A Kid From Queens: A Philosophical, Theological, & Psychological Analysis on Spider-Man

Peter Parker (Chris Pine, Into the Spider-Verse) dancing.

Spider-Man has always been my favorite superhero—not because he’s the strongest, flashiest, or most universally adored, but because he’s the most human. Long before I could articulate why, I was drawn to Peter Parker’s persistent, often painful struggle to do good in a world that rarely makes it easy. I even curated a Spotify playlist called “Your Friendly Neighborhood Playlist,” a musical homage spanning film scores, indie rock, alt-pop, and ambient tracks that evoke everything I’ve ever felt about Spider-Man—his anguish, his joy, his losses, his relentless hope. In every version of his story, across every medium, Spider-Man’s narrative has met me where I was: not with answers, but with solidarity.

There’s something uniquely enduring about the Spider-Man mythos, especially when we consider the many faces behind the mask. From Tobey Maguire’s deeply burdened Peter, to Andrew Garfield’s wounded but passionate iteration, to Tom Holland’s wide-eyed vulnerability, Yuri Lowenthal’s introspective steadiness in the Insomniac games, and even the humorous depth of Peter B. Parker and youthful tenacity of Miles Morales in the Spider-Verse films—each version adds nuance to the idea that Spider-Man is not one man, but a mantle borne by many, forged in suffering and sustained by conviction. These portrayals give texture to the timeless theme: it is not the mask that makes the hero, but the man willing to wear it.

This essay will explore the enduring philosophical and theological themes embedded in Spider-Man’s story: his embodiment of the Everyman; the multiplicity of men who bear the Spider-Man identity; the Aristotelian framework of virtue ethics that animates his moral code; and, finally, Peter Parker’s confrontation with the problem of suffering and divine silence. Spider-Man is not just a cultural icon—he is a moral figure, a philosophical exemplar, and for many (myself included), a kind of fictional companion through the long, slow work of becoming a better person.

Spider-Man as an Every-Man

The mythology of Spider-Man offers one of the most resonant portraits of the modern everyman in popular culture. In contrast to other superheroes shaped by divinity (Superman), patriotism (Captain America), or affluence (Iron Man, Batman), Spider-Man emerges not from grandeur but from ordinariness. Peter Parker is a teenager from Queens. He struggles to pay rent, maintain relationships, pass exams, and carry the crushing weight of guilt and grief—all while trying to do the right thing. What makes Spider-Man so compelling is precisely that anyone could wear the mask. This is not just an affirmation of inclusivity, but a radical reimagining of heroism: to be heroic is not to rise above the human condition, but to endure it with courage, compassion, and responsibility.

Spider-Man’s relatability stems from the fact that he does not escape the mundane; he is entangled in it. His battles against villains like the Green Goblin, Doc Ock, or the Kingpin often serve as metaphors for the deeper existential pressures of adult life—grief, shame, obligation, and moral compromise. Carl Jung once observed, “The most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely.” Peter Parker’s struggle is not merely to defeat villains, but to hold together the fractured pieces of his identity. He does not have a butler to patch him up, or an alien lineage to guarantee his significance. He is simply someone who is trying to do the next right thing, even when the cost is high. This is why Spider-Man resonates not just as a superhero, but as a mirror of the human experience: we are all, in a sense, caught in our own webs, suspended between who we are and who we want to be. In a way, each villain becomes a symbol of some burden: debt, anger, revenge, failure. What makes these battles so compelling is that they are almost always intertwined with Peter’s everyday life. He doesn’t fight as a separate, elevated persona; rather, Spider-Man is Peter Parker trying to manage his calling without abandoning his humanity. The challenge isn’t merely defeating bad guys—it’s doing so without missing rent or failing a friend.

The mask, then, is not a facade. It is a symbol of chosen burden. In many ways, Peter Parker’s anonymity allows him to disappear into the fabric of the everyday. He isn’t a billionaire in the public eye or a god adored from afar. He is a figure in the shadows, an uncelebrated force for good in the alleys and rooftops of the city. There is something profoundly democratic in this. As stated in Spider-Man: Life Story, “Being Spider-Man means putting everyone else ahead of yourself. It means making choices... even when they hurt.” This is not just the hallmark of a hero—it’s the calling of anyone who chooses to do right despite the cost. Echoing this, in Into the Spider-Verse, when Miles Morales buys his Spider-Man suit, Stan Lee’s character remarks, “It always fits. Eventually”—a reminder that the mantle of responsibility is something one grows into, a role anyone can embrace in time.

In psychological terms, Peter Parker activates what Nadav Goldschmied and Joseph Vandello have called "the underdog effect." Their research reveals that people instinctively side with those who face long odds, especially when their effort is sincere and their success uncertain. We admire grit over glamour. Spider-Man is that embodiment of effort—forever straining to hold his personal life together while protecting the city that forgets him just as quickly as it cheers him. It’s that fragile, unrecognized labor that draws us to him. As Goldschmied and Vandello note, “People feel a moral impulse to support those who seem to face unjust odds.” Spider-Man’s story always begins from a deficit, never privilege. That’s why we root for him.

Friedrich Nietzsche, though deeply critical of modernity’s glorification of weakness, inadvertently helps us understand Spider-Man’s appeal. In The Genealogy of Morals, Nietzsche explores how society elevates the suffering figure into a moral icon. While he saw this as a degeneration of strength, popular culture has done the opposite—it’s made the underdog noble. Spider-Man is not a symbol of surrender to weakness, but of virtuous strength through suffering. His greatness isn’t innate power—it’s moral restraint. His iconic mantra—"With great power comes great responsibility"—isn’t merely an ethical rule, but a philosophical confession. Strength, for Peter, is not about domination, but about stewardship. René Girard's scapegoat theory is also instructive. In The Scapegoat, Girard argues that society often projects its anxieties and guilt onto a single figure—someone simultaneously excluded and necessary. Peter Parker exists in this liminal space: never fully accepted as Spider-Man, but never quite free to live without him. The public’s love is fickle, and his enemies often reflect social disintegration. Yet Spider-Man shoulders that burden willingly, which is precisely what makes his character archetypally redemptive. He suffers on behalf of a system that would not suffer for him. The heroism lies in that asymmetric exchange.

Simone Weil, reflecting on affliction in Gravity and Grace, wrote that “real genius is nothing else but the supernatural virtue of humility in the domain of thought.” That line could be a thesis for Peter Parker’s life. What makes Spider-Man powerful is not web-slinging or reflexes, but the willingness to persist in the face of affliction without reward. He does not save the world for applause or identity fulfillment. He does it because the little guy matters. Because loss taught him empathy. Because guilt taught him mercy. And because, even when no one is watching, the right thing still matters. Charles Taylor, in Sources of the Self, argues that modern identity is rooted in the pursuit of moral authenticity—a life that is both coherent and narratively meaningful. Spider-Man embodies this pursuit. He is the rare hero whose strength does not alienate him from others, but further connects him to the pain of being human. His victories are rarely clean, his choices often ambiguous, and his life unglamorous. And yet, it is precisely that imperfection which makes his story universal. We do not aspire to be like Spider-Man because he is flawless—we aspire because he’s flawed, but still stands up.

This is what distinguishes Spider-Man from other archetypal heroes. Superman gives us hope from above—a figure of celestial power who inspires us by transcending humanity. But Spider-Man gives us hope from within. He shows that ordinary struggle doesn’t disqualify us from moral heroism—it’s the training ground for it. In the messy fusion of pain, perseverance, and responsibility, we see ourselves. The mask, rather than concealing his identity, reveals something deeper about ours: that greatness isn’t about being exceptional—it’s about choosing, again and again, to act when it would be easier not to.

The Men Behind the Mask

Tobey Maguire’s Peter Parker is perhaps the most classically tragic iteration of the character—a modern-day Job, quietly enduring suffering for the sake of doing good. His humility is relentless: no matter how often he is overlooked, betrayed, or rejected, he consistently chooses what is right over what is easy. There is an innocence to him, not naivety, but a stubborn moral clarity that refuses to be compromised even under pain. He is mocked at school, ignored in his work, misunderstood by his friends, and hunted by the very public he protects—yet he never becomes embittered. As a Peter Parker, Tobey captures a kind of deeply Christian resilience: meekness that is not weakness, but strength under control. His pain is internalized, never projected; he carries his grief like a cross.

Where Maguire's Peter Parker is quiet and self-sacrificial, his Spider-Man is heroic in a classical sense. Though campy by modern standards, he embodies a proper moral order—courageous, upright, and fundamentally good. His lines are straightforward, even noble: “This is my gift, my curse. Who am I? I'm Spider-Man.” He’s the kind of hero who would never let go of the ledge, even if the villain was spitting in his face. This unwavering moral compass, though sometimes simplistic, lends itself to mythic clarity. His battles are not psychological chess games but physical parables, each reflecting the cost of choosing responsibility over self-interest. As Spider-Man, Maguire stands tall, not because he’s invincible, but because he’s willing to be broken for others. He’s the neighborhood guardian who bleeds quietly behind the mask.

The scene on the train in Spider-Man 2, where a bruised and unconscious Peter is carried by New Yorkers who promise to protect his identity, is deeply symbolic. It mirrors the myth of Sisyphus, pushing a boulder uphill every day only to have it roll back down—except this Sisyphus does not do so in vain. Peter suffers, but it is suffering with meaning. In a stoic sense, he endures the chaos of life with calm, accepting that control is limited but virtue is not. His goodness is not reactive but habitual—a kind of moral formation. The people who once mocked him now carry him, affirming that virtue, though slow and unseen, does not go unnoticed forever. It is in Tobey’s Spider-Man that we find the ideal of ethical endurance: not flashy, not loud, but deeply faithful to the good.

Andrew Garfield’s Peter Parker is a very different kind of everyman—less meek, more raw, and deeply fragmented. He presents as a loner, but it's a mask for a profound longing to belong. Unlike Maguire’s humble awkwardness, Garfield’s Peter exhibits a stark arrogance, often acting impulsively, projecting his pain onto others, and isolating himself even from those who love him. He’s flawed in a familiar way—emotionally guarded, intellectually reactive, socially dissonant. His identity crisis is less about morality and more about meaning. He grieves not just the loss of his uncle, but the absence of any clear path to becoming whole. He is perhaps the most human of the Peters—a young man fumbling toward virtue rather than having it ingrained from the start. His brokenness is not hidden—it bleeds through everything he does.

As Spider-Man, Garfield’s arc is one of transformation. He begins with vengeance in his heart—tracking down criminals not to save the city, but to soothe his own guilt. But by the end of The Amazing Spider-Man 2, he becomes something else: a neighbor, a comforter, even a friend. His Spider-Man is wildly expressive, cracking jokes, moving like a dancer, and often inserting himself into human stories rather than just reacting to crime. His moment with the boy and the wind turbine, or his support of the firefighters, show a hero learning to be local, personal, vulnerable. He connects with villains not just through fists but through empathy. His evolution is real—not a symbol of perfection, but of repentance. He doesn't start as a hero, but grows into one, which is perhaps the most honest arc of all.

Spider-Man holding Gwen Stacy.

Philosophically, Garfield’s Spider-Man lives out what Emmanuel Levinas describes as the face of the Other—the moral obligation we have to another simply by seeing their vulnerability. By choosing compassion over power, he exemplifies the Levinasian ideal that ethics precedes identity. Similarly, Bonhoeffer’s concept of costly grace applies powerfully to Garfield’s arc—grace, for Peter, does not mean an easy redemption, but a hard-fought self-emptying. His redemption is not emotional relief, but renewed purpose in suffering. Hans Urs von Balthasar, in his theology of love and dramatic existence, would argue that Garfield’s Spider-Man is a character thrown into the theater of moral conflict where his true identity is forged through relational response. He does not start with virtue; he is shaped by it over time. And in that process, he becomes more than a mask—he becomes a man worth becoming.

Tom Holland’s Peter Parker is best understood not as a fully formed hero, but as a young man caught in a fragmented moral journey. Unlike Tobey Maguire’s mythic, idealistic Spider-Man or Andrew Garfield’s emotionally raw and relatable one, Tom’s version stumbles through mentorships, failures, and crises of identity. He is often defined by others—Tony Stark, Nick Fury, Mysterio—and struggles to make independent moral judgments. His arc isn't rooted in internal conviction from the start, but in a deep desire to be seen as “ready” while still lacking the maturity and narrative clarity to embody true heroism. His story, especially in No Way Home, reflects someone not yet knowing what kind of story he’s in—or what kind of hero he needs to become.

Alasdair MacIntyre’s concept of moral fragmentation offers a powerful lens here. In After Virtue, MacIntyre argues that modern people lack coherent moral narratives, and so struggle to act with virtue. Tom’s Peter is precisely this figure: handed responsibility without tradition, power without wisdom, and relationships without stability. He only begins to become a full moral agent when he chooses, in No Way Home, to embrace anonymity, solitude, and responsibility without reward—signifying the formation of a moral narrative he can finally inhabit. Likewise, James K.A. Smith’s view that we are formed by our loves and habits, not just ideas, highlights Peter’s slow liturgical development. His heart is torn between MJ, Tony, and a normal life. He doesn’t yet love rightly, and his story is one of being re-formed through loss, repetition, and misdirected devotion.

Finally, Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s theology of responsible action adds depth to Peter’s moral dilemmas. Bonhoeffer teaches that the good is often unclear in a broken world, and that costly love, not legalistic purity, is the mark of true responsibility. In No Way Home, Peter’s decision to help the villains—despite the risk and confusion—mirrors Bonhoeffer’s vision of morally ambiguous but self-giving action. Holland’s Peter isn’t a perfect hero; he’s a human being becoming one through grief, error, and love. His story is about formation: from immaturity to conviction, from dependence to identity, and from scattered desires to sacrificial responsibility. He’s not Spider-Man yet—but by the end of his arc, he finally begins to be.

Yuri Lowenthal’s portrayal of Spider-Man in the Marvel’s Spider-Man PS4 game presents a distinctly adult Peter Parker, one who has carried the mantle of Spider-Man for nearly a decade. Unlike Tobey Maguire’s early-college Peter or Andrew Garfield and Tom Holland’s high school versions, this Peter is deep into adulthood—juggling the persistent, grinding realities of life alongside his superhero responsibilities. The game’s opening mission perfectly captures this tension: Peter must choose between paying his rent to avoid eviction or stopping the crime lord Wilson Fisk. He chooses to fight Fisk, fully aware that the consequence is losing his home, and the player then experiences the fallout firsthand by retrieving his belongings from the trash. This narrative choice highlights a mature and gritty realism rarely explored in Spider-Man stories—heroism here demands sacrifice, not just in moments of glory, but in everyday losses and hardship.

This adult Peter is profoundly dual-natured, with Yuri Lowenthal’s performance seamlessly blending the personal and heroic sides so that each directly influences the other. The game explores Peter’s complex relationships with key figures like Dr. Otto Octavius and Martin Li—both mentors who become tragic villains—forcing Peter to confront the painful reality that even those we admire can fall. This dynamic adds layers of psychological depth, illustrating how responsibility is never a simple or static burden. Philosopher Paul Ricoeur’s concept of narrative identity—how we continuously interpret and reinterpret ourselves through the stories we live—resonates strongly here. Lowenthal’s Spider-Man embodies the struggle of maintaining integrity amid loss and betrayal, showing that maturity is not about achieving perfection but grappling with moral ambiguity and sustaining hope despite it.

Spider-Man (Yuri Lowenthal, Marvel’s Spider-Man PS4) on a subway train.

Peter B. Parker (Jake Johnson, Into the Spider-Verse) looking at a picture of Mary Jane “M.J.” Watson, who he is no longer with in his universe.

Peter B. Parker’s portrayal in Into the Spider-Verse offers a raw, unvarnished depiction of an adult Spider-Man wrestling with profound despair and exhaustion. Unlike the youthful optimism of other Peters, this version is marked by failure—his marriage has dissolved, he mourns the loss of Aunt May, and he carries the physical and emotional weight of years of hardship, even contemplating suicide by staying behind in the dimension-destroying collider. Psychologist Viktor Frankl’s insights on the “will to meaning” poignantly frame Peter B. Parker’s crisis: when the search for purpose falters, despair can overwhelm, leading to what existential psychologists call “existential vacuum.” Peter’s bitter frustration with the iconic phrase “with great power comes great responsibility” is not mere cynicism but a manifestation of exhaustion—an anguished weariness born from bearing that responsibility to the breaking point; it reflects the psychological toll of enduring duty without clear hope or resolution, capturing the often-overlooked human side of heroism and the soul’s burden, and illustrating that redemption requires confronting one’s deepest brokenness before rising again.

Yet, despite his disillusionment, Peter B. Parker ultimately reminds us that “it’s a leap of faith,” a line that carries significant philosophical and theological weight. This leap symbolizes the act of embracing uncertainty and choosing to live—and act—without guarantees, echoing Kierkegaard’s notion of faith as a passionate, individual commitment made in the face of ambiguity and risk. Theologically, it also reflects the Christian understanding of trust amid suffering, where hope persists not because outcomes are certain but because there is a commitment to a greater good beyond immediate circumstances. Peter’s journey is thus a profound testament to resilience: even when crushed by failure and doubt, the hero’s path requires continuing to leap forward, trusting that responsibility, though burdensome, holds meaning beyond what can be fully seen or understood.

Miles Morales (Shameik Moore, Into the Spider-Verse) jumping from a building. “Miles isn’t falling through the frame. He’s RISING”, from the INTO THE SPIDER-VERSE screenplay by Phil Lord.

Miles Morales, as portrayed in the Spider-Verse films, stands as a profound and resonant embodiment of the democratic ideal that “anyone can wear the mask.” His deliberate decision to assume the mantle of Spider-Man does not merely signify a personal coming-of-age; rather, it reinvigorates a broader, more universal conception of heroism—one that transcends individual circumstance to inspire a collective imagination. This choice revitalizes not only Miles’s own sense of purpose but also rekindles Peter B. Parker’s faltering faith in the enduring significance of what it means to be a hero. Philosopher Charles Taylor’s nuanced exploration of “authenticity” proves particularly apt here: Miles’s heroism is a deeply existential act of self-definition, one that embraces responsibility not out of necessity or divine ordinance, but from an exercise of radical freedom and conscious choice. The mask itself emerges as a powerful symbol of boundless possibility and hope—an emblem that shatters barriers of race, age, and background, thereby affirming the egalitarian notion that heroism is not the province of the exceptional or predestined but the potential of any individual willing to commit themselves to the greater good. This dynamic aligns seamlessly with Carl Rogers’ humanistic psychology, which elevates agency and self-actualization as cornerstones of authentic living; Miles’s journey encapsulates the transformative power inherent in the conscious embrace of an authentic, courageous existence.

The narrative arc of Miles Morales further illuminates a profound philosophical and theological dialectic between free will and determinism, particularly when juxtaposed with Miguel O’Hara’s (Spider-Man 2099) predeterministic mantra. In contrast to Miguel’s predeterministic mantra that each Spider-Man’s role is tightly scripted by predetermined “canon events”, Miles Morales was not originally “meant” to inherit the mantle in his own dimension, leaving Universe 42 devoid of its traditional protector until Miles’s emergence. Yet the irony intensifies when considering that Miguel himself—alongside Jessica Drew and Ben Reilly—are exceptions to the deterministic rule he champions. These Spider-people do not follow conventional pathways or fulfill all the expected “canon events” that Miguel insists define true Spider-Men, thus challenging the very deterministic framework he upholds. Miles similarly embodies this paradox, standing as a figure who reshapes the narrative through his own free choice rather than predetermined destiny. This stark contrast foregrounds the theological and philosophical significance of freedom operating amid apparent cosmic necessity, emphasizing that human agency persists even within seemingly preordained structures. In this respect, Jean-Paul Sartre’s existentialist dictum that “existence precedes essence” provides profound insight: individuals are not constrained by ontological necessity or predetermined purpose but instead create their own essence through deliberate, free choices. Miles’s rejection of the trolley problem’s forced binary—his resolute declaration, “I can do both,” refusing to sacrifice his father or the universe—embodies a moral creativity that refuses to be constrained by reductionist dilemmas. This defiance resonates with the theological notion of hope as an active, resistant stance against despair, illustrating a redemptive vision wherein love and courage serve to expand the realm of the possible rather than diminish it. Through the figure of Miles Morales, the Spider-Verse saga ultimately affirms a vision of heroism rooted not in fatalism or predestination but in the irreducible freedom to choose hope and responsibility in the face of overwhelming and often contradictory demands.

Omission, Paralysis, and Moral Courage: The Unseen Battles of Peter Parker

The phrase “with great power comes great responsibility,” while often reduced to platitude, functions in Spider-Man’s mythos as an Aristotelian thesis of moral formation. It encapsulates the logic of virtue ethics—the idea that moral development is less about rigid adherence to universal rules and more about the cultivation of character through habituated action. Peter Parker’s journey is not simply one of doing the right thing, but of becoming the kind of person who can consistently wield power with justice, compassion, and restraint. Aristotle teaches that virtues are formed through practice; Spider-Man becomes virtuous not through instantaneous transformation but by navigating hardship, failure, and sacrifice over time. The mask does not bestow morality—it reveals the pressing necessity for it.

This theme takes on even greater weight when understood through Alasdair MacIntyre’s notion of narrative identity and practices. MacIntyre argues that moral agency is embedded within traditions and stories that give ethical weight to our decisions. Peter’s sense of responsibility is not abstract or universal—it is situated in the context of loss, particularly Uncle Ben’s death. His moral choices are formed not by rule-following but by living within the story of someone who could have acted but didn’t. His heroism is thus forged in a crucible of regret, memory, and the haunting presence of what could have been. Responsibility, for Spider-Man, is not a burden from without but a telos—the end toward which his very identity bends.

Moreover, this orientation toward virtue places Spider-Man in stark contrast to other heroes who wield power for personal gain or self-exaltation. In Peter’s case, power is never a vehicle for domination; it is a cross to bear. Psychologist Lawrence Kohlberg's stages of moral development help illuminate this: while early moral reasoning is driven by fear of punishment or reward, Peter’s growth reflects post-conventional reasoning—he acts according to a self-authored but universally binding sense of justice. Spider-Man’s ethos thus becomes a pedagogical model of how power, when directed by internalized virtue rather than external control, becomes a site for ethical flourishing rather than moral corruption.

One of the most enduring psychological tensions in Spider-Man’s mythos is the conflict between Peter Parker and Spider-Man—not merely as two personas, but as competing realities. Carl Jung’s theory of the persona and the shadow offers profound insight here. The persona is the mask one presents to society, a necessary social performance; the shadow represents the repressed, hidden aspects of the self. For Peter, the Spider-Man mask ironically becomes both: a public persona used to conceal his identity and a shadowy embodiment of his repressed moral strength, rage, grief, and self-sacrificial impulse. This duality doesn’t split Peter—it reveals him. Each role draws out a facet of his being that the other cannot fully contain.

But this dual-identity also provokes a deeper ontological question: which of these is more "real"? Is Peter Parker merely the man beneath the mask, or has the burden of being Spider-Man become the truest expression of his selfhood? Kierkegaard, though previously cited in your work, speaks to this in his notion of the self as a task—we are not born ourselves but must become ourselves through choice and commitment. From this angle, Peter becomes most truly himself in the act of being Spider-Man, because it is the arena in which he chooses the good at great personal cost. The mask is not a facade but a crucible through which identity is forged, not concealed.

Jung would caution, however, that imbalance leads to disintegration. When Peter over-identifies with either self—retreating into Peter’s desire for normalcy or escaping into Spider-Man’s allure of power—his psyche fractures. The healthiest version of Peter is not one that denies one side or the other, but one that integrates both in a unified moral self. Spider-Man is not merely the escape from Peter’s life; he is the response to its demands. Likewise, Peter is not the mask beneath Spider-Man but the grounding that keeps his alter ego from collapsing into vengeance or narcissism. Their integration is not only psychological but ethical—a synthesis of identity that models what it means to live with the tension between duty and desire.

Peter Parker in Heroes Reborn, sacrificing himself as he becomes a monster to save his friends.

This could not be more true than in alternative Marvel stories where Peter Parker does not become Spider-Man. In Heroes Reborn, Peter Parker’s descent into monstrosity under Hyperion’s oppressive regime functions as an allegory of Erich Neumann’s theory of the ego’s collapse under totalitarian pressure. No longer Spider-Man, Peter is reduced to a passive bystander, willingly photographing state propaganda rather than resisting it—until the shadow he has repressed fully surfaces. Neumann argues that when the ego surrenders its autonomy to external authority, the self fragments, often resulting in a psychological or moral perversion of identity. Peter’s final act—plunging from the Daily Bugle to save his friends—becomes an inversion of his fall from grace, a reclaiming of his agency and ethical core. Even disfigured and de-powered, Peter’s willingness to lay down his life reveals that heroism is not anchored in physical power, but in the strength to reject complicity and embrace moral clarity when it matters most.

In Earth-31117, where Red Skull rewrites history and Peter becomes a spy for the American resistance, his moral compass persists unshaken despite the collapse of historical continuity. Hannah Arendt’s concept of the “banality of evil”—the way ordinary people are co-opted into oppressive systems through passive compliance—throws Peter’s resistance into sharp relief. While others adapt to the new world order, Peter does not forget who he is. His espionage is not driven by vengeance or glory, but by a quiet refusal to let reality be dictated by tyrannical forces. Deprived of superpowers, Parker embodies a heroism rooted in remembrance and moral resistance. In risking his life to dismantle Red Skull’s regime, Peter becomes an incarnate contradiction to Arendt’s diagnosis: an ordinary man who refuses to become an ordinary accomplice.

Peter Parker as an American spy in Earth-31117.

In Earth-40081, Peter’s body is weakened by the radioactive spider bite, but his mind sharpens into a formidable force for good. His refusal to betray Stark Industries—even when Norman Osborn manipulates him with Gwen Stacy’s life—reveals a depth of ethical integrity that recalls Iris Murdoch’s vision of the moral self. For Murdoch, moral vision is not about heroic acts in isolation, but about sustained attention to the good and resistance to self-serving illusion. Peter’s act of hacking Osborn’s files and exposing him to the authorities isn’t a grand gesture—it’s a practiced, principled refusal to become complicit in evil. Though lacking his traditional powers, Peter’s moral fiber remains intact; his heroism emerges not from webs and agility, but from clear-eyed moral discernment and unwavering self-sacrifice. In this world, Spider-Man is less a costume than a vocation—one Peter answers through intellect, courage, and the refusal to be bought.

Returning back to Spider-Man orthodoxy, the defining trauma in Spider-Man’s origin is not the presence of evil, but the absence of good. Peter Parker’s choice to let a thief escape—not out of malice, but apathy or resentment—directly leads to Uncle Ben’s death. This moment functions as a dramatic embodiment of the sin of omission—the failure to act when one had the power and opportunity to do so. Thomas Aquinas makes clear that omission is not a lesser form of wrongdoing but a profound moral failure, especially when one possesses the capacity to intervene. In Peter’s world, evil triumphs not because villains are strong, but because the virtuous hesitate. The moral wound Peter carries is not that he did wrong, but that he failed to do right.

This trauma also invites reflection through the lens of existential paralysis—a concept captured in Viktor Frankl’s will to meaning. When individuals are unsure of their purpose or paralyzed by internal conflict, they are less likely to act decisively. Peter’s inaction flows from a misplaced sense of justice—he allows the thief to go as a petty form of revenge against those who wronged him. But in doing so, he fails to grasp the weight of his own agency. Frankl would argue that it is only through embracing responsibility that individuals find authentic meaning. The death of Uncle Ben becomes a crucible for this transformation: a moment in which Peter is forced to confront the costs of moral inaction.

Furthermore, this pivotal event reconfigures Peter’s entire ethical framework. After Ben’s death, his approach to morality shifts from reactive to proactive—from one who avoids wrongdoing to one who seeks out opportunities to do right. This echoes Bonhoeffer’s challenge to the Christian ethicist: not merely to avoid sin, but to intervene in the face of suffering and injustice. The ethical paralysis that defined Peter’s early mistake becomes the impetus for a new kind of moral engagement—one rooted in vigilance, humility, and the refusal to be indifferent. In this way, Uncle Ben’s death is not just a narrative device but a theological catalyst, transforming Spider-Man into a symbol of the ethical imperative to act.

Peter Parker’s Theodicy: Wrestling with Pain, Purpose, and Providence

The problem of suffering—why a good and all-powerful God permits evil and pain—finds an embodied metaphor in Peter Parker’s lifelong burden. Suffering follows Peter not only in the loss of Uncle Ben but in the cumulative weight of those he cannot save. This becomes especially potent when Peter is hunted by Morlun in The Other storyline—a predator who embodies cosmic inevitability and death. Morlun is not merely a villain, but a metaphysical force: an unrelenting certainty that suffering and death will catch all who run from it. Peter’s initial defeat and near-death experience at Morlun’s hands dramatizes the fear that evil is ultimate—that no amount of goodness can escape eventual consumption. The terror here is not just physical but existential. Peter is rendered helpless, powerless, and even abandoned. And yet, it is in this moment of vulnerability that his rebirth begins, mirroring the logic of the Paschal Mystery: only through death can resurrection occur. Peter’s return is not one of invincibility, but of renewed understanding of his mortality and mission.

Martin Heidegger’s concept of being-toward-death sheds light on Peter’s transformation. In facing annihilation, Peter’s existential clarity sharpens: he is not defined by his powers, but by his orientation toward ethical action in the face of finitude. Unlike Heidegger’s abstract Dasein, however, Peter’s confrontation with death is always embodied—rooted in relationships, in neighborhoods, in the faces of the vulnerable. What he learns through suffering is not nihilism, but the radical importance of every act of goodness, no matter how small. This ethic stands in stark contrast to Morlun’s fatalism, asserting that human dignity is found not in overcoming suffering, but in refusing to let it dictate one’s moral compass.

This tension reaches a theological crescendo when Peter, broken and near death, is granted an audience with the One-Above-All in Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man #512. Here, the One-Above-All does not offer systematic answers or metaphysical justifications but instead affirms Peter’s value through presence and empathy, echoing the existential theodicy of philosopher Emmanuel Levinas. Levinas reframes the problem: suffering is not something to be solved, but to be answered by responsibility and love toward the Other. God’s goodness, then, is not proved through control, but through relational fidelity—and Peter, as Spider-Man, enacts this fidelity every time he chooses others above himself.

In this moment, the One-Above-All affirms not divine omnipotence but divine accompaniment. God is not above suffering, but in it, beside the sufferer. This recalls Jürgen Moltmann’s The Crucified God, where he writes, “God weeps with us so that we may one day laugh with him.” Peter’s bruised and battered body becomes a Christological image: not because he is divine, but because he participates in redemptive suffering that refuses to turn away from the pain of the world. His agony is not glorified—it is validated, made meaningful not by an abstract plan but by the relentless choice to do good in spite of it. Spider-Man’s power is not in escaping suffering, but in bearing it responsibly. “With great power comes great responsibility” becomes not merely a moral maxim, but a theodical vocation—one that doesn’t dissolve the mystery of pain, but confronts it through self-giving love.

From a theological standpoint, Peter’s journey is an echo of Job’s. Like Job, Peter is a righteous sufferer whose pain defies neat explanations. And like Job, Peter is not ultimately given an answer to the "why" of his suffering, but a who—a relational encounter with the divine, with love, with vocation. The One-Above-All, like the voice from the whirlwind, does not explain away evil but affirms that the sufferer is seen and known. For Peter, this realization reinvigorates his mission: not to solve the world’s pain, but to enter into it with compassion, resolve, and integrity. In this way, Spider-Man becomes a theology of action, a protest against the silence of evil through sacrificial love.

The One-Above-All showing Peter a fraction of the people he’s saved as Spider-Man.

In the end, Spider-Man's mythos offers a lived theodicy—not a rational solution to evil, but a moral and relational answer to it. He suffers not because he is weak or guilty, but because he chooses to bear the weight others cannot. His suffering is not redemptive in itself but becomes redemptive through love, echoing Paul Tillich’s notion of the courage to be: the decision to affirm life and goodness in the face of chaos and despair. Peter’s faith—never named, but always practiced—is that love has meaning, that sacrifice matters, and that even in a broken world, doing good is still worth it. Through this, Spider-Man becomes not merely a hero, but a theological symbol of hope amid suffering.

Conclusion:

Spider-Man endures because he is, at heart, an Everyman. Peter Parker’s brilliance lies not in radioactive blood or superhuman feats, but in his consistent, often painful, moral clarity. He is the teenager who wrestles with rent, grief, guilt, and love—who, despite all temptation, refuses to stop caring. His heroism is not found in perfection but in perseverance. Each Spider-Man, regardless of universe or actor—be it Tobey Maguire’s earnest gravity, Andrew Garfield’s raw pathos, Tom Holland’s youthful sincerity, Yuri Lowenthal’s thoughtful resolve, Jake Johnson’s weary wisdom, or Shameik Moore’s radiant hope—adds another lens through which we see that behind the mask is not a god or titan, but a person, flawed and fragile, yet consistently willing to rise again.

This is what renders Spider-Man ethically unique: the maxim “with great power comes great responsibility” is not a slogan, but a moral formation rooted in virtue ethics. It asks not merely what is right, but who we are becoming. Even in timelines where Peter has no powers, he still acts with courage and integrity, revealing that Spider-Man is not a product of mutation, but of character. This same character is forged in suffering—a Job-like figure, Peter’s story is an ongoing theodicy, where pain has no easy explanation but does find transfiguration in love. Whether being hunted by Morlun or comforted by the One-Above-All, Peter’s choice to suffer redemptively rather than vindictively becomes his truest power. In the end, Spider-Man is not just a superhero myth; he is a spiritual icon—an ordinary man transformed not by fate, but by his unwavering resolve to protect the world, even as it breaks his heart.

Spider-Man (PS4) jumping off a building.