Some Sundays the lectionary feels like a theme. This Sunday it feels like a map.
Isaiah doesn’t start with lofty ideas. He starts with lunch. “Share your bread with the hungry… shelter the oppressed and the homeless… then your light shall break forth like the dawn.” (Isaiah 58:7–10) Jesus doesn’t soften it either: “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world… your light must shine before others.” (Matthew 5:13–16)
So here’s the question the readings quietly hand us:
What does “light” look like in Augusta this week?
It looks like the reality behind the headlines: neighbors navigating tightened safety nets and rising costs. Local reporting has highlighted how changes to SNAP work requirements are creating fresh obstacles for vulnerable people, including those experiencing homelessness and veterans, while community organizations face growing demand and declining donations. The story names what many families already feel: housing costs, food costs, mental health barriers, and limited access don’t arrive one at a time; they stack.
And then the weather reminds us how quickly “policy” becomes “survival.” During a recent extreme cold snap, local nonprofits and community partners worked to get people into warming centers and hotel rooms when shelters were full or unsafe. One unhoused person was found dead outdoors. That detail is a bell you can’t unhear. When Jesus says a lamp isn’t lit to be hidden, he’s talking about moments exactly like this, when being seen, being safe, and being warm are not guaranteed.
This is where Psalm 112 feels like spiritual grounding instead of a nice poem: the just person is steady, generous, and not undone by bad news, not because they’re detached, but because they’re rooted. “Salt” is rarely dramatic. It’s faithful. It’s the small things that make life more livable. “Light” is often quiet. It’s a presence that says, You matter, you’re not invisible, and you’re not alone.
And if you’re reading all of this and thinking, “I want to help, but I don’t know what to say,” St. Paul steps in with relief: “I did not come with sublimity of words… I came in weakness and fear… so that your faith might rest not on human wisdom but on the power of God.” (1 Corinthians 2:1–5) The readings give us permission to stop waiting until we feel impressive. You can do mercy without a script. You can love people without a speech.
That’s one reason our parish’s Human First Outreach matters so much right now. This ministry focuses on providing food and toiletries to our homeless neighbors in Augusta, along with feminine hygiene supplies and pet food, and it explicitly calls volunteers into compassionate presence: engage people in a loving way, refrain from proselytizing, and listen deeply. That is “salt and light” with skin on.
And because “light” is also about clarity, especially when Christianity is used to harm, our Reclaiming the Cross Outreach exists to help “set the record straight on what the Bible says” about issues facing society today. Light isn’t weaponized. Light heals, reveals, and guides.
Even our longer recovery stories belong in these readings. Augusta continues to detail the ongoing cost and complexity of Hurricane Helene recovery, projects submitted for FEMA review, reimbursements still pending, infrastructure still being restored. This is what steady “Psalm 112” goodness looks like at a civic scale: persistence, remembrance, and rebuilding that lasts longer than the news cycle.
And at the one-year mark, the city held a remembrance of those lost while naming tangible progress and what remains under repair. Light doesn’t rush grief. Light keeps faith with it.
So the invitation this week is simple, but not small:
Let Isaiah’s “share your bread” become something you can hold in your hands.
Let Paul’s “not with persuasive words” free you from needing to be perfect.
Let Jesus’ “salt and light” become specific enough that someone’s day gets easier.
If you want a one-line practice for the week, try this:
Be the kind of light someone can feel before they can explain it.
Pax et Bonum,
Bishop Greer
