Champion

Our community has lost a champion.

Usually when we use that word these days, we mean a winner. "Weeee are the Champions of the wooooorld..." "Remember when [team] won the championship?"

But in order to win, first you have to fight. And that is the older meaning of the word: a fighter.

A 'champion,' originally, was one who fought a solo battle against the foe, not just to win a trophy but to defend. To defend the honour of his monarch. To defend the rights of someone who couldn't fight for themselves. To defend the safety of someone who was being threatened.

Chance Brown was a champion who fought (not so much the monarch thing) with words.

I didn't know him well enough to call him 'friend.' But he and I had a lot in common. 

Our first significant conversation was when he was preparing the eulogy for a friend. I had more experience with that kind of thing, and we talked it through.

Since then I've run into him around town, walking alongside the same people I've been walking alongside. We've shared a mic at a panel discussion. He's taken a quick nap in the back pew of my church on a Sunday morning because it was a long, cold walk from the warming room to the next place of warmth and we were half-way between. 

Mostly I've listened from the cheap seats - listened to him as he championed people who needed his voice.

He was intelligent, funny, caring, friendly, strong.

He was what we would call in Christian circles a 'prophetic voice'--a pain in the neck for those in power. He spoke unwelcome truths. He argued for what was right. He sought out people who (he hoped) would listen. 

I can't picture him without a smile on his face. Mostly that knowing sideways smile that many of us develop over years of exposure to the world of homelessness. "'Nuff said... you get it."

Chance's death is going to hit our little community (and I don't mean the town, per se) pretty hard. How, exactly, we'll see in time. 

We don't expect champions to lose. But there is one battle we all lose in the end.

Knowing how our friend died leaves us with questions. Angry questions. And too often, in a situation like this one, we start looking for someone to blame.

Please don't.

You, reading this right now, might feel like you are to blame.

You are not.

None of us is to blame for this. But we are all responsible. Responsible for who we choose to be.

Sometimes, yeah... we need to take a deep breath and speak honestly to ourselves about the things we said or left unsaid, did or left undone. We all have things to learn about ourselves. God help us if we never do.

We are also responsible for what we do next. 

Not all of us are equipped or called to be a champion. But we are all equipped and called to be as kind as we are able. As generous as we are able. As empathetic as we are able.

Sometimes the best and most important thing we can do as ask for help.

To dial 988 for the Canadian Suicide Crisis Helpline.

To dial 800 668 6868 for the Kids Help Line.

Whoever you are, you are infinitely precious. Whoever you are, you are infinitely loved. Give someone a chance to tell you that, and to help you find hope.

Over the next few days, as word spreads of Chance's death, people will begin dealing with the shock. Because it really is one.

Our friend, our champion, is gone. But--at the risk of sounding trite--his spirit lives on. In his friends. In his co-conspirators of hope. In his co-workers. In the people who loved and respected him. 

As well, as a follower of Jesus, knowing that one day my own fight will end, I trust my Eternal Champion. My deep hope is that Chance met Jesus even at the end, and that when he fell, he was caught by everlasting hands.

Rest in peace, beloved champion. Beloved friend, beloved son, beloved partner, beloved dad.

Rest in peace, your battle is done.

Rest. In peace.

And thank you.