Why Facebook Won’t Just Go Away

Comparing your first profile picture to your current one is what Facebook does best.

Over the past several days I’ve seen many of my social media friends participate in what looks like a viral experiment: Post your first ever “profile picture,” no matter how old, alongside your current photo. The results are nostalgic and charming and quite fun. It’s warming to see faces, transformed (if even slightly) by time, amidst the political screeds and clickbait links. It’s a homely and encouraging way to experience social media.

It occurred to me that this is why Facebook won’t just go away, no matter how many sins it commits against privacy, our cognitive health, or politics. The one thing Facebook threatens us all with is the one very thing it’s good at: Keeping. Facebook has become a public repository of memory, a monument by which many of us can view and re-experience our past. Facebook keeps, and in keeping, it holds for users what many of us are too embarrassed to admit out loud that we want to keep: Memories, even of the mundane and routine.

There are, of course, other ways to build repositories of memory. But many of them have fallen out of fashion. Scrapbooking has lost to Instagram. Keeping a diary depends a lot on the desire and ability to write longhand, and few have either. Technological change has tethered the ability to capture life with the obligation to share and store it digitally. Outside of the social media platforms, how much physical record of their own past do most people really own? For millions, the only meaningful artifacts to their lives are on Facebook.

Almost everything Facebook does nowadays it does poorly. It is ad-infested, link-biased, creepily intelligent, and ugly to look at. It does, however, hold onto our posts, our photos, our statuses—our digital selves. Because of that, it holds onto a part of us that we know, trembling, can disappear forever with one emptying of a virtual trash bin. We signed up for Facebook because we thought it opened up our present and defined our future. Now that future is past, and we just want to go back, and can’t. And Facebook knows it.

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Leather Bound

Digital Bible apps are convenient, but physical Bibles are much more.

Recently I was sitting in a worship service and looked around me. For every physical Bible opened I saw at least one or two smartphones glowing softly. I’m not sure why, but this was surprising. Is the Bible app really that common in evangelical worship? I guess it is. Not long after this I took a more deliberate notice in my small group of who had Bibles and who had Bible apps. It was a much closer ratio than I had assumed.

Bible apps are unquestionably convenient, and of course knowing and obeying the words that are there is far more important than whether you’re holding leather or glass. I have to admit, though, that it’s hard for me to imagine ever replacing physical Bibles with apps. Aesthetic value would be lost, but something else would be lost too…a compact landmark of my spiritual memory.

For me, physical Bibles are connected to both time and place. A quick glance behind my shoulder as I write these words lets me see a row of Bibles on my shelf, each one provoking a vividly clear memory of where and when I got each of them. In several cases I even remember the individual who sold them to me. These Bibles’ physicality takes me back to a specific season of life, a process of deliberate remembrance that isn’t just nostalgia. It’s a spiritual exercise that awakens thankfulness (at least, it should!).

Opening the Bibles deepens this experience. Opening up the Bible I bought right after graduating college, I see the markings of a blue ink pen drawing attention to Psalm 4:4: “Be angry, and do not sin; ponder in your own hearts on your beds, and be silent.” My markings are almost certainly at least 4 years old. Was I feeling convicted about my anger? It’s hard to recall, though I do know that I underlined this verse before I married and had a toddler son who nailed me with a toy golf club just the other day. Even as I write this I feel ashamed at my ridiculous anger over a toddler’s mistake. Had I not opened up my 5 year old Bible I likely wouldn’t have contemplated this verse today.

I still remember my first Bible, a red faux-leather King James version that frayed at the edges after years of use in Sunday school and Bible drills. I remember bringing the Bible to a National Day of Prayer event with Dad and a reporter for the local newspaper taking my picture. I remember my “Adventures in Odyssey” Bible where I, a true Baptist child, underlined Proverbs 23:31. It’s not that these Bibles give me supernatural memory of my childhood. It’s that each Bible is somehow connected to something specific, so that the memories that coalesce around each Bible become a sort of memorial. In the digital age I continually feel my sense of time attacked. It’s as if physical Bibles carry antidote.

They invite questions. Why would I underline that particular verse at that particular age? Why would I write that in the margins? Sometimes these reflections open up powerful memories of traumatic and hurtful times. Sometimes they invoke a simple joy at the quiddity of life. Sometimes they make me laugh, sometimes they make me cringe. Not all are meaningful. But each one seems to have something in common with the others, a secret thread running through every adolescent jot and grown up tittle that binds the minutia of dozens of little purchased Bibles together. In the marginalia of these Bibles I see myself, and seeing myself, I somehow see God.

To hold onto a treasured leather-bound Bible is for me a way of holding onto awareness of God’s grace in my life. Yes, Scripture is universally true all the time, but the Bible I hold in my hands was given to me at a specific place and a specific time. Perhaps a struggle in my Christian life has been to see myself not merely as mooching off the extravagant kindness of Jesus that he gives to everybody else, but as a specific target of his sovereign love. Proverbs 3:5-6 is true for everyone, but it’s underlined in my specific Bible because it’s true for me. It’s one thing to know something applies to you. It’s quite another to know it was meant for you.

So I think I’ll go on being inconvenienced by physical Bibles. I’ll probably open up the app every now and again, and won’t feel one bit guilty. But, Lord willing, everywhere I go I’ll bring a Bible that I can’t turn off and I can’t resist marking up. And I’ll look forward to an unknown future where I’ll open up that Bible and see what I was reading, and more importantly, what it was reading in me.