When you unpack the same box for the third time in one year, you begin to see the appeal of minimalism. That’s what it took for me to begin to see the allure of purging the clutter. But lest you begin to believe that was a swift and easy switch, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a minimalist by nature. I’m a little too nostalgic to pare everything down to the bare essentials or to satisfy my husband’s plain and discriminating decorating sensibilities.
I love my mismatched gallery walls of thrift store finds, collection of vintage books paired with a small menagerie of porcelain cat figures, and surrounded by faux fur, florals, tassels, and leopard print. Iris Apfel—with her exaggerated glasses, bulky layers of costume jewelry and flashy patterns—personifies my decorating style. My husband, he’d rather “decorate” with a book or two and a singular black and white unframed canvas of some industrial bridge. We’re quite the pair (and our union defends God’s sense of humor).
But that third move—the sixth in the last three years—made me question my eclectic sensibilities. Box after box felt like a burden in more ways than one. It was about that same time my husband stumbled upon The Minimalists, Joshua Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus, through their documentary and podcast. Their philosophies seemed to offer some rest from the heavy burden of stuff I was carrying. “Minimalism is a tool that can assist you in finding freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom from worry. Freedom from overwhelm. Freedom from guilt. Freedom from depression. Freedom from the trappings of the consumer culture we’ve built our lives around. Real freedom,” promises The Minimalists website. Discover contentment, a purposeful life, and freedom from so much weight? Does anyone say “no” to that?
I began to buy into the idea of getting rid of excess and discovering newfound freedoms. I researched the revered art of tidying-up and the sensibility of capsule wardrobes. I began to move from being a sentimental keeper to a discerning minimalist convert. I filled bag and box full of things to take (back) to the thrift store. With every drop-off under that smiling blue Goodwill sign, I did genuinely feel lighter, freer, and more in tune with this new rhythm of less. Simplifying was seductive, so I learned.
But there was a vague and elusive temptation lurking behind my quest. I couldn’t see it early on because of how well minimalism seems to harmonize with Christian principles. Their doctrines seemed to parallel what Jesus had to say about money and possessions. “Stop worrying. God is going to take care of things. Don’t let your stuff own you,” is a decent summary of what Jesus told his followers. How could there be a problem?
Thousands of years ago, the apostle Paul pinpointed what was awry with my newfound focus. He wrote to normal humans like you and me—the kind who are restless and wondering who is impressed by their stuff. His hearers were pressured into taking on extra standards, some from their former religion and some to accommodate their present peers, and championing them as essential. Paul reminded them, “These have indeed an appearance of wisdom in promoting self-made religion and asceticism and severity to the body, but they are of no value in stopping the indulgence of the flesh.”
What bound them wasn’t being tamed by willpower or rules, principles or popular trends. It wasn’t stuff that they needed to resist. It was their desire to measure up to a man-made standard that moved them from a place of grace and into the grind of earning approval. They simply wanted what to fit in.
Reading these words by Tim Keller helped me see my pursuit of minimalism for what it really was, an idol: “An idol is whatever you look at and say in your heart of hearts, ‘If I have that, then I’ll feel my life has meaning, then I’ll know I have value, then I’ll feel significant and secure.” As I scroll through Instagram, with its photos of carefully curated corners of just few enough items, I’m staring at one more way I attempt to justify my existence and find my significance among others.
What started as healthy decluttering became an exchange of the shiny idol of materialism for the lackluster (but newly chic) idol of minimalism. I find some comfort in the idea that our spiritual predecessors struggled in the same way. I don’t know what they chose in the face of Paul’s advice as they also attempted to earn God’s gifts of freedom and happiness. But I hope they came to the same humble conclusion I have: Our souls simply need more than the objects we can store or choose to surrender.
