If you’ve ever had the urge to buy something new — a trinket, a bauble, a book, or any kind of decorative object — you’ve probably found yourself channeling the mantra of Japanese “organizing consultant” Marie Kondo: hold each item in your hand and ask if it “sparks joy.” If it doesn’t, the modern rule is simple — don’t buy it, and if you’ve got it: don’t keep it. 

As the 21st century rolls on, this form of minimalism has become more than a trend – it’s become a movement. Entire YouTube channels are devoted to “decluttering,” and there’s a peculiar satisfaction in watching people toss out 27 coffee mugs they never use or transform a chaotic closet into a Zen-like display of perfectly folded shirts.

But this obsession with minimalism isn’t new. History is full of people who discovered that less is more. Take the Shakers — an eccentric 18th-century religious sect founded by “Mother” Ann Lee and her followers in England — so austere that they even broke away from the Quakers for being too worldly. They built an entire society based around radical simplicity. 

To them, unnecessary ornamentation wasn’t just bad taste, it was spiritually hazardous. Their furniture was stripped-down and functional to the point of purity — elegant straight lines, no frills, nothing but purpose. Remarkably, more than two centuries later, Shaker chairs and tables still look modern, the kind of furniture pieces that wouldn’t look out of place in a sleek New York City loft.

There’s a story told about a Shaker community in New Hampshire: an uninitiated visitor was admiring the bare wooden meeting house and asked why it was so plain. The Shaker elder, almost incredulous, replied, “Because if God wanted it fancy, He’d have made it fancy.” 

And it wasn’t just about buildings or furniture. The Shakers’ daily lives were a kind of spiritual decluttering. No decorative clothing. No frivolous conversation. One Shaker diary even records a “brother” being gently corrected for carving an extra flourish into a chair spindle. “Beauty,” the elder told him, “is obedience.” In other words, remove what is unnecessary, and holiness will emerge.

Fast forward to today, and that same principle has found its way to Hollywood — albeit, stripped of any religious context. Professional organizer Janelle Cohen, who has decluttered the homes of celebrities like Jordyn Woods and Jay Shetty, insists that true order isn’t about squeezing more in, but rather it’s about editing it all down until only the essentials remain. 

She even has her A-list clients go through every single item seasonally, “editing” their closets so that what’s left is only what they actually use and love. “When Jordyn opens her closet,” Cohen says, “it excites her. It feels manageable.” 

One of Cohen’s golden rules is what she calls “prime real estate.” The items you use and cherish most should always be within reach; everything else should either be pushed to the margins — or removed entirely. It’s not about austerity for its own sake. It’s about creating a space where what truly matters is visible, accessible, and central.

Contrast that with the opposite impulse: the baroque churches of 17th-century Europe, gilded to the point of sensory overload. Or Victorian drawing rooms so jammed with doilies and in-your-face taxidermy that you could barely find the furniture. Or today’s “feature-rich” software apps, so overloaded with functions that you practically need a tutorial just to locate the “save” button. 

Human history, when you boil it down, is really a tug-of-war between the impulse to add and the discipline to take away. Which is why it’s striking that in Parashat Va’etchanan, Moshe delivers what might be the ultimate minimalist manifesto (Deut. 4:2): “Do not add to this thing, and do not subtract from it.” 

We can understand why subtracting from the core aspects of Torah is a bad thing, but why would adding to it be wrong? Rashi offers a sharp answer: adding to the Torah doesn’t elevate it, he says, it distorts it. He gives the example of the Arba Minim on Sukkot. 

If you decide that four species are good, so five must be better, you’ve not “enhanced” the mitzvah — you’ve corrupted it. What begins as extra piety becomes a counterfeit commandment. 

The Ramban takes it further. He warns that human additions blur the boundaries of what God actually commanded. When people can no longer tell the difference between divine law and human invention, the authenticity of the Torah itself is weakened. In other words, spiritual “clutter” is just as dangerous as spiritual neglect.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch explains it beautifully. He says that “adding” is a kind of hidden arrogance: it implies that God’s blueprint is incomplete, that our personal tweaks are needed to perfect it. But, as Rav Hirsch reminds us, the Torah isn’t a rough draft — it’s a finished masterpiece. 

Our job isn’t to rewrite the Torah, it’s to live it. Which is why Moshe warns against both subtraction and addition. One hollows out the Torah, the other smothers it under layers of well-meaning excess. Both, in the end, take us further away from the elegant, balanced simplicity of God’s design.

In the tech world, there’s a term called “feature creep.” It’s what happened to the web browser Netscape Navigator in the 1990s. Once the undisputed leader, Netscape kept piling on new features — “just one more” toolbar, “just one more” plug‑in — until it became too slow, too clunky, and practically unusable. Users abandoned Netscape in droves, competitors took over, and the once dominant browser was pushed to the margins… and eventually, into oblivion.

In the restaurant world, chefs dread what’s known as “menu bloat.” Gordon Ramsay has made a career out of exposing it on Kitchen Nightmares. Time and again, he walks into failing restaurants where the menu reads like a novel — dozens of dishes spanning every cuisine imaginable. “You can’t possibly cook all of this food well,” he tells them. 

And he’s right. When one struggling Italian restaurant in New York slashed its sprawling menu down to a handful of core dishes, something remarkable happened: the food got better, the kitchen ran smoothly, and the customers came back. As Ramsay put it, “Stop trying to be everything — just be excellent at what matters.”

Moshe is making the same point in this week’s parsha. “Do not add to this thing” isn’t solely a legal warning — it’s also a spiritual safeguard. When we start piling on “extras,” we risk smothering the beauty and dulling the clarity of the Torah beneath well‑intentioned but distracting clutter. 

Like Ramsay’s pared‑down menu, the Torah works because it’s perfectly balanced. Nothing is missing, and nothing needs “just one more” ingredient. Our job is not to improve the Torah, but to serve it up the way it was given — simple, precise, and flawless. Because ultimately, minimalism doesn’t mean less — it means no more and no less than what’s right.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.