It’s Monday; you’ve got a significant job to do tomorrow: if you haven’t done so already, you’ve been assigned the task of completing and returning a ballot with the aspiration of helping to create a social framework that will allow people to flourish and – ultimately – to glorify God. Vote accordingly. Now, let me introduce you to a man you ought to know…

          Unless you’ve been in a coma – or, wildly out-of-touch – during the last year, you know that the culture war has been raging across America, with “the enemy” characterized by “the rich.” Note: in popular parlance, “the rich” references anyone who has more than me.

          The poster kid for “the enemy” is Elon Musk; his reputed gains through entrepreneurial moves have made him history’s first Trillionaire. Tomorrow’s ballot initiatives in California include a proposition called “the billionaire tax,” intent on assessing a one-time 5% tax on all assets held by those on the billionaire roster. Note: as a group, they’ve been renting U-Hauls and vacating the Golden State in an attempt to keep their gold in their estate.

          If Wall Street – or, Aspen – had a niche version of Mt Rushmore, with images of American capitalists worthy of historic status, Andrew Carnegie would probably be in contention for carving.

          An immigrant himself, Carnegie moved from Scotland to Pennsylvania with his family when he was 12. Over the next 72 years, he became one of America’s wealthiest rags-to-riches success stories, while thoughtfully navigating the challenging responsibility of managing the responsibility of riches.

          From the onset, let’s be clear about the most important thing: for most of his life, Carnegie distanced himself from historic Christianity. Loosely connected to Presbyterianism, he had little room for biblical orthodoxy. In his last years, he softened his posture toward faith and occasionally attended a New York church that was – to use the modern term – more “social gospel” than creedal. 

          Here’s the thing: while demonstrably deficient in the foundational aspects of biblical truth, Andrew Carnegie had adopted a personal philosophy of stewardship that would challenge most contemporary followers of Jesus in their view of and use of financial capacity.

          His philosophy was not simply that the wealthy should give generously. It was that wealth created a responsibility, that the responsibility had to be exercised intelligently, and that the best time to fulfill it was during one’s lifetime, not after death. His thinking is most clearly expressed in his famous 1889 essay, The Gospel of Wealth, which became a foundational statement of modern philanthropy.

          The summation of his life strategy was captured in what he called “the Andrew Carnegie Dictum:” spend the first third of life getting all of the education one can; spend the next third making all the money one can; and then, spend the last third giving it all away for worthwhile causes.

          Whether we’ve characterized those seasons of life as clearly as Carnegie did – in his own self-entitled “Gospel” – we are surrounded by our cultural cohort who are living-out those life seasons in their own way.

          To self-assess one’s progress using the Dictum, many would rate their educational pursuits as less valuable than the debt they carried away from the classroom. Then, for most, they are stuck in the Groundhog-Day continuum of “making all the money they can,” with no finish line on their horizon that seems to offer any relief. The last third of life – ala Carnegie – or the second half – ala Bob Buford – is, at best, a pipe-dream that would require a lottery win or timely inheritance to be actualized.

          In the next few installments, we’ll ask the question: what might we learn from a man who set a radical example in a world in need of some credible capitalists? And, what could some followers of Jesus learn from his best-without-redemption model?

          Stay tuned…

 — Bob Shank