Tuesday of the 10th Week in Ordinary Time

In this season of Ordinary Time—ordinary only in name—we are drawn again into the extraordinary work of grace: the quiet transformation of ordinary lives into vessels of light and love. Today’s Scriptures remind us that holiness often moves quietly, like salt in a stew, like dawn breaking into the dark.

St. Paul, writing to the fractured church in Corinth, speaks not as a philosopher from a distance, but as one who has suffered and stayed. He proclaims something bold and deeply personal: that in Christ, every promise of God finds its Yes. Not hesitation. Not ambiguity. Yes. “It is God who establishes us… and has anointed us.” The word for “anointed” in Greek—chrió—is the root of Christos. We are not just followers of Christ, the anointed One; we are sharers in His anointing, sealed by the Spirit as a first instalment, a promise of the fullness to come, marked for mission. This anointing means we are chosen and empowered to live out God’s promises in our daily lives.

In our own fractured world, that assurance still speaks powerfully. In the swirl of economic strain, the pain of injustice, the discouragement of broken systems—even here in Zambia, where many feel forgotten—God’s Yes remains. It means you are not invisible. You are not abandoned. You are sealed and sent. Even when you stumble, grace gives you a path forward.

And so, the question: how do we live out that divine Yes?

The Psalm offers a way. God’s word unfolds not like a rulebook, but like a love letter. “The unfolding of your words gives light.” That light doesn’t just guide—it reveals. It tells us we are known, we are seen. As the Psalmist pleads, “Make your face shine upon your servant, and teach me your statutes.”

Then the Gospel takes us even deeper: You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.

Salt was sacred. It preserved. It healed. But it could also lose its potency. And light—it reveals the way, but it also exposes what’s hidden. Jesus doesn’t ask us to impress. He calls us to be present. Not dazzling, but dependable. Not perfect, but faithful.

Some may say: But I’m not strong enough. I’m afraid to speak, to stand, to shine. And yes, this mission is hard. Salt stings. Light reveals. We may face fear, doubt, or apathy. But Paul reminds us—it is God who anoints. He does not call the qualified; He qualifies the called. Even the smallest act of love can change a life.

I once heard of a woman who volunteered at a local soup kitchen. She had little to give—just a warm smile and a listening ear. One day, a man told her that her simple kindness had given him the hope he needed to try again. That is salt. That is light. And you don’t need a pulpit to preach it.

The Second Vatican Council reminds us that the laity are called to “seek the kingdom of God by engaging in temporal affairs and directing them according to God’s will” (Lumen Gentium, 31). This means our call to be salt and light extends into every corner of life—our work, our families, our communities.

Here in Zambia, many live in a silence that is not peaceful, but painful—the silence of poverty, of broken promises, of deferred dreams. And yet, into this very silence, the Lord places His lamp in our hands. We are not called to hide. We are called to shine.

So today, let us pause in the Ignatian spirit and ask: Where have I lost my saltiness? Where have I hidden my light? And then choose one small way to say Yes to God’s call this week—perhaps a word of encouragement, a quiet act of justice, or a patient, listening presence to someone in need. Offer a helping hand to a neighbour, volunteer at a local charity, or simply carry someone’s burden in silence and prayer.

The world does not need perfect Christians. It needs present ones. People whose Yes to God echoes His Yes to the world.

Loving God, thank you for calling us to be salt and light. Help us to embrace this call with courage and joy. Fill us with your Spirit, that we may be faithful witnesses to your love and truth. May our lives bring flavour and light to those around us, and may our Church be a beacon of hope in a weary world. Amen.

I acknowledge that this homily was drafted by myself and refined using AI assistance and automatic built-in word processing tools for grammar, style, and clarity. The final content remains the responsibility of the author.