Salt and light, that’s what we are called to be according to Jesus. These are metaphors that have deep Biblical resonance. Throughout this season after Epiphany, for example, we’ve been dazzled by light images. Isaiah tells us that we are to be a light to the nations, and the very heavens opened to illuminate Jesus’ baptismal identity. From Genesis to Revelation, light was the paintbrush of God’s creation, the pillar that led the Israelites to freedom, and we are promised that the light of the heavenly city of Jerusalem will be God’s very self. Along the way, light shines in the darkness for the upright, says the psalmist, and the prophets assure us that—for we who love God and strive to live according to God’s law—our light shall break forth like the dawn.
Salt and light are invaluable. Sometimes we have to stretch our imagination to understand how precious light was to the ancients, but we who’ve lived through the recent weather-induces power outages have a recent lesson in how valuable light is to navigating our everyday life. It may not be as readily apparent to us how valuable salt was to Biblical people, however, because now we mostly enjoy it in abundance. In gourmet colors and flavors, no less! But for the ancients, salt was invaluable as a preservative, as a disinfectant, and as symbol of purity and wealth. It was even used as currency: our English word salary actually comes from the Latin word for salt.
Here’s something else I know about salt and light. What they have in common with each other is that their power comes from what they give to something else. We’d no more want to live in endless light than we’d want to eat a plate full of salt for dinner. Salt does its job best when it makes something else taste better. Light does its best work when it illuminates something or someone else that’s in darkness. A little of either goes a long way, most especially when it is uncovered and shared.
In the midst of the Third Reich darkness, German pastor Martin Niemoller preached—
“Did we think: ‘will not this wind, this storm that is going through the world just now blow out the Gospel candle? Must therefore take the message in out of the storm and keep it safe?’”
No, he said. “I have realized, that what the Lord Jesus Christ means when he said: ‘take up the bushel! I have not lit the candle for you to put it under the bushel, in order to protect it from the wind. Away with the bushel! The light should be placed upon a candlestick! . . . We are not to worry whether the light is extinguished or not; that is God’s concern: we are only to see that the light is not hidden away.”
Martin Niemoller was himself arrested by the Nazis just after he preached this sermon, and—just to be clear—I am not recommending that path to anyone here present. But I am reminding us all that we’ve arrived at the portion of the Sermon on the Mount where the rubber hits the road, to use yet another metaphor. Jesus is telling his hearers—then and now—that it matters what we choose to do. It’s not enough to hear a good metaphor and enjoy its poetic aptitude. It is not enough to give our intellectual assent to blessing the meek and merciful whom we heard about in the beatitudes last Sunday. We have to actually take their side; being people of healing and blessing in the everyday settings we find ourselves, as Jesus himself was.
One way we know that Jesus is still present with us is because his Gospel teaching still asks us to think for ourselves. How are we like salt or light, really? What is it that we’re supposed to do to make someone else’s life better or shine a light in their darkness? Jesus didn’t spell out a one-size fits all plan for saltiness, so I don’t know what he’s asking you specifically to do. But I do spend a lot of time—all my time, really—thinking about what our Lord calls Trinity Cathedral and our Guadalupe congregation to do.
Today right after worship we’ll convene our annual meeting; the first gathered one we’ve hosted at Trinity since 2020. Please join us in the parish hall at 11:30: it’ll be brief, but salty. And not just because there will be delicious homemade soup and bread for all! We’ll review the past year as a prayerful exercise, giving thanks for all the ways God had worked with us and through us in 2022. We’ll honor outgoing vestry leaders who have guided us through some literal and figurative winds and storms, and welcome new leadership ready to light our way forward as a parish and cathedral. We’ll preview some big plans for 2023 and beyond, including the opportunity to welcome The Rev. Filemón Diaz to our clergy team. And, perhaps most apropos to the Gospel we just heard, we’re launching a three-year process of listening deeply to God, to each other and to our community. This effort will shape our strategic vision for ministry in this challenging and promising location. It’s how we’ll become salt and light for the City of San Jose and for the Diocese of El Camino Real.
When we hear the words of Jesus and listen deeply for the call that comes to us in our time and place—just as Martin Niemoller did—it may feel a little risky at times. Some people might think that Trinity’s light will be diminished by taking it out from under a protective bushel basket. By, for example, sharing it with more Spanish speakers or with resident college students or possibly even with high school music classes. Or by getting out and talking with members of our community and our neighbors, or by having a bolder Gospel voice in the secular press. Pro-tip: candles are actually more resilient than that, especially the ones filled with oil. Just ask our altar guild!
That’s a metaphor, of course. Jesus used them a lot, and with good reason. Metaphors can illustrate what we’re like right now, and they can also give us a vision of what we are becoming. Here’s another metaphor I like, written by theologian GT Shedd in the late 19th century: “A ship is safe in harbor,” he said, “but that’s not what ships are for.”
To mashup multiple metaphors, we are called to be salt, not to be safe. To shine, and not to be ashamed. To sail, not to sleep. So let’s be brave to use what we have—as Christian people and as a Cathedral community—to make someone’s else life better. To give light where things seem dark. To discern and to do the faithful thing that is uniquely ours to do. There isn’t anything to fear, because at the end of our voyage, there really is a harbor. THE harbor, in fact. And God’s very self is waiting for us, lamp in hand, ready to welcome us to the most savory feast.
