Keller 2003, 394).

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Keller’s focus in the sermon, which is also representative of his sermonic rhetorical tone and theology more broadly, is on how we confront crisis and grief—with or without hope. Rhetorically, Keller imbues his religious rhetoric related to the lives of John the Baptist and Jesus of Nazareth with the imagery of 9/11, noting these were people who were likewise “cut down” in “unjust attacks” (Keller 2003, 394). Altogether, the indicative/imperative mood in the text illustrates part of the foundation of religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion, something Keller reaffirms in concluding with a hymn in the call to worship, “How Firm a Foundation, Ye Saints of the Lord,” the lyrics offering a telling glimpse of the message to come. PRAYER Building on the call to worship, Keller further substantiates his claims in his opening prayer, focusing not only on how the Christian gospel instruct us to grieve with hope but also as a call to be agents of change for our cities. Keller begins: Almighty and most merciful God, you are the consolation of the sorrowful, you are the support of the weary. Look down now in tender love and pity on us whose joy has been turned into mourning, so that while we mourn and grieve, we may not have our hearts darkened, but rather might learn wisdom and grow strong in hope; that we might resign ourselves into your hands to be taught and comforted, remembering all your mercies and promises and love in Jesus Christ, who brings life out of death and can turn all grief into deep and eternal joy. (Keller 2003, 395)

There are two themes in particular that emerge in Keller’s prayer. The first is the prayerful petition to “make us,” which is repeated five times. It is as if the clay is speaking with the potter (Jeremiah 18). It speaks to the importance of recognizing our vulnerability as a people, particularly when in crisis and grief, and that we need something greater than just our individual selves. Of note, it is not merely that we need God. But rather, we find God in the context of community, that is, the C/church. Put differently, Keller’s prayer alludes to the absolute necessity of community, which is the second theme. Keller notes: Father, we have been participating in the self-absorption of the great cities of our world. People come to the cities to take, to get, to build themselves up, to build up their resumes, to consume. Father, we ask that you get us out of ourselves. We ask that you humble us and purify us. Make us servants. Make us what we

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need to be in order to show the glory and love of Jesus to the people around us. Help us to be what the city needs us to be now, the kind of people the city needs us to be, the kind of neighbors and citizens we need to be. Lastly, we pray for the churches of the city. Make us wise enough to know how to work together and use our resources to meet the needs. Make us generous. Teach us how to be Christian communities in a place that might be harder than ever to be a Christian community economically, socially, and physically. (Keller 2003, 395–396)

This is another example of Keller’s religious rhetoric in action—one that is teeming with service, self-sacrifice, and other mindedness, humility over hubris. It provides a clear indication that the Christian gospel is intended to be more than a set of individual beliefs and more a paradigm for cultural care and engagement. This American sermon, I argue, intends to call Americans to be better neighbors, citizens, and Americans, and moreover, is representative of a type of religious rhetoric and a rhetoric of religion that is worthy of our consideration as rhetorical scholars. PASSAGE: JOHN 11:20–52—JESUS AT THE TOMB OF LAZARUS In the body of the sermon, Keller utilizes a text that focuses on a moment of crisis and grief—with Jesus encountering sisters Martha and Mary at the tomb of their brother Lazarus (John 11:44). Here, Keller outlines Jesus’s four responses to grief in crisis: truth, tears, anger, and grace. Interestingly, while the sisters each exclaim an identical query, “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died” (Keller 2003, 395–396; see also John 11:21, 32), Jesus responds to each sister in a different manner. With Martha, he speaks truth. He exhorts. With Mary, he weeps. Therein, progressively, Keller considers Jesus’ response to Mary, his anger at death, and his response to Martha, before applying these to a broader discussion of grace. Tears Keller begins with a consideration of Jesus’s tears and the grief shared between Jesus and Mary: “When Jesus reaches Mary, she asks him a major theological question: ‘Lord, why weren’t you here? You could have stopped this’ ” (Keller 2003, 397). Her question leads us to the shortest passage in the entire Bible: “Jesus wept” (Luke 11:35). More importantly, however, it gives us an indelible image of divine empathy. What makes this image of Jesus’s tears peculiar, if not compelling, is the realization that he is about to raise Lazarus from the dead. Why weep about a problem he is about to make right? The example offers both

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an insight into Keller’s understanding of grief and a model for how to grieve with others. According to Keller, Jesus’s initial response to tragedy and suffering is to grieve with tears, regardless of any potential or existing enmity. It is a radical image of grief. Are we capable of grieving with those to whom we are opposed? For Keller, Jesus’s persecution, death, and resurrection function like an enthymeme to human crisis and grief. He weeps with Mary. He weeps with us as we grieve. Beyond all religious doubt is an image of the historical Jesus weeping in grief with a friend, for a friend. Anger Keller turns, secondly, to anger, specifically, Jesus’s anger at death. Linguistically, the Greek word here is embrimaomai, which could be more viscerally translated as the roar or snort of an animal, like a lion. Put differently, Jesus, as he approaches the tomb of Lazarus, roars with anger and fury. Alongside the image of Jesus’s tears we have his rage. And this is important because our understanding of anger, especially as it relates to the historical Jesus, is often complicated by a tendency in various biblical translations to soften language around anger. I can attest to this as a former student of the original languages of the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Masoretic Hebrew in the Old Testament and Koine Greek in the New Testament). Critically, biblical scholar D.A. Carson, addressing this passage, contends that translating Jesus’s emotional state as merely troubled (as in the New International Version) is “lexically inexcusable” (Carson 1991, 415). Relatedly, R.V.G. Tasker argues that Jesus’s soul is held by rage,” advancing to the tomb, in Calvin’s words, “as a champion who prepares for conflict” (Tasker 2002, 140). It is also reminiscent of Dylan Thomas’s famed Villanelle from 1947, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night,” “Rage against the dying of the light” (Keller 2003, 401; Thomas 2003, 239). Though it might seem an uncharacteristic rendering of the historical Jesus, it should not be underestimated. The essential point is to understand the importance the role that Jesus’s tears and rage at death play in crisis and grief and how they culminate in hope. For Keller, as noted by biblical scholar Carson, “grief that degenerates to despair, that pours out its loss as if there were no resurrection, is an implicit denial of that resurrection” (Carson 1991, 416). This is the crux of the passage and the sermon and provides a framework for understanding Keller’s religious rhetoric. Truth Keller focuses, third, on truth as rendered in his encounter with Martha. Many of us are likely acquainted with others’ attempts to impart truth in the midst of

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our grief without first having shared in the bond of trust strengthened by tears and/or outrage. It rarely goes well. In this case, Keller focuses on two particular elements. First is the messianic claim of Jesus, “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25), binding his resurrection to come with both that of Lazarus and, theologically speaking, death itself. Keller’s continues his use of Jesus’s encounters with Martha, Mary, and Lazarus to shape a rhetoric of religion that illustrates facing crisis and grief with hope. The second element is Jesus’s summative question to Martha, “Do you believe this?” (John 11:26). Of significance, for Keller, is that Jesus is divinely defying the inevitable and inescapable reality of death. His death will represent the death of death. This is the basis of hope for the Christian, according to Keller. It is what moves those in mourning to morning. It is here where the spiritual attitude becomes either a potential obstacle or an opportunity. Resurrection is where people choose either to believe or not. For many, resurrection is illogical. It defies natural laws. Despite this, the tone and language we use to process death cling to hope, whether merely an attempt at human dignity in the presence of grief or a hopeful belief in a better life beyond the one we know. Regardless, for Keller, the question remains for all those who grieve, as it did for Martha, do we believe? In essence, I argue that the significance of Jesus answering the same question (i.e., one from Martha, the other from Mary) in two different ways is an indication that grief warrants various types of responses. At times, we weep but do not speak. At times, we speak but do not weep. And what binds these two together is, for Keller and the Christian, the truth of the resurrection of Lazarus, of Jesus, of all who believe. From tears, anger, and truth, Keller turns to grace. Grace Though given the least amount of textual ground, grace is the most prevalent theme in the sermon. As Barker and Logan note, for instance, “Keller develops the point of grace. Jesus knew that the only way to get Lazarus out of death was for himself to be killed. Christianity alone, for Keller, of all the religions tells us that God lost his Son in an unjust attack. Jesus is the perfect counselor, who knows who needs what and when: tears, truth, anger, but most of all his grace” (Keller 2003, 393, 406). Keller affirms, “Most of all you need to get his grace. That is what you need most, and that is what he came to give. That is what we are going to keep giving here” (Keller 2003, 406). This grace manifests in two particular ways. It is not given in one act but continually. The first is found in the passage that Keller exegetes and expounds—in the tears of Jesus, in the rage of Jesus at the tomb of Lazarus, and in the truth of Jesus’s resurrection. This is the foundation that Keller

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stands on—it is the indicative to the imperative. The second way grace manifests can be found in the actions of the people in light of the truth, tears, and anger that culminates in the resurrection. At this, we can recall the aforementioned tone of the opening prayer to be humbled and to become servants for a city in need. In other words, grace manifests in the humble attitudes and actions of Christians—this is the imperative that follows the indicative. To be clear, though, this grace is the result of truth, tears, and anger, collectively, rather than just one of these. For perspective, biblical scholar D. A. Carson outlines the importance of this truth in the formation of understanding grace, “Those who follow Jesus as his disciples today do well to learn that grief and compassion without outrage reduce to mere sentiment, while outrage without grief hardens into self-righteous arrogance and irascibility” (Carson 1991, 416). In other words, tears and anger, bound to truth and grace, form a strong bond that enables those grieving to do so with hope. Altogether, in life, crisis or otherwise, the Christian is called to civic action with truth, tears, anger, and grace. KELLER’S RELIGIOUS RHETORIC AND RHETORIC OF RELIGION Keller’s “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” is an opportunity to consider the particulars of how religious rhetoric work to formulate a distinct rhetoric of religion—how language and story give shape to particular attitudes and actions. Based on this sermon, then, what conclusions can we draw about religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion? And what conclusions can we draw about how these function in crisis, in particular? I offer two rhetorical reminders and conclude with some examples of how Keller utilizes mythology, that is, mythology as essential stories, as a tool for broadening his religious rhetoric, that is, the use of sermons and theological stories, toward a rhetoric of religion—a framework for how religion should function, akin to its etymological origins of binding others together. The first reminder comes from Richard Weaver’s notion that language is sermonic. Weaver writes: Language, which is thus predicative, is for the same cause sermonic. We are all of us preachers in private or public capacities. We have no sooner uttered words than we have given impulse to other people to look at the world, or some small part of it, in our way. Thus caught up in a great web of inter-communication and inter-influence, we speak as rhetoricians affecting one another for good or ill. (Weaver 1970, 224)

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For Weaver, because rhetoric is cognate with language, we are born rhetoricians because we are born into history with an “endowment of passion and a sense of the ought,” and our lives are characterized by “movement toward goals” (Weaver 1970, 221). Religious rhetoric, then, influences and governs our hopes for something more and better through language. I believe this applies to all language. Put differently, language seems to presuppose a desired outcome to persuade others to particular attitudes and actions. In this sense, Keller calls his listeners to civic action to become more enlightened and engaged neighbors and citizens. The second reminder comes from Kenneth Burke’s new rhetoric of identification. That is, a body of identifications that works simultaneously, affectively for effect. Burke notes, “You persuade . . . insofar as you can talk . . . by speech, gesture, tonality, order, image, attitude, idea, identifying your ways” with others (Burke 1969b, 55). One of the particular ways Keller’s religious rhetoric works is by binding the speech, tonality, image, and attitude of his gospel message with that of ideas comparable in film, literature, and elsewhere. In other words, as Burke notes in his work, “Revolutionary Symbolism in America,” that myth functions as a social tool and psychological bridge useful for working together with others (Burke 1989, 267). There is both theoretical and civic value in the use of myth. By myth, I do not mean illusory, but rather, this civic Burkean sense, as a “strategic” and “stylized” answer to the questions posed by our times and situations (Burke 1973, 1). In Keller’s sermon, for instance, the body of identifications he utilizes to focus on hope in grief comes together with similar themes in Dostoyevsky and Tolkien. Specifically, for Keller, when we understand grief in the context of the New Testament narrative regarding the persecution, death, and resurrection of Jesus, which includes a cursed and gruesome death on a cross (see Deuteronomy 21:23 and Galatians 3:13, ESV), suffering can be neither unnatural nor ultimate. Keller underscores this theology in his religious rhetoric with two literary references. The first is taken from Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov: Let me make it plain. I believe like a child that suffering will be healed and made up for. That all of the humiliating absurdity of human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage. That in the world’s finale at the moment of eternal harmony something so precious will come to pass that is will suffice for all hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity, of all the blood that’s been shed. That it will make it not only possible to forgive but to justify everything that has happened. (Dostoyevsky 2002, 235; Keller 2003, 403)

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Keller utilizes Dostoevsky to offer an additional framework for grieving with hope. The second literary reference comes from J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. Keller alludes to Sam Gamgee in the Field of Cormallen, having just endured Mount Doom, who awakes in the presence of Gandalf and asks two questions: “Is everything sad going to come untrue? What’s happened to the world?” (Tolkien 1973, 283; Keller 2003, 403). Both of these questions reaffirm the importance of Keller’s progression of truth, tears, anger, and grace. Notice the movement from mourning to morning in Sam Gamgee: “It fell upon his ears like the echo of all the joys he had ever known. But he himself burst into tears. Then, as a sweet rain will pass down a wind of spring and the sun will shine out the clearer, his tears ceased, and his laughter welled up, and laughing, he sprang from his bed” (Tolkien 1973, 283). In sum, the rhetorical affect and effect of Keller are strengthened by the sermonic nature of language through a body of identifications, in this case by bringing together stories of hope in grief from the biblical story to those in literature and culture. Collectively, these identifications serve the greater good of one particular substantive theological point—the death of death. Implied in this is both grief and hope, and death and resurrection. This is the defining attribute of Keller’s religious rhetoric, contributing to an overarching rhetoric of religion as hopeful even in the direst of circumstances—grief and death itself and animated by civic action. CONCLUSION My central aim has been to consider three obstacles to the study of religious rhetoric and the rhetoric of religion and provide an opportunity to reconsider our preexisting attitudes, practices, and critical lenses through the representative anecdote of Timothy Keller’s “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” sermon. Specifically, my focus of rhetoric and religion has centered on how these function in moments of crisis by focusing on a particular watershed moment in America, the events of September 11, 2001. In simplest terms, I argue Keller’s religious rhetoric intends to offer a rhetoric of religion that is humbly other-centered, civic minded, and hopeful in the face of crisis and grief. He has given some perspective to Richard Hughes’s notion that one of our greatest challenges in the twenty-first century is to learn how to see the world through the eyes of others (Hughes 2003, 1). Sadly, many of our experiences with religion are distant from the Latin origins of the word religio, to bind together (Burke 1989, 279). In fact, it is

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often quite the opposite. However, these shortcomings should not preclude us from considering the abundant examples throughout history in which it has bound us together. This is the kind of religion that Keller is aiming for, to not only acknowledge the truths of the Bible but also respond by becoming more engaged, compassionate, and loving citizens in our neighborhoods, our cities, our nation, and our world. This is nothing to balk at or disregard. This civic action commiserates with the very nature and notion of humanistic potential and philosophical ethics. Distinguishing them is the critical and rhetorical challenge. And I have attempted to offer an opportunity to do just that. Again, however, this is more than action but also an attitude. It is akin to the call to action and the attitude of Elie Wiesel’s Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech, delivered in Oslo on December 10, 1986, that in moments of grief and crisis, we should “never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere” (Wiesel 2010, 118). Or consider, in another moment of immense national crisis, Abraham Lincoln’s attitude, that the “mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave,” culminate with this attitude: “We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection [the chorus] will yet swell . . . when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature” (Lincoln 1908, 28–29). Or to perhaps conclude the idea with a rhetorical angle, the attitude of Kenneth Burke, when confronted with his civic idealism: “True, there are mean places. Each day the news assiduously hunts them out . . . . But there is also the humanity of our people, the fountain of good will that keeps swelling up anew . . . with this we must be identified, for otherwise the supersonic this or that, the moon shots, the great new realms of knowledge, the sheer genius of all such accomplishments, the whole thing becomes a damned lie” (Burke 1967, 50). In sum, Keller’s religious rhetoric reaches, aimed at hearts and minds, bodies and souls, toward individuals, communities, and nation, and in the words of Burke’s novel, Towards a Better Life (Burke 2005, 3). REFERENCES Barker, William S., and Samuel T. Logan. 2003. Sermons That Shaped America: Reformed Preaching from 1630 to 2001. Phillipsburg, NJ: P&R Publishing. Brummett, Barry. 1984. “Burke’s Representative Anecdote as a Method in Media Criticism.” In Critical Studies in Mass Communication 1. Burke, Kenneth. 1959. Attitudes Toward History. Los Altos, CA: Hermes. ———. 1967. “Responsibilities of National Greatness.” The Nation 205.

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———. 1969a. A Grammar of Motives. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1969b. A Rhetoric of Motives. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1973. The Philosophy of Literary Form. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1984. Permanence and Change. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1989. “Revolutionary Symbolism in America.” In The Legacy of Kenneth Burke, edited by Herbert W. Simons and Trevor Melia, 267–296. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. ———. 2005. “Towards a Better Life.” In Here & Elsewhere: The Collected Fiction of Kenneth Burke. Boston: Black Sparrow. Carson, D. A. 1991. The Gospel According to John. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdman’s Publishing. DePalma, Michael-John, and Jeffrey M. Ringer, eds. 2014. Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting New Territories. New York: Routledge. Dostoevsky, Fyodor. 2002. The Brothers Karamazov. New York, NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Foss, Sonja K., and Cindy L. Griffin. 1992. “A Feminist Perspective on Rhetorical Theory: Toward a Clarification of Boundaries.” Western Journal of Communication 56, Fall 1992: 330–349. Frentz, Thomas. 2006. “Memory, Myth, and Rhetoric in Plato’s Phaedrus.” In Rhetoric Society Quarterly 36, no. 3 (Summer 2006): 243–262. Hughes, Richard. 2003. Myths America Lives By. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Keller, Timothy. 2003. “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace.” In Sermons That Shaped America: Reformed Preaching from 1630 to 2001, edited by William S. Barker and Samuel T. Logan, Jr. Phillipsburg, NJ: P&R Publishing. Lincoln, Abraham. 1908. “First Inaugural Address.” In Abraham Lincoln’s Speeches, compiled by L. E.Chittenden. New York: Dodd, Mead and Company. Pelias, Ronald. 2000. “The Critical Life.” Communication Education 49, no. 3, July. Peters, John Durham. 1999. Speaking into the Air: A History of the Idea of Communication. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Poster, Carol. 2006. “An Organon for Theology: Whately’s Rhetoric and Logic in Religious Context.” In Rhetorica: A Journal of the History of Rhetoric 24, no. 1 (Winter 2006): 37–77. Simonson, Peter. 2010. Refiguring Mass Communication: A History. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Tasker, R. V. G. 2002. John. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdman. Thomas, Dylan. 2003. “Do Not Go Gentle into That Goodnight.” In The Poems of Dylan Thomas, edited by Daniel Jones. New York, NY: A New Directions Book. Tolkien, J. R. R. 1973. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. New York, NY: Ballantine Books, 1973. Weaver, Richard. 1970. “Language is Sermonic.” In Language Is Sermonic: Richard M. Weaver on the Nature of Rhetoric, edited by Richard L. Johannesen, Rennard Strickland, and Ralph T. Eubanks. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press. Wiesel, Elie. 2012. Night. New York: Hill and Wang.

Chapter 6

Constitutive Rhetoric, Islamist Discourse, and the Power of “Peoplehood” An Analysis of Regime-Sponsored Nationalist Songs in Post–June 30 Egypt Farah Mourad

“Bless your hands my nation’s army! . . . Oh, you priest and oh you sheikh, explain what 73 is. They restored our dignity and God helped them [to achieve this].” This is a passage from a regime-sponsored nationalist song called teslam elayadi or “Bless your hands.” It was released in July 2013, a time when the Egyptian people were extremely divided over what had just happened in their country on June 30 was a revolution or a coup. The Egyptian people were bombarded with this song day and night on all Egyptian media outlets, and it was simply impossible for anyone to escape listening to teslam elayadi multiple times, every single day, for several months. Such a song produced at such a critical moment in Egyptian modern history should not be taken lightly, because several rhetorical studies have illustrated how music can be used as a form of ideological rhetorical practice, which can have both political and practical implications (Charland 1987: 133–134). The excerpt of teslam elayadi quoted earlier calls upon a priest and a sheikh, which is the colloquial Egyptian Arabic word for Islamic scholar, to explain what “73” is. This is an allusion to a war, which took place between Egypt and Israel in October 1973, and it is usually referred to in Egypt as the October War. The lyrics use religious rhetoric to describe the outcome of the war; God helped the Egyptian army restore Egyptian dignity. Teslam elayadi was soon followed by countless other regime-sponsored nationalist songs. This book chapter will analyze twelve regime-sponsored nationalist songs released in 2013 and 2014, which was a very critical time 113

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in Egypt’s modern history, because the Sisi regime was still trying to consolidate its power and prove its legitimacy to a very divided Egyptian public. The book chapter’s main argument is that the Sisi regime seems to have used nationalist songs to present the Egyptian people with a mythical nation building project, which was based on a constitutive rhetoric about the October War that was infused with Islamic discourse and the emotional appeal of a constituted collective unity. Put simply, these regime-sponsored nationalist songs used the October War, Islamic discourse, and the appeal of a wholeheartedly united Egyptian people to present a highly attractive but imaginary nation building project. The book chapter further argues that this rhetorical argument seems to have enticed “the people” to take political action, in a manner which enabled and legitimized both the reinstatement of military rule in Egypt, as well as Sisi’s personal rise to power. Islamic discourse seems to have been a crucial component of this rhetorical argument because the Sisi regime seems to have felt the need to present itself as no less religious that the Islamic group, which it had just removed from power. In other words, it seems to have felt the need to adopt a moral tone and present itself as “an ethical, virtuous, principled, and righteous force,” thus revealing “the moral, intellectual, and coercive bankruptcy” of its opponent (Slakr 1999: 109). Thus, the book chapter will illustrate how the songs included allusions to the Quran or the Muslim holy book, hadith or direct quotes by Prophet Mohamed as well as the azan, or the Islamic call for prayer. In fact, the songs even included allusions to the Kaaba, the holiest shrine in Islam, the holy month of Ramadan, in which Muslims are required to fast from sunrise to sunset, and even Al Azhar, which is the official Islamic religious establishment in Egypt. Furthermore, the songs also repeatedly employed Islamic terms like amana, yamin, baraka, and niya to refer to honesty, taking an oath, blessing, and sincerity, respectively. BACKGROUND INFORMATION Egypt has been ruled by the military establishment, ever since the army overthrew the monarchy in a bloodless coup d’etat in 1952. In January 2011, the Egyptian people demonstrated for eighteen days, until Hosni Mubarak, who had been ruling Egypt for thirty years, was forced to step down. He ceded power over to the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF), which consisted of the nation’s top army generals, one of whom was Sisi (Nassar 2016: 59). A year later, the only free, fair and democratic elections in Egypt’s history were held and the Muslim Brotherhood candidate, Mohamed Morsi, became Egypt’s first civilian president. But SCAF spared no effort to ensure that Morsi would not be able to effectively administer Egypt’s state affairs; it

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brought all state institutions under its control, created hurdles for Morsi and the military intelligence used the media to turn public opinion against him (Nassar 2016: 60). In this context, it is important to bear in mind that Sisi was the head of the military intelligence for several years, before being appointed as Minister of Defense by Morsi. In April 2013, a movement called Tamarod or “Rebel” emerged and it called for the Egyptian people to sign petitions to withdraw confidence from Morsi and demand early presidential elections. It also called on people to demonstrate on June 30, 2013. It later turned out that Tamarod was subordinate to the military intelligence (Nassar 2016: 60). After several days of demonstrations by millions of people, Sisi announced Morsi’s removal from power, in a move that has been described by several scholars as a soft-coup or a popularly backed coup. After that, Morsi’s supporters staged a sit-in objecting to his ouster in Rabaa’ Square. The sit-in was forcefully dispersed by Egyptian military and police forces on August 14, 2013, and an estimated 1,000 people were killed, according to international human rights organizations (Kingsley 2014). WHY THE FOCUS ON REGIMESPONSORED NATIONALIST SONGS A final point that needs to be addressed before analyzing the songs is clarifying why this study focuses on regime-sponsored nationalist songs. The first reason is because since Benedict Anderson has described “the nation as a symbolic formation, imagined by its inhabitants through different systems of representation,” it is therefore important to analyze how the rhetoric about the nation presented through the mass media “can be used to conjure, define, alter, confirm or deny popular identifications” (Sklar 1999: 108). In order to analyze all of this, it seemed all the more reasonable to select a non-print mass media outlet, which utilized the universally understood colloquial Egyptian dialect, due to the high illiteracy rate among the Egyptian population (Ziad 2010: 83; Said 2012: 262). The second reason is because constitutive rhetoric is oriented toward action and it has the power to insert “narratized subjects-as-agents into the world” (Charland 1987: 143). As Blankenship has argued, the choice of terms in a rhetorical argument is “not merely descriptive, but ‘prescriptive’ as well. The power of critical terms lies in their ability to influence our conceptions of reality. For this reason, the symbols, metaphors, images and verbal jousting” of the songs under study can provide an understanding of why normally placid Egyptian citizens took specific forms of political action which helped Sisi rise to power (cited in Slakr 1999: 109).

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A final reason is that the regime itself seems to attach utmost importance to these songs, and it seems to believe that such songs play an instrumental role in shaping Egyptian public opinion. Otherwise, why else would the regime bombard the Egyptian public with teslam elayadi immediately after the softcoup? And why were representatives of the Egyptian army dispatched to various schools across the country a few months later to ensure that teslam elayadi was played during the morning assembly, in which students sing the Egyptian national anthem and salute the Egyptian flag on a daily basis (Sobhy 2015: 805)? Furthermore, the sheer volume of regime-sponsored nationalist songs produced by the regime can also be taken as an indication of just how influential it perceives these songs to be. For example, it is estimated that thirty-two regime-sponsored nationalist songs were produced at the advent of the inauguration of the New Suez Canal (Amburst 2019: 32). OVERVIEW OF SONGS UNDER STUDY This study is based on an analysis of twelve different regime-sponsored nationalist songs. The first song is teslam elayadi and it was performed by eleven different Egyptian singers. The second song is Amal Maher’s toba fo’ toba or “Build the Nation One Block at a Time” and the third song is ta’zim salam or “A Grand Salutation,” which was a song performed by a children’s choir. In addition, three songs about the “New Suez Canal” project are analyzed. This was the first major state project after Sisi became president. Even though it consisted of “a fairly routine infrastructural upgrade” to the Suez Canal, it was presented to the Egyptian public as an entirely “new Suez Canal,” which would allegedly double the revenues of the Canal in just eight years (Armburst 2019: 224). The project was announced during the summer of 2014, and “The New Suez Canal” was inaugurated in a lavish ceremony a year later and was celebrated as “a miraculous national achievement” (Armburst 2019: 224). But in the end, the project failed to deliver the expected revenue, but it was very successful in terms of regime legitimation (Armburst 2019: 224). Due to the significance of this project in legitimizing the Sisi regime, three different songs that were released to celebrate the inauguration of the “New Suez Canal” are analyzed as part of this study. Two of these songs were performed live on-stage during the official inauguration of the New Suez Canal, namely og’neyt atfal masr—tahya masr or “Long Live Egypt: A Song [Performed by] Egypt’s Children” and agyal or “Generations.” Meanwhile, the third song is a recorded one called al baraka, which was sung by the Lebanese singer Nancy Ajram, who is very popular in Egypt.

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In addition, some of the songs which were performed live on-stage during the celebration of the October War in 2013 are analyzed. This celebration is particularly important because it was the first major public state event attended by Sisi after the soft-coup. The celebration was held at the Air Defense Stadium, and it should be noted that at the time Sisi was still Minister of Defense while Adly Mansour, the head of the Supreme Court was acting as the interim president. However, it is no secret that Sisi was actually ruling Egypt from behind the scenes. Six of the songs performed in this celebration are included in this study. The first song is an untitled song about June 30 performed by Reham Abdel Hakim. The second song is seyadat elmowaten or “Your Excellency [the Egyptian] Citizen,” which was performed by the Emarati singer Hussein El Jasmi, who has performed countless regime-sponsored nationalist songs in the Sisi era. The third song is called tahya masr or “Long Live Egypt,” which was performed by Asala, and the fourth song is an untitled song about the October War which was performed by Ehab Tawfik. The last song is masr om eldonia or “Egypt Is the Mother of All Nations” and it was performed by a large number of Egyptian singers as well as singers from several Arab countries. Finally, certain aspects of the celebration of the October War which was held in 2015 will also be analyzed. THE CONSTITUTIVE RHETORIC: THE OCTOBER WAR AS A LOCUS OF POST–JUNE 30 EGYPT In October 2015, President Sisi attended a rather unusual celebration of the October War. It was unusual because it seemed to be a celebration of Prophet Mohamed and his legacy, and not a celebration of the October War. This is because the celebration consisted of a two-hour-long operetta, of which twenty minutes were devoted to a performance about the October War, while almost an hour and a half were allocated to a performance about Prophet Mohamed’s life. This latter performance featured an embodiment of the Kaaba—the holiest shrine in Islam—at the center of the stage. The importance of the Kaaba for Muslims lies in the fact that they are required to visit the Kaaba and perform a pilgrimage in its surroundings at least once in their lifetime. Furthermore, when Muslims all around the world pray five times a day, they are required to pray in the direction of the Kaaba. Other important Islamic symbols featured in this unusual celebration of the October War included a banner which read “There is no God but Allah and Mohamed is his Messenger,” a recital of the entire azan, several chants of “God is Great and all thanks to Allah,” as well as a recitation of two verses from the Quran about Prophet Mohamed.

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But this celebration of the October War may not seem so unusual after all, if one pays close attention to the main theme of most of the regime-sponsored nationalist songs of post–June 30 Egypt. This book chapter is based on Charland’s framework of a constitutive rhetoric and it argues that the main element of the constitutive rhetoric presented in the songs under study was using the October War as an anachronism to the Sisi regime and its confrontation of the Muslim Brotherhood, while using Islamic discourse to describe this war. Although creating an anachronism between two unrelated events that took place forty years apart may seem challenging, Charland argued that a narrative can be used to construct a subject that seems to be coherent and unified, out of events that took place many years apart and in completely different historical periods. “This renders the site of action and experience stable” and “the locus of yesterday’s acts becomes that of today” (1987: 139). If there is one particular song which seemed to go to great lengths to do just that, it was teslam elayadi. The song began with an image of Sisi in military uniform while a group of singers sang “This is the hero who risked his life. He protected our nation and [almost] paid the ultimate price.” This part of the song was alluding to the speech in which Sisi announced Morsi’s ouster. The song clearly bolsters Sisi’s ethos by arguing that he was risking his life by doing so and in so doing, it seemed to be elevating him “to near martyr status [which] . . . added a quasi-spiritual element to his quest” and in turn seemed to make his words seem like the gospel truth (Slakr 1999: 118). This was followed by a long passage about the October War, some of which was quoted in the opening of this chapter, and as stated in the introduction, it included allusions to a sheikh and a priest. But the rest of that segment about the October War also included allusions to a hadith and the azan: “When we were down, they [the Egyptian soldiers] were the ones who said hya ‘ala el kifah. . . . They bore arms and proclaimed that they were willing to sacrifice their lives for Egypt.” The writer of the song seems to have deliberately written the phrase hya ‘ala el kifah or “rise up to the struggle” in a manner that resembles the phrase hya ‘ala el falah or “rise up to success,” which is repeated twice in the azan. This was then followed by several images of Sisi while one of the singers sang: “When were completely lost, we heard a warm voice saying we [the Egyptian soldiers] will never harm the Egyptian people. The one who said so [Sisi] was such a sturdy man.” Therefore, this segment of the song seems to be describing the year in which Morsi was president, as a time when the Egyptian people were completely lost. But this same phrase may have also had a broader meaning. At the time, many Egyptians were fed up of the state of political turmoil the country had been plunged into since the 25th of January Revolution, and they were desperate for all of this to come to an end,

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and for stability to be restored in the country. Thus, Sisi’s ethos was again bolstered by implying that he was a savior or the man who could and would bring an end to the turmoil and restore stability. For Sisi was described as someone who was very warm, who cared deeply about the Egyptian people and would never harm them. After that, the song went on to say: “I swear that you have done a great job . . . [Sisi] you have always been amin. . . . May God protect you [Sisi] and your brothers, Amen.” Therefore, Sisi was described as honest or trustworthy using the Islamic term amin. This was then followed with a plea to God to protect Sisi and his “brothers,” the other Egyptian soldiers. But after praising Sisi and the Egyptian army as a whole at length for ousting Morsi, the song then returned to the October War once more. For the next part of the song praised Egyptian mothers for bearing the brave Egyptian soldiers who fought during the October War. It is precisely this shifting back and forth between the October War and the events of post–June 30 Egypt, which seems to be a clear attempt to make the locus of the October War become the locus of the events that were ongoing in post–June 30 Egypt. Thus, it seems to have been an attempt to construct the site of action in post–June 30 Egypt along the lines of the stable experience of the October War. In other words, the song seemed to be saying that by ousting Morsi from power and forcefully dispersing the Rabaa sit-in, the Egyptian Armed Forces was acting as a savior, protector and guardian of the nation, in the same way that it had done during the October War. Their performance in both cases was couched in religious discourse again and again throughout the song. Another important example in this regard was the allusion to the following hadith “istawso bi ahl masr khairan fa in fiha khair agnad elard” or “Be good to the Egyptian people, for the best soldiers on earth are to be found in it.” This was done using the phrase “Bless your hands to those who have fulfilled their promises, they are the ones whom God has described as kheirt elgonod.” Therefore, the song seemed to be arguing that God was the one who described the Egyptian soldiers as kheirt elgonod, or the best soldiers, even though this notion was actually referred to in a hadith and not in the Quran itself. In fact, one of the apparent masterminds behind the anachronism between the October War and the Sisi regime actually made an interesting statement about to it in a televised interview. “I don’t want the Israelis to gloat on the man [Sisi] who defeated them in 73,” were the exact words of Amr Mostafa, a composer and singer who composed countless regime-sponsored nationalist songs since June 30 and to date. This is a rather astonishing statement given that Sisi was a nineteen-year-old student at the Secondary Aviation School when the 1973 war broke out. Another clear indication of how this anachronism seems to have been deliberate is a quote from Ahmed Fahmy, an actor and singer who acted as a presenter at the celebration of the October War in

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2018. In the presence of Sisi, Fahmy proclaimed: “We were victorious on the 6th of October 1973 and today history is repeating itself. The Egyptian soldiers are making equally glorious [achievements].” Fahmy then went on to say “They are stationed on our borders and protecting Sinai . . . . They are sacrificing their lives so that Egypt and its people can continue to live safely and in peace.” Indeed, this anachronism between the October War and the Sisi regime was repeated in several other songs, as subsequent sections of the book chapter will illustrate. These sections are divided into three main sections, each of which seeks to identify and elaborate on one of the narrative ideological effects of the constitutive rhetoric of the songs under study. But prior to doing so, it is important to point out that this analysis is based on Kenneth Burke’s theorization of identification, because it enables researchers to arrive at a more theoretical understanding of the power of discourse. According to Burke, subjects are not audiences who are then persuaded by a political ideology. Instead, the subjects are participants “in the very discourse by which they would be ‘persuaded’ ” and they even go as far as embodying the discourse in question (Charland 1987: 133–134). Furthermore, to use Althusser’s terminology “subjects are ‘interpellated’ as political subjects through a process of identification in rhetorical narratives that always already presume the constitution of subjects” (Charland 1987: 134). THE SECOND IDEOLOGICAL EFFECT: PRESENTING EGYPT’S GLORIOUS PHARAONIC PAST AS AN EXTENSION TO THE SISI REGIME “Once [upon a time] 30 million people had the same goal . . . . They overcame their fear and demonstrated [on June 30 because] they put their love for Egypt before everything else.” While Abdel Hakim sang this untitled song in the celebration of the October War in 2013, she was surrounded by mixed gender dancers dressed in loose fitting garments that were made to look almost exactly like the Egyptian flag. Except that in some of the costumes, the yellow eagle that is found in the middle of the flag had been replaced with various pharaonic symbols, such as the pyramids, the key of life and Nefertiti. In fact, it is difficult not to be struck by how the pyramids acted as the main backdrop of almost all of the songs under study. In addition, the pyramids were also a focal point of the celebration in which Abdel Hakim performed this song. As previously mentioned, this was the first major public state event attended by Sisi after the popularly backed coup. It is simply inconceivable that anyone could not have noticed the large pyramid that had been constructed to span the entire backdrop of the stage upon which this celebration

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was performed. Therefore, it is safe to conclude that Egypt’s pharaonic history seems to have been deliberately and systematically invoked in regimesponsored nationalist songs in post–June 30 Egypt. This repeated usage of the pyramids seems to be a perfect example of how representational effects are a crucial component of narratives (Charland 1987: 139). The pyramids are a clear and indicative visual representation of Egypt’s pharaonic history, which can be easily incorporated into any song with very little effort, in order to apparently create a link between the Sisi regime and Egypt’s pharaonic past. The link in question seems to be presenting the past as an extension of the present, by making use of the notion of a transhistorical subject. Indeed, this is the second ideological effect of constitutive rhetoric. Since the history of any people offer[s] a “consubstantiality,” to use Burke’s expression, between the dead and the living, . . . time is collapsed as narrative identification occurs . . . to prove the existence of a collective agent . . . that transcends the limitations of individuality at any historical moment and transcends the death of individuals across history. (Charland 1987: 140)

Therefore, the implication of the narrative presented in the regime-sponsored nationalist songs seems to be that the Egyptian people are a transhistorical collective subject or agent, who built the pyramids thousands of years ago and they—the very same group of people—will now rebuild their nation, under Sisi’s leadership. Indeed, rebuilding the nation was one of the main themes of the songs under study, as subsequent sections of the book chapter will illustrate. Furthermore, placing the struggle to rebuild the nation in post– June 30 Egypt in this historical context “naturalizes the struggle [and] . . . it becomes a matter of destiny” (Slakr 1999: 110). Indeed, after the excerpt of the song by Abdel Hakim, which was quoted at the beginning of this section, she then went on to sing “our destiny was at stake and we made the same decision.” This brings us to how the songs also seemed to rally the Egyptian people under the banner of the flag in order to constitute a collective community, in what can be described as the first ideological effect of constitutive rhetoric. THE FIRST IDEOLOGICAL EFFECT: USING THE EGYPTIAN FLAG TO CONSTITUTE A “COLLECTIVE SUBJECT” Another element of the songs under study, which cannot be missed, is how the Egyptian flag was visually featured multiple times in all of the songs

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under study without exception. For example, during live events such as the inauguration of the New Suez Canal, every single member of the children’s choir and all three of the adult singers who performed during the event held small Egyptian flags in their hands. Meanwhile, in the celebration of the October War in 2013, an Egyptian flag was periodically projected on each side of the large pyramid, which spanned the background of the stage upon which the celebration was performed, while an even larger flag was projected behind the pyramid itself so that it seemed to be surrounding the pyramid. Another example is how in tazim salam, the children’s choir who performed the song were dressed in the colors of the Egyptian flag, and in certain parts of the song, they all held Egyptian flags high-up as they sang. Meanwhile, the song al baraka featured people from all walks of life in different parts of the country swaying to the music and waving large Egyptian flags along the way. This repeated and evidently deliberate usage of the flag seems to have been an attempt to use the Egyptian flag as a material and symbolic resource to constitute the Egyptian people as a unified and coherent community, or a collective subject. To use Burke’s terminology, it seems to have been an attempt to achieve an “ultimate identification,” which transcends any divisive differences between a people, based on individual or class concerns and interests, in order to constitute a collective subject (Charland 1987: 139). Indeed, the songs under study included multiple verbal and visual constitutions of the Egyptian people as a unified and coherent community, despite their regional and class differences, as well as their different religious affiliations. A notable example is the song toba fo’ toba. Standing in front of the pyramids, Maher sang, “let’s unify our direction. . . . Bring your flag along with you. . . . We will not stop until we raise the banner once more.” While she sang a large number of men, women, and children of both genders, from various age groups and from all walks of life, made their way up what seemed to be an incomplete pyramid. Many of them were holding large Egyptian flags. They included a young man wearing a half boot which seemed to resemble those worn by Egyptian soldiers, a man wearing the attire of sheikhs, several middle-aged men wearing galbya, which indicates that they come from a rural background, a middle-aged woman with colored hair wearing a tight-fitting blouse and elegant sunglasses, a skinny teenager with long black loose hair wearing tight-fitting pants, a middle-aged woman wearing a abbaya or loose-fitting gown and a hijab or head covering, and a young man wearing the attire of Nubians, which is an ethnic group that lives in southern Egypt. In other words, the song seems to be calling on all Egyptians to shed their differences and unite around the Egyptian flag. In addition, many other songs alluded to the importance of national unity between Muslims and Christians. For example, part of the song

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masr om eldonia went as follows: “During the Maghreb azan I can hear the [Church] bells saying to the Mosque that Jesus is fasting with sedna Mohamed. Make that clear to those who want to occupy [Egyptian] territory.” Therefore, this phrase uses multiple religious allusions to paint a very rosy picture of how Egyptian Muslims and Christians are wholeheartedly united. It describes an imaginary scene, which supposedly takes place when the call for Maghreb prayer is made during the holy month of Ramadan, which is when Muslims break their fast every evening. According to the song, during that moment the Church bells tell Mosques that Jesus himself—and not just Egyptian Christians—is fasting not only with Egyptian Muslims but also with sedna Mohamed himself. The word sedna is Arabic for master and is commonly used in Egypt to refer to Prophet Mohamed. In other words, the songs went to great lengths to constitute the Egyptian people as a collective subject. Doing so enables people to understand the ongoing events through the prism of “a transcendental collective interest that negates individual interest” (Charland 1987: 139). Therefore, the reasoning behind constituting the Egyptian people as a coherent community or a collective subject seemed to have been to provide a prism for the Egyptian people to perceive post–June 30 Egypt as a time when it was absolutely necessary for the Egyptian people to shed their differences and come together for the benefit of all. As McGee put it, “Individuals must be seduced into abandoning their individuality” (1975: 242). As several researchers have noted, the idea that a group of people constitute a unified and coherent community or a collective subject is a myth or a mass fantasy (Charland 1987: 139; McGee 1975: 244). Furthermore, as Stuart Hall has argued such an identification is “contingent on the imperfect projection of commonality with another person or group” (Sklar 1999: 107). Indeed, that is precisely why material or symbolic resources—such as the Egyptian flag—are so crucial in the process of constituting and sustaining “the people” as a collective subject (Sklar 1999: 107). However, the process of consolidating the identity of the collective subject also includes exclusion. As Hall has argued, constituting “the people is a process . . . [which] operates across difference, it entails discursive work, the binding and marking of symbolic boundaries, the production of ‘frontier effects.’ It requires what is left outside, its constitutive outside to consolidate the process” (cited in Sklar 1999: 107). Indeed, many of the songs under study seemed to be excluding the Muslim Brotherhood by implying that they are enemies who were trying to destroy the nation, and therefore are no different than the enemies the Egyptian Armed Forces were fighting against in the October War.

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In the song tazim salam, images of the children’s choir—dressed in colors of the Egyptian flag—were shifted back and forth between two different backgrounds; the pyramids and the administrative building of the Suez Canal. In addition, the lyrics of the song included the phrase “history attests to who we [the Egyptians] are.” Therefore, this seem to have been an attempt to present Egypt’s pharaonic history as an extension to the Sisi regime, in order to give credibility to the New Suez Canal project. In addition, the song seemed to be repeating the anachronism between the Sisi regime and the October War through the phrase “The Egyptians have survived countless hardships and transformed them into victories.” This was done in the context of talking about an enemy that was causing fitan, the plural of fitna, which is an Islamic word, which means strife: “We will show your enemy and all those who betrayed you just who we are . . . the Egyptians! . . . Your enemy and mine is causing fitan. Nas menena are standing up for him [the enemy].” Therefore, the enemy in question seems to be no other than the Muslim Brotherhood, who seems to be constructed as an equivalent to the enemy that the Egyptian Armed Forces was fighting against in the October War, hence the phrase, “They [the Egyptian Armed Forces] will always be our nation’s protectors till the end of time.” In addition, the members of the Muslim Brotherhood seemed to be constructed as strangers, as opposed to the members of the Egyptian Armed Forces who are described as nas menana or our very own people. This in itself excludes the members of the Muslim Brotherhood from the Egyptian identity. In other words, the song seems to be saying that in 2013–2014, the Egyptian Armed Forces was protecting Egypt against the strangers or the internal enemy—the Muslim Brotherhood who was causing fitan—in the same way that it had defended Egypt against an external enemy during the October War. All of this was further bolstered with an allusion to the Quranic verse about Egypt “idkholo misr inshaAllah amenin” or “Enter Egypt and God willing, you shall be safe [and sound].” This was done by repeating the following phrase in the song: “Even God has said enter Egypt and you shall be safe and sound.” Furthermore, one of the members of the choir held his hands up in prayer, on one of the occasions in which this phrase was repeated. In fact, this Quranic verse was repeatedly alluded to in several different ways in a number of other songs. For example, the song masr om eldonia included the following phrase: “With its free [people] its Azhar, and its artistic [productions] she [Egypt] has recovered the [true] meaning of the [Quranic] verse. . . . This is the Egypt that we know, [the one that] God has honored in His book.” Therefore, this time the Quranic verse seemed to have been used to constitute the Muslim Brotherhood as a religiously misconstrued group who was harming the nation, and it was Egypt’s free people—who demonstrated on June 30—Egyptian artists, and the Azhar who thwarted their

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evil plan with God’s help because “No one can cause Egypt harm after God almighty has done her justice,” as the song went on to say. In addition, the allusion to Al Azhar is in itself an important religious invocation that cannot be overlooked. This is because Al Azhar is not only the official religious establishment in Egypt, as previously stated, but it has always been “the principal instrument of educational and religious consensus,” since the founding of the Egyptian republic (Caridi 2015: 3). Furthermore, the Muslim Brotherhood was constituted as enemies or strangers in several other songs. For example, the song performed by Abdel Hakim included the following phrase “do not trust strangers, [don’t trust] strangers or the enemy, only trust elminak and those who share the same burden.” Elminak is a derivative of nas menena, so it again seems to imply that only the Egyptian Armed Forces are included in the Egyptian identity, while the Muslim Brotherhood members are excluded. Another example is the song al baraka, which included the phrase “everything will be just fine due to our efforts in spite of our enemies, our sturdy men will take are of [them].” In fact, referring to the Egyptian Armed Forces as sturdy men is in itself a repetition from the song teslam elayadi, and from several other songs for that matter. However, the construction of the collective subject of the Egyptian people while—excluding the Muslim Brotherhood—does not stop there, but it has practical ramifications in the form of social action. This is because as McGee has argued, a myth is a rhetorical phenomenon, a mass fantasy in which adults take action, or in the words of Sorel “myths are not descriptions of things, but expressions of a determination to act” (cited in McGee 1975: 244). In fact, this is the third ideological effect of the constitutive narrative presented in the songs under study. THE THIRD IDEOLOGICAL EFFECT: USING THE POWER OF “PEOPLEHOOD” IN A POLITICAL MYTH TO ENTICE SOCIAL ACTION In fact, the important role played by “the people” in Morsi’s ouster was alluded to in some of the songs that were produced shortly after June 30. A notable example was the opening statement of an untitled song that was performed by Abdel Hakim in the celebration of the October War in 2013; “Once [upon a time] 30 million people had the same goal, [they sought the same] solution. They overcame their fear and demonstrated [on June 30 because] they put their love for Egypt before everything else. Our destiny was at stake and we made the same decision; if you love Egypt, we must all come together.” Therefore, this song is not only an example of “how the

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rhetorical function of the concept of ‘the people’ can be used in a rhetorical argument which is designed to warrant social action,” but it is also an illustrative example of the “real and evocative power” of the concept of peoplehood (Sklar 1999: 106; McGee1975: 239). In fact, the power of the concept of peoplehood was a focal point of many of the songs produced in post–June 30 Egypt, and it was repeatedly used in arguments that warranted further social action. For example, in the song seyadat elmowaten, which was also performed in the celebration of the October War in 2013, “the people’s” role in Morsi’s ouster was highly valorized by phrases like “Oh your excellency the son of Egypt [and] its citizen, oh you the one who has always been free” and “I am here to deliver a message to your excellency . . . when Egypt calls your excellency, your excellency must answer her call.” After that “the people” are beseeched to “keep up the hard work, for [we] still have a long way to go” to rebuild the nation. This argument was couched in religious terms, because this plea was followed by the phrase: “All you have to do is say oh God [please help us] and surely God will [help us] complete [our endeavors].” This was immediately followed by another religious allusion: “If you take on a amana I have no doubt that you are up to it. . . . Egypt! Long live Egypt!” In other words, rebuilding the nation is described using the Islamic concept of amana, which implies that the Egyptian people are honest and capable of handling this trusteeship. Indeed, many of these themes were reiterated in the song toba fo’ toba. Standing in front of the pyramids, Maher sang: “Build [the nation] one block at a time. . . . All that was broken can be fixed . . . . Keep building [the nation] as long as you are hopeful, keep building [the nation] until life comes to an end.” After that, the song went on to say: “Let’s chant, repeat after me: we will build [our nation] one block at a time! . . . You are the one who is going to elevate your country’s status, and you will be so proud of her.” In other words, the songs of post–June 30 Egypt seemed to be offering the collective subject—or the Egyptian people—with the opportunity to participate in the collective political project of rebuilding the nation (Charland 1987: 142). The appeal to “the people” in an argument like this makes it less important to appeal to reason or to provide sufficient evidence to support the argument being made (McGee 1975: 237). For clearly the songs provided nothing but pathos in the form of sentimental nationalist slogans regarding how the nation would be built. However, subsequent songs seemed to embody just how effective this rhetorical argument that centered around the power of “peoplehood” was. A case in point were the songs performed two years later during the inauguration of the “New Suez Canal.” Part of the first song, og’neyt atfal masr—tahya masr, was as follows: “Long live Egypt is a slogan that was raised by every Egyptian during times of victory. . . . We dug [the New Suez Canal] and we

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were determined to face all odds.” This was followed by a religious allusion in the phrase “Akhlasna in our efforts and our nawaya and the Canal is just the beginning.” Nawaya is the plural of niya, which means intention and aklhasna means sincere. This is an allusion to an Islamic concept, which connotes that God accepts or blesses a person’s efforts only if his or her intention is sincere. This was then was followed by an allusion to Egypt’s pharaonic past through the following phrase, which was sung in English “We’re the sons of the pharos and we’re proud to be Egyptians.” In addition, the song also constructed the Egyptian people as unstoppable through the following phrase which was also sung in English “in Egypt you will meet no impossible.” In fact, all of these arguments were repeated in the following song agyal. It started off by describing the completion of the New Suez Canal as a victory: “The dream has come true for the whole world to see. Tonight [the whole world] is watching closely . . . let’s go Egypt! . . . Victory! Egypt is victorious tonight!” This victory was couched in the same religious concept used in the previous song: “We were determined, nawena el niya and the people have presented this gift to their nation. They withstood such difficult times in front of the whole world.” Nawena el niya again means that the Egyptian people were sincere in their efforts while completing this project. This was then followed by an allusion to Egypt’s pharaonic past, just like in the first song: “When the Egyptian people put their minds to something, they are unstoppable. . . . This should come as no surprise [because] they are the descendants of the pharos and they are simply restoring their glory.” Furthermore, the song alludes to both the power of peoplehood and the notion of a collective subject through the phrase: “Just pass by the Canal and you will see for yourself what they have achieved due to their love for Egypt. When we stand united, we have nothing to fear and we cannot be broken.” In addition, the song also noted that “the Canal is Egyptian, it was built by the Egyptians, it was funded by the Egyptians and the masterminds behind it are Egyptian.” Indeed, shortly after Sisi had announced the launch of the New Suez Canal project a year earlier, millions of Egyptians from all age groups and from all walks of life willingly and happily flocked to invest their money in this project which cost $8.2 billion. Almost all of this money came from the ranks and file of the Egyptian public (Armburst 2019: 224). Drawing from their personal savings to fund Sisi’s alleged grand nationalist project was one of the main forms of political action taken by the people in post–June 30 Egypt. By doing so, the people actively participated in the discourse addressing them and their actions illustrate that “were successfully interpellated into political subjects” (Slakr 1999: 108, 119). As McGee skillfully put it, the action of the Egyptian people illustrates how “masses of persons begin to respond to a [political] myth, not only be exhibiting collective behavior, but

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also by publicly ratifying the transaction wherein they give up control over their induvial destinies for the sake of a dream” (McGee 1975: 243). Indeed, the lyrics of both of these songs clearly paint a picture of the Egyptian people as invincible, which is not an unusual way of abusing the power of the concept of “peoplehood” in politics. For “the people” are portrayed as omnipotent, “a collective force which transcends both individuality and reason” (McGee 1975: 238). In the words of John Locke, “They are powerful in a way no army can match” (cited in McGee 1975: 238). In fact, this is a perfect example of what Borman has argued is using the notion of “the people” to legitimizing a collective fantasy. According to Borman, “The people, therefore . . . are a fiction dreamed by an advocate and infused with an artificial, rhetorical reality by the agreement of an audience to participate in a collective fantasy” (cited in McGee 1975: 238). Furthermore, these two songs continued to repeat the anachronism between the October War and the Sisi regime by apparently trying to constitute the completion of the New Suez Canal as a victory that resembled that of the October War. This was done through the phrase “Long live Egypt is a slogan that was raised by every Egyptian during times of victory” in the first song, as well as the phrase “Egypt is victorious tonight!” in the second song. In addition, in these two songs, the power of the concept of “peoplehood” was further bolstered by the allusions to Egypt’s pharaonic history, which seems to have been strategically deployed in order to interpellate “audience members into the discourse and thus require[e] them to act . . . for the preservation of the collective” (Slakr 1999: 110). Yet another religious allusion was describing the alleged revenue and prosperity the New Suez Canal would bring using the Islamic term rizk halal in the song agyal, as well as the phrase “As long as our niya is good, surely God will help us and fi el rizk baraka” in the song al baraka. Rizk is a religious term used to refer to any form of income, monetary or otherwise, that supports a person—or a nation’s—livelihood. Meanwhile, halal is an Islamic term, which means permissible from a religious point of view. Therefore, the implication in both songs seems to be that since the Egyptian people’s niya in building the New Suez Canal was sincere, the rizk that this project would bring would not only be halal, but it would be plentiful because God will bestow baraka on it, meaning that God would bless it. However, the interpellated subject’s participation in the New Suez Canal project is actually a perfect example of the third ideological effect of constitutive rhetoric, in which the subject is given a sense of illusionary freedom. This point will be further elaborated upon shortly, but prior to that, an overview of how the songs included an enthymeme, which seems to have been used to indirectly legitimize the reinstatement of military rule in Egypt, is necessary. In fact, the songs under study included an enthymeme, which followed Bitzer’s scenario; “the rhetor argues A so C, with the audience filling in

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the missing B to understand how the connection between A and C could be asserted” (Conley 1984: 170). However, the enthymeme can only work if the missing premise is one which can be easily filled in by the interpellated subjects (Conley 1984: 170). So far, the songs have indeed provided A and so C; the Egyptian Armed Forces protected and safeguarded the nation in the October War, and so it was only natural that it would stand up for the internal enemy—the Muslim Brotherhood—in 2013 and protect and safeguard the nation once again. It is now up to the interpellated subject to fill in B. But as Conley has argued the interpellated subjects “cannot ‘supply’ the appropriate missing part unless they have themselves been supplied with it . . . in the discourse they have already just heard . . . very little is in fact left unsaid . . . for the listeners to supply on their own” (Conley 1984: 175). In fact, the songs have indeed indirectly supplied the missing part and they have in fact left very little unsaid. All of this started very early on with teslam elayadi. In the segment of the song that has been previously quoted, after praising Sisi and the Egyptian Armed Forces as a whole for ousting Morsi, the song went to say about Sisi: “wala you have fulfilled the yamin.” Wala is a colloquial way of saying “I swear in Allah’s name” and yamin is an Islamic term meaning oath. Although the lyrics of teslam elayadi do not clarify what the oath in question is about, this terminology was repeated in tazim salam and it provided far more clarification. After praising the Egyptian Armed Forces for standing up for the “enemy who is causing fitan,” the song went on to say: “They will always be our nation’s protectors till the end of time. They halfin yamin that they are responsible for us.” Halfin is an Islamic word that means to take an oath. Therefore, what the song seems to be saying is that the Egyptian Armed Forces are responsible for the Egyptian people, that is, have the right to rule over them, and this responsibility—or rule—is justified using Islamic discourse. This argument was then taken a step further by other songs. In seyadet el mowaten, after calling on “your excellency the Egyptian citizen . . . to keep up the hard work,” the song goes on to say: “Your excellency the [Egyptian] citizen, you must be [fully] prepared to continue to work hard and if the burden is too heavy, let me handle it.” It is not unreasonable to assume that “me” refers to the Egyptian Armed Forces, especially given the following part from toba fo’ toba: “Build [the nation] one block at a time. Egypt maktoba for my son, my son and yours and I like how you are participating in building [the nation] with me. All that was broken can be fixed, [the fact that] you are participating [in building the nation with me] is rejoicing.” Maktoba is an Islamic term that means that God has allocated possession of something to a certain person. Therefore, the song seems to be saying that God has allocated Egypt to the sons of the members of the Egyptian Armed Forces first, and then to the rest of the Egyptian people. In other words, it again seems to be implying that

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the Egyptian Armed Forces have the right to rule over the Egyptian people and this argument is again bolstered with religious discourse. Therefore, the songs seem to be implying that Egyptian Armed Forces will rebuild the nation anyway, and it is merely asking the rest of the Egyptian people to participate in the nation building project. Hence, the phrase “if the burden is too heavy, let me handle it,” in seyadet el mowaten, or let the Egyptian Armed Forces handle it, let them rebuild the nation, let them rule the country. Therefore, these songs seem to have collectively provided the missing element of the enthymeme, which the Egyptian subject is expected to fill in; since the Egyptian Armed Forces safeguarded and protected the nation during the October War, so it was only natural that it protected and safeguarded it again in 2013, and that is why it has the right to rule the country. This is also why the notion that the Egyptian people were freely participating in the collective political project of rebuilding the nation, was illusionary. This is because, as Charland has argued, the characters in the narrative are positioned and not free, and the ending of the narrative has already been written. Therefore, the “subject is constrained to follow through, to act so as to maintain the narrative’s consistency. . . . [The] subject must be true to the motives through which the narrative constitutes them.” Thus, the characters can only act in accordance with the logic and the motives of the narrative, which they have been narrativized into, but they are presented as “freely acting towards a predetermined and fixed ending” (1987: 141–142). CONCLUSION Therefore, this book chapter has argued that the Sisi regime seems to have used nationalist songs to disseminate a rhetorical argument, which capitalizes on the power of peoplehood in order to warrant a specific form social action to facilitate its rise to power. In order to achieve this, the songs constituted the Egyptian people as a coherent and unified community who were united under the banner of the Egyptian flag, while excluding the Muslim Brotherhood from this community by constituting them as an enemy who was no different than the enemy the Egyptian Armed Forces had protected the nation from during the October War, a war that was repeatedly alluded to using allusions to the Quran and hadith. In addition, the unified community of the Egyptian people was simultaneously constituted as a transhistorical collective subject who had built the pyramids thousands of years ago, and was now interpellated into participating in the mythical project of rebuilding the nation and restoring its past glory—with God’s help. Hence, the interpellated subject of the Egyptian

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people took the political action of investing their personal money in the New Suez Canal project, which would bring halal rizk and baraka to the country as a whole. Hence, the songs seemed to be saying that since the Egyptian Armed Forces was responsible for the Egyptian people through the yamin it had taken, and it had achieved the comparable victories of the October War—which was couched in religious terms—it had thwarted the evil and religiously misconstrued plot of the Muslim Brotherhood, and had built the New Suez Canal—with a good niya—it therefore deserved to rule the country. And since Sisi—who had been elevated to near martyr status and whose words had been portrayed as gospel truth—was the one who had led the Egyptian Armed Forces in all of these ‘victories’, he therefore deserved to be president. REFERENCES Armburst, Walter. “The Republic of Precarity: ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Sisi’, Trickster Politician.” In The Scandal of Continuity in Middle East Anthropology, edited by Judith Scheele and Andrew Shryock (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2019): 210–233. Charland, Maurice. “Constitutive Rhetoric: The Case of the Peuple Quebecois.” The Quarterly Journal of Speech 73, no. 2 (May 1987): 133–150. Conley, Thomas M. “The Enthymeme in Perspective.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 70 (1984): 168–185. Fahmy, Ziad. “Media Capitalism: Colloquial Mass Culture and Nationalism in Egypt, 1908–1918.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 42 (2010): 83–103. Kingsely, Patrick. “Egypt’s Rabaa Massacre: One Year On.” The Guardian, Saturday 16 August 2014. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​guard​​ian​.c​​om​/wo​​rld​/2​​014​/a​​ug​/16​​/raba​​a​-mas​​sacre​​ -egyp​​t​-hu​m​​an​-ri​​ghts-​​watch​. McGee, Michael. “In Search of ‘The People’: A Rhetorical Alternative.” The Quarterly Journal of Speech 61, no. 3 (October 1975): 235–250. Mostafa, Dalia Said. “Popular Culture and Nationalism in Egypt: ‘Arab Lutfi and Egyptian Popular Music.” Journal for Cultural Research 2–3, no.16 (April–July 2012): 261–282. Nassar, Gamal. “Commentary: Coup in Turkey and Egypt: Internal and External Dynamics.” Insight Turkey 18, no. 3 (Summer 2016): 55–69. Shaalan, Mohmaed. “We [Have] Determined Where Egypt’s Presidents Were During the October War: Mubarak [Was] Air Force Commander, Sisi Was a Student at the Faculty of Engineering, Adly Mansour [Was] Rotating Between the [Ministries of] Foreign Affairs and Justice and El Sisi Was [a Student] at the Secondary Aviation School” “Narsod amaken tawagod ro’sa misr khilal harb October: ‘Mubarak’ kaed li el kowat el gaweya . . . wa Morsi taleb bi koleyet el handasa .. wa Adly Mansour bayn ‘al kharigeya’ wa ‘al adl’ .. wa ‘El Sisi’ bi el thanaweya el gaweya” Al Youm Al Sabe’, Wednesday 1 October 2014. https://www​.youm7​.com​/story​/2014​/10​/1/.

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Sklar, Alissa. “Contested Collectives: The Struggle to Define the “We” in the 1995 Quebec Referendum.” The Southern Communication Journal 2, no. 64 (Winter 1999): 106–122. Sobhy, Hania. “Secular Façade, Neoliberal Islamization: Textbook Nationalism from Mubarak to Sisi.” Nations and Nationalism 4, no. 21 (2015): 805–824.

Chapter 7

To Splinter and Split Mapping the Use of the Term “Evangelical” on Twitter in the Age of Trump Emily Murphy Cope, Holland Prior, Jeff Ringer, and Megan Von Bergen

Prior to the November 2016 election, the term “evangelical” and its variants (evangelicals, evangelicalism) faced no shortage of contention concerning their complicated meanings. Historical investigations had led to long-standing theological definitions (Bebbington 2005) that were then brought into question by crises of authority within the movement(s) labeled by the term (Worthen 2013). Some scholars or prominent evangelicals held out hope for the term (Balmer 2010; Cope and Ringer 2014; Steiner 2009), while others called for its abandonment (Claiborne 2019; Hatch 1990). Timothy Beal (2010) may have said it best when he observed that “as soon as evangelicalism becomes a subject, it splinters and splits.” But if the term had already splintered and split by the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century, then the election of Donald Trump only deepened those rifts. Despite the gap between his own personal life and evangelical behavioral norms, Trump received 81 percent of the white evangelical vote (Fea 2018), prompting scholars, evangelicals, and journalists to contend with an even more fractured terminological landscape. With terms like “xvangelical” (Mannon 2019), “postevangelical,” (Claiborne 2019), and “Trump evangelical” (Gerson 2018) emerging, that landscape has grown more divided than ever, especially along lines of race, class, gender, and political affiliation (Labberton 2019; Medhurst 2017; Kidd 2019). As a result, Labberton recently observed that many have declared the death of the term “evangelical,” largely because it has ceased to name anything in the way of religious identity and instead has become a “theo-political brand” (2019, 3). In this chapter, we consider whether the term “evangelical” is entirely ossified or whether conversations over its meanings are still productive. We 133

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explore this question by reporting the results of a study we conducted about how the term “evangelical” is used on one prominent social media platform that often serves as a proxy for public discourse: Twitter. After collecting 54,000 tweets that used the word evangelical during fall 2019, we analyzed a random sample of about 1,000. While some of our findings aligned with our expectations, others were unexpected. On the one hand, the term is used frequently by individuals who position themselves as outsiders to evangelicalism and who use the term primarily as a negative political designation. On the other hand, we found evidence of an important smaller trend within the tweets we collected. Twitter users who positioned themselves as insiders to evangelicalism often employ dissociative rhetoric as a means of challenging the term’s current political connotations (Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca 2008). In doing so, these insiders aim to reassert the term “evangelical” as a religious designation in ways that explicitly distance it from its current status as nearly synonymous with right-wing politics. Thus, we argue that while the term “evangelical” may indeed have splintered and split (Beal 2010; Claiborne 2019; Labberton 2019), such splintering has, at least in the context of the current political moment, resulted in inventional possibilities that are important for scholars of religious rhetorics to understand. Whether those inventional possibilities lead to any wide-scale reclamation of the term “evangelical” remains to be seen. What matters for scholars of religious rhetoric, though, is the fact that the term remains a vital site of inventional and rhetorical energy that is worthy of continued investigation. METHODS We begin with a brief statement of our positionality as researchers in relation to our subject of inquiry. We approach this phenomenon from a complicated, insider stances, as each of us was raised evangelical but have been forced to grapple with our identities in relation to that term in the years since. We grew up in different regions and in different Christian denominations, yet we each attended evangelical undergraduate institutions and consider ourselves familiar with the evangelical traditions we address here. We all still identify as Christians, but we find homes in various traditions, namely the Presbyterian (United States), Methodist, Episcopal, and Anglican traditions, some of which are understood to be outside of evangelicalism. In recent years, we have felt an increasing sense of conflict with the evangelical label. The 2016 election, in particular, marked a sharp turning point in our relationship with our evangelical history, as, despite our already-complicated relationship with the term, we were disturbed when people who purportedly shared our faith voted for

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someone whose words and actions were so at odds with our own Christian values. We were equally disturbed when evangelicals we knew personally clothed racism, heterosexism, and nationalism in Christian arguments. The widening gulf between what one Twitter user referred to as “Christian decency” and the political behaviors of prominent evangelicals sparked our interest in the research we present here. The questions we ask—How is the term “evangelical” used on Twitter in fall 2019, and what does that use imply about how it is defined?—follow from our own positionality, which, mapped onto the coding scheme we discuss below, collectively exists somewhere between insider and insider-past only. Given that positionality, we were aware of the potential of reading meanings into tweets that were not objectively present, and so we intentionally adopted a conservative approach to our coding. As such, it is likely that we underreport some trends in our findings. Setting We selected Twitter as the site for our inquiry for several reasons. Practically, tweets are publicly available and Twitter is easy to datamine. More importantly, Twitter is an appropriate site for this inquiry because the social media platform captures a large dataset that includes public conversations and arguments that deploy the term “evangelical.” Twitter constitutes a “modern public square” (Wojcik and Hughes 2019), and so analyzing tweets allows us to examine broad trends in how the term “evangelical” is used. As with all qualitative research, the findings of this study are limited by the choice of research site. While Twitter is a large, open social media platform, it is not necessarily representative of public conversations and perspectives. Studies of Twitter have demonstrated, for example, that Twitter can magnify the polarization that exists offline (Wojcik and Hughes 2019), and that retweeting functions can create discursive enclaves (Center 2018). Twitter users also do not always represent the broader population. In the United States, for instance, they tend to be younger, more educated, and more likely to identify as Democrats than the population at large (Wojcik and Hughes 2019). Despite these limitations, Twitter currently functions as a high-profile locus of public discourse in the United States, used regularly as a presidential platform and as a digital space where publics and counterpublics form (Warzel 2020). These digital spaces can have a profound impact on what Warzel recently called “real life,” because it has the power to form and sustain communities. Our decision to conduct this research in the fall of 2019 had more to do with our timeline for completing this project than with any salient public, political, or religious exigence. We were not seeking to analyze tweets about any particular event. In fact, as we discuss further, we randomly selected three days from a thirty-one-day period in early fall 2019 for data collection. In hindsight,

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though, we are able to name key exigencies around which our data collection happened to coincide. For instance, the news about Trump’s phone call with Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelenskiy, which triggered the impeachment process, broke on September 20, 2019, just days before our first round of tweet collecting (Sept. 24, 2019). Other exigences include the publication of historian Thomas Kidd’s (2019) book, Who Is an Evangelical? The History of a Movement in Crisis, to which many of our collected tweets responded. Data Collection and Analysis We collected tweets on three separate days during the fall of 2019. We chose to collect data on three separate dates because terms such as “evangelical” ebb and flow with the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Using an online random number generator, we selected three days from a thirty-one-day period in early fall 2019: September 24, October 3, and October 15. Because posting on Twitter peaks between 9:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. daily and also spikes on Tuesdays between 7:00 and 9:00 p.m. (Arens 2019), we collected tweets at 9:00 p.m. on each day of data collection. Using NCapture, a browser extension on Chrome that allows users to collect tweets and import them into NVivo, we collected a total of 53,296 tweets that contained some variant of the term “evangelical.”1 NVivo’s auto-code function allowed us to separate the corpus into two categories: tweets and retweets. Because we aimed to code a random sample of tweets, we wanted to make sure we were not coding a tweet that had been retweeted multiple times. Autocoding resulted in 16,577 tweets and 37,349 retweets. Coding 16,577 tweets still presented an enormous task, so we selected a random sample of 1,020 tweets (340 tweets per day) from the complete dataset.2 As we began data analysis, we noticed that a few tweets collected through NCapture did not actually include evangelical or its variants in the body of the tweet. Upon closer examination, many of these tweets linked to articles that include those terms. These tweets were coded as “No evangelical” and eliminated from further analysis. Two researchers added additional tweets from our randomized dataset to make up for the eliminated ones, while the other two researchers did not. Thus, we ultimately analyzed a total of 988 tweets, which still meets the minimum threshold for a sample size at the 99 percent confidence level (+/−4). We began analyzing the data using inductive, open coding methods including attribute, descriptive, In Vivo, and evaluation coding (Saldaña 2016). We each coded a small subset of tweets and then met to discuss the emerging themes and codes we used to examine the data. Together we developed a codebook and refined our coding scheme through three rounds of norming. While our codebook included several more codes than we present here, the focused coding categories presented in table 7.1 emerged as most salient.

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Focused Coding Categories

Category 1: Relationship to Evangelical/ism (One Code Per Tweet) Code

Researchers’ Definition

insider

Tweet constructs insider position as evangelical past or present. Tweeter points out past evangelical identity or experiences but clearly no longer identifies as evangelical. Tweeter constructs non-evangelical identity; defines self as not evangelical. It is unknown whether tweeter is insider or outsider to evangelicalism.

insider - past only outsider unknown

Category 2: Evaluation Coding (One Code Per Tweet) Code Researchers’ Definition positive Term “evangelical” is used positively. negative Term “evangelical” is used negatively. mixed Term “evangelical” is used explicitly with a combination of positivity and negativity. Tweet could be coded for both positive and negative. unknown Evaluation of term “evangelical” is unknown. Category 3: Topics (at Least One Code Per Tweet; Double Coding Possible) Code Researchers’ Definition religion Tweet is about religion. politics Tweet is about politics. neither or unknown Tweet is about topics other than religion or politics or unknown.

Once we reached substantial agreement in our coding practices, we then divided the corpus and completed the coding. Each research team member coded approximately 255 tweets. We continued to discuss our coding processes, especially when we encountered a tweet that did not seem to fit neatly into any of our categories. These discussions resulted either in coming to an agreement about how to code the tweet or revising our codebook. Again, given our own positionality and experiences with evangelicalism, we adopted a conservative approach to coding in order to avoid reading into the tweets meanings that might not have been there. We attempted to code as objectively as possible. As a result, we likely over coded tweets as unknown in the relationship and evaluation categories. We also likely overcoded tweets as neither or unknown in the topics category. During norming sessions, we elaborated this coding scheme to include criteria for inclusion and exclusion in each category. For example, in Category 1: Relationship to Evangelical/ ism, our inclusion and exclusion criteria included the use of pronouns to determine how tweeters positioned themselves in relation to evangelicalism (Ivanič 1998). Use of first-person or inclusive pronouns such as I, me, my,

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us, we, and our indicate an insider relationship to evangelicalism, while use of second- or third-person pronouns such as you, your, they, them, and their signal an outsider relationship to evangelicalism. Content coding for the topic of tweets proved to be just as challenging as coding for relationships to evangelical/ism and evaluation. Through norming, we worked to clarify working boundaries for defining politics and religion as topics in our corpus. Tweets coded as being about politics engaged with political institutions (e.g., the Trump presidency, speeches at the United Nations), topics of concern to political institutions (e.g., climate change), and tweets that replied to political actors or commentators. Tweets coded for religion mentioned religious institutions and groups, religious texts, or religious doctrine. In this third category, tweets could be coded simultaneously as both politics and religion. In instances when the tweet was about something other than religion or politics—or if we were uncertain as to what it was about—we coded it as neither or unknown. Beyond the challenge of defining coding categories for such porous concepts, data analysis was also challenging because we collected some tweets that originated outside the United States, including the United Kingdom and India. Among these tweets, the word “evangelical” was often used in nonpolitical or non-religious senses. Because our interest was in how evangelical is used in public discourse, we decided to code, rather than eliminate, these tweets. Many, though not all, of them were coded as unknown relationship and neutral/unknown evaluation, so that while they were included in the analysis, they had little impact on our findings about how evangelical is deployed in the particular socio-religious contexts subsequent to the 2016 election. Once we finished coding, we used matrix coding methods to examine relationships among codes and across categories. We also conducted a frequency analysis, identifying top terms within the entire corpus and our sample. RESULTS Our analysis reveals that during the fall of 2019, the term “evangelical” and its variants were frequently associated with political topics and valued negatively. The use of “evangelical” as a negative, political term was frequent among Twitter users who positioned themselves as outsiders to evangelicalism. While insiders deploy the terms with positive evaluations more frequently than outsiders, tweets composed by insiders are not universally or even overwhelmingly associated with positive evaluations. Table 7.2 presents our overall frequency of codes. The high frequency of unknown relationship (n = 687) and unknown evaluation (n = 533) reflects our conservative definitions and coding practices.

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Frequency

insider insider - past only outsider unknown

51 31 219 687

Category 2: Evaluation Coding Code positive negative mixed unknown

Frequency 19 423 13 533

Category 3: Topics Code religion politics neither or unknown

Frequency 477 618 155

These frequencies demonstrate how regularly Twitter users in fall 2019 cast evangelical as a negative term to which they position themselves as outsiders. Excluding tweets coded as insider/outsider unknown from Category 1, it becomes clear that most tweets using evangelical were composed by individuals who positioned themselves as outsiders to evangelicalism. Outsider tweets outnumber insider tweets by more than a 4-to-1 margin. Frequency patterns in Category 2 highlight the overwhelmingly negative connotations of the term “evangelical” in our corpus. While the largest number of tweets were coded as neutral or unknown in their evaluation of evangelicalism (n = 533), a large number were coded as negative (n = 422). Only nineteen tweets were coded as positive. Coding in Category 3 reveals that tweets using the term “evangelical” deal more frequently with political topics than religious, though not by wide margins. Out of 988 total tweets, more than half (n = 618) dealt with politics, fewer than half (n = 477) dealt with religion, and less than a fifth were coded neither or unknown (n = 155). Worth noting, though, is that significant overlap existed between religion and politics. A tweet can be about both politics and religion, so we applied simultaneous coding for these two topics when applicable. Roughly a quarter of the tweets we coded dealt with both politics and religion (n = 261). The following tweet serves as an example: Tweet 148 (@reneestandley1, October 15, 2019): I, respectfully, disagree. I have attended many evangelical churches which promote their political point of view from the pulpit and invite politicians to speak. Whether Republican

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or Democrat, there should be NO politicizing from the pulpit. Period. Teach Sermon on the Mount!

“Evangelical” as a Negative, Political Term Used by Outsiders What picture emerges, though, when accounting for what outsiders or insiders are writing about in their tweets? When Twitter users construct themselves as insiders or outsiders to evangelicalism, what value, if any, did they place on the term, and about which topics were they tweeting? Matrix coding revealed that the strongest pattern emerging from our analysis was the correlation between outsider and negative evaluation. As table 7.3 reveals, when Twitter users constructed themselves as outsiders to evangelicalism, they frequently tweeted about evangelicalism in negative terms (n = 171). By comparison, we coded few outsider tweets as neutral or unknown evaluation (n = 47) and none as mixed or positive. Outsiders frequently composed tweets that used the term “evangelical” in association with political topics (n = 156) and less frequently with religious topics (n = 96). This pattern suggests that, overall, outsiders value evangelicalism negatively and generally use it as a political term. Tweets with political topics were also coded as negative more frequently than were tweets about religion. Of the 616 tweets coded as politics, just under half (n = 289, 47 percent) were also coded as negative. Of the 475 tweets coded as religion, 193 (41 percent) were also coded as negative. To provide a more nuanced snapshot of this pattern and how these tweets speak of evangelicalism, we randomly selected 3 of the 171 tweets coded as outsider and negative. Because the first three came from only two of our three collection days, we added a fourth tweet from the third collection day. Those four tweets are displayed in table 7.4. Table 7.3 

Matrix Coding Relationships with Evaluation and Topic Codes

Code Evaluation Positive evaluation Negative evaluation Mixed evaluation Neutral or unknown evaluation Topic Politics Religion Neither or unknown

Insider (n = 51)

Insider-Past Only (n = 31)

Outsider (n = 219)

Unknown (n = 687)

13 9 7 21

0 20 1 10

0 171 0 47

6 222 5 452

16 37 8

6 25 6

156 96 28

438 317 112

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Sample Tweets Coded “Outsider” and “Negative”

Tweet & date

Datum

Codes

Tweet 2849 Sept. 24

Pompeo is nothing but an Evangelical mouthpiece in the Trump WH. Much like Pence, he isn’t going to say or do anything that isn’t in line with their dear leader Trump and his boss Putin. I don’t think Pompeo is capable of forming a thought or opinion of his own! https://t.co/mLP9nmnrbC

Outsider Negative Politics

Tweet 2029 October 3

A HEATED EXCHANGE W/MY “EVANGELICAL”? TRUMPLICAN NEPHEW RE: TRUMPS LIES, RACISM, CRUELTY, IDIOCY, RU$$IA TIES. HE ACCUSED ME! OF BEING HOSTILE, DIVISIVE (PASSION FOR HIM TO SEE DICTATOR TRUMP) I APOLOGIZED 4 HIS HURT, NOT MY VIEWS! HE’S PRAYING FOR ME. UM, DO I WANT THAT? https://t.co/hzohfhtAEs

Outsider Negative Politics

Tweet 1139 October 15

Read an article from an evangelical pastor saying that they love trump but are mad that not enough Christian refugees are being allowed to immigrate to the US. And I don’t think he’s ever going to get how fucked up that is.

Outsider Negative Politics Religion

Tweet 2800 October 15

@CharlesPPierce One of the things that make his “evangelical” supporters so suspect. Jesus said they can’t serve God and mammon AND that money is the root of all evil. And yet, here they are, adoring all that booty

Outsider Negative Politics Religion

These four tweets illustrate some of the key features of tweets composed by outsiders that we coded as negative. One feature is the use of demonstrative pronouns that signal an outsider relationship to evangelicalism. Phrases like “their dear leader” (Tweet 2849), “they love trump” (Tweet 1139), and “they can’t serve” (Tweet 2800) signify distance between tweeter and the evangelical population. A second feature is that all four tweets deal with political topics; in fact, all but one names Trump by name, while the fourth refers to him indirectly (e.g., “his ‘evangelical’ supporters”). A third feature is that all of these tweets either critique evangelicalism in some way or reference evangelicalism as part of its critique. Tweet 1139 illustrates the former, decrying as “fucked up” the fact that an evangelical pastor would love Trump but express anger that his administration is not admitting “enough Christian refugees” to the United States. Word Frequencies In order to triangulate our findings, we used NVivo to conduct a word frequency analysis of all tweets, excluding retweets, collected across all three

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Table 7.5 

Ten Most Frequent Terms across 16,577 Tweets

Rank

Word

Count

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Trump Christian Christians Church White People @realdonaldtrump Religious God Right

3,618 2,211 1,976 1,612 1,459 1,248 1,118 1,114 1,093 1,085

days (n = 16,577). While word counts do not provide context, they do offer a broad view of those terms that emerge frequently, which provides insight into topics associated with the term “evangelical.” We excluded the term “evangelical” and its variants. We also excluded terms with fewer than three characters, as well as non-topical terms like “https,” “one,” or “like.” We ran the frequency analysis by counting exact matches of words. The ten most frequent terms are reported in table 7.5. This table reveals a number of trends. One trend is that while the term “evangelical” is linked to religious terms such as Christians, church, and god, some of the most prominent terms are political: notably, “Trump” is the number one term. This prominence suggests that it is not uncommon for Twitter users to associate evangelicalism with Trump. A second notable association is the prominence of the word white, pointing toward the racial divides within theo-political evangelical practices. Notable absences are also worth commenting on. While evangelicalism does cluster with religious terms like church, God, Christian, and Christians, few terms from the list are directly associated with Jesus Christ. In fact, on the complete frequency list, Jesus ranks twentieth overall. Insiders: Distancing from and Renegotiating Evangelical Our matrix coding also allowed us to observe patterns in the tweets of evangelical insiders (n = 51). Tweets coded as insider revealed more complicated meanings of the term “evangelical” than those of outsiders. While outsider tweets conveyed a relatively consistent set of connotations (e.g., negative and political), our coding of insider tweets revealed a wider range of evaluation. As with the outsider tweets, we coded the majority of insider tweets as neutral (n = 21). However, as table 7.3 shows, tweets coded as insider were the only ones that we also coded as positive (n = 13), though we also did code insiders as negative (n = 9) or mixed (n = 7). These results suggest that evangelical insiders on Twitter experience and construct complicated relationships to the term.

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More specifically, our analysis revealed a pattern of insiders distancing themselves from certain aspects of American evangelicalism, groups of evangelicals, or meanings of the label. Examples of these patterns are discussed here. To illustrate the range of insider evaluations and the phenomenon of insider distancing, tables 7.6 provide samples of insider tweets that were Table 7.6  No./date

Sample Insider Tweets Tweet

Positive Evaluation @ArcDigi @ThomasSKidd Thank you, Thomas, for Tweet 5464 reminding the world that the primary definition of September #Evangelical is not racial or political, but related to 24 #JesusChrist and His call to live and proclaim the #Gospel. We must never allow our brothers and sisters of color to be marginalized or discounted.

Codes Insider Positive eval Religion Politics

I am a huge @MaxLucado fan. I have read ALL of his books. I am so grateful for this interview on @OnPointRadio with my sis @NPRMichel finally, an evangelical pastor who get’s it! Trump is NOT modeling Christian “deceny”. https://t.co/ ECkEQoBpXf #Evangelicals Negative Evaluation Tweet 2307 @VP @realDonaldTrump How is anyone persecuting Sept. 24 people of faith (so-called Evangelical Christians) in the United States? You need to get specific. You and your administration are acting so un-Christian it is sickening to us who are Christians. You need to openly repent and listen to the Holy Spirit.

Insider Positive eval Politics

Tweet 1442 October 15

@imillhiser @GreatDismal There are churches, and there are other (better) churches. Don’t tar us all with the same evangelical (a.k.a. borderline atheist) brush... Mixed Evaluation Tweet 5650 @CautiousLefty This. I’m an evangelical, and I really October 3 want to distance myself from evangelical pastors and people who do this. If anything, I hope they get called out so hard because I know they won’t change until they run out of power. Heck, they may even harden themselves, a problem, really.

Insider Negative eval Religion

Tweet 4923 Sept. 24

Insider Mixed eval Religion

Tweet 3276 October 15

@lukebbobo1 I grew up evangelical, surrounded by mostly white, middle income+ people (tho my dad, a pastor, made less), but my beliefs/experiences don’t always line up with the criticism that evangelicals receive. Took me a while to see diff between conviction and culture.

Insider Negative eval Politics Religion

Insider Mixed eval Neither or unknown (topic)

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coded as positive, negative, or mixed. We discuss insider tweets more fully in the Discussion section, but table 7.6 illustrates the range of tweets coded as insider with respect to the various evaluation and topical codes. Insider-Past Only: Former Evangelicals As we coded tweets for relationships to evangelicalism, we noticed that some tweeters positioned themselves as insiders of a certain kind, namely those who once identified with evangelicalism but no longer did so. Given the frequency and potential significance of this positionality, we developed a code called insider-past only. To fit this code, a tweeter would need to clearly reference having been an evangelical at some point in the past while asserting that they no longer affiliate with that designation. Such tweets generally use past tense verbs, may use a term like “leaving,” or reference a past self versus a current self. Examples of tweets coded as insider-past only are available in table 7.7. Table 7.7  No./date

Sample Tweets Coded Insider-Past Only Tweet

Codes

Tweet 1251 Sept. 24

@JoelMCurzon I’m sure I would. I don’t mean to dismiss anyone else’s feelings and I’m just talking about myself. I am glad I didn’t grow up in this church for many reasons. I was raised mostly baptist/evangelical and that had its own problems but I’ve seen big differences.

Insider (past only) Mixed eval Religion

Tweet 185 October 15

@j_winn11 Omg same. 10000x. I was a super conservative Evangelical Fundamentalist when I was in high school and it/me were awful.

Insider (past only) Negative eval Neither or unknown topic

Tweet 4721 October 3

@C_Stroop @kurteichenwald I remained devout, kept a prayer journal, but developed anxiety surrounding my relationship with God and never performing enough as an introvert with social anxiety disorder. I attended an evangelical university because I thought God wanted me to. It was awful. #emptythepews

Insider (past only) Negative eval Religion

Tweet 3728 October 15

Insider (past only) @sortareligious In my evangelical days back in Neutral/unknown eval college I had people tell me “Lutherans don’t believe the Bible” but there is far more Scripture Religion in our Sunday liturgy than in your average nondenom service. There, it’s often just the passage the pastor preaches on

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Frequencies for this code as they correspond with the different categories of evaluation are telling. We coded twenty tweets as insider-past only and negative evaluation; ten insider-past only tweets were coded as neutral or unknown. We only coded one insider-past only tweet as mixed evaluation, while none were coded as positive. These findings suggest that tweeters who construct identities as former evangelicals are generally critical of evangelicalism, at least in part but more likely in whole. That no former evangelicals reflect positively on evangelicalism should come as little surprise: there’s a reason why such individuals no longer affiliate with that term. DISCUSSION Overall, these findings provide empirical evidence that the term “evangelical” is often used negatively by outsiders as a political term. In that regard, our findings reflect research that identifies Twitter users as more liberal, educated, and secular on average than the general populace. It also suggests that evangelical scholars like Labberton (2019) may be warranted in their concerns about the state of evangelicalism. The term “evangelical” has, in their words, become a theo-political designation that, at least on Twitter in the fall of 2019, is not regarded highly. However, our findings also point to the presence of a vocal minority of Twitter users who position themselves as evangelical insiders. While these insiders do not unequivocally view or use evangelical positively, they do argue for different interpretations of the term and seek to distance evangelicalism from its current political associations. These insiders do so by employing dissociative rhetoric, which divides a single concept into multiple terms that can then be arranged into strategic values hierarchies for inventional purposes (Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca 2008; Fernheimer 2009). We discuss both phenomena more fully below. Outsiders: Evangelicalism Is Political and Negative As we noted in our findings, Twitter users who positioned themselves as outsiders to evangelicalism frequently understood the term “evangelical” and its variants as political designations that they valued negatively. Additionally, outsiders outnumbered insiders (including past-only insiders) by an almost 3:1 margin. Two related questions arise from this finding: why do outsiders outnumber insiders so dramatically, and why do outsiders view evangelicalism as largely political and negative? In response to the first question, it is likely that our results align with findings of studies that describe demographic trends on Twitter. Wojcik and Hughes (2019) found that Twitter users “are younger, more likely to identify

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as Democrats, more highly educated and have higher incomes than U.S. adults overall.” Given those demographic trends, along with the fact that evangelical Christians tend to be older and more politically conservative than the general populace, it seems safe to assume that Twitter users on average would be unlikely to identify as evangelical Christians. The response to the second question follows from the first: our findings reflect the current, deeply divided nature of politics within the United States in 2019. It is no secret that evangelicalism has been aligned with conservative politics generally and the Republican Party more specifically for decades, an alignment that has only deepened since Trump’s election (Balmer 2010; Labberton 2019; Medhurst 2017). And given the overwhelming evangelical support for Trump in the 2016 presidential election, it is no surprise that Twitter users who are more educated and politically liberal than the general populace would perceive evangelicalism as a political term that they view negatively. The Pew Research Center also provides insights that help explain the largely political and negative nature of the tweets we collected. Their study finds that Twitter users who tweet regularly are “more likely to say they regularly tweet about politics” than other U.S. adults on Twitter (Wojcik and Hughes 2019). Such a finding speaks directly to our question about the political nature of the tweets by those who positioned themselves as outsiders to evangelicalism. If we understand Twitter as a “modern public square” (Wojcik and Hughes 2019), then the opinion of evangelicalism in that public is overwhelmingly negative. We should note that it is possible the meaning of the term “evangelical” and its variants is even more negative than our findings show. Many of the tweets we coded as unknown evaluation implied negative evaluation; however, because of our desire not to read meanings into tweets that may not have been there, we did not code them as negative. This study’s findings about the negative, political connotations of the term “evangelical” should be troubling to evangelical communities who wish to appeal to nonevangelicals in ways that contribute to public discourse (Steiner 2009). Insiders: Dissociating Evangelicalism A somewhat different picture emerges, however, when we consider the tweets written by insiders, including some tweets we coded as insider-past only. While the total number of tweets from these two groups is small (n = 82), we identified a trend within them that should be of interest to scholars of rhetoric and religion. Specifically, a subset of these tweets employ dissociative rhetoric (Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca 2008) in ways that challenge the apparent theo-political use of evangelical. As we noted in our findings, Twitter users whom we coded as insiders to evangelicalism (n = 51) were the only group to use the term positively

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(n = 13), though insiders also valued evangelicalism negatively (n = 9). For the largest group of insiders, it was either not possible to determine the value of the tweet or the value expressed was neutral (n = 21). Seven insiders also made evaluations of evangelicalism that we coded as mixed, meaning that we coded the tweet’s use of evangelical as both positive and negative. These results indicate that tweets we coded as insider express a complicated relationship to the term “evangelical.” Similarly, the tweets we coded as insider-past only also adopt a complicated stance. While none of the insider-past only tweets valued evangelicalism positively, some expressed mixed (n = 1) or neutral/unknown evaluations (n = 10). A subset of tweets we coded as insider or insider-past only intentionally seek to distance the rhetors from and to complicate the dominant view that the term “evangelical” denotes a “theo-political brand” (Labberton 2019, 3). We suggest that that act of distancing or complicating can be read in terms of Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca’s (2008) conceptualization of dissociative rhetoric. According to Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca (2008), dissociative rhetoric divides an original concept into two opposing versions of that concept and then organizes the resulting versions into a values hierarchy. One term in the hierarchy is privileged as normative, true, or right, while the second term in some forms of dissociation is “dilute[d]” or “sacrifice[d]” (Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca 2008, 413). Rhetors can use dissociative rhetoric to address apparent incompatibilities that arise within the concept in ways that lead to a “remodeling” of an audience’s “conception of reality” (Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca 2008, 413). One example of dissociative rhetoric that Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca discuss involves the appearance/reality pair. In that pairing, “appearance” is term I and refers “to what is actual, immediate, and known directly” (Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca 2008, 416). Term II, however, is the “normative and explanatory”, the one by which term I can be understood as “illusory, erroneous, or apparent” (Perelman and OlbrechtsTyteca 2008, 416). Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca (2008) emphasize the inventional power of dissociative rhetoric. Restructured notions of reality produced by dissociative rhetoric can have bearing on future understandings of the original term. In other words, the meaning of terms can change, and terms can then constitute new realities. We see a form of dissociative rhetoric emerging in many of the insider tweets we collected. That dissociative work begins with an originary term— in this case, some form of the term “evangelical.” The insider then divides the term into two concepts and asserts one as real, true, or right, with the other denigrated as false or somehow lesser. Specifically, several of the tweets we collected dissociate false notions of evangelicalism from true ones. In the case of the example below, which we coded as insider-past only, the

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dissociation is between what is apparent in the evangelical community (term I) versus Jesus’s teachings (term II): Tweet 345 (@ShaunaBeeBee, October 15, 2019): Went to church 14 years (mostly unwillingly) so I know what “Jesus’s teachings” are SUPPOSED to be. Just haven’t seen them being put into practice, especially in the evangelical community.

Many of the tweets that employ dissociative do so by linking term I to Trump, the GOP, or right-wing politics: Tweet 3276 (@IAmSophiaNelson, October 14, 2019): I am a huge @ MaxLucado fan. I have read ALL of his books. I am so grateful for this interview on @OnPointRadio with my sis @NPRMichel finally, an evangelical pastor who get’s it! Trump is NOT modeling Christian “deceny.”

This tweet, which we coded as insider, implies a dissociative move between evangelicals who “get it” and those who do not. Those who do get it do so in part because they evidence Christian decency, while those who do not get it fail to model such behavior. In this formulation of dissociative rhetoric, Christian decency is the value asserted as real or true, while the failure to model it—represented here by Trump—is sacrificed or demoted to the position of “not evangelical.” The following insider-past only tweet makes a similar dissociative move: Tweet 4935 (@BalueCat, October 13, 2019): @DSa38 I know. It makes me sick. I’m not a big church goer now, but I remember what I was taught. This GOP Evangelical shit ain’t it!

While the tweeter clearly states that they are “not a big church goer now,” the rest of the tweet dissociates Christianity into “what I was taught [in church]” and “GOP Evangelical shit,” with the former valued over the latter. Some tweets reflect insiders feeling conflicted about no longer being able to call themselves evangelical. Twitter users who composed these tweets employ dissociative rhetoric in order to reassert what they believe to be legitimate forms of evangelicalism or Christianity. These legitimate forms of evangelical Christianity clearly contrast with illegitimate forms of evangelicalism. The following tweet, which we coded as mixed evaluation and insider relationship, reflects this strategy: Tweet 5650 (@Matt37231754, October 1, 2019): @CautiousLefty This. I’m an evangelical, and I really want to distance myself from evangelical pastors

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and people who do this. If anything, I hope they get called out so hard because I know they won’t change until they run out of power. Heck, they may even harden themselves, a problem, really.

While we do not know what “people who do this” refers to, it is clear from this tweet that there are two kinds of evangelicals: those who engage in a certain kind of behavior and those who do not. Evangelical pastors and people who engage in such behavior seem to do so out of a desire for (or perhaps a surfeit of) power. But the assertion that this Twitter user is an evangelical who resists or rejects the problematic behaviors of those who call themselves evangelical makes clear the dissociative move: there are multiple kinds of evangelicals, and those who hold power and “harden themselves” are problematic. Some of the insider tweets that we coded as positive make a more specific dissociative move, one that aims to reassert “evangelical” as a religious term and, in some cases, directly challenge the term’s political associations. These tweets are presented in table 7.8. In all three instances, Twitter users dissociate evangelicalism into two types: (1) the immediately apparent, yet false form of evangelicalism as represented by phrases like “racial or political,” “liar and deceiver,” and “sinful, unChristlike, unbiblical foolishness”; and (2) what evangelicalism actually is or should be, as represented by phrases like “#JesusChrist,” “#Gospel,” and opposition to sinfulness and deception. Taken together, these tweets, which we coded as both insider and positive, make a dissociative move wherein what currently passes as evangelicalism—a political designation that marginalizes minorities and concerns itself primarily with power—is subordinated to Table 7.8  No./date

Tweets Coded Insider and Positive That Employ Dissociative Rhetoric Tweet

Codes

Tweet 5464 Sept. 24

@ArcDigi @ThomasSKidd Thank you, Thomas, for reminding the world that the primary definition of #Evangelical is not racial or political, but related to #JesusChrist and His call to live and proclaim the #Gospel. We must never allow our brothers and sisters of color to be marginalized or discounted.

Insider Positive eval Religion Politics

Tweet 2876 October 3

@RNS @ThomasSKidd I’m an evangelical who is decidedly OUT. No way do I align myself and my faith with that liar and deceiver. Hmmm, that characterization was used once before…

Insider Positive eval Religion

Tweet 4576 October 3

@lancemann @ErinMHarding Nah. I lead a group of evangelical churches, and wholeheartedly disavow this kind of sinful, unChristlike, unbiblical foolishness. I know almost no one who would affirm it. Think better of evangelicals. Very few are this, or support it.

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what evangelicalism actually is or should be: a religious designation aligned with Christ-likeness, racial inclusion, biblical values, and honesty. One other pattern within tweets that employ dissociative rhetoric has to do with race. Specifically, some of the insider tweets that employ dissociative rhetoric intentionally call out whiteness as part of the problem with contemporary evangelicalism. For instance, tweet 5464 (table 7.8) dissociates white, politicized evangelicalism (term I) from a version of the faith that constructs evangelicals as an inclusive, multiracial family (term II). Additionally, the following tweet (table 7.6), which we coded as insider and mixed evaluation, dissociates culture and conviction, with whiteness of a certain socioeconomic status bound up with the former, and a sense of authentic belief linked to the latter: Tweet 4923 (@bethanylanell, September 22, 2019): @lukebbobo1 I grew up evangelical, surrounded by mostly white, middle income+ people (tho my dad, a pastor, made less), but my beliefs/experiences don’t always line up with the criticism that evangelicals receive. Took me a while to see diff between conviction and culture.

This dissociative move echoes the arguments about race and evangelicalism that are being made by prominent evangelicals (Brown 2018; Harper 2019; Romero 2019; Rah 2019; Yeh 2019). For example, this fall, progressive evangelicals from around the country gathered in Chicago for a conference titled “Liberating Evangelicalism-Decentering Whiteness.” Why is this dissociative rhetoric important? While insiders to evangelicalism inhabit a clear minority position within Twitter discussions that feature the term, they make important and at times powerful arguments about what evangelicalism is and should be. Conceptions of evangelicalism may indeed have splintered and split, particularly in the wake of the November 2016 election. However, a vocal minority enacts dissociative rhetoric in order to reclaim the term as one that names a religious movement as opposed to a political one. As several of the insider tweets make clear, such reclaiming functions as a kind of argumentative strategy: tweeters who position themselves as current or previous insiders to evangelicalism push back on its popular usage as a theo-political term. It should be noted that they do so on a platform where the majority of users are outspokenly critical of evangelicalism. While it may be naive to think that these dissociative moves would lead to wide-scale resignification of how the term “evangelical” is used, defined, and employed in arguments, the fact that such dissociation is taking place is worthy of scholarly attention. Rhetoricians know that terms have the power to shape conceptions of reality. What also matters, though, is how we use those terms and argue for

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the realities those terms represent. When it comes to the term “evangelical” and its variants, then, there seems to be plenty of debate at the definitional stasis, and definitions play a vital role in how we argue about fact, quality, or policy. CONCLUSION In his conclusion to The Making of Evangelicalism, Balmer (2010) registered hope that the election of President Obama might have signaled a new shift in evangelicalism, one away from its affiliations with right-wing politics. Now, four years removed from November 2016, that hope seems to have been unfounded or at least unrealized. Evangelicalism appears to be more in “lockstep allegiance to the Republican Party” than it has ever been (Balmer 2010, 80). However, it may be possible that Trump’s election signals a different kind of turning point, one that is prompting a minority of evangelical insiders to reject the apparent meaning of the term and argue instead for a different conception of reality (Claiborne 2019). In other words, some evangelicals may have “had it” to the point that instead of abandoning the use of evangelical as a theo-political designation, they attempt to reclaim it as a religious term that denotes what one Twitter user called “Christian decency” and what another called Christ’s “call to live and proclaim the #Gospel.” Of course, that might be wishful thinking on our part. Either way, though, it behooves scholars of rhetoric and religion to continue investigating how the term “evangelical” and its variants get deployed in a variety of publics, digital, and otherwise. Others might take up a question similar to ours and investigate how the term “evangelical” is invoked on other social media platforms. If it’s true in the case of Twitter that the acts of tweeting and retweeting can lead to the formulation and maintenance of enclaves (Center 2018), then examining what those enclaves are, how they are constituted by particular meanings associated with terms, and how they differ from other enclaves can help rhetoricians understand important fault lines in contemporary public discourse. As scholars investigate the meanings of evangelical in various publics, they would do well to look intentionally for evidence of dissociative rhetoric. What, if any, dissociative moves are individuals using when employing the term “evangelical”? How are those dissociations functioning? Who is employing those dissociative moves, and toward what end? As a term, evangelical certainly has splintered and split, and in ways that may render it beyond repair. However, in the same way that inventional possibilities can arise from dissociation, new meanings can arise from what has been broken. If it is possible for something new to arise from “the compost of Christendom” (Claiborne 2019, 166), then perhaps

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rhetoricians can observe that rebirth in the dissociative rhetoric employed by evangelical insiders in digital publics. NOTES 1. We collected the following number of tweets on each day: 18,000 (Sept. 24); 17,950 (Oct. 3); and 17,976 (Oct.15). 2. We calculated the sample size in two ways, one using the complete dataset (n=53,926), the other using tweets minus retweets (n=16,577). In both cases, we established the confidence level at 99 percent with a confidence interval of four. The two resulting sample sizes were remarkably close to each other: 979 tweets for the smaller tweet-only corpus and 1,020 tweets for the total corpus. We opted for the larger sample.

REFERENCES Arens, Elizabeth. 2019. “The Best Times to Post on Social Media for 2019.” Sprout Social, July 31, 2019. https​:/​/sp​​routs​​ocial​​.com/​​insig​​hts​/b​​est​-t​​imes-​​to​-po​​st​-on​​-​soci​​ al​-me​​dia/.​ Balmer, Randall. 2010. The Making of Evangelicalism: From Revivalism to Politics and Beyond. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Balue, Cat (@BalueCat). 2019. “@DSa38 I Know. It Makes Me Sick. I’m Not a Big Church Goer Now, But I Remember What I Was Taught. This GOP Evangelical Shit Ain’t It!” Twitter, October 13, 2019. https​:/​/tw​​itter​​.com/​​Balue​​Cat​/s​​tatus​​/1183​​ 52553​​92​247​​02981​. Beal, Timothy. 2010. “Among the Evangelicals: Inside a Fractured Movement.” The Chronicle of Higher Education 57, no. 17 (December): B6–B9. Bebbington, David W. 2005. Evangelicalism in Modern Britain: A History from the 1730s to the 1980s. London: Routledge. ProQuest Ebook Central. Brown, Austin Channing. 2018. I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness. New York: Convergent Books. Center for Complex Networks and Systems Research. n.d. “Visualizing the Political Discourse on Twitter.” Accessed June 29, 2020. https​:/​/cn​​ets​.i​​ndian​​a​.edu​​/grou​​ps​/ na​​n​/tru​​thy​/v​​isual​​izing​​-the-​​polit​​ical-​​disco​​​urse-​​on​-tw​​itter​/. Claiborne, Shane. 2019. “Evangelicalism Must Be Born Again.” In Still Evangelical? Insiders Reconsider Political, Social, and Theological Meaning, edited by Mark Labberton, 153–172. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Cope, Emily Murphy, and Ringer, Jeffrey M. 2014. “Coming to (Troubled) Terms: Methodology, Positionality, and the Problem of Defining ‘Evangelical Christian.’” In Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting New Territories, edited by Michael-John DePalma and Jeffrey M. Ringer, 103–124. New York: Routledge. Fea, John. 2018. Believe Me: The Evangelical Road to Donald Trump. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

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Fernheimer, Janice W. 2009. “Black Jewish Identity Conflict: A Divided University Audience and the Impact of Dissociative Disruption.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 39, no. 1 (January): 46–72. Gerson, Michael. 2018. “Trump Evangelicals Have Sold Their Souls.” Washington Post, March 12, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.was​​hingt​​onpos​​t​.com​​/opin​​ions/​​trump​​-evan​​gelic​​ als​-h​​ave​-s​​old​-t​​heir-​​souls​​/2018​​/03​/1​​2​/ba7​​fe0f8​​-262c​​-11e8​​-874b​​​-d517​​e912f​​125​_s​​ tory.​​html.​ Harper, Lisa Sharon. 2019. “Will Evangelicalism Surrender?” In Still Evangelical? Insiders Reconsider Political, Social, and Theological Meaning, edited by Mark Labberton, 19–30. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Hatch, Nathan O. 1990. “Response to Carl F. H. Henry.” In Evangelical Affirmations, edited by Kenneth S. Kantzer and Carl F. H. Henry, 96–102. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan. Ivanič, Roz. 1998. Writing and Identity: The Discoursal Construction of Identity in Academic Writing. Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Kidd, Thomas S. 2019. Who Is an Evangelical? The History of a Movement in Crisis. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Labberton, Mark. 2019. “Introduction: Still Evangelical?” In Still Evangelical? Insiders Reconsider Political, Social, and Theological Meaning, edited by Mark Labberton, 1–17. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Mannon, Bethany. 2019. “Xvangelical: The Rhetorical Work of Personal Narratives in Contemporary Religious Discourse.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 49, no. 2 (January): 142–162. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​080​/0​​27739​​45​.20​​1​8​.15​​47418​. @Matt37231754. 2019. “@CautiousLefty This. I’m an Evangelical, and I Really Want to Distance Myself from Evangelical Pastors and People Who Do This. If Anything, I Hope They Get….” Twitter, October 1, 2019. Tweet has been deleted by the author. Medhurst, Martin J. 2017. “The Religious Rhetoric of Anti-Trump Evangelicals in the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election.” Res Rhetorica 4, no. 2: 1–14. https://doi​.org​ /10​.29107​/rr2017​.2​.1. Nelson, Sophia A. (@IAmSophiaNelson). 2019. “I Am a Huge @MaxLucado Fan. I Have Read ALL of His Books. I Am So Grateful for This Interview on @ OnPointRadio With My Sis @NPRMichel Finally, an Evangelical....” Twitter, October 14, 2019. https​:/​/tw​​itter​​.com/​​IAmSo​​phiaN​​elson​​/stat​​us​/11​​83804​​970​54​​ 35832​​33. Parsons, Bethany L. (@bethanylanell). 2019. “@lukebbobo1 I Grew Up Evangelical, Surrounded by Mostly White, Middle Income+ People (Tho My Dad, A Pastor, Made Less), But My Beliefs/Experiences Don’t….” Twitter, September 22, 2019. https​:/​/tw​​itter​​.com/​​betha​​nylan​​ell​/s​​tatus​​/1175​​93427​​6​0948​​36741​. Perelman, Chaim, and Lucie Olbrechts-Tyteca. 2008. The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on Argumentation. Translated by John Wilkinson and Purcell Weaver. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Rah, Soong-Chan. 2019. “Evangelical Futures.” In Still Evangelical? Insiders Reconsider Political, Social, and Theological Meaning, edited by Mark Labberton, 81–96. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press.

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Romero, Robert Chao. 2019. “Immigration and the Latina/o Community.” In Still Evangelical? Insiders Reconsider Political, Social, and Theological Meaning, edited by Mark Labberton, 66–80. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Saldaña, Johnny. 2016. The Coding Manual for Qualitative Researchers, Third Edition. Los Angeles: SAGE Publications. @ShaunaBeeBee. 2019. “Went to Church 14 Years (Mostly Unwillingly) So I Know What “Jesus’s Teachings” Are SUPPOSED to Be. Just Haven’t Seen Them Being Put into Practice….” Twitter, October 15, 2019. https​:/​/tw​​itter​​.com/​​Shaun​​aBeeB​​ee​ /st​​atus/​​11842​​23170​​​52766​​6176.​ Standley, Renee (@reneestandley1). 2019. “I, Respectfully, Disagree. I Have Attended Many Evangelical Churches Which Promote Their Political Point of View from the Pulpit and Invite Politicians to....” Twitter, October 15, 2019. https​ :/​/tw​​itter​​.com/​​renee​​stand​​ley1/​​statu​​s​/118​​42488​​46​815​​28934​​5. Steiner, Mark Allan. 2009. “Reconceptualizing Christian Public Engagement: ‘Faithful Witness’ and the American Evangelical Tradition.” Journal of Communication and Religion 32, no. 2 (November): 289–318. Warzel, Charlie. 2020. “Twitter is Real Life: Elites Just Pretend It’s Not.” New York Times, February 2, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.nyt​​imes.​​com​/2​​020​/0​​2​/19/​​opini​​on​/tw​​itter​​ -deba​​tes​-​r​​eal​-l​​ife​.h​​tml. Wojcik, Stefan, and Adam Hughes. 2019. “Sizing Up Twitter Users.” Pew Research Center, April 24, 2019. https​:/​/ww​​w​.pew​​resea​​rch​.o​​rg​/in​​terne​​t​/201​​9​/04/​​24​/si​​zing-​​ up​​-tw​​itter​​-user​​s/. Worthen, Molly. 2013. Apostles of Reason: The Crisis of Authority in American Evangelicalism. New York: Oxford University Press. Yeh, Allen. 2019. “Theology and Orthopraxis in Global Evangelicalism.” In Still Evangelical? Insiders Reconsider Political, Social, and Theological Meaning, edited by Mark Labberton, 97–119. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press.

Chapter 8

Let’s Pray for President Trump in Church An Analysis of Franklin Graham’s Trump Posts on Facebook Tiffany Thames Copeland and Wei Sun

The late evangelical preacher Billy Graham was arguably one of the most popular preachers in America (Burke Feb. 21 2018; NPR 2018). Most notably, he was a White House overnight guest for five decades, on the night leading to the inauguration of each American president (Lindsay 2006). His son, William Franklin Graham III, the Billy Graham Evangelical Association leader who has inherited his father’s popularity, has recently been accused of politicizing prayer after calling for a Special Day of Prayer for the President of the United States, Donald Trump, in June of 2019. Moreover, Graham has continually supported Trump on his Facebook page, which has nearly nine million followers. In Graham’s Facebook posts, he has asked the public to sustain their prayers for Trump as he travels abroad, and he has also supported Trump’s stance on several issues like: a pro-life stance on abortion, his denigration of athletes who stand during the national anthem, and his refusal to instruct embassies to mount gay rights flags in June of 2019. Further, in an interview with The Christian Post, Graham said, “He (Trump) probably will go down as one of the best presidents of our country” (Smith 2019). This qualitative rhetorical study will investigate Graham’s political posts on social media, particularly those on Facebook, and will show, (1) the kind of persuasive tactics Graham uses in his posts, and (2) how Graham’s Facebook followers are responding to his partisan religious rhetoric. Dubbed as the “Pray for Trump day,” it caught the media’s attention when Graham called for a “Special Day of Prayer,” to be observed on Sunday, June 2, 2019, to help provide protection to Trump against his “enemies” (Burke May 31, 2019). Although, this was not a new request; Graham already asked 155

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the public to pray for Trump while the 2016 national presidential elections were taking place (Harper December 27, 2018). Prior to the “Special Day of Prayer” that Graham issued, he has also made the news concerning other proTrump comments. During an interview with the Western Journal, Graham made comments that caused concern, when he stated, “I think if Christians pray, pray for the president and pray for his administration, I think God will honor their prayers” (DeSoto June 13, 2019). Plus, after Trump won the election, Graham said, “I think God was behind the last election” (DeSoto June 13, 2019). It is because of his support for Trump, and his extensive social media following, that makes understanding the type of influence he has on Facebook essential. Graham’s new media presence includes his own personal social media accounts and websites, and his digital presence through his religious affiliations. His personal social media sites have an extensive number of followers: approximately 9 million on Facebook, 2 million on Twitter, and 1 million on Instagram. He also has a website presence and a social media following, as president and chief executive officer (CEO) of Samaritan’s Purse, and the president and CEO of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. The Samaritan’s Purse organization has nearly 1,500,000 Facebook likes, one million Twitter followers, almost 150,000 Instagram followers, 30,500 LinkedIn followers, 30,000 YouTube subscribers, and 5,500 Pinterest followers. The Billy Graham Evangelistic Association has nearly 2.5 million Facebook followers, 500,000 Twitter followers, and almost 125,000 Instagram followers, approximately 130,000 YouTube subscribers, over 8,000 LinkedIn followers, and over 8,500 Pinterest followers. Any one of these social media sites has many more followers than many existing megachurch has members. In Graham’s case, social media has given religious authority a new avenue of evangelizing. The support Graham has extended to Trump on social media is a reflection of the intersection of rhetoric, religion, social media, and politics in America—a country that has officially separated church and state, but its presidents are oftentimes associated with religious leaders, symbols, and rhetoric. For instance, tracing the last thirty State of the Union Addresses, “God” was mentioned by all of the presidents, with more than half saying, “God Bless America” (Jennings 2016). Although religiously inclined individuals give different responses to religious appeals (Jennings 2016). On the other hand, this process works reciprocally, as Froese (May 24 2014) says, “religious authorities provide elites with political legitimacy, in the form of religious-ideological support in return for religious favoritism” (649). Many conservative white evangelicals voted for President Trump, and “Trumpism” has become a version of the White Christian Nationalist (WCN) agenda, one that is simultaneously secularized and nationalized (Gorski

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2017). WCNs agreed with Trump’s stance on religious freedom, his positioning in the abortion debate, and the changes to the Supreme Court (Gorski 2017). Further, Gorski (2017) suggests that many members of WCN voted for Trump because “they were attracted by Trump’s racialized, apocalyptic, and blood-drenched rhetoric,” which was not politically correct but adhered to the racism, apocalypticism, sacrificialism, and nostalgia of the WCNs (1). Further, Adams (2019) investigated the psychological connection between Trump and his followers who allow their traumatic childhood pain to resurface by showing hostility toward women, immigrants, and minorities: Trump thus wins applause from those with a backlog of childhood grievances by designating scapegoats for the discharge of pent-up fury, i.e., by rescinding Obama policies that were favorable to the LGBTQ community, by establishing a sadistic immigration policy that separates asylum-seeking mothers from their children, and by adopting health policies that constitute a “war on women.” Those polluted by poisonous rage from childhood abuse feel cleansed by Trump’s cruelty and attacks, and Trump is revered as a charismatic leader. (Adams 2019, 240)

Religious leaders like Franklin Graham appropriate digital media by using this multimodal communication in order to expand their realm of social influence. Social media has created for them a duality of their business strategy and achieving their religious objectives while potentially reaching millions of people (Cheong Nov. 2011). In this mediated realm, these leaders can invite collaboration on various activities, legitimatize any existing social initiatives, and augment compliance in their cause (Cheong Nov. 2011; Radnofsky May 3, 2018). Graham has several social media accounts making his online reach extensive. Overall, this research study on Graham will help to extend our understanding of the intersection of religion, political rhetoric, and digital media. It will address how religious leaders are using biblical verses or religious dialogue to interpret present-day political events on social media, going beyond any previous studies that strictly focus on religious leaders in a church setting. It will identify the extent that religious leaders, particularly Graham, play a role in political life by influencing their supporters through religious rhetoric. This study will consist of an examination of Western rhetorical theory, Egyptian rhetorical theory, and groupthink with an assessment of echo chambers, in order to conduct an analysis of Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump. Ultimately, this research will expand the existing literature by providing a greater understanding of the extent to which religious leaders have political sway in our modern-day social media environment. The following research questions will be addressed in this assessment:

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RQ1: What are the most common themes in Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump? RQ2: How do Facebook users respond to Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump?

LITERATURE REVIEW This review will investigate existing research on the intersection of social media and opinion formation; the religious rhetoric of the Christian right, including evangelicals, fundamentalists and charismatics; and American politics. First, the researchers will conduct a review of the relevant theories, including Western rhetorical theory, Egyptian rhetorical theory, and groupthink communication theory. Afterward, research in relationship to the rise of the Christian right will be noted, as well as the influence of pastors on political issues, and politician’s religious discourse. Western rhetorical theory, Egyptian rhetorical theory, and the groupthink theory will be assessed throughout this study. The rhetorical field of study teaches fundamentals of speaking well, by helping one to speak persuasively and to communicate effectively (Mohammed and Ghafour 2017). Rhetoric has become a form of critical analysis (Atkinson et al. 2000). An assessment of rhetorical theory will extend from traditions established in Egypt, Greece, and Rome. Western Rhetorical Theory Rhetorical analysis in the West is a methodology that includes analyzing persuasive acts, whether they are texts or oral performances, in an effort to critique discourse (Atkinson et al. 2000). Rhetoric is “the faculty of observing in any given case the available means of persuasion” (Aristotle 350 B.C.E.). The Greek philosopher, Aristotle, a student of Plato, intellectualized the field of rhetoric (Mohammed and Ghafour 2017). Aristotle, who was born over two thousand years ago in 384 B.C. (Floyd-Lapp 2014) established three categories or persuasive appeals, which has become a part of the rhetorical cannon and a standard in assessing works. Aristotle’s rhetorical technique of persuasion includes “ethos,” which is the use of credibility in persuasion; “logos,” which appeals to one’s reasoning abilities; and “pathos,” which refers to an appeal to the public’s emotions (Kennedy 1991). Hence, Mohammed and Ghafour (2017) investigated religious speeches in Kurdish and English at churches and mosques on Fridays and Saturdays, and found that the speakers who are “most persuasive” will use the categories of ethos, logos, and pathos, interdependently and to varying degrees (292). These three categories will transpire into the formulation of judgment among the audience (Garver 2009). In addition, according to Meyer (2012), Aristotle classified rhetoric as

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involving an eloquence or elegance (Floyd-Lapp 2014). It is useful to study rhetoric according to Aristotle’s widely accepted three categories. Aristotle considered “ethos” the most important aspect of persuasion (Porter 2014). Ethos is an ethical appeal that has its basis in the orator’s credibility. The speaker must be qualified enough to speak on the specific topic, and in that instance, she or he will have better chances of persuading audience members. Examples of people automatically granted with ethos are celebrities, religious leaders, and others well known in their community. In Mohammed and Ghafour’s (2017) study of religious rhetoric, ethos was established equally among religious leaders speaking in the Kurdish and English language, since leaders spoke about their shared values with the audience member’s immediately—and connecting on a shared experience is a way of establishing ethos. Further, in order to be qualified to speak on a topic, the speaker must have a character which is virtuoso and must have practical intelligence (Mohammed and Ghafour 2017). Another level of persuasive appeal includes logos. Logos consists of a logical appeal, and is an effective level of persuasion. The speaker reveals arguments that logically support his position, so logos is “the rationality of the arguments” (Floyd-Lapp 3). These facts could include statistics and other forms of supportive evidence. In addition, Aristotle regarded one’s morality as an essential part of the ability to persuade as well as one’s ability of showing reason over emotions in the art of argumentation (Hogan 2012). In Mohammed and Ghafour’s (2017) study on religious rhetoric, logos was equally established by the religious leaders by uniformly reciting different sections from biblical texts. While utilizing a logos appeal, the audience must be able to follow the arguments presented, and if not then the other categories can be utilized (Mohammed and Ghafour 2017). Pathos is the art of convincing an audience or drawing attention to an issue by using a persuasive message. It relates to targeting an audience emotionally, by catering to their sympathies and appealing to the nonrational. Pathos can be accomplished through passionate speech or by using storytelling, metaphors, and similes, and other emotional information, and is most impactful when people connect on an underlying value (Mountainman 2017). Mohammed and Ghafour’s (2017) study found persuasive messages were utilized among the Kurdish and English speakers at churches and mosques since they used repetition, figurative language, and salutations. Plus, the Kurdish religious speakers told stories, while English religious speakers asked rhetorical questions that helped to establish emotion in their listeners. Pathos is accomplished by adding a human element to stories. According to Porter (2014), some of the emotions and its opposites that Aristotle mentioned as operating within the confines of pathos include “anger and calmness, friendship and enmity, fear and confidence, shame and shamelessness, kindness and

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unkindness, pity and indignation, envy and emulation.” Persuasive discourse includes religious sermons, political rhetoric, court language, propaganda, and advertising (Mohammed and Ghafour 2017), and more recently, digital language. In a study conducted by Nelzén (2018), she found that in all of the four nonprofit organizations she investigated, the use of the pathos appeal was normal when posting on Twitter and Facebook. Egyptian Rhetorical Theory Kennedy (1998) investigated rhetoric in several literate ancient societies, including Mesopotamia, Egypt, China, India, and Rome; however, since the oldest rhetorical handbook was produced in Egypt, this country’s rhetorical history will be highlighted. Prior to Greek and Rome, approximately 2,500 B.C. during Egypt’s Old Kingdom age (Hallen 2009), Ptah-Hotep wrote one of the oldest books in the world as the vizier and the mayor of a city near Memphis during his father, Isosi’s reign (Ptah-Hotep 1906). His text, The Maxims of Ptah-Hotep, was referred to as a Wisdom book, and the genre usually included writings on precepts of interpersonal relations, etiquette, and ethics (Fox 1983). In Ptah-Hotep’s text, he expounded on thirty-seven moral principles for his son concerning various issues that promote telling the truth, one was concerning the concept of good speech (Hallen 2009). The Egyptians believed power exists in words (Hutto 2002), and good speech happens when one uses her or his speech to bring order to society, and the ultimate goal of a speaker is to achieve harmony through speech (Kelly 2002; Hord and Lee 1995; Hutto 2002). Kennedy (1998) has found similarities between Egyptian and Greek rhetoric. Blake says (2009), “Ptah-Hotep should indeed be regarded as the precursor of centering morality in rhetorical utterances (32),” especially since Egyptian rhetorical consciousness occurred approximately 1,500 years prior to the Greek’s golden age of rhetoric (Fox 1983). Kennedy stated that a person should not make the assumption that the Egyptians did not debate. Fox (1983) investigated Egyptian rhetoric and developed cannons of speech from the Egyptian Wisdom books that supported ethos and pathos. There exist fifty to sixty Wisdom books and out of which at least ten are practically in-tact. Kennedy’s five cannons include “silence,” the opposite of boasting; knowing good time for speaking, or having “good timing”; showing “restraint,” or not displaying ones’ emotions through passionate words; displaying a “fluency of expression,” which generates the impression of being knowledgeable and competent; and having a “truthfulness” (Hutto 2002), which is “most characteristically Egyptian”—all of which contribute to the ethos and pathos portion of effective persuasion (Fox 1983, 13–16). These cannons all produce divine justice and harmony through the integration of the rhetorical with

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moral training. As Fox (1983) states, “Ethos is not an adjunct to proof, as it is in Aristotle, but is itself a form of proof (16),” in the Egyptian rhetorical style. Although, Fox (1983) suggests, Egyptian rhetorical theory never became a discipline like Western rhetoric, because of its lack of internal critique and expansion procedures (Fox 1983). According to Fox (1983), “It does not teach how to formulate arguments because it is not argumentation but rather the ethical stance of the speakers that will maintain harmony in the social order, and that is the ultimate goal of Egyptian rhetoric” (22). In addition to the Greek and the Egyptian rhetorical theories, groupthink theory will be assessed. Groupthink Communications Theory Irving Janis created groupthink theory in 1972 (Tuner 2010). Groupthink is a small group theory of communication, which occurs when people’s need for unanimity and harmony overrides their ability to search for alternatives. Groupthink can lead to an overestimation of the group and a closed-mindedness toward other options, producing out-group stereotypes, collective rationalization, self-censorship, self-appointed mind guards, and pressure on any perceived dissenters (West and Turner 2010). Echo chambers could be the consequence of this kind of pressurized communication patterns. Echo chambers can result from the expressed homophily and depersonalization that can occur in a physical or online environment (Schmidt 2018). Echo chambers happen as users exclude other people’s voices, and only gain exposure online to opinions that align with their own. The consequence of echo chambers is radicalization or polarization (Schmidt 2018). For instance, Bessi (2016) investigated digital echo chambers and personality traits, and not only found evidence that digital echo chambers exist, but that there was consistency of personality traits between two different chambers. Bessi investigated posts that supported science or encouraged rational thinking, and other posts that supported conspiracy or spread controversy without any necessary supporting evidence. Facebook Graph API was used to access the data. After gaining access to 30,000 users and almost three million comments from scientific posts, and approximately 6,000 users and 675,000 comments from conspiracy posts, Bessi (2016) found proof of digital echo chambers. These chambers were produced after Facebook users’ selective exposure and confirmation bias occurred, and users had essentially joined a community that confirmed their own belief system. Bessi (2016) also found the personality traits, like emotional stability, agreeableness, extraversion, openness and conscientiousness, matched,

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in both sets of polarized communities. The user’s personality included low levels on extraversion; high levels of emotional stability; low agreeableness; low conscientiousness, or showing signs of antisocial behavior, and high openness or unconventional interests. The Rise of the Christian Right Research has been conducted on the Christian right—consisting of Fundamentalists, Evangelicals and Charismatics—due to its rapid rise and its member’s high visibility within the Republican Party. The Christian right has expanded significantly since the late 1970s, and in the early 1990s, they resurged (Moen 1994). The Christian right experienced a period of expansion from 1978 to 1984, while focusing on saving Americans by raising issues of morality like abortion, gay rights, and pornography (Moen 1994). The Transition Period overlapped with the Expansion Period, between 1965 and 1986, as the reputation of the Christian right was withering away as several organizations either merged with other organizations, suspended their work, or shut down (Moen 1994). Afterward, the Institutional Period occurred as the Christian right’s situation became more stable or predictable (Moen 1994). Moen (1994) says the Christian right has adhered to a top-down paradigm, where clever elites with authoritarian personalities have guided unsophisticated white followers, traditionally through crusades, whom uphold the formation of a theocracy. The Christian right has been negatively accused of being “racist,” “unsophisticated,” or “uneducated hillbillies” (Moen 1994), and many people have been startled by the rise of the Christian right. Lindsay (2006) investigated the devised strategy of the evangelical Christian leadership, which has moved the religion more into mainstream America. In fact, the scope, direction, and strategies of evangelicalism have changed since 1976 (Lindsay 2006). Based on coding data from unstructured interviews of sixty-five elite respondents from 2002 to 2004, Lindsay (2006) found that evangelical appeals have become more sophisticated over time, and that they have incurred increased political participation mainly due to the group’s rising education levels. This has occurred through the development of modern organizational modes, in an effort of attracting wider audiences. Thus, powerful evangelical elites—like corporate executives, top-ranking federal government employees, professional athletes, and entertainers and celebrities—espouse their agenda of a moral society by honeycombing major sectors of a society like Wall Street, the White House, Hollywood, Silicon Valley and Ivy League institutions. A well-established religious elite make other people believe their stance is acceptable and is overall logical for the direction of the country (Lindsay 2006). Further, certain aspects of the religion have been modernized to suit society generally, for instance, traditional

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evangelism has been replaced by social outreach. In addition, the Christian right pastors have also had an influence on the religion. The Influence of Pastors on Political Issues Research has been conducted to understand the amount of influence the pastor has on his or her congregation in comparison to politicians, specifically investigating the relationship between church attendance and parishioner’s level of knowledge of church teachings. Schmidt (2018) found that religious elites’ level of influence has overridden partisan elites. Schmidt piloted the concept of Religious Political Sophistication (PRS), which is an indicator of congregant’s knowledge of political church teachings. Schmidt investigated the RPS of Roman Catholics and Evangelical Protestants on the issues of abortion and same-sex marriage. He looked at Cooperative Congressional Election Study (CCES) survey content, which included a sample size of 1,000. From the total number of survey respondents, the researchers assessed the attitudes of 206 Roman Catholics, 158 Evangelical Protestants, and 97 Mainline Protestants. After coding the data, Schmidt (2018) found the attitudes of denominations are reinforced through church attendance. He concluded that church attendance is more important than knowledge gained through the political sector, especially when congregant’s church attendance is frequent. As regular church attendees, parishioners embrace traditional same-sex marriage stance and abortion issue, in alignment with the teachings of the Protestant or Roman Catholic Church. According to Schmidt (2018), “Rather, elite–mass persuasion occurs for publics aware of who their elites are, and what these elites are saying” (23). Also, Schmidt (2018) suggests a parallel exists between the secular and religious elite. Some wonder to what extent religion effects politics. Politicians Religious Discourse Researchers have investigated whether intra-party division has had a basis in religion. Blackstone and Oldmixon (2015 July) explored religion in political speeches by investigating the one-minute floor speeches of the U.S. House of Representatives, 104th Congress. The sample size was 236 Republicans, whom delivered an average of three speeches. The researchers found the Evangelical Protestants were more likely than Catholics to deliver speeches. Also, they found high salience of issues, like budget and taxes. Even though Catholic members focused more on the government’s role more than their colleagues of other faiths, representatives from well-represented evangelical districts were more likely to reference the government’s role in social welfare issues of key interest to evangelicals. Blackstone and Oldmixon (2015

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July) found the relationship between religion and politics is reciprocal, just as religious leaders affect political outcomes, the politicians represent religious leaders. Other studies support the concept of echo cambers existing in politics. Another study has identified patterns of behavior on social media as it relates to politicians. Risius et al. (2019) used social identity theory in looking at the various types of occurring echo chambers, identifying characteristics of the naturally occurring phenomena on new media as “social media filter bubbles” (2). Risius et al. (2019) started with 7,000 Facebook users’ profiles, and after identifying friends’ lists have totaled 170,000 user profiles and Facebook likes that total 1,450,000. They also assessed political information by viewing the number of likes for political posts. Echo chambers were operationalized through likes on Facebook. Thus far, the research suggests that the communication styles in the echo chambers between Republican and Democrats is different, and it is based on the individual’s choices as opposed to the content coming from algorithms. They identified Facebook consumption groups as more than just left and right wing but have noted several different categories including left, lean left, center, lean right, right, pro science, conspiracy pseudoscience, questionable, and satire groups (Risius et al. 2019). Overall, the existing research has shown a link between religion and politics. This study will expand the knowledge base, to see how social media plays a role in the interconnections between the two. Further, the researchers will assess if groupthink and echo chambers occur between a popular elite religious leader and his followers on Facebook. METHODOLOGY Since Graham is an influential religious leader with approximately nine million Facebook followers, it is important to understand the discourse strategies he uses on his Facebook posts and the types of responses he received to those posts. A qualitative rhetorical analysis was employed to analyze the discourse in Franklin Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump, and a textual analysis was utilized to investigate how users responded to posts in the comment’s section of Facebook. Therefore, the unit of analysis was the Facebook post and its comments. All the posts Graham made about Trump on Facebook during the time period of May 2nd, one month prior to Graham’s “Special Day of Prayer” for Trump, until July 2nd, one month after his June 2nd post thanking those for praying for Trump, was assessed. Thus, the researchers were able to see if this “Special Day of Prayer” is correlated with any incidents of groupthink in the comments section on Graham’s posts for Trump.

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Communication theories, including the Western rhetorical theory, Egyptian rhetorical theory, specifically the Egyptian concept of good speech, and groupthink, were used in evaluating the findings. A rhetorical analysis was employed to gain an understanding of the themes imbedded in Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump. The major topics present in Graham’s post on Trump were identified, categorized into codes, and further condensed into themes. Also, rhetorical theory was applied to Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump, by seeing if his comments adhered to Aristotle’s three levels of persuasion, including ethos, pathos, and logos, and Ptah-Hotep’s instructions for giving good speech for the betterment of one’s community. A thematic analysis on the comments provided an understanding of the audience reaction to Graham’s posts. The goal of this research was to understand whether Facebook users affirm, denounce, or were impartial to the comments in Graham’s post. Irving Janis’s groupthink is a group communication functional theory that investigates the group’s process of decision-making and the group outcomes. The philosopher John Dewey (1910) expounded on how decisions are made. He (1910) suggested in this text How We Think that problems are solved by the implementation of the following process: (1) understanding there exists a difficulty, (2) understanding the definition and location of the problem, (3) looking for potential solutions, (4) analyzing the solutions, (5) testing the alternatives, and (6) concluding to agree or disagree. Further, it is suggested through groupthink that faulty decisions come about due to any of the following errors in groups: (1) improper assessments are made after improperly analyzing the situation, (2) inappropriate objectives and goals exist, (3) an overestimation of an item’s negative and positive qualities, or (4) an insufficient information base, by rejecting valid information and accepting invalid information. Groupthink occurs in groups that aim for unanimity but ultimately suffer from a deteriorating effective group efficiency, moral judgment, and reality testing (Janis 1982), leading to a high level of group satisfaction but ineffective output. The mutual identification expressed through cohesiveness keeps groups banded together (Littlejohn 1999). A relevant sample and quota sampling were conducted in this study. To conduct a rhetorical analysis, all seventeen of Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump, including a total of 264,200 comments, were utilized from this sample. Concerning the textual analysis, the first 200 comments were assessed from each post, and then every 50 comments were assessed thereafter. An excel spreadsheet was used to categorize the comments and posts into codes and themes. Overall, this methodology applied to Graham’s Facebook posts sheds light onto the dynamics of religion, rhetoric, politics, and digital media. It is essential to gain a deeper understanding of this information, especially since new media is still a relatively new phenomenon.

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FINDINGS The purpose of this qualitative critical rhetorical analysis was to investigate Franklin Graham III’s political posts on Facebook. Specifically, this research investigated his posts concerning Trump, in order to better understand how Graham’s followers, in which he has nearly nine million, respond to his posts. This research stems from Graham’s controversial call for a Special Day of Prayer for Trump on June 2, 2019, just one month after the annually recognized American National Day of Prayer, observed on May 2, 2019. Graham issued this day to provide protection to Trump against his enemies (Burke May 31, 2019; Graham, May 30, 2019). This research utilized classical Western rhetorical theory, Egyptian rhetorical theory, and groupthink theory, to notate the actual influence of Graham’s religious rhetoric on social media. This research was guided by two research questions. The first investigated the most prevalent themes in Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump, and was conducted by administering a rhetorical analysis. His rhetoric was assessed according to the Greek philosopher Aristotle’s, three levels of persuasion, including “pathos,” which refers to an appeal to the public’s emotions; “logos,” which appeal to one’s reasoning abilities; and “ethos,” which is the use of credibility in persuasion; as well as Ptah-Hotep’s concept of increasing harmony through inducing good speech (Hallen 2009; Fox 1983; Hutto 2002). The second investigated how Graham’s commenters responded to his posts, which was evaluated on groupthink. Groupthink is based on a homogeneous perception or uniformity of behavior (Stets and Burke Sept. 2000; Schmidt 2018), referred to as echo chambers. This study’s overall goal was to explore the ways religion influences politics in our new digital era, by investigating the intersection of rhetoric, religion, social media, and American politics. RQ1: Common themes in Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump

The Overarching Prayer and Patriotism Themes The Facebook posts examined were ones in which Graham specifically mentioned “Trump” in the post’s content. Most of Graham’s posts were about prayer and contained the following, either: (1) prayer in general, like the National Day of Prayer, or (2) a primary issue, and the inclusion of an additional comment on prayer, which in this chapter is called the “prayer add-on.” Concerning the prayer comments, Graham either spoke about the National Day of Prayer, the Special Day of Prayer, or the necessity of prayer in general. Graham constantly reinforced the necessity of praying for Trump, and in this specific post, he also denounced others, with a persuasive tone that

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adhered to Aristotle’s pathos appeal. Logical fallacies, which are fallacies in the art of argumentation, were identified. Hence, since he is in an esteemed position, all of his posts indirectly appeal to ethos. Here’s one of Graham’s posts that shows his relationship of prayer to Trump; he asked followers to use the Special Day of Prayer to pray for Trump. President Trump’s enemies continue to try everything to destroy him, his family, and the presidency. In the history of our country, no president has been attacked as he has. I believe the only hope for him, and this nation, is God. This is a critical time for America. We’re on the edge of a precipice. Time is short. We need to pray for God to intervene. We need to ask God to protect, strengthen, encourage, and guide the President. (Graham May 26, 2019)

This post is an emotional one, as Graham has utilized techniques appealing to Aristotle’s pathos. Graham catered to his Facebook followers’ sympathies by stating Trump’s “enemies” are trying to destroy him by attacking him. This point is nonrational because there was no mention of who the “enemies” are, allowing for a plethora of assumptions and speculation among his followers. In fact, Aristotle’s “logos,” which would have shown rational evidence to support his claims if it were utilized, was not used in this post. Graham continues to use emotionally charged points by stating Americans are “on the edge of a precipice.” Fear and anger are two evident emotions that could be generated from Graham’s posts, which are some of the emotions Porter (2014) mentions as a part of pathos. Graham has the potential of generating anger, by mentioning what Trump’s “enemies” are doing, and “fear,” by mentioning Americans are “on the edge of a precipice.” This post utilizes the red herring fallacy, because he stated an opinion as a fact and did not provide supporting evidence. Further, to divert his followers from the political issues that may have caused this situation, Graham instead asks his followers to pray for Trump, which becomes the red herring in the post. He also used the begging the question fallacy of argumentation because he said the information as if it was true, that “President Trump’s enemies continue to try everything to destroy him, his family, and the presidency. In the history of our country, no president has been attacked as he has,” but a statement of that magnitude requires proof, which Graham did not provide. Graham has used prayer as an add-on to other information in his comments to emotionally connect to his followers. In fact, prayer was integrated into posts covering various topics, like birthday wishes and prayers sent to Trump; the resignation of Sarah Huckabee and prayers to her; President Trump’s reelection bid and the necessity of prayers to our leaders; and Trump’s meeting with the North Korean president Kim Jong Un and prayers for Trump’s guidance. These posts signified the importance of prayer, as Trump continued

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his role as the nation’s leader. Graham’s impartial mention of the necessity of prayers for our leaders became persuasive upon mentioning Trump’s reelection bid: Last night President Donald J. Trump officially announced his re-election bid to a crowd of some 20,000 people in Orlando, thousands who had gotten there more than 40 hours ahead of the event and millions more watching on television. My prayer is that God would protect all of those running for this office. It’s not too early to pray for the 2020 election and the future direction of our nation. (Graham June 19, 2019)

Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump covers a myriad of general themes, most of which centers on various aspects of civil service, including government policies (usually aligning with the Republican policy on immigration, gay matters, national and international politics); the military; and the police. Hence, Graham showed patriotism by making positive posts on the military generally, a D-Day celebration, and National Police Week and Police Officers Memorial Day. Next, is an example of Graham’s post concerning flying the gay pride flag on American embassies, which also included elements of pathos through Graham’s use of an emotionally charged word, and ethos, since he is an authority who can speak for Christians: I want to thank President Donald J. Trump and Secretary of State Mike Pompeo for making the decision not to fly the gay flag over our embassies during June in recognition of gay pride month. That is the right decision. The only flag that should fly over our embassies is the flag of the United States of America. The gay pride flag is offensive to Christians and millions of people of other faiths, not only in this country but around the world. The U.S. flag represents our nation—everyone—regardless of race, religion, or sexual orientation. (Graham June 8, 2019)

Graham’s mention of Trump and Pompeo’s decision as the right decision made all other alternatives unacceptable, so he displayed authority on this issue, even though he is not a political leader. He used an emotionally charged point in this post, adhering to pathos, by mentioning the American flag should fly solely on the embassies because it represents everyone, in contrast to the offensive gay pride flag. His use of the word “offensive” to describe the gay pride flag is an emotionally charged, which could generate anger in others. Graham uses ethos indirectly—since he has credibility as a religious leader—when making general claims about Christians, as he (2019) motioned, “the gay pride flag is offensive to Christians.” Although, he goes beyond Christians and mentions “people of other faiths” and those “not only

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in this country but around the world.” Although, he does not provide rational supporting arguments to support his claim, so his post lacks logos. Graham’s argument supports a bandwagon fallacy for argumentation. According to Graham, all Christians and all people in this country and throughout the world find the gay flag to be offensive, so his Facebook followers should be offended too. Ultimately, this post supported pathos in persuading his followers that Trump and Pompeo made the right decision to not fly the gay pride flag at the embassies. In addition, Graham’s posts on immigration policy and prayer displayed pathos because of his emotionally unsupported appeals to his followers: Why would anyone—Democrat or Republican—be against this? President Donald J. Trump wants to fix our country’s immigration system and has laid out a new proposal that would put us on track to do that. Let’s pray for him and our elected leaders. Encourage your representative to stop fighting and work together to solve this problem. (Graham May 17, 2019)

The logos persuasive appeal was not apparent even as Graham, later in the post, generally listed mostly negative policy as it relates to immigration policy, including border security, expedited asylum petitions, child smuggling, the speedy reunification of children and families, the halt of contraband and drugs, the removal of gang members and criminal aliens, and so on. Even though Graham was in favor of Trump’s policy and mentioned general phrases about immigration, he did not specifically mention why his actions on immigration should be followed, so he did not allude to logos. Plus, Graham’s long list of negative claims surrounding immigration, connecting immigration to societal ills, like “child smuggling,” “criminals,” and “gang member” affiliation, has the potential of generating fear, anger, and unkindness in followers—this connects to Aristotle’s pathos appeal. Also, anger could generate from Graham’s remarks that they should “stop fighting and work together.” Next, Graham’s post is based on illogical fallacies: he insinuates there are only two options concerning immigration policy, Trump’s policy that is right will “fix” the problem, and the Democrat’s policy that is wrong will not. Graham uses the either/or fallacy, which is also known as the false dilemma fallacy, in which a person makes others believe there is just one choice over another, when more choices exist. Also, the red herring fallacy of argumentation is apparent because the issue of prayer diverts his followers’ attention from the real political issue of why the Democrats are not collaborating with the Republicans. Overall, prayer was the most dominant theme in Graham’s posts. Graham’s mention of prayer itself could be considered an appeal to pathos, since it reflects a personal connection to and communication with God or a Higher

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Being, a Spiritual Self, or an Inner Light (Gubi 2001). Graham’s emphasis on prayer makes his posts heavily reflective of an emotional appeal. Moreover, ethos is the underlined persuasive technique in all of his posts, since his credible appeal stems from being a second-generation evangelical leader, the son of Billy Graham. Aristotle had connected moral character to one’s ethos, “We believe good men more fully and more readily than others: this is true generally whatever the question is, and absolutely true where exact certainty is impossible and opinions are divided” (Aristotle, 350 B.C.E.). Hence, religious leader views will resonate more so when they are rooted in biblical scripture or moral imperatives, as opposed to logical analysis (Umeogu 2012). RQ2: Facebook users respond to Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump

Overall Themes The comments’ section of Graham’s posts reflected an overarching agreement with Graham and the following three themes that all relate to the rhetoric of victimhood: (1) Denouncing Trump’s dissenters in God’s name; (2) Trump, Christianity, and our common enemy, and (3) name-calling and scapegoating, by insulting Democrats. Consensus was displayed in the comments’ section of Graham’s posts. The overwhelming majority of commenter remarks were in absolute agreement with the perspective of Graham’s post. Here is an example of a commenter reinforcing Graham’s viewpoint on law enforcement and showing admiration for Graham, both common among the posts: Thank you Mr. Graham and the Billy Graham Association for your love and support for our Law Enforcement Officers. Thank you for all you do for others. Prayers for our law enforcement and God Bless all of you. (Graham Comment May 15, 2019).

The very low number of dissenters of Graham’s viewpoint, were mostly challenged and rejected. For instance, a unique commenter subtly challenged Graham’s opinion, which sparked a chain of many replies. This message disagreed with Graham’s positive outlook on law enforcement: It is sad to read when a police officer is killed in the line of duty, but also when they mistreat and kill citizens. (Graham Comment May 15, 2019)

This commenter’s opinion was rejected in a reply showing support for police officer actions:

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Police officers have to make split second decisions and sometimes they don't get it right. That is generally rare. (Graham Comment May 15, 2019)

Another commenter ignored any mention of the police and just commented on Trump negatively and received much feedback: Yes, since Trump has been in the White House things are a lot more scarier people are more angry it’s almost like somebody has open the gates of hell isn’t it? (Graham Comment May 15, 2019)

A commenter replied by ignoring the content of the original commenter’s post and simply replied with, “Love my cops,” and a reply to that message was, “amen.” Consensus was displayed again after referencing emojis, when another commenter remarked on a post of a dinner that Graham and his daughter attended at the White House: To the 7 people that think this is funny, with your “laughing emoji” soon you won’t be laughing, you’ll be begging for mercy when you stand in front of GOD. (Graham Commenter June 2, 2019).

Another person commented in response to this comment: I love seeing the “angry” status. People are actually angry that we prayed for the president of the USA . . . . They want him to fail at any cost. (Graham Commenter June 2, 2019)

There was overwhelming agreement in most of Graham’s posts that were investigated, which is indicated in the total of 1,884,000 likes, averaging over 110,000 likes per post. In many of the comments a sense of victimhood was present. Victimhood follows the belief that dominant culture has become a threat to one’s lifestyle. Cole (2008) says that beginning in the 1990s, during George W. Bush’s “War on Drugs” era, victims became portrayed as victimizers, and were subsequently associated with aggressive, manipulative, and criminal behavior. Moreover, political extremists, people on the far-left and far-right, have bought into this narrative and have incorporated the victimhood role. According to Furlow (2012), political extremists have a “perception of victimhood,” and they make the role of the freedom fighter, applicable to their own lives. Furlow further noted, “The white race is the victim of the minority takeover of the United States. Racial extremists then seek a return to what Brad Whitsel calls a period of ‘imagined greatness.’ There is a desire to return to a period in which the perceived victimized group was once dominant and

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prospering” (5). These people, who become victims, respond to the rhetoric of victimhood. In turn, in the comments’ section, those who support abortion were called “murderers” (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019) and others as “haters” (Graham Commenter May 26, 2019), or “showing hate,” “hatemongers” (Graham Commenter May 26, 2019), having “backwards thinking” (Graham Commenter May 17, 2019), and commenters referenced immigrants as “illegals” (Graham Commenter May 17, 2019). Kelly (2020) spoke about the rhetoric of resentment and its shift to resentment, as Trump appealed to revenge, rage, and malice, and created an emotional framework of “inverted civic virtues,” including victimization, revenge, and resentment. Kelly (2000) said this rhetoric of resentment and white victimhood leads to sustaining “the affective charge of animus without forfeiting the moral high ground of victimhood to his audience’s ‘oppressors’— Democrats, the press, criminals, immigrants, foreign adversaries, welfare recipients, the Me Too movement, ‘globalists,’ and racial Others” (2). This results in Trump’s audience becoming marginalized subjects (Kelly 2000). This victimhood extends to Christians. Duerringer (2011) noted in his investigation into White Victimhood that some have claimed Christians are facing “persecution,” or that they are “under attack in America,” through changes to the national policies on religion, including a “War on Christmas,” which involves aspects like the public moving from saying the standardized “Merry Christmas” to “Happy Holidays,” the removal of the Ten Commandments from courthouses, and the removal of crosses on public property (9). These changes have the potential of transgressing into a collective victimization. It has led some Christians to proclaim they will “take America back” (Duerringer 2011). Theme 1: Denounce Trump’s Dissenters in God’s Name Mostly all commenters agreed with Graham’s post about the necessity of a National Day of Prayer and a Special Day of Prayer for Trump, and many made comments on praying for Trump. Mostly all commenters mentioned Trump positively, and further there existed mentions of those who want to tarnish Trump’s name, which will be noted. A small number of commenters choose to speak about Trump negatively, thereby challenging the group conscientious on Trump. One commenter challenged Graham’s post by saying, “Trump needs to be taught a lesson about following God’s law, not man’s law. I pray God almighty remove him from office, in Jesus Christ name” (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019). One commenter replied to this remark by saying, “sounds like you want a Democrat in office who will take our religious freedoms away, murder babies and uphold all ungodly ways. So sad” (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019). This comment mentioned “murder

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babies,” in reference to the Democrats approval of abortion. In another comment, Trump was denigrated. “Donald Trump is a Christian? Hard to believe since he shows none of the traits I see in the majority of Christians I know” (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019). The reply to this remark was in defense of Trump: Christian aren’t known by their “traits.” All humans need forgiveness. Christ in His perfect “traits” and attributes died for the ungodly. He also said something about humbly seeking Him for yourself and not to try and pluck-out splinters from the eyes of others. . . . Donald Trump is a true Christian. (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019)

This commenter asked the original commenter in the chain, to start studying the Bible and referenced the biblical quote, Ephesians 2:8-10, to reject judging others. This is a reflection of how Graham’s commenters mostly defended Trump when an alternate opinion was presented. Another negative commenter to this post insulted Graham and Trump. The commenter (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019) said, “Mr. Graham is very good at pointing out what he feels this president does that is good but I find it interesting that he never points out when the president lies TSWA!!!” A reply to this comment indicated, “If he is in sin. God knows that” (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019). Another reply was, “And who and what do you rely on for your fake news?” (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019). Another reply remarked, “Have you found anything that this President has done that’s good? Perhaps you only look for what you think is bad. What a negative attitude of life” (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019). This reply was a personal attack against the commenter by questioning his or her attitude. Rebutting negative comments on Trump was common among the rare number of dissenting comments. Another commenter also was attacked, because of his or her criticism of Trump: With all due respect. Trump is a criminal, what Judge Emmit Sullivan made public yesterday is witness tampering plus obstruction of Justice. Trump shouldn’t be able to make any more decisions for this great country. He’s not only a criminal, he’s a liar & a con-man. It’s time to impeach 45.5 (Graham Commenter May 17, 2019).

A commenter replied by saying, “Boy you over dosed on dumb, a rat lool aide !!!!!” (Graham Commenter May 17, 2019). Another reply asked, “Are you confusing him with Hillary?” (Graham Commenter May 17, 2019). The last person agreed with the dissenter. Agreeing with a dissenter who was previously attacked was a rarity, but the commenter stated, “As an Independent,

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I only deal in reality. There is no denying that what you say is true” (Graham Commenter May 17, 2019). Another commenter was criticized after insulting Trump: Surely this is our country’s time in Babylon. I pray for this administration to be gone without further destruction of our country. I pray that scales will fall from eyes and that my fellow believers will recognize that they have worshiped money and power, not God. I pray that we will be freed from this evil man and his false prophets like Graham. And, I pray this in Jesus’ name. Amen. (Graham Commenter May 26, 2019).

One commenter’s response not only insulted the person but questioned his or her right to make a comment, “Why are you even on this site? You prefer the Democrats who kill infants for fun? Democrats who support Sharia and Moslems? God knows your documented evil heart.” Another response was, “Admit it this is not a Christian site, just Republican.” The reply was, “Yes in many ways this is a Republican site regarding politics, however there are some Christian values and good viewpoints mixed in. Christ is all about Glorifying the Father and doing His Fathers' Will, He was not about politics and that is where the focus should be.” Another commenter said, “You’re so right there, this is not a Christian site, just Republican views only allowed—scary.” Another person commented, “Prayers to you to see the truth not blindness.” Overall, the majority of dissenters of Trump’s policies and Graham’s perspective on Trump were insulted, ignored, or vehemently challenged. Theme 2: Trump, Christianity, and our Common Enemy Mostly all comments about Trump in response to Graham were positive, and these comments connected Trump to prayer, while some also mentioned an enemy. These commenters had the same perspective as Graham’s post for the Special Day of Prayer, when he (Graham May 26, 2019) said, “President Trump’s enemies continue to try everything to destroy him, his family, and the presidency. In the history of our country, no president has been attacked as he has. I believe the only hope for him, and this nation, is God.” One commenter stuck to this “enemy” theme by mentioning the hate others have for Trump: Amen. I pray for our President/Vice President daily and for those in this country who are full of so much hate. I pray God shines His light of love into the darkness of their hate and they are saved. God bless our nation. (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019).

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This three-way trinity between Trump, his enemies, and a threat to Christianity also surfaced frequently, as it did in this comment: Thank you and God Bless President Trump, he stands with the protectors of Christian America, and is stead-fast in Pro Life support, he opposes late term killing of viable children! We pray, God protect our Commander In Chief, his supporters, his family, and all of America from evil actions and plans! We are believers in Jesus Christ, in God's Holy Spirit; we seek Power to resist the forces wanting our silence, seeking to stop belief in a Higher Power! God Bless the Franklin Graham Organization in support of Christians, and this President, Amen! (Graham Commenter May 30, 2019)

Many people spoke about those who hate Trump. Another commenter said, “Amen. I pray for our President/Vice President daily and for those in this country who are full of so much hate. I pray God shines His light of love into the darkness of their hate and they are saved. God bless our nation” (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019). This triad of Trump, Christianity, and the enemy was displayed when a commenter commended Graham for standing up for Trump: Thank you for standing with President Trump and Vice President Pence even though you get a lot of criticism. Thank you especially, for standing for the Truth of Gods Words. (Graham Commenter May 2, 2019).

The expressed hatred for Trump turned into stronger language comprised of those in a “sinful world” and prayers that are sent in order to defeat evil (Graham Commenter May 30, 2019), and mention of what the commenter called, Trump’s crucifixion. One commenter mentioned that the tone toward Trump felt demonic: The hatred for our current President is beyond normal..​.​it feels demonic. We pray that God uses PT for Gods glory and we lift PT up to do God's work. PT is not perfect. PT is not the best Christian on the planet but God has placed something in his heart to do GOD’S work. (By the way, I prayed President Obama would be a Godly president also). If our presidents make good decisions, ALL AMERICANS benefit. (Graham Commenter May 26, 2019)

The mention of Trump having “haters” gave a victimized tone to the remarks. The next commenter (Graham Commenter May 26, 2019) mentioned people being against Trump, “Our president is being crucified every day in the press, by Washington VIP’s and Hollywood celebs. . . . I intend to keep praying for him every day.” Here’s another example of commenters aligning with Trump, portrayed as a victim:

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I pray everyday for him. My prayers start with thanking God for this less than perfect man he has given to us to lead this country. My heart breaks for him! I don’t know how he endures- it has to be because of our prayers to our father for him! 2 Chronicles 7:14 and 2 Timothy, Chapter 3 (Graham Commenter May 26, 2019).

Theme 3: Name-Calling and Scapegoating, by Insulting Democrats Scapegoating was apparent in this section; scapegoating is one way of distracting others during a disagreement. Rothschild et al. (2012) indicate that scapegoating happens when someone blames and at times punishes people for a negative occurrence, when it is in fact cause by other circumstances. Rothschild et al. (2012) have conducted a study on scapegoating and found that it includes three psychological motives “(a) maintaining perceived personal moral value by minimizing feelings of guilt over one’s responsibility for a negative outcome and (b) maintaining perceived personal control by obtaining a clear explanation for a negative outcome that otherwise seems inexplicable” (1148). The most impassioned comments came from Graham’s post on immigration, and many jabbed their insults toward Democrats. Some called others “in opposition,” “traitors” to the United States constitution, and another commenter called Democrats, “dumborats” (Graham Commenter May 17, 2019). Other commenters insulted Democrats, one said, “Dems hate Trump more than they love this country. Do they even love America anymore? God change their hearts and work a miracle here” (Graham Commenter May 17, 2019). Later, the attack comes onto those whom are gentiles in Congress, in which one can assume this post is about Democrats with the mention of impeachment. Yes our Congress especially needs lots of prayer it is unbelievable the lies they put out about our president and our AG and wanting to impeach them, we need pray protection for those under spiritual attack and all the gentiles such as those who are sprouting these lies at the heads of Congress. (Graham Commenter May 17, 2019)

Another commenter supported the common thinking among all the commenters in this group: The dems or libs whatever you want to call them do not want him to succeed even at the cost of our country. Dems & libs are wrong on abortion and you are wrong on immigration. The only thing you care about is your power not our country. Trump is right I support him 200%. He is doing a great job. (Graham Commenter May 17, 2019).

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Therefore, Democrats and all others who might disagree with the comments on Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump, became a member of the out-group.

CONCLUSION Graham has an enormous influence on his nearly nine million followers on Facebook. Groupthink is occurring on Graham’s Facebook posts on Trump, since mostly all of the small number of dissenters were challenged and alienated, without a consideration of their personal views. This has created the existence of digital eco chambers. Therefore, commenter’s primarily do not pass Dewey’s third stage in the decision-making process, which is to seek alternatives before determining if there is agreement or disagreement. When Graham’s Facebook followers make a comment, their mindset is mostly aligned with Graham’s opinions on various political issues, which also aligns with Trump’s views. Graham’s insistence on prayers for Trump to help his political situation was reflective of Aristotle’s pathos appeal, and at times he used argument fallacies to support his point. In fact, Graham displayed Aristotle’s pathos in his posts and has indirectly displayed ethos. Further, he has such a high level of credibility among his Facebook followers that the utilization of logos was not necessary in persuading his followers. In this research study, Facebook was not used for exploring alternative opinions, but for conforming to the dominant opinion of in-group members. Due to the existence of name-calling among the commenters and the prevalence of self-appointed mind guards, the “other” became a member of an out-group. The commenters used scapegoating and the rhetoric of victimhood to support their comments. Therefore, due to this conflict, Graham did not achieve the Egyptian Rhetorical theory goal, or Ptah-Hotep’s concept of “good speech,” a notion of using rhetoric for bringing about order and harmony in one’s society, instead Graham’s rhetoric produced just the opposite including name-calling and identifying others who think differently as a common enemy. Ultimately, this study has shown the enormous political influence of an evangelical pastor, Franklin Graham III, among his nine million followers, in our new digital media environment.

REFERENCES Abrams, Dominic, and Michael Hogg. Social Identifications: A Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations and Group Processes. London: Routledge, 1988. Adams, Kenneth Allen. “Trump and the Social Trance.” The Journal of Psychohistory 46 (2019).

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Aristotle. Rhetoric. Book I, II, III. Translated by W. Rhys Roberts, 350 B.C.E. http:​//​ cla​​ssics​​.mit.​​edu​/A​​risto​​tle​/r​​hetor​​ic​.3.​​​iii​.h​​tml. Bauer, Martin, and George Gaskell. Qualitative Researching with Text, Image and Sound: A Practical Handbook for Social Research. Los Angeles: Sage Publications, 2000. Blackstone, Bethany, and Elizabeth Oldmixon. “Discourse and Dissonance: Religious Agendas in the 104th Congress.” In Research and Politics, 5 (July–September 2016): 1–8. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​177​/2​​05316​​801​55​​89215​. Blake, Cecil. The African Origins of Rhetoric. New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group, 2009. Burke, Daniel. 2018. “How Billy Graham Became the Most Famous Preacher in America.” CNN. https​:/​/ww​​w​.cnn​​.com/​​2018/​​02​/21​​/us​/h​​ow​-bi​​lly​-g​​raham​​-beca​​me​ -fa​​​mous/​​index​​.html​. February 21, 2018. Burke, Daniel. 2019. “Franklin Graham Wants the Nation to Pray for Trump on Sunday. But Other Christians Call It Propaganda.” CNN. https​:/​/ww​​w​.cnn​​.com/​​ 2019/​​05​/30​​/us​/f​​rankl​​in​-gr​​aham-​​trump​​-day-​​of​-pr​​​ayer/​​index​​.html​. Cheong, Pauline. “Religious Leaders, Mediated Authority, and Social Change.” Journal of Applied Communication Research 4 (2011): 452–454. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​ .1​​080​/0​​09098​​82​.20​​​11​.57​​7085.​ Cole, Alyson. “The Other V-Word: The Politics of Victimhood Fueling George W. Bush’s War Machine.” In Feminism and War: Confronting US Imperialism, edited by Robin L. Riley, Chandra Mohanty, and Minnie Pratt. New York: Zed Books, 2008, 117–130. DeSoto, Randy. “Franklin Graham: Trump May Go Down as One of the Best Presidents We’ve Had.” The Western Journal, June 13, 2019. https​:/​/ww​​w​.wes​​ternj​​ ourna​​l​.com​​/excl​​usive​​-fran​​klin-​​graha​​m​-tru​​mp​-ma​​y​-go-​​one​-​b​​est​-p​​resid​​ents/​. Dewey, John. How We Think. Lexington, Mass: D.C. Heath, 1910. Duerringer, Christopher. April, 2011. “Crucified Christians, Marked Men, and Wanted Whites Victimhood and Conservative Counterpublicity.” PhD Dissertation, Arizona State University, 2011. Floyd-Lapp, Claire. Aristotle’s Rhetoric: The Power of Words and the Continued Relevance of Persuasion. Portland State University, Young Historians Conference, 2014. Fox, Michael. Rhetorica: A Journal of the History of Rhetori 1, no. 1 (Spring 1983): 9–22. University of California Press on behalf of the International Society for the History of Rhetoric. Froese, Paul. “Religion and American Politics from a Global Perspective.”Religions 5 (2014): 648–662. http://doi​.org​/10​.3390​/rel5030648. Furlow, Bennett. Extremism and Victimhood in the U.S. Context. Report No. 1204, Center for Strategic Communication, Arizona State University, 2012. Garver, Eugene. “Aristotle on the Kinds of Rhetoric.” Rhetorica: The International Society for the History of Rhetoric 1 (2009): 1–18. Gorski, Phillip. “Why Evangelicals Voted for Trump: A Critical Cultural Sociology.” American Journal of Cultural Sociology 5 (2017): 338–354. http:​/​/doi​​.org/​​10​.10​​57​ /s4​​1290-​​017​​-0​​043​-9​.

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Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019a. Facebook Commenter, May 26, 2019. https://www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019b. Facebook Post, May 26, 2019. https://www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019c. Facebook Commenter, May 26, 2019. https://www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019d. Facebook Post, May 26, 2019. https://www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019e. Facebook Commenter, June 18, 2019. https://www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019f. Facebook Post, June 19, 2019. https:// www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019g. Facebook Commenter, May 30, 2019. https://www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019h. Facebook Post, May 30, 2019. https://www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019i. Facebook Commenter, May 17, 2019. https://www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019j. Facebook Post, May 17, 2019. https:// www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019k. Facebook Commenter, May 15, 2019. https://www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Graham, Franklin. (@FranklinGraham). 2019l. Facebook Commenter, May 2, 2019. https://www​.facebook​.com​/FranklinGraham. Gubi, Peter. “An Exploration of the Use of Christian Prayer in Mainstream Counselling.” British Journal of Guidance & Counselling 4 (2001). http:​/​/doi​​.org/​​ 10​.10​​80​/03​​06988​​0120​0​​85974​. Hallen, Barry. A Short History of African Philosophy. Second Edition. Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press, 2009. Harper, Jennifer. 2018. “Franklin Graham Blasts ‘Vicious’ and ‘Sickening’ Media Attacks on Trump.” The Washington Times, December 27, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.was​​ hingt​​ontim​​es​.co​​m​/new​​s​/201​​8​/dec​​/27​/f​​rankl​​in​-gr​​aham-​​blast​​s​-vic​​ious-​​​and​-s​​icken​​ ing​-m​​edia/​. Hogan, Michael. Chapter 1, Persuasion in the Rhetorical Tradition. New York: Sage Publications, 2012. http://doi​.org​/10​.4135​/9781452218410​.n1. Hutto, David. “Ancient Egyptian Rhetoric in the Old and Middle Kingdoms.” The International Society for the History of Rhetoric, Rhetorica 3 (Summer 2002). Janis, Irving. Groupthink: Psychological Studies of Policy Decisions and Fiascoes. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1982. Jennings, Jay. “Mixed Reactions: How Religious Motivation Explains Responses to Religious Rhetoric Politics.” Political Research Quarterly 2 (2016): 295–308. http://doi​.org​/10​.1177​/1065912916636690. Kelly, Casey Ryan. “Donald J. Trump and the Rhetoric of Ressentiment.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 1 (2020): 2–24. http:​/​/doi​​.org/​​10​.10​​80​/00​​33563​​0​.201​​​9​.169​​ 8756.​

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Kennedy, G. A. Aristotle on Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse. New York: Oxford University Press, 1991. Kirszner, Laurie, and Stephen Mandell. Practical Argument: A Text and Anthology. Third Edition. New York: Bedford/St. Martins, 2017. Lindsay, D. Michael. “Elite Power: Social networks within American Evangelicalism.” Sociology of Religion 3 (Autumn 2006): 207–227. Meyer, Michael. “Aristotle’s Rhetoric.” Topoi 249 (2012). http:​/​/doi​​.org/​​10​.10​​07​/s1​​ 1245-​​012​​-9​​132​-0​. Moen, M. “From Revolution to Evolution: The Changing Nation of the Christian Right.” Sociology of Religion 55, no. 3 (Autumn 1994): 345–357. Mohammed, Kavi, and Nyan Ghafour. “Persuasion Strategies Used in Kurdish and English Religious Speeches.” In 8th International Visible Conference on Educational Studies & Applied Linguistics, 2017. http://doi​.org​/10​.23918​/ vesal2017​.a21. Mountainman​.co​m. 2017. “Aristotle’s Three Modes of Persuasion in Rhetoric.” http:​/​/ www​​.moun​​tainm​​an​.co​​m​.au/​​essen​​es​/ar​​istot​​les​_m​​odes_​​of​_pe​​rsuas​​ion​​_i​​n​_rhe​​toric​​.htm.​ National Public Radio. “Famous Evangelist, ‘America’s Pastor’ Billy Graham Dies at 99.” February 21, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.npr​​.org/​​2018/​​02​/21​​/5877​​31852​​/famo​​us​-ev​​ angel​​ist​-a​​meric​​as​-pa​​stor-​​billy​​​-grah​​am​-di​​es​-at​​-99. Nelzén, Amanda. “Aristotle on Social Media?: Investigating Non-Profit Organizations Usage of Persuasive Language in Their Posts on Twitter and Facebook.” Thesis, Linnaeus University, 2018. Porter, J. 2014. “Know the Three Modes of Persuasion.” http:​/​/www​​.jrmy​​prtr.​​com​/m​​ odes-​​of​-pe​​r​suas​​ion/.​ Ptah-Hotep. “The Instruction of Ptah-Hotep.” In The Wisdom of the East Series, the Instruction of Ptah-Hotep and the Instruction of Ke’gemni, edited by L. Cranmer-Byng and S. A. Kapadia. The Oldest Books in the World, translated by Battiscombe G. Gunn. London, UK: John Murray, 1906. Radnofsky, Louise. “Trump Proclaims Support for Religious Liberty.” Wall Street Journal, May 3, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.wsj​​.com/​​artic​​les​/t​​rump-​​procl​​aims-​​suppo​​rt​-fo​​r​ -rel​​igiou​​s​-lib​​​erty-​​15253​​69053​. Risius, Marten, Okan Aydinguel, and Haug Maximilian. “Towards an Understanding of Conspiracy Echo Chambers on Facebook.” In Twenty-Seventh European Conference on Information Systems, Stockholm-Upasala, Sweden, 2019. Schmidt, Eric, R. “The Influence of Religious–Political Sophistication on U.S. Public Opinion.” Political Behavior 1 (March 2019): 21–53. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​007​/s​​ 11109​​-017​-​​9390-​​z. Smith, Samuel. “Franklin Graham: Trump’s Enemies Will Hurt America, Could Spark Civil War If Impeached.” The Christian Post, May 31, 2019. https​:/​/ww​​ w​.chr​​istia​​npost​​.com/​​news/​​frank​​lin​-g​​raham​​-trum​​ps​-en​​emies​​-will​​-hurt​​-amer​​ica​-c​​ ould-​​spark​​-civi​​l​-w​ar​​-if​-i​​mpeac​​hed​.h​​tml. Stets, Jan, and Peter J. Burke. “Identity Theory and Social Identity Theory.” Social Psychology Quarterly 63, no. 3 (2000): 224–237.

Section III

CONSIDERATIONS FOR FUTURE SCHOLARSHIP ON RHETORIC AND RELIGION

Chapter 9

What I Wish Rhetoric Scholars and American Evangelical Christians Would Learn by Studying Religious Rhetoric A Rhetorological Exercise Mark Allan Steiner

Particularly in the wake of Donald Trump’s election as president of the United States in November 2016, it is not particularly controversial to say that American public and political culture is polarized, divisive, and tribally driven on a level not seen in decades. More severe than the insularity and rigidity to which different people and communities hold their political views is the underlying unwillingness to push past these boundaries and engage in listening and dialogue with people of different convictions. “Americans once had a shared commitment to … traditional democratic values” and a more abiding sense of “liberty and justice for all,” writes Washington Post columnist Catherine Rampell (2017). But she laments that “slowly but surely, we have been abandoning these shared values and drifting toward authoritarianism and mob rule,” driven in a profound way by “our increasingly corrosive and tribalist partisanship.” While less sensational and certainly less publicized, the discourse that pertains to the study of religious rhetoric is just as vulnerable to these sorts of political and tribalist impulses. Many politically and theologically conservative religionists, in my experience, tend to see religious rhetoric—to the degree that they even use the word “rhetoric”—in ways that conform to a broad stereotype about the study of human communication more generally: that it involves the objective and transparent transmission of ideas and “truths” from mind to mind, from community to community. Likewise, in my experience, many secular progressive academics who concern themselves 183

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with religious rhetoric tend to see it primarily as a propagandistic instrument of anti-scientific irrationality, coercion, and social/cultural regression. Adherents of both perspectives, unfortunately, not only place themselves in an intellectual stance in which they not only are unable to profit humanely and self-reflectively from the study of religious rhetoric but also tend to study religious rhetoric in artificially truncated ways that deny its fullness as an object of study. A number of scholars have made good cases that religion—and religious rhetoric more specifically—is both important and understudied. Scholars like Craig Calhoun (2011), Laurent Pernot (2006), and Justin Wilford (2012) have given voice to the increased academic recognition of the continued relevance and power of religion in American public and cultural life, and to the implausibility of the much-vaunted “secularization” thesis that predicted the decline and effective elimination of “superstitious” and “irrational” religious cultural authority. That said, the study of religious rhetoric will never achieve its full promise, in terms of both insight and practical applicability, unless it is valued fully as a subject of study in the more robust sense that Parker Palmer has in mind in The Courage to Teach ([1998] 2007). This means that it is accorded the “ontological significance” that all subjects worth studying should command, in which “we give it the respect and authority that we normally give only to human beings . . . acknowledging its unique identity and integrity” (105). This equally means that it should be studied in a uniquely communal context—the “community of truth”—at which it is at the “center” of the human relationships within that community, and in which the concern of studying it authentically shapes and even transforms those relationships (104–9). My purpose in this essay follows naturally from treating religious rhetoric as an authentic subject in this more robust sense. More specifically, I explore how the particular study of religious rhetoric in this way can be the basis for what rhetorician Wayne Booth (2004) calls “rhetorology,” a type of rhetorical practice that emphasizes listening, dialogue, and the pursuit of common ground. The implicit or explicit study of religious rhetoric is of particular relevance for two broad communities that have been very much at odds: (1) academics in the humanities and social sciences, particularly those in the field of communication who specialize in rhetorical studies; and (2) American conservative evangelical Christians—those marked by the particular convictions of “conversionism (an emphasis on the ‘new birth’ as a life-changing experience of God), Biblicism (a reliance on the Bible as ultimate religious authority), activism (a concern for sharing the faith), and crucicentrism (a focus on Christ’s redeeming work on the cross, usually pictured as the only way of salvation” (Noll 2001, 13). Particularly since the political rise and the Presidency of Donald Trump, the mutual mistrust between these two communities has

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only intensified. But the reality is that these two communities have significantly more in common than they realize. They each have distinctive strengths and contributions to make to a more productive and more humane public and political culture, and they share some significant shortcomings. As such, both communities stand to gain much by engaging in rhetorology with each other, and the serious study of religious rhetoric in Palmer’s sense can serve as a fruitful vehicle by which this rhetorological work can be done. Accordingly, in this chapter I explore what the sustained study of religious rhetoric reveals about the character and weaknesses of both communities. Both communities are profoundly inflected by religious or quasi-religious assumptions and commitments. Both communities are also profoundly shaped and constrained by rhetoric in its various manifestations—not only in how their work is substantially constituted by the communication of messages that are inflected with matters of audience, context and purpose; but also in how the discourses they use and think in function to constitute and naturalize their identities, their perceptions of reality, and their lived values. I also explore how, for both communities, the study of religious rhetoric can make them more modest, circumspect, and open to dialogue about their own practices and commitments, and how this type of study can serve as an inventional resource by which they can both reflect their best values and contribute to the common good. In what follows, then, I first sketch the framework by which the “work” of this chapter is to be understood by conveying in a bit more detail Booth’s notion of “rhetorology.” I then provide a sketch of the kinds of issues and realities that can be seen within both communities by employing the serious study of religious rhetoric as a wellspring for rhetorological invention: the blindnesses and shared dysfunctions that inhabit the thinking and heart-habits of these communities, and what each community can learn—more powerfully, more self-reflectively, and more humanely—by studying and attending to religious rhetoric as a subject possessing its own ontological significance. I suggest that in pursuing this sort of sustained rhetorological exercise, both communities can not only earn a more vibrant understanding of the nature, function, and significance of religious rhetoric but also learn how to inhabit a more modest and realistic stance about their own commitments that can promote dialogue and the forging of the type of common ground so necessary to a humane and edifying public culture in a pluralistic and democratic society. WAYNE BOOTH AND RHETOROLOGY In The Rhetoric of Rhetoric, Wayne Booth argues for the contemporary revival of the arts of rhetoric in public and community life, seeing this as a

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necessary condition for the more fundamental revitalization of individual, communal, and public life. “The quality of our lives,” he declares, “especially the ethical and communal quality, depends to an astonishing degree on the quality of our rhetoric.” As such, “unless we pay more attention to improving our communication at all levels of life, unless we study more carefully the rhetorical strategies we all depend on, consciously, unconsciously, or subconsciously, we will continue to succumb to unnecessary violence, to loss of potential friends, and to the decay of community” (2004, xii). In claiming this, he, of course, has in mind the tasks of cultivating a particular knowledge base and practical skills, such as critical thinking, formal and informal argument, and the presentation of ideas to an audience by means of oral or written communication. According to Booth, though, true rhetorical sensitivity must go deeper to include more fundamental assumptions—about public knowledge and practical wisdom; about the nature, power, limitations, and utility of persuasion; and about the nature and importance of individuals and communities. True rhetorical sensitivity must also involve a particular heart attitude—the ability and willingness to see other people and communities, even those profoundly different or alien, as possessing considerable intrinsic value and offering at least the strong potential of adding heuristic and valuable insights on matters of mutual concern, as well as the desire to engage these people and communities in ways that involve discomfort and require tenacity and patience. This more robust and relational conception of rhetorical sensitivity is captured by Booth in his core concepts of “listening-rhetoric” and “rhetorology.” “Listening-rhetoric” is the “whole range of communicative arts for reducing misunderstanding by paying full attention to opposing views” (2004, 10), and “rhetorology” is “the deepest form of [listening-rhetoric]: the systematic probing for ‘common ground’ ” (11). This more dialogic and relational way of thinking about rhetoric is echoed by Eugene Garver, who has written about the fundamental importance of shared trust both as an essential component of “practical reason” (2004, 13–43) and as something that is cocreated by speakers and listeners through mutual and complementary effort (2006). Booth devotes a full chapter in The Rhetoric of Rhetoric to showcasing what this sort of rhetorological work looks like in practice, with two broad communities that have traditionally been at odds with each other: religionists and scientists (2004, 153–170). More specifically, he seeks to show how genuine religious inquiry and genuine scientific inquiry draws upon significant shared warrants—assumptions—that frame how and why they do what they do. Part of Booth’s point, then, is that the acknowledgment and engagement of these shared warrants allows for advocates of each community to be more self-reflective and modest about their own commitments,

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while also seeing important common ground that can foster and sustain authentic dialogue, shared motivation, and even shared action. “Can we hope,” he asks that by practicing rhetorology . . . we might diminish some of the pointless demonizing that diverse quarrelers commit? Can we not diminish the widespread effort to destroy enemies that don’t even exist? Cannot serious rhetorical study . . . diminish the damage that too many of us inflict on too many victims too much of the time? As rival rhetorics create and defend rival “realities,” cannot they concede that some rivals may be revealed as superior, if really listened to? (169–70)

This work is broadly similar to the work that this chapter seeks to advance. Rhetoricians and other academics who study religious rhetoric, and the American evangelical Christians that practice religious rhetoric in a variety of different forms, likewise share particular and common weaknesses and blindnesses, share common ground with each other, and can gain much by applying the study of religious rhetoric to their own intellectual assumptions and ethical commitments. The rest of this chapter seeks to sketch what some of the fruits of this rhetorological work might look like. BLINDNESSES AND SHARED DYSFUNCTIONS In a recent article in The Chronicle of Higher Education critiquing the state of contemporary higher education, sociologist Christian Smith (2018) bemoans—among a number of other things—the “grossly lopsided political ideology of the faculty of many disciplines, especially in the humanities and social sciences,” which “creat[es] a homogeneity of worldview to which those faculties are themselves oblivious, despite claiming to champion difference, diversity, and tolerance.” While noting that partisan conservatives tend to exaggerate this problem in self-serving ways, scholars like Neil Gross (2013) have called attention to this phenomenon, particularly in so far as it complicates the task of the academic community broadly speaking to cultivate credibility with the general public and sustain convincing arguments about the need for public (taxpayer) support for higher education. In explaining his claim that “American evangelicalism needs a good dose of mythologizing,” Smith notes that “many liberal-leftist activists imagine American evangelicals as demons. They cast evangelicalism as an ominous resurgence of religious oppression, a movement of radical, intolerant, and coercive zealots determined to undermine basic American freedoms in the name of narrow religious supremacy” (2000, 193). These general views,

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further, extend to academics in the humanities and social sciences. “As it stands,” he writes: American evangelicals remain one of the last social groups in the United States that people can speak disparagingly about in public and get away with it—at least in the general circles in which I move. Who among the well-educated is going to speak well of evangelicals? It’s like standing up for the Crusades. Some people openly deprecate evangelicals. Others speak of them with a vaguely irritated tone of voice, or a certain barely perceptible look of pain on their faces. Either way, the underlying view of evangelicals is about the same. (195)

As a religious rhetoric scholar who has generally center-left political commitments and who identifies as an evangelical, I have frequently seen these dysfunctions on display over the past twenty-five years. Throughout my graduate training and in my professional life as an academic, I have frequently seen and heard people of religious and particularly Christian conviction—especially when they are seen as conservative in any way—summarily mocked, dismissed, or characterized as an enemy to be defeated politically or “reeducated.” I have also consistently seen firsthand the ideological conformity that Smith (2018) condemns, which manifests not only as an explicit and implicit silencing of dissident and especially more conservative ideas but also as an increased conflation of academic purposes with partisan political purposes, such that academic work is seen primarily or even exclusively as serving political or ideological goals. Certainly in the field of communication and its subfield of rhetorical studies, I have observed that these trends have accelerated dramatically in the past several years, and particularly since the political rise to power of President Donald Trump. These dysfunctions in the academic communities that study religious rhetoric have deleterious consequences, as writers as diverse as Gross (2013) and Lukianoff and Haidt (2018) have pointed out. In addition, these dysfunctions can and do all too easily distort and artificially limit the study of religious discourse itself. One noteworthy example of this phenomenon can be seen in rhetorician Sharon Crowley’s Rhetoric and Fundamentalism (2006), in which religious discourse is viewed simplistically as fundamentally political and theocratic in nature, and in which distinctively religious public voices are conflated into the category of “Christian fundamentalism” (2–3, 5) or “theology-driven fundamentalism” (17), and placed in diametric and simplistic opposition with “liberalism” (3–6). This artificial limitation on understandings of the nature of religious rhetoric, further, extends to artificial limitations on how to understand the purpose of studying religious rhetoric, such that the motive for studying it is reduced to essentially the same motive that Kenneth Burke had in scrutinizing Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf in his

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oft-cited essay “The Rhetoric of Hitler’s ‘Battle’ ” ([1941] 1973): to diagnose and warn against the ill-effects of odious rhetorical “medicine.” Evangelicals and academics both usually fail to appreciate that evangelicals share in many of these same blindnesses and dysfunctions. As have secular progressive academics generally speaking, American evangelicals have tended to see their purpose in political and combative terms, with those of differing ideas and perspectives all too easily rendered as unidimensional enemies with which meaningful accommodation cannot be made. Historian John Fea’s recent examination of American evangelical support for President Donald Trump convincingly shows a deep-seated impulse toward political triumphalism, which continues largely unabated after several decades of “culture war” against the “forces of secularism.” Since the earnest political activism of conservative evangelical political advocacy groups like Jerry Falwell’s Moral Majority in the late 1970s, according to Fea, these religious conservatives have followed a coherent “playbook” that involves electing Christian politicians at the highest levels of government, ensuring that they appoint conservative judges—particularly to the U.S. Supreme Court—that would reverse the secular and liberal aberrations of the Court and restore the nation’s legal and political moorings to a “Christian worldview” (2018, 60–61). This “playbook” not only has had a profound influence on how many conservative evangelicals approach politics but also appeals to and reinforces a pervasive and collective fear that their social standing and their values will be swept away unless they follow the “playbook” (13–41). It is thus imperative and fundamental to what it means to be faithful in the public and political realm, according to this perspective, to “pass Christian laws . . . and require everyone to live under them” (61). This tribal fear and hostility to the “other” can also be seen in the impulses toward separatism and contamination-avoidance, which date back to the Fundamentalist movement of the early twentieth century. With the recent publication of books like Rod Dreher’s The Benedict Option, this impulse has been given new public voice. In views like Dreher’s, the struggle for the moral and spiritual soul of the nation has largely been lost, and is now a nation unmoored from the very idea of virtue, living under “barbarism,” and—like the West after the fall of the Roman Empire—is “too far gone to be saved” (2017, 16–17). The best response is the embrace of an “exile in place,” the formation of a “vibrant counterculture,” and an inward focus on families, communities, and churches—all of which will help “Christian faith” to “survive and prosper through the flood” (18–19). There is much to commend in the call for faithfulness to biblical mandates in relationships and community life, and in the call to practice an authentic and countercultural witness to those outside the broad community of

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evangelicals and to public and popular culture more generally. My concern, though, is that these calls are interpreted in ways that invite stridency and boundary drawing between the virtuous “us” and the benighted “them,” fostering and naturalizing a profound blindness to the reality of Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s oft-quoted claim that “the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being” (1973, 168). My concern is also that an ostensible concern for outreach, witness, and engagement with others too easily morphs into a deep-seated mistrust of “them,” a fear of being corrupted or contaminated by exposure to “them” or to “their” ideas, and an implicit desire for the cognitive and emotional comfort and simplicity in life that is made (somewhat) more possible by avoiding all contact with “them.” As a religious rhetoric scholar who is also an evangelical, I have seen these less noble and unhelpful impulses among those in the religious circles in which I move, many of whom I very much value and respect. These impulses significantly complicate, for instance, the work that my church is currently doing in figuring out how to understand and work toward racial justice and racial reconciliation. Many in my church are resistant to these efforts or even discussing them, in significant part because they have profoundly internalized the idea that race prejudice is a strictly individual matter, and because they tend to see any discussion of racial justice and racial reconciliation—especially when it involves the exploration of the history of racial discrimination and the exploration of structural and cultural factors—just as “liberal politics” and not as a legitimate theological issue with which they need to be concerned. These impulses also affect how to conceptualize the proper education of children. Disturbingly common is the sentiment recently shared publicly by columnist Cal Thomas (2020), who wonders aloud at why a “conservative and Christian parent” would “knowingly and willingly send” their child “to a school—and then a university—that undermines the values, beliefs and faith you have tried to teach them” (11). I have frequently seen this type of disdain for public primary and secondary education, and I have seen the success of the appeals of conservative Christian colleges—such as Regent University, Liberty University, and Patrick Henry College—to the conservative Christian parents of homeschooled and privately educated children by implicitly or explicitly claiming that their children will be adequately sheltered from these corrupt ideas and influences under the care of their institutions. In all this, academics and evangelicals have more in common than they realize, and this commonality can be seen as an outgrowth of the nature and function of religious rhetoric—understood as both (1) rhetoric employed by individuals and communities of religious faith as they express and draw upon their own beliefs and other faith commitments; and (2) the inherently religious or quasi-religious function of rhetoric, in its power to shape, reinforce, and naturalize conceptions of reality, conceptions of identity, and the

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fundamental values by which individuals and communities actually live. These commonalities run along two major themes. First, academics and evangelicals show a debilitating insensitivity to the religious or quasi-religious function of rhetoric in their own lives and tribal cultures. As Richard Weaver has pointed out, all language has a “sermonic” function that expresses not only particular ways of looking at the world, but also particular conceptions of good and bad, of better and worse. “We are all of us,” he declared, “preachers in private or public capacities. We have no sooner uttered words than we have given impulse to other people to look at the world, or some small part of it, in our way” (1970, 224). Kenneth Burke echoes this inherently suasory function of language in his discussion of “terministic screens” (1966b), but goes a step further in explicating the natural tendency that human beings and communities have to build dysfunctional attachments to the symbolically constructed and symbolically negotiated perspectives that we bring to our navigations of reality, identity, and ethics. We are vulnerable to what he describes as “occupational psychosis” ([1935] 1984, 37–49) and “rotten[ness] with perfection” (1966a, 16–20). To use G. K. Chesterton’s words, we are vulnerable to “maniacal” thinking, the kind of thinking that “moves in a perfect but narrow circle . . . explain[ing] a large number of things, but . . . not explain[ing] them in a large way” ([1908] 1990, 20). Put another way, we are naturally prone to unreflectively embracing dysfunctionally reductionistic perspectives that then make us prone to engage the realities we are confronted with in dysfunctional ways that can extend as far as coercion, violence, or even genocide. The blunt reality is that evangelicals and academics are equally vulnerable to these liabilities of the religious or quasi-religious function and power of the rhetoric in their thinking and in their lives. The second major commonality that academics and evangelicals have is their unfortunate propensity to co-optation—to, in the words of the Apostle Paul, be unduly “conformed to the pattern of this world” (Romans 12:2). Both broad communities are unduly and unreflectively shaped and conformed, to put it another way, to the prevailing norms and ideologies that characterize the overarching culture of which they are a part. Both communities participate in the kind of cultural and hegemonic forces identified and studied for decades in academic communities emphasizing critical theory. While there are many features to this cultural co-optation, two features in particular stand out as ones shared equally by both academics and evangelicals. The first feature is the at least tacit embrace of the practical worldview that Steve Wilkens and Mark Sanford (2009) identify as “postmodern tribalism,” which emphasizes the power and control functions of social structures, the incommensurability of values and truth claims across “tribal” lines, the elevation of the needs and values of the “tribe” at the expense of other

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communities and groups, and the narratives of injury and marginalization that fuel moral outrage and the moral justification of all acts serving only the tribe—even and especially when those acts come at the expense of those outside the tribe (144–58). This practical worldview combines the most morally corrosive features of the individualism and consumerism that dominates our collective cultural imagination, and it provides a significant if partial explanation of the acutely polarized and vitriolic character of contemporary public and political discourse. For evangelicals, the embrace of postmodern tribalism helps to explain their solid support of President Trump. As Fea (2018) has pointed out, evangelicals—particularly conservative White evangelicals—support Trump not because he is like them, but because he vocally supports their tribal interests and is seen as someone who will protect them and their interests from the attacks and incursions of opposing tribes. He is seen as a “wrecking ball” to “political correctness” (131). He is seen as a “Cyrus” figure from the Old Testament, referring to a “secular political leader” who is nonetheless used by God to usher in the goals of his people (131–32). For academics, the embrace of postmodern tribalism helps to explain— particularly within fields and disciplines within the humanities and the social sciences—the ubiquitous embrace of ideological conformity to secular progressive political views and positions, the enthusiastic embrace of identity politics both in public life and in academic study, the lack of tolerance for ideas and values that fall outside the secular progressive academic tribe, the virtue signaling that marks the public “mobbing” of academics holding divergent views, and the widespread conflation of academic purposes with partisan political purposes. A high-profile example of this kind of behavior took place in the summer of 2019 in the National Communication Association, when a dispute over how to further diversify in the recognition of the field’s top scholars led to a number of high-profile scholars (including two former presidents of the association) resigning their memberships because of the toxic discursive climate. In these respects, secular progressive academics—at least within the circles in which I move—behave much more than they realize like the Trump supporters that they despise. The second (and related) major feature of the cultural co-optation in which both evangelicals and academics participate is articulated by Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt’s recent book, The Coddling of the American Mind (2018). In this critique of contemporary cultural norms that span trends in parenting and in higher education, the authors identify three broad “cognitive distortions” or “untruths” at work. The first is the “untruth” of “fragility,” in which the imperative is to protect children and young adults from adverse circumstances and adverse ideas in what amounts to the cult of “safetyism,” because “whatever doesn’t kill you makes you weaker” (19–22, 24–31). The

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second is the “untruth” of “emotional reasoning,” in which the feelings that people have is taken as a compelling determinant of what is really happening and what reality is like, and they are to be trusted and relied upon without reservation (34–36). The third is the “untruth” of “us versus them,” in which there is a firm distinction made between “good people” and “evil people,” and in which “common-enemy identity politics” prevails in a way that promotes, naturalizes, and morally justifies the imperative of tribalism in its most divisive senses (62–73). Ideally, attending more clearly to the ways in which American conservative evangelicals practice religious rhetoric, and to the ways in which secular progressive academics study and interpret religious rhetoric, can bring into greater relief the nature and function of these shared blindnesses and dysfunctions. In this way, members of both communities can approach the subject of religious rhetoric in ways that allow the subject opportunities to teach them more about themselves and about those who differ from them. WHAT EVANGELICALS CAN LEARN Such a sustained and careful study of religious rhetoric, in the sense that Palmer has in mind, can teach American evangelical Christians much about their own faith and how to live it out more authentically in the world. First, it can help evangelicals to arrive at a richer sense of what it means for human beings to be made in the image of God. If Kenneth Burke’s notion of language as “symbolic action” (1966b, 44–45) and his understanding of the unique symbolicity that marks the human condition (1966a, 3–9) are taken seriously, then it is fair to say that human beings have a creative power that no other living species possesses, and that is distantly analogous to the creative power that God possesses. Human beings certainly cannot will planets and stars and galaxies into existence. But they can work to create the social worlds that we inhabit—worlds that define and dominate so much of how we practice our mundane and cosmic existence. Moreover, they profoundly transform the physical world in which they live. No other species has been able to practice agriculture, build cities, harness the power of the wind (and water, and even the atom) to generate electricity, and build vehicles with the capability of crossing oceans and even into space itself, and—as Burke has been quick to point out (1966b, 50)—create and stockpile weapons with the power to annihilate the entire human race and almost all other life on this planet. Second, such a sustained and careful study of religious rhetoric should change and enrich understandings of what the Bible is and how to better apprehend its status, as evangelicals accord it, as the divinely inspired Word

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of God. As Mark Noll (1994) and Christian Smith (2011) have both pointed out, American evangelicals—particularly those who are more conservative politically or theologically—have persisted in seeing the Bible primarily as a large collection of intersubjectively binding and largely propositional truths, with the idea of truth animated by the epistemological assumptions of what Noll calls the “didactic Enlightenment” or “Scottish Enlightenment” (1994, 84–85). Understanding the Bible as a profoundly rhetorical text, by contrast, does much more to capture the sort of complexity and epistemological richness that would be expected for a divinely inspired text. Much has been made even within evangelical circles, particularly within the past twenty years or so, to understand the Bible in terms of “narrative” and “storytelling” (Vanhoozer 2005; Bartholomew and Goheen 2004). Such a view acknowledges and presumes that the Bible features different literary forms deployed for different rhetorical effects, and it has different authors and different original audiences. But, more fundamentally, in this view, the Bible tells a grand story of God’s purposes throughout history, and it does so in a way that invites Christians to join God in the story that he is bringing to consummation. This view of the Bible also reflects the difference in epistemological approach highlighted by C. S. Lewis (1970) in his distinction between “myth” and “fact”; in saying that “the heart of Christianity is a myth which is also a fact” (66), Lewis is making the point that matters of truth and faith cannot be reduced to matters of fact, but more broadly encompass questions of purpose, hope, longing, and transcendence that are given expression in the sort of grand storytelling that characterize myths. Third, a sustained and careful study of religious rhetoric should revise understandings of the nature and function of theology. The last several decades have seen the emergence of the academic tradition of “rhetorical theology,” exemplified in David Cunningham’s Faithful Persuasion, that understands the work of theology to be freighted with moral and religious consequence, but also to be a profoundly human enterprise that is fundamentally symbolic and discursive—that is, rhetorical—in character. “The goal of Christian theology,” Cunningham writes, “is faithful persuasion: to speak the word that theology must speak, in ways that are faithful” to God and “persuasive to the world that God has always loved” (1991, 5, emphasis in original). Theological discourse is not “a discourse of neutral observation” but is instead inherently “controversial,” as “all theology seeks to persuade” (78–79). Seeing theological work less as a smug and “objective” representation of the totality of God’s truth, and more as an exercise in religious rhetoric, in no way diminishes its spiritual significance. It does, though, promote both an abiding respect for the complexity of divine truth and a modesty about our ability to handle it.

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This directly relates to the fourth benefit for evangelicals to engage in careful and sustained study of religious rhetoric: the promotion of a sober and gracious epistemological modesty—a modesty that is eminently congruent with how evangelicals broadly understand the nature of the human condition. While human beings are made in the image of God and have profound value and dignity, according to evangelical theology broadly speaking, they are also profoundly marked by both finitude and fallenness. They are bound by their physicality, and their perspectives and experiences are to a significant degree shaped by the physical, social, and cultural “locations” that they inhabit. Moreover, they are marred by sin, exhibiting a keen capacity—individually and communally—for unadulterated self-interest and self-deception in seeing what we want to see and in favorably misjudging our own motives. In this way, attending better to the nature, function, and power of religious rhetoric—and in the “religious” character of all rhetoric, as Weaver (1970) and Burke ([1961] 1970) have pointed out—should help evangelicals to apply these theologically informed realities of finitude and fallenness to the questions of what we know, how we know, and the limits of what we can know. In this sense, evangelicals can and should learn from the best lessons of broadly postmodern thinking, which does not categorically reject the idea of truth but instead “calls out” the hidden, unwarranted, and naïve claims about our ability to apprehend and apply “objective” truth in straightforward, rational, and formulaic ways. The broad invitation here, to put it another way, is for evangelicals to take more seriously the declaration of the Apostle Paul that we see “but a poor reflection” (1 Corinthians 13:12). WHAT ACADEMICS CAN LEARN Just as evangelicals can learn much about themselves and about how to conduct themselves and their labors in more humane, edifying, and effective ways by attending to the more holistic study of religious rhetoric, so too can secular progressive academics. By attending to this type of study of religious rhetoric, they can, first of all, gain a greater and more empathic familiarity with communities unlike their own. By giving religious rhetoric—and those that employ it—the type of “ontological significance” that Palmer advocates, they can better engage in the practice of what David Gutterman, following the political and democratic theory of Hannah Arendt, calls “visiting.” “Visiting,” as he conceptualizes it, is the process by which one can step outside of one’s own narrative categories—which of course presumes that one is already self-aware of one’s own narrative categories—and take on the categories of a different narrative, thereby inhabiting a “liminal state” that is

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both disorienting and exciting in its willingness to think within the boundaries of the unfamiliar (2005, 38–39). Presumed in the rhetorical and empathic acts that comprise “visiting,” further, is the intentional work that should be done, in sociologist James Davison Hunter’s (1991) words, toward “the recognition of the ‘sacred’ in different moral communities” (322). In this specific case, that means that secular progressive academics that study religious rhetoric should recognize that evangelicals, particularly conservative ones, are not merely acting with benighted or even malicious intent, but that they are acting in the main from a coherent and consistent value system to which they are striving to be faithful for the benefit of themselves and others. It also means that evangelicals—like all moral communities—have a sense of what is non-negotiable and cannot be given up in the compromises naturally involved in being part of a pluralistic and democratic polity. Academics, like all other communities, “need to recognize that their own particular action can be so offensive to their opposition . . . that it spurs the opposition to a reaction that really does present a vital threat to the community,” and, as a result, they should pursue their own value commitments “with a measure of prudence and caution” (322). As with enabling the critical posture of “visiting,” the careful and empathic study of religious rhetoric can and should help scholars to see and appreciate the “sacred” in American evangelical Christian and other religious communities, so that they can conceptualize, practice, and share rhetorical engagements with these communities that are more humane, edifying, and rhetorological. Second, by attending to religious rhetoric in this more holistic way, academics can achieve a greater self-reflection about the religious or quasi-religious nature of their own commitments, recognizing that the dramatistic and sermonic character of rhetoric exerts every bit as much influence on them and their communities as it does on people of religious faith and their communities. This would include the ability, as advocated by Hunter, to recognize “the inherent weaknesses, even dangers, in their own moral commitments” (1991, 322). To my mind, this type of self-reflective modesty about the moral commitments held by secular progressive academics and academic communities might be seen in two more specific ways. It might be seen in a greater transparency in the research and teaching process, particularly in the nature and extent to which one’s own political and ethical commitments inflects the work that they do in research and in the classroom, rather than resorting to scientific or quasi-scientific mystification. It might also be seen in fuller reflection about the proper place of political and ideological commitments in the academic enterprise more generally. I suspect that the kind of sober self-reflection that a holistic study of religious rhetoric makes possible can help teachers and scholars, particularly those in the humanities and social sciences, strike a

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productive and edifying balance between the extremes of Stanley Fish (2008), who argues that politics has no place in academic work, and Dana Cloud (2014), who sees academic purposes in strictly and merely political terms. CONCLUSION In this chapter, I have explored an additional reason not only to take the subject of religious rhetoric seriously but also to study it in a way—as Palmer advocates—that seeks to transcend the assumptions, values, and commitments of those studying the subject and respect it as having ontological significance in its own right. Doing so, I have suggested, can function itself as a rhetorological exercise between two disparate communities—American conservative evangelical Christians and secular progressive academics who study religious rhetoric—who have much to gain from studying it. As such, both communities can attend to and study religious rhetoric in ways that probe meaningfully the common ground that exist between them, thereby creating the conditions for meaningful dialogue, shared understanding, shared respect, and even common action in the world. More specifically, I have worked in this chapter to show the kinds of things both communities can learn about themselves and the other—and the commonalities they share. Just as Booth sought to show that advocates for science and advocates for religion share significant common ground that can be unearthed and engaged through the practice of rhetorology, I have sought to do much the same thing with regard to evangelicals and secular progressive academics. My conviction in doing so is that exploring these assumptions, commitments, values, and commonalities will help members of both of these communities see more clearly the function and power of religious rhetoric—not only to create and exacerbate divisions but also to mitigate and even bridge those divisions. That is no small reason to take the study of religious rhetoric seriously. REFERENCES Bartholomew, Craig G., and Michael W. Goheen. 2004. The Drama of Scripture: Finding Our Place in the Biblical Story. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Booth, Wayne C. 2004. The Rhetoric of Rhetoric: The Quest for Effective Communication. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Burke, Kenneth. (1935) 1984. Permanence and Change: An Anatomy of Purpose. 3rd edition. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. (1941) 1973. “The Rhetoric of Hitler’s ‘Battle.” In The Philosophy of Literary Form: Studies in Symbolic Action, 191–220. 3rd edition. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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———. (1961) 1970. The Rhetoric of Religion: Studies in Logology. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1966a. “Definition of Man.” In Language as Symbolic Action: Essays on Life, Literature, and Method, 3–24. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1966b. “Terministic Screens.” In Language as Symbolic Action: Essays on Life, Literature, and Method, 44–62. Berkeley: University of California Press. Calhoun, Craig. 2011. “Religion’s Many Powers.” In The Power of Religion in the Public Sphere, edited by Eduardo Mendieta and Jonathan VanAntwerpen, 118– 134. New York: Columbia University Press. Chesterton, G. K. (1908) 1990. Orthodoxy: The Romance of Faith. New York: Image Books. Cloud, Dana L. 2014. “Rhetorical Criticism for Underdogs.” In Purpose, Practice, and Pedagogy in Rhetorical Criticism, edited by Jim A. Kuypers, 23–37. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Crowley, Sharon. 2006. Toward a Civil Discourse: Rhetoric and Fundamentalism. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Cunningham, David S. 1991. Faithful Persuasion: In Aid of a Rhetoric of Christian Theology. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Dreher, Rod. 2017. The Benedict Option: A Strategy for Christians in a PostChristian Nation. New York: Sentinel. Fea, John. 2018. Believe Me: The Evangelical Road to Donald Trump. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Fish, Stanley. 2008. Save the World on Your Own Time. New York: Oxford University Press. Garver, Eugene. 2004. For the Sake of Argument: Practical Reasoning, Character, and the Ethics of Belief. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2006. “How Can a Liberal Listen to a Religious Argument? Religious Rhetoric as a Rhetorical Problem.” In How Should We Talk about Religion? Perspectives, Contexts, Particularities, edited by James Boyd White, 164–193. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Gross, Neil. 2013. Why Are Professors Liberal and Why Do Conservatives Care? Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Gutterman, David S. 2005. Prophetic Politics: Christian Social Movements and American Democracy. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Hunter, James Davison. 1991. Culture Wars: The Struggle to Define America. New York: Basic Books. Lewis, C. S. 1970. “Myth Became Fact.” In God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics, edited by Walter Hooper, 63–67. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Lukianoff, Greg, and Jonathan Haidt. 2018. The Coddling of the American Mind: How Good Intentions and Bad Ideas Are Setting Up a Generation for Failure. New York: Penguin Books. Noll, Mark A. 1994. The Scandal of the Evangelical Mind. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. ———. 2001. American Evangelical Christianity: An Introduction. Malden, MA: Blackwell.

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Palmer, Parker J. (1998) 2007. The Courage to Teach: The Inner Landscape of a Teacher’s Life. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass. Pernot, Laurent. 2006. “The Rhetoric of Religion.” Rhetorica 24 (3): 235–254. Rampell, Catherine. 2017. “Americans Are Burning Down the House.” Washington Post, July 10, 2017. https​:/​/ww​​w​.was​​hingt​​onpos​​t​.com​​/opin​​ions/​​ameri​​cans-​​are​-b​​ urnin​​g​-dow​​n​-the​​-h​ous​​e​/201​​7​/07/​​10/. Smith, Christian. 2000. Christian America? What Evangelicals Really Want. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 2011. The Bible Made Impossible: Why Biblicism Is Not a Truly Evangelical Reading of Scripture. Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos Press. ———. 2018. “Higher Education Is Drowning in BS.” Chronicle of Higher Education, January 9, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.chr​​onicl​​e​.com​​/arti​​cle​/H​​igher​​-Educ​​ation​​ -Is​-D​​row​ni​​ng​/24​​2195/​. Solzhenitsyn, Alexander I. 1973. The Gulag Archipelago. Translated by T. P. Whitney. New York: Harper and Row. Thomas, Cal. 2020. “A Battle Plan to Win the Culture War.” Virginian-Pilot, January 25, 2020, p. 11. Vanhoozer, Kevin J. 2005. The Drama of Doctrine: A Canonical-Linguistic Approach to Christian Theology. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Weaver, Richard M. 1970. “Language Is Sermonic.” In Language Is Sermonic: Richard M. Weaver on the Nature of Rhetoric, edited by Richard L. Johannesen, Rennard Strickland, and Ralph T. Eubanks, 201–225. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press. Wilford, Justin G. 2012. Sacred Subdivisions: The Postsuburban Transformation of American Evangelicalism. New York: New York University Press. Wilkens, Steve, and Mark L. Sanford. 2009. Hidden Worldviews: Eight Cultural Stories That Shape Our Lives. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press.

Chapter 10

The Religious and Rhetorical Afterlives of John Quincy Adams Elizabeth Kimball

Say, that by the eternal constitution of things it was ordained, that liberty should be the parent of eloquence; that eloquence should be the last stay and support of liberty. —John Quincy Adams, Lectures on Rhetoric and Oratory, 2:72

In A Secular Age, Charles Taylor argues that secularism should be understood not as an absence of religion, but as a change of ground, in which belief demands to be considered, whether one is religious or not. It is easy enough to accept this claim when we survey the familiar terrains of organized religion. But we really ought to consider it in locales that are not recognizably religious. We might start with rhetoric itself, that is, the scholarly field of rhetoric. Is there space for belief, or something religious-like in our purposes? We may find an answer in the affirmative. Still, such a finding would not detract from rhetoric’s ability to help us see what is rhetorical in typified religious language. In fact, many of us have argued that rhetoricians have something to offer the gnarled conflicts of religion and public life. We ought to show special interest in the workings of conservative Christianity in public life today as it wields enormous power, given, for example, the support of many evangelicals in the election of Donald Trump (Fea 2018). The inquiry that I am beginning here, then, is about religious language that is of course always rhetorical, and more pointedly, about how we might receive rhetorical scholarship within Taylor’s concept of secularism, in which belief demands to be considered. And I hope to contribute some method to the idea that rhetoricians have a valuable opportunity to help guide a public toward a more nuanced, sympathetic, and rhetorically informed approach to the place of religion in public life, especially when it comes to history. 201

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Given the profoundly historical nature of religious thought and experience, looking at a single primary case from a pivotal figure in U.S. history seems like a logical place to begin this bidirectional inquiry. So my method is to take up the case of John Quincy Adams, the sixth president of the United States, a U.S. senator and Congressman, foreign minister, and (not least) the son of John Adams. I choose John Quincy Adams, though, less for his major titles and more for his two lesser-known side hustles: he served as the first Boylston Professor of Rhetoric at Harvard University, from 1806 to 1809, and he also served as the vice president of the American Bible Society (ABS), from 1818 until his death in 1848. Each of these positions has afforded him a special afterlife within a distinct community. The first is academic rhetoricians, our own community of scholars. The second is the modern-day ABS, which was founded as a Bible distribution organization supported by laypeople and mainline Protestant denominations but has become a conservative evangelizing organization starting in the 1970s (Fea 2016, 285–316) and is opening a $60 million attraction on Independence Mall in Philadelphia, called the Faith and Liberty Discovery Center (FLDC), which will promote a vision of U.S. history as driven by biblical values. Adams is one of the historical figures in the FLDC profiled for his faith and courage. Taking each community, in turn, I will explore the intersections of rhetoric and religion articulated within each Adams historiography, and then consider the significance of each to rhetoric’s prospects of entering into the public scrum of deliberation around religion and public life. I argue that as a pivotal figure in American history, both communities invoke Adams as a source of what Taylor calls “fullness,” albeit by radically different means. ORIENTING TO RELIGION IN RHETORIC Charles Taylor’s notion of fullness is my premise. As I noted earlier, Taylor’s (2018) chief claim is that it is a mistake to understand secularism as a process of subtraction, in which the irrationalities of religious practice among earlier societies have been gradually removed, leaving a more rational and truer modern life (22). Rather, he argues, the human condition may be characterized by our orientation toward what he calls fullness. In an often-quoted passage, he writes, “we see our lives, and/or the space wherein we live our lives, as having a certain moral/spiritual shape. Somewhere in some activity, or condition, lies a fullness, a richness” (5). This fullness can be given a number of dimensions, an “activity or condition” where “life is fuller, richer, deeper, more worthwhile, more admirable, more what it should be” or “a place of power” that is “deeply moving.” Or it might be a more distant sense “of peace or wholeness” or “integrity or generosity or

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abandonment or self-forgetfulness” or even, sometimes, “joy and fulfillment” (5). He then gives an example of a passage by Bede Griffiths about encountering birdsong at dusk and feeling the work of the divine, which sounds to me mostly like the Romantic idea of the sublime. But later, he alludes to fullness as “the sense of our courage and greatness in being able to face the irremediable, and carry on nonetheless” (10). In other words, sometimes fullness might describe an elevated encounter with God, like what mystics in the Christian tradition have described. But it might also describe something less explicit and more every day, having to do with our underlying sense of why we get out of bed and carry on with the things that we do. This latter sense pervades secular modern thought as well as traditional religious thought. Taylor explains that fullness may be perceived as either transcendent and outside of ourselves, or immanent, somehow within ourselves (15). This transcendent/immanent distinction might be understood as the distinction between traditional cultures, especially the Judeo-Christian model, and modernity, especially as it has emerged since Nietschze (19) (and I have not the space to get into the far finer distinctions he makes among humanisms of earlier eras, like stoicism, or the postmodernist viewpoints that step away from rationality). The point is that “secularity is a condition in which our experience of and search for fullness occurs; and this is something we all share, believers and unbelievers alike” (19). And I would add that, given what rhetoricians know about the construction of meaning, fullness is likewise both something we might experience as individuals, as he initially describes it, but it also necessarily (given the way language and meaning work) characterizes communities, including democracy itself. It is a concept with an affinity for rhetoric. If humans share a sense of the idea of fullness, even in the rejection of it, then rhetoricians, of course, syllogistically share this orientation. Indeed, studies of what we might categorize as fullness may be seen across the landscape of contemporary rhetorical scholarship. Sometimes, this scholarship takes religious experience as a topic of study, whether in composition pedagogy (Ringer 2013, 2016; Lynch and Miller 2017; Earle 2018), participants in religion (Moss 2003; Cope 2013; Hogg 2015; Geiger 2019), or politics (DePalma et al. 2008; Maddux 2010; Vining 2016); or in the sacred or divine aspects of language more generally (Gunn 2004; Bernard-Donals 2014, 2019; Fitzgerald 2016; Miller 2017). Sometimes, we could name fullness as the thing that the scholarship is getting at, for instance, in the continuing interest in virtue (Duffy 2019), social change (Johnson and Johnson 2019), or even the idea of rhetoric itself (Graff et al. 2005). These are just the immediate examples that come to my mind; there are no doubt others. I am not suggesting that this makes us a religious field; rather, I am saying that it is worth considering what scholars of religion might see in our own work.

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Laurence Pernot (2006) writes, “In a certain sense the parallel between rhetoric and religion is obvious. Religion is intimately linked with words” (235). We might take this at the surface level to mean that religious language use is a subset of language use, a fact that is indeed obvious. But he is getting at something more dialogic rather than hierarchical between the two. He helps us to see that other forms of rhetoric are also religious, because of “the affinities that exist between persuasion and belief and between art and the sacred. Religious discourse takes rhetorical forms. Conversely, persuasion is in itself somehow superhuman and the orator is somehow sacred” (253). (Pernot writes of the classical tradition, from which we can extrapolate Western rhetoric in general, a generality that might not hold up in the specifics, but I am hanging on to it for now.) So if we want to understand rhetoric that comes from religion, we could deploy any form of rhetorical analysis we like; for example, we could taxonomize religious genres such as prayers and hymns, which Pernot in fact does. But if we want to understand rhetoric itself as religious, Pernot suggests, the most resonant place we might look would be in the timeless figure of the orator, which can be found in all the Western faith traditions. The orator is a “model figure” who “is invested with religious powers” (246). It is God who sources the orator’s inventing of speech. Of course, I am not suggesting that because we rhetoricians are interested in orators, that we are all (Christian) religious believers, whether we know it or not. Instead, I am invoking Pernot’s observation on the theistic nature of the orator, or perhaps a person of immanent fullness in Taylor’s terms, as a tool to try thinking through what a rhetorically religious examination of rhetorical scholarship might be. Whatever we learn from considering our own scholarship, then, might be valuable for looking into other examples of religious language, because we would then have a more subtle and sympathetic perspective on the discourses of others. And we would have an explicitly rhetorical method, informed but not bound by what is found in religious studies scholarship like that by Jonathan Haidt (2013), Nancy Ammerman (2014), or Peter Berger (2014). Pernot also speaks to this second aspect of this study when he advises scholars to “find new ways of thinking about religion in a world where unthinkable and depraved uses of religion can be dangerous” (236). He points out that looking at religious discourse rhetorically can be worrisome to religious people, because it seems to apply “a rationalist attitude and misunderstanding the very basis of religion, namely, belief in the transcendental” (236). But a rhetorically informed method would not dwell only in the rationalistic methods of formal research. It would try to experience what that rhetoric’s participants experience, to work from the generative forces of the rhetorics in question. I test this hypothesis in the second part of my analysis, regarding the work of the American Bible Society.

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WHO WAS JOHN QUINCY ADAMS? Most known as an early president and the son of John Adams, John Quincy Adams led a more varied and surprising life than we might expect for a man wholly raised to command national leadership. Born in 1767 and raised initially by Abigail Adams on their farm in Massachusetts, John Quincy then lived in Europe with his father while he served as diplomat. Following his education at Harvard, he was appointed by President Washington to be a foreign minister to the Netherlands, then Prussia, and was then elected senator from Massachusetts. While serving in the Senate, he was appointed the first Boylston Professor of Rhetoric at Harvard, where he served from 1806 to 1809. Upon losing his Senate seat, he served in foreign ministry under President Madison, and was appointed Secretary of State under President Monroe, where he negotiated the Monroe Doctrine. Adams was elected president in 1825. He was the last DemocraticRepublican president, elected by Congress with no clear winner, with Andrew Jackson coming in second. Despite this lack of a mandate, he advocated for ambitious federal programs, including a national university, a federally funded science program and observatory, and a national system of roads and canals. Only the latter happened. His presidency has generally been considered a failure, because he did not win reelection, losing to Andrew Jackson. The populist Jackson united Southern plantation owners, New England factory workers, and frontier settlers against the New England bourgeoisie that had set the terms for politics from the beginning, starting with John Adams himself. To see it through the lens of the history of rhetoric, it is the loss of the ideal of republican rhetoric, a culture rooted in consensus and public deliberation, to be replaced by Jackson’s unsanctioned “kitchen cabinet” of private advisors. And yet, despite the widespread sense of a failed presidency and a lost rhetorical virtue, in another remarkable turn, Adams then returned to elected office. He served as a Congressman from Massachusetts from 1831 until 1848, when he collapsed and died on the floor of the house. These years were among his most memorable as an orator, speaking forcefully for the antislavery cause and working to end the gag rule that the Southern Democrats had used to prevent debate on slavery on the floor. His nickname “Old Man Eloquent” came from these later years, when he had little to lose, and could speak with conviction. ADAMS AMONG THE RHETORICIANS By most accounts, Adams’ work as a professor of rhetoric was not original; he mainly relayed concepts from classical rhetoric to his students. Scholars

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in the first revival of rhetorical studies considered the gap between his theory and practice of speech (Rahskopf 1946), suggested the lectures were only a historical curiosity and nothing more (Goodfellow 1946), and examined their sources and reception (Auer and Banninga 1963). He is not mentioned at all, or only briefly, in a number of more recent book-length histories of rhetorical education in the United States that have been widely read, such as those by S. Michael Halloran (1990), Nan Johnson (1991), or Carr et al. (2005), who noted that his lectures were published as “commemorative recognition” to remember Adams, more than for their inherent value as rhetorical theory (45). Given Carr, Carr, and Schultz’s methodology of tracing the publication and republication of pedagogical texts, Adams is a failure for his poor sales. Writing in 2000, Lyon Rathburn reconsidered the significance of classical sources to Adams, arguing that Adams maintained an investment in the Ciceronian ideals of a high style, paired with investment in the elite orator who speaks on behalf of the polis, as a sort of anchor to the Republican ideals of his father’s founding generation. And Thomas P. Miller (2010) notes only that Adams understood republican oratory as a matter of a bourgeois few speaking on behalf of the public, and that he lost to Jackson because he had refused to give public campaign speeches (90). He does give a telling quote of Adams, though, who said that the populists were debasing themselves by going about speaking “like Methodist preachers” (90) in the open air. This little gem of rhetoric about religion suggests that Adams and his fellow republicans recognized something powerful and potentially dangerous in oratory, should political speech (meant to deliberate on worldly concerns) be conflated with religious speech (meant to move the hearer into a place of transcendence). But Adams’ own religious orientations receive conflicted treatment across the scholarship in history, and could certainly receive further treatment in scholarship in rhetoric. But despite his lack of originality and lackluster sales, Adams maintains a persistent presence in the scholarship. The direct studies of Adams’ rhetoric, as well as studies that mention Adams in passing, always engage the bigger question of the role of rhetoric, and by extension rhetorical education, in cultivating democratic life—a question that has been a primary motive for the resurgence of rhetoric, in general, animating the field and becoming a canopy under which scholars in composition, communication, contemporary theory, and more can come together. As a historical figure generally and as a rhetorician specifically, Adams represents both the inheritance of republican ideals from the founders, as well as the quickening of the nation as the early republican period advanced into nation building, and all that goes with it. Moreover, in both his Harvard lectures and his public speaking later in life, Adams advanced the idea of eloquence as an essential civic practice and virtue. For example, he makes an interesting appearance in David Gold’s (2008)

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revisionist history of writing instruction Rhetoric at the Margins, which covers a period beginning in the late nineteenth century, long after Adams’ death. Gold notes Adams’ speech in support of a normal school in 1838, in which he argues that the education of teachers is essential to a republic, and that the United States. is being outpaced in teacher education (119). Given that Gold focuses on theorizing diversity in educational practice, Adams’ presence from an earlier time seems to shore up his investigation, linking the concerns of teachers like Melvin Tolson, an intellectual of the Harlem Renaissance, to the concerns of the patrician Adams. Even in an essay on our own present times, “On the Formation of Democratic Citizens: Rethinking the Rhetorical Tradition in a Digital Age,” by William Hart-Davidson, James P. Zappen, and S. Michael Halloran (2005), Adams pops up with John Witherspoon as rhetoricians “in a new democratic republic struggling to become something other than West Britain” (127). Adams, then, seems to have a kind of afterlife as a node of invocation, called up when we need to root our current questions in inherited ones. He is part of the roster of rhetoricians on American shores who made something of the British inheritance, establishing the set of value questions around which we continue to organize our public life, even if in the skeptical criticism of it. When Adams has received more direct attention by rhetorical scholars, his treatment indexes the field even beyond this central animating question. Let me give some attention now to three studies: Adam Potkay’s in 1999, Mark Longaker’s in 2007, and Patricia Roberts-Miller’s in 2006. Writing about the trajectory of rhetorical theory from Scotland to the United States, Potkay draws a line from Hume to Blair to Adams, who takes up the idea of civic virtue in eloquence and makes it his job “to quicken, formalize, and preserve the eloquence of the Revolutionary era in an American scene increasingly less hospitable to classical Republican ideals” (153). While he recognizes, like scholars before him, that Adams was not an innovator of rhetorical theory, he argues that Adams is significant for framing rhetoric at a pivotal time in national history, positioning eloquence as the force that will defend liberty against a dictatorial executive branch, foreign incursion, or political faction (153). Potkay also is the one scholar who directly explores the religion in Adams’ rhetoric. He points out that Adams’ rhetoric is characteristic of American rhetoric in general, which works from “a greater permeability between classical and biblical sources” (158) than European rhetorics. In fact, Potkay argues, in the way that Adams sees Yahweh of Genesis I as a rhetorician teaching invention, organization, delivery, and Moses’s brother Aaron as the embodiment of persuasive rhetoric, Adams builds “a new foundational myth” for the United States (158). His treatment of Adams focuses a larger body of work on the place of Christian rhetoric in the formation of the United States that has challenged the idea that the United States was founded purely

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on rational Deist principles (Bonomi 1986; Swearingen 2007; Andrews 2007; Fea 2016; Noll 2016). And Potkay’s work might be usefully paired with Samuel Haselby’s The Origins of American Religious Nationalism to motivate further scholarship on the links between rhetoric and Christianity in the constructing of U.S. national identity. Potkay offers me insight into why Adams’ rhetoric seems to resonate with the designers of the Faith and Liberty Discovery Center, a contemporary project organized around encouraging the public to link American identity with Christian identity. Adams’ reputation is pristine; his rhetoric is thoughtful and well informed. As an orator, Adams seems to embody the figure of Aaron that he himself invokes: not the voice of God, exactly, but certainly informed by God, and capable of speaking on behalf of an entire nation. And he has the right idiom: the biblical one. But Potkay does not help much with my claim that there is something of fullness in the scholarship of rhetoric itself. The two more recent pieces on Adams do. In his 2007 book Rhetoric and the Republic: Politics, Civic Discourse, and Education in Early America, Mark Longaker draws on articulation theory to consider higher education around the colonies. He examines how rhetorical pedagogy was articulated to varying political interests, economic interests, and republican discourse. In fact, he opens the chapter on a variety of early rhetoricians in the American colleges with an Adams quote for an epigram: Under governments purely republican, where every citizen has a deep interest in the affairs of the nation, and, in some form of public assembly or other, has the means and opportunity of delivering his opinions, and of communicating his sentiments by speech; where government itself has no army but those of persuasion; where prejudice has not acquired an uncontrolled ascendancy, and faction is yet confined within the barriers of peace; the voice of eloquence will not be heard in vain. (36)

His choice is significant in that Longaker overtly criticizes republican discourse on the whole, and realizes Adams is not the most important figure in educational history at this time, and yet chooses to highlight this optimistic, idealistic passage as a way of representing the period. He goes on to argue that Adams articulates rhetorical pedagogy together with republicanism and the bourgeois rhetorical norms of New England society. Taking issue with Rathburn’s claim that Adams was taking up Cicero’s ideals of the public orator possessing private virtue, Longaker sees the classical tradition as a strictly public one, in which one’s public persona need not have anything to do with one’s private proclivities or morality. Adams represents not classicism but republicanism, with its values in civic virtue, the commonweal, consensus, and like-mindedness—in other words, homogeneity. Unlike Franklin’s

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Philadelphia-style social climbing, Adams represented the established Bostonian’s interest in maintaining status (64). But Longaker also claims that Adams’s public morality comes out of private practice, through Christian revelation and “individuated conscience” (66). This focus on the private is then articulated to capitalist interest in the private actor in the marketplace, acting alone and in competition with others rather than in a kind of civic virtue (6667). He concludes that even though Adams is typically seen as having lost to Jackson both literally and ideologically, Adams actually “paved the way” for the liberal norms of his rival, over the republican virtues that characterized the ideals of the emergence and settlement of the United States (67). Thus, Adams is a “transitional” figure, not a republican, and this transition was fueled by the way that Adams drew from Protestant notions of individual revelation (67–68). Longaker’s take on Adams reads like a loss: on the one hand, an idealized civic rhetoric lost to Jacksonian populism; on the other hand, the loss of the dream of a republican civic rhetoric, when it turned out never to have been real after all. And then, to add to the injury, the populism that replaced republicanism is fueled by a privatized Protestantism that jettisons the common good. Longaker seems skeptical than any of this can ever save us. It is a skepticism points us back to Taylor. In his skepticism, Longaker suggests a desire for fullness, in the form of a rhetoric that can in fact unite a community and promote virtue, without suppressing the voices of others, and without being grafted permanently on to a regressive economic system. By contrast, in her two pieces on Adams, Patricia Roberts-Miller is forthright in her hopes for rhetoric, and what she has come to experience as a loss of faith. In the first piece, published in 2002, Roberts-Miller examines Adams’ speeches for the defendants in the Amistad case, in order to consider how rhetorical theory, especially republican rhetorical theory rooted in decorum, is limited in the face of institutional oppression. Adams could be heroically successful, she argues, because he had significant political capital as a former president. But the same rhetorical practices would be dangerous or useless to those not granted agency, like the kidnapped Africans of the Amistad (6). And “successful” rhetoric is difficult to ascertain. Adams won the case on the strength of his argument for judicial independence, not for the fundamental immorality of slavery, and inherent rights of Africans as human beings (23). She points out, though, that her goal is not to criticize Adams’ choices as a rhetor. Her inquiry, she writes, “is instead intended as a way of pointing to a terrible dilemma in regard to rhetoric, that effective rhetoric does often necessitate that one mute one’s outrage, and assuage and pacify unjust passions and outrageous prejudices. As a result, short-term effectiveness may be, in an important way, ineffective” (22–23). While Adams promotes and practices deliberative rhetoric, this rhetoric depends on a perception of plausibility in the audience, such as the plausibility of

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Africans’ full personhood. Plausibility begets decorum. When an audience sees the full rights of blacks as implausible, as the pro-slavery political machine did, then “what is the place of principled dissent and sincere outrage?” (23). In a follow-up article, published in 2006, Roberts-Miller continues to wrestle with the viability of rhetoric to promote justice. This time, she draws on an incident on the floor of Congress in 1841 in which Adams gave a long and impassioned speech, departing significantly from the statesmanlike behavior for which he was known. Some scholars have used this speech to criticize his character, suggesting he had even lost his mind at that point, or at the very least, had abandoned the decorum of the controlled, reasoned Ciceronian model he himself had lectured on Harvard. Roberts-Miller argues that Adams was successful in brilliantly dissembling pro-slavery logic (144–153) and drawing on his political capital to do so (157). But his model was flawed, because it depended on a Congress that was equally as ethical as the speaker was to be, so that good arguments could be well received. Roberts-Miller offers a brilliant interpretation of Adams’ oratory, grounded in extensive reading in antebellum culture. But more for her than for the other scholars of rhetorical history, Adams serves as a means to a more reflective consideration of her own investments in rhetoric. She goes on to explain that she had once invested in the promise of this civic education of the early United States, when republican discourse drew on the best aspects of Enlightenment thought, promoting reason while adapting to contexts of passion and sentiment (142). However, she reasons her way to the observation that productive agonism depends too greatly on audiences responding productively, because “audiences react badly to unpopular arguments” (151). She writes reflectively, I am losing my once-bright faith that it [a rhetoric based in internal reasoning rather than audience reaction] might be found in antebellum theories of rhetoric. While the emphasis on civic rhetoric is admirable, and probably must be part of any attempt to teach agonism, the disparity between Adams’s pedagogy and practice must give one pause . . . either the pedagogy and practice were somehow divorced, or the pedagogy was not as powerful as I once thought. . . . Perhaps this is the moment to call for more research, both of a qualitative (what are the consequences for students’ rhetorical practice of various pedagogies?) and historical (what is the connection between pedagogy and practice in various eras?) nature. (158)

Where Longaker is a skeptic of rhetoric, suggesting dead ends in both elitist republicanism and privatized liberalism, Roberts-Miller (2006) is direct in

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her hopes for rhetoric, even if they are dashed. But both organize their thinking around a question about rhetoric we might name as fullness in a rhetorically religious context, or in a rhetorical context, “how one can transform a bad fight into a good” (153). “Further research” is not simply an activity but a hope. But these are broad observations. They may or may not be useful when rhetoricians come to consider the religious language like what we find in the Faith and Liberty Discovery Center. At least, they remind us to have sympathy for the project of fullness-seeking in contexts that counter our own intellectual sensibilities. And they show us that Adams resonates in both communities because of his oratory; his eloquence continues to animate public life. FIGURING IN CONTEMPORARY CHRISTIANITY So how does Adams figure in a conservative Christian setting? As with the secular rhetoricians he is afforded a kind of fullness, but the evangelicals draw from different aspects of his life, and use those aspects to reason towards very different claims about his historical significance. I refer to the way in which he is figured on the website of the Faith and Liberty Discovery Center, a new project of the American Bible Society. Set to open in 2021, the FLDC will be a major new attraction in the heart of Philadelphia, just across from the National Constitution Center, the National Museum of Jewish American History, and Independence Mall, where the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall are located. In their own words, the Faith and Liberty Center “explores the relationship between faith and liberty in America from its founding to today.” (http​​s:/​/f​​aitha​​ndlib​​erty.​​org​/a​​b​out/​​fldc)​. It bills itself as filling a need for greater public understanding of the complex intersections of personal faith and U.S. history. The director Patrick Murdock writes that it is intended for everyone, “No matter who you are, where you’re from, or what you believe” (http​​s:/​/f​​aitha​​ndlib​​erty.​​org​/a​​b​out/​​ fldc)​. And the website describes how the center is “led by a diverse team of top historians, religious experts, and legal scholars” who “give shape to the Faith and Liberty Discovery Center’s narrative experience, while also ensuring full historical accuracy” (http​​s:/​/f​​aitha​​ndlib​​erty.​​org​/a​​b​out/​​fldc)​. This language seems carefully designed to present the center as inclusive, made in the spirit of inquiry characteristic of both academic study and democratic culture. The website is positive in its assertions, and reveals little on the surface that could cause offense, except perhaps by those viewers who react negatively to any discussion of religion whatsoever, even as a part of cultural history. Indeed, the project has been endorsed by significant figures

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in Philadelphia, including the progressive Democratic mayor Jim Kenney (PR Newswire 2017). So the overtly conservative orientations of the parent organization are not at all apparent. The American Bible Society was established by laymen, and had a mission for nearly 200 years as an organization that was historically fairly neutral—translating, printing, and distributing Bibles “without comment” (Shimron 2018b). Only since the 1990s has it become overtly evangelical in its mission. It recently adopted personnel policies forbidding its employees to have sex outside of heterosexual marriage (Boren 2018), for example, and gained ownership of the .bible internet domain, which has the effect of censoring internet searches for information on biblical interpretation that does not align with theirs (Shimron 2018a). Despite some reporting and controversy, these changes are little known to the general public; the FLDC does not seem have been classed alongside comparable attractions like the Creation Museum or the Museum of the Bible, though it will certainly figure in the plans of evangelical tourism companies (Kerby 2020; see also Stevenson 2013).Indeed, they have been widely welcomed to Philadelphia for what they will contribute to the tourism economy. While the center is not open at the time of writing, a content-rich website offers lots of insights on what the visitor will encounter. The exhibition promotes “Visions of America” organized around a series of values: faith, hope, love, unity, justice, and liberty. Each visitor will receive a cylindrical handheld lamp, which will light up when the visitor points it at ideas, images, or Bible verses in the exhibit that interest them. Then, at the end of the visit, each visitor will receive a “unique visualization” of the values invoked by their choices, which they will be able to access later (https://faithandliberty​.org​/ opening), presumably as some kind of digital memento. The exhibition hall is organized around biographies of a range of individuals, all of them Christian, from a range of periods and political positions. The figures featured on the website are radical Catholic Dorothy Day, Martin Luther King, Jr., General George C. Marshall, filmmaker Frank Capra, contemporary evangelical and disability rights advocate Joni Eareckson Tada, and earlier Americans William Penn, John Jay, Richard Allen, Abraham Lincoln, Sojourner Truth, and John Quincy Adams. On the website homepage, an image of each figure is accompanied by the value they represent. The value that Adams represents is justice. By clicking on his face with “Justice” overlaid on it, the viewer is brought to his own webpage, with the following paragraph offering the first bit of information about him: Born on July 11, 1767, in Braintree, Massachusetts, John Quincy Adams was the second of five children born to John and Abigail Adams. Privileged as the eldest son, and one of exceptional talent, John Quincy’s prominent parents often

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impressed upon him of the responsibility he held to be “a Guardian of the Laws, Liberty and Religion of your Country.” A dutiful son, Adams took this task to heart, studying diligently with tutors, reading the Bible daily, and learning about current affairs through the newspaper. (http​​s:/​/f​​aitha​​ndlib​​erty.​​org​/v​​ision​​s​/joh​​n​-q​ ui​​ncy​-a​​dams)​

And so we come to the issue of reception of this material. To me and probably to most readers of this collection, this depiction comes across as needlessly pious, or at least old-fashioned in style. More menacing is the structure of argument that appears here and consistently in the entire presentation. This argument links liberty to the specific practice of a specific religion: Christian Protestantism, represented in the practice of personal Bible reading. By contrast, common knowledge—at least as many Americans were taught in public schools—holds up freedom of religion as a core American value, central to the reasons for the original Europeans to settle here, varied among the colonies with varying degrees of success, and finally maturing into the modern separation of church and state that we know today, where anyone can practice as they choose and participation in government is open to all. It is tied to broader currents of pluralism as a defining aspect of national identity, a nation made stronger through diversity (see Schildkraut). Yet the argument for liberty as Christian practice ignores the contextual analysis we ask even of our first-year composition students: it does not contextualize these 250-yearold words of parental advice, either within the history of religious culture, notions of parenting, republican motherhood, or anything else. Instead, it offers examples that have the feel of interpretation, but only illustrate Adams’ behaviors as a child, behaviors which are held up without commentary as something to emulate. What is left uninterpreted—here or anywhere else, as far as I can tell, and thus presented as a given—is the far more complex and nuanced history of the involvement of Protestant theology in public life and policy in the United States. I would not expect a public exhibition to go as far as an academic book could go. But there are many religious sites that share their histories with the public in more nuanced ways—indeed, quite a few of them are right in the same neighborhood of Old City Philadelphia, including Congregation Mikveh Israel, Christ Church (Episcopal), St. George’s United Methodist Church, and Mother Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church. This method of unstated warrants linking Bible to nation continues through the text selections that appear as the viewer scrolls down through the webpage. This passage details his life at the time that he was helping to negotiate the Monroe Doctrine: While Adams worked diligently to secure the nation’s borders and expand its territories, he was also hard at work on fostering the public virtue of its people.

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Adams held a deep interest in the Bible and theology. On Sundays he attended morning, afternoon and evening services of various church denominations. In 1818, while serving as Secretary of State, Adams accepted the role of Vice President of the newly formed American Bible Society. He supported its goal of ensuring that all Americans had affordable access to the Bible, because he saw the Bible as contributing to their spiritual development and moral character, thus their civic virtue and participation. It was a role he held until his death in 1848. (http​​s:/​/f​​aitha​​ndlib​​erty.​​org​/v​​ision​​s​/joh​​n​-q​ui​​ncy​-a​​dams)​

Again, the assertion of a Christian nation warrants the information given, linking powerful roles like Secretary of State to the identity and work of being Christian. This time, the expansion of the nation, and its dominion over the Americas through the Monroe Doctrine, becomes folded into the warranting. American exceptionalism, it emerges, is a Christian exceptionalism. As the reader continues scrolling down the page, we learn about Adams’ later years as a Congressman representing Massachusetts, when he became an antislavery proponent. The website relates two episodes from these years. First, Adams is noted for his mastery of parliamentary procedures. He worked around the gag rule that suppressed antislavery petitions by reading out the prayers of a group of women against slavery. This choice of detail is telling. The FLDC material reveals that Adams argued on the floor that his move was legal because what he read was not a petition but a prayer. I can imagine the conservative Christians who designed the exhibit must have enjoyed this detail, proud that prayer could be shown to be part of deliberative government, proof of religion’s necessity in the nation. Prayer seems essential to ending slavery; any living American must concede that slavery was a terrible injustice. And it is a fascinating detail, one that speaks to how genres do things, as rhetorical genre theory reveals (for a comparable analysis of a genre being repurposed or renamed to result in an unexpected result, see Freadman). As the leaders of the Center have stated, it is up to each person to decide what to make of their learning. But the unstated warrant remains, unnoticed by most viewers who cannot be expected to be scholars of religion in American history, nor sensitive to the structure of argument. The next episode on the website relays Adams’ role in the Amistad case, extending the readers’ understanding of Adams as an actor for racial justice. As might be expected of a brief website intended for a public audience, the information is far more concise than in Roberts-Miller’s account. What follows are the two final paragraphs relaying the episode: The abolitionists, including prominent Bible reading businessman and philanthropist Lewis Tappan, appealed to Adams to argue the case before the Supreme Court, pro bono. Adams agreed, and over the course of two-days [sic] pled more than seven hours on behalf of the imprisoned Africans. His argument persuaded

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the Court to rule in favor of returning the Africans to their native country. (http​​ s:/​/f​​aitha​​ndlib​​erty.​​org​/v​​ision​​s​/joh​​n​-q​ui​​ncy​-a​​dams)​

Even in this short paragraph which serves to relay the basic outline of the Amistad story, the writers feel compelled to mention the role of Lewis Tappan, naming him as a “Bible reading businessman.” These two facts are certainly true of Tappan—he was the founder of the Mercantile Agency in New York, forerunner of Dun and Bradstreet, and a faithful Congregationalist who would certainly have read the Bible. The exhibit does not reveal what Wikipedia does: that he was also a radical abolitionist who argued that only intermarriage would ultimately end racism, a position considered outlandish even among most abolitionist activists. It is questionable if the ABS would endorse a person of comparable positions today. Instead, they present him conservatively as a Bible-reading financier. Finally, following several images, scripture passages, and quotes from Adams’ diary, the reader reaches this passage on the website: Following the Supreme Court decision, the freed members of the Mendi tribe presented Adams with a thank-you letter and the gift of a Bible. In the note they quoted Psalm 124, and told Adams: “When we get to Mendi we will tell the people of your great kindness . . . .. We shall take the Bible with us. It has been a precious book in prison, and we love to read it now we are free!” Adams responded to their gift with his own letter, expressing his gratitude and explaining that “it was from that book that I learnt to espouse your cause when you were in trouble, and to give thanks to God for your deliverance.” (http​​s:/​/f​​aitha​​ndlib​​ erty.​​org​/v​​ision​​s​/joh​​n​-q​ui​​ncy​-a​​dams)​

The warrant remains the same in this passage, the argument now overt: the Bible is the ticket to doing justice and being redeemed. But here the power of the Bible is extended from the white Protestants, for whom it was their inherited sacred text, to the Africans who were the victims of a heinous crime, in an economic system founded on violence and justified for centuries by the same Christianity now being proclaimed as their salvation. And yet, this small selection from the exhibition website suggests something more about religion and rhetoric. To the academic, politically progressive, or liberal Christian reader, this content is meant for an evangelical other, an other who is probably deficient in reasoning and suspect in their politics. The material projects the possibility of only an affirming, noncritical response, despite the Center’s claims that it is up to the reader to decide. It is an example of what Roberts-Miller teaches is demagogic. Still, to the sympathizer of the ABS, this language resonates with the fullness of devotion to the Bible, as a book that offers meaningful, personal, God-given truths to anyone who wishes to read it.

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In this response, the reader roots further in their worldview in which the Bible and the United States are inextricably linked, less as a fact of history and culture and more as a proxy for theology, morality, and transcendent experience, calling up inchoate feelings of patriotism, commitments to justice or other values, or a mystical devotion to Bible literacy. In other words, the reader accepts a fullness in receiving the material—even leaving with a memorial token of how his or her own personal values were invoked and deepened. To the receptive audience, it is edifying, affirming, and life-giving. History and the Religiously Rhetorical I am concerned that the Faith and Liberty Discovery Center, by linking Christianity to American exceptionalism and presenting it as a given, is doing religion and history by demagogic means. And their doing so has gone unnoticed, or has been overtly or tacitly accepted, by local leaders in Philadelphia and by the general public. The FLDC has the potential to shape a public acceptance of the ahistorical idea that those with power ought only to be Christians of a certain type. And it does so through structures of communication that go unnoticed by most receivers. I have presented a few insights on how they do so in their presentation of Adams, by inadequately linking evidence to reasons, drawing from a narrow cultural lexicon that elevates Bible reading, and arguing from broad, unstated warrants. At the same time, what Jeff Ringer (2016) calls “vernacular religious creativity” will no doubt be at work among the visitors to the Faith and Liberty Discovery Center. It is meant to stir the heart, and it will. Rhetoricians can explore and understand what this receptivity is all about, continuing the work of scholars like Ringer, Lynch, Mannon, van der Lei, and more, while remaining alert to the trouble with dominionist and other forms of fundamentalism so well explained by Sharon Crowley. For rhetoricians concerned about the prospects for democracy, we have an opportunity to seek out and respect the place of fullness in public life, particularly in places where civic democratic life is epideictically invoked through shared history. Rhetoricians share in this invoking. If we wish to contribute to a flourishing of civic life over the democratic precarity in which we currently find ourselves, we might flourish with a rhetoric of fullness. REFERENCES Adams, John Quincy. 1810. Lectures on Rhetoric and Oratory, Delivered to the Classes of Senior and Junior Sophisters in Harvard University, Vol. 1. Cambridge: Hilliard and Metcalf.

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American Bible Society, American Bible. n.d. “American Bible Society to Launch 200 New Websites in 2020 Toward Solving Scripture Digital Divide with Digital .BIBLE Project.” Accessed January 8, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.prn​​ewswi​​re​.co​​m​/new​​ s​-rel​​eases​​/amer​​ican-​​bible​​-soci​​ety​-t​​o​-lau​​nch​-2​​00​-ne​​w​-web​​sites​​-in​-2​​020​-t​​oward​​ -solv​​ing​-s​​cript​​ure​-d​​igita​​l​-div​​ide​-w​​ith​-​d​​igita​​l​-bib​​le​-pr​​oject​​-3009​​75273​​.html​. Ammerman, Nancy Tatom. 2014. Sacred Stories, Spiritual Tribes: Finding Religion in Everyday Life. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Andrews, James Robertson, ed. 2007. Rhetoric, Religion, and the Roots of Identity in British Colonial America: A Rhetorical History of the United States, Vol. 1. East Lansing: Michigan State University Press. Auer, J. Jeffery, and Jerald L. Banninga. 1963. “The Genesis of John Quincy Adams’ Lectures on Rhetoric and Oratory.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 49 (2): 119–132. Berger, Peter L. 2014. The Many Altars of Modernity: Toward a Paradigm for Religion in a Pluralist Age. Boston: De Gruyter. Bernard-Donals, Michael. 2014. “Divine Cruelty and Rhetorical Violence.” Philosophy & Rhetoric 47 (4): 400–418. ———. 2019. “Rhetorical Movement, Vulnerability, and Higher Education.” Philosophy & Rhetoric 52 (1): 1–23. Boren, Michael. 2018. “American Bible Society to Employees: Abstain from Sex Outside Marriage or Resign.” https://www.Inquirer.Com. May 30, 2018. https​:/​ /ww​​w​.inq​​uirer​​.com/​​phill​​y​/new​​s​/ame​​rican​​-bibl​​e​-soc​​iety-​​phila​​delph​​ia​-ch​​risti​​an​-be​​ liefs​​-marr​​ia​ge-​​lgbt-​​20180​​530​.h​​tml. Carr, Jean Ferguson, Stephen L. Carr, and Lucille M. Schultz. 2005. Archives of Instruction: Nineteenth-Century Rhetorics, Readers, and Composition Books in the United States. In Studies in Writing & Rhetoric. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Cope, Emily Murphy. 2013. “Learning Not to Preach: Evangelical Speaker Beth Moore and the Rhetoric of Constraint.” In Rhetoric, History, and Women’s Oratorical Education: American Women Learn to Speak, edited by David Gold and Catherine Hobbs, 217–237. Routledge Studies in Rhetoric and Communication 14. New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group. DePalma, Michael-John, Jeffrey M. Ringer, and Jim Webber. 2008. “(Re)Charting the (Dis)Courses of Faith and Politics; Or, Rhetoric and Democracy in a Burkean Barnyard.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 38 (3): 311. Duffy, John. 2019. Provocations of Virtue: Rhetoric, Ethics, and the Teaching of Writing. Louisville, CO: Utah State University Press. Earle, Chris S. 2018. “Religion, Democracy, and Public Writing: Habermas on the Role of Religion in Public Life.” College English 81 (2): 133–154. Fea, John. 2016a. The Bible Cause: A History of the American Bible Society. First edition. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. ———. 2016b. Was America Founded as a Christian Nation? A Historical Introduction. Revised edition. Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster John Knox Press. ———. 2018. Believe Me: The Evangelical Road to Donald Trump. Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company.

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Fitzgerald, William. 2016. Spiritual Modalities: Prayer as Rhetoric and Performance. University Park: Penn State University Press. Freadman, Anne. 2012. “The Traps and Trappings of Genre Theory.” Applied Linguistics 33 (5): 544–563. Geiger, T. J. 2019. “Forgiveness Is More Than Platitudes: Evangelical Women, Sexual Violence, and Casuistic Tightening.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 49 (2): 163–184. Gold, David. 2008. Rhetoric at the Margins: Revising the History of Writing Instruction in American Colleges, 1873–1947. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Goodfellow, Donald M. 1946. “The First Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory.” The New England Quarterly 19 (3): 372–389. Graff, Richard, Arthur E. Walzer, and Janet Atwill, eds. 2005. The Viability of the Rhetorical Tradition. Albany: State University of New York Press. Gunn, Joshua. 2004. “An Occult Poetics; Or, the Secret Rhetoric of Religion.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 34 (2): 29. Haidt, Jonathan. 2013. The Righteous Mind: Why Good People Are Divided by Politics and Religion. New York: Vintage Books. Halloran, S. M. 1990. “From Rhetoric to Composition: The Teaching of Writing in America to 1900.” In A Short History of Writing Instruction from Ancient Greece to Twentieth-Century America, edited by J. J. Murphy, 151–182. Mahwah, NJ: Hermagoras. Hart-Davidson, William, James P. Zappen, and S. Michael Halloran. 2005. “On the Formation of Democratic Citizens: Rethinking the Rhetorical Tradition in a Digital Age.” In The Viability of the Rhetorical Tradition, edited by Richard Graff, Arthur E. Walzer, and Janet Atwill, 125–140. Albany: State University of New York Press. Haselby, Sam. 2017. The Origins of American Religious Nationalism. New York, NY: Oxford University Press (OUP). Hogg, Charlotte. 2015. “Including Conservative Women’s Rhetorics in an ‘Ethics of Hope and Care.’” Rhetoric Review 34 (4): 391–408. Johnson, Nan. 1991. Nineteenth-Century Rhetoric in North America. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press. Johnson, Nan, and Gavin P. Johnson. 2019. “Teaching Critical Analysis in Times of Peril: A Rhetorical Model of Social Change.” Peitho: Journal of the Coalition of Feminist Scholars in the History of Rhetoric & Composition 22 (1). Kerby, Lauren R. 2020. Saving History: How White Evangelicals Tour the Nation’s Capital and Redeem a Christian America. Where Religion Lives. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press. Lessl, Thomas M. 2009. “The Innate Religiosity of Public Life: An A Fortiori Argument.” Journal of Communication & Religion 32 (2): 319–346. Longaker, Mark Garrett. 2007. Rhetoric and the Republic: Politics, Civic Discourse, and Education in Early America. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press. Lynch, Paul, and Matt Miller. 2017. “Twenty-Five Years of Faith in Writing: Religion and Composition, 1992–2017.” Present Tense: A Journal of Rhetoric in Society 6 (2).

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Maddux, Kristy. 2010. The Faithful Citizen: Popular Christian Media and Gendered Civic Identities. Studies in Rhetoric and Religion 10. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Mannon, Bethany. 2019. “Xvangelical: The Rhetorical Work of Personal Narratives in Contemporary Religious Discourse.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 49 (2): 142–162. Miller, Matt. 2017. “Why Rhetoricians Don’t Get Religion: A Counter-History of Sacred Rhetoric.” Ph.D. Dissertation, Ann Arbor: Saint Louis University. 2016861433. ProQuest One Academic. Miller, Thomas P. 2010. The Evolution of College English: Literacy Studies from the Puritans to the Postmoderns. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press. Moss, Beverly J. 2003. A Community Text Arises: A Literate Text and a Literacy Tradition in African-American Churches. Cresskill, NJ: Hampton. http:​/​/sea​​rch​ .e​​bscoh​​ost​.c​​om​/lo​​gin​.a​​spx​?d​​irect​​=true​​&db​=m​​zh​&AN​​=2004​​97085​​8​&sit​​e​=e​ho​​st​-li​​ ve​&sc​​ope​=s​​ite. Noll, Mark A. 2016. In the Beginning Was the Word: The Bible in American Public Life, 1492–1783. Oxford  and New York: Oxford University Press. Perdue, Philip. 2019. Looks Like History: Forming Christian America in the Biblical Nationalist Style. ProQuest Dissertations Publishing. Pernot, Laurent. 2006. “The Rhetoric of Religion.” Rhetorica: A Journal of the History of Rhetoric 24 (3): 235–254. Potkay, Adam S. 1999. “Theorizing Civic Eloquence in the Early Republic: The Road from David Hume to John Quincy Adams.” Early American Literature 34 (2): 147–170. PR Newswire. 2017. “One of America’s Most Immersive and Interactive Experiences Coming to Independence Mall, Showcasing the Bible’s Role in America’s Ideals of Liberty and Justice.” 2017. Rahskopf, Horace G. 1946. “John Quincy Adams: Speaker and Rhetorician.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 32 (4): 435. Ringer, Jeffrey M. 2013. “The Consequences of Integrating Faith into Academic Writing: Casuistic Stretching and Biblical Citation.” College English 75 (3): 270. ———. 2016. Vernacular Christian Rhetoric and Civil Discourse: The Religious Creativity of Evangelical Student Writers. Routledge Studies in Rhetoric and Communication 29. New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group. Roberts-Miller, Patricia. 2002. “John Quincy Adams ’s Amistad Argument: The Problem of Outrage; or, the Constraints of Decorum.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 32 (2): 5–25. ———. 2006. “Agonism, Wrangling, and John Quincy Adams.” Rhetoric Review 25 (2): 141–161. Schildkraut, Deborah Jill. 2007. Press “One” for English: Language Policy, Public Opinion, and American Identity. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Shimron, Yonat. 2018a. “American Bible Society’s Bible Domain Policies Restrict Religious Freedom Online, Critics Say.” Religion News Service, March 13, 2018. ———. 2018b. “Employees Quit American Bible Society over Sex and Marriage Rules.” Religion News Service, May 29, 2018. https​:/​/re​​ligio​​nnews​​.com/​​2018/​​

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05​/29​​/amer​​ican-​​bible​​-soci​​ety​-t​​o​-req​​uire-​​regul​​ar​-ch​​urch-​​atten​​dance​​-stri​​​ct​-se​​xuali​​ty​ -co​​des/.​ Stevenson, Jill. 2013. Sensational Devotion: Evangelical Performance in TwentyFirst Century America. Book, Whole. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Swearingen, C. Jan. 2007. “Rhetoric and Religion in Colonial Virginia: From the Great Awakening to the Declaration of Independence.” In Rhetoric, Religion, and the Roots of Identity in British Colonial America, edited by James Robertson Andrews, 297–327. A Rhetorical History of the United States, v. 1. East Lansing: Michigan State University Press. Taylor, Charles. 2018. A Secular Age. Cambridge; London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Vander Lei, Elizabeth, ed. 2014. Renovating Rhetoric in Christian Tradition. Pittsburgh Series in Composition, Literacy, and Culture. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Vining, James W. 2016. “Theology, Logic, and Rhetoric: The Rhetorical Practices of Theology in Political Action Speeches of Contemporary American Clergy.” Ph.D. Dissertation, Ann Arbor: The University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee. 1795522493. ProQuest One Academic. Waldstreicher, David. 2013. “John Quincy Adams: The Life, the Diary, and the Biographers.” In A Companion to John Adams and John Quincy Adams, edited by David Waldstreicher, 241–262. Wiley-Blackwell Companions to American History. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, A John Wiley & Sons, Ltd., Publication. Wallis, Richard. 2020. “Choosing Not to Hide Behind the Camera: A Media Producer’s Perspective on Religious Literacy.” The Religious Studies Project (blog). March 13, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.rel​​igiou​​sstud​​iespr​​oject​​.com/​​2020/​​03​/13​​/choo​​ sing-​​not​-t​​o​-hid​​e​-beh​​​ind​-t​​he​-ca​​mera/​.

Chapter 11

The Atheist Dilemma Studying Non-theists in Rhetorical Studies Kristina M. Lee

Despite being one of the largest minority groups in the United States, the experiences of non-theists are rarely critically engaged with outside of the atheist community. When atheists are discussed, they are often subjected to negative stereotypes including the tropes of the “immoral,” “angry,” and “un-American” atheist (Gervais et al. 2011; Edgell et al. 2016). This rhetorical marginalization, both through the dismissal and stereotyping of atheists, works to silence good faith dialogues about the atheist experience. One place where this silence is particularly glaring is in rhetorical scholarship. A title and keyword search for variations of the terms “Atheist,” “Agnostic,” “Nonbeliever,” and “Freethinker” in Quarterly Journal of Speech, Rhetoric Society Quarterly, and Rhetoric & Public Affairs, three of the leading rhetoric journals, results in only four articles (Hart 1978; Rhodes 2014; Stob 2016; Lee 2020). Even scholars specifically studying rhetoric and religion are generally dismissive of the non-theist experience. Based on the same keyword search, the only article to focus on atheism in the Journal of Communication and Religion (formally Religious Communication Today) was published in 2019 (Spencer 2019). Additionally, in the limited work that does exist, stereotypes about the atheist experience often emerge. Despite the limited number of publications in prominent rhetorical journals, there are signs of increased interest in studying non-theists. Three of the five articles referenced earlier were published in the past five years. There are also a handful of articles written about non-theists by Communication and English scholars that have been published in recent years outside of the prominent rhetorical journals (Anspach et al. 2007; Cloud 2017; Loren and Rambo 2018; Myers 2012). Non-religious scholars are encouraged to engage in religious communication scholarship, as is evidenced in how the Religious Communication Association identifies itself as an organization that 221

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is “nonsectarian and provides a setting for professionals of various faiths, or no faith, to study problems of communication and religion.” I can also speak from personal experience about receiving positive feedback and excitement from a variety of scholars at conferences while presenting on atheism. It seems that, despite a history of ignoring non-theists, there is openness in the field of rhetoric to studying them. While this openness is encouraging, I have concerns for how scholarship on atheism can be ethically approached moving forward. Some of these concerns are about obstacles that can be created through gatekeeping, others stem from observations on the limited work already published about non-theists, and other concerns focus on the risk of scholars contributing to the further marginalization of atheists if work is not handled with critical and ethical care. This chapter focuses on four of these concerns and potential solutions for addressing these issues. The first concern is that atheists are generally not considered a marginalized group in rhetorical scholarship. I contend that this disregard for the marginalization of non-theists stems from two primary issues: scholars not critically engaging in the atheist experience and a tendency to reduce the atheist social movement to the “New Atheist Movement.” As such, rhetorical scholars at times reproduce a hostile stereotypical understanding of atheists. My second concern is how to effectively and ethically ascribe a label onto those who do not believe in a god or gods. I contend that scholars need to choose labels with critical intention to not only help other scholars find their work but to ethically engage in the non-theist experience. The third issue I address is that polls highlighting the religious beliefs of the public can be misleading and often underrepresent the number of irreligious Americans. Scholars referencing public polls on religious identity need to consider the pressures many Americans may face to pass as religious. Finally, I am concerned that there is no clear home for scholarship on non-theists in rhetorical scholarship. In addressing this concern, I explore both the obstacles and possibilities of the Religious Communication Association and the Journal of Communication and Religion being an outlet for scholarship on atheism. This chapter is informed largely by my own experience as an early career scholar of rhetoric who is not only interested in studying atheists but who identifies as one. I hope that providing my impressions as an early career scholar can help other scholars in the field reflect on whether religious rhetoric scholarship is where we want it to be in regard to interfaith conversations that include non-theists. This chapter is driven by the opinion that there is a need in the field of rhetorical studies to recognize atheists as a marginalized group and to take steps to talk about them in a more critically engaged and ethical way.

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CONCERN #1: RECOGNIZING THE MARGINALIZATION OF ATHEISTS Despite being one of the largest minority groups in the United States, nontheists face continual marginalization, largely due to the stigmas surrounding non-theism. In one of the most comprehensive studies on these stigmas, Penny Edgell et al. (2016) found that 44 percent of respondents would not approve of their child marrying an atheist, 40 percent saw the increased number of people who claim no religious identity to be a “bad thing,” 36 percent thought atheists “lack a moral center,” and about 22 percent believed that atheists were more likely to participate in criminal behavior (619–620). Concerns of morality and distrust are perhaps the most prominent stigmas surrounding atheism. Gervais et al. (2011) found that people’s distrust in atheists was comparable to their distrust in rapists, despite there being no evidence that atheists are more likely to commit crimes than any other group. These stigmas contribute to numerous blatant discriminatory practices toward atheists. Atheists are considered undesirable and untrustworthy for certain jobs (Gervais et al. 2011; Van Camp et al. 2016; Wallace et al. 2014). Additionally, atheists may have a more difficult time adopting children (Schwartz 1991). Non-theistic students have been banned from starting atheist clubs (despite there being other religious clubs at a school), punished for not saying the pledge or team prayers, and publicly ostracized by schools, communities, and their families for challenging school violations of the separation of church and state (Mehta 2012). The political sphere may be where atheists face the most blatant discrimination. Americans have consistently stated in polls that they would be unwilling to vote for an atheist for president (Jones 2012). In Congress, only one person openly identifies as religiously unaffiliated compared to 23 percent of the general population (Pew Research Center 2019). Several states have illegal clauses in their state constitutions banning atheists from appearing in court or holding public office. Degan Loren and Carol Rambo (2018) put it quite plainly: “We know of no other minority status that is so openly discriminated against without consequence” (6). My concern is that many scholars have failed to engage critically in the marginalization of atheists. This creates additional obstacles for those studying non-theists, as they have to work to overcome and not reproduce the stereotypical understanding of atheists promoted in the field. This can involve uncomfortable engagement with prominent religious rhetoric scholars. Yet overcoming this obstacle is important if scholars want to ethically discuss atheism and the atheist experience in their work. I contend that the disregard of the marginalization of non-theists stems from two primary issues: scholars not critically engaging in the atheist

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experience and a tendency to reduce the atheist social movement to the “New Atheist Movement.” The former often occurs in the form of transient comments in work on religious rhetoric. In these cases, scholars are not necessarily focusing on atheists, but in their discussion of religion will write one or two sentences that dismiss the atheist experience. The second issue, reducing the atheist social movement to the “New Atheist Movement,” while also occurring in these stray comments, is a common theme in the limited work on atheism in rhetorical scholarship. These issues together work to create an environment in rhetorical studies that is not only dismissive of the marginalized experience of non-theists but hegemonically reinforces problematic stereotypes about atheists. Transient comments about non-theists can be alarmingly common in scholarship. While often times these comments do not directly discuss non-theists, their implications dismiss the atheist experience. Take, for example, a 2002 special issue of the Journal of Communication and Religion that reflected on the twenty-five-year anniversary of Roderick P. Hart’s book The Political Pulpit. While none of the articles in the issue specifically focused on nontheists, several authors make comments that, I argue, fail to critically engage in the atheist experience and instead reinforce hegemonic and problematic narratives about non-theists. In one instance, Martin J. Medhurst (2002) comments that Hart’s “contract” should have “never been ratified in the first place because it makes religiously inclined people second-class citizens” (97-98). While Medhurst does not specifically mention atheists, his suggestion that religiously inclined people are “second-class citizens” frames religiously uninclined people as privileged. Such framing, a dramatic way to emphasize Medhurst’s critique of Hart’s theory, fails to engage in the marginalization of atheists, particularly in the political sphere. The statement dismisses the political reality of non-theists who continue to face social stigmas barring them from politics and who risk actually being treated as second-class citizens through clauses in state constitutions banning them from public office.1 In the same forum, scholars made claims about how harmless certain forms of political religious rhetoric are. These claims directly counter rhetoric from the atheist social movement and demonstrate a failure to engage in atheist rhetoric. For example, Robert V. Friedenberg (2002) contends that the political leaders do not use “overly religious” rhetoric and that “everyone, even those who are not ‘true believers,’ can appreciate” ceremonial deism (39). Hart (2002) also contributed to the issue and concluded, “It does not bother me that Congress begins its day with a prayer or that presidents continue to speak of the Lord’s bounties. Let them talk. It can’t hurt. It might even help” (147). Yet atheist activists have been fighting against theist normative rhetoric in politics for decades. They have talked extensively about why they do not appreciate so-called ceremonial deism and why it does hurt the secular

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community (for summaries of these conversations, see: Jacoby 2004; Mehta 2012; Moore and Kramnick 2018; Niose 2012; Schmidt 2016). Scholars’ failure to acknowledge these concerns demonstrates a general attitude of dismissiveness and negation of the atheist experience. If religious rhetorical scholars wish to critically engage in issues of politics and religion, I argue it is important to study and recognize atheists’ positions prior to making claims about them, even in passing. Making assumptions about or ignoring the atheist experience works to further silence them and reinforces their marginalization. While scholars specifically studying non-theists may be more inclined to recognize the marginalization of non-theists, there is a concerning trend in the limited rhetorical scholarship to reduce the atheist social movement to the “New Atheist Movement.” Hart (1978) published possibly the first article about the atheist social movement in rhetorical studies. He argued that there are three types of proselytic atheists: legal (atheists focusing on legal change), cerebral (atheists interested in academic conversations), and popular (atheists who try to promote atheism to a popular audience). For his argument, he focused specifically on the “popular” atheists, who could be considered the earlier version of today’s “New Atheists.” While the article offers some valuable insight about the atheist social movement, it has a generally antagonistic tone toward the popular atheists, which is particularly evident in Hart’s critiquing of atheists’ “negativism” and “hate literature” (Hart 1978, 43). I contend that this antagonism reinforces the angry atheist trope while dismissing the rhetorical choices of the atheist movement as failures. Notably, Hart’s acknowledgment of various types of atheists had the potential to invite further rhetorical investigation into the atheist social movement that could have balanced out Hart’s focus on the popular atheists. Unfortunately, Hart’s 1978 article remained the only one to be published about atheists in a leading rhetoric journal until Joseph Rhodes’ 2014 article on the “atheistic voice.” Rhodes (2014) suggests that Christopher Hitchens, a prominent figure in the “New Atheist Movement,” exemplifies what Rhodes calls “the atheistic voice.” Rhodes defines the atheistic voice as “a vehement, vitriolic rhetorical stance against all forms of discursive authority” (325). While Rhodes notes that what he calls the “Atheistic Voice” is not synonymous with popular atheism as an identity, by focusing on Hitchens and labeling this “vehement, vitriolic” rhetoric “atheistic” Rhodes’ reinforces the “angry atheist” stereotype and arguably reduces atheism to the anti-theistic rhetoric of the New Atheist Movement. This stereotyping and reduction is also found in Leland G. Spencer’s JCR article “Mobilizing Conversion Narratives Toward (Non)Religious Civility: The Case of Chris Stedman’s Faitheist.” While Spencer’s (2019) article is an interesting analysis of Stedman’s book, he makes several comments that

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reduce the atheist movement to anti-theistic “uncivil” rhetoric. He contends that “Stedman’s goal in Faitheist runs counter to conventional wisdom among the mainstream atheist movement” (23) and that Stedman’s 2012 book makes “a case for the radical potential of (non)religious civility” (20). Presumably Spencer is referring to the “New Atheist Movement” as the “mainstream atheist movement” because it is the most recognized by the general public and tends to have a more antagonistic tone. However, as someone who has been actively involved in the atheist social movement for several years, I can contend that many in the movement do not share in the antagonistic “conventional wisdom” that Spencer refers to. The (non)religious civility that Spencer calls “radical” is far more common in the general atheist social movement than the anti-religious worldview that is often ascribed to atheists in mainstream media. Most of the prominent organizations within the atheist movement, including the American Humanist Association, the Freedom From Religion Foundation, the Secular Coalition of America, and even The Satanic Temple are actively promoting (non)religious civility. These groups’ missions are more antitheist normative than anti-religious, in that they are challenging the privileging of theistic or religious worldviews more than trying to attack religion. There is a difference between the mainstream understanding of the atheist movement and the actual mainstream rhetoric involved in the movement. With such limited rhetorical work on the atheist social movement published, it is concerning that scholars promote a mainstream understanding of the atheist movement instead of engaging, or at least acknowledging, the more complex nature of the atheist movement (Hart’s 1978 article is a good model for at least acknowledging the more complex nature of the atheist movement). In doing so, scholars reinforce the stereotype of the angry, antireligious atheist, which is promoted in mainstream narratives and is used to justify silencing and dismissing non-theists. If scholars are going to ethically engage in scholarship about atheists, it is imperative that they acknowledge the diversity of the atheist social movement and that they diligently check their work for assumptions that reinforce marginalizing stereotypes and narratives about non-theists. CONCERN #2: FINDING THE RIGHT LABEL The second issue I want to focus on is using ethical labels when writing about atheists. The atheist social movement has long debated what label to avow. “Infidel,” “unbelievers,” “liberals,” “freethinkers,” “rationalists,” “agnostic,” “materialists,” and “humanists” are just a handful of the terms that nontheists have used (Schmidt 2016, 12). With disagreement among non-theists

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themselves over what label to use, it should come as no surprise that scholars have struggled to find a universal term when talking about this group. While different terms have advantages and disadvantages, I argue it is imperative that scholars choose the label they most frequently ascribe onto this group with care. In doing so, scholars need to consider what labels would best allow other scholars to find their work and how ascribing certain labels may challenge or reinforce the marginalization of non-theists. There are nuances and implications for each of the various labels that scholars can use when talking about non-theists. For example, if a scholar chooses the term “secularist,” one might ask if they are talking about people who reject religion or people who promote the separation of church and state. While there are certainly overlaps, there are many religious people who support the separation. Scholars using the term “secularists” to describe non-theists may also risk having their work lost in searches among broader work on secularism. Alternatively, scholars could use the term “irreligious.” But then are they referring to people who reject both a higher power and the church? There are many people who believe in a higher power but claim not to be religious due to their rejection of organized religion. Additionally, scholars may not think to search the term “irreligious,” as it is not a particularly common label. These nuances can make choosing an accurate label to ascribe to this group difficult. Whatever term is selected, it is important to consider the ethical implications of that term. The most common term used in scholarship and in mainstream conversations about non-theists is “atheist.” Of the four articles in leading rhetoric journals, three use the term (the fourth uses the term “agnostic,” making it more difficult to find in a search on non-theists). The term “atheist” is consistently associated with someone who does not believe in any god or gods. As such, using the term “atheist” can prevent some of the confusion associated with other terms such as “irreligious,” “nonbeliever,” “secularist,” and “humanist.” Notably, the word does carry stigmatized weight. As previously discussed, people often associate atheism with stigmas such as immorality, untrustworthiness, anger, and anti-theism. Much of this stigma can be attributed to the association of atheism and communism during the Cold War, which contributed to atheism becoming synonymous with being un-American and immoral (Lee 2018). However, numerous nontheistic groups encourage reclaiming the term “atheist” as an act of resistance against the stigmatizations placed on the group. Scholars have the potential to contribute to the de-stigmatization of the term “atheist” by using it in their work. Using our platform as scholars to help destigmatize the most commonly understood label of non-theists can help fight the marginalization of the group. However, there are some important detriments to using the term “atheist.” To begin with, it is a response to a westernized understanding of religion

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in which religion includes a belief in a higher power. As such, using the term “atheist” privileges western logics that are often promoted in rhetorical studies (Shome 1996). Second, the term is strongly associated with the “New Atheist Movement,” which, as previously discussed, is connected to a mainstream understanding of atheists as anti-religious. By using the term atheists, readers may be more likely to envision anti-theists if a scholar is not careful to engage in the work of acknowledging the complexities of the atheist movement and identity. Third, while the term can be reclaimed as an act of resistance, it is important to note that there are many non-theists who vehemently deny that they are an atheist. Scholars need to wrestle with the ethics of ascribing a label onto a person who disavows it, even if the scholars’ intentions are to destigmatize the term. An alternative to “atheist” is the term “nonbelievers,” which some scholars have recently begun to use more often (Coe and Chenoweth 2015; Lie 2018; Stob 2016) This term likely became more popular due to U.S. President Barack Obama’s First Inaugural Address where he proclaimed “We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus and nonbelievers” (Obama 2009). Some prominent leaders in the atheist social movement have also embraced the term. David Niose, former president for both the American Humanist Association and the Secular Coalition of America, used the term in the title of his book Nonbeliever Nation: The Rise of Secular Americans. This term does not carry the same stigmatizations as the word “atheist,” making it appealing to many in the non-theistic community. If non-theist leaders, politicians, and media continue to use the term, it has the potential to become the mainstream label for non-theists. If scholars use it, they could help with that standardization. However, this term is far from perfect. To begin with, some religions consider a “nonbeliever” to be anyone who does not believe in their specific faith. Even if nonbeliever becomes more mainstream to specifically mean non-theist, there could still be confusion at times over who certain groups mean when they talk about “nonbelievers.” While becoming more mainstream, the term is still not extremely common so, again, those studying non-theists may not necessarily think to use it when searching for scholarship. One of the biggest concerns with using this term is the ethical implications of how it equivalates belief with religious views. This can be demonstrated in how Mike Huckabee responded to Obama’s inaugural address by saying: “there are certainly many people in this country that are not necessarily believers in anything other than themselves” (LiberalViewer 2009). This is an inaccurate description of atheists and can work to further stigmatize them by suggesting they believe in nothing at all when an atheist can believe in many things. As one atheist blogger explains “As an Atheist, I can not embrace the term ‘non-believer’ for myself—as doing that would

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validate the notion that beliefs that I do not hold count more than the beliefs that I do hold” (Sophia’s Blog 2019). The term “nonbeliever” privileges theism by making it the default understanding of beliefs. Scholars need to decide whether they are comfortable promoting that narrative when using the term. Choosing a label is difficult and there is no perfect answer. However, there are steps scholars can take to address these ethical tensions. First, no matter what label a scholar chooses to use, they can include at least a note in papers and presentations explaining why they use the specific labels and acknowledge limitations. For example, in my work, I usually have some iteration of a note that states: I primarily use the term “atheist” when talking about individuals who do not believe in a god or gods. I tend to use the term atheists because I argue it is the best understood term, denotatively its definition is closest to the group of individuals I am aiming to describe, and because I believe that using the term atheist can help destigmatize many of the problematic stereotypes that are associated with the term. I do, however, acknowledge that the term atheist promotes a westernized understanding of religion and many non-theists adamantly disassociate from the label, in part because of the stigmatization attached to it.

I try to make a similar statement when presenting at conferences. By making these types of statements, scholars demonstrate critical engagement, acknowledge limitations, and return agency to individuals within a group that is often subjected to mainstream understandings of different labels about their beliefs. Scholars can also intentionally shift between using multiple terms throughout their work. Using multiple labels can help acknowledge the lack of a universal label. For example, Doug Cloud (2017) primarily uses the term “atheist” in his article on atheist coming out narratives; throughout the piece, however, he occasionally includes phrases such as “and other secular identities” after using the label “atheist” (171). This work demonstrates an ethical acknowledgment that “atheist,” while well understood, is not a universally accepted label. As noted earlier (and demonstrated throughout this chapter), I tend to use the term “non-theist” alongside “atheist” quite often in my work. “Non-theist” has the same meaning of atheist without the stigma. Alternating between the two is my way of acknowledging that “atheist” is not a universally accepted term. However, I acknowledge that “non-theists” still has a western connotation. It is also not a commonly used term, which means that if it was used without the term “atheist,” scholars would have a much more difficult time finding my work and readers may not understand who I am referring to.

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There is an important tension between ethically choosing a label and making sure other scholars can find work on non-theists. At times, compromises may need to be made. Considering that atheist is one of the best-understood terms, scholars writing about non-theists have the best chance of having other scholars finding their work if they include “atheist” or “atheism” in their title or keywords. While some scholars may want to actively avoid the label atheist, if scholars are constantly using different labels, it makes the limited work on non-theists even more difficult to access. Even if a term cannot be agreed upon broadly, taking advantage of the keyword search and including the most commonly understood label in the list of terms can help mitigate this obstacle. However, it is still imperative that scholars take into consideration the atheist experience and acknowledge the limitations of various terms. CONCERN #3: ACKNOWLEDGING THE LIMITATIONS OF PUBLIC POLLS The third issue I want to address is the problem of using polls to determine how many non-theists there are in the United States. It can be easy to dismiss atheists, as polls often suggest they are a relatively small portion of society. This dismissal can have consequences for atheist inclusion in society. For example, in his criticism of Obama’s acknowledgment of nonbelievers, Terence P. Jeffrey (2010), editor-in-chief for CNSNews, argued, “The Census Bureau’s official Statistical Abstract of the United States says a miniscule 0.7 percent of American adults—or 1,621,000 out of 228,182,000—are atheists.” Jeffrey used these statistics to argue that Obama’s description of the United States as a nation of nonbelievers was inaccurate and problematic. It is not uncommon for scholars to use polls to discuss the religious make-up of the American people. For example, Hart (1978) points out that public opinion polls “consistently show that 98 percent of the American people profess belief in God,” which leads him to conclude that part of the atheist struggle was that they made up such a small part of the population (34). My concern is that relying on polls to discuss religious demographics can lead to misunderstandings and dismissal of the non-theist experience. Polls do not typically take into account the ways non-theists are encouraged to pass as religious in the United States. Will M. Gervais and Maxine B. Najle (2018) note that generally public polls suggest that between 3 and 11 percent of Americans are irreligious or atheist. They explain how part of this range is a result of people being less willing to identify as non-theistic on telephone interview than on anonymous polls. However, they also reason

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that even in anonymous polls, individuals may be hesitant to identify as non-theistic when directly asked about it. Instead, Gervais and Najle indirectly asked study participants about their beliefs and found that as many as 26 percent of Americans may actually be atheists. This hesitancy to express a non-theistic identity when directly asked about it is reflective of stigmas surrounding non-theism and the pressures individuals have to pass as religious. The disparity in public polls and the estimated number of actual atheists in the United States is reflective of the theist normative expectations within the United States that pressure atheists to pass as religious. It is imperative that scholars recognize these pressures. From national days of prayer to the Pledge of Allegiance to the national motto, atheists are constantly reminded that Americans are imagined as theistic. Being an open atheist means taking on all the stigmas associated with it surrounding morality, trustworthiness, and un-Americanism. There can also be immense pressure from schools and families to be religious or to hide religious identities (Christina 2014; McAfee 2012; Mehta 2012). For many atheists, it is simply easier and often safer for their well-being to pass as religious. It is also important to note that some religions can be more about culture or ethnicity than religious belief. This can add additional complexity to understanding polls. This is perhaps most prevalent in the Jewish community. For many, being Jewish is more about culture and ancestry than about religious practice. A 2013 Pew Research Center Poll found that each one in five Jews (22 percent) identify themselves as having no religion. Some may identify as a non-practicing Jew but still select Jewish when asked about their religious identity in public polls. The ethical interrogation of polls is necessary not only when considering how many non-theists there are today but also when discussing historical trends of religious identity. Just as it would be erroneous to assume that polls accurately represent the number of queer individuals in the United States at any point in history, scholars need to reflect on how social structures at various points in history silenced non-theists. For example, Hart’s assumption that 98 percent of Americans professed a belief in God in the late 1970s does not take into account how, in the 40 years leading up to his article, there was continual anti-atheist rhetoric and increased promotion of theist normativity due to the Cold War (Lee 2018, 2020). Because of religious social coercion, it is nearly impossible to know how many non-theists have existed within a society at any historical moment because many who questioned the existence of a god or gods likely kept their doubts to themselves, even in anonymous polls. As such, scholars should be wary of using polls to make definitive claims about the existence and population size of religious identities.

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CONCERN #4: FINDING A HOME FOR ATHEIST SCHOLARSHIP The limited work on atheism is largely spread out among various journals. Rhetoric & Public Affairs is, to my knowledge, the only rhetoric journal to have published more than one article that was explicitly about non-theists. This brings up my final concern, which is the question of where can a home for atheist scholarship be? This is a broad question with many potential answers. However, in this section, I focus on the possibility and obstacles of Religious Communication Association (RCA) and their JCR being potential outlets for work on atheism. RCA appears to be somewhat open to the possibility of being this outlet. RCA claims that it is an organization for scholars, teachers, students, clergy, journalists, and others who share an interest in religious speech, rhetoric, media, and performance. The association is nonsectarian and provides a setting for professionals of various faiths, or no faith, to study problems of communication and religion. Through its annual conferences and quarterly Journal of Communication and Religion, the association fosters significant scholarship and respectful dialogue that reflects the diverse beliefs, subject matter concerns, methodologies, and professions of RCA members. (Religious Communication Association)

This call makes a clear attempt to expand scholarship at least to scholars who have an atheistic identity. Yet, despite the call, there are still to including work through this organization and journal. As an early career scholar interested in studying the intersections of religion, atheism, politics, and rhetoric, I was excited to find out about RCA and JCR, as I assumed, it would be a perfect home for my work. However, numerous mentors recommended that if I wanted to study atheism I should not submit to the division or journal because many reviewers would not be able to be convinced that work on atheism belongs. This is not to say that atheism will be rejected from RCA and JCR. The publication of Spencer’s work on Christ Stedman’s Faithest demonstrates that work on atheism can be accepted. However, as demonstrated by my mentors’ reaction, there appears to still be an impression that there are gatekeepers unwilling to expand notions of what belongs in RCA and JCR to atheism. Part of these perceptions about RCA and JCR not being open to scholarship on atheism comes from the history of RCA. The founders of RCA were primarily interested in rhetorically analyzing religious texts and the rhetoric of religious leaders (Soukup 2010; Heisey 1998). Soukup and Paul (2010) argue that the organization is still reflective of this focus, pointing out that

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between 2000 and 2010, almost 40 percent of articles in JCR were rhetorical analysis of religious texts. Soukup also points out that JCR has limited representation of non-Christian identities, an observation that Ronald C. Arnett (2010) confirmed by showing that between 1978 and 2009 JCR had published only twelve articles on Judaism, three on Islam, and two on Buddhism. These publication numbers reflect why there is an assumption that scholarship on religion and communication is primarily focused on Christian religious rhetorical texts. A survey of the 2019 NCA program of panels sponsored by the RCA reflects that the vast majority of papers focus on Christian rhetoric. It would appear that either Christian rhetoric is what reviewers prefer or scholars interested in non-Christian or atheist texts are not submitting to the division. While this Christian-focused perception of religious rhetoric scholarship creates obstacles for scholars interested in non-Christian religious rhetoric in general, this chapter focuses specifically on the concerns this creates for scholars studying non-theists. Part of the obstacle for scholars studying atheist identities is the specific call of studying religious texts. On RCA’s website, while they claim it “provides a setting for professionals of various faiths, or no faith, to study problems of communication and religion,” they emphasize that they are a place for those “who share an interest in religious speech, rhetoric, media, and performance.” In Soukup’s (2010) reflection of the JCR, he contended that between 2000 and 2010, 40 percent of essays conducted “rhetorical analysis of religious texts (spoken, written, and media)” while 16 percent of essays addressed the “history of religious rhetoric or communication” and 15 percent explored “theoretical approaches to religious communication” (182–183). He described the rest of the categories as relatively small but including “experimental or quantitative studies of religious practice, qualitative (often fantasy-themed) analysis of religious organizations, activities, or groups; and framing studies of religious content in non-religious media” (183). None of these general categories offer clear invitations for studying non-theists. The question for both the RCA’s call and the categories that Soukup identifies as being prominent in the journal becomes what is a “religious” speech, rhetoric, media, performance, text, organization, or practice and can atheist rhetoric be included in these categories? What is striking to me is that there does not seem to be a clear focus on identity in either Soukup’s categories or RCA’s call. I contend that an intentional shift to include studying (ir)religious identities, not just being open to scholars of various identities within RCA, could open up space in the conversation in RCA and JCR for more diverse scholarship. This shift could include scholarship on how various groups frame and understand their religious and irreligious identities, as well as how cultural or political rhetorical norms contribute to the normalization and marginalization of various

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religious identities. In doing so, RCA and JCR would not only continue to be home for the strong scholarship on religious texts, but the home for scholarship on various aspects of (ir)religious identities, which could allow for more open conversations not only on atheism but for non-Christians more broadly.2 I recognize that the founders of RCA had to fight to make mainstream scholarship take their work on religious rhetoric seriously; thus, they may be hesitant to open up the organization to this shift. However, as Quentin J. Schultze (2010) argues, “One of the most important and perhaps productive areas of religious communication research will address the nature of civil discourse in societies composed of different, sometimes contentious, religious groups” (202). Atheists are certainly different from other religious groups and are often regarded as contentious. I reason that to do the work that Quentin suggests, RCA and JCR could promote scholarship on (ir)religious identity. This would open up avenues to make these outlets more open to a diverse array of religious communication scholarship and would be an important step in finding a home for scholarship on atheist identities. While scholars and RCA gatekeepers can work together to make RCA and JCR a home for atheist scholarship, I am not advocating for it to be the sole place for such work. The potential for scholarship on atheism is incredibly diverse. There have been prominent non-theistic speakers throughout history who are deserving of study. The atheist social movement can provide important insights for social movement theories. Atheism and theism are important intersectional identities that shape the ways bodies interact with the world. Atheists have continually worked to challenge cultural theist normativity in ways that have yet to be explored in rhetorical scholarship. Work on atheism can contribute to the missions of various rhetorical journals including Quarterly Journal of Speech, Rhetoric & Public Affairs, and Rhetoric Society Quarterly, as well as regional journals. Scholars have a plethora of opportunities to think critically and creatively about how atheists contribute to such work. CONCLUSION The goal of this chapter has been to reflect on some of the key concerns surrounding the ethical study of non-theists. As the number of open atheists continues to grow and the number of atheist texts become increasingly available, scholars will have ample opportunity to study this marginalized group. My hope is that scholars studying religion and rhetoric may reflect on how to make the field more open to interfaith conversations that include non-theists. I also implore scholars to approach talking about non-theists and the atheist social movement critically, whether non-theists are the focus of their study or

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not. Even tangential comments about non-theists need to be made with considerations of atheists’ marginalized experiences. Taking the time to intentionally select ascribed labels and considering the limitations of public polls on religious identity are also important steps scholars need to take when writing about atheists. Such work will allow for more honest and complete conversations about non-theists’ position regarding religion, rhetoric, and politics.

NOTES 1. While such clauses are federally unconstitutional, they have been used to create additional legal barriers for non-theists running for office (CBS News 2009). 2. Scholar should, however, be wary to not reduce atheism to a “religious identity.” One of the most uncomfortable experiences I have had as an early career scholar was at a conference panel where I was an audience member. After one researcher revealed that several atheist participants in their study had opposed a question asking what their religious identity was, the conversation turned to whether atheism was a religious identity. Several panel and audience members chimed in and concluded that the respondents were wrong to question the wording because atheism should be considered a religious identity. It was concerning how quickly scholars dismissed a marginalized group’s desire to not have an identity ascribed on to them. Even though I know it was no one’s intention, as an atheist, I felt unwelcomed and silenced by the conversation. This is why I make the distinction of writing “(ir)religious identities” in order to acknowledge that many non-theists do not consider their identity to be a religious one.

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Soukup, S. J., and A. Paul. 2010. “Scholarship and the State of the Religious Communication Association.” Journal of Communication and Religion 33, no. 2 (November): 180–189. Spencer, Leland G. 2019. “Mobilizing Conversion Narratives Toward (Non)Religious Civility: The Case of Chris Stedman’s Faitheist.” Journal of Communication and Religion 42, no. 1 (Spring): 20–32. Stob, Paul. 2016. “Sacred Symbols, Public Memory, and the Great Agnostic: Robert Ingersoll Remembers the Civil War.” Rhetoric & Public Affairs 19, no. 2 (Summer): 275–306. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​4321/​​rhetp​​ublaf​​fa​.1​9​​.2​.02​​75. Van Camp, Debbie, Lloyd R. Sloan, and Amanda ElBassiouny. 2016. “People Notice and Use an Applicant’s Religion in Job Suitability Evaluations.” The Social Science Journal 53, no. 4 (February): 459–466. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​016​/j​​.sosc​​ij​.20​​​ 16​.02​​.006.​ Wallace, Michael, Bradley R. E. Wright, and Allen Hyde. 2014. “Religious Affiliation and Hiring Discrimination in the American South: A Field Experiment.” Social Currents 1, no. 2 (March): 189–207. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​177​/2​​32949​​651​45​​24541​.

Chapter 12

The Problem of Religion and Promise of Theology in Rhetorical Scholarship James W. Vining

As a reflective exercise of the organization’s fiftieth anniversary, the eighteenth biennial conference of the Rhetoric Society of America (RSA) included a track of panels on “understudied rhetorics.” I organized a large discussion panel of rhetoricians from both English and communication studies to address religion as an understudied rhetoric in the RSA. The panel was based on the premise that religion, while certainly achieving some attention in the field, has not received scholarly focus in proportion to the prevalence and potency of religion in American public discourse. The content of the discussion addressed both the obstacles and opportunities for the study of religion in rhetorical scholarship. Panelists communicated for several months before the conference, completing two rounds of questions. The most common obstacle to the study of religion in rhetorical scholarship identified by these senior and emerging scholars alike was a problem of definition—what do we mean by “religion?” Another obstacle identified by several panelist was the perception that any of their work addressing religion seemed to be dismissed by some rhetorical scholars who assumed everything “religious” was necessarily an antidemocratic, anti-intellectual, religious fundamentalism. I see this second obstacle also as a problem of definition—confusion over what we mean by “religion.” Perhaps the category of religion itself, a category regularly used without question, is a primary obstacle to the study of religion in rhetorical studies. This chapter addresses the problem of definition of religion by arguing that theology is more useful to rhetorical scholars than the category religion. More specifically, this chapter presents what I call “textual theology” as an approach for rhetorical scholars to discover the impact of theology in rhetorical texts. I begin the chapter with a critical reconsideration of the category religion. Next, I look at theology as a less problematic, more promising, 239

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category for consideration by rhetorical scholars. Then, I introduce the concept of “textual theology” as an approach for observing theology at work in texts. Finally, I illustrate the fruit of the textual theology approach with insights from a case study of three clergy political action speeches, demonstrating that textual theology affords more texture and nuance to rhetorical scholarship than the general category religion. PROBLEMS WITH THE CATEGORY RELIGION The problem of the category of religion identified by rhetorical scholars has long been discussed within the field of religious studies. In this section, I urge rhetoricians to think more critically about the category religion by identifying two significant problems religious studies scholars find with the category. First, I will describe the lack of a shared definition of the category of religion and show how the significant definitional division impacts rhetorical studies on religion. Second, I will discuss the recent scholarly critiques of the category as a modern Western construction that should not be imposed on texts as a universal. Lack of Definition of Religion As noted earlier, a major challenge of discussing the role of religion in public discourse is that the meaning of “religion” is quite slippery. The term “religion” itself is highly contested. Religion scholar William Cavanaugh (2009) has poignantly clarified this lack of a shared definition within the discipline of religious studies. Some scholars define religion by certain content or substance. The identification of a “religion” is based on the belief in something superhuman or divine. This generally leads to lists of various world and folk religions. Other scholars define religion by its fulfillment of certain functions. The identification of a “religion” is based upon an overarching structure of meaning that is given to human life. While still essentialist, this approach broadens the list of religions to include various ideologies that may or may not include a recognition of the supernatural (Cavanaugh 2009). Debates between these, and other, definitions of religion complicate the study of religion. This complication from a clear lack of definition can be seen in the scholarship of rhetoric and religion. A survey of the literature, while often excellent, will likely lead one to wonder what exactly are rhetorical scholars attempting to study. Most common in our field is the view that religion as content. For many scholars, this is explicit religions content in the rhetorical texts being studied. Take, for example, the various studies of religion in the American

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Civil Rights Movement (Houck and Dixon 2006, 2014; Miller, 2012) as well as other studies on religion, rhetoric, social movements, and public life (Zompetti 2006; Johnson 2012, 2015, 2018; Mendieta and VanAntwerpen 2011; Miller and Towns 2019). Less common, yet certainly still present, in rhetorical scholarship on religion is the functionalist approach. This focus on religion as the function of an ideology to provide a framework on meaning for life can perhaps best be seen in the work of Thomas Lessl who has identified the functions of “religion” in both the rhetorics of public life (2009) and science (2002, 2003, 2005, 2007). Yet another perspective on “religion” views it as a tradition of content and function. These traditions impact not only the texts that we study but also the individuals conducting the rhetorical scholarship (Medhurst 2004). While these various works all venture to study rhetoric and religion, and provide insights for the discipline, they seem to be looking for different things because they have different definitions of religion. Cultural Bias in the Concept of Religion While some religious studies scholars debate the definition of “religion,” still others insist that the very notion of religion is a rhetorical construct of the modern academy, the modern nation state, or another political entity. This field of scholars argue that “religion” is not trans-cultural or trans-historical. They claim that the category is the product of history of discourses, cultures, and powers (Asad 1993; Cavanaugh 2009; Nongbri 2013). Much work has been done to trace the historic development of the conception of “religion” and “secular.” These conceptions are always interwoven with social, political, cultural life. The creation of the category that is popularly, and academically, called “religion” did not emerge apart from other areas of human life (Asad 1993). Furthermore, the isolation of “religion” as a category that can be separated from politics, culture, economics, rhetoric, and science in order to be an object of study is not a universal feature of human history. What is meant by “religion” is a modern Western construction. More specifically, it is the framework of modern Protestant Christianity (Nongbri 2013). Because religion is not a universal, it is inaccurate to consider religion a genus of which there are numerous species (Asad 1993; Cavanaugh 2009; Nongbri 2013). I include this scholarship tracing the cultural-historical nature of “religion,” not to argue against ever using the category of religion, but to call rhetorical scholars to more critical engagement with the category. Contrary to popular and some scholarly opinions, religion is not a timeless universal. It is therefore inaccurate, even unjust, to impose the construct of “religion” on to other cultures. Rhetorical scholars should beware of imposing this category on peoples and texts that would never had considered using such categories.

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Religion has a history. Religion has a culture. Using “religion” as a category in rhetorical studies certainly provides some affordances for our scholarship, but it can also be argued that using the category “religion” constrains our scholarship to modern Western frameworks—and that such a limitation can be problematic if the case studies, texts, ideologies, and practices we study originate outside of the modern West. ADVANTAGES OF THEOLOGY This chapter will contribute to rhetorical scholarship’s discussions of religion by demonstrating that identifying the activity of specific theological logics within a text’s coherent overarching logical framework, rather than using the blanket term “religion” to describe theological appeals in public discourse, can provide a textured and nuanced understanding of rhetorical operations of theology in public discourse. Before making that case, I will provide a working definition of the term “theology” and provide examples of scholars highlighting theology, knowingly or not, in existing studies on rhetoric and religion. Definition of Theology In light of the ambiguity of the term “religion,” including its origins, meanings, and uses, and in light of the various ways that religion is expressed in public, a number of religion scholars find it more fruitful to differentiate and focus on specific theologies in the study of religion in public life (Cavanaugh et al. 2012). I propose that rhetorical scholars would find it useful to explore this approach of focusing on specific theologies and how they function differently as interpretive lenses that shape and fund understanding and advocacy rather than religion in general when addressing the role of religion in public discourse. While the term “religion” is broad and its meaning disputed so that it can be near impossible to define and use for analysis, theology provides scholars with more clear definition and boundaries for study. Cavanaugh and Scott (2004) defined theology as “discourse about God, and human persons as they relate to God” (p. 64). In this chapter, I will recognize the presence of theological traditions, while analyzing specific texts with theologically inspired rhetoric, with the goal of identifying the textual theology that serves as a guiding logic of the specific text in study. This definition of theology provides greater precision than merely discussing religion because it deals with one particular aspect of religion in theology and it recognizes theology’s rhetorical complexity. For instance, a religion generally includes theology, history, community, and practice. A theological

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tradition can be identified as a formal systematic discourse about God or a more general pattern of discourses about God that are found in identify and generate a theological tradition. Theology can also be identified in a specific text, such as a political action speech. Textual theology is theology that participates and is manifested in a text’s logical framework. In addition to providing greater focus for study than the wide scope of religion, theology can provide rhetorical scholars with insights into an internally consistent logic about the relationship between humans and the divine that can be witnessed in and reconstructed from texts that are not explicitly about formal tenets of theology and that inform and motivate particular kinds of appeals that are not as available in other interpretive logics. I recognize that the term “theology” may carry various meanings for readers, even as I have provided some explanation of how I will use the term in this chapter. Theology can be formal as seen in theological statements of religious communities. Theology can be academic and systematic. Theology can be identified as connected series, or tradition, of discourses about God. Theology can also be informal, practical, and popular. Humans likely have thoughts about the Divine and the Divine’s interactions with the world without knowingly adhering to any particular formal theological statement. People likely have logic systems for and including their thoughts and discourses about God even if they have not approached theology in a systematic manner or self-identify with a theological tradition. In the informal sense then, all humans who use symbols to think or speak about God practice theology. This chapter will address an even more dynamic aspect of theology. While I recognize theological traditions and the theology that emerges in a text, this chapter focuses on textual theology, the rhetorical practice of theology that emerges in a rhetor’s invention of a text and serves in the text’s interpretive framework. I understand textual theology to be observable through a close study of a text and the text’s logical framework. I understand the rhetorical practice of theology as a dynamic interaction with logic and other rhetorics within a text. In this dynamic relationship, theology, rhetoric, and logic inform, constrain, and animate one another creating an overarching logical framework in the text. My study will explore how various theological logics animate and constrain the logical framework of how a situation is seen and how a situation may be responded to in a text. The reaction to a situation will fall within the interpretation of the text’s overarching logical framework in which the textual theology participates. Rather than simply recognizing that religion, a category we have seen to be problematic, has an impact on public discourse, this study begins with an understanding that there are various theologies at work within public discourse as interpretive frames for rhetors and auditors and that all theologies may not afford the same rhetorical resources. I propose that identifying the

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diversity of theologies present in public discourse provides opportunities for a more nuanced analysis and understanding of the dynamics of the particular public artifact being studied. Examples of Theology in Rhetorical Scholarship While my focus on theologies as rhetorical resources will expand a limited emphasis in rhetorical studies that observe religion in political discourse, it is not entirely foreign to the field of rhetorical studies. Some rhetorical scholars have gone beyond the discussions of general “religion” in public discourse and have identified positive and negative contributions that certain theologies provide for overall public discourse. They have, in different ways and to various degrees, suggested or implied that particular theologies offer distinct contributions to conceptions and practices of public discourse. These individual projects made contributions to rhetorical understandings of public discourse, and for this chapter, it is notable that taken together they demonstrate that different theologies can make unique contributions to public discourse. I understand James Darsey’s (1997) book on prophetic rhetoric to suggest that theology can play a role in the logic and expression of public discourse. Darsey’s influential work argued that the prophetic tradition is a type of public discourse that must be understood on its own terms. He argued that the philosophical roots and practices of the prophetic tradition open space for a public rhetoric that differs significantly from the Greco-Roman rhetorical tradition (loc. 210). I propose that this claim is also true of the theological roots of prophetic rhetoric. While I am not aware of other rhetorical scholars who have explored Darsey’s admittedly limited focus on theology, he did make some claims about the impact of theology on prophetic rhetoric. Darsey traced the origins of prophetic discourse to what he called a “prophetic theology” that recognized God in a cause and effect relationship with the here and now of the rhetor’s world. Theology was not a major emphasis for Darsey as he traced the development of the prophetic rhetoric, but he did recognize that changes in theology influenced changes in how prophetic rhetoric was expressed. While not a major theme in his work, Darsey’s book on prophetic rhetoric recognized that changes and differences in theologies have an influence on public rhetoric. I also understand the article “Augustinian Political Theory and Religious Discourse in Public Life” by David Tell (2007) as making a subtle but important distinction between general religious influence upon a public rhetoric and the resources that a specific theology can provide for religious and public discourse. Tell made a significant contribution to the debates about the role of religion in public discourse and, in doing so, also demonstrated the importance of distinguishing between general religion and a specific theology. Tell

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argued that elements of Augustinian theology could provide a third way in the debates about the role of religion in public discourse. While debates about the role of religion in public discourse in a pluralistic democratic society often pit a side calling for freedom of religion in public against a side calling for freedom from religion in public, Tell (2007) argued that Augustinian theology provided a way to understand possible roles of religion in public discourse that neither exclude religion nor discard democratic principles. While providing a possible resolution to gridlocked debates on the role of religion in public discourse, Tell also demonstrated implicitly that religion, as commonly understood, is not the same as theology. Religion was a broad category that was commonly put in conflict with secular values of democratic public discourse. Tell’s proposal for the gridlock between religion and democratic discourse was not simply choosing one or the other. Instead, Tell consulted a theology that has historically influenced certain conceptions of religion and discourse, and the theology provided “the resources” (p. 221) to understand religion in a pluralistic state. There are many theologies within various religions, and within Christianity, that would not allow for Tell’s approach to reconciling religious and democratic discourse. Tell did not emphasize the distinction between religion and theology, but I propose that his central argument was dependent upon that distinction. In a study more clearly advocating the rhetorical resources found within a specific theology, Mark Steiner (2009) proposed that several aspects of Evangelical theology could contribute to a more productive public discourse in contemporary America. Steiner argued that despite its negative reputation and unfortunate misuses to stifle public life, Evangelical theology has the potential to make positive contributions toward a robust, productive, and civil public discourse. It is important to note for this study that Steiner (2009) specifically noted that it is their theology that “equips” Evangelicals to contribute a positive model of public discourse (p. 291). He built his case by connecting the work of key Evangelical theologians and theologies to positive postures and practices of public discourse. For instance, Steiner traced an Evangelical theology of the nature of humans to postures that he identifies as helpful for public discourse. Evangelical theology claims that humans both have great dignity and value and are marred by sin. Steiner then traced this theology to an understanding of the possibilities and limitations of human symbol use. Finally, Steiner continued working out this theology to the need for modesty in truth claims and the importance of building trust through discourse. This is a model of identifying complexities within a theology to reveal how that theology might serve as a resource for public discourse. Steiner’s (2009) article offers a counter-position to Sharon Crowley’s (2006) book, Toward a Civil Discourse, which was written with concern about the negative impact that Evangelicals are having on American public

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discourse. Crowley claimed that principles of American liberal democratic discourse are at risk due to the rise of a restrictive and controlling public discourse that she attributes to an Evangelical “apocalyptist theology” (pp. 2, 9, & 115). While Crowley frequently over-generalized her claims about religion, Christianity, and Evangelicalism, perhaps betraying a lack of understanding of the vast array of theological diversity within religious, Christian, and Evangelical communities, she did occasionally clarify that her concern was with a specific theological system and the negative impact that she traced from that theology to a worldview with an arrogant, hateful, and controlling influence on American public discourse. Crowley (2006) sought ways to effectively engage with the “theology-driven fundamentalists” (p. 17) whom she described as opposed to liberal democracy. Crowley reasoned that the combination of two theological positions, God’s propositions are clearly and perfectly revealed in the Bible and true Christians are to have dominion over all earthly institutions, results in an unwillingness to dialogue or compromise with people of other convictions, thus weakening the very possibility of democratic discourse. One could simply view Steiner’s (2009) and Crowley’s (2006) writings to be saying opposite things about Evangelical theology and public discourse. An ungracious reading could assume that they are simply twisting their analysis to support their predetermined argument for or against American Evangelicals. However, a closer look shows that they are actually writing about two different theologies that can be found within the vast American Evangelical tradition. Evangelicalism is often described as a single religious tradition, but there are a number of distinct theologies within Evangelicalism. One of the hallmarks of the Neo-evangelical movement of the middle twentieth century is that it crossed several historic theological divisions (Marsden 1991). Steiner’s and Crowley’s research on the impact of Evangelical theology upon American public discourse end in radically different places, as different as hope and despair, because they were exploring different Evangelical theological systems. This clarification of the reason for some of the differences between Steiner’s and Crowley’s assessments of American Evangelicalism in public discourse suggests that particular theology is extremely important when assessing the role of religious influence in public discourse. The review of recent rhetorical scholarship on the role of theology in public discourse provides several important insights into the topic. There is renewed scholarly recognition and interest in American public discourse that is animated by religious influences, particularly because religion continues to play a significant role in public and political discourse. Language that is animated by religion has been a significant resource in political discourse in America, as demonstrated in rhetorical studies of clergy rhetoric in the civil rights movement. Furthermore, beyond general discussions of religion, identifying

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particular theologies can provide depth and distinctions when considering how religion might serve as a resource within public discourse. This chapter seeks to advance understanding of religion in public discourse by revealing the important complexity and abundance of rhetorical resources found in theology. More specifically, this chapter investigates some ways that theology engages logic and other rhetorics in the terministic screens of contemporary American clergy political action rhetoric. This thesis also suggests that theology is a resource for scholars seeking to understand the role of religion in political discourse. Scholars exploring political action texts by clergy rhetors will benefit from understanding that different theologies might offer different kinds of rhetorical resources and patterns. Scholars can better understand a Reformed Evangelical political rhetoric by understanding Reformed Evangelical theology or better understand a Catholic Liberation political rhetoric by understanding Catholic Liberation theology. This chapter explores how clergy appeals to certain theologies, understood as discourses that serve as interpretive frames for understanding God and God’s ways in the world, might play a larger role in our understanding of contemporary public discourse in America. PROPOSAL OF TEXTUAL THEOLOGY The functional definition of theology I use in this chapter is discourse about God and God’s interactions with the world that act as interpretative systems. This definition reflects my study’s focus on theology in action in life rather than formalized theology. Recognizing the breadth of this definition of theology, I will also identify three levels of theology that enhance the definition and will be noted in the chapter. First, there are theological traditions that have emerged as human discourse about God and God’s interactions in the world have found commonalities and built off of one another. These theological traditions will predate and may or may not influence the role of theology in the invention of a rhetorical text. Second, on the most specific level, individual rhetors describe God and God’s interactions in the world in particular texts. The text may or may not be influenced by theological traditions. It will likely be influenced by the situation or need that has encouraged the rhetor to speak at that moment. The text can be analyzed using a variety of rhetorical methods, some of which may identify theology in the text. Third, and of primary concern in this chapter, is a mediating level of theology between theological traditions and the rhetoric in a text. I will refer to this as “textual theology.” Textual theology is observable in but not limited to a specific text. It can be transferred to other texts as the interpretive lens or perspective for

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communicating and making sense of the world, including the situations encouraging the rhetorical invention of the texts. While textual theology is not the same as a specific text, there are traces of the textual theology present in the text. In this study, I used rhetorical methods to pull patterns of textual theology out of a text in order to understand how the more abstract theology animates texts in the real world in ways that have implications that reach beyond the particular text because they tell us about a way of looking at the world and coaching people’s actions and attitudes. Textual theologies mediate abstract beliefs about how God operates in the world and historical theological traditions for immediate, real-world situations. Identifying textual theology also strengthens the rhetorical scholar’s ability to predict a rhetor’s future rhetoric. CASE STUDY: NORTH CAROLINA CLERGY POLITICAL ACTION RHETORIC I will now illustrate the benefits of textual theology for rhetorical scholars by examining clergy political action speeches in the early 2010s political debates in North Carolina. I choose texts from clergy who, to the best of my understanding, are from different theological traditions, being attentive to the ways in which the differently trained clergy’s rhetoric might draw on theology. I reduced some variables contributing to rhetorical differences by analyzing texts from Christian clergy members from the same state speaking on similar issues in approximately the same time frame. This study analyzes political action texts of clergy from different theological traditions who participate in a common public discourse. The early 2020s political movements in North Carolina provide an opportunity to study political action texts of clergy from different theological traditions participating in a vibrant public discourse. North Carolina’s clergy have been exceptionally active in the state’s recent social and political controversies. This provides a variety of theologically oriented political action texts to study. There have been clergy on all sides of these political debates. More importantly for this study, the political action texts from clergy in North Carolina demonstrate diverse theological traditions and rhetorical approaches within a large public discourse. North Carolina’s recent political debates include a robust use of theologies and religious styles. For instance, clergy in the Moral Monday movement use appeals based on religion and morality in ways that have not been seen in a broad progressive movement since the American civil rights movement. This has left the role of religion, and more specifically theology, in public policy and public debate largely contested with various theological and

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political groups. This dynamic situation provides the kinds of texts able to demonstrate the work of textual theology. The current North Carolina political debates provide clergy political action texts that not only reflect different political positions but also reflect different theological traditions and different rhetorical approaches engaging each other at a unique moment in time. While public theological discourse is more blatant in North Carolina than in many other locations, this study will produce insights that are relevant beyond the so-called Bible belt. This focused swath of contemporary public discourse in North Carolina, more specifically some political action texts of several contemporary clergy in North Carolina, will provide a richness of insights that would only be multiplied were the scope later expanded beyond this specific place and time, beyond these particular clergy and their Christian theologies. The clergy members’ reliance on theology to support their political action rhetoric exists in other locations, even though it might have different expressions—possibly not as blatant—than it does in North Carolina. North Carolina provides us with an opportunity to study clear examples of practices that are often subtler in other contexts. I carefully analyzed speeches that were representative of three prominent clergy members’ political action rhetoric between 2010 and 2015 in order to identify the texts’ terministic screens and the theological emphases therein. I conducted additional analysis on numerous theological logics that the texts revealed as actively participating in the texts’ terministic screens. My work in this study went beyond identifying the frequency of the use of theology as a resource by also identifying patterns of theological logics’ interactions among terms in the text’s terministic screen. My study focused on how specific theological logics engaged other rhetorics in the coherent overarching logical frameworks of speeches by contemporary Christian clergy speaking to mobilize people for political action. My study sought to add depth and focus to ongoing scholarship on religion in public discourse by highlighting the rhetorical resources of theology in political discourse. I have identified three Christian clergy whose political action rhetoric served as key texts for this study: (1) Rev. Dr. William Barber, president of the North Carolina NAACP; (2) Rev. Mark Creech, executive director of the Christian Action League; and (3) the Most Reverend Michael F. Burbidge, bishop of Raleigh. This collection of North Carolina clergy meets the criteria of this study because they represent different theological traditions, exhibit both similarities and differences in rhetorical styles, are contemporaries speaking in a common politically contentious public controversy, and illuminate a type of rhetoric that reflects elements of theology that support their various political positions. My methodology I used in this case study had to first lead to an understanding of the interpretive framework of the texts. I used Burke’s cluster-agon

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analysis to identify the terministic screen revealed in the three clergy political action speeches. Burke (1968) claimed that the dramatistic method was “the most direct to the study of human relations and human motives is via a methodical inquiry into cycles or clusters of terms and their functions” (p. 445). The interrelationships between the associated clusters in the text itself are the rhetor’s motives in which he or she communicates the text (Burke 1973, 20). This approach brings with it a dramatistic understanding of texts, but it answers the questions directly from a close, careful, and rigorous analysis of the text (Burke 1973, 69). Discovery of the terministic screen within each text allowed me to discern what theology was involved in the internal logic of each text and how the theology functioned. In the remainder of this chapter, I will highlight some of the insights my indepth textual analysis of these clergy members’ speeches provides to understanding of the role of theology in political action rhetoric. First, I will reveal some of the textual theology uncovered in my analysis of each text. Next, I will identify differences among the theologies. Finally, I will describe ways the theologies interact, shape, and are shaped by other terms in their respective text’s logical framework, highlighting the unique contributions made by different textual theologies in the political action speeches. Sampling of Results of the Case Study The three clergy speeches analyzed in this study provided examples of political action texts with theological logics in the texts’ interpretive frameworks. These texts were chosen because they represented the rhetoric of influential clergy during the selected time period and exhibited theological terms and claims in their explicit arguments and definitions. My study included careful textual analysis using a cluster-agon and a narrative arc to identify the terministic screen in each clergy’s political action rhetoric. This analysis revealed a theological logic about God and God’s interactions in the world participating in each speech’s terministic screen. Theology in Each Text My cluster-agon analysis and narrative arc analysis of Rev. Dr. William Barber’s February 8, 2014, “Higher Ground” speech revealed a number of theological statements in the text’s terministic screen. I highlighted the following six theological emphases as prominent in the speech’s logical framework: (1) God speaks through a variety of sources, including religious scriptures, government constitutions, and people; (2) God is on the side of moral and just public policy; (3) God works through a variety of people to establish public morality; (4) God acts on behalf of people who work to

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establish morality; (5) God establishes the standards of public morality and judges all people on those standards; (6) God can be experienced in political and spiritual higher ground. The detailed textual analysis of Rev. Mark Creech’s keynote address at the April 30, 2012, marriage amendment rally uncovered the theology at work in the speech’s terministic screen. The following are prominent theological emphases in Creech’s terministic screen: (1) God speaks primarily through the Bible; (2) God works in the world primarily through God’s people’s political action; (3) traditional marriage is God’s good purpose and the Cause of Christ; (4) the cosmic battle between good and evil is currently expressed in conflict between God’s people and left-wing activists; (5) God supports religious freedom for conservative Evangelicals. My cluster-agon analysis and narrative arc analysis of Bishop Burbidge’s September 8, 2013, statement on comprehensive immigration reform revealed the theology participating in the bishop’s terministic screen. Five theological emphases emerge: (1) God speaks and acts in authoritative ways through the Catholic Church; (2) following the God-given authority of the Catholic Church leads to morality; (3) God calls the church to engage in both the sacred and the secular; (4) God has given dignity to all humans and family units; (5) God and humans both act in the world; (6) God’s moral authority applies to both the church and the state. Theological Similarities My analysis revealed that there were at least three theological emphases present in all three terministic screens examined in this study. First, each of the speeches contained a moral hierarchy that placed God as the highest authority. Second, each terministic screen placed Christian scripture as an expression of God’s moral authority and as an authority that should inform political debate and ultimately inform the law of the land. Third, each clergy member expressed a theology that God works through people. The presence of common theological emphases in different texts does not necessitate that the texts contain the same precise theological logic or the same overarching logical framework. It simply indicates that diverse theologies can share some emphases. The presence of common theological emphases also demonstrates that theologies can have both common elements and significant differences in how those common elements are logically expressed.  While the three political action texts all had theological emphases in their terministic screens, including some common theological emphases, the three political action texts also had different theological logics that engage their texts in unique ways. For example, each text contained different logics about God and God’s interactions with the world. Even though all three terministic

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screens placed God as the highest authority, each text included a different theology of how God expressed that authority, resulting in different logical hierarchies of authority under God. In other words, each text had a specific theological logic on how God interacts with the world, and those differences in theology contributed to the three texts’ particular logical frameworks and recommendations. Differences in Theologies The three political action texts analyzed were all given by Christian clergy and all contained statements of Christian theology in both their explicit arguments and in the speeches’ terministic screens. The theologies in the political action speeches explored in this project also reflect some of the diversity in Christian theology as the three texts delivered in the same state in the same time period by Christian clergy contained not only political and rhetorical differences but also contained significant theological differences. I will identify some of the theological differences in the following paragraphs. I propose that an awareness of these theological differences, identified through careful textual analysis and attention to the intricacies of the theology in the texts’ internal logic, better positions a rhetorical scholar to identify meanings available in the texts rather than broadly characterizing all three texts as “religious rhetoric” or “Christian rhetoric.” All three political action texts contain a theology that God communicates to humanity. This theology is an important piece of each text’s logical framework, grounding the moral judgments that drive the central conflict in each terministic screen. The three speeches also contain differences in how, or through what means, God speaks to humanity. The theology in Rev. Barber’s text indicates that God communicates to humans about public morality through a variety of sources, including the Jewish and Christian scriptures and the state and national constitutions. The theology in Rev. Creech’s terministic screen states that God communicates primarily, almost exclusively, through the Bible. Bishop Burbidge’s terministic screen in his statement on comprehensive immigration reform claims that God speaks with authority through the teaching and practice of the Catholic Church. All three texts contain a theology that God has a people. In all three theologies, God’s people are, or have the opportunity and responsibility to be, closely connected to God’s will and work in the world. Yet, “God’s people” is identified differently in the theologies uncovered in the three different political action texts. Interestingly, my analyses revealed a logical connection between the theology of how God communicates in the world and the theology of who are considered God’s people. In the theology in Rev. Barber’s speech, the designation of being one of God’s people and working on God’s

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behalf is open to anyone who chooses to do God’s work of justice and public morality. Rev. Creech expressed a theology that essentially limited “God’s people” to conservative Evangelical Christians, a group that would identify with both his conservative politics and, more importantly for this study, his theology that God speaks primarily through the Bible. In Bishop Burbidge’s theology, God’s people are the “Catholic faithful,” that is those who are a part of the Catholic Church. Each of the three clergy political action texts have a logical framework that includes a theology that the Christian scriptures contain revelations of God’s moral code that should be implemented through government legislation. This theology contributes to the motivation within the text. However, the theology of each terministic screen has differences in what aspects of biblical moral teaching should influence the state. The theology expressed in Rev. Barber’s speech emphasized the need for government policies to align with biblical teaching about public morality that promotes the good of all people including the poor and needy. The theology in Rev. Creech’s political action text emphasized the need for government policies to enforce biblical teaching on sexual morality and family life as the key to a prospering society. Bishop Burbidge’s terministic screen contained a theology that emphasized the importance of government policies reflecting Catholic teaching on the dignity of every human being and family. All three terministic screens uncovered in the analyses of the three political action texts contained a central battle grounded in God’s authoritative moral judgment. However, the theologies differ on where this battle is waged. These differences have a logical consistency with the text’s theological differences addressed earlier. Rev. Barber’s theology identifies a cosmic battle between justice and injustice that includes all people with the differentiation based on choice and action of each person. In the theology expressed in Rev. Creech’s speech, there is a cosmic battle between good and evil that includes choice and action but is primarily based on sharp division of identity between conservative Evangelicals (good) and liberal activists (evil). The theology of Bishop Burbidge’s terministic screen recognizes the immorality in a government system, but emphasizes the conflict between morality and immorality in the Catholic laity’s choice to obey or ignore the teaching of the church. Different Theologies Make Unique Contributions In addition to identifying that there is theology in the terministic screens of the three clergy political action texts and that there are numerous differences in the theologies in the three terministic screens, this project has also displayed that theologies make contributions to the logic of a text’s terministic screen and that specific theologies make specific contributions. In this

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section, I will argue these last two claims. First, I will explain how theology makes a difference in a text’s terministic screen, providing an example from the case studies. Then, I will explain how different theologies make different differences, again providing examples from the case studies. One of the central claims of this chapter is that theology matters in rhetoric. In other words, theology has an impact on the motivational logic of the rhetorical text. Theology is not neutral in a text; it participates in a dynamic interaction with the text’s logic and other rhetorics. Theology shapes and is shaped in those interactions in the text. I will now review ways that particular theologies were shown to engage the logical framework of their given political action text. Rev. William Barber’s (2014) terministic screen contained the theological emphases that God works through people to establish moral and just public policy and that God works for people working to establish moral and just public policy. These theological claims made a number of contributions to the logic and motivation of the text. The audience was presented with the choice of a divine purpose and responsibility. Joining the Moral Monday movement carried the logic of joining in God’s work and taking on the identity of God’s agent in the world. The theology moved the scope of the action from addressing a specific state policy debate to the realm of a cosmic venture in service of the Almighty. Likewise, the second theological claim, that God works for those working to advance public morality, influences the logic of the text from being heroic but vastly overmatched political underdogs to having the hope of being the inevitably victorious agents of the Almighty. The terministic screen in Rev. Mark Creech’s (2012) speech at the marriage amendment rally included the theological claim that God works primarily through “God’s people.” This theological claim has significant impact on the logical framework of the speech. The theology lends to a logic in which public policy debates between “God’s people” and other groups is a cosmic battle against an evil enemy. In such a battle, “God’s people” are, by the identity given in the logic of the theology, acting on God’s behalf, and the battle carries cosmic stakes. Furthermore, the desirable conclusion in the underlying narrative is dependent upon God’s people defeating the evil enemy for the salvation of the world. Bishop Michael Burbidge’s (2013) terministic screen contained the theological logic that God works in authoritative ways through the Catholic Church. This theology contributes to a logic that places the church on the side of morality by default. The choice between morality and immorality is connected to the attitudes to esteem the church or treat the church’s God-given moral authority with indifference. The theology also affords a logic in which the church can, and at times should, call upon the government to make policies that are consistent with the teaching and practice of the Catholic Church.

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The textual analysis of clergy political action speeches in this project has demonstrated that a theology’s participation in a text makes a difference in the text’s terministic screen. It has also demonstrated that specific theological logics have contrasting interactions with the logic and rhetoric in the text and consequently make specific contributions to the terministic screen. It can be said that all theology is not created equal. It can also be said that all theology does not equally create logical animations and constraints in rhetorical action. Theology is not uniform; it carries complexity, ambiguity, and differences. Different theologies do not act the same in a text. The element of a theological logic that engages the text’s terministic screen in a certain way may not be present in a different theological logic. The logics and rhetorical functions of theologies are more complex than a single uniform category. Rhetorical scholars risk missing the rich complexity of theology when they place theological statements into broad categories such as “religious rhetoric” or “Christian rhetoric.” Instead, the complexities of theological logics in texts should be explored individually to better understand the meanings available in the text. I will support this claim by looking at theological statements from the case studies and highlighting differences in how specific theologies engage logic systems and other rhetorics in texts. For example, the theology of how God speaks to humanity demonstrates the necessity of exploring theological logics individually. All three political action texts contain theologies that state that God communicates with humanity. However, the theologies in the three texts contained significant differences on how God communicates with humanity. Those theological differences create distinct interactions between theology, rhetoric, and logic in the text and therefore have different expressions in the text’s terministic screen. Rev. Barber’s (2014) text contained the theology that God speaks to humanity about public morality through a variety of sources. In the speech’s terministic screen, a variety of sources, including the Christian and Jewish scriptures and the state and federal constitutions, are used to ground the moral claims in the text. The logic was manifest in the text as a variety of sources were used to support Barber’s moral judgments on various public policies. Barber used these moral judgments based in a variety of sources to call a diverse audience, who themselves likely held a wide range of sources as moral authority, to act in order to advance public morality. Likewise, Barber’s terministic screen displays the influence the text’s theological logic as a diverse coalition of individuals of goodwill serving as the agents in the positive cluster; these agents of the higher ground hear God’s call for public morality through a variety of sources and come together to do God’s work for the advancement of public morality. Rev. Creech’s (2012) text contained the theology that God speaks primarily, perhaps exclusively, through the Bible. The terministic screen primarily

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grounds the text’s moral arguments about marriage and Amendment One in the Bible. The majority of the argument in Creech’s speech about the upcoming vote for an amendment to the constitution was based in his exposition of a short biblical text, a passage Creech defined as the only way to know God’s purpose. The agents of the terministic screen’s positive cluster were “God’s people,” whom Creech defined as conservative Evangelical Christians, the people of a religious tradition that would largely share the text’s theological claim that God primarily communicates to humanity through the Bible. Bishop Burbidge’s (2013) speech contained a theology that God speaks with authority through the Catholic Church. The text’s terministic screen grounds its moral claims about immigration and the need to reform the nation’s immigration system in the teaching and practice of the Catholic Church. In the text of the speech, the bishop’s argument for why the audience should support comprehensive immigration reform consisted of various teachings and practices of the Catholic Church. The agent in the positive cluster of the text’s terministic screen is the Catholic faithful who esteem the authority of the church.

CONCLUSION In this chapter, I have argued that theology makes a difference in a text as it interacts with logic and other rhetorics. This study has also demonstrated that in a small sampling of clergy political action rhetoric within a single religion and a single state in a limited span of years, a diversity of theological emphases can be identified in the different texts. Furthermore, the study has revealed that the specific theological logics engage in different interactions in the texts that can be seen in distinct terministic screens. I have proposed that, in light of differences facilitated by different theologies, textual theologies should be given careful attention when present in texts of public discourse.

REFERENCES Asad, Talal. (1993). Genealogies of religion: Discipline and reasons of power in Christianity and Islam [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Barber, W. (2014). Post march speeches. 2014 Moral March on Raleigh [Video file]. https​:/​/ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​com​/w​​atch?​​v​=DmN​​​KKIDS​​dRE. Burbidge, M. (2013). Bishop Burbidge issues immigration statement [Video file]. https​:/​/ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​com​/w​​atch?​​v​=Si9​​​I3llG​​M​_Q.

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Burke, K. (1968). Dramatism. In D. I. Sills (Ed.), International encyclopedia of the social sciences (Vol. 7, pp. 445–452). New York: Macmillan. Burke, K. (1974). The philosophy of literary form: Studies in symbolic action (3rd ed.). Berkeley: University of California Press. Cavanaugh, W. T. (2009). The myth of religious violence: Secular ideology and the roots of modern conflict [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Cavanaugh, W. T., Bailey, J. W., & Hovey, C. (2012). Introduction. In W. T. Cavanaugh, J. W. Bailey, & C. Covey (Eds.), An Eerdmans reader in contemporary political theology [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Cavanaugh, W. T., & Scott, P. (2004). Introduction. In W. T. Cavanaugh & P. Scott (Eds.), The Blackwell companion to political theology [Kindle book]. http://www​ .amazon​.com. Creech, M. (2012, April 30). Marriage amendment rally part 1. YouTube. https​:/​/ww​​w​. you​​tube.​​com​/w​​atch?​​v​=DHb​​​OeYBL​​JEQ. Crowley, S. (2006). Toward a civil discourse: Rhetoric and fundamentalism [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Darsey, J. (1997). The prophetic tradition and radical rhetoric in America [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Edwards, J. J. (2015). Superchurch: The rhetoric and politics of American fundamentalism [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Grasso, K. L. (2012). Introduction: Theology and the American civil conversation. In K. L. Grasso & C. R. Castillo (Eds.), Theology and public philosophy [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Houck, D. W., & Dixon, D. E. (2006). Rhetoric, religion, and the civil rights movement 1954–1965 [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Johnson, A. J. (2012). “Avoiding phony religiosity”: The rhetorical theology of Obama’s 2012 national prayer breakfast address. Journal of Contemporary Rhetoric, 2, 44–53. Johnson, A. J. (2015). “God is a negro”: The (Rhetorical) black theology of bishop Henry McNeal Turner. Black Theology Journal, 13, 29–40. Jonson, A. J., & Stone, A. J. (2018). “The most dangerous negro in America”: Rhetoric, race and the prophetic pessimism of Martin Luther King Jr. Journal of Communication and Religion, 41, 8–22. Lessl, T. M. (2002). Gnostic scientism and the prohibition of questions. Rhetoric and Public Affairs, 5, 133–157. Lessl, T. M. (2005). The mythological conditioning of scientific naturalism. Journal of Communication and Religion, 28, 23–46. Lessl, T. M. (2007). The culture of science and the rhetoric of scientism: From Francis Bacon to the Darwin fish. Quarterly Journal of Speech, 93, 123–149. Lessl, T. M. (2009). The innate religiosity of public life: An a fortiori argument. Journal of Communication and Religion, 32, 298–325. Marsden, G. M. (1991). Understanding fundamentalism and evangelicalism. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans. Medhurst, M. J. (2004). Introduction: Special issue – Religion and rhetorical scholarship. Rhetoric & Public Affairs, 7(4), 445–448.

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Mendieta, E., & Vanantwerpen, J. (2011). Introduction: The power of religion in the public sphere. In E. Mendieta & J. Vanantwerpen (Eds.), The power of religion in the public sphere [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Miller, E. C., & Towns, J. E. (2019). “The protestant contention”: Religious freedom, respectability politics, and W. A. Criswell in 1960. Rhetoric & Public Affairs, 22(1), 33–57. Miller, K. D. (2012). Martin Luther King’s biblical epic [Kindle book]. http://www​ .amazon​.com. Nongbri, Brent. (2013). Before religion: A history of a modern concept [Kindle book]. http://www​.amazon​.com. Steiner, M. A. (2009). Reconceptualizing Christian public engagement: “Faithful witness” and the American evangelical tradition. Journal of Communication & Religion, 32, 289–318. Tell, D. (2007). Augustinian political theory and religious discourse in public life. Journal of Communication & Religion, 30, 213–235. Zompetti, J. (2006). César Chávez’s rhetorical use of religious symbols. Journal of Communication and Religion, 29, 262–284.

Conclusion Rhetoric’s Affective Reckoning: Holy Icons and Sacred Idols Christian Lundberg

Year 1989 was a turbulent time for the geopolitical order and the disciplines that study it. The Berlin Wall fell, the Soviet Union collapsed, and protests erupted in Tianamen Square. Francis Fukuyama—perhaps inspired by the events of the “summer of freedom”—produced his ode to “The End of History.”1 Historians John Lewis Gaddis penned an essay that was as scathing as Fukuyama’s was optimistic: for Gaddis, the failure of the disciplines of political science and international relations to anticipate these seismic disruptions raised important questions about their analytical practices. For Gaddis, this failure “raised questions about” the “state of theory” in these disciplines, constituting a stark “warning signal, suggesting the need to rethink underlying assumptions” about the analytic power of “theory” in “packaging patterns from the past in such a way as to make them usable in the present as guides to the future.”2 The events of 2016 may well pose a similar warning signal for rhetorical studies: Could 2016 be our 1989? The unfolding rhetorical ecology of 2016 caught the nation and many rhetorical critics by surprise. As a discipline concerned with public and political life, rhetorical studies has not shared the interest in empirically verified predictive power that its cousins in the social sciences have. But 2016 nevertheless posed a palpably anxious challenge for the field: How is it that disciplines dedicated to the study of the rough and tumble of political speech did not see the precursors of fervent populist nationalism’s rise? Rhetoric’s 1989 moment lay not just in a failure to foresee 2016: the paucity of available tools to understand these unfolding events was palpable. The cacophony of President Trump’s strange, genre, and convention-bending speeches, tweets, and general bombast strained the explanatory power of the available rhetorical/interpretive frameworks. Models of public address framed around eloquence, propriety, or fitting response to a situation 259

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buckled under the stress of persuasive and (dis)identificatory dynamics that redefined the hallowed rhetorical category of “appropriate” response. This challenge strikes at the core of the rhetorical traditions. Concern with the appropriate fit between speech and the dispositions of audiences has been a hallmark of the rhetorical tradition in characterizing processes of persuasion. The classically inspired rhetorical model for thinking about the application of strategy to audiences and contexts places a heavy premium on the “faculty for perceiving the available means of persuasion in any given situation” and on the intentional choices an orator might make in executing a strategy—by composing and arranging ideas—to move an audience.3 Put differently, a commitment to an intentional and ideationally focused rhetorical calculation subtends this view of persuasion. Of course, there are necessary (if not predictable) caveats in order here: persuasive appeals are prudentially nested, intimately tied to the coordinates of a specific situation, and pegged to a series of intangible persuasive resources. But on the whole, a classically inspired rhetorical analytic presumes that intentional fit between a speaker’s strategy, strategy’s translation into ideas, and ideas fitting with the psyche of audience members are the coin of the rhetorical realm. This commitment to rhetorical calculation has a conceptual underbelly— one often noted in theory but disavowed as a practical interpretive matter. Lurking just below the surface of the classically inspired conventional rhetorical analytic is a concern with the non-, or more appropriately a-rational vectors for persuasion that are not reducible to rational/ideational calculation or fit: the formal properties of language (and particularly figuration); the circulation of emotion; and the processes of subjectivization and identity formation that are bound up in conditions of address. This point of tension in the tradition between rational/ideational and even prudential models of persuasion is as old as the beef between Aristotelian framing of rhetoric as an art and Gorgias’s claim that persuasion is functions like a drug, a magical spell or sacred incantation. This dynamic is often framed a matter of emphasis in the self-understanding of the field: but as a practical matter, a content-driven ideational focus on persuasion often operates at cross-purposes with thinking the a-rational character of persuasion. That the a-rational elements of persuasion are often—and almost as if by reflex—seen as “precursors” to the persuasive power of a fitting response is a powerful testimony to the primacy of a vision of persuasion pegged to negotiating the meaning of ideational contents. It may well be that Gorgias’s model is more appropriate to—or more fitting— our context than a vision of persuasion as the product of a well-formed argument, propriety to a given situation, much less later classical understandings of eloquence as the “good man speaking well.” At the most basic level, the question is this: Do our collective understandings of the role of the field of effects identified by the terms affect,

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emotion, and investment provide Rhetorical Studies the toolkit necessary to rise to an analysis of the Trump era? Prior to the events of 2016, critical/ culturally focused rhetorical theorists were already working to revise longheld assumptions about the primacy and effectivity of critical methods an ideationally focused, content focused, contextually rooted, propriety-driven vision of effective speech. This critical/cultural thread of the field had already framed understandings of rhetoric rooted in the lineages of situation, context, and the persuasive appeal of well-formed ideas as out of synch with the rhetorical warp and woof of contemporary public life. For example, Joshua Gunn has staked out a critique of the traditions of public address based on a psychoanalytic reading of public discourse. On his accounting, there is substantial analytic power in figuring the public effectivity of discourses through the lens of “perversion” rather than a framework rooted in the strategic and persuasive calculations of an self-possessed speaking subject.4 Gunn’s reframing of the conditions of effectivity in public discourse forces a reckoning for rhetorical studies—arguing that critical methods in the field require an analysis of the relationship between the force of ideas, a doctrine of subjectivity, an interrogation of what exactly we imagine a public is as a backdrop for the circulation of discourse, and, crucially, an account of the functions of the non- or a-rational elements of discourse: sentiments, affects, and emotions. My purpose here is not to defend (any further) the legitimacy of this provocation. Figuring the place of ideationally driven models of persuasion, the role of strategic intention in creating a framework for “fit,” and the slippery politics of defining “audience” as a concept over and against an account of the non- or a-rational character of rhetorical action has been a near-permanent occupation for rhetoricians. Whether or not 2016 is a break with, continuation of, or stark condensation of these dynamics is beyond the scope of this chapter. My goal is not to exhaustively litigate the question that 2016 forces as much as it is to productively respond to it by framing “religious rhetoric” as a powerful tool for thinking through this bundle of rhetorical/theoretical issues. I will do so in an unapologetically and intentionally theological register rooted in the Christian traditions. Of course, other traditions support versions of the arguments that I will make here (Islamic traditions around idolatry come to mind, as do Vedic traditions around the concept of the avatar and Buddhist traditions around both symbol and paradox), and I confess my limitations in appropriately bringing them to life. The point of this turn to thinking theologically is not to valorize Christian belief or rhetorical analytics. Instead, I would like to demonstrate by example that theological concepts rooted in the Christian appropriation of Abrahamic traditions— one strand of “religious rhetoric”—force a kind of perspective by incongruity in evaluating rhetoric’s investments in its theoretical apparatuses,

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bringing to light long-standing resources for thinking about the relationship between belief, investment, and the productive character of world-defining commitments. The point of finding both analytical tools and inspiration in religious traditions is that each of them is nested in a long-standing community of discourse that aims to deal with precisely the issues that confront the affective “crisis” in thinking contemporary rhetoric: they are discourse traditions that are animated by commitments framed as beyond or not reducible to a context; that leverage subjective sentiment as a means of engaging claims to truth; and that begin with an admission that reasons and ideas are subject to conditions for justification—and belief—that are not reducible to rational cognitive calculation. That is, for me at least, the reason and warrant for studying religious belief: neither to analyze it by reducing it to another interpretive mechanism, nor to valorize its conclusions, but to engage it as a means of understanding what we might borrow from theological traditions to better understand rhetoric’s ambivalence regarding its rational/calculative impulses around meaning and the elements of rhetorical force that are not reducible to ideation, meaning, or intention. Thus, this chapter is a speculative exercise of proffering a theologically inflected exploration into the non-, or more appropriately a-rational of character of religious belief as investment, and therefore as subtending the conditions of circulation for religious discourses. I would like to undertake this exploration by highlighting the important conceptual contributions of the insightful essays in this outstanding volume on the relationship between rhetoric and religion: they collectively demonstrate the productivity of appropriating theologically driven insight to understanding the knot of issues tied up in the mutual imbrication of symbolic practices, habits, and affective investments in dealing with the unsayable; the sublime; and the divine. Specifically, I would like to reflect on these contributions by taking up Mark Allan Steiner’s suggestion for extending Wayne Booth’s concept of “rhetorology.”5 As I understand this suggestion, Steiner’s and Booth’s visions imply more than a deepening of our rhetorical understandings of the public facing elements of religious commitment, and they argue for something more ambitions than simply to importing insights from the traditions of theology or religious studies into the toolbox of rhetoric. Instead, rhetorology entails—as a first principle—engaging the power of the Word as in us, with us, and beyond us. That is, as a constitutive principle for understanding the mutual relationship between the ideational and a-rational force of the word in constituting the speaking subject and its commitments; as both the generative and instrumental means through which we come into being with others; and as an agent itself, whose effectivity is not reducible to the intentions of any speaking subject.

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Thinking the Word in this way opens us to the powerfully productive messiness that inheres in the relationship between the rhetorical/poetic production of ourselves, the communities in and into which we come into being, and the force—simultaneously excessive and autotelic—that enframes our material and symbolic reality. Here the task is to craft what one might comfortably call, ambivalence intended—either a rhetorical theology or a theologically tinctured rhetoric, and the goal is to attend to the productive indetermination between both concepts (rhetoric and theology)—as mutually and perhaps even undecidably co-constitutive.6 To do so, I would like to propose a few “rhetorotheological” interventions into the three major orienting points of this volume, addressing “rhetorics of religion at work in public activism . . . rhetorics of religion in contemporary public discourse . . . [and] the . . . ways in which rhetoric scholars study religion.” It is my hope to show how historical reflections from one belief tradition provide models for thinking through the relationship between practices of subjectivization, symbolization, circulation, and the affective field that they both produce and are produced in. I begin with brief reflection on the distinction affect/emotion, framing the discussion through the constitutive lenses of investment and commitment. Next, I engage the three major sections of this volume by proposing theological distinctions to detail the relevant roles of affect theory in the rhetorical analysis of the focal points of the three major sections (activism, public religion, and rhetorical methods for studying religion). To engage the question of the rhetoric of religion and activism, I will suggest the analytic power of the binary between the sacred and the holy; to explore the question of religious discourses in public life, I will argue for a analytical productivity of an analytic distinction between the idol and the icon; and, as a conclusion, I engage a theologically inflected vision of rhetorical interpretation with a brief reference to the concept of incarnation. COMMITMENT AND INVESTMENT The distinction between affect and emotion is a common starting point for analyzing affect in rhetoric. As Erin Rand has pointed out this distinction has become a “preoccupation” of rhetorical theorization of affect, “or even one of the basic premises, of much work in affect theory” As Rand points out, this distinction primarily has salience as an analytic and not an empirical distinction: as lived the distinction tends to fall apart.7 At the analytic level, the options for thinking affect as configured by this distinction lie on a roughly schematic spectrum. At one end, affect is little more than a fancy term for emotion, albeit one that pays homage to the collectively produced and enunciated experience of emotion: I will call this end of the spectrum “affect as

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emotion.” On the other end of the spectrum, affect serves as a name for the conditions of articulation that produce the world writ large. This end of the spectrum frames affect as another name for the global processes of articulation that connect ideas, material, and everything else in relationships of mutual constitution: “affect as articulation.” On this reading, affect as articulation sees emotion as one subset of the larger field of affect within which specific expressions of emotion come to life: emotion is one of affect’s many modalities. Both ends of the spectrum entail a kind of reduction: as emotion, affect loses its specificity as a way of accounting for the field of effects prior to and embedded in the articulation of experience—and therefore loses explanatory force. As another name for all the relationships, connections and disconnections that shape the world, globalized affect seems to lose what is unique about the lived experience of humans as beings produced by and invested in the give and take of the concrete conditions of existence. It is worth contextualizing the implications of either end of this spectrum for rhetorical theory and criticism. What is lost in fully conflating affect and emotion? If “affects” are simply expressed emotions, the collective precursors for the expression of emotion and the charges built into them recede from critical view. The structuring principles that facilitate, produce, and govern the expressive movement of emotions tend to slip away from our analytical grasp: the contextually mediated experience of emotion is bound up in a larger network than individually felt experience of suffering (in the original sense of the term) or being shaped by an emotional charge. Discourses are shaped by dispositions that exist before their articulation, both in terms of what is larded into a concept’s history and from the perspective of the historically shaped character of the people and publics that consume and produce them. Reading emotion and affect as equivalent (and the options envisioned in this complex tangle of concepts) reflects a bias rhetoric inherits from close textual criticism: a critic takes a display of emotion (here an “affect”), reads it in relation to a context and intention, and explicates the way it functions. While there are other readings of the distinction between affect and emotion that productively (con)fuse the two as a means of understanding the embodied and experiential nature of emotion, such a reading forfeits an important analytical insight—affect can also name a set of forces or movements that are prior to their articulation as emotion. Put differently, affect is potentially a richer term than emotion in the canons of rhetorical history if our goal is to understand the complex process by which our modes of living, experiencing, and acting come to the expression of an emotion or emotional state. Abandoning the impulse of seeing an individually felt emotion as “an affect” moves toward the other pole in the continuum. In its most radical configuration this option simply sees affect as a name for connection—it is another name for the global functions of articulation. This

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option seems to denude it of any unique analytical power that would distinguish it from bare connection or mutual implication. Thinkers on this side of the spectrum do attempt to preserve the specificity of affect: while affect can mean simply to influence something—to affect and be affected in turn—but it the means of articulation here also suggest the necessity of a distinction: for example, in Spinoza’s famous distinction between affectio and affectus, later put to productive use by Deleuze.8 On this rendering, affect as affectio means something like the affections or sentiments, where affectus marks a state of potentiality. This distinction affords affect a degree of specificity: affect and emotion have a mutually imbricated existence. In this rendering, affects precede emotion, emotion organizes or expresses affect, and the relationship between the two implicates them in a field of co-productive forces. The issue, of course, is that emotion is no different in this account than any other modality of experience and existence—affectus also shapes physical interactions, spaces, and non-discursive processes. The question then is to attend to the unique relationship between affection as the expression of emotion in the more global field of affects. The answer here is that affectus affords an account of affectio that helps us see the trans-subjective, trans-contextual dependency of emotion on lines of force that are not reducible to the mediation of a thinking or experiencing subject. Instead, the subject here is one effect of the field of affects. In reading the subject as a product or effect of a larger field of forces, we gain new insight regarding both the articulations of emotional charges to discourses and objects and to the situated character of experience. The practical implication is that emotion is neither simply an internal experience, the result of cognitive processes, and not determined exclusively by processes of meaning-making nor material determination. Emotion is part of a larger economy of forces, and we both express and are expressed by it. Emotion moves through us, is prefigured for us, and constitutes us. For Deleuze—and traditions within critical-cultural communication studies—a conception of affect as affectus remedies a tendency in humanistic scholarship to read every interaction in relation to a subject who experiences and mediates it representationally by reading lines of force that are not exclusively mediated by a subject operating within a field of representations. The “priority” of affect here does not make it an ontological precursor to emotion as much as it understands emotion as one modality of capturing, organizing, and deploying the generative movement or flow of affect. If the idea of affectus risks swallowing up the whole of affectio without discrimination, the challenge posed is to give an account of what is specific to emotion as a product of the whole net of forces and relations that produce it. Lawrence Grossberg argues for a more specific conception of affect’s relation to emotion than a global affectus, suggesting one way of parsing the distinction between affects,

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signs, and emotions: emotions are “the product of the articulation of two planes: signification . . . and affect.”9 But what are the terms of this articulation? While emotion that requires a subject to experience and display it, and a regime of signs to give it meaning, affect serves as a trans- or a- subjective economy of forces that produces both the subject, its emotions, and underwrites the economy of signs that lend emotion a logic. There is resonance in Grossberg’s solution with a Freudian motif, namely with Freud’s insistence that to understand the manifest life of the subject, it is necessary to think the set of forces that precede the manifest content of the subject’s actions and investments. One might object that a Freudian turn only moves the work of the subject to a deeper, more hidden level of operation, and thus does not capture the desubjectivizing move intended by Deleuze and Grossberg in theorizing affects. This criticism has merit, but it partially misses the significance of Lacan’s recovery of the Freudian unconscious, which was not that it revealed a new frontier for the interiority of the subject. Rather, unconscious proffers a rule for interpretation: do not take discourses at face value, but interrogate what is obscured, condensed or displaced in a discourse—that is, in the “unconscious” of a discourse—that which is not explicitly rendered in speech or concept: an unsaid that structures the conditions of saying. This is the important insight of Jacques Lacan’s reading of Freud. On Lacan’s reading of Freud, the unconscious is exteriorized—it is the extra subjective field of historically accreted discourses, governed by a logic of connection, displacement, and condensation. Here, the “unconscious” is not governed by interiority but becomes a site for the exchange and articulation of ideas, commitments, and intensities, figured under the operation signifying capture—of connection and articulation (via metonymy) and of displacement and condensation (via metaphor).10 Thus, if one is to think emotion and affect under a Freudian dispensation, instead of asking “what does this public manifestation of emotion mean” as a close reader might, one might ask, “what are the conditions of possibility for a specific emotion to be manifest given a specific habits and regimes of signification that organize the experience of emotion?” Affect, especially as affection can be a synonym for emotion, specifically for the external manifestation or display of emotion. Affect can mean to put on a false show, imitate, or simulate something, as in an affected accent or way of speaking, and it can capture the range of forces that produce a subject. A vision of affect inspired by the Freudian tradition sees affect as all of these: affect is a line of influence that produces the subject and its actions, is related to the display and subjective experience of emotion, is a line of force and logic that organizes subjects and their relationship to the world, and is a condition of possibility for a subject’s experience and display of emotion.

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Thus, the psychoanalytic concept of affect divides it from emotion by arguing that felt and displayed emotion is external or epiphenomenal to the movement of affect but also asserts an inextricable link between emotions and affects as a site of productive and mutually dependent exchanges between material and social precursors for the expression of emotion. The virtue of this framing, and its accompanying analytical drawbacks, comes from the idea that affect is both an active movement that shapes and imposes a form onto the world and field of forces from within which it rises and that it also sees affect as something that is suffered, experienced, and that “takes us over.” It is this multidirectional, multi-causal relationship between affect as prior to emotion and simultaneously constituted by its expression; that sees the movement of affect both as a cause of, site for, and precondition of the expression of emotion that can productively enrich our understanding of emotion as both expressed by expressing, shaping, and capturing the flow of emotion. Commitment and investment provide useful theoretical tools for negotiating these options for theorizing affect, particularly in a rhetorically framed understanding of religious practice. The etymology of “commitment”— originally to “give in, charge, or entrust”—comes from the Latin committere: derived from com (“with” or “together”) and mittere (“to release, let go, send or throw”) provides fertile ground for understanding religiousity—and it makes it easy to see why religious practices are so often thought of in terms of commitment.11 Here, commitment entails a multivocal modality of theorizing practice: one is both actively committed to a vision of belief and simultaneously committed—prefigured, shaped, and partially determined— by the content of those same commitments. The term “investment,” which is near-ubiquitous in describing the shape of affects, has a similar multivocal capacity: it derives from the term vestere—to put on a garment or assume the authority of an office. The act of putting on priestly vestments serves as a way of understanding affect-in-practice. On the one hand, it is the act of putting on priestly garb that makes the priest—or the monk, as the old saying goes. But to perform this act of dressing is also to invest the garments themselves with a kind of ritual significance: the priest is made by putting on the garb, but the garb is given significance by its presence and performance in a ritual space. These concepts of commitment and investment, then, serve as a means for understanding the function of affect in relationship to emotion. The expressed, performed, and felt emotional charges that collectively constitute public life are both determined by the modes of expression that are already accessible, intelligible, and available at hand: and, simultaneously, the act of investment—of donning the robe itself—performs a function that gives the vestment not only force, but meaning. On this model, investment is not simply something that a subject decides to commit to, but, instead, the act

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of investment itself is prefigured by the garb that is available. The critical/ analytical task then is to unearth the relationship between the movements of force and networks of signs and meaning that constitute the rhetorical subject while simultaneously understanding the ready-made emotive paths into which commitment can be poured, elicited, and invited. To understand the power of affect as expressed in religious commitments and investments requires that we see the multivocal functions of publicly mediated emotion as a means for shaping meaning, community, and our relationships to and with the world. In the next few sections, I will attempt to demonstrate the productivity of the metaphors of commitment and investment negotiating the risks of either end of this spectrum. To do so, I argue for reading religious commitments and affective investments by addressing three theologically inspired frames for analyzing public religious discourses: the sacred and the holy, the idol and the icon, and the incarnation. My hope is that each of these serves as a proof of concept of the productivity of theological frameworks for thinking the conditions that animate public expression of religious sentiment. ACTIVISM, OR, THE SACRED AND HOLY The first major section of this volume addresses the relationships between religious commitments and public activism. Each of the chapters contained in it makes a powerful argument by example for understanding religious commitment as a public inventional resource and an analytic for unpacking religious discourse’s public effects. In evaluating the functions of parrhesia in the Bloody Sunday March; in theorizing the role of international mission work; and in addressing the roles of religious discourses in founding social advocacy around poverty alleviation and strands of the environmental movement, religious commitments serve as a means of collective articulation, social aspiration, and resistance. The evidence marshaled in this section for the power of religious belief to change the world for good is compelling. For example, in literally laying one’s body on the line in the context of the movement for civil rights, a persuasively powerful boldness uniting speech and action takes on a powerful performative and collective enunciation. In much the same way, religious discourses serve as a powerful means of inspiring social justice by re-imagining the world, mobilizing a picture of a world that might be put together differently. Consolidating the power of new collective coalitions grounded in a feminist eco-spirituality creates powerful new forms of solidarity. But as the wonderful chapter on the traditions of missions work at Baylor makes

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clear, the relationship between religious commitment and justice is, at best, ambivalent. One of the things made most clear by the turbulent events of 2016 is the reality that while religious commitment might be mobilized for collective efforts toward justice, the empirical record of religious commitment as a force for social justice is mixed. Undergirding each of these claims for the justice-oriented possibilities grounded of public expressions of faith is an oft-repeated maxim about the character of religious belief: religious belief is characterized by an aspiration to total commitment. To believe is to commit to a practice of changing the world. Where a strand of pietistic thinking might see belief as an individual possession or experience, “other-worldly” commitments have a throw-weight that by necessity imagines others and our relationships to them. Individual commitments imply, create, and animate collective orientations to the world. Of course, it is not the case that every practice of apparent piety entails this kind of commitment—but even this realization has been mobilized as a means of driving particularly intense forms of world commitment: it is, for example, present in evangelical discourses about the distinction between true believers and “cultural” Christianity.12 As an ostensibly total commitment, religious piety plays a pivotal role in how “committed” believers—as the essay on Baylor puts it so elegantly— collectively understand, interpret, frame, and eventually “come face to face with the world.” From the very beginning of western systemic reflection on the character of religious belief, the idea of religion as a total commitment implies that it is—as Martin Buber would have it—a core site where we encounter the “face” of the other.13 Of course, it is also a site where the risk of idols standing in for the Other is persistent (more on that later). But the tradition out of which analyses of commitment come extends to foundational work in the philosophy and history of religion, particularly in Rudolph Otto’s famous claim that if religion is a means of enframing an encounter with the numinous, it is ultimately about the difficulties in encountering in the numinous that which is “wholly other.”14 Otto’s primary concern was to outline the “idea of the holy”—the “fearful and fascinating mystery” of sheer difference. It is an important site where theological reflection can inform rhetorical ethics—because it is in the relationship to the other that the questions of justice, compassion, and kindness emerge as a function of affective investment. Drawing on this line of reflection, theologian Darrel Fasching takes up an extension of this thesis in Narrative Theology after Auschwitz: From Alienation to Ethics. In it, Fasching argues for the fruitfulness of distinguishing between the sacred and the holy.15 At root, the sacred represents a means of drawing lines or separating from the other as a means of fending off what it understands as the profane, while the holy is a mode of openness toward the “otherness” of

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the other. The distinction is one that can be translated into a(n) rhetorical/ affective motif: sacred commitments serve as a means of organizing affective investments against the other, while a holy commitment draws succor from relationship to the other. Where the sacred separates to ensure the solidity of identitarian commitments, the holy opens identity to the possibility of affecting and being affected in turn. The Latin heritage of the term seems straightforward: sacred invokes both sacrum—things relating to God or the Gods—and sanctum, meaning set apart. But the sacred invites a kind of ambivalence, given that it is as easy identify conceptions of the sacred that invite a sense of care for a mystery, or kind of reverence for the “beyond” born out of a recognition of finitude, as it is to point toward varied forms of violence and brutality authorized in the name of the sacred. According to Jacques Ellul’s reading of prominent protest theologian Karl Barth in The Subversion of Christianity, it is imperative to make manifest an analytical cut between the sacred and the holy.16 For Ellul, following Barth, the holy contains a sense of the divine as wholly other—as something like a distilled alterity. The radical otherness contained in a conception of the holy both interrupts a slavish adherence to the order of things by revealing it as the product of finite artifice, and simultaneously strips away human pretensions to name, domesticate, or otherwise figure the holy other in ways that level radical ontological difference. Here, both Barth and Ellul confirm a strand of Feuerbach’s famous critique of religion that it is not man that is made in the image of God, but God that is made in the image of Man. If Feuerbach’s reversal of the Judeo-Christian idea that the human is made in the image of God reveals that conceptions of God are likely projected images of the human, an aggressive distinction between the sacred and the holy concedes that the sacred, in the form of religiosity, is a leveling of holy alterity, arguing for a conception of holiness that outstrips the human capacity to exhaustively represent it. On this reading, the sacred serves as a perverse mirror of the holy. Though the sacred and the holy seem to be nearly identical to the other at the level of the image, the sacred does not take the wholly/holy otherness of holiness seriously, yoking a conception of the divinity to the human tendency to use the name of God to sanction to the social and political order of things. Where the holy confronts the ordering of the world by revealing its finitude and status as accident (but also as a gift), the sacred confirms this order precisely by sacralizing it, usually rendering human social, political, and ethical relationships as natural extensions of a god’s (or god-like principle’s) revealed ordering. The core difference lies in the way that the sacred and the holy envision a relationship to the other—not just in the sense of the traditional purview of ethics as self-fashioning, but in the framing of the context for human interactions and the discourses that sustain and circulate within

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them. The sacred implies an affirmation of context not as gift but as given (or natural), and of the human faculties of representation and signification as unproblematically, effortlessly, and transparently referencing this naturalized reality and the social and political orders that underwrite them. On the other hand, the holy holds open a caveat that the context within which the human subject lives among others, as a gift, is fragile, contingent, and often outstrips our representational faculties. In marking the constitutive disconnect between the gift of being (both on our being and our being among others) and our acts of naming and representing it, the holy opens the question of an ethics beyond the sense of normative obligation often connected with the sacred. The sacred compels, prescribes, and prefigures the content of ethical engagement in the name of a universal almost juridical ethical system. Holy ethical life, on the other hand, implies that the content of ethics (both in terms of a relationship to ourselves and others) cannot be determined in advance, nor can it be easily inferred from a reading of the natural order of things, but instead must be responsible to the call of the other as opposed to a law governing the actions of the subject. More specifically, since our technologies of representation cannot reproduce the core of the holy mystery of otherness, or more, the holy invokes the difficult necessity of an ethical supplement—of the specific call of the holy other. Put differently, at the level of human discourses, a sacred approach to discourse presumes the possibility of centering human discourses on a transcendent and graspable absolute (be it a metaphysically centered, naturalistic, or scientific conception of “absoluteness,” or better yet, a unicity) while a holy approach to contexts and the discourses that circulate within them selfconsciously marks the failings of discourse, representation, and conceptions of context in representing the holy other. The most commonly trafficked understandings of rhetoric as a pragmatic technology for reading the coordinates of a given situation and producing or interpreting discourses as a fitting response to a situation are a sacred technology par excellence. Rhetoric’s analytic impulse is about reading moments of meaning as commensurate with the demands of the situations within which they are embedded. But this is not the whole of the story. Rhetoric experiences a parallel problem to that of the sacred and the holy: two strands of rhetoric that imply distinct dispositions toward the sacred and the holy sit together uncomfortably in the history of rhetoric, suspended between rhetoric’s dual charges as a technology of persuasion and a name for the work that trope does in simultaneously marking and suturing a condition of failed unicity between signs and the “realities” to which they ostensibly refer. The traditions of rhetoric mirror the problem of the sacred and the holy specifically at the point where we are compelled to decide between rhetoric as a technology of persuasion that is fundamentally bound to context and a communitarian

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conception of meaning and a more tragic rhetoric—a technology of tropes that announces a mode of signifying in a condition of failed unicity that indicates the yawning gap between subjects, representations, and the world beyond them.17 The distinction between the sacred and the holy brings into relief the distinction mentioned earlier around “undecidability” in the work of Paul de Man. The point of his work is to define rhetoric as suspended, on one hand, between attention to the effectivity of speech in a context, and, on the other, to the formal properties of and forces intrinsic to economies of signification. In clarifying two strands that sit together uneasily in the rhetorical traditions, we might well open rhetoric both to the holy, and simultaneously form a critique of the taken for granted communitarian impulse in rhetorical thinking, which might open new grounds for thinking the problems of identity and affect in rhetoric. My goal here is not to read out a communitarian impulse in rhetoric as much as it is to challenge its normative status in rhetorical thinking for the sake of opening space for thinking rhetoric’s relation to the other, and to provide one possible line of critique of rhetoric’s leveling of the holy for the sake of engaging religiously oriented discourses. Though there are a number of plausible origin stories for rhetoric, much of the work on rhetoric in the American context settles on rhetoric’s advent as a technology of speech and democratic life in Ancient Athens. This strand, beginning in a series of debates between Socrates and the Sophists, finds its formalization in Aristotle’s canonical Rhetoric, and extends through his Roman inheritors: Quintilian, Cicero, and so on. On this framing, rhetoric is a faculty primarily concerned with persuasion, but at its best is also an ethical technology oriented toward maximizing the health of the polis. This origin story imports a number of assumptions that underwrite our contemporary understanding of rhetoric as a conceptual apparatus. First, this story sees rhetoric as primarily concerned with the demos, and with the rough and tumble of persuasion as it implicates civic life. In this model, the primary concern of rhetoric is social effectivity, and specifically with tweaking speech and style to meet with, challenge, or change the preconceptions of an audience. The measure of rhetoric here is often a version of propriety, determined by an orator’s ability to speak words that are fitting to a given occasion. Here the fundamental instinct of rhetoric is broadly communitarian—in that meaning and social effects in a given context are the determinative function of rhetorical praxis. As rhetoric becomes an increasingly global technology for thinking texts beyond speech, the presupposition of context as a historically sedimented field for the exchange of meanings often valorizes a bounded view of context and intersubjective exchange as the privileged site for thinking the rhetorical. The problem here is that the conception of “community” mirrors the sacred in that community is a taken for granted norm, where the

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lines of affinity are presumed either through a reference to an innate sociality (or rather to a specific taken for granted social form such as the audience, demos, or public) or to a symbolically generated intersubjective consensus. Community in this sense means, quite literally, the reality of the co-presence of other subjects framed simply as an empirical question, and without reference to holy ethical impulses that might exceed a simple definition of context. This strand for thinking rhetoric is often at odds with a conception of rhetoric that forgoes the communitarian, democratic, and reductive contextualism of the Aristotelian traditions, but marking the simultaneous over-saturated polysemy of words—they say too much—and the failure of words and signs in exhaustively representing reality (they do not say enough). One might pose any number of alternative conceptions of rhetoric that orbit around the traditions of continental thought as exemplars of this conceptions of a failing rhetoric: either in the Lacanian conception of rhetoric as the labor of trope and enjoyment that indicates the fundamental impossibility of an adequation between signs and the real; in de Man’s conception of rhetoric as an aporia at the heart of language suspended between trope and persuasion that highlights the impossibility of a simple bilateral relationship between form generating meaning or meaning form;18 or in Laclau’s recent definition of rhetoric as “signifying in a condition of failed unicity.”19 But this strand also finds roots in the Greek traditions, specifically in the Neo-Platonic critique of discursive reason’s ability to represent “the one.” In both strands, the primary concern with rhetoric as a technology of discourse implies a related concern with a constitutive disconnect between the signs or representations and the things to which they refer or that they represent, in some instances even embodying a concern with the violence of representation (as in the traditions of negative theology). But we do not even have to stray too far from traditions that are more immediately and broadly recognized as inheritors of the Greek rhetorical traditions to find similar impulses. The conception of a constitutive disconnect is part of what animates Longinus’s concern with the sublime as a critique of the Roman traditions of rhetoric—each of these, in part or in totality, invokes the question of the relationship not only between language and the real but also between discourse and the presence of the other as a category that is not assimilable to representation without remainder. We might well yearn not only for a vision of rhetoric that fully embraces the fragility, provisionality, and finitude of the word in representing the world, but that sees this paradox as an animating impulse for the desire to establish communion in communication. Because this yearning has both an ethical and an analytic charge: ethically, it holds open character of the word and world as not determined in advance by the force of the sign or representation; analytically, it suggests that we miss the plurality of interpretive possibilities inherent to the practice of speech and speaking.

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The problem of rhetoric and otherness finds its mirror image in the problem of rhetoric, human sociality, and identity. To figure rhetoric as a technology that moves an audience through the application of “fitting” discourse implicitly decides on a pre-given read of the constitution of the audience and the context that produces the occasion for speech. More broadly, the contemporary turn to conceptions of the public as a social form underwriting the circulation of rhetorical practice usually takes for granted identity forms that underwrite public life: the citizen, the subject as owing an obligation to strangers rendered identifiable through shared reading of texts, and so on. Perhaps part of recovering the transgressive ethical potential of rhetoric lies in reasserting a sense of the holy in rhetoric, namely in owning up to a constitutive disconnect between discourses and the realities that they seek to describe, and in admitting that the limitations of a solely discursively mediated conception of the human subject squeezes out other lines of connection—affective and ethical that are difficult to simply reduce to intersubjective exchange. It is here where a theologically grounded framework for distinguishing between the sacred and the holy offers rhetoric substantial analytical power. Whether an activist commitment to improving the world promotes justice “goes bad” turns, at least in part, on whether it is rooted in a sacred commitment to confirm one’s identity or a holy commitment to—in essence—love of and openness toward the other. Here Fasching diagnoses one of the most significant problems of the contemporary liberal imagination. It is not enough to have commitments that are ethically praiseworthy: a sacred commitment even to a socially just idea always harbors the risk of invoking what he calls “the demonic”: a commitment that affects us as if it is a divine charge, but that ultimately serves as a means of disrupting “holy” openness to the other. It is my conviction that this distinction is the one on which the affective commitments entailed in religious belief might turn between advancing what is just, compassionate, and in the service of solidarity and the risk of religious commitment becoming a cudgel for its worst impulses. In order to give more specificity to this claim, I will next treat a distinction that is in some ways a smaller version of this problem that lies specifically at the level of representational practices, drawing on Jean Luc Marion’s distinction between the idol and the icon. RELIGION IN PUBLIC: IDOLS AND ICONS If the question posed or the insight implied by the binary between the sacred and the holy is that affective charges are ambivalent—that they can be marshalled in both holy and demonic modes—the distinction between the idol and the icon sheds light on habits and practices of representation that collectively

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produce both sacred fervor and holy openness. The “Holiness” or “sacredness” of a commitment is not simply a result of intention or ideology; it is a result of the web of representational practices that constitute religious commitment. That—albeit put in an admittedly parochial vocabulary—is the primary insight of the powerful essays presented in the second major section of this volume. Whether in the case of religious speech that responds to national traumas, like Tim Keller’s post 9/11 sermons; in nationalist and rhetorics that define identities for subsequent political positioning—as an Egyptian or an Evangelical; in the circulation of Franklin’s Graham’s Trump posts on Facebook; and even in articulating an identity as an atheist, sacred discourses define political identity. The core question posed by the public circulation of these fascinating cases is the power that religious investments have both in being appropriated by and underwriting political subjectivity for any number of political ends. Put differently, it is incumbent on us to understand how religiously and politically saturated signifiers circulate and provide leverage for various projects of political legitimization with a keen eye for understanding the processes whereby a democratic openness to the meanings that the other presents and to the revisablity of mutual discourse can turn over into a dogmatic identitarian certainty regarding one’s own claims—the demonic possibility of the demos. Put simply, what is it that makes a given signifier, fragment of speech or representation “sticky?” How might we give an analytic description for the fact that some signs circulate while others don’t? Why is it that some re-presentations of religious commitment seem to demand near automatic assent from the audiences that engage and subsequently reproduce them while others stay flat. And finally, how might we engage in an ethical criticism of the tendency to turn from speech the as collectively mediated, open, and iterative understanding of democratic conversation to dueling self-certain dogmatisms? The cumulative effects of the intensity and modes investment in a web of saturated signifiers is the engine on which public utterances collectively create ready-made orientations for public politics—the adoption and subsequent circulation of these ready-made political positions serves as a conduit for the hardening of political subjectivity into increasingly stark lines of public division rooted in unchanging seemingly private identity preferences. Framing the relationship between the net of singular signs and representations that make up public religious discourses, and the larger schema in which commitments might either become divine or demonic, sacred or holy, or oriented toward a hardening of identity or an opening to community requires a definition of modalities by which we engage, evaluate, and potentially recirculate the rhetorical fragments of religious identity. This is one way of saying that it is not just the identity, presumed meaning or content of signs, and representations of public religious commitment that matters: it is their circulation across contexts that matters, and the strength

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of their prefigured charges that matters in understanding why some religious claims take hold in public space, why others are able to be appropriated to larger political ends, and why some simply fall flat or underwrite fanaticism. Because the investment entailed in consuming and circulating a sign or representation determines not only its intensity, or even its likelihood to capture the imagination or a public: it also determines the ways that it might be configured to other ends—some holy and some sacred—and the possibilities for either public solidarities or calcified identity defining lines of exclusion and antagonism. When one declares that they are, for example, a Christian progressive, an evangelical for Trump, or an Islamist for Sisi, they are not simply declaring an allegiance. They are inhabiting a web of previously articulated political positions that contain substantial enthymematic content—and those contents both shape and are shaped by their articulation to the reservoir of meaning and affective charge entailed in religious piety. In doing so, one not only does confessional or even dogmatic labor—one is taking up a definition of the social order and a frame for the modes of positive and negative relation to others. It is in this grind of quotidian representational practices—of hearing or reading content, identifying with it, and sharing it, whether speech or digital medium that the collective shape of religious commitments begins to find the durability, indentificatory power, and lines of solidarity and antagonism that constitute sacred political commitments. It is in these webs of circulation, condensation, displacement, and articulation in which cultural and political identity begin to take a shape as larger than the commitments of any one person or even the sum of the individual parts. This dialectic between the necessity of self-identification and identity to have a position from which to speak and hear, and the risks of identitarian closure in investing in an identity—reducing identity to in “vestment”—is a site of rich and contested reflection for rhetorical studies, forcing a question that is not unlike the one Gaddis insists on for international relations. What is the theory that underwrites the connection between the individual consumption and reproduction of discourses and the production of a larger set of public identities—identities that, in turn, begin to define the basic possibilities for individuals imagining a relationship to the publics within and simultaneously beyond them. Rhetorical studies’ evolution has undoubtedly been driven in large part by changes in the character and constitution of its objects of study—for example, in the increasing salience of visual and material rhetorics. But the change in objects is partially attributable to a desire to expand the domain of communicative phenomena amenable to a rhetorical account. But perhaps something more fundamental in our collective accounts of communication is also at play. Due in large part to the changing character of accounts of the public as a social form and address as a communicative

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modality, rhetoric has been forced to retheorize both its commitment to the public as a taken for granted backdrop for criticism and modes of address, and to the means by which individual and collective negotiation with signs and representations configures the greater whole. It is in the appropriations, employments, and articulations of religious commitments to a broader conception of politics where we can see, in stark relief, the ways that reservoirs of meaning and investment in religious piety—which was formerly understood as a private phenomenon—serve as an inventional resource in articulating world-defining commitments to the task of public politics. The interplay between the consumption, identity-forming effects, and circulation of religious investments in understanding politics provides rhetoric with a unique analytic in accounting for the effects of religiously charged political discourse as it move across contexts and finds new life in places beyond their initial enunciation. Three principles ought to guide analytic work in this task. First, circulation matters: the public effect of a specific moment of address is to more than an immediate and proximate effect of the speech act. To understand the power of religious symbolization in all its forms, we ought look at more than just the meanings entailed, but the processes of circulation that animate investment in divine signs and symbols of various kinds. Second, it is not enough simply to track meanings or contexts; it is necessary to think about the ways that investment in and circulation of religious discourses configure the effectivity of discourse: it is both the material history of a signifier and the productive power of its repetition that not only accounts for the fact of its taking hold but also determines the lines of force and potential meaning effects of a specific signifier. Tracking not only content and individual meaning of a signifier or representation but also its movement across contexts implies the centrality of an account of affect—of public investment in “fragments” of appropriated individual piety. Finally, if the public circulation of a religiously laden signs or representational practices is an effect of investment, and if it reflexively affects the possibilities for investment in subsequent circulation, it is necessary to distinguish between the different possible affective modalities present in the loop of reception, consumption, and circulation: that is, we need an analytic tool that is up to the task of defining the conditions under which a sign remains durable in its movement across contexts, how it might change, and finally how the modes of investment in and commitment to the shape of a specific discourse configure the possibilities for meaning and effect. It is here that Jean Luc Marion’s incisive distinction between idols and icons—and specifically between how one relates to an idol and how one relates to an icon—promises analytical productivity. While the idea of the idol has not animated the study of rhetoric, the icon has made an appearance or two in our literature. The icon appears in Hariman and Lucaites’s work on

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the iconic photograph, largely configuring it as a means of accounting for the ubiquitous pictures in coordinating identity commitments. Rhetorical critics like Mike Leff have detailed iconicity as a rhetorical/semiotic category: arguing against a rigid separation of form and content, arguing that the specific form of a statement adds to its meaning, without a concurrent change in the content, citing Lakoff’s and Johnson’s example of the difference in meaning between saying “that someone is ‘very, very, very, tall” and merely saying that someone is “very tall.” Iconicity lies in the way that the repetition of the term “very” three times configures the form of the utterance to iconically mirror the subject’s tallness, without adding semantic content: it is a semantic icon where the shape of the sentence mimetically represents the actual tallness of the figure.20 Marion’s approach to idols and icons extends the insights of both of these strands within our field. Disputes about the icon and the idol range as far back as the eighth century where the Eastern Orthodox Church endured vicious schismatic disputes regarding the propriety of images of God in worship. Marion’s intervention recasts the dispute in the terms of contemporary phenomenology. Marion shifts the terms of the distinction between the idol and the icon from the earlier normative interpretation of the object itself (i.e., a thing is an icon if it looks like God, an idol if it does not) to a phenomenological interpretation of the manner in which the viewer apprehends the object. Marion puts the distinction this way: “The idol does not indicate, any more than the icon a particular being or class of beings. Idol and icon indicate a manner of being for beings.” Marion shifts the basis for differentiating between the icon and the idol from an ontological question (one of defining characteristics and essential qualities that create membership in class of entities) to a phenomenological question (one in which a thing is defined in its apprehension). The phenomenological difference lies in the way that a person’s act of receiving and comporting an image sets up a specific relationship of “signaling” between the object and the viewer. Both the idol and the icon hold in common the characteristic of signaling toward another referred/deferred meaning but they differ in their mode of signaling. The icon is not only a point for articulating shared meanings or a formal property that configures meaning without changing the ideational content of an utterance. An icon is a clearing for otherness: it is a representation that creates a point of contact with another while simultaneously marking its distance from the other. An icon is neither simply a stand in for the divine, nor is it the divine in and of itself: it is a manifestation of the divine that marks simultaneous proximity and distance. An idol erases its distance—it is defined by a claim to fully embody the other that it represents

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without remainder. But the crucial difference here is not only encoded in the nature of the thing: it is a product of our means of encountering it. The dialectic between the idol and the icon serves as both a way of understanding the relationship between affect and the production of meaning and a means of considering the formal properties of our dispositions toward ideas, images, and concepts that we not only consume or engage but also shape our identity based on our means of comporting ourselves toward them. In other words, to understand the ways that we shape and are shaped by idols and icons, we need to see more than the object or the work it does in terms of conveying meaning. On his framing, an icon both presents a kind of irreducible alterity and its force as other only emerges for us when we attend to it appropriately. Conversely even icons can become idols if we relate to them in a way that comports them for our purposes. The difference between idol and icon turns both on the character of the thing and on our practice of comporting ourselves to an object or point of shapes identity. In practical terms, not just any old thing can be an icon, and things that we take to be iconic may in fact function for us as idols. The icon is a synecdoche for the rhetorical employment of religious, or more appropriately holy distance. The icon cannot remain iconic if it becomes a purveyor of another charge: in doing so, it necessarily becomes an idol. Here, the idol/icon dialectic suggests a framing of how we might think about the presence of holy commitments and the vicissitudes of their translation to public politics—particularly the identitarian or political legitimizing functions of religious discourse. The movement from a holy impulse to a sacred charge in public appropriations of religious discourses is a function of treating the inventional and ethical resources of belief into idols for the existing political order. Here, the insight that matters is not simply the idea that public appropriation is necessarily a deformation of the religious impulse—far from it. Instead, the insight here is that the modality of relation to belief turns on whether a reference to religious faith affirms a fundamental openness to affecting and being affected, in turn, or if it creates an ossifying certainty in the sacredness of the existing political order. What emerges here, then, is a vision of the way that the modalities of affective investment in the public circulation of religious discourses—and not simply the content of the commitment—are what lend a set of concepts, ideas, or representations to an affirmation of an antagonistic identitarianism. That a public claim is holy requires that its force relies on iconic representation, and the character of the sacred is built on the circulation of idols. What, in practical terms, is the difference between the mode of apprehending that makes a thing an idol and the one that makes it an icon? How does an

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act of viewing change the way that a thing signals? The icon simultaneously refers to and defers a more fundamental meaning than the one that is immediately apparent in a visual image. In viewing the icon, the viewer approaches it with reverence, as if they were in the presence of the divine—this is the seemingly overpowering element of reference to the divine present in accounts of iconic viewing. Simultaneously, the viewer sees the icon as capturing only an infinitesimally small element of the divine, so that the divine is simultaneously deferred in the icon. The icon is both simple synecdoche and the real presence of God. Veneration of an icon requires both seeing a meaning in the icon and simultaneously admitting that the full meaning of the icon is not present in the icon itself. In this respect, the icon resists authoritative interpretation or appropriation—it defers presence, it seeks to represent the unrepresentable, and it is inherently unstable. The idol, on a casual glance, has the feeling of iconicity, but functions as its phenomenological opposite of the icon. The idol, argues Marion, is a “hidden mirror” on to which the viewer projects her or his own desires. Seemingly mirroring Feuerbach, Marion’s idol serves as a container into which the desires of the viewer are emptied. The desires that the viewer invests the idol with are then rendered sacred by the seer’s veneration of the idol. This function serves to both divinize the desires of the viewer, and conceal the process by which those desires are divinized. The phenomenological relationship to the idol comes full circle when the idol is seen as compelling belief in and standing for the inherent goodness of the desires with which it is invested by the seer. Thus, the idol’s effectiveness lies in its ability to return and represent the desires of the viewer with the sheen of divine credibility. Where the icon demands interpretive distance and deferral, the idol facilitates is easily appropriated as a means of sacralizing of the viewer’s personal political agenda. What might this distinction look like as a rhetorical analytic for thinking the various circuits that make up the public circulations of religious discourse? At root, the power of religious discourses lies in their power as ready-made legitimating claims: they articulate personal piety—commitments and investments—to public and political goals. In the right hand, a concept is iconic if it maintains an interpretive humility that recognizes the divine is only captured in part by a concept, while it becomes idolatrous if it claims to unproblematically represent divinity. The key difference lies in the attitude and mode by which the concept is held; if the concept maintains a kind of interpretive distance and independence the concept is being engaged as if it were comparatively iconic. In that sense, the status of the icon has a fruitful relationship to a vision of democracy in which claims in public life do not create automatic authority by virtue of their status, but rather represent a translation of public interest into public life—a vision of argument

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that comports both with Dewey’s sense of seeing the relationship between arguments and habits and Habermas’s later claims that religious discourses can provide meaningful translations of shared public sentiments.21 It suggests a way of accounting for public argument that can, on the one hand, move beyond that idea that provisionality of a claim is a weakness—while simultaneously locating a framework for public argument in which no category of argument holds sway simply because of the discourses that it rests itself in. A good democratic claim is an iconic one—or rather it is one that invites us to hold it as an icon—as representing a truth beyond it, but as not exhaustible in its saying. It represents the presence of an other who may not even be involved in a conversation, but whose presence is nevertheless real and worthy of inclusion and consideration. It is an invitation to be present without full presence—one of the things that is “holy” to us in Dewey’s presentation of a public conversation as one that takes place between two interlocutors considering the effect of the thing they are talking about on a party who, though not physically there, is present in the conversation. The difference between a demonic and sacred appropriation of religious sentiment in public speech and a democratic holiness that is open to—and even hospitable toward—the presence of the other lies in theorizing how we might think about the conditions of presence in and means of representation that function in public speech. CONCLUSION: INCARNATION AND INTERPRETATION A third consideration introduced by this volume is how rhetorical studies and religious studies might teach one another lessons about interpretation. And the chapters in this section do a fine job of displaying the basic interpretive rifts—and means for managing them—that the meeting of methodologies might produce or sustain. In arguing—following Parker Palmer—that religion has an “ontological significance” bounded by a “community of truth; in making the case that we ought to think the relationship between rhetoric and religion from the perspective of Taylor’s vision of the “secular” or the perspective of the atheist; and even in proposing the analytic that inspires this essay (an intentional cultivation of theology at the expense of thinking religiosity), we come with an unavoidable question regarding the merging and marriage of frameworks: How does one sort out the varied claims to methodological power in ways that prioritize and implicitly give preference to some frames over others? That is, to argue that a specific kind of insight is marginalized, undervalued, or misunderstood is to see the basic relation of field dependent insights or one’s scholarly axioms is also to argue implicitly for a priority or to make a claim for the necessity of balance. This holds true

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(and in fact is unavoidable) if we say we’d like the field to better understand religious discourse, religious believers to better understand the insights of rhetoric, or even if we claim that any of these areas of insight would fare better if they took more seriously an undervalued perspective. I have always thought that the unique insight of the doctrine of the incarnation—that god is present in flesh—lay in how it forces a series of paradoxical conclusions on the devout: the idea of the god/man; of eternity entering into time; of power and powerlessness; of spirit and flesh; that the source of life might die, and so on. The interesting problem in the interpreting traditions of Christianity is not one needs an interpretive frame that understands the paradoxes as a feature and not a bug. There are as many approaches to this central problem as there are strands of belief. One can provisionalize the explanatory power of words or reason. One can argue that the paradox lies only in the finitude of human thought. One can highlight that the idea is a mystery and that the invitational character of the mystery is the point. And, of course, the Christian traditions are far from unique here. This is a problem that is, in many ways, endemic to religious practice, in the series of examples mentioned in the introduction: whether in the Islamic traditions’ concern with the reductive character of representations of the divine; Hindu traditions of the role of the Avatar and the place of a negative theology; the Buddhist practice of attending to paradox in a koan. Here religious discourses find a strong resonance with the very identity of rhetoric, which beginning in a messy divorce with philosophy has never been quite able to decide on its character as art, science, intuition, or something else. Rhetoric too has demonstrated a kind of productive indecision between the explanatory power of theory and the necessity of attending to the specifics of a given case or context. If it does anything, the model of a productive but always provisional relationship between the concept and the thing that it represents—present both in religion and rhetoric—points us toward the necessity of a kind of interpretive humility that holds open the question of whether a theory, a doctrine, or even the presence of a supra-essential God can ever fully sort out the conditions of its existence and manifestation in the context of the messy, finite, and indeterminate character of the thing that it represents. The inspiration that I take from this wonderful volume—and the pieces in it is that the job of interpretation is the tragic beauty of what I have called “failed unicity”—is that we signify in a condition where nothing is guaranteed in advance, and yet that we have to make room for the appearance of the other—whether it be truth, a god, or a concept—in the concrete messiness of our existence. If a theological (as opposed to a religious) approach means anything here, it is that both in our practices of communication and interpretation, we necessarily hold—and ought to intentionally hold—our practices of producing and interpreting the word up to the measure that they

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can never quite fully achieve, but that they nevertheless gesture toward: a holy other not reducible to our attempts to grasp it, but for whom we ought to be continually open. NOTES 1. For a recap of these events, see BBC, “Fall of the Berlin Wall: How 1989 Shaped the Modern World. November 5, 2019,” https​:/​/ww​​w​.bbc​​.com/​​news/​​world​​ -euro​​pe​-5​0​​01304​​8. See also, Francis Fukuyama. “The End of History?” The National Interest, Number 16, pp. 3–18, Summer 1989. 2. See John Lewis Gaddis, “International Relations Theory and the End of the Cold War,” International Security, Volume 17, Number 3, Winter 1992/93, pp. 5–58. 3. Aristotle, The Art of Rhetoric, I.2. 4. Joshua Gunn, Political Perversion; Rhetorical Aberration in the Time of Trumpeteering (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2020). 5. See Mark Steiner’s contribution in this volume. 6. See Paul de Man, Allegories of Reading (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982). 7. Erin Rand, “Bad Feelings in Public: Rhetoric, Affect and Emotion,” Rhetoric and Public Affairs, 18:1 Spring 2015, (p.online). 8. Gilles Deleuze, “Gilles Deleuze, Lecture Transcripts On Spinoza’s Concept Of Affect.” http:​/​/www​​.gold​​smith​​s​.ac.​​uk​/cs​​isp​/p​​apers​​/dele​​uze​_s​​pinoz​​​a​_aff​​ect​.p​​df (accessed 4/3/2006). 9. Lawrence Grossberg, We Gotta Get out of this Place (New York City: Routledge, 1992), 79. 10. See Freud’s, On the Interpretation of Dreams, translated by James Strachey (New York, NY: Avon Books, 1965), especially chapter VI, and Lacan’s” The Instance of the Letter in the Unconscious, of Reason Since Freud” in Ecrits, translated by Bruce Fink (New York, NY: WW Norton, 2006). 11. https://www​.etymonline​.com​/word​/commit 12. See, for example, my treatment of the Passion of the Christ in Lacan in Public; Psychoanalysis and the Science of Rhetoric (Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2012). 13. Martin Buber, I and Thou (New York: NY, Charles Scribner, 1958). 14. Karl Otto, The Idea of the Holy. Translated by John W. Harvey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1923). 15. Darrell Fasching, The Ethical Challenge of Auschwitz and Hiroshima: Apocalypse or Utopia? (Buffalo, NY: SUNY Press, 1993). 16. Jacques Ellul, The Subversion of Christianity (London: Wipf and Stock, 2011). 17. Lundberg, Lacan in Public, Chapter 1. 18. de Man, Allegories of Reading, 69. 19. Ernesto Laclau, On Populist Reason (London: Verso, 2007), 22.

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20. Leff and Jeffrey Sachs treat semiotic iconicity in their 1990 article “Words Most Like Things: Iconicity and the Rhetorical Text.” Western Journal of Speech Communication, 54 (Summer 1990) 252–273. 21. John Dewey, How We Think (New York, NY: Dover Publications 1997): Jurgen Habermas, “On the Relation between the Secular Liberal State and Religion.” In E. Mendieta (ed.), The Frankfurt School on Religion: Key Writings by the Major Thinkers, pp. 339–348 (New York, NY: Routledge, 2005).

REFERENCES BBC. “Fall of the Berlin Wall: How 1989 Shaped the Modern World. November 5, 2019.” https​:/​/ww​​w​.bbc​​.com/​​news/​​world​​-euro​​pe​-5​0​​01304​​8. Buber, Martin. I and Thou (New York City: Charles Scribner, 1958). Deleuze, Gilles. “Gilles Deleuze, Lecture Transcripts on Spinoza’s Concept of Affect.” http:​/​/www​​.gold​​smith​​s​.ac.​​uk​/cs​​isp​/p​​apers​​/dele​​uze​_s​​pinoz​​​a​_aff​​ect​.p​​df. de Man, Paul. Allegories of Reading (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982). Dewey, John. How We Think (New York, NY: Dover Publications, 1997). Ellul, Jacques. The Subversion of Christianity (London: Wipf and Stock, 2011). Fasching, Darrell. The Ethical Challenge of Auschwitz and Hiroshima: Apocalypse or Utopia? (Buffalo: SUNY Press, 1993). Freud, Sigmund. On the Interpretation of Dreams. Translated by James Strachey (New York City: Avon Books, 1965). Fukuyama, Francis. “The End of History.” The National Interest 16, no. 1 (1989): 3–18. Gaddis, John Lewis. “International Relations Theory and the End of the Cold War.” International Security 17, no. 3 (1992/93): 5–58. Grossberg, Lawrence. We Gotta Get Out of this Place (New York City: Routledge, 1992). Gunn, Joshua. Political Perversion; Rhetorical Aberration in the time of Trumpeteering. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2020). Habermas, Jurgen. “On the Relation between the Secular Liberal State and Religion.” In The Frankfurt School on Religion: Key Writings by the Major Thinkers, edited by Eduardo Mendieta (New York City: Routledge, 2005). Lacan, Jacques. “The Instance of the Letter in the Unconscious, of Reason Since Freud.” In Ecrits. Translated by Bruce Fink (New York City: WW Norton, 2006). Laclau, Ernesto. On Populist Reason (London: Verso, 2007). Leff, Michael. “Words Most Like Things: Iconicity and the Rhetorical Text.” Western Journal of Speech Communication 54, no. 3 (Summer 1990). Lundberg, Christian. Lacan in Public: Psychoanalysis and the Science of Rhetoric (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2012). Otto, Karl. The Idea of the Holy. Translated by John W. Harvey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1923). Rand, Erin. “Bad Feelings in Public: Rhetoric, Affect and Emotion.” Rhetoric and Public Affairs 18, no. 1 (2015): online.

Index

Adorers of the Blood of Christ, 74–75, 79–85 affect, 260–61, 263–68, 277, 279 affectus/affectio, 265–66 American Bible Society, 202, 211–14 Andover Settlement House, 50–53, 56–58, 60–64 Andover Theological Seminary, 51, 56 anti-hunger work, 50, 60, 65 Aristotle, 158–59, 170 atheist, 221–34 Baptist, 29–44 Barber, William, 250, 252–55 Baylor University, 38–43, 53–54, 65 Berger, Peter, 1 Bloody Sunday, 9–10, 17–18 body, 16, 23 boldness, 14–17 Booth, Wayne, 1, 185–86 Burbidge, Michael, 251–56 Burke, Kenneth, 1, 188, 191, 193, 195, 250 Calhoun, Craig, 1, 184 Casanova, Jose, 1 Catholicism, 76, 87 Cavanaugh, William, 240, 242 Christian Right, 162

Christian worldview, 189 civic rhetoric, 209–10 civic rhetorical activism, 49–51, 56–57, 67 civil rights, 9–10, 17, 23–24 Cold War, 227, 231 colonialism, 42 commitment, 262, 267–70, 274–77 common ground, 62, 66 community, 20–24 community advocacy work, 50–51, 64 community stakeholders, 63–64 constitutive rhetoric, 115, 118, 121, 123 Creech, Mark, 251–56 crisis, 93–94, 97, 99–101, 107 Crowley, Sharon, 188, 246 cultural co-optation, 191–92 Cunningham, David, 194 custodianship, 75–77 Darsey, James, 244 didactic Enlightenment, 194 dissociative rhetoric, 145–51 Dreher, Rod, 189 Egypt, post-June, 30, 118–21 eloquence, 206–8 embodied rhetorical presence, 56–59 emotion, 263–67 285

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environmental justice, 74–75, 78, 83– 84, 86–87 evangelical/evangelism, 32, 133–51, 184, 187–89, 193–95 Everett, Jeremy, 53–55, 59–62, 65–66 Fea, John, 189, 192 Foucault, 11–12, 15 fullness, 202–3, 209–11 gender, 74, 86–87 Graham, Franklin, 155–57, 164–77 grief, 97, 101–6 groupthink, 161, 165–66 Hunter, James Davison, 196 icon, 274, 278–81 idol, 274, 278–80 interpretation, 266, 278, 281–82 investment, 262–63, 267–68, 277 Islamic discourse, 114, 118, 124–29 Jews/Jewish, 231 Journal of Communication and Religion, 221–22, 224 Keller, Timothy, 94, 97, 100–106, 108–9 Lacan, Jacques, 266, 273 Lessl, Thomas, 241 Lewis, John, 20–22 marches, 19–22 Marion, Jean Luc, 278–80 military coup, 114–15 missionary/missional, 32–33, 37, 44 Muslim Brotherhood, 114, 123–25 nationalist songs, 114–17, 120–23 New Atheist Movement, 222, 224–26 New Testament, 10 non-believers, 228

Index

North Carolina, 248–49 nuns, 87 Obama, Barack, 228, 230 October War, 113–14, 117–20, 124, 128–30 other/otherization, 36, 38, 42, 44 Otto, Rudolph, 269 parrhesia, 10–27 Pernot, Laurent, 1, 184, 204 pipeline, 79–85 power of peoplehood, 126–28 propriety, 272 protest, 75, 82–84 Ptah-Hotep, 160, 165–66 Quarterly Journal of Speech, 221 religion, definition of, 239–41 Religious Communication Association, 222, 232–34 republicanism, 208–10 Rhetoric & Public Affairs, 221, 232 Rhetoric Society of America (RSA), 239 Rhetoric Society Quarterly, 221 rhetorology, 184–87, 262 sacred, 269–72, 274, 279 sacrificial ethos, 15, 18–20 secularism, 201–2 sermonic function of language, 191, 196 Smith, Christian, 187–88, 194 Social Gospel, 55–56 Southern Baptist/Southern Baptist Convention, 32–43 spiritual attitude, 94–95, 102 Steiner, Mark, 245–46 storytelling, 60–62 Taylor, Charles, 201–3, 209 Tell, David, 244–45 terministic screens, 191, 250

Index

Texas Hunger Initiative, 50–51, 53–57, 59–61 textual theology, 239, 242–43, 247–48, 256 theist-normativity, 231, 234 theology, 50–53, 55–57; definition of, 242–43 trained incapacity, 94–96 Trump, Donald, 133, 141–42, 146, 148, 155–57, 166–75

Tucker, William Jewett, 51–52, 58, 61–64, 68 Twitter, 134–35, 145–46, 151 visiting, 195–96 women, 74–78, 80–82, 85–87 women religious, 73–74, 76–78 Woods, Robert Archey, 51–52, 58, 61–64, 68

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About the Editor and Contributors

ABOUT THE EDITOR James W. Vining is an assistant professor of communication studies at Governors State University in University Park, Illinois. A former pastor and community activist, he researches the intersections of rhetoric, theology, and social movements. ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS Raymond Blanton is assistant professor of communication arts in the School of Media and Design at the University of the Incarnate Word in San Antonio, Texas. His research is primarily concerned with the rhetorical and civic dimensions of communication, media, and culture in intellectual history and American culture. Emily Murphy Cope is assistant professor of rhetoric and composition at York College of Pennsylvania, where she also serves as the coordinator of advanced communication courses. Her scholarly work on rhetoric and religion has appeared in Rhetoric Society Quarterly and in a number of edited collections. Tiffany Thames Copeland is a professor of communications at Montgomery College and an adjunct instructor at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. She earned her doctorate of philosophy degree from Howard University in 2020. Her specialty is investigating social media at the intersection of rhetoric, culture, race, and liberation. 289

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Michael-John DePalma is an associate professor of English and the coordinator of professional writing and rhetoric at Baylor University. His research centers on religious rhetorics, transfer, and rhetorical education. With Jeffrey M. Ringer, he edited Mapping Christian Rhetorics: Connecting Conversations, Charting New Territories (2015). His current book project is entitled Religious Rhetorical Adaptation: Austin Phelps and the Teaching of Sacred Rhetoric at Andover Theological Seminary, 1848–1879. Sara M. Dye is a postdoctoral research fellow at the Baylor Collaborative on Hunger and Poverty at Baylor University where she also teaches rhetoric and writing. Primarily through qualitative research and rhetorical analysis, she studies religious rhetoric, politics, and civic life. Elizabeth Kimball is assistant professor of English at Drexel University. She is the author of Translingual Inheritance: Language Diversity in Early National Philadelphia (2021) and coauthor, with Elenore Long and Jennifer Clifton, of The Potentiality of Difference: Singular Rhythms of a Translational Humanities in Community Contexts (2021). Kristina M. Lee is a Ph.D. student in communication studies at Colorado State University. She studies rhetoric at the intersection of politics and religion with a particular interest in the experience of atheists within the United States. Christian O. Lundberg is the co-director of the University Program in Cultural Studies, and associate professor of rhetorical studies and cultural studies at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. His current research focuses on theories of the public as a social and discursive form, and on the animating principles for public discourses and identities. He has authored or is in the process of writing a number of textbooks relating to rhetoric, public speaking, and public deliberation, including The Essential Guide to Rhetoric (2007) and a Public Speaking textbook with Cengage Learning titled Public Speaking: Choices and Responsibility (2014). Joshua H. Miller an assistant professor in the Department of Communication Studies and Texas State University. He received a top paper award from the Rhetorical Theory and Criticism division of the Central States Communication Association for his work on the Bloody Sunday March and Christian parrhesia. Farah Mourad holds a doctorate of philosophy from the School of Media, Arts and Design at the University of Westminster in London. Her main

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research interests are women, media, and politics in Egypt, Egyptian cultural nationalism, as well as social media and gender in the Middle East. Jeff Nagel is a doctoral student at the Pennsylvania State University, where he studies memory, social movements, and the ways generational activist strategies and tactics are inherited in nontraditional and nonhereditary contexts. Holland Prior is currently a doctoral student in rhetoric, writing, and linguistics at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. She earned her M.F.A. in creative nonfiction at the University of New Hampshire and her M.Div. at Azusa Pacific Seminary. Jeff Ringer is associate professor of English at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, where he directs the first-year writing program. Ringer is the author of Vernacular Christian Rhetoric and Civil Discourse and coeditor, with Mike DePalma, of Mapping Christian Rhetorics, which won the Religious Communication Association’s Book of the Year Award in 2015. Mark Allan Steiner is associate professor of communication at Christopher Newport University in Newport News, Virginia. His areas of expertise include rhetorical theory and criticism, religious rhetoric, mediation and religious identity, and public discourse, with his research program centering on the rhetoric of American evangelical Christianity and its implications for religious identity and public/political discourse. Wei Sun is associate professor and director of graduate studies at Department of Communication, Culture and Media Studies at Howard University. She is a Fulbright Specialist in communications/journalism. Dr. Sun’s research interests include intercultural communication, new media studies, and health communication. Christopher Thomas is an assistant professor in the Department of Communication at The College at Brockport in Brockport, New York. His research focuses on marginalized communities’ struggle for equitable and fair participation in public deliberations over urban planning, public health, and environmental sustainability. Megan Von Bergen is currently enrolled in the doctoral program in rhetoric, writing, and linguistics at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. She studies assessment in first-year writing programs and evangelical discourse.