Sunday Gospel Reflections

HOMILY: Solemnity of our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe (C)

2 Samuel 5:1–3 | Colossians 1:12–20 | Luke 23:35–43

23 November 2025

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

We Filipinos admire winners. When we are strong, wealthy, or well-connected — we get respect. Many times, our idea of leadership is shaped by loudness and the influence of the crowd that endorses and rallies behind a person. We give them power over us, even if they are not qualified, even if they have pending cases, even if they live questionable lifestyles. 

It does not make sense that despite our nation being mostly Catholic, we Filipinos tend to choose leaders who are the exact opposite of Jesus Christ. On this last Sunday of the Church year, the Gospel confronts us with the shocking image of our true King — as one who hangs on a Cross (Luke 23:35–43). No throne. No golden crown. No machinery. No bloc of followers. Just wounds, insults, and two criminals beside Him. And we find ourselves asking: “Lord, why is Your kingship like this?” 

In the First Reading, Israel tells David, “You are our bone and flesh” (2 Samuel 5:1–3) — a king close to his people. Jesus fulfills this not by rising far above us, but by entering our deepest suffering. He is the only King who could triumph over everything… but chose not to. He could have come down from the Cross. He could have silenced His enemies. He could have proven His power. 

However, Jesus stays — not because He is weak, but because love refuses to abandon the beloved just to look strong. Here is the mystery: Christ wins by losing. He saves not by escaping the Cross, but by remaining on it — for us. 

Moreover, if we look closely, this kind of kingship is deeply familiar to the Filipino soul. Every day, we meet people who “lose” something out of love. Think of parents who give up their own dreams so their children can pursue theirs, Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) who sacrifice being present in their respective homes so their children can have a future, teachers who are stretched thinly yet still giving their best, jeepney drivers who endure long days just so they have something to bring home for dinner, and young people who choose honesty even when it makes their life harder. 

These hidden sacrifices — these quiet losses — are where Christ the King reigns the strongest. As St. Paul says, Christ reconciled all things “through the blood of His Cross” (Colossians 1:12–20) — not through wondrous works, not through displays of domination and power, but through the love revealed in His loss. Christ redefines what winning truly means. In God’s eyes, victory is not about rising higher, but loving deeper. Not about gaining more, but giving more. Not about applause, but compassion. Not about avoiding loss, but allowing love to cost us something. 

Which brings us to the question this feast asks us gently but firmly: “What do we need to lose so that love can win?” Do we need to let go of pride so reconciliation can begin? Do we let go of anger so peace can enter? Do we dare to let go of a secret sin so grace can flow freely once more? Do we let go of control so God can finally lead? Do we let go of fear so God can make our life’s purpose larger than our worries? His Kingship is not diminished by difficulty — rather, it is how He manifests His power. When He was on the cross, mocked from every side, seemingly defeated, He gave His royal promise to the repentant sinner who chose to stand with Him: “Today you will be with Me in Paradise” (Luke 23:43). 

At the end of the Church year, the message is both simple and stunning: Jesus lost everything so we could gain everything. He chose weakness so we could discover strength. He chose the Cross so we could find life. Christ is not the King who wins by winning. He is the King who wins by loving. And every time we “lose” something for love, He reigns in us all.

Religious Face of Jesus Christ, Spiritual Christian Canvas Painting by F. Abderrahim

Homily: Thirty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Malachi 3:19–20a; 2 Thessalonians 3:7–12; Luke 21:5–19

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

16 November 2025

Do you look forward to the Second Coming of Jesus? Are you excited to see Him? If we truly love Him, our instinct is to say, “Of course!” Yet every time we hear today’s Gospel, Jesus does not speak of angels, trumpets, or glory. Instead, He talks about wars, earthquakes, betrayal, and persecution. It is not quite the image we are expecting. It is unsettling. However, let us take notice because after this description, Jesus immediately says, “Do not be terrified.” (Luke 21:9) He promises strength, wisdom, and help to those who persevere.

Indeed, it feels like Jesus is speaking directly into our reality here in the Philippines. We live surrounded by noise: endless political debates online, videos predicting end-times, news of calamities, and group chats that somehow never sleep. Add to that the real persecution of Christians in places like China, Africa, and India — and we wonder if this storm could someday reach us too.

With all this noise, it is easy to get overwhelmed. It is easy to lose focus. It is tempting to grow cynical and say, “Ano bang magagawa ko? (What can I possibly do?) I am just one person.” And because many believe the world is too broken, they start living as if there is no tomorrow, no judgment, no life after death. They chase comfort at any cost — even if it hurts others, even if it wounds their own soul. Bakit pa ako magsisikap? Hindi ko naman mababago ang mga tao.  (Why bother making an effort when people will not change anyway?) On the other hand, this is where today’s Psalm interrupts us: “The Lord comes to rule the earth with justice.” (Psalm 98:9) God is not absent. God is not silent. God is not defeated.

Jesus then shifts the focus. Faith is not pretending everything is fine. Faith is being rooted, steady, and loving even when everything shakes around us. St. Paul reinforces this in the Second Reading. He reminds the Thessalonians that he and his companions worked “night and day,” not causing disorder, not burdening others.  (2 Thessalonians 3:8) This simply means that when life is chaotic, our response is not to panic… but to perseverance. Not to be noisy… but to be faifthful. Not to complain… but to be quietly doing what is right.

Moreover, this is where the Gospel becomes incredibly practical because for us, perseverance does not require doing anything extraordinary. It is found in the small, faithful choices we make each day. It is waking up and showing up — consistently. It is helping a neighbour clean up after a typhoon. It is the young volunteer bringing relief goods during a flood. It is the teacher who keeps teaching despite limited resources. It is the parishioner who attends Mass every Sunday, rain or shine. It is the mother who keeps praying for her children even when they reject her. These things seem small but they are exactly what Jesus is talking about. Our small, steady acts of faith cut through the noise of the world and they become signs of hope for others.

Thus, here are the questions the readings place before us today: Amid the political tension, the social unrest, the disasters, the pressures of daily life — can we remain faithful? Can we keep showing up, quietly, humbly, lovingly, even when it is inconvenient, tiring, or unpopular… Because that is what fidelity is. That is what witness is. This is the kind of faith Jesus promises to sustain.

And so, we return to His final words in the Gospel: “By your perseverance, you will secure your lives.” (Luke 21:19) Not by fear. Not by noise. Not by power. But by the simple, daily choice to trust Him. And when we do — Malachi tells us what awaits: “The sun of justice will rise… with healing in its rays.” (Malachi 4:2)

Hence, brothers and sisters, we keep going. We keep serving. We keep loving because even if the world trembles, God’s promise stands firm. His justice — steady, bright, healing — will rise upon those who persevere.

From the National Catholic Register: An aerial view of Our Lady of the Assumption Church after the Aug. 6, 1945, bombing. A small group of priests can be seen standing in the road in front of the church. 

Homily: Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica in Rome (C)

Ezekiel 47:1–2, 8–9, 12 / 1 Corinthians 3:9c–11, 16–17 / John 2:13–22

9 November 2025

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

Whenever there is a typhoon, I am filled with dread over the flash floods that halt transportation, displace residents, and endanger lives. There are often scenes on social media of families on rooftops, homes swept away, and soaking children clutching plastic bags of clothes. However, there is another scene flooding feeds that warms my heart and fills me with hope — parishes opening their doors, neighbours sharing food, and strangers helping others with quiet generosity. Grace is truly at work when out of the muddy waters, compassion flows. 

Today, we celebrate the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica in Rome. Before the Vatican was built, this place is where the Pope held office for centuries. This feast reminds us of the centrality of church to our worship of God. Spelled with a small letter “c”, the church refers to the sacred structure where the faithful gather for the sacrifice of the mass. On the other hand, the Church with a capital “C” refers to all of us, the community of believers in Jesus Christ, who gather to worship God. Our readings today speak to us about the temple — both as a sacred building and as the people themselves — to remind us that the true temple of God is not just a monument, but a movement of love. God does not dwell in buildings that glitter; He dwells in hearts that give, in lives that overflow with mercy and compassion. 

In the gospel passage from St. John, we hear of the cleansing of the temple by an angry Jesus who is upset because money changers and vendors have dishonoured the place reserved for the dwelling of God. His anger reveals how sacred the temple has to be — a place where God’s presence dwells and gives life. That same truth is beautifully expressed in the First Reading, where the prophet Ezekiel speaks of a river flowing from the Temple, bringing life wherever it goes. The terrain of the Holy Land is mostly desert area where nothing grows so the image of life-giving water flowing from the temple allowing fruit trees to grow and fish to be abundant and living things to multiply, is proof that God, the Source of life, is present there. This image finds its fullness in Jesus, who reveals that He Himself is the new Temple — the living dwelling place of God among us — who will be torn down and raised up in three (3) days through His death and resurrection. From the Temple of His body, life and mercy flow out for the world when blood and water pour from His pierced side. 

In the Second Reading, St. Paul tells us that as believers, we have also become the temple of God because the spirit of God dwells in us!  If we are His Body, then the living water that is Jesus, must flow through us. The question is: do we allow Christ to flow from us or have we allowed this living water to be stagnant?  These days, there are mega-churches that seem to have taken on the look and feel of concert halls — glamorized by stage lights, state of the art facilities, vibrant applause — rather than places of worship. One cannot help but ask, “Did I come here to watch a concert, or did I come to worship?” They are impressive structures, but when the floods come, people do not run there for shelter. They are beautiful but distant. There are also groups who, though claiming to act in God’s name, become caught up in rallies and causes that, deep down, only serve the interests of those already powerful — the very people who exploit, deceive, and neglect the poor. 

The real Church of Christ — the one founded on compassion, not convenience — is found where the poor are. In chapels that double as evacuation centres… In parishes that smell not of perfume but of “baha (flood) and “lugaw” (hot porridge). In priests, sisters, and lay volunteers who choose to stay with the people when the waters rise. It is not built on marble — it is rather built on mercy.  Pope Leo XIV, in Dilexi Te, writes: “In the poor we see the suffering of the innocent, and therefore the suffering of Christ Himself.” He also says that true faith must bring a change of mentality that affects culture itself.  Ang ibig sabihin, hindi lang ito tungkol sa pamimigay ng tulong. (It means this is not just about giving help or material aid.) It is about reshaping how we see the world — standing with the powerless instead of flattering the powerful.  When we see Christ in the jeepney driver whose route is flooded, in the teacher still showing up despite delayed pay, or in the child sleeping on a pew in an evacuation centre — that is when we become a Church that smells like “tubig ng buhay” (water of life) not perfume. 

So, let us be that kind of Church: humble, open, courageous. A Church that does not stand with the powerful, but with the powerless.  A Church that, when the next storm comes, people can run to — not for a show, but for shelter because the Church of Christ does not stand above the storm — it steps into it. It kneels with the wounded and prays with the soaked. It carries not the scent of luxury, but of life — the smell of water, of mercy, of hope.

From Publiko’s Post

Homily: Solemnity of All Saints

Revelation 7:2–4, 9–14 / 1 John 3:1–3 / Matthew 5:1–12

1 November 2025

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

A few years ago, I was at the wake of a quiet woman from our parish. She was not the type to stand in front or hold positions. She sat in the back pew, prayed quietly, and always smiled when you pass by. But during the eulogies, story after story came out — how she quietly paid part of a neighbour’s hospital bill, how she would bring cooked food to an old man who lived alone, how she prayed the rosary every night for those who were sick or struggling.  People said, “We did not know she was doing all that!”  And I thought to myself — ah, maybe that is the point! 

Today we celebrate holiness — not just the great, canonised saints with feast days and statues, but also the ones who walked among us in silence and kindness. In the First Reading, John sees “a great multitude that no one could count” (Revelation 7:9) — people from every nation, standing before God in white robes. These are the saints who went through life’s struggles and remained faithful.  Some of them are recognized by the church for their exceptional virtue or holy martyrdom and we know them by name — Augustine, Francis, Teresa, Faustina, Lorenzo Ruiz, Pedro Calungsod and many others. Many of them though go nameless in history but they are never nameless to God. Their holy lives and good works are always before the eyes of our Lord. 

St. John in the Second Reading, tells us something beautiful: “See what love the Father has bestowed on us, that we may be called children of God.” (1 John 3:1) In other words, sainthood begins not in heaven, after we die, but it starts with accepting that we are God’s children and that we are loved so very much, right here, right now.   This is something that should motivate us to nurture that gift, little by little, every day so that we grow in relationship with God and all those whom He loves. 

In our gospel Jesus gives us signposts for holiness in the Beatitudes: He says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit… the merciful… the peacemakers.” (Matthew 5:1–12)

            •          The poor in spirit — maybe that is the widow who prays every day for others or the doctor who willingly goes on mission to remote areas. 

            •          The merciful — maybe that is the nurse who stays late to comfort a patient or the neighbour who helps when our family is in crisis. 

            •          The peacemakers — maybe these are the parents who choose patience instead of anger… or the child who apologises first after a sibling squabble.

The Beatitudes is not a list of impossible goals for those with special powers. It is a portrait of “the saints next door” painted in the likeness of ordinary people.

The saints are not a distant group of superhuman people. They are the ones who chose love when it is easier to look away, who forgive when it hurts, who remain kind even when no one notices. And maybe we have met them — the grandmother who prays for everyone by name, the catechist who serves year after year without recognition, the tricycle driver who says a quiet “Thank You, Lord” before every trip. They are the ones who need not announce themselves as they work to build Christ’s kingdom. They just love quietly but tangibly. If we could see with God’s eyes, we would realise that the Church is full of these hidden saints — unsung, unnoticed, but radiant in His sight.

Thus today, as we honour all the saints, we are all invited:  Let us not only admire them, let them be our inspiration — proof that our human weakness is not a permanent block to becoming holy. Holiness, after all, is not about doing big things or strictly observing Church rules; it is about doing ordinary things with great love. This is the mark of Christ.  Yes, sisters and brothers, let us do our best, in our own ways, to bring holiness down to earth — to our kitchens, classrooms, offices, and communities, with the hope that one day, we may also join the saints in Heaven.

Maybe, years from now, when a few would remember us, they will tell small stories of kindness, patience, and prayer. And someone might whisper, “We did not know she was doing all that.” “We did not know he was doing that!” And God will smile and say, “Yes, I did!”