Spiritual decluttering

Do you have too much stuff? If you don’t, we should talk—because I need some pointers. I’m drowning in books, tools, clothes, electronics… and, ironically, organizational supplies.

You might have heard of Marie Kondo. She’s a Japanese woman who became famous a few years ago for her book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. She invites her readers to handle each item in their homes, one at a time— Ask if it “sparks joy.” And if it doesn’t, thank it for its service and let it go.

Stuff. Most of us have too much of it.

That’s a literal reality— But it’s also a metaphor. Because it’s not just closets and drawers that get cluttered. It’s our calendars, our habits, our identities. We carry old roles, old expectations, old fears— Sometimes long past their usefulness.

And into such a cluttered space walks Elisha. Standing in his field behind twelve yoke of oxen— A man with a job, a life, a future already in place.

Until Elijah shows up. And everything changes.

Elijah is one of the great prophets of the Hebrew Bible. He pronounced God’s judgment to a cruel king, and then fled to the wilderness. He brought a child back from the dead. He called down fire from heaven. He heard God speak in a still small voice – or, as the translation of the Bible we usually use on Sundays puts it, in a sound of sheer silence. And, when the time came, God told him to seek out his successor.

A quick side note about names. Elijah came first. Elisha came second. Elijah. Elisha. Some people say that Elisha’s name should be pronounced El-ee-sha, but I’m not sure how much that really helps with the confusion. I’ll stick to Elijah and Elisha.

Elisha isn’t a prophet. He’s a farmer—apparently a wealthy one—out in the field with twelve yoke of oxen. He has parents, land, work to do, and a future. But the prophet Elijah walks by and throws his cloak over him. And even without an explanation, Elisha knows that he’s being called to something new. He slaughters the oxen, cooks the animals’ meat by burning his equipment, and serves a feast. And then he leaves. He doesn’t save his tools or sell his livestock. He abandons everything. Because something more important is calling him forward.

Elisha’s story isn’t unique. Throughout scripture, we see this same pattern: God calls, and the response requires letting go.

In today’s Gospel, we see it again. Jesus is on the road. “He set his face to go to Jerusalem.” He knows where he’s going. He knows what it will cost. But his followers don’t quite understand.

Three people ask to follow him.

The first says, “I’ll follow you wherever you go.” And Jesus answers, “Foxes have holes, birds have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” He can’t even promise a temporary place of safety. If you want to walk with Jesus, don’t expect comfort.

The second says, “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.” And Jesus replies, “Let the dead bury their own dead. As for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” If you want to walk with Jesus, you don’t get to choose your own timing.

The third says, “I will follow you, Lord, but let me first say farewell to those at home.” And Jesus says, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” If you want to walk with Jesus, you can’t also look back. You might lose some things that matter a lot to you.

Jesus’s words sound harsh. Let the dead bury the dead. Leave your family without even saying goodbye. But notice something. Jesus doesn’t reject any of the three who ask to follow him. He only reminds them that following him will come with a cost.

You can see a similar theme in the letter to the Galatians. It’s a sort of Marie Kondo for the soul—but instead of asking what sparks joy, Paul asks what serves love. Paul says, ‘Christ has set us free. Only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become slaves to one another.’

We declutter our lives not to create empty space, but to make room for what matters most.

We’re free. But it’s a paradoxical sort of freedom. Christian freedom isn’t about doing whatever we want. It’s not about comfort or escape or stubborn self-determination. It’s about being shaped by the Spirit. It’s about living in a way that produces fruit: Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Generosity. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Self-control.

The freedom Paul talks about isn’t freedom from commitment. It’s the freedom to be committed—fully, joyfully, and without fear.

It’s the same sort of freedom that allowed Elisha to walk away from everything he knew. It’s the same freedom that Jesus offered to those who wished to follow him on his road to Jerusalem. And it’s the same freedom God calls us to live into today.

But we shouldn’t romanticize it. Discipleship isn’t tidy. It isn’t easy. It isn’t safe. It asks us to let go of things we’ve counted on. To walk away from comfort, and sometimes even from clarity. It costs something. It always has. It still does.

Some of us might have to give up status. Others, safety. Some might lose community or peace of mind. And all of us, at some point, will have to surrender what feels most familiar.

But it’s not just about what we leave behind. It’s about what we’re walking toward.

The freedom of Christ doesn’t mean we carry nothing. It means we carry only what belongs on the road. And we walk that road—step by step—behind the one who has already gone ahead.

Maybe discipleship isn’t about asking what sparks joy. Maybe it’s about asking what still belongs— and what God is calling us to lay down, for the sake of traveling lightly on the road God calls us to follow.