One of my favorite essays is the Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis. It is quoted often, thus I shall not need to repeat it here – if you are unfamiliar with this great work I encourage you to stop now and acquire a copy with haste. Yet, even so, I see an element unfinished in his insight – the weight that we are meant to carry, the one that only humility can bare, requires us to be the vessel of a glory not our own, a weight instead bestowed upon us by Christ. None are worthy, yet all are welcome to partake, and this is at the core of the Gospel. When we revel in our unworthiness, however, we cannot bear the weight of this joy. For as long as we continue to measure our own life, we continue to place our hand on the scale (whether we think for better or worse) trying to affect an outcome that is bigger than ourselves.

What would it mean to hit “reset” on the mental model of one’s life?

Recently, during a recent meeting of Christian business leaders, we were presented with an alternative set of metrics beyond financial success and fame with which to measure ourselves; these were good measures, including the health of our marriage, recreation, and fellowship. The trouble I had was how to calibrate this metric. In light of the Glory of Christ, any measure of greatness is asymptotic, approaching zero. It occurred to me that this is, in fact, the appropriate metric. I likened this to setting the tare on a scale—removing the arbitrary measure of the weight that was already there so you can measure what truly counts. That tare isn’t denial; it’s clarity. It’s Galatians 6:5 in action—each must carry their own load—while we must also help one another distinguish that from the overload (v2) of worldly burdens. Easier said than done, as the world is where we shape our habits and make our habitat. The idea presses into the territory of neuroplasticity: the mind’s God-given ability to unlearn patterns forged by sin and fear, and to reform new ones under the dominion of grace.

To relearn under the Kingdom of Heaven is not merely to learn better—it is to become new. Look at Peter: blustering fisherman becomes bold apostle. Paul: persecutor becomes preacher. Their scales were reset. And in that, we find a principle—when the Spirit rewrites our identity, our former metrics are void. Our failures, like the Prodigal Son, are rounded up. No matter what we achieve, likewise, is reset; all human accomplishment rounds down to zero compared to the glory we are invited into.

But what does it mean to rest at zero?

This is not rest as merely recovery from exhaustion; it is at least that, for all that are heavy laden, yet it is moreso rest as stillness. “Be still and know that I am God.” Stillness is the soul’s tare. It empties the vessel so that God might fill it. At zero, we’re not postured for achievement, we are instead set still with availability. The chipped cup, the over-ornamented vase—they each sit equal on the scale. The pressure to arrive somewhere vanishes. You are already there, needing only to sit still, and now you are ready to be filled.

Zero does not discriminate. It includes neither success nor failure. It is the level ground at the foot of the Cross.

There is a temptation, subtle and ruinous, to pride in reverse: the self-dismissal that says “If the best of humanity are zero, then I am a negative.” But this is not humility—it is still self-obsession. As Lewis put it, humility is not thinking less of oneself but thinking of oneself less. The goal is not self-esteem but self-forgetfulness.

In the Lord’s Prayer we are leveled: not our will, not our glory, but God’s. Daily bread, daily forgiveness, daily dependence. The scale resets. The timeless God does not view us as scattered fragments—one day strong, another day shattered—but as one whole person in Christ.

So how, then, do we measure progress? What measure do we use to realistically face failure?

I offer no simple answer. Like most, I see in myself both advocate and accuser. I am my own saboteur and my own defender. And yet, beyond me there is a more fearsome enemy—and, more comfortingly, a more faithful advocate. Christ not only defends; He defines.

And perhaps the aim becomes this: simplicity. Not naïveté, but childlikeness. The mind retrained toward the uncomplicated. Habits formed not by striving, but by surrender. Patterns laid down not by pressure, but by grace. If we ever master ourselves, it will be not by force, it will be by becoming small.

Reset to zero. From nothing comes everything. This is Genesis 1, for into nothing, God speaks.