Homily: Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion
Matthew 21:1–11 / Isaiah 50:4–7 / Philippians 2:6–11 / Matthew 26:14—27:66
29 March 2026
Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA
We cannot deny that almost every family has experienced conflict. A simple misunderstanding—maybe about money, responsibilities, or a decision—suddenly blows up into something bigger. Emotions escalate and voices grow louder, saying words that cannot be taken back. The intent is not really to hurt the other, but a determination to prove oneself right: “I need to show that I am right.” And the more each person tries to prove his or her side… the more the relationship breaks.
And this does not happen only within families.
What happens in a family, in a small and ordinary way, often mirrors what really happens on much larger scales—in communities, offices, institutions, government, and regrettably, even in the Church. Conflicts grow because no one wants to yield. Positions harden, voices become louder, and what begins as a disagreement slowly turns into something that wounds and divides. We see this most clearly in the world today. Wars and tensions continue because each side feels the need to assert, to defend, to prove. And while there are real situations that call for protection and justice, we also see how quickly conflict escalates when the need to prove becomes stronger than the desire to preserve life.
It is with this understanding of reality that we now enter more deeply into the Passion of Jesus. In the Passion narrative from the Gospel according to Matthew, Jesus is questioned, accused, and misunderstood. Before the high priest and before Pilate, He is pressed to answer—but as the Gospel tells us, “He gave him no answer, not even to a single charge” (cf. Matthew 27:12–14). If there was ever a moment to defend Himself, to explain, to prove He was right—this was it. And yet, He remained silent. Why is this so? Was He weak? Was He powerless? Did He feel the need to prove Himself? Absolutely not. He possessed a different kind of strength.
Here, dear brothers and sisters, we begin to understand the kind of strength Jesus reveals.
The strength we are used to is visible and forceful—it asserts, it wins, it overpowers. It tries to elevate one over another. However, the strength of Christ is quieter and deeper. It does not depend on being recognised or validated. It remains steady, even when misunderstood. It is rooted in a quiet awareness of the truth, finding peace and confidence in it, independent of the judgment of others. This posture is described in Isaiah: “I gave my back to those who beat me… my face I did not shield from buffets and spitting… I have set my face like flint, knowing that I shall not be put to shame” (Isaiah 50:6–7). He does not fight back—but He does not turn back either. Even earlier, as Jesus enters Jerusalem in Matthew’s Gospel, He comes not with force, but in humility—“mounted on a donkey” (Matthew 21:5). The same quiet strength marks both His entry and His Passion. This is not weakness. It is not indifference. It is a refusal to let pride, anger, or hatred take control.
At this point, we may ask ourselves: is this possible for us?
This kind of strength is not far from us. It is not something supernatural or unattainable. It is something we can learn through mindfulness and by controlling our passions and impulses in the ordinary tensions of daily life—in conversations that turn into arguments, in relationships strained by misunderstanding, in moments when we feel the need to have the last word. Building this kind of quiet strength helps us see the high price we pay when we value ourselves and our opinions over everything and everyone else. There are times when continuing to argue only deepens wounds. There are moments when insisting on being right costs more than the satisfaction of winning. There are situations where silence, chosen in love, protects what matters more.
And it is here that we see its deepest meaning is quietly revealed to us.
The Cross reveals that this kind of strength is not wasted. As Paul’s Letter to the Philippians tells us, “though He was in the form of God… He emptied Himself… becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross” (Philippians 2:6–8). And it is precisely there—when He no longer insists on Himself—that “God greatly exalted Him” (Philippians 2:9). The strength that refuses to prove itself may look like losing, but it is that strength that keeps love from breaking, that prevents wounds from growing deeper, and that quietly opens the possibility that even in a divided world—something of peace can begin.
So today, I pray that we leave this church with a renewed understanding of strength, and a deeper appreciation of the deliberate choices Jesus made for our sake. Let us remember: peace is not beyond our reach if we learn to see through Christ’s eyes and to love as He loves.
(Section of) Nikolai Ge, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons at the National Gallery, London
Sunday Gospel Reflections 