So what can we conclude about the infamous dropout numbers? The rates of dropout and return are far less bleak and more complex than we’ve been led to believe. The claim that 90 percent of kids drop out after high school clearly needs to be left behind.

Debunking the Dropout Myth

“Well,” the pastor said, “nine out of 10 kids drop out of church after they graduate. Evidently, what we’re doing isn’t working.”
“Mm-hmm,” the children’s director agreed. “We just want to do so much better than that.”
“Is your church actually losing that many?” I asked. They looked at each other before shrugging.
“I don’t really know,” the pastor replied. “We don’t see them after they graduate. Sometimes that’s because they’re involved in another church, I guess.”
The children’s director continued, “If we had programs to teach parents how to grow their kids spiritually, we could stop the loss.”
“I’ll do everything I can to help your church,” I said. “But first, let’s rethink your reasons for considering these changes because the problem you think is the problem is probably not the problem at all.”
Here’s why these two ministry leaders—and scores of others like them—need to rethink their motivations: The nine-out-of-10 dropout number isn’t true. It was never true, yet many church leaders still believe it. Take a trip with me to the origins of this statistic and why it’s long past time to lay this lie to rest.
Gut Feelings Aren’t Good Statistics
This lie didn’t start as a lie. It was a well-intended, casual survey that metamorphosed far beyond what anyone envisioned. Some years ago, a doctoral student named Brandon Shields discovered the earliest sources of the 90 percent statistic. Apparently, it began in the 1990s when Jay Strack, a popular conference speaker, invited a roomful of youth ministers to share their gut feelings about how many youth were dropping out of church after high school. When Strack summed up the responses, he came up with a 90 percent dropout rate.
Strack later reported that he never intended his statistic to be interpreted as fact. Once he repeated the information a few times, though, other leaders began to reiterate the 90 percent dropout rate as truth. It spread quicker than a stomach virus in a cabin full of middle schoolers halfway through a week of camp. There’s nothing wrong with asking a few people how they feel about an issue. But conversational “surveys” will never result in reliable statistics. In this instance, the collective estimates of a few ministers resulted in exaggerated percentages that received tremendous publicity and eventually ended up in ministry resources.
Later claims escalated the hysteria. A popular book published in 1997 claimed that only four percent of young people surveyed at that time were born-again Christians. As a result, the author claimed, “According to present trends, we are about to lose eternally the second largest generation in America’s history.” The truth is, this survey spanned only three U.S. states and included information from a mere 211 youth. (To be fair, at least the author was transparent on his methodology.) Other leaders then trumpeted the “trend” as a harbinger of impending doom.
Bad News Is Big News
It’s easy to point accusing fingers at the sources of statistics—but the problem isn’t really the numbers. These numbers arose from well-intended attempts to assess the effectiveness of church ministries. The more problematic question is, Why are we so willing to wallow in the worst possibilities, even when those possibilities aren’t well-founded?
We get excited about bad news.
Human nature relishes the discovery of a hidden crisis. Once we’ve discovered that crisis, we rarely keep the news to ourselves. We spread bad news and, with each retelling, we tend to stretch it. That’s why God warns: “Do not go about spreading slander” (Leviticus 19:16). In a Wall Street Journal article, Rodney Stark and Byron Johnson provided a clear example of this phenomenon: “The national news media yawned over the Baylor Survey’s findings that the number of American atheists has remained steady at 4 percent since 1944, and that church membership has reached an all-time high. But when a study by Barna Research claimed that young people under 30 are deserting the church in droves, it made headlines and newscasts across the nation.”
The tendency to turn bad news into big news doesn’t completely explain how rapidly these numbers spread through churches. I suggest an additional reason. Since the 1950s, a fun-and-games approach dominated many youth ministries. In the 1990s, a new generation of youth ministers emerged.
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The worshiper offers purification and reparations offerings in order to repair breaches in the relationship caused by sinful and impure actions. Then the worshiper offers himself in total surrender to Yahweh, drawing near to him as a pleasing aroma in the ascension offering. And he may offer a tribute to Yahweh for all of his kindness to him. But even these aren’t the end. All of these offerings — purification, reparation, total surrender, and tribute — are meant to lead to communion. There are two different terms for the tabernacle in Leviticus: “tabernacle” (or “dwelling”) and “tent of meeting.” Both terms are important. God doesn’t merely want to dwell with his people; he wants to meet with his people. And he doesn’t just want to meet with his people; he wants to dine with his people.

Comedian Brian Regan tells a funny story about his struggles in school as a kid. He talks about the public humiliation of the spelling bee and his difficulty with the i-before-e rule. A particularly funny portion describes the teacher’s questions to him and Erwin (the smart kid in class) about how to make a plural.
Teacher: “Brian, how do you make a word plural?”Brian: “You put an s at the end of it.”Teacher: “Erwin, what’s the plural for ox?”Erwin: “Oxen. The farmer used his oxen.”Teacher: “Brian, what’s the plural for box?”Brian: “Boxen. I bought two boxen of doughnuts.”Teacher: “No, Brian. Erwin, what’s the plural for goose?”Erwin: “Geese. I saw a flock of geese.”Teacher: “Brian, what’s the plural for moose?”Brian: “Moosen. I saw a flock of moosen. . . . There were many of them . . . many, much moosen . . . out in the woods, in the wood-es, in the wood-es-en . . .”
Superficially, the joke is about Brian’s ignorance. But it actually demonstrates the complexity and difficulty of the English language (to which anyone who has learned English as a second language can attest). As native English speakers, we don’t always think about this difficulty and complexity because we’re so familiar with it. We inhabit the language, we use the language, and therefore, it feels (mostly) comprehensible to us.
For many of us, the book of Leviticus mystifies us. We find the sacrifices, rules, and regulations to be complex and confusing. To us, Leviticus is like a foreign language. It mystifies because we’re unfamiliar with it. Like Brian Regan and making plural words, the intricacies elude and confuse us.1
Levitical Language
Thinking of Leviticus as a language can help demystify it. Consider what goes into a language. First, we have an alphabet. We arrange the letters of the alphabet to form words. There are different kinds of words — nouns, verbs, adjectives, prepositions, adverbs. We arrange the words into sentences with meaning and purpose. We modify words by adding letters at the beginning or end in order to make plurals or speak about the past or future or communicate ongoing versus completed action.
What’s more, in English, in order to make sense, we must arrange the words in a certain order. “Bill throws the ball” means something very different from “The ball throws Bill.” Arranging the words rightly is necessary in order to communicate clearly.
The sacrificial system is similar. Instead of nouns, verbs, and adjectives, we have people, places, sins, animals, animal body parts, and actions, and they are arranged and combined in various ways in order to say something, in order to communicate.
The sacrificial system resembles language learning in another way. In truth, we don’t actually learn our native language by first learning the alphabet, then learning words, and then arranging words into sentences. In other words, we don’t move from the smallest parts up to the larger parts.
Instead, as children, we first learn nouns — like “Mommy” and “Daddy” and “milk” — and sentences — simple ones like “Yes” and “No” and “Help, please.” Then as we mature, we learn more nouns and more complex sentences. At a certain age, we’re taught to read, and we learn to break words down into letters and then to break sentences down into subjects, verbs, and direct objects so we can grasp the rules of spelling and grammar.
The Bible teaches us the sacrificial system in the same way. We get glimpses of it early on: God provides Adam and Eve with animal skins after their sin in the garden (Genesis 3:21). Cain and Abel offer tribute to God (Genesis 4:3–4). Noah offers whole burnt offerings of clean animals after the flood (Genesis 8:20). Abraham prepares to offer Isaac as a burnt offering, and God substitutes a ram at the last minute (Genesis 22:1–19). Moses makes burnt offerings and peace offerings and sprinkles blood on the people at Sinai (Exodus 24:4–8).
Then finally, in Leviticus, it’s like we pick up a grammar textbook that sets forth more detailed rules for how all of these sacrifices work in the covenantal arrangement established by God with his people after the exodus. Leviticus, along with Numbers, provides the basic spelling, grammar, and syntax of the sacrificial system, and in learning the language, we can better understand what God is saying to us.
Three Images
To grasp the symbolic system of Leviticus, we begin with three images. Leviticus builds on the book of Genesis, especially the early chapters. Recall the basic story. God made the world and everything in it in six days. The crown of his creation is man, made on the sixth day, male and female, in God’s own image, as his representatives and stewards. He gives the first man and woman a commission — be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth, subdue it, and have dominion over its inhabitants. He places them in a garden to work and keep it, and gives them one prohibition: “Of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die” (Genesis 2:17).
Under the influence of the crafty serpent, Adam and Eve rebel against God, eat the fruit, and are confronted in their rebellion. God judges them for their rebellion, cursing the ground, multiplying pain and hardship in their relationship, and dooming them to die and return to dust. But he mingles mercy with his justice, promising them descendants, and especially a redeemer who will crush the serpent’s head. He then clothes them with animal skins and exiles them from the garden.
Now, here’s the important image: in order to prevent Adam and Eve from eating from the tree of life in the midst of the garden, God “drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life” (Genesis 3:24).
This is crucial. The holy presence of God is in the garden. Life is in the garden. And there is an angelic bouncer with a sword of fire separating man from divine life. There’s no way to draw near to God without losing your head and being burned up.
The second image comes from the book of Exodus. Yahweh has just delivered his people from bondage and gathered them at the holy mountain. God descends in a thick cloud of smoke and lightning, and he says to the people through Moses,
You yourselves have seen what I did to the Egyptians, and how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to myself. Now therefore, if you will indeed obey my voice and keep my covenant, you shall be my treasured possession among all peoples, for all the earth is mine; and you shall be to me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. (Exodus 19:4–6)
There is a profound tension between this image and the one in Genesis. In Genesis 3, we see life and glory in the garden, with an angel guarding the way with a flaming sword. In Exodus 19, we see life and glory on the mountain, with the words “you are my treasured possession; I have brought you to myself and intend to dwell with you.”
The tension between these two biblical scenes yields a third image. Imagine if the sun — the giant ball of flaming gas in the sky — wanted to come live in your neighborhood. What would happen? There is no atmosphere to protect you, no sunscreen strong enough, no covering to shield you: just the blazing inferno of the sun and your weak, frail, human self. How would that work out for you? Can you handle that heat?
The answer is obvious. We can’t handle that heat. The scene at Sinai confirms it. Yahweh invites the people to draw near, but he also commands them to consecrate and prepare themselves; they are to wash their garments and abstain from sexual relations for three days prior (Exodus 19:10–11, 15). What’s more, he sets limits around the mountain, a boundary that they are not to cross, on pain of death (verses 12–13). It seems we have not left the angelic guardian entirely behind. To cross the boundary, to touch the holy mountain, is to court death. And the passage couldn’t be clearer: the real danger is that the Lord will break out against them (verses 21–24). The danger is that they would get too close to the sun. And they can’t handle that heat.
We can summarize the basic problem in this way. The living God is holy. We are a sinful people in a world of death. But the living and holy God desires to dwell with his sinful people in this world of death. How is that possible? If we’re going to return to the garden of life, if we’re going to draw near to the holy God, how do we get past the angel and his flaming sword?
Basics of the Grammar
God’s answer to this problem is the whole Levitical system. It’s an entire symbolic system — a language — that testifies both to God’s holiness and life and to our sinfulness and death. And at the center of that system is atonement — the God-given covering that enables us to remarkably, miraculously, mercifully draw near to God and handle the heat.
So what are the basics of the grammar of this Levitical language? Let’s think in terms of nouns, adjectives, and verbs.
Nouns
Back in elementary school, we learned that there are three basic categories of nouns: people, places, and things. These categories offer a good way to approach the grammar of Leviticus as well.
Start with people. First, we have men and women. The book opens with a call-back to Genesis: “When an adam brings an offering . . .” (Leviticus 1:2). The word adam reminds us that we are sons of earth, since adam was taken from the dust of the adamah. But we aren’t merely “earth-men”; we are men and women, ish and ishshah (Genesis 2:23).
In the Levitical system, we can break God’s people down even more. First, we have the congregation as a whole. Within the congregation, we have the Levites, the priests, and especially the high priest. Beyond them, we have the leaders or rulers of the people. Then we have individual Israelites, some of them rich, and some of them poor. So the Levitical system recognizes distinctions in terms of people.
What about places? Here we need to connect sacred geography and sacred architecture. Leviticus is built on Genesis, especially the early chapters. And there, we remember the garden, in the land of Eden, and the world beyond (unsubdued and unfilled): garden, land, world (Genesis 2:8). The garden was on a mountain, and a river flowed down to water the garden, and then from there it split into four rivers spreading out over the earth (Genesis 2:10). So in terms of geography, think of a summit, a mountain, the land around it, and then the waters/ocean at the edge.
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Written by Michael S. Beates |
Monday, November 14, 2022
God is creating a great tapestry of which we are a part, even our dark threads. We sometimes have doubts and confusion about this divine tapestry because, even though the Artist knows, sees, and continues to create the intricate design woven on the upper side, we see the tangled lower side with dangling threads and only a faint image of the beauty to come. So we hope in Christ. We cling to the promises of God that nothing is wasted—even our brokenness and sorrow will be used for good.
 
I write these words on a lovely Friday afternoon in late September—the same week we Floridians experienced a rather tortuous Wednesday and Thursday as Hurricane Ian blew through town. It’s a beautiful day today, but earlier this week, we watched in horror as homes were swept into the surf or water rose and rose into homes bringing damage and destruction. So, naturally, the question rises in our minds, “Where is God when destruction seems to reign unabated?” Where is God when the doctor says, “It’s cancer and it’s serious”?  “Where is God when the darkness seems never to let up?”
Seeking to answer such questions falls under the broad category of theodicy, which is defined as “a vindication of God’s goodness and justice in the face of the existence of evil.” It’s an age-old problem we all face as people living in a fallen world. We all know that, again and again, life is unjust: the best person too often does not get the job or the credit; the wrong person bears the blame and punishment; sickness and loss come unexpectedly and leave us crying, “Why, O God? How long will this go on?”
The classical construction of the argument goes something like this: Since evil and suffering exist, either God is good but not sovereign (otherwise he would intervene and right the wrongs), or he is sovereign but not good and does not care (since evil continues to ravage the earth). But the Scriptures affirm a tertium quid, a third way: God is both good and sovereign. So the real question is, “What is God seeking to do with us through the darkness of pain, despair, and loss?” This is the essence of the book of Job, which is considered a biblical theodicy seeking to establish that God is righteous and good even in the midst of evil in this life. Marilynne Robinson put it well in her book Gilead when the lead character, John Ames, says, “Strange are the uses of adversity” (Gilead, p. 95). Indeed, sadly, adversity, loss, and pain are the ways we seem to learn the most precious lessons. I told our graduating seniors at commencement last May that in all likelihood, they would learn nothing of lasting value from comfort and pleasure. Rather, the deepest lessons in life come through the hardships. 
I have often said that Romans 8:28 is frequently quoted yet little believed by God’s people: “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” This reminds us that all things work for good—not for all people, but for those who love God and are called by him as his children.
But let’s be honest: Not all things are good. Heartbreak, loss, disabling conditions, crime, tornados, death—these are all ultimately products of the Fall and sin. Romans 8:22 also says that the whole creation groans “together with the pains of childbirth.” But our God is a Sovereign who takes our sin and our brokenness and turns it, in his providential wisdom and timing, into his blessings for his people.
But let’s also be clear: Sometimes bad things happen, and it just gets worse. For those who are outside of God’s redemptive promises, bad things can happen and despair leads to hopelessness.
But biblical hope is another reality altogether. The letter to the Hebrews calls hope an anchor for the soul. And when the storms of life threaten to break up the ship, you need an anchor that holds: the promise of redemption—body and soul. When all things are not good in this life, we know that in Christ all things will be perfect in the next.
Tolkien wrote that joy and sorrow are very close to each other. “The Resurrection was the greatest ‘eucatastrophe’ possible in the greatest Fairy Story — and produces that essential emotion: Christian joy which produces tears because it is qualitatively so like sorrow, because it comes from those places where Joy and Sorrow are at one, reconciled, as selfishness and altruism are lost in Love” (Letters, p. 100).
In another essay, Tolkien said sorrow “is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium [Good News!], giving a fleeting glimpse of joy, joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief” (Tree and Leaf). And Paul said the same thing two thousand years earlier: saints can live “as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing” (2 Cor. 6:10). In the lives of Christians, both realities are often experienced at the same time.
At The Geneva School in our upper school chapel, we recently heard from Dr. Wesley Baldwin (pastor at Aloma Church in Winter Park and dad of several Geneva students). Speaking about the life of Joseph, he said one of the lessons we learn from Joseph is that we can trust God despite whatever is happening around us, even if those things are bad. We know this is true. “Material things are so vulnerable to the humiliation of decay” (again from Robinson’s Gilead, p. 100). 
But the Good News of Christian faith is that Jesus came to redeem our suffering through his suffering. And because he died and rose from the dead, we have the hope of a time when there will be no more death, or mourning; no more tears, or sorrow, or pain (Rev. 21:4).
Our friend Joni Eareckson Tada—who survived a diving accident in 1967 and has lived as a quadriplegic for fifty-five years—famously and wisely says, “Sometimes God uses what he hates to accomplish what he loves.” Linger over that. Let it settle in for a moment. This is a different facet, a new angle, on Romans 8:28. While not all things are good, God is so gracious that he promises to use even our broken lives for much greater purposes such as to make us like Christ and to exalt his glory.
God is creating a great tapestry of which we are a part, even our dark threads. We sometimes have doubts and confusion about this divine tapestry because, even though the Artist knows, sees, and continues to create the intricate design woven on the upper side, we see the tangled lower side with dangling threads and only a faint image of the beauty to come. So we hope in Christ. We cling to the promises of God that nothing is wasted—even our brokenness and sorrow will be used for good. So we take heart.
Mike Beates is a teaching elder in the PCA, serving out-of-bounds as chaplain at The Geneva School in Casselberry, Fla. This article was written for The Geneva Courier, published in the Fall ’22 edition.
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