Sermon: 5 February 2023 Epiphany 5
Text: Matthew 5.13-20
Theme: We are salt
Prayer: O Saviour Christ, in whose way of love lies the secret of all life and the hope of all people; we pray for quiet courage to match this hour! We did not choose to be born or to live in such an age, but let its problem challenge us; its discoveries exhilarate us; its injustices anger us; its possibilities inspire us; and its vigour renew us, for your Kingdom’s sake. Amen.
I start with a couple of true stories. One from just on twenty years ago and one from almost thirty. At the end of 2002 I was appointed the chaplain to the then Primate of Australia, the Most Reverend Dr Peter Carnley, Archbishop of Perth. In January 2003, in one of my first official tasks in the role, he asked me to organise the Diocesan celebration of the feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple – the same feast day celebrated today! This service was to be held in St Georges’ Cathedral, a beautiful Cathedral sitting around 400. It was also my first service in the Cathedral. I wanted to give a good impression and be creative and show what could be done in liturgy, so I had arranged a small play to take the place of the Gospel and sermon on the story of the Presentation of Christ in the temple. Not knowing how many would be there, I had arranged the story with no speaking parts – just me as MC directing what in effect would be a series of tableaux of the story of the Holy Family and Simeon and Anna in the temple – look it up later – it’s Luke 2.22-40. It was lucky for me that I organised the only speaking role to be mine as MC because as it turned out – it was to be a packed Cathedral and there were easily 120 kids who had dressed as the parts – it was organised chaos with the Primate sitting serenely in the middle of it all. Despite me almost fainting before the service – it turned out well and Archbishop Peter used a picture taken of him surrounded by all these children as his Christmas Card photo for the year. Whenever we have this celebration, my mind turns to that event with the insight that formal liturgies with Archbishops can be fun-filled events.
The other story takes place in my first semester at St Francis Theological College – 30 years ago in 1993.
I was an eager first year ordinand student and volunteered for any job going including being the weekly Sacristan, responsible for making sure the sanctuary was well ordered and most importantly keeping the sanctuary lamp lit while reserve sacrament was in the aumbry. The Chapel at St Francis is a lovely old stone building, yet the interior is wood – Wooden beams and supports. The Sanctuary lamp hangs down on a chain from the wooden cross beams. It is an oil-filled lamp. One pulls the chain down – takes the cylinder out of the frame – fills it with oil – replaces and lights the wick and pulls the chain so the lamp is hoisted back up. On this particular evening I must have not put the cylinder back correctly for as it turns out – not long after I had left the chapel – smoke was seen to be billowing out from the chapel and those who rushed in saw that a flame was a metre up the chain emanating from the eschewed oil lamp and threatening to reach the 150-year-old wooden beams and eventually burn the chapel down. Fortunately, this did not happen – the fire was put out. Two things occurred afterwards – for the three years I was in College – I was never again given the role of Sacristan and second – at our Friday community gathering – I was presented was an award – the Terminator II Liturgical Flame Thrower Award – given for the achievement of excellence in the area of creative pyromania and biblical literalism particularly with reference to his carrying out of Matthew 5.15 – No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. I cannot read this weeks Gospel without that almost tragic event popping into my mind. But as fun in hindsight as that part of the Gospel is for me – it’s not my favourite part. That must be where Jesus says, “You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything but is thrown out and trampled underfoot.”
Living as all of us do in this culture of plenty, we take household goods like salt for granted. But as Mark Kurlansky writes in his book, Salt: A World History, “from the beginning of civilization until about one hundred years ago, salt was one of the most sought-after commodities in human history.” The ancients believed that salt would ward off evil spirits. Religious covenants were often sealed with salt.
Salt was used for medicinal purposes, to disinfect wounds, check bleeding, stimulate thirst, and treat skin diseases. Roman soldiers were sometimes paid in salt — hence our English word, “salary.” Brides and grooms rubbed salt on their bodies to enhance fertility. The Romans salted their vegetables, as we do our modern day “salads.”
Around ten thousand years ago, dogs were first domesticated using salt; people would leave salt outside their homes to entice the animals. And of course, in all the centuries before refrigeration, salt was essential for food preservation.
Nowadays, we still use salt for all sorts of purposes. Salt accentuates flavours, melts ice, softens water, and hastens a boil. It soothes sore throats, rinses sinuses, eases swelling, and cleanses wounds. In some contexts, salt has more than a flavour; it has an edge. It stings, burns, abrades, and irritates. If we don’t have enough salt in our bodies, we die. But if we have too much? We also die.
I know that it’s possible to take a metaphor too far. No single descriptor from Scripture — salt, light, bride, clay, sheep, branch, dove, soil — will capture or contain the entirety of what it means to live as followers of Christ. But when Jesus calls his listeners “the salt of the earth,” he is saying something profound, something we’ll miss in our 21st century context unless we press in and pay attention.
First, he is telling us who we are. We are salt. We are not “supposed to be” salt, or “encouraged to become” salt, or promised that “if we become” salt, God will love us more. The language Jesus uses is 100% descriptive; it’s a statement of our identity. We are the salt of the earth. We are that which will enhance or embitter, soothe or irritate, melt or sting, preserve or ruin. For better or for worse, we are the salt of the earth, and what we do with our saltiness matters. It matters a lot. Whether we want to or not, whether we notice or not, whether we’re intentional about it or not, we spiritually impact the world we live in.
Second, we are precious.
Again, it’s easy to miss the import of this in our modern world where salt is cheap and plentiful but imagine what Jesus’s first followers would have heard when he called them salt. Remember who they were. Remember what sorts of people Jesus addressed from last week. The poor, the mournful, the meek, the persecuted. The hungry, the sick, the crippled, the frightened. The outcast, the misfit, the disreputable, the demon possessed. “You,” he told them all. “You are the salt of the earth.”
You who are not cleaned up and shiny and well-fed and fashionable, you who’ve been rejected, wounded, unloved, and forgotten — you are essential. You are worthwhile. You are treasured. And I am commissioning you. Jesus knowingly named a commodity that was priceless in his time and place. He conferred great value on those who did not consider themselves valuable. He is still doing this. For us. Now.
Third, salt does its best work when it’s poured out. When it’s scattered. When it dissolves into what is around it. Salt isn’t meant to cluster. It’s meant to give of itself. It’s meant to share its unique flavour to bring out the best in all that surrounds it. Which means that if we want to enliven, enhance, deepen, and preserve the world we live in, we must not hide within the walls of our churches. We must not cluster and congregate simply for our own comfort. We must not retreat into our pious, theological bubbles out of fear, cynicism, shame, or self-righteousness. Salt doesn’t exist to preserve itself; it exists to preserve what is not itself. If you listen to me long enough, you will hear me say often that the church is two: the church gathered, like we are this morning, but also the church scattered, as we are for the other 167 hours of each week, and if truth be told – based on time alone – it is as church scattered that we play our most vital role as God’s people.
Last, salt is meant to enhance, not dominate. Christian saltiness heals; it doesn’t wound. It purifies; it doesn’t spoil. It softens; it doesn’t destroy. Even when Christian saltiness has an edge, even when, for example, it incites thirst, it only draws the thirsty towards the Living Water of God. It doesn’t leave the already thirsty parched, dehydrated, and embittered.
This, unfortunately, is the reputation Christianity has all-too-often these days. We are known as the salt that exacerbates wounds, irritates souls, and ruins goodness. We are considered arrogant, domineering, obnoxious, and uninterested in enhancing anything but ourselves. We are known for shaming, not blessing. We are known for using our words to burn, not heal.
This is not what Jesus ever intended when he called us the salt of the earth. Our preciousness was never meant to make us proud and self-righteous; it was meant to humble and awe us. So what do we do? Our vocation in these times and places is not to lose our saltiness. That’s the temptation — to retreat. To hide. To choose blandness instead of boldness. To keep our love for Jesus a hushed and embarrassed secret.
But that kind of salt, Jesus told his listeners, is useless. It is untrue to its very essence. And so we are called to live wisely, creatively, and in balance. Salt at its best sustains and enriches life. It pours itself out with discretion so that God’s kingdom might be known on the earth — a kingdom of spice and zest, a kingdom of health and wholeness, a kingdom of varied depth, flavour, and complexity.
In his Sermon on the Mount, Jesus makes concrete the work of love, compassion, healing, and justice. It’s not enough to simply believe. We are the salt of the earth. That is what we are, for better or for worse. May it be for better. May our pouring out be for the life of the world. The Lord be with you.