Introduction

IF YOU READ this book and want someone to blame for it, waggle your finger at William Hanna and Joseph Barbera. It’s all their fault.

When I was a kid, I practically lived for Saturday morning cartoons. I’d leap out of bed, run to the TV room (my footie PJs slipping on the linoleum), flip on the television, and watch cartoons until my mom made me stop—and almost all of them were from Hanna-Barbera’s über-prolific (and ultra-cheap) animation studios. I loved ’em all, from Hong Kong Phooey to Speed Buggy to Captain Caveman and the Teen Angels.

But nothing could compare to the excellent awesomeness of Super Friends.

To my five-year-old self, Super Friends was the pinnacle of cartoon quality—Citizen Kane with Froot Loops commercials. I was mesmerized by these caped heroes and heroines: Superman with his super strength, super speed, and that super curly lock of hair on his forehead; Wonder Woman with her nifty Lasso of Truth and awesome Invisible Plane; Aquaman with his . . . um . . . well, okay, Aquaman’s ability to talk with fish and ride huge seahorses seemed a little impractical to me, even at age five. Really, how many diabolical crime sprees take place in large bodies of water?

And then, of course, there were Batman and Robin. Sure, they might not have had the outlandish super abilities their Justice League brethren did, but what they lacked in super strength, stealth planes, or the ability to talk with sea anemones, they made up for with technological savvy, clever wordplay, and sheer gumption. They made a great team. If you’re going to be trapped in an old gold mine or stranded on a faraway planet or thrown back in time by a gigantic space ray, it’s nice to have company.

It’s easy to see the appeal of these guys. For kids like me who could barely scoot a chair under a table, superheroes were the epitome of everything we wanted to be but weren’t: strong, brave, good, and strong. Powerful, too. Did I mention strong? No one would dare tell Superman when it was time to go to bed or force Batman to eat his veggies. And naturally, being the sort of boy who hated both bedtime and beets, it wasn’t long before I started slipping into superhero fanaticism. The first coloring book I remember having was themed around Batman’s brave exploits. I’d draw my own Super Friends stories. Every time I got together with my best friend, Terry, we’d shove rolled-up sock balls into our sleeves, tie towels around our necks, and zip around the backyard pretending to be Superman and Batman, righting imaginary wrongs and saving innocent stuffed animals wherever we might find them.

But every superhero experiences his share of adversity—especially those who are less than four feet tall and still a decade away from earning a driver’s license. There comes a time when they must face an adversary too big and too powerful for them to tackle. They must deal with a threat that causes even the strongest of superheroes to quake in their primary-colored boots.

I called mine, simply, “Daddy.”

The Boy Wonder and the Dad of Doom

My father didn’t send me to bed without my utility belt or take away my Bat Big Wheel. He went way beyond that. He told me that superheroes were bad. And then he said I couldn’t have anything to do with them anymore. It was like he pointed an anti-happiness ray gun at me and pulled the trigger.

Had I been up on real superhero lore back then (rather than just a steady diet of Super Friends), I might have interpreted my dad’s resistance to my heroic calling as a betrayal akin to Grecian tragedy. After all, my father was my hero—so strong he could carry me on his shoulders, so fast I could never get away from him when bath time came. He could talk like Mickey Mouse, tell jokes better than Tim Conway, and when the car battery died, he could push the car all by himself—with Mom and me in it. He was a fireman, for cryin’ out loud! Forget Batman: when I really thought about what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wanted to be my dad.

And there was a time when he seemed to share my keenness for superheroes. He incorporated them into my bedtime stories (at my request), helped me build a Superman model (okay, he built it for me), and one time even designed a big, flannel S that I could pin to my shirt.

But something happened to my dad—something took him over, body and soul—and my world was never quite the same.

That “something” was Jesus.

See, Jesus didn’t just gently ask my dad to “come, follow me.” It was like Jesus took him by the collar and hollered, “YOU’RE GONNA FOLLOW ME, BUDDY!” And my dad followed like paparazzi follow Lindsay Lohan. And he took the whole family with him.

It was tough, or so I hear. My mom was already a Christian, but her Presbyterian brand of faith was pretty traditional, full of a steady dose of hymns and potluck suppers. So when my dad started speaking in tongues and pouring wine down the sink, she didn’t have a great frame of reference for what was going on. And when my dad’s enthusiasm got us kicked out of our hometown church and ostracized by most of her friends, well, Mom was one loud “Hallelujah!” away from heading back home to her mother’s, taking me and my little sister with her.

I was still pretty young—about six or seven—so I was blessedly unaware of how close I was to growing up fatherless. All I knew was that we switched churches and I didn’t see Terry (who was Presbyterian) nearly as much. But the biggest, most cataclysmic change was that I wasn’t allowed to watch Super Friends anymore. My tiny collection of superhero comics and Colorforms sets disappeared. My solitary Batman record vanished. It was as if a big hunk of kryptonite had been dropped in my bedroom, dispelling all superheroes and sidekicks with nary a “fwooping” sound.

The whole superhero cleansing episode left me more bewildered than sad. My dad explained to me how I should have just one hero—Jesus—and while I didn’t really understand how anyone could ever confuse Jesus with Batman, I mostly moved on. I was thirty-five pounds of scrawniness with not even a batarang to my name. What else could I do?

Fast-forward thirtysomething years, and now I’ve written a book about Batman and Jesus. In it, I often mention them together, in the very same sentence (like this one)—which either completely refutes my father’s fears or absolutely confirms them.

My dad and I chuckle about those crazy days now, but the truth is he probably feels a smidge more guilt over the whole superhero cleansing thing than he should. Even with my love of superheroes still obviously intact, I can see where he was coming from. Here was a man trying to figure out what being “on fire for the Lord” should look like in real, everyday life. That’s not an easy thing for any of us to navigate, and it certainly wasn’t for my father, given that the Bible does not tell us explicitly how to view animated superheroes. Are they idols? Reflections of greater spiritual truths? Do they show kids that it’s good to stand up for what’s right and what you believe in, or do they teach that violence is the answer to almost any problem? These are pretty legitimate questions, I think—ones we’d do well to ask today, quite frankly. We shouldn’t accept anything this world offers without some thought. And, of course, my dad’s decision was complicated (as all these things tend to be) by not just who he was at the time, but how he was raised too.

Batman Baggage

When my dad was a kid, lots of folks were buzzing about how horrible comic books were for the juvenile mind—how violent and sexualized and inherently corrupting they were. The most obvious counterstrike against comics came with 1954’s Seduction of the Innocent by psychologist Fredric Wertham, who made the case that Superman was a fascist, Wonder Woman was into bondage, and Batman and Robin were gay lovers. But comics were of grave concern to parents and psychologists well before that, as a 1948 issue of the American Journal of Psychotherapy makes clear. Several psychologists participated in a symposium titled “The Psychopathology of Comic Books,” in which the new medium fared very poorly indeed.

“If there is only one violent picture per page—and there are usually more—every city child who was six years old in 1938 has by now absorbed an absolute minimum of eighteen thousand pictorial beatings, shootings, stranglings, blood-puddles and torturings-to-death, from comic books alone,” wrote Gerson Legman for the symposium. Lumping in the harmful influence of radio and movies, Legman said that “the effect—and there are those who think it has been a conscious intention—has been to raise up an entire generation of adolescents who have felt, thousands upon thousands of times, all the sensations and emotions of committing murder, except pulling the trigger.”

And in some ways, these cautious psychotherapists and parents were right: comic books were (and are) violent. They did (and do) feature some pretty sexually charged images. Critics would say they excuse vigilantism and posit that as long as you can beat up your adversary, everything is A-OK. And let’s be honest, I might even say that. I work for an organization that examines all sorts of secular media, from movies to video games, from a Christian point of view, and I’m constantly writing about how problematic depictions of sex and violence can be on young minds (and on old ones too). The images we see affect us in ways both overt and subtle, and we might not ever notice that these things are influencing us at all.

Modern superhero movies are all the more problematic. In my gig, I’m always called to be mindful of Philippians 4:8, which tells us all to concentrate on “what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable.” And while you could make an argument that Batman can often be noble and right and admirable, he also can be brutal and angry and not very admirable at all. And when you throw in the death-by-pencil stuff in The Dark Knight, the modern incarnation of the Batman universe simply doesn’t feel very Philippians-like.

And let’s not forget my dad’s primary concern, the whole issue of superheroes being a replacement for Christ. Maybe to some six-year-olds, Superman seems like a divine force—as cool as any angel and maybe even cooler than Jesus. After all, Superman can lift train engines, stop bullets, and fly. Jesus performed some neat miracles and all, but feeding five thousand people isn’t quite as dramatic as melting steel with your eyes! And then, even though Jesus is the Son of God, he allowed himself to die. As adults we see the significance of Christ’s sacrifice, but kids, without a firm grasp on the concepts of sin and grace but really familiar with the second-grade bully, long for a savior who can conk a few skulls. Even the disciples thought that’s what Jesus was going to do—right up to his crucifixion.

So if you’re reading this right now and questioning what business I have taking a dark, secular superhero and turning him into a Christian role model, let me stress that I get your concerns. I’ve thought through them and wrestled with them and prayed about them more than was strictly helpful.

And I’ve set them, gently and respectfully, aside.

Here’s why.

Something Super

I believe we can find evidence of God everywhere. We are his creation, after all, and who we are and what we do cannot help but carry his mark. From the loftiest mountain to the lowliest weed, everything around us bears his autograph. And as we are God’s most marvelous achievement, made in his own image, we’re inherently beautiful. We can’t help it. And so when we, in turn, create something—a mimicry of God’s own awesome act of creation—a bit of God’s life and love filters into what we mold and make, regardless of our intent.

Now, there’s a flip side to this. Just as we all trace our lineage to the mind of the Almighty, our creations are marred by the fallen world in which we live. Just as the spark of the divine is in everything, so is the taint of sin. As such, our most beautiful, our most holy of constructs are not free of the world’s sour corruption, the mark of the fall. Nothing escapes it. Nothing in this world is above it.

Which makes Gotham City, the world of Batman, so illustrative in many ways of our own failed and fallen realm. Gotham’s a dark place, full of shadow, corruption, and bad intentions. It’s not pure or pretty, and none of the people in it are free of sin’s taint. And yet underneath the grime and graffiti and dark forebode, there’s goodness, too. There are those who believe there’s a spark worth preserving in this desperate city. There are those who see the beauty underneath. They see the spirit of the city and believe it’s still possible, somehow, to redeem it.

Sure, Batman’s stomping grounds aren’t always “right” or “noble” or “admirable.” But neither was the world in which the apostle Paul lived back when he wrote to the Philippians. And neither is ours. We were collectively kicked out of paradise a long time ago, and perfect purity is as elusive as a unicorn carrying licorice whips. Every day, we’re exposed to the imperfect, the ugly, the reality of our fallen world and our frail natures.

But is there good to be found here? Yes. Even the stained world of Gotham still contains moments of nobility, purity, and loveliness. We can admire the admirable here; we can celebrate what’s right. We can concentrate on those aspects within the city’s gritty confines and perhaps uncover a spark of the divine in superherodom’s gloomiest character. We won’t find a substitute for Jesus, but we may find a servant—even if he doesn’t fully understand it and might not always act like it.

I hope to show that Batman followed something of a sacred call, even if he didn’t know exactly where that call came from. He found a special purpose, even if he didn’t know who placed that purpose in front of him. He’ll teach us a bit about goodness and God and our own conflicting natures, becoming an unwitting spiritual instructor. I believe we’re all a little like Batman, trying to find our way in a messed-up reality and yet knowing, deep in our being, that Someone thinks we’re special and that we can be special. Even as we plow through our very normal, non-superhero lives, we’re all called for a purpose we can hardly imagine.

Perhaps when all is said and done, Batman isn’t all that different from who my father was when I was six. Perhaps they’re simply men who, in spite of the odds and obstacles facing them—in spite of tempting the wrath of Gotham’s villains or the ire of a little boy—heard a different call and followed it the best they could.