These are weird days in Metropolis.
Ever since my father passed away suddenly three weeks ago, there isn’t much about life that isn’t profoundly different; from the way the nighttime feels, to the tightening in my stomach whenever the phone rings, to the way I see my children.
I think differently, I sense time differently, and I look at the future differently as well.
But more than anything, the grief I’ve experienced since the loss of my dad, has led me to a clear and startling admission: I’m not a superhero.
For the past 16 years as a pastor, I’ve made a living saving people; of dramatically flying into the burning rubble of other’s lives, and coming out without a scratch, carrying the grateful mortals I’ve rescued… or so I thought.
OK, maybe I haven’t pictured myself in quite those grandiose terms, but I’ve certainly seen myself as a problem solver, a fixer, a leader.
I’ve prided myself on being professional, and excellent, and dependable, and like many in ministry, I’ve been the person others come to for help. If there’ve been bullets to outrun, trains to overpower, or tall buildings to leap over, I’ve been your man; or rather, your Super-man.
But then I ran into Kryptonite.
Ever since I learned of my father’s death, I’ve felt decidedly human; and been brought, both figuratively and literally, to my knees. I’ve found myself unable to focus, or stay engaged, or control my emotions… (just like an actual person).
For the first time, maybe ever, I’ve had to admit to others (and to myself), that I need the saving. And for the first time, I’ve taken the costume and the cape off, and stopped being so damn super.
It’s a pretty tough thing for any would-be hero to face weakness; to acknowledge when they’re reached the end of their strength; when they are broken, defeated.
I think many of you understand that. I think you’ve been wearing the costume for a while too, yourself.
OK, so maybe you’re not an overachieving pastor. Maybe you’re a superstar at work, or a perfectionist parent, or a superhuman spouse, or a school sports star, or an academic sensation.
Maybe you’ve gained some attention, or recognition, or reputation by being great at something, and ever since, you’ve become, on some level, in your own situation, a superhero.
Maybe you just find your identity and your worth through your pursuit of perfection.
Lots of us live with inflated perceptions of ourselves; straddled with unrealistic expectations and unreasonable goals, either from outside or from within, we strive and strain to keep it all together; to earn the accolades, to get the grade, to look the part, to get the prize, and to do everything short of saving the world.
And setting down the weight of the planet isn’t easy, once you’re convinced that you’re supposed to be carrying it; that it’s your job to keep it all up and spinning.
In fact, if you fancy yourself a superhero, most people will be content to hand you a costume, point you to a phone booth, and cheer you on.
If you’ve stumbled upon this post, and you’re exhausted from being superhuman, whether at home or school, or in your marriage, or at your job, please hear me: You can take off the costume.
We all have our Kryptonite, and we all reach the capacity of our power. We all find ourselves bruised and bloodied and beaten-up by this life, and yet, the great news, is that even then, we can endure. Only we don’t do it on our strength, or with our ability or charisma or intellect.
Sometimes we move forward, only as we are carried on the shoulders of others. I am learning this these days.
The past three weeks have been incredibly painful, but so freeing too. It’s a pretty powerful thing, to admit when you are powerless.
Maybe, like me, you’ll need to hit some traumatic turn in your road to realize all this, but I’m hoping not.
Perhaps you’ll see these words, as permission to be imperfect.; to not have it all together, to fail and fall and cry, and to be carried for a while.
I’m retiring from the superhero business, and I’m asking you to join me.
Ditch the spandex.
Welcome to humanity.
