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.