The Death of the Champion

There are many kinds of death. Some are better than others.

-Dr. Kelson

Death. We talk about it a lot. We hear the famous phrase “memento mori,” and remind ourselves that we must live with our own mortality. That’s not anything new, and it’s not what I want to talk about today. What I have been reflecting on lately, though, is a different kind of death. A kind that comes far before we pass from this world. It’s the death of the spirit. The de-vitalization of the soul. I’m talking about a far more brutal kind of death. Before I go any further, I want to warn you that I’m not going to be able to talk about this without taking a nosedive into the deep end of the spoiler-pool. If that bothers you, then you should go see this movie first. But I also won’t judge you if you don’t want to see this movie at all. It’s quite grizzly and crosses some lines that not everyone wants to see crossed. Either way, this is your “turn back now” sign. Proceed at your own risk. 

The death that I want to talk about today is the death of the champion. First of all, what exactly is the champion? The champion is he who believes he can conquer all. He’s the goliath that believes that anything and everything in his path can be stomped out with enough power. He believes that he either has, or should have, that power. A champion is basically one who believes that he is, or is on the path to, getting his own way 100% of the time. Omnipotence is planted deep within his heart, and it calls to him with every breath he takes. 

Spike starts out as a champion. If you saw the movie, you might find that sentence to be really weird. After all, Spike is a bit of a scaredy-cat. But remember: a champion isn’t the one who has the power, but the one who believes he should have it. During his first trip to the mainland, Spike feels like a failure because he couldn’t kill all the zombies in his path. He and his father had to retreat into a nearby building to escape an oncoming zombie horde. He breaks down in tears, apologizing to his father because he couldn’t fend off the wall of death that was falling upon them. It’s here that his dad offers him this lesson the first time. He encourages his son, telling him that he was far braver than even most full-grown men. It’s this courage that he needs to focus on. Spike hears this message again when he finally arrives home. He’s treated like a hero, but he doesn’t feel like one. The title feels like a lie to him. Why? He didn’t slay a thousand mighty warriors or demolish an angry horde. By the skin of his teeth he scraped by; running, ducking and hiding til he collapsed through the doors of safe haven. 

Not the tale of a mighty warrior. 

He questions his father, calling him a liar, and calls the entire story a fake. But something shifts in Spike as he comes home. He doesn’t fully realize it, but a certain “oomph” washes over him. He doesn’t become a mighty warrior because he can handle everything. No, he gains a different kind of superpower: the power of inoculation. He starts getting used to danger, and things maybe not going the way they ought to. Normally, we call this courage, but I want to look at it a little differently. You see, what happens to Spike is that he starts to see a world beyond death. He sees the tale beyond the failures. In short, he starts to look deeper.

And what he finds first is virtue. The things and people that he loves. He holds tightly to the world he holds dear, and goes out on a journey to be able to hold on to the world as he thinks it ought to be. He steps outside of safety, away from guaranteed survival, to try to change the world from what it is, to what it ought to be. He fights hard, clearly unafraid of the world that is out to kill him. And he does it all to make the world a better place. 

This is where the story gets dark, to the point where it’s almost too much to sit through. After a brutal, grueling journey of almost getting killed more times than he’d like, Spike finally reaches the man who he believes can help him. The man makes his best attempt to help, only to tell Spike that his mom will be dying of cancer. All hope is lost. 

Lost. Permanently. 

It’s hard for Spike to stomach the news, but the doctor walks him through it. He tells Spike that there are many kinds of death, and that they’re not all the same. This is the moment where Spike comes to grips with his own lack of power. He can’t save his mom. He can’t create his ideal world or fix the things that are broken. He can’t do it. He simply doesn’t have that kind of power. No one does. Not his dad, the village, or even the doctor. But in this moment, he isn’t told to accept defeat. He isn’t told to grow bitter, to abandon all that is good in this world, and to die. No, he is taught to remember the middle of the story. The parts of it that were good, fun and beautiful. He is taught to remember the good that drove him to fight so hard to save it. He’s offered a beautiful new phrase to remember:

Memento Amoris

Remember love. Remember the good, the in-between, the beautiful. Folks, if we let those setbacks, those defeats and those losses hold us down forever, it’s like we’re letting them win. When we stop loving because love once hurt, stop caring because caring once betrayed us, we give that pain the win. Instead, we ought to remember the good that we had, and dare to try again. It may hurt again, but we can’t let all that is good in the world die. We simply can’t do it. 

Make no mistake: I am fully aware that this is no easy task. The sting of loss lingers far longer than the stench of death. It wounds far deeper and holds us down far longer than anything else on this earth. It’s funny, I just heard a sermon today on how we’re supposed to put everything in God’s hands, letting Him put us back together. I like the sentiment, and I’m going to follow it myself, but I wish I had something that sounds a little less abstract. It’s not to say that I don’t believe in God–far from it! I just don’t like these intangible steps that don’t tell you what to do next. 

How about this one: we need to forgive ourselves for not having the power. When Spike learns that he can’t save his mom, the champion–that part of him that believes that he could, or should, get the job done, dies. Spike lays him to rest and embraces a version of himself that is courageous, but far more honest about his capabilities. It’s this version of himself that is able to truly explore the world. Not because he’s far more capable of stopping everything that crosses his path, but because he has accepted that he can’t win ‘em all. He knows when to run and when to fight. 

We need to lay our inner-champions down. We have to accept the fact that we won’t win every fight. Sometimes, loss will come. Pain will come. Hurt will come. But we can’t let that stop us in the long run. It’s funny, churches used to sing this one song growing up that talked about being “more than conquerors.” I used to be confused by the idea. It felt like little kids who were trying to one-up each other in their imaginary worlds. “Oh yeah? Well I’m bulletproof!” One would say. To which the other would respond, “oh yeah? Well, I’m rocket-proof!” Of course, it always ended with being everything-proof, but we still played the game time and time again. 

Now I think I get the idea of being more than a conqueror. A conqueror is the champion. The one who wins em all. He’s the star athlete who never loses a game. And while that’s an impressive feat, it’s nowhere near as impressive as the one who gets his butt kicked all the time and still finds a way to carry on. It’s the parent who loves their kid, even when they insist on heading down the wrong path. It’s the soldier who keeps on fighting, even when all hope seems lost. It’s the hopeless soul who refuses to end their life, even when it feels like it’s going nowhere. 

Once again, I don’t say these things lightly. These are tough fights. That’s where, I believe, God steps in. He’s not only the beacon, reminding us to keep those good things alive, but He’s the means to get to and through them as well. I wish with all my heart that this made things easy, but if this year has taught me anything, it’s that life is still harsh. Brutal winters and crippling storms await even the strongest of Christians, and soul-crushing hurt comes for every last one of us. A darkest night is waiting for every person, and everyone will, one day, feel like all hope is lost. 

I wish I could confidently tell you that everything will be hunky-dory because God will be there through it all, but saying that tastes like a lie. Not because God doesn’t want to see you through, but because I believe the champion still must die. This immortality complex, this belief that our will is guaranteed to come to pass is, tragically, a lie. And having that part of you shatter may jolly-well feel like attending your own funeral. But once you see the other side, you will find yourself a capable warrior. You will be ready, maybe even willing to venture out into the world, and to taste the deeper, truer beauties that lie just beyond. And it all starts with the death of the champion. 

Until Next time

May Peace be your Guide.