Superman, the Gospel, and the Punk Rock Power of Kindness

I didn’t expect to walk out of Superman with tears in my eyes. Not because the film was sad, but because it was good. Not just well-made, though it is, but good in the old-fashioned, unashamed moral sense. And in 2025, that feels downright revolutionary.

James Gunn’s Superman is a bright, joyful, sincere celebration of a man who believes in truth, justice, and doing the right thing simply because it’s right. No edge. No ironic smirk. No complicated antihero brooding in the shadows. Just a man in red and blue who saves people, smiles at children, and tells the truth.

And somehow, in our exhausted, jaded, deeply online world, that feels punk rock.

The Gospel in a Cape

Superman is not a religious movie. But like any good myth, it hums with echoes of a greater story. Here’s a man who has power beyond comprehension and instead of using it for conquest or self-glory, he uses it to serve. To rescue. To protect. To love.

If that doesn’t sound like the shape of the gospel, I don’t know what does.

The movie doesn't hit you over the head with messianic symbolism. But it doesn’t have to. Superman bleeds. He suffers. He forgives. He saves. He defends the weak. And not because he has something to prove but because, deep in his bones, he knows it’s right. He chooses kindness in a world that mocks it. He chooses hope in a world addicted to doomscrolling.

That’s the shape of grace. That’s the echo of Christ.

For years, our stories have been dominated by the broken antihero, the vigilante who fights violence with violence, the villain whose trauma somehow excuses cruelty, the protagonist who does the right thing but hates everyone while doing it. We’ve learned to associate goodness with naivety, and cynicism with depth.

But what if kindness isn’t naïve? What if it’s resistance?

In a time when it’s easier to be angry than compassionate, easier to cancel than reconcile, Superman dares to be gentle. He believes people can change. He believes love is stronger than fear. And he keeps showing up, not because he expects applause, but because someone needs help.

That isn’t weakness. That’s moral clarity. And in 2025, moral clarity is subversive.

Covenant, Liberation, and Doing the Good

Superman isn’t just someone with the right thoughts. He doesn’t simply sit around and believe in truth, justice, and compassion. He lives it. He embodies it. He puts his values into motion; flying into burning buildings, holding up collapsing bridges, shielding strangers from debris, defending the vulnerable no matter the cost.

This is what we talk about when we speak of Covenantal Liberation: not just right belief, but right action… rooted in relationship, aimed at freedom.

Superman acts not out of vague idealism, but out of covenantal love, a sense of duty to others. He sees people not as problems, but as neighbors. He doesn’t wield power to control, but to protect. That’s what liberation looks like when it’s rooted in love rather than self-interest: action for the sake of the other. It’s costly. It’s hard. But it’s real.

In the same way, Christ didn’t simply proclaim a kingdom. He enacted it. He healed, fed, served, wept, died, and rose again all for the sake of liberating his people. Superman, in his fictional way, gestures toward that same truth: love that doesn’t just speak, but moves.

No Origin, No Excuses: Just Action

One of the most refreshing things about this Superman is how uninterested it is in trauma backstory. It doesn’t drag us through another origin story or explain away villainy with pop psychology. It’s not concerned with why people are the way they are. It’s concerned with what they do with the power they have.

That’s gospel logic. Scripture doesn’t teach that we are the sum of our past. It teaches that we are defined by grace and called to walk in newness of life. You are not your sin. You are not your pain. You are who you are becoming. What matters is how you live now, what choices you make, who you serve.

Superman gets that. His story isn’t, “Here’s how I became me.” It’s, “Now that I’m here, what good can I do?” That’s a question every Christian should be asking.

The Church Could Learn a Thing or Two

Let’s be honest: the Church has sometimes traded in the same cynical currency as the world. We’ve become quick to critique, slow to hope. We’ve spent more time parsing errors than proclaiming grace. But Superman reminds us what people are hungry for, not moral ambiguity or doctrinal hair-splitting, but hope. A picture of what it looks like to live sacrificially, joyfully, righteously. To be a hero in small ways every day.

It doesn’t take superpowers. Just the Holy Spirit.

So maybe it’s time to recover our imagination. To remind people that goodness is possible. That love is powerful. That justice matters. That grace changes everything.

If Superman can do that in a cape and boots, surely the Church can do it in the name of Christ.

The film’s tagline is “Look up.” It’s not just a call to admire a man flying through the sky. It’s a call to hope again. To believe again. To care again.

And in a world that keeps shouting “Look out for yourself,” “Look down on others,” or “Look away,” we need that reminder. We need stories that show us a better way. And we need churches (and Christians) who aren’t afraid to be a little square. A little earnest. A little weirdly hopeful.

Because in 2025, nothing is more punk rock than being kind.

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