When Strength Gives Way to Surrender

Homily: Friday of the Passion of the Lord

Isaiah 52:13–53:12 / Psalm 31:2, 6, 12–13, 15–16, 17, 25 / Hebrews 4:14–16; 5:7–9 / John 18:1–19:42

3 April 2026 

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

I remember a man sitting alone in a hospital waiting room late at night. His mother was in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). For days, he had been strong—talking to doctors, making decisions, calling relatives. He kept saying, “Kaya pa. (I still can do it.) We can still do something.” However, that night, the doctor came out and quietly said, “We’ve done everything we can.” And suddenly, the strength he was holding onto gave way. He sat down, covered his face, and whispered, “Lord… I don’t know what else to do. Kayo na po, Panginoon!” (Into your hands, Lord!) 

It was not a long prayer nor was it even complete. But it was real. It was quiet surrender. 

Moreover, maybe that is the hardest moment in life—when we reach the point where we can no longer fix what is breaking, when our strength fails us, and everything we can offer is no longer enough. Especially when the situation involves people we love, we want to act, to solve, to hold things together. But sometimes life brings us to that quiet, painful place where all we can do is let go.  That is where Jesus is on Good Friday. 

On the Cross, after everything He endured—the betrayal, abandonment, suffering—He says, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit” (Luke 23:46; cf. Psalm 31:5). These are not words of defeat, but of trust.  He had done all that was humanly possible and now it was time to place everything in God’s hands. He was not giving up, but giving Himself over.  Isaiah had already foretold this kind of surrender: “He was despised and rejected… a man of suffering… yet he bore our infirmities” (Isaiah 53:3–4). And the Letter to the Hebrews reminds us that Jesus did not face this lightly—He “offered prayers and supplications with loud cries and tears” (Hebrews 5:7), and so He truly understands what it means to struggle and to let go. 

Surrender is hardest when we do not understand why this is happening to us, when the pain is real, when everything in us wants to hold on just a little longer.  We hold on, believing, if we wait a little longer, the outcome we desire will happen.  However, that is hardly the case. We view things from our perspective which is so limited, compared to the way God sees the bigger picture.  Trusting that God can turn that pain into something worthwhile and beautiful is so difficult. Yet, that is what makes surrender so powerful!  Jesus shows us the way as He hangs dying in the cross, and entrusts Himself to the Father.  He was innocent; He did not deserve it; and He hung on until there was nothing left to do or to give. That man in the hospital, without realising it, prayed the same prayer. “Kayo na po.” Into Your hands. In that moment, he stopped trying to carry what he could no longer carry… and placed it in God’s hands (cf. Psalm 31:15). 

Maybe that is where Good Friday meets us today. Not in big words, but in quiet surrender. In the burdens we can no longer fix. In the prayers we no longer know how to say.  We need not punish ourselves when we have reached that point of absolute helplessness—when we no longer have control over a dire situation. Perhaps it is time to let go and entrust everything to God. Perhaps, we need to remind ourselves to believe in His love, His power, and His mercy. 

Today, as we kneel before the Cross, perhaps our prayer can be just as simple, just as broken, just as real: “Lord… I don’t know anymore… but into Your hands.”  And that is enough, because what is placed in the hands of the Father is never lost. It is where love, even in suffering, begins to be transformed!

Making Space for God’s Love

Homily: Evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper

Exodus 12:1–8, 11–14 / 1 Corinthians 11:23–26 / John 13:1–17

2 April 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

This morning, at the Chrism Mass, Bishop Eli invited the faithful to say to their priests, “We love you, Father!” And we priests were asked to respond, “I love you, too.” It sounded beautiful—but if we are honest, there was a certain awkwardness. Some felt shy, some smiled nervously, some were unsure whether to say it at all. And that simple moment reveals something very human: it is not only hard to love—sometimes it is even harder to receive love. 

We see this in ordinary life. How do you feel when someone goes out of his or her way to take care of you? Imagine visiting a friend’s house—she prepares a feast, fix everything, attends to you the whole time, almost like rolling out a red carpet. And what do we say? “Wow, this is too much… it’s embarrassing. Don’t go to all this trouble.” Even at home, mothers say to their grown children, “Your back is wet—change first. Have you eaten? I’ll cook your favourite.” And the children reply, “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” Why does it seem easier to love than to be loved? Why is it so hard to let ourselves be seen, known, and accepted as we are? 

Peter knew this struggle. At the Last Supper, when Jesus knelt to wash his feet, he protested, “You will never wash my feet” (John 13:8). He was not rebelling—he was just afraid. Because to let Jesus wash his feet meant admitting, “I need You.” And that is exactly what Jesus desires—not only that we serve Him or imitate Him, but that we allow Him to love us. We are used to doing things for God—praying, helping, giving, asking for grace—but tonight is different. Tonight, Jesus asks us not to act, but to receive. 

And that can feel unsettling. We begin to wonder: Is there a hidden cost? What will God ask from me? Can love really be this free…gratuitous. 

I remember a young woman who carried guilt for many years. She had made choices she regretted, hurt people she loved, and felt she had nothing to offer. Every Sunday, she would sit quietly at the back of the church, afraid that God’s love might demand more than she could give. Then one day, during a retreat, she heard these words: “I love you—not because of what you do, but because of who you are.” For the first time, she allowed herself to believe it. And she wept—deep, long tears—as years of shame began to fall away. In that moment, she discovered something both painful and beautiful: when you let God love you, it can break your heart open—but it also sets you free. 

Many of us carry shame, exhaustion, and regret. We are painfully aware of our sins and weaknesses. We think we must fix ourselves first before God can love us. Some even stay away—from the Church, from prayer, from the Lord—because they feel unworthy. But the Gospel tells us otherwise. Jesus washes Peter’s feet before Peter understands, before he is ready (John 13:6–10). In the same way, God loves us before we feel worthy. And the Eucharist we celebrate tonight proclaims this truth: “This is my body that is for you” (1 Corinthians 11:24). Not “for you when you are perfect,” but simply, “for you.” The Cross is the fullest proof of that love—given long before we were born, long before we made our mistakes. 

Peter learned that night that receiving love does not make him weak—it makes him alive. And the same is true for us. So tonight, let us ask ourselves honestly: Where am I resisting God’s love? What fear, shame, or pride keeps me from His embrace? What if, even for a moment, I let my guard down and simply say, “Lord… yes. Love me as I am.” 

Let us pray for the courage to do that.  For when we make space for God to love us, He gently unveils the wounds we have long kept hidden—and it is precisely there where healing begins. And only there, in a heart that surrenders, do we discover what it truly means to be God’s beloved.

When Silence Speaks Stronger

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

When God Opens What We Have Closed

Homily: Fifth Sunday of Lent (A)

Ezekiel 37:12-14 / Romans 8:9-11 /John 11:1-45

22 March 2026 

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

We often hear the line — “Life is short… better enjoy it.” To a certain extent that is true. Life is short indeed, so we try to savour it: eat a good meal, spend time with people we love, rest after a long day. However, I saw an interesting meme online that adds another layer: “Eternity is long… better prepare for it.” Think about it for a moment.  This concept shifts the question from “Am I enjoying life?” to “Am I living a life that endures?” 

In the passage from the Prophet Ezekiel, God speaks to people who feel like everything is over. Their hopes are gone. Their future feels closed. And God says, “I will open your graves and have you rise from them… I will put my spirit in you that you may live” (Ezekiel 37:12, 14). God is not waiting for the end. He is already opening what feels sealed in us.  This is reinforced by today’s Gospel story. Lazarus has been dead four days and to his family, his life, his future and their hopes for him is finished. When Jesus arrives, Martha says, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21). We know that feeling. “Lord, if you had acted sooner…” “If you had answered earlier…” Jesus goes to the tomb and cries out, “Lazarus, come out!” (John 11:43). And Lazarus comes out — alive! He is still wrapped, still bound and Jesus says, “Untie him and let him go” (John 11:44). He may not have been free, but he is alive!  Our reading from the Letter to the Romans says, “The Spirit of the one who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you” (Romans 8:11). Not someday, but NOW. We may not be always conscious of this, but the life of God is already within us. 

Today, let us ask ourselves, where are the places within us that feel closed off and lifeless…dead? These are may be areas of our lives marked by deep frustration — places where we have slowly lost hope, believing that nothing will change and that things may never get better. Maybe it is a relationship we have already given up — our wayward child or a lazy spouse. Or maybe it is a habit we think will never change such as tardiness or smoking.  Perhaps it is a prayer life that has slowly stopped because of busyness or spiritual dryness. We move, work, and talk, believing we are living normal lives — but parts of us may already be in the tomb. 

We are so blessed that Jesus stands before these places. He faces them instead of avoiding them, because we are there. The Gospel even says, “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). He sees the pain of their loss. He feels it. And then He speaks: “Come out.”  Preparing for eternity is not only about the future. It is about allowing that voice to reach us now. To let Him open what we have closed. To let Him bring life where we have already given up. 

Life is short, yes — so we enjoy it. On the contrary, eternity is long — so we let God make us live for that future here and now. And when He calls, now and at the end, may it be a voice we already recognise, because we have already begun to step out of the tomb.

The Resurrection of Lazarus Painting by Miki De Goodaboom

When Vision Becomes Faith

Homily: Fourth Sunday of Lent (A) [Laetare Sunday]

1 Samuel 16:1b, 6–7, 10–13a; Ephesians 5:8–14; John 9:1–41)

15 March 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Sometimes, the real problem in life is not that we cannot see, but that we fail to recognise what is right in front of us. There is a difference between seeing and recognising. We see many things every day—faces, events, situations—but recognition requires something deeper. It requires attention, humility, and sometimes a change of heart.

This came to mind while I was watching the Korean series, Boyfriend on Demand. The story follows a woman who signs up for a virtual service where she can “summon” an ideal boyfriend—someone attentive, thoughtful, and always present when she needs him. At first, everything feels perfect. The boyfriend says all the right words. He listens. He understands. He seems to fulfill every emotional need. But as the story unfolds, she slowly realises something surprising. While she was focused on the illusion of “perfection,” she had been overlooking someone real in her life—someone imperfect, yes, but someone who genuinely cared for her. In other words, what she had been searching for was already near her. She simply did not recognise him.

In a way, that is exactly what happens in today’s Gospel (John 9:1–41). Jesus heals a man who was blind from birth. But the most fascinating part of the story is not only the miracle itself. The deeper miracle is how the man gradually begins to recognise who Jesus truly is. At first, when people ask him about Jesus, he simply says, “The man called Jesus made mud and anointed my eyes” (John 9:11). Later, when questioned again, his understanding deepens and he says, “He is a prophet” (John 9:17). And by the end of the story, when Jesus reveals Himself to him, the man says, “I believe, Lord,” and he worships Him (John 9:38).

Notice what is happening. The man who was physically blind is the one whose vision becomes clearer and clearer. Meanwhile, the others—the neighbours, the religious leaders, the Pharisees—remain blind to Jesus even though they can physically see. They investigate, argue, and analyse. They discuss the law and debate the miracle. Yet, in the middle of all their analysis, they fail to recognise that God is standing right in front of them.

It is almost ironic to think that there are people who can see, yet do not really see.  It is true, isn’t it? This is why the Second Reading reminds us: “Live as children of light” (Ephesians 5:8). To live in the light is not simply to have information or knowledge. It is to recognise the presence of God in our lives.

Moreover, the truth is, to recognise God is not always easy. Like the people in the Gospel, we often expect God to appear in dramatic, extraordinary, and impressive ways. However, when we expect only the spectacular; we may miss the quiet ways God is already present.

Even the prophet Samuel almost made this mistake in the First Reading (1 Samuel 16:6–7). When Samuel saw the strong and impressive sons of Jesse, he immediately thought, “Surely the Lord’s anointed is here.” God, nevertheless, corrected him with words that are very important for us: “Not as man sees, does God see, because man sees the appearance, but the Lord looks into the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). And so, God chooses David—the youngest son, a simple shepherd, the most unlikely candidate. Once again, the message is the same: what matters is not simply what we see, but whether we recognise how God is working.

This happens in our lives, too. Sometimes, we search everywhere for meaning, happiness, or love. It is only later that we realise that God has already placed the right people, the right grace, and the right opportunities in our lives. It is just that we did not notice. We did not recognise it. Maybe God was already speaking through a friend, through a quiet moment of prayer, or even through a difficulty that slowly changed our heart. But like the people in the Gospel, we can become so busy asking questions, overthinking, or complaining that we forget to recognise what God is already doing.

In a way, faith is not only about learning new things about God. Sometimes, faith is about finally recognising what God has been quietly doing in our lives all along. That is why today’s Gospel invites us to ask a very simple but very important question: “Lord, what might I be failing to see?” Or perhaps more deeply: “Lord, where have You been present in my life that I have not yet recognised?”

Indeed, the real miracle of faith is not only that our eyes are opened, but that we begin to recognise Christ little by little.  We begin to recognise Christ—in the ordinary moments of life, in unexpected people, and even in situations we once thought were meaningless.

At the end of the Gospel, the man who was once blind is the one who truly sees. Perhaps that should also be our prayer today: “Lord, open our eyes—not only to see the world, but to recognise You.”

Healing the Blind Man by Yongsung Kim

Infinite Thirst, Finite Wells

Homily: Third Sunday of Lent (A)

Exodus 17:3–7 | Romans 5:1–2, 5–8 | John 4:5–42

8 March 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

A few months ago, someone confided in me. He said, “Father, I do not understand myself.”  From the outside, he seemed to have everything in place — a good career, financial security, the freedom to travel, and an active church life. Yet he continued, “I have changed careers three times. I have been in five serious relationships. I have moved homes twice. Every time I tell myself, “This is it. This will finally make me happy. But after a while… I realize something is still missing.” Then he paused and quietly asked, “Baka ako talaga ang problema?” — Maybe I am really the problem.  I am sure many of us know that feeling. When things do not turn out the way we hoped, when fulfillment fades sooner than we expected, we begin to wonder whether something within us is not quite right. 

When I prayed over today’s Gospel, I thought of him. Jesus tells the Samaritan woman, “You have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband” (John 4:18). Our automatic reaction is often one of disgust at such a display of immorality. However, we can also see it as a story of repeated searching — of searching again and again for something that still does not satisfy.  Five husbands may not be our story. But five attempts at finding fulfillment might be — five diets, five business ventures, five boyfriends one after the other, five “new beginnings.” Five times we told ourselves, “This is it.” Five times we were hopeful and yet five times we end up disappointed. Often, what looks like immorality is really a deeper thirst of the human heart. 

In the First Reading from the Book of Exodus, the Israelites, in their thirst for water, cry out in the desert, “Why did you ever make us leave Egypt?” (Exodus 17:3). Although God satisfies their thirst with water from a rock, a deeper doubt surfaces in their hearts: “Is the Lord in our midst or not?” (Exodus 17:7). They are freed from slavery, yet still restless. Liberation did not remove their thirst; it exposed it.  Meanwhile, in our gospel, Jesus opens a conversation with the Samaritan woman with a simple request: “Give me a drink” (John 4:7). A tired and thirsty Messiah waits. As the conversation unfolds, He tells her, “Whoever drinks the water I shall give will never thirst; the water I shall give will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” (John 4:14). It is not that she is being unreasonable. It is that she has been drawing from wells that cannot hold what her heart truly longs for. 

Similarly, our problem is not that we are thirsty. Thirst is part of being human. Our problem is that we keep trying to quench an infinite thirst with finite wells. We expect permanent joy from temporary successes. We expect absolute security from fragile relationships. We ask created things to give us what only the Creator can give. It is like stubbornly hoping to quench our thirst with sea water — the more we drink, the deeper the thirst becomes. After enough disappointment, we come to the conclusion that we ourselves are the problem.  We find our consolation in the Second Reading where St. Paul reminds us in the Epistle to the Romans: “The love of God has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit” (Romans 5:5). Poured out — not rationed, not earned! And even more striking: “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). Before we corrected our patterns. Before we broke our cycles. Before we found the right well, God had already prepared for us the source of Living Water.  One particular detail in the Gospel says everything: “The woman left her water jar and went into the town” (John 4:28). She leaves the jar because she came for ordinary water and encountered the Source. Nothing in her external situation immediately changes. What changes is her centre. She is no longer searching anxiously; she is witnessing joyfully. 

Perhaps this is the realisation we need.  It is not that we are the problem. Maybe our repeated disappointments are not proof of our failure but signs that our hearts are made for more than what this world can offer. St. Augustine writes at the very beginning of the Confessions (Book I, Chapter 1): “You have made us for Yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in You.” Restlessness is not rebellion. It is homesickness—God calling our hearts home. The man I spoke with thought he was defective yet I believe he was simply thirsty for Living Water. As we all are!

Thus, this week, before we go crazy, in search of something new to fill our longing and tell ourselves, “Maybe this time it will work”, let us just pause and ask ourselves quietly: Are we drinking from the wrong well? We thirst because we were made for God. May this Lent not be about trying one more strategy for self-improvement but about finally sitting at the well, admitting our thirst without shame, and allowing Christ to be our Living Water.

Enough Light for the Next Bend

Homily: Second Sunday of Lent (A)

Genesis 12:1–4a | 2 Timothy 1:8b–10 | Matthew 17:1–9

1 March 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

Is there anyone here from Nueva Vizcaya or Quezon Province? Travelling to and through these provinces requires traversing a long stretch of winding roads with sharp turns and hairpin curves that can be treacherous, especially at night or during the rainy season. The roads have no street lighting and are pitch black at night. They are also prone to landslides, so sometimes guardrails have been washed away and boulders, earth, and fallen trees block the inner lane. When we look ahead, we cannot see the whole road. We cannot see the turns far ahead. We do not know what is beyond the next bend. All we see is what our headlights can reach. Even with those road conditions, travellers still reach their destination. 

Brothers and sisters, sometimes on life’s journey we cannot really see the path we tread, but we just keep going. Sometimes the little light we have is enough to bring us to the next stretch. In the First Reading, God tells Abram, “Go forth from your land… to a land I will show you” (Genesis 12:1). God does not give a map. He does not explain the timeline. He does not describe the terrain. Paul, in the Second Reading, tells Timothy to bear his share of hardship for the Gospel (2 Timothy 1:8), because our salvation has been designed by God even before time began (2 Timothy 1:9). In our Gospel, Peter, James, and John witness the Transfiguration and see Jesus in glory (Matthew 17:1–2). It is beautiful and overwhelming. Peter even wants to build tents and remain there (Matthew 17:4), but Jesus does not consent, nor does He explain what just happened. Jesus simply says to them, “Rise, and do not be afraid” (Matthew 17:7), and then they go back down the mountain to journey toward Jerusalem. 

In all three (3) readings, God does not allow everything to be explained. He reveals just enough. Abram is merely given a promise — but not the details (Genesis 12:2–3). Paul does not specify to Timothy what hardships lie ahead, but he consoles him, saying that God gives strength and that grace has been bestowed in Christ Jesus (2 Timothy 1:7, 9). The three disciples were simply given the privilege of a glimpse of what lay far ahead (Matthew 17:2). They did not have a clear vision of how God’s plan would unfold, but they were given just enough light to sustain them when the darkness of the Cross came. 

Perhaps that is really how God works in our lives. We want clarity. We want the full picture. “Lord, tell me what will happen to my health. Tell me what will happen to my family. Tell me how this problem will end. Tell me where this new assignment will lead.”  More often than not, God withholds the whole roadmap. Instead, He gives a promise. He gives His presence. He gives enough light for the next step. Faith, after all, is not about seeing the entire highway. Faith is trusting the One who travels with us in the dark. 

Perhaps, some of us are on a road where our vision does not stretch very far. The future feels uncertain, our plans unclear, and the path ahead is unfamiliar. Perhaps you have received a serious health diagnosis and do not know what treatment to take, how you will afford it, or whether your body will be able to endure it. Maybe you are graduating from school in the next months and are daunted by the numerous applications you must go through before you land a job. Or maybe you are experiencing more frequent misunderstandings with your spouse and are worried whether these will be resolved or lead to separation. Often, we find that life is like that — curious, mysterious, difficult to explain, and unpredictable. Perhaps we need to be reminded that we do not have full control over our lives. We cannot completely direct them where we want them to go, for we do not know what the future holds. 

Today the Lord is saying to us what He said to Abram: “Go” (Genesis 12:1). He is repeating what He says to the disciples: “Rise, and do not be afraid” (Matthew 17:7). He is echoing what He says through Paul: rely on the grace of God (cf. 2 Timothy 1:9). We simply have to be attentive to God speaking to us and leading us through the dark, winding roads of our earthly journey. 

We do not need to see everything. We must trust in the One who created everything and is Master of everything. We need only enough light for today — and that light is Christ!

Empty Road at Nigh Time by Vitaly Kushnir

What Adam Wanted. What Christ Refused.

Homily: First Sunday of Lent (A)

Genesis 2:7–9; 3:1–7 | Romans 5:12–19 | Matthew 4:1–11

22 February 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

Once, I overheard someone ask his friend, “Why is it that the things we are not allowed to have seem the most attractive? And isn’t that true? Those with high blood pressure still feel tempted to pinch a little lechon. Those with diabetes sometimes secretly reach for chocolate or cake. We know it is not good for us — and yet we desire it. It is difficult to understand why something that seems pleasurable can actually harm us. This tension is as old as humanity itself. 

In the Book of Genesis (Genesis 2:7–9; 3:1–7), the first sin revolves around something that looked good. The fruit in the Garden of Eden was described as good for food, pleasing to the eyes, and desirable for gaining wisdom (Genesis 3:6). There was nothing ugly about it. The serpent did not shout nor threaten; he planted a small doubt: “Did God really say…?” (Genesis 3:1). Then he offered what sounded like a thoughtful argument: “You will not die… you will be like God” (Genesis 3:4–5). It sounded reasonable. Why shouldn’t they desire wisdom? Why not take just one bite? The temptation did not appear evil. It appeared sensible. And that is precisely why it became dangerous. 

The same pattern appears in the desert in the Gospel of Matthew (Matthew 4:1–11). After fasting for forty days, Jesus was hungry. The tempter said, “If you are the Son of God, command that these stones become loaves of bread” (Matthew 4:3). Is that unreasonable? He was hungry. Bread is good. He had the power. Why not solve the problem? Then the devil cited Scripture urging Jesus to throw Himself down from the temple because God would protect Him (Matthew 4:6). Finally, he offered Jesus all the kingdoms of the world without the suffering of the Cross (Matthew 4:8–9). Each temptation sounded practical, efficient, even strategic. The most dangerous temptations are not the shocking ones. They are the ones that appear reasonable. 

We see this in ordinary life. A married couple slowly grows distant. They are not fighting; they are simply tired from working hard for the family. Then an old friend reconnects through social media. It begins innocently: “We’re just talking.” “It’s harmless.” “I deserve someone who listens.” It sounds understandable. However, little by little, something sacred begins to shift. The heart wanders long before any betrayal becomes visible. Consider, for instance a student who cheats on a short quiz and insists, “I studied.” I’m just exhausted.” “It’s only five points.” It seems small and harmless. Even in ministry, we can say, “I’ll pray later. I’m busy serving. God understands.” It sounds responsible. Yet slowly, the soul dries up. Temptation rarely says, “Destroy your life.” It says, “This is practical.” 

In the Letter to the Romans (Romans 5:12–19), St. Paul tells us that through one man, sin entered the world, and through one man, Jesus Christ, grace overflowed for many. What is the difference between Adam and Christ? Adam saw something desirable and took it. Jesus saw something legitimate — and refused it. Turning stones into bread was reasonable, but obedience to the Father was faithful (Matthew 4:4). Taking the kingdoms without the Cross was efficient, but love that suffers was faithful (Matthew 4:10). In Jesus we learn that what is reasonable and what is faithful are not always the same. Reasonable choices often protect comfort; faithful choices protect communion. Reasonable choices justify themselves; faithful choices surrender to God. 

Perhaps this is what Lent is truly about. Not merely giving up chocolate or coffee, but asking deeper questions. Where have I quietly justified something? What small compromise have I labelled “not that serious”? What habit have I excused because “everyone does it”? The Fall began with something that looked good. Salvation began with Someone who chose what was truly good beyond appearances. The narrow road may not always seem reasonable, but it leads to life (Matthew 7:14). 

The good news is that Christ has already walked that road for us. Where Adam fell, Christ stood firm. When humanity gave in to the voice of temptation, Jesus chose to trust the voice of the Father. Grace is stronger than subtle temptation. Grace requires clarity of heart. Thus, this Lent, let us ask for the gift of discernment — not only to avoid obvious sin, but to recognise the gentle, reasonable whispers that slowly pull us away from God. And upon hearing them, may we respond as Jesus did: rooted in the Word, steady in trust, and faithful — even when faithfulness seems unreasonable.

Entrusted with Freedom

Homily: Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)

Sirach 15:15–20 | 1 Corinthians 2:6–10 | Matthew 5:17–37

15 February 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

Have you ever noticed how parents treat their children differently as they grow older? When children are small we grip their hands tightly when crossing the street. We practically watch their every step lest they fall or get lost. But when they grow older, something changes. Slowly the parent loosens their hold on their child. One day the parent says, “My child, you can do it now. You make the decision.” Not because they care less, but because they trust more. And that is love at its most mature — not to control, but to trust. 

This image helps us understand our readings today. In the Book of Sirach we hear, “If you choose, you can keep the commandments… Before you are life and death, good and evil, whichever you choose shall be given you” (Sirach 15:15, 17). It is as if God is saying, “My child, you will choose.” God does not force us to love Him. He does not program us like robots. Because love that is forced is not love at all. Love must be chosen. St. Paul tells us that this is a wisdom meant for the spiritually mature: “We speak a wisdom of God… revealed through the Spirit” (1 Corinthians 2:7, 10). God is not raising slaves who obey out of fear. He is raising sons and daughters who understand and love. Obedience flows not from fear, but from love. 

In the Gospel Jesus adds more depth to the commandments. He says, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law… but to fulfill” (Matthew 5:17). Then He adds, “You have heard… you shall not kill… but I say to you, whoever is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment” (Matthew 5:21–22). And again, “You shall not commit adultery… but I say to you, everyone who looks with lust has already committed adultery in his heart” (Matthew 5:27–28). Jesus is not adding more rules; He is moving the law from the outside to the inside, from behaviour to the heart. The truth is, anyone can follow rules when watched, but only a mature person chooses to do what is right even when no one sees. We need to recognise that the commandments are not chains. They are God’s loving directions toward life. 

Brothers and sisters, this movement from law to love also applies to how we give to God. In the Old Testament, tithing was required. The people were commanded to give one-tenth of their harvest: “Every tithe of the land… belongs to the Lord” (Leviticus 27:30). It was clear, fixed, and obligatory. But when Jesus came, He did not simply compute percentages. He looked at the heart. Remember the poor widow in the temple. While others gave large amounts, she offered two small coins — almost just loose change, the only thing she had left, yet she gave it without hesitation — and Jesus said, “This poor widow has put in more than all the others… she, out of her poverty, put in all she had to live on” (Mark 12:43–44). No forcing. No percentage. But her gift was total because it was free and loving. That is why in the Catholic Church, we do not force tithing. We invite. We teach stewardship. We encourage generosity. However, we do not demand like a fixed tax because God does not want forced giving. As St. Paul says, “God loves a cheerful giver!” (2 Corinthians 9:7). Freely given. From the heart. For love cannot be demanded nor collected like a bill; it can only be offered. 

What is forced is difficult because it goes against the freedom that the Lord has given us as a gift. Notice that this is also the principle of our Church when it comes to elections. The Church forms our conscience, teaches us what is true and good, but we do not practice block voting or force people whom to choose. Faith respects freedom. The Church guides, but the decision remains personal. Just like God, the Church says, “Pray. Discern. You will choose” As a vote forced by pressure, has no moral value. On the contrary, a choice made in conscience is an offering to God. Yes, this is both beautiful and frightening because freedom means responsibility. Every day we face Sirach’s words again: life or death, good or evil. No one will force us. God simply trusts us — to forgive, to be faithful, to be honest, and to love. 

Maybe, that is what touches me most today. The all-powerful God placing His hopes in our small, imperfect hearts. Like a parent saying, “My child, you can do it.” God holds our hand when we are weak, but as we grow, He slowly lets go and says, “I trust you to choose life.” Thus, today, let us ask ourselves quietly: What am I choosing lately? Does my freedom lead me closer to God or farther from Him?

In the end, our faith is not about control. It is about trust. God does not control us. He entrusts Himself to us. And when someone trusts us that much — when God Himself trusts you — the only beautiful response is this: “Lord, freely, willingly, with all my heart… I choose You.”

Quietly Changing the World as SALT, as LIGHT

Homily: Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)

Isaiah 58:7-10 | 1 Corinthians 2:1-5 | Matthew 5:13-16

8 February 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

Have you ever noticed how sometimes the smallest things make a big difference? I was walking along a busy street when there was a sudden downpour. As I took shelter, I saw a street vendor struggling to hold her umbrella while serving customers. A tricycle driver with a slight frame, ran over and held the umbrella for her for a few minutes. He looked like he was about to be swept away by the wind, but he stayed. None of the customers paid any attention to him, but the vendor was able to serve her customers and survive another day. That little moment which hardly anyone noticed made a difference. 

His act of kindness while remaining invisible, reminded me of today’s readings on salt. Salt is never at the centre of a meal nor is it celebrated  at the dining table, but no cook can do without it. When we eat we do not normally see the salt, but we know it is there. In the same way, we are aware when it is missing. We never praise the salt in your “sinigang” or “adobo”. But without it, everything tastes bland. 

Today, Jesus tells us, “You are the salt of the earth” (Matthew 5:13).  I believe Jesus is telling us we need not draw attention to ourselves to do good in the world. We do not have to be flashy to make the world a little better. Like salt, we can quietly, faithfully, without recognition, bring flavour to the world. Our small acts of kindness, compassion, and service, can enhance life and make it more beautiful. How can we be salt? We can be that neighbour who quietly helps another resident who is struggling to buy food. We can be the co-worker who simply listens to a colleague who is carrying heavy problems. Or whatever small good we choose to do — a simple gesture, a kind word, a helping hand — let us do it quietly, without waiting for applause, without needing an audience, and without posting it on social media. It is because real love does not perform; it simply serves. 

St. Paul reminds us that we do not need to be impressive to make a difference. He came “in weakness and fear,” not with eloquence or wisdom (1 Corinthians 2:1-5). Faith is not a performance; it is authenticity. People do not need perfect Christians; they need real ones. Even the Barangay health worker who quietly visits the elderly at home, or the jeepney driver who gives a free ride to someone sick, are living examples of this truth. Isaiah gives us a clear picture of what this looks like in real life. God does not ask for empty fasting or rituals that make ourselves seem impressive. On the contrary, He asks us to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, and not turn away from those in need (Isaiah 58:7-10). 

Jesus also calls us the light of the world. Salt enhances flavour whereas light shatters darkness. Light does not shout. It quietly shines, slowly and steadily. A little bit of it already makes a difference in a dark room. Even a small candle during a “brownout” can keep someone from tripping over objects on the floor while moving through the house. 

That is exactly how our lives can be. We may not change the whole world, but the simple things we do — listening to a friend, forgiving a family member, helping someone in need, volunteering quietly at the parish — bring light into someone’s darkness. 

Brothers and sisters, holiness is not about being spectacular. It is about being faithful in the small, quiet, and consistent ways we serve. We may never be noticed, and that is okay. What matters is that someone’s life is warmer, brighter, and better because of us. That small light we offer, that small flavour we add — it may be of no consequence or inconvenience to us but it could change someone’s world. When we live this way, our lives themselves become a witness. People may not remember what we said or how we looked, but they will never forget how we made them feel, how our quiet presence made their day, their week, or even their life a little sweeter, a little lighter. 

And maybe, when we reach heaven, God will not ask: “How famous were you?” He will ask: “Whose life became better because you were there?” And if even one person says, “Lord, because of him/her… life had flavour… life had light”—that will be enough for Him. May we all be like salt that quietly elevates and may we be like light that shines without discrimination — not for glory, not for applause — but because this is the way Christ works through us to make life better for others.

An award-winning, art by Greg Rutkowski