8 February 2026
Light with some salt
I once heard Katie Prejean McGrady,
who hosts a show on Sirius XM’s The Catholic Channel,
tell a story about standing in line at a gas station.
Nothing spiritual.
Nothing dramatic.
Just an ordinary moment, waiting to pay for gas.
The man in front of her had a tattoo on his neck of all places, and it immediately caught her attention.
A tattoo like that probably conjures up a certain image for most of us.
And the words themselves were strange enough that she couldn’t stop staring at them.
It read:
“Light it up salty!”
She tried to make sense of it.
At first, she admits,
she wondered if it was some kind of drug reference.
It didn’t sound religious or familiar.
It just sat there,
puzzling,
out of place,
unresolved.
Eventually the man turned around,
noticed her staring, and smiled.
He then told her simply,
“It comes from Matthew 5, look it up.”
He said the words came straight from the Gospel reading for this 5th Sunday in Ordinary Time.
Last Sunday, I said that Jesus describes the kind of hearts that belong to the Kingdom
—not the impressive or self-sufficient,
but those who know their need for God.
The Beatitudes showed us that discipleship begins with interior conversion,
with being shaped by God before being sent by Him.
And today,
Jesus takes the next step,
moving from who we are becoming on the inside
to what that kind of life looks like
when it is lived in the world,
telling us what those hearts do.
“You are the light of the world,” He says.
“Let your light shine before others.”
But here’s the thing:
Jesus never defines light as something abstract, decorative, or impressive.
In Scripture, light is never just something you admire.
It’s something that changes conditions.
It reveals.
It warms.
It guides.
It even heals.
And in today’s readings,
light comes with a cost.
Isaiah makes that unmistakably clear.
“If you share your bread with the hungry,
shelter the oppressed and the homeless,
clothe the naked when you see them…
then your light shall break forth like the dawn.”
Notice what Isaiah does not say.
He does not say, “If you say the right prayers.”
He does not say, “If you hold the correct opinions.”
He does not say, “If you attend the right liturgy.”
He says:
If you give something away.
Bread.
Time.
Space.
Attention.
Comfort.
In other words,
biblical light is inseparable from discipleship that is lived,
not merely professed.
Light isn’t ornamental.
It’s formative.
That would have made perfect sense to Jesus’ listeners.
In the ancient world,
light was not taken for granted.
You didn’t flip a switch.
Light meant oil that had to be purchased.
A lamp meant fuel that would be consumed.
To keep a light burning was costly.
So when Jesus says,
“You are the light of the world,”
He’s not offering a compliment.
He’s issuing a calling.
Light costs something.
And that’s where this Gospel gently but firmly challenges us.
Jesus does not say, “Admire the light.”
He says, “Be the light.”
And He immediately adds:
“No one lights a lamp and puts it under a bushel basket.”
Which raises an uncomfortable question:
Why would anyone hide a lamp?
Well, because light exposes.
Because light makes demands.
Because light draws attention.
Because light disrupts the darkness.
And sometimes, it’s easier to keep our faith contained and hidden
—to keep it polite, private, and non-intrusive.
But Jesus won’t allow that version of discipleship.
A light that doesn’t illuminate is useless.
Salt that doesn’t season is pointless.
Faith that never costs us anything is not the faith Jesus describes.
We often assume that real discipleship looks extraordinary
—miracles, bold gestures, dramatic moments
like we see with Jesus and the Apostles.
That’s why we have priests and deacons.
But when we do,
we tend to miss the simple and subtle ways faith is meant to be lived every day by us all.
Most acts of discipleship don't have to be dramatic.
Isaiah isn’t calling for heroics.
He’s naming ordinary acts of mercy that require intentionality.
Feeding the hungry means noticing hunger.
Sheltering the homeless means seeing the invisible.
Clothing the naked means refusing to look away.
These are not abstract virtues.
These are part and parcel of sharing the Gospel.
We recognize that they mean our faith has to shine,
because doing these things interrupts schedules.
They rearrange priorities.
They demand time, energy, and resources.
And that’s precisely the point.
Because what costs us something also shapes us.
Jesus assumes the same worldview Isaiah proclaims:
God’s light becomes visible
when His people love concretely.
Not theoretically.
Not sentimentally.
But tangibly.
That’s why Jesus says,
“Let your light shine before others,
that they may see your good works
and glorify your Father in heaven.”
Notice the direction of the glory.
The light does not draw attention to the disciple.
It draws attention to God.
But only if the light is real.
This is where the hard truth comes in.
If our faith never costs us time,
never costs us comfort,
never costs us convenience,
never costs us generosity,
never costs us forgiveness…
then we should ask ourselves whether it is the light Jesus is talking about.
We must confront ourselves:
if these do not characterize my life
I am probably I covering the light of Christ in me
Because the light of the Kingdom always moves outward.
It always leads to a heart toward the vulnerable.
It always spends itself for the sake of others.
That’s what light does,
it spreads.
That’s not meant to make us feel guilty.
It is an invitation.
And if it feels like guilt,
it’s probably because you know what Jesus is saying in this Gospel is true.
That He’s asking something of us that is uncomfortable.
It’s meant to be good news,
because it means our everyday lives are exactly where light is meant to shine and where discipleship is meant to be lived.
You don’t need a platform.
You don’t need recognition.
You don’t need a YouTube channel or a podcast.
You don’t need to be extraordinary.
You need to be willing.
Willing to give your time when it’s inconvenient.
Willing to share your resources when it feels risky.
Willing to listen when it would be easier to disengage.
Willing to show mercy when resentment feels justified.
That’s light.
And Isaiah promises something beautiful when that kind of light is lived.
“Then your light shall rise in the darkness,
and your gloom shall be like the noonday.”
Not because the world suddenly becomes easy.
But because God meets us in the giving.
Light that costs something also heals
—both the one who receives
and the one who gives.
And this is where the Gospel becomes deeply hopeful.
Because Jesus doesn’t ask us to generate light on our own. As we discussed in last week's homily,
He tells us who we already are,
that He is forming our hearts.
And today He says,
“You are the light of the world.”
Not “you should be,”
not “you might become,”
but “you are.”
The only question is whether we will live in a way that allows that light to be seen.
A city on a hill cannot be hidden.
A lamp is meant for a stand.
Faith is meant for the world.
Not to dominate it.
Not to shame it.
But to share it and serve it.
And when it costs us something
—when it stretches us,
humbles us,
and calls us beyond ourselves—
that’s often the clearest sign that the light is real.
So this week, the question isn’t whether you shine. It’s whether you’re willing to let your faith cost you something— for the sake of love, for the sake of mercy, for the sake of Christ and His Kingdom.
So, light it up salty!