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Living on Top of the World
July 24, 2006

We are about to land in Lhasa, Tibet, a place known as Shangri-La and the world’s highest city.  Looking out of the airplane window, we realize that we are not alone in looking down at the clouds.  Mountain peaks too numerous to count are asserting themselves, pushing regally through the clouds as if heaven bound.

This is the first flight in all of my travels to conclude with a welcome dance presented by the flight attendant.  Clad in a red costume with beaded headdress, she sways gracefully back and forth to recorded music.  Most of her movements are obscured, however, as passengers rush to the plane’s fore to capture this moment with their cameras.

We have been warned that the 12,000 foot high altitude in Lhasa -- also known as “The Rooftop of the World” -- may literally take our breath away.  We feel the difference immediately upon exiting the plane and concentrate on breathing deeply to intake adequate oxygen.

As we embark on the hour long ride to Lhasa, we make note of the five-colored Buddhist prayer flags adorning the houses and scattered all over the countryside.  Traditionally hung where prayers can meet the wind, they are believed to invoke admirable character attributes and are thought to provide protection.  I silently thank God that He is my protector, the one in whom I trust.  The dry, yet mountainous countryside has little vegetation.  Yet the shadows playing in and out of the mountain peaks and valleys supply intriguing colors of their own. 

Looking through the listing of Lhasa sites, we are overwhelmed to realize that almost anything deemed noteworthy of touring in Lhasa is closely tied to Tibetan Buddhism.  There are adequate temples and pilgrimages to keep one occupied for days on end.  Just reviewing the options seems somewhat oppressive.  But we have come to learn and to pray, and this is the unavoidable reality of Tibet where 99 percent of her 2.6 million people are Buddhists

Temporarily sidelined by altitude sickness, I listen to the reports of my traveling companions who have visited a particularly oppressive temple.  What they have seen has both astounded and appalled them.  Garish paintings depicting demonic creatures torturing people are painted on the walls of the temple, as if to remind humankind that they are worthless.  We grieve that so many have been so duped into spending their lives trying to earn the favor of these false gods.

Out and about in the city, I experience the goodness of the Tibetan people.  They are friendly and ready to talk.  Although they seem curious about foreign visitors, they are not at all intrusive.  Broad smiles are freely given.  It seems to be a cruel paradox that those who are so lost seem so very kind and sweet. 

My taxi driver smiles at me several times and summons courage before blurting out in English, “Welcome you to Tibet.”  Relieved when he realizes that I speak Chinese, he tells me that this is the first time he has ever had American passengers ride in his car.  This is as much an adventure for him as coming to Tibet is for me.  We relish our few moments of conversation.  He tells me of his dream to visit America one day, but adds that he knows it won’t come true.  “It is only a dream,” he says.  Thinking of a greater dream, I pray silently that I will one day see him in my heavenly home.

Later on I sit on a concrete stool in the park at the foot of the 17th century Potala Palace, former residence of the Dalai Lamas.  Considered one of the architectural wonders of the world, the 13-story high structure built high on a hill imposes itself over the entire city.  Talking with two old ladies who sit in the same location every day to gaze at a small lake with the Potala in the background, I ask them if they have been inside the palace.  “Oh yes.  Many times,” they reply.  They are proud of their palace and, come to find out, proud of their Buddhist religion as well.  It is all they have ever known.  I tell them that I am a Christian, but they show no curiosity.   

Sipping a soft drink in a local restaurant, I look up to see a little boy leaning over the back of the adjacent booth to face me.  The seven-year old has many questions for this foreign visitor, as do I for him.  After chatting for a few minutes, he climbs down from his booth, takes something out of his pocket and hands it to me.  “This is for you,” he says.  It is a small tube of sparkly glue.  Thanking him profusely, I nevertheless insist that he keep it.  I have received the gift of his time and attention and need nothing tangible to remember this precious encounter with a Tibetan child. 

Yet as willing as he was to give, we encounter a good number of Tibetan men, women, and children sitting with outstretched hands or walking the streets asking for handouts.  Some of them carry babies, and some of them are little more than babies themselves.  Robed Tibetan monks, with printed statements prepared in English, target foreigners, asking for money to repair their monasteries.  Somewhere they have been taught to extend a handshake as they beg.
   
It is often said that to be a Tibetan is to be a Tibetan Buddhist.  Monks appear to be as indigenous to Tibet as the mountains themselves.  They seem to be present everywhere, and especially at the places of Buddhist worship.  In the Sera Monastery, rows of monks sit cross-legged on prayer mats, facing each other as they recite Buddhist scriptures at the command of the chant master.

Try though they may, many of them seem to have trouble diverting their eyes from the tourists who are walking among them, whispering and taking photographs.  They seem oblivious, however, to a small group of Christians who walk throughout the temple area invoking the name of Jesus and praying for the salvation of all who are blinded by this religion and its false gods.  

Even more heart wrenching than the thousands of Buddhist monks serving in the temples, though, are the multitudes of Tibetan people who are constantly on pilgrimage throughout the city.  Our visit coincides with the Saga Dawa Festival that has attracted hundreds of thousands of pilgrims to long treks around the city center.  Attired in  multiple layers of clothing as if nonplussed by the warming summer weather, and wearing hats to guard against the relentless sun, they walk doggedly for mile after mile after mile.  Many of them have already walked for days to even reach the city.

Waking early one morning, we join the ruddy-faced pilgrims on one leg of their journey.  Even though the physical territory that we cover is the same, our intent is very different.  Most of them are walking to earn their way into the graces of the gods.  We are walking secure in our relationship with Jesus Christ.  And we are walking to pray for the salvation of these who, in serving false gods, have become as blind as the gods themselves.

At one point many of them stopped to prostrate themselves again before a wall of Buddhas drawn on or engraved in stone.  Ignoring the constraints of their aging bodies, many elderly women repeatedly kneel down and with palms outstretched, slide face down until they were lying flat on the ground.  After a brief time, they then stand erect before repeating the motion again and again.  We are told that some of the women continue that for hours and even days on end.

As we observe the painful rituals, we are struck again by the beauty of the people, the sweetness of their countenances, and yet the hopelessness of those who have not received Christ into their hearts.  A friend voices a prayer that really strikes me.  “Father, help them to know that every step they take is taking them further from you. . . .”

Visiting the Jokhang Temple soon thereafter, we are struck by the throngs of people and the abundance of idols.  Chinese dollar notes too numerous to even imagine are plastered onto glass encasings protecting the gods, or squeezed into offering boxes.  As we walk through the buildings of this so-called center of Tibetan spirituality, we struggle to stand upright.  Many of the worshippers have rendered offerings of yak butter and droppings of the butter smear the floors, the stairs, and the handrails.

Seeking to see the Tibetan people through the eyes of God, we sense some of the Father’s great grief over their lostness, and also sense His desire that each of them will come to know Him.  One of us says, “How sad to think that they have spent their lives endlessly performing rituals to earn merit when the love, mercy, and peace that passes all understanding is offered freely through Jesus Christ.” 

In the end, Lhasa is not at all the Shangri-la that it is purported to be, a remote imaginary place where life approaches perfection.  Lhasa is very real and very spiritually dark; and its 200,000 people are very much in danger of never entering God’s Kingdom. 

God’s love compels us to impact that darkness so that the Tibetan people living on the top of the world will not one day be shut out of heaven because they not heard of Christ’s saving love.

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