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.