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.  

 

Naturally curious, the Mongolians often ask us why we don’t have any children or, why I have coeliac disease. My replies are seldom clear as I don’t have clarity myself which tends to lead to further questions as people try to discern why things are like they are, and who is responsible. But the questions never bring resolution. In fact, they can leave me, if I allow my thoughts to wonder in that direction, asking whether these things are the result of my sin.

In the parable of the man born blind, I seem to remember Jesus’ disciples took a similar line of questioning when they passed by the blind man. “Who sinned…” the disciples asked Jesus. “This man or his parents?”

Who, what, and why questions seem to hotly pursue suffering. If life is hard, then there must be a reason. Something or someone must be to blame. After all, we reap what we sow. Such attitudes sound a note of pride in those of us who, with abandonment, observe hardships in others. But stop! We are just one small step away from the false assumption that whispers, we live pain-free because we are good people.

Suffering is no respecter of persons. Undoubtedly, we do sin and we have a responsibility to confess and repent from those sins. But there is also suffering in this world. Suffering that God did not create, that came as man turned his back on God and the world ceased to function in the way that He had created it. Sin’s entrance ushered in pain and sorrow. Sometimes we experience pain because of our disobedience but there are times when the pain comes because we live in a broken world.

There’s a certain irony to the healing of the blind man in John Chapter nine. The Pharisees, with their intellectual brilliance and expertise, failed to see beyond their natural eyes. Their repeated interrogations yielded no revelations that opened their hearts and minds to the realities of their sin; and God’s grace gift, Jesus the Saviour, remained hidden to them.

But the blind man was a beggar. Unable to run his own life and dependent on others, he knew that he needed rescuing. After Jesus touched and opened the beggar’s eyes, the man saw. He saw God. It wasn’t something the beggar had to make himself do, God did it. With open eyes the man believed and worshipped God in the beauty of His grace.

The ‘why’ questions remain unanswered. But worshipping Jesus clears my spiritual sight and brings a satisfaction that nothing else can match. And, to the degree that I’m able to give myself to God, my blindness continues being healed until I see that He, the measure of my worth, is the answer to all the questions. On the Cross my sin blinded Jesus to God, so that my spiritual blindness might be ended. He did that for me and He did that for you.

 

Obscured by rising towers, they loiter on street corners or cling to pockets of land. They’ve been abandoned, neglected, passed over for something bigger, better and taller. Their rusted roofs are pierced with a thousand holes. Their wooden-frames tilt right, or is it left? Clay-covered lattice walls crumble gracefully into piles of rubble, while their once brightly covered facades are faded, bleached by the sun and scrubbed by stormy torrents. With barred windows and broken doors, they’ve become a haunt for the homeless, drunks and pop-up brothels.

Their history is being overshadowed, swallowed up in the name of progress. Three and four storey buildings are being replaced by green and gold metallic-windowed high-rises. Steel-clad buildings and apartment blocks are reforming the Ulaanbaatar skyline. Tall cranes testify to a city undergoing change although concrete skeletons speak of those who’ve made a beginning but failed to complete their project.

These are natural aspects of growth and development and, while society must move forward, there are also dangers.

The ancients still stand, refusing to die, but how long before they slip, overshadowed and unnoticed, from our view. Today they can still prompt people to remember that they once accommodated life with all its sorrows and joys. They articulate the closeness of the past. But the buildings are not simply a narrative of outdated events and its relics, they also anchor the Mongolians to this place, to their culture and its history. Even more than that, appreciating and remembering history can cause us, if we allow it, to enter its history today, to let it shape our future and create something new.

Watching Mongolia change reminds me of a danger I face in my life as a Christian. My faith in God is anchored in the ancient covenant that God fulfilled through Jesus Christ. And yet life daily throws a constant stream of new fads and trends at me, even Christian trends! Each vies for my attention, threatening to distract me and overshadow the history that shapes the precious parts of my identity in God.

The gospel message is unchanging. In one sense it is completely unaffected by society’s paradigm shifts. And yet it is always wholly relevant, wholly fresh, speaking its ancient word into the context of the newness of this and every society in the world.

A group of young professional Mongolians are alerting society to the imminent danger they face as old buildings decay.  They are calling for buildings of note to be saved and restored. Some enthusiastic entrepreneurs are even taking shabby 1960s apartment buildings, highlighting their unique features and beginning to refurbish them. Retaining their essential character, these buildings honour and celebrate the old while being fully adapted to today’s generation.

 

 

Copyright© Gillian Newham, 2018

“all rights reserved”

 

Spending time on the North Cornish Coast when we’ve been in England, we’ve formed a passing acquaintance with the sea. From a distance we’ve observed some of its moods; we’ve seen it glassy and still, we’ve seen it roaring chaotically. But we’ve never actually been on the sea on an excessively calm or, for that matter, an excessively stormy day.

However, Jesus’s disciples had experienced both. In chapter 6 of John’s gospel, John recounts the story of the disciples in a boat on the Sea of Galilee. Caught in the grip of a storm, they were completely powerless to escape and yet Jesus came close, not battling the storm but simply walking on the water.

Earlier that day Jesus had fed the 5,000. Many of those who ate the food He provided would have been schooled in the Old Testament and, perhaps, caught the connection between Jesus and the one who had fed the multitude in the wilderness. There were those who, recognising that Jesus was a prophet, wanted to make Him king to fulfil their needs; because, like the Israelites of old, the Jews needed a deliverer to free them from the Roman Empire.

Let’s make Jesus king, the people thought. But to force earthly kingship on Jesus was to misunderstand His true personhood. He did not come to deal with Israel’s material problems. He came to give us, all of us, the bread of life and it is that life-bread that reconciles us to God.

Jesus wasn’t another Moses. He was the God of Moses. He didn’t come to fulfil a strategy, He was the strategy, and He came to provide us with a completely new reality.

He came to them walking on the water. The storm had no power over Him. But He saw those in the boat, terrified, without any hope of shelter. On land we can find shelter but in a boat on the open sea man is subjected to the full power of the storm.

In life too, storms come that take us into the dark, uncontrollable turbulent sea. We speak of life as a journey but perhaps a sea voyage would be a more appropriate metaphor because there are moments when, full of fear, it is all we can do to remain in the boat as life’s devastating circumstances threaten to hurl us overboard.

When Jesus arrived at the boat, it appears that the disciples didn’t immediately lose their fears. Perhaps they thought Jesus was a ghost. Or perhaps they sensed something of who He was. “It is I,” was the first thing He said. Jesus was identifying himself. But was He simply identifying the human Jesus or was He alluding to something more? Was He saying that He was the Lord, the Creator; the great I am?

“Do not be afraid,” Jesus continued. I hear compassion in those words. When someone draws alongside us during the storms of life and lovingly embraces us, then it seems to enable us to keep going. Sometimes Jesus calms life’s storms and sometimes He doesn’t. But as we allow Him, He always climbs into the boat with us, entering our lives, bearing us up and, amazingly, changing us too.