Second Sunday of Lent 2024

 

Second Sunday of Lent 2024

Lectionary readings: Genesis 17.1-7, 15-16 and Mark 8.31-38

My family likes to watch Marvel Cinematic Universe movies. They are full of comic book superheroes, and many of the characters have aliases by which they are known:

Tony Stark is known as Iron Man;
Steve Rogers is the original Captain America;
Sam Wilson is the Falcon, and later takes on the mantle of Captain America;
Hank Pym was the original Ant Man, a mantle later taken on by Scott Lang;
Natasha Romanoff is Black Widow;
Peter Parker is Spiderman.
T’Challa, prince and later king of Wakanda is Black Panther, a mantle later taken on by his sister Shuri.

The most recent film, The Marvels, has three female – and multi-ethnic – leads:

Carol Danvers, known as Captain Marvel;
Kamala Khan – the first superhero role-model for Muslim girls – who goes by the name Ms. Marvel, as a tribute to Danvers;
and Monica Rambeau, who does not have an alias, and rejects various suggestions proposed by Kamala.

One of the interesting things about the MCU, and the Marvel comics it draws on, is the way they re-imagine characters and storylines, exploring different possibilities. The heroes are also flawed, trying to make sense of things that have been done to them, sometimes misunderstood, usually trying their best, often making things worse as an unintended consequence of their actions, willing to make sacrifices, holding on to hope. All these things are recognisable in our own lives, and in the stories we read in the Bible.

We all have a name, and our name is woven and at times unpicked throughout the story of our lives. This week, I conducted a funeral. The name on the coffin-plate read ‘Robert,’ but as a congregation we knew him by his middle-name, Earnest (his father having also been Robert Earnest Kerr) while his family knew him as Earn. Some of you will have gone by various names over the years, or in different contexts.

Give me a wave if your surname has changed at some point.

Give me a wave if you go by a middle name, or a shortened or nickname.

Give me a wave if you have names in more than one language.

In our reading this morning from Genesis, Abram (‘exalted father’) becomes Abraham, and Sarai (‘princess’) becomes Sarah. What we see here is a shift in dialect. Their names will sound different in the mouths of those whom God will lead them to live alongside. Their names will change because of geography, because they have walked with God and walking with God will take them somewhere they have never been before. Those members of our congregation from Nigeria, or Kenya, or India, will know what it is to hear your names spoken back to you in a way you have never heard them spoken before!

 

In our story this morning, God is also given two names: the personal name, Yahweh, and the known-as name, or alias, El Shaddai.

 

There are names in our Gospel reading, too. There is Peter. In Mark’s Gospel, we first meet him as Simon (Mark 1.16) and are later told that Jesus renamed him Peter (Mark 3.16). It may be that Peter was already one of Simon’s given-names and that Jesus felt it was more fitting – Simon means ‘to hear’ or ‘listening’ and Simon wasn’t the best listener! But in our Gospel reading today, Jesus gives Peter yet another name, Satan or ‘accuser’! Wow!

Jesus has been speaking about the life he has been given – under the alias ‘the Son of Man’ or the mortal one – which will involve great suffering, rejection by those who seek positions of power over others, and even being killed – though this will not be the end of his story. And Peter takes him aside and tries to persuade him to trade-up this life for a better one, one that does not include suffering or rejection or being killed. And Jesus’ response is unambiguous: you are thinking like a human who does not trust your Creator; I will not reject my life in exchange for a different life; and you should not seek to reject being Peter in favour for being Satan. That would be a gamble that cannot pay off, whatever permutations unfold.

Jesus goes on to say to those gathered around him, you cannot trade-up your God-given life for something better – even if you possessed the entire universe to borrow against, your life is worth more. And even if that life is taken from you, by those who trust in violence to save them, it will not be lost, for you belong to God, who can raise the dead.

To be clear: I am not saying that you should ‘accept your lot in life,’ however unjust the distribution of resources has been. I am not suggesting that you should ‘know – and remain in – your place,’ in the unjust structures of society, where humans inflict great suffering on other humans because they believe life to be a competition, in which we fear that any gain for ‘them’ must mean less for ‘us.’ Such an interpretation of Jesus’ words would be thinking in human ways that are set against God’s good will.

Such an interpretation multiplies the tears of the world that God will tenderly wipe away when every wrong is made right.

What I am saying is this: that God knows you by name. That God, who goes by many aliases –

God Almighty;
the God who Sees;
the Lord who Heals;
the Lord will Provide;
the Lord our Righteousness;
the Lord my Banner;
the Lord of Angel Armies;
the Lord is Present;
the Lord my Shepherd;
the Lord my Rock;
and more besides –

that God says to each one of us, ‘Walk with me, walk close with me, that I may be all you need in any given moment, that I might bring you to a place of blessing, that you may be a blessing to others.’

And over time, that will change you; you will grow; your voice will change – whether your dialect changes or not; you will become less who the world tells you that you should be, and more fully whom God has made you to be. And however long you live, it doesn’t come to an end. And however long we live, we don’t get to see the full story. But we get to play our part, a part no one else in all the universe can play for us – or play at all, if we refuse.

You don’t have to be a superhero. In fact, that would get in the way. God invites us to lay down our armour and our weapons and slow our pace to a walk with a friend. This Lent, may we rediscover the sheer relief of that grace.