Back in the summer of 2018, I had returned from a wonderful roadtrip with a dear friend of mine and experienced sharp schism between an amorous friendship. I was jaded and despondent. A year had passed since living in the Bay Area, which sucked me dry. The redwood forests of the Santa Cruz mountains were tantalizingly silent on my pain then. I had hoped that a change of pace in my life, in becoming a grad student on a mission to save the world, and a hop over the street to a church that made me feel at home, would give me respite. I had hoped that friendships would sprout and heal me. The world was callous toward me then, for no apparent reason. The lovestruck charisma I had cultivated in such a sweet short time had walloped into obsidian shards. Shear-shorn in asymmetrically broken swashes of elegant continuity. Life was hard. An area I found hope was writing for a journal contest for students. It was put on by Comment magazine, a thoughtful and not-heterodox Christian journal for English-speakers in North America. One of the prompts was to respond to minimalism. Along with editing help from my fellow journal editor, Katie, here is my essay. It relies heavily on Olympia.

Rainforests Are Not Minimalist
by Lucas Dodd

     Minimalism has turned the potted succulent into a holy icon. In our un-Circadian civilization that races from one activity to the next well outside the normal pulse of the sun, a growing number of people living in the postmodern world are finding that the multifarious promises of “More” are not enough. Our First World is becoming more crowded, exhausted, and dense with activity, and its clamor is stirring some to pull back on the throttle. Coffee shops, office spaces, and living rooms are a few areas of our lives being drawn toward an ideal of calm: minimal furniture and clean spaces are growing in popularity. Almost ever-present in these scenes is the humble succulent, that unsung mascot of minimalism, heralding a simpler life, one of beautiful subsistence. Highly adapted to thriving on very little water and nutrients, the succulent is the quintessential symbol of the recent tide to minimalism. Since we are living in a world where the density of activity is higher than it has ever been before, should we look to the succulent for guidance, or is there another, better relic to help us recapture a sense of union with the natural order, with God’s kingdom? Let us consider some of the various aspects of minimalism—questions like, “Why did it emerge?” and “What good is it doing?” I will begin with a short vignette into one of my personal experiences with minimalism.

     Although I do enjoy going to my local coffee shop to drink fair trade pourovers and homemade ginger-lemonade soda, the place has a laughably over-refined ethos about it: the off-white walls, the hipster fashion-clad employees, and the slightly rustic furniture sparsely adorned with coffee bean burlaps, hand-carved bowls, mason jars, sturdy ceramicware, wooden signage, eucalyptus fronds, and (most importantly) tiny succulents make me feel like whenever the new minimalists play in the backyard, as soon as someone throws a mud pie at them, they run back inside to clean the stains and take a shower. Where nature is wild and interconnected, new minimalism is polished and segregated. It’s just too clean to be true.

     I must admit, however, that I do like it as an aesthetic. Unlike the strict conformance to raw abstraction that is characteristic to the earlier wave of minimalism, the new minimalism has a playful edge to it: it seeks to manifest its credos within an earth-bound context. It mimics the quiet loveliness of nature, incorporating an elegant nonlinearity through non-synthetic materials, sensitivity to sociocultural issues, and natural hues, forms, and textures. Such features lack the flash, the brightness, the colorful gaudiness we encounter in our digital devices and high-speed lifestyles. Our world of vivid liquid crystal speaks loudly to grab our attention—but muted earth-tones and subdued design elements, they speak all the more clearly because they are dull. Stillness with an organic twist can mean a lot to digitally-weathered souls seeking the respite of a quiet room, a slow conversation, and a good cup of coffee. We are distracted, and so minimalism is in vogue.

     Discontent with consumerism, burnout with the modernist project, and a reaction against an increasingly manufactured and interconnected world are drawing people back to the quiet of nature—a journey that, for many, feels more like a return homeward than a new venture. Fumio Sasaki, former editor of a Japanese publishing firm, tells of his (well-photographed) conversion from consumerism to minimalism in his book, Goodbye, Things. “When you think about it, there isn’t a single person who was born into this world holding some material possession in their hands,” he writes. “Everyone started out as a minimalist.” The award-winning 2016 documentary, Minimalism, calls for repentance from the hustle-bustle and greed of compulsory consumerism and a return to subsistence. New minimalism is a deep-seated reaction against the abrasive busyness and clutter of this third industrial age.

     There is something reminiscent of a Terrence Malick film in the new minimalism, a director with Episcopalian roots who uses impressionism to uncover the degrading effects of human labors in contrast with the lifegiving aspects of grace: new minimalism reduces the quantity and elaboration of design elements while also embracing a sort of “softness,” as if the minimalism itself has been minimalized. There is a sort of revolt against the inauthentic undergirding the movement—an idealism against raw idealism—that yearns for a world that has lost its avaricious, industrial edge and where inner calm is like a cluster of grapes always at hand. Minimalism’s popularity speaks to a widespread hunger that originates much deeper than the will to overcome a cluttered life.

     The similarity between the minimalist movement and the rising popularity of mindfulness is not hard to spot: quiet mind, quiet space; quiet space, quiet mind. You might say mindfulness is a kind of minimalism for the mind. In this line of thought, blogger Leo Babuta of Zen Habits offers practical strategies for finding peace in a restless world. To his two-million followers, he writes,

Let go of clutter to live mindfully… I slowly get rid of clutter, and in doing so, I release my mind of these attachments and fears. It’s a liberating process. Clutter is a physical embodiment of these attachments and fears – emotional stuff that we don’t realize we have. By decluttering, we are clearing ourselves of these tangled webs.

Our cluttered homes are somehow attached to our cluttered inner selves. Seems straightforward enough. Possessions can certainly entangle a person—even Jesus confesses, “It is hard for the rich to inherit the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 19:23). We Christians should therefore be quick to admit that our hearts are idol factories.

     On Babuta’s other website, mnmlist.com (yes, he omitted the vowels), he explains,

What is mnmlist.com?… It’s about minimalism, and why it’s important today. / It’s about stuff, and how it has come to overwhelm us. / It’s about distractions and commitments and a neverending task list. / It’s about the culture of more, of bigger, of consumption. / It’s about how less is the answer.

However pithy or overly simplistic that may come across, these are noble concerns, especially in a culture where, “to some, Costco shopping is a religious experience,” as observed by investment consultant Richard Best. (There is even a website created by and dedicated to Costco devotees called AddictedToCostco.com.) If there is something awry with Zen-style minimalism, it’s not immediately obvious, for it seems to be doing a good work for the world. After all, it was our Lord who told us,

Fear not little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions and give to the needy. Provide yourselves with moneybags that do not grow old, with a treasure in the heavens that does not fail, where no thief approaches and no moth destroys. (Luke 12:32-33)

In this regard, the minimalists are putting many of us Christians—and North Americans, for that matter—to shame.

     Minimalists have touched a nerve many of us refuse to call what it is: a long story of greed that stems back far into our national history. The American zeitgeist is no longer, “Go West, young man,” but, “More is Must, young man.” Online retailers and shopping malls and unfilled schedules are to Americans what the wide-open frontiers of the 1850’s Great Plains were to homesteaders. For us, time and possessions and the thrill of wanderlust are a land brimming with potential for grain and cattle, treasures shining under a broad heaven worth travelling hundreds of miles over the horizon to inherit. Yet we know something is wrong. We know on a gut level that we are out of balance, that we can only acquire so much, and that our time on this earth is short. Therefore, we are anxious. Our shopping habits tell of our inner conflict.

     Consider, for instance, receiving in the mailbox a run-of-the-mill “TO HOMEOWNER” shopping catalog—say, from Ikea. Paging through an Ikea furniture booklet is to experience a vision of wealth without the clutter of opulence, of utility wed with elegance: open and balanced spaces, clean lines, smooth surfaces, simple colors, clever design features, a sense of having just enough all function like a sort of anticipatory prayer for a coming glorious city, one that is delightful yet efficient. Purchasing the furniture is but the natural manifestation of one’s devotion to the glossy sixty-five-paged window of promise received in the mail. It doesn’t have to be Swedish furniture either—take your pick: designer clothes, sporting goods, kitchenware, stuff on sale—we know the pattern all too well. Semblances of inner quiet, what I call “impressions of softness,” are more alluring to us than consumerist flair alone. We don’t just want nice stuff anymore, we want nice stuff that emulates an unravelling of consumerism.

     I am convinced this New Jerusalem will fall short of our heavenly expectations, that there is a crack running all the way to the foundation of minimalism. Emma Barnett, BBC documentarian of Mindfulness: Panacea or Fad?, confesses of her practice of mindfulness, “Anyone attempting a quick fix, like I was… has missed the bigger, scarier point: why are so many of us living lives we feel unable to cope with?” This begs the question, does our anxiety stem from excess in the psyche or is there some deeper craving to blame? Let us look to the scriptures for insight.

     The apostle Paul mentioned in his first letter to Timothy that “those who desire to be rich fall into… many senseless and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction” (1 Tim. 6:9) and commanded that the rich should “not set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly provides us with everything to enjoy” (1 Tim. 6:17). What a dramatically fine line to ride! On the one side is destruction and the other, godly enjoyment—what on earth could make such a command not only feasible, but reasonable? How does this play out? Is this an astringent avoidance of worldly pleasure?

     In numerous instances, Paul denounced both materialism and spiritualism; i.e. he condemned idolatry and affirmed corporeality. He shunned reckless hedonism in almost every one of his epistles. He warned the church in Colossae to avoid teachings commanding bodily strictness and asceticism (Col. 2:16-23). He reminded the licentious Corinthians that sexuality is good despite their dishonoring of the marriage bed (1 Cor. 7). As mentioned, he encouraged the wealthy to enjoy what God has given them, something that goes hand-in-hand with hoping in God instead of riches. And he famously penned to the Philippians, “I know how to be abased and how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (Phil. 4:12-13).

     These are themes that extend far back into Judaism. In the early chapters of Genesis, God affirms all his creation as “very good,” giving the man and woman all the fruit and grain for eating (save one) and free reign over all creation (except one tree). Prophetic visions in the Old Testament usually involve imagery of the destroying of idols in anticipation of a shalom rich with fine goods, feasting, and delight. King Solomon’s erotically charged “Song of Songs” is a strong case against any notion that the Bible is austere toward earthly pleasure, and the timeless book of Ecclesiastes takes the other extreme as a monumental example against sensuality.

     Throughout the New Testament, we see how Paul has woven these ideas together beautifully: for him, the kingdom of God is neither Jewish nor Gentile, neither legalistic nor hedonistic, neither materialist nor spiritualist, neither rich nor poor, but Christ over all and in all. These are wonderful facts about Christianity so eloquently addressed in the Nicene and Pseudo-Athanasian Creeds and by the Church Fathers.

     Athanasius of Alexandria (297-393 CE) elegantly describes in his treatise, The Incarnation of the Word, how the presence of God Incarnate is necessary for idols in the human heart to be utterly overturned:“[Jesus Christ] became Himself an object for the senses, so that those who were seeking God in sensible things might apprehend the Father through the works which He, the Word of God, did in the body.” Humankind’s mad pursuit of infinite bounty, unshakeable security, and endless life is due to a sense of separation from God. But so long as a person’s gaze remains “under the sun,” one will find no lasting relief from their idolatry. It is not until Jesus—the Son of Man and Son of God—interrupts the vicious cycle that any real progress can be made. It was necessary for our salvation that a human would suffer on our behalf, for nothing else would awaken us on such an instinctual level, and that God would save us, for nothing else would be capable of rendering unto us a quality of life that is everlastingly glorious.

     This is decisive in context of minimalism, for it means the problem of consumerism cannot be adequately addressed by regulating how much one owns or by limiting affection toward one’s possessions. C.S. Lewis makes a similar argument in The Four Loves regarding love for other humans:

It is probably impossible to love any human being simply ‘too much.’ We may love him too much in proportion to our love for God; but it is the smallness of our love for God, not the greatness of our love for the man, that constitutes the inordinacy. But even this must be refined upon… [The] question whether we are loving God or the earthly Beloved ‘more’ is not so far as concerns our Christian duty, a question about the comparative intensity of two feelings. The real question is, which (when the alternative comes) do you serve, or choose, or put first? To which claim does your will, in the last resort, yield?

Elsewhere in The Four Loves, Lewis shuns both pantheism and Neo-Platonism—in keeping with Paul and Athanasius—appealing to how the transcendent nature of Christianity’s Creator-God provides a moral framework that is absent of both conflation and rivalry between affections for the earthly and the divine.

     Christ’s supreme lordship over all gives peace to the cosmos; and this is certainly a great mystery. In light of Christ, our sense of separation from God is dissolved, and we come to know that his friendship stays with us in plenty and in famine, giving us a great confidence in him through all circumstances. Our highest adoration, dependence, and loyalty can thereby turn away from idols and onto God, allowing us to esteem possessions appropriately. As Timothy Keller concludes in Counterfeit Gods, “the blessing through the Spirit that is ours through Christ… is the only remedy to idolatry.” For such a one whose loves have been reordered by God’s transcendent love in Christ, love toward transient riches becomes non-idolatrous, thankful, and generous.

     Thus, the moral solution to greediness and idolatry resides not in the amount of stuff one owns or in the magnitude of one’s affections but in the hierarchy of one’s values. Giving away our things does help us reorder our loves—it’s a natural part of the redemption process—but I daresay only Christianity provides a framework whereby letting go generates a transformation that is simultaneously completely affirmative of physicality and utterly opposed to idolatry.

     Sadly, I would not be surprised that if an ardent minimalist like Leo Babuta were to suddenly acquire many possessions, they would find themselves stuck again in a rut of distraction and materialism. Minimalism allows people to run away from uprooting their idolatry, for lasting peace toward possessions is, ultimately, a matter of the heart. Hence, a man possessing all the riches in the world could idolize none of it, and, inversely, a man owning nothing could spend his entire life in covetousness. Although there is a serious temptation in riches that the poor do not quite experience, with regards to finding liberation it doesn’t really matter how much one has. There is no Golden Mean between wealth and poverty, no “Goldilocks Zone” of having just enough that can usurp idolatry. Sure, minimalism can really help in facilitating some peace and quiet in a busy and greedy world—and most of us Westerners should give some things away—but the problems that led to the rise of minimalism will keep chewing onward until another social movement arises to correct its shortcomings. In light of all this, I would like to propose a symbol that counterbalances minimalism’s succulent.

     Picture pristine, verdant halls of Sitka spruce, Douglas-fir, hemlock, and redcedar, whose canopies reach hundreds of feet into the air. Their trunks and branches wear sweaters made of moss, and a carpet of greenery drenches the forest floor: ferns, flowers, mosses, and shrubs are everywhere. Fallen logs now serve as nurseries for new growth, swaddled in lichens, mosses, molds, mushrooms, and saplings. The earth is a rich reddish brown, sticky and soft with countless microorganisms and a hidden tapestry of fungal filaments. Birds echo in the distance; a squirrel bounces between branches; Roosevelt elk wander somewhere unseen; and the resident banana slugs happily gorge themselves on the endless feast of leaf litter. Delicious pinkish-orange salmonberries dangle beside the trail. Like little tropical islands, an abundance of small plants burst up in the untrodden parts of the trail. Nearby, a pellucid stream weaves gently through the needle-laced valley. Fern fronds reach out and tap its surface in rhythmic play. Plants hover angelically in the perfectly transparent water column, unbothered by the constant baptism. These waters feed into the glacier-fed Elwha river below, which carries off into the North Pacific. A thrush call accelerates in an ascending spiral.

     After a few hours of walking through the old growth of Washington’s Olympic Rainforest, it becomes evident God has made this one of the clearest images of superabundant life on our planet. It is a UNESCO World Heritage site, said to possibly contain the highest density of standing biomass in the world (i.e. the highest density of organisms living above ground anywhere on Earth). Such a scene is antithetical to new minimalism’s underlying assumption that “less is more.” Despite sincere efforts to give us a window of quiet in an increasingly hurried and crowded world, the new minimalist movement is foundationally compromised by tendencies to avoid the complexities of life and create inordinately compact solutions. Seeking liberation from destructive tendencies of over-consumption, the new minimalists take quantity of clutter for roots of greed, however inadvertently, and make a travesty of what it means to be organic. While its emphasis on things is admittedly problematic, the sin of new minimalism is not so much its focus on physical stuff but the ecology of its Eden.

     The Eden of minimalism is a desert. Minimalism’s vision of what it means to be brought into harmony with the natural order, to be made whole, characteristically leans toward a stoic and unitary ideal—in other words, a succulent. Compare the appearance of mnmlist.com to any image of the Olympic Rainforest found on a search engine and the contrast will be obvious. How is it possible that so much “clutter” could ever be so tranquil? What happened to “less is more?” Does a lifestyle orbiting around a black-and-white webpage sparsely populated with Helvetica font really seem more appealing than a luscious rainforest teeming with life and streaming with (arguably) the best-tasting water in the lower forty-eight? The ecosystem of Washington’s temperate rainforest stands testament to the fact that fullness of life is available within an almost inconceivably complex network of order, and it makes minimalism seem childish and laughable. There is no comparison. “Sorry Minimalism, you went a little east of Eden. The rainforest is that way.”

     Despite calling for vital behavioral changes in today’s society, sadly, new minimalism is, at best, a provisional solution, for, by itself, it is but a momentary change of pace from one manifestation of post-lapsarian culture to another. Without Christ, it is hebel—vain, vapid, a mere breath. Where God embraces the pageantry of a redeemed humanity, minimalism figuratively comes in with bulldozers, avoiding the underlying problem of idolatry by constructing a barren Eden: a garden of succulents. In response, we as Christians should hold the harmonious hypercomplexity of God’s very life as our Edenic centerpiece, a life that is not either-or when it comes to unity and diversity. Let us orient our earthly drives on Jesus, whose overflowing living presence stands at the center of the glorious New Jerusalem.

Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. (Rev. 22:1-2)


August 30, 2018
San Luis Obispo