I was ten years old and on the verge of theft. We were at Toys “R” Us, and my brother and I both wanted the same action figure. I considered this wasteful, because our trips to the store were incredibly rare, and we shared all the toys we had at home. The problem was that my brother broke everything he got, so if I wanted something in good condition, I’d need my own. Not seeing another way, I ripped it from its packaging and stuffed it into my pocket before joining my parents at the checkout line with my second choice in hand. A win-win, I thought. After we paid and started to leave, however, heavy pangs of guilt began to strike, and I froze. “I can’t do it,” I said and sped back to return the stolen toy, the weight in me lifting with every step.

Like many native Spanish-speakers, I was raised Catholic. I was baptized, I prayed before bed, and we went to church now and then. But I wore a cape long before I ever wore a cross. From my Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs to my choice of breakfast cereal to how I saw myself as a person, Superman was everything to me. It was my first Halloween costume, the theme for my birthday parties, and every other word out of my mouth as a kid. I spent every waking minute launching myself from couch to couch, a red cape flapping behind me, pretending to save the world. Because of Superman, I wanted to fly. I wanted to fight evil. And I wanted to always do the right thing.

I was primarily swept up by the heroics, but there was more going on under the surface. Everything Superman said, I took to heart. I remembered him noting that, statistically speaking, flying was the safest way to travel—so I was never scared of airplanes. I remembered the determined look in his eyes when he told Lois Lane that he never lied—so I tried never to lie either. I remembered his earnest dedication to truth, justice, and the American Way—a sentiment not yet poisoned with cynicism—and I adopted those values as my own. Superman was kind. Superman was good. Superman was honest. I wanted to be those things, too.

Meanwhile, a new contender was emerging. After kindergarten, my parents put me in Catholic school, and I started learning more about Jesus Christ. I learned all about his sacrifice, his trial and crucifixion, his miraculous rise from the dead. I heard about his sermons, his divinity, and the Final Judgment, which was imminent. I believed Jesus was real—something I only felt about Superman when I was very young—and I worshipped him the way I was supposed to. I feared him, too.

Around that time, Superman died. I bought the comic and was rapt as I saw him fight and ultimately sacrifice himself to save the world from a monster called Doomsday. I read and reread the final pages, stared at the images of my hero, black with blood, dying to protect humanity. I was seven years old, but I wept like a baby. I didn’t realize it then, but it had never occurred to me to shed a tear for Christ in that way. Despite my education, my First Communion, and my true belief in the Second Coming, when all was said and done, Jesus and all his miracles—real or not—were too little, too late. My mind and my morality had already been molded by the Man of Steel, and I was better off for it.

It’s no secret that Superman and Jesus have much in common. Both are superhuman beings sent to Earth by their fathers, raised by adoptive parents, and destined to save mankind. Both are avatars of virtue the world over—embodying ideals we can reach for, despite knowing we’ll never fully grasp them. Many of these similarities are intentional, and modern depictions of Superman often draw these parallels with the subtlety of a mace. I’ve always found the Christian imagery in Superman media (comics, films, and TV shows) cringe-inducing. They’re pedantic, heavy-handed, and lose sight of why Superman is, in so many ways, a far superior moral model to Jesus Christ.

For all the talk of forgiveness in Christianity, one’s relationship with Jesus is always transactional. The stakes are impossibly high—all of eternity hangs in the balance, after all—and we need to constantly re-up with him to stay in God’s good graces. Sure, with a couple of dollars and a few rounds on the rosary we can be forgiven our trespasses, but every day on earth among our fellow wretches is another day rife with sin and the danger of losing our souls. We await Jesus’s return with bated breath, hoping we’ll be good enough to join him in Paradise despite our flaws—of which we are constantly reminded.

Superman is forgiving, too, but he does it for free. There’s no eternal damnation for falling out of his favor or failing to grovel. Superman believes in people. He’s got better powers, a cooler outfit, and a far less confusing origin story. But Superman’s greatest asset, by far, is that he’s fictional and we all know it. This leaves him free to be the hero, the beacon of hope, the pillar of goodness that we need him to be—no strings, no guilt, no fear. Superman isn’t bound by the bureaucracies of a church or constrained by the tenets of religious dogma. He can adapt and evolve and grow with us, always serving as that ideal for us to strive toward, pushing us to embody the ethics we infuse him with. No wars, no bloodshed, no righteous hatred of our fellow man on his behalf. Superman is Jesus without the mess.

That day I almost got away with stealing, it was Superman that stopped me. Not the fear of God, not the threat of damnation, but the thought of failing that little boy in me that once flew around his house and aspired to goodness. In that moment, I pictured Superman floating high above me, his red cape flapping in the breeze, his eyes boring into my soul as a look of disappointment crept across his face. The pangs of guilt came from the thought of letting my hero down—of letting myself down. I couldn’t do it. I wanted to be good. I wanted to be like Superman.

In the years since, I have fallen from grace many times over. I went through a period of deep cynicism, anger, and hopelessness as I scrambled through adolescence and young adulthood. The world seemed impossibly dark, and I struggled mightily to find my way. I’d forgotten about Superman entirely. But eventually I realized what a powerful force he had always been in my life and what a perfect symbol he was for everything I wanted to be. We all need symbols to inspire the best in us. For some, it’s a cross around their neck. For me, it’s an “S” on my chest. All things considered, I think I’ve got the better end of the deal.