Humeis este to halas tès gès: ean de to halas mōranthèi en tini halisthèsetai? eis ouden ischuei eti ei mè blèthen exō kai katapateisthai hupo tōn anthrōpōn (Matthew 5:13-16)
You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt becomes flat, insipid, in what will it be salted? It will be good for nothing except be thrown outside and trampled under foot by people.
In this passage of the Sermon Yeshua gives his talmidim two metaphors of compliment and responsibility that describe them and their function: salt and light. They are the salt of the land, and/or the light of the world. Let us think about those elements and their contexts.
Salt was not only that which gave food flavour, it was also the only known and reliable preservation agent for food. As such, it reduced the dependence on seasons and, as late as the 19th century, sailing-ships carried barrels of salted meat for months, sometimes years, of the sailors’ rations. So that when the disciples are compared to salt, they are shown to be essential: essential for life’s flavour, essential for its preservation.
They give flavour to life. Life without faith, without God, is tasteless, meaningless, and flat. With God, meaning springs up everywhere, hours and days are tart, are savoury, are nourishing. Human beings are made to enjoy strong flavours, lively experiences, powerful emotions.
They preserve, also. Those who spread the eu-angelion, the good and authoritative message, are essential for preserving it and its values in the community. They preserve nourishment against moments of drought, of famine, of darkness, of need: at such times, the community can count on them for spiritual food.
Moreover, they are the salt of the earth. The Greek word Gè is not the planet but the soil, the land, the country, where people live, move, and have their being; where men carry on their activity, where children are born and the dead are buried. The ‘real world’.
We don’t usually think of Christians, of those that follow Yeshua, as being those that give savour, spice, to life; so it is useful and interesting here to be invited to do so. But at once, the talmidim are given a warning. Because when salt itself goes flat, when it loses its saltiness, when it can no longer keep food edible, what’s the use of it? Throw it out into the street, walk all over it.
How could a disciple of Yeshua lose his flavour? By losing the intensity of his commitment. ‘The excellence of every art,’ wrote Keats, ‘lies in its intensity.’ If they become lukewarm, if they put God on the back burner, they are not redeemable transgressors: they are simply useless, and good only to be thrown out and walked upon.
Humeis este to phōs to kosmou. ou dunatai polis krubènai epanō orous keimenè
You are the light of the world. A city that lies on a mountain cannot be hidden.
Oude kaiousin luchnon kai titheasin auton hupo ton modion all’epi tèn luchnian kai lampei pasin tois en tè oikia
Neither do men light a lamp and put it under a bushel tub, but on a lamp-stand; and it gives light unto all that are in the house.
But this is not all. They are compared also to light. ‘You are the light of – not of the Gè but of the Kosmos.’ Not of the earth, but of the world. The Gè is the earth in the sense of solid belonging; the Kosmos is the world in the sense of space. And this space (which was originally the universe, the cosmos as we still call it) is dark by default, unless and until light arrives, is lit. The world’s light is of course the sun; and by calling his pupils the ‘light of the world’, Yeshua is comparing them to the sun, and to whatever source brings light. Essentially, light is brought by fire. The sun is fire: daylight comes from its fire. The light of the moon is reflected fire. And when men learned how to make fire, they could light up the night. At first with a bonfire; later with a wick steeped in, and fed by, a flammable material like oil.
If the disciples are likened to light, that implies a world of darkness. Not an optimistic view. The world is a dark room. But when a man of God[1] comes into it, he lights it up like a well-trimmed oil lamp. ‘I,’ implies Yeshua, ‘am lighting you up like oil lamps: you will lighten the dark places that for the inhabitable world.’ More than that, now that I have lit you, you will continue to light yourselves. And as lamps lighting the world’s habitats, you will enable people to see: to see the point, the meaning, the path, the direction, the sense, the purpose, of life.
And light shows: a city (a place full of light in the evening) that moreover lies on a hill or mountain can’t be hidden. Nor should it be: there follows a hypothetical and ridiculous negative. If people light a lamp, they do not put it under a nine-gallon tub; they put it on a lamp-stand so that it lights up the house.
There is a subtle difference in the negatives of the two metaphors. Salt can lose its saltiness: if the supply is not maintained and renewed, it just naturally goes off and is useless. In the case of light, he might have used the same image: if a lamp is not periodically fed with oil it will go out and the room be plunged back into night. And indeed he did use that image, in the parable of the foolish girls going to the wedding. Here, though, he uses a more peculiar one: an idiot lighting a lamp and putting it, deliberately, under an upturned bowl or vat. This is hard to grasp: why would anyone do that? The only thing I can think of is, out of a crazy desire to protect and preserve it. But the point is clear: if you have the faith that creates light, don’t hide it but let it shine and be useful to all.
Outōs lampsatō to phōs humōn emprosthen tōn anthrōpōn hopōs idōsin humōn ta kala erga kai doxasōsin ton patera humōn ton en tois ouranois
Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your lovely deeds, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.
And the next sentence makes it clear: let it shine in front of, in full view of, people, so that they may see your kala erga, the beautiful things you do; and since they know you do them out of faith, their reaction will be, not to praise you but to glorify your father in heaven.
So when combined, the salt and light images tell the talmidim that their faith must remain tasty and lively to be useful, and that it must be out in the open, creating beautiful actions.
Again, we need to interpret this in the light of the new Torah, the Torah of inwardness, the fulfilled Torah. It culminates in the kala erga, but it emphasises the inward and spiritual work that needs to be done in order that such beautiful deeds may be produced. This work consists, first, of prayer, because that is what keeps faith lively and full of flavour; and secondly of courage, to put it on a lamp-stand and let it shine in front of all kinds of people who may neither like nor think they want it, but who may be helped by your actions and won over by your transparent faith and end up praising the Author of that faith.
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