HOMILY: Third Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)
Sunday of the Word of God / National Bible Sunday
Isaiah 8:23–9:3 | 1 Corinthians 1:10–13, 17 | Matthew 4:12–23
25 January 2026
Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA
Have you ever experienced feeling like a robot? Do you wake up in the morning and run through the motions of your day — doing all that is expected of you, fulfilling all your responsibilities like a machine carrying out everything it is programmed to do—no error, no complaint, fully charged… at least on the outside?
On the surface, everything functions as it should. beneath it, something feels quietly disconnected.
Sometimes, the hardest part of life is not failing — it is succeeding while feeling completely empty. In these moments, we do not need a lecture, advice, nor explanation. Those things feel irrelevant because we are not doing anything wrong. In fact, we are doing everything right. One may be a devoted spouse, a hands-on parent, a loyal child… A capable and reliable employee — a neighbour, a student, a friend whom everyone counts on. Yes, we are not lost. We are walking the same familiar paths we have walked for years. The scenery has not changed. The people have not changed. Our commitment has not wavered. The only difference is that the light has gone dark. We are not looking for an exit—we are simply waiting for the colour to return to a world that has slowly turned grey; waiting for the light to come back on.
In our First Reading, we hear Isaiah’s prophecy: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” (Isaiah 9:2). Notice the words — “walked in darkness.” These were not people who rebelled against God nor ran away from Him. They were people who kept walking. Faithful people. Responsible people. Good people who simply woke up tired. This sounds very familiar, doesn’t it? Many of us are working so hard just to be good and responsible. And this can be exhausting. Tired from work. Tired from problems that never seem to end. Tired of being strong for everyone who depends on us. Sometimes, even tired of serving in the Church—or tired of trying to be holy.
A few years ago, someone told me, “Father, I still come to Mass every Sunday. But honestly… I do not feel anything anymore.” He said, “I pray, but my mind is elsewhere. I read the Bible, but the words do not move me anymore.” One night, while cleaning his house, he found an old Bible on a shelf — dusty, with notes written years ago. Out of boredom, he opened it. And the first words he saw were: “Come to me, all you who labour and are burdened” (Matthew 11:28). He told me, “Father, I was not even looking for a miracle. However, it felt like those words were meant for me.” Then he added, “For the first time in a long while, I cried — not because my problems were solved, but because I realised God had never stopped looking for me.” This is how the Word of God works. It does not arrive with fireworks or loud announcements. It does not force itself. No pressure. No noise. Just quiet light. Gentle warmth. The kind that slowly brings feeling back into what has grown numb.
Moreover, this is exactly how Jesus begins His mission in today’s Gospel. He does not go to Jerusalem, the centre of power. He does not seek influence or recognition. He goes to Galilee — ordinary, noisy, imperfect. There He finds fishermen — not praying, not reading Scripture, but working with their hands. Their clothes smell like fish, not incense. Their hands are rough from routine, their hearts perhaps tired from years of the same work. Jesus says only one sentence: “Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men” (Matthew 4:19). No explanations. No conditions. No promises of comfort or success.
And yet, Scripture says Simon and Andrew left their nets at once, while James and John immediately left their boat—and even their father (Matthew 4:20–22). When the Word of God speaks, it reaches deeper than logic. It touches the part of us that has been waiting, even if we could not name what we were missing. Perhaps those fishermen, too, were among those “walking in darkness” — faithful, hardworking men simply doing what they had always done, until the light found them.
In the Second Reading, St. Paul addresses a divided community: “I belong to Paul,” or “I belong to Apollos,” or “I belong to Cephas” (1 Corinthians 1:12). It sounds very modern, doesn’t it? Even today, we sometimes identify more with groups, personalities, or opinions than with Christ Himself. St. Paul on the other hand, reminds us: “Is Christ divided?” (1 Corinthians 1:13). The Word of God does not create camps. Our pride does.
The Word gathers.
The Word heals.
The Word recentres our hearts.
On this Sunday of the Word of God, we are reminded that Scripture is not just something to be read or studied. It is something that finds us — especially when we are tired, faithfully, and quietly walking in the dark. When we allow the Word to return to the centre, something stirs again. We stop merely functioning… and we begin living. And slowly, gently, the light turns back on.
Sunday Gospel Reflections 