What the Choir Needs to Hear
Commentary
We have an idiom in our day that was born in the church but has worked its way into the broader culture. The idiomatic phrase is “preaching to the choir.” Within the church context, of course, the choir represented the faithful ones, the people who were always there. To preach to the choir, therefore, was to say things to people who didn’t really need to hear it. These are the people who were already convinced, who were already doing and being what they needed to do and to be.
If one of my children is mouthy, it might seem unjust for me to lecture the other ones about the importance of speaking respectfully. If one employee is chronically late, it would seem like a misplaced emphasis for the boss to try to impress on all the rest of the employees the importance of punctuality. This is preaching to the choir, you see. You’re addressing the wrong audience inasmuch as you’re telling things to the folks who don’t need to hear it.
Perhaps you have been on the receiving end of some such communication. It’s an insulting experience to have someone tell you what you feel you don’t need to hear. And especially when you are aware of someone else who really does need to hear it. It can be a painful business to be part of the choir, as it were, when someone is preaching to it.
But that, then, raises an interesting question. What is it that the choir needs to hear? If they don’t need to hear this or that conventional message that is really better addressed to other folks, then what message is appropriate for them? If the choir is already earnest and orthodox, if they are already committed and faithful, then what should you preach to the choir? Or could it be that the choir doesn’t need to be preached to, at all?
Our three assigned passages for this week lend insight to that issue. In Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, he reminds us of what and how we should preach in general. And both the Old Testament and Gospel lections give us a sense of just what it is that the choir may need to hear. That can be an elusive message to try to find, and it is a surprising one when we hear it. But that is very much the spirit of the excerpt from Isaiah, and it is prevalent in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, as well. So let us boldly undertake this week the message that the choir may need to hear.
Isaiah 58:1-12
Not far from where we live, there is a shopping plaza which includes, right next-door to each other, a fitness club and a pizza place. The pizza place, in particular, is known for its buffet. You pay a single price, and you can just keep going back and getting more pizza for as long as you want to.
If a zealous fitness expert with an inclination to warn drove into that shopping plaza, one might imagine him going into that pizza place with finger wagging. The calories, the fat, the carbs, the processed foods, the overindulgence: one can guess that he might have a lot to say to the folks bellying up to that buffet again and again. If he had a warning to give, that would be the place to give it.
You’d think.
What a surprise it would be, then, to see him park in front of the fitness place, instead. We watch him get out of his car with a determined look on his face. He rolls up his sleeves, clears his throat, and bursts through the doors with a loud message of alarm and condemnation. He does not hold back. He issues a severe warning to those who are vigorously exercising.
The imaginary scene seems counterintuitive. Yet something like that appears to be taking place in Isaiah 58. The prophet is instructed by the Lord to declare a warning to his people, and one senses that the prophet is to deliver that message with both barrels. But it’s hard not to be surprised by his chosen audience.
The prophet does not seem to be addressing himself to idolaters and adulterers. He is not speaking to those who are living life with their backs turned on God. On the contrary, one senses that he is speaking to folks who probably think of themselves as rather devout. They are, after all, seeking the Lord, eager to know his ways, earnestly fasting, and delighting in his nearness. Are these not like the disciplined and sweaty folks who are busily exercising away in the fitness club? What fault do we find with them?
What follows is mostly about fasting. The bulk of the Lord’s message to the people who comprise the audience for this passage is a reimagining of what it means to fast. Except that the real issue isn’t fasting, at all: it’s living.
The fast, you see, represented a person’s earnestness and piety. We know that, at times, it became something of a self-congratulatory act by very religious folk. But the Lord turns the tables on Isaiah’s audience. If you want to show me how truly earnest and pious you are, then let’s think what that might look like.
The Lord proceeds to describe the sort of fast that he desires. Of course, it is not really a fast, at all. Rather, it is a way of living a life that pleases God. And that life, as we reflect on the poetry of Isaiah 58, is one of active concern for other people, with particular emphasis on righting wrongs and providing for needs.
A traditional fast features a discipline of self-denial, depriving oneself for a time of food and drink. Likewise, the lifestyle of other-focused concern also requires discipline, for it requires a person to do something other than what comes naturally. And denying oneself may be the key to the caring and the sharing that makes the difference in the lives of others.
Perhaps, to return to our original analogy, the imaginary “fitness prophet” would take the gym rats to task for spending all their energy on treadmills and weight machines. Perhaps he would say to them, “You should be out there getting your exercise by playing with your kids and going on a bike ride with your wife. Shovel your elderly neighbor’s driveway. Spend a Saturday painting and cleaning at the community shelter. For these are the sorts of exercise and fitness that please the Lord!”
1 Corinthians 2:1-16
I was eighteen years old when I was given my first regular preaching assignment. A minister who was serving four rural churches not far from the town where I was a college student was only able to preach at two of the churches each Sunday. Each of the four churches had a Christian education hour every Sunday, with classes for all ages, but they only had a “preaching service” every other Sunday when their preacher could be there.
One of those four churches, however, was dissatisfied with the arrangement. They wanted preaching every Sunday. And so, they got me.
I had been quite a good student in high school, and now I was attending a very fine institution of higher education. I was living in an academic world for six days out of every week — reading certain kinds of books, having certain kinds of conversations, and writing certain kinds of papers. When Sunday mornings rolled around, however, I found myself in a quite different environment. And yet, even though I was going further in school and getting a better education than most of the folks in that little country church, I was the one who felt ignorant.
Sunday after Sunday, my experience with those good church folks impressed upon me the same realization: I didn’t know anything. They spoke with simple wisdom and life experience. They were able to give concise and true answers to questions that I tended to prattle on about for many paragraphs.
I have seen the same phenomenon played out numerous times in a variety of ways. A person can have tremendous learning in this area or that, yet still they may find themselves in a setting where their particular learning or expertise is useless. It’s not just a question of how much you know, but whether you know what is most important in a given situation.
The Apostle Paul went into the ancient city of Corinth, where wisdom and learning were prized. Yet Paul’s endeavor was not to impress them with his curriculum vitae. Instead, as he explained to them after the fact, “I determined to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and Him crucified.” Rather than trying to impress them — even win them — with all the things that he knew, he sought only to share one thing he knew: the most important thing he knew.
This might have seemed like a poor tactical move on the part of the apostle. After all, wouldn’t it make sense for him to meet them where they were at? Would it not have been most effective to impress them with the things they were impressed by? But, no. It was not philosophical erudition or rhetorical skill that was most important, but Christ. The prize was not human wisdom, but God’s wisdom.
We are reminded in this regard of the Lord’s famous words through the prophet Jeremiah: “Let not the wise man boast in his wisdom, let not the mighty man boast in his might, let not the rich man boast in his riches, but let him who boasts boast in this, that he understands and knows me” (Jeremiah 9:23-24 ESV). This was Paul’s approach, and this was Paul’s boast.
The text from Jeremiah and the example from Paul combine to serve as a cautionary word to preachers and an encouraging word to congregants. For you and me as preachers, it is a helpful and sober reminder that we do not do what we do in our own strength. That’s a great temptation for us, of course: to impress with our strengths, our knowledge, our creativity, and our insight. But Paul came to the Corinthians trembling, knowing nothing, and not relying on human wisdom.
Meanwhile, I say that this can be an encouragement to our congregants because, in the call to be Christ’s witnesses, so many church folks I have known through the years feel unqualified and inadequate. But Jeremiah and Paul remind us that it’s not about our qualifications in the first place. The task of evangelism does not require the evangelist to know everything, but to know one thing: Jesus Christ, and him crucified.
Matthew 5:13-20
Our Gospel lection comes from early in Jesus' Sermon on the Mount. Immediately after that familiar teaching that we know is the Beatitudes, he offers to his listeners two images of uselessness: salt that has lost its flavor and a light that is covered. Neither one, you see, is able to fulfill its intended purpose. It may be worth noting, however, that these are not identical situations. In the case of the salt, there doesn't seem to be a choice involved: something has simply happened to it that renders it flavorless and useless. In the case of the light, however, there is an issue of volition: a person can choose either to hide a light or to place it somewhere prominent (though Jesus is quick to observe that the former choice seems nonsensical).
These images of uselessness are not theoretical or detached. Rather, Jesus has held up these images as a way of inviting his followers to look in the mirror. You, he says, are the salt of the earth. You, he says, are the light of the world. The risk is that we ourselves will become useless, that we will fail to fulfill our intended purpose. Perhaps, like the salt, it will be something that happens to us. Or, perhaps, like the light, it will be our own folly that makes us useless to the kingdom.
Then Jesus seems to change the subject. It may not be as dramatic a change as it first appears, but suddenly he turns our attention to the law and his relationship to it. This is an immensely important issue all its own, and we will give it fuller attention below. For the present, however, we simply highlight the fact that Jesus insists on the continuing relevance and application of the law, right down to its smallest letters and its tiniest strokes of a pen.
Interestingly, Jesus’ insistence on the careful observance of the law is immediately followed by a condemnation of those who are known for being the most careful observers of it. “Unless your righteousness far surpasses that of the scribes and Pharisees,” he says, “you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.” But whose righteousness can surpass that of the scribes and the Pharisees? He might as well have said to us, “Unless you are more fit than the greatest Olympic athletes” or “Unless you are more well-read than the most accomplished scholars.” He has singled out the folks most known in that time and place for their meticulous righteousness and indicated that his followers need to out-righteous them.
This unthinkable standard may take us back to where the passage began. His followers are called to be the salt of the earth and the light of the world. But where do they get their “flavor”? And what is the source of their light? Are these qualities that are innate to the individuals themselves, or is there something else involved?
When Paul — himself an exemplary Pharisee, blameless under the law (Philippians 3:5-6) — wrote about the issue of righteousness, he said that his aspiration was to “be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith” (Philippians 3:9 ESV). What righteousness can surpass that of the scribes and Pharisees? The righteousness of God that comes through faith in Christ.
So it is that it all comes from him. Our righteousness, our flavor, and our light — these are not our own but come from him. And so, the standards of the law need not be relaxed. The smallest letters and strokes of a pen need not be dismissed. For who and what we are does not come from the law but from the Lord.
Application
We know some things about Jesus’ audience from the things he says about them. From our Gospel lection alone, we observe that he calls them the salt of the earth and the light of the world. We surmise, too, that they are concerned about righteous living.
When we keep reading the Sermon on the Mount beyond the immediate scope of our assigned passage, we learn still more about the audience. We gather that they are earnest folks. They fast, they pray, and they give alms. Furthermore, it matters to them not to be like pagans and sinners.
In short, Jesus is preaching to the choir. This is not a record of what Jesus taught while dining with tax collectors and sinners. No, he’s talking to the choir. And what is it that the choir needs to hear?
As an aside, one might preach a whole series of sermons on the Sermon on the Mount under the heading, “Preaching to the Choir.” Section after section of the three-chapter text would reveal just what it is that the choir needs to hear. And since most of us are preaching to the choir on Sunday mornings, this would be of tremendous value.
For our purposes just now, however, we observe that the choir needs to hear something more than just commendation. This material from Jesus is not just a congratulatory pat on the back for all their earnestness, their fasting, and their almsgiving. No, there is a sterner, more challenging message here.
On the one hand, they are the salt of the earth. Point conceded. Of course, they are, for they are the choir. But, beware: the salt can lose its saltiness, and then it’s not worth anything, at all.
Likewise, they are the light of the world. Of course, they are: they should be. Yet their light can be more useful or less. Their light can be a blessing to everyone around them, or it can be obscured, and then do the world no good whatsoever.
The call to a higher righteousness than the highest they have known — that of the Pharisees — is another challenging word. It’s an easy thing for the choir to be self-satisfied. But Jesus has what the choir needs to hear.
And so does the prophet Isaiah. He, too, is clearly addressing the choir in Isaiah 58. These are people, as we noted above, who were earnest and devout. They were seeking the Lord’s will and way. They were worshiping and fasting. But the Lord’s word to them was more than just applause, applause. There was good work that was being left undone in the world, and the Lord was calling upon his people to do it.
In that sense, then, we may get a measure of the real issue. The choir is good people, after all. Perhaps we should be careful not to impugn their goodness or let these passages become an unnecessary indictment. For perhaps the question at hand is not how good the people are but how good the world is. For until God’s will is being done on earth as it is in heaven, there is still much good work for the choir to do.
Alternative Application(s)
Matthew 5:13-20 — “The Law of Irony”
One night, leading a youth Bible study, I wanted to review with the kids some principles found in the Ten Commandments. We began, therefore, with a group effort at listing those commandments. I wrote the numbers one through ten in a column on the whiteboard, and then, as they would call out commandments, I would put them in their proper places on the list. Some commandments that were suggested that are not actually part of the ten, like “love your neighbor” or “do unto others...” As a group, however, they were eventually able to come up with nine of the Ten Commandments. Yet there was one yawning vacancy in the list.
The teens in the room were stupefied. Then I said to them, “Well, here's the irony: The one commandment you have forgotten is the one command to remember!” They had forgotten about “remember the sabbath day to keep it holy.”
I have observed a similar irony among the adults in the churches that I've served through the years, but it is a much broader irony than just one commandment. It is the irony that so many American Christians have dismissed the Old Testament law as irrelevant or expired when that is precisely the opposite of what Jesus himself said about the law. Folks think that because they are Christians the law is no longer pertinent, yet it was Christ himself who highlighted the ongoing priority of the law.
We saw Jesus’ perhaps startling statements in the early excerpt from the Sermon on the Mount that is our Gospel lection this week. He said, “Do not presume that I came to abolish the law or the prophets.” Perhaps that statement was in anticipation of the “you have heard it said...but I say to you” teachings that would follow shortly. Ironically, however, what Jesus said not to presume is precisely what so many American Christians do presume.
“I did not come to abolish,” he continued, “but to fulfill.” Now someone says, “That’s a distinction without a difference. The result is the same for us in either case.” Except that there is a great difference between abolishing and fulfilling. We understand in American jurisprudence that certain laws have been abolished. They were enacted for a time, but no longer. Yet that is not what Jesus did with the Old Testament law. He did not abolish it; he fulfilled it.
Still, the idea that Christ has fulfilled the law has led some Christians to suppose that we can close the book on the law and set it aside. Yet Jesus said, “Until heaven and earth pass away, not the smallest letter or stroke of a letter shall pass from the law, until all is accomplished!” That doesn’t sound like it is being set aside. And yet, perhaps the “accomplished” of verse 18 parallels the “fulfill” of verse 17. Perhaps Jesus came to fulfill, and it remained in force until he himself fulfilled it.
Yet he continues. “Therefore, whoever nullifies one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, shall be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever keeps and teaches them, he shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.” That speaks directly to the relationship between the law and those in the kingdom of heaven. They — we! — are not encouraged to dismiss the law as antiquated or disregard it as no longer relevant. Rather, we are encouraged to keep it and to teach it.
At some level, of course, that should not surprise us, at all. After all, the law was the expression of God’s will to his people in the days of Moses. And while ours is a different day, ours is the same God. Furthermore, he is eternal and unchanging, which means that an expression of his will on one day will still be consistent with his character on any other day. In that sense, therefore, whatever one understands to be the nature of the old and new covenants, whatever one’s conception of law and gospel, anything he said — let alone commanded — at any time is still revelatory and informative for us today.
Notably, Jesus does not say, “Whoever nullifies one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, shall be excluded from the kingdom of heaven.” The law is not our salvation, and merit is not our ticket. Yet still Jesus insists that our keeping or neglecting of God’s law will make a difference in the kingdom of heaven.
The kids in that youth group ironically forgot the command to remember. And perhaps many folks in your church and mine ironically treat the law as though Jesus abolished it. He did not. Rather, he held it up as a thing to be kept and to be taught by those who are part of his kingdom.
If one of my children is mouthy, it might seem unjust for me to lecture the other ones about the importance of speaking respectfully. If one employee is chronically late, it would seem like a misplaced emphasis for the boss to try to impress on all the rest of the employees the importance of punctuality. This is preaching to the choir, you see. You’re addressing the wrong audience inasmuch as you’re telling things to the folks who don’t need to hear it.
Perhaps you have been on the receiving end of some such communication. It’s an insulting experience to have someone tell you what you feel you don’t need to hear. And especially when you are aware of someone else who really does need to hear it. It can be a painful business to be part of the choir, as it were, when someone is preaching to it.
But that, then, raises an interesting question. What is it that the choir needs to hear? If they don’t need to hear this or that conventional message that is really better addressed to other folks, then what message is appropriate for them? If the choir is already earnest and orthodox, if they are already committed and faithful, then what should you preach to the choir? Or could it be that the choir doesn’t need to be preached to, at all?
Our three assigned passages for this week lend insight to that issue. In Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, he reminds us of what and how we should preach in general. And both the Old Testament and Gospel lections give us a sense of just what it is that the choir may need to hear. That can be an elusive message to try to find, and it is a surprising one when we hear it. But that is very much the spirit of the excerpt from Isaiah, and it is prevalent in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, as well. So let us boldly undertake this week the message that the choir may need to hear.
Isaiah 58:1-12
Not far from where we live, there is a shopping plaza which includes, right next-door to each other, a fitness club and a pizza place. The pizza place, in particular, is known for its buffet. You pay a single price, and you can just keep going back and getting more pizza for as long as you want to.
If a zealous fitness expert with an inclination to warn drove into that shopping plaza, one might imagine him going into that pizza place with finger wagging. The calories, the fat, the carbs, the processed foods, the overindulgence: one can guess that he might have a lot to say to the folks bellying up to that buffet again and again. If he had a warning to give, that would be the place to give it.
You’d think.
What a surprise it would be, then, to see him park in front of the fitness place, instead. We watch him get out of his car with a determined look on his face. He rolls up his sleeves, clears his throat, and bursts through the doors with a loud message of alarm and condemnation. He does not hold back. He issues a severe warning to those who are vigorously exercising.
The imaginary scene seems counterintuitive. Yet something like that appears to be taking place in Isaiah 58. The prophet is instructed by the Lord to declare a warning to his people, and one senses that the prophet is to deliver that message with both barrels. But it’s hard not to be surprised by his chosen audience.
The prophet does not seem to be addressing himself to idolaters and adulterers. He is not speaking to those who are living life with their backs turned on God. On the contrary, one senses that he is speaking to folks who probably think of themselves as rather devout. They are, after all, seeking the Lord, eager to know his ways, earnestly fasting, and delighting in his nearness. Are these not like the disciplined and sweaty folks who are busily exercising away in the fitness club? What fault do we find with them?
What follows is mostly about fasting. The bulk of the Lord’s message to the people who comprise the audience for this passage is a reimagining of what it means to fast. Except that the real issue isn’t fasting, at all: it’s living.
The fast, you see, represented a person’s earnestness and piety. We know that, at times, it became something of a self-congratulatory act by very religious folk. But the Lord turns the tables on Isaiah’s audience. If you want to show me how truly earnest and pious you are, then let’s think what that might look like.
The Lord proceeds to describe the sort of fast that he desires. Of course, it is not really a fast, at all. Rather, it is a way of living a life that pleases God. And that life, as we reflect on the poetry of Isaiah 58, is one of active concern for other people, with particular emphasis on righting wrongs and providing for needs.
A traditional fast features a discipline of self-denial, depriving oneself for a time of food and drink. Likewise, the lifestyle of other-focused concern also requires discipline, for it requires a person to do something other than what comes naturally. And denying oneself may be the key to the caring and the sharing that makes the difference in the lives of others.
Perhaps, to return to our original analogy, the imaginary “fitness prophet” would take the gym rats to task for spending all their energy on treadmills and weight machines. Perhaps he would say to them, “You should be out there getting your exercise by playing with your kids and going on a bike ride with your wife. Shovel your elderly neighbor’s driveway. Spend a Saturday painting and cleaning at the community shelter. For these are the sorts of exercise and fitness that please the Lord!”
1 Corinthians 2:1-16
I was eighteen years old when I was given my first regular preaching assignment. A minister who was serving four rural churches not far from the town where I was a college student was only able to preach at two of the churches each Sunday. Each of the four churches had a Christian education hour every Sunday, with classes for all ages, but they only had a “preaching service” every other Sunday when their preacher could be there.
One of those four churches, however, was dissatisfied with the arrangement. They wanted preaching every Sunday. And so, they got me.
I had been quite a good student in high school, and now I was attending a very fine institution of higher education. I was living in an academic world for six days out of every week — reading certain kinds of books, having certain kinds of conversations, and writing certain kinds of papers. When Sunday mornings rolled around, however, I found myself in a quite different environment. And yet, even though I was going further in school and getting a better education than most of the folks in that little country church, I was the one who felt ignorant.
Sunday after Sunday, my experience with those good church folks impressed upon me the same realization: I didn’t know anything. They spoke with simple wisdom and life experience. They were able to give concise and true answers to questions that I tended to prattle on about for many paragraphs.
I have seen the same phenomenon played out numerous times in a variety of ways. A person can have tremendous learning in this area or that, yet still they may find themselves in a setting where their particular learning or expertise is useless. It’s not just a question of how much you know, but whether you know what is most important in a given situation.
The Apostle Paul went into the ancient city of Corinth, where wisdom and learning were prized. Yet Paul’s endeavor was not to impress them with his curriculum vitae. Instead, as he explained to them after the fact, “I determined to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and Him crucified.” Rather than trying to impress them — even win them — with all the things that he knew, he sought only to share one thing he knew: the most important thing he knew.
This might have seemed like a poor tactical move on the part of the apostle. After all, wouldn’t it make sense for him to meet them where they were at? Would it not have been most effective to impress them with the things they were impressed by? But, no. It was not philosophical erudition or rhetorical skill that was most important, but Christ. The prize was not human wisdom, but God’s wisdom.
We are reminded in this regard of the Lord’s famous words through the prophet Jeremiah: “Let not the wise man boast in his wisdom, let not the mighty man boast in his might, let not the rich man boast in his riches, but let him who boasts boast in this, that he understands and knows me” (Jeremiah 9:23-24 ESV). This was Paul’s approach, and this was Paul’s boast.
The text from Jeremiah and the example from Paul combine to serve as a cautionary word to preachers and an encouraging word to congregants. For you and me as preachers, it is a helpful and sober reminder that we do not do what we do in our own strength. That’s a great temptation for us, of course: to impress with our strengths, our knowledge, our creativity, and our insight. But Paul came to the Corinthians trembling, knowing nothing, and not relying on human wisdom.
Meanwhile, I say that this can be an encouragement to our congregants because, in the call to be Christ’s witnesses, so many church folks I have known through the years feel unqualified and inadequate. But Jeremiah and Paul remind us that it’s not about our qualifications in the first place. The task of evangelism does not require the evangelist to know everything, but to know one thing: Jesus Christ, and him crucified.
Matthew 5:13-20
Our Gospel lection comes from early in Jesus' Sermon on the Mount. Immediately after that familiar teaching that we know is the Beatitudes, he offers to his listeners two images of uselessness: salt that has lost its flavor and a light that is covered. Neither one, you see, is able to fulfill its intended purpose. It may be worth noting, however, that these are not identical situations. In the case of the salt, there doesn't seem to be a choice involved: something has simply happened to it that renders it flavorless and useless. In the case of the light, however, there is an issue of volition: a person can choose either to hide a light or to place it somewhere prominent (though Jesus is quick to observe that the former choice seems nonsensical).
These images of uselessness are not theoretical or detached. Rather, Jesus has held up these images as a way of inviting his followers to look in the mirror. You, he says, are the salt of the earth. You, he says, are the light of the world. The risk is that we ourselves will become useless, that we will fail to fulfill our intended purpose. Perhaps, like the salt, it will be something that happens to us. Or, perhaps, like the light, it will be our own folly that makes us useless to the kingdom.
Then Jesus seems to change the subject. It may not be as dramatic a change as it first appears, but suddenly he turns our attention to the law and his relationship to it. This is an immensely important issue all its own, and we will give it fuller attention below. For the present, however, we simply highlight the fact that Jesus insists on the continuing relevance and application of the law, right down to its smallest letters and its tiniest strokes of a pen.
Interestingly, Jesus’ insistence on the careful observance of the law is immediately followed by a condemnation of those who are known for being the most careful observers of it. “Unless your righteousness far surpasses that of the scribes and Pharisees,” he says, “you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.” But whose righteousness can surpass that of the scribes and the Pharisees? He might as well have said to us, “Unless you are more fit than the greatest Olympic athletes” or “Unless you are more well-read than the most accomplished scholars.” He has singled out the folks most known in that time and place for their meticulous righteousness and indicated that his followers need to out-righteous them.
This unthinkable standard may take us back to where the passage began. His followers are called to be the salt of the earth and the light of the world. But where do they get their “flavor”? And what is the source of their light? Are these qualities that are innate to the individuals themselves, or is there something else involved?
When Paul — himself an exemplary Pharisee, blameless under the law (Philippians 3:5-6) — wrote about the issue of righteousness, he said that his aspiration was to “be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith” (Philippians 3:9 ESV). What righteousness can surpass that of the scribes and Pharisees? The righteousness of God that comes through faith in Christ.
So it is that it all comes from him. Our righteousness, our flavor, and our light — these are not our own but come from him. And so, the standards of the law need not be relaxed. The smallest letters and strokes of a pen need not be dismissed. For who and what we are does not come from the law but from the Lord.
Application
We know some things about Jesus’ audience from the things he says about them. From our Gospel lection alone, we observe that he calls them the salt of the earth and the light of the world. We surmise, too, that they are concerned about righteous living.
When we keep reading the Sermon on the Mount beyond the immediate scope of our assigned passage, we learn still more about the audience. We gather that they are earnest folks. They fast, they pray, and they give alms. Furthermore, it matters to them not to be like pagans and sinners.
In short, Jesus is preaching to the choir. This is not a record of what Jesus taught while dining with tax collectors and sinners. No, he’s talking to the choir. And what is it that the choir needs to hear?
As an aside, one might preach a whole series of sermons on the Sermon on the Mount under the heading, “Preaching to the Choir.” Section after section of the three-chapter text would reveal just what it is that the choir needs to hear. And since most of us are preaching to the choir on Sunday mornings, this would be of tremendous value.
For our purposes just now, however, we observe that the choir needs to hear something more than just commendation. This material from Jesus is not just a congratulatory pat on the back for all their earnestness, their fasting, and their almsgiving. No, there is a sterner, more challenging message here.
On the one hand, they are the salt of the earth. Point conceded. Of course, they are, for they are the choir. But, beware: the salt can lose its saltiness, and then it’s not worth anything, at all.
Likewise, they are the light of the world. Of course, they are: they should be. Yet their light can be more useful or less. Their light can be a blessing to everyone around them, or it can be obscured, and then do the world no good whatsoever.
The call to a higher righteousness than the highest they have known — that of the Pharisees — is another challenging word. It’s an easy thing for the choir to be self-satisfied. But Jesus has what the choir needs to hear.
And so does the prophet Isaiah. He, too, is clearly addressing the choir in Isaiah 58. These are people, as we noted above, who were earnest and devout. They were seeking the Lord’s will and way. They were worshiping and fasting. But the Lord’s word to them was more than just applause, applause. There was good work that was being left undone in the world, and the Lord was calling upon his people to do it.
In that sense, then, we may get a measure of the real issue. The choir is good people, after all. Perhaps we should be careful not to impugn their goodness or let these passages become an unnecessary indictment. For perhaps the question at hand is not how good the people are but how good the world is. For until God’s will is being done on earth as it is in heaven, there is still much good work for the choir to do.
Alternative Application(s)
Matthew 5:13-20 — “The Law of Irony”
One night, leading a youth Bible study, I wanted to review with the kids some principles found in the Ten Commandments. We began, therefore, with a group effort at listing those commandments. I wrote the numbers one through ten in a column on the whiteboard, and then, as they would call out commandments, I would put them in their proper places on the list. Some commandments that were suggested that are not actually part of the ten, like “love your neighbor” or “do unto others...” As a group, however, they were eventually able to come up with nine of the Ten Commandments. Yet there was one yawning vacancy in the list.
The teens in the room were stupefied. Then I said to them, “Well, here's the irony: The one commandment you have forgotten is the one command to remember!” They had forgotten about “remember the sabbath day to keep it holy.”
I have observed a similar irony among the adults in the churches that I've served through the years, but it is a much broader irony than just one commandment. It is the irony that so many American Christians have dismissed the Old Testament law as irrelevant or expired when that is precisely the opposite of what Jesus himself said about the law. Folks think that because they are Christians the law is no longer pertinent, yet it was Christ himself who highlighted the ongoing priority of the law.
We saw Jesus’ perhaps startling statements in the early excerpt from the Sermon on the Mount that is our Gospel lection this week. He said, “Do not presume that I came to abolish the law or the prophets.” Perhaps that statement was in anticipation of the “you have heard it said...but I say to you” teachings that would follow shortly. Ironically, however, what Jesus said not to presume is precisely what so many American Christians do presume.
“I did not come to abolish,” he continued, “but to fulfill.” Now someone says, “That’s a distinction without a difference. The result is the same for us in either case.” Except that there is a great difference between abolishing and fulfilling. We understand in American jurisprudence that certain laws have been abolished. They were enacted for a time, but no longer. Yet that is not what Jesus did with the Old Testament law. He did not abolish it; he fulfilled it.
Still, the idea that Christ has fulfilled the law has led some Christians to suppose that we can close the book on the law and set it aside. Yet Jesus said, “Until heaven and earth pass away, not the smallest letter or stroke of a letter shall pass from the law, until all is accomplished!” That doesn’t sound like it is being set aside. And yet, perhaps the “accomplished” of verse 18 parallels the “fulfill” of verse 17. Perhaps Jesus came to fulfill, and it remained in force until he himself fulfilled it.
Yet he continues. “Therefore, whoever nullifies one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, shall be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever keeps and teaches them, he shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.” That speaks directly to the relationship between the law and those in the kingdom of heaven. They — we! — are not encouraged to dismiss the law as antiquated or disregard it as no longer relevant. Rather, we are encouraged to keep it and to teach it.
At some level, of course, that should not surprise us, at all. After all, the law was the expression of God’s will to his people in the days of Moses. And while ours is a different day, ours is the same God. Furthermore, he is eternal and unchanging, which means that an expression of his will on one day will still be consistent with his character on any other day. In that sense, therefore, whatever one understands to be the nature of the old and new covenants, whatever one’s conception of law and gospel, anything he said — let alone commanded — at any time is still revelatory and informative for us today.
Notably, Jesus does not say, “Whoever nullifies one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, shall be excluded from the kingdom of heaven.” The law is not our salvation, and merit is not our ticket. Yet still Jesus insists that our keeping or neglecting of God’s law will make a difference in the kingdom of heaven.
The kids in that youth group ironically forgot the command to remember. And perhaps many folks in your church and mine ironically treat the law as though Jesus abolished it. He did not. Rather, he held it up as a thing to be kept and to be taught by those who are part of his kingdom.
