Our world is flawed and imperfect, just like the creatures that live in it. It can be sad, cruel, and unjust. Something--or someone--is needed to fix it. That's why we have superheroes.
Have you ever wondered why a flying alien with impenetrable strength and x-ray vision would be so popular? It's not that he's an alien, or even that he has such amazing abilities (although it does amp up the cool factor). It's because he uses them to defend the defenseless and right the tipped scales of justice. What about an Amazonian demigoddess who wields a lasso of truth and bulletproof gauntlets? She defends truth, goodness, and beauty--the things humanity innately loves and which make life worth living.
While Clark Kent and Diana are noble examples of our responsibility to protect human dignity and obey natural (moral) law, we don't actually need them to save us. The real superhero came some 2,000-odd years ago, and he only had to save the world once.
He did it paradoxically: without lifting a finger to stop his own horrifically unjust, unimaginably torturous death. He was--seemingly--weak instead of strong. He bled for us. He died for us. And then he proceeded to do what no other superhero could ever do: feed us with his very body, giving his own life to us so that we can live eternally with him.
There's only one Superman, and he doesn't wear spandex or a cape. He is a king, crowned with thorns, showing us his bleeding heart burning with love for us. He forgives us before we even know we need to ask his forgiveness. He pours an endless ocean of mercy from his wounded heart. And all he asks is that we freely choose to love him.
How could we not?
