I’m a veteran auction-goer. I love the atmosphere of it, the camaraderie that builds up in the crowd of regular attendees, and the tiny thrill you get when the hammer comes down on “sold” and it’s your number the auctioneer calls out.
In many ways, depending on where you live, the experience has changed from a friendly Saturday pastime to a sanitized online experience. Like so many things we used to do as a community, auctions in metropolitan areas are now lonely experiences. Instead of the friendly back-and-forth battle between neighbors over a hoped-for treasure, it’s (I’ll admit it) an irritating battle of wills between you and an anonymous foe who waits until the last possible second to bid, just when you think you’ve won. It’s not the same at all.
I participated in the latter kind of auction last night for the family of an artist who had passed. Alongside their body of work was an accumulation of collectibles from a lifetime of travel. It couldn’t help but make me think of the short time we have on this earth to make an impact. When we leave it, we leave all of our treasures behind for others to pick through. What remains are the lives we’ve touched.
What does this mean for the Catholic professional?
In much the same way, we spend our weeks building portfolios, scaling businesses, managing teams, and accumulating professional markers of success. We curate our LinkedIn profiles much like an estate sale curator categorizes a lifetime of acquisitions: titles held, projects closed, awards won, and milestones reached. There is nothing inherently wrong with excellence. Our work is a participation in the ongoing creation of a collaborative world, and craftsmanship matters.
Yet, looking at a digital catalog of a deceased stranger's collected life, the sheer ephemera of material achievement strikes a sobering note. The bronze sculptures, the framed oils, the mid-century ceramics, the rare books, they were once deeply cherished. They represented hours of labor, selective taste, and financial investment. To the highest bidder clicking refresh on a laptop screen, however, they are reduced to commodities, items to be unpacked, dusted, and eventually re-listed when our own turn comes.
Saint Ignatius of Loyola famously reminds us that created things are gifts meant to help us praise God and reach our ultimate end. But how easily the means become the master. In the relentless pace of modern careerism, whether we are climbing the corporate ladder in a bustling metro area or managing a demanding practice, we can easily fall into the trap of isolation. Much like the anonymous online auction, modern professional life often pits us against unseen competitors in a lonely race for status, efficiency, and acquisition, divorcing our daily labor from true human communion.
As Catholic professionals, our vocation calls us to redeem the secular spaces we inhabit, transforming lonely competition into communion.
When we view our work not as a fortress we are building for our own ego, but as an offering of stewardship, the pressure shifts. The late artist’s studio was cleared out, but the brushstrokes left behind on canvas undoubtedly influenced students, comforted friends, and sparked wonder in strangers. The legacy was never the inventory; it was the impact of the person.
It should be our job to restore community where technology and hyper-individualism breed isolation. Whether in the boardroom, the office, or the marketplace, we are called to be instruments of connection rather than isolated operators waiting to outbid our neighbor at the final second. True professional ethics demand that we mentor generously, collaborate honestly, and treat colleagues not as rivals, but as fellow travelers on the road.
The gavel will eventually fall on our earthly endeavors. When it does, the spreadsheets will close, the accounts will be settled, and the material portfolios we spent decades assembling will pass to others. Let us build careers that look less like a stockpile of isolated acquisitions, and more like a life poured out in service, faith, and love for our neighbors.
