Issue #10
Spain had just won the World Cup. But the headlines that followed weren’t only about Spain.
They were also about Argentina: a brawl after the final whistle, a red card issued after the match had already ended, discipline reaching the coaching staff, players turning their backs at the medal ceremony, and riot police called in back home as disappointment spilled into the streets.
But that wasn’t the only story this tournament told.
After Germany’s Felix Nmecha scored against Curaçao, he dropped to one knee, mimed removing his own crown, and pointed to the sky. Germany won 7-1. Afterwards, several Curaçao players gathered at midfield to pray. Felix and teammate Jonathan Tah crossed the field to join them. Felix said, on the pitch, they had been opponents. Off it, brothers. Days later, England and France closed the bronze match the same way, praying together after a brutal 6-4 fight.
This was more than sportsmanship. Sportsmanship means treating your opponent with respect. It doesn’t explain why someone would lay down their crown after success, pray after a loss, or embrace the team that just beat them.
Jesus said it plainly, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:21) I’ve usually heard that applied to money. Watching this tournament, I think it also explains why we respond so differently to winning and losing.
Whatever we treasure becomes the lens we see everything through. If success is the treasure, winning says, “Now I’m somebody.” Losing says, “Now I’m nobody.”
Scripture offers a different perspective. Everything we have, our abilities, opportunities, health, even our next breath, is a gift from God. We are stewards, not owners.
A promotion, a successful business, a launch that beats projections, these are good gifts. But they are never meant to tell us who we are. The moment we ask them to, they become idols. Felix’s celebration wasn’t humility for the cameras. It revealed an identity settled long before the goal was scored. Because he knew whose he was, he knew where the crown belonged.
When identity comes from the scoreboard, losing isn’t just disappointing. It becomes a verdict. That’s as true in the office as it is on the pitch. A failed launch, a restructuring, a disappointing quarter, they hurt, but they were never qualified to answer the question of who you are.
Curaçao still lost. France still missed the podium. Yet both walked away demonstrating that their sense of self did not rise and fall with the scoreboard.
That’s why the contrast with Argentina wasn’t mainly about behavior. It was about what each team treasured. Some showed an identity built on something bigger than football. Others showed what happens when they let football become something it was never meant to be: an identity.
So next time, after a win or a loss, pause and ask yourself, “What do I think this says about me?” If the answer touches your worth rather than your results, you’ve found where your treasure really is.
Achievement is a good scoreboard. It is a poor mirror.
p.s. If questions like these resonate with you, they’re the kinds of conversations we explore every month in Kingdom Factor Cohort (KFC), where Christian CEOs, founders, and executives help one another lead from identity in Christ rather than achievement. Click here to learn more.
Thank you so much, Trevor. That honestly means a lot to me.
I think that sentence has become one of the biggest lessons God has been teaching me over the years as well. It’s deceptively simple, but it changes how we see both success and failure. If everything is ultimately a gift entrusted to us, then success becomes gratitude rather than entitlement, and failure no longer has the final word about who we are.
Thank you for engaging so thoughtfully throughout this conversation. Your reflections genuinely sharpened my own thinking as I was writing the article. 🙏
Thank you, Mun-Wai.
Mmm that is an interesting question. Post 2008 or so , my expectations around reward and recognition quietly shifted. The “exceeds” or “outstanding” ratings that once felt like milestones began to seem like moving targets—harder to reach, and less fulfilling when caught. Even when I won gold, silver, or bronze awards, the uplift was real but fleeting. Each one felt like a breadcrumb: enough to keep me going, but never enough to feel truly seen or sustained.
I had to push harder, go further, and do more—just to feel the same sense of success. And when I moved into accounts that appeared compliant, I tried to bring more rigour: deeper elicitation, sharper analysis, bolder alternatives. But I met resistance—especially from senior programme managers who seemed to own the strategy and tactics as part of their identity. When I proposed other ways forward, I think they felt threatened, not supported. It was tough not to slide back into institutional apathy or the comfort of silence.
What kept me going was a phrase I returned to again and again: “Their reactions are a reflection on them, not me.” It helped me rewire my thinking, protect my sense of purpose, and stay in the game. In the end, I realized only one person would be accountable for the human capital in me—and that was me.
Thanks for creating the space to reflect on this. It’s a reminder that stewardship of our own growth and dignity is both a personal responsibility and an act of quiet resistance.
Thank you for sharing that, Trevor. I think many people, especially in corporate life, will recognise what you described about reward and recognition. It’s almost like the goalposts keep moving, and the satisfaction never lasts as long as we expect it to.
“Their reactions are a reflection on them, not me” – that is so true. I think there’s a lot of wisdom in refusing to let someone else’s insecurity become the measure of your worth.
The only thought I’d add is something your comment made me think about as I was writing the article. I think stewardship goes one step further. We are certainly responsible for stewarding the gifts and opportunities God has entrusted to us, but we’re not their ultimate owner either. That realisation has become strangely freeing for me. It means I can pursue excellence wholeheartedly without asking success, recognition, or even other people’s approval to answer the question of who I am.
Thank you for taking the conversation in this direction. You’ve given me something else to reflect on.
Thank you so much for a terrific thoughtful article and for my actions of responding leading me to think about what stewardship really means. I will take this “Scripture offers a different perspective. Everything we have, our abilities, opportunities, health, even our next breath, is a gift from God. We are stewards, not owners. ” away with me. 🙏🙏
Thank you, Mun Wai, for this thoughtful reflection on what we treasure.
I missed the World Cup final as I was on shift—booked before I knew the timing. Perhaps providential, given England’s semi-final exit.
I hadn’t seen the moment where the German players joined Curaçao in prayer. What a powerful expression of something deeper than competition. Likewise, seeing England and France come together in prayer reflects, for me, a glimpse of unity grounded in something beyond the game—something closer to love of neighbour than rivalry.
There is something valuable in competition. It stretches us. It reveals capability we might not otherwise see. I was once told, “We are all more capable than we know, and if only we can be made to believe it, we will never settle for anything less again.” That has stayed with me. There is a quiet satisfaction in knowing you gave your best, regardless of the result.
But the modern obsession with winning—being the best at almost any cost—often distorts that good. It can normalise behaviour like fouling, deception, or exaggeration to influence decisions. We see it in the theatrics on the pitch, but it mirrors something broader in our culture.
Your reflection on identity resonates deeply. When winning becomes the measure of worth, it creates pressure not just to succeed, but to justify oneself through success. That is a heavy burden to carry.
For those who follow Jesus, there is an attempt—however imperfect—to live differently. Not to become flawless, but to recognise that perfection is not ours to claim. Without that grounding, there can be a tendency toward striving, comparison, and even projecting frustrations onto others.
For me, winning at all costs has never felt like treasure. There is something far more meaningful in alignment—with purpose, with others, and with a sense of identity that is not dependent on the scoreboard.
I appreciate this reflection, Trevor, especially your point about “the quiet satisfaction in knowing you gave your best, regardless of the result.”
I wonder if that’s one of the healthiest ways to think about stewardship. We aren’t responsible for every outcome, but we are responsible for how faithfully we steward the gifts, opportunities, and responsibilities God has entrusted to us. Sometimes faithfulness leads to success. Sometimes it doesn’t (in our standard). But our identity doesn’t have to swing with either.
Your observation about modern culture normalising “winning at almost any cost” also struck me. I wonder if that’s why those moments of prayer after the matches stood out so much. They quietly challenged the assumption that the scoreboard is the most important thing on the field.
Out of curiosity, have you found it’s harder to hold onto that perspective after a significant success or after a significant disappointment?