Can We Handle Having More?

Homily: Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time – Year A

Isaiah 25:6–10a / Philippians 4:12–14, 19–20 / Matthew 22:1–14

11 October 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

We are usually very good at dealing with problems. When money is tight, we know how to adjust. When we have little energy left for work, we find a way to cope. When we try to make the most of our limited time to run errands, we make a “To-Do” list—sometimes a very long one—and tell ourselves, “Just get through this week.” We tend to understand the challenge of having too little. Sanay tayong dumiskarte sa kakulangan—kulang sa budget, kulang sa oras, kulang sa kakayahan, at iba pa. (We are used to finding ways to make things work despite our limitations—whether it is a tight budget, lack of time, or limited skills.) What we do not talk about as much is the challenge of having too much, do you not agree?

St. Paul’s words in today’s Second Reading caught my attention: “I have learned how to live with humble means, and I have learned how to live with abundance” (Philippians 4:12). We usually think the spiritual challenge is learning how to live with less. Paul reminds us that learning how to live with more can be equally challenging. That is not as easy as it sounds. We have heard stories like this before—a financially struggling individual wins big in the lottery only to lose everything within five years due to unwise investments, failed businesses, extravagant spending, and the proverbial “balato” (a share of one’s winnings) given to friends, relatives, and even long-lost relatives who suddenly reappear.

Some people survive poverty but lose their way in prosperity. Others can handle failure but struggle with success. We may know how to pray when we desperately need something, but when life is going well, prayer can quietly move down our list of priorities. When there is little, we notice every blessing. When there is plenty, we may take those blessings for granted. Thus, the test of faith is not only what we do when we have nothing, but also what happens to us when we have everything. What does abundance do to us? Does it make us grateful or entitled? Generous or possessive? Does having more enlarge our hearts—or simply increase our desires? Paul says, “I have learned.” He had to learn how to live with little and with abundance. This reminds us that abundance is not simply something we enjoy. It is something we must learn to manage wisely.

Jesus illustrates this in today’s gospel passage. He compares the Kingdom of Heaven to a king who prepares a wedding banquet for his son: “The kingdom of heaven may be likened to a king who gave a wedding feast for his son” (Matthew 22:2). The table is set. The food is prepared. There is more than enough. Yet the invited guests refuse to come. One goes to his farm, another to his business (Matthew 22:3–5). Now, we should not simply assume that they are all bad people. Some may have been preoccupied with their own affairs. They have farms, businesses, schedules, and responsibilities. Their lives are full. That may be the subtle danger of abundance: we can become so preoccupied with what we have that we lose our hunger. Not hunger for food, but hunger for God, for meaning, for gratitude, and for something beyond ourselves.

When life is difficult, we instinctively turn to God. When life becomes comfortable, we can start thinking, “I can handle this on my own.” We may still believe in God, but we no longer feel that we need Him as much. Yet the abundance God gives us is never meant solely for our comfort. Isaiah describes God’s kingdom as a great feast: “The Lord of hosts will provide for all peoples a feast of rich food and choice wines” (Isaiah 25:6). This is followed by a beautiful promise: “The Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces” (Isaiah 25:8). God’s abundance is not merely about material possessions. It is about the fullness of life, deeper communion, greater joy, and an increased capacity to give. This transforms the way we view our blessings. If we have more time, we can devote some of it to service. If we have more resources, we can share them with those in need. If we have influence, we can use it to uplift the less fortunate. If we have experienced success, we can use it to create opportunities for someone else. The question is not simply how much we have, but who we are becoming through what we have received.

That is the distinction St. Paul makes. He does not say that having little necessarily makes us holy, nor that having much inevitably leads us astray. He learned to live faithfully in both circumstances. His situation changed, but his faith remained steadfast. That is why he can say, “I know how to live with humble means, and I know how to live with abundance” (Philippians 4:12), and ultimately declare, “I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). The goal, then, is neither to have less nor to accumulate more for its own sake. The goal is spiritual freedom—to receive what God gives without being enslaved by it, to enjoy blessings without developing a sense of entitlement, and to find contentment without the constant desire for more.

The Eucharist is a beautiful expression of Christian abundance. God prepares a table for us. We come with our successes and failures, our fullness and emptiness, our answered prayers and unanswered questions. And God simply invites us, “Come.” What we receive at this table is not meant to remain with us alone. We receive Christ so that our own lives can become more like His: bread broken, life shared, love given.

True faith reveals itself when abundance leads to greater generosity rather than self-indulgence. Today, then, let us pray: “Lord, teach me how to live with what You give me. Teach me to live with little without losing hope. Teach me to live with much without losing humility. Teach me to receive blessings without forgetting the One who blesses. And teach me to turn what I have received into a blessing for someone else.”

The Rosary: A School of Attention

Solemnity of Our Lady of the Rosary of La Naval de Manila (Proper to the Diocese of Cubao)

Zechariah 2:14–17 / Acts 1:12–14 / Luke 1:26–38

11 October 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Have you ever talked to someone while checking your phone, watched television while scrolling through Facebook, or mentally planned your menu for the week while attending Mass? We live in a time when information is at our fingertips and being connected has become the norm, yet we seem to have so much difficulty paying attention. Sometimes, we may be physically present, even as our minds wander elsewhere. “Nandito ang katawan, pero nag-outing na ang isip.”

Perhaps that is one reason why we have such difficulty making time for prayer. We want prayer to be quick. “Lord, ito po ang problema ko. (Lord, this is my problem.) Please fix it. Thank you very much. Amen.” We present our concerns to God in a rush—and we also expect Him to provide the solution ASAP, preferably before we even leave the church. Where, then, does that leave the rosary? We recite a seemingly endless series of Hail Marys—Hail Mary… Hail Mary… Hail Mary… and twenty minutes later, we start wondering, “Ilang Hail Mary pa ba?” It can feel so repetitive that our minds easily wander while our mouths continue to say the words. Perhaps that is precisely the point. Maybe the Rosary is a school of attention. It teaches the heart to stay.

In the First Reading, Zechariah gives us this beautiful promise from God: “Sing and rejoice, O daughter Zion! … For here I am coming to dwell among you” (Zechariah 2:14). Clearly, God has promised to dwell among His people. So, in times of distress, when we feel that He has abandoned us, it may not be that God has disappeared, but that we have become too distracted to notice that He is in our midst. In such moments, it is important to pause, be still, and quiet ourselves in prayer. It is in these moments of stillness that our hearts become more aware of the presence of the Almighty. Let us now turn to the disciples in the Second Reading, from the Acts of the Apostles. After Jesus ascended into heaven, they returned to Jerusalem and “devoted themselves with one accord to prayer” (Acts 1:14). They did not know exactly what was going to happen next. They were waiting for the Holy Spirit. So, what did they do? They stayed. They prayed. They waited together. Mary was also there. This is important because by looking to Mary, we learn not only how to pray, but also how to remain attentive to God.

At the Annunciation, Mary receives a message that will completely change her life. She asks, “How can this be?” (Luke 1:34). She does not have everything figured out. She does not receive a five-year plan from God. Instead, she receives an invitation to trust. And she responds, “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). Mary knew how to stop, listen, ponder, and respond. That is precisely what the rosary teaches us, and why we are encouraged to pray it. Mind you, the Rosary is not a magic spell. God is not obliged to grant our requests simply because we have uttered so many words in prayer. Jesus Himself warns against prayer that becomes “babbling” or empty repetition (Matthew 6:7). When we pray the Rosary, however, repetition takes on a different meaning. We repeat the words so that the mysteries we contemplate can take deeper root in our hearts. When we pray, “Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,” the prayer keeps bringing us back to one name: JESUS. That is why we say the Rosary is Marian, but it is profoundly Christ-centered. We contemplate the Annunciation, the Nativity, the Transfiguration, the Cross, the Resurrection, and Pentecost. We walk through the life of Jesus with Mary.

Perhaps that is why the Rosary remains so powerful in Filipino Catholic life. Sa bahay, sa jeep, sa biyahe, sa ospital, sa lamay, bago ang exam, bago ang operasyon, kapag may problema ang pamilya, rosaryo ang dinarasal ng mananampalataya. (At home, in a jeepney, while traveling, in the hospital, at a wake, before an exam, before an operation, or whenever the family is facing a problem, the Rosary is the prayer that the faithful turn to.) Sometimes, when we are at a loss for words, we simply take up the Rosary and begin: Our Father… Hail Mary… Glory be… And we believe that God listens. The problem may not immediately disappear. The situation may not suddenly change. Yet we begin to change. Our hearts become quieter. Fear becomes prayer. Anxiety becomes trust. And slowly, we remember: Hindi pala tayo nag-iisa. Kasama natin ang Diyos. (We are never alone. God is with us.) That is the power of prayer. Prayer does not always change the situation immediately. Sometimes, it changes the person facing that situation. And Mary teaches us how to do that. She teaches us to stay when we do not understand, to wait when we do not know what comes next, and to keep our hearts attentive to God.

So today, as the faithful of Quezon City celebrate the Solemnity of Our Patroness, Our Lady of the Rosary of La Naval de Manila, let us renew our recourse to the Rosary not merely as a traditional devotion, but as a way of becoming more attentive—to God, to one another, and even to what is happening inside our own hearts. Let us remember that we do not pray the Rosary to get lost in Mary. Rather, we pray it with Mary so that, amid all the noise and distractions of our lives, we can find our way back to Jesus.

Entrusted, Not Owned

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

Isaiah 5:1–7 / Philippians 4:6–9 / Matthew 21:33–43

4 October 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

I recently came across several memes about indebtedness. The funniest one shows the POV of a very frustrated unpaid lender: “Nangakong sa katapusan magbabayad ng utang… ’yun pala, sa katapusan ng mundo magbabayad.” (“Promised to pay the debt at the end of the month… turns out, he meant at the end of the world.”) 😄

There is something humbling about borrowing money. When we need to borrow, we suddenly become a little less proud. We lower our voice, choose our words carefully, and say, “Can I borrow a little?” We say “a little,” but we know exactly how much we need! Then we add the magic words: “I promise I’ll pay you back.” But when the due date comes, somehow the salary is late, an unexpected expense appears, and we suddenly discover another favorite phrase: “Can I have a little more time?” We reassure the lender, “I haven’t forgotten!”—while secretly wishing they had!

There is a similar tension in today’s Gospel. Jesus tells us about a landowner who planted a vineyard, prepared everything, and entrusted it to tenants. They could work in it. They could enjoy its harvest. They could benefit from it. But there was one thing that could never change: the vineyard did not belong to them. Eventually, the owner came looking for its fruit. The tragedy was that the tenants had forgotten the difference between being entrusted with something and owning it. They began to act as if the vineyard belonged to them. And when the owner sent his servants—and finally his son—they resisted the very one who had the right to ask for its fruit.

Perhaps that is where this Gospel becomes uncomfortable for us. We may not be violent tenants, but we can become possessive ones. We say, “My money. My house. My plans. My position. My ministry. My children. My time. My life.” There is nothing wrong with saying “my.” But faith reminds us that behind every “my” is a deeper truth: everything we have and everything we enjoy has been entrusted to us by God. Our life is entrusted to us. Our abilities are entrusted to us. Our relationships are entrusted to us. Our work and responsibilities are entrusted to us. Even our ministry is entrusted to us.

The First Reading from Isaiah tells us, “My friend had a vineyard on a fertile hillside; he spaded it, cleared it of stones, and planted the choicest vines” (Isaiah 5:1–2). God had done everything to prepare the vineyard. And then He asks, “What more was there to do for my vineyard that I had not done?” (Isaiah 5:4). That question is worth thinking about: What indeed has God not done for us, that we find ourselves blessed with so much that makes us happy, fulfilled, useful, important, and loved? And what have we done with what He has given us?

We can have a beautiful house but fail to make it a peaceful home. We can achieve success but leave broken people behind us. We can have authority but forget to serve. We can be active in church and still produce very little patience, forgiveness, kindness, or compassion. Remember, God is not simply looking at what we possess. He is looking for fruit. Isaiah says, “He looked for justice… for righteousness” (Isaiah 5:7). God wants the gifts He has entrusted to us to bear fruit—fruit blesses other people.

Sometimes, we hold on too tightly to things we were never meant to own forever, and this can become a source of so much anxiety. A position will end. Children will grow up. Responsibilities will change. Possessions will be left behind. And one day, even this life will be returned to God. Perhaps this is why St. Paul tells us today, “Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God” (Philippians 4:6). We can loosen our grip because everything is ultimately in God’s hands.

The Owner will come for the vineyard. And perhaps the most important question will not be, “How much did I possess?” but “What did I do with what I was given?” Did our money lead us to become generous? Did our home become a place of peace? Did our position make us servant leaders? Did our faith make us compassionate? Did our life become a blessing? In the end, we are not owners. We are stewards. We do not keep anything forever. We simply have to be faithful and fruitful while it is in our hands.

Today, instead of simply saying, “This is mine,” perhaps we can learn to say, “Lord, thank You for entrusting this to me.”

My family—entrusted to me.

My work—entrusted to me.

My ministry—entrusted to me.

My abilities—entrusted to me.

My time—entrusted to me.

My life and everything in it—entrusted to me.

And when the Owner finally comes, may we not have to say, “Lord, can I have a little more time?” May we simply be able to say, “Lord, what You entrusted to me, I have made fruitful.”

We Are More Than Our Past

Twenty-Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time – Year A

Ezekiel 18:25–28 | Philippians 2:1–11 | Matthew 21:28–32

27 September 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

School reunions and alumni homecomings bring back many memories. Scrolling through old pictures on social media, you see so many young, fresh faces, skinny but agile bodies, and heads with thick, shiny hair. Then, at the party, we see classmates we may not have seen for years, some having doubled their weight and others sporting less hair on their heads—now bearing titles such as Dr., Atty., Prof., Mrs., Sr., and Fr.! Each batch is also bound to have that ugly duckling who has become a swan. At one such reunion, the attendees were shocked when a classmate who had always been late, gotten into all sorts of trouble, and done poorly in math showed up wearing the distinguished uniform of a commercial airline pilot. Everyone wondered if it was really him, and some joked that they would think twice before boarding a plane he was flying. We may be happy to see how people have changed and yet have difficulty believing that certain people can really change.

We have a tendency to freeze people in time, remembering the foolish or irresponsible things they did ten, twenty, even thirty years ago, and, without realizing it, continue to relate to them as we remember them. Conversely, we tend to be much more generous with ourselves. When we make a mistake, we say, “I was going through a difficult time.” When someone else makes a mistake, we say, “What did you expect? That’s the way he has always been.” Those who know this experience all too well are formerly incarcerated persons. In my ministry with Persons Deprived of Liberty (PDL), I have seen how hard it can be for them to find a decent job after they are released—and how much harder it can be to convince others that they are more than the crime for which they served time. For ourselves, we have explanations. For others, we have labels. We have a past; they have a record.

That is precisely what makes today’s Gospel so challenging. Jesus tells us about two sons. When the father asks the first son to work in the vineyard, he says, “No,” but later changes his mind and goes to work. The second says, “Yes, sir,” but does not go (Matthew 21:28–30). We might ask who gave the father the better answer, but the real lesson for today is that God is not just interested in what we say but in what we do. He also sees what we can yet become. Perhaps you have seen a vlogger say or do something foolish or even reprehensible on a channel. Netizens criticize or make fun of it, and before you know it, the video has gone viral. We all know that such a video can stay on the internet forever, and sadly, that person may be remembered that way for years—or at least until another scandalous video comes along. We ought to be grateful that God does not see us that way. Ours is a God not just of second chances but of countless chances. He never tires of calling us to become the persons He created us to be.

This truth becomes even more evident as the gospel passage continues, and Jesus makes a shocking declaration to the religious leaders: tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the Kingdom of God before them (Matthew 21:31). Why? Because although they were considered sinners, they heard the call of God, believed, and changed their lives. Their past was real. Their failures were real. But their past was not the end of their story. This is also the heart of the First Reading, where God says through the prophet Ezekiel that when a wicked person turns away from sin and does what is right, “he shall surely live” (Ezekiel 18:27–28). Notice something important: God does not pretend that the person’s past never happened. God simply refuses to let the past have the final word.

I believe that is something we need to hear—not only about other people, but also about ourselves. There may be people in our lives whom we have already given up on: “He will never change.” “She has always been like that.” “I know that person. I know her history.” We may know someone’s history, but we cannot fully know how God is working in that person’s heart today. A person can repent. A person can grow. A person can change. A person can begin again. And sometimes conversion is not dramatic. Sometimes it happens quietly—one decision at a time, one apology, one act of kindness, one return to prayer, one attempt to repair what has been broken.

St. Paul, in our Second Reading, gives us the attitude we need: “Have among yourselves the same attitude that is also yours in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 2:5). And what was Christ’s attitude? Humility. Jesus did not use His position to place Himself above others. He “emptied himself” and “took the form of a servant” (Philippians 2:7). Perhaps that is what humility can mean for us: to admit that we do not know the whole story of another person. We may know the chapter we witnessed, but God knows the whole story. We may know what they did, but God sees who they are becoming.

Sometimes, the person we think will never change is already changing—and we simply fail to see it. So the question is not only, “Can this person change?” but also, “Can I see them differently?” Can we stop defining people by the worst mistake they have made and give them room to become who God is calling them to be? Brothers and sisters, God does not reduce us to our worst chapter. God sees what we can still become through His grace. And thank God for that—because if God judged us only by our past, none of us would be standing here today.

Perhaps this is how we are called to encounter one another: with new eyes—not judging people by who they once were, but seeing who they are becoming. God is not finished with them—and He is not finished with us either. Perhaps that is the humility Christ asks of us: to leave room for God to surprise us with what His grace can do. If God gives us the grace to begin again, who are we to tell others that their story is over?

The Sting of Someone Else’s Blessing

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

Isaiah 55:6-9, Philippians 1:20c-24, 27a, Matthew 20:1-16a

20 September 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Lately, I have been watching a Korean drama called Four Hands, Two Sonatas. As I scrolled through my K-Drama choices, the title immediately caught my attention: Four Hands, Two Sonatas—four hands, two people, one piano. It revolves around two musicians and, in many ways, explores the complicated relationship between talent, friendship, ambition, and recognition. I am still waiting for the next episodes to drop, and I do not know yet how it ends.

Cuatro manos, or four-handed piano pieces, require two pianists to play on the same piano at the same time, but they do not always have the same notes, the same rhythm, or the same prominence at every moment. One may carry the melody while the other provides the accompaniment. Then, a few measures later, they switch. Each has to know when to play, when to listen, and even when to remain silent. And I thought: isn’t life sometimes like that? We often concern ourselves with whose part sounds more beautiful, whose contribution is noticed, and who receives the applause. And sometimes, when another person’s part seems more important than ours, we quietly ask, “Why him? Why her? Why not me?”

Someone once shared with me a frustration he had been carrying at work. He had served his company faithfully for years and hoped that one day his efforts would be recognized. When an opportunity for promotion finally came, he thought, “Maybe this time, it will be me.” But someone else was chosen. He smiled, congratulated him, and moved on. Later, he admitted, “Father, I was happy for him… but there was a sting. I kept asking myself, ‘Why him? After everything I’ve done, why him?’” If we think about it, technically, he had not lost anything because the job was never his to begin with. I think many of us understand that feeling. We peg goals for ourselves, ask God for His blessing, and are overjoyed when we receive it. However, when another person receives something we perceive as a greater blessing, our own blessing suddenly feels smaller. No one has taken anything away from us, yet we feel cheated and discontent. That is precisely where today’s gospel passage touches something very deep in us.

The workers who came first were not cheated. They had agreed with the master for the usual daily wage, and that is exactly what they received. The master tells them, “My friend, I am not cheating you. Did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage?” (Matthew 20:13). They received what was promised. Nothing was taken away from them. But when they saw that others who had worked less had received the same wage, they became angry. It is hard to admit this, but sometimes what hurts us is not that something was taken from us. What hurts is seeing someone else receive what we had hoped for ourselves. We can be grateful for what God has given us—until we compare it with the blessing someone else has received. We can be happy with our contribution to our ministry until another person is recognized instead of us. We can be content with our place until someone else is given the opportunity we were hoping for. And suddenly, someone else’s blessing feels like an insult to us.

That is why the question of Jesus is so piercing: “Are you envious because I am generous?” (Matthew 20:15). Notice: Jesus does not ask, “Were you cheated?” He knows they were not. He asks, in effect, “Why does another person’s blessing bother us?” This can happen even among those who have spent many years serving God and the Church. Slowly, almost without realizing it, we can begin to keep a record in our hearts: “I have been here longer. I have sacrificed more. I have carried more responsibilities. I was there when others were not.” And if we are not careful, our service becomes a ledger. We begin to think, “After everything I have done, why him?”

This is a dangerous moment. Faithfulness can quietly become entitlement. And what began as love can slowly become a demand for recognition. What began as selfless service can quietly become resentment toward the one we serve. We begin to believe that we have been treated unfairly, and we grumble. In the parable, the master does not deny their faithfulness. He simply refuses to let their faithfulness become a reason for resenting another person’s grace. Isaiah gives us the deeper reason: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord” (Isaiah 55:8). We calculate hours, seniority, achievement, and merit. God sees what we cannot see.

Consider those workers who arrived at five in the afternoon. They were just standing there, waiting to be hired. Perhaps nobody had chosen them all day. And the master says, “Go into my vineyard too” (Matthew 20:7). Maybe the person we think is receiving “too much” is someone who has spent years receiving too little. Maybe the person whose success irritates us has carried wounds we never saw. Maybe the grace we question is precisely the grace that person desperately needed. We should be slow to judge others when we know so little of what they have been through. Only God sees our circumstances in their entirety. Only He knows the full story of each person’s life and what each one truly needs.

And here the image of Four Hands, Two Sonatas comes back to me. When two people play one piano, the music is not beautiful because both are trying to prove who is better. It is beautiful because they listen to each other. There are moments when one carries the melody and the other supports. There are moments when one has to give way. And sometimes, the beauty of the music depends precisely on allowing the other person’s part to be heard. Faith is something like that. God has not given all of us the same part. But He has given each of us a part. St. Paul gives us the freedom to live this way: “For to me life is Christ” (Philippians 1:21). If Christ is truly the center of our life, another person’s blessing does not diminish ours. We do not always have to be the first. We do not always have to be the one who gets noticed. We do not have to compete for God’s attention.

Perhaps this is the grace we ask for today: not simply to congratulate others when our own hearts are hurting, but to become free enough to say, “Lord, thank You for blessing that person.” When we can genuinely thank God for blessing someone else, even when something in us still aches, it is a clear sign that God is transforming our hearts. What God has given us is still ours. His love for us has not diminished. Our calling remains just as precious. Our sacrifices have not become meaningless because someone else has been blessed. Our deepest freedom begins when another person’s blessing no longer feels like a threat to our own, but becomes a reason to praise God even more.

When Mercy Sets Us Free

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

Sirach 27:30—28:7, Romans 14:7–9, Matthew 18:21–35

13 September 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

All of us know what it is like to be hurt by others—be it a physical injury or emotional trauma. Perhaps the most painful thing is that even after the incident is over, the offense continues to live rent-free in our minds. We remember what our transgressors said. We remember what they did. We remember all the details of when it happened. Sometimes, we even remember the words verbatim. And then, years later, believing we have moved on, we are surprised when something reminds us of that person, and suddenly, the anger comes back—as if the incident happened yesterday. The person has moved on. However, we still give them the power to destroy our peace.

That is why today’s First Reading speaks so powerfully about forgiveness. Sirach says, “Wrath and anger are hateful things, yet the sinner hugs them tight” (Sirach 27:30). It is a very accurate image for those who hold on to anger. Yung mga nagtatanim ng galit. (Those who hold grudges.) We fool ourselves into thinking we are holding out for justice or secretly hoping for vengeance. We tell ourselves, “I have every right to be angry.” And perhaps we do. The wound was real. The betrayal was real. The injustice was real. However, we forget that forgiveness does not negate the reality of our pain. It is about letting go and realizing that nothing really escapes God.

We feel that forgiving others can be too much to ask, but Jesus goes even further. In the Gospel, Peter asks, “Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive?” And Jesus answers, “Not seven times, but seventy-seven times” (Matthew 18:21–22). He proposes that true forgiveness does not keep a score of transgressions. It is about wiping the slate clean so we ourselves can be at peace and at the same time giving the person an opportunity to do better and become better. We grant them this mercy because we have received God’s mercy ourselves. Because we relinquish control of our lives to God, we can refuse to let another person’s wrongdoing determine the kind of person we become. This inevitable interconnectedness is highlighted by the parable in our gospel. In Matthew 18:23–35, the servant is forgiven an enormous debt, but he immediately grabs another servant by the throat over a much smaller debt. Jesus gives a stern warning to those who fail to forgive from the heart. This is in reference to those who have received mercy but have not allowed mercy to change them.

Perhaps this is where the Gospel becomes uncomfortable for all of us. We know how to receive mercy. Every time we pray the Our Father, we ask God to “forgive us our trespasses” on the condition that “we forgive those who have trespassed against us.” We have been forgiven so many times by God. We go to confession and confess the same sins and receive absolution every time. We have been given second chances, third chances, tenth chances. We have said things we regret. We have failed people. We have disappointed others. And still, God has not stopped loving us. He forgives us every time we ask for His mercy. But have we allowed His mercy to change us?

This is where the Second Reading becomes important. St. Paul says, “Whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s” (Romans 14:8). Not our wounds. Not our failures. Not the people who hurt us. We belong to the Lord. Maybe that is the real freedom of forgiveness. The person who hurt us may have caused the wound, but we should not allow that person to become the owner of our future. We do not have to carry the anger everywhere we go. We do not have to keep replaying the conversation. We do not have to spend another ten years waiting for an apology that may never come.

Forgiveness is simply saying, “I remember what happened. I will not deny the pain. But I refuse to give this person any power over my life.” In Christ we can see that it does not mean, “What happened to me was okay.” It means, “What happened to me will not have the final word on who I am.”

In the end, forgiveness is not really about setting the other person free, but rather about how God sets us free. The wounds we bear may remain part of our story, but they do not have to be the main character in our story. The person who hurt us is not our owner. For, we are the Lord’s!

Love Does Not Look Away

Homily: Twenty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A) – Mass for the Care of Creation

Ezekiel 33:7-9 • Romans 13:8-10 • Matthew 18:15-20

6 September 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

All of humanity has one home in this galaxy. That home is Earth. However, when we see or read about natural and human-caused disasters, we are appalled. Often, however, our concern ends there. Especially when tragedy happens far from where we live, we fail to recognize how it affects us. In Nepal, a catastrophic glacier collapse and landslide sent an enormous wall of water, rock, and mud down the Trishuli River, destroying communities and claiming many lives. In the Philippines, we continue to experience destructive floods and landslides. In Indonesia, forest and peatland fires have produced thick and dangerous haze that has spread to other countries. Across the world, we witness record heat, drought, wildfires, stronger storms, and devastating floods. We see the images, shake our heads, feel a moment of sympathy, and then scroll on to the next news story. Today’s readings tell us: Don’t just look. Take responsibility.

In our First Reading, God says to Ezekiel, “I have appointed you as a watchman” (Ezekiel 33:7). This is not a responsibility to take lightly. We cannot afford to sleep on the job. A watchman sees danger and warns others. Instead of looking away, he speaks up and responds to what he sees. In our Gospel, Jesus gives us another responsibility: “If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault between you and him alone” (Matthew 18:15). Jesus teaches that when a relationship is broken, we should not simply walk away. Nor should we gossip or pretend nothing happened. We go. We talk. We listen. We repair.

This is also a beautiful way of looking at our relationship with creation: we do not just clean the river. We restore the relationship. At its deepest level, the ecological crisis is also a crisis in our relationships. We have forgotten that creation is not simply something we own. It is a gift God has entrusted to us. We are not separate from nature; we are part of it. That is why Pope Francis, in Laudato Si’, speaks of the earth as our common home. Care for creation is not merely an environmental issue added to the Gospel. It is the Gospel’s command to love put into practice. If we love God, we must care for what God has created. If we love our neighbour, we cannot remain indifferent to what harms others. And if we love the generations who will come after us, we cannot consume everything as though they do not exist.

We seem to have made the word “neighbour” too small. Our neighbour is not only the person sitting beside us in church. It is also the person downstream, the farmer whose crops depend on the rain, the fisher whose livelihood depends on a healthy sea, and the child who will be born twenty years from now. Even someone we will never meet is our neighbour. When we damage creation, we also harm our relationship with one another.

St. Paul says it very simply: “Love does no evil to the neighbour” (Romans 13:10). Let us think about what that means. When we throw garbage into a river, it does not disappear. It goes somewhere, and someone downstream will have to deal with the consequences. When we waste water, someone with limited access to it may go without. When forests are destroyed, it is often the poor who suffer first. And as environmental conditions become more dangerous, those who have contributed the least to the crisis often bear its heaviest burdens.

When we see something wrong, let us not simply say, “Someone should do something.” Perhaps God is saying to us, “I appointed you as a watchman” (Ezekiel 33:7). Hence, we see. We speak. We act. We repair. Creation does not need more spectators. It needs watchmen. Thus, let us ponder these three questions: What relationship with God needs to be repaired? What relationship with another person needs to be healed? And what relationship with creation needs to be restored?

Brothers and sisters, we are all challenged not just to clean our rivers but to restore our broken relationships with creation. Let us repair what we have damaged, restore what we have neglected, and care for the gift God has placed in our hands. The earth is not simply our home. It is our common home. And we are its watchmen.

The Cross Is Not A Detour

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

Jeremiah 20:7-9 • Romans 12:1-2 • Matthew 16:21-27

30 August 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

I once met a single woman who shared something very moving with me. As the last of her siblings to be unmarried, she remained in their family home with her parents. She had always dreamed of having a family of her own—a husband and children in a beautiful home. However, as her parents grew older and their needs became greater, she realised that if she wanted to care for them, she would have to let go of the future she had imagined for herself. It was not an easy decision. There was grief in it. She had to surrender something that was good, something she genuinely desired. I’m quite sure she had asked God, “Lord, is this really the life You want for me?” Despite her doubts, she chose to stay and care for her parents. She did not stay because she loved suffering, but because she chose to love deeply.

That brings us to today’s Gospel. Jesus tells His disciples, “He must go to Jerusalem and suffer greatly… and be killed” (Matthew 16:21). Peter immediately protests, “God forbid, Lord! No such thing shall ever happen to you!” (Matthew 16:22). Peter probably thinks he is protecting his friend and master. “Lord, surely there must be another way. You are the Messiah! Why should You have to suffer?” But Jesus responds with startling words: “Get behind me, Satan! You are an obstacle to me” (Matthew 16:23). Why such a strong response? Peter does not want to lose his friend and master. He does not want Him to be hurt. Ultimately, Peter wants a Messiah without the cross. He sees suffering as a sign of defeat—as though something has gone wrong. But Jesus knows that the cross is not a failure of His mission. It is where His love will be revealed most completely.

Sometimes we make the same mistake. When life becomes difficult, we think something has gone wrong. When our plans fall apart, we ask, “Lord, why is this happening?” When we have to give up something we deeply wanted, we wonder, “Why me?” But today’s Gospel reminds us: not every painful road is a wrong road.

Jeremiah knows this. For a moment, he feels as though God has deceived him. He agreed to God’s will, but what he received in return was anguish and frustration. He is exhausted by his calling and cries out, “You have seduced me, LORD, and I let myself be seduced” (Jeremiah 20:7). He wants to stop. Yet he cannot, because he feels the urgency and necessity of his calling. “There is something like a fire burning in my heart… I grow weary holding it in, I cannot endure it” (Jeremiah 20:9). He is tired, but he remains faithful. This choice to submit to God’s plans is echoed in our Second Reading, where St. Paul tells us, “Do not conform yourselves to this age but be transformed by the renewal of your mind” (Romans 12:2).

Brothers and sisters, when we pray for a solution to our difficulties, God does not always immediately change our circumstances. Sometimes, He changes the way we see them. We say, “Lord, this is not the life I planned.” And perhaps God answers, “Maybe not. But I can still make it a life of love.” We say, “I had to give up something I wanted.” And God may say, “But you gave yourself to someone who needed you.”

That is the heart of Jesus’ words: “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me” (Matthew 16:24). Notice that Jesus says, “his cross,” not “My cross.” Each of us has a different one. For that woman, it was caring for her aging parents. For someone else, it may be caring for a sick spouse, raising a child with special needs alone, forgiving someone who hurt us, remaining faithful in a difficult relationship, staying honest when dishonesty would be easier, or persevering at a tiring and thankless job because it provides help to so many others.

The cross is not always something dramatic. Sometimes the cross is simply giving up something good because someone we love needs us more. And that is why the cross is not a detour. The cross is where love becomes concrete. Jesus could have chosen an easier road, but He chose love all the way to Jerusalem… all the way to Calvary.

Perhaps someone here today is quietly grieving a life different from the one once imagined—the marriage that never happened, the child that never came, the career that had to be set aside, the dream that had to be surrendered, or the future that took a completely different direction. In the midst of such loss, let us remember this: a life that unfolds differently is not necessarily a life less beautiful. God does not waste what we surrender in love. The world may look at sacrifice and see only what was lost, whereas God sees what was given. And anything offered in love is never wasted in the hands of God.

So if we find ourselves carrying a cross we never asked for, let us not immediately conclude that we are on the wrong road. Perhaps it is precisely there that God is teaching us how deeply we can love. The cross is not a detour. It is the road where love becomes real—and where, in God’s time, the road of sacrifice opens into the road of Resurrection.

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?”