5th Sunday in Ordinary Time
There is a profound difference between a flashlight that is turned off and one that is turned on. Externally, they look exactly the same. They have the same casing, the same bulb, the same weight in your hand, and the same batteries inside. But one is fulfilling its purpose, and the other is merely potential. One is useful; the other, in the dark, is indistinguishable from a paperweight.
We often think of our Christian faith as something we have—like a possession, a membership card to a club, or a set of beliefs we keep tucked away in our back pockets. We treat it as something private, something we can turn on or off depending on the company we are in or the situation we face. When the culture is hostile, we switch it off to blend in. When we are safe in church, we switch it on.
But in today’s Gospel, Jesus does not speak about what we have. He speaks about what we are. He does not say, "You have the salt of wisdom." He does not say, "You hold the light of truth." He says, "You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world."
This is a statement of ontology—a statement of being. It is an identity. Salt that doesn't taste like salt isn't just "lesser" salt; Jesus says it is "good for nothing." A light that is hidden under a bushel basket is a contradiction in terms—light is meant to be seen. If it isn't seen, it isn't functioning as light. If we are not flavoring the world with the Gospel, and if we are not illuminating the darkness with our deeds, we are facing a spiritual identity crisis. We are the flashlight turned off, wondering why the world remains so dark.
The Definition of Light: True Fasting
To understand what Jesus means by "light," we must look back to the First Reading from the Prophet Isaiah. It is easy to sentimentalize "light" as a warm, fuzzy feeling, a halo, or a vague sense of spiritual superiority. But Isaiah is jarringly practical. He gives us the definition of the light that breaks forth like the dawn.
Context is vital here. In the verses immediately preceding this reading, the people of Israel are complaining. They are fasting and praying, yet God isn't answering. They ask, "Why do we fast, and you do not see it?" Isaiah answers by telling them their religion is bifurcated; they act pious in the temple but exploit their workers and ignore the poor in the street.
Isaiah writes the prescription for true light: "Share your bread with the hungry, shelter the oppressed and the homeless; clothe the naked when you see them, and do not turn your back on your own" (Isaiah 58:7).
The prophet connects spiritual illumination directly to social action. He tells the people of Israel that their religious observances are empty—mere darkness—if they are disconnected from mercy. When we engage in these corporal works of mercy—when we step out of our comfort zones to care for the marginalized—that is when "light shall rise for you in the darkness, and the gloom shall become for you like midday" (Isaiah 58:10). The light Jesus speaks of in the Gospel is fueled by the oil of charity described in Isaiah. It is not an intellectual light; it is a behavioral one.
If Isaiah defines the light, Saint Paul in the Second Reading defines the salt. Paul is writing to the Corinthians, a community enamored with status, philosophy, and eloquence. They wanted a faith that was impressive, sophisticated, and culturally dominant. They wanted a "celebrity" Christianity.
Paul corrects them gently but firmly. He reminds them that he did not come with "sublimity of words or of wisdom" (1 Cor 2:1). He wasn't trying to out-debate the Greek philosophers or impress the wealthy merchants. He admits he came to them "in weakness and fear and much trembling" (1 Cor 2:3). This is startling! The great Apostle Paul, trembling?
But this is exactly where the "salt" is found. He says, "I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified" (1 Cor 2:2).
The distinctive flavor of the Christian life is the Cross. It is the willingness to embrace weakness, to serve without seeking recognition, and to rely on the "power of God" rather than human cleverness. Salt stings when applied to a wound, just as the truth of the Gospel can sting a world comfortable in its sin. But salt also preserves. In the ancient world, salt was the only way to stop meat from rotting. When we live out the paradox of the Cross—finding strength in weakness and life in self-sacrifice—we become the preserving agent in a decaying culture. We stop the rot of selfishness.
In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus combines these images. He is speaking these words immediately after the Beatitudes. He looks at his disciples—poor, uneducated fishermen, reviled tax collectors, and former zealots—and hands them the responsibility for the entire cosmos.
"A city set on a mountain cannot be hidden," He declares (Matthew 5:14).
This destroys the notion of "private religion." In the ancient Near East, cities on hills were built of white limestone. In the midday sun, they gleamed; at night, their oil lamps created a glow visible for miles across the desert. There was no way to hide such a city. It was a navigational point for everyone around.
Jesus warns us against the "bushel basket." A bushel was a measuring container for grain. Placing a lamp under it would not only hide the light but would likely extinguish the flame due to lack of oxygen—or worse, set the basket on fire. Hiding our faith usually leads to the same result: our faith suffocates for lack of air, or it causes destruction because we are living a lie.
Jesus says, "Just so, your light must shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father" (Matthew 5:16). Note the purpose: the light is not so that others may see us and say, "How holy they are!" It is so that they see the deeds and glorify God. We are not the source of the light; we are the window. If the glass is dirty, the light cannot pass through. If the glass is painted over by our ego, our fear, or our un-repented sin, the room stays dark, no matter how bright the sun is outside.
This week, we are called to do an inventory of the "bushel baskets" in our lives. We all have them—the deliberate ways we dampen our light to avoid making waves.
- Is it Fear? The fear of being canceled, mocked, or looked down upon for your moral stances? Do you laugh at things that aren't funny or nod along to lies because you fear the social awkwardness of truth?
- Is it Compartmentalization? The routine of going to Mass on Sunday but operating in your business dealings with the exact same ruthlessness and lack of ethics as those who have no faith?
- Is it "Politeness"? The mistaken idea that faith is too personal to share, leading us to stay silent when a coworker is grieving and needs a word of hope, or when a friend is confused and needs a word of truth?
We must kick over these baskets. The world is too dark, and the night is too cold, for us to be undercover Christians.
The Practicality of Salt
To be salt, we must be distinctive. Salt that tastes like the food it seasons is useless; it must maintain its own sharp property to affect the food. If we have the same anxieties, the same greed, the same addiction to outrage, and the same unforgiving hearts as the rest of the world, we have lost our flavor. We are just "world," not "salt of the earth."
This week, choose one situation where you usually "blend in" and choose to stand out—not with arrogance, but with the specific flavor of Christ.
- If your workplace is toxic with gossip, be the salt that stops the decay by refusing to participate, effectively killing the conversation that tears others down.
- If your family is divided by old arguments, be the salt that heals by offering forgiveness first, even if you were the one wronged.
- If you see a need in your community—a neighbor who is elderly and lonely, a family struggling to buy groceries—remember Isaiah. Do not turn your back on your own. Share your bread.
Glorifying the Father
We are not called to be the sun; we are called to be the moon, reflecting the light of the Son. We are not the meal; we are the salt that makes the meal edible.
When we leave this church today, the dismissal is not an ending; it is a deployment. We enter mission territory. The candles on the altar will remain here, burning down in the sanctuary, but the light of Christ must walk out the door within you. Let us not hide it. Let us not dilute it. Let us live with such radical charity and such humble reliance on the Cross that when people look at our lives, they cannot help but look up and give glory to our Father who is in heaven.
