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Fifth Sunday after Epiphany

Matthew 5
13 “You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.
14 “You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. 15 Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. 16 In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.
17 “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them. 18 For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished. 19 Therefore anyone who sets aside one of the least of these commands and teaches others accordingly will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever practices and teaches these commands will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. 20 For I tell you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the Pharisees and the teachers of the law, you will certainly not enter the kingdom of heaven.


You are the Sriracha (see-rotch-ah) of the earth. But if your Vietnamese hot sauce loses its hotness, how will you flavour your pho? You might as well put ketchup on it, or just eat the spring rolls instead.

There is, in fact, little risk that your Sriracha sauce will lose its hotness, since the good people at Huy Fong limit production of the sauce based on the supply of some very specific chilis. Still, they make 20 million bottles a year, so you don’t need to start rationing.

And the story of the sauce in the clear bottle with the rooster on it is just as compelling as the sauce itself. Huy Fong founder David Tran began making the sauce in his native Vietnam, but fled the country along with other members of the ethnic Chinese population, part of the “boat people” crisis of the late 1970s.

Tran and three thousand other refugees crowded aboard a ship named Huy Fong (hence the company name) and fled to safety. Eventually settling in Los Angeles, Tran began to supply restaurants in Chinatown until demand began to grow, mostly through word-of-mouth. To this day, Huy Fong doesn’t advertise, since increasing production would hurt the quality of the sauce.

It’s a remarkable story, but it’s not really unique. Last year we heard about the Hadhad family of Antigonish, who fled Syrian after their chocolate factory was bombed out. Within a year of settling in Nova Scotia they were back at it, selling chocolate at the farmers market and online, creating ten jobs for local people in the run up to Christmas.

We are a country of immigrants, refugees, migrants, and people seeking a better life. And when the unspeakable happens, and people are murdered while they pray, it falls to us to reflect on how we see the latest wave of newcomers—the stories we hear and the stories we tell. On one level, an attack on one group of worshippers is an attack on us as well. And an attack that can be traced back to public discourse—toxic discourse—should cause everyone to pause and reflect on words and their impact.

So we pray for our brothers and sisters, for those who mourn, and for everyone who experiences hatred or oppression based on race or religion. We pray that those who lead us or seek to lead us will ponder their words, and consider how those words may be received. And we pray that as we allow the light of our religion to shine, we never diminish the religion of others.

“In the same way,” Jesus said, “let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

Matthew 5 is one of those chapters that gives us phrase after familiar phrase, a kind of scriptural comfort food that may lose its edge with each reading. We are the salt of the earth. We are the light of the world. We ought not hide our light, lest we fail to be a light to others.

And so often with these familiar passages, we dwell on the well-loved and well-worn phrases and stop before the full meaning is revealed. So we must retain our flavour and light—this we understand—but the means remains the law:

17 “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them. 18 For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished.

This is the famous jot or tittle of the King James Bible, where Jesus seems to anticipate that abundant grace will confuse what it means to be faithful, what it means to let your light shine. When we receive new life in Christ, when we accept that we are redeemed through the power of grace, we must live in the context of that light. It’s the same question the St. Paul asks in Romans 6:

What shall we say, then? Shall we go on sinning so that grace may increase? 2 By no means! We are those who have died to sin; how can we live in it any longer?

So we follow the law. We begin with loving God and loving our neighbour, Jesus’ own summary of the law and the prophets, but we also turn to scripture when context and circumstance challenge us to look deeper. So today we began with welcoming the stranger, what does it say in the law?

Deuteronomy 10:19 You shall love the stranger, for you were once strangers in the land of Egypt.

Leviticus 19:34 The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the LORD your God.

Hebrews 13:2 Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.

Matthew 25: 35 I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.

And all of this, it would seem, leads back to the Good Samaritan. You know it: an expert in the law corners Jesus and asks after eternity, wanting to know the heart of scripture—the heart of the law. Jesus give his famous summary about God and neighbour—and the expert agrees—but then asks the follow-up: “But who is my neighbor?”

And the story is told, a man beaten and robbed, left for dead at the side of the road. The people who ought to stop and help—the very religious—pass on by, but the foreigner, the Samaritan, becomes his saviour and neighbour, the one who follows the law.

Again, it is so familiar it has lost the power to shock or even surprize us, with the Good Samaritan becoming shorthand for anyone who goes out of their way to lend a hand. But that’s a perversion of the meaning, a way that we have domesticated the parable to make it about being helpful. Yes, we ought to help those in distress, just as the Good Samaritan did, but that’s not the point of the parable.

The Good Samaritan is whatever group or minority that we count as stranger in our midst, whoever we view with suspicion today. So the Good Samaritan is a migrant, or a refugee, or anyone who we have decided in advance would never lend help to someone on the road. Until they do, and then the parable lives once more.

“For I tell you,” Jesus said “that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the Pharisees and the teachers of the law, you will certainly not enter the kingdom of heaven.”

But then they do. I have no doubt that Jesus told and retold the Good Samaritan and inserted a new character with each telling. I sure there were good Roman soldiers, good tax collectors, and even good thieves that might some day hang beside him. The Good Samaritan is just a placeholder, a blank space were we can insert others or even ourselves.

Jesus says we are the light of the world. And later, In John, he will reveal that he too is the light of the world. Together we let our light shine: to love and serve others, to seek justice and resist evil, and proclaim Jesus, our judge and our hope, Amen.

posted by michael jacob kooiman @ 6:20 AM