Salt of the Earth

In the world Jesus walked, salt was treasure.
It preserved life when the heat tried to take it.
It kept what was good from slipping away.
It sealed promises and touched every sacrifice.

People carried it across oceans and deserts.
It was currency.
It was worth guarding.
To have salt was to have value.

So when Jesus said, You are the salt of the earth,
He wasn’t handing out a compliment.
He was revealing a calling.

Today we use the phrase differently.
We say someone is “salt of the earth”
and mean they’re kind, dependable, steady.
But Jesus wasn’t describing a personality.
He was naming a purpose.

Salt only matters when it’s used.
It can’t stay in the shaker.
It has to touch what would otherwise decay.

Faith works the same way.
It steps into places where the world has lost its flavor.
It holds back what’s rotting.
It carries the essence of God
without absorbing everything around it.

Then Jesus asked the question that still confronts me:
If the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again?
If I lose what makes me distinct,
how will the world ever taste the difference?

Salt stays salty
unless it’s so diluted with impurities
you can’t tell what it is anymore.
Faith that blends in loses the very thing it was given.

We’re meant to preserve what’s sacred.
To live in a way that tells the world
there is still something pure left to taste.

And here’s the part I can’t ignore:
If I refuse to live differently,
the world around me forgets what different even is.
If I won’t carry the flavor of grace,
the places I touch stay tasteless.
If my faith never costs me anything,
it won’t change anything.

Salt was meant to matter.
So were we.

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