The latest Sermon

“Turning the Light On”

Matthew 5:13-20

February 8, 2026

Rev. Rebecca DePoe

I don’t like going down to our boiler room.

In fact, one could make the argument, that I actively avoid going down to our boiler room.

It’s not just that it’s dark, or that it’s tucked away in the basement.

It’s that every time I go down there, I’m a little afraid of what I might find.

One of the boiler’s leaking. Water on the floor. A strange noise. A stray animal.

Something broken that will turn into a much bigger problem.

So if I’m honest, there are moments when I think, if I don’t go look, then everything is still fine, right? No light, no clarity, no confirmation- just the comforting illusion that nothing is wrong.

But of course, that’s not how it works. Things don’t stay okay just because we avoid them. Eventually, someone has to turn the light on. Jesus says to his disciples, You are the light of the world. And I wonder if part of what he’s naming is this: that light doesn’t just make things visible- it makes them unavoidable.

Standing at the top of the stairs, debating whether to flip that switch in the boiler room, I’m really just trying to avoid one thing: responsibility. Because once the light is on, I can’t pretend I didn’t see it. Once I know what’s down there, I have to decide what to do next.

That’s where Jesus goes next.

He doesn’t say, Try to be salt.

He says, You are the salt of the earth.

Salt, in the ancient world, wasn’t decorative. It wasn’t optional. It was how food was preserved. How households prevented food from decaying too quickly. How life lasted a little longer in a world without refrigeration.

To lose your saltiness meant you were becoming useless, unable to do what salt exists to do- reverse the decline of precious, limited resources.

So when Jesus calls his disciples to be salt and light. He’s not handing them a compliment. He’s naming a calling. A purpose already woven into who they are. Salt only works when it’s in contact with what it’s meant to preserve. It has to be used. It has to be close enough to make a difference. Which means that following Jesus isn’t about staying safely tucked away, out of the mess, out of the tension, out of the places where things might actually need attention.

Sometimes faith looks like walking down into the basement, turning the light on, and trusting that God has already given us what we need to face whatever we find there.

As I’ve been sitting with this passage, I’ve realized that turning the light on isn’t just something we do in basements- it’s something we do in our own bodies and lives, too.

For a long time, I knew something wasn’t quite right with my tailbone.

Not alarming.

Not dramatic.

Just little sparks of pain persistent enough to be inconvenient.

And if I’m honest, I delayed going to the doctor for some of the same reasons I avoid the boiler room. Because once you look, you can’t unsee what you find. Once the light is on, you have to respond to what’s there.

Deciding to go to the doctor and eventually deciding to have surgery wasn’t about panic. It was about courage. It was about choosing care over avoidance, and trust over fear.

Turning the light on didn’t make the situation worse. It made it manageable. It gave my pain a name, a plan, and a path forward.

And I want you to hear this clearly, because I know many of you are holding some worry about me as I prepare to be on medical leave: this surgery is not a crisis. It is an act of care. It is a faithful response to a problem that was already there.

Jesus’ words remind me that light isn’t something to be afraid of. Light is how we tend what God loves. Light is how healing begins.

What I’m learning as I anticipate Monday’s surgery. Sometimes slowly and albeit reluctantly- is that light is never meant to be horded or handled alone.

Jesus doesn’t say, You are the light of the world as if you are on a solo assignment. He says it to a community. To a group of ordinary people learning how to follow him together.

What Jesus is saying here is that a single light can help you see where you’re going. But a community of light changes the whole room.

That’s why Jesus shifts the image- from salt that works up close, to light that is meant to be seen. A city on a hill. A lamp on a stand. Light, by it’s nature, is shared. It spills. It reaches further than we expect.

Which means that while I will be home, laying on my side, watching to see which ice dancing couple will win an Olympic Gold medal. The light of Christ in this place does not dim. It multiples.

The light of Christ looks like people checking in on one another without me having to remind them to do so. It looks like worship continuing. I’ve lined up a wonderful slate of guest preachers to fill the pulpit until I’m medically cleared to drive. It looks like prayers being offered via text, phone, and social media. It looks like meals be shared around tables in our community. It looks like leadership stepping forward and trust in their leadership being practiced.

The point isn’t that any one of us can carry the light of Christ on our own. The point is that together, we reflect something brighter than any single person ever could.

So when Jesus says, Let you light shine before others, he’s not asking us to put ourselves on display. He’s pointing beyond us- so that what people notice isn’t how impressive we are, but how present God is among us.

At this point in the sermon, Jesus could easily sound like he’s changing the subject. We’ve been talking about salt and light, visibility and presence, and suddenly he’s talking about the law, righteousness, and commandments.

When he says he hasn’t come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. He’s turning the light on so we can finally see what the law was meant to do all along.

The law, at its best, was to teach the community how to live in ways that protect life, dignity, and relationship. Jesus doesn’t discard the wisdom of the law, he completes it.

When Jesus talks about righteousness that goes deeper than the Scribes and Pharisees, he’s not asking for perfection. He’s asking for integrity. For lives where faith isn’t just something we believe, but something that shows up in how we love, forgive, and care for one another. In the light of Christ, obedience stops being about fear of getting it wrong and starts being about learning how to live well together.

Most of the time, turning the light on doesn’t change the situation itself. It changes how we meet it.

The boiler room doesn’t disappear. The diagnosis doesn’t undo itself. The world doesn’t suddenly become less complicated.

But in the light, we can see what’s real. We can name what needs care. We can take the next faithful step instead of pretending nothing is there.

Jesus calls us salt and light not because we’re extraordinary. But because God delights in using ordinary people to preserve what is good and to make hope visible.

As I prepare to step away for a few weeks to recover from surgery, I do so with a deep sense of trust- not because everything is under control, but because the light of Christ is already shining among you.

This congregation does not go dark. You will keep being who you already are. You will keep showing up for one another. You will keep reflecting the love of God in ways both seen and unseen. So don’t be afraid of the light. Don’t be afraid of what it reveals. Turn it on.

Because in that light, God is already at work- bringing clarity, courage, and care to a world that needs it.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.