It was William Faulkner, in his novel Requiem for a
Nun, who wrote these provocative words: “The past is
never dead. It’s not even past.”
We know this by experience, each of us impacted
by what has happened to us. Words that have been
spoken. Actions that were taken. And it is as true of
communities and nations as it is of individuals that
the past is never dead. It lives on within us, among
us, particularly evident for people who claim faith or,
perhaps better, are claimed by faith. We belong to a
tradition that is rooted in what came before us. We
stand on the shoulders of ancestors—sinners and
saints. We bear the burdens and enjoy the blessings
of a past we did not control. We gather every week,
and we read these texts that were written centuries,
millennia, ago. This is not a place for breaking news
or tracking what’s trending. No, our stories travel a
great distance to get here. We are a people with a
long history, a deep memory. And there can be great
comfort in that reality, to be sure.
This Lent, we’ve been exploring ancient texts that
recall experiences in the wilderness. There was Jesus
tempted in the desert for 40 days. God’s people
wandering through barren wastelands for 40 years
between promise and fulfillment. There were those
disciples stranded in a storm on the sea. Jacob on the
run far from home. Scripture is filled with wilderness
moments. And while these stories may recount past
events, they speak in the present tense. So it is this
morning with the words of the prophet Isaiah.
Isaiah addresses God’s people living in exile in
Babylon. They are far from home. They are captives in
a hostile land again. And in that context, Isaiah lifts up
these treasured memories.
Hey, do you remember when God freed our ancestors
from slavery in Egypt? Do you remember how God
parted the waters of the Red Sea and made a pathway
in the middle of those rushing currents?
I can imagine the response of the congregation as
Isaiah recounts these events. Of course we remember,
Isaiah. We’ve heard these stories all of our lives. But
if only we lived in those days and not in these days,
these terrible times. If only we could go back.
And that’s what makes Isaiah’s next move so
interesting to me. It’s a daring approach to the
prophetic task of truth telling, that having rooted his
proclamation in the past, Isaiah urges us to forget it.
I’ve been puzzling on that admonition. Do not
remember the former things. Why not? Why not turn
our eyes backward?
Well the past is complicated. Most of us deal with it
in two distinct but related ways. Two temptations.
Neither one particularly helpful.
The first one is what I’ll call selective amnesia. We
make a conscious decision to forget some element of
the past we may find disturbing or shameful. In fact,
often in the Hebrew Scriptures the people of God are
commanded to remember as a way of overcoming
precisely that temptation, an instruction tied to ethical
practices toward the poor, the marginalized, and the
oppressed. Remember, remember, God says, that
you were once in their shoes. Remember that you too
suffered oppression. Remember God’s mercy poured
out on you in the most difficult of circumstances. And
then, when you remember, let that memory guide you
toward justice and compassion. Remember.
You see, selective amnesia is dangerous because
it absolves us of the responsibilities rooted in our
stories. We can become bound only by our own selfinterest in the present. It was for those with amnesia
that American philosopher George Santayana
wrote the oft-quoted wisdom: “Those who cannot
remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” We
should be mindful of the risk of amnesia.
But it is not the only risk, not the only temptation,
facing God’s people in this morning’s story. This
selective amnesia is the gateway to a more
pernicious trap. Nostalgia.
Now this one is easy to understand. They’re exiled.
They’re in a strange land. Unfamiliar and inhospitable
at best. Dangerous and deadly at worst. And so,
God’s people begin to paint pictures of life the way
they imagine it perhaps used to be. The glory days.
You remember when our God was on the throne. You
remember when we had prestige and power.
Before you judge these ancient people too harshly,
remember the past is never dead. Their story is our
story. We, too, are tempted by selective amnesia and
nostalgia. I know I am. I find myself yearning for the
good old days, and I think you can relate because I
hear it often. For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been
keeping track, and here are just a few sentences I
have heard in the last, say, six weeks:
When I was young, people had respect for their
leaders, their elders, their country, their neighbors,
their God.
People used to volunteer without even being asked.
Pastor, if only we could return to simpler times.
We didn’t have all these problems when I was a kid.
I just wish we could take this church, this city, this
country back again.
I remember when that sanctuary was filled twice
every Sunday.
Now, did I mention that I, too, am a regular
practitioner of such nostalgia? So much so that our
two sons have a little game they play at my expense.
It involves a comical, mocking voice and the phrase,
“Back in my day…” followed by some pseudo-memory.
Back in my day only grownups ate dessert. Back in
my day, they actually played defense in the NBA.
Back in my day, Duke won back-to-back national
championships. It goes on like this for a while, and
it usually ends in some utter absurdity, like: Back in
my day we had to watch out for dinosaurs when we
played outside.
Nostalgia. It’s a powerful, gripping force among us,
especially when we are anxious for the future. And,
my friends, we are a profoundly anxious people. This
week, I read an alarming essay titled Why We Gave
Up on the Future. The author describes ours as an age
that “has discarded visions of pathbreaking novelty
and increasingly focuses on intramural arguments
about which elements of a nostalgic past to emulate.”
Sounds like our faith ancestors. In times of despair, we
construct a past. We remember through rose-colored
glasses, and so did our ancestors. Back in my day…
Back in my day, God parted the Red Sea, and we
walked through on dry land. Back in my day, God was
powerful, and everyone knew it. Back in my day…
But the prophet Isaiah will simply not allow it. Stop!
he says. Stop worshiping the past. Stop being held
captive by memories that tell only a partial truth.
Quit the nostalgia because it is preventing you from
seeing what God is doing right now. No matter how
hard we may try, it is not possible to live in the past.
And so, nostalgia does not create a different world, it
denies the beauty of the one we’re living in and the
responsibilities that are ours.
Having instructed God’s people to forget what was,
Isaiah speaks of what God is about to do. And what
he unwraps here is the antidote to selective amnesia
and stifling nostalgia. It is imagination. His words
overflow with imaginative power.
Friends, we cannot begin to live transformed lives, or
think of building a new world, unless we first imagine
another way is possible. The words of the prophet are
designed to shake us up. The past might inform, but it
must never dictate, our future. We worship and serve
a living God.
Long ago, God parted the waters and gave dry land
for safe passage. That was then. It will be different this
time. There will be a river in the desert. But you must
know where—or how—to look. Imagination conquers
nostalgia with renewed vision. When we are captive to
wistful remembering, we find ourselves immobilized,
our faith drained. We give up on the future. But when
we trust a living God, all things are possible.
I thought of this a few weeks ago when I attended an
event celebrating the work of the Congregational Care
Network at IU Health. It’s an extraordinary program
that partners isolated patients with volunteers who
offer encouragement and receive friendship in return.
At the event, a speaker referred to a phrase used
to describe factors that have a negative influence
on wellbeing. That phrase is: social determinants of
health. Things like lack of access to nutritious food,
systems of discrimination, educational inequity, and
generational poverty. The speaker told us that he had
stopped using that phrase, replacing it with this one:
social impediments to health. It’s a subtle change, but
it describes a significant difference. When we speak of
determinants, we speak of what is fixed, set in stone,
outside of our control. There is this implicit fatalism
that can deplete our energy. But the truth is we can do
something about these systems and challenges. But
first, we must imagine a different way: a community
mobilized to support the most vulnerable.
Nearly one-third of Marion County residents needed
food assistance in 2023. One-third. 90% of renters
spend more than 30% of their income on housing.
These are profound challenges, impediments to
wellbeing. But they don’t tell the whole story. There
is incredible abundance among us. Abundance of
material resources, yes. And abundance of generous
hearts and compassionate spirits. What we lack, it
seems to me, is prophetic imagination. A vision for a
brighter future of shared wellbeing. A vision that can
take shape right here.
So do not remember the former things. Yes, they were
miraculous in their time, inspiring for sure. But God
is about to do a new thing. In the desert, John the
Baptist found a river. He spoke of new beginnings as
he baptized those who came seeking transformation.
The gift we have to offer the world is our imagination.
The green shoot sprouts the instant we acknowledge
its potential. We look across the arid wasteland and,
could it be? A river flowing through the desert. Yes,
there is hope in the wilderness. You just have to know
where to look. Amen.