Nostalgia

Exodus 17:1-7   

There is a writer named Michael Chabon who wrote a magazine article about what a good boy he was. He said all his life he has been the dutiful child who will sit and listen to the old folks. He will listen to the stories of the old uncles that nobody wants to listen to anymore. He will patiently explain the mysteries of the newfangled world we find ourselves in and agreeably listen as they explain how much better it used to be. As a child at family gatherings, he would endure all the questions they wanted to ask and he would politely listen to all their advice and cautionary stories, long after all the other kids had run off to play.

As an adult, he still does that – he’s the guy who listens to all the old stories about how wonderful life used to be, even branching out beyond his own family. At a wedding or a Bar Mitzvah, he is likely to be found sitting with somebody else’s Uncle Jack, patiently hearing the stories Uncle Jack’s own family long ago grew weary of.

Maybe it’s out of a sense of empathy, because he knows that, someday, he might very well be an Uncle Jack himself, looking for somebody, anybody, who will listen to him. That might have something to do with it. But he doesn’t say that. He wants us to know that, really and truly, he likes hearing the stories. He doesn’t mind all this nostalgia.

Nostalgia is something that has a bad rep, but it’s not all bad, is it? It feels pretty good. There is in it the fleeting sense of some lost beauty in the world – the wistful memories of childhood, a remembrance of youthful nights with friends, laughing together. It’s an appreciation and a longing for something wonderful that will never be again.

But one of the weird things about nostalgia that we have to acknowledge is that it often distorts the past. We remember how, when we were kids, everything was better. Sunshine was sunnier, snow was snowier, tomatoes were juicier.

In our memories, our accomplishments were more accomplished. Our values were more valuable. Our commonsense ways of doing things were just more … commonsense. In our memories, everything was better back then.

There are psychological reasons for this. Our memories are selective; we are just more likely to remember the good things. It’s not that we’re trying to deceive ourselves, but on some level we try not to remember the bad things, because they can be painful. And so the past takes on a softer focus, a rosier glow. And that is normal.

But our nostalgia really gets amped up when the present time is uncomfortable, when the future is uncertain. Hence, we have the peculiar complaints of the Israelites in the wilderness. It was only a short time ago that they were praying to God to be released from bondage in Egypt. And now they are looking at Moses with accusing eyes and asking why he has done this to them. It’s remarkable.

You can’t help but admire their complaints; they are so good at it. If there is such a thing as a creative complaint competition, they could definitely be contenders. My favorite is in Chapter 14, when they say: Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us, bringing us out of Egypt?

When they got panicky, they seemed to remember a different experience in Egypt than the one they had actually endured. They reminisced about sitting around their pots full of meat, eating all they wanted. Their heads were full of memories of meat and fish, cucumbers, melons, leeks, garlic and onions! As if!

Slavery never looked so good as it did in the heads of these scared and lost Israelites in the wilderness.

And that is the danger and the harm of nostalgia. As they stepped into an unknown place and an uncertain future, they pined for a gauzy, prettied-up version of the past. They remembered the best snippets of what it had been like, cutting out all the pieces that didn’t fit this rosy narrative – and there were a lot of pieces that didn’t fit. They turned their faces to this fictionalized memory of the good old days in Egypt. And as long as they were fixated on that memory of the past it was impossible for them to see the present into which God was leading them.

True, this present where God was leading them was a wilderness. Yes, we do have some sympathy for them. Imagine being led away from the only home you had ever known, by a man you barely know, into a harsh land you know not at all.

Yet, as long as they are looking back they cannot live into the future.

We live in a time not too different from this wilderness period. We face, every day, an uncertain future about the church. We have worries about declining attendance and the aging of our congregations. And we wonder what it means for the future. In a sense, we are in our own wilderness.

So, we look back at the good old days, when the sanctuaries were full. We look back to when the churches were full of children, the offering plates were full of envelopes, and the pulpits were full of – men.

And we remember a time when children were taught to pray in public schools, when the laws kept businesses closed on Sundays, and schools wouldn’t dare schedule an activity on a Wednesday night because that was church night. We look back wistfully at a time when the church held power. Oh, how sweet it was.

But was it? Really?

When I look back, I see a church that never used the word spiritual. In fact, most church members didn’t even know what it meant – it sounded suspicious. But now we use the word more and more, seeking an understanding of it, what it means to seek spiritual growth, and we find ourselves drawn into it. Isn’t that a good thing?

When I look back, I see a church that did not much concern itself with justice – a church that largely ignored so many of the injustices that were right outside our doors. But we were doing our thing, inside, and all that other stuff wasn’t really on our radar. Now, though, we see it. Now we ask ourselves: what would Jesus do about the injustices of the world?

Perhaps we do have a sense of the future God is leading us into.

I was once at a church leadership workshop where the question was asked: How many of you think your church’s best days are behind you? Many raised their hands. Then he asked this: How many of you think God’s best days are behind God? Not a hand was raised. So doesn’t it seem to make sense that if our interests are aligned with God’s then our best days are ahead of us?

Did you know that this generation of Israelites, the great complainers, never made it to the Promised Land? Perhaps because they were too nostalgic for the past. They couldn’t stop looking back. They couldn’t see the gifts God was placing before them. That is too easy to do. May you not let nostalgia get the better of things.

May you see the past for what it was – both good and bad, and past. May you live in the present, where Christ is with you. May you step into the future in trust. May you live in gratitude for what was, what is, and what will be.

Photo by Peter Herrmann on Unsplash