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Comment
Economics
Football
Redemption
3 min read

From transferring footballers to AI talent, we over-value each other

Building our value on cashflow crumbles our self-esteem


Jamie is Vicar of St Michael's Chester Square, London.

Three Manchester United footballers with their arms around each others backs.
Mert0804, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons.

Premier League footballers not only have millions of pounds, but millions of accountants. Yes, that's right: I've had my morning coffee and the editor didn't miss that sentence. There are millions of armchair accountants. You know, the bean counters many of us effortlessly transform into when it's transfer season. 

Pick your channel - everyone seems to be asking 'is Rasmus Højlund really worth that much?' Your heart mightn't bleed for him - as he is handsomely compensated - but at least spare a thought for him and the crushing weight of critics and their expectations of his performance.  

Footballers aren't alone. Whether it's bankers' bonuses, the excesses of the offers to top AI engineers… OpenAI CEO Sam Altman claims that Meta have offered his employees bonuses of $100 million to recruit them. Other recent valuations of companies have raised $1 and $2 billion. The Economist says that AI valuations are 'verging on the unhinged’. 

Armchair accountants actually look a lot like jurors. But who are we to judge? The figures might seem silly money, but the stakes are higher than fantasy football or Monopoly. In Build the Life You Want, Arthur Brooks and Oprah Winfrey call out the way we objectify people at work over performance or pay:  

'It’s pretty easy to see why we shouldn’t objectify others. Less obvious but equally troubling is when the objectifier and the person being objectified are one and the same—when you objectify yourself.'  

Building our value on cashflow, Instagram likes and the like crumbles our self-esteem and all the health and social issues that come with that. In the arena of our own workplace, they write that self-objectification 'is a tyranny. We become a terrible boss to ourselves, with little mercy or love.’ 

You only have to peer into the comments section any any online article (not just sport) to see how callous and unforgiving apparently polite, middle-class society has become. It's hard not to have the sneaking suspicion that our devaluing of others thinly veils the way we've devalued ourselves. 

The way out of this is to detach our value from our pay and work. So, take Rasmus Højlund, transferred to Manchester United in 2023 for £64million. I would argue his worth is a lot more than £64 million. But that is because his performance, for this exercise, is irrelevant. This is not a new notion. For millennia, the Christian notion of grace is not only the entry-point of faith, but the operating system, with perfect performance already having been achieved by a saviour. The 'ultimate price', paid by God, is of such immeasurable worth and value that Rasmus, or any of us, are worth significantly more than £64million. 

But then the problem arises that Christians can still struggle with feeling like an expensive disappointment, unable to live up to the spiritual 'transfer fee'. Is it really worth me accepting the biblical claims of the price paid by Jesus on the cross if I just pile on guilt? Well, if you feel like a star signing, you've probably missed the point. But equally, if you feel like a flop, there's the need to recognise that value and worth was never rooted in your performance in the first place. There's a very different set of rules. It's not a zero-sum game of competition where players and managers are ruthlessly eliminated. The Bible paints the picture of a God not so much ruthless as he is reckless. 

When Jesus tells the parable of the prodigal son, squandering his father's wealth, only to be welcomed, restored and celebrated with open arms, the word 'prodigal' that's been attached to this parable even more appropriately describes the father: 'recklessly extravagant' and 'having spent everything'. Whatever our own estimations – or those of others – actually don't matter. £64million might feel like an absurd and unreal amount of money – but it isn't Monopoly money. Those figures have actually been transferred. And just because we can't see or feel the price that has been paid, doesn't make it any less real or consequential. Not only is your guilt traded away from you, but your rights to self-judge. 

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Ambition
Change
Digital
Economics
Work
4 min read

Don’t just hustle or quietly quit. Work hard at rest

Here’s what BrewDog's CEO doesn't get about work-life balance.

Callum is a pastor, based on a barge, in London's Docklands.

A man lies asleep on a closed lap top on a desk.
Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash.

 

Is work-life balance just an excuse for people who hate their jobs? James Watt, the CEO of BrewDog, seems to think so. But is his vision of work-life integration the solution - or a recipe for burnout? Recently, Watt faced criticism for claiming that work-life balance was "invented by people who don’t like their job." Instead, he advocated for work-life integration, arguing that if you enjoy your work and want to achieve, it won’t feel burdensome to be constantly "switched on."

Watt is correct in some respects: extraordinary achievements often require extraordinary focus. Hard work can be immensely satisfying, providing purpose, goals, and rewards. However, Watt’s perspective lacks nuance and risks promoting a culture of overwork.

Work-life integration, as portrayed by Watt and his fiancée, Georgia Toffolo, revolves around relentless focus on achieving goals, coupled with a willingness to make significant sacrifices. It means finding a partner who champions your ambitions while relentlessly pursuing their own. For Watt and Toffolo, this appears to work—they seem to thrive as part of the privileged minority who genuinely enjoy every aspect of their work. But when viewed realistically, their vision of work-life integration paints a bleak picture. It involves checking emails during family meals, taking calls while driving, scheduling loved ones around work, and sacrificing whatever doesn’t fit. As Watt illustrated in his social media post, referencing figures like Sir Tom Hunter visiting sports stores with his children or Sam Walton working in his warehouse on Saturdays, this isn’t about integrating work into life - it’s about subordinating life to work.

In many ways, the hustle culture that Watt embodies mirrors modern unrealistic beauty standards. Just as social media often promotes unattainable images of physical perfection, Watt’s idealised version of work-life integration advocates a way of life that leaves little room for other forms of hard work - relationships, parenting, creativity, or rest.

The backlash against Watt was swift, and Gen Z’s ‘quiet quitting’ movement has been lauded as a counterpoint to this culture of overwork. By prioritising mental well-being and relationships, quiet quitters resist the idea that their entire identity should be tied to their job. However, they too risk missing the point. A reactionary disengagement from work, while understandable, does not offer a holistic vision of life where every area - work, rest, relationships - receives the effort and attention it deserves.

Work - life balance isn’t about doing the bare minimum at your job or resenting periods of intense work. It’s about recognising that work is one part of life, and other areas - relationships, hobbies, rest - demand hard work too. The challenge, then, is not to reject work but to embrace the harder, more deliberate work of rest.

A radical alternative: working hard at rest

What could a meaningful alternative look like? It might involve working hard at work, yes, but also working hard at rest.

As a vicar in Canary Wharf, one of London’s financial hubs, I regularly see young professionals wrestling with the tension between ambition and rest. They understand the demands of their careers and the effort required to achieve extraordinary goals. But they also grapple with the reality of burnout and the importance of mental health. Watt’s vision of work, without clear boundaries, poses a danger: the mental load of being "always on" accelerates burnout and diminishes the joy of achievement.

The biblical concept of Sabbath offers an ancient yet powerful antidote to the demands of both overwork and disengagement. It reminds us that work is good, but so is rest. By intentionally organising and prioritising rest, we resist the cultural pull of constant hustle and grind. Taking one day each week to step away from work entirely—no emails, no calls, no productivity—becomes an act of resistance.

Sabbath rest allows us to engage deeply with other areas of life. It provides the space to focus on relationships, creativity, and renewal without the constant demands of work encroaching on every moment. This doesn’t mean filling the day with endless activities—brunches, housewarmings, and run clubs are good, but Sabbath also requires intentional space for rest and reflection. In ancient farming societies, Sabbath for the land meant leaving fields unplanted, allowing them to regenerate naturally. The same principle applies to us: regular rhythms of rest make us healthier, more focused, and more productive when we return to work.

Seeking balance while recognising that work is part of life isn’t a sign of weakness—it’s wisdom. Sabbath rest isn’t a retreat from ambition but a way to ensure our goals don’t overshadow the rest of life. Success isn’t just about professional achievements; it’s about thriving in every area - work, relationships, creativity, and rest.

What if rest wasn’t a sign of weakness but a declaration of what truly matters? What if success meant working hard, not just at our jobs, but also at rest, relationships, and the things that bring us joy?

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