‘Thank you,’ said Joshua, ‘is the most powerful word we can say to God.’

In a country where the word power conjures up distinct images, not least of all images connected to the unseen spiritual realm, Joshua’s words stopped me in my tracks. Here, many people believe in powers that have potentially hostile intent to dominate ordinary men and women’s lives and that those powers need appeasing.

We ourselves, along with other Christians, have strongly opposed these hostile powers and undoubtedly there are times when it is right and proper to vanquish the unseen evil influences in our lives. But I began to wonder; are there times when words of thanksgiving to God hold a greater power than the fear of evil, or a rebuke of the devil? Does genuine gratitude to God have the power to keep us safe and anchored in God?

I’m not sure I have it worked out yet. Events at home and events in the world that threaten life and freedom, can prevent me from keeping my thoughts tidy and ordered. My spirit groans and I can’t always find my way to thankfulness, can’t see the power in a simple ‘thank you.’ Yet Joshua’s words set me thinking.

Genuine gratitude to God and others for everything: joy, triumphs, sadness and sorrow, reminds me how much I have received. Not least of all, that I have been saved from ruin, redeemed and am sustained by God alone and that, despite my shortcomings, still receive grace every moment of every day.

But what stumbles me? The terrors of the world or the subtle voice whispering, ‘Independence,’ suggesting that I might be lord of my own life? It is the latter, tempting me to exert my own authority. Fooling me and keeping me from God as I hand control of my life to another and the world, through whom that other works, and seeks to crush me.

But Jesus came proclaiming the Kingdom of God. Through his bleeding hands on the Cross He defeated the powers, inviting me to follow Him as He continues to rescue and restore me. Grasping the reality of what He has done gives me the desire to let gratitude to Him stand as the bed rock of my life.

But it is not easy. There is cruelty and suffering in this world; God is mocked and man exalted which reminds me thanksgiving is not a task to undertake flippantly or causally. Left to my own devices I would soon tire of trying to be grateful.

Rather, I want to discipline myself to allow God’s Spirit to work in me, keeping my heart open, my eye focused and paying attention to His life made manifest in the ordinary – Christ at work in people in our world. From that arise words of thanks for His faithful provision, the beauty of creation, the healing of illness and the precious memory of friends already departed. All allow God to grow in me the discipline of maintaining a thankful heart that resonates with my life. And in declaring our thanks to God in the hearing of the world; we are declaring that God truly is God.

The car stopped as it came to the end of the rough track near the summit of the hill. From a nearby rocky outcrop, we watched an old man leave the vehicle and slowly climb the last few metres to the sacred spot. Taking a stone, he threw it onto the mound that topped the hill and circled the pile: once for the past, once for the present and once for the future. His Buddhist animistic beliefs, rooted in Shamanism, revere the creation, respect the spirits of the mountains, sky, soil and rivers causing him to pray for peace, good fortune and blessing for him and his family, and that life’s problems might be small.

Many of our Christian friends share that old man’s desire, particularly after they’ve experienced the initial joy and peace of the gospel. Finding all their questions answered and problems solved, they often unwittingly imagine that this is the Christian life.

But, not long into this new Christian journey of faith, our friends hit some obstruction that smashes them against reality’s harsh surface, leaving them questioning what is wrong with God, and why He’s allowed this to happen. Unfulfilled promises leave unspoken expectations scattered and broken. Who is this God to let us fall? Joy eludes them, along with their mountain-top experience of peace. And new faith, so recently celebrated, comes tumbling to the ground. Like un-weaned infants, they, and we too, squirm and squeal. Why have our desires not been satisfied?

Mongolians, many of whom have a background of animistic beliefs, look to nature for protection and promises of the eternal. While the mountains we seek to scale can be much more subversive: the perplexity of ambition, of worldly pride and security for example. But none of these can save a man. Despite the solid appearance of the mountains and their seeming immoveable strength, our help does not come from the spirits of the natural world; it comes from the Creator of that natural world.

Although He has not promised to exempt us from difficulties or to keep us from all dangers, He has promised that He will keep us during our trials. And that those trials will never separate us from Him and His purposes for us.

Of course, when our faith falters under the weight of pain and suffering we want Him to do something and to do that something now. Even though we might have fits of pique and the sulks, there are times when the desired help does not come, because God does not exist solely to satisfy our own desires. No, He is seeking to teach us to love Him for who He is, not what we can get from Him. Letting that truth transform our thinking is significant, but it does not bring instant change, rather it requires a daily commitment to surrender our selfish desires to Him, alongside a willingness that entrusts ourselves into His care, no longer clinging to our precarious selves that succumb to every attack, we stand calm and confidence in God.

The mountains stand sentry like, a testimony to our Creator God and a reminder of Him on whom our faith and peace rests.

The Covid-19 virus seems to continue unabated here. Dominating the daily news, people feel like there is no escape from its power. Many are tired, weary of having to be careful and of having to follow restrictions. The vulnerable fear that vaccinations will not fully protect them.

With focused unblinking eyes, friends ask us why God hasn’t answered our prayers to take the virus from this land and why He allows such suffering? We cannot answer their why questions. All we know is disappointments come and, sadly, tragedies happen.

It is challenging to keep our eyes fixed on God when the media constantly publishes pessimistic accounts of national and world events. Negative reports can trip us up and can fuel doubts as to God’s sovereignty over our lives and His world. Such doubts insidiously fester beneath the surface, infecting our faith, draining the lifeblood from our hope and leaving our love for God weakened.

We do not preach ‘life gets better with God,’ although something in us longs for that better life, a life free of pain and suffering. We believe that God is for us, that He is our help. However, life circumstances don’t always mirror that truth. Problems can dominate our thoughts, becoming the stage on which our fears play out.

There’s only one way forward. We must learn to fling our doubts and unanswered questions at God, honestly and with open heart, expecting Him to show us the way through. Rarely does He give us specific answers, but He does stay at our side, walking with us. Taking our scepticism, disillusionment, wretchedness and despair, He shows us the way through, small step by small step. He doesn’t abandon us or let the pain crush us. Instead, He takes it and integrates it into our relationship with Him.

Praise rises as we recognise God bringing peace and a greater understanding of our security in Him. Confidence quietly grows stronger until we can announce ‘He is our help.’ Our witness touches other believers and they too join in, sharing their own experiences of God’s help.

But living a life of faith in a world that seeks to weigh, explain and even apportion blame for pain and tragedy means that we must focus on God and persistently choose to keep Him at the centre of our lives. We don’t know what’s lies ahead but we do trust that He will accomplish His will. We have not seen God but turning to Him in difficulties deepens our faith. The world scarcely understands or encourages us. But we are to live out the richness of our witness, displaying that Christ, not the world, defines our lives and that His help shapes our days and can shape theirs too.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2021

‘I can’t remove the stain,’ said Tseren as we sat chatting over coffee. Her unexpected comment, in the middle of a conversation about the price of apartments in Ulaanbaatar, silenced me. We’ve known one another for over twenty-five years and Tseren has spent much of that time struggling to be what she considers a worthy Christian. ‘I am not good enough,’ she continued. ‘I can’t live up to God’s standard. And the longer I’m a Christian the worse the inner torment becomes. I can no longer hide who I am.’

This conversation, or ones like it, tend to underscore a recurring theme amongst our friends. Outwardly, Mongolians like to present themselves in a favourable light. They do not wish to reveal who they are on the inside for fear that such revelation will cause others to revile and shun them. Hidden transgressions and deceit remain sheltered in hardening hearts until their diminishing effects overtake a person’s identity.

Of course, these fears and actions are not exclusive to Mongolians, but endemic to man. None of us wants our unredeemed humanity exposed. Like Tseren we may try to be a good person, by trying to live according to our own consciences or the world’s standards. Neither of which are reliable as a true standard or able to address the real root of our guilt and shame.

But we have a choice. We can choose to live differently by being vulnerable to God. We’ve a coined a phrase in our house, which I am certain is not original to us: ‘Happy are those who know they are not righteous and know what to do about it.’

Admittedly, it takes determination to break the proud silence that causes me to reject God’s grace as I rationalise, twist and disguise the truth of my sin. But there is no wriggle room. There is only one way out. I must speak.

Confessing my wrong to God articulates my faith: I am a sinner and God is gracious. Words tumble from my lips, scarcely reaching His ear before I sense the stain disappears and the accusing voices are vanquished. Forgiveness has come. Not because there was any virtue in my confession but simply because of the extravagant love of my Saviour.

Ready to walk with Him again, I affirm my desire to live holy before God and man but as Tseren correctly understood I won’t be able to. Self gets in the way. My own efforts to be right, to feel worthy fail every time. But God already knew that.

There is only one way to live by God’s standard and that comes through the cry of repentance which reminds me of the cost of my salvation. God’s son, Jesus Christ, took all my wrongs when he bore the sin of the world. He hung naked and uncovered before man and His Father so that I might be pardoned, forgiven, cleansed and covered.

It is a simple, unchanging gospel truth that becomes more profound and meaningful the longer I walk with God. And, as Tseren points out, knowing that God has done what we could not do, in giving us the way to be clean and right with Him and one another brings, a liberating freedom that man cannot achieve. Because Jesus paid my debt, God accepts me as I am and that truth is revolutionising my life.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2021

‘Where’s the breakfast cereal?’ we asked the sales assistant in our local supermarket. Nonchalantly, pointing straight ahead, she told us it was on the right. We followed her directions, only to find aisle upon aisle of ‘on the right’ options none of which stocked anything remotely resembling breakfast cereal. Mystified, we stood in the middle of the shop and asked another assistant. She motioned towards the back wall where the baby items were, and sure enough, next to the Pampers and wet wipes was a small selection of breakfast cereals.

We smiled, reminded of the obscure directions we’ve received from countryside Mongolians. A herder on horseback or someone in a ger would usually answer our inquiries with the vaguest of explanations, like ‘it’s over the next hill.’ Cresting that next hill, we’d find yet another with no sign of our destination. Or invariably we’d hear, ‘just keep to this track and you can’t miss it.’ But when the track divided and headed up valleys and into the woods, or the river bridge was barely standing, we invariably did miss it.

Even signage on tarmacked roads appears sparse to our western eye. Mongolia has been extensively mapped, although few, other than city-dwellers, use paper or digital maps. Historically, Mongolians have drawn artistic, pictorial maps which tend to enhance particular landscapes. Beautiful they might be, but rarely were they drawn to scale.

To the map-addicted English, of which my husband Mark is one, a reliable map is considered essential for any journey. Whenever we intend to visit a new area, Mark purchases an Ordinance Survey map to study and plan our route or walks. The map not only details all roads and paths but it also shows where car parks, cafes and, more importantly, the toilets are.

Map reading the English way feels comfortable. We can see the whole path, know what’s coming up next, and be aware of the rights-of-way and boundaries. Following all the signs, we feel like we’ve got this sussed. Whereas trying to follow a Mongolian’s direction or a Mongolian map is much more of an adventure, an exercise in faith, full of uncertainties and missing river bridges. On occasion, feeling disorientated and lost, we’ve convinced ourselves that we’ve wondered off the path.

Life seems to be like that Mongolian path. It rarely follows the neat map of my desires and plans. Instead, the way is unfamiliar with unexpected, unplanned for things happening. Sometimes the way passes through bleak, stormy landscapes, while at others it follows calm still waters. I cannot know the details of my journey, or peek into the future. I’m not even sure what might happen today, and that can leave me tossing and turning. But my ambivalence is an opportunity to trust. For I have a personal guide: a God who not only walks with me but leads me better than any GPS. He calls me to listen, trust and follow His Word. To entrust myself to Him and take the next step, assured and confident that He will guide me through the ups and downs, twists and turns of life, safely to my destination.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2021

People have described Prince Philip as his own man. A man who, despite the institution he married into, maintained his individuality. But many of us live in a world where it is not so easy to identify who we truly are. The media subversively pushes us towards ‘conformity.’ Peer influence encourages us to fit in, follow the latest trends and be the same as everyone else.

For Mongolians, in a country that is rapidly developing, holding on to or finding their personal and national identity is complex. Definitions change. Once people aspired to have large herds of cattle. Today they long for a good education, a lucrative career and a comfortable life. It’s hard not to succumb to trends and the sheer force of others’ opinions and affirmations. Once, a person clearly knew their place in the family. Now, with families rupturing and marriages failing, ambiguities reign.

And amongst our Mongolian friends we see fear lurking as they try to find acceptance and gain connectivity. Their constant efforts to fit in and be the person they imagine others will accept takes its toll.

But striving to belong is not solely the disease of Mongolians or non-Christians. It is amongst Christians too; I recognise it is in myself. Countless times, I’ve tried to be someone other than myself, only to be disappointed when the pretence quickly collapses. Did I foolishly think I could really change myself, or worse still, save myself?

It is only in realising that there is no real life apart from God and seeking Him as we are, in our squalid, sinful state, that we find and become our true selves. Coming to Him, we find acceptance as His divine love touches us in an act that changes us forever. His touch enables us to embrace the reality of who we are. Only then can we truly surrender our all to Him. His full, unconditional acceptance of this sinner helps me accept myself. Because an encounter with God is an encounter with His mercy. He takes my squalor and begins to change the unloveliness into something beautiful for Him.

Trusting ourselves to God gives us an identity that is eternal and the dawn of a new revelation: we are of inestimable value to Him. This truth is astounding! My worth does not lie in what I do but in who I am.

I want to trust in God alone and walk in His way, but my eye is frequently diverted and I miss His presence in my life. My heart cries: Lord, give me discernment to see you. Let your divine love define me, anchor me where I belong and assure me that my identity is found in you alone. And in that identity, which every fibre of my being longs for, lies uniqueness: the uniqueness you created in me.

Yes, God has made every single person a unique individual. We are not to try and be like another or follow the world’s trends but we are to live as the person He created us to be. We are not perfect and we are continually learning to be ourselves in Him. Guarding the truth, letting it grow in us and living beyond pretence, brings peace but also a confidence that is other worldly. And that confidence points people towards God and their true identity.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2021

Please be advised that this post briefly refers to a recent case of self immolation. If this would cause you distress, then please feel free to wait for the next blog.

‘I trust the wick I ignite will bring light,’ the young man told his friends as he travelled by taxi to Ulaanbaatar’s central square. His friends, on the other end of the phone, laughed, thinking that he was going to make a Buddhist offering of light. A few minutes later, he stood on the Square covered himself in petrol and lit the flame. It was a stomach-sickening shock for everyone in the country.

People quickly assumed that the stress of the Covid -19 pandemic or even the government’s shortcomings had caused this young man to take such horrifying action. But no one really knew the despair that had captured his soul, although our hearts screamed out in pain as we prayed for his family, friends and this land. He wanted to be a light, to draw attention to something but his actions stunned and confused people.

Two weeks ago, a lovely friend of ours died. He, Barbaatar, and his wife Chimgay, had come to know the Lord later in life. Immediately after Barbaatar became a Christian, he gave up his day job to become a pastor, after which they spent eight years living in Siberia working with the Buriat people.

They returned to Mongolia nearly three years ago as Barbaatar was suffering from a degenerative disease to which the doctors were unable to give a definitive diagnosis. We visited Barbaatar and his wife Chimgay regularly, always praying and desperately hoping for answers but finding none. God seemed to have gone mute. Instead, we watched with horror as Barbaatar lost his mobility, his speech and finally his ability to breathe.

It was heart-breaking. Yet there was warmth and joy in their home because Barbaatar and Chimgay chose to remember that the sun rose each morning and that each new day was full of God’s goodness. They remembered what He had done for them and chose to hold on, knowing that His steadfast love never ceases, and that His mercy is fresh every day of our lives.

In the moments when they floundered, their church community supported them. Even though Mongolia passed through various stages of lockdown, their church family continued visiting them. The church loved them and that love sustained them. When they could not pray themselves, the prayers of others upheld them. The love of their church fed them, enabling them to keep on trusting God. They treasured their community, learning to listen for signs of His presence as they opened their hearts to Him in prayer.

The darkness, fear and unanswered questions took them to God. In the severity of their pain, unlikely blessings demonstrated that God’s compassion is limitless. And as they lived through each day, something shone from their lives: the reality of God’s mercy amid tribulation and of His mercies in lament. Without words they were proclaiming where their immovable hope lay, for they had received the true light of the world: Jesus Christ. The one who, paradoxically, takes man’s despair, the type of despair that takes us to our knees crying for deliverance, and uses it to form the core of our salvation.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2021

In her book ‘Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,’ American author Annie Dillard encourages her readers to Learn to pray with their eyes open. That phrase has stuck in my mind because I think Dillard is urging me to be attentive to God and my surroundings.

This past year of lockdown has been an opportunity to pray with eyes open, to not be in such a hurry or so preoccupied with completing tasks that we forget to be attentive to what’s going on around us. We are learning to listen and notice that evidence of God’s creativity abounds.

In forests, we’ve watched delicate snow showers cascade from overburdened branches like confetti falling on a bride and her new husband. We’ve held our breath, waiting for the woodpecker to resume his tapping and the birds their song, as we newly discover the breadth and diversity of Mongolia’s bird population.

Many endangered species reside here, probably because the country is large and the human population small. Nomadic culture and sparse development beyond populated areas has left the countryside largely unscathed, letting animals and birds flourish without human interference.

Like most countries, Mongolia has plenty of stories of the ancient links between bird and man. Chinghis Khan had many great falconers who used golden eagles to hunt and keep people fed during the harsh winters. Today falconers, in the far west of Mongolia continue that tradition. The magpie, collector of all things sparkly, with his distinct white, blue, black and iridescent green feathers, supposedly announces the arrival of an unexpected visitor when seen sitting on a ger’s hitching post. And swallows, arriving early summer from wintering in Africa, carry with them a sense of the constancy of the changing seasons that Mongolians say, points towards eternity.

Aware of our ignorance, we have bought a book about Mongolian birds in the hope that we can finally recognise and name the birds we see. But it’s a slow process. We need to sharpen our vision, discern the differences between a variety of crows and appreciate the birds’ routines. And not least of all, learn from others.

Yet a flock of sparrows near our house, has happily made their home in a huge, tangled mass of thick wire. They’ve adapted to their surroundings. But the reality is that progress endangers their environment and destroys their habitat, causing them to decline or die. It is a delicate balance of which the birds are unaware.

But life here is not static. Mongolia is rapidly changing. Fewer children follow their parents’ nomadic way of life. The discovery of vast mineral deposits promises development and wealth for Mongolia and disruption for the countryside. Pollution and steppe fires, poaching and overgrazing of cattle are beginning to impact wildlife and threaten the birds’ habitat.

Life is a delicate balance and walking with God in this complex changing world requires attention. Praying with eyes open, we learn a lesson. Birds live lives abandoned to their creator. Resting in His hand, they receive His wonderful care as He supplies all their needs. They live without anxiety and truly soar.

The simplicity of this good news proclaims a profound truth: all things in the universe that have been created by and through Christ are sustained by God.

The road is empty of vehicles. The landscape, still under snow, lies dazzlingly bright, unstained and trackless. Only the wind disturbs the serenity. Howling and groaning, it whips snow into frenzied twisters that brutally batter all in their path. The blue sky is hidden and the ubiquitous winter sun relegated to a luminous glow through the dullness.

We smile; the greyness reflects our mood. Lockdown has eased although our movements remain restricted. Most Mongolians, who are able, opt to stay at home with their families. And suddenly it hits us again – we are not a part of their families. We are not Mongolian. I know, it’s obvious, but there are times when, absorbed in friendships and the challenges of the day, we forget that we are foreigners in this land. However, this isolation accentuates the truth – we are outside people.

We dream of England, the land of our birth. We remember family and friends, happy times of celebration and walks along the North Cornish coast where the waves constantly rise in foaming crests only to fall flat on the beach. We remember the rocks where we stood to watch the sun descend as it lights the sky like a winter hearth. That moment was perfect. We want to hold onto it, making it stretch across time.

We love to return to the place of those wonderful memories. But, somehow, it’s not the same. Our memories are grander than the way things really are. Things have changed, the place is different to how I remember it; people have moved on or gone. Yet, beneath the memories, the longing remains the same – the desire to truly belong.

It is easy to mask our loneliness, or perhaps I could call it a sense of homelessness, by trusting that a loving family and a beautiful home will meet our longing to belong. To some degree they can and do meet that need. But families grow and change and homes come and go. Yet the desire to belong persists. Something in us yearns for a love that will last forever, for beauty that will never fade or diminish. But this world cannot satisfy that longing. It’s like we are strangers living in a place that is not our true home, living in a place where we reach forward towards a home that we’ve yet to experience.

Sometimes I feel exiled, detached and alone in this spiritually unwelcoming world. Then I remember Jesus’s words to His disciples before He went to the Cross. …if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.

This is the home God has made for us, the place where He dwells, where we can live now and forever. By faith and through prayer, we inhabit that home now, the place where God can absolutely fulfil our deepest longings by His unending love and His undiminished beauty.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2021

There’s a period in November when the daytime temperatures linger around a balmy minus ten degrees Celsius. Enjoying the pleasant dry cold, we long that the whole winter might remain like that. But, inevitably, the mercury plummets below minus twenty and beyond.

Despite the icicles that grow on our scarves and our white crusted eyebrows, we try and go out each day. We walk in the woods amongst stark trees. Gnarled and twisted, they moan as the breeze pushes their branches this way and that. We follow the footprints we made yesterday, careful not to fall down a rabbit hole or trip over buried branches. Streaks of sunlight filter through the trees, causing us to cover our eyes as it illuminates the snow’s brilliance.

We walk by the river. It’s even cooler there. Relentlessly, the toothy wind bites at our cheeks. Ice crackles beneath our feet reminding us that we’re walking on frozen water. The river, silenced by cold, gleams in the late afternoon sun. We shiver as the sun dips below the hills, leaving the sky ablaze although there is no warmth to be found beneath this landscape’s snowy eiderdown.

Stray dogs scavenge for food. A grandma and her grandson we’ve met a few times call out to us. We stop to chat. She has a folded sack tucked under her arm and her grandson pulls his empty sledge. They are heading into the woods to gather firewood before it gets dark. Her scarf, wound tightly around her head and neck, exposes only her cherry cheeks and eyes. Despite the cold, her eyes smile with warmth as she invites us to her home.

Knowing she has so little, her generosity is humbling. This lockdown has been tough. Many poorer families struggle. Many have lost their jobs, or not received wages for weeks. They grapple with finding ways to keep their families warm and fed. The winter exposes poverty more than the summer. The cold can shatter people’s hopes.

Churches in Ulaanbaatar have gathered funds and bought essential supplies for families in their area. Perhaps it isn’t much, but it keeps people fed and warm for a few more weeks. Everyone helps as they are able, but the needs are great. I wish we could eradicate poverty. I know I cannot. All I can do is be faithful to what God has called me to do. Yet I don’t only want to give a sack of flour to relieve a need now, but I pray that I might be able to help a family find a way to sustain their own needs.

Perhaps my thoughts are naive. Transforming a person’s poverty until they can stand in a place of dignified independence is a complex task of restoration that requires careful thought and planning. It feels impossible.

But I am thankful that God has the ultimate plan to restore the poor. His plan became incarnate in Jesus. He did not come to earth simply to bring relief to man’s physical poverty. Pouring himself out in costly service for impoverished mankind, He came to heal the root of our spiritual poverty and its effects. Jesus came to transform our lives. Not to make us independent but dependent on Him.

Christ’s actions on the Cross enabled God to endow those who recognise their soul’s destitution, with salvation wealth. His unmerited grace transforms us and the supply of that grace never ends. Daily, we can receive the love and healing that God offers. And on a dull winter’s day that hope brings rich joy to our hearts.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2021

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