Entrepreneurship is a calling or vocation. It is, though, quite different from management. All aspects of business, whether one is in management, employment or an investor should be conducted ethically, but the characteristics and virtues demanded of entrepreneurs are quite specific – and rarely discussed.
Entrepreneurship requires alertness to opportunities, but it also involves a leap in the dark: a leap into the genuinely unknowable. Entrepreneurship also often involves radical uncertainty where, however much analysis we do, we cannot predict the outcome – or even quantify the risks that are faced.
Jack Cohen, the founder of Tesco, started as a market stallholder and even invested his wedding present in his then-micro business. He was an entrepreneur, and his actions gave rise to huge consequences that he could not have predicted.
Entrepreneurs also have to be prepared for failure: most businesses do fail. This requires a certain strength of character and detachment from material things. As the economists Alchian and Allen note:
Fortune does not hand down information and guidance to discover improved techniques of production and distribution of better products. It’s obtained by investing in risky exploration and experimentation with one’s own wealth. Some experiments fail, perhaps most fail. The failures disappear with little publicity.
Entrepreneurs, therefore, need a certain detachment from material things if they are going to take risks. Entrepreneurs could choose to do nothing, and many could choose not to start a new venture whilst carrying on living a life of considerable material comfort. The act of entrepreneurship requires people to move away from the familiar and risk their secure life and their material comforts. Thomas Aquinas comments that people would not carry out what he describes as works of magnificence (which could include, but is certainly not limited to, establishing a business) if they had not moderated their love for money. Otherwise, they would not have undertaken the financial risk – they would just have accumulated interest on their fortune.
The first Pope to use the word ‘entrepreneur’ in a public statement was probably Pope Pius XII. He did not write a social encyclical, but he produced broadcasts and speeches which demonstrated an advanced understanding of economics, and which were often related to business practice, including entrepreneurship. For example, he said in an address to the First National Congress of Small Industry in January 1956: ‘Among the motives that justified the holding of your convention, you have given the first place to “a vindication of the indispensable functions of the private entrepreneur”.’
And, in an address to the Third International Congress on the Distribution of Food Products in June of the same year, he noted some of the attributes and virtues that entrepreneurs needed: ‘they should rid themselves of prejudices that hinder the establishment of more economical methods and be open-minded with a taste for the calculated risk.’
As well as mentioning the characteristics of entrepreneurs, as discussed above, Pope Pius XII also mentioned, in his address to the Third International Congress on the Distribution of Food Products in June 1956, some of the virtues that entrepreneurs needed:
Men must [have]…solicitude for the common good, even if individual interests must suffer a little at first, and perfect honesty: all these qualities of a good merchant have now, more than ever, a rightful claim on you, and are clearly prime factors of success.
Adam Smith made a similar point, in fact. You may be able to make some quick money if you are dishonest. But, in general, if you are to build a lasting business, you need to develop trusted relationships with employees, suppliers, financiers, and so on.
Pope John Paul II certainly had a good understanding of the distinct role of the entrepreneur. In his encyclical, Centesimus annus, he wrote about entrepreneurship and the values and virtues of the entrepreneur. He mentioned the need for co-operation; a common goal; the need to organise properly; the willingness to take risks; discipline; diligence; industriousness; prudence in ensuring that the risks are reasonable; reliability and fidelity in personal relationships; courage in taking difficult decisions.
The Vatican document ‘The Vocation of the Business Leader’ goes further and, quoting Pope Pius XI’s social encyclical, Quadragesimo Anno, it is argued that an entrepreneur’s first aim should be to produce a good product or service and only secondly consider gain: the entrepreneur should produce true goods by good means (44).
We can go still further than this. The role of the entrepreneur is to produce goods or services by good means whilst making a return for the investors – which will include the entrepreneur himself.
If the entrepreneur does not make a return, he is running a charity, not a business. It is not intrinsically problematic for a business to make a return – after all, the profits from businesses pay pensions, payouts on insurance policies, allow people to save, and so on. But a business should make a profit through moral means.
Radich (2024), in his article, ‘Toward a Thomistic Account of the Virtues of the Entrepreneur: Moral, Intellectual, and Theological Strengths for Flourishing’, Journal of Markets and Morality 27(1) has, perhaps, the most comprehensive account of the virtues of the entrepreneur. He breaks down the cardinal virtues into constituent parts. He suggests that particular aspects of prudence are important for the entrepreneur. Entrepreneurs need docility (the ability to learn from others, which helps them make fewer mistakes and make more rapid judgements); they need providentia, by which the entrepreneur can see ahead; and they need circumspection, which requires them to be attentive to their surroundings.
These are all sub virtues of the virtue of prudence, and they can easily be related to the economic analysis above which emphasised the importance of, for example, alertness and being able to envisage the future as shaped by entrepreneurial activity.
The sub virtues of the virtue of fortitude involve overcoming challenges through effort and by taking financial risks in order to do great things.
Temperance is also important. Entrepreneurs may come across challenges that might endure over long periods of time, so patience is necessary. Entrepreneurs are not rash gamblers. If they are to be successful, they must restrain their impulses.
Interestingly, Radich also cites a study by researchers at Baylor university which suggested that entrepreneurs prayed more than the average. Radich speculated that this might be because they are aware of their dependence on others and, hence, upon the divine, and also that they are aware of their inability to control the circumstances that surround them.
Indeed, Pope Francis referenced the virtue of courage in entrepreneurship in an address at an audience for the Italian Family Business Association:
In your case, you are characterized by the delicate balance between family and work, which is expressed in entrepreneurial courage and responsibility. It is good, it is constructive when courage and responsibility go together. Action that comes from the heart is bold, it does not retreat into itself, but knows how to look far ahead; and responsibility, then, is the secret of business….
Indeed, there was a ‘Jubilee for Entrepreneurs’ in the Catholic Church’s 2025 jubilee year.
The concept of entrepreneurship – or certainly, its attributes – should not be thought of as being limited to the field of business. The characteristics of entrepreneurship apply in many other human activities. For example, we could imagine doing the following in a Church, civil society or public service context:
All these require the characteristics of entrepreneurs that we have described above such as:
This link between entrepreneurship and the mission of the Church is part of a longer research project that I am pursuing with CEME over the coming months.
The UK faces compounding fiscal pressures: a swelling adult social care budget, rising debt-servicing costs, and a persistent temptation to raise revenue in ways that erode the very economic activity on which public spending ultimately depends. How should the tax system be reformed to encourage enterprise rather than discourage it?
On 21 May, CEME welcomes Tom Clougherty — a leading authority on UK tax reform, formerly Executive Director of the Institute of Economic Affairs and Head of Tax at the Centre for Policy Studies — to Westminster to set out the case. Naomi Wells, Partner in the Tax practice at Azets, and CEME’s Director Philip Krinks, will respond.
Location: One Great George Street, Westminster, SW1P 3AA.
Time: The event begins at 6:45pm with the talks from 7:00pm, followed by a drinks reception.
Please RSVP to let us know whether you are able to join us by emailing office@theceme.org
IEA Food for Thought with Prof. Philip Booth (RSVP with the IEA)
The Government Debt Crisis – not just an economic issue
12:30-13:00: Sandwich lunch
13:00-14:00: Presentation and Discussion
About the Discussion
Philip Booth will describe how government debt is creating a looming economic and social crisis. This is especially so when we also consider demographic developments in western and in Asian countries. Although it is sometimes suggested that we have had higher levels of debt before (for example after wartime), there were huge costs from reducing debt in those circumstances and the evidence suggests that managing government debt in future generations will be even more difficult. This is not just an economic problem. Historical experience suggests that high levels of government debt can lead to the breakdown of civil order, violence and even war as well as dissatisfaction with the process of government itself: perhaps we are already beginning to see those things happening today. Indeed, there are examples, including one close to home, where government debt has led to countries losing their sovereignty entirely.
About the Speaker
Philip Booth is Academic Advisor and Senior Research Fellow at the Centre for Enterprise, Markets and Ethics. He is also professor of Catholic Social Thought and Public Policy at St. Mary’s University, Twickenhamand Director of Policy and Research at the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of England and Wales.
Previously, Philip was academic and research director at the Institute of Economic Affairs from 2002 to 2016. He has worked for the Bank of England and as associate dean of Bayes (formerly Cass) Business School. He held the positions of Director of Research and Public Engagement; Dean of the Faculty of Education, Humanities and Social Sciences; and Director of Catholic Mission at St. Mary’s.
Philip has written widely on investment, finance, social insurance, and pensions, as well as on the relationship between Catholic social teaching and economics. He curates the website Catholic Social Thought.
Some years ago CEME published a fascinating report called God and Competition by Edward Carter. This notes that competition is often viewed with some suspicion in Christian thinking. It is typically treated as something to be restrained or carefully managed. While there is some truth in that, it does not go far enough. Competition is not merely permissible; when rightly ordered it is positively good and, in many areas of life, necessary for human flourishing.
At a basic level, competition reflects the reality that human abilities are not uniform. Across every sphere of life – intellectual, physical, creative, relational – people display different levels and types of ability. This is not simply the result of a fallen world but appears to be part of the intentional ordering of creation. Scripture itself assumes this pattern. In the Parable of the Talents, resources are given ‘each according to his ability’. Unequal gifts, therefore, are not a problem to be removed, but a reality to be recognised and worked with.
And here it is important to go a step deeper. If we are thinking in a properly Christian way, shaped by the doctrine of the Trinity, we should not confuse equality with uniformity. The Father, Son, and Spirit are fully equal in being, yet distinct in person. Equality does not mean sameness. In fact, the beauty of the Trinity lies precisely in unity without flattening difference.
That has profound implications for how we think about human life. The instinct to eliminate competition often comes from a deeper assumption – that fairness requires sameness, and that differences in ability are somehow problematic. But that instinct reflects a misunderstanding. A desire for uniformity may make sense in a worldview where persons are interchangeable, but it does not sit comfortably within a Trinitarian vision of reality. If difference is not only permitted but intrinsic to ultimate reality, then it should not surprise us that human life is marked by variety, distinction and differing levels of ability.
If that is right, then competition plays an important role in allowing those differences to be expressed and recognised. In any complex society, there needs to be a way of discovering who is best able to solve problems, lead organisations, innovate or create. Competition provides that framework. It allows people to strive for excellence and, in doing so, makes it clearer where real strengths lie.
This connects directly to stewardship. If individuals are entrusted with particular abilities, then they are called to develop and use them well. But stewardship is not just a private matter. Gifts need to be exercised in real situations, often alongside others pursuing similar goals. Competition creates the conditions in which those abilities are properly tested and sharpened. It pushes people beyond what they might otherwise settle for and helps prevent complacency.
You can see this very clearly in practice. In business, competition tends to lead to better products, better service and more innovation, because organisations are constantly being tested against one another. In the arts, whether music, writing or visual work, the presence of others producing high-quality work raises both ambition and output. And in sport, of course, without competition, performance simply would not reach the same level. In each case, the presence of others striving for the same goal raises the standard for everyone involved.
By contrast, attempts to minimise or remove competition often have unintended consequences. A system that tries to flatten differences or avoid comparison altogether can end up suppressing excellence rather than promoting fairness. When there is little incentive to strive, or when outstanding performance is neither recognised nor required, standards tend to drift downward. Exceptional ability can be discouraged, not deliberately, but because there is no clear place for it to be expressed.
Yet excellence, properly understood, is not just a private good; it benefits the wider community. When individuals or organisations perform at a high level, the effects extend well beyond themselves. In medicine, breakthroughs improve lives. In business, better services benefit customers. In the arts, exceptional creativity expands what others think is possible. And in sport, elite performance raises the standard for everyone coming through behind. Competition, by encouraging people to reach the limits of their ability, plays a key role in that process.
This also helps to reframe a common concern. The real moral danger here is not competition itself, but envy. Competition can expose unhealthy attitudes, but those attitudes are not caused by competition; they come from within. Envy resents the success of others and wants to diminish it. Healthy competition, by contrast, recognises and even delights in excellence. It allows one person’s success to become something that others can learn from and aspire to.
In that sense, competition can foster a culture of aspiration rather than rivalry in the negative sense. The success of others becomes something to build on rather than something to resist. Properly understood, competition does not undermine community; it can strengthen it, as each person’s contribution helps raise the level at which everyone operates.
Of course, competition does need to be rightly ordered. Like any powerful dynamic, it can be distorted. When detached from integrity, it can lead to dishonesty, exploitation, or an unhealthy focus on status. But these are not arguments against competition itself. They are arguments for ensuring that it operates within clear ethical boundaries – marked by fairness, honesty, and respect for others.
When those boundaries are in place, competition also plays a formative role in shaping character. It tests how people respond to success and failure, to pressure and comparison. It provides opportunities to grow in perseverance, humility, integrity and respect for others. In that sense, it contributes not just to what people achieve, but to who they become.
Competition, then, is not something to be apologised for or merely contained. When rightly understood and properly ordered, it reflects a deeper truth about reality itself: that difference is not a threat to equality, but part of its expression. And so, far from being a problem to solve, competition is one of the primary means by which human beings are stretched to use their gifts fully and through which both individual excellence and shared flourishing are brought into view.
This is a repost of an article originally published on the Catholic Social Teaching blog of St Mary’s University (https://catholicsocialthought.org.uk/).
Discussion of the term ‘social justice’ generates quite a bit of heat and some confusion. This probably arises because of the way in which, in secular circles, ‘social justice’ has become almost synonymous with justice in relation to how incomes and wealth are distributed. This particular concern in Catholic social teaching falls under the conceptually distinct (though not entirely practically distinct) domain of distributive justice – that is, the set of criteria by which we determine how the goods of this world should be distributed between people.
Social justice is about how our actions promote the conditions for the achievement of the common good. The object of social justice is society as a whole. The common good, in turn, represents ‘the sum of those conditions of the social life whereby men, families and associations more adequately and readily may attain their own perfection.’ Thus, we promote social justice when we promote the conditions necessary for all to reach perfection or fulfilment, and we promote injustice when we undermine these conditions for some or for all.
For the common good of the whole of society (such as the whole country) to be achieved, it must be achieved for communities within society. For example, there are particular features of the common good that relate to schools – such as not promoting an atmosphere of fear amongst children. While this is the responsibility of the school, the common good of the wider society depends on the promotion of the common good within these local environments, such as schools. Different associations within society have their own common good, and the common good of all associations within society contributes to the common good of the country as a whole.
Even if we struggle to define social justice, most Catholics know it when they see it. We correctly describe a whole range of activities as ‘social justice’ activities (such as the way we treat migrants and refugees, how we support those leaving prison and victims of crime, and how we treat those who have been trafficked).
It is also important to note that addressing offences against social justice is likely to affect the distribution of income and wealth, perhaps greatly (addressing corruption, for example) – social and distributive justice are related even if conceptually distinct.
Indeed, in the first papal encyclical to mention the idea of social justice by that name (Quadragesimo anno), a strong link was made between social justice and the material position of the working classes. Without distributive justice we will not have social justice. If some do not have the basic goods they need to flourish, society will be beset by misery, envy and conflict. In addition, some will lack the material things they need for a dignified life and, if some people lack these things, society as a whole is scarred.
In Catholic teaching, the advancement of both distributive justice and social justice is the responsibility of each and every member and institution in society, starting with the family, and we can illustrate this using the Parable of the Prodigal Son. While the deeper meaning of the parable concerns God’s justice and mercy and the requirement not to be self-righteous, the depiction of the social and economic relations between the family members offers an interesting perspective on distributive and social justice.
The parable begins with the younger son asking for his share of his father’s wealth. His father gave him that share. It would appear that distributive justice was achieved – the younger son got no more and no less than was due to him. However, he then went off and wasted it on a life of debauchery. Although he led a terrible life, there was no obvious offence against distributive justice: it was his inheritance to waste. He then suffered greatly, living amongst the dirtiest animals. It may seem harsh, but many people would think that his parlous situation also met the criteria for distributive justice. He had been a rich young man and wasted his money; did he deserve more than to live in poverty?
He then returned to the father, who welcomed him and held a party to celebrate his return. The dutiful elder son, who had never left home, was greatly upset at the apparent injustice of rewarding disobedience. The father took the trouble to explain that the elder son would get his half of the fortune too: ‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.’ In other words, the father is explaining that strict distributive justice has been achieved. As far as the father is concerned, the relationships between the individuals within the family, at least in relation to the distribution of property, were not damaged.
But what about the family as a miniature society? What about the common good of the family?
Importantly, the common good cannot be distributed – this alone suggests an important distinction between distributive and social justice. If a business partnership exists it will have assets in which partners have a share. Hopefully, the business will also thrive because of bonds of trust and other forms of goodwill between the partners; perhaps the partners will have a similar, praiseworthy moral outlook towards each other too – these are part of the conditions that promote the common good within the business. And maybe the business has excellent personal relationships of trust with other commercial partners. If the business is dissolved, distributive justice is done if each takes his or her share of the assets. However, the members cannot take away their share of the common bonds and moral outlook that have been necessary to create a thriving business: the common good cannot be distributed. However, I can act to promote, or destroy, the common good of the business. Interestingly, in accounting terms, the ‘goodwill’ of the business is that part of the value of the business over and above the value of the assets. However, the goodwill only exists if the business is maintained in some form. You could describe goodwill as the ‘common good premium’.
Returning to the parable, while distributive justice seems to be achieved, the common good and social justice within the family are not restored – though much would depend on the behaviour of the two sons as the story developed beyond the narrative in the Gospels.
Whilst the younger son was away, there were clearly rumours about his behaviour. The younger son promoted waste and debauchery in wider society. Within the family, he created fracture, disharmony and, no doubt, caused his parents to be greatly concerned in a way which could have eaten away at them, mentally and spiritually. The younger son destroyed the conditions necessary for the common good within the family as well as negatively impacting on the common good of society through his collusion in a culture of sin. His actions led the elder son to be resentful on his return. That resentment is, in itself, a problem and a barrier to restoring social justice and the common good within the family. Perhaps the younger son was in despair at the elder son’s resentment, as he had done what he could to make amends on his return. The behaviour of the elder son may have made the father despair too. The conditions necessary for the family to have harmonious relationships with each other and with God continued to be undermined. The family was potentially riven with disunity and, disharmony, leaving their relationships fractured and the conditions for the common good in their small family community, and by extension the wider community, sorely absent. Social justice and the common good were restored in this case by forgiveness, understanding, tolerance and a real desire for each family member to contribute to harmonious relationships within the family.
If the common good of society as a whole is to be achieved, then the common good of its constitutive elements must be achieved too – for example, in families, schools, communities, associations and business. We each have a responsibility to promote the common good and social justice in all the institutions with which we are connected – and we all belong to the nation as a whole, of course. Just as the common good of the country cannot be achieved without the common good of its elements being achieved, the government of the country has a responsibility to ensure that certain conditions exist that support the common good of families, schools and businesses. Distributive justice is important in any country, society or association. But, as we see from family relationships, work relationships and elsewhere, there is so much more that we need for a happy and fulfilled life: we also need social justice.
Image: The Prodigal’s Return by Edward Poynter
Adapted from a talk at the UNIAPAC Think Tank meeting, December 2025
People often look to priests to appear at the end of a conversation and offer a blessing as it concludes. However, I have always believed, following St. Ignatius of Loyola, that priests should not be the ones who close conversations, but the ones who ignite them. St. Ignatius once wrote to St. Francis Xavier as he sent him across the world to share a message of hope: Ite, inflammate omnia. Go, set everything on fire.
My own understanding of the relationship between faith and economic life has been significantly shaped by a document published by the Vatican in 2018: The Vocation of the Business Leader. One reason that it has been so influential is that it resists the simplifications which often dominate discussions on the role of ethical leadership in the business world. Instead of reducing business to technique, or spirituality to interior sentiment, it insists that business leadership is a genuine vocation. It is a calling rooted in human dignity and oriented towards the common good.
And yet, for all its depth, this document is not as widely read, discussed, or implemented as it deserves to be. If you have not read it, or not returned to it recently, I deeply encourage you to do so. For those interested in an ethical standpoint inspired by Christian, and especially Catholic thought, it offers a lens through which we can interpret the world of business. Its central triad offers a valuable and demanding framework: good goods, good work, good wealth. It reminds us that producing excellent goods, creating dignified jobs and distributing wealth in ways that strengthen society are not optional extras: they lie at the very heart of ethical leadership.
But this triad reveals something further. It exposes the moral depth of the economic sphere. It invites us to confront a dimension of human life that the modern business environment often avoids, and that even many faith-based organisations hesitate to name explicitly: the reality of sin. If we misunderstand this word, we will misunderstand our vocation.
When a writer in the Christian tradition, such as for example St. Augustine, speaks of human shortcomings, of sin, he does not begin by condemning behaviour. He begins by describing the human heart. He describes challenges which every human being is familiar with, whether they are Christians, or not. Sin, for St. Augustine, is fundamentally the disordering of desire. It is the restless, self-enclosed movement by which the human heart loses its orientation toward the good. Pride replaces humility; fear replaces freedom; control replaces trust. And whenever desire becomes disordered, human structures – including economic structures – reflect that disorder.
St. John Paul II extended this insight further by speaking of structures of sin. The economy is not a machine insulated from the moral life. It is shaped by the desires, choices, and relationships of human beings. If pride becomes the organising force of the heart, then inequality is not an accident; it is a structural expression of a spiritual wound. If fear governs decision-making, then precarious labour is not merely a technical outcome; it reveals something about our anthropology.
More recently another theologian, William Cavanaugh, reminded us that modern markets often present themselves as morally neutral mechanisms, but that this neutrality is an illusion. Markets shape desires, habits, and forms of belonging. They are not only systems but liturgies: they teach us how to imagine the good life. That is also what Alasdair MacIntyre warned. We live in a world where the meaning of virtue has been largely hollowed out. Institutions pursue efficiency without purpose; technique replaces teleology; moral language becomes decorative rather than operative.
This matters for business leaders concerned with ethics because, if we do not dare to speak in these categories – desire, virtue, sin, conversion – then we allow economic discourse to be dominated by a vocabulary too thin to sustain the hope we proclaim. We cannot speak of ‘vocation’ without speaking of moral anthropology. We cannot speak of ‘good wealth’ without recognising that both good and evil can structure the economic world.
And that is why advocacy, important as it is, will never be enough. Advocacy influences conversations. But the vocation to ethical leadership, certainly if it is Christian, must transform structures. Our mission is not merely to promote good causes but to implement an ethical approach in the concrete realities of business life. Christian business leadership is therefore not philanthropy, nor is it corporate social responsibility layered onto existing practices. It is the integration of Gospel principles into wages, taxation, governance, workplace culture, supply chains, investment decisions and distributive policies. It is an incarnational ethic. A former President of the UNIAPAC network, José Ignácio Mariscal, insisted on this time and time again, and we should not become numb to his warning.
Business leaders sometimes feel like this is all too hard, that it cannot be done. But there are many examples to inspire us and to provoke us. Consider the lives of three business leaders, which reveal what business leadership looks like when it becomes a form of ethical commitment, indeed of discipleship.
José María Arizmendiarrieta, the founder of the Mondragón movement, understood that economic structures could be shaped from within by the logic of cooperation. For him work was a participation in God’s creative action; economic organisation was an expression of fraternity; inequality was not destiny but the result of ethical failure. His vision demonstrates that solidarity is not sentiment; it is action – in a way which almost makes one wonder if he was a regular reader of Maurice Blondel. It is possible to create systems where the human person is not an instrument, but a co-creator.
Léon Harmel, whose spiritual and social intuition anticipated much of modern Catholic Social Teaching, insisted that justice must be woven into the fabric of industrial life. His factories pioneered fair wages, worker participation, social protection, and mutual aid. More radically, he believed that holiness and business leadership were not incompatible. Holiness was not reserved for monasteries; it was available, indeed demanded, in the factory, the workshop, the boardroom.
Finally, Enrique Ernesto Shaw, the Argentine businessman, offers a profoundly contemporary model of Christian economic leadership. His life embodied what Benedict XVI would later call an ‘economy of gratuity,’ in which business becomes not merely a space of efficiency and profit, but an arena of gift, responsibility, and communion. Shaw was known for treating workers not as human resources, but as human persons, investing in their families, their education, and their long-term well-being. He insisted that profit and care were not rivals but partners. His decisions were guided by a deep conviction that trust is a form of capital, and that a company prospers when its people flourish. Even during moments of economic difficulty, Shaw sought ways to protect employment rather than sacrificially reduce the workforce. In Shaw’s example therefore we see that a Christian leader does more than manage an organisation. He or she builds a moral ecosystem, a community where virtue becomes operative, where justice and charity shape strategy, and where the leader’s deepest identity is not proprietor but steward.
From these three lives I draw two specific provocations for leaders in 2026. The first concerns Artificial Intelligence. There is no need to talk about it for too long; we already hear enough about it. But we can at least say this: AI offers an opportunity to improve working conditions for those whose tasks are hardest and least recognised. Used ethically, it can free people from repetitive labour, open opportunities for education, and contribute to greater human dignity. The question is not simply how to mitigate risks, but how to orient AI toward justice. We tend to forget that in the 19th century all humanity dreamed of was the arrival of the machine, something particularly evident in Jules Verne’s novels, because automation would mean being freed from the manual and servile labour which was and still is demeaning to so many of our brothers and sisters around the world. So: can we use AI in a way that would be fitting to the lives of Arizmendiarrieta, Harmel, and Shaw? Can we use it to the benefit of the poorer, the frailer, the ones who suffer the most violence? Can we consider it not just from the point of view of the time it saves, but also from the point of view of the lives it saves?
A second provocation concerns peace. In a world increasingly shaped by polarisation, inequality, and conflict, business leadership can be either a source of peace or a source of fracture. Christian leaders are called to build peace through transparency, stability, inclusion, and the generation of trust. Peace is not only a political concept; it is a daily economic practice. Pope Francis was almost obsessed with the need for the Church to be the promoter of peace. Arizmendiarrieta, Harmel, and Shaw built peace around them in noticeable ways: by improving the quality of life of their employees, by bringing education to contexts that did not hope to get it, or just by being caring and gentle and warm-hearted in their interactions with people. How far can we go here? How much can we actually aspire to build a peace that is concrete through our business vocations?
Let me end where I began. As a priest, I hope not to offer closure, but to kindle desire. My hope is that these sparks might take hold in the business community, and especially among Christians; that our spaces for ethical reflection might become not just fora for ideas but laboratories of moral transformation; that The Vocation of the Business Leader may become not a beautiful text but a living guide; that we may learn to name both the sin and the grace at work in the economic world; and that the lives of Arizmendiarrieta, Harmel, and Shaw may continue to challenge us with missionary clarity.
St. Ignatius knew that some words belong not at the end, but at the beginning of mission. Ite, inflammate omnia. Go, set everything on fire – the economy, the world of business, and most of all, the hearts of those who you lead and who lead with you.
Francisco Mota S.J. is the Spiritual Advisor of UNIAPAC International, a global federation of Christian business organisations. He is a Portuguese Jesuit and was formerly Director of the Maputo campus of the Catholic University of Mozambique and Chairman and Executive Director of Brotéria. Fr. Mota currently serves as Province Treasurer for the Portuguese Jesuits.
Main photograph by Julen Iglesias, 2022, from Wikimedia Commons
Used in accordance with a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International licence
An interesting example of market transformation can be seen in the growth of worldwide spending on beauty products, which reached $440bn in 2024. There are various trends (or pressures) at work, with men now feeling freer to spend on beauty products and demand growing among young people, who are purchasing such products at much earlier ages than their grandparents. Social media has played a significant role: as influencers share their beauty regimes, the online space is becoming the biggest shop window for the beauty industry. Additionally, there has been a shift in the marketing and consumption of beauty products, as consumers have become increasingly interested in the ingredients of the products that they buy and their supposed effects. In consequence, packaging is now plainer and bears something of the ‘laboratory look’.
Naturally there are concerns about trends among young people. With reports that beauty products are now being bought by children as young as eight, there has been alarm at the loss or increasing sexualisation of childhood, as well as concern about the damage that certain products can do to children’s skin. In consequence, there have been calls for regulation. It is normal to seek restriction or regulation of products that are deemed harmful, as witnessed in relation to tobacco, for instance, and more recently in connection with tobacco alternatives, such as of vapes and nicotine pouches. In connection with the beauty industry, one might wonder whether (or hope that) a ban on social media accounts for under-sixteens, as implemented in Australia and currently under consideration in the UK, will have an effect. Regulation in one sphere might affect associated behaviour in another. If young children are heavily invested in ‘beauty’ in an unprecedented manner – to the point of talking about anti-ageing products before they reach their teens – and social media influencers are in part responsible for driving such an interest, then restrictions on social media access could go some way towards addressing the problem. However, it is important to consider whether regulation is the answer.
The thought of the sociologist Max Weber (1864-1920) perhaps offers one means of shedding light on the issue. Weber described the phenomenon of ‘disenchantment’ and its effects on society. With the advance of reason and scientific principles, it becomes increasingly difficult to believe in spirits, gods or supernatural forces, with the result that the influence of religion and superstition is diminished. As the world becomes demystified and science is able to explain everything in rational terms, the world loses its mystery and appears mechanised and predictable. However, science cannot adequately fill the void created by the ousting of religion and people are no longer able to find the kind of meaning once provided by the values grounded in traditional beliefs; moral questions can be articulated and analysed, but not satisfactorily answered.
Some have questioned Weber’s account of the disenchantment of society, while others have proposed the possibility of re-enchantment: meaning and value – if they have indeed been lost – can be restored to the disenchanted world, either by projecting subjective values onto it, or by locating value as objectively existing in nature itself.
One interpretation of a shift in the market for beauty products might employ these concepts. Is the move towards a greater interest in the active ingredients of cosmetics a sign of an increasingly ‘scientific’ mindset, as society becomes more rational? Or is this in fact a form of re-enchantment, whereby ‘science’ – however ‘science’ is understood – is elevated to the status of religion and becomes a new dogma or article of faith? Do those who seek to buy plainly packaged cosmetics that resemble medicines display a tendency to deify ‘science’, almost to the point of seeking purpose and meaning in it? If influencers with questionable credentials in dermatology are helping to drive sales, perhaps such an account is not so far-fetched.
Perhaps the disenchantment thesis is able to make some sense of the disproportionate interest in beauty among young people, with children buying – or being given – adult cosmetics. In a disenchanted society in which transcendent values and traditional notions of meaning are lacking, preferences are shaped by other forces – or themselves become the locus of value and meaning. In either case, they can become disordered and unrestrained. Might skewed and superficial notions of beauty, driven in part by the forces of consumerism and assisted by social media, be behind the behaviour of some children? Where certain values have lost their influence, it is possible that people no longer see anything wrong with eleven-year-olds using anti-ageing products. If that is what they want and their parents have no objection, the thought might run, then so be it.
It is no surprise that there are calls to regulate access to social media for children. Social media – or its excessive use – has been associated with all manner of ills. The question is whether restriction will solve the problem. Likewise, we might ask whether, should the trend towards childhood use of adult cosmetics reach a scale at which it is felt that something must be done to protect the physical and developmental health of children, regulation would prove effective.
Markets simply match vendors with buyers, and it is something of a truism that businesses, if they want to survive, adapt to markets – or seek to shape them – in order to be able to offer a product for which demand exists. In the sense that the demand side of the ‘supply and demand relationship’ characteristic of markets is shaped by societal values, it is clear that markets do not simply serve society; they reflect it, too. When we hear calls for regulation to address problems, it is important to consider whether regulation can achieve the desired outcome. For instance, what manner of legislation could ever prevent parents from buying anti-ageing or beauty products for their barely-teenage children? In the absence of parental oversight, can any regulation really prevent determined teenagers from accessing social media? Parents who buy £1,000 phones and let their children scroll through social media until the small hours, or buy expensive, adult cosmetics for their children because ‘this is what she wants’ or ‘these are what her friends have’ are arguably not matters for regulation. These are questions of values.
Markets can only serve a society because to some degree, they act as a mirror of that society. Where markets are an expression of who we are or what we have become, concerns ought perhaps to be directed not at the statute book with a view to controlling the market itself, but at our own values: the attitudes of the society that the market both reflects and serves.
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Neil Jordan brings to CEME seventeen years’ experience of academic publishing, having previously served as a senior commissioning editor for Ashgate and Routledge where he specialised in research level publications in the social sciences. His primary focus was on sociology and social theory. Neil has also been employed as a teacher of philosophy and religious studies. He holds bachelor’s and doctoral degrees in philosophy, both from the University of Southampton, and has published on the subject of ethics.
In his Nobel Prize lecture, Ronald Coase said: ‘a large part of what we think of as economic activity is designed to accomplish what high transaction costs would otherwise prevent’.
Think of the retail sector, for example. Its sole function is to reduce transactions costs – not to produce anything tangible. If you want a roast chicken dinner in the absence of retailers, you would go to a farm to buy a chicken; another farm to buy a cabbage; another to buy potatoes; and so on. The so-called transactions costs of collecting up the ingredients would be enormous, far greater than the actual costs of the ingredients themselves.
Of course, the internet has transformed retailing by finding a way to reduce transactions costs without the need for a visible retail store. Indeed, in general, changes in technology that change transactions costs can lead to radical changes in industrial structure.
The financial sector also exists to reduce transactions costs and the retail and financial sector between them are around one-sixth of the economy. It may seem a lot to spend on something as intangible as reducing transactions costs. But imagine the alternative.
Universities also exist, though only in part, to reduce transactions costs. An individual who wants higher learning (whether for practical reasons or to expand his or her mind) could put together the elements without a university. In theory, we could have organisations that sold syllabuses and reading lists. You could sign up for lectures given by freelancers. You could get together with some people studying the same subject and a freelance professor and have some discussions. You could try to find a way to signal to employers that you have actually acquired some knowledge. But imagine the costs of doing this.
A university saves you the bother by bringing all this together: you pay the fee and hope to have a structured programme, appropriate reading lists, other students to talk to, competent professors, assessment and certification under one roof.
Our education sector used to be much more diverse. Elements of the above were available in a range of different institutions (professional bodies, correspondence course providers, teacher training colleges, worker educational associations, municipal training colleges, private training colleges, polytechnics, university colleges and, for just a few, universities).
Will AI radically change transactions costs and thus give rise to significant changes in the sector? The answer is probably ‘yes’. Almost certainly, AI will not just change how universities do what they already do. If universities simply plan on this assumption, the whole sector will be in trouble. As Fr. Stephen Wang suggested in another context, AI may find radical new ways to achieve intermediate (and, in this case, end) objectives. Perhaps there will be unbundling of what universities do. Perhaps we will go back to the diverse range of institutions that used to exist, albeit in a different form.
There may be some disciplines where the accumulation of technical knowledge is especially important and where a provider can use AI to provide excellent guided reading, syllabi, pedagogical materials, assessments, certifications, and so on, which can be supplemented by discussion groups, also organised by the provider, using AI to bring together the most appropriate people. These discussion groups may be based in the workplace, the local area, or be online. Subjects such as law and business may be especially appropriate for this approach. Professional bodies can do the certification. This does not mean that learning for its own sake, debate or discussion of higher-level principles, and so on, will not happen. They can happen in other forums, both to complement the technical education and assessment process and as a form of continuing professional development.
This leads to the question of where Cardinal John Henry Newman’s vision of the university fits in. Some would say that this has broken down over many decades and that the modern university looks nothing like Newman’s vision. I would argue, instead, that the university has expanded to take on many functions other than the provision of Newman-style education. It is not that the university has dropped Newman, it has acquired other functions. Perhaps the development of AI will lead those other functions to be done better in other learning contexts – or by universities using different models of provision.
St. John Henry Newman, declared by the Catholic Church as a co-patron saint of education recently, famously produced ‘The Idea of a University’. The key features of such an institution are as follows: the acquisition of knowledge for its own sake; a university that teaches all subjects and integrates theology as the lynchpin of all subjects; it cultivates the character of the student so that they develop a critical intellect not limited to a specialism; personal contact with tutors; and separation of teaching and research. As it happens, certification is not essential to any of this. Indeed, if education is for its own sake, certification might be regarded as redundant. In reality, many people combine many objectives of education when they undertake a degree.
It is easy to see that these characteristics of education necessitate genuine human interaction between students, and between students and teachers. However, they do not only have a place within a university, though the second of them is, perhaps, challenging for other institutions. Many of these Newman characteristics are, today, apparent in the programmes of organisations outside the university sector. Often, such programmes are, as in past times, financed philanthropically with professors giving their time for free – after all, the process is just as enriching for teachers as it is for students.
For example, we already see hints of this approach in think tanks and other organisations such as the Prosperity Institute, Alliance Defending Freedom, the Acton Institute, the Institute of Economic Affairs (working with the Vinson Centre at the University of Buckingham), the London Jesuit Centre, the Thomistic Institute and many other organisations. These programmes provide useful skills as well as intellectual enrichment without certification. They involve higher learning, discussion in peer groups and with mentors, all guided by university professors. The Centre for Enterprise, Markets and Ethics has a mini version of such programmes linking the study of economics to Christianity.
It is easy to see how think tanks, and Churches, might – indeed, perhaps should – develop such programmes further, always remembering that, in a Christian context, personal interaction is vital, and technology should be kept in its place.
But what about the future of universities? The different functions of universities could be undertaken in different institutions in an AI world. Businesses, such as BPP, are well placed to provide technical education very effectively across a number of fields.
But the multi-purpose university is not dead. However, reflection is needed. When a revolution such as AI happens, as Fr. Stephen Wang explained, we do not just need to look at AI-enhanced ways of doing what we are doing. The important questions are: ‘What are the intrinsic features of the service we are offering?’ and ‘How can these intrinsic features be best provided in an AI world in different fields – vocational, technical, teacher training, liberal arts, physical sciences, and so on?’
I suspect that, if the multi-purpose university is to survive, it will have to house different approaches to education and training under one roof (perhaps, a partly virtual roof). Diversified institutions exist in a number of sectors – think of banks, for example, with their wealth managers, traders, investment managers and banking service providers: these are all very different types of service. There will also be plenty of room for niche institutions in this new world. The development of AI should force universities, charitable education providers, business providers, professional bodies and think tanks to think about what the distinct essential elements in higher learning are and then consider the best ways to deliver them. Whether the regulators and funding framework will allow education to evolve in response to new technology is another question, of course. If they do not, they may find that the sector they are regulating and funding shrinks.
Philip Booth is professor of Catholic Social Thought and Public Policy at St. Mary’s University, Twickenham (the U.K.’s largest Catholic university) and Director of Policy and Research at the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of England and Wales. He is also Senior Research Fellow and Academic Advisor to the Centre for Enterprise, Markets and Ethics.
Anthropomorphising AI is rhetorically seductive but intellectually unsound. We must remember that the analogy between artificial intelligence and human intelligence is a distant one. Otherwise, we risk conflating computer systems with human-like agents and automation with autonomy. The anthropomorphisation of artificial intelligence – i.e. the attribution of human characteristics, intentions, or moral status to computational systems – has become a pervasive feature of public discourse, marketing (particularly in the private sector), and even some strands of academia. Popular narratives describe AI systems as entities that ‘think’ ‘understand’ or ‘want’, and conversational interfaces are explicitly designed to reinforce such impressions. The problem is that anthropomorphising AI is both conceptually mistaken and practically harmful. It obscures the technical limitations of AI systems, and misleads users about capabilities and risks, and ultimately cloaks moral reasoning behind syntax with no regard for semantics. More importantly, it confuses our understanding of what it is to be human: to be able to build authentic loving relationships as beings who are not only physical and mental (particularly with regard to our assumed rationality), but also emotional and spiritual.
Anthropomorphising AI leads users to systematically overestimate what such systems can do. Statements such as ‘the model knows’, ‘the system decided’, or ‘ChatGPT says…’ suggest agency and human-like comprehension where neither exist. In reality, most deployed AI systems optimise objective functions (which in turn are defined by human designers), using training data curated – often imperfectly – by institutions with specific incentives (i.e. Meta, Alphabet, Anthropic, etc).
Researchers in machine learning have repeatedly emphasised this point – Professor Emily Bender from the University of Washington famously pointed out that large language models are ‘stochastic parrots’: systems that reproduce patterns in data without grounding in the world. While the phrase is polemical, it captures an important truth. The appearance of understanding is an emergent property of scale in datapoints and statistical regularity, not evidence of human-like cognition. Treating this appearance as reality risks unwarranted trust in AI outputs, particularly in high-stakes domains such as medicine, law, or public administration. This is not to diminish the significant potential of AI in such spheres but rather to acknowledge the inherent risks involved.
Contemporary AI systems, including large language models, are fundamentally artefacts: engineered systems that operate through statistical pattern recognition and optimisation. Mental states such as beliefs, intentions, or understanding belong to agents with human consciousness and intentionality, not hardware-intensive, software-executing algorithms. John Searle’s well-known critique of complex AI remains instructive here. Searle argued in his Chinese Room thought experiment that symbol manipulation alone does not constitute understanding: ‘Syntax is not sufficient for semantics’. When an AI system generates fluent language, it does not follow that it understands the content of that language. It cannot, because understanding in any normal sense requires human consciousness. Anthropomorphic descriptions blur this distinction, encouraging the false inference that linguistic competence entails cognitive or experiential depth.
There is also a further consequence of anthropomorphisation: When AI systems are framed as quasi-persons, responsibility subtly shifts away from human actors. Failures can be deflected to ‘the AI’, rather than to designers, deployers or institutions that selected training data, defined objectives and chose deployment contexts.
Anthropomorphising AI also affects how users relate to technology. Human beings are predisposed to attribute agency and emotion, particularly in interactive settings. Designers exploit this tendency through conversational cues, names and simulated empathy. While such design choices may improve user engagement, it remains an illusion that risks fostering emotional dependency or misplaced trust.
A recent article in The Economist illustrated some worrying concerns regarding the use of AI in early years education. Children growing up anthropomorphising AI companions that never express fatigue, frustration or any form of negative emotion is poor preparation for human relationships later in life. It is also emerging that users who perceive AI systems as social actors are more likely to disclose sensitive information and less likely to critically evaluate outputs, leaving children particularly vulnerable to the pitfalls. When a system appears to ‘care’ or ‘understand’, children may suspend scepticism. This is not merely a theoretical concern but has wider practical implications for privacy, manipulation and informed consent.
Many ethical systems point to humanity which is more than its biochemical build. Aristotle himself saw the cultivation of intellectual and moral virtues as realising a distinctly human form of flourishing (i.e. eudaimonia), that transcends basic biological functioning. A Christian perspective would focus not only on the development of the whole human person, in body, mind and spirit, but in particular on the mystery of love. Christianity points to the formation of committed, loving relationships as the supreme human ability gifted to us from God – indeed, human beings were created for a loving, covenantal, transformative relationship with the Creator and with each other.
The transformative power of this intimate love between God and human beings is expressed in its fullness in Christ. The Triune God – Father, Son and Holy Spirit – is defined as three persons consubstantially rooted in the perfect relationship of selfless love. When the Son embraces full humanity in the incarnation, it is this interpersonal selfless love that becomes available to all. It is in Him, as the true image of God (Latin: imago Dei), that true humanity is revealed, and it fundamentally includes the question of love. This is indeed the uniqueness of the Christian faith: in Christ, divine, eternal and selfless interpersonal love is not only revealed as an external reality, but as fully available and accessible to every human being. Humanity in Christian thought is both interrelational and fundamentally defined by love. AI systems do not have the capacity to partake in this. These ethical issues are crucial and a misconceived engagement with AI will likely leave us face-to-face with many of the dangers discussed here.
A disciplined refusal to anthropomorphise AI is therefore not a matter of pedantry, but a prerequisite for technical accuracy, moral lucidity and responsible adoption. If AI is to be conscientiously integrated into our spheres of social and institutional life, it must be understood for what it is: a powerful class of tools created, constrained and deployed by humans that ought to be accountable to human values and institutions. Clear, non-anthropomorphic language would also support clearer policy. Describing AI systems as tools with specific affordances and limitations enables policymakers to focus on risk management, transparency and accountability, rather than non-existent computer semantics.
This is not a call for the adoption of a luddite lifestyle or indeed for all kinds of regulation to limit our use AI, but rather an effort to maintain proper perspective and understanding of a technology that is already permeating our daily lives.
Andrei E. Rogobete is Associate Director at the Centre for Enterprise, Markets & Ethics. For more information about Andrei please click here.
Before the torrent of games available on your phone, a popular game in magazines was ‘spot the difference’. It’s amusing to play and realise that often we don’t immediately spot all the differences even when we stare at both pictures intently. But I wonder if the same issue arises in spotting a Christian in the workplace. What differences can we expect to find? In contrast to many religions, Christians don’t display external markers beyond, perhaps, wearing a cross or if you’re more edgy a tattoo – my daughter has a Bible verse tattooed on her foot which I guess could be a conversation starter if she’s willing to go in feet first! Christians don’t wear a veil and relate to God with unveiled faces but does that relationship with Christ that transforms us from within make it all the way to the outside?
When Jesus commands us to let our light shine before others he is assuming that what people will see is our good deeds and that as a result they will glorify our Father in heaven (Matt 5:16). He makes a connection between our deeds and our devotion that will point people to the glory of God. Glory is the manifestation of God on earth, and our good deeds are evidence of God at work. That’s what makes the study of Christian ethics so important. It is about understanding the distinctives of character by which followers of Christ display Christ in action. Interestingly, the apostle Paul in one of his early letters to the Christians in Thessalonica says that he is assured they are Christians who have turned from idols to serve the true and living God (1Thess 1:9) because their work is produced by faith, their labour prompted by love and their endurance inspired by hope in the Lord Jesus (1Thess 1:3). It’s the fruit of faith, love and hope that he sees as they discover more of God’s love, work out how to show that love to others, explore more of the resurrection future and apply lessons to their present lives. At its heart a Christian ethic is the practical outworking of an encounter with the Living Lord
There are three distinctive characteristics of Christian ethics:
Christian ethics is based on Christ, the Word of God and the wisdom of God through whom all things are created and hold together (Col 1:16-17). Jesus is the incarnate Word – wisdom with flesh on. When Jesus teaches, he uses the term, ‘I say…’ rather than ‘the Scriptures say’ and has that direct authority which people noticed wasn’t like the teachers of the law (Mk 1:27). The implication for ethics is that we are reading the source code and don’t need to add our own, or filter it, or choose parts or test its veracity and efficacy. Christian ethics goes straight to the source by going to the person who made it, the living Lord of Creation, and lived it, in the fullness of grace and truth. The more we get to know the person who made the rules, the more we understand the purpose behind the rules, appreciate the posture with which they give the rules and incorporate the priorities they embed into the rules.
In business, therefore, Christian ethics has the clarity of being the pure unadulterated principles embedded into the fabric of creation. The economic principles of generative growth are productive because God embedded fruitful work into the way the world works. He formed what was formless and filled what was empty and then commanded us to do the same in fruitful and multiplying labour (Gen 1:2, 28). The relational principles of truth, trust and kindness are part of business because they are part of how God has made us in his image (Gen 1:26). ‘My word is my bond’ is good business because it’s how God acts in covenant faithfulness towards us (Gen 17:7). Christians practise the universal principles found in the Bible with a confidence in the manufacturer’s instructions.
Like any relationship, our willingness to follow someone else’s advice or commands will depend on how much we trust that they are on our side. When someone can guarantee their promises, we have confidence rather than risk. When someone has our best interests at heart then we have gladness rather than reluctance in following their instructions. Jesus says when we approach God in prayer we’re talking to a Father who knows what we need and loves to give good gifts to His children (Matt 7:11). If God’s motivation in giving the law is fatherly love with abundant grace, then our attitude to following his law is childlike trust. If God’s motivation were vindictive judgement with impossible achievement, then our attitude would be fear and failure.
Our attitude to the law is shaped by our perception of why the law is there. For example, do you consider speed cameras to be there to spoil your fun, get revenue from you or protect people from harm? Your answer to that will be informed by your experience. For me, my middle name roots my attitude to traffic speed. Before I was born my cousin was killed by a speeding car when playing with his brother outside their home on a residential street. I was born soon after and named Jonathan in his memory. It’s personal and I get why reducing speed is vital. Christian ethics gets personal and understands the heart of God, the lawgiver. That’s why the Psalmist can say: ‘how I love your law…it is a lamp to my path and a light to my feet’ (Ps 119:97, 105).
In business, therefore, Christian ethics has the confidence of being from a good God, slow to anger and abounding in love. Like the ring of steel that surrounded the City of London in response to a terrorist bombing incident, the law of God is a strong guardrail that keeps us from harm and gives us the confidence to build life on and enjoy the freedom of life in the fulness that God intended in the beginning (Ps 119:97-105).
Ethics in the business world can become depersonalised into a compliance department or obfuscated with reams of exceptions or vague aspirational statements. Ethics in our personal lives can provoke nervousness or be avoided for fear of being made to feel guilty. Christian ethics is distinct because it is in facing up to our failure that we immerse ourselves fully in God’s forgiving grace.
The classic example is King David who committed adultery with another man’s wife and then conspired to have her husband killed. David was aware that what he was doing was wrong, but he did it anyway because in his position of power he thought he could make his own rules. He followed his personal desires and treated the law as an inconvenience. It took the Prophet Nathan to bring him back to his senses. David threw himself on God’s mercy and knew both forgiveness and restoration of iniquities blotted out and of bones that were metaphorically crushed by guilt restored (Ps 51).
Christian ethics is willing to admit we are at fault and that we need forgiveness. In the business world people are wary of admitting fault and act with competitive harshness with the excuse that ‘it’s only business.’ But we can become minimised by expressive individualism and hardened by toxic practices. Personal repentance and forgiveness transform. To return to King David, his prayer of ethical repentance goes on to ask for a new ethical experience so that he can come into God’s presence and meet with him face to face (Ps 51: 9, 11). What David longs for and expresses in his prayer is not just a clean slate but a new heart, not just relief from guilt but joy of salvation: ‘Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me… Restore to me the joy of your salvation and uphold me with a willing spirit’ (Ps 51: 10, 12).
The deepest, most life changing truth in the universe is that God’s forgiving grace renews us on the inside by restoring us to God’s presence and empowering us with God’s atoning love. When ethics consists of rules that impose on us from the outside, it can add pressure of compliance without heart-change or just be stubbornly resisted. But when ethics is an encounter with atoning love that changes us on the inside, it transforms our experience through receiving and therefore transforms our actions in giving. The more I know forgiveness the more I want to forgive, the more I’m shown generosity the more I want to act generously, the more I’m trusted and spoken truth to the more I can trust others and speak truth. For many business leaders, it is the experience of God that founds their practice in business. Take, for example, John Pierpont Morgan, the founder of the bank that bears his name and churchwarden of his local church in Manhattan, who wrote at the start of his will:
“Article 1. I commit my soul into the hands of my Saviour, in full confidence that having redeemed it and washed it in His most precious blood He will present it faultless before the throne of my Heavenly Father.”
His understanding of atonement was the main thing he went on to entreat his children about and was clear in some of the institutions he created and funded. Knowing we’re loved and are presented faultless before the throne (Col. 1:22) changes everything about how we see ourselves and others and therefore how we practise ethics. Christian ethics isn’t just behaviour modification but personal transformation. It’s not simply compliance with company policies but acting according to inner character because the law isn’t just written on a scroll but on our hearts (Jer 31:33).
Corporate strategy is all about finding your distinct value proposition that gives clarity to what you offer and how you act in the marketplace. A Christian worldview offers a distinct ethical proposition – rather than being based on utilitarian advantage or human imperatives, it’s a response to who God is, what he’s done and where his purposes are heading. A great example is Boaz who was a successful business owner and is described in the book of Ruth as being held in high esteem by his workers. He didn’t just follow the letter of the law by allowing Ruth to glean from the edges of his fields, he gave her more than enough and acted to restore land to her even though he wasn’t required to do so. Why did he do what others wouldn’t? He says it’s because of who the God is that he follows – a God of generosity and refuge (Ruth 2:12).
How do we live a distinct Christian ethic? Be more Boaz in business! Deeply encounter the Living Lord and wear the distinct clothes of Christ to the office each day.
Andrew Baughen is a management consultant specialising in mapping the whole value of organisations. He researches business worldviews and teaches ethics at Bayes Business School and is also an associate minister at St Margaret’s Lothbury.
This is a repost of an article originally published on the Catholic Social Teaching blog of St Mary’s University (https://catholicsocialthought.org.uk/).
In this final part of the encyclical, the treatment and protection of the working class is dealt with directly and at length.
It begins by noting that working people may resort to striking because of their working conditions and, because strikes are injurious to the public and may create violence and disorder, the state may act to remedy working conditions (39).
The document immediately moves on to matters of the soul. It is stated that our final purpose is not life on earth. Nobody is entitled to harm the dignity that God gives us or stand in the way of the ‘higher life’ which is our path to heaven (40). As such, all must have the opportunity to rest from labour and practise religious observances on Sundays and holy days of obligation (41). We need to rest from the business of everyday life to turn our thoughts heavenwards. God taught the world by ‘His own mysterious rest’ the need to rest on the Sabbath day.
Employers are then told that working men must not be mere instruments of money-making. Men’s minds should not be ‘stupefied’ nor their bodies ‘worn out’. Daily labour should not require longer hours than strength permits, and the hours of work should depend on the type of work and season of the year. Women and children should only do work that is appropriate for them – ‘rough weather spoils the buds of spring and life’s hard toil blights a child and renders true education impossible.’ It is stated that a woman is by nature fitted for home work ‘and it is that which is best adapted at once to preserve her modesty and promote the good bringing up of children and the well-being of the family’ (42). This is not just because of the bonds of motherhood, but also the practical reality of physical factory and mining work at the time Rerum novarum was written.
The next topic is described as being of great importance and one where extremes are to be avoided. One such extreme is that any agreement by free consent is sufficient, and that the public authorities should only intervene when the employer withholds wages or the work is not entirely done (43).
The argument for a different approach and for a living wage is then laid out. Work is personal and, insofar as it is personal, a man can accept any wage he wants. However, man cannot live without labour and the proceeds from it. The poor can only get what they need through work. The preservation of life is the duty of all, and all have a natural right to procure what they need to live. Natural justice therefore demands that wages ought to be sufficient to support a frugal and well-behaved wage-earner. If, through necessity or fear, the employee accepts worse conditions, he is the victim of force or injustice. The idea of a free wage agreement is not objectionable in principle. However, if it is necessary, ‘societies or boards’ should bring about the conditions for a just wage to prevent ‘undue interference’ on behalf of the state. The state should be appealed to only should circumstances require (45).
A workman, after looking after his family, should practise thrift. This point was closely connected to the importance of private ownership and will lead to the following beneficial results:
But, the document states, these benefits can only be realised if a family’s means are not drained by taxation. The state would be unjust and cruel if through taxation it were to deprive the owner of more than is fair (47).
Rerum novarum then goes on to discuss how employers and workers may better the conditions of workers and draw the classes closer together if they form associations of mutual aid to help those in distress – including to help widows, orphans, those who fall prey to a sudden calamity or sickness, and institutions for the welfare of boys, girls and the old (48).
Of such organisations, unions were stated to be the most important. Scripture is used to support the idea that if two or more are together they can support each other (50). Unions, it is noted, are private societies carrying out private objects (St. Thomas is referred to). They therefore cannot be prohibited by the state because entering into a society is a natural right: this is also a theme of Centesimus annus. If a state prevents its citizens from forming associations, it contradicts the principle of its own existence which is based on the natural tendency of man to dwell in society.
Religious orders, confraternities and societies have also done much good. The rulers of the state have no rights over them, nor can they claim any share in their control. The state should respect, cherish and defend such organisations: it is to be regretted that secular states are attacking such communities (53).
Pope Leo then expresses concern that associations are being set up that are trying to attract working men but the principles of which are not in accordance with Christianity (54). He argues that this creates a dilemma. Either working men must join them, thereby exposing their religion to peril, or they must form their own associations. Pope Leo strongly recommends the second approach: there should be Christian unions and Christian working men’s associations. Clergy should provide for the spiritual needs of such organisations. The benevolence of Catholics who have sponsored benefit and insurance societies financially is also praised. The state should watch over such societies but should not involve itself in their organisation: ‘Things move and live by the spirit inspiring them, and may be killed by the rough grasp of a hand from without’ (55).
In summary, organisations of working men should be designed to better the condition of body and soul, and they must pay special attention to the duties of religion and morality whilst promoting social betterment. We are reminded: ‘What doth it profit a man, if he gain the whole world and suffer the loss of his sou?l’ (57). Our associations ‘should look first and before all things to God’: they should include religious instruction. They should involve co-operation between employers and employees and provide support for accident, sickness, old age and distress. Associations should help people to be hard-working, industrious and bound together in brotherly love (57).
The importance of Catholic associations of working men is stressed at great length. Working men should join associations and choose wise guides. And we must bring back those working men who have lost their faith altogether or whose lives are at variance with its precepts. They are likely to resent their employers mistreating them and, if they belong to a union, it is likely to be one that is based on conflict and not one sustained by religion. Catholic associations are of great value in reaching out to such people.
Pope Leo ends by stating that each person should do that task which falls to him before the evil at hand grows to be beyond remedy (62).
For her part, the Church will intervene with greater effect if her freedom of action is not restrained. Ministers of religion must urge the adoption of ‘Gospel doctrines’, strive to secure the good of the people and promote Christian charity amongst all people as the best antidote against worldly pride (63).
This trilogy has simply recounted the content of Rerum novarum with little analysis. However, as a final remark, it is worth pointing out that the document makes no sense unless it is regarded as a radical call to sanctify all aspects of working, civil and political life and to ensure that work and economic life provide the material conditions which help all people reach salvation. Indeed, there is a strong attack on secular institutions such as secular trade unions. Salvation and our duties to God are at the centre of Rerum novarum, and the document should not be read as a set of political proposals to be translated, somehow, into the modern day: without the grace of God, we will fail.
Philip Booth is professor of Catholic Social Thought and Public Policy at St. Mary’s University, Twickenham (the U.K.’s largest Catholic university) and Director of Policy and Research at the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of England and Wales. He is also Senior Research Fellow and Academic Advisor to the Centre for Enterprise, Markets and Ethics.
