Author: Martin Scott

Adrian Lowe published this on Substack and with permission I reproduce it here. For those who are regular readers they will note that it continues a set of essays regarding ‘mammon’.

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But old clothes are beastly, continued the untiring whisper. We always throw away old clothes. Ending is better than mending, ending is better than mending, ending is better… — Aldous Huxley.

My proposition in this collection of essays, that we are all in some way or other subject to the power, control and influence of Mammon, is one thing; offering a proposition of how we could live free from the domination of the Mammonic narrative is something quite different. It requires what the late Walter Brueggemann calls ‘prophetic imagination’—a God-given vision of an alternate reality to that which we see unfolding in the prevailing culture. He was right! However, the truth is that, at best, we are spellbound by the rewards Mammon promises, and at worst, we are slavishly labouring on Mammon’s treadmill. And so, it does indeed require divine imagination to begin to conceive of a life liberated from its stranglehold.

The good news is that the gospel inspires prophetic imagining and vision. It makes a way for us all to break free from the power of the ‘machine’, the god called Mammon. The declaration of Christ at the cross that “It is finished” lies at the heart of the gospel. The dehumanising and predatory powers of sin, along with the accompanying forces of darkness that enslave you, me, and the whole of creation, were defeated by the holy, self-sacrificing love of Christ at Calvary. We now, as the apostle Paul says, need to reckon ourselves dead to the ‘machine’, dead to those predatory powers that seek to enslave us again, and alive to Christ. Emancipated from the tyranny of consumerism’s liturgy, individualism’s mastery, and secularism’s unbelief, we seek the peace and prosperity of our neighbourhoods, cities, and nation.

So, what does this look like in practice? This is an important question! James, in his letter, tells us that, ‘Faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.’ (James 2:17). He alludes to a new form of labour (work) inspired and reimagined by the very faith we have in the labour (work) of the crucified Christ. What I hope to do in between my articles on Mammon is suggest that there are some practices and rhythms that enable us to take a stand and resist the powerful tide of Mammon and its plundering nature.

Modern life depends on the habit of discarding things

So, ‘What is the picture of the loo seat doing at the start of this article, and what has it got to do with resisting Mammon?’ you may ask. There’s a story attached to it! We’ve had this toilet seat for a number of years. Recently, I noticed that the varnish had started to flake on the top of the seat. Often, in circumstances like this, my normal reaction would be to say that it has served us well, I’ll throw it out and get a new one. That’s not unreasonable—or is it? As you may observe from the photograph, I decided to take this oak toilet seat apart, sand off the varnish, re-varnish the seat, and put it right back from where I’d taken it. I made a deliberate choice for repair rather than replace.

This was not simply about saving money but a very small act in which I was not just resisting our ‘throwaway culture’, standing in opposition to it, and resisting the powerful tide of Mammon. In some small way, it was also answering the call of God to steward the material world. Sound bizarre or even pious? Stay with me!

The history of a ‘throwaway culture’

Discarding the old and buying the new, along with built-in obsolescence of consumer goods, has been a cornerstone of developed economies for over a century. In his book Made to Break, the American historian Giles Slade suggests that 1923 was the year when manufacturers began to create a cycle of obsolescence and replacement as the mainstay of their growth strategy. Companies’ success in the previous century had been sought by building a reputation to produce durable and repairable products. Many manufacturers’ designs tended to reflect an ethic of stewardship. It was this ethic that guided Henry Ford in the development of his famous car, the Model T. He aimed to build a car affordable to the masses, engineered for years of use and easy to fix. His idea caught the imagination of Americans everywhere. By 1920, 55% of families owned a Tin Lizzie. Later, he was reported to have said his aim was to build a car that was ‘so strong and well-made that no one ought ever to have to buy a second one.’ Oh, how things have changed!

His competitor Alfred P. Sloan of General Motors had different ideas; he saw an opening in the market and took inspiration from the world of fashion. He trialled bringing out new car models each year, often just changing the shape or colour, so that the fashion-conscious could acquire their newest model of Chevrolet. His associate Harley J. Earl was frank and open about their intention: ‘Our big job is to hasten obsolescence’. In 1934, the average car ownership span was 5 years; now [1955] it is 2 years. ‘When it is 1 year, we will have the perfect score.’ It worked! GM became the world’s largest car manufacturer. Slade suggests that ‘Deliberate obsolescence in all its forms—technological, psychological, or planned—is a uniquely American invention.’

Soon, psychological obsolescence became the primary means of growing businesses. As the development of branding, packaging, and marketing became more sophisticated, this fuelled the growing throwaway culture as consumers increasingly made choices based more on trend than technical reliability. Slade remarks: ‘In manufacturing terms, psychological obsolescence was superior to technical obsolescence, because it was cheaper to create and could be produced on demand.’ Over the last century, the principle of designing in obsolescence in all its forms and speeding up the replacement cycle has become an immutable part of the manufacture and sale of goods around the globe.

Mammon and the material world

We’ve all fallen under the spell of the Mammonic Machine to a greater or lesser extent. Our collective ambitions for new, bigger, better, and ‘more for less’ come at a cost. The environmental impact of vast quantities of waste, some of it toxic, that are the result of our acceptance of obsolescence and disposal in favour of acquisition and consumption, are staring us in the face. These, according to the late Pope Francis’s 2015 Encyclical Laudato si’, are the symptoms of a ‘throwaway culture’—and he doesn’t mince his words! He writes: ‘The earth, our home, is beginning to look more and more like an immense pile of filth’. He addressed the many ways the ‘throwaway culture’, a by-product of an industrialised technological society, impacts the environment. More than this, he used the term as a metaphor for our broken relationships, including that of the natural world itself— ‘our common home’—and it as a symbol of the disposability of people, those he called ‘excluded’.

I believe that the architecture of both our individual and common life is profoundly misshapen in the hands of an alternative potter—Mammon. As the grip of commodification, commercialisation, and financialisation becomes even tighter, our four primary human relationships take on a different form and nature. Pope Francis makes this point too (although he talks of three relationships rather than four) when he writes:

[H]uman life is grounded in three fundamental and closely intertwined relationships: with God, with our neighbour and with earth itself. According to the Bible, these three vital relationships have been broken, both outwardly and inwardly.

Mammon’s powers to commodify, commercialise, and financialise radically change our relationship with the material world. In the process, we have exchanged communion—right relationship with the material world—that could be described as stewarding and guarding, for commodity—a wrong relationship with the material world—resulting in exploitation and profiteering.

God and the material world

I grew up as a new believer in the late 70s when evangelicalism had been intoxicated by an escapist eschatology popularised by books and novels like Hal Lindsey’s Late Great Planet Earth (The Left Behind series written by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins trod a similar path from the mid-90s). Most of us young believers lived in fear of The Day of the Lord. We were told stars were literally going to fall from the sky, the evil and corrupted earth would be consigned to some kind of cosmic dustbin, eventually to be replaced by a new one—a better model! Alfred P. Sloan of General Motors would like the sound of this eschatology! The gospel’s power was ring-fenced to the repair and renewal of a single relationship—that of ‘mine’ with God.

As I have written before, I now believe this to be a highly individualised and extremely narrow lens through which to comprehend the work and ways of Christ. Jesus’ death and resurrection signify not just His triumph over ‘my’ ‘sin’ but much, much more. He wins the battle over the powers of darkness and ultimately the power of death, both of which are at work in creation as a whole. This is captured in the famous ‘Gospel verse’ in John’s gospel: ‘For God so loved the world (Greek word: cosmos) that he gave His own Son…’ (John 3:16). Of course, it’s good news for every one of us that believes, but the significance of this world-loving act is registered cosmically. Jesus labours to make a way for the repair and renewal of all things.

A new relationship—with creation.

Tom Wright suggests in his epic book Surprised by Hope that the scene set out in Revelation chapters 21 and 22 presents the greatest images of cosmic renewal in the whole Bible. This is imagery that uses the relational metaphor of marriage. The new Jerusalem comes down out of heaven adorned like a bride for her husband. It plainly reverses the trajectory I was taught in my early years as a Christian—of a disembodied ascent to heaven to await with fear and trembling a type of judgement that also included the disposal of the once-good creation. Wright points out: ‘This [Revelation 21 & 22] is the ultimate rejection of all types of Gnosticism, of every worldview that sees the final goal as the separation of the world from God, of the physical from the spiritual, of earth from heaven’.

‘Behold, I am making all things new…’ (Revelation 21:5)

This promise offers hope and a vision of a restored and renewed creation—not a redundant old creation that requires replacement. It signifies a future where all things will be made new and free from the old, imperfect order. God will abolish death and decay forever. Heaven and earth are not poles apart needing to be separated—no, they are made for each other. It speaks of the restoration, renewal, and repair of all things.

Saying no to a ‘throwaway’ culture

So, back to my earlier question: what does this look like in practice? If the ultimate climax of the Gospel is not the destruction of the material world but its repair, then we are called to live in the light of this message. Perhaps we can resist Mammon and its accompanying throwaway culture by embodying a culture of stewardship through developing the new habits of repair and re-use.

We might not have a dedicated space, the tools, or the skills to repair our own stuff! There is, however, a growing network of grassroots organisations that are fostering a repair and re-use culture. Here are just two:

iFixit is both an online resource for those wanting to repair rather than replace or recycle consumer goods. They also have a growing network of repair shops. This grassroots initiative’s manifesto, among other things, suggests that repair connects people with things and makes consumers into contributors.

Repair Cafés have over 3,500 sites all over Europe, including the UK. They are free meeting places, and they’re all about repairing things (together). In the place where a Repair Café is located, they offer tools and materials to help you make any repairs you need for clothes, furniture, electrical appliances, bicycles, crockery, toys, etc. You’ll often also find expert volunteers with repair skills in all kinds of fields.

We may not all be able to fix a toaster or sew a torn sleeve, but we can all choose to value what we have, honour the work of others, and resist the tide of waste. In doing so, we not only care for creation—we reclaim our humanity. The culture of repair is not just about things; it’s about people, relationships, and the world we long to see healed.

In a world shaped by disposability and driven by Mammon, choosing repair over replacement is a quiet act of resistance—and a bold act of hope. Each time we mend what is broken, we participate in the divine work of renewal. Let us be people who imagine differently, live prophetically, and steward faithfully. The culture of repair begins with us.