Sunday Gospel Reflections

From Roadblocks to Rocks

Homily: Twenty-First Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

Isaiah 22:19-23 / Romans 11:33-36 / Matthew 16:13-20

23 August 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Imagine waiting in line for 20 minutes. Then, when you are almost at the counter, someone casually cuts right in front of you, as if his or her time mattered more than yours. Nakakainis, di ba? (Annoying, isn’t it?) But if you were given the exact same chance, would you not be tempted to do the same? Mawawala na rin ba ang hiya natin na nilamangan natin ang ating kapwa? (Will we lose our sense of shame knowing that we have taken advantage of another?) Today, Christ confronts the quiet sense of entitlement in our hearts and challenges us to examine how we treat others on the way to His kingdom.

In God’s eyes, we all have value. Walang taong patapon. (No one is a lost cause.) God does not wait for us to get our act together in order to consider us worthwhile. In fact, He uses our weaknesses to create something extraordinary. In today’s gospel, Jesus says to Peter, “You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church” (Matthew 16:18). We know that a rock is something stable that carries weight—something we can build on. So, it seems illogical that Jesus would choose Peter, who is hardly steadfast in his faith. Jesus knows Peter will fail. Jesus knows Peter will deny Him. Jesus knows Peter will misunderstand Him. And yet He chooses him, even though, a few verses later, Peter will resist Jesus’ way of the cross, and Jesus will call him a “stumbling block” (Matthew 16:23).

Notice that the right-hand man of Jesus is presented as both a “rock” and a “roadblock.” In the same way, we can look at ourselves and ask whether we are becoming rocks upon which others can build their faith—or roadblocks that make it harder for people to come closer to Christ. The truth is that sometimes the greatest obstacles to the Church come from within its own ranks. We see this when a young person with non-traditional fashion choices enters the Church only to feel unwelcome, when a penitent finally returns to confession but encounters judgment rather than mercy, or when a struggling family seeks help but receives a lecture instead of compassion. Even among us priests, there can be moments when jealousy, intrigue, or putting another down turns us into stumbling blocks.

Have we asked ourselves, “What kind of environment are we creating, especially for the youth?” Sometimes we are no longer creating spaces where people can heal, belong, grow, and discover their dignity. Instead, we may be deepening their sense of isolation and making them feel even more unwanted. And then we wonder why some young people become deeply angry, withdrawn, or even capable of terrible violence. When people experience persistent rejection, humiliation, loneliness, and the feeling that “I don’t belong anywhere,” these experiences can leave deep emotional wounds. For those who are made to feel invisible and worthless, these experiences can sometimes lead to destructive ways of dealing with their pain, including violent behaviour. Of course, there is no excuse for violence, but let this be a reminder of how important it is to create and sustain spaces where people are seen and heard, lovingly corrected, and given a sense of belonging. Our Church needs to be that kind of place, especially for the young who need reassurance that, “You belong here. There is a place for you.”

Peter was not the only one in today’s readings given a key and a divine mandate. In the First Reading, God says of Eliakim: “I will place the key of the House of David on his shoulder; what he opens, no one shall shut” (Isaiah 22:22). A key is not a display piece; its purpose is to open what has been closed and give access to what has been entrusted to us. Our faith, Catholic traditions, talents, and resources are precious treasures given to us—not to hoard, but to share. If God has blessed us with influence, education, material wealth, or a position in the Church, let us consider ourselves keyholders. Let us use those keys to fling the doors wide open—bringing others closer to Christ, never drawing them to ourselves. The Church does not need more bouncers asking, “Who deserves to enter?” It needs stewards standing at the threshold declaring, “Come in. There is a place for you here.”

In the Second Reading, St. Paul grounds us in true humility when he exclaims: “Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God!” (Romans 11:33). He reminds us of a simple truth: Lord, You are God. I am not. When we truly accept this, we do not have to control everything or be the most important person in the room. Another person’s success does not diminish us; their gifts do not threaten our own. A brother priest, a religious sister, a fellow minister, or a co-parishioner is never our competitor—they are our brothers and sisters in Christ. We do not become bigger by making others smaller. We do not shine brighter by dimming someone else’s light. If we ever find ourselves tempted to push ahead or guard our place, let us pause, be patient, and wait for our turn. Let us not be a roadblock on someone else’s path to God. In the Kingdom of God, there is room for everyone.

Brothers and sisters, the directive to us is simple: Do not cut the line. Alisin natin ang harang. (Let us remove the barriers.) Stop creating roadblocks and start becoming rocks—the firm foundation upon which others can stand, flourish, and see Christ clearly. Let us open doors, share our resources, and make the road easier for someone else. May the way we live be such that when we finally meet our Lord, He will not say, “You were better than the rest,” but rather, “Because of you, someone found their way to Me.” Let us go out, then, not to stand above others, but to stand with them, make room for them, and lead one another to Christ.

God Has No Outsiders

Homily: Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

Isaiah 56:1, 6–7 • Romans 11:13–15, 29–32 • Matthew 15:21–28

16 August 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

A few years ago, I was standing in a long queue to leave a plane after a delayed flight. Everyone was tired, frustrated, and anxious to get home. No one seemed to have the patience to let anyone else go ahead. Then a young mother came running toward us, carrying her feverish little boy in her arms. She politely asked if she could go ahead because she needed to get him to a doctor. Most people immediately stepped aside. But one man protested, “Why should she go first? We have all been waiting.” The mother turned to him and gently said, “Sir, if it were your child, you would do the same.” In that simple moment, the whole line seemed to receive a lesson in compassion: sometimes, we understand another person’s urgency only when we imagine that their child could be our own.

Something similar actually happened in today’s Gospel about Jesus healing the daughter of the Canaanite woman. I invite you to consider that two miracles may have taken place in the story. The woman was not the only one who needed help. Perhaps the disciples di, too. Notice the first words of the disciples. They did not say, “Lord, help her.” They did not even ask who she was or what she was going through. They simply said, “Send her away, for she keeps calling after us” (Matthew 15:23). They saw her not as a person in pain but as an interruption. Her cries had become an inconvenience.

Isn’t that painfully familiar? We have all experienced moments when we silently wished someone would just go away: the demanding client, the parishioner who always complains, the relative who keeps asking for money, the child who asks one question after another, the homeless person who approaches our car at the traffic light. We hardly take the time to learn their story—perhaps it is the story of a lonely widow, a father carrying unbearable burdens, a teenager quietly struggling with depression, or an elderly man abandoned by his family. As a result, we allow judgment to replace compassion. Without saying the words aloud, we sometimes echo the disciples: “Send them away.”

And yet the Canaanite woman refuses to disappear. She is willing to risk embarrassment because her love for her daughter is greater than her concern for her own dignity. She persists, even when Jesus’ initial response seems discouraging. Finally, Jesus declares, “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish” (Matthew 15:28). It is remarkable that in Matthew’s Gospel, such extraordinary praise is directed at a foreign woman whom the disciples initially wanted to dismiss. Suddenly, the story takes on a different light. The outsider becomes the teacher. The one considered unworthy becomes an example of faith. The disciples may have thought she needed to learn from them. Instead, they had something to learn from her. The miracle was not only that her daughter was healed. Perhaps another miracle was that God used the very person the disciples wanted to exclude to expose the narrowness of their own hearts.

This is precisely what Isaiah had foretold centuries earlier. When the Lord said, “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples” (Isaiah 56:7), He revealed that His family is always larger than we imagine. Saint Paul echoes that same conviction when he reminds the Romans that “God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he may be merciful to all” (Romans 11:32). No one has an exclusive claim on God’s mercy. It reaches farther than our categories, our prejudices, and our expectations.

One of the greatest temptations in the spiritual life is thinking that we already know through whom God can speak. Yet throughout the Bible, God continually surprises His people. He chooses a shepherd boy to defeat Goliath, a tax collector to become an apostle, a persecutor to become the Apostle to the Gentiles, and today, a Canaanite woman to show His own disciples what great faith looks like. Perhaps He still works that way. Sometimes the child who tests our patience teaches us tenderness. Sometimes an aging parent teaches us selfless love. Sometimes the parishioner who constantly challenges us reveals how impatient we have become. Sometimes the person who interrupts our plans is the very person God has sent to stretch our hearts. The people we are most tempted to send away may be the very people God is using to draw us closer to Him.

Perhaps the greatest miracle in today’s Gospel was not only that a daughter was healed from a distance but that through her persistent mother, Jesus also opened His disciples’ hearts—teaching them that faith, humility, and courage can be found in the most unexpected places. So, when someone interrupts our day this week, let us resist the temptation to think, “Send them away.” Instead, let us ask ourselves, “Could this person be the one God is using to teach me something about compassion, patience, or faith?”

When Fear Becomes the Narrator

Homily – Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

1 Kings 19:9a, 11–13a • Romans 9:1–5 • Matthew 14:22–33

9 August 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

A few years ago, a close friend’s mother went in for a routine check-up. When she was told, “We need to run a few more tests.”, fear immediately stepped in to fill the silence. She lost so much sleep obsessing over every minor ache, but worst of all, a late-night consultation with “Dr. Google” convinced her she had a life-threatening disease. After days of agonising suspense, her test results came back, and they were completely normal! She realised fear had forced her to suffer a tragedy that never actually existed—writing a dark story long before the real facts arrived.

I think that is exactly what today’s Scriptures reveal. St. Matthew recounts that “the boat… was being tossed by the waves, for the wind was against it.” (Matthew 14:24) The disciples had spent hours battling the storm. They were tired, anxious, and afraid. Then, “Jesus came toward them walking on the sea.” (Matthew 14:25) But instead of recognising Him, “they were terrified” and cried out, “It is a ghost!” (Matthew 14:26) They did not really see a ghost. They saw Jesus. The problem was their perception. Jesus had not changed. Their circumstances had. Their fear distorted their vision. They looked directly at the One who came to save them and mistook Him for someone to fear.

If we are honest, we have all experienced something similar. When our family suddenly faces financial difficulties, we start to think that God has abandoned us. A loved one becomes seriously ill, and we wonder whether our prayers still matter. We wait for biopsy results, laboratory reports, or another doctor’s appointment, and before the doctor can even say anything, fear has already whispered its verdict. We pray for a son or daughter who has drifted away from the faith, and after years of waiting, we begin to see them as a hopeless case. Without realising it, we stop interpreting our lives through faith and begin interpreting our lives through our fears.

That is why the First Reading offers a beautiful correction. The Lord tells Elijah, “Go outside and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord will be passing by.” (1 Kings 19:11) Then comes a great wind, an earthquake, and a fire. Elijah assumes God is there. Yet Scripture repeats, “The Lord was not in the wind… not in the earthquake… not in the fire” (1 Kings 19:11–12). Finally, there came “a tiny whispering sound” (1 Kings 19:12), and there Elijah recognised the Lord. How often we expect God to come in dramatic ways! We pray for an instant miracle, but instead God quietly gives us the strength to face another day. We ask Him to remove every burden, but instead He sends someone who quietly sits beside us to console us. We look for Him in the spectacular, while He continues to come to us in the gentle and the ordinary.

St. Paul, too, knew what it meant to carry a heavy heart because many of his own people had not accepted Christ. He admits, “I have great sorrow and constant anguish in my heart.” (Romans 9:2) His sorrow was real, but he continued to trust in God’s faithfulness even when he could not yet understand God’s plan. That is the wisdom of faith. It does not deny suffering. It simply refuses to allow suffering to have the final word. Perhaps this is the invitation of today’s readings. Let us not allow fear to become the narrator of our lives. Fear is real, but it is not always truthful. It magnifies our problems and makes God’s presence seem smaller than it really is.

My friend’s mother in our opening story allowed her fear to consume her as she waited for the results, causing her to carry a burden that was never hers to carry. In the same way, many of us are waiting for something today—healing, employment, family reconciliation, inner peace, or answers to prayers we have carried in our hearts for years. The waiting is real. The uncertainty is real. But today’s Gospel reminds us that while fear is busy making us imagine the worst, Christ is already walking toward us. He does not wait until the storm calms before approaching. He comes while the wind is still blowing and the waves are still crashing. He first calms our hearts before He calms the storm.

This Sunday, let us pray for the courage to look up in the storm. When life feels uncertain, the winds howl, and the night drags on, let us remember that Christ does not wait for the waters to become still before He draws near. Before He calms the storm around us, He grants the greater gift—His presence with us. Let us step out in faith, anchor our hearts in His presence, and hear Him speak into our deepest fears: “Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid!” (Matthew 14:27)

Before There Was Enough

Homily – Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

Isaiah 55:1–3 • Romans 8:35, 37–39 • Matthew 14:13–21

2 August 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Many years ago, while I was pursuing my postgraduate studies in London, I spent three months as chaplain in a hospice, temporarily filling in for a Jesuit priest who had gone on vacation. He had been caring for the dying for many years and needed time to rest and renew his strength. Looking back, I can honestly say that those three months profoundly changed my understanding of gratitude.

I spent many afternoons visiting patients who knew they were nearing the end of their earthly journey. I also became acquainted with several of the nurses and caregivers, some of whom were Filipinos. One day, I asked one of the nurses, “What have the dying taught you?” She paused before answering. “Father,” she said, “people rarely say, ‘I wish I had earned more money.’ They rarely talk about missed promotions or bigger houses. More often they say, ‘I wish I had appreciated what I already had.’ They remember ordinary dinners with the family, the voice of a husband or wife, the laughter of their children, Sunday mornings together, the days when they could walk without pain. Only as these blessings slipped away did they realize they had been living amid countless gifts.”

That conversation has remained with me because it revealed one of the deepest tendencies of the human heart: we postpone gratitude. We tell ourselves that we will be thankful when life gets better—when the medical results are reassuring, when the children are finally settled, when the bills are paid, when our worries disappear. We postpone gratitude to a future that never quite seems to arrive. In the meantime, we worry, we complain, and occupy ourselves by envying others who have what we want.

The Gospel today offers us a very different way of living. When the disciples saw the crowd, they immediately counted what was lacking. Five loaves and two fish could never feed thousands. Their calculation was correct, but it was not complete. Jesus looked at those same five loaves and two fish, raised His eyes to heaven, said the blessing, broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples (Matthew 14:19). It is an easily overlooked detail, yet it changes everything. Jesus gave thanks before there was enough. Not after, but before. The miracle did not begin when the bread was multiplied. It began when Jesus looked up to heaven and gave thanks. Most of us assume gratitude is the result of abundance. Jesus teaches that gratitude is the beginning of abundance.

Think of two people driving home after a long day at work. They are caught in the same traffic, exhausted by the same demands, and worried by the same rising prices. One spends the journey complaining about the delay, cursing other drivers on the road, and eventually arrives home hot-headed and grumpy. The other reaches home just as tired but says, “I’m grateful I still have work, people waiting for me at home, and another day that God has given me.” Nothing outside them has changed. The traffic is the same. The fatigue is the same. The burdens are the same. The only difference lies in the disposition of their hearts. Gratitude does not necessarily change our circumstances; it changes the way we see them and deal with them.

The First Reading speaks the same language of grace. Through the prophet Isaiah, the Lord says, “Come, all you who are thirsty… come… without money and without price” (Isaiah 55:1). God does not wait until we have enough before He blesses us. His generosity always comes first. Before we deserve anything, He opens His hands in generosity and invites us to receive. He gives without asking for payment. He only asks that we turn to Him, for only He can truly satisfy the deepest hunger of the human heart.

That is why, in our Second Reading, St. Paul proclaims his unwavering confidence in God’s love and providence. How can we not be grateful when nothing can separate us from God’s love? His answer is one of the most beautiful professions of faith in the New Testament: nothing—not hardship, not distress, not suffering, not even death—will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38–39). St. Paul reminds us that no trial we face will ever be faced apart from the love of Christ. With such a promise, how can our hearts fail to be grateful?

It is no coincidence that the heart of our worship is the Eucharist — a word that literally means “thanksgiving”. Every time we gather for Mass, we come with unfinished lives. Some carry illness, others bear grief, financial worries, family struggles, or prayers that remain unanswered. And yet, before anything changes, we gather and give thanks. That is not wishful thinking; it is an act of faith. It is choosing to trust, as Jesus did, that God’s love is already present even when His blessings have not yet fully unfolded.

I often think of those patients in the hospice. Many of them discovered too late that what they had called ordinary had been extraordinary all along. Let us not wait until the end of our lives to make the same discovery. Before asking God today for what is still missing, let us thank Him for what is already in our hands: the people who love us, the strength to begin another day, the faith that has brought us to this Eucharist, and the quiet assurance that nothing can separate us from His love. May God give us hearts that recognise and appreciate the blessings from His unparalleled generosity.

The Treasure Hidden in Plain Sight

Homily – Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

1 Kings 3:5, 7–12 • Romans 8:28–30 • Matthew 13:44–52

26 July 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

My college schoolmates in Iloilo are preparing for our Jade Jubilee next year. One of them has been posting old class photos on Facebook, asking us to correctly identify classmates and share stories. Most of the photos have been enhanced using Artificial Intelligence (AI), making faded faces and blurred details much clearer.

Back then, we easily fit into uniforms labelled… extra small!!! Someone commented, “We were so thin then!” Another replied, “Let’s just say we were slimmer.” Someone joked, “No, we were simply malnourished! We were out of budget!” A few proudly pointed out that they still had a full head of hair—including me! One classmate even commented that the AI version had given her a better nose than the one she remembered having! Reading through the comments was rather entertaining, and everyone laughed at all the details we had never noticed before.

As I continued scrolling through those restored photos, one realisation slowly dawned on me. The faces had always been there. The smiles had always been there. The friendship had always been there. AI did not create them. The photos were not telling a different story. We were simply seeing them with new eyes. I think that is one of the deepest insights of today’s gospel passage. Sometimes, we are oblivious to what is valuable right under our very noses! Maybe we are distracted. Maybe we are not looking closely. Maybe we do not know what we are looking for.

Jesus tells us about a man who discovers a treasure hidden in a field (Matthew 13:44). The treasure had always been there. Others had probably crossed the same field countless times without noticing anything unusual. The same is true of the merchant searching for fine pearls (Matthew 13:45–46). He had spent his life looking at pearls, yet one day he recognised one of incomparable value. Nothing changed about the treasure. Nothing changed about the pearl. The change happened in the people who finally recognised their worth.

This sheds new light on Solomon’s prayer in the First Reading. When God says, “Ask something of me, and I will give it to you!” (1 Kings 3:5), Solomon does not ask for wealth, power, or a long life. He asks for “an understanding heart” (1 Kings 3:9). In Hebrew, it literally means “a listening heart.” In essence, Solomon asks God for the ability to see life the way God sees it. Perhaps that is the Bible’s definition of wisdom? We usually think wisdom means knowing more. The Scriptures, however, suggest something deeper. Wisdom is actually seeing differently. It is seeing value in what has been in front of us all along.

That is not as easy as it sounds. We often discover the value of our parents only after they are gone. We appreciate good health only after we have contracted an illness. We treasure faithful friends only after distance has made it difficult to reconnect or death has put us beyond reconciliation. Even our faith can become so familiar that we stop noticing its value. We come to the same church, hear the same Scriptures, receive the same Eucharist, and, little by little, what is extraordinary begins to feel ordinary.

St. Paul speaks of that same wisdom when he says, “We know that all things work for good for those who love God.” (Romans 8:28) He is not saying that every experience is pleasant or pleasurable. There are experiences none of us would ever choose—a serious illness, the loss of someone we love, a broken relationship, a failed plan, or losing a job. We would never call those things “good”. Yet years later, we sometimes recognise that God was quietly shaping us through them. Perhaps He was strengthening us or preparing us for something else down the road. Looking back, we see His providence where we once saw only pain.

Instead of asking God to “give us more,” let our prayer be, “Lord, give me a listening heart. Give me new eyes. Do not allow me to discover the value of Your gifts only after I have lost them. Do not let me discover the gift of my parents only after they are gone. Do not let me discover the blessing of good health only after I fall sick. Do not let me discover the beauty of Sunday Mass only when I can no longer come. Instead, teach me to recognise Your treasures while they are still before me and within my reach.”

Those restored class photos did not change the past. They simply reminded us of what had always been there. Artificial Intelligence can sharpen blurry photographs, but only God’s grace can sharpen our vision of what truly matters. May God grant us the wisdom Solomon prayed for—a listening heart, a heart that finally sees. After all, the miracle in the Gospel is not that there was a treasure hidden in the field. The miracle was that someone finally recognised it.

The Pearl of Great Price is a painting by Daniel Bonnell

Still Under Construction

Homily: Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

Wisdom 12:13, 16-19 • Romans 8:26-27 • Matthew 13:24-43

19 July 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Have we ever noticed how, despite the challenges of our economy, construction seems to be everywhere? Walk through almost any neighbourhood and we will find a building going up—a condominium, an office, or a new home. We see exposed steel bars, unfinished walls, piles of hollow blocks, and workers going about their tasks. It does not look beautiful at all. In fact, all we really see is mess. But anyone who might go up to the architect and say, “This building is rather ugly,” would be reminded that he/she were judging too soon because the building is not finished yet. The building is not the problem. The problem is that we are judging it before it is finished.

I think we sometimes do the same thing with people—and even with ourselves. Sometimes we are quick to say, “There is no hope for that person anymore. He will never change. A parent says, “My son has not been to Mass in years. I don’t think he will ever come back.” A husband or wife says, “We have been trying to fix our marriage, but nothing seems to change.” Someone who keeps struggling with the same weakness says, “I have confessed this sin so many times. I will never overcome it.” Sometimes the harshest judge we face is not another person but ourselves. We sigh in exasperation and tell ourselves, “This is just who I am. I will never be better.”

Today’s readings invite us to see as God sees. In the Gospel, the servants discover weeds growing among the wheat. Their reaction is immediate: “Do you want us to go and pull them up?” (Matthew 13:28). Honestly, that is probably what most of us would do. If there is a problem, we want an immediate fix. If there are weeds, we pull them out. Sounds logical, right? Nevertheless, the master answers, “No… let them grow together until harvest” (Matthew 13:29-30). He explains that pulling out the weeds too soon could also uproot the wheat. Jesus is speaking about the mystery of good and evil existing side by side until the final judgment. However, the same wisdom also applies to our own lives. God gives us time, not because He tolerates evil, but because His mercy always leaves room for repentance. The servants see the weeds. The master sees the wheat. The servants see the present. The master sees the harvest. We tend to see what is wrong; God sees what can still become right.

The First Reading helps us understand why. In the Book of Wisdom, we hear these words about God: “Though you are master of might, you judge with clemency” (Wisdom 12:18). What a beautiful insight into the heart of God. We often think that power means acting quickly, demanding immediate results, or punishing without delay. Moreover, God’s greatness is shown in His patience. Patience is not weakness. It is confidence that goodness can still grow. Because God is almighty, He can afford to be patient. Because He sees the whole picture, He can give people another chance. As the reading says, He gives His people “good ground for hope” because He allows time for repentance (Wisdom 12:19).

Then St. Paul gives us another comforting truth. He writes, “We do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes with inexpressible groanings” (Romans 8:26). Have we ever been so tired, so worried, or so heartbroken that we could not even find the words to pray? Perhaps all we could do was sigh… or cry… or simply sit in silence. St. Paul reminds us that even then, God is not absent. The Holy Spirit is already praying within us. Even when we think nothing is happening, God is quietly at work.

Therefore the challenge today is not simply to be patient. It is to trust God’s timing. It is to trust that He is still building what seems unfinished. It is to trust that He is still growing the wheat, even when the weeds seem more obvious. Thus, if you have been praying for a son or daughter who has drifted away from the faith, don’t stop praying. If you are trying to rebuild trust in your family, don’t give up too soon. If we are struggling to overcome a habit or a sin and feel discouraged because progress is slow, we should not lose hope. God’s work is often quiet before it becomes visible. Just because we cannot yet see the harvest does not mean nothing is growing. Just because the building looks unfinished does not mean the architect has abandoned it.

My dear brothers and sisters, are we not all works-in-progress? The building is still under construction. The wheat is still growing. The Holy Spirit is still praying. We do not pass final judgment on a life that God has not yet finished shaping. We should not give up on the people God has not given up on. And we should not lose hope in ourselves, because God certainly has not lost hope in us. While we worry about the weeds, God is quietly growing the wheat. And while we think the building is unfinished, the Divine Architect is still at work!

How Is the Weather of Your Heart?

Homily: Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

Isaiah 55:10–11; Romans 8:18–23; Matthew 13:1–23

12 July 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

As the rainy season begins, many of us find ourselves paying closer attention to the weather. We are fortunate that the recent typhoon changed course, staying offshore and sparing us from a potentially devastating direct landfall. Over the years, we have become weather watchers. In the past, we relied on Pagasa’s weather forecast. However, today, we have so many sources of information because of the internet. With the increasing occurrence of flash floods, it is always wise to ask, “Uulan ba ngayon?” (“Is it going to rain?”) before leaving home.Apart from looking up at the sky, we also check our phones for the latest news or the weather forecast.

Today’s Gospel presents the Parable of the Sower. We are often asked to reflect on what type of soil we are and whether we can sustain the growth of the seed, which is God’s Word. However, today I invite you to pay attention to another element that determines how well a seed or a plant can grow—the weather. Today we must also look at the weather inside US to see whether it will help God’s Word take root in our hearts.

Usually, when we hear the Parable of the Sower, we ask, “Which kind of soil am I? Dry? Rocky? Thorny?” Hopefully, we already know the answer to that. However, I believe the better question is, “How is the weather of my heart right now?”The reason is simple: even the best soil struggles when the weather is harsh. Even rich, fertile land can suffer from drought or flooding.

Some days our hearts are bright and open. We wake up grateful, we are patient with others, and God’s Word seems to speak directly to us. But there are other days, after a sleepless night, an argument at home, disappointing news, or worries about our family, our health, or our finances, the weather changes. We come to Mass and hear the same readings, but nothing seems to sink in—not because God has stopped speaking, but because there is a storm inside us.

Notice that Jesus never labels people; He describes conditions. Sometimes our hearts become like the hardened path because we have been hurt and have built walls around ourselves. Sometimes they are rocky—we are inspired for a while, but our enthusiasm fades when life becomes difficult. Sometimes they are full of thorns—not because we are bad people, but because our lives have become crowded with worries and responsibilities. The good news is that the soil can change. Hearts can change. The weather can change.

The First Reading is very consoling to us. Isaiah says that just as the rain and snow come down from heaven and water the earth, so God’s Word never returns without accomplishing its purpose (Is 55:10–11). Rain does not argue with dry ground or complain that the soil is hard. It simply keeps falling. That is how God’s grace works. Every Sunday, every Mass, every prayer, and every page of Scripture, God keeps sending His Word. He does not wait until the weather of our hearts is perfect before He comes to us.

Then St. Paul reminds us that all creation is groaning in labour pains (Rom 8:22–23). Labour pains are painful, but they are also a sign that new life is on the way. Brothers and sisters, maybe the storms in our lives are not meant to destroy us, but to shape us. They may be difficult and overwhelming, but if we stand our ground and persevere, we will emerge stronger and wiser. Often, God does His deepest work not after the storm, but in the midst of it.

So, before we leave this church, let us ask ourselves a gentler and more honest question: “Lord, what is the weather of my heart today?” Let us pray: When my heart feels parched, send the rain of Your grace. When life is stormy, give me the faith to believe that You are still leading me. The climate of our lives may change, but God’s love remains constant, quietly nourishing us day after day, allowing the Word He has planted to grow slowly but steadily, and bringing forth fruit in its own time.

Beckie J. Neff, Artist

We’re Not Carrying It Alone

Homily: Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

Zechariah 9:9–10; Romans 8:9, 11–13; Matthew 11:25–30

5 July 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

When someone asks us, “Kumusta ka?” (How are you?), we often hear the same answers: “Busy.” “Pagod” (Tired). Or perhaps the most common response: “I’m okay.” But sometimes, “I’m okay” simply means, “I don’t want to talk about it.” We smile, go to work, meet our deadlines, take care of our families, and fulfill our responsibilities. On the outside, we appear normal, but inside, we carry burdens that no one else can see. It’s not just our bodies that grow weary; at times, our souls grow weary as well.

That is why Jesus’ invitation in today’s Gospel is so deeply consoling: “Come to me, all you who labour and are burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Jesus offers not an instant resolution to our problems but the grace of respite—the strength and peace to keep going. He does not promise that all our problems will disappear or that life will suddenly become easy. The deadlines remain daunting. The bills need to be paid. Unresolved family concerns continue to fester. The cross is not taken away. What Jesus promises is rest that refreshes, enabling us to bear our burdens. It is the kind of peace that the world cannot give because it comes from knowing that we do not suffer alone.

The First Reading helps us understand why. The prophet Zechariah proclaims, “Behold: your king shall come to you; a just saviour is he, humble, and riding on a donkey” (Zechariah 9:9). Notice that the promised King does not arrive on a horse but on a humble donkey. Kings normally entered cities on powerful war horses as symbols of conquest. Jesus deliberately chooses a humble donkey, revealing that His kingdom is built not on domination but on humility and peace. The donkey bears ordinary people—even the poor—and is capable of carrying heavy loads over long distances. It may be small, but it is mighty in its own way. The world admires people who exude strength—who seem to have everything under control, who never show weakness, and who never ask for help. Jesus reveals a different kind of strength. He is telling us that we do not always have to appear as though we have everything together. Weariness is normal. It is not a sign of failure or a reason to give up. Christ shows us that true strength is found in humility, and humility means learning to trust in God, especially when life is difficult and the crushing weight of our problems feels suffocating.

St. Paul echoes the same truth when he reminds us that we are called to live not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit (Romans 8:9, 11–13). When we rely only on ourselves, we begin to live as though everything depends on our own strength. We tell ourselves, “Everything depends on me. I have to solve every problem. I have to keep everything together.” But a life in the Spirit humbly acknowledges our dependence on God as we pray, “Lord, I can’t carry this by myself anymore.”

That is why Jesus says, “Take my yoke upon you” (Matthew 11:29). A yoke was ordinarily used to join two animals so they could carry a load side by side. It is an image of shared labour, not solitary struggle. So even if Jesus does not promise to remove the burden, we can be assured that He carries it with us. The heaviest burden we likely carry is actually not our work or our responsibilities but the feeling that we carry the weight of the world by ourselves. We feel like everything depends on us. But it doesn’t. We have a God who walks beside us. Christ does not simply stand at a distance telling us to keep going. He steps beside us and helps us bear the heavier end of the load.

There is a beautiful saying I chanced upon on Facebook: “When you leave everything in God’s hands, you will start seeing God’s hand in everything.” Isn’t that what today’s Gospel is teaching us? Rest begins when we finally entrust our concerns to the Lord. We may still answer, “I’m tired,” or even, “I’m not okay yet.” But we can also say with conviction, “I’m not alone. Christ is with me.” It is when we stop trying to force our own outcomes that we open our eyes to see how perfectly things are already being orchestrated for us. We begin to see that nothing is random; the blessings, the protection, and even the detours and delays are God’s purposeful hand working for our good.

When Christ walks beside us, our circumstances may not change overnight, but our hearts surely do. Our burdens may remain, but they no longer define us, because Christ walks beside us. Peace is not the absence of burdens; it is the certainty that we never carry them alone. And when we surrender everything to Him, His promise remains true: “You will find rest for yourselves” (Matthew 11:29).

Finding Life by Losing It

Homily: Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

2 Kings 4:8-11, 14-16a; Romans 6:3-4, 8-11; Matthew 10:37-42

28 June 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

You who are parents know what it is like to sacrifice sleep just to care for a sick child. Many mothers and fathers willingly set aside their own preferences because what matters most is the happiness and well-being of their families. A true friend patiently listens to someone going through a difficult time or quietly serves without expecting recognition.

From the outside, these people seem to be giving something away—time, comfort, energy, even themselves. Yet somehow, they end up richer, more fulfilled, and more alive. Isn’t it true that some of the happiest people are not those who have the most, but those who give the most?

That is the paradox at the heart of today’s readings. Jesus says, “Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 10:39). At first, those words sound contradictory. How can losing our life lead to finding it? Yet the Scriptures today show us that this is exactly how God’s grace works.

In the First Reading, the Shunammite woman notices that Elisha is a holy man of God and decides to welcome him into her home. More than that, she prepares a room for him so that he will always have a place to stay (cf. 2 Kings 4:8-10). She was not looking for recognition or reward. She simply made room for another person. And yet, through that generosity, she received a blessing she never expected. Elisha promised that she would embrace a son within a year. (2 Kings 4:16)

There is a lesson here for all of us. We often think that happiness comes from accumulating more—more possessions, more success, more control. But God’s way is different. We discover life when we make room for others. A heart occupied only with itself eventually becomes cramped and lonely. A heart open to others becomes a place where God can work wonders.

The same pattern appears in the Second Reading. St. Paul reminds us that through baptism we were united with Christ in His death and resurrection. He writes, “We were indeed buried with him through baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead… we too might live in newness of life.” (Romans 6:4) This burial with Christ is not a passive ending, but an active clearing away of our old, broken selves to make room for something greater. By stepping out of that spiritual grave, we are empowered to walk through the world with a restored purpose, radiating the hope and grace of His eternal life.

In other words, the Christian life always involves letting something die. We cannot experience the new life of Christ while holding tightly to the old self. Pride, selfishness, bitterness, resentment, and sin must gradually give way to grace. Anyone who has tried to forgive a deep hurt knows this struggle. Part of us wants to cling to the wound. But when we finally let go, we often discover a freedom we did not have before. Something dies, but something better is born. We find life when we let go of the old self.

This brings us to the challenging words of Jesus in the Gospel. “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.” (Matthew 10:37) Jesus is not telling us to love our families less. Rather, He is asking us to place Him first. Every important love involves sacrifice. Parents know this. Married couples know this. Priests and religious know this. If something truly matters, it demands something from us. That is why Jesus continues, “Whoever does not take up his cross and follow after me is not worthy of me.” (Matthew 10:38) To follow Christ means allowing Him to shape our decisions, our priorities, and our way of living. It means trusting that His way leads to life even when it asks something difficult of us.

The three readings point to the same truth. We find life when we make room for others. We find life when we let go of the old self. We find life when we put Christ first. The world tells us that fulfillment comes from protecting ourselves, promoting ourselves, and holding tightly to what we have. Jesus teaches the opposite. Life grows when it is shared. Love deepens when it is given away. Faith becomes real when it costs something.

Our Gospel paradox remains true: “Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 10:39). In God’s kingdom, the life we cling to is often the life we lose. But the life we offer to God in love, trust, and service is the life we truly find!

Whose Voice Will We Trust?

Homily: Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)

Jeremiah 20:10-13; Romans 5:12-15; Matthew 10:26-33

21 June 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Whenever I had to make major decisions in life, Mama always gave me sound advice. Even though she has already passed away, I still seem to hear her voice whenever I face difficulties or important choices. Her words continue to guide me.

Can you relate to that? Who is the voice of reason in your life? Whose voice do you trust when life becomes confusing or difficult?

Today, many voices influence our thoughts and feelings, some more than others. The voice of fear is often loud. It says, “What if you fail?” “What if people reject you?” “What if things do not work out?” The voice of criticism can be just as loud: “You are simply not enough.” “You are not very good.” The voice of bad news and self-doubt can also be similarly loud. Many of us are surrounded by these voices. We hear them in conversations, on social media, in the news, and sometimes even in our own minds.

In the First Reading, Jeremiah hears people whispering against him. They are waiting for him to make a mistake. They are hoping to see him fall. He describes it as “terror on every side” (Jeremiah 20:10). In those moments he was deafened by the voice of fear. Thankfully, Jeremiah also hears another voice. In the midst of all the accusations and threats, he declares: “The Lord is with me, like a mighty champion” (Jeremiah 20:11). His enemies were still there. His problems had not disappeared. What changed was the voice he chose to trust.

In the Gospel, Jesus repeatedly tells His disciples, “Do not be afraid” (Matthew 10:26, 28, 31). He knows that they will face opposition and rejection. Yet He wants them to remember that fear does not tell the whole story—

FEAR says, “You are alone.”

FAITH says, “The Lord is with you.”

FEAR says, “You are not enough.”

FAITH says, “Even the hairs of your head have all been counted” (Matthew 10:30).

FEAR says, “You do not matter.”

FAITH says, “You are worth more than many sparrows” (Matthew 10:31).

Jesus knew that the world would meet His disciples with such opposition that any ordinary person would easily give in to fear and doubt. However, He assures them that they need to have faith that God will carry them through.

Moreover, in the Second Reading, St. Paul reminds us that while sin entered the world through Adam, God’s grace entered the world through Jesus Christ and is even greater (Romans 5:15). In other words, God’s grace is always bigger than our failures, our weaknesses, and our fears. Our worst mistakes do not have the power to defeat God’s love for us. While sin is a reality we all face, Christ’s love and mercy completely cancel the power of sin over our lives. We no longer have to live as captives to our past or our shortcomings. With God’s grace, our failures will never have the final say.

Perhaps the message we need to hear today is that not every voice deserves our trust; not every voice deserves a place in our hearts. The voice of fear is often the loudest voice, but the loudest voice is not always the truest voice. The truest voice is God’s voice.

God’s voice is often quieter. It comes through prayer, through Scripture, through the encouragement of good people, through the gentle assurance of the Holy Spirit. It is only God’s voice that speaks the truth. It is God’s voice that reminds us of who we really are.

Thus, whenever fear tells us that we are alone, unwanted, or incapable, let us remember the words of Jesus: “Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows.” (Matthew 10:31)

We will hear many voices every day. The real question is: Which voice will we believe? May we choose the voice of faith. May we choose the voice of Christ. And may that voice be the one that guides our lives!