This We Believe: The Goodwill of People is the Sole Substance, the Rest is Shadow

Here is a story inspired by the philosophy of SC Johnson and the quote, "The goodwill of people is the sole substance, the rest is shadow."

***

The boardroom of the Johnson Wax building was silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of rain against the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed glass tubing. It was 1928. Herbert F. Johnson Jr. stood by the window, looking out not at the sprawling factory, but at the small figures of workers hurrying home under umbrellas.

On the mahogany table behind him lay a stack of financial reports. They were good. The numbers were black, the margins healthy. The company his grandfather had started on a parquet floor was now a global enterprise. Yet, a gnawing unease had settled in Herbert’s chest.

His advisors had spent the afternoon pitching efficiency. *“Cut the profit-sharing,”* one had suggested. *“Automate the packaging line faster, even if it displaces the older staff,”* said another. *“The market demands leaner operations.”*

Herbert turned away from the window and picked up a heavy fountain pen. He looked at the ledger. It was a record of transactions, of things sold and money made. It was tangible. It was heavy.

But then he thought of Elias.

Elias was a mixer in the varnish department. Two weeks ago, a fire had broken out in a storage shed near the mixing room. It wasn't a catastrophic blaze, but the smoke was thick and toxic. Elias hadn't run. He had stayed behind to shut the valves, preventing an explosion that would have leveled the wing. When Herbert visited him in the infirmary, coughing and soot-stained, Elias had waved off the praise.

"Mr. Johnson,"Elias had wheezed, "this place feeds my three girls. I wasn't going to let it burn."

That wasn't a transaction. That wasn't a line item on a ledger. That was something else entirely.

Herbert sat down and pushed the financial reports aside. He took a fresh sheet of paper. He began to write, not a memo, but a credo. He was trying to capture the ghost in the machine—the invisible force that actually kept the lights on.

He thought of the Great Depression looming on the horizon, the whispers of economic collapse that were already frightening the banks. If the money vanished, if the factories rusted, what would remain?

The buildings are just bricks, he thought. The wax is just chemicals. The patents are just paper.

He wrote a sentence, scratched it out, and wrote again. He needed to define the soul of the enterprise.

“The goodwill of people is the sole substance,” he wrote, the ink flowing dark and permanent. “The rest is shadow.”

The next morning, Herbert called an emergency meeting. The advisors returned, expecting approval for the cuts.

"Gentlemen," Herbert said, sliding the financial reports to the floor. "We are looking at the wrong metrics."

"Sir?" the CFO asked, bewildered. "The profit margins..."

"Are shadows," Herbert interrupted. "They are the result, not the cause. We are going to institute a pension plan. We are going to formalize the profit-sharing so that when the company wins, the man sweeping the floor wins. And we are going to guarantee that no employee is laid off due to lack of work if we can help it."

The room erupted in protest. "This is charity, Herbert! It’s bad business!"

"It is the only business," Herbert replied softly. "Elias didn't save the mixing room for a paycheck. He saved it because he felt he belonged to it, and it belonged to him. You cannot buy that kind of loyalty. You can only earn it through goodwill."

Years passed. The Great Depression arrived with the force of a hurricane. Competitors folded. Banks shuttered. The "shadows"—the stock prices and the asset valuations—evaporated overnight.

But in Racine, Wisconsin, the substance held.

When orders slowed, SC Johnson didn't fire people. They had them paint fences, repair machinery, and landscape the grounds. The workers, seeing the company fight for them, fought back. They reduced waste voluntarily. They came up with cheaper ways to package products. They worked harder, not out of fear, but out of gratitude.

One winter evening in 1934, Herbert was walking through the factory floor. It was late. He saw a light on in the packaging area. A group of men were there, off the clock, fixing a jammed conveyor belt that had been plaguing production for weeks.

"Overtime?" Herbert asked, stepping into the light.

One of the men looked up, wiping grease from his forehead. It was Elias's son.

"No, sir," the young man said. "Just wanted to make sure it runs smooth for the morning shift. We can't afford a slow day."

Herbert nodded, a lump forming in his throat. He walked back to his office, the words he had written years ago echoing in his mind.

The buildings were still standing. The machines were humming. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that none of it was real. The steel, the glass, the money—it was all just a shadow cast by the only thing that truly mattered: the spirit of the people who stood together in the dark.

He sat at his desk and looked at the framed credo on the wall.

The goodwill of people is the sole substance.

"And that", he whispered to the empty room, "is how we survive."