Covered in Dust and Glory (Matthew 17:1-9)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on February 26, 2017, Transfiguration Sunday)

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The Jesus Whom the Church Knows

“He was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white” (17:2). This—this, I think, is the Jesus that most churches know. This is the clean, spotless Jesus. This is the good-looking Jesus of blonde hair and blue eyes, who wears a winsome white robe, whose portrait hangs in Sunday School classrooms all over the world. This is the triumphal Jesus, the Jesus whom much of the church hopes for, who will descend from the clouds in power, whose light will overpower the darkness of the world. Chances are, this is the Jesus whom we envision when we pray: wrapped in white, serene, heavenly. Even in Bruce Almighty, which famously imagines God as Morgan Freeman, God sports a sparkling white suit, which exemplifies his character: cool, calm, and collected, he is a God who is ultimately above it all and in control.

It is no wonder that Peter suggests building a dwelling for Jesus there on the mountain. This is the Jesus he’s been waiting for; this is the messiah in all his glory. Like the church, Peter sees this Jesus as the victor, the winner, the champion. Once the world sees this Jesus, there will be no question. Peter wants to keep this Jesus around, to preserve this dazzling white Jesus—and so he proposes a dwelling place. It is, perhaps, his way of saying to this glorious Jesus, “Please don’t leave us!”

The Jesus Whom the World Knew

But this triumphal Jesus whom Peter worships, whom most churches put on a pedestal and proudly proclaim—this Jesus looks strikingly different from the Jesus whom his own world knew. The glorious Jesus is wrapped in regal robes of white. But Mary and Joseph and the shepherds knew a Jesus wrapped in swaddling baby clothes and lying in a lowly manger. The glorious Jesus shines and dazzles. But the fishermen of Galilee knew a Jesus whose tunic got soaked in water and caked in dust. The glorious Jesus stands high above everyone else. But the lepers and the lame, the people who were considered unclean, they knew a Jesus who stretched out his hand and touched them. The glorious Jesus has his home in heaven. But the crowds in Galilee and Judea knew a man who had nowhere to lay his head, and probably occasionally smelled to high heaven. The glorious Jesus keeps the company of heroes, like Moses and Elijah. But the nameless children of Capernaum knew a Jesus who held them and declared their like the greatest in the kingdom of God. The glorious Jesus reigns high up on a mountain. But the people who came to Jerusalem on that fateful Passover knew a Jesus who hung high on a hill, crowned not in glory but in shame, flanked not by heroes but by outlaws, covered not in brightness but darkness.

“Listen to Him!”

The Jesus whom the world knew, looked much different than this momentary glimpse of glory that Peter, James, and John had. The easy way of reconciling this difference in appearance is to say that this Jesus is a vision of the future, that this is a preview of what is to come, that only after the dusty struggle will God’s glory be unveiled. Jesus must endure the dirt of the earth in order to bring it to heavenly, spotless glory.

My guess is that this is the way Peter thought. But then when a bright cloud appears over him on the mountain, and a voice from the cloud proclaims, “This is my son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him!”—Peter falls to the ground with the other disciples, and I imagine those last words were ringing in his ears, “Listen to him! Listen to him!” Because not long ago, Peter had done just the opposite: he had not listened to Jesus.

Before Peter had followed Jesus up the mountain, the two of them had butted heads (Matt 16:21-26). Jesus had been anticipating his visit to Jerusalem, speaking strange words about death and resurrection, to which Peter had said, “This cannot happen!” But Jesus wouldn’t budge one bit. He proclaimed that only by losing yourself for others would you find yourself. He proclaimed the paradoxical gospel of death and new life, the good news of loss and more life.

So when Peter hears these words, “Listen to him!” I can only imagine that he remembered his heated disagreement with Jesus. Maybe now, for the first time, he really listened to what Jesus had been saying. Maybe now he started piecing two and two together. If Jesus had insisted on death as a part of new life, and loss as a part of more life, then maybe this glorious Jesus wasn’t the triumphal victor he had been hoping for, the messiah who would simply overpower his enemies and establish heaven on earth by force. Maybe this glorious Jesus was one and the same with the dust-covered Jesus he already knew, the one who was living his life for others, the one who would ultimately give his life in love for others. Maybe that was the glory of God.

Seeing the Dust That Covers Jesus for What It Really Is

This Wednesday, Ash Wednesday, begins the Lenten season. What is Lent? It’s basically a time of preparation for Easter, in the same way that Advent is a time of preparation for Christmas. (In fact, Advent has been called the “Little Lent” in some church traditions.) Lent prepares us for Easter by inviting us to follow Jesus on the way of the cross. The cross means many things. For us Christ-followers, it means that love lays down its life for others; it means that loss can lead to new life; it means that our wounded and weak bodies are the very vessels that share God’s powerful love in this world.

Transfiguration Sunday, which is today, always comes right before Ash Wednesday. As I reflect on Peter—and the way that he had been hoping for a triumphal, glorious Jesus, only to realize, perhaps, that the glorious Jesus was in fact the same as the dust-covered Jesus—I think maybe he unwittingly ushers us into Lent.

Because Lent is about shedding ourselves of our own skin. Like Peter, we too often get in the way of Jesus. What we really need to do is get out of our own way, so that Jesus can show us the way. When Jesus starts talking about losing ourselves, dying to ourselves, death on a cross, we respond like Peter, saying, “This cannot happen!” But according to Jesus, this must happen if we are to have life. The glory is not in success and triumph, in gain and getting our own way. These things keep us focused on ourselves; they make us small. The glory is in the dust—in touching the untouchables, in keeping the company of outsiders, in welcoming strangers, in forgiving your enemies and persecutors. It is these little things that make us, and the world, as immeasurably grand as love itself.

I’ve been reading recently about a great scholar, Henri Nouwen, who used to teach theology in the ivory towers of our Ivy League institutions. In the twilight of his life, he changed direction drastically. He entered into community with the mentally handicapped. In particular, he shared life with Adam, a man who could do very little more than lift his own spoon. But Henri writes so spiritedly of this experience, declaring that Adam taught him more than any book or teacher ever did.[1] Adam showed him the way of a life where glory comes not in what you do or what you have or how you look to others. Glory comes in the little things that are shared together on the dusty surface of life, like eating breakfast together or washing up or walking together. Glory comes in the little things that incarnate God’s love and remind us we are loved simply for ourselves, and not for our achievements or appearance or possessions.

The transfiguration of Jesus is a vision. For a brief moment, we see what God sees. And God sees all the dust that covers Jesus for what it really is: the glory of love.

Prayer

Glorious God,
Whose love steps foot
Into the dirt of our world:
Divert us from our quest
For success,
And lead us into a love
Covered with the dust and glory
Of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

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[1] Henri J. M. Nouwen, Adam: God’s Beloved (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1997).

The Way Love "Works" (Matthew 5:38-48)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on February 19, 2017, Epiphany VII)

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To Give Is to Get

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Today we call it revenge; the court of law calls it “retributive justice.” It’s the legal equivalent of Newton’s Third Law: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The principle of revenge goes back a long ways. Jesus is quoting from the law that Moses gave to the ancient Israelites, but in fact this principle goes back even further. About five hundred years before Moses, King Hammurabi and the ancient Babylonians were mutually gouging out eyes and knocking out teeth.

But Jesus is talking about more than revenge. Because “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” applies to more than fistfights and vigilante justice. It applies not only to bitter enemies but also to friends. Valentine’s Day, in fact, is a great illustration of this principle. And I’m not only thinking of a lovers’ vengeful quarrel, where inattention is met with silent treatment, “silence for silence,” or where one sarcastic remark is met with another, “insult for insult.” I’m thinking more about the common exchanges of Valentine’s Day: “card for card,” “gift for gift,” “kiss for kiss.” In each case, to give is to get. The truth of this principle becomes unmistakable in the case of unreturned love. When one person gives but never gets, there follows a profound feeling of error or failure, like the universe made a miscalculation. Something is wrong. It was not meant to happen this way.

Nickel Creek, a bluegrass band, sings a funny little song about this kind of scenario, and it goes like this: “Anthony, Anthony/ Oh, he said, he can’t love me, / but I think he can. / Yes, I think he can. / I told him that just before he ran, / just before he ran. / … And he’s not looking back. / He’s not looking back, / ‘cause he doesn’t want anything I have / or anything I am.”[1] In this tale of unreturned love, the girl feels so strongly that something is wrong, that she keeps telling herself, and eventually Anthony, that he ought to return her love. She feels entitled to it.

Nothing More than a Computer Program?

All of this to say, “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth” points not only to the principle of revenge, but also to the basic law that rules our relationships: to give is to get. Benefactors become benefiters. This is why big donors can expect to have their names inscribed on their donation, or to have a say in how their donation is used. When they give, the recipient feels indebted and must give back in some way.

Even in the case of anonymous gifts, or charity, to give is to get. The giver generally receives that warm and fuzzy feeling at having made a difference; beneath or behind that good feeling, the giver also often obtains a sense of superiority.

If we take a few steps back from this balance of giving and getting, of “like for like,” we begin to see that the world runs a bit like an account book. Whether it is friendship or hostility, each relationship maintains an equilibrium. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A hug for a hug, a kiss for a kiss.”

If that all sounds a bit somber or lifeless, like we’re nothing more than a computer program playing itself out, a bunch of ones and zeros forever balancing themselves—then here’s the good news: Jesus feels the same way. Jesus feels that there’s more to life than this giving and getting. Listen again to what he says, “If you love those who love you, what reward do you have? … And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others?” (5:46-47). In other words, if you give only when you’ll get back, where’s the life in that?

Love Crashes the Program of Giving and Getting

So what does Jesus do? In a word, he upsets the balance, he throws the accounts into disarray, and all with one wild variable: love. Not the worldly love, which only loves when it can be sure of a return, but God’s love, which rises on the evil as on the good, and rains on the righteous as on the unrighteous. God’s love—real love—throws everything off balance. It crashes our program of giving and getting, of “like for like,” and our robotic lives suddenly acquire a living color, a risky flesh. Real love confuses the ones and zeros of the world’s computer program and infuses us with life.

The rubber really meets the road, of course, when it comes to our enemies. Jesus’ examples are well known: turning the cheek, offering our cloak, going the extra mile, giving to any who beg. Each example confounds us. Instead of responding to injustice with a fight, or a complaint, or even a nonviolent protest, Jesus advocates responding with love. Not only is such a response unnatural. It also strikes us as wildly impractical.

Consider, for instance, how Thaddeus Stevens responded to Abraham Lincoln after the civil war. Lincoln was floating such crazy ideas as the ones that Jesus mentioned—ideas like forgiveness and reconciliation—and in reply, Thaddeus struck the table and exclaimed, “Mr. Lincoln! I think enemies ought to be destroyed!” One could hardly find a clearer expression of our coding, of our programmed response to the enemy. And one could hardly find a clearer understanding of Jesus and his foolish idea of love, than in Lincoln’s quiet response: “Mr. Stevens,” he said, “Do not I destroy my enemy when I make him my friend?”[2]

Similarly, I am reminded of a friend who once shared with me her strange and bold tactic for approaching strangers of whom she was frightened, folks who looked dangerous or disturbed. Instead of crossing the street, or turning the other way, she approaches them, looks them in the eye, and says as kindly and naturally as she can, “Hi, how’re you doing?” In many cases, she says, her greeting melts the perceived barrier or threat, and the other responds with more warmth than anticipated.

Love Does Not Work

But I have to stop myself here. Because it’s beginning to sound like love works. Like love is a weapon that disarms, or a tactic that defuses.[3] Love surely has such side-effects from time to time. But as Jesus discovers, love does not always win, at least not in the way we might hope for. Jesus knows full well what loving your enemies can get you: sneers, spit, nails, spears.[4] So I have to think that when Jesus invites us to love our enemies, he’s not talking about making a deal or driving a bargain. He’s not promising a return. He’s not saying that love is effective, that love will “work.” Inasmuch as we love with the motive that it works, that it accomplishes something, that it has a desired effect, love will never work. A love with a vested interest, a love with ulterior motives, a love designed to win friends and influence people, is no love at all. When love has a purpose up its sleeve, it is nothing more than a crafty way of getting what we want.

Love Is Without Why

All of that to say, love is uncalculating. It is “without why,” without good reason, for no reason other than itself. When love looks at another person, whether friend or enemy, it’s not looking for a return; it has eyes only for the holy and mysterious and beautiful image of God.

Last week at our Daytimers luncheon, Nancy invited us who were there into a fascinating discussion. She asked us a question from the Explore God program: “Does life have a purpose?” It’s the kind of question that can set your head spinning! I didn’t answer at the time, because I couldn’t untangle my own response. Part of me said, “Yes, of course,” but then another part of me, the part who had been pondering Jesus’ ludicrous and life-giving words in this scripture, said “I’m not so sure.”

In the light of today’s scripture, here is how I would respond: Life has as much purpose as a painting. If there is a single, unified, capital-P “Purpose,” then life is nothing more than a paint-by-numbers painting. It is like an imperial garden, planned out to the very stem and leaf, and nothing at all like the wild, unpredictable beauty of a mountain meadow.

But if God is love, and love is as uncalculating as Jesus says, then I think life’s purpose is not a program or a plan but a possibility. Life’s purpose is empty—as empty as a blank canvas. Life’s purpose is unplanned—as unplanned as a newborn child’s life. All this to say, the purpose of life is as vast and wide and unknowable as love. The purpose of life is not predetermined by an all-powerful man in the clouds. The purpose of life is a possibility of beauty and truth and goodness—a possibility that grows by love, much like a forest nourished by the indiscriminate love of rain and sunshine, much like a child nurtured by the unquestioning love of a parent.

Throw Away the Script

We have heard it said, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; a hug for a hug, a kiss for a kiss.” But Jesus says to us, Where’s the life in that? Where’s the life in following the script of this-for-that, like-for-like? That only “works” if we want to get what we’ve already got. Jesus says to us, If you want life, then throw away the script and love others as God loves you, without a card up your sleeve, without why, without a thought as to whether it will work. If you want life, then love others, friend and foe alike. Speak to them as a friend when they act as an enemy. Believe that they are good when they do bad. Hope new life for them even when they deserve none at all. When the time comes, carry your cross. And know that love is the strongest power of all, stronger even than death.

Prayer

Jesus,
Whose love
Leads us beyond
Bargains and balances
Into immeasurable life:
Upset our accounts today
And draw us into the way
Of the uncalculating, loving Father and Mother of us all.
Amen.

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[1] Nickel Creek, “Anthony”; written by Sara Watkins; track 9 on Why Should the Fire Die?

[2] Clarence Jordan, The Substance of Faith and Other Cotton Patch Sermons (ed. Dallas Lee; Eugene: Cascade, 2005; orig. New York: Association Press, 1972), 78.

[3] Jordan, The Substance of Faith, 78.

[4] Jordan, The Substance of Faith, 80.

More Life (Matthew 5:21-37)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on February 12, 2017, Epiphany VI)

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Missing Out on Life

You’re with a good friend on the way to a gathering of good friends, and you’re looking forward to it. You’re looking forward to the honest smiles, the natural flow of conversation, the mischievous jokes. You’re looking forward to catching up with people with whom you haven’t talked in a long time. You’re looking forward to dropping the mask that you wear most of the time, at work, at school, in the midst of strangers and acquaintances that you try to impress.

You’re looking forward to all of this, when your companion beside you in the car says something, or does something, that pushes one of your buttons. Maybe he revives an old, bitter argument. Maybe she questions something that is close and personal to you. Maybe it is simply suggested that you are wrong about something. Whatever it is, it rattles you. Annoys you. You don’t say anything, but the fire has been kindled. The offending words burn beneath your skin. Soon, what began as a minor irritation, grows and grows: first into a frustration, then into indignation, and finally it fans out into a full-blown anger.

The two of you arrive at the gathering of good friends, but you are little more than a shell of yourself for the evening. It’s like you’re on auto-pilot, like you’re sleepwalking, like you’re a well-programmed robot. You ask the right questions, respond with the appropriate responses, laugh at the funny and embarrassing stories.

But the truth is, you’ve checked out. Your body is there among friends, but your spirit has removed itself to a faraway place. You are dwelling alone in your anger—maybe imagining accusations against the friend who offended you, maybe hosting a bitter pity-party for yourself, maybe dreaming of retaliation.

One thing is for sure. You are missing out on life. Rather than relishing every word and savoring every smile, rather than yearning that the night would last a few more hours, you feel the burden of each passing minute, the pain each time you must force a smile or a laugh. This has somehow become the last place you want to be.

We’ve all been there. Jesus captures the feeling perfectly. This is not life. This, he says, is like being thrown into prison and not getting out until the anger has somehow been accounted for (cf. 5:26), until forgiveness and reconciliation have unlocked the shackles of resentment.

All of this to Jesus’ point: you don’t need to break the law to lose your life. Murder is not the only thing that robs us of life. Simply holding onto anger can do that.

Beyond the Letter of the Law

In last week’s scripture, Jesus proclaims that he comes not to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. In today’s scripture, we see just what he’s talking about. If we didn’t know any better, we might think he was questioning the law, challenging it, like a revolutionary, like our American forebears who disputed certain laws imposed by the British government. He keeps saying, “You have heard it said…but I say to you.” He keeps confronting the law with new words of his own.

I imagine if someone charged Jesus with contempt for the law, he would have denied the charge and in fact suggested the opposite. Because it’s not that Jesus isn’t taking the law seriously enough. On the contrary: he’s taking it more seriously than many of his fellow Judeans. While they’re merely attending to the letter of the law, he’s seeking out the spirit of the law. While they’re merely obeying, he’s fulfilling. For Jesus’ fellow Judeans, the law is the final word. The law draws boundaries around life. For Jesus, the law is a first word, an invitation into abundant life. Life is not meant to serve the law; the law is meant to serve life, to stir up life, to inspire life.

If Jesus is chipping away at the exterior of the law, it’s only so that he can get to the heart of it. He’s looking beyond the letter of the law to the life that it harbors and nourishes. He’s looking beyond the cold, hard gavel and handcuffs of the court to the warm, fragile lives that resist classification. If he picked up a newspaper in today’s world—where we measure death by the murder rates, marriage by divorce rates—I imagine he would point to these charts and say something like, “You measure life by numbers, but life is more than a biological fact or social statistic. Murder is not the only thing that robs us of life. Resentment and little grudges do that. Divorce is not the only thing that robs us of relationship. Lust does that well enough on its own.”

The Case of Divorce: 

Seeking Life behind the Law

Jesus’ words on divorce itself are particularly tough. It would be tempting to pass over them, to write them off as idealistic and impractical. But we needn’t be frightened. Jesus, remember, isn’t talking about the law in order to make life tougher or to impose punishments on us. He’s talking about the law in order to facilitate life, to fertilize life, to free up life. As we see in today’s Old Testament scripture, the law has always been about life. “See,” Moses says to the Israelites, as he gives them the law, “I have set before you today life and what is good, and death and what is bad” (Deut 30:15).

So let’s look a bit more closely at this difficult law on divorce. The ancient Jewish law allowed for a man to divorce his wife. The rabbis debated over the valid grounds for divorce: for some rabbis, an undercooked meal would have been enough reason. For other rabbis, only unchastity would justify it.

The Bible itself hosts an interesting conversation on the matter. There is no single voice, no unanimous decision, no divine decree from the clouds. Moses suggests it’s okay; Jesus suggests it’s not; and then Paul ends up somewhere in the middle, advocating it in select cases but not in others. So which voice is true?

Maybe that’s the wrong question to ask. To ask that question, I think, is to make the same mistake that many of Jesus’ fellow Judeans were making when they held rigidly to the letter of the ancient law rather than seeking the life behind it. For Jesus, life is not in service of the law; the law is in the service of life. And in his day, the law that allowed divorce so easily was depriving people of life. Some men were treating their marriages like a commodity, like a matter of convenience or advantage. The moment it became a burden, they simply dropped it. Thus Jesus isn’t so much challenging the act of divorce as he is the attitude with which men were marrying. The problem wasn’t divorce: it was the way that people were forfeiting relationship from the start, treating marriage as a matter of self-gain. When they looked at their spouses, they saw not the holy and mysterious image of God but the possibility of self-gain and satisfaction. They were cheating themselves and others out of life and all its joys and difficulties.

All that to say, to hold onto Jesus’ word on divorce as the black-and-white final word, is to make the same mistake that Jesus is warning against. To try to pin down Jesus is to focus on the wrong thing. It is the classic avoidance of responsibility: “I was only doing what I was told.” The truly responsible thing to do is to follow Jesus’ example, to search for the life behind the law, to seek out the goodness of life and relationship, even among the most difficult situations and decisions.

If You Could Have More Life, Would You?

Jesus fulfills the law not by following its letter but by freeing up the spirit of life within it. So rather than settling for a commandment against murder, which merely preserves biological life, Jesus invites us to watch out for anger that drains the real life from our relationships. Rather than settling for a commandment against adultery, which merely preserves the social order, Jesus invites us to watch out for lust, which consumes the inner life. Rather than settling for a commandment that anticipates divorce, and prepares for damage control, Jesus invites us to make unconditional commitments that deepen our relationships and enrich our life. Rather than settling for a commandment that anticipates deceitful speech, Jesus invites us to make our every word true and alive, so that our life together grows from a living responsibility to one another. In every case, Jesus fulfills the law, making it even truer to itself, which is to say, more life-giving.

At the heart of the law, then, is not a threat or a challenge. At the heart of the law is a heartbeat, and a gentle question:

If you could have more life, would you? I don’t mean more days or years, necessarily. I mean more laughter and tears, more gazes into the infinite depth of another’s eyes, more sacred silence, more steps along the wooded path. I mean more changed diapers, more hugs and touch and blessing, more shared meals, more whispered prayer. I mean more words that actually mean something, more holy hushes, more sanctification by starlight. I mean more love.

If you could have more life, would you?

Prayer

God who is always speaking
A new word
So that we may have abundant life—
Lead us beyond mere obedience
To what we have heard said;
As Christ fulfills the law,
So may he fill our hearts
With your desire for more life.
Amen.

Bringing Out the Flavor (Matthew 5:13-20)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on February 5, 2017, Epiphany V)

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Fight or Flight…

Ancient Judea in Jesus’ time would have looked a little bit like our world today. Social unrest and uncertainty plagued the Jewish people. Why? Because of the Roman Empire. The Roman Empire cast a shadow over just about every part of Jewish life: the ancient Judeans paid taxes to Rome; the Roman soldiers wandered their land at will; and there always lingered in the background the threat of imperial retaliation if the Judeans did anything amiss.

The Jewish people were divided about how to live their lives in such a world. On the one side were the militant nationalists, the folks who believed that God was waiting for them to take up arms, like in the stories of their ancestors. On the other side were the pious isolationists, the folks like the Pharisees who believed that they needed to get their hearts right with God, and eventually God would deal with Rome the way God dealt with any oppressor.

If we take a couple steps back from the situation, we can see that the ancient Judeans were acting out the typical response to danger or trouble: the “fight or flight” response. Some Judeans wanted to fight the problem head-on. Others wanted to flee from it, to find refuge in the comfort of a like-minded community. Perhaps the uncertainty that our nation faces today, leads to a similar response among us. On the one side are the fighters, the shouters, the willful folks who struggle over power. On the other side are the self-righteous, the wise guys, the folks who have all the answers but only ever talk to themselves because the other side wouldn’t really understand.

…Or Something Else Entirely?

Into such a world, Jesus comes and proclaims to those who would follow him, “You are the salt of the earth” (5:13). But what does that mean?[1] Is Jesus advocating the fight or the flight, or something entirely different? Another way of asking this question, might be to ask: What is the relation between salt and its world? How does salt get on with its fellow foodstuff?

Allow me to share my own experience of salt:

Ode to Salt

“Dear salt,

“You make french fries finger-licking good.

“Because of you, I chomp recklessly on my corn on the cob.

“I wouldn’t have thought caramel could be improved, but you improve it.

“I remember when my mom taught me to scramble eggs for the first time. Those eggs would have been nothing without you.

“You make a heavenly ham. (The town Smithfield is surely indebted to you.)

“You make a savory, slurp-worthy soup.

“You and vinegar make an exceptional duo.

“With your help, I was able to eat all those vegetables my mom insisted I eat.

“There’s hardly a food that can’t be improved with a touch of your divine stuff.

“Once when I was younger, I thought you were so good that I could eat you all by yourself. But I discovered the opposite. You are not so good on your own. What you’re good at, is making other foods better. Making them more themselves. You draw out their natural flavors. You unlock their hidden tastes.”

Salt: Not Self-Superior, But Selfless

That is my personal ode to salt. I imagine you could write one yourself. Chances are, it would sound similar. Of course, your ode might feature some different foods: pretzels, beef, potato chips…margaritas? I don’t know! The salient point is, your ode would not praise salt alone. It would praise salt for the many other foods that salt enhances. It would give glory to God not solely for salt, but for all the many salted foods that you enjoy.

All this to say, salt is rather selfless. It cannot claim glory for itself. It can only reveal the glory of other foods. You’re probably familiar with the advertising formula: “We didn’t invent the product, we just made it better.” A similar slogan could be said of salt: “Salt didn’t invent any food, but just a touch of it can make almost any food better.”

When we look at ancient Judea, or our own world, we see plenty of folks who think their way is simply better than any other way. Whether they fight against others, or take flight and seclude themselves in the comfort of their own kind, they do it with a sense of superiority. Even if they are facing dark times, they maintain a triumphal tone.

In fact, Christians have even interpreted today’s scripture in such a self-superior, triumphal way. All that talk about being “the light of the world,” being “a city built on a hill,” has been taken to mean that we are the world’s savior, whether the world knows it or not. But I’m not sure that’s what Jesus is saying.

I don’t think Jesus is proclaiming that his followers are better than everyone else, but rather that his followers have a responsibility. Light does not rule or conquer or reign superior to other elements of the world. It gives itself to the world; it enables and empowers. It shows the beauty of other things. Salt is not a food enjoyed alone; it is not a food that can claim superiority over other foods. It gives itself to the world of food; it enhances and enriches. It showcases the wonderful tastes of other foods. It brings out their naturally good flavors.

Losing Ourselves, Finding Ourselves

What does this mean, though, for people who are light and salt? Are they nothing more than a function, a role, a task? Do they have no identity themselves? Perhaps that’s what the disciples are wondering, because Jesus follows these metaphors with a word of explanation. “Don’t think I’m doing away with the scriptures,” he says, referring to the law and the prophets that tell the distinct history and identity of the people of Israel. “I’m not abolishing them but fulfilling them.” In other words, he’s suggesting to his followers that their identity—told in all its glorious detail in the prophets and the laws of their ancestors—is not erased in being salt and light. Rather, it is somehow fulfilled.

On the face of it, this is confusing stuff. Although Jesus demonstrates a deep respect for the traditions of his ancestors, he and his followers will occasionally disregard them. Thus he will later choose to heal on the Sabbath, which some will consider a transgression of the law; but for Jesus, life is more important than the letter of a law. So which is it, Jesus? Are you for the law or against it?

Jesus responds with a hearty “Yes” to the law—even going so far as to say that only when we follow the law with all our heart will we find the kingdom, and ourselves in it (cf. 5:20). Over the next few chapters, though, we discover that Jesus interprets the law differently than many of his fellow Judeans. He interprets the law not according to its letter but according to the spirit that inspired it. And what inspires the law, according to Jesus, is love. All of the law hangs on two commandments, he will later say: Love God and love each other (cf. Matt 22:37-40).

It is this love, I think, that gives us our saltiness. For love brings out the natural flavors of our world. Love believes and hopes in the greatness of each different taste. And love is patient, bearing and enduring all things, knowing that the best flavors take time.

In a world that lives by “fight or flight,” Jesus calls us to neither. We’re not called to win, to triumph, to overpower all the other tastes in the world. We’re not even called to be right, to think ourselves the best flavor out of all the flavors. We’re called to be salt, to be sprinkled all over the world, bringing out the natural goodness in our neighbors as in our enemies.

To be salt is to lose ourselves for the sake of other flavors. And according to Jesus, it is only in doing so that we will find ourselves (cf. Matt 10:39)—and a whole new world.

Prayer

Inspiring God,
Whose love draws out
Our deepest and best flavors;
Whose light illumines
The beauty in all creation;
Even as we savor your love,
So may we share it
Among the dullest and darkest places.
Amen.

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[1] Salt would have been a rich metaphor in Jesus’ time even as it is today. In the ancient world, salt was used to flavor foods and to preserve them; it was also rubbed on newborn children, sprinkled on sacrifices, used to seal covenants. Cf. Kathryn Matthews, “Letting the Light Through,” http://www.ucc.org/weekly_seeds_letting_the_light_through, accessed February 1, 2017.