I have trouble remembering things. Movies, for example. By the time I walk out of the theater, I’ve already forgotten the names of key characters and crucial plot details.
An extreme example is The Usual Suspects, which I have watched three times, believing each time it was my first. Conversations about the movie led to subsequent viewings. I would sheepishly explain my movie amnesia, maintaining that maybe I had seen that one or maybe I hadn’t. Someone would say how jaw-dropping and unforgettable the ending is and insist that if I couldn’t remember seeing it, I most certainly hadn’t. Rewatching it, it took much longer than it should have to remember that it wasn’t the first time. If memory serves, though clearly it doesn’t, it wasn’t until after the third viewing that the ludicrous reality dawned on me: I may be the only person in the world who has watched The Usual Suspects three times and been equally blown away each time.
This story strains credulity, I know. But truthfully, even today, I could not for the life of me even tell you what that movie is about, let alone how it ends.
While my problem is unusual, I would venture to say that forgetfulness as a spiritual condition is not. Many of us are chronically forgetful about things that really matter. This is one reason studying history has become such an important spiritual practice for me: it’s a way to push back against my personal and our collective amnesia about our storied and complicated pasts.
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This may sound over the top, but moving from theological to historical thinking may have saved my faith. Don’t get me wrong; I remain profoundly grateful for my theological education. But after growing up evangelical, I approached seminary as the accumulation of knowledge and the affirmation of dogma—despite the fact that I had wise professors who distinguished between learning for information and for transformation. For reasons I am still unpacking, I needed to leave my theological world to really begin seeing—and loving—the actual world around me.
I was reminded of how far I had traveled from that theological bubble when I attended a book launch event for one of my history professors in graduate school. It was a festive evening of hors d’oeuvres and cocktails, with considerable buzz surrounding the guest speaker, an esteemed scholar presumably there to heap praise on a new contribution to the field.
After a few perfunctory remarks, however, the famous historian launched into a long critique of the book’s gaps and shortcomings, exposing areas where he found the argument unconvincing. I found the experience mortifying and wondered how the guest could be so disrespectful.
When his talk finally ended, my professor took the stage. To my surprise, his demeanor was upbeat. In fact, he was beaming. After a few pleasantries, he began to address each criticism head on. Subtle jabs provoked muffled chuckles; humorous rebuttals sent the room into uproarious laughter.
I soon realized what was happening. A senior scholar had offered a younger colleague the gift of generous intellectual engagement. It was a public display of the discipline’s capacity for debate.
Walking home that night, I realized that I had never witnessed such an exchange among theologians, and I was hard-pressed to imagine it—at least in the theological worlds I had known. In a field where the stakes are not just high but eternal, where one’s identity and integrity are often felt to be on the line, critical disagreement easily becomes a fraught and perilous endeavor.
Lest I upset my theologian friends, I don’t doubt that there are better ways people engage in theological dialogue. It must be possible to study the ways of God with a spirit of generosity unfettered by tradition or ego. Nor do I mean to idealize history. The ardor of my new convert days wore off long ago, and I have since encountered defensive, cantankerous dogmatism in the pursuit of historical knowledge as well.
Nevertheless, beginning with theology and continuing with history has been a gift to my journey of faith. Historical thinking enriched my theological imagination. At their best, theology and history are complementary tools that enact remembering as a sacred practice. The preponderance of admonitions to remember suggests that I am on the right track. In scripture, the imperative to remember is often a call to trust God in the present because of God’s faithfulness in the past.
Living in the light of the past, however, is easier said than done. Remembering requires spiritual labor. “I will remember the deeds of the Lord,” declares the psalmist—but only after a series of the most anguished, visceral complaints: “I think of God, and I moan. . . . You keep my eyelids from closing. . . . Will the Lord spurn forever? . . . Has God forgotten to be gracious?” (Ps. 77:3–11). Each lament is also an audacious critique of God. Together they form a crescendo of despair. Yet the psalm then turns toward remembrance. A theological crisis leads to reflection on the past, and reflection opens a way back to trust.
When I wrestle with forgetfulness, it helps to remember I am not alone. Across generations, people of faith have found the work of remembering to be a demanding spiritual practice. It is a form of prayer that comes after bitter complaints and long, sleepless nights. We labor to remember because we are prone to forget. We pray because it is tempting, and often easier, to forge ahead toward our own visions of the future without regard for where we have come from. To pray is to remember; to remember is to pray.
