I started adding it up the other day. When we came to Mongolia, we were used to telling people that we’d been in ministry for 13 years. I suppose that number keeps sticking in my head. The reality is that we had been in ministry for 13 years … 4 years ago. You do the math.

It is with that reality in front of me that I realize in slightly over one week from now, we are getting on an airplane to fly back to the US for one year. Many people have asked me if we’re looking forward to our Home assignment. Some have asked if we’re ready to go back and “recharge”. I admit, there is a part of me that is looking forward to going back. It will be good to reunite with family and with old friends. It will be good to get a medium-rare hamburger and to have simplified shopping options (at least simplified in the sense of one-stop shopping, versus having to go to multiple stores to get a days worth of groceries). On the other hand, I love what I do here. I love the people I work with. Deeply. I will distinctly miss our staff at the Grain of Wheat. I feel a little like Dorothy … leaving Oz and heading back to Kansas and having to say goodbye to people whom I deeply care about. I’ll miss the people and to a certain extent this place. And It will be good to go home. It’s definitely a mixed bag of jelly beans. Bittersweet.

In a sermon I recently preached at the International Church, I was reminded of an old illustration I used years ago for a sermon preached at our church in Franklin. It’s even more relevant in my life today on multiple levels.

In a word: trollycars.

The trolly buses here in Mongolia predominately come from Russia, with love. They are gifts, albeit I do wonder at times if they more represent the proverbial “white elephant” rather than Russian good will. In any case, the trollycars in Ulaanbaatar are electric and run on mid-20th century technology. They are attached to wires which run over the roads. They have one pedal to make them stop and go. Maybe there is a brake. But I am not sure there is even that. They remind me of kiddie-cars at amusement parks, only bigger and a lot more crowded. And much colder in the winter time.

I was riding one of these fantastic machines home a few years ago. When our apartment was at the city center, it was always very easy to find public transportation that would take me at least close to home. Trollies are easy because all the trolly lines stop at the bus stop close to our apartment. On this particular day, as I was cruising along, the trolly made an unexpected and rather sudden stop. None of us were too surprised when this happened. It’s a common occurrence here. The rods connecting the trolly to the power source had popped off the wire, and the trolly came to a complete stop. When this happens, usually the driver himself gets out of the trolly and tries to maneuver the arms back onto the wires. Sometimes he will need to climb up and stand on top of the trolly to do this. This particular trolly must have been going fast enough that we coasted to a place that the driver was unable to get the rods to reach the wires. So I entered into another level of cross-cultural learning. All the men were asked to get off and push the trollycar to a place where the conductor could get the poles to connect with the wires. So with a fair amount of huffing and puffing we managed it, the poles were popped back into place and I finally made it home that day.

I realize I am sounding more and more like an old guy. Maybe it’s because I am quickly becoming an old guy, I don’t know. But this I do know – from 17 years of ministry. The Christian life and the Christian ministry is a lot more like 1950-styled trollycars than it is like computer batteries. I am writing this on a new MacBook with crazy-long battery life. My 15” will run for 5-8 hours on one charge, depending on what I am doing. I hear that the 13” models will go from 8 to 10 hours. That’s great. However, the battery will eventually need to be charged. No battery lasts forever. Not even on a Mac.

I am dependent on the Holy Spirit in a way that is similar to how the trolly car is dependent on those wires. Less in the way my MacBook is dependent on it’s battery. If I am connected to Christ, walking in the Spirit, I move forward. If I am not I stop. There’s no battery. There’s no lengthy coasting. It’s complete dependence on a power source that is outside of myself. That’s what I understand Jesus to mean when he said, “Without me you can do nothing” (John 15:5). I’ve been in the place where I am pushing and shoving ministry along in my own strength. When I’ve realized I can’t do it myself, I get others to come along side to help me push. It’s ineffective. Exhausting. Fruitless.

Someone has told me that Home Assignment is about “getting your battery recharged”. While I would agree to a point, in that we need the rest and we all need the break. I still insist that my Christian walk doesn’t have a battery. We’re either connected to Christ, or we’re not connected to Christ. So my Home Assignment aim is not to recharge, but rather to connect. To connect with family. To connect with friends. To connect with churches who have so graciously and lovingly supported us. And most of all, to connect with Jesus, without whom there is no fruit and there is no life.

This was never intended to be a series. Nevertheless, here is part three. Part 1 and Part 2 were personal illustrations of how incarnational ministry is more about learning than teaching. As I reflect more on this, it occurs to me that this is exactly how Jesus lived his life and conducted his ministry among us.

We are quickly coming to the end of our first term serving in Mongolia. The perspectives I had four years ago are very different from my current ones. The first four years are more for learning than they are for actually doing anything. It’s not that we didn’t “do anything”. This past year has been one of the busiest years of my life. However, all of our actions have been in the context of learning. Learning about people. Learning about culture. Learning about what makes Mongolian students happy or sad or angry or fearful. My intentions were to come and teach (after all, that is what I do. I teach.) But the reality is that I have done way more learning than teaching over these past four years.

This is a good thing. And a fundamental thing. There is an indelible humility attached to being a student. A good student is teachable. A good student asks questions. A good student seeks understanding over the attainment of facts. We spent two years in class learning Mongolian grammar and syntax (not entirely sure I have that down yet). But the lessons continued long after the certificate of completion was received. The only way to learn what it is like to be a student living in the Ulaanbaatar is to live and work among the students in Ulaanbaatar. Time. Listening. Asking questions. And, as much as possible, learning to fell the emotion and the joy and the heartache of those we’re called to serve.

I am proceeding at the risk of sounding heretical. But when Jesus came to earth, he had to learn from us. When he left his place in heaven and was born here as a baby, he had to learn everything we have to learn. He had to learn the language and the culture and human pain. He had to learn to read and write Hebrew (and I thought Mongolian was difficult). He had to learn what it is like to be human. He had to learn our culture, our language, our food, our way of doing things, and our way of thinking. I believe this is clearly Biblical (not heretical). When Luke stated that he “grew in wisdom and stature and favor with God an men”, he is referring to this fact. An aspect of Jesus’ humility is the fact that he learned from us. He had to figure us out from birth to death. That is the real nature of incarnation. This is part of the “He humbled himself” process of Philippians chapter 2. He was a learner. A student. He had to listen, ask questions and seek to understand (more than fact find). Jesus became one of us.

From that perspective one of the greatest compliments that could possibly be paid to me is for one of our students to say, “You’re one of us. You understand us”. It’s not about trying to act 20 years younger than I actually am. That’s not it at all. It’s about learning from them. Being with them. Loving and caring about them enough to sit at their feet, rather than insisting that they sit at mine.

In three weeks we fly to Atlanta. When that plane is airborne over the skies of Ulaanbaatar and I am anticipating a happy reunion with my family and friends, I will also deeply miss those from whom I’ve learned so much.