You are the salt of the earth, Jesus said to his disciples. You are the light of the world.
It is the sort of thing a parent might say to a child, or a lover to their beloved. You are the light, you are the salt, you are the joy and the flavor, you are my best beloved. If we are lucky, this is something that has been conveyed to us since birth. Otherwise, how are we to know? We can only see the beam of our own flashlight, when it reflects off an object. We see our own light, when another person delights in our company.
Light, of course, can travel even across empty space, even from distant stars, to illuminate things from afar. Salt, however, is more intimate. It changes what it touches.
When Jesus spoke of salt to his disciples, they would have thought of adding salt to food, to flavor it and also to preserve it; or they would have thought of rubbing salt in a wound, to prevent infection; or perhaps they would have thought of the salt flavor of tears. Though some were fishermen, they would perhaps not have thought of the ocean; for their fishing grounds were the sea of Galilee, which is a freshwater lake.
Not one of them would have thought of scattering salt on slippery sidewalks.
Jesus did not know winter, not in the way we know it here. He never observed how a salt crystal can burrow into ice, creating little puddles and rivers of salt water, like a tiny salt marsh, on its otherwise hard and frozen surface.
But we who live in New England know that salt melts ice. And reading Jesus’ words, here and now, in February of the year 2026, this metaphor of salt lands on our ears like a blessing: You are salt.
Do we read this as an assurance, or as an assignment? Is this a description, or a job description? Or both? It is, after all, the very nature of light to illuminate; and it is the nature of salt, to break down the ice.
Sprinkle salt over an icy sidewalk; add a bit of sunlight. Soon you will see how the thaw spreads, outward from each crystal. Each tiny grain of salt has its sphere of influence. And so it is with us. How far does our touch extend? What coldness can we warm, what hardness can we thaw?
I recently joined a Zoom call of Massachusetts clergy — priests, rabbis, pastors, imams — where we listened to faith leaders from Minnesota, about their experiences in recent weeks. We asked them: how do we prepare, knowing ICE is on the way? What will we need, when that cold front reaches us?
They told us: as for an ordinary freeze, plan ahead, so that people will have the food and resources they need, if it isn’t safe for them to go outside. Stay in touch with those who are vulnerable. Make sure you can get news updates. But most important, they told us, was to know your neighbors. To connect with your community. When you are out shoveling the snow, talk to one another. Learn about each other. Find your common ground, now, before the ice storm.
There is a deep freeze moving through our nation; a wave of hearts grown cold toward their neighbor, unmoved by mercy, unmelted by pity. But here is the good news: We are salt.
Here in New England, after every snow, we shovel and we salt. Sometimes, by the time I’m out there with my shovel, an anonymous neighbor has already cleared the entire sidewalk, connecting us all. Sometimes I’m the anonymous neighbor, out early with my shovel. And so we scatter the metaphorical salt of human kindness, to thaw the heart, and make a way out of no way.
Let us then remember who we are. We are not the quick blade of steel, but the rust that sneaks upon it; not the unyielding rock; but the weathering that cracks it open.
Not the ice, but the salt.
Rev. Liza B. Knapp is the pastor of the First Church of Deerfield, an inquisitive, inclusive, open and affirming congregation. We are 350 years old and still learning! Affiliated with both the United Church of Christ and the Unitarian Universalist Association, we find common ground in our conviction that God is Love (and vice versa). Whoever you are, wherever you may be on your journey, you are welcome here! Join us any Sunday at 10 a.m., at 71 Old Main St. in Deerfield village. (on facebook and at www.firstchurchofdeerfield.org, or email office@firstchurchofdeerfield.org)