Homily for 5th Sunday of Ordinary Time

Homily for the
5th Sunday of Ordinary TimeFeb. 6, 2011
Matt 5: 13-16
Is 58: 7-10
Willow Towers, New Rochelle
St. Vincent’s Hospital, Harrison, N.Y.

“You are the light of the world” (Matt 5: 14).

The word that links our 1st and 3d readings as well as the psalm response today is light. Jesus tells his disciples they’re the light of the world. Speaking thru the prophet Isaiah, the Lord tells the people of Judah, “Your light shall break forth like the dawn…and the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard” (Is 58:8). (“Glory” has implications of blindingly resplendent light, like what the apostles saw when Jesus was transfigured [Matt 17:2]). Isaiah says, further, that if the people of Judah will remove from their lives various evil practices, “light shall rise for you in the darkness, and the gloom shall become for you like midday” (58:10). The psalmist announces that “light shines through the darkness for the upright” (112:4).

It’s a gloomy time of year, and this winter has had more than the usual share of wintry gloom. When we long for spring, it’s not only warmth and flowers that we’re longing for, but also sunlight.

Imagine what the ancient world was like, even the early modern world, before there were gas lamps and before electricity had been tamed. Once the sun had set, and until “rosy-fingered dawn appeared” (stealing imagery from Homer), everywhere there lay pitch-blackness: in the forests, on farms, on highways, in the city streets, except for the moon and the stars and an occasional lantern. Maybe some of you are familiar with Rembrandt’s The Night Watchman, showing that civic employee making his rounds with lantern to make sure that all was well in the town streets. Indoors, people had whatever light glowed from a hearth, or if they could afford it, from an oil lamp or a candle.


Imagine a sailor far out at sea in the ages before GPS—not necessarily in a storm, even, but knowing that he’s approaching a coast, nearing some harbor, and spotting the beacon of a lighthouse that would guide his way safely into port or away from some danger.

In this context, the disciple of Jesus is a light in a world overshadowed by sin, by selfishness, by oppression, by injustice, by as many specific capital sins as you want to name. In this context, the faithful worshiper of the Lord God receives light from God and reflects that light to the world when he or she speaks the truth, feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, shelters the homeless, brings relief and justice to anyone who’s oppressed (Is 58:7,9-10).

God offers light to his people in the Old Testament thru the Law, from the Torah. This is the “light [that] shines through the darkness for the upright,” whose practice renders a person “upright, gracious, merciful, and just.” The upright person “is gracious and lends, conducts his affairs with justice,” has no fear of what other people think or say about him, is steadfast and consistent in doing what’s right, especially in helping the poor (Ps 112:4-9). The person filled with divine light puts the Law into practice, and that means not only worshiping God on the Sabbath day, not only prayer, but also doing justice to his neighbor.

Receiving light from God’s law and being God’s light to the world around us heals the wounds of society, Isaiah says (58:8). If society is hurting—it’s not hard to think of the countless ways in which our society is hurting—the solution isn’t congressional action, a new economic plan, lower taxes or higher taxes, sealing the borders, better salaries for teachers, or any such political idea. The solution is to convert the human heart, to make people just, to have people in sync with what’s right. “Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer; you shall cry for help, and he will say: Here I am!” (58:9).
There’s a strain of Christianity that divorces itself from the world, flees the world. This sort of disciple has heard the Gospel, accepted Jesus as Lord, and basks in his own purity of heart. In the political world such people become isolationists or survivalists, stockpiling food and ammo to be ready for some imaginary Armageddon, some world disaster. The Christian survivalist wants nothing to do with a corrupt and evil world, so he retreats to a real or a figurative desert or a cave. With others he forms a reclusive sect—and if things go really crazy, you have a Jonestown or a Waco, but those cases are exceptional. We’re more familiar with the Amish, for instance, who in varying degrees have rejected modernity—corrupt modernity and beneficial modernity (anyone here ready to turn out the electric lights and shut off the heat?) in order to preserve a pure Gospel.

But Jesus tells us that we’re to be in the world in order to enlighten the world. “You are the light of the world.” Like a household lamp, you’re to be seen and are to shed light all over the room. Those who see your good deeds are to recognize where those good deeds originate—“that they may glorify your heavenly Father” (Matt 5:16).

When Jesus uses the metaphor of salt, he’s taking the image a step further. The disciple is also to flavor the world, transform the world. A disciple who doesn’t salt his environment, give it a real flavor of Jesus Christ, is worthless, “good for nothing and to be thrown out and trampled underfoot” (5:13). That’s not a comforting thought. But it’s a consistent teaching in Jesus: think of the servant who buried his talent rather than investing it, and was then condemned by his master to be “thrown into the darkness outside” (Matt 25:24-30)—it’s the same message.

So, my friends, be salt, be light, to your neighbors, to the world where you live—by your good example, by your faithfulness to God, and by your generous care for others, as Isaiah and Psalm 112 urge us.