By Stephen P. White
The word “nostalgia” was coined in the 17th century by a Swiss physician named Johannes Hofer. The term was a Latinized combination of two Greek words: nostos, which means “return home” (think of Odysseus), and algos, which means “pain.” Hofer used his new word to describe a medical condition, particularly common among Swiss mercenaries serving abroad, that could best be described as acute homesickness: a longing so intense that, at times, it could be fatal.
The word continued to be used as a medical term, often applied to soldiers, well into the 19th century. For example, in 1865, an American newspaper described conditions at a major prisoner-of-war camp where captured Confederate soldiers were held:
At Camp Douglas, Chicago, there are 1,400 prisoners on the sick list, with an average of six burials daily. One of the most frequent causes of death is nostalgia, which is the medical designation for homesickness.
It was not until the early 20th century that the word nostalgia took on its current meaning: a fond remembrance of how things were, tinged with the sadness that they no longer are.
No one would argue that missing home is a modern phenomenon. Nor is the fond remembrance of “the good old days” anything new. But there is something in the dislocation of the modern era—both the physical and that caused by the rapid, if not accelerating, pace of cultural and social change—that gives both meanings particular relevance to the contemporary world.
Surely this modern sense of dislocation has contributed to making nostalgia a defining part of contemporary American life. It shapes our politics, permeates our popular culture, and even defines how we imagine the future.
And there is no time of year when the American appetite for nostalgic and bittersweet indulgence is more on display than during Advent.
Bing Crosby first recorded “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” in 1943, when millions of Americans were fighting in Europe and the Pacific. It’s a Wonderful Life, one of the best movies—not just Christmas ones—was released in 1946. Miracle on 34th Street arrived a year later. “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” was recorded by Perry Como and Bing Crosby in 1951. Como’s “(There’s No Place Like) Home for the Holidays” has been a radio classic since 1954. That same year saw the release of White Christmas (though the eponymous song had been composed in 1942).
One might object that I am linking nostalgia with Advent, but all these movies and songs are “Christmas” ones. Sure, we call them that, but in reality they are about Advent, about the sense of longing that grows as we approach Christmas. (Moreover, they can call them “Christmas songs” all they want, but if they start playing right after Thanksgiving and stop right after Christmas, they are “Advent songs.”)
Note also that all the songs and movies mentioned emerged in the decade following World War II: America’s greatest collective experience of longing and—for the fortunate—safe return in its history. Many make explicit reference to the war. And while thousands of Christmas (and Advent) songs and movies have been produced since then—and some have become enormously popular—the postwar factory of cultural nostalgia that produced the old hits remains the yardstick by which the latest additions are measured.
One might also object that many “Christmas movies” and “Christmas songs” are kitsch. I concede the point. But that only underscores that artistic value matters less than the fact that we associate these works with the coming of Christmas. We want to feel like we’re coming home for Christmas, returning to the places we knew and how things were when we were children, or at least enjoying a bit of the pain and sadness of no longer being able to do so.
In this sense, Home Alone (which I have never liked) is as perfect a Christmas movie for Generation X as Elf is for Millennials, or Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer for Baby Boomers. All deal with dislocation and homecoming in the days leading up to Christmas. And the nostalgia they evoke, especially if we saw them long ago as children, only grows with repetition. Watching these movies becomes an Advent tradition capable of evoking nostalgia in its own right.
There is a good reason why the days and weeks before Christmas are so charged with nostalgia. Beneath the bustle and noise of the season, beneath the glitter and materialism, and beneath the nostalgia and traditions (sacred and profane), beneath all the kitsch and sentimentality, lies the deepest human longing for home, for a place we know and where we are known, a place where we are safe. And, however ridiculous or misguided our attempts to satisfy that longing sometimes are, the longing itself is a gift, a reminder of what we were created for.
Christians know that Advent is a time to prepare for the coming of the Child God. In his coming, all God’s promises to his people will be fulfilled. The God from whom we were separated in the Fall will come to dwell among us, and our deepest longings and restlessness will give way to the Prince of Peace. He makes his dwelling among his people so that we may find a dwelling in him.
Homesickness is the human condition. In Advent, we remember the remedy: Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis.
About the author
Stephen P. White is executive director of The Catholic Project at The Catholic University of America and a fellow in Catholic studies at the Ethics and Public Policy Center.