Do you ever have moments when you feel like giving up what you’re doing? Moments when you want to walk away and do something completely different? We do! At such times scenes of the English countryside float through our minds, beckoning us to some imagined idyllic life where all is well with the world. Of course, this side of heaven no such place exists.

Returning to reality, we take stock. Life is hard. We have struggles. Our friends have struggles. But we have choices. We can choose to live cautiously, hiding behind the challenges or we can embrace them and live courageously. Although godly courage doesn’t always look like the courage we see depicted in the movies.

We recently watched some Christian friends, who’d taken courageous risks in ministry, suffer a fall. Having spent ten or eleven years sharing the gospel, helping the poor, preaching and pastoring a church, our friends had over-extended themselves and lost their way.

What had started out as a genuine desire to help those in need had gone awry. Even though they tried, they couldn’t meet the all-consuming needs of those around them. Their big vision was unravelling but their desire to fulfil it diverted their attention away from God. There was no time for rest. No time for essential relationships. Flaws surfaced, causing them to cling to the ministry more fiercely, until the very ministry that God had entrusted into their care became their god.

It was, and is, a sobering reminder of how easy it is to take just one step away from God, and then another, and before we know it our well-intended human courage and determination has distanced us from God and His best.

‘But, how do we walk courageously, aright with God?’

Jargal has recently been demonstrating this to us. Petite with huge glasses, she has a bright smile and a burning passion for Jesus that touches everyone who meets her.

For the last ten years she has been travelling in and out of North Korea. More recently God has given her opportunities to stay for longer periods, befriend locals and share gospel truths. She is naturally discreet, few of us know all her stories but every now and then we hear more and realise that God has given this lady an open door into people’s lives.

In July she returned to Ulaanbaatar in great pain. After surgery to remove a blockage the doctor announced that she has stage four pancreatic cancer.

‘Is this right Lord?’ we asked.

Jargal was due to move to North Korea in the autumn. God had finally opened a door which would enable her to make North Korea her home. Yet the cancer has halted her. Initially she was confused, but then she came before the Lord, opened her hands and surrendered herself and her ministry to God. ‘I am not offended,’ she said. ‘Because my Father knows best.’

Jargal’s obedience touches our lives. Her daily courage urges us not to give up, but to be daring with our faith. To choose to obey God and keep doing what we’re doing, for He is the one who equips us with courage.

 

Whatever the celebration, Mongolians will sing. In fact, people say if you can’t sing then you’re not Mongolian. At concerts, amongst the chatter, ringing of phones and eating of ice-creams, the audience will happily add their bold voices to the performance. Sometimes a famous singer will invite a child to join them; most children eagerly leap onto the stage, grab the microphone and begin singing with an unconstrained gusto that delights the audience no end.

Mongolia has hundreds of folk songs. Some are new, and some date right back to the time of Chinghis Khan. But whatever their vintage they all reflect the nature of the Mongolians.

They speak of love: especially love for the mother who brought them into the world, cared for them, nurtured them and sacrificed so much that they might thrive. While others honour the herder and his animals, particularly his horse. The traditional long song, with its drawn-out notes and staccato rises and falls, often symbolises the horse; evoking in the mind of the hearer images of horses galloping across the steppe. And songs, too numerous to number, celebrate this vast land that beckons the Mongolians to the freedom of the steppe and the promise of a life lived in harmony with nature.

Such songs are cathartic. They lift the Mongolians, cheer their hearts and take them beyond the mundane, beyond themselves to see the beauty that surrounds them.

Of course, such rapture is not confined to the Mongolians alone. Beauty carries all of us beyond the ordinary, as we marvel at a myriad stars and galaxies set in a clear velvet night, or a lofty mountain reaching far into the clouds; or as we relish the simplicity of a child’s laugh. All these things inspire us, affirming an essential element of our humanity: life may be less than perfect, but beauty teaches us that the extraordinary is possible.

More than that – in the presence of such beauty, words of praise rise unbidden. Life is praiseworthy.

Did God create man to extol something greater than ourselves? Did God create us to praise Him? Yes!

In the ordinary, I praise, thank and adore Him, marvelling at His power, love and grace; aware that as I direct my praise to Him, something happens in me. I sense His presence, and my small understanding begins to grasp a little of His greatness. Humbled, I realise that neither I, nor my work, nor the troubles of this world, are the centre of my universe. He is. And not only does my simple praise re-orientate me, but it finds its home with Him, the God of heaven and earth.

He created beauty and He created me to sing with unconstrained gusto. In my tiny part of His world I want to worship and glorify Him so that, by a miracle of God, my life might reflect His beauty to this world.

Wow Lord, such a thought is audacious. Can my feeble praise delight you and really bring glory to your name?

Concrete mixer trucks thunder past our house, while low loaders lug steel girders to newly leased land. Giant excavators trundle towards virgin land, moving at caterpillar pace, gripping and churning the tarmac beneath their heavy tracks. A new neighbour drills a well. The steady knock of metal against rock beats incessantly through the day, boring slowly towards the hidden pools.

There’s an exit from the smog and traffic jams of Ulaanbaatar as people build second, or new holiday, homes. Edging to the river’s bank, fences eat up this once unfenced land. Claiming their rights, metal pens creep into the woods, diverting path and track, evicting squirrel and chipmunk in their wake. Electric saws and vintage radios sing out their music, smothering the lark and swallow’s song.

Amid the diggers and canary yellow cranes, people labour. Their black hair shines in the sun, their shirtless chests berry brown. They work from morning to last light and beyond, eager to the get the job done, eager to collect their bounty. Creating floor plans, pouring foundations, and building walls, they sit astride ceiling joists smoking and downing chilled cola.

They start so well, enthusiastic and energised to get the house built. But something happens along the way. The money runs dry; the cost is more than they thought. Someone is sick and money is needed for medical bills. Dishonest builders abscond with funds and the customer is powerless to continue. Or a vicious storm destroys the site.

The reasons are many and varied. But the building work, for this year at least, has come to a halt. Bricks, ready for the builder’s hand, stand untouched. Wood, stacked and cut for beams and joists, is forsaken. Some begin again and go on to complete their new home, while others never return.

Unfinished buildings surround us. Enclosures littered with reinforcing bar and concrete blocks have become new homes for sparrows and wagtails. And broken homes built, on soft soil bare testimony to well-intentioned, but ill-prepared, projects. Abandoned half-builds are being stripped by opportunists of doors and windows, stair and wire.

It is a sad sight. Was it not possible to return, I wonder, to resume the work and finish the job? The reasons for discontinuing are largely unknown. Most are valid but some are less so. What is it that trips us up, that causes us to abandon the task we were given?

Perhaps next year, they’ll resume building. Perhaps the plan will be more solid and they’ll come equipped with all they need to move beyond the disarrayed building site and the messiness of work left unfinished. And perhaps, they will complete, with joy, what they purposed.

The grass is brittle beneath my boots. Insulated against winter’s harshness, the bleached ground has been under snow for more than four months. But the snow has gone now, save for a little that remains on the high hills around Ulaanbaatar.

It has been a mild winter with relatively little snowfall, for which we are thankful. Although many herders would disagree. Speaking in low tones they worry that the light snow cover exposed the steppe to the worst of the winter elements damaging precious spring pasture. Anxious for their herds, they wonder whether the underfed animals will make it through the next few weeks, especially since sudden spring snowfalls can easily drift and bury cattle.

They are right to be concerned. We’ve passed dead animals collapsed beside the road. And even those tramping the steppe are starting to look shabby, as their winter coats cling to their ribs.

When will the shadow of winter’s death be cast off?

Spring winds arrive unannounced; the Siberian northerly meeting the warmer breezes from the south. Like turbulent enemies they clash, roaring at one another like lions engaged in battle. Whipping loose sand into their hands, they cast a bronzed cloud over Ulaanbaatar. The cloud moves menacingly towards us until, lashing our faces, we are caught in its grip. We wince, remembering the reports we’ve heard that some Mongolians love to stand naked in the raging storm.

Life is moving forward.

A ground squirrel wakes from his winter hibernation, pokes his head above his burrow and excitedly takes his first steps of the year. His fawn coat is the perfect camouflage in this faded landscape. He stops, standing motionless on his hindlegs, beady eyes surveying, ears twitching before scurrying back to the safety of his underground home.

On the growing warm breeze there is the softest of calls. The gentle hiccup of the shy cuckoo, whom we rarely see but often hear. She is a strange bird, retiring on the one hand, audacious on the other. Gate-crashing her way into another nest she lays her eggs and leaves, abandoning the invaded nest’s owners to rear her young instead of their own.

But still we wait. There has been no rain since autumn. Surely, it will come soon.

And then it’s here. A dirty storm sending streams of water cascading down drainless roads. The rain revives and, among the yellowed shades, new grass shivers. Close to the ground spring flowers blossom, dainty stem and frail leaf standing bold and strong. How did they survive the cruel winter? How did they keep faith?

The transition from winter to flourishing spring is slow. Leafless silver birches crowd the wood and the hills are still largely desolate. And yet the landscape is not dead – merely moving through the seasons. While the animals slept, roots secure in the soil, pushed deeper through the chill until warmed they raised their heads above the earth and bloom.

Precious warmth and moisture, reviving, restoring, and renewing. Grace is here. Elucidating the presence of my loving Creator, reminding me of His timely renewal of my deadened mind and refreshment of my depressed heart as he pours His nourishment into my thirsty soul.

There have been three or four occasions when Mongolian friends have asked us to name their newly born child. Admittedly, one such naming happened during casual conversation when we were listing some of our favourite names. But the other three times have required much diligent thought and prayer on our behalf as we sought to choose an appropriate name.

Aware of the honour conveyed on us by such a request (traditionally the giving of names has been reserved for parents, respected elders, or religious figures) we’ve also keenly felt the weight of responsibility. Naming a Mongolian baby requires choosing a promising name with symbolic references that capture the essence of the individual’s character, and which the parents hope will bring a good future to the bearer.

Today, most Mongolian names consist of two adjectives or two nouns for example: Saran-Tuya is Moon-Ray; Altan-Tsetseg is Golden Flower. Girls’ names usually reference beauty and honourable characteristics while boys’ names tend to be linked to strength and courage – Bat-Baatar is Strong Hero, or Gan-Huu is Steel Son. Some names are gender neutral and some families choose to call all their girls – something Flower or something Ray, or all their boys something Baatar. While a few, fearing the power of evil spirits, call their children Not This One, or No Name. But in almost all cases, the name’s meaning has been thoughtfully considered and chosen.

Fewer parents in the west would choose their child’s names with such concerns. We may know the meaning behind a name and be thrilled to give such a name to our children, but I don’t think we’re constantly recalling the meaning of that name as the child grows to adulthood.

In fact, I had to look up the meaning of my name, Gillian: the medieval English feminine form of Julian. Latin: youthful. I can’t imagine my parents thought I’d be forever youthful!

Nevertheless, our names are vital. They connect us to our world, allowing us to be known by acquaintances, friends, and our family.

In biblical times names were important too. Often, they implied a person’s character or his or her deserved reputation. And some names were, as the Mongolians recognise, predictions or prophecies of what kind of person a child would grow up to be.

Names make a difference. The Bible tells us that God knows our name which acknowledges His closeness to us. The Bible also tells us that God gives the followers of Christ a new name. Certainly, there are biblical examples of people receiving new names. Old Testament Jacob, the twister, became Israel after he wrestled with God’s angel. And Simon, one of Jesus’ disciples, had Peter added to his name.

I am not sure what our new name is but I do recognise that as believers in Christ, we enter a new standing with God. His grace has come, and that enables us to be transformed.

Walking daily with Christ, I pray, audaciously perhaps, that my new name might reflect the growing character of God in me.

Finally, the footprints are disappearing. Held crisp in the snow by winter’s cold, they’ve lain intact beneath my bedroom window for the last four months, giving the impression that a dog had just sauntered by. I’ve often wondered where those tracks would have led me had I followed them.

In the forest near our home, the snow had been densely laced with tracks that led to underground burrows, or simply slipped onto the next rise. To these we repeatedly added our own. Finding previous tracks, we retraced our steps up and down, reminding me that whether we walk on snow, sand or mud, our footfall leaves an impression.

Melting snow uncovers trails that snake the landscape. They are the way of cattle, horse and rider, and motorcyclists; forming paths that connect place to place and people to people but, unlike English footpaths, are rarely signposted.

Sometimes my mind re-walks those English paths. Marked with a simple finger post they always beckon me forward on a voyage of discovery to some new or, more likely, ancient place.  A favourite passes a bay-fronted old post office cum village shop that leads on to a kissing gate, which opens into a green field where the big sky promises freedom.

The field’s slender path runs close to the fence onto which someone has fixed a wooden box with a notice inviting walkers to purchase six free-range eggs for a pound. In my mind’s eye, I walk on to the next gate, shedding the burdens of the day as I slow to a pedestrian pace. I enter an alley, snug between a wood and a garden fence, behind which there’s a postage-stamp sized swimming pool. The way is darker and cooler here, and the air damp with loam and rotting leaves. Leaving the alley, I cross a lane that leads to a grand house and enter another field, full of cows.

The rutted and often boggy path slows me further. Yet the slowness does not hinder my way; rather the simple motion of walking, of being on a path, connects my feet to my mind in a way that brings clarity to my scrambled thoughts.

In the far corner of the field there’s an old lychgate that leads to a flint and brick church said to be founded at the end of the 12^th century. Is it me or do many ancient paths lead to churches? I read the gravestones eulogising lives lived and lives cut short. In the background the motorway drones steadily on. This path, sustained by use, meanders down to the River Chess. Rich with stories, it was here long before any motor car was invented. Its existence is subtle. Dawdlers and dreamers walk this way landmarked by echoes that cast old shadows. Tracing the path, I’m reminded of my need to ask God to show me those ancient paths where the good way is, and to walk in it. For there, God tells me, I will find rest for my soul.

She sits on the icy steps, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her cheekbones chiselled and her lips blue with cold. On the pavement before her is a plastic bag open containing a few notes. People say she gathers money for her alcoholic grandson who buys vodka to warm his body and dull his mind.

Further down the road a drunkard lies crumpled on the ground, a tattered mess of ripped clothes and dirt. At the bus stop near our home, a woman regularly waits. Shuffling in her inadequate shoes, she moves her head this way and that mouthing words no one hears. Hidden behind a layer of grime her face is dark and her hair a single clump of grease. She is used and cast aside without love.

Jesus said, “The poor will always be with us.” And it’s true. In this city they are evident. Broken people from broken families. People who’ve drifted into crime, or slid into alcoholism, squandering all that they are until, trapped, they are left with nothing the world values. Or those who, through no fault of their own, have lost control of their lives. Brokenness and poverty are all around us.

Jesus’ heart was full of compassion towards the poor and broken and it the same for us too. My heart is moved by poverty, moved by injustice. I preach the good news to the poor and seek to help them but there’s a look in their eyes that I recognise.

Before I belonged to Christ I stood where some of them stand today – with despair in my heart, aware that I possessed nothing of real value and had absolutely no power to save myself. That look took me to Christ and kept me completely reliant on His lifesaving power.

But today, outwardly respectable and involved in God’s work, poverty lurks close to my heart. I know the so-called qualities a Christian should exemplify and therein lies the danger. I could try harder. Seeking to change myself, I could determine to live a more virtuous life and could give all that I have to the poor. And so, the list goes on. I could do a lot more.

But I remind myself – the gospel only comes to me when I know that I have no merit and no power. Still, I must rely entirely on the power and salvation of Jesus Christ. The gospel is not religion. It is the outworking of my life unconditionally surrendered to Him and, this is where the rubber hits the road, its characterised by me truly allowing him to be Lord of every area of my life.

I walked past the woman with her plastic bag on the pavement yesterday. And the discarded lady still stands at the bus stop. These people are part of my world, challenging me to kept surrendering my life to God; to be content with all that I have and yet to give generously.

Late in the morning smoke rises from the ger close to our house and an old woman, bound in scarfs and mitts, pushes her cart towards the river. Making a hole, she’s hoping to collect a trickle of water running beneath the thickening ice.  A young man passes her, bent almost double, dragging a fallen tree home for firewood.

Winter is here, bringing with it the bone-chilling Siberian wind that keeps our neighbour’s outside toilet tilting closer to the ground and whips snow hard against our door. A man in the street stops for a moment to gather a handful of snow and rub it into his face. He shakes his head and, leaving me smiling, walks on.

It’s typically winter. Christmas trees even stand outside shops, while baubles, lights and Santa Claus suits entice shoppers inside. The celebrations are in full swing with shows, lunches, and parties featuring among the growing list of activities. Which is interesting considering that, apart from within the Christian church, Christmas is not officially on the Mongolian calendar.

But, like a runaway horse, the desire to celebrate moves at a pace. Perhaps the growing popularity of the New Year celebrations are spreading into December, or perhaps it’s simply because the Mongolians want to join in the fun too.

The baubles and bangles, parties and family meals certainly promote Christmas. But they don’t always illuminate the real message that lies behind the glitter: the message that is as relevant today as it has ever been; the message that God spoke and His Word became the man, Jesus Christ.

Words are usually the means we use to get to know one another. Jesus is God’s Word. A man born on earth as a babe. A tangible, historical human being. The means by which we come to know that God is true.

Hearing the deep cries of our heart, God sent his son as a vulnerable child. Jesus became one of us because He understood us. We all know that those who understand us best are those who’ve faced and walked through the same problems we’ve experienced. Jesus experienced hunger, loneliness, injustice, and betrayal and so understands our brokenness. He even understands our rejection and abandonment and knows what it is to have prayers unanswered.

He lived with us. Or to use the Bible word, tabernacled with man, which immediately sends me back to the Old Testament and the Israelites who built a tabernacle, a dwelling place for God. God resided in that tent but not in plain sight. He was hidden beyond the curtain, in the holy of holies, unseen by man.

Moses asked to see God’s glory. But God denied Moses’ request. Why? Did a fixed chasm exist between him and God? Would the sight of God and His holiness have destroyed Moses? Questions helter-skelter around my mind. There’s truth here I can’t quite see clearly. Was there a need for atonement, for the presence of the tabernacle – the place of sacrifice?

When Jesus came to earth, he dwelt, tabernacled, with us so that we might see His glory. He came to bear our sin and remove the barrier that stood between us and His Father that we might freely embrace His love for us.

Moses stood in the gap between man and God but Jesus came to close that gap. That reality is beyond fairy lights and stars, even family Christmas lunch. That reality, on a December day, is life-changing.

 

 

 

I don’t always get it. These weak eyes of mine can’t always identify the work of God. Sometimes His works pass before me like blurred images reflected in an ancient unpolished mirror. But then there are moments when, with freeze-frame clarity, I do see. I see God in action, responding to me, responding to others and touching lives with a heavenly power that’s unique to each person.

With our array of unoriginal sins, challenges and heart-aches, God never pulls out a standard answer to put us in our place. Rather He speaks words tailored to catch our attention and draw us to Himself. Jesus’ two friends, Mary and Martha, remind me of this truth.

Mourning the death of their brother Lazarus, Martha hears that Jesus is returning to Bethany from Jerusalem and goes to meet Him. “Lord,” she said, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Jesus stands against the sorrow of Martha’s heart and gives her hope with gospel words that affirm He is the resurrection and the life.

Martha goes home and quietly tells Mary that Jesus wants to see her. Desolate, Mary rushes to Jesus and falling at His feet said, “Lord, if you had been here. My brother would not have died.” Hearing Mary, Jesus doesn’t furnish her with a theological answer, or tell her that He’s the ultimate answer to death. Rather He sees her tears, hears her gasping wails, and grieves with her the horrors of death, the loss of love and life.

Mary and Martha were two sisters who said the same thing to Jesus but were, in fact, very different people. Mary was possibly the quieter and humbler of the two, while Martha appears more practical and outspoken. Knowing each of them, Jesus answered the questions of their hearts.

To Martha He was God; fully divine, speaking living words of hope. To Mary, He embodied the vulnerability of humanity. He responded to Mary’s need. He responded to Martha’s need. He is the only perfect counsellor, speaking the words each of us needs to hear. He is God and man. Absolutely human and yet absolutely God. Holding the tension between power with humility and gentleness without weakness. The perfect combination of deity and humanity, the perfection of God in a man.

But that’s not the end of the story. Jesus is far more than the perfect counsellor.

Lazarus did not remain dead in that tomb. Jesus called him out. But in calling Lazarus out, Jesus knew that He had to die. Death had to close itself around Him, so that He could call us to walk out of tangled lives with our idolised loves into the new life in the truth of His resurrection power.

Incredible! Look and see with clarity, how much He loves you and me.

 

 

 

Opposite a coffee shop we use to meet friends there’s a dry-cleaners. It stands in a row of boxed, nondescript shops on the ground floor of a glassed office building. Occasionally we drop coats or duvets into that cleaners but we’re usually dashing in and out without paying too much attention to the sterile surroundings.

The other day, however, I’d dropped off some clothes and was turning to leave when a large poster caught my attention. Standing over a metre tall, a copy of Gustav Klimt’s, Lady in Gold, confronted me, hanging on the wall. Open-mouthed, I stared at the stylised picture of the wealthy Jewish Viennese lady, Adele Bloch-Bauer. Its rich mosaic depiction of her in oils and silver and gold leaf was positively incongruous in that over air-conditioned environment of solvents and washing machines.

Beauty seems to exist in the most unexpected places. Although, I did wonder what defines beauty. Of course, our perceptions are shaped by personal taste and our background. But beauty must be more than a stunning painting or a magnificent building. And it is certainly more than the media’s shrunken world of cat walks, shopping malls and glossy magazines.

True beauty exists naturally without any additions, in an elegant rose or the ferocious fire of the sun spilling onto the ocean. It is seen on the surface and, as I take a longer look, beneath the surface; in the quiet joy behind a battered face or the unbridled laughter of a child with Down syndrome. Beauty is everywhere.

It speaks of life. Of life that is there but which cannot be controlled. We see it, feel it, touch it. Unspeaking, it does not impose itself on us. Neither does it explain or change life’s circumstances. Yet it is present and, as we allow it, it connects to something remote in the depths of our soul, speaking to every detail of our lives.

We cannot explain it, we can only perceive it. Beauty, implicit in the very fabric of creation, of this world, witnesses to the intrinsic goodness of God that’s always been there. Pressing itself to the edges of our comprehension, it is natural to the way God works in our world, in our lives. Not imposing himself on us but, stopping us in our tracks, He catches our eye, connects with our soul, and draws us in, bringing form to the formless, light to our darkness and peace to our hearts.