Sanctiphagy

A good system shouldn’t need saints. It should metabolize harm before someone has to transcend it.

This May, during Teacher Appreciation Week, educators got the usual: coffee mugs, gift cards, and Instagram posts thanking them for their “passion.” What they didn’t get was smaller class sizes, competitive salaries, or relief from the political attacks that are making their jobs impossible.

​Meanwhile, a survey shows 65% of nurses are burned out, even as their hospitals praise their “resilience.” In tech, over 89,000 workers have been laid off this year—many of them the “mission-driven” engineers who sacrificed weekends for companies that now talk about “efficiency.”

​Let’s call this pattern what it is: sanctiphagy. The institutional consumption of saints. It’s how modern organizations survive, by metabolizing their most conscientious members and converting their virtue into fuel.

Every thank you post, every award, is a calorie extracted from someone’s exhaustion.

Sainthood has always been political. Saints make suffering look noble so that the systems causing it don’t have to change. We celebrate those who endure harm, not those who dismantle it. The saint’s halo is the institution’s alibi—a sign that the cruelty was somehow redemptive.

​Today’s saints don’t live in monasteries. They’re the ICU nurse working a double shift because the hospital runs “lean,” the teacher buying classroom supplies with their own money, the nonprofit director absorbing chaos on a terrible salary. They don’t just do their jobs; they absorb the institution’s failures, patching its design flaws with their own goodwill.

​Hospitals don’t fix staffing ratios; they launch resilience programs. Schools don’t raise salaries; they celebrate Teacher Appreciation Week. It’s a form of recognition laundering—converting a material debt into symbolic credit. The hospital gives a nurse a “hero” award instead of hazard pay. The nonprofit talks about “passion” to excuse poverty-level wages. The tech company offers equity that vests in four years for a sacrifice that starts now.

​Virtue fills the gap where structure should be. The dysfunction stays, but now it’s called “culture.”

​The saint is the renewable resource of institutional corruption. Organizations have learned it’s cheaper to hire mission-driven people than it is to build functional systems. The job posting says passionate because it can’t say undercompensated. It asks for people who thrive in “fast-paced environments” because it can’t admit the place is permanently understaffed. The job description is a consumption forecast.

​Sainthood has become a management strategy. Organizations create awards for those who stay late and work weekends. Their stories about employees who “do whatever it takes” are instructional. They teach everyone else that virtue means absorbing harm that leadership could have prevented.

What gets framed as a miracle of commitment is, in reality, someone just trying to survive.

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​Today's dominant systems don’t reject structure; they design it to produce saints. Silicon Valley perfected this: combine a mission-driven culture with equity that requires unsustainable hours to earn. The employee’s suffering becomes their investment. Their burnout becomes their résumé. Their departure becomes a cautionary tale for those who remain.

​The alternative is simpler: working systems. Staffing ratios that make sense. Pay that doesn’t require devotion. Care that is built to last, rather than depending on someone’s collapse.

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​This fall, when the next staffing crisis hits, the question isn’t whether they’ll find more saints. They will. The question is whether we’ll keep calling it virtue—or start calling it what it is: the consumption of goodness as a substitute for competence.

​Saints remind us what humans can endure.

Design reminds us they shouldn’t have to.

A good system shouldn’t need saints. It should metabolize harm before someone has to transcend it.