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CHAPTER 2
Chapter Summary
Chapter Two presents an overview of the managerial tasks associated with developing and executing company
strategies. Special attention is given to the importance of a clear vision for the company and the strategic and
financial objectives that will guide the way. The importance of setting objectives at all levels of the organization
is explored along with the role of operating excellence in the successful execution of strategy. The chapter wraps
us with an exploration of the role of the company’s board of directors in overseeing the strategic management
process.
Lecture Outline
I. Introduction—Crafting and executing a strategy are the heart and soul of managing a business
enterprise.
II. What Does the Process of Crafting and Executing Strategy Entail?
ACTIVITY
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an interactive question and answer review. The assignment can be graded and posted automatically.
b. Setting objectives and using them as yardsticks for measuring the company’s performance and
progress.
c. Crafting a strategy to achieve the objectives and move the company along the strategic course that
management has charted.
114
Chapter 2 Charting a Company’s Direction: Its Vision and Mission, Objectives, and Strategy 115
III. Stage 1: Developing a Strategic Vision, A Mission Statement, and a Set of Core Values
ACTIVITY
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an interactive question and answer review. The assignment can be graded and posted automatically.
a. Top management’s views and conclusions about the company’s long-term direction and what
product–market–customer mix seems optimal for the road ahead constitute a strategic vision for
the company.
b. A number of factors need to be considered in deciding what words to use when creating the vision
which will tell the company ‘where we are going.’ Table 2.1, Wording a Vision Statement—the
Dos and Don’ts, explores some of these critical word choices.
CORE CONCEPT
A strategic vision describes “where we are going”—the course and direction
management has charted and the company’s future product customer-market-
technology focus.
Answer: (1) Brevity—the statement is very long which makes it difficult to keep the attention of the
audience. (2) Memorable—the statement cannot be easily reduced to a few choice lines or a one-
phrase slogan.
Discussion Question 2: What is effective in the Nike vision statement presented in Capsule 2.1?
Answer: The statement is short, making it focused and memorable. The vision described is feasible
and flexible.
a. A strategic vision has little value to the organization unless it’s effectively communicated down the
line to lower-level managers and employees.
b. An effectively communicated vision is a valuable management tool for enlisting the commitment of
company personnel to engage in actions that move the company forward in the intended direction.
c. A Expressing the Essence of the Vision in a Slogan The task of effectively conveying the vision
to company personnel is assisted when management can capture the vision of where to head in a
catchy or easily remembered slogan.
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of the South. Come from whomsoever it may, Republican or Democrat,
Grosvenor or Grant—for the latter before his death held like view with the
former—the advice is well given and the point well taken. But when once
the renaissance begins, I think the Augean stable of latter-day politics, even
in the New South, will need another Hercules to purify it. Take, for
instance, this statement from a recent issue of a great Southern newspaper:
“The four candidates for railroad commissioner expended a total of
$14,940.80 on their campaign expenses, Mr. ——, who was nominated,
leading with $10,522.80. The twelve candidates for the Supreme Court paid
out $7,133.34. Sixteen Congressional candidates expended $15,965.88.”
In the Independent of recent date a leading Democratic manufacturer of
New Jersey, under manifestly strong grievance, recites his experiences as a
delegate in the State Democratic Convention, in which a vigorous effort
was made, as in other Democratic Conventions, to force the indorsement of
an unclean aspirant to the highest office of the republic. The article I cite is
an evident instance of pot and kettle, but it sets in bold relief the straits and
methods to which the dominating wing of the party of Jefferson and
Jackson has been reduced, certainly in some of the Northern if not of the
Southern States. I quote the closing paragraph of the article as a faithful
picture of recent political happenings:
What are the means used by the bosses? First, corrupted
judges at the primaries and bulldozing tactics there. Secondly, a
brow-beating county and delegation chairman, with his
attendant thugs. Thirdly, a properly managed credentials
committee, with arrangements made beforehand, so that there
will be contests and the contests decided their way. Fourthly, a
tactful chairman, who will have fine presence, be a hypocrite
and pretend to fairness, but never recognize any but machine
men. Fifthly, the presence of the boss, with his ever-ready check
book and a fine knowledge of men to know what he must do to
win his way with them.
In so far as this is a true picture of the dominant spirit and method of no
small part of the Northern Democracy, and I firmly believe it so to be, I
think it time for the South to first purge itself of the contamination that has
come from thirty years of subserviency and emasculation, and then to assert
and maintain the integrity and high principles of the Democracy of the
fathers. If ever thieves and money changers were scourged from the ancient
temple, it is high time that the lash of public scorn shall be laid upon the
backs of all men, North or South, who have helped to disrupt and dishonor
a once noble and victorious national party. When I remember, as a
Confederate soldier, that William McKinley—peace to his dust—in the city
of Atlanta, as Republican President, pleaded for equal recognition of
Confederate with Federal dead; and that one who has been honored by the
Democratic party as standard bearer and occupant of a great office declined
to vote for an ex-Confederate candidate in fear of the disfavor of his
Western constituency; and when within recent months, in great cities of the
South, I have personally seen the cunning handiwork of paid henchmen of a
millionaire saffron newsmonger seeking most insistently and offensively to
buy exalted position for their master, I am ready once more to secede,
except that the second act of secession would be the sundering of all bonds
that bind my party to corrupting methods and leadership, and the setting up
again in the New South of the lofty political ideals and independency of the
Democracy of the Old South.
T hus far I have tried to portray, in frankly admitted partiality, the social,
intellectual, and political characteristics of the Old South. But I should
be seriously derelict in my portraiture if I left unnoted that which was more
to it than wealth or culture or learning or party. If the Old South had one
characteristic more than another, I think it was the reverent and religious
life and atmosphere which diffused themselves among all classes of its
people, whether cracker white or plantation prince or dusky slave. If I were
asked to explain this atmosphere of religion, I should hardly know where to
begin. Perhaps its largely rural population and its peaceful agricultural
pursuits predisposed to religion the simple-minded people who made up the
Old South. More than this, however, must have been due to the religious
strain in the blood of the Cavalier, Huguenot, and God-fearing Scotch-Irish
ancestry from which they sprang. Most of all, I think that the high examples
of a godly profession and practice in the leaders of the Old South made it
easy for each succeeding generation to learn the first and noblest of all
lessons—reverence for God, his Word, and His Church. And until this day
the reverence of the Old South is constant in the New South. While New
England, once the citadel of an orthodox Bible and Church and Sabbath, is
now the prey of isms and innovations innumerable, and while the great
West is marked by the painful contrast between its big secular enterprises
and its diminutive churches and congregations, the South has continued
largely to be not only the acknowledged home of the only pure
Americanism, but the center also of conservatism and reverence in the
worship of God and the maintenance of Christian institutions.
In no section of our country has the Christian Sabbath been so highly
honored, Canada alone, with her reverently ordered day of rest, exceeding
us in Sabbath observance. Here and there, however, is needed the
cautionary signal of danger against the greed of railroad and other law-
defying corporations, and the loose morality of aliens who come to us with
money but without religious raising or conviction. In no other section is
there such widely diffused catholicity of spirit and tolerance of differences
among opposing religious beliefs. If the Roman Catholic has been freer
from assault upon his religion in any country or time than in the South, I
have failed to find it. If the Jew has as kindly treatment elsewhere under the
sun, I should be glad to know it. And if there is as fine a courtesy and
fraternity anywhere as among our Southern Protestant bodies, I have yet to
discover it. A few months ago, though of another denomination, I was
called to their platform by the great Southern Baptist Assembly. A month
before that I was summoned by the Cumberland Presbyterian Seminary, of
Lebanon, to instruct its young men. A month before that I was writing
articles for the chief religious organ of the Southern Presbyterians. I have
lived long enough and am familiar enough with other parts of the world to
know that such practical catholicity chiefly obtains in the South.
Nowhere as in the South do men so generally honor the house of God by
their attendance and support. I make bold to say that upon any Sabbath day
by count more men may be found in churches in Richmond and Atlanta
than in Chicago and New York, though the combined population of the
latter cities is ten times that of the former. These same churchgoing men of
the South, following in the footsteps of their God-fearing fathers, are the
members and supporters of Southern Churches, and are quick to resent
innovation or disturbance of the old order. No man is so reverent and
courteous toward men of the cloth as the men of the South, and wherever a
minister of the gospel walks down the street of a Southern city or village, if
worthy to wear the cloth of his sacred calling, he is the foremost man of his
community in standing and influence.
Why this relative respect to the minister and the Church, and this clinging
to religious forms and traditions, those of us who came up out of the Old
South understand. Any reverent spirit of the New South in matters of
religion is another of the heritages from the Old South. Then as now, even
more than now, with our leaders and great men it was religion first, politics
second, and money, or whatever money stood for, last and least. From my
earliest recollection and reading, the governors, senators, congressmen,
judges, great lawyers, physicians, merchants, and planters were commonly
Christian men, both by profession and practice; and the man who was
hostile or even indifferent to the Church and religion, however
distinguished and brilliant he might be, was under ban of public opinion. As
a commentary upon this significant religious affiliation of Southern
leadership I carefully noted a few years ago, in two contrasting lists taken at
random of governors and congressmen, that while one list had five men out
of twenty-five who were members of Christian Churches, the Southern list
of twenty-five contained eighteen. While I share in the widespread regret
that our Southern young men are not as reverent as were those of a
generation ago, and are often conspicuous by absence upon Sabbath
worship, yet in view of such facts as I am recounting I am more hopeful of
the solution of the vexed problem of Christian young manhood in the South
than in any other part of the land.
I have paid tribute to the great political orators of the Old South. Let me
pay higher tribute to its great preachers and pulpit orators, to whom,
under God, more than to any other class or leadership, is due what the
South has ever cherished as its best. There were giants in those days. If
Yancey or Stephens could cast a spell upon a great political gathering, and
play upon its emotions as the harper plays upon the harp, George F. Pierce
in his prime could stir men’s hearts in a way that put to shame even the
eloquence of the political rostrum. The last time I heard this greatest of all
the orators of the Old South was not far from the time of his death. Marvin,
fittingly called the “St. John of Methodism,” sat in the pulpit behind him.
To most of his audience Pierce and his preaching were known only by
hearsay, and their firm belief was that Marvin was the real prince of the
pulpit. I remember how Pierce battled against his bodily weakness and
weariness, and how there came to his eye that wondrous flash as his old-
time eloquence lifted him into heights and visions celestial. He was
preaching of the pure faith once delivered unto the saints, and pleading for
the old order of simple gospel truth and living. He had something to say of
the new order of ministers who were substituting doubts and denials for the
long-cherished doctrines of the Church. His opening sentence was: “A
single meteor flashing athwart the heavens will arrest a larger measure of
attention than the serene shining of a thousand planets.” I think I know who
the old man eloquent meant. A little while before, a dapper preacher,
consumed by itch for popularity, had been dispensing a perfumed and
smokeless theology that drew great crowds and tickled the ears of the
groundlings. The theology of the Old South was too crude and barbarous
and unscientific for such as he. Genesis was an allegory, creation an
evolution, man was pre-Adamic, the deluge was only a local shower, the
Pentateuch was polychromatic, Moses was largely mythical, there were two
Isaiahs, all the ante-exilian history and writings were concocted by pious
post-exilian experts, the incarnation and resurrection were touching legends
but “quite unscientific,” hell was “hades,” and hades was a tolerably
comfortable winter resort, and Bible inspiration, as a matter of fact, seldom
inspired. Many times, in sight and sound of such dainty apostles of an
emasculate Bible, have I longed for the ghosts of the stalwart preachers of
my childhood—the Pierces, Thomas Sanford, Jefferson Hamilton, A. L. P.
Green, P. P. Neely, Jesse Boring, McTyeire, Wightman, Summers, and the
like—to rise up in their godly wrath and shake them over the flaming pit of
a real old-time, unabridged “hades” long enough to bring them to silence
and repentance.
BISHOP GEORGE F. PIERCE.
Down in the straw, at the mourners’ bench of an Old South camp
meeting, some of us got our theology and our religion. The Bible, in
miracle and prophecy, was handled by reverent hands, and made most real
to us as the infallible word of Almighty God. The law of Sinai, with
unexpurgated cursings and blessings, was read to us amid the groanings of
our troubled consciences. No ear so polite, no position so exalted, but a
living and burning hell was denounced against its meannesses. As deep as
the virus of sin in our souls sank the flashing, twoedged sword of the Spirit.
The wound was made purposely deep and wide that the balm of Gilead
might enter and heal the utmost roots of sin. By and by, when John the
Baptists, like Boring and Lovick Pierce, had cut to the quick, and laid bare
the wounded spirit, some gentler, wooing ministry, like that of Hamilton or
Neely, came pointing the way to the cross. There was no lifting of the finger
tip, daintily gloved and decorous, in token of a desire sometime or other to
become a Christian. Cards, in colors, bearing name and rates of the
evangelist, agreeing to meet everybody in heaven, were not passed around
for signatures. I never hear the old hymn of invitation, that lured many a
hardened sinner of the Old South, as they sung it under the leafy arbor to
nickering lights, after a weird, unearthly stirring of our hearts by the man in
the pulpit, but I think of a great criminal lawyer, who for many years had
led the bar of his State, and had made mock of God’s Book and Church and
ministers. He owned an old carriage driver who was one of God’s saints in
black, gray-haired and patient “Uncle Aleck,” who had mourned and prayed
over his unbelieving master. “Uncle Aleck,” he said to him one day, “why
do you believe in a book you can’t read, and in a God you never saw? I
have thousands of books in my library, yet I care nothing for religion.”
Uncle Aleck’s only reply was to put his hand on his heart and say: “Marse
John, I’ve been true and faithful to you all these years, ain’t I, marster?”
“Yes.” “And I never lied to you or disobeyed you, has I, Marse John?”
“No.” “Then, marster, it’s my religion that has made me what I am. I can’t
read, I can’t see God, but I know the Lord Jesus Christ here in my heart.”
Drawn by some spell he could not resist, the great lawyer came to the old
camp ground and heard the awfully solemn message of the preacher with
bowed head and heart full of trouble. When the hymn was sung,
I shall never forget the startled look of preacher and people as straight to the
mourners’ bench sped the lawyer, crying in agony as he fell to the ground:
“Send for Uncle Aleck!” And down in the straw white-haired old Aleck
wrestled with God for Marse John, until a great shout went up from
mourner and congregation as the master hugged the old darky and the darky
hugged his master, saying: “I knew it was coming, Marse John.” You will
pardon a man whose head is growing gray if at times the heart grows
hungry to turn back and see and hear the old sights and sounds of God’s
presence and power as revealed especially at the ancient and now nearly
extinct camp meeting.
O n a bright April day, 1861, books were closed in the old academy, there
was the blare of bugle and roll of drum on the streets, people were
hurrying together, and soon the roar of a cannon shook the building, as they
told us of the bombardment of Sumter by the batteries of the young
Confederacy. For months the very air had been vibrant with sound of drum
and fife, of rattling musket and martial command. The Old South was soon
a great camp of shifting, drilling soldiery. Every departing train bore to the
front the raw and ungainly troops of the country, the trim city companies of
State guards, and the gayly dressed cadets of the military schools. There
were tender partings and long good-bys, so long to many of them that not
yet has word of home greeting come. It seemed a great thing to be a soldier
in those brave days when the girls decked the parting ones in flowers and
sang to them “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” “Bonnie Blue Flag,” and
“Maryland, My Maryland.” The scarlet and gold and gray, the flashing
sword and burnished musket, the gay flowers and parting song, marked the
beginning of that mighty death struggle of the Old South. Soon the gay
song deepened into the hush before a great battle, or rose into the cry of the
stricken heart over the long lists of wounded and slain. War grew grim and
fierce and relentless. There were hunger and wounds, pale faces in hospital
and sharp death of men at the front; and sleeplessness and heartache and
holy privation and unfailing courage and comfort of Southern womanhood
at home. Fiercer and hotter came the storm of battle, as the thin gray lines
of Lee and Johnston confronted the soldiery and the resources of the world.
Manassas, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Seven Pines, Chancellorsville,
Vicksburg, Gettysburg, the Wilderness, Cold Harbor, Petersburg,
Appomattox!—how these names, that wreathed with crape their thousands
of hearts and homes, and marked the rise and fall of the battle tide, recall to
us the passing of the Old South!
On another April day in 1865, as a boy in Mahone’s Division, I looked
my last into the face of the Old South and its great commander, who came
riding down the line of our stacked guns, and, halting his old gray war horse
Traveler, tried to comfort our hearts by saying: “It’s all over. Never mind,
men; you have done your best. Go to your homes and be as brave and true
as you have been with me.”
In the great day of national assize, when empire, kingdom, and republic
of earth shall be gathered to judgment, and the Muse of history shall unroll
the record of their good and evil, the Old South, the “uncrowned queen” of
the centuries, will be in their midst, her white vestment stained by the blood
of her sons, her eyes dimmed by sorrow and suffering. No chaplet of laurel
shall encircle her brow, and no noisy trump of fame shall hail her coming;
but round her fair, proud head, as of yore, shall shine a halo of love, and
Fame shall hang her head rebuked, and the trumpet fall from her nerveless
hand, as the spirit of the Old South is passing by.
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