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?
