My generation didn't have all the superheroes to enjoy at the theaters that the kids are bombarded with today. I did have Adam West and the Boy Wonder, running around in tights and chasing the dude with the green hair and excessive makeup. Nothing beat the dramatic display of the word, "KAZAAM!" right after Batman landed a left hook to a villain.
I spent many hours pondering what "kazaam" could mean, but I’ve got nothing; perhaps it is Latin for "ouch." Since I was never fond of tights, I needed a more manly hero. I briefly considered the Lone Ranger, because I spent many hours playing by myself while my parents were working. I was without a horse, except when my buddies, Leroy Buchanan or Gilbert Herndon were around. Indian sidekicks were even harder to find in my neighborhood.
Given these difficulties, I opted for a more exciting role model — my man, Tarzan. No tights, cape or shirt needed. All I had to do was flex my "guns," let out a blood-curdling scream and find a good tree to swing from.
Fortunately, there was a great tree in my front yard, so I was all set. I climbed the tree with remarkable speed, which may have been due to the ladder I was using. I searched the tree for a Jane in peril, but all I found was a disinterested squirrel.
Without a fair maiden to save, swinging on a vine was my only option, except branches were all I had. I made a heroic but misguided leap towards the nearest branch, which I missed altogether. This greatly improved the authenticity of my Tarzan yell, which was now more of a shriek of terror.
By the grace of God, my flailing arms managed to locate a lower branch on my way down and I latched on for dear life. My exposed skin on my stomach and arms did not appreciate the rough tree bark that I had gotten all too intimate with and I quickly became a bloody mess.
I had never seen Tarzan bleed, so my script was busted. My Jane suddenly turned out to be my mother, who quickly tended to my fresh wounds and I was quite happy to return to civilization.
For a long while afterwards, I gave up on pretending to be a hero of any kind. My scars and scabs reminded me that trying to be someone you're not can be very painful. While I haven't donned a cape or climbed a tree in years, I have often pretended to be doing fine when I wasn't.
Faking having it all together is as difficult as swinging on vines that are nowhere to be found. Real people should have to do neither. Unfortunately, much of modern-day church culture inadvertently promotes such pretension. When the average church service is filled so tightly and ends so quickly, it is easy to wear an hour-long smile and hit the exit running.
Church is supposed to be a participation sport, not a spectator sport. While no leader can be expected to force transparency among a congregation, authenticity can be modeled and encouraged in such a way that makes others comfortable being their true selves even when things are not going well. Taking such a path leads to healing, growth and maturity.
Real heroes are just people who lose the mask and choose to be real. Christians should never pretend that they no longer struggle because they belong to Christ. Belonging to Him should give us the courage to trade pretension for authenticity, because the finished work of the cross makes all things new, even after a bloody fall.