Bulletins - New Life Church of the Nazarene Boswell

Matthew 5:13–20 NKJV
13 “You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men. 14 “You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden. 15 Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house. 16 Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven. 17 “Do not think that I came to destroy the Law or the Prophets. I did not come to destroy but to fulfill. 18 For assuredly, I say to you, till heaven and earth pass away, one jot or one tittle will by no means pass from the law till all is fulfilled. 19 Whoever therefore breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches men so, shall be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does and teaches them, he shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven. 20 For I say to you, that unless your righteousness exceeds the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven.
Come and See: When Light Lives in People
There is something about mountaintop moments that stays with us. They don’t happen often, but when they do, they leave a mark. A breathtaking view. A holy silence. A sense that God is unmistakably near. Scripture is full of those moments—burning bushes, blazing clouds, dazzling light. We tend to assume that’s where revelation belongs: elevated, extraordinary, set apart from everyday life.
And Epiphany has given us plenty of those moments. A star piercing the night sky. A voice from heaven at the Jordan. Light dawning in Galilee of the Gentiles. Again and again, we have watched God reveal Himself in ways that interrupt the ordinary and point beyond it. Epiphany is, after all, about seeing—about eyes being opened to who Jesus truly is.
But here’s the quiet turn in the story: revelation was never meant to remain at a distance. The light that appears does not stay suspended above the world. It moves closer. It comes down the mountain. It settles into human life.
That’s where today’s gospel meets us.
By the time we reach Matthew 5, Jesus has already been revealed. He has been baptized, tempted, announced, and followed. He has gone up the mountain—not to escape the world, but to speak into it. And what He says next is startling in its simplicity.
He does not tell the disciples to admire the light. He does not instruct them to preserve the moment. He does not warn them to protect the glow from contamination.
Instead, He looks at them—ordinary people with ordinary lives—and says, “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world.”
Not you will be. Not try to become. Not someday, when you’re ready.
You are.
That single shift changes everything. Because Jesus is no longer talking about what God does around us—He is talking about what God does through us. Epiphany is no longer just about revelation received; it becomes revelation embodied. The light that once shone before us now takes up residence within us.
And that can be unsettling.
It would be easier if faith stayed safely private—kept to prayers, worship, and personal conviction. It would be simpler if holiness meant withdrawal rather than engagement. But Jesus does not offer His disciples a faith that hides well. He offers them a faith that shows up.
Salt, after all, only works when it touches what needs preserving. Light only fulfills its purpose when it pushes back the dark. Neither exists for itself. Neither draws attention to its own importance. They simply do what they are meant to do—quietly, faithfully, effectively.
Jesus is not calling His followers to religious performance. He is calling them to visible presence. Not showy righteousness, but lived goodness. Not spotlight faith, but faithful witness that makes God’s healing more tangible in the world.
This is where many people feel the tension. Because public faith has often been confused with loud faith. Visibility with spectacle. Witness with winning arguments. But that is not what Jesus describes here. He speaks of light that guides, not blinds. Of goodness that points beyond itself, not toward applause. Of lives so shaped by grace that others begin to glimpse the heart of God through them.
And then Jesus goes even further.
He speaks of the Law—not as something to discard or fear, but as something fulfilled. Completed. Brought to life. Righteousness, He says, is no longer about checking boxes or keeping score. It is about alignment with God’s intention—a life transformed from the inside out, where obedience flows from love and holiness takes the shape of mercy.
In other words, the light that has been revealed in Christ now seeks a dwelling place. And that dwelling place is not stone tablets or sacred buildings alone—it is people. Ordinary people. People who work, parent, struggle, forgive, fail, and try again. People who carry grace into ordinary places where darkness has learned to settle comfortably.
Epiphany light does not stay on the mountain—it takes up residence in ordinary people who carry grace into ordinary places.
That is the calling Jesus names today. And it is the invitation before us now.
So what does it mean to live as people in whom the light of Christ now dwells—people whose faith becomes visible not for display, but for healing? Jesus begins by naming it plainly: “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world.”
Light Given Becomes Light Lived
Matthew 5:13–15 “13 “You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men. 14 “You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden. 15 Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house.”
Jesus begins with two images so familiar that we almost miss how demanding they are: salt and light.
Salt is not dramatic. It doesn’t announce itself. In fact, when salt is doing its job well, you barely notice it—until it’s missing. Without it, food spoils. Flavor disappears. Things decay faster than they should. Salt works quietly, but its absence is costly.
Light is similar. We don’t usually think about light when it’s present—we think about it when it’s gone. When the power goes out, when a room is too dark to navigate, when shadows make even familiar places feel unsafe. Light doesn’t exist to be admired. It exists so life can happen.
And Jesus says to His disciples, “You are.”
Not “you should be.” Not “you might become.” Not “try harder.”
You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.
This is not a command before it is an identity. Grace has already done something in them. Revelation has already taken root. Jesus speaks to them not as projects still under construction, but as people already being shaped by the kingdom.
That matters—because many Christians live as though visibility is optional. As though faith is meant to remain interior, unexpressed, carefully contained. But Jesus offers no such category. Salt that never leaves the shaker is useless. Light hidden under a basket is not humble—it is ineffective.
And here’s the key: Jesus is not warning them about hostile outsiders. He’s warning them about wasted purpose.
Salt can lose its saltiness—not by being too salty, but by becoming diluted. Light can fail—not by being too bright, but by being hidden.
Faith does not disappear all at once. It fades quietly when it stops being lived.
That’s why Jesus speaks so plainly here. He knows the temptation will not be to reject the light outright—but to privatize it. To keep faith personal but not embodied. To believe without letting belief reshape how we show up in the world.
Yet salt only works in contact. Light only works when exposed.
This does not mean constant religious speech or moral posturing. Jesus is not asking His followers to dominate every space with spiritual language. He is describing something far more ordinary—and far more costly.
He is talking about presence.
Salt changes what it touches. Light reveals what already exists.
So when Jesus names His disciples this way, He is saying: “Where you go, something should be preserved that would otherwise decay. Where you live, something should become visible that would otherwise remain hidden.”
That is not performance. That is vocation.
And notice where Jesus locates this calling—not in the temple, not in positions of authority, not in moments of spiritual intensity, but in everyday life. Homes. Work. Relationships. Communities. Places where people assume nothing holy is happening.
This is where Epiphany turns outward.
Up to this point in the season, we have watched light arrive. Now Jesus declares that the light has a dwelling place—and that place is people who have encountered Him. The revelation does not stop with seeing; it continues with living.
And that can feel weighty. Some hear this and immediately think of pressure: Am I shining enough? Am I doing enough? Am I visible in the right way?
But Jesus is not placing a burden on His disciples. He is naming a reality. Salt does not strain to be salty. Light does not work itself up into brightness. They simply are what they are—by nature, not by effort.
This is why holiness, in a Wesleyan sense, is never about striving first. It is about grace shaping desire, affection, and direction. What God gives in Christ begins to express itself through transformed lives. Faith becomes tangible. Love takes form. Goodness gains traction.
And when that happens, something shifts—not because Christians are louder, but because grace has become visible.
But Jesus knows how easily visible faith can be misunderstood—or misused. So next, He draws a careful distinction: faith that is seen is not faith performed. It is goodness that points beyond itself, so that “they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”
Public Faith Without Religious Performance
Matthew 5:16
Jesus knows something about religious people—then and now. He knows how quickly visible faith can drift into spiritual display. So just as soon as He says, “You are the light of the world,” He adds a necessary clarification:
“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”
That final phrase matters. It is the safeguard. It is the compass that keeps public faith from becoming personal performance.
Because the danger is real. Faith that becomes visible can easily become performative. We start doing the right things for the wrong reasons. We confuse being seen with being faithful. We replace presence with projection.
Jesus draws a clean line here.
The goal is not that you are noticed. The goal is that God is recognized.
Good works are meant to be visible—but not self-referential. They are not spiritual resumes or moral advertisements. They are signs that point away from the disciple and toward the Father.
This is where Jesus quietly dismantles two false options people often assume.
The first false option is hiding. Some believers assume humility means invisibility. Keep faith private. Don’t draw attention. Don’t risk misunderstanding. But Jesus rejects that. Light hidden under a basket is not humble—it is useless. Silence in the face of need is not faithfulness; it is absence.
The second false option is showing off. Other believers equate witness with volume. If faith is visible, it must be loud. If it’s public, it must be persuasive. But Jesus rejects this too. Visibility is not about spectacle. It is about orientation. Who does this point to?
Jesus is not asking for more religious activity. He is calling for lives so aligned with God’s goodness that when people encounter that goodness, their attention is drawn beyond the disciple.
This is a subtle but crucial distinction.
Religious performance says: Look at my faith. Embodied witness says: Look at what God is doing.
One seeks recognition. The other redirects it.
And that redirection is the heart of holiness. Not moral superiority, but transparent lives through which grace passes freely. Lives that don’t block the light—or claim ownership of it—but let it travel through them.
This is why Jesus pairs good works with glory to God. Good works are not ends in themselves. They are windows. They allow others to see something true about God’s character—His mercy, His justice, His compassion, His faithfulness—made tangible in human form.
Think about how this works in real life.
People rarely argue their way into faith. But they are often drawn by consistency. By kindness that isn’t transactional. By forgiveness that doesn’t demand repayment. By courage that refuses to dehumanize. By love that stays when it would be easier to leave.
That is light shining—not in a spotlight, but in steady, faithful presence.
And this is why Jesus places the emphasis on good works rather than good words. Words matter, but they are supported—or undermined—by what people experience through us. Light shines most clearly when belief takes flesh in action.
This does not mean perfection. It means direction. It means lives oriented toward God’s reign rather than personal acclaim. It means allowing grace to shape how we respond, how we speak, how we treat those who can do nothing for us in return.
In this way, public faith becomes an act of love, not self-promotion. It becomes healing rather than hostility. Invitation rather than intimidation.
And if this kind of faith feels demanding, Jesus presses even deeper—because what He describes next is not just visible goodness, but transformed righteousness: a life where God’s law is no longer a burden to manage, but a love fulfilled from the inside out.
Righteousness Fulfilled as Love in Motion
Matthew 5:17–20
At this point, Jesus knows what His listeners are thinking. Salt. Light. Good works. Public faith. All of it sounds inspiring—until a question begins to surface: What about the Law? What about obedience? What about righteousness?
So Jesus addresses it head-on.
“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.”
That word—fulfill—changes everything.
Jesus is not loosening God’s expectations, nor is He tightening the screws. He is revealing the purpose the Law was always meant to serve. The Law was never an end in itself. It was a signpost pointing toward a life fully aligned with the love and holiness of God.
To fulfill the Law is not to discard it, but to bring it to life.
And this is where righteousness shifts from something external to something internal. From rule-keeping to relationship. From compliance to transformation.
When Jesus says that righteousness must exceed that of the scribes and Pharisees, He is not calling for stricter religion. He is calling for deeper conversion. The Pharisees were experts in visible obedience, but Jesus is forming people whose obedience flows from a transformed heart.
In other words, righteousness is no longer about managing appearances. It is about reshaped desires.
This is where Wesleyan holiness speaks clearly. God’s grace does not merely forgive sin; it heals the will. It does not simply pardon; it perfects love. The goal is not sinless performance, but wholehearted devotion—lives increasingly oriented toward loving God and neighbor without rival.
That kind of righteousness cannot be faked. It cannot be reduced to rules alone. It shows up not because it is demanded, but because it has been formed.
And that brings us back to salt and light.
Salt preserves because it is salt. Light illuminates because it is light. Righteousness fulfills the Law because it is love in motion.
Jesus is describing a life so shaped by grace that obedience becomes a natural expression rather than a fearful obligation. The Law is no longer something hanging over us—it becomes something alive within us.
This is why Jesus speaks with such seriousness here. Not because the bar has been raised impossibly high, but because the invitation is profoundly deep. God is not interested in partial transformation. He desires wholeness. Integrity. Lives where faith and action are no longer divided.
And that kind of life will be visible.
Not perfect—but honest. Not loud—but faithful. Not self-righteous—but deeply rooted in grace.
When righteousness takes this shape, it does not draw attention to itself. It points beyond itself. It becomes one more way the light of Christ enters the world—not as condemnation, but as healing.
And this is where Epiphany finally lands—not with light admired from afar, but with light dwelling among us, shaping us, and sending us back into the world as carriers of grace.
When Light Lives in People
Epiphany never ends where it begins.
It starts with light revealed—God made visible in Christ. But it ends with light released—God made tangible through people.
Jesus does not invite His followers to admire Him from a distance. He invites them to live so close to His grace that it begins to show. Salt that preserves. Light that guides. Righteousness that looks less like rule-keeping and more like love taking shape in real life.
This is not a call to spiritual heroics. It is a call to faithful presence.
Most of the places where light is needed will never feel dramatic. They will look like kitchens and classrooms. Offices and hospital rooms. Conversations that require patience. Decisions that require integrity. Moments where kindness would be easier to withhold—but grace insists otherwise.
And that is where the light lives.
Not in perfection, but in direction. Not in performance, but in practice. Not in loud declarations, but in steady faithfulness.
Jesus does not say, “Make yourselves light.” He says, “You are.”
So the question is not whether the light exists—but whether we will hide it, dilute it, or let it do what light was made to do.
When faith is lived this way, it does something quiet but powerful. It preserves what would otherwise decay. It reveals what darkness tries to conceal. It gives the world a glimpse—not of how religious we are, but of how good God is.
And that is the heart of holiness—not separation from the world, but sanctified presence within it. Lives so shaped by grace that obedience becomes love in motion, and righteousness becomes something others can feel, not just observe.
So as Epiphany draws toward its close, hear the invitation clearly:
The light you have seen is not meant to stay behind you. The grace you have received is not meant to stop with you.
Epiphany light does not stay on the mountain—it takes up residence in ordinary people who carry grace into ordinary places.
Go, then—not to shine for your own sake, but to live so faithfully that God’s healing becomes visible through you.
And let the light do what it has always done— find its way into the dark.
- - Matthew 5:13–20NKJV

Come and See: When Light Lives in People

Light Given Becomes Light Lived

Public Faith Without Religious Performance

Righteousness Fulfilled as Love in Motion

When Light Lives in People

Matthew 5:13–20NKJV