Matthew 5:13-20
When I was a graduate student in Texas, I attended a Lutheran campus ministry. We had services every Sunday morning, just like most churches. We followed the lectionary, we heard a sermon, and we celebrated the sacraments. Our pastor, whom we called PJ, had a certain way he liked to celebrate the Lord’s Supper. He would invite us all up to the front, to stand in a circle around the altar. And the first thing he would do was take a little dish of salt. He would go around the circle to each one of us, take a pinch of salt and put it on our tongues, saying, “remember your baptism.”
Remember your baptism. I was always a little bit mystified by this ritual. I wasn’t entirely certain I understood what salt had to do with my baptism. But I liked it. A little bit of salt tastes good. The taste, the gesture, the familiar words all felt right. And the strength of the experience stayed with me.
I did understand at the time that he was intentionally linking our baptism to the experience of communion. Because that is what the church does. In baptism, we are made a member of the family of Christ and we are given the gift of the Holy Spirit. In communion, each time we receive it, the bread and the cup, we are nourished again with the gifts of the Spirit, the good things of life that enable us to grow in goodness and faith.
This I understood. But I was not quite as clear about the salt. I wonder if the crowds and the disciples who listened to Jesus call them salt, maybe they were not quite clear either. Maybe they murmured to one another, “Salt? Says we’re salty, did he? Hmm.” And they wondered what he meant. Jesus probably had them thinking about that for a long time. Maybe every time they added a little salt to their food, they thought of Jesus’ words.
PJ would bring a big box of donuts to church every Sunday. After he gave the benediction he would race out of the sanctuary, grab his donuts and then run out the front door with them on the area he called the tarmac. He knew that as soon as the service ended we would all pick up our backpacks, head out the door and “take off” for other places – the library, the student union, the coffee shop. He would stand out there grinning with his donuts, blocking the runway so we had to slow down. Take a minute to talk to somebody. Be friendly. Care about one another. PJ sweetened the deal with his donuts.
This was all good training, I think. Those of us who sat in church each week, we had mostly been raised up to sit quietly, listen, follow instruction. So when PJ held out a pinch of salt in front of our faces, we all opened our mouths for him like baby birds. When he blocked our paths on the tarmac we all slowed down and accepted one of his donuts. We were good students and he was teaching us how to be good disciples of Jesus.
One Sunday he asked us all to all bring in a wash rag. He said, “Bring me one that you have used – don’t go out and buy a new one. I want a rag that you have used to wash yourself with.” And so we all did. Mine was blue. Then PJ took all these rags and he sewed them together in a patchwork stole. He wore this stole every Sunday. I could see a piece of my blue wash rag sewn together with all the rest. Another powerful image.
Good teachers use powerful images, images that stick with us, that we continue to think about for a long time – maybe all our lives long – because we somehow sense that there is still more to unravel, more that it can teach us.
Jesus used powerful images in his all teaching. With his parables he left his listeners with such images etched into their minds, of seeds and vines and harvests; masters and servants, debts and debtors, fathers and sons. When he said, “Follow me and I will make you fishers of people.” When he said, “Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble of heart and you will find rest for your souls.”
And we spend a lifetime turning these images over in our minds, pulling out threads here and there. Threads that may fill us with comfort, assure us of safety. Threads that may spark energy and desire to do something new. Threads that keep us seeking something more, because we always feel that we are on the edge of comprehending it.
I think I will probably never feel that I have a solid comprehension of the salt image. I hope that doesn’t cause you to feel disappointed in your pastor. But I think I will be turning this one over in my mind for as long as my mind is able. For me it’s an image that never quite gives itself to me fully, but it always gives me something.
Sort of like that tiny pinch of salt that PJ would give me every Sunday before I received the bread and the cup. Just a little bit that leaves you wanting more.
When Kira was born, we asked PJ to baptize her. He was beside himself with joy. As you might imagine, being a campus pastor didn’t give him many opportunities to baptize babies. Actually, this may have been his first. On the day of her baptism, he filled a washtub with warm water, we lowered her body in. He poured the warm water over her head, and when he lifted her out of the tub, her patted her dry with his patchwork stole.
After that, every time we celebrated communion, I would carry Kira into the circle with me. And PJ would smile and offer her a little pinch of salt and say, with a tear in his eye, “Remember your baptism, Kira.”
One Sunday when she was about two years old, PJ gave her the little pinch of salt, like he always did, and began to turn to the next person when we heard Kira say, “More.” She wanted more.
So it is with the goodness of God. A little taste goes a long way, but it will always leave us wanting more. More of God’s goodness. More of God’s guidance. More of the flavor of God.
Perhaps that is sort of what it means to be the salt and be the light. Each one of us can shed a little light in this world for others. Each one of us can bring a little flavor to the world. And when we do bring the wonderful flavor of God, the light of God, to our interactions with others, we may leave them wanting a little bit more.
May you be the salt that brings a taste of the kingdom to this world.
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Photo: Kira with parents and godparents at University Lutheran Center at UT-Austin
