Stay Salty: Being a Follower of Jesus in a World of Distractions

This Sunday our Gospel reading will be Matthew 5:13-20. As I was preparing my sermon it dawned on me that I am so distracted by the many things in front of me and I bet you are as well.

We are surrounded by algorithms that pull our attention and train our minds and souls toward the surface.

Keep it short. Keep it safe. Keep it likable. And soon we feel our attention thinning out—our inner life getting quieter, not in the good way, but in the numb way. We scroll. We compare. We perform. We cope.

Jesus doesn’t start by telling us what to post or how to look.

He says, “You are the salt of the earth.”
“You are the light of the world.” (Matthew 5:13–14)

In Matthew 5:13–20, Jesus isn’t handing out a branding strategy. He’s naming what happens when a human life is being remade from the inside out. Salt and light are not costumes we put on for other people. They’re the outward radiance of an inward reality.

The tradition of the desert says the same thing in a thousand ways: if the heart is being purified, the world will taste it. If the heart is being healed, the room will feel it.

The Problem with Losing Your Flavor

“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored?” (Matthew 5:13)

In the ancient world, salt was currency. Soldiers were paid with it. Covenants were sealed with it. To lose your saltiness wasn’t just disappointing—it was catastrophic. You became worthless. Trampled underfoot.

Jesus isn’t talking about literal sodium. He’s talking about spiritual vitality. The kind of faith that actually transforms things.

And here’s the uncomfortable question: Have we lost our flavor?

Not because we’re “bad Christians,” but because we’re tired. Busy. Overstimulated. Our days are full of carpool lines, travel sports, deadlines, and that familiar glow of a phone at 11 PM.

It’s easy to practice a faith that stays on the surface. Show up. Check the box. But never let the Gospel actually touch the places where we spend our attention, nurse our resentment, or hide our fear.

We’ve confused being nice with being salt. And Jesus never said, “Be nice.”

Salt is not polite. Salt is healing. Salt preserves what would otherwise rot.

Light Isn’t a Performance

“You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid.” (Matthew 5:14)

Here’s the tension many of us feel: How do you let your light be seen without turning your faith into a performance?

Jesus is not asking for spiritual theatrics. He’s describing a life so steadily aligned with God that it naturally becomes luminous.

The desert tradition helps here. The goal was never religious “content.” The goal was a cleansed heart. A single heart. One of the elders in the desert, Abba Joseph, is famous for holding up his hands with fingers like lamps and saying, “If you will, you can become all flame.” Not “become all noise.” Not “become all opinions.” Flame.

Light, in that sense, is the quiet byproduct of inner transformation: a presence that doesn’t need to win, attention that isn’t constantly divided, a soul that has learned to return to God again and again.

That kind of light doesn’t shout. It simply shows what’s real.

A spotlight says, “Look at me.”

A lamp says, “There’s a way through.”

The Work Underneath the Words

“Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.” (Matthew 5:17)

Jesus takes us beneath appearances. He’s interested in fulfillment: a heart so restored that the commandments stop feeling like external pressure and start becoming an internal harmony.

A lot of what decays us today is subtle: constant distraction that erodes our ability to pray, anxiety that keeps the body braced all day long, comparison that makes gratitude impossible.

The Desert Fathers and Mothers went into the wilderness to face exactly this kind of inner disintegration. Not as an escape from humanity, but as a way of preserving it—first in themselves, then for the sake of the world.

Abba Poemen once said, “A man may seem to be silent, but if his heart is condemning others, he is babbling ceaselessly.”

Saltiness isn’t about volume. It’s about what’s being preserved inside you.

Staying Salty (and Bright) in Real Life

So what does this look like when your day is full of carpool lines, deadlines, and endless notification pings?

Think of these practices as a trellis—simple supports that create space for freedom. Not chores to impress God. Just ways of making room for grace.

Practice small returns. Before you unlock your phone, whisper, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.” When you feel the spike of irritation, exhale and say, “Peace.” This is salt. It preserves your humanity from the decay of automatic living.

Choose one hidden act of faithfulness. Not for anyone to see. Not to post. Give generously and quietly. Do the next right thing when you’d rather escape into scrolling. Hidden faithfulness is how light gets purified of performance.

Keep company with other Christians. Real Mom Talk, Supper Club, Bible Study groups, and Sacred Ground aren’t about looking spiritual. They’re about staying connected to Jesus with other imperfect people who are also trying to become whole.

Tell the truth—gently. One of the most countercultural things you can do in a curated world is honest speech: “I’m not okay today.” “I need prayer.” “I was wrong.” The Gospel doesn’t need your perfection. It needs your consent. Your return.

The Gift of Being Seen

“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16)

Notice what Jesus says. He doesn’t say, “Hide your good works so you seem humble.” He says let them be seen—but for a specific purpose. So that people give glory to God, not you.

This is freedom.

When someone asks how you’re doing, you can say, “Honestly? Struggling. But my church and my faith has been carrying me through it.” That’s salty. That’s light. That’s real.

When your kids ask why you give money to the church, you can say, “Because Jesus gave everything for us to live and be transformed. And we’re practicing generosity as a family.” That’s saltiness they'll taste for the rest of their lives.

A Gentle Invitation

Here’s what I’ve learned (often the hard way): you can’t do this alone.

Not the inner work. Not the steady returning. Not the slow becoming “all flame.” We need a rhythm. We need companions.

So start small. Pick one practice for one week: one short prayer you return to, one boundary with your phone, one act of hidden faithfulness, one step toward reconciliation.

And if you want company in it, we’d love to walk with you at St. Francis in-the-Field. Sunday worship is one place to begin. We have smaller circles we can connect you with--Bible Study groups, affinity groups, Supper Clubs, and groups theology groups—simple spaces to pray, listen, learn, and keep showing up without pretending.

Because the promise underneath Jesus’ words is not, “Try harder to be impressive.”

It’s this: stay close to me. And over time, you will become salt. You will become light. Not as a performance, but as a presence.

We are here for you wherever God is leading you and we are here to walk with you.