Taking the Long Way

I planned to get away for a couple of days to do some long overdue writing. Some generous friends of mine had offered me the use of their cabin on the side of Mt. Hood east of Portland, Oregon. If you’ve never seen the area you’re going to have to trust me on this; it is spectacular!

Normally the drive takes about an hour from my home, but it was one of those crystal clear early Fall days in the Northwest, the kind you have to take full advantage of because you know the rain is coming. So I loaded up my motorcycle and steered off the interstate and onto the back roads. I took the long way.

The first part of the journey took me through the Columbia River Gorge. Sixty miles of some of the most beautiful scenery anywhere; period. The sun was warm, but not hot. There was no wind, which was unusual. As I headed east, the road was empty and the pavement dry. To my right, the Columbia river flowed glassy and peaceful. There was just a hint of fall in the leaves. Here and there I could see the golden colors that signaled the end of Summer. The road seemed to mirror the undulating pattern of the river itself; gently weaving side to side and rolling up and down over many hills and valleys. There’s good reason to jump on the Interstate. Usually it has to do with getting from point a to point b as fast as possible. On this day though, point a and point b could wait. I was in harmony with the road, at one with the motorcycle; truly enjoying the journey.

As I neared the heart of the Gorge, the wind increased. The placid river had become turbulent and white capped. The sky seemed an even deeper blue at this point and it, in turn, caused the color of the river to become the deepest blue-green I’ve ever seen. On this particular day the wind, though it was strong felt more playful than angry. I passed dozens of brave (or stupid, depending on your perspective) folks wind and kite surfing. Skating across the water, born by the wind, it looked more like a dance than an athletic activity. It was beautiful and if I wasn’t having so much fun carving up the road on my bike I would have stopped and stayed for the rest of the dance.

I crossed the toll bridge at White Salmon. The bridges across the river in this area are steel and the road surface is a steel grate. I think they build them this way to compensate for the wind and rain, but driving across one on two wheels is frightening. The bike wobbles and weaves and the wind threatens to knock you over or into oncoming traffic. Thankfully it was only a ½ mile and I was across. I paid my .50 toll and drove into Hood River. If I ever built a town just for myself, this would be it! To the North, the skyline is dominated by the river and 12,000 foot Mt. Adams. To the south, Mt. Hood. Downtown is a small collection of old, well preserved homes and renovated, early 20th Century storefronts and hotels. The main industry here is tourism; a “Mecca” for mountain bikers, windsurfers and skiers. I think the there are more bike, kayak, and surf shops than anything else except coffee shops. As much as I wanted to stay, I moved on after a peek inside a consignment sporting goods store and a cup of coffee.

I was now moving south from Hood River up the flanks of Mt. Hood. For a while I wound along the river itself and then began to climb out into an area covered with orchards. Apple, peach, pear; hundreds, probably thousands of acres of fruit trees filled the landscape. The only thing that drew my eyes away from that was the first unobstructed glimpse of Mt. Hood. I’ve seen bigger mountains. Colorado has a hundred peaks taller than this one, but Hood stands out. Maybe its because her shape is so perfect. Remember when you were a kid and you drew pictures of mountains? They were perfect, cone-shaped and snow covered. That’s what Mt. Hood looks like. And on this particular day with the sky so piercingly blue, she stood out all the more. She never completely sheds her mantle of snow and it looked like there might have even been some fresh snow as well.

As I wound my way up the side of the mountain I noticed the change in temperature as well as plant life. It’s dryer on the east side of the Gorge and I was going up, so it got colder too. Douglas firs turned into Lodge pole pines. The deep blue-green water of the Hood River turned grey and then clear the farther up I went. I remember thinking to myself at this point how much I love to get away to these kinds of places. Something about the mountains helps to center me. I think, it part it’s because they remind me so powerfully of God’s presence. Seems like many of the most significant experiences of my life have taken place in or near the mountains.

Eventually I got to the cabin and got to work. But it was difficult to focus for a while; the memory of the journey was more alluring than the task at hand.

Slackwater

Don Lang was my Jedi Master rafting guide. Years ago he took me to the Deschutes River in Central Oregon, stuck a paddle in my hand and we pushed off from the shore. The Deschutes is a small, fast and cold river that cuts its way through the high desert on its way to the Columbia. The riverbed is hardened lava and basalt and though there are slow spots and calm water, the current is strong and relentless. And when the canyons narrow, the pace quickens, the water foams and…well its more fun than you can imagine, unless of course you've been there.

Don taught me how to read the river, how to position the boat to get the most fun out of the whitewater with the least amount of risk. But the risk is real. I remember standing on the dusty shoreline before we took our first run. Don launched into a long and boring safety lecture about how to survive should you get tossed out. “Tossed out?” I thought to myself, “what have I gotten myself into?” Thankfully, I never did get tossed out, but over the years I’ve had to fish enough other folks out of that cold water to appreciate the danger. He went on and talked about what to do if stuck in the shallows and how to throw the safety rope. I learned all those lessons really well and I’ve since enjoyed many glorious days on the river, but the memory of my raft-master has faded over the years

But I was thinking lately about some stuff and something else Don taught me came back to mind. I’m not sure if it was a lesson Don planned to teach me as much as it was wisdom he shared during one of the quieter times on the water. We talked about a lot of things as time floated by; he was an avid bird hunter and would later take me back to these same canyons and teach me how to hunt. At one particular point, he pointed towards the shoreline where the water was calm, smooth and seemingly motionless. Up to that point, I hadn’t noticed the contrast, but it was startling; a stone’s throw from the raging whitewater churning along was this glass-like, greenish black water going nowhere. Don called it “slackwater” and he cautioned me about getting too close. Its not that it was all that dangerous, he said, “it’s just that if you get your boat in there, you’ll have a hard time getting out.”

Don was a wise man who understood that the thrill of rafting depended on staying in the flow of the current. If you want to float around aimlessly in calm water, take a cruise. But if you want to experience the thrill and feel the hydrological power of mountains and water, stay in the current. Stay away from the slackwater. Don explained the hydraulics as simply as he could. He said that shape of the shoreline and river bottom sometimes trap pockets of water and cause it to pool up outside the main current. They serve as rest stops for fish and allow them a place to rest and find food. Good for fish, bad for rafters; that much I remember. And once a raft drifts outside the current and into slackwater, it takes a lot of effort to get back. Sometimes, slackwater even has a current of its own and runs opposite of the main current; sometimes it just goes in circles and traps the boat in a kind of lazy vortex.

Now no sooner had Don explained all this to me than I drifted right into some slackwater. He was a wise and patient teacher and allowed me to experience the struggle of rowing the boat back into the current. At times I was taking three strokes to cover the same distance I did with one while out in the current. Looking back on it now I also realized that I experienced more stress in the slackwater than in the current itself. There I worried about how hard it would be to get out, I worried about getting hung up in the brush on shore, or an overhanging tree branch. At least in the current I had a sense of movement and I was forced to be focused and intentional.

I’m learning these days that God is moving in this world. There is energy and purpose to the things He’s doing; like the current of a mighty river. Getting caught up in that current is dangerous and the risk is real, but so is the thrill. So is the sense of excitement when I realize that I’m riding along in the flow of a living and active God. But just like on the river, there’s slackwater everywhere. It’s too easy to drift out of the current of God’s purposes and into the dead calm of spiritual slackwater.

At the risk of sounding cynical, let me mention a handful of issues that I think function like slackwater for the church. And I’m only going to talk about them cause I’ve personally allowed my “raft” (i.e. the churches I’ve led) to drift into them over the years. So please hear this as more confession than complaining.

The first area is undue concern with numbers. Now its only logical to assume that numerical growth is an indicator of spiritual health. After all, we all want more people in heaven than in hell. But when we make numbers THE indicator for church health, we start to drift. I once worked with a guy who was so concerned with this issue that he counted the number of people attending a funeral! But I'm no different; you see, for years I allowed the number of people who came to a Sunday service to be the main force in shaping my mood and sense of value for the week. This kind of thinking sucked me into a vortex of obsession with programs, structures and gimmicks designed to keep butts in the seats. I know it sounds harsh, but its true! The more people that came, the more time we spent trying to keep them coming…and giving. But that allowed less and less time for things like prayer for and with these very same people. It was harder and harder to devote myself to the things that would truly encourage the spiritual health of my ministry. I drifted into the slackwater.

Another struggle for me was staying connected in prayer. Probably more than anything else, extended time spent listening to the Spirit is what I need to stay in the current of God’s activity around me. And it is the very thing I can't do; at least as much as I need to. I can’t begin to recall all of the times I’ve spent in ministry meetings over the years that were peppered with perfunctory prayer; a "God-nod," and quickly move on to long and exhausting discussions, debates and arguments about money or buildings, or structures, or personnel, or how to produce the slickest program this side of the MGM Grand! We talked but rarely did we listen. And the older I get, the more I’m convinced that listening is central to prayer. Listening is staying in the flow. Listening keeps us connected to what God is doing. Talking more than we listen sucks the church into slackwater.

The third area of slackwater is pride; and maybe it’s the source of all our other troubles. One of the challenges in rafting is resisting the temptation of thinking you can control your boat more than you can. Ultimately, the river has the power. The best you can do is cooperate. When Don was teaching me, pride in my own physical strength tempted me to think I could muscle my boat out of a bad situation. I drifted out of the current and got stuck, or worse, got sideways to the current and watched helplessly as water poured over the top of the raft. Pride in ministry is rampant and just as dangerous. I'm as vunerable as anyone else. Pride sucks me into thinking that my philosophy, my programs, my abilities are the key to success.

Slackwater.

Suckwater.

Maybe that’s a better word; "suckwater!"

Pride sucks.

It keeps me out of the current of what God is doing. And lately I’m learning that God’s work in my world is bigger than my narrow view of “church.” Accepting this and learning to adapt and change puts me back into that current. But its hard because the slackwater of pride still tugs at me.

I think the bottom line is this; the current of God’s work in the world is what Jesus meant when He talked about the “Kingdom.” It’s bigger than any one leader, church, model, denomination etc. We can deny this if not philosophically, at least practically and get stuck paddling in circles, or we can learn to embrace it. We can learn to ride it; high, wild and wet just like whitewater. Its starting to make more sense to me and some of that thrill (like the kind I felt the first time I pushed off from shore) is creeping back into my heart as a result.

Master Don would be proud.

The tale of the well-digger and the fence-builder

This is the story of two women; one was named “Fence-builder” and the other “Well-digger.” They lived in the same town, on the same street. Fence-builder was a strong and proud woman. Every day she went out to her fields to build and maintain her fences. Her calloused hands and broad shoulders revealed a life of dedicated work; the acreage she possessed was considerable. She felt no small amount of pride when she looked out at her fields. The fences were of the highest quality. She spared no expense; using only the best posts and wire. The gates that separated her fields from others were sturdy and secure. And with these fences, she was able to keep what was hers and keep out what was not. Her flocks rested securely inside the fences. Safe from thieves and predators they seemed to prosper; for a while anyway.

Well-digger also had herds to care for. And like Fence-builder, her hands were calloused and her shoulders broad. She too knew what it meant to work hard, but her work was different. Well-digger’s herds were strong, healthy and prosperous. There seemed never a shortage of young ones scampering about under foot. More often than not, it was crowded around the wells that Well-digger built. To the untrained eye, it probably looked chaotic and poorly planned. But she knew what she was doing. She had a keen eye for the needs of her flock and as soon as it seemed like there were too many mouths to fill at one well, she would simply move a little further away and dig a new well. Predictably, a small portion of the herd would come to check out the new source of water (usually the younger ones!) And there, finding room to stretch their legs, they would stay. Soon the numbers at the new well would grow. And from time to time, stray animals from other herds would wander to the wells. There was always enough water to go around. Sometimes the strays would regain their strength at the wells and return, refreshed to their herds. Sometimes they would stay at the well.

Both women carried on for some time; each devoted to her career. Each concerned about their herds. But soon Fence-builder began to notice that her herd was looking less and less healthy. They seemed weary and distressed. They struggled with more illness than usual. And their growth seemed stunted. She did all she could hauling feed and water several times a day; she tried as best she could to fill the rusting and leaky troughs in the corner of the field. But there never seemed to be enough. And in the stress of trying to provide for this struggling herd, Fence-builder herself began to mirror the same maladies as her herd.

One evening, in a moment of exasperation, she knocked on Well-digger’s door. “Come in friend,” said Well-digger. The two sat down at the kitchen table and before Fence-builder could say a word, Well-digger handed her a large cup filled to the brim with crystal clear, cold water. Fence-builder took a polite sip and found the water to be more refreshing than she thought water could be. She suddenly realized that she had worked hard all day and had not so much as touched a drop of water. All of a sudden, her thirst was overwhelming; forgetting for the moment why she had come, Fence-builder drank the entire cup in one gulp. Water poured down her throat, out the sides of her mouth and down her sweat-stained shirt. Finished, she looked up sheepishly from the empty cup and saw Well-digger smiling. “How can I help you my friend?” Fence-builder took a deep breath and proceeded to share her concerns. “Your herd seems so happy and healthy. Mine is troubled. They are weak, and injured. They don’t produce like yours. I care about them. I just don’t know what to do.” Well-digger thought for a long time about how to respond. Incidentally, the silence gave Fence-builder a chance to refill and drain her cup again with that clear, cold water!

Well-digger finally spoke: I used to be a Fence-builder like you, but I got tired of spending so much time keeping what was mine and keeping out what’s not. I learned that fences are more a means of control than care; you can capture a herd with a fence, but they will always try to escape. And usually they’ll hurt themselves in the process. Herds were not made to be controlled like that. Then one day I discovered an old well in a distant corner of my property. It took a lot of work at first, but I cleared away the growth and debris that had covered the opening and I dug just a bit deeper and found that it was connected with a deep and constant source of water. Before I could even finish the process, the herd had wandered up and began to drink. They were so thirsty, and I was so tired from the digging, that I forgot about building more fences. I realized that what the herd needed (and wanted) most was to satisfy their thirst. And you can’t drink from a fence, but you can from a well. From that day forward, I decided that the best way to use what God has given me was to spend my life digging wells. The work is hard, just like yours, but the results are more consistent. And besides, I always have a source of fresh water for myself!

Fence-builder pondered this for a long time. She wrestled with the implications of Well-digger’s advice; it meant nothing short of a career change. She had spent her life learning how to build great fences; she read fence-building books, went to fence-building conferences, listened to fence-building music, put fence-building stickers on her wheel-barrel, wore fence-building t-shirts to work, and even graduated from a fence-building college! To leave all this behind was frightening…to say the least. Fence-builder didn’t say much more that night.

She thanked Well-digger for the water (she drank 2 cups more before she left!) and went home. Slowly, over the next several days and weeks the wisdom of her neighbor’s words began to sink in. Fence-builder worried less about the fences and began to spend her time digging wells. The work was hard and uncomfortable at first, but as soon as the water began to flow, her herd began to thrive. In time, the fences fell into disrepair, their gates hung open and crooked on their hinges, but the herds were thriving, full of life and so not thirsty!

On little brothers and cigars

He's nine years my junior and from the time we were young, I was taught to set an example for him. "He's your little brother and he really looks up to you," mom said; and for the most part I went along with the plan. But a few years ago, I introduced him to something that would be considered by many a bad habit. I taught him how to smoke cigars; definitely NOT what mom had in mind! But our dad is a full-blooded Cuban so I considered it a “family obligation!”

From Canada to California, to Colorado to Kansas we've celebrated this stinky sacrament nearly every time we've been together. Of all the time we've spent together over the years, one particular night stands out. Last fall I spent a couple of days with my brother and his family in Kansas. My sister-in-law and the kids had gone to bed and my brother pulled out two Cohibas; among the finest cigars in the world! No aficionado would refuse such an offer.

We sat out on his back deck and carefully (almost ceremonially) lit up the Cuban Leaf. By the way, the best way to truly enjoy a fine cigar is outside. Smoke the cheap stuff indoors if you must, but savor the good ones outside! It was cold and still, so the smoke hung in the air like a curtain.

We began to talk; actually, my brother began to talk. I listened quietly and enjoyed the cigar. He told me of a recent struggle; more like a raging battle, to save his marriage. He spoke of deep wounds, oppressive fear, almost uncontrollable rage…and of peace, love, intimacy…and grace.

A lesser man would have cried out in his pain, struck back in his anger.

A lesser man would have played the victim; and I wouldn’t have blamed him.

But not my little brother.

Through the smoke, I heard a man confess his own failure to love his wife in the way she needed. I heard him admit his own selfishness and pride. He confessed a deep, and as yet, unresolved struggle to forgive completely. But he also spoke of an abiding sense of faith in God’s presence in the midst of the pain. He said the only explanation for his survival in this crisis was the power of the Spirit. Like the smoke that hung around us and circled in and out of our bodies, he said the Spirit had been with him from the very beginning and that whatever good I saw in him was because of that.

My little brother told me that there was still so much work to be done. Like the re-construction of Iraq, the landscape of his marriage was pretty beat up, but there was great reason to hope. His bride is committed to rebuilding trust, he is devoted to the task, they’re surrounded by a loving community of friends, but most of all, he knows that he is loved deeply, fully and passionately by Jesus.

Now I’m not saying that it was the cigars that brought all this out, but I will say that my little brother’s faith in the power and presence of a loving God is as clear and real as the thick Cuban Fog that hung between us that night on the deck.

And I still don’t think mom approves of our little ritual, but I do know one thing, he’s my little brother and I really look up to him.