Many churches are measuring the wrong things. We measure things

Host: The church was empty now — the pews silent, the air still thick with the faint scent of candles and dust. A single lightbulb hummed above the altar, its glow soft but weary, like a faith that had burned too long without rest. The rain outside whispered against the stained glass, turning the colored panes into shifting rivers of red, blue, and gold.

Jack sat near the front, elbows resting on the back of the pew ahead of him. His coat was draped over the seat, damp from the storm. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands folded loosely, her eyes tracing the flickering light from the lone candle still burning at the altar.

Jeeny: “Dallas Willard once said, ‘Many churches are measuring the wrong things. We measure things like attendance and giving, but we should be looking at more fundamental things like anger, contempt, honesty, and the degree to which people are under the thumb of their lusts. Those things can be counted, but not as easily as offerings.’”

Host: Her voice was soft — not sermon-like, but searching, like someone peeling truth from habit. Jack looked up, his grey eyes catching the low light.

Jack: “Yeah. Counting the wrong things. That’s the story of civilization, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “And of religion.”

Jack: “And of us.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was reflective, like the pause between confession and forgiveness. Outside, thunder murmured in the distance, the kind that sounds more like remembrance than warning.

Jack: “You know, I went to a church like this as a kid. They passed around the offering plate like a test. Coins clinking, notes folded, smiles faked. You could feel the guilt in the air — like incense that burned too long.”

Jeeny: “And no one measured the weight of silence afterward.”

Jack: “Or the resentment behind the smiles.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Willard was right — we count what’s easy because it’s safer than facing what’s real.”

Host: The light above them flickered once, briefly darkening the room before it steadied again. The candle flame trembled in sympathy.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, faith isn’t supposed to be statistics — it’s supposed to be transformation. But transformation doesn’t show up on spreadsheets.”

Jack: “And transformation hurts. It’s personal. You can’t tally grace without blood.”

Jeeny: “And you can’t measure holiness by headcount.”

Host: She looked toward the altar — the cross silhouetted against the flickering light. The shadows it cast were long, uneven, imperfect.

Jeeny: “When Willard talks about anger and contempt, he’s talking about the real metrics of the soul — the things that eat away at us while we’re busy pretending to be good.”

Jack: “You’re saying sin’s not the scandal. Pretense is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because pretense hides decay under a hymn.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his voice low, almost confessional.

Jack: “You know, I stopped going to church years ago. It wasn’t the theology — it was the hypocrisy. People praying for the poor while judging their clothes. Quoting forgiveness but choking on pride.”

Jeeny: “That’s not faith’s fault. That’s the danger of turning spirit into system.”

Jack: “You sound like you still believe.”

Jeeny: “I do. But I believe more in honesty than in ritual.”

Host: Her eyes glowed softly in the candlelight, their reflection alive with the kind of conviction that doesn’t shout — it breathes.

Jeeny: “Imagine if we measured church not by how many people attend, but by how many reconcile. Not by offerings, but by apologies.”

Jack: “That would empty the pews.”

Jeeny: “No. It would fill them with truth.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, beating against the windows like small knocks from a world desperate to be heard.

Jack: “You know, I think Willard was calling out something bigger than religion. He was calling out the human instinct to substitute symbols for substance. We’d rather count than confront.”

Jeeny: “Because counting gives the illusion of control. Confrontation requires surrender.”

Jack: “And surrender’s bad for business.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And for ego.”

Host: She stood, walking slowly toward the altar. Her footsteps echoed lightly across the stone floor, the sound mingling with the soft rhythm of rain.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, faith — real faith — isn’t a performance. It’s an internal economy. What matters isn’t how much you give, but how much of yourself you stop hoarding.”

Jack: “You’re talking about humility.”

Jeeny: “And courage. To face the anger that hides behind our prayers. The lust that wears a suit. The contempt we disguise as conviction.”

Host: She turned, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the cross.

Jeeny: “It’s easier to donate money than it is to forgive your neighbor. Easier to fill a building than to empty your pride. That’s why Willard called it a false metric — because we worship measurement itself.”

Jack: “Even morality becomes math.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We tithe our virtue but hoard our shadows.”

Host: Jack stood slowly, walking toward her, his expression softening.

Jack: “You really think those deeper things — anger, honesty, compassion — can be measured?”

Jeeny: “Not by numbers. But by presence. You can tell when a heart’s healed. You can feel when a room forgives itself.”

Jack: “So faith isn’t in attendance — it’s in atmosphere.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t need a sermon for that. Just sincerity.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, louder now, but somehow comforting. It filled the hollow space like a voice too vast to be angry.

Jack: “Maybe the true offering isn’t money — it’s the courage to change.”

Jeeny: “And the humility to admit you need to.”

Host: She blew out the candle, and for a moment, the church was dark — utterly, beautifully dark. Then the storm’s lightning illuminated everything — the pews, the altar, their faces, their truth.

In that brief flash, the sacred felt simple. Not ritual, not rule — just recognition.

Jack: “You know, maybe Willard wasn’t criticizing the church. Maybe he was inviting it to wake up.”

Jeeny: “To remember what it’s for — not counting souls, but saving them.”

Jack: “And saving them from what?”

Jeeny: “From pretending they don’t need saving.”

Host: The rain softened once more, easing into rhythm. They stood in the quiet, surrounded by the remnants of faith — wood, wax, light, and longing.

Because Dallas Willard was right —
the divine can’t be quantified.

Real faith isn’t measured by seats filled or coins collected,
but by the invisible revolutions inside human hearts —
how we battle our pride,
how we forgive our enemies,
how we wrestle our anger into peace.

The true offering isn’t in the plate —
it’s in the courage to be honest.

And maybe, just maybe,
that’s the only kind of worship that ever mattered.