A Lack of Capes and Lions

A Lack of Capes and Lions—November 12, 2018

“And I began to weep bitterly because no one was found worthy to open the scroll or look into it. Then one of the elders said to me, ‘Do not weep. See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals.’ Then I saw between the throne and the four living creatures and among the elders a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered, having seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven spirits of God sent out into all the earth. He went and took the scroll from the right hand of the one who was seated on the throne.” [Revelation 5:4-7]

What if you called for Superman, and nobody in a cape arrived, but only a bespectacled news reporter named Clark Kent?

What if the Bat-signal went out, but you only ever saw Bruce Wayne in a suit and tie at your doorstep?

We probably don’t often think of the Bible as a book known for its plot twists or surprise character reveals, but this is a big one.  Maybe THE Big One.  And it’s a big twist precisely for what doesn’t happen, and for who doesn’t appear.

You don’t have to spend much time in American pop culture to know that Superman’s alter-ego is the sheepish glasses-wearing reporter for the Daily Planet, Clark Kent (who never seems to be around when trouble rears its head because he slips into a phone booth and emerges as the blue-and-red-clad flying hero just in time to save the day).  And you probably knew as well that Bruce Wayne is the given name for the Caped Crusader known to the residents of Gotham City as Batman.  When the police shine the Bat-signal’s spotlight up into the sky, Wayne sneaks off to his Bat-Cave, dons his cape and cowl, and then speeds into the night in the Batmobile to fight a whole rogues’ gallery of villains.

And in your standard Batman movie or Superman comic, the introduction of the hero onto the scene is pretty standard.  There’s a need—say, a speeding train about to go off the tracks, or a hijacked armored truck careening toward some schoolchildren—and it becomes clear that ordinary police officers, or even the SWAT Team, will not be enough to save the day.  And so, the call goes out: “This looks like a job for Superman!”  And then, the next thing you know, someone points up at a red-and-blue flash in the sky and exclaims, “It’s a bird! It’s a plane!  No—it’s Superman!”  Same with Batman—the police commissioner realizes the Joker’s threat is too big for the Gotham City police force to handle, and once the Bat-signal is lit, we all wait for a dramatic nighttime entrance from the Dark Knight himself.  (And in the Adam West days, a catchy theme song, “Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na—Batman!” would play, to remind us who was on his way!)

But what if the call went out for Superman, and the only one who appeared was a mild-mannered reporter named Clark?  What if it was just ordinary-looking Bruce Wayne who showed up when the Bat-Signal went off?  You’d be confused.  You’d be disappointed.  You’d be thinking that something strange was happening.  Even if you knew that Bruce Wayne is really Batman, and even if you knew that Clark Kent is the alter-ego for Superman, if they didn’t show up with clenched fists and billowing capes, you’d think something was wrong.  You expect some fireworks in a superhero story, after all—don’t you?  You expect special effects, explosions, karate chopping, kicking, some bat-a-rangs whizzing through the air, or some Kryptonian heat-vision blasting the bad guys.  In other words, you expect someone who looks the part of a hero, who shows power and strength and who revels in the glory of being a hero, and you expect that hero to start punching things to show they mean business.  If you had all the build-up but only got Clark and Bruce, I’ll bet you would feel more than a little taken aback. Maybe even a little bit cheated at the lack of capes.

So now imagine if you were a first-century reader of Revelation, which is the closest thing you’ll find in the Bible to a graphic novel, with all of its outlandish visuals and cosmic conflict.  Imagine if you were reading a story where the need was dire—“We need someone who is worthy of opening up this scroll!”—and the voice of the narrator said that there’s no one around who is worthy to open up the scroll.  This is like Commissioner Gordon realizing the Penguin’s scheme requires outside help and turning on the Bat-Signal.  This is the book of Revelation’s moment to say, “This looks like a job for—Superman!”  Except in this scene, they all expect a Lion.  “Do not weep,” says one of the heavenly bystanders, “Look here—the Lion of the tribe of Judah is coming.  He has conquered.  He is worthy.  He will do what no one else can and open the scroll!” 

So all eyes turn to look toward the heavenly throne, awaiting the hero that has been announced, expecting to see the conquering Lion, and—there isn’t one.

Not at this moment in Revelation, and in fact, never.  There ain’t a Lion to be found in the rest of the book of Revelation.  Never appears.  Never shows.  Never mentioned again. 

Instead of the conquering Lion, we get the slaughtered Lamb.  Instead of the fearsome predator, the so-called “King of the Jungle,” we get the diminutive little “lambykins” (seriously, the Greek here for “Lamb” is in the diminutive form, like we would say, “lamby” for “lamb,” or “kitty cat” for a little cat, or “doggy” for dog).  And not just a Lamb, but a dead one that is somehow alive again.  This Lamb ain’t stalking prey—he bears the wounds of having been killed himself.

And, mind you, this is not simply a dramatic buildup for an even later appearance of the Lion.  He just never shows up.  Or rather, we are supposed to understand that the Lion we were expecting has really all along been the Lamb.  And apparently, all we have ever really needed is the Lamb.

If you were expecting punching, clawing, or roaring, you will be disappointed.  There is none.  But if you were hoping for the victorious savior we need, even if it is not the hero we expected, then the Lamb is enough.  Sufficient.  All-sufficient, it turns out. But it does have the unmistakable feeling of surprise, with the same kind of punch for first-century readers as it would be for us to get all excited to see Superman, only to have Clark Kent arrive on scene for the rest of the story.  Somehow we assume we need punching for anything heroic to get done.

And that, of course, is the whole point that John of the Revelation is trying to make:  the way our God wins the victory in the end, is not by punching anyone, but by dying for everyone.  All the build-up about the Lion who turns out to be a Lamb isn’t false advertising—it’s a corrective to our misunderstood picture of what we really need. And the core message of the Book of Revelation is that even though it looks like the powers of the day are winning because they have more weapons and armies and wealth, the living God has won the victory already by dying at the hands of the empire.  We don’t really need a Lion, or a tiger, or a bear, after all—there are some things in this world that cannot be healed by clawing at them, after all.  What we need—what we have always needed all along, even if we could not recognize it—has been the Slaughtered-but-Living Lamb.  We need the kind of power that defeats death by getting swallowed up by it and then breaking it open from the inside.  We need the kind of power that comes from self-giving love that will not flinch in the face of death or run away to seek shelter when it starts to rain.

If you turned on the Bat-Signal and only got Bruce Wayne on your doorstep, even knowing that they are one and the same, you might at last realize that whatever your problem was, it couldn’t be solved by a masked vigilante with a fetish for flying rodents and beating up burglars.  You might realize the real problem was something that couldn’t be solved by punching.  Like the Joker famously says in the movie The Dark Knight, while a frustrated Batman tries to pummel the Joker into giving up information, “You have nothing! Nothing to threaten me with! Nothing to do with all your strength!”  And of course, in that instance, the Joker was dead right—there are some things that punching cannot fix, and some times when Kryptonian heat-vision cannot save the day.  Sometimes you need a victory that looks like loss, and a Lord who looks like a victim. 

For all of our culture’s assumption that “winning” looks like a regal lion with sharp claws, the Bible itself yet again yanks the carpet out from under. And all of a sudden, it will dawn on us that God was perfectly capable of sending a Lion and instead only chooses to send a Lamb, and only a Lamb… that God was perfectly capable of sending us Superman and instead sends the crucified-and-risen Jesus… that God was perfectly capable of coming down with guns blazing and fists flying, but instead shows his strength with open hands that take nails and offer blessing even to those who have strung him up on a cursed Roman death stake. Because that is what we most need—because what we need to be saved from is our own impulse to destroy ourselves.

Now if this is God’s kind of victory, the question for us will be, “How can I be a part of God’s victory in this day?”  And if we are looking at the Lamb for our picture of victory, then all of our tired lion-like attempts to intimidate, threaten, bully, and overpower others will come up short.  And instead, every act of self-giving love, every instance of faithful endurance in the face of hatred, and every moment of unmasked vulnerable honesty will be a witness to the real victory already accomplished, not by a son of Krypton, but by a crucified Son.

That may catch the world off guard, since the world still expects lions and Caped Crusaders… but maybe the world needs the surprise of ordinary faces and a slain Lamb.

Lord Jesus, our Triumphant Lamb, redefine our picture of victory in light of your suffering love, and let our lives witness to your way of winning.