Forget numbers

What actually measures thriving

Like CeeLo Green’s hit song, forget is my radio edit for what I’ve actually been repeating to myself about numbers. That is, using numbers as a measure of success.

When I worked for the Christian Century magazine, part of my job description was looking at metrics: What percentage of email newsletter recipients opened the email? How many pageviews on this article vs. that one? How many minutes did each reader stay on the website before moving on to something else?

That habit of looking to numbers stayed with me after becoming an independent writer and pastor, and especially after I published my first book in August 2023. Often I have felt like a failure when I see how many more books others sell, how many more subscribers they have to their newsletters, and — most harmful of all — how many people are part of other faith communities.

I had one such bout of acute self-criticism this February, seeing numbers indicating that another pastor-author is ten times more successful than me. In that moment, I chose my Lenten fast for this year. I fasted from numerical measures of success.

This is also an outgrowth of reframing my thinking about health. In our culture we’re surrounded by metrics that supposedly determine our well-being: numbers on a scale, number of steps walked in a day, number of years lived or hoped to live. Like most things that benefit from self-examination, the problem isn’t the thing itself, but rather the power we give it in our lives, the power we let it have over us.

I shared this in conversation with a kindred spirit in my clergywomen writing group, Melissa Earley, who recently went from pastoring a large church to a tiny one. When I spoke about the size of the faith community I lead, she mentioned that her current congregation was voted the best place to worship in its county, even as relatively few people attend. She wrote about it:

For a lot of my ministry, I’ve thought of the Sunday gig as the main show. And I was the star. I evaluated the strength of the church by the number of people in worship.

Now she’s focused on how the Spirit is moving in people’s lives, whether they show up to volunteer in the church’s food pantry or join the reading group or are among the small group who attend on Sundays. In her community and in mine, we are seeking signs of thriving in how the people are engaging, not how many of us there are. Growth doesn’t have to mean increasing. It can be measured in other ways, including for us as pastors and leaders. We offer what we have to give from our gifts, and if that’s not what a larger number of people are looking for, it doesn’t necessarily mean we’re doing something wrong.

It is a sign of growth for me to live within my limited capacity. If I push myself to do more — especially to fight off feelings of failure — I risk burnout. I’d rather enjoy what we have, and look for signs of well-being and growth just as we are.

Reading and listening

The Christian Century magazine asked dozens of writers, “What is the Bible for?” I replied, “Connecting God’s people across millennia through story.” Read the paragraph elaborating on my response on the CC website.

For the baseball fans out there and beyond, I loved this essay by Darren Saint-Ulysse in Sojourners magazine’s April issue, “Being a Baseball Fan Is Great for Your Spiritual Development”:

Allowing ourselves to be surprised by improbable victories is part of life’s joy — even when those victories are accompanied by predictable losses.

I also appreciated Kaya Oakes’ reflection on the death of Pope Francis:

“Francis: The Legacy of a Stalled Reformer”

He welcomed the marginalized and reimagined the Church’s tone, but his vision was often interrupted in the corridors of power.

“A Light That Sustains,” from Rosemarie Freeney Harding, an excerpt republished by the Center for Action and Contemplation:

“The Light became a kind of touchstone in my life. It was so much love. Like an infinite compassion. . . . All these journeys I’ve been on, these spiritual practices and traditions—from the Mennonites to Bawa Muhaiyaddeen and the Dalai Lama—the meditation, the prayers; I’ve been trying to sustain what the Light gave me.”

Last month I saw Beth Gibbons in concert, and I’m still feeling the reverberations. I have a clear memory of the first time I heard her voice: I was a teenager at Tower Records in Dupont Circle, D.C. and chose a Portishead CD at one of the listening stations. Twenty-five years later, her latest solo album, Lives Outgrown, resonates with me as I continue to reflect on being middle-aged and find my own response to the invitation in the first track, “Tell Me Who You Are Today.”