The Measure of a Noble: Lessons from MW Bro. Chris Batty
- trevor3861
- Oct 25
- 9 min read
Written By Trevor Eliott (Mr. Fancy Fez), Assistant Rabban, Al Shamal Shriners.
The Visit
I was sitting quietly in a chair inside the door of a room in the 5E Surgical Unit of the Misericordia Hospital, waiting for MW Bro. Chris Batty to return from his afternoon oxygen treatment. The hallway outside hummed with the rhythm of nurses’ shoes and rolling carts. It was a Saturday, and the staff were finishing up early, but even in the rush there was a calm professionalism in the air — the kind that comes from people who know their work matters.
After a few minutes, the doors swung open. The staff wheeled Chris in — wrapped in hospital linens, his head tilted slightly from the journey down the hall. As the bed came closer, I smiled and said softly, “Hi, Chris.”
He lifted his head, squinted for a second to see who it was, and then that unmistakable grin appeared. “Hello, Trevor,” he said, his voice warm but tired.
I waited behind the curtain while the nurses adjusted monitors and tucked in sheets, making sure he was comfortable. You could tell they liked him — every exchange carried that gentle banter reserved for patients who’ve earned the staff’s affection.
Then, once they’d finished fussing over him, Chris called out cheerfully, “It’s safe, Trevor — you can come over now.”
That one line broke the ice. It wasn’t just permission to step closer — it was an invitation into his world. And for the next two hours, that little hospital room became a classroom, a history book, and a master’s course in resilience, mentorship, and purpose.
A Life Rebuilt, Piece by Piece
From the moment I sat down, Chris started sharing stories — not as complaints, but as lessons carved from a lifetime of trial and triumph.
He told me about breaking his L3/S1 swinging a sledgehammer after graduation, and how one of his surgeries had been performed in Africa, where he was working at the time. Then came a burst appendix, a blocked carotid artery discovered while marathon training, and eventually a cascade of heart complications that would test anyone’s resolve.
At one point he said quietly, “I was twenty minutes from zero.” He wasn’t exaggerating. A pacemaker lead had punctured through his heart wall, filling his pericardium with blood until his heart began to drown. A surgeon saved his life by sliding a needle through his back and draining nearly two pop cans of blood from his chest cavity.
As he recounted it, his voice was steady — no dramatics, no self-pity. Just facts and gratitude. Even lying in a hospital bed, he was still the engineer: calm, rational, methodical. But behind the clinical tone was something deeper — a man who had looked at mortality, done the math, and decided that his remaining time would be spent teaching.
And that, I realized, is mentorship in its purest form. It’s not a program or a meeting; it’s a choice to keep giving, even when life has taken almost everything else.
Mentorship in Motion
Between stories of surgery and recovery, Chris talked about the Craft — the rhythm of Lodge life, the meaning behind the work, and the duty of a man who calls himself a Shriner.
He told me how he first joined Saskatchewan Lodge No. 92 right here in Edmonton, and how that decision changed his life. “They didn’t let you coast,” he said. “You either did the work, or you didn’t.”
Later, when his wife encouraged him to join the Shrine — her father had been one of the founding members of a Shrine Club — he brought that same ethic forward. He served, he learned, and eventually he led.
“Everybody wants to be on a committee,” he told me, “but nobody wants to write anything down." If you don’t record what happened, you condemn the next guy to start from scratch.
That single line stuck with me. Because mentorship isn’t just sharing advice — it’s leaving a trail others can follow. It’s building continuity so that the lessons, the systems, and the culture don’t have to be reinvented every time the fez changes heads.
Chris’ kind of mentorship doesn’t come with titles or applause. It comes with clarity, accountability, and the courage to tell the truth.
The Legacy of Accountability
Chris’s career as a professional engineer shaped his entire approach to leadership. He believed that sound decisions required both logic and moral accountability.
When he chaired the Masonic Higher Education Bursary Fund, its assets grew from about $600,000 to over $4 million. That didn’t happen by luck. It happened because he treated the fund with the same rigor he would any engineering project: clear inputs, transparent reporting, and consistent evaluation.
He told me, “When you make a decision as an engineer, you ask yourself two questions: Can I justify this to a judge? And can I justify it to my father?”
That’s mentorship distilled into purpose. It’s not about telling people what to do — it’s about showing them how to think.
When Grand Lodge later voted to sever its connection with the bursary, Chris shook his head in quiet disbelief. “Four million dollars just walked out the door,” he said, not in bitterness, but in sadness. “And with it went the lessons we could have passed on.”
That moment reminded me that mentorship isn’t just about sharing wisdom — it’s about guarding it. A mentor’s duty is to protect the integrity of the work, not just the memory of it.
Purpose Through Adversity
After all he’s endured, you’d think Chris might have stepped back from Masonic and Shrine life, content to rest on his honors as a Past Grand Master and long-time Noble. Instead, he remains deeply engaged — still thinking, still questioning, still caring.
He doesn’t mentor with sentiment; he mentors with truth. He challenges assumptions, asks hard questions, and expects others to do the same.
When I asked him what keeps him going through everything he’s faced, he smiled and said, “Well, I’ve had my share of bad luck, but I’ve had a lot of good luck too. I’m still here talking, aren’t I?”
That hit me harder than I expected. Because every Noble, at some point, wonders if what we’re doing still matters — if our time, energy, and heart make a difference. Chris’ answer was simple: as long as you can speak, you can serve.
Purpose doesn’t end when your body slows down. It just shifts — from doing to being, from action to example.
Mentorship We Don’t Talk About
There’s a kind of mentorship that doesn’t happen in official programs. It happens in conversations like this one — between a man in a hospital bed and a visitor who knows enough to keep quiet and listen.
Chris wasn’t lecturing me. He was teaching through reflection. Every story carried a lesson: not in theory, but in hard-earned truth.
He spoke candidly about the Shrine’s missteps — the land negotiations, the lost opportunities, the missing records. Not to complain, but to warn. “Too many people are making decisions about money and property who don’t understand either,” he said.
He wasn’t bitter; he was protective. Protective of the fraternity he loved, and of the future we’re all trying to build.
That’s when I understood: mentorship isn’t just about guiding the next generation — it’s about guarding the heart of the institution. It’s stewardship.
Why This Matters Now
Our fraternity stands at a crossroads. We talk about declining membership, visibility, and modernization, but beneath all those challenges lies a deeper issue: Are we still passing on the heart of the Shrine?
When I left Chris’s room that night, I thought about how many men like him exist quietly across our jurisdiction — men with fifty years of experience, holding knowledge that could transform how we lead if only someone would ask.
We can’t afford to let that wisdom die with them. Because when mentorship fades, purpose fades with it.
Younger Nobles don’t just need ceremonies — they need context. They need to understand why we do what we do. And that understanding doesn’t come from a manual. It comes from men like Chris, who lived it.
If we truly want to reignite our temples and attract new Nobles, we have to rebuild the bridges between generations. Mentorship is the structure on which every other pillar of our fraternity rests.
From Bedside to Boardroom
Driving home that evening, I kept thinking about how the Shrine mirrors the human body. Energy is the blood. Mentorship is the connective tissue. Visibility is the skin that lets the world see who we are. And purpose is the heartbeat that keeps it all alive.
When one system weakens, the others strain to compensate. But when mentorship fails, everything slows — enthusiasm, clarity, direction.
Chris’ story reminded me that leadership isn’t replaced; it’s relayed. Just as he once took the baton from those before him, it’s now our turn to carry it forward with the same integrity and care.
Practical Lessons for Nobles
Visit Before You’re Needed. Don’t wait for illness or loss to connect with senior members. Every visit is an opportunity to learn and to honor the path that built ours.
Document the Wisdom. Record oral histories, capture photos, or write short biographies. The next generation deserves to know whose shoulders they’re standing on.
Pair Purpose with Action. Purpose isn’t found in endless meetings; it’s found in meaning. Bring back projects that unite hearts, not just fill calendars.
Ask “Why,” Not Just “What.” When a Noble shares a story about “how we used to do things,” listen for why they did it that way. The reason often carries more value than the rule.
Mentor Across Generations. It's not just older teaching younger. Every Noble, no matter his years, has something to give. Encourage mutual learning.
Guard the Heart. As Chris reminded me, our duty isn’t to protect our egos — it’s to protect the mission. The Shrine exists to serve children and families. Everything else is secondary.
The EMVP Connection
Though this chapter focuses on Mentorship and Purpose, Chris’ story reflects all four pillars of the EMVP framework:
Energy: His resilience after countless surgeries reminds us that enthusiasm isn’t about age — it’s about will.
Mentorship: His insistence on accountability and documentation models mentorship as structure, not sentiment.
Visibility: When we share stories like his, we humanize the fez and show the world what the Shrine truly represents.
Purpose: His quiet belief that “as long as I’m still here talking, I can still serve” is the essence of why we exist.
A Legacy Worth Guarding
Before I left, I asked Chris what message he wanted shared with the Brethren. He thought for a moment, then said, “Tell them I’m recovering well and that I’ll be home soon." But what he was really saying was — tell them to look after the young ones. Make sure they understand what this is really about.
Looking after the young ones doesn’t just mean recruitment. It means helping them find meaning. It means showing them that the fez isn’t an accessory — it’s a symbol of responsibility, charity, and brotherhood.
The heartbeat of the Shrine has always depended on that exchange — one generation breathing purpose into the next.
Reflection Questions
Who is the “Chris Batty” in your Temple or Unit — the quiet pillar of wisdom whose story deserves to be heard?
What part of your Shrine experience gives you purpose beyond titles or events?
How can your club or unit create a culture where mentorship happens naturally, not just formally?
Take these questions to your next meeting, your next event, or your next coffee chat. Let them start conversations that matter.
The Call to Carry On
As I left the hospital that night, the hallway lights had dimmed. Nurses moved quietly between rooms, and I could still hear Chris talking with one of them — likely asking about the efficiency of the oxygen system. Even in recovery, he was mentoring someone.
That image has stayed with me: a Past Grand Master, a lifelong Noble, still teaching, still guiding, still giving.
We sometimes think the heartbeat of our fraternity depends on new programs or fresh slogans. But it’s moments like that — one man teaching by example, one story at a time — that keep it alive.
If we want to reignite the heartbeat of the Shrine, we don’t need to reinvent the wheel. We just need to listen — to the wisdom of those who came before us, and to the quiet voices still teaching from hospital beds and lodge halls alike.
Because somewhere, a Brother like Chris is waiting — not for recognition, but for someone to ask, “Tell me how you kept the faith.”
And when we do, the heartbeat quickens again.
Closing Thought: Mentorship keeps the flame alive; purpose gives it direction. Together, they make the Shrine not just a fraternity, but a family that never stops teaching, never stops caring, and never stops believing in the next generation of Nobles.
Emotionally touching!…my Bro. and devoted Noble, has certainly portrayed the true format of integrity, resilience, passion, and love for his fellow human-beings.