Between Prescription and Description

Light & Salt

5 Epiphany • February 8, 2026

Matthew 5:13–20 • Isaiah 58:1–12 • Psalm 112:1–10 • 1 Corinthians 2:1–13

Epiphany blessings to you.

Each week, it’s my hope and prayer that we discover again and again the many ways we meet a God who chooses how to show up—quietly in our personal lives, and faithfully in the shared life we’re growing into together.

Some of you know that, in order to keep worship within a reasonable time, the pastor occasionally has the option to shorten the appointed readings. This week is one of those weeks. And when I sat with these readings, two words kept rising in my mind: prescription and description.

These two words—prescription and description—shape how we understand who God says we are and how we live that out in a complicated world.

Interestingly, the verses recommended for omission sound a bit like the kind of diagnosis no patient wants to hear in a doctor’s office. Each of today’s texts holds both a prescription that tells us what to do, and a description that tells us who we already are.

And if we imagine ourselves as brave patients who trust our healer Jesus, we wouldn’t skip the “harder” verses. Instead, we begin to see how Jesus diagnoses us not to condemn, but to heal.

And somewhere between those two—between what God commands us to do and what God declares about our identity—we discover the heart of Jesus’ teaching about salt and light.

Jesus didn’t come for people who were already doing well. In Mark 2:17 he says, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick; I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.” Here, “sinner” isn’t a word meant to shame; it’s a way of naming those who need healing. Jesus comes as a physician to restore what has been weakened, dimmed, or thrown off balance. He comes to restore the salt and light God placed in us from the beginning.

Before we even get to Matthew, the other readings already show us this rhythm of prescription and description.

• Now notice what happens In Isaiah, God prescribes a life that loosens injustice and shelters the vulnerable—and then describes a people whose light breaks forth.

• In the psalm, we’re called to live with generosity and justice, and we’re given a picture of steady‑hearted people who shine in the darkness.

• In Corinthians, Paul urges us to receive the Spirit’s wisdom rather than rely on our own, reminding us that we already share the mind of Christ.

Hold that thought as we move to Matthew. Jesus’ words here are simple, but they really make us think. He said: don’t hide, don’t disappear, don’t lose your flavor. Stay visible. Remain seasoned. Let your life shine in ways that help others see God’s goodness.

And these prescriptions rest on the descriptions he has already spoken over us:

You are the salt of the earth.

You are the light of the world.

Jesus isn’t asking us to become something we are not. He doesn’t say, “Try harder so you can become salt and light.” He simply says, “You are.” He calls us to live out what God has already placed within us—to let his healing season our lives, and to let that seasoned life be visible in the world.

Which makes me wonder: what happens between prescription and description?

Let’s say we accept that we need healing.

What makes us neglect what God prescribes?

What makes us forget, resist, or avoid the very things that would heal us?

Is it free will? Fear? Habit? Distraction? Stubbornness? Ego? Pride?

Let me tell you a story that brought this home for me.

A couple of weeks ago, my mom, my husband, and I were in the train station in my hometown. We were on our way to meet relatives when a woman approached us with a warm smile and said, “Would you like me to ask blessings from Buddha for you?” I think all three of us were caught off guard. We know Christian evangelism, but had never experienced Buddhist evangelism.

We smiled back and politely said, “No, thank you.”

But afterward, my mind kept spinning. I wondered, How do Christians share faith in moments like that—gently, relationally, without forcing, pretending, or sugarcoating?

And because I had been sitting with the Beatitudes for the coming Sunday, I found myself wondering, Why did she approach us? There were so many people in that station. Did I look a little “poor in spirit” that day? Was I giving off a hungry or thirsty vibe? Was she offering something she thought I needed or lacked?

For days I couldn’t stop thinking about it. She was so kind. So gracious. And I wondered: as Jesus calls us to be salt and light, what might I have done differently?

I felt a mix of surprise and curiosity—almost like God was nudging me to pay attention. I also felt like I had missed my moment of being salt and light. I even wished for a second chance. Later, my husband and I concluded that we could have said, “Thank you. And in return, would you like us to ask blessings from God for you?”

Not to argue. Not to compete.

Just to share light with light.

Just to share salt with salt.

When I say “light with light,” I mean responding to her genuine care with the genuine care of Christ.

When I say “salt with salt,” I mean letting the flavor of God’s love season the moment—not to overpower her, not to correct her, but simply to be who God has made me to be.

Christian witness is never about winning an argument.

It’s about revealing the character of Jesus in the middle of ordinary encounters.

It’s about letting the light of Christ meet the light of another person’s kindness, trusting that God can work in that space.

Because the presence of salt and light do change the environment around them.

If salt and light describe our identity, then discipleship is the journey of restoring that identity—letting God bring back the flavor, the clarity, the courage, the compassion that may have faded.

I often ask myself, “What truly sets Christians apart?”

Most religions teach people to do good.

Atheists can make extraordinary contributions to the world.

So what is different?

Picture it with me.

Imagine drawing a long horizontal line—your life. Mark the year you were born. Suddenly you see how small that mark is compared to the sweep of creation and the fullness of God’s story.

Many were born before us, and many will come after us.

Many suffered before us, and many will suffer after us.

Many lived blessed lives before us, and many will after us.

But when we grow into Christ, something happens on that long horizontal line.

It lights up.

It lights up because each life is seasoned with grace—grace freely given, grace that makes our lives complete, grace that whispers to each of us on that line, “You belong to God.” Our birth, our blessings, our suffering, our passing—all of it rests in God’s care and mercy.

Imagine every believer’s life as a point of light on that long timeline.

Imagine every act of mercy, every moment of courage, every quiet kindness as salt preserving goodness across generations. How powerful that is; how impactful it is.

In Genesis, God looks at creation and says, “It is good.”

In Revelation, God promises a world with no more tears and suffering.

And in between, God says, “I am the beginning and the end.”

And imagine God holding the beginning of your line in one hand and the end in the other—lifting them up, connecting them, seeing the whole of your life in one loving gaze.

We live in a world that hungers for flavor and longs for clarity—a world that needs people who quietly preserve goodness as salt and courageously reveal truth as light. And the God who holds the beginning and the end of our lives invites us to live our small mark on the timeline with purpose—trusting that every act of mercy, every moment of compassion, every step toward justice shines more brightly than we know.

What sets Christians apart isn’t that we’re better.

It’s that we’re held by God’s grace and shaped by Christ’s love

That truly sets Christians apart from all religions.

Because you are salt. You are light. Not someday but today.

Two questions for your week:

• Where is God inviting you to bring out the “flavor” of goodness in someone’s life?

• Where might God be calling you to shine more openly, even if the light feels small?

Let us pray.

Holy God,

you call us salt and you call us light,

and you see in us more than we often see in ourselves.

Restore what has grown faint,

strengthen what has been weakened,

and kindle in us a steady flame of compassion and courage.

Send us out to preserve what is good,

to illuminate what is true,

and to bear witness to your love in all we do.

Go with us, guide us, and shine through us,

that the world may taste your grace

and see your light.

Amen.