Salt and Light

sermon by Torin Eikler
I Corinthians 2:1-12 Matthew 5:13-20

In my high school youth group there were three big things we did every year – three events around which our calendar of fund-raising and planning revolved. One was the ski trip we took every February. One was the summer work camp. And one was the annual musical.

The musical was the most work and the least fun, but it was a pretty big part of the fund-raising we did. And to be fair, it managed to bring us all together more than the other two – at least those of us who participated.

My Sophomore year, we made the extremely ambitious decision to put on “Godspell” which promised to be quite a challenge given the size of our pool of capable singers. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this musical, it is a creative retelling of the Gospel of Matthew in which most of the action is narrated in song. So, basically, all of us who could read music and hold a tune were going to have a part, but we had auditions anyway to see who would get which role (though I suspect the director had already cast us before we even started).

I got the part of Herb which was fine with me since Herb gets most of the funny lines and doesn’t have to sing too many solos. One song I did have to learn, though, was musical’s summary of the Sermon on the Mount – “The Light of the World.” It was mostly based around today’s scripture, and the best part – the part we all really loved – was that we got to sing the line: “We all need help to feel fine. Let’s have some wine.”

Can you imagine twelve fairly inexperienced high school students nervously trying to get through all the lines and choreography of a somewhat racy Broadway musical on the 25x40’ chancel in front of family, friends, and all the rest of the members of the congregation? We struggled through all the rest of it with a kind of resigned determination, voices cracking at the edge of our ranges and feet trying to move through tricky dance steps without getting tangled up. BUT, when we got to this song, we let loose.

I’m not sure what wine really has to do with being the light of the world or the salt of the earth, but I have to say that Stephen Schwartz and John-Michael Tebelak gave a gift to every high school kid who has been part of “Godspell” when they put that line in there. It was just the thing to take the edge off the challenge of singing “You’ve got to live right to be the light of the world” to your parents and your pastor.

But let’s set aside the wine for now because we really are dealing with a challenge … and it’s a very important one…


“You are the salt of the earth, but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored?”

Among the emails sent between my colleagues and me on our list serve this week was a sad story that comes from Andrew Foster Connors "Preaching on the Word.” It seems there was a wealthy, well-known urban congregation with several devout members. Some of the wealthier members decided to spend a night with homeless friends on the street as a part of their Lenten discipline one year. Their goal was to clear away the assumptions and prejudices that kept them from recognizing the suffering Christ in the face of those who spent their days suffering hunger, disease and rejection – a worthy goal.

The night they were to hold their vigil turned out to be cold and rainy, and the group went looking for shelter. As they walked the streets, wet and shivering, they came upon a church holding an all-night prayer vigil. Now, the leader of the group was a respected pastor, and to her the church looked to be an inviting sanctuary.

As she stepped through the doors of the sanctuary, a security guard stopped her.
The pastor explained to him that they were a group of Christians who were wet and miserable and had no place to stay. Could they, she asked, rest and pray?

The doubtful look on the guard’s face made her aware of how the rain had made her look more than a little disheveled, and as she looked down at herself, she realized that she bore little resemblance to what one might expect of a pastor. In that moment, she gained a new understanding of how little it took to transform anyone into the image of a street person like those in her group. Still she looked up at the guard with some hope.

The security guard was not a cruel man, but he had a job to do. "I'm hired to keep homeless people like you out," was his reply, and so the group dejectedly made its way back out into the weather, surprised and deeply saddened to find their suffering turned away by Christ’s church.


“You are salt for the earth….”

“You are the light of the world…. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand [where] it gives light to all….”

Another story … one that has stuck with me since I heard it as a junior in high school. My pastor, Susan, was a born, bred, and baptized member of the Church of the Brethren. In high school she had a friend – a good friend – who was not a Christian. The two girls were interested in lots of the same things, and they spent a lot of time together. Susan cherished the friendship … all the more so because this girl was not part of her youth group, and they could talk about anything together without religion hanging over their heads. As they grew closer, Susan was surprised to find that though her friend seemed to be well-adjusted and have lots of friends, she often felt lonely and depressed. Life, to her, seemed to be a pointless progression of days leading to death.

Susan was worried. She didn’t know what to do or say to help her friend, and though she thought about inviting her to church more than once, she resisted the impulse. She was afraid that bringing the church into it would alienate her friend or that she might lose the friendship all together. Instead, she listened and talked and tried to keep things happy and light, and that’s the way thing stayed until her friend moved away.

Some years later, the two met again. Susan was excited to rekindle the friendship, and she began to ask the kind of questions that you ask to catch up. It was a good conversation. Both women had found rewarding work and had loving families. But as they talked about the years that had passed, the smile faded from her friend’s face, and eventually she asked, “Susan, you were part of that Brethren church when we were in high school weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you ever invite me? Why didn’t you tell me about Jesus?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with that, and I was afraid you wouldn’t want to hang out with one of those … “Jesus people.”

“Susan, when I discovered Jesus, it saved my life. It gave me hope. I wish you wouldn’t have hidden that from me.”


“You are the light of the world.” “You are salt for the earth.”

It’s hard to see friends struggle. It’s hard to look at the suffering around us. It is … harder … to be salt and light in the world, and we feel inadequate or uninspired or scared of the costs.

Who are we to take that on? It’s too big for us. What special wisdom do we have that could change the system that makes people suffer. We wouldn’t even know where to begin the task of helping people rediscover the taste of life. Who knows what would happen, what damage we could do if we waded in with our ungainly, uncoordinated efforts? We aren’t trained to address that kind of darkness. So, we often find ourselves turning away – averting our eyes, avoiding painful topics or dispirited friends. We hide our lights and water down our flavor, piling up justifications to excuse our weaknesses and ease our feelings of guilt.

Then we hear the words Jesus spoke all those years ago, and, if you are anything like me, you begin to wonder. I’ve lost my flavor. I’ve hidden my lamp until it’s on the verge of going out. How can I be salt and light any longer?

Yet into the shame that I feel, Paul speaks words that bring me comfort and hope. Even he, the great evangelist, was not beyond all of this struggle. For all of his training as a scholar and a speaker, he knew weakness and fear. All of the wisdom he had learned at the feet of rabbi’s and priests and even his vision on the road was not enough to wipe away his doubt.

And now we come back to the wine. Paul knew a way to renew his light, to bring the saltiness of back into his life. The foolish wisdom of a crucified Christ, the reviving touch of the Spirit’s breath, and the promise of God’s grace … we accept these things when we share the bread of life and the cup of grace. These things give us back our courage. They provide all the knowledge and inspiration we need.


The light of Christ was drunk by a crowd on a mountain top. The salt of his wisdom and understanding fed those he met throughout his ministry on the bread of life. People from all walks of life and all stations of society witnessed the new way it revealed. The multitudes he spoke to … touched … healed were lit on fire with the knowledge that God was with each and every one of them. They were inspired to share the power of that new vision with others, and when the wisdom and the light of Christ is offered from one to another, people are fed, spirits come back to life, and community grows as we welcome everyone to come and celebrate life together.


You are the light of the world. You are the salt for the earth. When your light is hidden under a basket or you allow your flavor to fade away, everyone suffers. People – lonely depressed, angry, hungry people – move through life without hope or relief or the bread of life to fill them. The sad and worried world remains sad and worried, filled with relationships that are coming apart at the seams while we are preoccupied with our own little struggles that leave us sad and worried.

Jesus calls us to shine the dazzling light of God's grace and vision for the world and the transforming salt of foolish wisdom into places of challenge and difficulty. Put your light on a lampstand so that it can illuminate the shadows - allowing hope to shine into the darkness. Share the salt of your being so that the savory touch of Christ’s love can transform our life together.

Be salt.

Be light.

Be the city of God that welcomes all God’s children out of the world and to the table of life in joy and love and peace.