Salt and Light
Sermon for the Fifth Sunday After Epiphany
February 5th, 2023
Isaiah 58:1-9a (9b-12)
Psalm 112:1-9 (10)
1 Corinthians 2:1-12 (13-16)
Matthew 5: 13-20
Last Sunday, this Sunday and next Sunday, our Gospel readings from Matthew’s Gospel all come from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount.
Right before today’s Gospel, Jesus begins his message with the Beatitudes—by reminding the people listening about exactly who would be considered blessed, holy, in the kingdom of heaven. And surprise, it’s not the people they (or we, for that matter) were expecting! Those who might seem like they’re blessed buy outward appearances. Instead, in the kingdom, it’s those who are poor who are blessed, those who are mourning, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, those who are merciful, those who are peacemakers, and those who are persecuted.
These are not typically the people who come to mind when we think of people who are blessed. They’re not the people our world typically says are blessed. But then, Jesus makes clear, there is nothing typical about the kingdom he came to inaugurate, or about its values.
This week, Jesus continues his message by reminding the people gathered around him—his disciples, and also the crowd that has gathered to listen to him—of who they’re called to be as his followers in the world. And in describing them, he uses two profoundly simple images: salt and light.
“You are the salt of the earth,” he tells them.
Of all the images Jesus could’ve used to talk about his followers, why in the world would he have chosen salt? I’ve been thinking about that this week, and wondering about salt, and doing a little bit of exploring to learn more about salt.
For one thing, salt is life-giving. Without salt in our diet and in our bodies, we would literally die. Of course, too much salt can be a bad thing, but just the right amount makes life possible. I’m not sure if the people of Jesus’ time knew about the science of salt, but they certainly did know that it had life-giving power. As it is today, salt was an important ingredient in preparing food, and it was also used as a preservative, to help preserve food before the days of refrigeration.
Interestingly, the Hebrew Scriptures tell us that the covenant or relationship between the people of Israel and God was sometimes called a “covenant of salt.” Like salt, which gave life, this covenant between them and God was life-giving. Like salt that preserved food, this covenant was meant to be enduring. There was an ancient Middle-Eastern expression, “there is bread and salt between us,” meaning, there is friendship between us, the kind of friendship that came when two people shared a meal together. This was also the kind of friendship God longed for with the people—a friendship that would give life; a friendship that would endure.
For another thing, salt was also precious. We forget this when it’s so readily available to us—when we can easily buy it at any grocery store. But in the days of Jesus, it was a precious commodity, one that was used sparingly. In fact, salt was so precious that the Romans used it to pay soldiers’ salaries. The word salary comes from the Latin root sal meaning salt. To say someone is “worth their salt” literally means that they’re worth their salary.
Lastly, salt gives flavor. This we probably know about salt for ourselves. Salt enhances the taste of food. Salt has its own flavor, but we don’t usually eat salt by itself. We add salt to foods and it brings out their flavor. It gives wholeness.
So, I wonder, in calling people “salt of the earth,” if maybe Jesus was reminding them that they were precious? That they were worth something? Reminding them that their calling as his followers was to bring life and wholeness to the world? To be like little “salt shakers” for the kingdom of God, seasoning the world with the love, mercy and justice of the Kingdom?
Right after this, Jesus says something else about salt, and its usefulness.
“If salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored?” he asks. “It is no longer good for anything, but it is thrown out and trampled underfoot.”
In other words, I think, salt can only do its job—it can only bring life, and flavor and wholeness—if it is unashamedly salty. And so too with those would follow him. They can only be salt for the world if they don’t lose their distinctive taste—if they stay salty. If they remember the source of their saltiness. You can’t go out and “season” the world for the Kingdom, Jesus is saying, if you don’t already know who you are as my disciples. Because if you don’t know who you are, it’s as if you’ve lost your taste. And you can’t very well flavor anything else if you don’t first have taste yourself!
After calling the people who would follow him salt, Jesus then moves to the other image he has for them in the Gospel today: light.
“You are the light of the world,” he says.
Light in Jesus’ time, like salt, was also a precious commodity. We take it for granted that we can turn on lights in our homes with the flip of a switch. Or that at night, our streets are lit by street lamps. But of course, it wasn’t so in Jesus’ time. It was dark. I mean, really dark. And light and lamps were precious. You couldn’t just drive to Ikea and buy a big reading lamp or some track lighting. Most people were lucky if they had one lamp to lite their whole house. Lamps were also tiny and fueled by oil. And though small, the amazing thing about a lamp was that it could fill a whole room of a house with light from its flame.
Perhaps what Jesus was trying to say to the people was this: You are this light. Like the light from the lamp, you are precious. And although like that tiny lamp, you may feel small or insignificant, you are capable of shining much light into this world. But, he said, you’ve got to be willing to put yourself out there. You’ve got to be willing to put yourself on the lampstand. “A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket,” he tells them, “but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.” Like the lamp’s light, you’ve got to go out. Because if you don’t—if you turn inward and don’t share the light—then it’s truly like hiding your light under a bushel basket.
Jesus said these things to the people seeking to follow him two thousand years ago, but the truth is, he also says them to us—those of us striving to follow him now, in the year 2023. Part of our calling today is also to be salt and light. In our lives and our families. In our church. In our workplaces. In our neighborhoods. In our city. In our country. In our world. In all the places where we live and move and have our being, we are called to be salt and light. To be like little salt shakers and lamps for the kingdom of God.
But to do this, of course, we have to stay salty, and we have to be unafraid to put our light out there, where it can be seen. All of which is why we come to this place. Why we are part of this community that we call the church. Because this is the place where we come, this is the community, where we are reminded of who we are. Where we are reminded of our unique flavor as followers of Jesus. Reminded of the light we can bring to the world.
Everything we do here reminds us of these things about ourselves. From the Scripture readings we hear. To the Holy food and drink that we eat around this altar. To beauty of this space where we get to pray. To the fellowship and support we offer and receive from one another. All of this is meant to “season” us as Jesus’ disciples so that we can go out into the world and be salt and light.
And lest we lose our saltiness, and lest our light grow dim or go out, we keep coming back to this place, week after week, month after month, year after year. Its why we need to be here. It’s why we need each other. Because the truth is, we can’t be seasoned all by ourselves and we can’t get this light all on our own, and we can’t follow Jesus without one another.
So… let’s get salty. And then let’s get our lamps lit. And then, let’s go out into the world and become who we are: salt and light. Amen.
—The Reverend Edmund Harris
*Image by Bruce Fleming, 2021