The image of light is an easy one for us. We’ve been using it since before Christmas, lighting Advent candles and Christmas tree lights, talking about the bright star that led the wise men to Bethlehem. “Christ, be our light!” we’re still singing every Sunday for our song of praise. It's comforting to think about the warmth and joy of light, shining forth like love from a smiling face. We know that God wants us to shed light on the needs of the world and to direct God's love into the shadows. "Put it under a bushel? No! I'm gonna let it shine!" we sing.
But salt? Why salt, Jesus? What does it mean to be "salt" for the world? If God is into condiments, why not ask us to be something that tastes better, like sugar? Or cinnamon? Even pepper would have more spice and flair than plain old salt.
In order to help us think about salt today, Deacon Jan is going to pass out salt dough to any interested children and adults. While you listen to the sermon, feel free to play with this salty play dough. Feel it, squish it, mold it, smell it. But beware. Salt isn't altogether harmless. This dough is much too salty to eat, so you don't want to taste it. If you have a cut on your hands, this dough will sting. It will also cling to your skin--your fingers might feel crusty after you hold this salt dough for awhile. But be courageous and take some anyway! God knows, creation is always risky business. As you play with this ball of dough, imagine that you are God, creating people of salt. How does God want to use your very own saltiness for the healing of the world?
Like light—and unlike sugar and cinnamon--salt is everywhere, and it’s essential to life on earth. Plants, animals, and humans all need some salt in order to live and grow. All over the world, for thousands of years, people have been preparing salt for use by evaporating ocean water or digging salt deposits out of the earth. Regular table salt is pretty inexpensive these days, but salt used to be so valuable that people used it instead of money to buy what they needed. The word "salary" comes from the Latin word for salt. Outrage over a tax on salt helped start the French Revolution. In times of war, armies would fight and kill to take over the salt supply of their enemies. To be salt, is to be precious; it is to be essential for life. All y’all are the salt of the earth.
Jesus knew about the spiritual importance of salt. In the Hebrew Scriptures, salt is used to seal the deal in covenants and is sprinkled on Temple sacrifices. In many cultures, salt is thought to keep away evil spirits, and spilling salt is considered bad luck. If you take a close look at Leonardo daVinci's famous painting of the Last Supper, you'll see salt spilled on the table. It's right in front of Judas--a clue that the disciple Judas will soon betray Jesus and turn him over to be crucified. To be salt is to play a part in banishing evil and spreading goodness. All y’all are the salt of the earth.
Today, salt has several uses. First, of course, it seasons our food. Have you ever accidentally left the salt out of a recipe? I have! Without it, most things taste pretty awful. Before scientists invented medicine to fight high blood pressure, my grandmother had to live off of unsalted rice and vegetables in order to keep her heart healthy. The story of this unpleasant diet made such an impression on her family that it became a tale that was passed down for generations. If Jesus wants us Christians to be salt, perhaps he wants us to add our own special richness to our encounters with others. Perhaps he wants us to nourish others with the depth of all that we are and all that we have. All y’all are the salt of the earth.
Too much salt is almost worse than too little, though, isn’t it? Some restaurant chefs these days seem to love to pour the whole salt shaker into their dishes .... Perhaps it’s easier to use a ton of salt than to imaginatively mix together a variety of spices, but too much salt makes things inedible. As another preacher points out, “salt fails when it dominates.” And we Christians can be that kind of yucky, dominating salt. People call Christians out these days “as the salt that exacerbates wounds, irritates souls, and ruins goodness. We are considered arrogant, domineering, obnoxious, and uninterested in enhancing anything but ourselves. We are known for hoarding our power — not for giving it away. We are known for shaming, not blessing. We are known for using our words to burn, not heal.”[1] This is not what Jesus ever intended when he said, “All y’all are the salt of the earth.”
Salt is also used to clean and preserve things, though. Have you ever poured salt into a frying pan to clean up burned food off the bottom? It works as well as any scrub brush. Have you ever eaten country ham? It stays fresh without having to go in the refrigerator because of its salt content. Perhaps Jesus sees us Christians as the salt that will clean our world's polluted air, land, and waters. Or as the salt that will scour our institutions of their lies and corruption. Or as the salt that will preserve the dignity of every human being. All y’all are the salt of the earth.
Salt is used to melt things—like the snow on roads and sidewalks. With some special salt, dangerously slippery ice becomes safe to travel on. But to be used, salt has to be dissolved in or scattered on something else. We throw and scatter road salt over ice. We dissolve salt into water to pickle our cucumbers. Perhaps Jesus sees us Christians as the salt that melts hatred and fear, making others feel safe and loved as we all travel in the ways that God prepares for us to walk in.[2] Or perhaps Jesus sees us as the salt that loses itself in the world, seamlessly sending out he flavor of God’s goodness, the salt that avoids clumping safely together. All y’all are the salt of the earth.
If you and I are salt, we are each our own special kind of salt. Some of us might be heavily processed "table salt," ground down very fine to be measured and sprinkled on the world. Some of us might be crunchier Kosher salt, less strong in flavor. Maybe we grains of Kosher salt need to join together in larger groups to salt the earth with our goodness. Some of us might be big grains of sea salt or Himalayan pink salt—less pure and dainty than table salt, wearing our true colors and imperfections for all to see, with a loud, cracking impact on the world around us. Some of us might even be the "smoked sherry and Spanish olive-flavored salt" that I bought at the store once—fancy and complicated, imparting a truly original flavor to the blandness of our world.
Jesus lifts us up in all of our varied kinds of saltiness. There's only one kind of salt that Jesus doesn't want us to be—and that's the kind that sits in a pretty bottle in the cupboard, admired for its perfection, yet still unopened, still untasted. Salt that remains wrapped in protective plastic is not sharing its saltiness with the world. In Greek, "to lose flavor" is an expression that can also mean, "to become silent" or even "to speak foolishly."[3] When we remain silent while others are mistreated, we are salt that has lost its taste. When we manipulate someone in order to make ourselves look better, we are salt that is speaking foolishly. When we fail to act on behalf of those in need, we are salt that has become useless. When we practice religion without practicing justice, we are hopelessly flavorless. As the prophet Isaiah makes clear, no matter what kind of salt we are, we must be healing salt. We must be salt that pours itself out for the healing of the world, the repairing of the breach, the restoring of streets to live in.
So ... What small, precious, essential, full-voiced, life-giving, saving thing did God create with your salt dough this morning? How does God want to use your very own precious saltiness for the healing of the world?
[1] Debie Thomas, “Salty,” Journey with Jesus, found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/2515-salty.
[2] Carolyn Brown, Worshiping with Children, found at http://worshipingwithchildren.blogspot.com/2014/01/year-fifth-sunday-after-epiphany-fifth.html.
[3] Ulrich Luz, Matthew 1-7; Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), 203, note 1.
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