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14. Superman in Church

"Superman in church! In church!" Sister Mary Justin in The Kryptonite Kid.

Everybody's gotta have a hobby, right? Even ministers. That's right, those champions of truth and sobriety, seemingly too holy to have a good time - even they need something to get away to, a Fortress of Solitude wherein they can enjoy themselves in some way. I'm a preacher and I'm certainly no different. As you know, my hobby is Superman.

We preachers often put our pastimes into our proclamation for the purpose of illustration (we're also fond of alliteration). If, for example, the minister likes to fish, he might compare a night he spent on the lake to the night Jesus' disciples fished on the Sea of Galilee. If the pastor is a sports fan, then his congregation will probably get to imagine Manute Bol, the tallest NBA player, in Goliath's armor. Most listeners will accept and appreciate such earthbound illustrations.

But what if it's Superman that revs up the Rev?

Years ago, I left an old rural congregation in northeastern Ohio to try my hand at planting a new church. I left on good terms. I left and people wept. Nobody seemed to remember what had happened just four years earlier - when Superman almost got me fired.

But, before I tell you about that little incident, let me back up to my earliest preaching days as a Bible college student. As a "preacher boy" (one of my Christian sub-culture's unofficial titles that I detest) and a fan, I'd been delighted to discover a link between the Man of Steel and the Messiah. Here's a wise father in the heavens sending his only son to earth to do battle with evil with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. "Say," exclaimed the young preacher to himself, "where have I heard this before?" This was a few years before the Chris Reeve blockbuster and the widely discussed Christ-connection that followed in its wake, so I guess you could say I was ahead of my time. Well, I couldn't wait to tell folks about that connection. In my KCC days, I preached here and there, now and then, invariably to rural congregations. Though the people who sat before me were solid, down-to-earth folks with little time or inclination for juvenile fantasies, they heard me out. They were agreeable. Anyway, I didn't speak of Superman all that often and I had no trouble to speak of.

During my first full-time pastorate in Illinois, the trend continued. Around Christmas, I broached the concept of "the benevolent alien," the being who comes from beyond to save us. Lots of pop culture characters fit that concept nicely, including Superman. I didn't always apply the Superman metaphor to Christ, but to Christians as well. One message I began with a brief review of the Adventures of Superman episode, Panic In The Sky. In that one, you might recall, earth was threatened by destruction and Superman had forgotten he was Superman! I segued into my thesis: The world needs us. Therefore, we must remember...

A) Our identity

B) Our ability.

Pretty neat, huh? The folks in that little town in Illinois thought so.

But, for various reasons, preachers move on. Eventually, the Robinsons moved to a new place in northeastern Ohio. There, the Strange Visitor from Another Planet didn't play so well. I don't think I mentioned him in that particular pulpit more than a few times a year. But, as we all know, Superman's very strong. A little of him goes a long way.

I group adult reaction to the character into two main categories: Amused and Exasperated. I guess the majority of folks in that northeastern Ohio congregation belonged to the first group. They didn't mind that I might compare Noah's pleading with his wicked neighbors before the Great Flood to Jor-El pleading with the Science Council to do something before Krypton exploded. To these folks, bless 'em, it was a novelty in the pulpit at best, an amusing foible of the preacher's at worst.

The second, smaller group, the Exasperated, was, well, exasperated. Though nobody actually gave me a reason then, I have a better grasp of the problem now. Some people are just uncomfortable with fantasy in the pulpit. Some worry when the Man of God takes off on any flight of fancy, caped or no. Where others might hear angel's wings, these hear only the buzzing of flies. They feel it their duty to cloak themselves in indignation. It grieves me to say it, but some of my Christian brethren seem to think the less imagination one possesses, the less capacity for wonder one displays, the more spiritual one is. If that's not what some believe, it's nevertheless the way some operate.

Having slipped and read the Gospels somewhere along the way, I always thought Jesus wanted his followers to be childlike. But I wouldn't lay the fault at the doorstep of the church alone. Many people can't seem to wait until the light of wonder dies in a child's eyes. Oh, why don't you grow up! I find this attitude not only worrisome, but unutterably sad.

In any event, what I was faced now was no fantasy, no careless product of wild imagination. No, my good friends, the undeniable fact was that I had been indicted. Never mind that I never told my people they should worship Superman, but God. Never mind that I never invited people to meet the Man of Steel but the Man of Galilee. The pulpit was no place for Superman. Case closed.

This was their problem. In keeping with a great Evangelical tradition, however, they didn't tell me their problem. That might've led to unpleasantness. So they told their friends. As near as I can tell, Superman bugged at least three influential families in the church. But I heard from none of these people directly. Instead, late one summer, the elders stunned me with a list of complaints they'd received, none of which I now remember - except for a beef about Superman.

Well, I was hurt and frustrated and, I confess, somewhat sore at those who'd take potshots at the preacher over something as innocent as Superman sermon illustrations. But I acquiesced. I made it a point to forget about Superman for a while - as I prepared sermons, at least. After all, my job was at stake!

Things went okay, or seemed to, for a couple months. Then I made the mistake of admonishing the choir for treating the director disrespectfully. One of those so admonished was, coincidentally, a lady who had no use for Superman. She was also an elder's wife, and I was accountable to the elders (Note to any young preachers reading this: The pastor who wishes to retain his pulpit should never criticize an elder's wife - to her face at least). The result was two months of tension, culminating in my resignation. The elders hadn't asked for it. So far as I can tell, I was in no danger of being fired. But I got tired of living in a pressure cooker with a magnifying glass for a lid!

On a Sunday morning in December, before I read my resignation from the pulpit, I delivered my sermon. I took no joy in resigning, believe me. And yet - confession time - as I prepared that message, I took perverse joy in reinserting the Man of Steel. Figuring "What the heck," I gleefully climaxed the message by recounting a scene from Superman: The Movie. I'd been talking about our need for a savior. I illustrated the point with Lois hanging onto a seatbelt from a stricken helicopter, hanging on for dear life, losing her grip. I told how she fell - and Superman caught her! I'll never forget how the church responded. They were into it! You know the line Lois has when Superman catches her: "You've got me? Who's got you?" I went to two fairly crowded showings of that movie on its release. I don't think I heard as big as laugh in the theatre in 1978 as I heard in that church house in 1989.

What a crime it was for me to push them off their pre-Christmas joy into post-resignation grief.

End of story? I thought so. At the time, I was under the impression the church was eager to see me go. In this I was quite mistaken. A firestorm of criticism swept the elders, though they'd never asked me to leave. As time went by, I discovered I really didn't want to leave. I met with these men on the first night of the New Year, 1990. All I'd planned on doing there was getting some things off my chest and clearing some air. When I walked into that meeting, I was leaving the church. When I walked out into the star spangled night, I wasn't leaving. I was staying. The following Sunday, the elders and I formed a line before the church. The first man took my letter of resignation and tore it in two. The next tore that in two. And so it went down the line until it came, a stack of small pieces, to me. I tore those in two. The congregation erupted. I'll tell you, friends, though I've worn the colors, though I've played the part, I've never soared through the clouds like Superman. But in that thrilling moment, I came pretty close.

Since then, I've folded up my phone booth and moved a couple more times. As the saying goes, wherever you go, there you are. I can no more refrain from mentioning Superman in church than I can God. At times, it's raised some eyebrows, evoked a sarcastic comment, but nothing like what I described above. I must admit, sometimes I've worried that this proclivity of mine has somehow detracted from what I'm really trying to communicate, i.e., truth. And yet, as Philips Brooks is famous (among preachers, at least) for saying, "Preaching is truth through personality." If I'm not flattering myself to say so, I like to think that, occasionally, flying out of the window of my personality, wrapped in an absurd circus costume, Truth might have flown right over some folks' heads.

What's more, as another preacher said, "For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things." Surely "all things" includes Superman.

Amen?

Don't miss the next thrill-packed episode: Flight to the North.

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