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By Root 382 0

grandeur, as well (although a few emphasize austerity). Have you ever paid a visit to the Vatican? Among the vaulted ceilings and beautiful frescoes, the rich tapestries, furniture and paintings, one comes away with the realization that all of us are mere mortals, dwarfed by something far greater than ourselves. Preserving this sense of grandeur is so important, in fact, that no building in Rome is permitted to be higher than St. Peter’s Cathedral. Think of the splendor of the Temple of the Golden Buddha in Bangkok, adorned with a nearly eleven-foot-tall Buddha. Made from solid gold, it weighs over two-and-a-half tons and is valued at nearly $200 million. Many companies similarly work to inspire feelings of awe and wonderment, from the Bellagio hotel in Las Vegas to Dubai’s extraordinary (and extraordinarily weird-looking) Hotel Burj Al Arab, which seems to sit angled in the waters like a spaceship that’s just toppled to earth. In fact, just think of any number of luxury brands—the Louis Vuitton flagship store in Paris, Prada’s flagship store in Tokyo, Apple’s flagship stores in New York and Chicago. All marketed to stir up notions of grandeur.

Certain companies and products inspire wonder just by the scope of their vision. Consider how Google Maps, with its ability to scan the landscape from Maine to Mars, has lent the company an omnipotent, omnipresent grandeur, as if they now own the maps of the skies and even outer space. And thanks to the vision of larger-than-life CEO Richard Branson, Virgin Galactic’s latest grand ambition is, quite literally, to take us to the moon.

What about the notion of evangelism—the power to reach out and secure new acolytes? When Google rolled out its Gmail service, it attracted followers in a devilishly shrewd way. By making the service available by invitation only, Gmail became almost like a virtual religion; when a friend invited you to join its ranks, you felt as though you’d been welcomed into a semi-exclusive, lifelong community (it was only when they’d secured an estimated 10 million users that Gmail opened its doors to mere laymen). American Express had a similarly successful invitation-only strategy when it released its ultra-exclusive Centurion Black Card in the United States; tens of thousands of consumers called up asking to be placed on the short list. Doesn’t every religion, and every brand, treat converts in a similar way, by making them feel honored to be members of its fold?

Symbols, too, are ubiquitous in most religions. The cross. A dove. An angel. A crown of thorns. Just as religions have their icons, so, too, do products and brands. And although, as we saw in Chapter 4, the logo is no longer as powerful as companies once believed, as the marketplace gets more and more crowded, certain simple yet powerful icons are increasingly taking hold, creating an instant global language, or shorthand. For example, every Apple icon—from the Apple logo itself, to its trash can, to the smiley face you see when you turn on the computer—is singularly associated with the company, even when it stands alone. Did you know that Apple today owns three hundred icons, and that Microsoft owns five hundred? Think about McDonald’s unmistakable Golden Arches or Nike’s signature “swoosh.” (The story goes that the company commissioned a contractor to develop a number of logos, then asked customers to vote on which they liked best by ticking a box. Except, no one liked any of the logos, so in desperation, the founder ticked the only box with no accompanying logo—which from then on became the Nike “swoosh.”) Far more so than the product logos, these symbols evoke powerful associations in us—whether it’s athletic prowess or the promise of a juicy cheeseburger—in the same way that religious icons evoke powerful religious associations.

Remember seven-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong’s 2004 “Live Strong” bracelet—that simple yellow wristband designed to raise money for cancer research and raise cancer awareness? Nike originally gave these away free of charge, but once the yellow silicone band