In his autobiography, C.S. Lewis once pointed out that modern life is full of what he called “chronological snobbery.” In a nutshell, he was commenting on that habit we have of assuming today’s ideas are automatically better, and anything from the past must be outdated or wrong just because it’s old. The assumption goes: newer is truer, fresher is finer, and anything antique is quaint at best, dangerous at worst.
Not that I’d dare argue with Lewis (he’d outwit me before the coffee finished brewing), but I wonder if something has shifted since he coined the phrase in 1955.
Not everywhere, not loudly, but in certain pockets I see a kind of reverent curiosity blooming. A hunger for what’s old, not out of nostalgia, but out of need.
Think of the flood of folks learning to homestead, and the rising popularity of backyard chickens. I know many who are spending their evenings amongst pressure canners and countertops of garden goodies, not just for thrift, but for the satisfaction of sealing summer in a jar. Or how heritage seeds are passed hand to hand, like heirlooms of hope. There’s a tenderness in that, a trust that the old ways still hold life. Even antiquing, with its chipped enamel and worn edges, it feels less like collecting and more like remembering. We touch what others touched. We keep what others kept.
And religion. Oh, how it too is being re-approached! Not with the brash certainty of youth, but with the trembling hands of those who’ve tried the latest fads and found them wanting. I see families lighting votive candles at church, starting their day in the Word of God, children learning Latin prayers not for prestige but for rhythm, for rootedness. I see young mothers tracing Marian devotions with the same care they give to sourdough starters and baptismal gowns. It’s not performance, it’s pilgrimage.
I think of the Book of Jeremiah, where God says, “Stand by the roads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way is; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls,” (6:16).
There’s no shame in seeking the old ways. There’s courage in it. Because to walk the ancient path is to walk against the tide and know that truth isn’t always trending. It’s to believe that the past still speaks, still sings, still sanctifies.
I think Lewis would be encouraged today. Maybe not in every corner, but some places. Here.
As one who has known the value of old things since her first good dog, I’m happy for company who keeps shelves lined with jars and hearts lined with liturgy. Let’s keep listening to the saints and the soil. And when the world insists that newer is better, know I’ll just smile gently and stir my beans, knowing that sometimes it’s the oldest things that last.
