Scripture can be found here…
I’d like to begin by reminding us that we are tuning in, for the second Sunday in a row, to a sermon Jesus preached, one Matthew calls the Sermon on the Mount.
Now, I know no one there had their iPhone out, recording it. So, maybe this is a pretty faithful transcript of a single sermon. Or maybe those who listened to Jesus in many times and places heard that he kept coming back to certain themes, repeating them. Maybe that’s what we have here.
It’s possible. United Methodist bishop and preacher William Willimon likes to say that every preacher preaches one, two, maybe three sermons, over and over, in slightly different forms. He says his are: 1. “God is large, mysterious, and there is no way I could explain it to someone like you. 2. “Life is a mess, and there is no way I could explain it to someone like you.” 3. “Christianity is weird, odd, peculiar. I can’t believe you people actually want to be Christians.”
Maybe the Sermon on the Mount is a mixtape of Jesus’ favorites points, his greatest hits, the themes he returns to, like Preacher Willimon, over and over again.
And this little passage is so dense, there is so much there, there, I want to make sure I say, just a bit, about three things Jesus brings up: Salt, Light, and Greatness.
Salt
Some of you have already heard a sermon—some of you have heard my sermons—about the astonishingly large number of uses for salt, in the ancient and modern worlds. About how salt was used as currency, and the modern word “salary” reflects that ancient understanding. About how salt is for flavor, yes, but also for preserving things—for keeping them fresh, keeping them edible and therefore healthful. And how we sometimes call highly experienced sailors “old salts,” which speaks to their expertise and their wisdom about the sea, at once bountiful and dangerous; and it also speaks to their ability to tell stories, weave yarns, and share their wisdom.
Today I want to talk about a use for salt I’m pretty sure I have never mentioned in a sermon. I do this following an ice-and-snowstorm, which had many of us digging out and driving carefully (or just staying home). To me, today, salt is something that keeps me from slipping, that allows me to have a good grip on the road, whether walking or driving. Salt, though it can hurt the tender paws of the pets we love, can also help for life to not come to a stand-still—or, come to an end—in the aftermath of a storm. Salt helps to keep us going.
So, when Jesus says, “You are the salt of the earth…” well, in all honesty, it’s not likely he’s talking about keeping city sidewalks from being slippery after a snowfall. But how about this: we Presbyterians claim that Scripture is not only the unique and authoritative witness to Jesus, but also God’s word to us, here and now. So, it stands to reason that our experience is important, too, and our associations.
You are the salt of the earth, Jesus says. And let’s not forget who he’s talking to…this is a crowd, largely, of people who have been shown they have no intrinsic worth. They are a persecuted religious minority, under the thumb of a brutal imperial structure that would just as soon see them hanging from crosses; it makes no never-mind to Caesar.
But Jesus says to them, “You are the salt of the earth.” You have value. You are worth something, just as you are. You have the capacity for preserving what is good and important and useful for you and for others. You probably even know stories—stories passed down generation to generation, learned around the dinner table or in front of the hearth—stories that are treasures, stories that ground you and remind you who you are. And maybe, to us, he says, You have the capacity to, not only stay grounded yourself, but to help others to stay grounded, to keep them from slipping, from falling, to the ground or through the cracks.
You are the salt of the earth.
Light
Jesus goes on: “You are the light of the world.” You are a city on a hill.
Jesus just called you a city.
Now, that’s not an automatically good word for everyone. For some, “city” is a place that is fraught with danger—a scary place, an unfamiliar place. A place full of strangers, which is to say, people we haven’t met… yet. A place, by implication, that has some dangerous parts to it—places we may not want to accidentally wander into.
But Jesus just called you a city on a hill, so, let’s assume he means something good.
To a weary traveler, you are something they can see, from far away. A place they hope to find hospitality, sustenance, rest.
To a lover of art, you are filled with untold treasures… there’s that word again! You are filled with treasures, gifts that are unique to you, a story no one else knows. You are filled with something beautiful, a wonder to behold.
To a lover of scripture, you may even be THE city: the place where God’s story reaches its culmination: the holy city Jerusalem, that comes down out of heaven, a gift from God; a city containing God’s glory and the radiance of a rare jewel. The city that needs neither sun nor moon, because the glory of God is its light; and through the city flows the river of the water of life.
You are the light of the world; you are a city on a hill. Imagine, not letting that light shine. Imagine, hiding that city from the weary traveler, from the art-lover, even, from the lover of scripture, the lover of God.
You are the light; you are the city.
Greatness
Then we come to a part of the sermon that sounds an awful lot like what I, as a writer of sermons, recognize as its conclusion. Now, in fact, Matthew has the sermon go on for a good two-plus chapters after this. Nevertheless.
In summation, Jesus says, obey God’s laws.
I’m paraphrasing. What Jesus actually says is: You may have heard I am trying to change or get rid of or abolish God’s laws. And that could not be further from the truth.
Later on in this gospel, Jesus will be asked what is the greatest commandment, and he will quote Deuteronomy for his answer:
“‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’”
This is the first commandment, Jesus says. This is the greatest commandment. But then he adds an odd twist: “And the second is like it. ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’” This, he says, is all the laws of God and all the wisdom of the prophets, in a nutshell.
This is odd. Loving God—the Earth-Maker, the Pain-Bearer, the Life-Giver, the Creator of all that exists—that’s the first commandment.
And the second—the one that Jesus says is “like it,” is “love your neighbor as you love yourself.” So…Love the annoying guy on the corner who has the bumper sticker that makes your blood boil. Love the one who doesn’t look like you, who doesn’t act like you, who doesn’t love like you, who doesn’t live like you.
How can these two commandments possibly be “like” one another?
The only possible answer is: You love God. God made your neighbor. So love what God made. Love who God made—even if you are polar opposites, even if you do not understand one another, even one little bit. Love them.
And this is the nature, Jesus says, of greatness. The greatest one is the one who obeys God, and therefore, the greatest one is the one who loves.
Conclusion
“Life is a mess,” says Professor/ Bishop Willimon, “and I can’t possibly explain it to you.” And you know, I think that truth forms the basis for all the sermons Jesus preaches.
Life is a mess. It is hard, and it is complicated, and there is strife. There is oppression and inequality and deep, deep hurt everywhere we look. And Jesus looked at the poor and the oppressed and the hurting, but he looked at them with the eyes of the God of love. And what he saw there dazzled him—the dignity. The strength. The ability, not just to overcome, but to shine.
And so he told them what he saw:
You are the salt of the earth, he said. You have value—just as you are. You have worth—infinite worth, in God’s eyes. You are a creature of flesh and blood, yes, but also of memory and story and treasures you may not even be aware of. You not only can stand with the dignity of any child of God; you can help others to stand, too.
You are the salt of the earth.
You are the light of the world, he said. You are a city on a hill, refuge to your fellow travelers on this earth, gifted and wondrous. From you the glory of God shines, and through you the river of the water of life flows.
You are the light of the world.
And, in conclusion, he said (though his sermon isn’t really over), if you want to know what greatness is, it’s love.
Love of God, the Maker of the heavens and the earth.
Love of neighbor—who, guess what, is also salt, and light, and gift.
Beloveds, you were made for love: Love, for you and from you, in you and through you. And that is the greatest thing there is.
Thanks be to God. Amen.