The Parable of Victor Sage

“These are people who deeply admire and respect Obama and wish him nothing but success. But, like some thoughtful congressional Democrats with whom I have spoken, they worry that he has bitten off more than he can chew.” (David Broder)

I’m thinking about politicians and the power with which we invest them—the magic carpets we give them to ride, only to yank out from under them when reality hits. When the runaway pride of a political candidate collides with the unreasonable expectations of the people, joy turns to disillusionment, if not despair. To whom then will we turn? Who then will save us?

All of this came home to me as I read a comic-book story in a long-forgotten science fiction title, Strange Worlds. SW was published by Marvel, which, at the end of the 1950s, was called Atlas Comics. At this time, just prior to Fantastic Four and Spider-Man, heroes that would revitalize the industry and revolutionize the form, writer Stan Lee and artist Steve Ditko depended on sci-fi for their bread and butter.

Onto a pile of forgettable bug-eyed-monster yarns, they tossed this little gem: “I Couldn’t Stop the Runaway Comet.” Reading it, I was struck by the uncanny foreshadowing of our time. Take a stroll with me down this dingy, neglected alley of pop culture. See if you can see parallels with modern political hubris and misplaced trust.

In the year 2060 (100 years in the then-future), a scientist aptly named Victor Sage is running for the office of World President. Sage believes there is no problem science can’t solve. Science brought fire and science will take humanity to the stars.

Victor’s regard for science is exceeded only by his regard for himself. With a global constituency in his pocket, Sage starts believing his own press. “We want Sage!” cry the crowds. The candidate mentally responds, “‘Want’ me? They can’t do without me! I’m indispensable!”

The scientist bestrides the world like a colossus. Ah, but untamed nature is about to knock the sage from the saddle. A runaway comet hurtles toward the earth, bursting the bubble of his ambitions.

He may be an egomaniac, but Victor Sage is no slouch. Rising to the challenge, he orders teams of scientists to create “the most devastating explosives ever conceived.” The missiles are fired—only to explode uselessly in the heat of the cosmic juggernaut. The people are devastated. “Sage failed us! It’s the end of the world! Of mankind!”

Talk about your global warming! As the comet gets closer, forests burst into flame. The polar regions begin to melt. As the shadow of doom falls across the earth, the sage who would be victor confesses his failure. If ever it was time for a deus ex machina, this is it. And our writer delivers, well, Deus Himself! With no earthly hope and nowhere else to turn, people everywhere fall to their knees in prayer: “You are our only hope!! We had forgotten . . . but we remember now!”

A modern comic would’ve taken a year to tell the tale. Artist Steve Ditko, however, wraps it up in five evocative panels. Victor Sage confesses his overweening pride, asking for forgiveness. At the last moment, the mighty comet swerves from the earth. The people cry out “SAVED!” Our chastened hero swears, “I’ll never let us forget that somewhere is a glory far greater than ours…”

The only thing missing is the Hallelujah Chorus.

It’s perhaps worth exploring the genesis of this remarkable little tale, so unusual for a mainstream comic of any era. Though the art is distinctively Ditko, it’s hard to say whether he or Stan Lee wrote the script. Knowing that Ditko later became a convert to Ayn Rand’s Objectivism, which has no use for God, at first I leaned toward Lee. Though I don’t think he’s ever tried to portray God (by name at least) in his comics, the thinking that went into his creation of the Mighty Thor throws light on Lee’s worldview.

As he recalls it in Origins of Marvel Comics, after creating super-powered beings like Spider-Man and the Fantastic Four, there seemed to be nowhere to go with the concept but up—to God. He worried, however, about offending the devout. Lee writes, “I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—do a series about God.”

He settled, then, for turning the mythical Norse deity, Thor, into a hammer-flinging hero. From this and other sources, it seems plain that the former Stanley Leiber was, if not a practicing Jew, at least a theist. He was just cautious about naming God as such. If he wrote the “Comet” story, that same reticence might’ve kept him from identifying Sage’s “greater glory.”

On the other hand, Lee’s stories were usually punchier, with more humor. Ditko was more verbose, as is this story. What’s more, his Objectivism, if present, may only have been in its nascent stage. Ayn Rand published Atlas Shrugged in 1957. That was two years or so before “Comet” appeared. So it is possible that Ditko had yet to hear of Rand and Objectivism. On the other hand, as often happens, the need for money might’ve overruled the artist’s principles. At any rate, the atheistic philosophy hadn’t yet become the obstacle it later would.

Regardless of who lit the fire, “Comet’s” theism glows like a burning bush. Yet its faith actually fits rather comfortably into the ‘50s pop culture from which it sprang. This was the decade in which America stood against godless communism, the era that witnessed the imprint of “In God We Trust” on our coins and the insertion “under God” into the pledge to our flag. The decade also saw several classic sci-fi films that boldly mention God, among them This Island Earth and War of the Worlds.

Yet neither the notion of God nor the evil of human arrogance was born in the 1950s. Victor Sage’s story is as old as that of the sage Solomon whose wisdom was the wonder of his day. While the old king didn’t live long enough to see civil war tear his nation in two, he survived to admit the folly of trust in human wisdom. He called it vanity and “chasing after the wind.”

The book of Daniel tells the bizarre story of the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar whose unreasoning hubris led him to become a mindless brute that ate grass like an ox.

A few centuries later, the apostle Paul was needled by rival preachers enamored of Greek sophistry. Stung by the contempt of those influenced by these “super-apostles,” Paul fired back,

For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God. (2 Corinthians 2:26-29)

In this light, the tale of Victor Sage becomes a parable of the self-inflating, God-deflating power of pride.

I also consider it a cautionary tale about the evils of misplaced trust. The first thing that comes to my mind in this regard isn’t the Bible but Superman IV: The Quest for Peace. At the height of the cold war, Superman wants to rid the earth of nuclear weapons. The Kryptonian council with which he consults, however, punctures his balloon: “If you teach them to put their faith in one man, you are teaching them to be betrayed. Betrayed!”

You didn’t have to be a Republican to notice the almost mystical aura surrounding Barack Obama during the presidential campaign, the unbridled joy of the crowd in Chicago when he won the election. The only thing lacking was a Ditko-esque panel flashed on the big screen in Grant park: “WE’RE SAVED! SAVED!”

In fact, both parties cater to the new, and disturbing, messianic appetite in the American electorate. Referencing the speeches of both Obama and John McCain, newsman John Stossel said that today’s candidates push themselves as a mixture of Superman, Santa Claus, and Mother Theresa.

The trend disturbs me. As we put more and more faith in government, a flawed institution at best, and as we continue to buy stock in the lie that one shining Sage will be our victor, we are teaching ourselves to be betrayed. Worse, we are giving up government of the people and by the people.

Of course, all this is really nothing new. Like sheep without a shepherd, human beings have always tended to trust the Man with the Power—as power is perceived. In 2009 B.C., it was measured in horse-drawn chariots paid for with solid gold. In A.D. 2009, it’s computer systems funded by a very shaky dollar. The result, however, has always been disheartening. “Sage failed us!”

How remarkably up-to-date, then, are the ancient words of the Psalmist: “Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God” (Psalm 20:7).

Finally, I see in “Comet” a great illustration of the grace and mercy of God, the God who, though forgotten by us, never forgets us. Christians believe that Ditko/Lee’s “greater glory,” the unnamed hearer of all prayers, has a name. We believe He has revealed Himself in creation and in the Bible. We believe His greatest revelation arrived in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the King. We believe that the man Jesus died a criminal’s death, was buried in a borrowed tomb, and rose from the dead. I believe that, if we turn to Him in humble faith, He will forgive us, embrace us, and keep us, come comets, crises, or catastrophe.

As Stan Lee would’ve put it, “’Nuf said.”

Gary D. Robinson—author, actor, preacher, and funnybook fan—ministers with North Side Christian Church in Xenia, Ohio. Thanks to Gene Kehoe, friend and fellow comics fan, for letting me know about the Comet story.