Superhero Burnout

I like hero movies. My grandsons love them. Hollywood adores them.

In the last decade, about sixty superhero movies have been released, roughly one every eight weeks: Spider-man, Iron Man, Batman, X-Men, Thor, etc. Not to mention their sequels. (Forget that I mentioned them.)

Superhero paint

I probably love normal hero movies even more, the ordinary civilian with a boatload of ordinary problems, facing unbeatable odds. Their stories stir something in me, a desire to go down swinging or to throw myself on a grenade. I see myself sacrificing everything for a greater cause, living a life of significance, having a life that matters.

But I wonder, sometimes, if hero movies insidiously stir the wrong thing. I once asked a hugely successful pastor for the key to his success. He said he just wants to be like his hero Jesus, and then he quoted St. Augustine,

Pray as though everything depends on God. Work as though everything depends on you.

Three years later he was exhausted, disillusioned, frustrated, and embittered. He dropped out of all service, divorced his wife, and—the last I heard—he was installing Invisible Fencing. He was a Super-Saint Burnout.

He had said he wanted to be like his hero Jesus, but he later admitted he just wanted to be a hero himself.

The Loss of Wonder

I often wonder if the greatest problem facing the modern world is the loss of wonder.

Wonder

When we were kids, every day brought awe and wonder.

  • Our first trip to the zoo thrilled us with the marvelous, long-necked giraffe, the barrel-shaped hippopotamus (even the name hippopotamus was enchanting), and the shuffling, tuxedo-clad penguin.
  • Our first treehouse (make of cast-off two by fours and a shipping pallet) filled us with delight.
  • Our first bike trip around the block without a parent was an unparalleled adventure.

As teenagers, we grew jaded. We’d already been to the zoo. “Big deal!” We’d already taken our bike on a weekend camping trip. “Who cares!”

We’ve lost our wonder.

What Will Embarrass Us in Thirty Years?

The clouds peal with thunder, that the house of God will be established throughout the world; and yet these frogs sit in their marsh and croak, “We are the only true Christians.”  (Augustine)

flockface r1

Like silly past fashions, many stupid, past actions of Christians are embarrassing for us today:

  • The marginalization of women
  • The coercion of the crusades
  • The ill treatment of Galileo, Joan of Arc, John Wycliffe, and more
  • The hysteria (and brutality) of the Salem witch trials
  • The dehumanization and cruelty of the slave trade

If we examine our own personal Christian histories honestly, we will also find embarrassing excesses in some of the mistakes of our own spiritual influences.

As a kid, I was involved with Basic Youth Conflicts (now its leader has resigned amidst scandal). I was involved in the early Charismatic renewal (but now many of its leaders are obsessed with the spectacular over the gospel). I was involved in an excellent, influential Christian community (but many accused us of being elitist).

Hundreds of Christian movements have helped millions of believers. Yet many—maybe even most—of these movements grew imbalanced over time, exuding a sense of elitism, a touch of arrogance, a croaking, “We are the only true Christians.

Do you love the Christian movement (or circles) that you are now involved in? How do we protect them from becoming just another embarrassing haircut from our yearbooks?

Making a List of Our Sins

A few weeks ago, I spoke with someone who felt horrible about forgetting a commitment. She felt her accidental negligence caused unnecessary stress for a good friend. And it probably did.

deep sorrow

She felt bad (understandably) and kicked herself (metaphorically) for her mistake. She couldn’t shake the pain of disappointing a close friend. The oversight overwhelmed her thoughts and dreams. She couldn’t find a faucet to turn off the fountain of self-condemnation.

I suggested that her pain was triggered by an unrealistic expectation of her own perfection; that this one omission was possibly not an anomaly; and that she probably makes dozens (maybe hundreds) more mistakes every week. Her problem was a false, high opinion of her perfection.

I’m always good for a pick-me-up when you need it most.

I suggested that she make a list of every sin (and mistake) she had committed in the last week. A month would be better. I partly proposed a list to shake her self-punishing perfectionism, but mostly to help her recognize God’s unshakeable love of her in her imperfection.

That same day—literally a few hours later—someone sent me an email that condemned the “horrific practice” of listing our sins, claiming sin-lists are evils that rob us of freedom in Christ.

Who’s right? At the risk of making a mistake (that I could add to my own list later); I am.

We Are Strangers in a Strange Land

I grew up in a family that camped. My father was a pastor who got four weeks of vacation. We took all four weeks at once, camping the whole month of July, mostly in wooded forests next to lakes. We hauled a small Sunfish sailboat on top of our sagging station wagon.

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Williamson family, July 1968

Vacations were a young boy’s fantasy, filled with mysterious forests and stormy seas. Four weeks wasn’t enough. We carried our home wherever we went. It was often hot, sometimes cold, and occasionally rainy. The car always broke down. And I loved it.

I recently heard a quote from the Epistle to Diognetus that resurfaced all those old memories,

The difference between Christians and the rest of mankind is not a matter of nationality, language, or customs. Christians do not live apart in separate cities, speak any special dialect, nor practice any eccentric way of life… [They] conform to ordinary local usage in their clothing, diet, and other habits…

For them, any foreign country is a motherland, and any motherland is a foreign country.

Playboys And Playmen

Last week I watched a nauseating, repulsive, and daft TV show. No, it wasn’t The Big Bang Theory or The Playboy Channel. (Or Barney.) I watched a reality TV show on house hunting.

The plot was simple. A couple was looking for a house, a real-estate agent showed them several options, and the couple chose one. Shakespeare it was not.

condos for sale

This particular episode featured a middle-aged man and his younger wife. (The details are fuzzy; I think I’ve suppressed them.) They were looking for a condo in the Caribbean, a place with a little excitement, some comfort, and a bit of luxury.

Each condo came pre-furnished, and each resort offered differing amenities. The man in question (and I do question the “man”) grew increasingly excited with each unveiled nicety. He was thrilled about a zip-line at the first condo, ecstatic about granite counters in the second, and rapturous at the sight of a Jacuzzi at the third.

When he saw lace doilies in the last condo, I swear I thought he would wet himself.

I wanted to scream at this doily man so ecstatic about granite counters. “Can your life grow any shallower? Will the measure of your fifty years be gauged by the depth of your Jacuzzi?

But I guess everyone is entitled to their fifteen minutes of shame. I mean fame.

A Blank Sheet of Paper

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” (Hemingway)

When I was a kid, I lacked a basic ingredient needed for life. Fear. (I also lacked wisdom, but one blog at a time.) It wasn’t that I was courageous, it was that I was fearless. And there’s a difference. I climbed trees no one else would dare, and I jumped off buildings no one else would climb. But I now face a weekly task that terrifies me.

Every week I face a blank sheet of paper.

Typewriter-with-blank-sheet-of-paper r1

It sounds like a silly fear, but that blank sheet scares me. The empty page mocks my empty mind. I keep a ten page list of blog ideas that once sounded exciting. But each new week, as I open a blank Word document, my inspiration-list looks boring, and I freeze.

So I take out the trash, change the font on my blog, look at my bank statements, and wind up our grandfather clock. I get up from my desk seventeen times before writing my first word. Then I delete it. And return to that damned blank page.

I finally get an idea but I can’t begin. Should I write, “This morning I saw a monster perched on my laptop” or, “When I was a kid I lacked fear”? I get up and brush the dog.

A blank sheet of paper is my weekly terror. After writing today’s title, I got a glass of water and cleaned the coffee maker. Then I re-typed Hemingway’s quote. And mowed the lawn.