A few years ago, a friend told me something I’ve never been able to forget:
— You have a supernatural strength — he said, while I was pouring out my heart about a really tough situation I was going through.
It was a moment of sheer exhaustion, in the middle of a season filled with relentless problems. Honestly, all I was hoping for in that conversation was a bit of comfort, maybe a word of encouragement. But instead, my friend gave me a reminder that felt more like an alarm bell than a helping hand.
I didn’t show it at the time, but his words really got under my skin. Not because I didn’t understand his intentions or what he was trying to say, but because, in that moment, his words didn’t line up with the reality I was living.
I didn’t feel strong — let alone supernatural.
What my friend was trying to remind me of was that I’d been through even tougher battles before, faced bigger challenges, and had overcome them all. But the problem was, in that moment, I just didn’t want to fight anymore. I didn’t want to be strong anymore.
The idea that I had some “superpower” to get through yet another battle triggered an automatic reaction in me — enough! I didn’t want another victory to turn into a testimony. I just wanted comfort and rest.
The truth is, those words hit me in a strange way, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. In the days that followed, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I don’t know why, but sometimes my mind just fixates on something until I figure out what’s really bothering me.
Looking back, I think being told I had a “supernatural strength” at a time when I felt utterly human and frail made me feel somewhat wronged. As if I’d been “chosen” to suffer, and the only thing left to do was to hang in there and everything would eventually be fine.
But some truths look very different in theory than they do in practice.
It’s a beautiful thought to believe that, with God, we can walk through fire without being burned, or through floodwaters without being drowned. But have you ever tried escaping a house on fire? Have you ever swum against a riptide that’s trying to pull you under?
Battle scars might give someone a heroic look, but before they become scars, they are open wounds, and there’s a lot of pain in the healing process.
Just recently, I watched the latest Superman movie, and it brought my friend’s words back to mind. Even superheroes have their moments of weakness and vulnerability.
When you’re losing a crucial battle, your past victories aren’t always enough to stop the fear of failing or the thought that you might not make it through this time.
I’m a survivor, not because I chose to be, but because life happened to me that way. I had to face the monsters of abuse and violence as a child. I had to fight giants while I was still far too young. I climbed barriers of prejudice and leapt over chasms of inequality to make my way towards a promising future. But there’s nothing “super” or heroic about me.
I’ve lost count of how many times people have told me they admire my courage. But only I know the fear I feel every time God leads me into a new adventure around the next corner.
The idea of “supernatural strength” felt completely misplaced that day because I was looking at myself. I’ve never seen myself as “super” in any way. And that day, I was especially weak — to the point of wanting to give up on everything.
It took me years of healing to understand that I don’t have to be strong all the time, and I certainly don’t have to be strong on my own.
Today, I know I do have a supernatural strength, but its source isn’t in me. It comes from God — from His Spirit, who empowers us.
The same Spirit who strengthened Jesus before the cross and raised Him from the dead. The same Spirit who filled Peter with courage to preach the gospel after Pentecost, who stood with Stephen as he faced martyrdom, and who empowered Paul to endure so much suffering with contentment.
I’m learning to lean on that Spirit and to embrace the reality of my human fragility. The same person who, at times, delivers a brilliant performance, also battles with anxiety and depression. The same Diego who has overcome so many adversities, sometimes breaks down in frustration when something simple goes wrong or when a plan falls apart.
For years, I played the “Superman” role in ministry. I was a youth pastor, then a senior pastor. I led meetings, counselled dozens of people each week, preached countless sermons, organised events, managed budgets, wrote theological materials, and even picked out the marketing campaigns. I’m exhausted just thinking about it!
I did an outstanding job for six years straight, until my body sent me the bill and my mind pulled the emergency brake. The technical term is burnout. I had to relearn how to rest. I took a sabbatical year, which eventually led me to New Zealand.
During that sabbatical, I came to realise that I had internalised a “saviour complex” — I believed it was my job to fix everything and rescue everyone. If I wasn’t constantly overloaded, I wasn’t being productive. Worse still, I believed that if I wasn’t carrying everyone else’s burdens, I had no value.
I realised that because of the early battles in my life, my identity had been built around a distorted notion of resilience — one that glorified suffering and justified abuse. I was “the best pastor in the world” because I carried extra loads to make everyone else’s walk lighter.
But Jesus had to remind me that His burden is light, and His yoke is easy. I had to learn how to say “no” and to set clear boundaries. I upset people, lost a few relationships, and had to get used to walking in a new way — even when people no longer recognised me.
It was a painful process, but it brought a deep and lasting healing to my identity and my well-being. It was a liberating journey.
These days, I’m learning — slowly but surely — to walk lighter. To be intentional with what I do, to be thoughtful in my commitments and choices. I’m learning not to compromise my rest, to switch off my phone when needed, and to live in full awareness of my humanity.
I’ve discovered that my greatest “superpower” is, in fact, my humanity. My fragility, my limitations, and my inadequacy are the very raw materials through which God’s power is revealed. So that all the glory always goes to Him, and not to me.
I want to learn to walk lightly. To take joy in being “number two.” To discover the secret of Jesus’ humility — to be content seeing others take the spotlight, to intentionally step back so that He can increase.
That’s my new goal.
That’s my “super-mission.”
