by Gary Long

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Everything old is new again. Yay for mid-century modern furniture and yacht rock. My belief is that “everything old is new again” because everything new has become exhausting. It appears that Gen Z—raised to swipe, stream, and expect delivery pronto—has developed a surprising affection for things that require people to show up, not just log in.

The research says they are knitting and crocheting. They are buying vinyl records, baking bread, watering plants, reading physical books, and sending handwritten letters. I noticed at a Bob Dylan concert in July that the audience was younger than this 50-something author by three or (almost) four decades.

Somehow, pen pals have survived email. Even Grandma’s dining room is having an architectural moment, as dinner parties are back in vogue. Somewhere there’s a sewing basket feeling surprised to be back in use. I’m just sure of it.

The rise of “Grandma hobbies” may be offering the church insight. I’m tempted to call this nostalgia, though nostalgia requires remembrance. But Gen Z doesn’t actually remember these things; they are discovering them.

Perhaps they are discovering that receiving a letter means someone sat still long enough to think about you. A record is not merely accessed; it is selected, held, played, turned over, and played again—as in, the whole album. By one artist.

Another seemingly unrelated trend just might belong in the same conversation, A recent episode of The New York Times’ The Opinions carried the provocative title, “Gen Z-ers Are Ditching Sex. They Might Be Onto Something.” The conversation explored Gen Z’s oft-discussed “sex recession” and the complicated forces behind it—technology, social anxiety, the influence of #MeToo, changing attitudes toward relationships, and a renewed appreciation for platonic friendship.

This doesn’t mean an entire generation has suddenly adopted a traditional Christian sexual ethic, so let’s resist the urge to spike the ball in the end zone of sexual purity. The retreat from dating and sex could reflect healthy boundaries and deeper intentionality. Or, it could signal loneliness, anxiety, or a fear of real intimacy. All these things can be true.

It seems that Gen Z has asked some underlying questions worth noticing: What if every appetite does not have to be immediately satisfied? What if intimacy is not another consumer product? What if friendship, solitude, restraint, and patience possess value of their own?

At first glance, crocheting and celibacy would seem to belong in entirely different articles. Perhaps they do. Or maybe both are quiet protest of a culture that has made nearly everything immediate, disposable, and/or transactional.

One says: I would rather make something than merely order it.

The other asks: Can human connection be more than a transaction?

Both suggest that convenience may not be the highest human good.

Church, let’s don’t miss this. Young adults may not need us to become faster, slicker, or more technologically impressive. They may be searching for places where life slows down enough for trust to grow. This means that your church shouldn’t necessarily start a “grandma hobbies small group.”

It more likely means meals that linger around a table. Or older and younger people learning a craft together. Perhaps it’s honoring friendship and singleness as meaningful forms of Christian community and not just treating singles ministry as a waiting room for wedded bliss. It certainly means speaking about sexuality without panic or shame—and speaking about holiness without pretending that desire and loneliness are simple.

Please don’t read “grandma hobbies” as a church growth strategy. Young adults can smell the marketing before we finish printing the tote bags. But we could recover the community of Grandma’s dining room: a place where people were known, and stories took time. Perhaps these young folk are less about living in the past and more into rummaging through our closets for the parts of being real, live humans we failed to carry forward.

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Gary Long is BGAV’s chief marketing officer.

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