Safely Preserved, Sadly Wasted

Homily: Thirty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

Proverbs 31:10–13, 19–20, 30–31 | 1 Thessalonians 5:1–6 | Matthew 25:14–30

15 November 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Have you ever noticed that a fire extinguisher is one of those things we buy but hope we never have to use? We keep it in a visible place, make sure it has not expired, and occasionally check whether it is still there. But honestly, how many of us actually bother to learn how to operate one? We are happy knowing we have it, despite not really knowing what to do with it when a fire breaks out!

Safety codes require all structures to have fire extinguishers. Now imagine a shop catching fire and the manager refusing to use the extinguisher because he does not want to empty it! The extinguisher may be successfully preserved, but it fails to accomplish its purpose. Silly and strange, right? However, that image is very similar to what happens in today’s Gospel passage. The third servant does not lose his master’s money. He does not steal it, squander it, or gamble it away. He protects it, buries it, and returns it intact. He did not lose a single peso! If this were an accounting examination, he might even get a perfect score! But why is the master not pleased? It is because the servant preserved what was entrusted to him but failed to fulfill its purpose.

We can lose nothing and still fail. That is one of the more uncomfortable truths of the Gospel. Sometimes, we mistake playing safe for being faithful. We avoid taking risks, postpone doing something good, keep our distance from people who might complicate our lives, and hold back our generosity because we are afraid of losing something. We tell ourselves, “At least I haven’t done anything wrong!” But is avoiding mistakes the same as living faithfully and doing the right thing? 

The third servant explains: “I was afraid” (Matthew 25:25). Fear made him bury his talent. He was so concerned about not losing what he had that he missed the opportunity to make it grow. How many opportunities have we buried because we were afraid? How many relationships could have been healed if we had taken the first step? How many people could have been encouraged if we had spoken a kind word? How many times did we see someone in need but convinced ourselves that somebody else would take care of it? How many times have we kept our gifts, our time, our resources, and even our love to ourselves because giving something away might cost us something? 

The First Reading gives us a beautiful contrast. The worthy woman in Proverbs does not simply keep her hands busy earning a living. Scripture says, “She reaches out her hands to the poor, and extends her arms to the needy” (Proverbs 31:20). Her hands are not closed around what she possesses. They are open to what others need. She understands that what we receive is not meant to end with us.

There is also a beautiful connection with St. Paul’s exhortation: “Let us not sleep as the rest do, but let us stay alert and sober” (1 Thessalonians 5:6). We can be awake to our schedules, our responsibilities, our plans, and our ambitions, yet asleep to the needs of the people around us. We can attend Mass, say our prayers, and fulfill our religious obligations, but gradually lose the ability to notice someone who needs our attention, forgiveness, encouragement, or help. The greatest danger is not that we become terrible people, but that we become so comfortable protecting ourselves that we stop becoming generous. We become experts at preserving what we have but beginners at sharing what we are.

My dear friends, God has entrusted each of us with something: time, abilities, resources, relationships, opportunities, and above all, the capacity to love. Not everyone receives the same amount, and the Gospel is not asking us to produce the same results. The servant who received two talents was not expected to produce five. What matters is that we do not bury what we have been given. One day, when we stand before God, perhaps the question will not simply be, “What did we accomplish?” but also, “Whose life became better because we were there? Whom did we help? Whom did we forgive? Whose burden did we make lighter? Whom did we love when it was difficult to love?” 

Let us be careful not to spend our entire lives protecting the gifts God has given us while forgetting to share them. Let us not be so afraid of losing something that we miss the opportunity to become something beautiful for others.  After all, a fire extinguisher is meant to be emptied when lives are in danger. And a Christian life is meant to be poured out when others are in need. What good is a gift we never use, or a love we never give? 

Let us pray that we can stand before God with hands worn out from giving  rather than with hands perfectly clean because we never reached out. It is better to have risked loving and sometimes been hurt than to have lived safely without ever making a difference. Most importantly, let us return to God a life that has been spent in love instead of a life that we simply kept for ourselves.


The Parable of the Talents
by: Mironov Andrey

Fifteen Years of Being Found by God

Homily: Thursday of the Thirty-First Week in Ordinary Time

Thanksgiving for the 15th Anniversary of Priestly Ordination

Philippians 3:3–8a | Luke 15:1–10

5 November 2026 

Before anything else, a little clarification: my actual ordination anniversary is November 12, not today! I was ordained on November 12, 2011, the Memorial of St. Josaphat, Bishop and Martyr, and  the patron of Christian unity and ecumenical efforts. My ordination took place on the eve of the Feast of the Assumptionist Bulgarian Martyrs—Kamen, Pavel, and Josaphat—celebrated every November 13. In fact, my very first Mass was offered in honor of these martyrs! 

Fifteen years later, a new connection to martyrs came to light. I have been invited by a group from London to accompany them on a pilgrimage to Japan and South Korea entitled “Witnesses unto Death: A Pilgrimage to the Martyrs of Japan and South Korea.” So, I will be away on the date of my actual anniversary. I suppose I am celebrating my 15th anniversary by going on a pilgrimage rather than staying home for a party—which, as many of you know, I do not particularly enjoy! 

Perhaps there is something providential about celebrating today, especially in the light of the readings we have just heard. And as I look back on these fifteen years, I fondly recall Sr. Clare Teresa Tjader, former Superior General of the Religious of the Assumption, during my years at Assumption College (now Assumption University) in Worcester, Massachusetts.  She used to hand me a map and make me sit beside her in the vehicle whenever we went on trips with the international students to places like New York, Philadelphia, or Washington, DC.  She surely knew the way, but every now and then, while driving, she would turn to me and ask, “Are we going the right way?” Apparently, I was the navigator! This was before Waze, so we had to rely on the map—or whatever sense of direction I could muster!  How funny that I was expected to know the way even though I did not even know how to drive then. It was quite an arrangement: she was behind the wheel, but I had the map and the responsibility. She seemed perfectly calm, while I was quietly hoping I would not be the reason we ended up somewhere we had not planned to go! 

Looking back, I find something familiar in that experience. In life, we often find ourselves in situations where others expect us to know the way. When a family has a problem, they turn to the person they believe has the answers. When we are lost, we expect somebody else to show us the way home.  Priesthood can sometimes put us in that position. People come to us for guidance, answers, comfort, and direction. We are expected to be shepherds who know where to lead others. But this raises an important question: Who guides the shepherd? 

Fifteen years ago, on the day of my ordination, Cardinal Chito Tagle, then the newly-appointed Archbishop of Manila, gave us a reminder that I have come to appreciate more deeply over the years. He reminded us that ordination to the priesthood is a grace, not a privilege. It does not make us more special or more important than others. Rather, it is a gift entrusted to us and a call to serve.  And if there is one thing fifteen years of priesthood have taught me, it is this: the longer we serve, the more deeply we realize how much we depend on God’s grace. 

This brings me to today’s Gospel. Jesus tells us about a shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine sheep to search for the one that has gone missing (Luke 15:4–7). We usually read this story from the perspective of the shepherd. We see ourselves as the ones sent to look for the lost, to accompany those who have wandered, and to bring people back to God.  But after fifteen years of priesthood, I find myself looking at this Gospel from another perspective. What if I am also the lost sheep? 

Before we become shepherds, we are sheep. And even after fifteen years, I remain a sheep who needs to be found. There have been moments when I knew where I was going, and moments when I did not. There have been moments of fulfilment and moments of uncertainty, times when ministry was joyful and times when it was difficult. There have been times when I helped others find their way, and times when I needed God to find me and lead me back.  Thankfully, through all these years, His grace has never failed me. 

This is also what makes St. Paul’s words in the First Reading so meaningful. Paul had so many reasons to be proud of his credentials, accomplishments, and religious standing. Yet he came to realize that all these meant very little compared to knowing Christ (Philippians 3:4–8a). What mattered most was not what he had achieved, but the grace of belonging to Christ. Perhaps this is one of the most important lessons of fifteen years of priesthood: the longer we serve, the less we rely on our own accomplishments and the more we learn to trust in God’s grace. 

I may have spent fifteen years searching for people on behalf of God. But the greater miracle is that, throughout these fifteen years, God has never stopped searching for me.  Perhaps that is what makes a priest worth following: not that he has never been lost, not that he has all the answers, or that he is somehow better than the people he serves, but that he knows what it means to be found by God. 

Today, I give thanks not because I have been a perfect priest, but because God has been faithful. Not because I have always known the way, but because He has never stopped leading me home. It is His fidelity that I celebrate. Fifteen years later, I am still a sheep who needs a Shepherd. I still get lost sometimes. I still need direction. I still need His mercy. But here is what fifteen years have taught me: I do not have to know every road, I do not have to have every answer, and I do not have to be a perfect shepherd. I only have to keep my eyes on the Shepherd who has never lost sight of me. 

And perhaps this is true not only for priests, but for all of us. We will have moments when we lose our way. We will have moments when our faith grows weak, when the road becomes difficult, and when we don’t know what comes next. But we can keep going because we belong to a Shepherd who never abandons His sheep. So, after fifteen years, this is what I can say with all my heart: I am still here, not because I have always been strong, not because I have always been faithful, but because God has always been faithful! That is truly the one thing worth celebrating today. It is not simply fifteen years of priesthood but fifteen years of God’s patience, fifteen years of God’s mercy, fifteen years of God’s unfailing love. 

Thank you for walking with me, for praying with me, and for being instruments of God’s grace along the way. May we continue this journey together.  Wherever the road takes us, may we never forget: we may lose our way, but we will never be lost as long as we belong to the Shepherd who never stops looking for us!

Enough Oil for Today

Homily: Thirty-Second Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

Wisdom 6:12–16 | 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18 | Matthew 25:1–13

8 November 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

One time, I picked up my phone and saw that it was not working. I tapped the screen several times, pressed a few buttons, and even tapped on it harder in an attempt to fix it. After all, as a teen, I learned to hit our picture tube TV on the side when the picture was not clear, and that almost always solved the problem. Unfortunately, it did not work with my phone. It turned out I simply forgot to charge it! The phone was perfectly fine. Nothing was broken. The battery was simply drained. And no amount of tapping, pressing, or complaining would make it work. It needed to be recharged!

Something similar can happen in our spiritual lives. We can try our best to be pious—praying every morning and evening, before every meal, never missing Sunday Mass, and even volunteering at church. However, at some point, we notice that we have become impatient, prayer feels like a burden, we are easily irritated, and serving others no longer gives us the same joy. Sometimes, we keep tapping on the same old buttons, hoping things will improve. But perhaps what we simply need is to recharge.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells us about ten virgins who were waiting for the bridegroom. Five were wise, and five were foolish. All ten brought lamps. All ten went out to meet the bridegroom. And when he was delayed, all ten became drowsy and fell asleep. Here is an interesting detail: the foolish virgins were not completely unprepared. They had oil when they started. They simply did not bring enough for a longer wait. They assumed that what they had at the beginning would be enough until the end.

Sometimes, we fool ourselves into thinking that one generous donation, one successful church project, or one tear-jerking conversion experience is enough to sustain us forever. Recall that retreat you attended years ago, the beautiful experience of prayer you once had, the enthusiasm you felt when you first discovered and embraced your vocation, or the time when serving others gave you so much joy. Think about the time when going to Mass was something we looked forward to, when helping others came naturally, when we had more patience and generosity. Was every moment of our lives like that? Are we always living on a high? We have to be grateful to God for those moments, but we cannot rely only on memories. Yesterday’s prayer cannot replace today’s prayer. Yesterday’s forgiveness can not excuse today’s resentment. Yesterday’s generosity cannot substitute for today’s love. We can not keep the lamps of today burning with the oil of yesterday.

I invite you to take note of another detail: even the five wise virgins fell asleep! They also got tired. They also experienced the long wait. Jesus does not expect us to be tireless, constantly enthusiastic, or to have everything figured out. The difference was that the wise virgins had brought enough oil to keep their lamps burning when the unexpected happened. That is what a living faith requires. It is not about perfection but replenishment. It is not constant excitement but daily nourishment.

This is where our First Reading becomes important. The Book of Wisdom tells us that Wisdom is radiant and unfading. She is readily perceived by those who love her and found by those who seek her. In fact, she even goes about looking for those who are worthy of her (Wisdom 6:12–16). I find that beautiful. We spend so much time looking for God, but Wisdom reminds us that God is also making Himself available to us. We only need to keep seeking, listening, and making room for Him. We can not assume that because we encountered God yesterday, we no longer need to seek Him today.

And St. Paul, in the Second Reading, gives us something even more important to hold on to. He writes to a community grieving the death of their loved ones. He does not tell them to stop grieving. He tells them not to grieve like those who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13). Why? It is because Jesus died and rose again. Those who belong to Christ will also share in His resurrection. Our hope is not based on how strong our faith feels on a particular day. It rests on the faithfulness of the Risen Lord.

This is the oil we need: a relationship with Christ that we continue to nourish, a hope that carries us through difficult days, and a love that we keep putting into practice. And the good news is that we can always begin again. We can return to prayer. We can make peace with someone. We can become more patient. We can forgive. We can rediscover the joy of serving. We can ask God to renew what has grown tired within us. 

So, the next time our phone refuses to work, let us remember: sometimes, the problem is not the phone. It simply needs to be charged. And when our faith grows weak, when our patience runs thin, or when our love begins to flicker, let us not simply keep tapping on the same old buttons. Let us return to the Source. Let us make time for prayer, for God’s Word, for the Eucharist, and for the people who need our love. 

After all, it is not enough that our lamps were once burning brightly. It is not enough that our phones were fully charged yesterday. What matters is that there is still enough oil for today, and enough light for when the Bridegroom comes.

What We Refuse to Become

Homily: Solemnity of All Saints

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

1 November 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Have others ever misjudged you, said hurtful things about you, questioned your intentions, or twisted your words? Nakakainis. Nakakagalit. Hindi ba? (Frustrating. Infuriating. Isn’t it?) We react that way because we are deeply hurt. The pain gets much worse when the offenders are people we know, people we trust, or people we never expected would harm us. Instinctively, we defend ourselves and try to explain our side, correct the story, and reveal the truth. Other times, we go a step further, believing we are justified in retaliating and saying something equally hurtful. We pass the hurt along. We become unkind because someone was unkind to us. As followers of Christ, this is not the attitude we should have. We need to choose differently.

Although it may seem impossible, there are indeed those who have suffered injustice but refused to retaliate. Their choice is neither a sign of weakness nor an inability to stand up for themselves but rather a firm refusal to allow another person’s wrongdoing to determine the kind of person they will become. This, brothers and sisters, is a beautiful way for us to understand holiness on this Solemnity of All Saints.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus gives us a rather surprising picture of holiness through the Beatitudes (Matthew 5:3–12). He declares that the merciful, the meek, the peacemakers, and those who are persecuted for righteousness are all blessed. This does not mean these people have had easy lives. In fact, they are likely people who have been wounded, misunderstood, or treated unfairly. They have experienced the harshness of life but have refused to surrender their goodness to it.

If we really think about it, we would all agree that it is easy to return goodness for goodness, kindness for kindness. It takes very little effort to be kind to people who are kind to us. It is easy to be generous when people appreciate us. It is easy to be peaceful when nobody disturbs our peace. But what happens when we are treated unfairly? What happens when somebody betrays our trust, damages our reputation, or speaks against us? Is it still easy for us to treat them with compassion and understanding? That is where the true test of holiness begins.

Perhaps the truest victory in handling difficult situations is not in getting even, having the last word, or proving that we were right, but in being able to walk away and give the other person space without carrying the same bitterness that was thrown our way. This is not weakness. It is the strength of someone who refuses to let hatred spread. This does not mean we should tolerate injustice, pretend that we are not hurt, or allow others to abuse us. To forgive does not make a grave offence acceptable. It simply means that we refuse to surrender our hearts to hatred or let what happened define the rest of our lives.

This brings us to the First Reading. In the Book of Revelation, John sees “a great multitude, which no one could count, from every nation, race, people, and tongue” standing before God’s throne (Revelation 7:9). When asked who these people are, the answer is that they are the ones who have survived the time of great distress and have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb (Revelation 7:13–14). They are not people who were spared suffering. They are people who passed through it and remained faithful. Their victory was not that they had defeated everyone who opposed them. Their victory was that they remained faithful to the Lamb.

The Second Reading reveals the deeper reason why this is possible. John writes, “See what love the Father has bestowed on us that we may be called the children of God. Yet so we are!” (1 John 3:1). We are God’s children. And if we are children of God, we are called to resemble our Father. We are called to make His mercy visible, even when others show no mercy; to make His love visible, even when others fail to love; and to make His peace visible, even when others create conflict. (This is not at all easy!) What is even more encouraging is that God does not expect us to be perfect overnight. As John reminds us, we are still becoming what God intends us to be (1 John 3:2–3). So, it is all right to be patient with ourselves.

As we look to the Communion of Saints today, perhaps we can learn from them that we do not have to become like the people who hurt us. The world already has enough people who pass their wounds on to others. We need more people who break that cycle. People who have been hurt but refuse to pass that hurt on to others. People who have experienced cruelty but still choose kindness. People who have been misunderstood but still refuse to become bitter. Today, we celebrate the saints not because they were superhuman, but because they show us how extraordinary goodness is still possible in an ordinary human life.

The saints remind us that we may not always have control over what people do to us, what they say about us, or how they treat us. But with God’s grace, we can still choose to be holy.

We Are More Than Our Worst Mistakes

Homily: Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

Exodus 22:20–26 | 1 Thessalonians 1:5c–10 | Matthew 22:34–40

October 25, 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

What is the worst thing we have ever done to another person perhaps 10, 20, or 30 years ago? Now, imagine if that were the only thing people would ever remember about us. What if, no matter how much we tried to change, people continued to judge us by the mistakes of our past? This may seem cruel and unrealistic, but many people who have been imprisoned face this reality. Even after serving their sentences, society often continues to punish them—with suspicion, rejection, and closed doors.

Today’s First Reading speaks directly to us about how we should treat others—especially those who are vulnerable and in need. In Exodus 22:25–26, God commands the Israelites to return a poor person’s cloak before sunset if it has been taken as security for a loan. This does not cancel the debt. Rather, it reminds us that the right to collect what is owed never gives us the right to deprive another person of dignity. The borrower has a responsibility to pay, but should not be deprived of what is necessary for survival. God sees beyond the transaction and the obligation. He sees a human being in need. Even when someone owes us something, we must never make that person pay with his or her dignity.

Today, as we observe Prison Awareness Sunday, we remember those who have broken the law and must answer for their actions, especially those who have acknowledged their wrongdoing and served their sentences. Reintegration into society remains difficult, especially when employers are reluctant to hire people with criminal records. The Philippine Jesuit Prison Service Foundation has developed a program to help Persons Restored to Liberty rebuild their lives: Ex-Preso, a mobile coffee livelihood program staffed by formerly incarcerated individuals. Even the name carries a message. Ex-Preso is a play on espresso and the word preso, meaning prisoner. It reminds us that although a person may have been imprisoned, his or her future need not remain a prisoner of the past. This does not erase the wrong that was done. Yet, neither does that wrong erase the person’s human dignity.

Sometimes, we can be equally harsh toward the people closest to us. During family arguments, we may keep a careful record of every offense committed by our children or siblings, even when we have the stronger argument. At work, even if we have every right to correct someone, do we really need to humiliate that person in front of others? Sometimes, we are so determined to win an argument that we forget the dignity of the person with whom we are arguing. Children can become disrespectful when disagreeing with their parents. Employees can also become disrespectful toward supervisors whom they consider incompetent. Being right is not always the same as being righteous. Winning an argument does not necessarily mean that we have treated the other person with compassion.

This is especially important when we think of persons deprived of liberty. Justice must take wrongdoing seriously. Victims deserve justice, and people must be held accountable for their actions. Yet, accountability should not mean declaring that a person’s life is beyond repair. If someone has served a sentence and is trying to begin again, will we give that person a chance, or will we keep the doors of our hearts closed even after the prison doors have been opened? That is what makes Ex-Preso more than a coffee cart. It offers work, but also something society does not always readily give: a chance to rebuild trust, recover dignity, and contribute again. Sometimes, a new beginning starts with something as ordinary as an honest day’s work—and being treated as a human being.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells us that the greatest commandments are to love God with all our heart, soul, and mind, and to love our neighbour as ourselves (Matthew 22:37–39). All the Law and the Prophets depend on these two commandments. Love must guide the way we practice justice, exercise authority, correct mistakes, and respond to those who have failed. Love does not mean excusing wrongdoing. It means holding people accountable without destroying them, correcting them without humiliating them, and refusing to define a person by the worst thing he or she has ever done.

In the Second Reading, we are given an example of faithful Christians. St. Paul praises the Thessalonians because their faith became an example to others (1 Thessalonians 1:7–8). Their faith was not merely something they professed; it became something others could see. That is our challenge, too. People should encounter something of Christ in the way we treat those who have little power, those who have failed, and those who are trying to begin again. When we encounter someone picking up the pieces of their life because society once considered them beyond redemption, let us be kind. Let us show them that justice and mercy can work together, and that a person’s past need not have the final word. We may hold people accountable, but we must leave room for them to change.

For the God we worship is the God who hears the cry of the poor (Exodus 22:26–27). If we truly love Him, we must learn to hear whom God hears and see whom God sees. And perhaps the next time we order a cup of coffee, let us remember the Jesuit initiative and consider this: sometimes, what a person needs most is not for us to forget their past, but to believe that their future can still be different.

When Our Words Betray Our Hearts

Homily: Twenty-Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

Isaiah 45:1, 4–6 | 1 Thessalonians 1:1–5b | Matthew 22:15–21

18 October 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Have you ever met someone who preaches about honesty, but can never tell the truth? Someone who always claims to want to help, but only if they get something out of it? Or someone who says, “Para naman ito sa ikabubuti ng lahat.” (This is for the common good.), when they really just want to get their own way? Does this sound like someone you know, perhaps even a leader? The problem is not what they say; it is that their actions never match their words.

This is what makes today’s Gospel so interesting. The Pharisees and Herodians approach Jesus with a question about paying taxes to Caesar. They begin by praising Him: “Teacher, we know that you are a truthful man” (Matthew 22:16), yet Matthew reveals their real intention: they want to entrap Jesus (Matthew 22:15). They speak about truth, but they are not seeking it. They simply want to put Jesus in a difficult position. Jesus sees through their deception and asks whose image appears on the coin. When they answer, “Caesar’s,” He replies, “Then repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God” (Matthew 22:20–21). Jesus answers their question, but He also reveals a deeper truth: people can use beautiful and persuasive words to conceal dishonest intentions.

We do not have to look very far to see this happening. Sometimes, people say, “I am only doing this for the family,” yet their decisions hurt the very people they claim to love. Someone says, “I am just defending what is right,” but refuses to acknowledge even the smallest mistake. Someone says, “I am doing this for the Church,” yet becomes angry when another person receives the credit. Sometimes, we can be very vocal in defending noble causes, yet undermine the very values we defend by refusing to accept correction when our own conduct falls short. We can demand accountability from others while making excuses for our own actions. We can speak passionately about what the Church should do while forgetting that we, too, are called to humility and obedience.

It is easy to speak about obedience when we agree with the person giving the instruction. The real test comes when we disagree. Can we express our concerns honestly and respectfully without reacting with anger? Can we remain faithful to the Church without insisting that everything must be done our way? Obedience does not mean that we cannot ask questions or respectfully express disagreement. However, there is a difference between raising a concern in good faith and making ourselves the final judge of everything. Humility is not measured by how often we correct others, but by our willingness to accept correction ourselves.

This is not just a problem among politicians, Church leaders, or other people. It is a challenge we must also confront within ourselves. When I say I am helping someone, am I genuinely seeking to improve that person’s situation, or am I waiting for praise or, worse, expecting a favour in return? When I say I am a defender of truth, am I willing to admit when I am mistaken? When I say I am serving God, can I continue serving even when nobody notices, thanks me, or praises me? These are difficult questions, but they are necessary. After all, it is possible to do the right thing for the wrong reasons. It is possible to speak about God while refusing to let God change us.

Saint Paul gives us a beautiful reminder in the Second Reading. He praises the Thessalonians for their “work of faith and labour of love and endurance in hope” (1 Thessalonians 1:3). Notice that their faith is not just something they talk about. Their faith leads them to act. Their love requires effort. Their hope helps them persevere. That is the mark of genuine faith. It is not measured solely by how often we pray, how many religious activities we attend, or how well we know the Bible. These things matter, but they must also transform the way we live.

Brothers and sisters, we can fool people with beautiful words. We can even fool ourselves. Yet, we cannot hide our hearts from God. Let us therefore examine ourselves whenever we say, “This is for God.” Let us first ask whether our actions reflect His love, whether our decisions uphold the truth, and whether our intentions are sincere. True integrity is revealed in the everyday moments when no one is watching: by choosing honesty at all times, showing patience at home even when we are tired, and treating others fairly even when it is difficult. When we accept correction with humility, our daily actions become a reflection of God’s love and goodness to those around us. May our lives help others recognise god’s goodness and experience it through our words and actions.

Today, we are reminded to keep our words truthful, our motives sincere, and our daily lives truly aligned with Christ. Let us live out our faith, for it is not enough to simply talk about God. Let us pray for a heart that is humble enough to accept correction when we are wrong, generous enough to help others, and courageous enough to follow Christ faithfully.

Can We Handle Having More?

Homily: Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time – Year A

Isaiah 25:6–10a / Philippians 4:12–14, 19–20 / Matthew 22:1–14

11 October 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

We are usually very good at dealing with problems. When money is tight, we know how to adjust. When we have little energy left for work, we find a way to cope. When we try to make the most of our limited time to run errands, we make a “To-Do” list—sometimes a very long one—and tell ourselves, “Just get through this week.” We tend to understand the challenge of having too little. Sanay tayong dumiskarte sa kakulangan—kulang sa budget, kulang sa oras, kulang sa kakayahan, at iba pa. (We are used to finding ways to make things work despite our limitations—whether it is a tight budget, lack of time, or limited skills.) What we do not talk about as much is the challenge of having too much, do you not agree?

St. Paul’s words in today’s Second Reading caught my attention: “I have learned how to live with humble means, and I have learned how to live with abundance” (Philippians 4:12). We usually think the spiritual challenge is learning how to live with less. Paul reminds us that learning how to live with more can be equally challenging. That is not as easy as it sounds. We have heard stories like this before—a financially struggling individual wins big in the lottery only to lose everything within five years due to unwise investments, failed businesses, extravagant spending, and the proverbial “balato” (a share of one’s winnings) given to friends, relatives, and even long-lost relatives who suddenly reappear.

Some people survive poverty but lose their way in prosperity. Others can handle failure but struggle with success. We may know how to pray when we desperately need something, but when life is going well, prayer can quietly move down our list of priorities. When there is little, we notice every blessing. When there is plenty, we may take those blessings for granted. Thus, the test of faith is not only what we do when we have nothing, but also what happens to us when we have everything. What does abundance do to us? Does it make us grateful or entitled? Generous or possessive? Does having more enlarge our hearts—or simply increase our desires? Paul says, “I have learned.” He had to learn how to live with little and with abundance. This reminds us that abundance is not simply something we enjoy. It is something we must learn to manage wisely.

Jesus illustrates this in today’s gospel passage. He compares the Kingdom of Heaven to a king who prepares a wedding banquet for his son: “The kingdom of heaven may be likened to a king who gave a wedding feast for his son” (Matthew 22:2). The table is set. The food is prepared. There is more than enough. Yet the invited guests refuse to come. One goes to his farm, another to his business (Matthew 22:3–5). Now, we should not simply assume that they are all bad people. Some may have been preoccupied with their own affairs. They have farms, businesses, schedules, and responsibilities. Their lives are full. That may be the subtle danger of abundance: we can become so preoccupied with what we have that we lose our hunger. Not hunger for food, but hunger for God, for meaning, for gratitude, and for something beyond ourselves.

When life is difficult, we instinctively turn to God. When life becomes comfortable, we can start thinking, “I can handle this on my own.” We may still believe in God, but we no longer feel that we need Him as much. Yet the abundance God gives us is never meant solely for our comfort. Isaiah describes God’s kingdom as a great feast: “The Lord of hosts will provide for all peoples a feast of rich food and choice wines” (Isaiah 25:6). This is followed by a beautiful promise: “The Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces” (Isaiah 25:8). God’s abundance is not merely about material possessions. It is about the fullness of life, deeper communion, greater joy, and an increased capacity to give. This transforms the way we view our blessings. If we have more time, we can devote some of it to service. If we have more resources, we can share them with those in need. If we have influence, we can use it to uplift the less fortunate. If we have experienced success, we can use it to create opportunities for someone else. The question is not simply how much we have, but who we are becoming through what we have received.

That is the distinction St. Paul makes. He does not say that having little necessarily makes us holy, nor that having much inevitably leads us astray. He learned to live faithfully in both circumstances. His situation changed, but his faith remained steadfast. That is why he can say, “I know how to live with humble means, and I know how to live with abundance” (Philippians 4:12), and ultimately declare, “I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). The goal, then, is neither to have less nor to accumulate more for its own sake. The goal is spiritual freedom—to receive what God gives without being enslaved by it, to enjoy blessings without developing a sense of entitlement, and to find contentment without the constant desire for more.

The Eucharist is a beautiful expression of Christian abundance. God prepares a table for us. We come with our successes and failures, our fullness and emptiness, our answered prayers and unanswered questions. And God simply invites us, “Come.” What we receive at this table is not meant to remain with us alone. We receive Christ so that our own lives can become more like His: bread broken, life shared, love given.

True faith reveals itself when abundance leads to greater generosity rather than self-indulgence. Today, then, let us pray: “Lord, teach me how to live with what You give me. Teach me to live with little without losing hope. Teach me to live with much without losing humility. Teach me to receive blessings without forgetting the One who blesses. And teach me to turn what I have received into a blessing for someone else.”

The Rosary: A School of Attention

Solemnity of Our Lady of the Rosary of La Naval de Manila (Proper to the Diocese of Cubao)

Zechariah 2:14–17 / Acts 1:12–14 / Luke 1:26–38

11 October 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Have you ever talked to someone while checking your phone, watched television while scrolling through Facebook, or mentally planned your menu for the week while attending Mass? We live in a time when information is at our fingertips and being connected has become the norm, yet we seem to have so much difficulty paying attention. Sometimes, we may be physically present, even as our minds wander elsewhere. “Nandito ang katawan, pero nag-outing na ang isip.”

Perhaps that is one reason why we have such difficulty making time for prayer. We want prayer to be quick. “Lord, ito po ang problema ko. (Lord, this is my problem.) Please fix it. Thank you very much. Amen.” We present our concerns to God in a rush—and we also expect Him to provide the solution ASAP, preferably before we even leave the church. Where, then, does that leave the rosary? We recite a seemingly endless series of Hail Marys—Hail Mary… Hail Mary… Hail Mary… and twenty minutes later, we start wondering, “Ilang Hail Mary pa ba?” It can feel so repetitive that our minds easily wander while our mouths continue to say the words. Perhaps that is precisely the point. Maybe the Rosary is a school of attention. It teaches the heart to stay.

In the First Reading, Zechariah gives us this beautiful promise from God: “Sing and rejoice, O daughter Zion! … For here I am coming to dwell among you” (Zechariah 2:14). Clearly, God has promised to dwell among His people. So, in times of distress, when we feel that He has abandoned us, it may not be that God has disappeared, but that we have become too distracted to notice that He is in our midst. In such moments, it is important to pause, be still, and quiet ourselves in prayer. It is in these moments of stillness that our hearts become more aware of the presence of the Almighty. Let us now turn to the disciples in the Second Reading, from the Acts of the Apostles. After Jesus ascended into heaven, they returned to Jerusalem and “devoted themselves with one accord to prayer” (Acts 1:14). They did not know exactly what was going to happen next. They were waiting for the Holy Spirit. So, what did they do? They stayed. They prayed. They waited together. Mary was also there. This is important because by looking to Mary, we learn not only how to pray, but also how to remain attentive to God.

At the Annunciation, Mary receives a message that will completely change her life. She asks, “How can this be?” (Luke 1:34). She does not have everything figured out. She does not receive a five-year plan from God. Instead, she receives an invitation to trust. And she responds, “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). Mary knew how to stop, listen, ponder, and respond. That is precisely what the rosary teaches us, and why we are encouraged to pray it. Mind you, the Rosary is not a magic spell. God is not obliged to grant our requests simply because we have uttered so many words in prayer. Jesus Himself warns against prayer that becomes “babbling” or empty repetition (Matthew 6:7). When we pray the Rosary, however, repetition takes on a different meaning. We repeat the words so that the mysteries we contemplate can take deeper root in our hearts. When we pray, “Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,” the prayer keeps bringing us back to one name: JESUS. That is why we say the Rosary is Marian, but it is profoundly Christ-centered. We contemplate the Annunciation, the Nativity, the Transfiguration, the Cross, the Resurrection, and Pentecost. We walk through the life of Jesus with Mary.

Perhaps that is why the Rosary remains so powerful in Filipino Catholic life. Sa bahay, sa jeep, sa biyahe, sa ospital, sa lamay, bago ang exam, bago ang operasyon, kapag may problema ang pamilya, rosaryo ang dinarasal ng mananampalataya. (At home, in a jeepney, while traveling, in the hospital, at a wake, before an exam, before an operation, or whenever the family is facing a problem, the Rosary is the prayer that the faithful turn to.) Sometimes, when we are at a loss for words, we simply take up the Rosary and begin: Our Father… Hail Mary… Glory be… And we believe that God listens. The problem may not immediately disappear. The situation may not suddenly change. Yet we begin to change. Our hearts become quieter. Fear becomes prayer. Anxiety becomes trust. And slowly, we remember: Hindi pala tayo nag-iisa. Kasama natin ang Diyos. (We are never alone. God is with us.) That is the power of prayer. Prayer does not always change the situation immediately. Sometimes, it changes the person facing that situation. And Mary teaches us how to do that. She teaches us to stay when we do not understand, to wait when we do not know what comes next, and to keep our hearts attentive to God.

So today, as the faithful of Quezon City celebrate the Solemnity of Our Patroness, Our Lady of the Rosary of La Naval de Manila, let us renew our recourse to the Rosary not merely as a traditional devotion, but as a way of becoming more attentive—to God, to one another, and even to what is happening inside our own hearts. Let us remember that we do not pray the Rosary to get lost in Mary. Rather, we pray it with Mary so that, amid all the noise and distractions of our lives, we can find our way back to Jesus.

Entrusted, Not Owned

Homily: Twenty-Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

Isaiah 5:1–7 / Philippians 4:6–9 / Matthew 21:33–43

4 October 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

I recently came across several memes about indebtedness. The funniest one shows the POV of a very frustrated unpaid lender: “Nangakong sa katapusan magbabayad ng utang… ’yun pala, sa katapusan ng mundo magbabayad.” (“Promised to pay the debt at the end of the month… turns out, he meant at the end of the world.”) 😄

There is something humbling about borrowing money. When we need to borrow, we suddenly become a little less proud. We lower our voice, choose our words carefully, and say, “Can I borrow a little?” We say “a little,” but we know exactly how much we need! Then we add the magic words: “I promise I’ll pay you back.” But when the due date comes, somehow the salary is late, an unexpected expense appears, and we suddenly discover another favorite phrase: “Can I have a little more time?” We reassure the lender, “I haven’t forgotten!”—while secretly wishing they had!

There is a similar tension in today’s Gospel. Jesus tells us about a landowner who planted a vineyard, prepared everything, and entrusted it to tenants. They could work in it. They could enjoy its harvest. They could benefit from it. But there was one thing that could never change: the vineyard did not belong to them. Eventually, the owner came looking for its fruit. The tragedy was that the tenants had forgotten the difference between being entrusted with something and owning it. They began to act as if the vineyard belonged to them. And when the owner sent his servants—and finally his son—they resisted the very one who had the right to ask for its fruit.

Perhaps that is where this Gospel becomes uncomfortable for us. We may not be violent tenants, but we can become possessive ones. We say, “My money. My house. My plans. My position. My ministry. My children. My time. My life.” There is nothing wrong with saying “my.” But faith reminds us that behind every “my” is a deeper truth: everything we have and everything we enjoy has been entrusted to us by God. Our life is entrusted to us. Our abilities are entrusted to us. Our relationships are entrusted to us. Our work and responsibilities are entrusted to us. Even our ministry is entrusted to us.

The First Reading from Isaiah tells us, “My friend had a vineyard on a fertile hillside; he spaded it, cleared it of stones, and planted the choicest vines” (Isaiah 5:1–2). God had done everything to prepare the vineyard. And then He asks, “What more was there to do for my vineyard that I had not done?” (Isaiah 5:4). That question is worth thinking about: What indeed has God not done for us, that we find ourselves blessed with so much that makes us happy, fulfilled, useful, important, and loved? And what have we done with what He has given us?

We can have a beautiful house but fail to make it a peaceful home. We can achieve success but leave broken people behind us. We can have authority but forget to serve. We can be active in church and still produce very little patience, forgiveness, kindness, or compassion. Remember, God is not simply looking at what we possess. He is looking for fruit. Isaiah says, “He looked for justice… for righteousness” (Isaiah 5:7). God wants the gifts He has entrusted to us to bear fruit—fruit blesses other people.

Sometimes, we hold on too tightly to things we were never meant to own forever, and this can become a source of so much anxiety. A position will end. Children will grow up. Responsibilities will change. Possessions will be left behind. And one day, even this life will be returned to God. Perhaps this is why St. Paul tells us today, “Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God” (Philippians 4:6). We can loosen our grip because everything is ultimately in God’s hands.

The Owner will come for the vineyard. And perhaps the most important question will not be, “How much did I possess?” but “What did I do with what I was given?” Did our money lead us to become generous? Did our home become a place of peace? Did our position make us servant leaders? Did our faith make us compassionate? Did our life become a blessing? In the end, we are not owners. We are stewards. We do not keep anything forever. We simply have to be faithful and fruitful while it is in our hands.

Today, instead of simply saying, “This is mine,” perhaps we can learn to say, “Lord, thank You for entrusting this to me.”

My family—entrusted to me.

My work—entrusted to me.

My ministry—entrusted to me.

My abilities—entrusted to me.

My time—entrusted to me.

My life and everything in it—entrusted to me.

And when the Owner finally comes, may we not have to say, “Lord, can I have a little more time?” May we simply be able to say, “Lord, what You entrusted to me, I have made fruitful.”

We Are More Than Our Past

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?