Man of (Recycled) Steel

            Superman has been re-imagined one time too many.

            I grew up watching the black and white TV series and reading my brothers’ DC comic books, including Superman, Superboy, and Supergirl.

            In December of 1979, I took my one-month- old son Kyle to the Susquehanna Valley Mall, where we saw Superman starring Christopher Reeve. Well, Kyle mostly nursed and napped, but I enjoyed the movie. I eventually saw all the movies in that incarnation, some on the big screen and some at home.

            In 2006, when Superman returned in Superman Returns (duh), I made a date to see it with Kyle for old time’s sake, and we enjoyed it at the Campus Theater in Lewisburg. This time Kyle stayed awake and ate movie theater snacks.

            Last week my husband thought Man of Steel would be a perfect movie to celebrate our thirty-eighth wedding anniversary. I thought a romantic dinner for two would be more apropos, but my D. H. would have none of it.

            So we bought our senior discount tickets at the Lycoming Mall along with a small bag of overpriced, salty popcorn, and settled into our favorite spot in a sparsely filled theater—which is not a good sign for only the second night of what was supposed to be a blockbuster summer release.

            After watching ten minutes of previews and dozens of subliminal and non-subliminal messages reminding me to turn off my cell phone, the movie began.

            Man of Steel has a plethora of special effects and violence and a paucity of character development. (Look them up; they’re Sadlier-Oxford Vocabulary Workshop words.) However, Amy Adams turned in a respectable representation of Lois Lane.

            A few years ago when my high school girls and I were reading the Hunger Games trilogy, M. described the third book as “tediously violent.” Man of Steel is, also.

            I kept thinking of going to the restroom, wandering around the lobby, and taking out a small loan to buy Raisinets, but I thought I’d miss something good the minute I left.

            I needn’t have worried.

            The violent, tasteless, and boring destruction of Metropolis dragged on and on. Tasteless because it looked too much like Manhattan on September 11, 2001. Boring because how many buildings do you need to see crumble?

            The opening credits scene of Robin Hood Men in Tights came to mind. As the thatched roofs of the village huts are torched, the villagers shake their fists and yell, “Whenever they make a new Robin Hood movie, they burn down our village. Go away, Mel Brooks!” (or something like that)

            I would have like to have seen the people on the streets of Metropolis shake their fists. “Whenever they make a new Superman movie, they destroy Metropolis. Go away, Zack Snyder!”

            So I’m swearing off Superman movies for the foreseeable future. The next one I attend had better be written, directed, and produced by Mel Brooks.

Happy (early) Father's Day

            As a father has compassion on his children, so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him. Psalm 103:13, NIV

             

           That’s a difficult statement for those of us who had less than healthy relationships with our less than godly fathers. My dad’s slogan was, “Stop crying before I give you something to cry about.” When I was twelve, my parents divorced, due to my father’s long history of infidelity. Although he had unlimited visitation and lived about a half hour away, I only saw my dad a few times a year.

            I thank God for providing me with different images of fatherhood.

            Mr. Roberts, my spiritual father, encouraged my first wobbly steps as a believer, prayed for me, and chauffeured me to any Christian youth event in northern New Jersey.

            My father-in-law was a comical and infuriating grandfather, sneaking chocolate to my son who hadn’t eaten his Easter dinner. My favorite memory of him is how he carried my sons in his arms, serenading them with all the verses of “Pop Goes the Weasel” and “It Is No Secret What God Can Do.” Once he ran half a block in his socks, carrying my oldest to see a train up close.

            My younger brother Tim matured from an entertaining uncle to an involved father, once cooking a double batch of that awful boxed macaroni and cheese that kids love so much, and serving it to his boys and mine.

            My husband Gene sobbed with relief after locating our preschool son, momentarily missing at a boardwalk amusement pier. Early in his fathering career, Gene learned to diagnose ear infections, using his own otoscope to peer into tiny ear canals. Much later, he mastered college financial aid applications. Even with the boys grown, Gene remains the go-to person for health issues and malfunctioning cars.             

            Those are just a few snapshots of good fathering, and I have many more in my album. Thanks to these men, I can better envision the compassion of Father God. 

           Is there a man in your life who has shown you the character of God? Wish him a Happy Father's Day from me.

My Brush with Dance

            In a Secret Place devotional, Norma Vera writes about attending a dance recital where a toddler—not part of the class—danced in the aisle throughout the event, oblivious to everything but the music. 

            Reading that reminded me of my own brush(es) with dance.

            One December, a bunch of us packed a borrowed church van—which by the way, had no heat—and drove to Philly for a performance of the Young Messiah. The "Hallelujah Chorus" overwhelmed me as a dancer, garbed in layers of floaty white, twirled to the joyful music. I wanted to be that woman, unreservedly worshiping God.

            Several years later at a women’s conference, I leaped at the opportunity to participate in a worship dance class. Our instructor taught us simple motions to accompany a powerful, encouraging song. (Simple, but unfamiliar to my muscles. I could barely walk or move my arms afterward.) On Sunday morning I experienced my Young Messiah moment as we danced to the Lord in the worship service. 

            Pure joy.

            People don’t dance in my church. If we did, someone would call 9-1-1. So I’d not repeated that experience until I left the United States with my students and my co-chaperones.

            In a Jamaican church, I encountered the dancing grannies. One especially looked like an old-fashioned, reserved grandmotherly type with her graying hair and conservative dark green skirt and jacket. But when the music started, watch out! Those grannies pulled as out of our seats, and soon we were all awkwardly dancing in the aisles. No way could we match their moves, though. Not even the seventeen-year-olds.

            I’ve danced in that same Jamaican church three times now (and Grandma always wears the same dark green suit), but when I’m stateside I worship in a stately (spelled b-o-r-i-n-g) fashion. 

            However, a few years ago, Donna Bridge of Kingdom Kidz taught me to use puppets in a ministry team. To my surprise, my puppets are not at all reserved in expressing their praise to God. They clap, lift their hands, and dance exuberantly…while behind the curtain I tap my feet and move to the music. 

Set me free from my prison, that I may praise your name. Psalm 142:7, NIV

The Amazing Apostle

Reading comic books as a child, I learned the source of Superman’s strength: He was born on the planet Krypton which orbited a red sun. When he came to Earth, our yellow sun gave him superpowers. I followed his adventures on our black and white television as George Reeves flew around in ill-fitting leotards, and years later in Technicolor on the big screen as Christopher Reeve sported a more expensive and better tailored costume.

As a teen, I discovered Spiderman comics. Though an ordinary human, Peter Parker gained amazing strength when a radioactive spider bit him. I watched his animated series with my younger brother—it might have been in color, but we still had a black and white TV—and the catchy theme song still bounces around in my brain:

Spiderman, Spiderman, friendly neighborhood Spiderman…

Is he strong? Listen, Bud. He’s got radioactive blood…

Good rhyming poetry sticks with a person.

Of course I saw the Tobey Maguire movies, and I plan to see the newest incarnation of the Amazing Spiderman, starring Andrew Garfield. (Who is he?)

I also admire heroes other than those in comic books. I enjoy reading the apostles’ adventures in Acts. I marvel at Paul, who seems to be a New Testament superhero.

What gave Paul the power to preach and plant churches, heal the sick and raise the dead, survive shipwrecks and beatings, and write for the bestselling book of all time?

More astounding than the sun’s color or a spider’s venom, Paul’s strength came from his weakness.

At first Paul struggled against a limitation, which he called “a thorn in the flesh,” until Jesus assured him, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9, NLT).” Paul described that power as the force that raised Christ from the grave—talk about superpowers!—and Paul declared it’s available to every believer (Ephesians 1:19 – 20).

With Christ’s muscle, instead of reading about superheroes, I can be one. And so can you. What heroic deeds are scheduled for today? Listen to a friend. Smile at a stranger. Meet a need. Love an enemy. Keep my mouth shut. The Bible is bursting with ideas for superheroes.

But let’s just wear our regular clothes, okay?

“Not by might nor by power, but by my Spirit,” says the LORD Almighty.  Zechariah 4:6, NIV

Happy Anniversary, Blog!

Today is the one year (plus one day) anniversary of my blog. In a shamefully lazy (but hopefully clever) move, I am re-posting my first ever blog post, "July 4th means never having to say your highness." Since last Independence Day, we've experienced one more British royal spectacle, the diamond anniversary of the queen. While I enjoyed watching the adoring Brits responding to the queen's little hand wave on the telly, I still have to say, "Uh, no." As Russell Brand says, we're getting ready to elect a new king here in America, and as flawed as the process and the two candidates are, I think we'll stick with them for the foreseeable future.

JULY 4th MEANS NEVER HAVING TO SAY "YOUR HIGHNESS"
(a summer rerun)

With William and Kate on our side of the pond, the media rushes to remind us of the proper way to address royalty. “Your Majesty” has fallen out of style, so begin with “Your Royal Highness” and drop back to a respectful Ma’am or Sir.

Uh, no.

Methinks we fought a war about this a couple of hundred years ago. Unlike Canada and more than four dozen other nations, we severed our ties with British royalty when John Hancock, president of the Continental Congress, signed his name large enough for King George to read without his spectacles.

Now we’re just friends with Britain. Good friends. Very good friends that saved their, um, tushies during two world wars.

So if you run into Willie and Kate, you have my permission to address them as equals:  

Dude!

Hey youse guys!

How are youinz doing?

Or whatever passes for friendly in your corner of these independent United States of America.

Happy 4th of July. May all your princesses be Disney.