javen.bear.

my theory of everything

This is a story and my theory of everything – we all have one.

This past weekend I went to Ohio for a wedding. After the singing, vowing, eating, and dancing were over, we went to The Book Loft in downtown Columbus. It had several floors and dozens of rooms with books on every subject imaginable. You could get lost in there (I did). There was so much to look at that it felt like you could never stare long enough to take it all in. But as we walked down a narrow hallway away from the history of the American military, I noticed a certain painting hanging on the wall. I knew within five seconds of seeing it that I had to have it. It made perfect sense. It was as if Leonid Afremov had listened to me explain the way I see the world and then put it on canvas. He calls it Bewitched Park.

We traveled back home after a wonderful weekend, and I brought the painting into my room. Instead of dropping $25 on a frame, I decided to just try and make one. As per usual, Grandpa left his shop unlocked and said I could use whatever I could find. So Aleisha and I cut and planed and glued and guessed for about two hours and emerged with a wooden frame.

While we were hanging it in my room, she asked why I liked the painting, why I had to have it. I didn’t have a very good answer immediately. But this is why.

I spent a lot of my life believing that when I was a good boy, things went well for me – and that when I was bad, things went poorly.

That when I make good choices, God lets me feel good inside – and when I make bad choices, God makes me feel bad inside.

That if I could be faithful, I could feel close to God – and if I strayed away, I wouldn’t feel his presence anymore.

I kind of believed that the good way was a straight (narrow) path illuminated by the light. As long as you stay on the path God has laid out, the light will shine on you, you’ll have peace, and you’ll feel close to God. The last two years have been a long series of un-learning this way of thinking. I have come to believe that I am the man with a black umbrella plodding through Bewitched Park.

I had to have this painting because the path cutting through Bewitched Park looks more like the one I’m on than the one I used to believe in, the one where if we walk straight we get shined on all the time. I had to have this painting because the man in the painting has to use an umbrella to keep from getting soaked in the rain.

Two years ago, my explanation for the darkness I felt was something like I must have strayed from the path. Now, I’m coming to believe that I don’t get too much a say in how bright things are along the way – I must choose only to keep walking and pray for the light. When the way goes through open fields, I run. When I feel peace inside, I thank God. When the light shines on me, I feel alive inside and smile.

And when the way goes into the dark woods, I can only say, It’s dark as hell out here. But I see no way through these woods except this road. I do not control the sun, and I didn’t plant these giant trees blocking out all the light. I am anxious, afraid, paralyzed, and lonely. But I will wait for the light and walk on, ducking down under my black umbrella.

My theory of everything is that we ought to dance in the light and walk through the dark with the knowledge that we cannot reach the light-switch. If you are warmed by the light, you ought to give someone a hug. If you are cold in the dark, you should reach out your arms. In Bewitched Park, you’re never too far from the bright lights shining to the left or the dark woods looming to the right. And the path through one usually leads to the other.

I have decided that in the dark woods or in the bright light, faith is what’s required of me. Faith and walking on. I’ve lived in fear for too long.

—

We are crooked souls trying to stay up straight,

Dry eyes in the pouring rain, yeah well,

The shadow proves the sunshine, the shadow proves the sunshine,

(Switchfoot)

—

toccoa falls college (and what’s up)

At the beginning of 2019, I transferred from Tri-County Technical College (which is near Clemson University) to Toccoa Falls College (which is in Georgia). TFC is a four-year, Christian, liberal arts college in Toccoa, Georgia.

the guy on this rock got engaged like 15 minutes after I walked away.

I transferred in as a second semester sophomore and am planning to double major in Mass-Media Communications and Biblical Studies. At TFC, every major offered is supplemented with a required minor in Biblical Studies (30 hours), so I’ll only need to add about two classes to get the double major – i.e. two degrees for the price of one.

TFC has an attendance of about 1500 students, so it’s a fairly small school. This creates a really unique atmosphere where everyone kind of knows each other. Campus is not overly fancy or glorious, but it is really nice – it feels friendly. A lot of the groundskeeing is done by students, the parking lot is small and never full, you can get hot tea in the coffee shop for $1, all my professors know me by name – I guess it feels welcoming in a way that my last college didn’t. I love how every Wednesday at 10 a.m. everyone migrates to chapel. No classes are scheduled over this hour, and the college stops to worship together.

zchapel exodus — the mass exodus after chapel

My favorite thing about TFC is the people there. At my old school, unless you went to the cafe with someone, you were probably gonna eat alone. People walking past each other across campus didn’t really acknowledge one another. You could sit beside the same people in class for a whole semester and never really talk to them. It’s been really different here, and I’m really thankful for that. On one of my first days, before I knew anyone, some kids came up to me and invited me to eat lunch with them. Since then, I’ve made lots of great friends. Today, five of them drove to our house for Sunday lunch – it was a party. My family got to see who I hang out with, and my friends got my mom’s wonderful food instead of the campus cafe’s.

sunday better.jpg — Dante, Carrie, Kat, Reyvin, Ade (and Brandon and Trenton)

The smallness of the college also presents some challenges. The communications department has only two full-time professors and is located in the basement of the guys’ dorm building. The professor who will be teaching most of my classes is on sabbatical this semester, this means I had to take all Bible courses this semester and start major-focused classes in the fall.

I commute to school three days a week. A day for me usually looks like this:

—

8 a.m. – Arrive on campus and do homework in the coffee shop…or sleep in.

9 a.m. – Foundations of Spiritual Formation (with Professor Killian)

10 a.m. – Chapel on Wednesdays…discussion group otherwise

11 a.m. – Introduction to Old Testament (with Dr. Turner…my favorite class)

12 a.m. – Eat lunch in the cafeteria

1 p.m. – Introduction to New Testament (with Dr. Herringer)

2 p.m. – Introduction to Theology (with Dr. Vena)

3 p.m. – Come home…or do homework in the coffee shop

—

On Tuesdays, I usually go to a coffee shop called Brews on the Alley. This is my set time to catch up on class reading and homework. They play really good music and have a great tea selection. There’s a kid named Elijah who comes in with his mom on Tuesdays – he sometimes asks me to play chess with him. He’s five years old and incredibly bright.

And on Thursdays I work at Dienner’s Kitchen as a waiter. This is where I make money to buy gas and food and things like that.

And about a month ago, this girl agreed to go out with me. She lets me drive her places in my car and doesn’t get upset when I take wrong turns. She’s pretty cool.

And that is what’s up with me.

a better place

When it comes time to go to a funeral, as we all must – life isn’t just weddings you know, what do you say? Do you say, “She’s in a better place now”? I’ve said that before, and today has me wondering if it’s true.

I like asking people what they think we are, how (if) they compartmentalize being. Some people go crazy, they claim, “We’re body, soul, mind, heart, and spirit.” That’s never made any sense to me. The most I’ll consent to is two parts of being, body and soul. But I wouldn’t argue with you if you claimed we’re holistic, that we can’t be broken into parts. Maybe you’ve never cared or thought about it – but I think it matters when you go to a funeral.

If you think we are beings with parts (body, soul…), then you probably hold the Greek inspired view that when we die, we’re ripped apart. The body goes down into the grave, and the soul goes up to heaven (or down to hell). But if you think that we’re not beings who can be broken into parts, then maybe you aren’t so sure about “going to a better place.” I haven’t come to much conclusion, and here is why.

If we are two parts (or more), then why is it necessary for Christ to raise us up on the last day? If our soul, apart from our physical body, goes to the good place when we die, then what are we waiting for? Why do we need to be made new? Paul tells us, “the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.”

But if we are one part, then maybe when we die, we don’t “fly high” – maybe heaven does not “gain another angel.” Maybe our being, our whole self descends into the grave inside a casket. And maybe our loved ones console each other not with, “She’s in a better place” but with “Christ will raise her up again.” Just as Jesus laid in a tomb, heart unbeating, breath unbreathing, and then was raised up to new life and glorification, maybe we go down into the earth, dying in faith that he will not leave us there forever. Maybe Christ is called the firstborn from among the dead because we too will be born up out of the earth.

I haven’t decided, but I think I like that second view better – that he will raise me up. It helps me believe that my present darkness is not forever, that if from this earth I go down into hell, into darkness, even into death, I go down in hope that Christ will raise me up again. The one who himself laid lifeless in the dark will shine on me, breathe in me, raise me up, and pull me out.

“Do not gloat over me, my enemy! Though I have fallen, I will rise. Though I sit in darkness, the Lord will be my light…He will bring me out into the light.” (Micah 7).

—

Universal Basic Income: a conversation

The other day my good friend Andrew Martin told me to check out Andrew Yang, a 2020 presidential candidate. Martin is someone with whom I love talking politics and all things abstract. He’s great at helping me understand ideas, and he’s currently attending Clemson University to become an structural engineer. Tonight we sat down and talked about what makes Yang such an interesting candidate – specifically his idea of the government giving every American $1000 per month.

In our conversation we hash out the pros and cons of the UBI, and Andrew tells me who he’ll be voting for in the next election.

Songs for the Springtime -Side B-

Here is the second set of songs. Whereas most of the (side A) songs were written for friends, the songs on this side are pointed a bit more inward. Some came from watching a film (I wrote “Between my Hands” after watching Manchester by the Sea) or a documentary (“Numb” was written after watching Child of Rage – a horrifying documentary about a little girl with no trace of empathy, conscience, or remorse for hurting others).

These songs all mean something to me – and I hope that you enjoy them. All the lyrics are posted at the bottom.

– tracks –

(6.) The Sun Comes Up

(7.) Between My Hands

(8.) Clarity

(9.) Numb

(10.) Springtime

– lyrics –

Click on these words to view side B lyrics.

a poem for the prophets

In two of the classes I’m enrolled in, I am subjected to weekly, online discussions in the class forums. It’s a sort of underground where faceless accounts trade ideas down the lines of comment threads. Last week, a discussion topic got rolling about whether or not our society is “too far gone”, corrupted beyond hope of repair. It went like this,

Lots of our entertainment is so bad today, and we just pass it off as normal. It is obviously not just entertainment. . .almost everything you come across in the world has some sort of bad twist to it. What do you think we can do to change this? Do you think it is just too far gone? It may be.

And I added a comment on the thread about how I disagree – that I don’t think this old country is so bad as all that. At youth tonight we were talking about personality types, and one of the characteristics of us INFPs is idealism. So perhaps people like me are just turning a blind eye to our downward spiral and impending moral doom – but I don’t think so. And a few months ago, after watching some friends get baptized on a beautiful day, I wrote these lines below. I wrote it at the head-shaking prophets lamenting our plight. I don’t buy it – but I’m just an idealist after all.

cheers.

Communion

“Communion”

They’re all coming up the aisle eagerly,

Red dress, navy shirt,

Blue blouse, black skirt,

Sisters – brothers – saints – neighbors,

—

And the music plays:

“I dare not trust the sweetest frame,

But wholly trust in Jesus’ name,”

—

An old man slowly staggers toward the bread and wine,

Then the young girls who sit together in groups,

And the boys with their slumped shoulders,

Doing this in remembrance of the master,

—

And the music plays:

“Christ alone, cornerstone,

Weak made strong in the Savior’s love,”

—

The carpenter comes beside his wife,

The teacher walks behind the student,

A deacon follows the worship leader,

A secretary leads a counselor,

—

And the music plays:

“Through the storm, He is Lord,

Lord of all,”

—

A man brushes by my sleeve,

He lied to me once,

Out of the corner of my eye I see an old friend,

I wish I could take back my sins against him,

—

And the music plays:

“My hope is built on nothing less,

Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness,”

—

And the children of God are coming still,

Everyone, from the greatest to the least,

All are fed from the same table,

They take the bread, the broken body,

They take the wine, the blood on Christ,

All are heirs to the same King,

—

He told them, “Do this in remembrance of me,”

So they’ll keep on coming down the aisle,

And keep on taking the bread and wine,

Until one day, coming – coming,

They’ll go to sleep inside their city,

And wake up on the streets of gold,

—

And the music plays:

“When he shall come, with trumpet sound,

Oh may I then in him be found,

Dressed in his righteousness alone,

Faultless to stand before the throne,”

—

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

—

Songs for the Springtime -side A-

I am pleased to present to you, good friends, the top side of this collection of demos. These first five songs (side A) were all written for people right around me. *use headphones.

Rambling Anthems: Volume Two – Songs for the Springtime

—

if the Lord should tarry,

let the springtime come,

—

– tracks –

(1.) April

(2.) God Bless Us All

(3.) For the Sleeper

(4.) Pull for You

(5.) Stay

– lyrics –

Click on these words to view lyrics.

cheers.

Another Year and Some New Songs

And about once a year I fill up a notebook. By the end, it’ll have pages and pages of random lyrics, choruses, and unfinished songs. But there are always a few actual, coherent pieces I deem worthy of making into a demo with a recording mic or my phone. After I filled up the second book, I made a sort of album (called “Rambling Anthems”) out of the demos.

I have come to the end of book three, and I’ve decided to post the recordings here. Otherwise, they’ll forever sit in a folder on my computer called “songs”. There’s a line in ““The Sounds of Silence” – Simon and Garfunkel” that goes,

And in the naked light I saw, ten thousand people maybe more,

People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening,

People writing songs that voices never shared, cause no one dared,

Disturb the sounds of silence,

—

I think that on some level, if you’re making things, you need to share them with people – lest you become part of Paul Simon’s restless nightmare.

All of these songs have a very rough quality. It sounds like someone wrote something, then sat down in front of a mic plugged into a laptop and played it – cause that’s exactly what happened.

This first song is one that I did not write. It’s a cover of “Ryan’s Song” which is written in “Boyhood”, my second favorite movie of all time. I encourage you to listen to that version by clicking on these words. I’m still finishing up the uploads – the rest of the songs will be posted before too long. You can click on the *follow button to make sure you get an email when they’re posted.

*like most everything in life, it’s better with headphones.

“Ryan’s Song”

Well, I want for us to be together forever, But to wander wherever I may,

I want you to be easy and casual, But still demand I stay,

I want for you to know me completely, But still remain mysterious,

Consider everything deeply, But still remain fearless,

Climb to the top, look over the ledge,

Dance barefoot on a razor’s edge,

Reach for the stars, grab the tiger by the tail,

If I don’t try, I’ll never fail,

If you go home, you’re rolling the dice, Can’t step in the same river twice,

If you love too much, it’ll turn to hate,

If you never leave home, you’ll never be late,

If you eat too much, you’re gonna get fat,

If you buy a dog, you’ll piss off your cat,

Take a deep breath and enjoy the ride,

Cause arrivals and departures run side by side,

—

Wine and Ball and Rock n Roll

I’m about half-way through Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises,” a novel from which I’ve gathered, if nothing else, that the French sure like their wine. They’ll stop twice for drinks on the way to dinner where they’ll drink again before heading to a drinking party. They speak a language of wine and liturgically share the communion of smashed grapes as a fundamental part of their lives. I was in Florida for the past week, and I’ve noticed how fundamental these shared communions are in holding us up –- binding us together.

Pinecraft, in Sarasota Florida, is a very unique place. You have hundreds, probably thousands, of very conservative Christians coming together in a very specific location every winter. One of my friends observed that it’s borderline cultish. Throughout the rest of the year, these people live within their communities as a very small minority in the country. You’ve got little pockets of people living, dressing, and existing in a way the nation as a whole finds very strange. Heck, I find it pretty strange. But then for a week or a month, they congregate into a new society, one where they’ve built the institutions and run them, where the world operates on their terms. They are no longer minorities but princes and citizens in a kingdom of about 10 sq. miles. An Amish boy walks down the street or sits in the bleachers wearing homemade clothes and rocking a bowl cut over crocks –- but now so is mostly everyone else. Temporary solidarity.

I think it’s something of an escape, but I don’t think that it’s wrong…I go down there every year. I think it’s a quaint little vision of heaven on earth. Still, whenever you have hundreds and thousands of people sharing time and space, there are necessarily differences and uniqueness. So then emerges these shared languages that I’ve seen.

*Wine

After arriving in this pseudo promised land, I realize the air-chuck fittings on my bike’s flat tires were missing. So on Thursday I rolled it over to the driveway where a sign proclaimed “Bike rentals and repairs.” Inside the garage, which had been converted into a workshop, I found Sam and three other Amish people watching him work on a three-wheeler. Sam aired up my tires and then said my wheel bearing was loose and tightened it up too. I had figured on being there about two minutes instead of twelve, so I hadn’t even brought my wallet. (I also hadn’t asked him to tighten the bearing.) I shook his hand and peddled happily away. That night about 12:30 a.m., inspired by Hemmingway’s characters in the book, I left a thank-you note taped to a bottle of sparkling apple-cider on his front step. I chose Martinelli’s sparkling over money because that stuff is amazing regardless of what you believe about righteousness – and because I was humored by the idea of an Amish man opening his door to find a bottle that looked like wine. Money is perhaps the commonest of languages, and I could have left that. But it’s so tasteless. Gifting rich people with money is like paying a mechanic with a wrench – the only thing in the world he obviously doesn’t need from you. But a bottle of bubbly…

*Ball.

Sam fixed my bike in the afternoon. That night I peddled down to the park where the locals congregate until precisely 9:38 p.m. when someone turns off the lights and kills the party. I stopped by the basketball court and saw something wonderful and hilarious. It was a game of half-court, three on three. They were kids about 12 – 15 years old. But there, as one of the six, was an Amish man. He was probably 60 years old with a full beard, homemade pants, suspenders, and a green shirt –- ballin’ out. They weren’t talking much, only battling for position, raising their arms to call for the ball, driving to the basket, squaring their hips to defend, rebounding, laying it back up off the glass. And this old guy was holding his own. Sports are sets rules and objectives where very little verbal language is required, and it doesn’t matter what anyone looks like if they can pull their weight, do their job, play their position. You don’t need to hold much in common to share something. And if three on three is that something, then you ought to play.

*Rock n Roll.

The reason my friends and I go to Florida is mainly for the outdoor volleyball tournament that happens every year. It is the mother of all Mennonite/Amish gatherings with about fifty teams and literally thousands of people – playing, watching, milling around. I played on a team called the volley-llamas and had never met four out of five of them. But everyone there has mutual friends. The night after the tournament, I found myself crammed in a tiny living room with about ten friends, new and old, from South Carolina, Indiana, and Missouri. And we rocked and rolled to every childhood song we could think of. I’m not talking about singing along; I mean raise the neighbors from their handcrafted furniture jamming. It was pretty much the best night I’ve had in a while.

It’s crazy how much music we share in common in spite of growing up thousands of miles apart. It’s transcendent. When someone played TobyMac’s “Lose My Soul” in that cracker-box living room, it wasn’t like singing along to a vaguely remembered tune. If you were born when we were born, that song is something that made you who you are. And somehow you know every phrase, MR. FRANKLIN STEP UP TO THE MIC SIR, even though you probably haven’t actually heard it in years. Music is powerful in that I already share something with the millions I’ve never met but who’ve heard and loved Coldplay or Maroon 5 or U2 or Springsteen or Fountains of Wayne or whatever.

It can be tempting to disassociate with people because they look or speak differently than you do. But as long as Walmart sells Martinelli’s sparkling cider, you can still leave it on doorsteps. Where two or more are gathered, you can play half-court basketball. And as long as “Lose My Soul” is available on Spotify, you can pretend to be Kirk Franklin alongside anyone born within ten years of you. These are simple, deep languages binding us together. In 2019, I hope to remember that we don’t have to hold much in common to share something. And if we can, we really ought to.

—