As the Church begins the penitential season of Lent, she launches Catholics into a time of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving—with a Gospel speaking of all three. Matthew 6 highlights those three traditional Lenten practices . . . but seems to suggest they ought somehow to be hidden. “When you give alms . . . do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” “When you pray . . . pray to your Father in secret.” “When you fast . . . anoint your head and wash your fast so you may not appear to be fasting.” Read Matthew 6, and you get the impression somehow these activities should be occult.
Yet the Church’s Gospel reading for the Fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time—also from Matthew—suggests just the opposite. The reason you should be “light for the world” is for others to “see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father” (5:16).
So which is it? Do we shine a light or not let our left hand know what our right is doing?
This seeming conundrum is part of the reason why the Church rejects the notion of personal interpretation of Scripture. Scripture belongs to the Church, and individualist interpretations at variance with the community’s Tradition are false. The Church also insists that we look at Scripture in its entirety. It’s easy—and false—to yank a single verse out of context and turn it into a doctrinal banner. But, far from being biblically obedient, such proof-texting is actually destructive of Scripture. It’s one way classical Protestant theology generates more fission (in terms of denominations) than Uranium-238.
Scripture has a trajectory, a unified vision, because it has an ultimate single author: God. It’s why, for example, Christians read the Old Testament in light of its fulfillment in the New. They don’t sit around, for example, wondering why Bethlehem is not “least among the clans of Judea.”
Even Jesus’ remarks in the New Testament itself are contextual. In one place, Jesus says those not against him are for him (Mark 9:40). In another, He says those not with him are against him (Matt. 12:30). Is Jesus unable to make up his mind? Or are we not using ours?
In one instance—“the light of the world”—Jesus is talking about the witness role of Christian life. In another—the right and left hands—he’s addressing religious hypocrisy. Both statements are true, even though they seem superficially to be opposed. They must be read in context.
The question of Matthew 5 versus 6—whether to highlight one’s good works or perform them in secret—is best answered by the broader readings for the Fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time. You’ll recall that the second reading cites St. Paul insisting that what he proclaimed was not human wisdom advanced by oratorical flights of fancy, sophistry, or rhetorical eloquence. In modern terms, the Apostle to the Gentiles wasn’t looking for likes or friends, wasn’t pushing clickbait or a podcast. He lets the word of God speak for itself, confident that its wisdom and power are absolutely efficacious. He relies on that and not oratorical artifice “so that your faith might rest not on human wisdom but the power of God” (1 Cor. 2:5). And when Jesus exhorts his disciples not to hide their light under bushel baskets, he reminds them to let it shine “so that others may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father” (Matt. 5:16).
Paul reminds us of a basic teaching of Catholic faith: whatever good we do originates in and is sustained by God. It is God’s grace that enables us to do good. Denying this truth would lead us into the Pelagian error—i.e., that somehow we could save ourselves, that Jesus is not our Redeemer, but merely our Good Example. That’s not Christianity!
So the good that we do originates in and is sustained by God. But, that said, it is good that we do. It is real good and really done. It is not just a question of “faith alone.” Even Jesus is upholding the good we do (under impulse of and sustained by his grace) as something the world should see.
Matthew 6 does not contradict, but in fact reinforces that perspective. It reminds us not just that we should do good, but why we should: to glorify God. Our good is done out of love of God and neighbor. That is its motive. If it is not, our deed is spoiled.
Catholic moral theology reminds us that human moral acts have three components: the act itself, the intention, and the circumstances. We can do things that are bad in themselves, regardless of our intention—e.g., adultery. No intention is going to make that good.
But we can have a good deed that we spoil with a bad intention. We can give charity out of love of and concern for one’s neighbor. Or we can give it for our self-aggrandizement. Objectively, the same act happens: money goes to somebody in need. But one example reflects and enhances my charity; the other does not.
That is what the Ash Wednesday Gospel is getting at. Pace the sola fide error of classical Protestant theology, the Christian is called upon to do good. Faith without works is dead, as Scripture reminds us (James 2:17). But the Christian is also called upon to do what is good for the right reason. And the right reason, as Jesus points out—indeed, as he wants to highlight by shining light on it—is to the glory of God.
We cannot truly glorify God without loving him. And we cannot love God without loving our neighbor (1 John 4:20). And both instances—love of God and love of neighbor—presuppose getting out of myself, putting another before me, “losing one’s self” (Matt. 10:39).
As Lent begins, we are asked by prayer, fasting, and almsgiving to lose ourselves—especially the self that is our false, sinful self—and to “put on Christ” (Eph. 4:22-24). Then our light can shine—and glorify God.