Year A Last Sunday after the Epiphany: Homeless Jesus and the Transfiguration

Some of you may have seen a news story this past week about a statue that has been installed outside an Episcopal church in Davidson, N.C.[1] The first time she saw it, one neighbourhood resident called the police, thinking that a homeless person was sleeping on a bench outside the church. (I’m actually a little concerned for this individual, who may have found accidental fame and notoriety through the reporting of this story on the internet, but I’m quoting the story because I was gripped by what it had to say about Jesus, and about the Transfiguration.)

On closer inspection, the homeless person that the woman saw turns out to be a bronzed statue of a man wrapped in a cloak or blanket, lying on a bench. There is space on the bench to sit next to him. If you do, you are close enough to see the holes that nails have left in his feet. A small plaque near the bench has the title of the work, “Homeless Jesus,” and an explanation that its inspiration derives from that passage in Matthew’s Gospel where the sheep and the goats are divided according to who fed the hungry, housed the homeless, visited the sick and the prisoners, and who did not.

The person who called the police (and perhaps she wasn’t the only one) did so no doubt for various reasons, some of them perhaps quite compassionate. It is not for us to judge her. But on further reflection, she remained uncomfortable with the statue, and is reported as saying, “Jesus is not a helpless person who needs our help… We need someone who is capable of meeting our needs, not someone who is also needy.”[2]

In other words, we, like Peter, want to stay on the summit, build booths in the bright cloud, hold on to mountaintop Jesus, rather than face the road to Jerusalem and see him helpless and hanging from the cross.

Which is, I venture, a valid point of view and fair enough. Who wouldn’t feel the same way? Unfortunately, mountain summits are rarely habitable for extended periods of time, and real life tends to happen in the valleys.

You have to wonder why we always read this story on the Sunday before entering Lent. Of course, it is the culmination of the Epiphany: the revelation of the glory of God in the face of our Lord Jesus Christ, emphatically reinforced with witness and the voice from heaven, and bright clouds. But it also comes as Jesus has turned his face towards Jerusalem, where he will be killed alongside too many of his countrymen. He has just begun to talk to his disciples of such things, and he will continue to do so more as they journey down country. It comes between stories of hunger and suffering, healing and relief; it comes in the midst of life, and it comes under the shadow of death.

Sometimes, when you’re in the valley – you know the one, the one with the shadows – then what you really need is for someone to come and sit beside you for a while, someone who has been there, who knows the score.

One of the crucial parts of the Homeless Jesus installation is the space on the bench to sit down beside him. Without such a space, even Homeless Jesus would remain out of reach, as remote as the God of the philosophers, impassive and untouchable, lost in a bright cloud.

You’ll be familiar, no doubt, with the famous quotation attributed to St Teresa of Avila:

Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
Compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.
Yours are the hands, yours are the feet,
Yours are the eyes, you are his body.
Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
compassion on this world.
Christ has no body now on earth but yours.[3]

There is a counterpart to this notion, and the gospel story on which the sculpture is based makes it abundantly clear. Christ is present not only in the hands and feet and eyes of compassion that serve. He is also present in those who are hungry, who are sick, who are imprisoned, who are homeless, who are, indeed, needy. And we are called to get off our mountaintops and to serve them as if we were serving Christ himself.

When we forget that, when we forget the squalour of the manger and the shame of the cross, the dust of his feet or the borrowed tomb –foxes have holes and the birds of the air have their nests, but even in death, the Son of Man had no place to lay his head – when we forget these things, and confine Jesus to the mountaintop and the bright cloud, we not only lose sight of the needs of our neighbour, but we lose sight of God.

The Incarnation, the coming of Christ in human form, was God’s promise to us that it is not God’s intention to remain out of reach, out of touch. Irenaus, bishop of Lyon back in the second century of the Christian church, argued that, “Just as the physician is proved by his patients, so is God also revealed through men,” and, more famously, “For the glory of God is a living man.”[4]

The revelation of the Transfiguration was that here, here was the glory of God, in flesh and blood, in hands that healed and a mouth that laughed and eyes that wept and feet that walked through the wilderness and on the water and into the city, feet which would bear iron nails soon enough. A human soul and body that sat down beside its friends and matched them, need for need, and loved them through it all.

As we leave the bright cloud of the Epiphany behind us and head into the valley of Lent, in the spirit of the Incarnation and Homeless Jesus, I offer you this poem by R.S. Thomas, a twentieth-century poet-priest from Wales, called

The Coming

And God held in his hand
A small globe. Look, he said.
The son looked. Far off.
As through water, he saw
A scorched land of fierce
Colour. The light burned
There; crusted buildings
Cast their shadows; a bright
Serpent, a river
Uncoiled itself, radiant
With slime.
On a bare
Hill a bare tree saddened
The sky. Many people
Held out their thin arms
To it, as though waiting
For a vanished April
To return to its crossed
Boughs. The son watched
Them. Let me go there, he said.[5]

______________________________________________

[1] http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/02/28/homeless-jesus-statue_n_4875892.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000051

[2] http://www.wcnc.com/news/neighborhood-news/Homeless-Jesus-sculpture-sparks-controversy-247134691.html

[3] See more at: http://blog.episcopalrelief.org/blog/episcopal-relief-and-development-stories/christs-hands-and-feet#sthash.D5FrJJpl.dpuf

[4] St. Irenaeus, Against Heresies, excerpted from Apostolic Fathers Volume I, edited by Paul A. Boer, Sr. (Veritatis Splendor Publications, 2012), Kindle edition, pp. 385, 477

[5] R.S. Thomas, “The Coming”, in R.S. Thomas, Collected Poems 1945-1990 (Phoenix, 1993), p. 234

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Transfiguration

Once upon a mountaintop I saw,
and having seen could not unsee, forget
the white light of a soft robe rendered
diamond sharp; its bright folds scratched my eyes.
For an instant only, looking up, I saw his face,
caught my breath remembering love,
the face of love shining, blurring,
doubling, tripling, dissembling in a bright cloud.
I stumbled down the mountainside, streaming,
screaming inside for what I had become
since love was lost, which now shone out;
blind to all else, I was bedazzled and bewildered.
Later, he spat on the ground, smeared mud in my eyes;
the shadows crowded back, washed away the clean light.
My sight returning as it left, a blurry mess,
I saw him leave with my heart trailing.

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Year A Epiphany 7: How to be perfect

There is good news in the fact that the Lord our God is holy. There is grace in the perfection of our heavenly Father, and we wouldn’t want any lesser kind of god.

But what do we make of these instructions to us: Be holy, says Moses: be perfect, says Jesus?

Just, you know, do it.
Be holy.
Be perfect.
Now.

To be fair, we are not left without any guidance. This portion of Leviticus is known as the holiness code, because of the repeated use of the word, “holy.” Leviticus gives all sorts of instructions for that holiness, some of which are, to our modern, Gentile ears, quite arcane: like avoiding crossbreeding livestock or planting two crops in the same field, or wearing garments made of mixed fibres.

Yet other instructions are quite general and universally recognized as eminently sensible: you shall not steal or swindle; you shall not blaspheme; you shall not deal fraudulently with anyone; you shall not torment the vulnerable, just because you can. You shall not pervert the course of justice. You shall not deplete by your own greed the fringes of the fruitfulness of the earth that might sustain your poor neighbour. Actually, in the modern context we could be getting into controversial territory with that one, if we think about our battles over welfare and entitlements and overseas aid.

And that’s the thing. It is worth noting here that the holiness code was a set of standards for living in society. Sure, some of them were expressed at an individual level, but they were for the people as a whole, for the community of the people of God. The people had a choice, as they came into the land that they would eventually settle, to embrace the gods that they found there, or to hold fast to the Lord their God who had brought them out of Egypt, and only to God. They chose God, and the instructions of the Law were intended to be societal norms for a society which defined itself as set apart to do God’s will, as holy.

Certainly, there are areas in which we as a society fall well short of the perfection of holiness.

We agree that we shall not put an obstacle in front of someone who is deaf or blind or otherwise physically challenged – unless, as a church, we are exempt from expensive ADA requirements.

We tie ourselves in knots to resist Jesus’ command, “Do not resist an evildoer,” and replace it with the noble-sounding phrase, “stand your ground.”

We have perverted the commandments not to profit by the blood of a neighbor; not to seek vengeance. We have problems administering the death penalty in Ohio precisely because the people making the drugs that were used to kill did not want to profit by another man’s blood, did not want their product used for vengeance, and withdrew it; so we continue to hunt down alternative sources of death, and ride roughshod over the principles of others who cling more closely to the holiness code than do we, the people, with our legalized revenge.[1]

But how do we deal with “give to everyone who begs from you”?  What does, “Do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow” have to do with subprime lending? Can we reconcile, “love your enemies” with Al Qaeda?

Yes, there are areas of complexity in living a holy and perfect life. Leviticus says, “You shall not lie to one another;” yet as soon as the people begin their incursion into the Promised Land, the lies of a known prostitute, Rahab of Jericho, are precisely what open the way for them; and she is rewarded with her life, and with the acclamation of the New Testament, as one who achieved God’s purposes by faith (Hebrews11:31); as one who was shown to be righteous before God when she received the spies of Joshua as her guests and sent them safely on their way (James 2:25).

Awarding a Medal of Righteousness to a French resistor of the Nazi regime, who saved countless Jewish families by hiding them from their persecutors, creating false documents and lying to his neighbours, ‘one of the speakers said, ‘The righteous are not exempt from evil.’ [The pastor’s wife] remembers the sentence word for word. The righteous must often pay a price for their righteousness: their own ethical purity.’[2]

But such conundrums are the exceptions. We know the rules for holiness, in our hearts. We have the potential to do better, to come closer to perfection when we affirm the equality of all, the dignity of each, the value of everyone. We know the rules for holiness in our hearts. We know that perfection lies not in slavery to them, but in love. “Love your neighbour as yourself: I am the Lord,” concludes our Levitical passage. We know when we are acting out of something less than love.

The epistle advises, “do not deceive yourselves with clever excuses…. He catches the wise in their craftiness.” Paul should know. He spent his time and energy persecuting Christians in the name of holiness before he saw the light on the road to Damascus. “Do not deceive yourselves,” he says. We know when we are acting out of something less than love.

“You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy,” says Moses on behalf of God. Throughout the Bible, the description of holy is used overwhelming for God above all else.

“Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect,” says Jesus.

So our consciences are guided by the holiness of God.

What would God say about privatizing the prison industry so that “success” can be defined by the number of sons and daughters we incarcerate?

What does Jesus say about the death sentence?

What does God say about providing for the poor and the alien, the undocumented, the stranger?

How would Jesus respond to an application for permission to discriminate against a brother or a sister on religious grounds?[3]

What does Jesus say, hanging from the cross: what does Jesus say about standing your ground?

We know what we are called to do: to love the Lord our God with all of our heart and all of our strength and all of our mind; to love God perfectly; and to love our neighbours as perfectly as ourselves.

We tend to hear commandments as a challenge, as trouble. But there is good news for us, too, and grace in the words of Moses and of Jesus. There is good news in the fact that the Lord our God is holy. There is grace in the perfection of our Father in heaven, and we, like our spiritual ancestors, faced with a choice wouldn’t want any lesser kind of god.

I am the Lord your God, says the Lord.

I have shown you holiness; I have shown you love. I do not resist you. When you persecute me, I set my angels to pray for you. I do not hold back from you the good things that you need. I shall not hate you, because you are my family, my children. I do not seek vengeance against you.

I am the Lord your God and I love you indiscriminately, making the sun rise on the evil and on the good, sending the rain to fall on the righteous and on the others.

I love you, whether or not you reach perfection, whether or not you are righteous, whether or not you feel holy.

I am the Lord your God.

So go ahead and be holy; be perfect; and know that God loves you perfectly, no matter what.


[2] Lest Innocent Blood Be Shed: The Story of the Village of Le Chambon and How Goodness Happened There, Philip Hallie (HarperPerennial edn, 1994), 126-7

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Seasonal affair

The seagulls are returning from
wherever it is that seagulls go when
the lake, luminous lover, has frozen them out,
but they seem chastened; they sound subdued,
touch her gingerly,
testing the waters.

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Crib Goch, and other melodramatic metaphors

On a knife edge, the threat of falling
shrouded in a misty pall,
each step a battle of will over fear.
Others stride across a broad thoroughfare;
I snarl at their sunny backs;
gravity has grappled me to the rock.

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Year A Epiphany 6: Choose life

Jesus said, “If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.” Gruesome stuff. What does he mean by it?

I remember when our eldest child was newborn, and sleeping in my arms in the living room in front of the television, asking my husband to change the channel. Whatever movie was playing was too violent, or graphic, or somehow unsuitable for viewing with a baby in tow. My husband quite sensibly pointed out that, a) she was asleep, and that b) at a couple of weeks old she was unlikely to understand what was happening on the screen if she did happen to wake up. I don’t suppose that it was completely rational (I was a brand-new mother, and rationality was not top of my list of priorities at the time), but my gut feeling was that a) it was nevertheless bad for her to absorb such influences, even subliminally, and that b) I was at risk of passing the ill effects of such viewing on to her through my milk. I know it sounds a little crazy, but still I think that there is something to the idea that whatever we choose to take in and absorb, we will in some way pay out and feed to those around us, especially those closest to us.

Jesus said, “If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.”

How many times have you heard someone say, “I am literally dying for a cup of coffee!” or, “These boots are murder”, or, “It’s literally freezing out there!”?

We usually recognize hyperbole when we hear it. That last one was not, in fact, great example. But when Jesus says, “Anyone who says, ‘You fool,’ commits murder,” we know that he is employing a verbal strategy to make a point and command the attention of his audience. When he says, “Cut off your right hand,” I sincerely hope that we recognize the recklessly ramped-up rhetoric. Perhaps we miss the ironic effect because Jesus didn’t add the word, “literally,” when he said that looking at another person lustfully, or getting divorced and remarried, are each and both equally identical to adultery, making him “literally” less emphatic and hyperbolic than most millennials, but these statements, too, are in the same context and category as the others. So let’s try to move beyond the shock value of the rhetorical device and try to find out just what it is that Jesus is advising in what could be his very own commentary on the Deuteronomic instruction to “choose life.”

To back up just a little bit, the Deuteronomy passage comes at the end of the giving of the law of the covenant via Moses to the people of Israel. Moses is summing up, in his final farewell to the people he has led through the wilderness under the guidance of God for forty years, and admonishing, exhorting and encouraging them to continue to follow the one who gives them life, who fed them in the famine, gave them water from the rock, and has brought them to the borders of the promised land. “Choose life,” he says. Choose God.

These are people with a poor track record for getting discouraged and distracted; they responded to the first law by creating a golden calf idol before Moses even got down from the mountain. Now, they are entering a whole new dimension of different denominations of pagan worship, and they are more than likely to get sidetracked into magic and mayhem, spiritualism and false sacrifices. Moses knows, too, that he will not be going with them into the promised land, yet the sight of the land itself is sufficient to assure him that God’s promises have been fulfilled, will be fulfilled, that there is life abundant available to his people and their descendants, forever.

Moses knows that God is the one, true God, who has stuck by them through thick and thin and without whom they would have died many times over in the desert. “Choose life,” he urges.

Jesus is addressing a different set of idols, shared among the descendants of the self-same people and subject to the same temptations to turn away from the truth to worship lies and distractions. Adultery, murder, theft, covetousness, and false witness, all concerns of the ten commandments that Moses read to the people, are presenting the same risks to the same people here and now. Lust, envy, betrayal, anger and avarice all fall under the list that Jesus offers.

He might say, “You have heard that it was said, ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,’ but I say to you that words have power. The one who hurls words as weapons might as well be considered a violent offender.” Martin Luther, in his Small Catechism, surmised that, “Murder starts in the heart. Even the thought of killing someone, or the wish that he might get hurt or harmed is a sin…Anger that is nursed develops into hatred, which is not a momentary outburst of temper, but a settled intense dislike and enmity. Hatred is the opposite of love, it is murder of the heart.” So Luther decides, “We should be kind in our words and dealings with others, patient, gentle, not easily provoked and angered, even though they be gruff and insulting.” He concludes, “Alas, how guilty are we all under this Commandment!”

Guard your tongue, Jesus is telling us, and guard your temper. It is not our place to judge; we are not to usurp the judgement of God but to be patient with our brothers and sisters, knowing that there are times when we sorely try their patience in return. Society all too often encourages us to be fearful of one another; to judge first and ask questions later. We have heard too many news stories of needless death not to know where that leads us. Jesus tells us to look through the lens of faith to see our sisters and brothers in Christ, and to seek reconciliation and relationship as a primary strategy, asking questions first in order to avoid shooting later.

He says, “Do not look on one another with lust.” From Miley Cyrus twerking to internet addiction, we are what we consume in the name of entertainment. The ancient Catholic concept of “custody of the eyes” is a response to that truism. “Custody of the eyes” says that if looking with lust will lead us astray, then we should guard our eyes in the same way that we guard our tongue and our temper, once again seeing one another through the lens of faith, as sisters and brothers in Christ, worthy of dignity and respect, as recipients of love rather than as objects of lust. Otherwise, we make idols of one another, and fools of ourselves.

My guess is that Jesus knew from his own experiences as a man the temptations that we willingly allow ourselves to entertain, to the danger of our own wellbeing and the health of our relationships.

We are bombarded every day and in every context with temptations to lust, avarice, envy. We have so many choices available to us. Advertisements and commercials assure us that we need more of this and much more of that, that we are less than we should be until we get it. They tell us over and over that we by ourselves are not strong enough, not sexy enough, not smart enough, do not have enough to win at life. True enough: we can’t do it all by ourselves. But these false promises of wholeness and satisfaction are our idols, our golden calves, our occasions of sin. Choosing them will not lead us into life.

The promise of God is that what we truly need for life has already been given freely in Jesus Christ, the promise of God revealed to us, life abundant for ourselves and those we love, forever. We do not need to fight for it, to beat anyone else down for it. We don’t need to swear by it, or to lust after it. We need only to say yes to it, to choose this life, the life of Christ, and it is ours.

And if we let it feed us, this life, this promise, then that is what we will pass on to those around us, too: love, light, and life abundant; a legacy truly worth leaving; a life worth living.

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Custody of the eyes

Jesus said, “If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.” Gruesome stuff. And what on earth does he mean by it?

I remember when our youngest child was newborn, and sleeping in my arms in the living room in front of the television, asking my husband to change the channel. Whatever movie was playing was too violent, or graphic, or somehow unsuitable for viewing with a baby in tow. My husband quite sensibly pointed out that, a) she was asleep, and that b) at a couple of weeks old she was unlikely to understand what was happening on the screen if she did happen to wake up. I don’t suppose that it was completely rational (I was a brand-new mother, and rationality was not top of my list of priorities at the time), but my gut feeling was that a) it was nevertheless bad for her to absorb such influences, even subliminally, and that b) I was at risk of passing the ill effects of such viewing on to her through my milk. I know it sounds a little crazy, but still I think that there is something to the idea that whatever we choose to take in and absorb, we will in some way pay out and feed to those around us, especially those closest to us.

to be continued…

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Happy valentine

A heart labyrinth design for Valentine’s Day (I’ve also used them as prayer aids for cardiac patients and others). Although I didn’t consciously plan it that way, I like the way that the two sides can be read either as separate chambers of the heart or as hands embracing the smaller central heart.
Happy Valentine’s Day, lovely ones!

20140214-165330.jpg

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It’s still cold

Water pipes slamming,
cranking out icy fury:
I know how they feel.

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Year A Epiphany 5: salt

If rock salt comes from rocks (hence the salt mines), and sea salt comes from the sea, where does table salt come from?

Jesus said, “You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.” But salt without saltiness is good for nothing, and a light hidden under a bushel sheds no illumination.

There’s an old folk tale about a princess, the youngest of three, as it goes, whose father wanted to test the love of his daughters. He asked each of them how much they loved him. The eldest daughter said, I don’t know, more than gold and silver, and the king was pleased. The second child said something about ponies and rainbows and unicorns – I really don’t remember this part too well – and the king was well satisfied. The youngest daughter, the smart one, said, “I love you more than salt,” and the king was outraged. Salt? The peasants had sufficient salt, the deers licked in from the rocks in the forest, they used it to kill slugs in the royal lettuce garden: salt? It was an insult! So the king banished his daughter from his sight, and what’s more, he outlawed the use of salt throughout all his lands.

It wasn’t long before the king found the need to haul up the castle cook to complain about the food. Everything tasted the same, he complained, nothing popped, nothing sparkled on his tongue any more, everything was bland and blah. The cook, rather fearfully, since he was essentially telling the king how dumb he had been, explained the role of salt in food preparation. It is not, he said, so much that it speaks for itself – sometimes you want salty, for sure – but much more often, it is the salt that brings out the flavours of the other ingredients, and binds them together, and makes them pop and fizzle on your tongue. Without salt, explained the cook, the rainbow had gone out of his flavour palette and everything had turned sepia and insipid. Without salt, the food was sad.

The king realized that his youngest daughter had been telling him of the depth, the breadth, the essence and embrace of her love for him, and he was very sorry that he had rejected her, and that he had banned salt from the kingdom because now he was going to have to pay a lot of money to restock their supplies.

Of course, salt does more than flavour our foods. Salt is a preservative, and a stain remover. It can be used to set the colour of a dyed cloth. It helps ice cream to set. It is used in skin creams and lotions – that Dead Sea mud is full of the stuff. Salt has been used as a disinfectant and even an antibiotic agent for millennia. What parent here hasn’t bathed a child’s scraped knee with salt water, or prescribed a salt water gargle for a sore throat?

You are the salt of the earth: the healers, the soothers, the cleansers, the purifiers. You have the capacity to bring health and wholeness to those around you.

You are the salt of the earth: you are everywhere, you get into everything. You don’t have to be especially strong or dominant, or overwhelming. Sometimes, to be sure, you are the centre of attention, but always you have a vital role in lifting the colours, the flavours, the essence of those around you; you spice up their lives. You make them pop and sparkle.

The letter to the Colossians advises, “Conduct yourselves wisely toward outsiders, making the most of the time. Let your speech be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer everyone.”

Let your speech be seasoned with salt, that is, let it bring out the best in the those to whom you speak. Look for ways to enhance the lives of those around you, not by overwhelming them but by lifting up into the light that which is already good and sound and flavourful in them.

Of course, this time of year, we can’t help noticing that salt can be used to help us on our way, wherever it is we may be going – it lowers the freezing point of water to prevent it from becoming solid ice, so we use it to keep our arterial pathways clear, our highways and our sidewalks.

You are the salt of the earth. You have what it takes to melt a frigid heart.

The prophet says, “Remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil; offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted” – be the salt that the world needs – “then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday.”

Light, like salt, points beyond itself. Light, like salt, is good in itself, but we notice it the most when it illuminates other things, when it allows us to see the way before us, or chases away the shadows that frighten us; the light shines and something as scruffy as a spider’s web glistens. The light shines, and the very walls around us become beautiful.

“You are the light of the world,” says Jesus. Elsewhere, Jesus said, “I am the light of the world.” He shone in the darkness of a fallen creation and showed us the beauty all around us, of God’s love for us. He illuminated a pathway for us, into the kingdom of God. He brought us out of the shadows to stand in sunlight and see for ourselves, all around us, the city of God. We are to shine, not to glory in our own light, but to show others the glory, the mercy and grace of God; to illuminate their lives.

“You are the salt of the earth,” says Jesus. We season the earth, not so that our saltiness can be admired, but to help others to taste the goodness of creation. How are we affirming the essence of others, letting them know that they are made in the image of God, every one of them; healing their hurts and melting their hearts?

To claim the titles of light, of salt, is not to boast in our own properties, but to own our call to bring out the best in those around us, to show them wholeness, health and warmth, and the beauty that lies in the love of God. It is one more way in which Jesus tells us, not only that we are loved, but that we are to love God and our neighbour, with all of our hearts, more than silver and gold, more than rainbows, puppies and ponies, more than salt.

Jesus tells us that we are to season our relationships with respect for the variety of flavours that people come in, with encouragement, to draw out the best in them. We are to season our lives with helpfulness, healthfulness, warmth, comfort, perseverance, not only for our own sakes, but to lead others to the glory of God, to illuminate their pathways, to guide them home.

I suppose if you were to really stretch and twist the metaphor, you could make Peter into rock salt (because his name means Rock). James and John the fishermen might be sea salts. So what does that make us?

altarWhere does table salt come from?

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