Every day after school I would hurry home to watch re-runs of George Reeves as Superman on our black and white TV. I couldn’t remember all the state capitals (is Pierre the capital of North Dakota or is it South Dakota?) but I had memorized the opening narration of those Superman episodes. I knew that Superman was ‘faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.” He was a “strange visitor from another planet, who came to Earth with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men.”
Long before there were Close Encounters of the Third Kind or before E.T. was racking up interstellar long-distance phone bills, I was being entertained daily by the portrayal of an alien invasion. But this alien was as prosaic as Clark Kent. Even when he tore off his glasses and high-tailed it to a phone booth to re-appear as Superman, he still seemed more familiar than alien. He was not like the little green men portrayed in comic books or described by those who reported close encounters with alien life.
Although I treasured that cheesy 1950’s iteration of the comic book hero, exposure to that particular alien has not been without peril, and I don’t mean only the occasions when outfitted with a towel for a cape I failed to go up, up, and away and instead went down with a painful thud. The Superman myth did what myths are supposed to do; it shaped my way of thinking. Its story created a template for understanding rescue (or salvation) as something that comes from ‘out there’, delivered by a powerful benevolent alien.
The Superman myth got stirred into the story of Christmas in my young mind. I suspect I’m not the only one who has thought of the babe in the manger as the ultimate Clark Kent disguise for the powerful Alien who has come to rescue us.
As attractive as that story is in some ways, it is not the narrative of the Incarnation. Christmas is not the story of God swooping to earth in a human disguise to rescue humanity like Jimmy Olsen and Lois Lane before ascending back into the sky, although you could make the case that the stories are remarkably similar.
But the differences matter.
For one thing, the baby whose birth we are about to celebrate is not a disguise for a powerful visitor who could abandon his swaddling clothes in the nearest phone booth on the streets of Bethlehem and reveal himself as “Super Jesus.” According to the faith, the experience of God in Christ was authentically human. This means his weakness, dependence, and vulnerability were real, not a disguise. Christians believe that Jesus was not an alien encounter, but one of us, like us in every way.
More importantly, the divine visitation in Jesus is not a last-minute emergency intervention for humanity. Jesus is neither an alien presence nor a hero who the Coach sends in during the last seconds of the game to make the clutch play that rescues the home team from defeat.
The God revealed in Jesus is not a late comer to the party or a last-minute visitor to the human predicament. God’s presence is woven into the fabric of creation and God’s constant presence with humanity was always part of Israel’s story, epitomized in the visits to the patriarchs and matriarchs like Abraham and Sarah, in the fire and cloud that accompanied the escaped Hebrew slaves wandering through the desert, in the spirit that moved the prophets to call the people to justice and peace.
For me, the story of Christmas is not a precursor of the Superman myth. Instead, I understand it as a sacrament, a focused and visible instance of a reality that is and always has been true. God is with us – really with us – in this human life, not waiting in the wings to rescue us, but walking right alongside us and born within us. The God who is with us is not impervious to injury — not Superman with bullets bouncing off his chest, but flesh and blood — pierced by nails and punctured by IV’s, given gall and vinegar to drink, infused with chemo and radiation.
Prayer: Be near me, Lord Jesus; I ask you to stay close by me forever and love me, I pray.