When Ordinary Lives Become Preserving Grace

A Day in the Life

“You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.” — Matthew 5:13

When I sit with Jesus on that hillside in Matthew 5, listening as He teaches what we now call the Sermon on the Mount, I feel the weight of His words. He does not say, “You should try to become salt.” He says, “You are the salt of the earth.” That identity comes before activity. Salt in the ancient world was not decorative; it was preservative. Without refrigeration, salt slowed decay and protected what would otherwise spoil. In the same way, Jesus describes His followers as agents of preservation in a world corroded by sin.

John Stott once wrote, “The Christian’s influence is to be a restraining influence in a decaying society.” That line has stayed with me. I look at my own life and ask, Is there a restraining presence because Christ lives in me? When Jesus speaks of salt losing its flavor, He is describing something unnatural. Pure salt does not simply stop being salt. But when mixed with impurities, it becomes diluted, compromised, ineffective. The issue is not the world’s corruption; it is our contamination. If I am not in a right relationship with my Lord, the preserving power of Christ cannot flow through me as it should.

So I test the “saltiness” of my life. I begin at home. Is my family strengthened spiritually because I am present? Do my words reduce anxiety or inflame it? Do I model repentance and humility? It is easy to speak boldly about cultural decline while neglecting the atmosphere around my own table. Jesus’ words call me first to integrity in the closest relationships. If I am salt, then my home should taste of grace.

Then I look at my workplace. Whether that is an office, a classroom, a garage, or a church hallway, I ask: Are destructive influences subtly halted because I am there? Not because I preach at everyone, but because Christ’s character is expressed through me. The presence of Jesus in me makes His life available to others. His salvation can free an addict, mend a broken home, heal the pain of the past, restore a wayward child, and comfort a grieving heart. But this does not happen through slogans; it happens through surrendered vessels. Paul reminds us in 2 Corinthians 4:7 that “we have this treasure in earthen vessels.” The treasure is His; the vessel is ours.

I also consider my community and church. Is there measurable spiritual improvement around me? Not perfection, but movement toward health? Salt works quietly. It does not announce itself; it does its work steadily. In the same way, the Christian life is often unremarkable to the world yet decisive in impact. D. A. Carson observed that the Beatitudes and the salt metaphor are inseparable: “The standards of the kingdom produce the influence of the kingdom.” If I am not cultivating poverty of spirit, mercy, purity of heart, and hunger for righteousness, then I should not expect preserving influence.

There is a sobering edge to Jesus’ warning: salt that loses its saltiness is “good for nothing.” Those are strong words. He is not threatening our salvation; He is confronting our usefulness. When my life is spiritually dull—when prayer is neglected, Scripture ignored, repentance postponed—I become less effective in dispensing God’s grace to others. None of His saving power can be shared through a vessel that is closed off.

This pushes me back to relationship. Saltiness flows from intimacy. The more closely I walk with Christ, the more His nature flavors my responses. I do not manufacture influence; I receive it. I do not produce preservation; I participate in it. As Jesus lives through me, my presence in a room, a family, or a workplace begins to make things spiritually better instead of worse.

That is the real diagnostic question: Are people around me deteriorating spiritually, or are they being quietly strengthened? If the answer troubles me, the remedy is not self-condemnation but realignment. I go to my Lord and allow Him to adjust my life. I ask Him to cleanse impurities, renew my hunger for righteousness, and restore the joy of His salvation. Psalm 51:12 becomes my prayer: “Restore to me the joy of Your salvation, and uphold me by Your generous Spirit.” Only then can I teach transgressors His ways and see sinners turn back to Him.

Today, I want to walk through my ordinary routines aware that I am not neutral. I either preserve or I permit decay. I either reflect Christ or I obscure Him. Jesus did not call us to retreat from the earth but to season it. In every conversation, decision, and silent act of integrity, I am participating in His mission.

For further study on the Sermon on the Mount and the meaning of being salt and light, see this helpful resource from The Gospel Coalition:
https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/sermon-on-the-mount-salt-light/

As I move through this day, I pray that my life will carry the distinct taste of Christ—noticeable not because it is loud, but because it is life-giving.

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Eru Hiko-Tahuri on Māori Identity, Atheism, and Cultural Leadership​

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/06/01

Eru Hiko-Tahuri is a New Zealand-based author, broadcaster, and cultural commentator of Ngāti Kahungunu descent. He is best known for his memoir Māori Boy Atheist, in which he recounts his personal journey from religious upbringing to atheism, reflecting on the intersections of Māori identity and belief systems . In addition to his writing, Hiko-Tahuri has worked as a radio broadcaster and is active in discussions around Māori language, culture, and secularism . His work often explores the complexities of navigating traditional Māori values within contemporary society.​ Eru Hiko-Tahuri shares that Māori culture defines a good man as one who cares for his family and community, emphasizing a holistic sense of support—emotional, financial, and protective. Leadership and elder status are earned through service and example, not simply age or title. Māori culture respects elders but values merit and balance between men’s and women’s roles. LGBTQ individuals historically held spiritual roles. Good parenting involves cultural transmission. Christianity has deeply influenced Māori beliefs, with syncretic Māori churches and translations like Te Paipera Tapu (The Sacred Bible). This shift to Christianity occurred rapidly from the late 18th century onward.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: How does Māori culture describe a good man?

Eru Hiko-Tahuri: A good man is someone who looks after his family. It is really that simple.

Jacobsen: Now, the broadest and often Western—particularly Catholic—version of that idea is that a man provides financially. Does Māori culture emphasize the same or something more holistic?

Hiko-Tahuri: It is broader than that. Looking after your family includes the people around you—your community. That can be through financial support, physical protection, emotional presence—whatever is needed. That is what I would say.

Jacobsen: How does the community see that role? In some societies, men are given undue status—for example, a young man in a clerical collar might be treated with the authority of someone twice his age. Can you provide an example of when men are granted undue authority and when they are given rightful authority?

Hiko-Tahuri: I have not thought about that before—thanks for raising it. It can depend on the context. In Māori spaces, such as during hui (gatherings), men often lead public speaking. But that does not mean the women are absent or secondary. Each has a role, and these roles complement each other. The men’s roles do not exist in isolation from the women’s. There is a balance, and it is understood within the cultural framework.

Jacobsen: Regarding parenting roles, particularly for men, is it seen more as a privilege or a responsibility—or perhaps both?

Hiko-Tahuri: I do not know precisely how it is framed. I think it is just something you do—it is expected. It is part of being a decent human being and part of the community. Maybe that makes it both a responsibility and a privilege, but it is not always discussed in those terms.

Jacobsen: There is no question about it—you are either a parent or not. And if you are, then you try to be the best parent you can be. Are there deterrents from going against the norm of being a good parent?

Hiko-Tahuri: Not that I know of.

Jacobsen: Does this idea get built into Māori mythology at all? You mentioned the void or the nothingness. So, from that, as things flow forward and creation happens—is that somehow integrated into the founding mythology? I am just trying to think of examples.

Hiko-Tahuri: I guess it would have to be, in a way. But I can’t specifically say how without spending a couple of years thinking about it.

Jacobsen: Now, in North American Indigenous cultures, there is precedent for LGBTQ people—like the concept of Two-Spirit. You do not see that in traditional European culture, at least not in the same way. Of course, in contemporary Western European culture, LGBTQ identities are widely recognized and increasingly central to cultural discourse. But is there something akin to Two-Spirit in Māori history?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yep. Some people were considered different from the mainstream. Members of what we now call the LGBTQ+ community often became the spiritual guides of the people. Because they were different, everyone recognized that they saw the world differently. That gave them a special place in society, and we could learn from them. They would often become what we call tohunga—the spiritual specialists or priests of the iwi (tribes).

Jacobsen: What responsibilities are given to men who work their way up to higher strata in Māori society?

Hiko-Tahuri: Speaking rights, usually. They would be the ones looked to for guidance in community matters and would be given elder status.

Jacobsen: What complicates that in New Zealand is that those lines blur when living between two worlds. Most people live in the contemporary European system, but that status only sometimes translates when they cross into Māori contexts. It is not guaranteed to carry across both systems. I think contemporary North American culture has, to some extent, retained a decent amount of respect for elders, which many other cultures have lost.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yeah. We still show respect to our elders in Māori society. But I have also been the kind of person who says, “Well, you cannot earn mana before you deserve it.” So, I ask—do I need to respect you if I completely disagree with your statement? Maybe. But we can talk about that. Generally, though, yes, we show that respect.

Jacobsen: How is parenting viewed? What is considered good parenting, and what is regarded as bad parenting?

Hiko-Tahuri: I do not know if there is a single answer. Most of us try to do our best.

Jacobsen: What is considered good parenting in Māori culture?

Hiko-Tahuri: I do not know precisely what defines good parenting in a uniquely Māori sense. But I would say children should have some knowledge of their cultural background—they should know where they are from and what tribal group they belong to. It would be ideal if they knew some of the language. They should understand the cultural practices expected of Māori people and learn how to conduct themselves in those situations. Aside from all the general things that would be a big part of it, like not being a terrible person. You know, the fundamental values everyone would agree on.

Jacobsen: Historically—and generally speaking—many societies have grappled with what to do with their young men. Cultures create rituals, rules, taboos, or even superstitions to guide them. What are the cultural guardrails for young Māori men?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yeah, that is a difficult question. Let me think. The biggest thing we try to do is set the best example we can, which is often all we can do. Our cultural practices and way of life have been quite decimated over the last few hundred years. It is hard now to describe what a Māori view is compared to what we have had to adapt to just to navigate the modern world.

Jacobsen: How much have Christianity and the broader colonial enterprise influenced traditional Māori beliefs? I ask because, although you live in what is now a largely post-colonial and post-Christian society, it has certainly left an impact. In North America, for example, I have met Indigenous people—First Nations, Métis, Inuit, Native Americans—who identify as Christian but combine it with traditional beliefs in quite a syncretic way.

Hiko-Tahuri: Most definitely. That happens here, too. There are probably four fairly prominent Māori Christian churches.

Jacobsen: What does that mean in practice?

Hiko-Tahuri: Well, the language they use is Māori.

Jacobsen: So there’s a Māori Bible?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, it is written entirely in Māori. The first parts of it were translated around 1848.

Jacobsen: What do they call it?

Hiko-Tahuri: Te Paipera Tapu—the Sacred Bible.

Jacobsen: That’s interesting. Do they tell any of the stories differently?

Hiko-Tahuri: No, they are the same.

Jacobsen: What is the name of Jesus Christ in Māori?

Hiko-Tahuri: Ihu Karaiti.

Jacobsen: That sounds a bit more beautiful. I think it’s a better way to say the name.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yeah.

Jacobsen: So what are some of the other things? You mentioned the four Māori churches—what else? Do you have the Bible?

Hiko-Tahuri: Well, there are probably more than four. There are so many small Māori crossovers into Christianity. I could name four or five just in the local area that have popped up. There were also many Māori prophets at the time—young Māori men in the early 1800s whom Christian ministers brought up. 

They read the Bible, reflected on it, and created their versions—sort of a spiritual cocktail, you might say. There were lots of those movements. The Bible had a huge influence here, especially from the 1800s to about 1950.

We went from 1769, when Captain Cook first arrived, to being about 90% Christian by 1890. 

That’s a dramatic shift.

Jacobsen: Thank you for the your time, Eru.

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