The God of Efficiency

Faithfulness, Presence, and the Challenge of Modern Life

St Helen’s Bishopsgate, London. Image source: Alamy.

I would say that my current life trajectory is shaped by two questions. The first ties into my local church’s earthly mission: bringing heaven down to southeast London. As someone born and raised in this part of the city, it holds deep sentimental value and offers a genuine sense of purpose and meaning. The second question is: “How does a Christian live faithfully by the gospel in 21st-century society?” These two questions are broad enough to leave space for how I navigate life. It does not mean that I must become a vicar or youth worker, but it does force one to seriously reflect on what goodness and truth look like in a rapidly transforming world, where consumerism and individualism shape the wider cultural atmosphere.

The profound conclusion I have arrived at is not simply that we need to be kinder to one another, that we must create more social justice programmes, or even write more essays, as I am doing now. All of these can help cultivate a better society, and I would encourage others to participate in them. Rather, I have come to believe that I, and perhaps we as a society, must let go of this idea of efficiency that underpins much of modern modernity. We instinctively prefer what is faster, smoother, and frictionless. From delivery apps to optimised schedules, efficiency feels self-evidently good. But what if efficiency is not merely a tool, but a moral framework that we rarely question? One that has not only shaped the modern world, but also the Christian life that participates in it — not because it is evil, but because it subtly defines what we come to believe is good.

You may be reading this and immediately thinking: “What is wrong with efficiency?” Does it not allow us to be more productive? And I think these are fair questions. The issue is not necessarily efficiency itself, but the tendency to treat efficiency as an inherently positive attribute rather than a value-neutral tool. In doing so, we elevate efficiency into an ultimate good to be pursued.

I am reminded of a passage from Matthew 6:24 in the New Testament: “You cannot serve both God and Mammon.” Mammon is broadly translated as wealth, but Jesus’ point reaches beyond money itself. Mammon represented an organising principle of life centred on accumulation, security, and material flourishing. It became the place where many put their faith. It shaped their understanding of reality itself — what the good life entailed and what it meant to be blessed. Wealth was often interpreted as evidence of divine favour.

So if mammon ordered life around wealth, modern life is increasingly being ordered around efficiency. Efficiency today functions not merely as a practical tool, but as a moral logic. It quietly shapes how we understand virtue, productivity, time, relationships, and even faithfulness itself.

As a result, efficiency becomes a value judgement. Faster equates to better, scalable is seen as superior, and frictionless becomes desirable. We can see how these assumptions play out in everyday life. Productivity metrics increasingly shape our understanding of competence in the workplace. Mobile apps are designed to eliminate “wasted time”, while convenience underpins much of modern social life. If relationships are difficult to navigate, we often interpret that difficulty as a sign to withdraw from them altogether. The subtle yet powerful shift in modern life is that we no longer simply use efficient systems; we now judge reality through them.

But love, a fundamental part of what it means to be human, is not efficient. Love absorbs cost; efficiency seeks to minimise it.

I am immediately reminded of Paul’s words in First Corinthians: “Love is patient.” Throughout Scripture, there is a recurring emphasis on forgiveness, going the extra mile, and turning the other cheek. Love requires us to walk with people even when they disappoint us, hurt us, or fall short, just as Christ walks with us. This is not a process that can be optimised.

Think of the messages sent to a friend that go unanswered, or the last-minute cancellation of an event you had planned months in advance. It can be tempting to think, “Perhaps I should invest my time only in those who value it as much as I do.” Yet love often calls us beyond the logic of efficiency.

The story of Martha and Mary illustrates this tension perfectly. Martha becomes frustrated because she is doing all the cooking and preparation while Mary sits at Jesus’ feet, listening to him. This is not to say that Martha’s work was unimportant, nor that her desire to honour Jesus was misplaced. Rather, Martha had lost sight of the greater purpose: being present with Christ. After all, how can one claim to follow Jesus without first taking the time to know him?

What is fascinating is that, at some level, we intuitively understand this. We know that deep friendships require time, interruption, and inconvenience. We know that family life resists optimisation; raising children is about many things, but efficiency is rarely one of them. We see how church life can become distorted when it is centred on performance rather than presence.

And perhaps that is the most puzzling thing of all. We willingly invest ourselves in these relationships because we recognise that they are essential to a life well lived. The things that give life its deepest meaning are often the least efficient. Love, friendship, family, faithfulness, worship — none of these can be reduced to productivity metrics.

The meaningful parts of life are often the least efficient

The Cross makes little sense within the framework of efficiency. Why would God not simply create a world that operated more smoothly? Why send His Son into the world to patiently walk alongside people, only to suffer at the hands of those who rejected Him?

From the perspective of efficiency, it appears slow, costly, and even wasteful. It does not optimise outcomes in any worldly sense. Yet it is precisely through what appears inefficient that redemption comes.

God’s logic is not one of optimisation, but of sacrificial love. The Gospel is not a story of achieving the greatest outcome at the lowest cost. It is a story of self-giving love that willingly bears cost for the sake of others. The Cross reveals that what appears foolish, weak, and inefficient by the standards of the world may, in fact, be the very means through which God transforms it.

Perhaps this is why Christians should be cautious whenever efficiency becomes the dominant lens through which we view life. Efficiency is a useful servant, but a poor master. Sure, it can help us organise our schedules, manage our resources, and steward our responsibilities. But it cannot tell us what is worth loving, what is worth sacrificing for, or what makes a life meaningful.

The Kingdom of God operates according to a different logic. One where presence matters more than productivity, faithfulness more than optimisation, and love more than efficiency.

To live faithfully in such a kingdom requires us to value faithfulness over measurable output. I should not evaluate whether spending two hours meeting a friend for coffee advances my goals, expands my network, or maximises my productivity. Some things are valuable precisely because they cannot be measured.

We must resist the temptation to over-optimise our time at the expense of presence. Not every conversation needs a purpose. Not every act of service requires a visible outcome. Not every relationship can be justified through a cost-benefit analysis. The Christian life calls us to be present with God and with one another, even when doing so appears inefficient. That is how Christians become the “salt of the earth”.

So, as we move into the latter half of the year, I intend to become more mindful of the God I am following, and to ensure that it is not the God of efficiency. I increasingly believe that this is one of the central challenges of living faithfully in modern society. And perhaps we as a society (of all faiths and none), need to reconsider the place that efficiency occupies in our moral imagination.