Have I always had a superhero complex?
Ok, maybe not the last one. And for the sake of transparency, that was not a real zebra upon which I lead my team into last place on Chaos Day at Calvin College.
I have always wanted to be a superhero. Some of my earliest elementary school memories are of leading my fellow boys into first grade recess battles against the aggressive, cooties-leaden female horde. In second grade, I would pretend to beat up tornadoes for the girl who came over to our house for daycare (apparently, tornadoes are vulnerable to sneak attacks and gut punches). For several of those years, what I most wanted for Christmas was a rocket pack. I imagined myself flying all around the heads of my classmates (likely so I could donkey-kick people in the head).
In later years, these desires likely translated into my quests for senior class vice president in high school and my identity as the simultaneously beloved and reviled "Shirtless Stevo" in college.
Some have labeled this desire a "martyrdom complex." One of the reasons I got a tattoo in college of a cross with a PH 1:21 (Phil. 1:21) above it was the assumption that, whether through mission work or Army work, I would one day be captured by extremists who would behead me on television. I would plead with them to please not remove my shirt because it would be such a grave insult to my culture, knowing that this would prompt them to remove my shirt. Thus, in my final moments, people would see a cross and potent Bible verse over my heart and know why and for Whom I died. Since I've gotten married, I've decided that I'd prefer to keep my head on...and my shirt.
At passing glance, such a dream might sound pious and zealous, but in many ways, it was just the same old idolatrous superhero complex rising to the fore.
And if I'm honest with myself, this desire to be a superhero was not a benevolent desire to valiantly serve God or man. It was a desire to finally be recognized and appreciated, even if it meant death. It was a desire to create a fantasy world of control during the frightening moments of my childhood. It was a desire to be noticed when everything--good and bad--seemed to happen over and around me, but never to me. At root, it was a desire to be my own Savior, sitting above a landscape of helplessness and suffering.
Satan need never tell me "Ye shall be as God," for I would have taken of the fruit long before he ever spoke such heinous words. The greatest enemy of my soul will always be me. I fear neither Satan or death. I fear that I will make a mockery of my God and that my weakness will bring reproach upon the Gospel. And, as much as I know and trust (somewhat) that God will sanctify me and bring me greater peace in the Gospel, I also know that this great spiritual thorn in the flesh will remain in my paw.
We all believe in self-salvation. Every religion but Christianity teaches this concept, and it finds a ready home in the human heart, which is inclined to whore itself out to such deceit. We all believe that we can compensate for sin with good works and rise above our circumstances to earn the vindication that should be bestowed upon us.
This is what makes the Gospel so offensive. As we desperately cling to this idolatrous concept, God condemns our every effort in this regard as futile and tells us that it is Jesus and His perfect righteousness and substitutionary death, or it is nothing but wrath and condemnation. There is no superhuman flight apart from Christ, only descent and destruction.
Even as I constantly reach for the idol of my own efforts, I can take comfort in the knowledge that His strength is made manifest in my weakness. I can rest in the knowledge that He chose me for this very reason--that in me, the worst of sinners, He might display His unlimited patience as an example for those who might believe and have eternal life.
Many ear-ticklers in the Church today will tell you that you must live the Gospel. You cannot. If you look to me as an example of someone whose good works testify to the Gospel, you will be utterly disappointed (and I may be momentarily broken again by a burden I cannot bear).
My hope, my comfort, is that my ugliness testifies to the beauty of the Gospel. My assurance is that in my justification, my ugliness has been forever washed away and I have been cloaked in the beauty of Christ. In my sanctification, He is stripping off the ugly rags I still cling to and replacing them with linens washed white in the Lamb. In my glorification, the tree of bitter fruit that taunts my life will disappear once and for all. And all of this wrought through the true Hero of salvation, Jesus Christ.
