“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything but is thrown out and trampled under foot.

You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. People do not light a lamp and put it under the bushel basket; rather, they put it on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.

In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”
(Matthew 5:13–16)

“Is not this the fast that I choose:
 to loose the bonds of injustice,
 to undo the straps of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
 and to break every yoke?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
 and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them
 and not to hide yourself from your own kin?

Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
 and your healing shall spring up quickly …
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
 you shall cry for help, and he will say, ‘Here I am.’”
(Isaiah 58:6–9)

I’ve had to turn off the news more than once lately.

That’s not something I do easily. I was taught  that famous pastoral line attributed to Karl Barth: “Preach with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other.” Good ministry, I was told, doesn’t float above the world; it wades into it. Faith isn’t a hobby for Sunday mornings, it’s a lens for everything—from Parliament Hill to protests to the local weather report.

And yet, if we’re honest, the constant stream of headlines has become overwhelming.

On any given day we can scroll through stories of unhinged decisions by those in power, policies that seem more about punishing opponents than protecting the vulnerable, and families caught in systems that grind them down. We’ve seen heavily armed raids and detentions in the U.S., where ordinary people—often racialized, often poor, sometimes children—live with the constant fear that today might be the day there’s a knock at the door.

On the news, we read of a trespassing call at an Ontario campus turning into a national security investigation, with young adults suddenly caught in webs far larger than themselves. We see another story of corruption in a Canadian police service, and yet another about people in our cities who are unhoused, sleeping rough through bitter cold, some not surviving the winter. At the same time, international norms wobble and we watch power once again toted as policy.

The list is long. It can feel like evil is both vast and casual—like it’s just another item on the news.

And into this world Jesus says, “You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.”

No qualifiers. No “once things calm down a bit.” No “after you’ve fixed your own life first.” Just a clear, bewildering gift of identity: you already are salt; you already are light.

The Sermon on the Mount isn’t a scolding; it’s a revealing. Jesus is telling the crowd who they are in God’s eyes before they’ve done anything spectacular. Salt doesn’t have to try very hard to be salty; it simply has to remain what it is and get close enough to make a difference. Light doesn’t try to be light; it simply has to be visible and not hidden away.

Which raises the uncomfortable question for those of us tempted to retreat under our covers with a cup of tea and a “do not disturb” sign: what does it mean to be salt and light here? Here, where news of migrant detentions, political revenge, international conflict, and local corruption crowd our feeds? Here, where people are hungry while grocery profits soar, and where tents in city parks replace the language of “affordable housing”?

Isaiah 58 gives us a very concrete answer. When God’s people ask why their religious practices don’t seem to move God, the prophet says, in effect, You’re fasting from food, but you’re feasting on exploitation. The fast God chooses looks like:

• Loosening the bonds of injustice
• Breaking every yoke
• Sharing bread with the hungry
• Bringing the homeless poor into your house
• Clothing the naked
• Not hiding yourself from your own kin

In other words: if you want to shine, start with how you treat people. Start with the systems you’re willing to question. Start with who gets invited to your table.

Isaiah’s promise is just as striking as Jesus’ words: when you live this way, “then your light shall break forth like the dawn.” The light we long for is not a heavenly flashlight we passively wait under; it’s something that breaks out of us as we practice justice, mercy, and solidarity.

This week I’ve been following a story that has become, for me, a living parable of salt and light.

It’s the Walk of Peace, a long-distance pilgrimage in the United States led by Buddhist monks from the Hương Đạo Vipassana Bhavana Center in Fort Worth, Texas. They set out with a simple intention: to walk—about 2,300 miles over 108 days—to Washington, D.C., carrying a message of peace, compassion, and nonviolence.

They aren’t lobbying. They aren’t holding press conferences. They are just walking.

When I first heard about them it was because of Aloka, the dog who accompanies them. Hugh sent me a link to this “Peace Dog,” because—well—you know our soft spots. At first I followed for the dog. Now I’m hooked by the quiet power of what is happening along the way.

The monks travel with very few possessions. They rely on the generosity of the communities they pass through: a place to sleep, a hot meal, medical help when needed, veterinary care for Aloka. There is nothing flashy here—just the ordinary vulnerability of asking for help and trusting that strangers will respond.

And they do.

People line the streets to watch them go by. Some cheer and wave; others stand in silence, hands folded. I’ve seen images of folks kneeling in prayer as the monks pass, overwhelmed with gratitude. Communities have stepped forward without question to provide beds, food, winter gear, medical care. Why? Because these walkers carry, in their very bodies, a sign of hope in a hurting world. They are not perfect. They are not solving every crisis. But they are showing up—day after day—embodying a different way to be human.

“In the same way,” Jesus says, “let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”

Notice: the light is not for our praise. The monks are not walking for headlines. The goal is not, “What amazing people!” but rather, “Look—grace is still possible. Compassion still lives. God is not done.”

That’s salt. That’s light. That’s Isaiah’s fast with sore feet and a wagging tail.

So what does that mean for us, in our small Canadian corners, with our own winter news cycle and our own local griefs?

Honestly – I think its ordinary living with the assumption that we do this for the Glory of God.  

We are living to join God’s big story to our small ones.  The news will continue. We (Or I) can’t turn away forever. But we also need to remember that while the powers of this world get the headlines, the kingdom of God gets the long view.

So if you, like me, have had to step back from the news for a few days just to catch your breath, hear this as gospel, not guilt:

You are still salt.
You are still light.

Not because you feel strong or cheerful or brave, but because Jesus has called you so.

Our task is not to fix everything. Our task is to stay salty—to keep the distinctive tang of mercy and justice in a world that has grown numb. Our task is to stay visible—not hidden away in fear or despair—but placed, however modestly, “on the lampstand,” where even a small flame can keep someone else from stumbling.

Somewhere today, a group of monks and one beloved dog are plodding along a roadside, step by step, toward Washington, D.C. They don’t know who will meet them at the next town. They don’t know which meals will appear. They simply trust that love will call forth love.

Let’s walk our own streets with the same quiet courage. Let’s fast in the way Isaiah describes.
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
 and your healing shall spring up quickly.

Blessings today and Remember you are Loved.

~Rev. Lynne