Rhetoric Assignment.
Hey y'all. I wrote this for my rhetoric assignment. We were supposed to write about something that was making an argument. That something can be anything, and that argument can be whatever you want it to be. Pretty open-ended, I think. Ay, que post-modern! Ay, que sexy!
Argumentative Jewelry
My mom had given me this gold cross pendant on a sparkly gold chain when I got baptized. It was pretty and pious, but not garishly so, like those Catholic crucifixes with the dying man on them. I was fifteen. Her gift was a commemoration of the pastor plunging me whole into a pool in someone’s backyard, which was a commemoration of, I thought, the most important event in my life. After hearing various speakers on various topics, whose talks all eventually wound down to that momentous decision to “accept Him into your heart,” I weighed the benefits of agreeing with them against the costs of critical thinking and acquiring my own, wisdom-instilling experience. The fire insurance won. It was so clear to me at that time that I did not want to go to Hell, even though this youth group is awkward and I would die if any of my school friends saw me singing and clapping my hands.
So I wore the necklace as a symbol of that baptism, which was a symbol of that day I chose to not go to Hell. I never took it off, not even to shower, and besides I didn’t need to because it was real gold and wouldn’t rust or tarnish. I didn’t really mean to place all this metaphysical weight on it; it just kind of happened. I wanted it to be a sign to everyone else that I’m on the Lord’s team now, so don’t even try to get me pregnant or smoke dope. I also wanted it to be a reminder for me, so when I play with it in class I remember to not swear and if I see other people with one, I can wink at them and know that we are in a secret club. Evangelical t-shirts soon joined my necklace, sporting some witty quip about your (lack of) salvation or the blood of the lamb or how there’s no cereal in Hell. I must have been pretty annoying.
And the truth is, the necklace didn’t stop me from seeing R-rated movies or letting my boyfriend put his hands up my shirt. One night, after feeling even more disgusted with myself than usual, I decided to take the necklace off and keep it in a box. It was getting really heavy around my neck. Was this supposed to mean something huge? That just as I could easily put on a faith in Christ, I could take it off? Was my spirituality governed by some playful fashion logic? Is Jesus Christ crying right now for having been put away? Is Jean Baudrillard smiling right now for having been alluded to in a rhetoric assignment?
I was in college by now, which is like a big cafeteria where nobody is your friend. At home, my youth pastor would have told me to make an “eternal impression” on these doomed strangers, but going without religious jewelry was weird. It meant that in order for me to do the right thing, I would have to desire it through actual grace, not golden reminders. And I saw right away that I didn’t really desire a whole lot of holy. It meant getting to know someone and feeling the sting of reality when they would say “Oh. I didn’t know you were a Christian.” I mean, they’re supposed to be able to tell, right? I had tried really hard to intertwine divine deliverance with objects and silly gestures and Christian rock bands. By God, as honestly and sincerely as I can, I hope that my salvation is not tied up in that gold chain shouting sparkling spiritual claims. Now that the necklace is off and I’m done making arguments for myself, hopefully God is going to show up to make my body, my life, an argument for His saving grace.
Argumentative Jewelry
My mom had given me this gold cross pendant on a sparkly gold chain when I got baptized. It was pretty and pious, but not garishly so, like those Catholic crucifixes with the dying man on them. I was fifteen. Her gift was a commemoration of the pastor plunging me whole into a pool in someone’s backyard, which was a commemoration of, I thought, the most important event in my life. After hearing various speakers on various topics, whose talks all eventually wound down to that momentous decision to “accept Him into your heart,” I weighed the benefits of agreeing with them against the costs of critical thinking and acquiring my own, wisdom-instilling experience. The fire insurance won. It was so clear to me at that time that I did not want to go to Hell, even though this youth group is awkward and I would die if any of my school friends saw me singing and clapping my hands.
So I wore the necklace as a symbol of that baptism, which was a symbol of that day I chose to not go to Hell. I never took it off, not even to shower, and besides I didn’t need to because it was real gold and wouldn’t rust or tarnish. I didn’t really mean to place all this metaphysical weight on it; it just kind of happened. I wanted it to be a sign to everyone else that I’m on the Lord’s team now, so don’t even try to get me pregnant or smoke dope. I also wanted it to be a reminder for me, so when I play with it in class I remember to not swear and if I see other people with one, I can wink at them and know that we are in a secret club. Evangelical t-shirts soon joined my necklace, sporting some witty quip about your (lack of) salvation or the blood of the lamb or how there’s no cereal in Hell. I must have been pretty annoying.
And the truth is, the necklace didn’t stop me from seeing R-rated movies or letting my boyfriend put his hands up my shirt. One night, after feeling even more disgusted with myself than usual, I decided to take the necklace off and keep it in a box. It was getting really heavy around my neck. Was this supposed to mean something huge? That just as I could easily put on a faith in Christ, I could take it off? Was my spirituality governed by some playful fashion logic? Is Jesus Christ crying right now for having been put away? Is Jean Baudrillard smiling right now for having been alluded to in a rhetoric assignment?
I was in college by now, which is like a big cafeteria where nobody is your friend. At home, my youth pastor would have told me to make an “eternal impression” on these doomed strangers, but going without religious jewelry was weird. It meant that in order for me to do the right thing, I would have to desire it through actual grace, not golden reminders. And I saw right away that I didn’t really desire a whole lot of holy. It meant getting to know someone and feeling the sting of reality when they would say “Oh. I didn’t know you were a Christian.” I mean, they’re supposed to be able to tell, right? I had tried really hard to intertwine divine deliverance with objects and silly gestures and Christian rock bands. By God, as honestly and sincerely as I can, I hope that my salvation is not tied up in that gold chain shouting sparkling spiritual claims. Now that the necklace is off and I’m done making arguments for myself, hopefully God is going to show up to make my body, my life, an argument for His saving grace.