A recent conversation prompted me to reflect on something that seems so fundamental to human existence, yet is seldom examined closely: the nature of value. We spend much of our lives seeking to become valuable, whether through our work, our relationships, or the contributions we make to the world around us. But what does it truly mean to be valuable? Is value something we accumulate, something others recognise in us, or something that exists independently of what we accomplish? And if everything we build is ultimately temporary, what, if anything, remains?
The Accumulation of Value
We spend much of our lives trying to become valuable. We accumulate knowledge, refine our skills, develop our judgment, and cultivate relationships. We become useful to the organisations we serve and, sometimes, indispensable to the people who depend upon us. Somewhere along the way, we discover that value brings a peculiar kind of freedom. The more we can contribute, the more credibility we establish, and the less our professional standing seems to depend upon the approval of any one individual. Yet this raises a question that we seldom pause to consider: what exactly is the value of becoming valuable?
There is something profoundly practical about making oneself valuable. A person who possesses expertise, exercises sound judgment, and consistently delivers beyond expectations naturally gains influence. Such a person may recognise needs that have never been articulated, anticipate problems before they materialise, and contribute in ways that transcend a formal job description. Over time, the accumulation of these contributions builds credibility. And credibility affords a certain freedom: the freedom to speak honestly, challenge prevailing assumptions, and pursue what one believes to be worthwhile, even when it is not immediately appreciated.
The Fragility of What We Build
I find considerable wisdom in this understanding of professional development. There is dignity in competence, excellence in craftsmanship, and satisfaction in creating something genuinely useful. Institutions, after all, are built and sustained by people who are willing to contribute beyond what is strictly required of them. Yet I also find myself wondering about the permanence of such value. We may devote years to developing expertise, building institutions, designing systems, or advancing causes that we believe in, only for them to be superseded, dismantled, or forgotten. A change in leadership may undo years of progress. Technological developments may render once-prized skills obsolete. Even the most enduring institutions will eventually confront the possibility of decline.
The writer of Ecclesiastes understood something of this predicament. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. The Hebrew word hevel, often translated as vanity, evokes the image of a breath or vapour: something real, yet fleeting and impossible to hold indefinitely. Human accomplishments are not necessarily without worth, but neither can they bear the weight of our desire for permanence. We labour, accumulate, create, and achieve, yet we cannot ultimately secure what becomes of everything we have built. Even our memories and reputations are entrusted to generations that may never know us.
Does this make our labour meaningless? I do not think so. Ecclesiastes itself speaks of rejoicing, doing good, and finding satisfaction in one’s toil as gifts from God. There is beauty in building something worthwhile, even when we know it will not last forever. A teacher’s work remains meaningful even when the classroom is demolished. A kind gesture does not become worthless because it is eventually forgotten. Perhaps the mistake is not in assigning value to our accomplishments, but in expecting them to provide the ultimate measure of our worth.
The Inadequacy of Independence
There is another assumption I find equally troubling: that true freedom comes from becoming so accomplished, secure, or independent that nobody can make us feel insignificant. Certainly, we should not surrender our identities to the changing opinions of those who hold authority over us. But complete independence from the judgments of others is neither realistic nor necessarily desirable. We are relational beings. A spouse’s disappointment can wound us deeply. A child’s affection can bring extraordinary joy. The opinions of parents, friends, and those we love inevitably shape how we understand ourselves. And there is something beautiful about this vulnerability.
To love is, in some measure, to allow another person’s existence to matter to our own. We depend upon others, just as they depend upon us. These dependencies can certainly become unhealthy, but they can also be the very substance of meaningful relationships. We were never intended to find fulfilment solely through self-sufficiency. Indeed, some of life’s most valuable experiences arise precisely because we are willing to be vulnerable, to give ourselves to others, and to receive something from them in return.
The Transcendent Dimension of Value
It is here that my Christian faith offers a different understanding of value. If human existence were confined entirely to the material world, then perhaps everything we build, experience, and cherish would ultimately be swallowed by time. But Christianity points towards a reality beyond the temporal. Human beings are not merely instruments of economic productivity or institutional success. We are created in the image of God, and in Christ, we have the hope of resurrection and eternal life. The people with whom we share our lives possess a significance that cannot be adequately captured by their achievements, usefulness, or social standing.
This does not diminish the importance of worldly endeavours. Quite the opposite. It gives them an entirely different dimension. An educational institution, for example, may one day cease to exist, but the people who encountered one another through it were never merely participants in a programme. Knowledge was exchanged, perspectives were transformed, friendships were formed, and lives were influenced. We seldom know the full consequences of our actions, much less the ways in which they may shape someone else’s journey. Perhaps the true significance of our work lies not in how long its achievements endure, but in the lives we touch along the way. For while our endeavours may be temporary, the people whose lives we influence possess a value that transcends time itself.
To Build, Nevertheless
Perhaps, then, the value of becoming valuable lies not merely in the freedom, influence, or recognition it affords us. It lies also in what we are able to give. We develop our abilities not simply to become indispensable, but to become better stewards of the opportunities entrusted to us. We strive for excellence not because our worth depends upon our achievements, but because our work can serve purposes beyond ourselves. And we learn to hold our accomplishments with both conviction and humility, recognising their genuine significance without mistaking them for the entirety of what makes life meaningful.
So we continue to build. We learn, create, contribute, and seek to leave the places we inhabit better than we found them. We do so knowing that our work may eventually be forgotten, that the institutions we serve may disappear, and that much of what appears important today may become insignificant tomorrow. This does not diminish the value of our labour. Rather, it reminds us where its deepest significance lies. As the Apostle Paul writes, faith, hope, and love abide, and the greatest of these is love.
We build things that will one day pass away, yet we do so with the hope that the fruits of our labour may endure in ways we cannot foresee — through the lives we touch, the people we inspire, and the good that continues long after our work is forgotten. For what is temporary in our hands may, by God’s grace, bear fruits of eternal significance.
“So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” -- 2 Corinthians 4:18 (NIV)
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