A CLIENT decided to spring on me a consultant who’d cooked up a strategy for my shop to carry out. It was a terrible idea, doomed to fail. This was not a question of opinion. A competent consultant would have known that marketing history is littered with failure after failure of this very strategy.

I was aware that sanity didn’t have much chance of prevailing. The client was enamored of his new consultant, the consultant thought he knew my area better than I, my concerns would be seen as a case of Not Invented Here Syndrome, and the consultant was adept at interrupting and thus derailing objections before an opposing case could be properly built.

I could have shut up, executed the strategy, and charged quite the fee for the work. Of course, in the wake of inevitable, costly, and embarrassing failure, the consultant could blame my shop and not his strategy. Yet it was not the threat of blame that motivated me to resist. My motivation was to spare my client this folly.

To make my case, I would need to secure the floor. So, on my shop’s dime, I created a slide show. (These were pre–PowerPoint days.) That would give me that advantage of a darkened room with the focus on me and my message. Then I called a meeting with the client and his consultant. 

A few slides in, the consultant rocketed to his feet, as I knew he would. “Don’t tell me what you can’t do,” he said. “Tell us what you can! After all, how good are you guys?” I replied, “You’ll have your say. Please sit down and let me continue.” Remarkably, he did. I proceeded with a brief, organized, evidence–based analysis that laid bare the folly.

I finished, the lights went up, and I turned to the client. “We’re your ad agency,” I said, “and we’ll do as we’re told. But our best recommendation is not to proceed.”

There was silence for a beat or two. Finally, the client said, “You never stop surprising me” and killed the strategy.

Then the consultant said something interesting. “I wish you’d been around when I was CEO of my last company. Maybe it wouldn’t have gone under.”

GOOD NEWS, Christians! Jesus died for your sins. Accept him and, presto!, no more eternal rap sheet.

Churches vary on what constitutes accepting Jesus, but all agree that doing so absolves you of your misdeeds. Say you robbed a store or assaulted someone and now fear a post–mortal fire and brimstone future. No problem. The atonement of Jesus will pay for and thus erase that sin. No more fire and brimstone worries for you.

(For their part, the store owner or assault victim damn well better get over it. Failure to forgive is a stain on their record. Were you not so righteous, you might even find some satisfaction in that.)

Now, you’re only human, meaning there’s a good chance that you’ll sin again. No problem again. As often as you blow it—I have it on good authority that you’re allowed up to seventy times seven—you can dip your garments in the Blood of the Lamb* to make them spotless as new.

And that’s the problem with absolution. It offers every incentive to cleanse your eternal record and none not to sully it in the first place. 

A result is Christians** whose first thought upon messing up isn’t “I feel terrible, I must right this and take steps never to do it again.” Rather, it’s “This could keep me out of heaven.” Being cleansed becomes the priority. Lesson–learning and self–improvement? Optional. 

So it is that many Christians see in the doctrine of absolution a get–out–of–jail–free card. Some even turn it into a sin–now–pay–later plan. (I submit Exhibit A: “Don’t get me wrong,” I said, “I’m enjoying this, but I know your church’s rules well enough to know we’re breaking them. How do you deal with that?” “No problem,” she replied, “I’ll just confess and be forgiven.”) Some even build future repentance into their game plan. (I submit Exhibit B: “I know it would be wrong, but I can always repent.”)

It’s a marvelously exploitable loophole, and no one exploits it more adeptly than Christians.***
—————————--
* Ew.
** I know, I know: some not all.
*** Once again, I know, I know: some not all.

IN CAPITALISM, a business makes money by taking great care of customers, that is, by delivering great value at a fair price. What keeps the price fair? Competition, of course.

Or so goes the fairy tale.

Ever bought a new car? There’s no great value at a fair price going on. What’s going on is a tactical war between dealer and customer, where the dealer is willing to accept less but tries to get the customer to pay more, and the customer is willing to pay more but tries to get the dealer to accept less.

Ever bought real estate? It’s essentially the same game.

Many forms of retail shopping are no better. I stepped into a well–known retail furniture store and found six barstools I wanted. A salesperson told me the price. “I’ll shop around,” I said, whereupon the salesperson immediately dropped the price by no small amount. The same thing happened in another store when I was shopping for an adjustable bed. 

Call me naive, but I would think that taking great care of a customer would entail leading with your best price.

When I owned an advertising agency, I stuck to a price list for our various services. By contrast, a good many of my competitors would learn how much the client had budgeted and simply take it. Again, call me naive, but that seemed to me a lot like grifting.

Consider all of the mergers and acquisitions going on with communications companies, streaming services, social media, and retail giants both online and in–store. Do not think for one moment that such are motivated by a desire to take better care of the customer. The idea is to return value to shareholders (whose interests are often at odds with those of customers — see my earlier post, Three Problems with Shareholders), plus control information, and wield power over those who might otherwise seek to regulate them. 

These and other abuses are inevitable results of so–called free markets, of unbridled capitalism. Capitalism has no regard for fairness or decency.

To be sure, some businesses still seek to treat customers with fairness. Here’s to the few.