Who Creates Meaning: The Situation or the Speaker?

This short essay explores the long‑standing debate between Lloyd Bitzer and Richard Vatz about where rhetorical meaning truly comes from—whether situations naturally carry significance or whether rhetors create that significance through their choices and framing. By comparing both theorists’ views and offering a real‑world example, the essay argues that rhetoric plays the more active role in shaping how events are understood.

    The debate between Lloyd Bitzer and Richard Vatz focuses on one main question: Does rhetoric come from situations, or do situations come from rhetoric? Bitzer believes that situations already contain meaning and urgency, and these qualities “invite” a rhetorical response. Vatz, on the other hand, argues that rhetors create meaning by choosing what details to talk about and how to present them. While both make good points, I believe that rhetoric creates the situation because rhetors are the ones who give events their meaning, emotional impact, and importance.

    Bitzer sees rhetoric as something that happens after a situation appears. In his view, an exigence, meaning a problem that needs to be addressed, exists first, and rhetoric comes second as a reaction to it. That means the situation controls what kind of response is appropriate. Bitzer writes, “rhetoric is a mode of altering reality, not by the direct application of energy to objects, but by the creation of discourse which changes reality through mediation of thought and action.” (Bitzer, p. 4) In other words, rhetoric matters, but only because the situation calls it into being and shapes what it must do.

    Vatz argues the opposite. He believes exigence does not exist on its own; rhetors create it through their choices about what to highlight and what to ignore. For Vatz, events don’t come with built‑in meaning. Meaning appears only when someone decides how to frame the event. As he puts it, “meaning is not discovered in situations, but created by rhetors.” (Vatz, p. 157) This means the rhetor plays an active role in shaping how people understand what is happening.

    My own example shows why Vatz’s view is more convincing. Imagine a university has a short Wi‑Fi outage that lasts fifteen minutes. One student leader sends a calm message saying it’s a minor issue. Another student posts dramatically online, claiming the outage proves the administration is incompetent and that students should “demand accountability.” Even though the event is the same, these two responses create completely different situations, one calm and one intense. The difference comes not from the outage but from the rhetoric used to describe it. The student who exaggerates the problem creates a crisis that didn’t exist before. This supports Vatz’s point that rhetors decide what becomes important.

    In the end, Bitzer helps us see how rhetorical responses are shaped by context, but Vatz shows how meaning is actually made. Rhetors don’t just respond to situations; they help create them. Events don’t tell us what they mean; people do. And because people’s interpretations come before significance, rhetoric creates the situation rather than simply responding to it.

Work Cited:  

Bitzer, L. F. (1968). The rhetorical situation. Philosophy & Rhetoric, 1(1), 1–14.

Vatz, R. E. (1973). The myth of the rhetorical situation. Philosophy & Rhetoric, 6(3), 154–161.

[Written for ENGL 2800 class UVU Spring 2026]
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Teaching Philosophy

In my English class this semester, I am learning about the different careers I could follow with a degree in English. The first few weeks were spent learning more about being an English teacher in a Junior High or High School setting. I wrote an essay describing my teaching philosophy if I were to become an English teacher:

    I see my role as a teacher as a designer of growth, someone who builds sturdy scaffolds for students and then intentionally removes them so learners can stand on their own. Teaching, to me, is not about control or permanence but about preparation: creating structures that support students while they develop confidence, independence, and critical thinking skills. This view is shaped by scholars such as Jim Burke, Paulo Freire, and bell hooks, all of whom emphasize that effective teaching balances structure with freedom, authority with collaboration, and knowledge with humanity.

    One of the clearest examples of instructional scaffolding is Jim Burke’s discussion of school-friendly forms such as the five-paragraph essay. Burke argues that this structure can be a valuable tool for beginning writers because it helps them practice essential skills such as forming claims, supporting ideas with evidence, and organizing their thinking (Burke, 2013). I agree with Burke that these forms function like training wheels: they provide stability at the start, but they must not become cages that restrict authentic thinking or meaningful genre choice. As a teacher, I would use these structures intentionally and temporarily, always with the goal of helping students move beyond them. The structure is not the destination; it is a support that allows students to eventually write with flexibility, purpose, and confidence.

    My instructional planning would begin by assessing where each learner is and identifying their next doable step. In practice, this philosophy would shape both what and how I teach. I would begin by modeling the five-paragraph essay and explicitly teaching argumentative structures such as thesis statements, reasons, evidence, and counterclaims. As students become more comfortable, I would expand the curriculum to include public narratives, multimodal essays, peer review workshops, and other genres that invite creativity and real-world engagement. This gradual expansion honors the need for structure while making room for student choice and authentic expression. As students gain competence, I would gradually remove these supports so that responsibility shifts from teacher to student. This process acknowledges that learning is developmental and that independence is built through practice, feedback, and trust. Scaffolding, in my classroom, would always be temporary, designed to empower students rather than create dependency.

    At the same time, I believe education is never neutral. Influenced by Paulo Freire, I reject the “banking model” of education in which teachers deposit information into passive students (Freire, 1970). Instead, I aim for a problem-posing approach where students and teachers investigate real questions together, connect learning to lived experience, and engage in meaningful dialogue. In this model, the teacher is not the sole authority but a co-learner who guides inquiry while remaining open to students’ insights. bell hooks extends this idea through her concept of engaged pedagogy, which challenges teachers to build classrooms rooted in community, care, and shared purpose (hooks, 1994). I do not want my classroom to be a place where work is merely assigned and completed; I want it to be a space where students feel valued, heard, and responsible for one another’s learning. Modeling vulnerability, encouraging reflection, and fostering mutual accountability are essential parts of this process.

    Ultimately, I want students to leave my classroom more capable and more conscious. I want them to read complex texts and contexts, write with purpose for real audiences, listen carefully, revise thoughtfully, and offer feedback in good faith. I want them to recognize where they can improve and feel empowered to take the steps necessary to do so. To achieve this, I must know my content deeply and teach with intention, while also cultivating a classroom grounded in dignity, curiosity, and courage. The teacher I strive to be does not see school as a place where knowledge is deposited, but as a place where knowledge is created, questioned, and used for the common good.



Work Cited:

Burke, J. (2013). The English teacher’s companion: A completely new guide to classroom, curriculum, and the profession (4th ed.). Heinemann.

Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Continuum.

Hooks, b. (1994). Teaching to transgress: Education as the practice of freedom. Routledge.

[Written for ENGL 2800 class UVU Spring 2026]
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When Books Are Banned, Students Are Silenced: The Real Cost of Limiting Literature

The biggest problem with literacy in middle and high school isn’t that students can’t read; it’s that schools don’t give them enough time or the right conditions to enjoy reading. Students get better at reading by reading books they care about every day at school. (Kittle, pg.78)

The traditional literary canon taught in English classrooms is often valued for its historical and literary significance. Still, the subject matter, language, and social context of the books don’t appeal to many students today. Contemporary YA literature explores issues such as race, identity, mental health, trauma, injustice, sexuality, and other topics relevant to students today. They include literature by authors of color, LGBTQ+ perspectives, and characters from different socioeconomic backgrounds. Students reading these books can see themselves in the topics, themes, and social situations they face every day.

In her article titled Think Beyond the Literary Canon, Megan Mayle does not argue for replacing the classics with contemporary works. She believes combining the two will create more stimulating conversations and get more students interested in reading. “Student engagement and motivation are essential to creating a successful learning environment.” (Mayle, pg.9) When students are engaged and interested in the literature they read, they learn to tackle real-world problems like social justice, independence, mental health issues, identity, and more. When the books students read are banned or challenged in schools, it shows those students that they are not valid, their feelings and insecurities are not real, and they are not important enough to have a place amongst the classics.

Students need to be able to express their frustrations, thoughts, and ideas with their classmates and teachers. The current educational system sees students as empty containers that teachers need to fill. If the students listen, are disciplined, comply, respond when asked, and adapt to the teacher’s environment, they are seen as model students. When they speak out, talk back, ask questions, and dare to be different, they are seen as students who are disruptive and not there to learn. In Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Paulo Freire mentions that “knowledge emerges only through invention and re-invention, through the restless, impatient, continuing, hopeful inquiry men pursue in the world, with the world, and with each other.” (Freire, pg. 1) Those students who crave knowledge don’t just want their container filled; they want honest conversations with their teachers and peers. They want an open dialogue in which they can express their thoughts and feelings. They want their teachers to learn and investigate alongside them. Teachers cannot give that kind of attention to students if they are there just to fill their containers.

In Engaged Pedagogy, we read that “to teach in a manner that respects and cares for the souls of our students is essential if we are to provide the necessary conditions where learning can most deeply and intimately begin.” (Hooks, pg. 13) When you take away materials that students want to engage in, books that show them something about themselves, subject matters that truly interest them, and expect them to still want to engage in the classroom, you are sorely mistaken.

The classroom is a rare space where freedom can be practiced through dialogue, mutual recognition, and a shared commitment to growth. Teachers and students can fully engage with each other and refuse passive roles. Banning and challenging books will severely limit those conversations and take the joy of reading away from many who do not relate to the older classics that are still on the same reading lists that have existed for the last 30 years.

 

Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Continuum.

Hooks, B. (1994). Teaching to transgress: Education as the practice of freedom. Routledge.

Kittle, P. (2020). Let them read, please: What it takes to build a culture of reading in secondary schools. Educational Leadership, 77(5), 77–81.

Mayle, M. (2021). Think Beyond the Literary Canon: The Potential for Young Adult Literature within a High School Classroom (Honors thesis, University of Akron). 

[Written for ENGL 2800 class UVU Spring 2026]
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Women Talking: A Story That Demands to Be Heard

When I first read Women Talking by Miriam Toews in May 2024, I was struck by its raw honesty and the depth of its questions about faith, obedience, and freedom. It’s a story that lingers long after the last page—a story about women who have been silenced for generations, told they must submit to men to gain salvation and entry into heaven. Their entire lives were built on obedience, on the belief that speaking up was forbidden.

This weekend, I finally watched the film adaptation. I had heard that the movie changed the portrayal of the women, and indeed, the setting felt different. The book takes place in Bolivia, and in my mind, I pictured women with darker skin living in an isolated colony, far removed from the world—perhaps deep in the Amazon. The movie, however, felt like Pennsylvania farmland, with women who looked like those in traditional U.S. Mennonite communities. At first, this shift unsettled me. I thought the setting would matter more. But as the story unfolded, the location faded away. What remained was the truth—the voices of women who had been denied their humanity.

Both the book and the movie are powerful because they center on the same question: What do you do when your faith demands forgiveness, but your soul cries out for justice? The women gather in a hayloft to decide their future: stay and submit, fight, or leave. Their conversations are urgent, tender, and revolutionary.

One line from the book has stayed with me:
“Freedom is good... it’s better than slavery. And forgiveness is good, better than revenge. And hope for the unknown is good, better than hatred of the familiar.”
This quote captures the tension between hope and fear, between the comfort of what we know and the terrifying possibility of change.

The movie echoes this theme with a line that reflects Mennonite pacifism:
“It is a part of our faith to forgive. We have always forgiven those who have wronged us. Why not now?”
But the women ask: Is forgiveness that is coerced true forgiveness? And what does it mean to forgive when the violence is unspeakable?

When the credits rolled, I sat in silence, just as I had after finishing the book. The story is not just about Mennonite women—it’s about all women who have been silenced, treated as property, denied agency. It’s about the courage to speak, to dream, to choose freedom even when the cost is everything you’ve ever known.

This story needs to be shared because oppression thrives in silence. And when women talk—really talk—they begin to change the world.

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Mennonite Peace Theology: A Radical Witness

For my major project in my Religion, Violence, and Peacebuilding class, we worked in groups to research a tradition connected to peace theology. My group was assigned Mennonite Peace Theology. Together, we wrote a comprehensive paper and gave a 20-minute presentation to the class summarising our findings. After completing the group work, each of us was asked to write an individual reflection on what we learned. I am sharing my personal reflection to give a glimpse into what stood out to me during this project.

When I began researching Mennonite peace theology for our group project, I expected to find a simple commitment to pacifism. Instead, I discovered a tradition that challenges the very foundations of how we think about power, justice, and faith. Mennonites don't just advocate for peace; they embody it in ways that push against cultural norms and even mainstream Christian ethics. Their approach is not abstract theory; it's a lived practice that demands courage and conviction.

For my part, I explored the historical roots and the literal interpretation of Jesus' teachings that shape this theology. What I learned reframed my understanding of discipleship and raised questions about what it means to follow Christ in a world marked with violence.

Below is the reflection paper I wrote for class, which dives deeper into these ideas:

Working on our group project about Mennonite peace theology gave me a deeper appreciation for how radically this tradition interprets scripture. Before this assignment, I understood pacifism in broad strokes, but I had never explored a faith community that takes Jesus’ teachings on peace and violence so literally.

My role in the project was to provide background and explain how Mennonites ground their theology in the Sermon on the Mount, particularly the call to “love your enemies” and “turn the other cheek.” This was not just theory for them; it was a way of life.

As I researched, I was intrigued by the diversity within Mennonite peace traditions. I learned about models such as Historical Nonresistance, Apolitical Nonresistance, Realist Pacifism, Liberation Pacifism, and Neo-Sectarian Pacifism. Each represents a different way of engaging with the world while holding fast to the principles of nonviolence. What struck me most was that being Mennonite today looks very different than in the 16th century, yet the core commitment remains: to reject violence and embody peace.

One idea that resonated deeply with me came from Donal Dorr: “Walk humbly with thy God.” This phrase captures the spirit of Mennonite theology, a humility that shapes their response to conflict. Historically, some Mennonites practiced nonresistance by withdrawing from society, avoiding political involvement, and refusing military service. While this stance protected their integrity, it often meant doing nothing in the face of injustice. Today, many Mennonites challenge this passive approach. They seek to transform their tradition into one that not only resists violence but actively promotes justice and reconciliation. This shift inspired me because it shows how faith can evolve to meet the needs of a broken world.

Engaging with these ideas raised important questions for me: What does it mean to follow Jesus’ teachings on peace in a violent world? Is pacifism practical, or even possible, when injustice demands action? Mennonite theology suggests that peace is not passive, it is a radical, costly commitment. It requires creativity, courage, and a willingness to suffer for the sake of love. This challenges my own assumptions about conflict. I often think in terms of defense or retaliation, but Mennonite thought invites me to imagine alternatives: dialogue instead of domination, forgiveness instead of revenge.

This project also made me reflect on the role of religion in shaping ethics. I have a complicated relationship with religion, yet I cannot deny its power to inspire hope and resistance to violence. Mennonite communities remind me that faith can be a force for good when it prioritizes compassion over control. Their example raises a profound question: How can we build a world where peace is not just an ideal but a lived reality?

In the end, this assignment was more than an academic exercise, it was a personal challenge. It pushed me to consider what I believe about violence, justice, and forgiveness. It reminded me that peace is not easy, but it is possible when people commit to it with humility and courage. Mennonite theology may seem radical, but perhaps that is exactly what our world needs.

This research left me with a sense of awe and discomfort, the kind that sparks growth. Mennonite peace theology isn't about avoidance of conflict; it's about active engagement through love, justice, and vulnerability. In a society that often equates strength with domination, this tradition insists that true strength looks like humility and reconciliation. It asks hard questions: Can peace exist without coercion? What does radical obedience look like today?

As Donal Dorr reminds us, the call to "walk humbly with thy God" is not a slogan but a summons to transformation. For Mennonites, that means building communities that reflect God's kingdom here and now, a vision that continues to challenge violence and inspire hope.

Sources:

Burkholder, John Richard, and Barbara Nelson Gingerich, eds. Mennonite Peace Theology: A Panorama of Types. Elkhart, IN: Institute of Mennonite Studies, 1991.

Ewert, Lowell, Mary Lou Klassen, and Derek Suderman. “Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulness: Human Rights and Mennonite Faith in the Context of Peacebuilding Practice.” In A Pilgrimage of Justice and Peace: Global Mennonite Perspectives on Peacebuilding and Nonviolence, edited by Fernando Enns, Nina Schroeder-van ’t Schip, and Andrés Pacheco-Lozano, Wipf & Stock, 2023.

[Written for PHIL 366G class UVU Fall 2025]
aB . All Rights Reserved . 2025

Faith, Doubt, and Devilish Insight: Rereading The Screwtape Letters Through a New Lens

This post contains personal reflections on The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis, including interpretations from both religious and secular viewpoints.

The Screwtape Letters is one of my favorite books and has been for a long time. I end up picking it up every few years to read again, as I seem to find something new to ponder each time. The first time I read it, I was quite religious, and the book felt like a lifeline, a reminder that faith can endure even through confusion, temptation, and suffering. I read it after my divorce, and it gave me insights into the pitfalls of life and how humans can be deceived so easily. Three years ago, I went through a faith crisis and now consider myself to be agnostic. I am open to spiritual ideas but uncertain about the existence or nature of a higher power. Religion still fascinates me, but from an academic viewpoint. Reading The Screwtape Letters after going through a faith crisis made me see the book in an entirely different light, and it was amazing.

C.S. Lewis portrays spiritual warfare through the eyes of a demon advising his nephew. The premises are clever and affirming to many. The books’ brilliance did not fade after my faith crisis; it shifted instead. Lewis’s insights into human psychology, self-deception, and moral complexity still resonate, but now I appreciate them as literary and philosophical reflections rather than spiritual truths.

What struck me most this time around was how well Lewis captured the subtle ways people rationalize their choices, drift from their values, and become strangers to themselves. The “devil” in this book became less of a literal being and more a metaphor for the internal voices that lead us away from authenticity, compassion, and clarity.

Reading the Screwtape Letters as both a Christian and a skeptic has been a rare and rewarding experience. It shows me that Lewis’s writing skills speak volumes across different world views. Whether you see it as a spiritual allegory or psychological satire, it is a work that invites reflection. I will return to this book every few years, like I have done in the past. I know next time I will find new meaning in the same old words that Lewis penned over 80 years ago.

Published: 1942
Last Read: September 19, 2024

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Faith, Fear and the Aftermath of 9/11: Religion in a Time of Crisis

The fourth week of November's material took us back to one of the most defining moments of modern history, the September 11 attacks, and explored how religion shaped both the violence and the response. The readings and documentary challenged me to think about the intersection of faith, fear, and ethics in times of crisis.

Andrew Sullivan's essay This is a Religious War argues that 9/11 was not just a political act but a theological one. The attackers framed their violence as a sacred duty, rooted in a radical interpretation of Islam. Sullivan warns that ignoring the religious dimension of terrorism oversimplifies the problem and blinds us to the ideological struggle at its core.

Helen Whitney's documentary Faith and Doubt at Ground Zero gave voice to the spiritual turmoil that followed the attacks. Survivors, first responders, and families wrestled with profound questions: where was God? How could faith survive such evil? Some found solace in prayer; others lost belief entirely. The film reminded me that violence doesn't just destroy lives, it shakes the foundations of meaning.

Khaled Abou El Fadl's essay The Place of Tolerance in Islam counters extremist narratives by reclaiming the Qur'an's emphasis on justice and compassion. He argues that intolerance stems from misreading scripture, not from Islam itself. This perspective is crucial because it shows that religious texts can be interpreted toward peace rather than violence.

Finally, John Esposito's chapter on Jihad clarified that the term means "struggle", not holy war. While extremists distort it to justify terror, many Muslims understand jihad as an inner moral effort. Esposito's work underscored how language and theology can be weaponized, or redeemed.

The key takeaway for me this week is how religion can be both a source of violence and a wellspring of resilience. After 9/11, faith communities faced a choice: retreat into fear or embrace tolerance and dialogue. That choice still matters today.

Sources:

Abou El Fadl, K. (2001, December 23). The place of tolerance in Islam. Boston Review.

Esposito, J. L. (2002). Jihad and the struggle for Islam. In Unholy war: Terror in the name of Islam (pp. 26–70). Oxford University Press.

Sullivan, A. (2001, October 7). This is a religious war. The New York Times Magazine.

Whitney, H. (Director). (2002). Faith and doubt at Ground Zero [Film]. PBS Frontline.

Written for PHIL 366G class UVU Fall 2025]
aB . All Rights Reserved . 2025