In the traditional Lenten season, we often look toward physical deprivations—sweets, caffeine, or social media—as a means of sharpening the soul. Yet, there is a more subtle clutter that fills our minds and spirits: the “prejudicial adjective.” If one were to operate as a newspaper or a magazine, the most transformative Lenten sacrifice might not be a change in diet, but a fast from the descriptive crutches that seek to sway the heart before the mind has even processed the facts.
In our current media landscape, the goal of communication has shifted from information to “influence.” Every article seems designed to dictate how the reader should feel rather than what they should know. This is achieved through the maximum use of adjectives—verbal seasonings that often overwhelm the actual substance of the story.
The “Hubbell Pew,” like any modern platform, is likely as guilty as the rest. We have become accustomed to a diet of linguistic excess where nouns are no longer allowed to stand on their own merit.
Consider the common phrase “convicted felon.” As an observation of fact, it is a redundancy; a “felon” is, by definition, one who has been convicted of a felony. Yet, commentators cling to the double-weight of the descriptor. It isn’t enough to state the status of the individual; the writer must reinforce the stigma with a repetitive flourish. It serves as a linguistic “shove,” ensuring the reader views the individual through a lens of permanent condemnation. This extends to our descriptions of the physical world and the character of our neighbors. Houses are no longer structures of shelter; they are “sprawling mansions” or “dilapidated shacks.” People are rarely just defendants; they are “fraudsters,” “monopolists,” or “con artists”—titles that serve as judge and jury before a trial even begins.
Perhaps the most exhausting example of this trend is found in our description of the judiciary. In a world of prejudicial adjectives, a judge is never simply a “judge.” We are told they are a “liberal judge,” a “conservative appointee,” or a “Trump-appointed/Obama-appointed” jurist. By tethering a person’s professional title to their perceived political pedigree, we strip away the possibility of impartiality. We suggest that their judgment is not a product of the law, but a product of their adjective.
The goal of a Lenten sacrifice is to remove the “extra” so that we can see the “essential.” When we fast from prejudicial adjectives, we perform a radical act of intellectual and spiritual honesty. By stripping away the descriptors that tell us how to feel, we are forced to look at the “noun”—the person, the place, or the event—as it truly is. We stop being “swayed” and start being “informed.” In the silence where the adjectives used to live, we find room for charity, for nuanced thought, and for the objective truth that “now-a-days” is so often buried under the weight of descriptive bias. This Lent, by reducing the use of these prejudicial tools in our speech and our writing, we might find that the world is much more complex, and much more human, than our adjectives would have us believe.
One of your best!
Thanks Phyllis. I enjoyed it.