Beyond the Drawn Curtains (Matthew 5:13-16)

Year A
5th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Scripture: Matthew 5:13-16

13 “You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer useful and is discarded and trampled underfoot.

14 “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. 15 No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. 16 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.

Opening

Last week, I was visiting one of our homebound parishioners, a woman in her eighties who lives alone. Her apartment was immaculate, but what struck me was how dark it was. Heavy curtains blocked most of the sunlight. When I gently asked about it, she said, "Father, I just don't want to be a bother to anyone. I keep to myself." As I left, I thought about how many of us live behind drawn curtains—not literally, perhaps, but spiritually. We keep our faith private, our goodness hidden, our light under a bushel basket, as the Gospel puts it. We tell ourselves it's humility, but sometimes it's really fear.

Today's readings challenge us to throw open those curtains. They call us out of the shadows and into the light—not to show off, but because the world desperately needs what we have to offer.

Illumination

In our Gospel, Jesus uses two striking images: salt and light. Now, it's important to understand that in the ancient world, these weren't just nice metaphors—they were essential for survival. Salt preserved food in a world without refrigeration. It flavored bland meals. It was so valuable that Roman soldiers were sometimes paid in salt—that's where we get the word "salary." Light, of course, was even more fundamental. Without electricity, when the sun went down, you were plunged into darkness unless you had an oil lamp burning.

But notice what Jesus says: "You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world." Not "you should try to be" or "you might become." You already are these things by virtue of your baptism. The question is whether you're functioning as salt and light, or whether you've lost your savor, hidden your lamp.

This connects beautifully with our first reading from Isaiah. The prophet describes what it means to be light in very concrete terms: sharing your bread with the hungry, sheltering the homeless, clothing the naked. Notice the promise: "Then light shall rise for you in the darkness." Our works of mercy don't just help others—they illuminate our own path. When we serve, we see more clearly. When we give, we understand more deeply.

Saint John Chrysostom, reflecting on this Gospel passage, wrote that we are not meant to shine for ourselves alone, like a lamp locked in a closet. We're meant to be set on a lampstand so everyone in the house can see. The "house," he says, is the whole world.

And here's where Paul's second letter to the Corinthians becomes crucial. Paul reminds us that when we let our light shine, we're not showcasing our own brilliance. He came to them "in weakness and fear and much trembling," demonstrating "spirit and power," not human eloquence. Our light isn't our own—it's Christ shining through us. That's why Jesus says, "Your light must shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father." Not glorify you. Not make you look good. But point to the source of all goodness.

Pastoral Application

So what does this look like on Monday morning? How do we live as salt and light in a world that's increasingly bland and dark?

First, it means we can't be invisible Christians. There's a phenomenon I've noticed: many Catholics are extraordinarily good people who do wonderful things, but they do them in complete silence about their faith. They volunteer, they're kind to neighbors, they're honest in business—but they never connect these actions to Jesus Christ. It's as if they've taken our Lord's teaching about not letting the left hand know what the right hand is doing and turned it into a vow of total secrecy about faith itself.

But that's not what Jesus is asking. He wants our good works to be visible precisely so people will ask, "Why do you do this? What motivates you?" And then we can answer, "Because of what Christ has done for me."

This might mean something as simple as saying grace before a meal in a restaurant. It might mean explaining to a coworker why you forgave someone who wronged you. It might mean inviting a neighbor to Mass instead of just assuming they're not interested. It's not about being preachy or pushy—salt works best when it's dissolved into the food, not dumped on top in a pile. But it has to be present to make a difference.

Second, it means recovering the connection between worship and witness. Notice how today's Gospel reading immediately precedes the Beatitudes in Matthew's account of the Sermon on the Mount—actually, it follows them. Jesus has just finished saying, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are those who mourn, blessed are the meek." Now He says, "You're salt and light." Do you see the connection? Our works of mercy flow from our encounter with God's mercy. We love because we've been loved first.

That elderly parishioner I mentioned—after our visit, we talked about her drawn curtains, both the physical ones and the spiritual ones. She agreed to let me connect her with our St. Vincent de Paul Society. Now she's part of a team that visits other homebound seniors. Last month she told me, "Father, I thought my life was over. But now I realize God has been saving my light for this moment." She's nearly eighty-five, and she's just beginning to let her light shine.

Third, it means remembering that sometimes the most prophetic thing we can do is simply to be joyful. In a culture marked by cynicism, anxiety, and despair, Christians should stand out because we have hope. Not naive optimism—we know the world is broken. But hope rooted in the Resurrection. People should be able to look at us and wonder, "What do they know that I don't?"

Closing Invitation

In a few moments, we'll continue with the Liturgy of the Eucharist. We'll bring forward bread and wine—simple, earthly things—and Christ will transform them into His Body and Blood. He does the same with us. He takes our ordinary lives, our simple acts of kindness, our small efforts at faithfulness, and He transforms them into light for the world.

So here's my invitation: This week, identify one way you've been hiding your light—one place where fear or false humility has kept you from being salt and light. Maybe it's a relationship that needs repair. Maybe it's a neighbor who needs help. Maybe it's simply being more intentional about connecting your good works to your faith in Christ.

And then, ask Jesus for the courage to let your light shine. Not for your own glory, but for His. Not to impress others, but to lead them home to the Father.

Because the world doesn't need more hidden saints. It needs witnesses. It needs you to be exactly who Christ has already made you: the salt of the earth, the light of the world.

May this Eucharist we're about to receive strengthen us to be exactly that. Amen.