You Actually Like Tradition

Can you remember your first baseball game?

I fondly remember mine. When I was 6 years old, my dad took me to Comiskey Park on the south side of Chicago. I remember the walk through the stadium, passing busy vendors and a sea of fans. I remember getting to our seats, the announcer introducing our Chicago White Sox, the roar of the crowd, the cheers, the boos. I can still hear the wailing of the Hammond organ winding up the next play. I can still smell the hot dogs, beer, and peanuts as the vendors paced the stairs, barking the whole while.

You go to a baseball game expecting and looking forward to a few things. Of course you most look forward to seeing a game. Maybe if you’re like me, you look forward to simply sitting with friends and reveling in the fun. The sights and smells fill you with nostalgia.

Nostalgia exists because there are certain things that always happen at a baseball game. We anticipate the first pitch and wonder who is singing the national anthem, as this marks the beginning of the game. When the home team players step up to bat, their names are announced over their walkout song. The crowd either affirms or berates the umpires based on the calls they make.

We buy hot dogs and peanuts more or less for the nostalgia than the taste. When we get to the 7th inning, we spring to our feet, ready to belt our best “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” with thousands of others. If the game is close, we stand up and cheer on our team, whether we’re trying to strike out the opposition or trying to get a grand slam. At some point I find myself asking these questions: why do we do all of this? It’s one thing to watch a baseball game, but why do we need all the extra stuff? Why is it that in our modern society where we rarely sing in public, do we in one voice shout the words that we all know to a song that has been sung for over a century?

All of this is tradition, it’s living history. The way you and I experience a baseball game isn’t all that different from a century ago. If things don’t happen as we expected, it almost feels sacrilege. I’m convinced that we like tradition more than we admit.

I believe we crave tradition. Call it nostalgia, change where you meet, replace the cookies with a gluten-free option. But at the end of the day we still have traditions that we come back to over and over. When we longingly think or say “But we always do that”, we are acknowledging that part of us that loves tradition. But why?

We like traditions because they connect us to a larger story. The reason I like going to a baseball game has to do with the good memories and stories connected to the event. Every time I go to a ball game, I still think of that first one I went to with my dad. Even if it’s a different stadium, that deep seated part of me is still connected to that story.

Beyond that, these teams invite visitors into a larger story of the franchise. Walls of the stadium are lined with lore of the home team, giant bronze statues of the greatest players reach for a fly ball as if they were reaching for the sky. These teams want us to feel like we’re in on the story. We can even feel like we’re a part of the game when we wear our favorite jersey, yell our heads off after a bad call, shout a song at the top of our lungs, and more. The crowd, the food, the fashion, and the stories are all working together to connect us to the stories of the team.

Occasionally I wear a beat-up hat with the logo of the Florida Gators. I remember one instance when a stranger saw it and began to move their arms to mimic the jaws of an alligator swinging up and down. Traditionally, when an alumni sees someone else in University of Florida gear, this is the greeting you give to one of your own. I have never attended a single class at University of Florida, but that didn’t stop this person from thinking of me as one of their own. The logo marked me as part of their team, their school, their story.

In Deuteronomy 6 as Moses is addressing the Israelites, he reminded them to hold on to the words and customs given to them by God. It was in part so that they might live well as the people of God. But these words and customs house a story within them, “When your children ask you in time to come, ‘What is the meaning of the decrees and the statutes and the ordinances that the Lord our God has commanded you?’ then you shall say to your children, ‘We were Pharaoh's slaves in Egypt, but the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand.’” (Deut. 6:20-21)

Our traditions stand as landmarks in time to help us remember who we are, where we’re from, and what matters to us. Our traditions are the habits we hold that help us remember what we love. And as the years go by, we forget if we began these traditions because we loved participating or if we discovered our affinity through our participation.

Our traditions after all are passed down to us. They are the gifts of the generations before us and allow us to step into a world that is both old and new. This is what makes going to a game at Wrigley Field so moving. This is why the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade still happens. This is why we feel the weight of awe as we enter old churches and cathedrals. We step into these places and events knowing that we share sights, smells, and spaces with brothers and sisters decades and centuries before us. In every brick we step on, every prayer we say, every hymn we sing, and every Lord’s Supper we take part in, we do so with the cloud of witnesses that came before us. The bread and wine holds not just Jesus’ story, but His church’s story as well.

I grew up primarily in a Christian environment that didn’t have many traditions older than a century. We had traditions, but those had more to do with spaghetti dinners and fundraisers rather than church calendar or creeds. And as I got older, my peers and I were getting more swept up in innovating our worship gatherings rather than preserving and renewing what we have.

When I was in high school, I was zealous and fervent with my faith. I was being exposed to a life of worship and teaching that was refreshing and an actual help when I needed it. It’s part of who I am today. Though it was reinvigorating, it was also a faith marked by emotional intensity and seeking a feeling to keep me tethered to Jesus. High school Robert would be confused to see how I love the church calendar, read old Catholic literature, use a Book of Common Prayer, and keep Orthodox icons. But that boy would come to discover a richness and steadiness to the life of faith by allowing the practices and saints who’ve gone before me to speak into the journey with Jesus.

No matter how new we make it look or feel, the Christian faith is still older than we remember. It’s a faith that started before Billy Graham, Billy Sunday, D.L. Moody, and Martin Luther. And as I discovered more of our Christian history, I felt a sense of connectedness with the church that no amount of spaghetti dinners or nights of worship could stand in for. This faith was “ever ancient, ever new.” It was more than the nostalgic feeling you get at a baseball game. It was like discovering who your great-grandparents were for the first time and where they were from. For me, falling into these traditions not only brought me into a larger story, but it tethered me to a whole family of brothers and sisters that have tried and failed in the journey just like me.

Traditions are more than nostalgia and feel good. They tie us to moments and stories beyond us. They connect us with a family that will outlive us. They remind us who we are and what we love. They invite us to something larger than ourselves. Rich Mullins said this of the Apostles’ Creed, “I did not make it, no it is making me.” We did not make our traditions, but they are indeed making you and me.