Like kudzu, the oriental vine creeping its way across the landscape of the southeastern U. S., statistics are crawling into every area of our lives. Nothing seems beyond reach. And it seems nothing can stop the thing.
By definition, statistics deal with political facts and figures on the status of the state. Now statistics can refer to anything–even the Church. In many places, it has become the basis of ecclesiastical decision-making. What has happened?
It was not so long ago that the measure of an assembly was its spiritual temperature. What was the tone of their worship? The fervor of their prayers? Their knowledge of the Word? Their zeal for souls? I don’t recall the size of their building, budget, or congregation, or the effectiveness of their telemarketing coming into the conversation.
In most of the country, when you enter a city, you see a sign that records the population of the area. Recently I was in Colorado. On their signs, they record the elevation. O that we would again become more concerned about the elevation of our assemblies than their population!
We would do well to examine the way the Lord assessed an assembly. We need not guess. The Revelation gives us His appraisal of seven.
There is no mention of numbers, nor methods, nor what the community thinks of them. There is commendation for faithfulness to responsibilities, hatred for the things He hates, endurance in difficulty, purity of doctrine, tenderhearted service, suffering for righteousness, and identifying with His name in the day of His rejection.
There is also chastening: for having divorced labor from love; for following Balaam in cultural, religious, and social compromise; for following Jezebel in the corrupting of divine order and divine truth; for allowing, by neglect, the assembly to become so weak that it is in danger of dying; and for becoming so confident in their own resources that they felt little practical need of the ministry of Christ in the assembly.
If, on the other hand, we were to use a statistical method to assess the churches of Asia Minor, Laodicea might have come out quite well. But the voice of the Master had been stifled; His presence was no longer sought–it seems no one noticed He was missing! Their goods had wooed them from heaven’s gold. Their haute couture had spoiled them for the simple, white, linen garments of heaven’s priests. And like a man growing slowly blind, they had learned to adjust by squinting at life. Any hope? Some suggest we measure the problem quantitatively.
I confess my lack of confidence in statistical analysis. How does it help me to know that the majority of churches in America are relatively small? Should I conclude that churches in America are small because a) the West is a tough part of the world to grow a church, or b) we’re not working very hard at it because the octopus-world has us in its embrace, or c) God intended assemblies to remain at this manageable size (like the Lord getting the multitude to sit down in fifties and hundreds), or d) true Christianity always has been a little flock? Could it be that our statistician friends are no closer to the truth after they have gathered their numbers than before?
Would Philip have left Samaria with its mighty stirring to meet the Ethiopian if he was using statistics? Would Paul have enjoined the assembly at Corinth to stand against the lax moral standards of the city; to separate themselves from ecclesiastical compromise; to clearly define the distinctions between the man and woman in church order–knowing these issues would undercut the popularity of the Corinthian church in the community? Did he suggest an assessment of the pagan expectations for the assembly and then redesign it to make them feel comfortable there? For a man with such a consuming desire to see souls saved, he never suggested the introduction of Greek drama to enhance their outreach.
Stats are plastic; you can bend them into amazing conclusions. When I hear them used to assess the condition of the church, I’m not impressed. My reaction is “So what?” I identify with Charles Dicken’s David Copperfield: “Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assured him that there wasn’t room to swing a cat there; but, as Mr. Dick justly observed . . . , ‘You know, Trotwood, I don’t want to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat. Therefore, what does that signify to me?’ ”
Like statistics in the church, very little.