As a child I was infatuated with Superman. Actually, I don’t believe the word “infatuated” is strong enough to describe my fascination. “Obsession” is probably a far more accurate description of my captivation with the man of steel. I watched Superman on television, I watched Superman movies, and I read Superman comics. At times, I donned the must-have accessory of a bath towel around my neck as a cape and in my mind I became Superman. (It was really cool when I ran as fast as I could and made it flap in the breeze behind me.) This childhood fixation on Superman led to one of the most unusual (and painful) experiences from my upbringing.
Here’s what happened. When I was very young, my mom was a childcare provider for several children in our neighborhood. The incident I’m about to describe started brewing when one of the children under my mother’s care decided that he was going to take a ride in my beloved, pedal-powered, red fire engine with a silver bell on the fender. (For those who may be too young to remember, a pedal-powered car wasn’t propelled forward by pushing a single pedal in order to engage an electric motor – you actually had to work up a sweat to make the vehicle go.) I loved my fire engine. I loved it so much that I didn’t believe that anyone else should drive it. When I discovered that this hooligan absconded with my fire engine, a deep sense of righteous indignation rose from my inner being. It became clear to me that justice must be meted out with great severity and I was overcome with the realization that I was destined to be the instrument of wrath. In other words, I got so jealous that I started a fight.
My mom quickly intervened, but much to my astonishment and dismay, she was seemingly incapable of understanding the reasonableness of my legal position. After all, I was only defending what was mine! She did not agree. Instead of coming to my aid, she marched me inside to face the music for my selfishness and aggression. (For those who have been raised in the era of “time-outs,” that means I was about to get my hide tanned.)
I remember very little about the next few moments, (my mind has probably blocked out the horror of it all) but I do clearly recall the pivotal events that immediately followed my “attitude adjustment.” It was in those moments, forever frozen in time, that my enthrallment with Superman became my downfall. As my mom walked toward the door, I turned to her and with tears streaming down my cheeks I exclaimed, “That didn’t hurt me! I’m superman!” It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had chosen my words foolishly. She turned on her heels and round two commenced. It was then that I came to the sudden awareness that my mom was in cahoots with Lex Luthor and he had supplied her with a kryptonite belt. I learned an important lesson that day. I learned that denying my pain doesn’t make it hurt any less.
I can laugh about it now, but what’s not funny is how similar this story is to how we live our lives as Christians in America. It’s what I call “The Superman Syndrome.” There are far too many Christians (especially men) who think that there’s something wrong with them if they admit that they are hurting, so in the face of suffering they cry, “That didn’t hurt me!” Maybe we’re afraid of what others will think of us. Maybe we think that we’re being a burden. Maybe we believe that we’re supposed to handle it ourselves. There are dozens of excuses that we give as to why we pretend that we’re not hurting, but I think the most likely reason is simply that we don’t have a deep enough relationship with any of our godly friends to trust them with our pain. As a result, when someone asks how we’re doing, instead of being honest about the brokenness in our soul, we simply say, “I’m fine.” Or worse yet, we pretend that we’re really on top of things and say, “I’m blessed!” When we do that we insulate ourselves from the people God has placed in our lives and prevent them from giving us the love and encouragement we desperately need.
Experiencing pain is not a sign of weakness…it’s a sign of being human. That’s the thing about Superman – he’s not human. In fact, he doesn’t even exist. He’s nothing more than the figment of some creative individual’s imagination. The same could be said about Super-Christian. He doesn’t exist. We all hurt. We all need encouragement. We all need each other. So, if you’re hurting, take the risk of being honest with a godly friend. You’ll be surprised by the love and grace you'll find. If you’re playing the part of Super-Christian, my message to you is simple – it’s time to retire the cape.
