MADMAN vs. SUPERMAN

A madman sits beside me at Starbucks. He’s sitting in my usual seat. I came here to work on a script about a madman. A madman influenced by demons. And covered in tattoos. The madman before me is covered in tattoos. He’s drinking Teavana. Iced. He's tanned. Good looking for someone beat up by life. Middle-aged. Appears to have been in the military. A Superman logo is emblazoned on his gray T-shirt. A dirty camouflage backpack at his feet. He digs in his nose with brash gusto. More like drilling. Mutters to himself. Holds a small, white plastic bottle. Clutches it. Looks like an eye dropper. He opens it. Turns it upside down, squirting the liquid around him as if creating a circle of safety. Or a spell. Or marking his territory. Aims it at passersby like a gun. He withdraws. Looks bored. Grows sleepy-eyed. And now he’s finished. Picks up his backpack. Meanders to the restroom. I’ve lost my desire to sit in that seat.

The seat that's my favorite spot to write. Pub table. High chair. By the window. Makes me wonder if my current table and chair are someone else's favorite spot to work. Are they glaring at me right now because I invaded their territory? Are they writing a script about a writer who's disgruntled because a Madman stole his pub seating at Starbucks?

I whisper prayers aimed at Mad Superman.

Walked by him earlier to grab a napkin and whispered “Jesus Christ” under my breath. A quiet blessing. A breaking of strongholds. His arm thrust out on cue and almost hit me. Unnaturally. Violent like a snarling wolf. Is he mentally ill? Or demon-possessed? Or both? My heart breaks for him. What hope is there for such people -- except a miracle? Statistics show that anyone who lands on the street, such as him, is rarely rescued and rehabilitated. The key is in catching them before they lose everything. Especially their car, which is considered the last vestige of hope before they end up impoverished. On the street. Unmoored from any stable community. Disconnected from every healthy relationship. Is this not who Christ felt compassion for? Is this not who he delivered from madness? Or demons?

There but for the grace of God, go I.

A large man and woman have taken over Mad Superman's table. The man is bald, maybe 40, obese, and sits in the exact chair as Mad Superman before him. And as fate would have it, the obese, bald man also wears a Superman T-shirt. Blue.

Mad Superman exits the restroom and strides right past Obese Superman, walking straight out the door into the brilliant Sherman Oaks sunlight. Obese Superman continues chatting with the woman across from him. She’s also robust, spilling out of her lycra and spandex. They chuckle. Check their cell phones. Wait for their coffee. Life goes on.

Mad Superman is gone. Forgotten. No one actually noticed he was here. Except me. Or they ignored him. I wonder where he lives? Where he sleeps? If he has any companions? A dog? Any hope?

What a lonely, destitute life.

If Christ is true, He is the ultimate Superman. And He promises that we all can be infused with his super powers through His Holy Spirit. We are meant to free those who have been rendered powerless by physical, emotional, and spiritual Kryptonite. To break the handcuffs off the helpless and hopeless. To bring freedom and liberty to all. I have done so in the past. But I became Obese Superman, fixated on my own happiness and luxuries. And then Mad Superman, falling to spiritual insanity and moral failure.

"If Christ is true, He is the ultimate Superman. And He promises that we all can be infused with his super powers through His Holy Spirit.”

New unction and compassion rise within me.

I am reminded of St. Patrick's Prayer:

“... Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down...”

Here I sit in Starbucks. "Under the Mercy," as written on the gravestone of C. S. Lewis' best friend and author Charles Williams. "Under the Mercy" of the only real Superman ever born on this terrestrial ball we call Earth.

May Mad Superman meet someone else this day who is the hands, feet, and face of Christ, the true Superman who has the power to change his life for good. May the Kryptonite that steals Mad Superman's power -- be blown to smithereens. And may his madness and shame turn to laughter, joy, and dancing.

A worthy prayer for us all.

May it be so.

This day and always.

For our best life yet to come.

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FOR COMMENTS: Please scroll down to the lower comment box. I would love to hear your thoughts.

NOTE: Revised from a journal entry written by Kevyn Bashore on April 7, 2017.

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