Gospel: Matthew 5:13-20
Among the many things I love about this sacred and historic space, some of the most special to me are these windows. I do of course love a good stained-glass window, especially one created to convey a particular Biblical story or commemorate a special life, one of a matriarch or patriarch of our faith or someone important to the legacy of a particular church. But these windows here at St. Stephen’s, in my view, have always possessed their own special qualities.
Yes, it’s that a great number of the wavy panes date back to the construction of this sanctuary more than 180 years ago (and how special it is that we have so many intact original ones!). It’s also that they preserve memories of a wonderful era of architectural history and craftsmanship. But to me one of their greatest characteristics is that because they are clear windows, we see something completely different each time we look through them.
These windows provide us with an ever-changing view of the world, with no two glimpses ever identical. Through them we see the buds of spring, the leaves of autumn, and the snowfall of winter. Through those on one side we watch the rising of the sun, and through those on the other we follow its setting. Through them we observe the activity of nature on these grounds and the activity of our neighbors: the passing of cars, trucks and buses; the movement of joggers and cyclists; students walking to and from school; the glow of lights of the houses across the road and down the hill behind us. We live our shared life in here as a community of faith while through these windows we watch the life of the community out there.
But because they’re clear they also perform one other important function. These windows allow those in the community out there to see our shared life in here. If they stop for just a moment, they’ll see people in the pews. They’ll see choir and organist … clergy and ushers … a congregation gathered for worship and fellowship.
And from ceiling, altar, and pew, from the chandeliers, candles, and the faces of each person, they’ll see light.
At the very beginning of creation, rooted in the very being of God, there was light. In those moments just after God began “to create heaven and earth, [when] the earth … was welter and waste and darkness over the deep and God’s breath hovering over the waters,”[1] light was spoken into existence. Light was prophesied by Isaiah to be, at the coming of the Messiah, what those living in darkness would see and what would shine upon them.[2] It’s the light of God that illumines the darkness of the psalmist.[3] In Revelation it’s the light of God that ends night and the need for lamp and sun.[4] And here, in today’s passage from Matthew, Jesus proclaims that the disciples – that we – are the light of the world.
To truly share the light of God and let it shine brightly through us, we must be willing to carry it into those dark places of the world, the places of brokenness, uncertainty, and fear. We must have the courage, like the disciples before us, to carry the light into the places and situations where every instinct may be telling us we should not or dare not go – but to where the voice of God commands us, “Go!”, to lift our light and move onward.
There’s a second and perhaps more difficult challenge, one described by the theologian Charles Cook:
We cannot bring the light of Christ to others if we are unaware of where that light needs to shine in our own hearts. Pastoral leadership requires looking at those dark places within, which will also help us understand external darkness.[5]
As with our call to look at the world around us, every instinct may be crying out to avoid looking at our own dark places, those places of fear, pain, or grief. It’s against those instincts the voice of God calls us to lift our light and move inward.
But even before being reminded of their status as the light of the world, the disciples are reminded of their status as the salt of the earth. We are reminded of our status as salt. Salt: seasoning; preservative; used in blends of incense, as we see in Exodus;[6] an ingredient of gracious speech, as found in Colossians.[7] It’s been compared to the Torah, as Craig Evans writes in his commentary on Matthew: “The Torah has been compared to salt … the world cannot exist without salt … it is impossible for the world to exist without Scripture.”[8] It is according to Cook something with “an edge as well as a satisfying taste. It makes comes alive what would otherwise seem tasteless and bland.”[9]
Here’s another remarkable point to consider. With an eye to modern science, we can see it’s perhaps no accident that Jesus used salt and light in the same set of admonitions. It’s not just the tasteless and bland that salt brings to life; salt brings about light. Without salt, there is no light. On the simplest level there are ways of seeing this in action, with easy science experiments you can find online in which salt water is used to close an electrical circuit and power a light bulb. There are batteries that rely on sodium for the storage and conducting of electricity.
One of my seminary professors, former Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori, is no stranger to the intersection of science and faith. Her father was an atomic physicist, her mother was a microbiologist, and she herself has undergraduate, graduate, and doctoral degrees in biology and oceanography. She’s written about the connection between salt and light in several of her sermons. Here are a few words from one:
In addition to being the salt of the earth, Jesus also asks us to be the light of the world. Salt is actually necessary to make light. Salts – and there are lots of kinds of salts – are merely charged particles, ions, that generate an action or a reaction. Whether it’s the fiery energy of the sun, the light from a battery or an outlet, or even the light from a firefly, the production of light depends on something salty. If we are to become light to the world and show what God looks like in human form, we’re going to have to be appropriately salty. Our task is to figure out where and how… How and where will we use our salt?[10]
You are salt. Listen for the places and ways God calls you to preserve, season, and conduct. You are light. Use your saltiness to close the circuit on your light; turn the light of God inward on the dark places you may find there; carry the light to the dark places of the outer world to brighten the lives and circumstances of those you may find there. Find ways to bring your light to the hungry, the thirsty, the cold, the sick, the stranger, and the prisoner. Allow the light of God to burn visibly and intensely through you. Returning once more to the words of Bishop Katharine, “Our light to the nations flames forth, one loving act at a time. May each of us burn brightly.”[11]
Amen.
[1] Genesis 1:1-3 (Alter translation).
[2] Isaiah 9:1-2.
[3] Psalm 18:28.
[4] Revelation 22:5.
[5] Charles James Cook, “Matthew 5:13-20 – Pastoral Perspective.” Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 1, p. 336.
[6] Exodus 30:35.
[7] Colossians 4:5-6.
[8] Craig Evans. Matthew, p. 111.
[9] Cook, p. 332.
[10] Katharine Jefferts Schori. The Heartbeat of God: Finding the Sacred in the Middle of Everything, pp. 59-60.
[11] Katharine Jefferts Schori. Gathering at God’s Table: The Meaning of Mission in the Feast of Faith, p. 119.