Salt, Light & the Covenant of Life

 Isaiah 58.6-10 ‘Your light shall break forth like the dawn’

1 Corinthians 2.1-5 ‘I proclaimed to you the mystery of Christ crucified.’

Matthew 5.13-16 ‘You are the light of the world.’

 

Let your light shine before others,

so that they may see your good works

and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. (Matthew 5.16)

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In our Gospel reading today, Jesus places before us two vivid and compelling images of what it means to be his disciples.

He does not simply suggest that we might become these things, nor does he offer them as distant aspirations.

Instead, he speaks with striking directness: you are the salt of the earth; you are the light of the world.

These are not optional extras for the especially keen or the particularly holy.

They are declarations of identity.

Jesus tells us who we already are by virtue of belonging to him.

These sayings could not be more fitting on a day when we celebrate a baptism—both in the life of this parish and in the life of the Church Universal.

Baptism is the moment when a person is drawn into the life of Christ, grafted into his Body, and marked with his identity.

Today N enters into that life, and so these images of salt and light speak directly into the faith she receives and the vocation she begins.

Salt has remarkable properties.

In the ancient world it was essential for preserving food, preventing decay, and enabling life to flourish in harsh climates.

It also seasons food, enhancing and drawing out the flavours already present.

Yet salt must be used wisely.

Too little and it is ineffective; too much and it overwhelms, even destroys.

In large quantities it can kill vegetation and render land barren.

Salt is powerful, and its power must be rightly ordered.

So why does Jesus say to his disciples, you are the salt of the earth?

On one level, he is encouraging them—and us—to see ourselves as those who bring flavour and depth to the world, who draw out the goodness of God’s creation, who preserve what is holy and life-giving.

Christians are meant to make the world taste more like the Kingdom.

But there is a deeper resonance.

In Scripture, salt is closely associated with covenants—the sacred relationships into which God draws his people.

The Covenant of Priesthood with Aaron and his descendants is described as a ‘covenant of salt’ (Numbers 18.19).

Likewise, the Covenant of Kingship made with David is sealed with salt (2 Chronicles 13.5).

Salt symbolises permanence, fidelity, and the enduring nature of God’s promises.

In baptism we are formed as prophets, priests, and kings in Christ.

We are drawn into the Covenant of Grace sealed by his blood.

In the early Church, a small pinch of salt was placed on the tongue of the person being baptised.

This sal sapientiae—the ‘salt of wisdom’—symbolised purification, preservation from corruption, and the reception of divine understanding.

It was a sign that the newly baptised was being strengthened to live faithfully within God’s covenant.

So when Jesus asks, if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored?, he is not merely offering a culinary observation.

He is speaking of covenant faithfulness.

If we, who are the salt of the earth, lose our saltiness, we cease to draw out the flavours of the Kingdom; we cease to preserve the way of the Lord; We fail to live the life into which we were baptised.

Salt loses its flavour when God’s people forget who they are.

The people of Israel lost their saltiness when they abandoned the covenant.

Christians lose theirs when we place other priorities ahead of Christ; when the life of the Church becomes optional; when receiving Christ in the Eucharist becomes something we can take or leave; when prayer dries up; when charity grows cold and we lose our connection with e Communion of Saints.

Salt only makes sense as salt when it is salty.

Likewise, human beings only make sense when our lives are shaped after Jesus Christ, the true Light of the World.

And this brings us to the second image Jesus gives us: you are the light of the world.

Just as salt is pointless without its distinctive properties, so light is pointless if hidden under a basket.

Light is meant to shine, to reveal, to guide, to warm.

What a remarkable assertion this is.

Jesus, who says of himself, I am the light of the world, also says to us, you are the light of the world.

Our light is not our own.

As the moon reflects the light of the sun, so we reflect the radiance of Christ.

Without him our lives are dim and cold.

True enlightenment is not found in human-centred philosophies but in turning toward the God-Man, Jesus Christ, the fullest expression of what it means to be human.

As St Paul reminds us, our faith does not rest “in the wisdom of men but in the power of God.”

When Christ is placed on the lampstand of our hearts, we cannot help but shine.

Our good works—our acts of mercy, justice, compassion, and faithfulness—become windows through which others glimpse the glory of God.

Jesus’ image of a city set on a hill would have immediately evoked Jerusalem.

Approaching it from the Jordan Valley at sunset, pilgrims could see its lights from afar.

They lifted their eyes to the hills and sang, “from whence cometh my help?”—knowing that their help came not from the earthly city but from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.

Jerusalem was a city of light, its Temple illuminated by golden lampstands.

Yet even that city fell into darkness when the powers of this world sought to extinguish the Light of the World.

But the light could not be overcome.

The One who was present when God said, ‘Let there be light,’ (Genesis 1.1) shines even through death and into our hearts.

It is into this radiant mystery that N is baptised today.

She is sealed with Christ’s light and seasoned with his salt.

And we, with her, are called again to be what Jesus declares us to be: the salt of the earth and the light of the world.

May we draw out the flavours of the Kingdom, preserve what is holy, and shine with the light that leads others to the Father. Amen.