The Preacher's Lectionary Notebook - Salt and Light
The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany (Year A)
Jesus is still teaching on the hillside when he turns from blessings to responsibilities. “You are the salt of the earth,” he says, as if this were already true, not a goal to work toward. Salt in the ancient world wasn’t a decorative sprinkle; it preserved food, brought out flavor, and kept things from rotting. So when Jesus says his followers are salt, he’s saying they exist for the sake of the world, not just their own spiritual health. If salt loses its saltiness, it’s useless—tossed out, trampled underfoot. The warning is gentle but real: discipleship that doesn’t actually affect anything isn’t discipleship at all. Faith that never touches the ordinary stuff of life—relationships, work, justice, mercy—has somehow forgotten what it’s for.
Then Jesus switches images without switching themes. “You are the light of the world.” Again, not “try to be” or “one day you might become,” but “you are.” Light doesn’t argue its case; it simply shines. A city on a hill can’t be hidden, and a lamp isn’t lit so it can be shoved under a basket. The point isn’t self-promotion but visibility. Good works aren’t done to collect praise, but neither are they meant to be kept private out of false humility. When light does its job, people see clearly enough to give glory to God. In other words, the goal isn’t admiration for the disciple but recognition of the God whose character is being reflected.
At this point Jesus anticipates a misunderstanding. Talk about good works and visible obedience, and some people are going to worry that he’s tossing out the law or replacing it with something softer. So he says it plainly. He hasn’t come to abolish the Law or the Prophets but to fulfill them. This is not a rejection of Israel’s story but its climax. Fulfillment doesn’t mean erasure; it means bringing something to its intended end. Jesus stands inside the law, not outside it, and he treats it with a seriousness that outstrips both casual rule-breaking and shallow rule-keeping.
That’s why he insists that not even the smallest stroke of the law will pass away until all is accomplished. And then comes the line that must have landed like a punch to the gut—unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you won’t enter the kingdom of heaven. These were the professionals, the meticulous observers, the people who knew the rules cold. But Jesus isn’t calling for more rules or tighter control; he’s pointing toward a deeper obedience. What follows in the rest of the chapter makes that clear—anger matters as much as murder, lust as much as adultery, truthfulness as much as technical honesty.
Matthew 5:13–20 sets the tone for everything that follows in the rest of the Sermon. Disciples are for the world, not withdrawn from it. Their lives are meant to be seen, not staged. And their obedience goes beyond checking boxes to the transformation of the heart. Jesus is describing a righteousness that is lived, embodied, and quietly radiant—salty enough to preserve, bright enough to guide, and deep enough to reflect the God who is bringing his purposes to completion.
FOR FURTHER REFLECTION
In what specific ways is my faith actually “salting” or “lighting” the ordinary spaces of my life right now?
Where might I be tempted to hide my light—out of fear, comfort, or false humility?
How is Jesus calling me beyond rule-keeping into a deeper, heart-level obedience?