Losing our Saltiness

Salt was way more important in the time of Jesus than it is today.  Thanks to refrigeration, we are not dependent on salt to preserve meat in order to not die from food-borne illnesses.  More so, the health community is quite aware that too much salt is detrimental to our health.  As one with high blood pressure, I can assure you, I’ve heard all about salts impacts.  Still, salt is ubiquitous on dining room tables in homes, restaurants, and cafeterias.  Salt is so commonly used that some countries mandated that iodine be added to it to prevent intellectual and developmental disabilities.  Between 1990 and 2006, thanks to a concerted effort on behalf of the World Summit for Children, iodized salt usage increased from 25% to 66% of households, and the worlds IQ rose because of it.  The course has begun to reverse, however, as pink Himalayan salt has become the rage.  While some pink salt may contain trace amounts of iodine naturally, the general consensus seems to be that if you want to avoid an iodine deficiency, you should look for white salt.

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Long, probably unnecessary introduction aside, what’s really fascinating to me in the move toward pink salt is that it has been shown to have a statistically significant lower level of saltiness.  That is to say, if you are using pink salt to season a dish, you’ll need to use more of it to achieve the same flavor profile.  You with me?

When Jesus makes the somewhat absurd claim that salt can lose its taste, my mind was immediately taken to pink salt.  It is pretty.  It looks great in instagram photos of you dinner table.  It is suggested that it has all kinds of health benefits, but it lacks two very important things – depth of flavor and added iodine.  The lack of flavor is inherent in the makeup of pink salt.  The lack of iodine is a result of outside forces.  As I think about the life of faith and how disciples of Jesus might lose their saltiness, I would venture to stretch this metaphor a bit further.  Disciples who have lost their taste seem to be missing both internal and external components as well.  To lose our fundamental identity as the salt of the world often comes from a lack of community.  Iodine infusion for salty Christians comes by way of regular participation in worship, communal Bible study, and corporate acts of compassion.  When we remove ourselves from a community of faith, we lose part of what it means to be the salt of the earth.

Furthermore, when these external forces are removed, it becomes easier and easier to craft God in our own image.  Less and less focused on what it means to be a Christian for the world, we get so focused on what it means to be a Christian for ourselves that we begin to lose our connection with God through the indwelling of the Spirit.  Not having any kinds of checks and balances on our faith, we tend to focus on the wrong things, and, it seems fair to say, run the risk of coming nothing more than superficial Christians.  It might look good on the outside through an elaborate series of filters, but the true purpose of our saltiness is lost.

Like I said, salt isn’t as important today as it was in Jesus’ time, so you’ll have to forgive the shoehorning of this metaphor for nearly 600 words, but I do think there is something there for us to consider.  What may have seemed absurd 20 years ago – that salt could lose its most basic value – has come to fruition in the explosion of pink salt.  It might seems absurd that disciples of Jesus could lose their saltiness, but I don’t think so.  I think it is a real risk for all of us who claim to follow Jesus.  Staying connected to community and listening for the Holy Spirit in context is important to the ongoing development of the life of faith.

Let Your Light Shine – a sermon

Yesterday’s sermon on Matthew 5:1-20 is now available on the Saint Paul’s Website.  If you prefer, you can read it below.

One of the things that I love about the Anglican tradition is its repetitiveness.  Many see this as a problem area in Anglican liturgy, and I get that.  They think that because we say the same things day after day, week after week, year after year, they become rote and we don’t even think about it anymore.  We know that there is some truth in this fear, which is why as Keith and I plan our liturgical life, we make sure to make seasonally appropriate changes: in the opening rite; the Prayers of the People; the Confession; the Offertory Sentences; the Eucharistic Prayer; and often, the Blessing.  For me, however, there is something deeply powerful in the practice of saying and hearing these words over and over again.  They ingrain themselves within me and become a part of who I am.  Often, they come out in my sermons – phrases like “read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest” or “live and move and have our being” or “seek and serve Christ in all persons.”  Throughout seminary, it was expected that we would attend chapel every day, and while I didn’t quite achieve that goal, I did attend Morning Prayer with enough regularity that the Psalms and Canticles almost became second nature to me.  Some of those memories have since faded, but there are two liturgical phrases that I still hold very dear.  They have been with me since my childhood – phrases recited by two dear clergymen, both now passed on to larger life.  The first comes from Deacon John Baldwin who whenever he preached began every sermon by reciting a paraphrase of Psalm 19, verse 14, “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of each of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our strength and our redeemer.”  These words still echo through my mind every time I prepare to step into the pulpit.

The second comes from my childhood priest, The Reverend David Powers Thomas, who invited the people of God to the make an offering not just of their money in the plate, but of their whole lives by paraphrasing the King James Version of Matthew 5:16, “Let your light so shine before others, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.”  As I read through the prescribed lessons for this week, these words from Jesus’ famous Sermon on the Mount were the first thing that jumped out at me.  “You’ve got to preach that line,” I thought to myself, “you’ve just got to.”  As the week went on, however, it became clear that although this line has been formative for me, it ought not be read in isolation.

In isolation, it reads as if it is one more “thing” that we have to do in order to secure God’s favor in some way.  In isolation, it sounds an awful lot like Jesus is adding yet another law to the 613 commandments already put in place by the Pharisees.  In isolation, these words feel heavy, but like I said, they ought not to be read in isolation.  Instead, this morning we hear these words from Jesus as part of the opening to Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, a three chapter long sermon that Jesus gives at the beginning of his ministry in Matthew’s Gospel.  We’ll spend four weeks here, but we should have had five.  The Feast of the Presentation meant we missed hearing the Beatitudes last week, so I threw them in with this week’s lesson for good measure.  What we find in these first twenty verses of the Sermon is Jesus laying out the main theme of the next three years: God’s deep and abiding love for humanity means he’ll meet you where you are, but he won’t leave you the way he found you.

It all starts with the Beatitudes, nine statements of blessing that assure the hearer that God will make himself known in the most unlikely of places.  Are you poor in spirit: at the end of your rope?  God is there to bless you.  Are you mourning: have you lost the thing most dear to you?  God is there to bless you.  Does your heart ache when you see a world full of injustice and unrighteousness?  God is there to bless you.  Do you find yourself being persecuted because you believe that God cares even for the least and the lost?  God is there to bless you.[1]  If the Beatitudes tell us anything at all about the nature of God, it is that his love knows no bounds: God will make himself known to the corrupt politician and the unethical businessman just as sure as he’ll make himself known to the junkie in the gutter or the single mother on her last two pennies or the high school football captain who only looks to have it all together or the young executive who is losing the work/life balance game.  In the incarnation of Jesus, God shows us that he is willing to go anywhere to give you his blessing.

Jesus goes on to tell his followers that they are the salt of the earth and the light of the world.  You’ll notice that he didn’t tell them “If you want to be salt and light, you have to do this…” or “before I’d even think of calling you salt and light, I need to change these things…” Instead, Jesus uses the present tense to tell them and us that we are salt and we are light.  He then hammers the point home with two absurd hypotheticals.  You are the salt of the earth, but if salt loses its saltiness, it is good for nothing.  Can salt ever lose its saltiness?  It is a mineral, millions of years old, mined from the ground.  No, salt can’t lose its saltiness and neither can you.  You are the light of the world.  When you light a lamp, do you cover it up?  No, that would at best snuff out the flame and at worst start a fire.  You are the light of the world and even if you work to hide your light, it won’t go out.[2]  Jesus invites his disciples across the ages to live into their identities as salt and light.  He loves us and enters into relationship with us no matter what, but our response to that love should be to get about the work we’ve been called to do.

As salt, our job is two-fold.  The most common and important use for salt in the ancient world was as a preservative.  In the days before refrigeration, it was the job of salt to keep the very limited meat supply from going bad.  As the salt of the earth, followers of Jesus are tasked with the preservation of creation: working to ensure that God’s good work is kept sacred and wholesome for generations to come.  The other use for salt is, of course, as a seasoning.  Salt makes bland food taste descent and good food taste great. My cooking idol, Alton Brown, says that salt turns up the volume on our taste buds by way of some sort of electrochemical reaction.  I don’t know the science behind it, all I know is that last week, when Cassie and I were eating only seven foods as part of our study of “7: An Experimental Mutiny on Excess”, salt kept me from going insane.  As the world’s flavor enhancer, Christians are meant to be filled with and share the joy that comes from life in Christ.   Following Jesus isn’t meant to be boring, but rather it is a chance, as Bishop Curry said in The Big Class, “to be truly you.”  That means being the student, softball player, mom, doctor, teacher, sales rep, grandfather, or hospital golf cart driver God created you to be.  Do it to your fullest potential.  Do it because it brings you joy.  Do it to the honor and glory of God.  Do it with a smile.  Enhance the experience of life by being the salt of the earth.

As light, our job is simply to help others see how the love of God enters their lives.  We do that, not by shaming them or guilting them, but by being present with them, even and especially in their darkest hours.  And while just showing up is 90% of the task, we only fully shine the light of Christ in the world through our good works of care and compassion.  Which brings me back to that phrase etched on my heart from childhood: a phrase not to be taken insolation, but to be heard alongside God’s promise of blessing and our commissioning as the salt of the earth and the light of the world.  “Let your light so shine before others that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.”  Let it shine. Let it shine.  Let it shine.  Amen!


[1] Some of the expansive imagery in this section is borrowed from Eugene Peterson’s The Message.

Can Salt Really Lose its Saltiness?

During the summer between my junior and senior years in high school, I had the great privilege to travel to Germany for three weeks in a foreign exchange program.  It was, ostensibly, our reward for sticking with our study of a language that would be of no use to us as adults (though if this was the reason, I’m not sure why French 4/5 students didn’t get to go France for a year).  One of our stops during the three-week whirlwind tour of Bavaria and the Alpine regions of Switzerland and Austria was a trip to the Salzburg mines.  There, deep below the surface of the earth, we saw where salt comes from.  Frankly, I don’t remember much of the tour other than sitting on leather pads to slide down to the bottom of the mine, but what I can infer from my fuzzy memories is that salt is a very resilient thing.

Salt is, according to the Biblical scholars I’ve read this week, the only mineral that humans consume in its natural state.  This may or may not be true, but what I’m sure of is that after millions of years of compression underground, being mined by heavy machinery and conveyed to the surface, being separated from contaminants, packaged, shipped, and sold, salt is still salty.  In fact, I can’t think of a way in which salt become unsalty.  It could, I suppose, become contaminated and rendered useless.  It could be dissolved, but then its saltiness is spread throughout that which dissolved it.  It can’t become unsalty.

And neither can you.  In this Sunday’s lesson, we hear Jesus tell his disciples (or the crowd. or both.) that they are the salt of the earth. Period. Full Stop.  He then goes on to name the absurdity of salt not being salty (the Greek word there is where we get “moron” – read more on that here and here), in order to prove to his listeners that they have been commissioned.  Their responsibility then is to live out their saltiness: to preserve and season God’s good creation.

How do you live out your calling as “salt of the earth?”