To unpack those two descriptors, let’s begin by
noting that it’s probable many people who knew George never knew him by that
name. To the thousands of high school students and young Marine recruits whom
he pastored during a 32-year ministry career (many of whom grew into adults who
still looked to him affectionately as their pastor) he was “Bear.”
Bear was a champion in the normal sense of the word –
as a powerlifter – but in another sense as well. In ancient warfare, a “champion”
duel was sometimes used to determine the outcome of a battle while minimizing
bloodshed. Each side would put forward their best man, and the winner secured
victory for the whole army. (David and Goliath was a matchup between
champions.) Bear was that best man. You wanted him on your side, in everything:
praying for you, encouraging you, and – quite literally – protecting you. It
was probably that Marine instinct in him that he never abandoned an ally.
How many people did Bear know? The number is
uncountable. What seems certain, though, is that he knew nearly everyone who
knew him. Unlike some people who develop a following but remain personally
unknown, Bear seemed to have built his following one by one, on
the strength of his love for people. Don’t let the gruff voice or the powerful
build fool you: he had some of the best people
skills – because he had the softest heart. When you talked with Bear, he had a
way of making you feel like you were the most important person, like your
problem was the most important one at that moment, that your joke was
the funniest, your song was the greatest, your ministry effort the most amazing
thing…and he wasn’t just indulging you, wasn’t blowing smoke. If he was, he was
the greatest undiscovered actor in the world. No, Bear's interest was always
sincere.
Yes, he had the best people skills...and then –
sometimes he didn’t. He could be crass, irreverent and utterly hilarious. And
we loved him for it. He could put someone in their place if that was needed.
Things might come out of his mouth that you wouldn’t consider very
“pastor-like." He didn’t care. While many in ministry struggle with a
public persona that doesn’t reflect who they really are, Bear was 100% himself,
always. Who else could he be?
And he was a gem. And by that I mean that he was
simultaneously earthy and lustrous, the proverbial diamond-in-the-rough. He
carried an everyman sensibility and an otherworldly awe around in him, with no
apparent contradiction. Jesus was his thing. He believed in Him deeply. And his conviction combined with
his personality was a reassurance to those of us who suspected and hoped that
Christianity meant something different than just having good manners and being
passive. You met Bear and you knew it was possible both to be a man and to love
Jesus.
In my case, his reputation preceded him. When I
landed in California in 2005, for no apparent reason, with no apparent plan,
and at North Coast Calvary Chapel almost by chance, I was told: “Ask for Bear.”
Sometime around September, wrestling with troubling uncertainty about my
future, I walked up to him at a Sunday night service and said: “I need to talk to
someone, and I feel like it’s you.” Bear counseled me to stay put; that was the
beginning of a six-year friendship from which I now feel like I drew all the
benefit.
When I visited him at the hospital, I couldn’t avoid
thinking about what his death would mean, for himself and for his family and
the legions of admirers he would leave behind. For him, it meant the end
(though too soon) of a life well-lived. It meant he would step into heaven,
realizing in full the eternal life that had begun in him when Bear became a
Christian more than 30 years ago.
But if death has meaning, then life has to have meaning, too. Bear probably would summarized it in some memorable, pithy three-word phrase. Which three words, I can only guess. I’m not as succinct, so I’ll suggest several candidates, based on what I know of his life – all of which were clearly evident: Family. Loyalty. Faith. Sacrifice. Service. Strength. Youth. Compassion. Love.
I will miss seeing him in the familiar places – at
Wednesday staff meetings, backstage on Sunday nights. I’ll miss hearing that voice. This past weekend, I
half-expected to see him lumbering across the plaza. I felt empty when that
didn’t happen. I startled a couple of times when I glimpsed people with a similar build.
Most of all, though, I’ll miss him because Bear was
my go-to guy. I realize I’m among many
who would say this, but I felt like Bear was one of the few people who really got me. When I was near the boiling
point, or someone had really rubbed a nerve raw, or I had reached my last
straw, it was Bear who I'd seek out. Not because he’d salve the wounds always;
sometimes, he’d be very direct in setting you straight on faulty thinking. He
always seemed to know the right thing to say. If Bear was quick with advice,
it’s because he’d seen it all. (Thirty-two years of dealing with teenagers and
young adults and every relationship scenario imaginable will do that.) And even
apart from the crisis times, he was simply fun
to be around. You never felt like you had to impress him. He genuinely
thought your song, your program, your thing
was totally great. And he let you know it.
Yes, Bear is in heaven. Somehow that doesn’t make me
miss him less. Life will grind on, even if right now it seems appropriate that
it might stop for a while in honor of a guy who lived a life that was all about
everyone but himself. I’m sure I’ll meet others in the course of ministry who
affect me as profoundly. I hope so.
But for now, I need to talk to someone. Bear, I feel
like it’s you.
