Jesus is still on the mountain. Remember, last Sunday, he sat down and began to describe the kind of people who belong to the Kingdom: poor in spirit, meek, merciful, and hungry for righteousness. Today, without changing locations or lowering his voice, he turns to those same people and says something astonishing: “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world.” Notice what Jesus does not say. He does not say, “Try to become light.” He does not say, “Work hard so that one day you might qualify as salt.” He says, “You are.” Identity comes before instruction. Being comes before doing. We are first human being before human doing. That is already good news.
From the beginning of Scripture to the very end, light has always belonged to God. The first words God speaks in the Bible are, “Let there be light.” And the last pages of the Bible in the Book of Revelation tell us that there will be no need for sun or lamp, because God himself will be our light. Light is God’s signature. So when Jesus looks at ordinary people and says, “You are the light of the world,” he is sharing God’s own identity with them. That should both comfort us and unsettle us.
The first reading from Isaiah helps us understand how this light works. The people are frustrated. They are fasting, praying, and doing religious things, yet nothing seems to change. God, through Isaiah, tells them why: their religion has become disconnected from real life. They pray, but they ignore the hungry. They fast, but they oppress others. God says, “If you share your bread with the hungry… then your light shall rise in the darkness.” In other words, light does not turn on through words alone. Light turns on when love becomes concrete. Light is not loud. Light does not argue with darkness. Light simply shows up, and darkness loses.
That is an important correction for our time. Many people think shining as Christians means winning arguments, posting the right opinions, or condemning what is wrong with the world. But Jesus never says, “Defeat the darkness.” He says, “Be light.” Darkness does not need to be attacked; it needs to be exposed. And exposure happens through goodness lived consistently, quietly, and courageously.
Salt works the same way. Salt does not draw attention to itself. Too much salt ruins a meal. Salt disappears into food so that the food can become what it was meant to be. Salt preserves, seasons, and brings out what is already there. When Jesus calls us salt, he is saying that our vocation is not to overpower the world, but to help the world remember its God-given goodness.
This connects directly to Saint Paul in the second reading. Paul reminds the Corinthians that when he first came to them, he did not rely on impressive speech or clever arguments. He preached Christ crucified, plain, simple, and even foolish by worldly standards. Why? Because Paul learned the hard way that human brilliance does not convert hearts. God does. Paul had tried shining by his intelligence before. He was trained, articulate, respected. But on the road to Damascus, all his brilliance collapsed into blindness. Only when he allowed God to work through his weakness did the light truly begin to shine. Paul discovered something many of us resist: God does not need us to be impressive; he needs us to be available. That is where many Christians struggle today. We assume shining requires perfection. We think we need better knowledge, better confidence, and better circumstances. So we wait. And while we wait, the world grows darker, not because evil is stronger, but because light is hesitant.
Jesus anticipates this hesitation. That is why he adds: “A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.” Light that refuses to shine becomes a contradiction. Salt that stays in the shaker helps no one. Faith that remains private and invisible cannot heal a wounded world. But notice this: Jesus does not say, “Shine so people will admire you.” He says, “Shine so that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” Christian light does not point to the bulb; it points to the source. When lived well, faith makes God visible, not the believer important.
Here is the pastoral truth many need to hear: shining does not mean doing extraordinary things. It means doing ordinary things with love, integrity, and mercy. Feeding the hungry. Speaking truth without cruelty. Refusing malicious speech. Choosing patience in a harsh world. Being honest when dishonesty would be easier. Encouraging rather than tearing down. These are not dramatic acts, but they are luminous ones. And this is where the Gospel becomes uncomfortable. Jesus says, “If the salt loses its taste, it is no longer good for anything.” Salt loses its taste not by being attacked, but by being diluted. Christians lose their impact not because the world opposes them, but because they become indistinguishable from the world. We are not called to withdraw from society, nor are we called to dominate it. We are called to illuminate it. The problem is never that the world is dark; the problem is when light decides to blend in.
So let us ask the honest question: where has my light been dimmed by fear, comfort, or compromise? Where have I chosen silence when love required presence? Where have I hidden faith behind politeness? Jesus does not shame his listeners. He commissions them. He looks at fragile, inconsistent, still-learning disciples and entrusts them with the light of the world. That means God believes his grace can work through imperfect people; people like me, and people like you.
You are already the light. The only question left is this: will you let it shine where you are, or will you keep waiting for a better moment while the world waits in the dark?
Homily for 5th Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A 2026
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