AfterWords | The Liturgy of Mammon

A short read
by Jared Ray

More. Better. Newer. Safer.

That is the liturgy of Mammon.

This reflection grew in the wake of Jordan’s sermon on Mammon—a message that invited us to name the powers that quietly shape our lives. As I sat with it throughout the week, I began to notice the more subtle mantras that so often go unspoken. How easily they dress themselves in wisdom. How often they slip into our decisions, our values, even our faith.

I’ve felt this in my own life—in the way I plan, the way I work, even the way I parent. The pull toward self-sufficiency, toward control, toward earning the right to rest. It’s so quiet I hardly notice it, and yet, it’s everywhere.

Most of us believe we don’t serve this god—not really. And yet, these mantras are not always loud or obvious. They come softly. Silently. As the cultural norm. And sometimes, even from the pulpits of my past. 

We’ve been taught to tighten the belt now so we can loosen it later. To sacrifice in the short term so we can secure abundance in the long term. At first glance, it sounds like wisdom—even discipleship. But the reward we seek may still be the same: comfort, control, autonomy. It teaches restraint, but only in service of self. It echoes faithfulness, but it follows the logic of prosperity. This isn’t the way of Jesus. It’s simply Mammon in religious clothing.

And where do comfort and control tend to appear? In the places where our fears are loudest—in aging, weakness, loss of independence, the loss of those we love, uncertainty about the future, or even in societal upheaval or instability. It makes me wonder: could retirement, as we often define it, be one of Mammon’s most sophisticated disguises?

What if it’s not the prize of wise planning, but a quiet altar we’ve been taught to build, stone by stone, with the best years of our lives? Some of us trade our entire lives for it—trying to buy a sliver of freedom at the end. But we can have a life of freedom now.

Because the way of Jesus isn’t about playing the game more efficiently. It’s about stepping out of it altogether. As Jesus said, ‘Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross.’ It’s not about delayed gratification for greater comfort, or long-term security through long-term striving. 

It’s about dying to ourselves.

This doesn’t mean we reject wise stewardship or financial awareness. But the why matters. It’s the mirror we must face—every day. Looking ourselves in the eye and asking:

What would you do with true freedom?
Where would you invest your time—and with whom?
What would you pursue? What would you create? Who would you become?

Is this something I truly need?
Where can I trade convenience for community?
Where can I give rather than take?
Who can I let in front of me?
Where can I live more simply to gain freedom?
Would I still work this hard if my income were fixed, and I gave away anything beyond that?
If I knew I—and my children—would be secure, what would I do with my life today?
Where am I placing my trust—on what I can control, or on God?

John Stott, a prominent Anglican theologian, lived simply, donating his book royalties to charity and capping his income. In early church history, figures like St. Augustine and St. Francis of Assisi took vows of poverty. Tolstoy, in even more radical ways, embraced these principles, living a life of profound simplicity and generosity.

I’m not saying we’re all called to such extremes. But these examples invite us to reflect in our quiet moments—considering how we might embrace greater simplicity and generosity in our own lives.

Because it’s the little choices that shape the larger ones. The daily decisions that sketch who we are becoming. And beneath those choices lies another, lesser-known liturgy of Mammon. It whispers: You don’t need anyone.

And this—this might be one of America’s most cherished beliefs. Radical independence is often seen as a pinnacle of success, sometimes at the cost of true community.

Beneath that is an even deeper lie—that we don’t need God. Because placing our trust in God’s provision can be daunting. It requires a leap of faith, and a willingness to embrace vulnerability. And in our quest for independence, we’ve lost sight of something crucial. We no longer borrow—we buy. We’ve shifted away from living multi generationally, constructing our own kingdoms instead. And ultimately, we make true freedom elusive—because sustaining these ideals demands one thing above all: money.

We make it so hard on ourselves.

Would we have to mortgage our entire lives if we knew we—and those we love—would be cared for in our later years? I don’t think so. I think we’d live differently. We’d live in freedom. Yet in the pursuit of financial independence, we can lose not only God—but also the very things we were made for: one another.

Jacques Ellul, a French philosopher and theologian, once said that money isn’t neutral—it’s a spiritual force. He went on to write: “The Christian life is not about handling money wisely—it is about being freed from its power”

And that is what we must remember.The Gospel does not promise us more. It does not promise us better, newer, or safer. It promises us freedom. True freedom.

And sometimes, in our pursuit of a cultural—or even Christian—version of freedom, we unintentionally forsake the real thing. Are we brave enough to ask those questions? Are we willing to stop long enough to see the chains? Because Mammon is a god of distraction. He pulls our attention away from our deepest longings. He offers cheap substitutes that never fill. That never satisfies.

There is no end to more.
To better.
To newer.
To safer.

There is no freedom there—only bondage. We may never redefine success at a cultural level. But you can reclaim your freedom.

So I ask:
What would you do with true freedom?
Where would you invest your time—and with whom?
What would you pursue?
What would you create?
Who would you become?

And freedom doesn’t come by accident. It takes intention. It takes practice. Simplicity is not about austerity—it’s about clarity. About choosing less so we can love more.

So what might it look like to begin living more simply? Maybe it’s limiting what we accumulate. Maybe it’s choosing to give before we save. Maybe it’s rethinking the kind of life we’re building—not just for ourselves, but for each other.

Start small. Start where you are. But start. As I navigate this journey myself, I know I don’t have all the answers. We’re all learning together.

And so I leave you with this:

May we have eyes to see the chains that bind us.
May we have the courage to break them, no matter the cost.
May we be gentle with ourselves as we journey.
May we need others, and may we be needed.
And may we walk with God, in freedom, all our days.
From dawn until dusk. From beginning to end.

Amen.