My faith is very important to me, to the point that I have a specific bucket to allocate time for prayer and spiritual practice each week. In discussing this, though, it's not my intention to preach or try to convince someone to see things my way. Whether you have a bucket for faith and spirituality is up to you—just like it's your choice as to how to define each of your life buckets. I'm writing this chapter the same way I approach faith and spirituality in my classes on values-based leadership at Kellogg: I share my personal experiences while being sensitive and respectful to the faith traditions, spiritual practices, and perspectives of others.

By being open about my faith and spirituality, I can make it safe and welcoming for others to express and explore their own. No matter how different our perspectives and practices—even when I'm talking with someone who is an agnostic or atheist—as we frame our discussion around living a values-based life, there is much common ground.

Here's how it usually happens in my leadership classes: in the first session of every quarter, I introduce the importance of self-reflection and being self-aware, just as I did in the first chapter of this book. I encourage students to practice turning off the noise and engaging in 15 minutes of reflection daily. I am happy to leave it at that. Then someone usually asks, “How do you do that?” and the conversation goes a little deeper into my daily self-examination of living my values and what I think is most important to me.

Later that evening, I start to get emails from people wanting to take the discussion deeper into spirituality. Some will share that they practiced a faith tradition when they were younger but stopped when they were in high school. Now they're wondering if it's time to reexamine that part of their lives, and they'd like to talk about it. Others don't practice a religion, but they consider themselves to be somewhat spiritual, and they want to talk about taking self-reflection to the next level.

And there are those who would not consider themselves spiritual at all. Yet in talking with them, I can tell they are intrigued by how important it is to me. The question they ask is something like this: “To be an effective leader, do you think it's important to have a spiritual foundation? Is it really necessary?” My answer is straightforward: “I don't know if it is important for other people, but I know I could not be an effective leader without a spiritual foundation.” That's the message I'm sharing here, too. This is what works for me and my pursuit of a values-based life.

MY FAITH JOURNEY

Since childhood, I have had a deep sense of faith and spirituality. Some of my earliest memories, going all the way back to when I was about three years old, are of attending church with my family. In those days, the Catholic mass was still said in Latin, which of course I couldn't understand. Yet there was something very special about sitting in that big church, surrounded by hundreds of people who were singing hymns, saying prayers, or sitting quietly and listening to the priest. I understood at a young age that this experience was important to all these people around me, especially my mother and father—and so it became important to me.

As I grew up, my sense of faith deepened, as did my understanding. My parents, who never missed a Sunday service, and my uncle Father Francis (whom I mention in chapter 1) showed me what it meant to live a faith-based life. They gave my siblings and me structure and discipline; missing church just because someone didn't feel like going wasn't an option for us when we were growing up. We went because our parents felt it was important for keeping our faith tradition alive.

Faith, of course, is much more than getting your ticket punched by attending a service or going through the motions. It is a state of mind and a way of behaving in the world—at school, at work, within your family, among friends and acquaintances, and as you interact with people you don't even know. For me, faith in action and values in action stem from the same source: my core religious beliefs and what they teach me about how I should treat others.

THE FAITH BUCKET

The time I devote to my faith includes going to church services, reading scripture, praying regularly (at least once a day), and attending an annual three-day silent retreat. My daily practice of self-reflection, as I described in chapter 1, is tied directly to my religious faith. As I contemplate my values, my sense of purpose, and my priorities of what matters most in my life, I continuously step back and consider the bigger picture. I think about how short life really is—I'm here only for the blink of an eye—which gives me an invaluable perspective. What I do and how I act cannot be about me. Far more important than any success I might achieve is significance, which comes from making a positive difference in the world and being a force for good.

At the end of my life, I want to know that what I did while I was on this earth mattered. This has profound spiritual implications for me. Every day, I strive to use the gifts God has given me to make things better for others. Personally, I believe it's what we're all called to do.

I have no problem talking about any of this with anyone—students, executives, colleagues, or friends—because I believe it's important that we encourage each other to consider the religious or spiritual aspect of our lives. Although I understand that some people prefer to keep a separation between their faith and the rest of their life—and especially their career—that's impossible for me. I cannot separate my faith from my life any more than I can separate my family from my life. The reason is simple: my Christian faith is the foundation of who I am.

FORMING MY IDENTITY

My religious identity formed when I was very young. As I went to Catholic schools, I learned about the teachings of Jesus—about loving God and about loving your neighbor as yourself. My understanding grew with new experiences. For example, when I was an altar boy and served at funeral masses, I was amazed when the priest told grieving people who had lost a loved one that death was also a time for celebration. Their loved one wasn't gone forever; he or she was united with God. The joy came from thinking how this beloved person had gone on ahead to where, one day, we would all be together.

Listening to those words, I began to grasp that this earthly life, although important, wasn't all there was. One day I, too, would no longer be here. What came next in my belief system was heaven and unity with God and all the souls who had gone before us. That was the ultimate goal I set for my life at a young age.

By the time I was in my teenage years, my talks with my uncle Father Francis helped me understand that even though I didn't have a religious calling, I could live my faith in other ways. I committed to setting a positive example through high school and college. I wasn't trying to prove something; I simply thought it was important and consistent with my values. Every Sunday morning during college, I attended mass on campus where I was one of a dozen people. One day, I recognized a young woman who was also a regular. She was a freshman I had seen in the library the first week: Julie Jansen—and by now you know the rest of that story. For 40 years, our shared faith and values have formed a deep bond.

Every aspect of my life has been enhanced by my faith. Julie and I decided, even before we got married, how we would raise our children one day with faith as the foundation. We are fortunate that our five children have embraced their faith. They also support each other when someone gets off track and does or says something that's inconsistent with our values. When our children were all living at home, we attended church as a family. Now that they are older and the eldest children are living on their own, Julie and I remind them that if they say faith is important to them, then surely they can spare a few hours out of their 168 each week to express it.

Over the years, my faith has been a source of strength during times of difficulty. No matter how challenging things are, self-reflection and prayer help me stay centered in doing the right thing and doing the best I can, as I described in chapter 1. At times, I use these words almost like a mantra; they calm and focus me, and it reduces worry, fear, anxiety, pressure, and stress. That's certainly a benefit to my health.

In addition, my faith encourages me to enjoy life, through all the ups and downs. Every day is a gift, meant to be treasured. In that way, my spirituality also increases my sense of fun. One of the greatest gifts of being human is the capacity to experience and share joy. A good laugh, time together with friends and loved ones, being outdoors in nature, taking a walk at night as the stars are just starting to come out—all of these simple pleasures can be spiritual expressions as well.

Another part of my faith is seeking to make a difference. As we discuss in chapter 11, this helps build a legacy as a force multiplier for good, to touch as many people as possible. This isn't about pushing my faith or spiritual views on anyone. Rather, I try to encourage more people to make a difference in their own way, whether by volunteering at a soup kitchen, working with an organization such as Habitat for Humanity, or doing good in their own neighborhood community.

One of the biggest areas affected by my faith—surprisingly, perhaps—has been my career and, in particular, my leadership. In its simplest form, leadership has nothing to do with titles and organizational charts; rather, it has everything to do with the ability to influence others. Because my faith compels me to respect everyone—seeking first to understand rather than to be understood—it helps me relate to others. The more I can relate to others, the better leader I can be. It must be more than just words; there must be action to back it up. As Andrew Carnegie, the industrialist and philanthropist, observed, “As I grow older, I pay less attention to what men say. I just watch what they do.”

In each area of my life, I draw on my faith to guide me in living a values-based life. I don't have it all figured out; I'm a work in progress, like everyone else. However, I've been at this a long time, with a well-defined spiritual practice grounded in self-reflection that began more than 40 years ago.

THE THREE-DAY SILENT RETREAT

Every year, over the past four decades, I have attended a three-day silent retreat at the Demontreville Jesuit Retreat House in Lake Elmo, Minnesota. I go the same time every year: the first weekend of December, from Thursday evening through Sunday evening.

This practice wasn't something I sought out. Believe me, given how much I love to talk, I'd never choose a silent retreat for myself. However, when I was first introduced to the retreat, I found it to be a valuable exercise for shutting out the noise and immersing myself in the quiet so I could contemplate the deep questions and listen for how God is talking to me.

My first experience of the retreat was quite a surprise. I had graduated early from college and moved to Evanston, Illinois, just north of Chicago, and was attending Northwestern University's Kellogg School of Management. Every other weekend, I hitchhiked to Lawrence University in Appleton, Wisconsin, to visit Julie, who was still a freshman. Hitchhiking was easy in those days—usually, I'd get a ride with a truck driver making a run from Chicago to Green Bay. (It goes without saying that I would never allow my children to do what I did, nor do I recommend it to anyone else. Forty years ago, however, I could rationalize that it was a good idea, particularly because I had no money.)

Then one day, while at home in Evanston, I received a phone call from Julie's father, inviting me to visit him in St. Paul, Minnesota. I was a little unsure what this was all about, but the visit was important to Julie, so of course I agreed to go. The airfare was cheap, and I flew to the Twin Cities. It was the first weekend in December, and it felt like 20 degrees below zero when I landed.

Julie's father met me at the airport and told me he'd like the two of us to do something together. My first thought was maybe we'd go to a Minnesota Vikings football game.

“This is something I do every year and I would like you to join me,” Mr. Jansen said. “It's a retreat.”

When I asked him what a retreat was, he explained that it meant time spent in prayer, reflection, and thinking about your values and your purpose. I also suspected he wanted me to think about my relationship with his daughter.

As I was thinking about all this, Mr. Jansen told me one more thing. “It's a silent retreat. You are not going to talk for the next three days.”

Now, I usually have difficulty shutting up for three minutes, so three days seemed completely impossible. I knew I could turn around, take the next flight, and be back in Chicago in 45 minutes. Being a finance guy, though, I was familiar with the concept of sunk cost—money that had already been spent and couldn't be recovered. Because I'd already paid for the trip, I figured I might as well try this retreat thing and see what it was all about.

We drove about ten miles from St. Paul to the Demontreville Jesuit Retreat House in Lake Elmo, Minnesota. There, I was given a name badge and assigned to a room with a single bed, a Bible, and a cup for water. The rules were explained (especially the one about no talking). Every two or three hours, the bell rang, and we gathered in the chapel where one of the Jesuits gave a brief talk meant to help us with our self-reflection and self-examination. Then all 65 men on the retreat headed back to our rooms or took a walk along the lake.

Although the silent part was challenging at first, I understood that if I wanted to communicate with God, I had to “dispose myself”—that was the term Father Ed Sthokal used. In other words, I had to be quiet and listen. As I engaged in self-reflection (asking myself many of the questions that I related in chapter 1), I thought more deeply about things than I ever had before. I cannot say for sure that I heard God talking to me, but I did gain more clarity and perspective in that weekend than I'd ever had in my life.

It was so powerful to be among a group of men attending this retreat. Day or night, there was always someone on the walking paths. Sometimes when I passed a man on the path along the lake, I would notice he looked emotional. A pat on the shoulder or an exchange of nods allowed us to connect without breaking our silence.

On Sunday evening, as we gathered in the cafeteria for a last meal together, the Jesuits announced that we could talk. Quiet conversations began, but no one rushed into animated discussions. Before we departed, one of the Jesuits explained that this retreat should not be a one-time exercise. Rather, it was an introduction to the daily 15-minute exercise of self-reflection. I left that first retreat thinking that I'd try it for a week. After the first week, I thought daily self-examination was valuable to me, so I'd keep it up for another month or two. Now it's been 40 years and counting.

The following December, when Julie's father invited me to attend the retreat again, I met him at the airport in the Twin Cities, and we drove to Lake Elmo. Since then, I've never missed a year—even when I became CFO of Baxter and then chairman and CEO. To completely unplug from the world isn't as hard as you might think. When I arrive at the retreat on Thursday night, I have no phone, no laptop. As the retreat leader reminds us, there is nothing that will happen in the next three days that others can't handle until we return on Monday morning.

Even now, with my schedule of teaching, board meetings, and giving speeches, I'm usually out of the country for at least one week a month. Yet, as the first weekend of December approaches, I know where I will be. I've never changed weekends, even though the Jesuits give 47 weekend retreats at Demontreville every year. As I mentioned in chapter 7, these men with whom I have attended the retreat every year are part of my community. The faces are familiar as we find our regular places in the chapel—I sit in the third row, on the right side, on the aisle. No matter that we don't talk, we still connect.

Whenever I mention the retreat to my students at Kellogg, many of them are very curious about it. They see me as a guy who likes to talk a lot, and often very quickly, yet I find it very valuable to spend three full days in silence. The question I can read on their faces is, “What's that about?” Just the other day I received an email from a student wanting more details about the silent retreat and how to sign up.

Over the years, out of the 70 or so students I teach every quarter, about seven or eight will ask me questions about these retreats. Some have a faith practice but never experienced a retreat before. Some aren't spiritual at all, but now that they're practicing self-reflection, they think the idea of a silent retreat is at least “interesting.” Others see me as someone who became CEO of a $10 billion company at age 43. If a silent retreat got me there, then sign them up!

I answer the questions I'm asked. I'm not trying to sell anyone on anything. Teaching at a secular university, I'm well aware of the importance of separating church and state, as they say. At the same time, I've never kept my faith a secret or tried to separate it from any other part of my life. My faith defines me.

FOCUSING ON THE COMMON GROUND

Everybody is different; what works well for one person may not work for another. At the same time, I'm reminded that what unites us is far greater and more powerful than anything that separates us. Many years ago, while I was chairman and CEO of Baxter, I was fortunate to have the opportunity to attend the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. Beyond the celebrities and the big egos, the experience was amazing because of the collective wisdom. At the forum, deep and important ideas are discussed by bright and insightful minds. Attending the forum was like being back in a liberal arts college.

I recall listening to a phenomenal panel on spirituality and world religions. The panel discussed what was most important in each of the major religions represented: Hindu, Buddhist, Jewish, Muslim, Christian, and other traditions. As I listened, I was struck by the fact that 98 percent of what they discussed were common values, such as treating others with respect and caring for those in need. Unfortunately, in daily life, so much attention is often paid to the small differences that we humans allow to become divisions.

Years later, I invited a group of Kellogg students from multiple faiths—Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Bahá'í Faith, and Christianity—to an interfaith service at my home. It was a beautiful spring day by Lake Michigan as we gathered in my backyard to share this incredible experience of prayers and readings from each tradition. We acknowledged the richness of our differences and celebrated the unity of what our faiths teach us about love and respect for one another. It reminded me, yet again, of the vast common ground among us.

No matter what we believe or don't believe, most of us find it valuable to ponder the deeper questions: who am I? What is my purpose? What gives my life meaning? We may approach these questions differently. For some, these questions are best contemplated in the context of their faith tradition or spiritual practices. Others may view them in the context of what it means to be human. Whatever path we take, the questions draw us along journeys that are surprisingly similar in many ways.

SHARING STORIES AND EXPERIENCES

A very meaningful experience for me is to have discussions with others about their faith and what it means in their lives. I've had conversations with people from many backgrounds and traditions. What connects us deeply is how our faith tradition has formed our identity. As we share the story of our faith journeys, we are telling each other who we really are.

Jeffrey Solomon, chairman and CEO of Cowen Inc., whose story I shared in chapter 7, told me that in the past few years he has become more comfortable sharing his Jewish faith publicly. The catalyst was Rosh Hashanah in 2017, the Jewish New Year and the first of the High Holy Days ushering in a ten-day period of prayer, reflection, and atonement. Inspired by the beauty of Rosh Hashanah, Jeff wrote a column to his entire firm about the concept of spiritual rebirth.

When Jeff and I spoke about his thoughts on faith and living a values-based life, it was right before Rosh Hashanah 2019. The timing was perfect for our conversation. “During these ten days, I am more self-reflective. I am taking stock,” Jeff said. “Even if you are not Jewish, you can still experience that spiritual rebirth for yourself. It helps you be a better person.”

Jeff has shared other reflections from his faith—most profoundly when he wrote a tribute about the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, his home faith community. On October 27, 2018, Tree of Life was the setting of unspeakable horror when a gunman committed a mass shooting in which 11 people—including four known to Jeff's family—were killed during Shabbat morning services.

The next day, Jeff wrote a long, emotional message to his entire firm, describing the Tree of Life Synagogue community, where he and his brother, Kyle, spent much of their childhood attending Hebrew school, studying to become a Bar Mitzvah, and learning how to practice the values of Tzdakah (charity) and Tikkun Olam (repairing the world). He expressed his raw feelings as he began the long process of coming to grips with what had happened: “When pure evil hits your home, everything changes. Suddenly you feel a part of every tragedy that has ever occurred since the dawn of time. You feel a sense of helplessness and deep emptiness. You realize in an instant just how vulnerable we all are to senseless acts of rage and violence.”

Since the Tree of Life tragedy, Jeff has been focused on doing more good in the world. “If you know me, you know two things about me: I am Jewish, and I am from Pittsburgh,” Jeff told me. “I live the Jewish ideals—among them Tikkun Olam, ‘repairing the world,’ which I think we all should be doing.”

In a note to his firm to mark the one-year anniversary of the Tree of Life mass shooting, Jeff outlined four things he consciously tries to do every day. First on Jeff's list is to remove the “four-letter ‘H-Word’ from my vocabulary.” In reflecting on this, I thought of how casually we throw around the word hate—whether we're describing some annoyance or displeasure or we're very angry at someone or something. Banishing the word hate from our collective vocabulary is an important first step toward eradicating it from our actions.

His second item is to “consciously try to make two or three people smile every day.” Jeff's pursuit resonates with me. A core tenet of both a values-based life and living one's faith is to respect and honor each person. This can be expressed in the simplest ways, such as saying hello, asking someone about his or her family, or exchanging a comment that makes someone smile. To me, that says, “I see you—you matter to me.” Everyone is deserving of respect.

Third on Jeff's list is a recommitment to “consciously do One Good Deed a Day.” While he has kept true to that task over the past few years, now he mentally links those acts to the friends who were lost at Tree of Life. “Because they were all such good people, it's my own personal way of staying connected to their lives. And I am grateful to know I am perpetuating their own good nature in my daily routine,” Jeff wrote.

I reflected on Jeff's words and how they set an example for all of us. In doing good on behalf of and in memory of others, we spread love and positivity in the world.

Last but certainly not least on Jeff's list, he shares that he has become more open about his Judaism. “Not that I ever denied it, but it's not like I really ever talked about it specifically. It's also not like I talk about it all the time.” Given his connection with Tree of Life and the fact that people know he is Jewish, Jeff has embraced these opportunities to talk about his faith and religion in general. “This has fostered more dialogue about the religious views and beliefs of others than I have ever had, which in turn has actually helped me understand that most religions have way more in common than not. It has also given me hope that open-minded practitioners of faiths other than my own as well as open-minded people who choose not to follow a religion can actually find commonality if they want to do so, even as we respect our differences.”

To that profound sentiment, I can only add a most sincere “Amen.” Although religion, sadly, has been a source of division in this world for centuries, it is people who have taken up those destructive causes. As we embrace what it means to be a person of faith in any creed or context, we can see that there is so much more that unites us.

Much of that common ground is found in selflessness, in putting others before ourselves. As C. S. Lewis wrote in Mere Christianity, “The principle runs through all life from top to bottom. Give up yourself, and you will find your real self. Lose your life and you will save it . . . .”¹

In its essence, spiritual practice of any kind is never about any of us—rather, it's about all of us. Although our rituals and traditions are meaningful to us, we cannot allow our personal religious identities to become false divisions that separate us from those who believe or think differently. Rather, we all share profound truths of love, compassion, and forgiveness. No one owns any of them. With respect and understanding of others' practices, we are able to see these truths through multiple lenses. Then we're not limited by our own myopia; we see more clearly and broadly.

Khalid Ali, a close friend and former Kellogg student, draws on his Islamic faith to guide his life. “I grew up on a farm in western Pennsylvania in a very religious household,” Khalid shared. “In between cleaning out the sheep manure from the barn, milking the goats, and feeding the chickens, I prayed five times a day, attended Friday prayers, and memorized much of the Quran. Also, I never drank alcohol or ate pork.” As he got older and started college, Khalid found himself questioning some tenets of his faith and grappling with what it means to be a Muslim living in America. “9/11 pushed Islam and Muslims into the spotlight in a very negative way, but the reality is that it had been difficult to be ‘publicly Muslim’ in America for long before then—certainly for as long as I can remember,” Khalid told me. Yet he never abandoned his faith.

“In college I was elected class president all four years, and despite attending nearly every social gathering, I never once drank alcohol. Through Islam I had a grounding that continued to guide my moral compass and self-discipline. Fundamentally, Islam gave me the tools and a language to commune with a Higher Being and appreciate the magnanimity of that Being and the beauty that exists all around us,” Khalid said.

In our class at Kellogg on values-based leadership and discussions about self-reflection, Khalid said he began to reexamine the values and faith foundation of his youth in the context of values-based leadership. “Most probably due to my religious upbringing, I felt an immediate connection to the concept of a values-based approach to life,” he said.

Now living in Philadelphia with his wife and two children, Khalid makes a concerted effort to foster understanding and cohesion among his neighbors. “Neighborhood and community are very important in Islam,” Khalid said. Rather than try to hide their religion, Khalid and his wife, Leena, have made a conscious decision to share their traditions with their neighbors. For example, during the month of Ramadan, when Muslims all over the world fast from dawn to sunset for 30 days, Khalid, Leena, and the children share platters of traditional iftaar food (the meal with which Muslims break their daily fast) with their majority non-Muslim neighbors, along with a brief written explanation of their observance. During Christmas, which Khalid's family does not celebrate, Leena bakes cookies and other sweets as a gift to neighbors, along with a card explaining how Jesus is revered as a prophet in the Islamic faith, and his mother, Mary (or Miriam), is the only woman mentioned directly by name in the Quran.

“To me, good food is one of the best ways to bring people together—and Leena is a wonderful chef,” Khalid said. “We have received an outpouring of positive responses from our neighbors, thanking us for sharing our faith and our culture.”

Through their willingness to be open and transparent, Khalid and his family consciously build bridges with their neighbors and, by extension, a broader community. “America is described as a melting pot, but we like to think of it as a ‘potluck’—everybody has something to bring to the table,” Khalid said. “As we come together from different faiths and share what we believe, we have the opportunity to experience new perspectives and learn from each other.”

WHEREVER YOU ARE, START THERE

If you think it's important to have a bucket for faith or spirituality, it is up to you to decide what types of activities and commitments are important. You may be part of a faith community and regularly attend services. Or you may consider yourself to be spiritual without any defined religious practice. It may be that you feel disconnected from the faith tradition of your childhood, or perhaps you were not raised with a faith tradition. Now you may be open to exploring new traditions and ways of expressing a connection to something greater than yourself. For some, spending time in nature or contemplating deep, existential questions may be meaningful as a way to transcend daily experience. One spiritual practice that many people find meaningful is mindfulness, which is a type of meditation in which you intently focus on what you're seeing, hearing, sensing, and feeling in the moment.

Wherever you are, start there. Whether it's meditation, prayer, or religious practice, find what nourishes you and gives you a sense of being connected to something larger than yourself. It may involve returning to your spiritual roots and practicing the faith you knew as a child. Or you may be on a journey—a spiritual quest—to find what speaks to you.

For me, the journey always takes me deeper into the roots of my faith. The beliefs and practices remind me of who I am, where I belong, and where I hope to be at the end of my life.