Salt, Light, and a Little Bit of Trembling

It is a funny thing we do here, isn’t it? Perhaps it is even a brave thing. We gather each week, holding as our truth that the Divine, the Creator of the Universe, chose to walk this earth in human form to show us how to live with one another with love and grace. We believe God was so committed to this task that God would die to see it through.

And yet, when we try to explain this to the world, we often feel a bit inadequate.

In his commentary on our reading from First Corinthians, N.T. Wright asks us to imagine standing up to make a speech in front of an audience of the “great and the good.” Imagine having nothing to say except some stammering words about a strange event that happened years ago, something that sounds crazy, but which you just happen to think contains the secret to everything. You can almost see the lips curling in skepticism, the eyebrows lifting.

I’ll be honest with you: sometimes that is my predicament, too. I get up here to try and make sense of a library of books containing poetry and history that date back thousands of years. We are articulating our faith about the universe, creation, justice, and love. That is big stuff.

And that is exactly where the Apostle Paul found himself in Corinth. He writes to them, “I came to you in weakness and in fear and in much trembling.”

I find such relief in those words. It is comforting to know that even Paul, the missionary of the early church, didn’t pretend to have it all together. As Nancy Lammers Gross points out, Paul asserts that he didn’t come with “lofty words of wisdom” precisely so that the community wouldn’t rely on human cleverness. He didn’t try to dazzle them with a TED Talk or a perfect sales pitch. He spoke plainly. He pointed not to his own power, but to the mystery of God.

Paul understood something that we often forget: The wisdom of God usually looks like foolishness to the systems of the world. The world says, “Look out for yourself.” God’s wisdom says, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” The world seeks the power of kings and CEOs; God seeks the power of a humble community caring for one another.

And this brings us to Jesus on the mountainside

If Paul tells us how we speak, with humility and reliance on the Spirit, Jesus tells us who we are.

In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus looks at his disciples, this ragtag group of fishermen, tax collectors, and doubters, and he doesn’t give them a to-do list. He gives them an identity. He says, “You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.”

Notice he doesn’t say, “Try hard to be salt,” or “If you get your theology right, you might become light.” He says you are. It is a statement of fact.

But here is the catch: salt that stays in the shaker is useless. And light that is hidden under a bushel basket serves no purpose.

Salt is a catalyst. It preserves, and it enhances flavor. But to do its job, it has to get out of the shaker. It has to be poured out. It has to get mixed in with the food. It has to dissolve into the soup of the world to bring out the goodness that is already there.

Similarly, light is meant to illuminate. But we have to be careful with how we understand this “light.”

I was reading a note recently from Chelsey Harmon, who shared a story about her toddler. Her child has started mimicking her parents. When they turn on the big overhead lights, the toddler squints, covers her eyes, and yells, “Too bright!”

I think many of us can relate. We prefer warm lamps to harsh, overhead fluorescent lights. And sometimes, in our zeal to be light to the world, Christians can be too bright. We can use our truth as a weapon to blind people rather than a lamp to warm them. We don’t want to be a spotlight of judgment; we want to be the warm glow of a home that welcomes people in from the cold.

So, what does this look like in real life?

How do we be salty without being bitter? How do we be light without being blinding?

It brings to mind a story about the late Eugene Peterson, the pastor and writer who translated The Message. Someone once asked him what he would say if he were writing his very last sermon.

Peterson replied, “I think I would want to talk about things that are immediate and ordinary. In the kind of world we live in, the primary way that I can get people to be aware of God is to say, ‘Who are you going to have breakfast with tomorrow, and how are you going to treat that person?'”

He went on to say, “I guess I’d want to say, ‘Go home and be good to your spouse. Treat your children with respect. Do a good job at work.'”

That, my friends, is what it means to be salt.

We often look for the big things, the massive protests, the viral campaigns, the crowded sanctuaries, as proof that we are doing the work of the Kingdom. And those things have their place. But the salt of the earth is usually found in the small, dissolving acts of love.

It is sitting at the bedside of someone in the hospital. It is gathering food for the food bank, not for recognition, but because a neighbour is hungry. It is picking up the phone to call someone you haven’t seen in a while. It is treating the person across the breakfast table as a beloved image of God.

These are the good works Jesus talks about. We don’t do them for our own glory, or to earn a spot in heaven. We do them because we are conduits of God’s goodness.

A Community of Light

Finally, I want you to notice one grammatical detail that changes everything. When Jesus says, “You are the light of the world,” he isn’t speaking in the singular. In the Greek, it’s plural. “You, all together, are the light of the world.”

We are not solitary candles struggling to stay lit in a hurricane. We are a city on a hill. We do this work together.

We are currently in the season between Epiphany and Lent. Epiphany is all about light, the star guiding the Magi, the light dawning on those who dwelt in darkness. As we move forward, we are invited to participate in that light-bearing ministry.

The world can be a dark place. The systems of power, what Paul calls the rulers of this age often do not understand the wisdom of God. They rely on force, division, and fear.

But we rely on a different power. We rely on the power of salt that brings out the best flavors in our community. We rely on the power of light that chases away the shadows of loneliness and despair.

So, may you go from this place today with a little bit of trembling, knowing the task is big. But may you also go with great confidence, not in your own wisdom, but in the Spirit of God who dwells within you.

Go home. Be good to one another. Share a meal. Listen well.

We are the salt of the earth. We are the light of the world. Let us shine, together.

Amen.