I Can’t Wait ‘Til the Future Gets Here

About a hundred years ago the French novelist, Marcel Proust, described a time when he ate a little cake that he dipped in his tea, and unexpectedly the taste on his lips brought himself—mind, body, and soul—back to his childhood. Many Sundays when he was a boy his Aunt would dip a little cake in her tea and hand it to young Marcel. His memory of those moments was somewhere in his mind all along, but he never thought of them until the taste triggered something nearly indescribable. Thankfully, Proust was a masterful writer, so his description of the event works well (you can read his account here,  starting with page 58).
Earlier this week I experienced something similar while doing the dishes and listening, as I often do, to music from my past. For the first time in years I played the soundtrack to a tragic musical entitled Dancer in the Dark. As the Overture began playing all the recurring themes of the movie, I turned off the faucet and just grabbed the counter—standing still. I was unexpectedly rushed back to the year 2001. I thought immediately of close friends from that era and remembered the times we shared as if my mind had held them back like a dam, waiting for this moment when they could breakthrough all at once. And I was helplessly lost in their current for the next half-hour.
In today’s huge economy of equipment for home videos, digital photos, and cheap collectibles, I doubt old Marcel and I are alone when it comes to relying on physical things to awaken our slumbering memories. But manufactured awakenings can be risky, because a fixation on past good times can easily morph into bitter nostalgia, a word that literally means “homesickness.” As we age we collect more and more memories, both good and bad. In later years when the dying process robs the joy and energy of daily life, the past can easily become something it never was—perfect. When tragic events drastically alter the course we once set out for ourselves, it is almost impossible to overcome the innate, upsetting feeling that our past (not our present or our future) is our real “home.” And we’ll never go back there again. It’s too late.
Instead of fixating on the past, God wants us to use this life to prepare us for our real home, which is locked up with him in our life to come. God created us as body-soul unities, so he knows how a taste, sight, sound, or touch can prompt our mind to recall so much from our past. God relies precisely on this earthy part of us by weaving the past, present, and future into our experience of the Lord’s Supper. The sights, tastes, and touches of the bread and wine prompt us to remember the past—when Jesus gave himself, body and blood, for us. But the Supper doesn’t leave us in the past. God keeps us in the present as we look around to our brothers and sisters who are here with us, knowing that Jesus himself is with us too, despite all our shortcomings as individuals and together as his church. Most interestingly, the Supper also takes us to the future. As we taste the bread on our tongues and feel the wine flow down our throats and into our stomachs we anticipate a great feast in God’s kingdom—where Jesus’ presence will be there with us in full.
We use physical things all the time to anticipate upcoming events in our lives. Brides try on their wedding dresses several times before the big day. I used to stare at tickets to future sporting events, anticipating the tailgate, rush of watching athletes in person, and time spent in special spaces during those games. But in the Supper God gives us a chance to anticipate something we’ve never experienced in full before—his kingdom. With each anticipation he can reveal more and more about our futures to us, our true “home,” as long as we’re looking for it.
Sadly, we often do not take advantage of God’s offer, because we have a tendency to limit the Supper to a handful of times a year. And when we do observe it our minds and hearts can often lie elsewhere. But perhaps just once the mushiness in your mouth and taste on your lips will sweep you away unexpectedly. Only this time you won’t be taken to your own past, like Marcel or me. Rather, you’ll be taken to your future. And you’ll be home.