Superman, the Immigrant, Has Always Reminded Me of Jesus

Superman has always reminded me of Jesus.

In director James Gunn’s latest interpretation, Superman, Clark Kent is once again the heroic savior — thrust into battles against villainous forces and multi-dimensional threats. But this time, the stakes are political.

In a striking scene, journalist Lois Lane confronts Clark after he intervenes in the military invasion of Jarhanpur, a Middle Eastern country by Boravia, a U.S. ally. The parallel to the ongoing violence in Gaza is all too clear. Clark defends his actions, insisting he “ended a war” to save lives. But Lois accuses him of crossing international borders without authorization and acting without the U.S. president’s approval — essentially making himself a stand-in for the American government. Clark pushes back: “I don’t represent anyone but myself and doing good.” When Lois urges him to slow down and “consider the consequences,” he replies with unwavering conviction: “People were going to die!”

It’s a moment that captures what makes this version of Superman so compelling. Under Gunn’s direction, he’s not simply a superhero. He’s a figure of sheer goodness in a world devoid of it. He intervenes in the militarization of indigenous land and offers a vision of justice that isn’t limited by borders, bureaucracy, or nationalist allegiance — an interpretation that some right-wing outlets and commentators have derisively dubbed “Superwoke” for its political themes.

Yet, such a vision has always been close to the heart of Superman’s original creators. First appearing on comic book stands on April 18, 1938, Action Comics #1 launched what would become the age of the American superhero. At his core, Superman was, as the early pages proclaimed, a “champion of the oppressed.” A refugee from the fallen planet Krypton, and raised by his adoptive Earth parents, the Kents, Superman was shaped to become the ultimate heroic figure — one who fights for “truth, justice, and a better tomorrow.”

Superman was the creation of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, both sons of Jewish immigrants who had fled the rising tide of antisemitism in Europe. In many ways, Superman embodied their hopes for a world free from the violence and oppression that shaped their immigrant families’ lives. In a 2012 article for America magazine, theologian Terrance Klein highlights how Superman emerged in comic stores as a messianic figure, one “replete with Mosaic pedigree.” He goes on to reflect: “Like Moses, Superman was sent off alone by his mother to save him from destruction. Moses sailed away through the bulrushes in a basket, Superman in a rocket from the doomed planet Krypton.”

At an era marked by a World War, the Holocaust, and the Great Depression, Superman became an impossible figure in impossible times. The “S” on his chest, after all, is not just a letter; it is, in some tellings, the Kryptonian symbol for hope.

That same hope extends into the 21st century. James Gunn’s new take on Superman invites viewers to “look up” and recover a sense of goodness, optimism, and kindness that is becoming increasingly scarce in today’s sociopolitical climate. In many ways, this Superman emerges into a world not unlike that of 1938. While we may not be living in the shadow of a World War, we are surrounded by other horrors: the wars in Iran, Gaza, and Ukraine; the resurgence of white nationalism at home; and growing hostility toward immigrants.

James Gunn’s new take on Superman invites viewers to “look up” and recover a sense of goodness, optimism, and kindness that is becoming increasingly scarce.

Gunn has made it clear that his Superman is intentionally political — a response, he says, to a time “when people are feeling a loss of hope in other people’s goodness.” This is the story of an immigrant from another planet who fights for justice and shows unwavering kindness, even when that kindness is dismissed as “old-fashioned,” weak, or corny.

Indeed, in the film, Superman finds himself at odds with the political and corporate forces determined to control him. He defies the authority of the government, especially when the lives of the militarized and colonized are at stake. He faces fierce hostility from billionaire magnate Lex Luthor, a character who unmistakably echoes real-world oligarchs like Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, Mark Zuckerberg, and Donald Trump. Luthor, by conducting the invasion of Jarhanpur alongside the Boravian dictator, seeks to colonize and settle on indigenous land. His actions are driven by a deep-seated hatred for Superman, who he repeatedly refers to as an “alien” who does not belong in the U.S. — or on Earth for that matter — and whom he is determined to destroy  in order to “protect humanity.”

In this regard, Gunn and the creative team at DC Studios embrace Superman’s identity not only as the “champion of the oppressed,” but as an immigrant. The film echoes an episode of the television series Smallville, where Clark pleads with his mother not to call immigration enforcement on an undocumented person, insisting that it won’t make them any safer. “I’m an illegal immigrant,” Clark says — a moment of identification that highlights how deeply he understands the vulnerability and fear of migrants criminalized for seeking safety and refuge in a different country.

It’s this radical sense of solidarity that makes Superman so compelling. It’s easy to assume his name refers to his vast array of superpowers, but the “super” in Superman is not ultimately about what he can do, but about who he chooses to be. His heroism lies not in his abilities, but in his unwavering commitment to do what is right — even when it is unpopular, unsanctioned, or costly. He thwarts the colonization of indigenous land and doesn’t seek permission from any government. 

This portrayal of Superman as an uncompromising moral actor is undeniably inspiring. Yet as we celebrate this vision of heroic goodness, we must also reckon with the context in which it’s delivered — and the limitations that context imposes. For, indeed, as the film encourages audiences to “look up” and reclaim hope, that hope comes with a price tag: the cost of a movie ticket and participation in the Hollywood machine.

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Now tracking for a $200 million opening weekend, the film launches a sprawling new franchise designed to compete with the multibillion-dollar Marvel Cinematic Universe. And crucially, Superman’s particularities remain bound by the familiar constraints of hypermasculinity, able-bodiedness, and market-friendly spectacle. The vision he offers — a better world, a purer justice — is deeply profound, but ultimately framed within the logics of pop entertainment. In that sense, even the most radical Superman still answers to the box office.

I began this piece by saying that Superman reminds me of Jesus — and he does. Like Superman, Jesus was also a refugee who challenged the powers that be, whose ministry inspired love, kindness, and goodness among those he encountered.

But unlike Superman, Jesus was not produced by the market; he disrupted it, flipping the tables of money-changers and warning the rich that their “doing good” meant nothing if they refused to give all they owned to the poor.

Superman may point us toward the good — but only so long as audiences are willing to pay for sequels that keep the Hollywood market flowing. Jesus, on the other hand, invites us to walk into the good with him — no cape, no spectacle, no profit. All Jesus has is the costly, liberating way of love: riding on a donkey, washing the feet of his disciples, embracing the poor, the marginalized, and the forgotten.

In this light, the messianism of Superman is one held captive by capitalism. But Jesus enacts a different kind of messianism — a truer, deeper hope that defies the clutches of empire and its market.

Theologian Gavin Chase explains how Jesus disrupts human ideas of power by expounding on what Jewish philosopher Walter Benjamin called “weak messianism.” Jesus’ messianism is “weak” not because he lacks power, but because he refused political dominance, capitalist spectacle, and the allure of the market. Rather, Jesus’ weak messianism is the beauty of a love so undomesticated it disrupted and posed a threat to empire. So, Rome did what empires do: They executed him.

But even in the face of violence, Jesus demonstrated a deep love that refused to mirror the empire’s brutality. When Peter raised his sword in resistance, Jesus rebuked him — and healed the ear of his captor. This is the paradox of weak messianism: a love so radical it will heal even one’s enemies.

For Chase, Jesus’ weak messianism reveals a God who is not shaped by the market and does not disappear when audiences stop buying tickets or comic books. Instead, this is a God who endures in love. This Messiah does not come wielding a sword, but touches wounds and prays for those who harm him. He does not revel in spectacle or profit, but turns our gaze toward real people, real suffering, and real relationships. He loves so fully, so freely, that his very presence becomes a threat to an empire built on fear, violence, and control.

And yet, this kind of “weakness” is so often mocked and jeered at — especially in circles that continue to fuel cycles of hate against immigrants, Black and brown people, queer and trans people, and even a “Superwoke” Superman. But what they call weakness is, in truth, the greater power that heals and liberates. It is the kind of love that stands in solidarity with the discarded, and dares to believe they are worth everything.