Midlife Meditation

Earth’s crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees, takes off his shoes, The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries, And daub their natural faces unaware More and more, from the first similitude. --Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh, Book VII My father was a poet, from a family of poets. His generation of Andersons wrote many things in verse. At holidays and birthdays, gifts were usually accompanied with a bit of verse, written especially for the occasion and recited by the giver before unwrapping could commence. In my memory, these poems had an archaic quality to them, sounding very turn-of-the-twentieth-century; but it was the principle, more than the form, that mattered: giving thought to the significance of an event, a gift, a holiday, then translating that significance into couplets. However profound or mundane their own attempts at poetry might be, the Andersons appreciated the poetry of others. My father’s ...

Sunday morning in Fort Bragg, California, 1961: my mother, my father, and me. For 25 years, I heard my father answer the telephone with the greeting, "Pastor Elam." I loved this friendly, informal touch. In public settings, others would call him "Reverend Anderson," and I appreciated this, too: my father was a man of distinction who held an office worthy of respect. Once I began serving churches, I called myself "Pastor Mark," and encouraged others to dispense with the formality of "Reverend." But in my first church, a rural chapel in southern Illinois, I was called something else: "Preacher." I heard this from many of my parishioners, in the same way, now that I'm in a classroom, my students will often just call me "Teacher." At the end of that student pastorate, I returned to Oregon for a month, and shared with Dad the title my flock had called me by. He smiled sadly and told me he'd been wishing for his entir...

The Anderson, c. 1932 (from left): Victor, Elam Sr., Elam Jr., Colena, Frances. Elam Jonathan Anderson, Jr., was born July 8, 1926, in Shanghai, China. His parents, Elam Sr. and Colena, were American Baptist missionaries, sent to Shanghai to run a Chinese-American school. It was a turbulent time in China, with threats of violence both internal and external: the Empire of Japan would, in a few years, be invading and occupying the country, even as Maoists plotted a revolution that would transform China into the world's largest Communist country. Reading the signs of the times, Elam Sr. knew Americans would not be welcome in China much longer, and began working to hand over leadership of his school to indigenous people. This was met with resistance by the American Baptist mission board, so he left his post to found his own school, an academy that would be self-sufficient. In 1932, he was recruited by telegram to become president of Linfield College in McMinnville, Oregon. The And...

Elam J. Anderson July 8, 1926 – December 29, 2014 The Reverend Elam J. Anderson, 88, passed away on December 29, 2014, at his home in McMinnville, Oregon. Rev. Anderson was born on July 8, 1926 in Shanghai, China, the son of Elam and Colena Anderson, American Baptist missionaries. The family returned to the United States in 1932, living first in McMinnville, where his father served as president of Linfield College; then in Redlands, California, where Elam Anderson Sr. passed away during his presidency of Redlands University in 1944. Elam Jr. continued his studies at Redlands University, where he earned a Bachelor’s degree in physics. He studied graduate psychology at the University of Washington before enrolling at the Berkeley Baptist Divinity School, from which he received a Master of Divinity in 1952. He served American Baptist congregations in Oakland and San Jose, California, where he met his future wife, Jean Richard; and Fort Bragg, California. In 1964, Rev....

"I want an official Red Ryder carbine-action two hundred shot Range model BB gun!" "You'll shoot your eye out, kid!" Which is what he did: Though, to be accurate, what Ralphie really hit the first time he fired his precious BB gun was his glasses. Had he not been wearing them, he would've had to change his nickname to Popeye. Now that I've refreshed your memory of this beloved holiday classic, I'm going to unveil my own personal heresy, likely to send many of you flying to your keyboards in protest: I really don't care for A Christmas Story. (In a further effort to forestall the outcry from the hordes of people for whom this is the BEST MOVIE EVER and how DARE I not like it, hey, haters gonna hate. If it's that important to you to know that everyone in the world shares your taste is questionable entertainment, STOP READING NOW, before your feelings can be hurt; and before you fill up my comment boxes with righteous indignation, ...

First the grumblings: Tucson the city is like everything that's wrong with Portland's TV Highway--times ten. Yes, there's a quaint downtown with interesting shops, an arts district, and a few good places to eat. As soon as you've passed the rattlesnake pedestrian bridge, though, Tucson is nothing but mile after mile of unremitting suburban sprawl: strip malls, fast food franchises, car dealerships, and nothing to distinguish it from any other American metro monoculture. We came to Tucson hoping for some Southwestern flavor, Mexican influence, some sense of place. The neighborhood we're staying in has adobe-style houses, but apart from that, we might as well have stayed in Beaverton. And in case you're wondering, yeah, it really sucks to get sick on the first day of a vacation. But now on to the wonder. The main reason we chose Tucson for our winter vacation was the cactus. Tucson borders the Saguaro National Park, and is within daytrip distance of the ...

Three police officers were shot and killed last weekend. two in New York City, one in Florida. In the New York incident, the shooter then killed himself. The shooting may have been a reaction to the deaths of Eric Garner and Michael Brown. In the Florida shooting, the perpetrator is in custody; no word yet as to what motivated him. Spokespersons for police unions blamed politicians and protesters for the New York killings, insisting the cause was that too little has been done to defuse anger over the Brown and Garner killings, and suggesting that more stringent measures should have been taken to put down protests. If the context of these words wasn't so tragic, the sentiment expressed would be laughable. In fact, though, police daily put themselves on the front line between order and chaos, and from time to time, they die for their efforts. I propose a different interpretation, one that anyone who has read my blog in the past will find completely unsurprising: what ties these...