“Hero-worship is innate to human nature, and it is founded on some of our noblest feelings… but which, like all other feelings, when uncontrolled by principle and reason, may easily degenerate into the wildest exaggerations.” ~ John Calvin
One of my granddaughters is currently obsessed with Spider-Man. She wears her Spidey suit whenever she can get away with it and rotates through Spidey shows like it’s her job.
Her uncle Ethan was the same way at that age — except his loyalty belonged to Batman. Cape, growl, gadgets and all.
Whether it’s a comic-book hero, a historical figure or a present-day leader, we seem built to look up to someone, no matter how old we are. We want someone to model courage. Someone to show us what’s possible. Someone who makes the hard parts of life feel survivable.
There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, it’s probably necessary.
But here’s the harder truth: the heroes we elevate — the real, flesh-and-blood ones — eventually remind us they are exactly that. Flesh and blood.
The minister with a double life.
The politician who bends the rules.
The athlete who cuts corners.
The details change. The disappointment feels the same.
When someone you trusted turns out not to be who you thought they were, it leaves a sour taste. Not just because they failed — but because we handed them something fragile. We handed them trust.
We live in a culture that loves to put people on pedestals — and then seems almost eager to kick them off. Idolize. Expose. Discard. Repeat.
That cycle doesn’t build strong communities. It builds suspicion.
I don’t want my granddaughter to stop believing in heroes. I don’t want her to grow up cynical. But I do want her to understand something most of us learn the hard way: heroes are human.
The goal isn’t flawlessness. It’s faithfulness.
Not perfection — but repentance when you mess up.
Not invincibility — but the humility to repair what you’ve broken.
Maybe when heroes fall, the lesson isn’t that we were foolish to admire them. Maybe the lesson is that we shouldn’t confuse admiration with absolution.
And maybe the quiet invitation — especially for those of us old enough to know better — is this: stop looking for saviors in capes, pulpits or campaign ads.
Start becoming the kind of steady, ordinary hero who keeps promises, tells the truth and shows up.
No mask (or cape) required.
