Bannerman: Faithfulness in the Bleachers

After the dark humor and existential panic of "The Lament of Desmond R.G. Underwood-Frederick IV," Steve Taylor shifts gears in the second track of Squint but he doesn’t ease up on the seriousness.

In "Bannerman," the crisis of mortality turns outward into a question of witness: how do you live publicly in a world that would rather you stay quiet?

On the surface, "Bannerman" tells the story of a man holding up a sign "John 3:16" at televised sporting events.

You’ve probably seen someone like him. Standing behind the net during a field goal. Holding a colorful homemade banner. Smiling into the camera. Braving the weather, security guards, and the general irritation of the crowd. He isn't glamorous. He isn't likely to change the world by sheer force of personality. But he knows the One who can.

Taylor paints the scene with affection and humor. Bannerman drinks clam chowder from a thermos at a freezing Buffalo football game. He sometimes gets hassled ("move along") but he never spells the verse wrong. He’s not discouraged by critics or cynics. Taylor mocks the naysayers lightly, suggesting that critics only "tow the line" and cynics "live to whine" or "navel-gaze." In contrast, Bannerman just keeps lifting his simple, awkward banner.

Theologically, "Bannerman" is a quiet but pointed defense of faithful witness.

In a media-saturated culture, where subtlety and irony are often prized over conviction, Bannerman's earnestness stands out, not because it's slick or strategic, but because it's faithful. He’s not embarrassed about believing in something bigger than himself. He’s not calculating his influence. He’s just holding up the Good News.

Taylor’s choice to focus on John 3:16, arguably the most famous and basic verse in evangelical Christianity, underlines the point. Bannerman isn’t offering philosophical sophistication. He’s offering hope, distilled into a single, familiar message:

"For God so loved the world..."

Musically, "Bannerman" is lighter and more melodic than the opening track, with a driving but almost playful energy. The chorus is infectious. There’s a hint of '90s jangle rock and a crispness to the instrumentation that mirrors the clear, uncomplicated nature of Bannerman’s witness. The song doesn’t rush; it strolls, much like Bannerman himself, patient and consistent in a cold and skeptical world.

As a follow-up to "Desmond," "Bannerman" widens the lens of Squint's themes. If "Desmond" reminds us that death comes for the self-absorbed and unprepared, "Bannerman" quietly encourages us to live our remaining days outwardly, boldly, and faithfully. Witness doesn't require sophistication; it requires courage and consistency. Even if the world rolls its eyes. Even if you get cold and hassled and ignored. You’re not called to change the world. You're called to hold up the sign.

Taylor doesn’t idolize Bannerman. He knows a banner at a football game isn’t a full theology. But he honors the impulse behind it: a stubborn refusal to be silenced about hope.

And perhaps in a cynical age, even a simple banner is a small rebellion, a stubborn squint toward the coming light.

In the next track, "Smug," Taylor will shift his focus again, this time taking sharp aim at the attitude of moral and spiritual superiority. If "Bannerman" celebrates the humble believer who witnesses in faith, "Smug" will confront the pride that can so easily infect even the most religious among us. The journey across Squint continues to deepen. But before we get there, "Bannerman" reminds us: Faithfulness rarely looks cool.

It often looks like a guy shivering in the bleachers, grinning at a TV camera, holding up a verse.

This post is part of my series walking through Steve Taylor’s album “Squint.” An album that still speaks to the absurdities of our culture contrasted by the grace being offered us.