Stronger than Steel, Softer than Flesh: Theological and Philosophical Reflections on Superman
Superman is more than a comic book hero; he is a cultural icon and a philosophical provocation. His dual identity—Kal-El of Krypton and Clark Kent of Kansas—positions him as both alien and neighbor, a paradox of strength and humility, cosmic power and earthly empathy. While many heroes derive their significance from their origin stories, Superman’s narrative invites a deeper question: what makes someone human? Is it biology, experience, morality, or choice? This question sits at the heart of the Superman mythos and echoes through philosophy, theology, and political ethics. Superman is not merely a savior in tights; he is a mirror held up to humanity, asking us what kind of people we want to be—and what we expect from those with power.
In the shadow of godlike strength lies an equally godlike responsibility. The beauty of Superman is not his ability to overpower enemies, but his refusal to use that power selfishly. Despite being invulnerable, he consistently chooses vulnerability—living among humans, working a mundane job, and acting with humility. His humanity is not an accident of nurture, nor is it a façade; it is a deliberate posture. Like Kierkegaard’s existential self, Superman chooses to be who he becomes. In this, he subverts the Nietzschean Übermensch not by transcending morality, but by embodying it. He reveals that the highest strength lies in restraint, that real power is measured not in what one can do, but in what one chooses not to do.
Yet this narrative is not uncontested. Modern portrayals of Superman invert his mythos, speculating on darker, more cynical possibilities: what if Superman were not good? Stories like Injustice, The Boys, and Brightburn explore versions of Superman who lack moral formation, raising urgent questions about the ethics of power and the foundations of justice. These dystopian variants expose a cultural anxiety: that power inevitably corrupts unless rooted in virtue. They also ask an unsettling question about human nature itself—if we had that kind of power, would we do any better? These narratives challenge us to consider whether Superman’s virtue is believable, or whether it’s a fragile fiction we tell ourselves to mask our fears.
But perhaps the more important question is not whether Superman could become evil, but why he doesn’t. What keeps Clark Kent from becoming Homelander? The answer lies not in his Kryptonian DNA, but in his moral imagination—shaped by his upbringing, choices, and empathetic vision of the world. Superman is not good because he must be, but because he chooses to be. His goodness is not imposed from outside but arises from within, through the tension of his dual identity and the suffering he willingly shares. In a world where power often erodes virtue, Superman remains compelling because he reverses the formula: his virtue restrains his power. In this, he stands as a symbol not only of hope but of ethical aspiration.
The Man from Krypton
Though Superman is biologically Kryptonian, he is existentially human. Born Kal-El but raised Clark Kent, his identity is formed not by his DNA but by his lived experience among humanity. Unlike J’onn J’onzz, the Martian Manhunter, who maintains emotional detachment and mourns a lost Martian culture, Clark’s consciousness and moral imagination are molded in the fields of Smallville, under the watchful eyes of Jonathan and Martha Kent. While J’onn remembers his alien heritage and grieves its extinction, Clark forgets Krypton entirely until later in life. What separates them is not biology but formation—Clark's humanity is not given, it is cultivated. As Søren Kierkegaard once wrote, “The self is a relation that relates itself to itself,” and in Clark, we see a being who consciously chooses to relate to humanity not out of obligation, but identity.
To be human, then, is less about nature and more about posture—about how we engage suffering, responsibility, and moral decision. Lex Luthor, despite being human in every measurable sense, seems less human than Clark. Luthor treats human life as instrumental to power; Clark treats it as inherently sacred. “Being human means throwing your lot in with your own kind,” writes theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. Lex throws his lot in with himself. Superman, though cosmically superior, throws his lot in with us—working as a journalist, living in anonymity, rescuing the marginalized. Paradoxically, the alien with the most power demonstrates the deepest humility–an emptying, a kenosis. Luthor views that as hypocrisy or naïveté; Clark sees it as purpose.
But can Clark truly suffer as we do? Physically, no—bullets bounce off of him, and he heals instantly. Yet suffering is not merely physical. Clark experiences alienation, isolation, and moral paralysis. He loses loved ones. He lives under constant pressure to save everyone, a burden no one could bear alone. As Viktor Frankl observed, “Suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds meaning.” Clark gives his pain meaning through service. He chooses to feel pain that isn’t his—to cry for strangers. This is perhaps the most human thing of all: the ability to suffer with others. While he may not bleed like us, he weeps like us. And we know, as Isaiah writes of the Suffering Servant, that “he was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.”
This empathic humanity is precisely what makes Superman more than an alien protector—he is a moral exemplar. His humanity is performative and aspirational, not merely natural. He does not protect us because we are useful but because we are worth protecting. In the Man of Steel film, Jonathan Kent tells young Clark, “You are my son,” teaching Clark that identity is relational, not biological. That moment mirrors the baptism of Jesus: “You are my beloved Son.” Superman becomes a Christ-figure not because he dies and rises (though he often does in comics), but because he holds together two natures—one divine or alien, one human—within a singular mission of salvation. As Christ’s divinity does not nullify his humanity, neither does Clark’s Kryptonian nature nullify his moral humanness.
Superman as a Christ-like figure in Zack Snyder’s Man of Steel.
Superman as a Christ-like figure, again, in Zack Snyder’s Man of Steel.
If Superman is a kind of Christ, then he inherits not only divine power but divine responsibility. In All-Star Superman, he says, “You’re much stronger than you think you are. Trust me.” This is not merely inspiration—it is incarnation. He enters into the fragility of our world not to dominate but to serve. And this invites the question: does he have a duty to save everyone? Theologically, Christ “came to seek and save the lost” (Luke 19:10)—but are we not all lost? Similarly, Superman's power is not for self-preservation but sacrificial action. He is the strongest being in the universe, and yet he chooses restraint, gentleness, and proximity to human frailty. He is not the god who reigns from above but the savior who walks among us. In choosing to be with us, he reveals the deepest truth of humanity: to love is to suffer, and to suffer is to become more human.
Superman saving a girl from suicide in All-Star Superman #10
"What if Superman Was Evil?"
The last decade of superhero media has been saturated with alternate visions of Superman gone wrong—what if the Man of Steel turned tyrant? From Injustice’s Superman, who becomes a global dictator after the death of Lois Lane, to Homelander in The Boys, Omni-Man in Invincible, and Brandon Breyer in Brightburn, each scenario explores the terrifying prospect of godlike power devoid of virtue. These figures do not protect humanity; they subject it. Their very presence distorts justice, bending it to their whims. This parallels the Euthyphro dilemma: Is something good because Superman says it is, or does Superman say it because it is good? If justice is defined by the most powerful being, then it becomes arbitrary, no different from tyranny. These narratives rightly challenge our assumptions about power and moral authority, reminding us of how helpless we would be under the wrong hands.
Lex Luthor is perhaps the most prominent voice to raise this concern within canonical DC material. He sees Superman as a threat precisely because he is more than human. In Batman v Superman, Lex states, “If God is all-powerful, he cannot be all-good. And if he is all-good, then he cannot be all-powerful.” This paraphrases a form of the problem of evil, but also reveals Lex’s deeper motives: he cannot stand a being who is both morally superior and existentially stronger than him. Yet, as Augustine noted of Satan, pride is the root of all sin—non serviam, “I will not serve.” This isn’t about not serving Superman–it’s about not serving anyone but himself. Lex sees Superman not as a savior, but as a rival. If Clark Kent is a Christ-like figure whilst also being “more human” than Luther, then perhaps Luther is akin to Adam–the original, unfulfilled, flawed essence of humanity built on pride.
However, the “evil Superman” trope eventually exhausts itself. Once the initial horror of unrestrained power is established, what’s left is no longer a philosophical thought experiment, but a cynical dramatization. The deeper question isn’t “What if Superman were evil?”—it’s “Why isn’t he?” The terror of Homelander or Omni-Man lies in the absence of moral grounding. Their worlds lack Kent’s upbringing, his empathy, his humanity. Their strength only magnifies their flaws. As Aristotle writes in Nicomachean Ethics, “The good for man is an activity of the soul in accordance with virtue.” Power without virtue leads not to flourishing but destruction. Thus, the real story of Superman is not about his powers, but his character.
This reinforms how we should approach the Euthyphro dilemma. Traditionally posed as the question of whether something is good because God commands it or whether God commands it because it is good, the dilemma assumes a divide between divine authority and morality. But this divide collapses when we understand what goodness is. Goodness is not arbitrary, nor is it external to God—it is evidential, identical, and emergent with His character. Likewise, when applied to Superman, the question “What if Superman turned evil?” loses its force once we understand who Clark Kent is. He does not define justice because he is powerful; he is just because he consistently chooses humility, restraint, and love. These choices do not come from external pressures but emerge from the fabric of his character. The Euthyphro dilemma, then, is not merely a logical paradox—it is a question of character.
Homelander from The Boys using his heat vision to kill people.
When people ask, “What if Superman turned evil?” they’re actually asking what happens when you separate moral character from raw power. But this is already a shift away from who Superman is. In that light, it’s no surprise that characters like Homelander or Brightburn exist—and that they’re evil. They’re not Superman. They are constructs stripped of Clark Kent’s formative experiences, values, and humanity. Asking “what if Superman were evil” is as nonsensical as asking “what if red turned blue?” If red turned blue, it simply wouldn’t be red anymore. The question implodes on itself. The same is true for God: if God were not all-good, then He would not be God. At that point, the question no longer concerns God Himself, but a philosophical experiment—a being that exists only in a hypothetical bottle, divorced from the essence it claims to question.
Thus, these Superman variants reveal more about us than they do about him. They express a cultural anxiety about moral authority and the dangers of misplaced trust. But Clark Kent’s Superman is not Homelander with a better PR team—he is, at his core, a man who chooses to love despite having every reason not to. His story is not compelling because of his strength, but because of his character. The miracle of Superman is that he is what he is–good, and powerful. The real question, then, is not “What if Superman were evil?” but “What does it take to be good when you have no equal?” And in that question lies the heart of both Superman’s mythos and the imitation of Christ.
The American Way, or a Better Tomorrow?
Superman has long stood for “truth, justice, and the American way”—but that last phrase, “the American way,” carries deep ambiguity. What does it mean to be aligned with America, a country that has often embodied contradiction: liberty and oppression, freedom and surveillance, justice and corruption? Superman is not legally American; he is not even human. He is an immigrant to the state, and the world. Yet he chooses to operate in America, live as Clark Kent in Kansas, and serve as a protector from a moral center that appears shaped by Midwestern values and democratic ideals. “The American way” then, in Superman’s context, may not refer to nationalism, but to ideals: the belief that power is best used in service of others, that every person has dignity, and that hope matters. These are not uniquely American virtues, but they are ones that the American mythos often claims to embody. Thus, Superman represents a moral America, not necessarily a political one.
This is what creates such tension between Superman and American institutions in many stories. In Man of Steel, General Swanwick initially sees Superman as a threat, despite the fact that he saves Earth from Zod’s invasion. “You’re too dangerous to be unaccounted for,” Swanwick says, echoing a real-world fear: if a man exists beyond government control, can he be trusted? Superman, however, does not swear fealty to any one nation—he refuses to be weaponized. As Reinhold Niebuhr famously said, “Man’s capacity for justice makes democracy possible; but man’s inclination to injustice makes democracy necessary.” Superman embodies that paradox—he is both more just and more powerful than any state. His resistance to nationalization is not un-American, but post-national, a commitment to a justice higher than political boundaries.
This raises the question of whether Superman breaks international law. When he flies from nation to nation saving civilians, intervening in crises without consent from world governments, is he violating sovereignty? Possibly. Steve Rodgers even faces this same issue in Captain America: Civil War (2016), where he disagrees with Iron Man and the United States government about becoming official operatives for the government. When the Avengers acted in Sokovia, they did so because they needed to. Not because someone forced them to be there. Likewise, Superman’s actions are not grounded in legalism; they are grounded in moral immediacy. Immanuel Kant proposed a “categorical imperative”—to act in such a way that your behavior could become a universal law. Superman operates on a similar principle: when a person is in danger, you help them. That’s it. From this angle, Superman is the embodiment of moral universalism. His presence transcends borders because morality transcends borders. The late president John F. Kennedy once famously said, “ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country”—but what if it was the world, and not just your country? And in this sense, perhaps that is the best of what “the American way” could mean—not nationalism, but a willingness to help when help is needed, even if there are consequences.
A fitting real-world parallel is Desmond Doss, the WWII medic who refused to carry a weapon due to his Christian convictions. Despite ridicule and abuse from his fellow soldiers, he went on to save 75 men at Okinawa, dragging wounded soldiers—American and Japanese alike—to safety. Doss’s story, immortalized in Hacksaw Ridge, reflects the deeper truth Superman embodies: that strength does not come from violence, but from compassion. Like Superman, Doss placed others’ lives above his own, operating from a deep-rooted moral conviction. His actions were not technically lawful in every circumstance, but they were good—they testified to a higher law, a higher truth. Superman, too, echoes this sacrificial compassion, often stepping into conflict not with fists, but with the aim of resolution and restoration.
Desmond Doss in Hacksaw Ridge carrying a wounded soldier.
Ultimately, Superman’s ideal is not just “truth, justice, and the American way,” but the hope of a better tomorrow. This phrase, frequently used in Superman media, expresses his utopian aspiration—a world beyond war, beyond fear, beyond retaliation. It is admittedly unrealistic in a fallen world. Yet, as theologian Jürgen Moltmann argues, “Christian hope…is an active expectation, not resignation.” Superman’s hope is active. He fights not because he believes he can eliminate evil forever, but because he believes good is worth pursuing today. In doing so, he becomes a symbol not just of America, but of moral perseverance. Superman challenges nations, governments, and individuals alike to ask not “What’s in it for me?” but “What can I give for the good of all?” In that sense, he is truly heroic.
Conclusion:
Superman’s enduring relevance lies not in his physical invincibility but in his moral vulnerability. He is a being of almost limitless power, yet he binds himself to the fragile moral codes of humanity. In this self-limitation, he becomes not less than a god, but more than a myth—he becomes human in the deepest, most aspirational sense. His story is not one of domination, but of incarnation: entering the world not to rule, but to serve. Like the Christ he so often parallels, Superman demonstrates that salvation is not achieved through strength alone, but through love, sacrifice, and shared suffering.
The "evil Superman" trope, while useful as a cautionary tale, ultimately points us back to what makes the true Superman so profound. It is not the fear of what he could become that defines him, but the hope rooted in who he has chosen to be. These darker versions lack the moral scaffolding that holds Clark Kent together: the formative relationships, the rural virtue, the belief in the dignity of all people. They reveal a terrifying truth—that power without virtue is tyranny—but they also underscore a deeper theological and philosophical claim: that goodness, when freely chosen, is more powerful than fear, control, or despair.
In an age rife with distrust in institutions, leaders, and even narratives of heroism, Superman remains a radical figure precisely because he refuses to abandon hope. He shows that strength and compassion are not mutually exclusive, and that moral character can still shape destiny. His story invites us not only to admire his restraint but to emulate his choices. For in the end, the question Superman poses to us is not “What would you do with my power?” but “What will you do with your own?” In answering that, we begin to reclaim not only our faith in heroes, but our faith in humanity itself.
Superman in My Adventures with Superman, flying away.
