The 2020 Census and the daughters of Zelophehad
The book of Numbers reminds us why it matters who we count.
Donald Trump’s obsession with numbers became evident immediately following his inauguration. He and his press secretary, Sean Spicer, insisted repeatedly that the event drew the largest numbers ever, despite contrary evidence. Even in moments when one might expect the presidential focus to be elsewhere, such as while visiting Texas communities devastated by Hurricane Harvey, Trump’s eyes were aglisten with the inflated numbers: “What a crowd, what a turnout!”
Honestly, this is one area where I identify with Trump. Pastors are conditioned to be obsessed with numbers too. We have to turn in annual reports filled with numbers. How many baptisms? How many confirmations? How many people in the pews each Sunday? How many people under 30? Over 60? Children? Then we move to the financial figures: How many dollars pledged this year? Given? Spent?
For the church—and for Trump—numbers determine survival, tempting us to massage them a bit. If nobody records a head count some Sunday, then I’ll just estimate—and perhaps my memory will swell the ranks. Should a very pregnant woman count as one person or two? Hopefully the usher didn’t count early in the service, since maybe 35 people rolled in late. I won’t go into the invisible presence of the communion of saints who surround us—but I have considered counting them. I’m hardly in a position to judge Trump’s preoccupation with numbers.
