Salt. City. Light.
Original sermon given on The Fifth Sunday After Epiphany, Sunday, February 8, 2026 written and delivered by Pastor Jeff Leininger at First Saint Paul’s Lutheran Church.
Watch the sermon live.
“Salt. City. Light.”
Matthew 5.13-16
In the name of the Living God and the Christ who has appeared to us. Amen.
Salt, city, light. In this portion of his “Sermon on the Mount”, our Lord deploys metaphors so common and ordinary at the time that no one could have missed the point. Yet, because of the abundance of salt, cities, and lights in our world, Jesus’ point may be lost on us. I brought some props to help illustrate the point.
Salt — so abundant and cheap, we can go to the grocery store and purchase a variety of types, just for fun without even thinking. One of our family favorites, first brought into our home by our daughter Gracie, is the avocado seasoning. I’m a savory kind of guy, so this stuff is good on everything.
But salt in the ancient world was rare, expensive, and crucial, for it was used not just to make things taste good. Meats and other foods had to be salted to be preserved in an era of no refrigeration. If a salt was of poor grade or had somehow become mixed with other elements and become insipid, it was useless — only good for throwing away, trampled underfoot. Nothing more useless than un-salty salt.
You are a city on a hill, Jesus says. We have all kinds of cities lit up so brightly that they can be seen from space. [Here’s a picture of Chicago, lit up from space, courtesy of NASA]. There are so many well-lit cities that when we travel, they hardly seem distinguishable from one another. (346 in the US over 100,000; a thousand over 35,000.) Not in Jesus’ day. Imagine a long, hard journey, walking miles by night. For hours, there is nothing around but darkness. But up ahead, on a high hill, a city lit up with lights and lamps and fires guides your way draws you in. You can’t miss it. It’s there for all to see. And it is the destination for all travelers in the area. But a city with no lights must be dead or abandoned, drawing no one, for it has no life in it.
Light. Again, we have lamps in abundance. [I brought a powerful LED lamp, as an illustration.] Electricity, power is so cheap and abundant, we flip on a light and don’t even think about it. We leave lights on all night and all day, simply because we’ve forgotten to switch them off. Darkness has been, for the most part, tamed for us. Not in Jesus’ day. Light was precious; it was expensive; it took time, effort, and energy to produce. Can you see how ridiculous and wasteful it would be to go to the trouble of making a lamp, purchasing oil, cutting a wick, managing to light it, and then sticking a two-gallon basket or bowl over it? Who does that? Just like no one misses the city at night or keeps bad salt.
Now do you get it? Jesus says that we are salt, city, light. We are his disciples who have been redeemed by his precious blood, completely set free by the power of his cross, given the gift of eternal life through the victory of his resurrection. We are indeed saved by his grace alone. Amen. It is so. But we are sent into this world as salt, city, and light, and to not be these things in a world in such great need … well, it would be a strange thing indeed. Un-salty salt? Invisible city? Covered lamp? Useless. Ridiculous, even.
There are two things I find particularly convicting about Jesus’ metaphors of salt, city, light. The first comes from the first word in Matthew’s text. Jesus gathers his disciples near him, up on that mountain of the Beatitudes — not the curious crowds, not the pagan soldiers or rulers or politicians, and says you. You are salt, city, light. (The Greek here is emphatic. You, not anyone else.)
Lots of people in this world can do lots of good, helpful, and important things, but only Christ followers can truly be salt, city, light in this world, for this world. This is because only Christian disciples have both the word of truth, the Gospel revealed in Scripture, and the calling to live baptismal lives according to it. Only our good works will cause others to glorify the Father in heaven. Only with Christian love and witness will others look through us and see the eternal light. But if the salt loses its savor, how will the earth be preserved? Or if the city isn’t lit, who can be drawn into it? Or, if the light is hidden what use will it be?
So, the first word: You, not someone else, are salt, city, light. And then the second word is no less convicting. (We can’t even get past the first two words without the Spirit stirring something!) You are salt, city, light. Note that Jesus doesn’t give them some life goals here. Like, one day, if you work hard at it, become particularly good at this whole “follow me” thing — one day you’ll start savoring, drawing, lighting the world. No! You are already because you’re with me bearing my name. So, it’s not a question of whether you are salt, city, light, it’s a question rather of what kind. Insipid, hidden, dead, dark, and thus cast away as useless?
One of church’s experts on the book of Matthew who teaches at St. Louis Seminary, Dr. Matthew Gibbs, said it even more strongly than I would. But since he said it… when speaking of this passage in the context of the Beatitudes, the “Blessings”, we had last week, writes, “The connection between blessing and calling is unbreakable. It is a question of the disciple’s identity.”[1]
There’s a lot here which stirs us, convicts us, calls us out. But there’s comfort here too, as these words are spoken by our Savior. He is salt for us, preserving us ironically through his life-giving death. Here, in this place, Christ’s Church, we have a city on a hill — the people of God, the baptized drawn here, drawn to this altar where we receive life and salvation in the real presence of Christ. And he is light for us, the light no darkness can overcome, which shines upon us from the cross and through us to enlighten the world.
Christ as redeemed you, called you by name, set you free. Now be what you are: Salt, city, light.
Come soon, Lord Jesus. Amen.
[1] Gibbs, Matthew, 259
