The Cult of Minimalism: Why “Less is More” Misses the Point
Minimalism is everywhere these days. It’s in the trendy all-white living rooms with a single lonely chair. It’s in the tiny houses where people pretend they don’t mind sleeping in what is basically a well-decorated closet. It’s in the endless parade of decluttering books that promise to spark joy but mostly just spark guilt about that junk drawer full of Tupperware lids.
And now, minimalism has taken an even stranger turn. It’s no longer just about tidying up—it’s about vanishing entirely. Forget sparking joy; some are sparking their entire homes out of existence. Living in a Sprinter van. Declaring the backseat of a Prius “home.” Selling every last possession to drift from coffee shop to coffee shop with nothing but a laptop, a Wi-Fi password, and the unwavering belief that a backpack can replace an apartment. Even Marie Kondo might raise an eyebrow at this level of commitment to less.
Now, let’s be clear not everyone chooses this life—sky-high housing prices put homeownership out of reach for many. This is a tough reality, not a trendy aesthetic. But for others, this weird obsession with having nothing has become its own kind of religion. The belief that if we just get rid of enough stuff, strip life down far enough, we’ll finally reach some enlightened state of peace.
But will we?
Sure, a clutter-free home is nice. There’s wisdom in not letting material things control us. Jesus Himself lived simply. But the Church has always taught detachment—not as an end in itself, but as a path to greater freedom (and union) in Christ. Monks take vows of poverty, not because possessions are evil, but to depend entirely on God. St. Francis gave up his wealth, not for the sake of minimalism, but to embrace radical trust in divine providence. And when Christ told the rich young man to sell all he had, He wasn’t condemning wealth itself, but exposing the attachments that kept the man from following Him fully.
Christian detachment isn’t about removing things just for the sake of it. It’s not about emptying life to make it look clean, but about ordering everything toward its highest purpose—making space for what truly matters.
Because here’s the thing: God did not create a minimalist world. He created an abundant, teeming, riotously beautiful one. God created. And it was good.
Last year (August & September), I walked from France all the way across Spain. One early morning, as I made my way through the Meseta—the high plateau region of Spain, where nothing stretches for miles—I watched the sun rise while a full moon still hung in the sky ahead of me. The colors were beyond anything I could describe. Pink, gold, violet, the whole sky alive with light. And as I stood there, utterly overwhelmed, I thought of that line from Gerard Manley Hopkins:
"The world is charged with the grandeur of God."
Even in a place as empty as the Meseta, minimalist it was not. Creation doesn’t hold back—it sings. It spills over with beauty, with color, with extravagance. Have you ever noticed how unnecessary a sunset is? God didn’t have to make the sky explode in color every evening, but He did. He didn’t have to design flowers in a hundred shades of red or blues, but He did. He didn’t have to inspire artisans to build cathedrals that took centuries to complete, covered in stained glass and soaring arches, but He did.
Minimalism tells us that if we just own fewer things, if we strip life down to its bare bones, then we’ll finally find happiness. But let’s be honest—does limiting your wardrobe to five outfits really spark joy? Does throwing away your kid’s artwork because it doesn’t match your décor really make life better?
Minimalism sells itself as an antidote to materialism, but in reality, it’s just materialism in reverse. Instead of obsessing over getting more, it obsesses over getting rid of more. But both keep our focus locked on stuff—what we own, what we don’t own, what we need to discard next. True freedom isn’t found in either extreme. Scripture doesn’t call us to mindless consumption or mindless purging, but to something far richer: a life ordered around love—love of God, love of neighbor, and yes, even love of beauty.
That’s the real problem with minimalism: it mistakes emptiness for virtue. It assumes that the goal of life is to strip away, when in reality, the goal is to fill up—with truth, goodness, and beauty. The saints didn’t strive for mediocrity; they poured out their lives with joyful excess. They didn’t settle for blank walls and bare rooms; they built churches that took centuries to complete, adorning them with the best art, the richest music, the most exquisite craftsmanship—not because they had to, but because love always goes above and beyond.
So if you’re feeling the pressure to “declutter your life” down to nothing, take a deep breath. Yes, let go of what is truly unnecessary—but don’t be afraid to embrace what is good, true, and beautiful. Fill your home with things that remind you of God’s goodness. Create. Build. Adorn. Live a life not of scarcity, but of overflowing grace. Because our God is not a God of less—He is a God of more.
P.S. I think a book I read last month got me thinking about this topic—Thomas Dubay’s The Evidential Power of Beauty: Science and Theology Meet. It’s a brilliant and thought-provoking read, and I highly recommend it.
© 2025, Lawain McNeil, Mission Surrender, LLC.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author.
Even when trying to purge to "minimalize" attachments, the new obsession is total a distraction from serving our community and living life to the fullest. Ultimately, redirecting our focus from the distraction of managing household material goods to instead serving the body of Christ can help identify items that can be donated and/or put to their optimal use for the good of others.