Spring is coming. Warmer winds are slowly exposing the autumn grass that lay buried beneath the snow. People say the warmth is a favourable start to the Mongolian New Year. Of course the New Year has already passed (it was a month ago), but friends are still chatting about the significance of this celebration.

Mongolian New Year, or Tsagaan Sar, is a time of new beginnings. Every family member, from the oldest to the youngest, is supposed to be involved. In the lead up to New Year there is lots of gift buying and food preparation. On New Year’s Eve families clean their homes from top to bottom and herders even clean out their livestock barns. That evening families gather for a special meal where they remember the blessings of the past year. They’re also supposed to lay aside all disagreements and repay debts as they renew relationships. At the same time they hope that the coming year will be filled with joy rather than sorrow and that they’ll be better people than they were last year.  

On New Year’s Day families visit their older relatives and friends. When we lived in the countryside we visited most of our friends during the three day celebrations and left each home with stomachs stuffed full of meaty dumplings, roasted mutton and fermented mare’s milk. In Ulaanbaatar the celebrations tend to be more low-key, although many people still wear colourful Mongolian dress and felt hats. And everyone grasps each other’s elbows and kisses one another’s cheeks as they offer the special holiday greetings of “Are you living peacefully?”

But some Christians are wary of the celebrations. We can understand their concerns — Buddhist elements can, and do, overshadow the celebrations making it tricky for Christians to focus on the new beginning that the New Year emphasises. However, perhaps the festival does offer opportunities to speak about the only life that can bring real change to our lives.

Unlike the harmony and self-betterment which people hope for, we are not calling people simply to come and clean up their lives, or work towards been moral or religious. Christianity is not an add-on option or even a system that rearranges our lives to make us better. But it is a new beginning; a complete new beginning from which each one of us must start. It is radical and involves a new birth where, by God’s Spirit, the old is rooted out and a new principle of supernatural life is planted inside us.

With this new consciousness we realise we no longer have to try to be good. Our identity has been changed and, turning from our own efforts to be good, we rejoice in God’s redemption.

The yearnings the Mongolians feel in the core of their beings cast long shadows. Their traditions reflect their desire for goodness; to live lives that are worthy. However these yearnings are not just confined to the Mongolians. There are parallels in every culture throughout world. They exist in every person, a desire for goodness that sends humans searching for true cleanness and acceptance.

And we have the answer. God, through His Son, has gifted us with new life, and He’s also given us the opportunity to pass this really good news on. We can’t make anyone a Christian, that’s God’s work. But we can give people opportunity to hear and as they hear we trust they will listen, think deeply and receive God’s new life.

Day-time temperatures are heading towards zero degrees Celsius, although the hillside beside our home is still bare — the rocks are grey and the heather dull and wiry. To the natural eye there is no sign of growth but although we cannot see beneath the surface we are certain that the heather’s roots are growing. And so we pray, “Lord let us see with your eyes and speak with your words.”

We had a plan. God had given us a sense of what we should we do, where we should be working and with whom. If you’d have asked us we’d have said we were relying on the Lord to fulfil His plan but in our mind’s eye we had some ideas ourselves on how we were going to reach the goals we had set.

And then last summer my health started deteriorating. I’d been struggling with niggling things, which the doctors could neither fully identify nor cure, for the last couple of years but last year these symptoms seemed to escalate to the point where I was getting weaker and thinner and couldn’t think clearly. At the time it was alarming but thankfully a consultant in Beijing thought it might be ceoliac disease and tested me. The results came back positive.

It was a relief to have an answer and to know that I wasn’t going mad just yet. I merrily embarked on a gluten-free diet which immediately dealt with some of my symptoms although I had no idea how restrictive such a diet would be.

After returning from Thailand we cleared the kitchen of gluten flours and sauces and before I knew it I was sick again. Realising how sensitive I was to gluten products I began asking God what was going on. “Hadn’t He called us to live and work in Mongolia? Didn’t He know how hard it is to visit Mongolian families and not eat their food? Would they understand if I turned up with my own box of food?” And so the questions went on.

It felt awkward and strange. We were checking the ingredient labels on every product in the supermarket. I was drawing attention to myself and, not wanting to get sick again, I was becoming self-absorbed. This illness felt like it was curbing my ministry.

Then a thought quietly entered my mind; is this illness a way for me to get to know God better? Can I draw closer to Him in a way that I’ve never done before? If so then I do not want to waste this opportunity to grow.

But how do I glorify God in the restrictions?

I asked myself whether I was willing to lay my desire for full-health at Jesus’ feet and even whether I was willing to surrender my perceived ideas about ministry for the sake of knowing Christ better. I easily answered yes but in reality I’ve had to wrestle to truly obey and follow.

Paul tells the Romans that God works all together for good to those who love Him. I take comfort from that verse.

In centring my life on Jesus I find peace and realise that I obey God because of who He is and not for my own sake. In the dimness of my understanding I seek Him and understand a little more of His love and care; and by His grace something is growing stronger on the inside of me as I realise that He is sovereign in all situations.

God can and will bring glory to Himself but what does He require of me? I must maintain my love for Him, keeping my eye fixed on Him even when I think my limitations curb my ministry. I must not be taken up with myself, or even worship God thinking that I will get something out of it, but rather trust God because He is God: recognising that He is the one with the plan and I am the one who needs to follow.

Faces glow with wonder as children wait for the great day to arrive. With mounting excitement they watch presents pile up beneath the decorated tree. We sing carols; eat too many mince pies and party too hard. In the crush of late night shopping we buy gifts and, scratching our heads, wonder what we can give great Uncle Wilf. Fewer of us write Christmas greetings to friends and family but we still meet. “It’s worth it,” we say, dreaming of cold snowy days when we can peacefully snuggle up beside the crackling fire, sipping hot apple cider, oblivious to the mayhem such weather causes outside.

With the right elements we can create a pleasant ambience which helps generate a sense of well-being. The Danes call this sense of well-being ‘hygge’. Having recently visited a friend in Copenhagen we can understand why the Danes seek to create such cosy atmospheres. The weekend we were there the skies were wild and indiscriminately pelted us with weapons of mass-destruction like rain. The Danes wore thick waterproofs to defend themselves against the elements. We did not and found ourselves soaked to the skin.

Back in our friend’s apartment we changed our sodden clothes for thick woolly jumpers. We lit candles and, cradling mugs of steaming coffee, munched delicious pastries. The rain drummed relentlessly against the window but in the warmth of her lounge we were secure. That afternoon our souls were comforted but the true sense of our comfort lay beyond the mere cosiness of her home.

Our desire for comfort, peace and joy in the innermost parts of our beings is natural. And yet we live in a world where it’s hard to shut the door on suffering. But the Bible tells us we can know joy in the midst of agony. It tells us that there is a joy and comfort that the world’s troubles cannot extinguish — a deep joy that is impervious to the deluge of grief.

Over the years I’ve wondered whether this is true. Especially since I used to believe that by loving and serving God He would protect me from suffering, and He didn’t. Non-Christians and Christians alike all face suffering. Our bodies get sick, relationships break down and loved ones die but the Bible says that God can work all things together for good to those who know and love Him.

So when life works together for my good it is because of His grace. If I am well it’s because of His goodness and if someone loves me it’s because of His kindness.

I am sure God hates pain and suffering and I’m equally sure He understands our pain. After all He came into the world and experienced it first-hand. But allowing God to take our pain and work it for our good means that we have to develop new habits. I’m learning that I must stop complaining, stop trying to blot out misery and run from its agonies. Instead I need to cultivate a thankful heart that sees all as His grace.

God does not promise us success or happiness; He promises us new life. He doesn’t always change our circumstances because He wants to change our inner being to be like His Son. His purposes are fixed. He desires an intimate relationship with us and this is the basis of our joy.

Yes, we long for warmth and Hygge seeks to make our homes nicer and people happier. The family gathers, we eat comforting food and cherish one another, but this cosiness passes. At the time it feels good but at best it is an ephemeral sensation absent of the underlying truth of real joy.

We do not come to Christianity because it is comforting. We come to Christianity because it is true. God doesn’t take us away from the hardness of life but through His strength He teaches us how to deal with life’s sorrows. Sometimes we suffer deeply and only He can truly comfort the hurts of our hearts.

At Christmas we remember Jesus’ birth on earth. We picture Him born in a manger, on a bed of straw, surrounded by those who loved Him. But He did not come to evoke misty-eyed affection. He came to overcome the sin of this world: to bring truth, hope and rock-solid comfort to our lives. And this truth fills us with wonder.

Mongolians are extraordinary horsemen. And perhaps it’s always been so. Certainly horsemanship has featured heavily in Mongolia’s history and their world. In the thirteenth century the ground shuddered to the sound of the Mongol hordes, warriors and their warhorses, thundering north, south, east and west as they conquered tribes and nations to establish their long since diminished empire.

Riding trusted horses they endured hardships, fearing neither hunger nor thirst, heat nor the bitter Siberian cold. They galloped for days, weeks, months, up and down mountains and across the open steppe covering all and any terrain with reckless confidence. Standing in their stirrups they screamed like crazed wolves, ready for the kill, until they melted the hearts of all those who encountered them.

Today many countryside Mongolians, whether they’re racing across the open plains or lassoing an unbroken stallion, possess the same finely honed horsemanship as their ancestors. However, city dwellers are changing and prefer to keep their horsepower harnessed beneath the bonnets of their cars. And yet it is with the same reckless abandon that they drive their metallic horses through the streets of Ulaanbaatar.

Twenty years ago two cars was a traffic jam but today the city streets are choked with a mass of metal as cars, buses and trucks all vie for first position. Without a hint of mirror or signal, drivers  manoeuvre in and out of buses lanes. Or drawing their breath in, they slyly wedge themselves into non-existent gaps that force others to stop, before everyone, (well almost everyone,) comes to a standstill at stop signs. Toes to the metal young drivers rev the engines of their hand-painted saloons to fever pitch. As they screech  away from the lights acrid rubber smoulders on the tarmac while plumes of black smoke escape piston-shot engines.

Driving in Mongolia is like a competition to overtake the rest and be first. Perhaps, it’s natural, revealing man’s heart. But without the constraints of the rules of the road or life’s boundaries would I be the same?  Underneath my sensibilities and the veneer of politeness, in some shape of form, perhaps I’m competing too. Certainly the world subtly whispers that it’s the way things should be. It applauds my desire to be first. It values success and the subsequent power it gives to beat the rest.

Rising in the midst of my craving a desire can gather momentum; I want to push others aside and grab the prize for myself. But the moment I succeed, the moment I grasp it in my hand its glory is disappears. My success is short-lived without any real depth or value to it. And against the backdrop of Jesus’ character, respect for the world’s ways seems pitiable.

God tells us not to be controlled by the things the societies considers critical but rather to follow His way. Life in God is a remarkable reversal of values. He calls us to abandon our wills to Him, and sometimes that involves laying down our strength to serve others and enable them to be first. At such times our competitive world considers this feebleness.  Yet going against the flow, preferring others above ourselves, we lay hold of the true prizes that do not fade: satisfaction here and lasting joy and a deeper understanding of our God.

A few Ulaanbaatar drivers are taming their metallic horses. They strive to run less with the wind and even follow some of the rules of the road.

I was just sitting to remove the shoe covers the hospital makes us wear when the Mongolian beside me answered his phone.

“The doctor says… discs are degenerating…. not good.” He paused, “Just off to see the lama now.” Instinctively I wanted to reach out and tell him about the real healer of men’s souls but instead I prayed quietly.

From the cut of his suit and his immaculate appearance it was obvious that the man was successful, and probably in his late forties. But the slump of his shoulders, his staccato speech and the way his hand kept rubbing his chin told me he’d just been confronted with a reality that was beyond his control. Uncertainties were casting shadows of fear across his path.

Life seems to do that. As I get older life’s uncertainties become more pronounced. Circumstances come that are beyond my ability to control, and at such times terrors can, and do, overtake me leaving me paralysed with fear. My own frailties are many and I realise I’m not as strong as I thought I was.

I asked God, “How do we deal with fear?”

The other day Mark and I were returning from a walk in the woods when we noticed a crowd of people gathered in a neighbour’s enclosure. As we got closer we saw two shamans, dressed in colourful cloaks and grotesque masks, whirling to the beat of the drum. Their drawling song was menacing and the crowd stood transfixed as the shamans moved into a trance-like state.

The sight saddened us. The shamans’ power could not rescue the Mongolians from their fears — their rituals only bring bondage, not peace. And yet we all want to find true peace. But the reality is we are not often able to bring peace into our own lives. We are not in control of the circumstances that surround our lives and usually we can’t change them. We are not God.

Therefore I asked again, “How do we overcome our fears?”

The answer is simple: God needs to deliver us. But I’m learning it doesn’t just happen. We have to put ourselves in a position where we can be immersed in God’s life so that we can learn to fear Him more than our natural fears.

What does the fear of God look like? In the Mongolian language there are a number of words for fear but two distinctly different words highlight the difference between man’s natural fears and the fear which is filled with awe and reverence. This is the fear which God encourages us to let grow in our lives.

The fear of the Lord does not crush or diminish us. We can stand on the top of a mountain and feel horrifyingly small but our smallness does not have to alarm us or even destroy us; instead it should cause us to marvel at the wonders of His glory. We are in awe and that awesome fear touches the centre of our very being and lifts us up to see that we are safely held in his hands.

Recognition of His astonishing greatness and our smallness leads us to worship. We come into His presence with rejoicing hearts and freely admit our weaknesses. Through worship our hope and faith are renewed. Our faith is in Him and our hope is based on the solid foundation of the work Christ accomplished on the Cross. Our faith and hope must be active, they must be growing. We must keep on trusting in Him, keep on obeying His word, keep on realising that He is God and we are not; and understand that He doesn’t exist to fulfil our needs — we exist to worship Him.

We may continue to know sadness and sorrow but His greatness in our lives enables us to stand strong. Hope in God is never disappointed. When we allow Him to transform the natural fears which drive us to dread, then we begin to see the love that encircles us. It is His love and filled with a radiance that never fades. It is a love which never lets us go — even after all other loves have departed.

When tragedies come, or we hear bad news where do we go? We all need to encounter a love that is stronger than terror, a love that is more powerful than any panic we experience. When we look into the face of God, when we see His glory, our natural fears fade and with awe, we realise, He is not going to abandon us. He will never leave us.

 

Welcome to my blog! I am not sure I’m actually a blog-writer but, with the encouragement of friends, I decided to take the plunge and start one anyway.

Ironically, as I’m writing this I’m thinking about a letter we recently received — we enjoy receiving letters and cards. And this one was from a young lady called Grace who, at the time, we’d never met. However, it wasn’t the fact that she was visiting Mongolia that caught our attention specifically, rather it was that she described herself as someone who ‘absolutely loves God’, not someone who just loves God but someone who absolutely loves God.

Her candour evoked in our minds a picture of a young woman with arms open wide worshipping God face down on the floor. Her honesty also reminded me of a prayer I often feel like shouting but don’t. You see I’m English and sometimes the constraints of my culture keep my mouth closed. But the truth is there are many times when I stifle the desire to shout with all might, “Lord, let me live for your glory alone.” I know it’s an audacious request and I do wonder whether, in my fickleness, I can live for the glory of God alone.

Grace’s extravagant love for God reminds us that we simply reflect what we have seen, understood and received of God’s extravagance. If we stand in His presence then we become reflectors of His goodness, of His glory. Over the last few months we’ve been thinking about the glory of God, and since the long winter has passed here we’ve noticed that the countryside is brimming with life.

We live on the northern edge of Ulaanbaatar, about twenty kilometres from the city centre, in an area that’s the summer location for many city people. As soon as school finishes, families migrate to simple one-roomed wooden cabins for the duration of the holidays. The valleys and hills around us are still covered with cabins — although the recent building boom has meant many have been demolished and replaced with larger properties.

In summer the dawn comes early and the darkness is not in a hurry to return. Children spend their days playing outside with the simplest toys: stones and sand, water and sticks. Overcome with tiredness they collapse in flimsy dens and snooze until the sun begins to wane. When they wake, refreshed, they go shouting and screaming, wrestling and tumbling their way through the long grass. At night their parents bring their wood-burning stoves outside, and while the fire gets hot they exchange tots of vodka until the spit and crackle of roasting meat fills the air.

Our valley is alive with life. Cheeky young marmots hide behind rocks before fleeing with a hop, skip and jump back to their burrows. Asian red squirrels, which are mostly black, dash up trees from where they taut dogs who refuse to believe they too can’t climb trees. Cows roam in through our open gate to feast on tasty grass before heading to the next enclosure. Horses stand cooling in the stream near our house while a crane struts in the calm shallows, unperturbed by the horses or the women gathering water in plastic containers.

We walk along the banks finding a quiet place to sit and watch the light dance on the water. In a shady bend the bough of a tree hangs over the stream. Ripples of silver light touch the underside of that branch as it reflects the temporary glory of the golden water and we ask, “Are we catching glimpses of God’s glory?” Hidden in the curve of the steam are we seeing the reflection of His light? Is He passing by, casting shadows that cause us to cry out with longing, longing that we might see more of him? I am not sure. But certainly my heart praises Him and with Grace says “I absolutely love God.”