Sermon: February 5, 2023, Fifth Sunday After Epiphany

Preacher: Rev Ryan Slifka

Scriptures: Matthew 5:13-20

Today we’re back in the first chapter of the Sermon on the Mount. You’ll remember that this sermon contains a lot of Jesus’ most well-known teachings. Last week we heard the Beatitudes, the “blessed are you’s.” Later on Jesus teaches his disciples how to pray using what we’ve come to know as the Lord’s Prayer. This week we’ve got a couple of metaphors, a couple of Jesus’ most well-known figures of speech for what it means to follow him. You are the salt of the earth. And you are the light of the world. Salt of the earth. And light of the world.

First salt of the earth. Now, I’m not sure if I’d take it as a compliment if someone described me as “salty.” Too much salt turns food bitter, overwhelms its taste. Probably not what Jesus means. Once my grandmother described her disgust with an R-rated movie by decrying its “salty” language. Salty, I guess meaning rude or risqué. Also, probably not what Jesus means. It’s also apparently a term for somebody in the navy who’s spent a ton of time out at sea. Salty on account of over-exposure to seawater. Again, probably not what Jesus has in mind.

To understand what Jesus means, you have to think about salt, not on its own, but its relation to what it does with food. Salt preserves—it pickles. Salt purifies. Salt seasons. My wife Cheyenne was reading a cookbook recently and the author described salt as a “generous” ingredient. In that it doesn’t draw attention to itself as an ingredient, but exists to bring out the flavour in the main one. It can turn bland vegetables savoury, and can make a so-so steak sublime. It takes the already existing background and makes it foreground. It takes something subtle, and makes it obvious.

This is what Jesus means when he calls us “salt.” Of course, in this case he’s not talking about bringing out the taste in food. He’s talking about coaxing out flavour from the cosmos. The world, the earth. And the main ingredient that’s being brought to the fore… it’s God. I love how Eugene Peterson puts it in his Message paraphrase of the Bible: “You’re here,” he says. “You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavours of the earth.”

The way he says it is a little awkward. But it gets at what Jesus is getting at. God’s the main ingredient in life. God’s always there. But God’s not always obvious, not immediately recognizable in all our ups and downs—especially the downs. The novelist Flannery O’Connor said that in the stories and novels God was always there not right up front but “darting from tree to tree.”[i] So like salt, Jesus’ disciples are there to bring God from the background to the foreground of life. To make God less subtle, more obvious.

This is in contrast to making ourselves the main ingredient in life. To put ourselves at the center of things. But the very nature of being salt means you’re not about you. Without salt there’s no survival, true. But salt on its own is bitter and will kill you. I mean, no wonder so many of us feel so spiritually lost. We’re worshipping creatures, we’re meaning-making creatures, we desire to love and serve something bigger than ourselves. But the modern world encourages us to be salt without substance, to put our own desires, our own needs, our own virtues, our own preferences above all else. No wonder we feel so thirsty for meaning. Because putting our own selves (or any other human being) at the center of life’s bound to leave us spiritually bitter and malnourished. We’re tempted to make our faith all about us. But it’s certain to leave our souls high and dry.

To be the salt of the earth means to help the world, as the Psalmist says to “taste and see that the Lord is good.”[ii] We become ourselves not by ourselves, but only by bringing the main ingredient, God, to the fore. Like salt. We’re salt, not just for ourselves. But for of the earth. For the world.

And this is where the second metaphor comes in. And it’s a double-down. You’re the salt of the earth, Jesus says. And “You are the light of the world.” The light of the world. Again, Eugene Peterson’s Message translation is helpful:

“God is not a secret to be kept,” he says. “We’re going public with this, as public as a city on a hill. If I make you light-bearers, you don’t think I’m going to hide you under a bucket, do you? I’m putting you on a light stand. Now that I’ve put you there on a hilltop, on a light stand—shine!”

Here Jesus says we’re like lamps. Lamps lit by God, kindled by Jesus, the light of the world. In the same way salt doesn’t exist for its own sake, we aren’t just recipients of life-giving grace. We aren’t delivered life-changing good news, we aren’t given salvation, healing, wholeness just so we can tuck it under our hats and keep it to ourselves. Remember last week’s refrain? God blesses broken people, and blessed people bless broken people. This lamp’s not meant for the storage closet. This human hardware was developed to de-shadow the whole world.

The world is a dark place. So many of us are scared, suffering, in pain, fearful. It’s hard to make our way without stumbling, without knowing where to go. It’s hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel sometimes. Jesus is the light of the world. The one that gives us exactly those things. Purpose, peace, guidance, hope. These are life-giving gifts to be shared. To be spread to a world in need. In the same way salt’s intended to season, this little light of mine’s purpose is to shine.

This is the part where the United Churchiest part of me gets kind of nervous. Because we’re talking about the E-Word. Evangelism. Sharing the good news with other people.

It making us nervous is completely understandable. Have you ever said to somebody, “I’m a Christian… but not that kind of Christian”? Or “I go to church… but it’s not what you think”? I zipped up my collar at the coffee shop recently so someone I was with might not be seen with a minister. Gandhi once said he was very fond of Christ, but not so much Christians because they were so unlike Christ. All sorts of sins—racism, sexism, homophobia, judgmentalism, nationalism, moralism, arrogance, and downright jerkiness—have left countless people with a bitter taste. So it makes sense that we’d try to avoid saltiness by blending in. Or to turn down the Jesus light as to not shine a big old cross-shaped spotlight on ourselves. There’s a lot of baggage.

At the same time, though, I’m willing to share my favourite restaurants with friends—you gotta try this! I share countless old school country songs—you’ve gotta listen to this! We’re willing to plaster our favourite products over social media, because we feel like other people need to know just how awesome they are, and because their lives will be the better for it. But God’s life-changing grace, boundless forgiveness, never-ending faith, hope and love in Jesus Christ? This thing that gives me meaning, and makes my life truly worthwhile? Well, maybe they’ll stumble across a link on the internet somewhere.

But Jesus says plainly and clearly that salt that doesn’t flavour might as well be tossed on the street as de-icer. The lamp belongs on the stand, not in the closet. What we’ve been given is meant to be shared.

Or, to put it another way, grace always comes to us on its way to somebody else.[iii]

It doesn’t mean to be obnoxious or pushy. After all, shine too bright and people will look away, pour out too much salt and you scorch taste buds. Your guests are spitting it out and nobody’s going to come back to you for seconds.

But Jesus gives a good guideline: “let your light shine before others,” he says. “So that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” Notice the approach:

Not a threat—turn to Jesus or burn forever without him. Bulb’s a little too hot.

It’s also not advice—your life is a mess, you really need to get your act together and go to church. Might be true, but still, maybe a little too salty.

No, Jesus says. Point to this thing in your life. This good thing that you’ve done—your good works—or maybe even more likely, this good thing that’s happened to you. Tell them why you’re able to do that kind of thing.

Why you serve at the Soup Kitchen, or why your church has a Soup Kitchen in the first place.

The surprising feeling of forgiveness you have, that’s helped you forgive others.

The strength you’ve been given to make it through your grief, the fact that your kids are loved and accepted—that you’re loved and accepted for who you are… perfectly by God, however imperfectly by the church.

Jesus says point to it and say—I think it’s God at work. Here’s how it’s changed my life. And I’d love for you to come to our small group one night, or church one Sunday. It’s helped me, I really think it might help you, too. This is what we call testimony. It’s what we mean when we talk about “giving God the glory.” Letting our light shine before others, so they, too, can catch sight of the truth, beauty, goodness of the gospel. Not to coerce people into believing. But so they, too, can get a glimpse of the glory of God.

Like the chef said, the nature of salt is generosity. Lamps are meant to shine. Our true purpose in your life and mine, is to “glorify and enjoy God forever.”[iv] Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. Not mine. Make me an instrument of thy peace. To let the light at the heart of the cosmos shine through you. To give the world a taste of the food that truly satisfies.

Without God we’re just another mineral in a universe full of them, a flashlight without batteries. But with God, hey, you are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world. You’re front and center in a five-star banquet booked for all eternity.

God’s the main course, all you gotta do is stay salty. Jesus gave you the light, all you gotta do is let it shine.

May it be so.

Amen.

[i] Quoted somewhere by Will Willimon.

[ii] Psalm 34:8.

[iii] Bill Easum.

[iv] Question 1 in the Westminster Catechism.