Ezekiel saw a hill... Can I climb that hill?

Who would have thought the grizzled Old Testament prophet Ezekiel would have the words of comfort I needed this morning? When I played the Game, the Bible fell open to Ezekiel 34:11-31 and an ancient writing became my soul’s breakfast, images to carry in my heart all day long. I read the passage in three different translations and each version added to my understanding.
Ezekiel, the bone dreamer, has a vision of sheep and shepherds that offers care and caution to the people who hear his words. He describes what the Lord God, our shepherd, will do and has done... I will feed them with good pasture... I will seek the lost and bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the crippled, and I will strengthen the weak... I will watch over those who have plenty and make sure they share (my translation). Our home, a secure place in the wilderness, on God’s hill, will be showered with blessings in season and we will not be afraid. "And they shall know that I, the Lord their God, am with them, and that they, the House of Israel, are my people, says the Lord God. And you are my sheep, the sheep of my pasture, and I am your God, says the Lord God."In this stage of my life, I long for that hill showered with blessings, a home that is not an institution or a building or a denomination or a country, but a resting place where all I need will be provided in season. I carry the soul scars from some of my temporary homes that collapsed while I was still under their roofs.
My faith in my government’s ability to make wise decisions began cracking the day Tim died and shattered the day we left Viet Nam. Thirty years later, I still carry the seeds of distrust, now full grown into kindly cynicism. I love my country and believe fiercely in our ideals but cannot abide the lies and deceit, the fat sheep who have prospered at the expense of the people without being held accountable. And now, more families feeling the anguish of death in a far away place, more public debate about the purpose and rightness of the war on terror, more rhetoric on both sides of the aisle, each convinced of the absolute justice of their position... and I remember and cannot forget that olive drab car turning into the driveway, the sinking feeling in the pit of my soul that solid ground was turning into quicksand.
My faith in my denomination as a safe place for Baptist Christians, regardless of our theological differences, started unraveling at a Convention where I stood and watched bus loads of people come in with one point of view, cast one vote for an elected office, get back on their busses and leave the rest of us behind sinking in the mudhole of anger, distrust and a holy war. No peaceful hill with showers of blessing could I find even though I stayed a Baptist for years to come. My denominational home was consumed in the wildfires of change and like the wild animals in California, I fled from the destroying force of fiery righteousness running over people like me.
I have belonged to ten different churches, all but one Baptist. They were different in theology, worship styles, size, mission action, calling, location and structure. Some were the grace full hills of blessing for me. One was my church home in name only. I gave myself and my family to the care of these institutions. Sunday School, Wednesday night prayer meetings and suppers, Sunday morning worship, mission trips, youth groups, deacon boards, choir and endless committees were the field of service for us as we lived out our commitment to the Church in our daily lives. Church was not an optional activity for us. It was a way of life, a witness to our belief in the power of God’s people to change the world, one person at a time. Two of those churches we left with grief and tears, one as a minister’s family and one as a member. Each of those communities gave us gifts and relationships that have endured even in the separation. Now I find myself once again feeling the ground beneath my feet shifting as I struggle with feelings of exile and misunderstanding in my present church home. I wait... I pray... I show up... I work... I weep.
Perhaps my friend Joe was right. I should get used to living in "no man’s land", the land of the in-between, since I don’t seem to fit comfortably on either side. I want both and, not either or... both grace and judgement... confession and forgiveness... buying olive trees for Palestine and mission trips to rebuild homes destroyed by nature... Bach and The Sweet By and By... God as father and mother... God beyond my understanding and God in my heart... church as safe haven for all God’s children and church as prophet for all God’s children. I’m asking for too much, aren’t I? Like Ezekiel, I’ll continue to dream dreams and work to make them come true. A hill, showered with blessings in season, level at the top with room for all to rest and graze and drink and sing praise to the Creator Shepherd , each in a different key (or in Diane’s case, her own unique key), loved and loving... Please, God, can I climb that hill soon?