In a recent conversation with a friend I dearly love, we were talking about what people are longing for these days—particularly in the church. He described it as a hunger for the ancient future—a return to something old, something deep and rooted, that can still guide us into what’s next. The phrase stuck with me. It has a kind of theological gravitas, a sense of being tethered to something transcendent and timeless.
But as we kept talking, he quickly latched onto a concept I had been mulling over for some time: nostalgic novelty. It’s less idealistic, more accessible—an expression of a similar longing, just in a different register. If ancient future is a compass for ecclesial renewal, nostalgic novelty might be the playlist for cultural mood.
Two Expressions, One Desire
At first glance, ancient future and nostalgic novelty seem like opposites. One is lofty, even liturgical—an intentional recovery of early church rhythms, theological depth, and sacramental imagination. The other is intuitive and accessible—a remix of familiar forms, updated for modern tastes. Ancient future wants to restore the beauty of what was lost. Nostalgic novelty wants to enjoy what we vaguely remember.
But beneath both is a common desire: to belong to something lasting. They’re different concepts, but at the root, a similar longing.
This is where an old John Piper quote resonates with me—“The mind is the lackey of the heart.” What the heart desires, the mind justifies. And both ideas are rooted in a shared longing. Whether it’s a yearning for the transcendent that might be found in incense and icons, or the comfort of an old favorite hymn with a new bridge or verse, the desire is similar. We seem to want history and hope.
The difference is not so much in the desire itself, but in the form that desire takes. And that form often depends on preference rather than something more substantial. Again, those longing for an ancient future still want rootedness in history that’s relevant now. Folks oriented toward nostalgic novelty still desire the comfort of the past—with a new twist.
Ideology vs. Expression
David Wells, in Above All Earthly Pow’rs, makes a helpful distinction between postmodernism as ideology and postmodernism as cultural mood. The ideology lives in the academy—constructed, argued, systematized. The mood lives on the street—felt, intuited, consumed. It’s the difference between a philosophical framework and a Spotify algorithm.
I think something similar is at play here. Ancient future is an ideology. It’s a vision, often found in theological texts and renewal movements, of recovering the deep wells of the early church to navigate the modern world. It aims high—toward ecclesial beauty, theological depth, and a counter-cultural faithfulness.
Nostalgic novelty, on the other hand, is a mood. It’s not trying to be profound; it’s trying to feel right. It’s the energy behind worship nights with 90s throwback sets and church plants that meet in old buildings but livestream everything. It’s sentimental and populist. It moves quickly, adapts easily, and is shaped more by affect than by doctrine.
But both—the ideology and the expression—emerge from the same soil. They are shaped by a common longing and grow in the cultural moment we inhabit. One begins in seminaries and renewal movements. The other shows up in memes, playlists, and redesigned logos.
And both are deeply connected because each is rooted in a core human longing: to be from somewhere and to be going somewhere.
The Risk of Arguing Over Forms
This is where I think we need to exercise some caution. When our hearts are drawn toward a particular form of church or worship, it’s easy to assume that our preference reflects deeper faithfulness. But the form is not the same as faithfulness.
Some are drawn toward structured liturgy, creeds, and sacramental practices. Others gravitate toward more familiar expressions—songs from childhood, environments that feel emotionally accessible, or language that resonates with everyday experience.
But the real risk is when we start debating which form is “better,” instead of recognizing the shared desire underneath. Both ancient future and nostalgic novelty are responses to a similar ache: a longing for something rooted and meaningful that also carries us into the future.
If we only evaluate the forms, we may miss the deeper question: What is forming us?
The challenge isn’t to choose between old and new, high church or low church, liturgical or informal. It’s to ask whether these forms—whatever they are—are actually helping us become more faithful to Jesus and more rooted in the story of God.
A Call to Discernment and Faithfulness
So where does this leave us?
If both ancient future and nostalgic novelty are built on the same root desire—to belong to something enduring and to walk toward something meaningful—then the goal isn’t to critique the desire, but to examine what we build on top of it.
The church doesn’t need to pick a side between idealism and populism, between the theological and the cultural. It needs to practice discernment. We need to be honest about what is shaping us, and what we are shaping in return.
I’ve been part of both high church and low church traditions, and each carries its own unique graces. One may offer a sense of reverence, stability, and theological depth. The other may cultivate intimacy, accessibility, and deep relational connection. And each, in its own way, is often reaching toward the same thing: to faithfully live out the gospel in this moment in time.
Nostalgia can comfort, and ancient liturgies can anchor. But neither is the gospel. Neither can transform apart from the Spirit of God working through the Word of God in the people of God.
We can hold our forms with appreciation—but also with humility. The ache beneath the form is not wrong. It may even be holy. But the call of the church is not to sanctify our preferences. It’s to be faithful in our generation.
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