The knitting needle moves quickly, back and forth, making a pattern. It’s an Instagram video in the fascinating repair genre. Similar clips show rougher work—a stonemason restoring a 900-year-old cathedral, a handyman reviving a neglected home room by room. But in this video, the task is to fix a moth-eaten sweater. In mere moments, the wool looks good as new. The hole has disappeared, the weaving so exactly matched by an unseen mender that some would take to be digital trickery, had they not shown every stitch.

These repair videos aren’t quite honest, of course. They’re practiced and edited, glossing over the less-than- perfect bits, and skipping entirely the discipline and tedium required to master a craft. On a platform that reflects so well our culture’s tendency to seek the easier option, repair videos choose the inverse.

Though we see it most obviously in social media, the consumerist tendency against repair is rooted deeply in our culture and institutions. We often see that inclination in ourselves. Children’s socks get holes, but we do not darn them. We throw them away, alongside so many other products made to be disposable or planned for quick consumption and then obsolescence.

However, repair is not always the right choice. Sometimes things really are broken beyond repair, subjected to the laws of physics, human error, and the desolation of sin. A marriage can’t be repaired when one spouse won’t repent of abuse. We can’t haul up the Titanic and send it on a second voyage.

The tendency toward repair deeply resonates with the story of salvation. In Isaiah 58, repair is a sign of the restoration of God’s blessing, of the people’s reunion with God after repentance from their sin. This theme continues into the New Testament, where Peter preaches that the time is coming “for God to restore everything, as he promised long ago” (Acts 3:21).