I found myself this past week at Princeton University, where my wife Kristen was singing the national anthem for the women’s soccer game against Rutgers. I love going to Princeton. I grew up around there, and have many a fond memory of strolling their halcyonic campus. As I walked around this time, I couldn’t help but notice a curious fact: everything had somebody’s name on it. I don’t know why that had previously eluded me. But there it was: every building, every field bore a plaque announcing that it was made possible by a gift from some alumnus. Even the soccer stadium has gotten creative: the stadium itself is named after one donor, but the playing surface is named after another. Two names for the same project. Twice the fundraising, twice the immortality.
And that’s what it’s really about, isn’t it?
The whole spectacle struck me. Millions and tens of millions poured into these projects — not just at Princeton, but at colleges and universities throughout the nation — all for the privilege of seeing one’s name affixed to stone or bronze. It has become the modern equivalent of a secular sacrament. Where faith once offered assurance of eternal remembrance, the wealthy now buy plaques as their liturgy. The unveiling of a new building becomes the ritual; the press release their hymn; the gleaming nameplate their baptism into immortality. It is philanthropy transformed into a religion of the self, where the worship is directed not toward God but toward reputation.
But how long does that immortality really last? Buildings are torn down. Plaques are removed. New donors with deeper pockets appear, and suddenly someone else’s “forever” has expired. The memory of a name can be bulldozed as easily as the walls it adorns. Even the most revered benefactor is ultimately bidding for something temporary, and time always outbids them.
How much better to have your name written where it actually matters: in the Book of Life. That record is free. It can’t be bought, sold, or torn down. And it doesn’t fade when the next benefactor shows up with deeper pockets.
What makes the whole donor spectacle even hollower is that real charity looks nothing like this. Marble façades, buildings designed by celebrity architects, sports facilities suitable for professionals with their press boxes and video scoreboards (oh, someone should put their name on those as well!), these are not necessities, they’re luxuries. No student’s life is changed because a wealthy benefactor wanted their name engraved in bronze. Every dollar that goes into these vanity projects could instead have quietly lifted a burden: helping a struggling family, funding scholarships, financing medical breakthroughs or healthcare costs for the less fortunate, meeting the needs of the poor in ways that never make the news but actually change lives, perhaps higher salaries for the lower rung workers. Instead, the dollars are spent on public monuments to private ego, because you can etch your name on those and not on the stomach of a hungry child.
And this is the sad irony of it all: the vainglorious plaque designed to honor is not evidence of generosity but of its absence, a billboard advertising the giver’s need for recognition. No? Then tell me why it’s better to build a soccer stadium than house the homeless.
I don’t know, perhaps I’m getting carried away. I don’t mean to suggest an animus toward philanthropy. It’s just this odd strain of… let’s invent a new word here… “philvanity,” the giving not out of love of others but rather of self, that rubs me the wrong way.
And let’s not forget: these universities are not needy institutions. They are multibillion-dollar hedge funds with classrooms attached. Their endowments rival the GDP of small nations. To donate to them is no different than cutting a check to Amazon or Apple and calling it charity. Why not donate to Elon Musk’s IRA while you’re at it? These universities are some of the wealthiest institutions in the world, but it’s never enough. Giving to a new building project isn’t philanthropy. It’s subsidizing the already rich, while true need goes unanswered.
For my part, I will likely never see my name carved into stone on a university vanity project. A less worthy expenditure of money I cannot think of. If universities wish to immortalize themselves on the backs of billionaire donations, that is their business. But let us not be fooled into thinking it buys anyone more than a season of glory.
Far better to live a quiet, faithful life unknown to history but known to God, than to spend a fortune for a plaque destined for the landfill. For those who are in Christ, the only name that truly matters is the one written not on crumbling stone, but on the pages of eternity.
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