Connected to God, Powered by the Spirit

Homily: Sixth Sunday of Easter (A)

Acts of the Apostles 8:5–8, 14–17 • First Letter of Peter 3:15–18 • Gospel of John 14:15–21

10 May 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

“Unreliable Wi-fi.” Isn’t that one of the most frustrating experiences in this digital age? The signal appears strong—but there is no internet connection. Moreover, when that happens to many young people today, it can feel like the end of the world, doesn’t it? Sometimes, our spiritual life can be like that too. We are baptised Catholics. We believe in God. We attend Mass. We know our prayers. However, deep inside, something still feels weak. There is little joy, little courage, and little spiritual energy. The connection is there—but the fire seems to have faded. 

That is why today’s First Reading is very important. The people of Samaria had already accepted the Word of God and had been baptised (Acts 8:12). Yet, the apostles still came to them because, as Scripture says, “the Holy Spirit had not yet fallen upon any of them” (Acts 8:16). Then Peter and John laid hands on them, and they received the Holy Spirit (Acts 8:17). For us Catholics, this scene immediately reminds us of the Sacrament of Confirmation. This passage is one of its clearest biblical foundations. Baptism begins the life of faith. Confirmation strengthens, seals, and deepens that faith through the gift of the Holy Spirit. It is like having a cellphone with a signal but almost no battery power. Confirmation becomes God’s power connection within us. The Holy Spirit gives spiritual strength, courage, wisdom, endurance, and fire. 

And this is exactly what many people need today. Many Catholics remain connected to the Church externally, yet inwardly disconnected from mission. Present physically—yet spiritually on “airplane mode.” What are the signs of this? We panic easily when things go wrong, and we give up quickly when life becomes difficult. We become shy about our faith. Some people are embarrassed to make the sign of the cross in public. Others hesitate to say, “I’ll pray for you.” Many are afraid to stand for truth, honesty, kindness, and compassion when the world pressures them into silence.

That is why St. Peter tells us in the Second Reading: “Always be ready to give an explanation to anyone who asks you for a reason for your hope” (1 Peter 3:15). In other words: do not become a silent Christian. Be ready to suffer for doing what is right. Be willing to stand for Christ and His teachings, even when doing so is unpopular. The Holy Spirit strengthens us not only to believe privately, but to witness courageously and lovingly. 

Sisters and Brothers in Christ, in today’s Gospel, Jesus gives this beautiful promise: “I will not leave you orphans” (John 14:18). These words are deeply consoling. Jesus knew that His disciples would sometimes feel weak, confused, afraid, and alone. That is why He promised the Holy Spirit—not as an abstract force, but as God’s living presence within us. The Holy Spirit reminds us that God is near. That we are never abandoned. That faith is not merely ritual, but relationship. Today, we are challenged not merely to remain connected to religion, but to be truly empowered by the Holy Spirit.  Moreso,  Christ’s promise extends to each one of us who chooses to love and follow Him, even unto the Cross: “Whoever has my commandments and observes them is the one who loves me. Yes, whoever loves me will be loved by my Father, and I will love him and reveal myself to him” (John 14:21).

This Gospel also speaks beautifully to us as we celebrate Mother’s Day today. In many ways, mothers reflect the quiet and faithful presence of the Holy Spirit. Like the Holy Spirit, a mother comforts, guides, strengthens, sacrifices, and remains present even when unnoticed. Many mothers live quietly and simply—yet they hold the family together. They encourage us when we are weak, pray for us when we are lost, and continue loving us even when we fail. Through them, we experience something of God’s patient, faithful, and enduring love.  Today, we thank all mothers—not only biological mothers, but also grandmothers, godmothers, spiritual mothers, and all women who nurture life, faith, and hope in others. 

In the end, the goal of our faith is not simply to have a signal, but to live in deep and lasting communion with God. God does not desire half-hearted Christians. He desires disciples who are joyful, courageous, compassionate, and alive with the fire of the Holy Spirit. For the Spirit is God’s living presence within us—strengthening us to love, to endure, and, despite our weaknesses, to bear witness to Christ in the world today!

Growing Pains of Grace

Homily: Fifth Sunday of Easter (A)

Acts 6:1–7; 1 Peter 2:4–9; John 14:1–12

3 May 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

“Growing pains.” Have you heard this expression? Usually, it refers to the aches in the joints of children who are going through sudden growth spurts. We also use it to describe the difficulties experienced by organisations that are rapidly expanding. Of course, misunderstandings arise, resistance happens, and new problems begin to surface. 

The First Reading today is an example of this truth. The first serious problem in the early Church did not come from persecution—it came from growth. “The number of disciples was increasing” (Acts 6:1), and in that moment, a complaint arose: the Hellenists complained against the Hebrews because their widows were being neglected in the daily distribution of food. Does this situation sound familiar to you? It feels like a parish meeting or even a family conversation: “Father, it seems like we are not being treated equally.” “Dad, Mom, you are favouring your favourite again!” Isn’t that so? 

The growth of the Church stretched the community—and that stretching created tension. The apostles did not ignore the issue, and they did not panic either. They listened, they prayed, and they responded concretely. They reorganised the ministry and delegated responsibility so that no one would feel neglected. And what happened next is very telling: “The word of God continued to spread, and the number of the disciples increased greatly” (Acts 6:7). The conflict did not destroy the Church; in fact, it opened the door for deeper growth. Having problems was not a sign of failure; it was simply part of the mission. 

This speaks directly to our own lives. In the parish, in ministry, in family life, there are moments of tension—misunderstandings, unmet expectations, even silent treatment. The usual instinct is to conclude that something is wrong with the group or the organisation. However, it may also be true that something is simply evolving. A family that begins to speak honestly will sometimes experience friction. A parish that becomes more active will face coordination problems. A person who is deepening in faith will encounter inner struggles. These are not always signs of collapse; many times, they are signs of life. 

In the Gospel, Jesus speaks to His disciples when they are already anxious and confused. He does not deny their fear, but He tells them: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You have faith in God; have faith also in me” (John 14:1). The situation has not yet changed. The uncertainty is still there. Jesus is teaching them—and us—that faith does not remove tension; it teaches us how to stand firm within it. Jesus gives the assurance that in Him, things will work out in the end. 

St. Peter gives us another image: “Let yourselves be built into a spiritual house… like living stones” (1 Peter 2:5). Think of stones used in construction—they are shaped, cut, and fitted together. They press against each other so the structure can stand firm. This is not an easy process. There is pressure, there is friction. No house is formed without that. In the same way, no Christian community grows without moments that challenge its unity. In the process, painful changes can happen so that stronger and better things can be formed. 

Hence, when tension appears—whether in our family, in our faith community, or in the workplace—instead of stressing over, “Why is this happening?” we can ask, “What is God shaping here?” After all, God never desires our destruction but our ultimate good. Therefore, let us not be fearful. Avoiding all conflict often means missing opportunities for growth. 

A family that never talks about problems may look peaceful—but nothing is resolved, so the situation never really improves. A ministry that avoids feedback may remain comfortable—but it does not bear as much fruit. A person who runs from struggles may feel secure —but will never truly mature.  The early Church shows us a better way. They faced the issue, they listened to those who felt neglected, and they made concrete changes. Thus, “the word of God continued to spread” (Acts 6:7). 

Brothers and sisters, not every conflict comes from something evil. Some conflicts are invitations from God—opportunities to grow, to listen more deeply, and to love more concretely. Therefore, the next time tension arises—in the family, in ministry, or even within our own heart—let us pause and ask: “Is God doing something here?” It may be that the very place that feels uncomfortable right now is the very place where God is quietly building something new.

Led to LIFE in Abundance

Homily: Fourth Sunday of Easter / Good Shepherd Sunday

Acts 2:14a, 36–41 / 1 Peter 2:20b–25 / John 10:1–10

26 April 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

We have all had moments when something deeply moves us—a retreat, a homily, a church song, or even a quiet prayer before the Blessed Sacrament. We feel deeply touched. It seems as though something has truly pierced our hearts, and we begin to think: this is it—the beginning of a new life. 

But after a few days, life quietly returns to its old patterns. We fall back into the same habits, the same attitudes. This is a very human experience. In the Acts of the Apostles, we see exactly this same moment: the people are “cut to the heart” and ask, “What are we to do, my brothers?” (Acts 2:37). 

Today, however, there is a quiet confusion that can easily slip into Christian thinking: “As long as I accept Jesus as my Lord and Saviour, I am saved.” Is it really that simple? Is that already enough? We raise our hands in surrender, we feel this strong emotional stirring—and then we think we are set for eternal life.

But if that were sufficient in itself, why does Scripture still call us to repentance, to baptism, to a new way of living? The truth is, the struggle to live a devout and holy life is a continuing one. It requires vigilance, intention, and effort. As Saint Paul reminds us in his Letter to the Galatians, “The only thing that counts is faith working through love” (Galatians 5:6). Faith is not something static; it is alive—it moves, it transforms, it takes shape in love. And in his First Letter to the Corinthians, Paul deepens this truth: “So faith, hope, and love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love” (1 Corinthians 13:13). Even faith finds its fulfilment in love. 

This is why we must be careful of what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls—“cheap grace”—a grace we claim without allowing it to truly change us. No conversion, no struggle, no growth. In today’s Second Reading, Peter reminds us to be patient when we suffer for doing what is good. He further adds tells: “Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example, that we should follow in His steps” (1 Peter 2:21). Yes, grace is free—but it is not cheap. It cost our Lord everything. And when we truly receive it, it begins to cost us something as well—our old ways, our old selves. It reshapes the way we live. 

Even the Gospel corrects this misunderstanding. In the Gospel of John, Jesus says, “Whoever enters through me will be saved.” (John 10:9) This should comfort us: as the true Shepherd, Jesus does not simply point out the way—He goes ahead of us. He has already walked the path of suffering, through the Cross, and into new life. At the same time, He says, “I am the gate.” This means He is not only the one who leads—He is Himself the way. A gate is not something we admire from a distance; it is something we must pass through. To believe in Christ is not just to know about Him, but to enter into Him—to entrust our lives to Him, to follow His voice, and to remain in Him. And because He goes before us and is Himself the way, we can be certain: He does not lead us into danger, but into true life—life in abundance. 

Still, we must choose to follow. Moreover, how do we know when Christ is calling us? The Gospel tells us that the sheep recognise the voice of the shepherd (cf. John 10:4). Faith, then, is not simply believing that the Shepherd exists—it is learning to listen, to follow, and to trust His voice above all others. 

In the same way, salvation is not merely affiliation—“I belong to this group, so I am fine.” In the Acts of the Apostles, we hear of the remarkable work of the apostles: “Those who accepted Peter’s message were baptised… and about three thousand persons were added.” (Acts 2:41). However, membership alone is not enough—what is needed is conversion. Those who were saved were not merely affiliated; they were transformed. 

Notice that they did not stop at being moved or mesmerised by Peter’s words. They asked what needed to change. And Peter answered clearly: “Repent and be baptised… and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit” (Acts 2:38). This is not passive faith; this is a life being radically reoriented. 

Thus, when we are asked, “Where is ‘faith alone’ in Scripture?”, we can answer honestly: faith is the beginning—but the faith the Bible speaks of is never meant to stand alone. It becomes love, it becomes obedience, it becomes a new way of living. 

And so, the good question for us this Good Shepherd Sunday is not simply, “Do I believe in Jesus?” but rather: “Am I listening to His voice? Am I following where He leads?” 

After all, real faith does not end with good feelings or positive emotions about Christ. It moves us to walk with Him—our Good Shepherd—no matter how difficult the path may be. It is to trust that He will lead us to true life, a life lived in fullness and abundance.

“The Gate” by Jenedy Paige

Recognising HE Whom We Already Know

HOMILY: Third Sunday of Easter (A)

Acts 2:14, 22–33 / 1 Peter 1:17–21 / Luke 24:13–35

19 April 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

In recent years, something surprising has been happening in parts of the Western world. There has been a noticeable surge in people becoming Catholic—young professionals, students, even public figures. In societies often described as secular, many are rediscovering the faith. When asked why, many of them say, “I was searching… and I found something real.” Not new, not trendy, not invented—but something alive and grounded in truth. 

This raises an important question for those of us who have been Catholic for a long time. Sometimes we say, “We already know that, Father. We are used to it.” And so, we begin to take our faith for granted. 

It is at this point that today’s readings speak powerfully, urging us to move from a surface knowledge of Jesus… to a genuine recognition of who He is. 

In the Gospel, the disciples on the road to Emmaus knew everything that had happened in Jerusalem. They knew the story, the events, the reports—every detail. However, when Jesus Himself drew near and walked with them, “their eyes were prevented from recognising Him” (Luke 24:16). He was already beside them, speaking with them… and yet they did not recognise Him. 

It is a quiet yet unsettling truth: it is possible to know everything about Jesus—and still fail to see Him, and to know Him for who He truly is, even when He stands right before us. 

In the First Reading, Peter tells the crowd, “Jesus the Nazorean was a man commended to you by God… as you yourselves know” (Acts 2:22). They knew Jesus. He lived among them. They saw Him grow up. They heard Him preach. They witnessed His miracles. They even saw His suffering and death. 

Nevertheless, knowledge was not enough. Peter proclaims what it truly means: “God raised this Jesus; of this we are all witnesses” (Acts 2:32). In other words, faith is not just information. It is awakening—it is coming to see, to recognise, to believe. 

Subsequently, Saint Peter reminds us in the Second Reading that Christ, “known before the foundation of the world,” was revealed for our sake, so that through Him we might believe in God (cf. 1 Peter 1:20–21). Now that we call God our Father, we are asked to live accordingly. He reminds us how much we are worth: “You were ransomed… not with perishable things like silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ” (1 Peter 1:18–19). 

Our lives are not ordinary. They are not just routines or passing days. There is a deeper truth, a deeper presence—but do we recognise it? 

There is nothing wrong with being familiar with our faith. But perhaps this is the danger: we have become so used to it that we begin to move through it without awareness. We attend Mass every Sunday. We hear the Gospel again and again. We receive the Eucharist. 

But, do we still recognise Him? 

Or have we become so familiar that we no longer notice when we are in His presence? Do we still show reverence before the altar and the tabernacle? Or do we simply pass by, no longer aware of Who is there? 

Meanwhile, those who are newly discovering the Catholic faith often see with fresh eyes. They are filled with awe at the symbols, the rituals, the Eucharist. And we—perhaps—have lost that sense of wonder. 

In Emmaus, recognition did not come immediately. It came when they listened to Him explain the Scriptures, when they stayed with Him, and finally, “their eyes were opened and they recognised Him in the breaking of the bread” (Luke 24:31).

Everything changed at that moment. Their hearts had already begun to burn — “Were not our hearts burning within us while He spoke to us on the way?” (Luke 24:32)—but now their eyes were opened. From confusion, they moved to clarity; from sadness, to mission. 

Thus today, the invitation is not to learn something new, but to see with new eyes—to recognise Him again: in the Word we hear, in the Bread we receive, and in the ordinary moments of our lives. 

Because the truth is both simple and challenging: the Lord is never lacking in presence…  it is we who are often lacking in recognition. 

We may know Jesus… but do we truly recognise Him? 

Let us always remember that faith begins when we know Jesus… but it comes alive when we finally recognise Him.

When Mercy Unsettles the Heart

Homily: Second Sunday of Easter (Divine Mercy Sunday)

Acts 2:42–47 / 1 Peter 1:3–9 / John 20:19–31

12 April 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

We all know people who look a bit messy—“magulo”, disorganised—but somehow, they know exactly where everything is. And the moment you try to “fix” their things, suddenly they get irritated and anxious. “Nasaan na ‘yung gamit ko?” (“Where did you put my stuff?”) We all have had that experience. A table gets moved, a cabinet is rearranged, and suddenly nothing is where it used to be. We reach for something—and it is gone. It is disorienting. However,  after a while, we realize… it actually looks better. The space feels lighter, more open, more meaningful. Still, the point remains though: nothing changes unless something is moved. 

In a very real way, that is what Divine Mercy does. We often think of mercy as something that simply comforts us—“pampagaan ng loob” when we feel guilty or when we are hurting. And yes, it is that, but the Word of God today shows us something deeper: mercy is not just meant to console us—it is meant to unsettle us. 

In the Gospel, the disciples are behind locked doors, afraid, closed, guarded. And sometimes, we are like that too. When we have been hurt, we close our doors. When we are disappointed, we withdraw. We become present, but not open. And even if we insist on closing ourselves off, Jesus comes anyway. He enters that locked room and says, “Peace be with you” (John 20:19). It is a beautiful moment. He comforts us in the same way He comforts them. But He does not stop there. He says, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you” (John 20:21). The peace He gives is not meant to be hidden away or to be kept them where they are. It is meant to inspire them and to move them. Mercy comforts, yes—but it also sends. It heals, but it also unsettles. 

That is why in the First Reading, the same disciples who were once hiding are now living differently. “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship” (Acts 2:42). “All who believed were together and had all things in common” (Acts 2:44). They care for one another. No one is left behind. Mercy is no longer just something they received—it becomes the way they live. 

Moreover, Peter reminds us in the Second Reading: life will still be difficult, there will still be trials, but now there is a living hope—“a new birth to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead” (1 Peter 1:3). As long as we believe in Jesus, we can now look forward to “rejoicing with an indescribable and glorious joy, as you attain the goal of your faith, the salvation of your souls” (1 Peter 1:8–9). 

Thus, the question becomes very personal. We pray, we come to Mass, we say we believe in Divine Mercy—but what has really changed? If we still hold on to grudges, leading us to avoid certain people, we are essentially still keeping certain doors closed. If we cannot look beyond the faults of people, if we cannot forgive those who have wronged us, we have closed not only our eyes, but our hearts. We may have received mercy, yes—but we have not allowed it to unsettle us. 

Divine Mercy does not leave us as we are. When Jesus enters, He opens what we have closed, softens what has hardened, and moves what we have kept fixed for so long. Today, may we seek not just comfort, but the grace to be changed. It is not just about benefitting from the graces of Divine Mercy but about spreading the devotion through the way we live. It is about making mercy real for others that they may desire the Divine Mercy of Christ, Himself. If we truly receive Divine Mercy, then something must move—a heart must soften, a grudge must be released, a life must be unsettled… must be rearranged! Let us always remember, nothing changes unless something is moved. 

Hence, if we truly believe in Divine Mercy, then let it move us—from fear to trust, from isolation to communion, from receiving mercy to becoming mercy for others. For this is the grace we celebrate today: not only that God is merciful—but that His mercy can transform us. 

Happy Fiesta to us all!

When Absence Becomes Presence

Homily: The Resurrection of the Lord/ The Mass of Easter Day

Acts10:34a, 37-43 / Colossians 3:1-4 / 1 Corinthians 5:6b-8 /  John 20:1-9

5 April 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA 

It is often said that to see is to believe, but in today’s gospel what prompts belief is not what is seen, but what is not seen. When the beloved disciple enters the tomb, the Gospel simply says, “He saw and believed” (John 20:8). But what exactly did he see? Not Jesus. Not angels. Not a miracle happening right before his eyes. He saw… absence. The remains of the Lord were nowhere in sight. The place was empty. That’s all. And yet—he believed. It is so strange that it defies logic, it does not make sense! Some of us can’t even believe we have locked our car doors without checking three times, and here John just walks into an empty tomb and… believes. 

We usually think faith begins when we see something undeniable—something obvious, something concrete. However, Easter tells us something different: faith often begins not with what is present… but with what is missing. The stone was rolled away (John 20:1), the body was gone (John 20:2–3) and only the linen cloths were lying there (John 20:6–7).  These did not feel like clues that provided answers.  They only raised more questions. And yet, the emptiness of the tomb became the first whisper of the resurrection. 

Sometimes, it is in the silence and in what seems absent that God is most present. 

Think about the emptiness in our own lives—a loved one who is no longer there; a dream that falls apart; a desperate prayer that goes unanswered; restless wandering in search of purpose and meaning.  All of these, often create a deafening silence that stretches far longer than we could possibly bear. I remember a friend—let’s call her Maria—who cared for her father in his final months. Every day, she hoped for improvement and prayed for a sign that things would get better. Then, one morning, he was gone. She walked into the quiet room… and was met by his overwhelming absence. It really hurts—to be left behind, to be defeated, to lose something or someone. (Grabe, ang sakit ng pakiramdam ng maiwan, nang matalo, nang mawalan.) But in the experience of that absence, something extraordinary happened. She remembered her father’s life, his love, his example. Even though he was gone, the gifts he had given her—his lessons, his care, his laughter—remained. She realised that life, love, and hope do not vanish with what goes missing. 

That is exactly what Easter shows us. The empty tomb, at first, does not shout glory, or power, or victory. It whispers absence. It leaves the beloved disciple in a space where he could have despaired… but instead, he believed (John 20:8). Faith, after all is a conviction of things not seen, or should we say, things that give measurable proof. If, for example, the apostles had watched Jesus take a breath and walk out of the tomb, it wouldn’t require faith. They would have had a first-hand, eyewitness account.  That is not faith. Faith begins in the empty places. Faith begins when we face loss, silence, or uncertainty… and still dare to trust that God is at work.  Easter is not just about the Risen Christ in glory. It is about the Risen Christ who meets us in the emptiness of our lives. In the absence, He shows us that hope is stronger than fear, love is stronger than loss, and life is stronger than death. This is our cause for joy! This is why we exclaim “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad.” (Psalm 118) 

Thus, today we are invited to look at the empty tombs in our hearts—the spaces where we feel loss, doubt, or fear—and still choose to believe. The miracle of Easter is that it does not require a perfect landscape to bloom; it begins precisely where we feel most empty. Where we see only absence, the Risen Christ reveals His most intimate Presence; where we see loss, He plants the seeds of an unshakable hope; and where we see the finality of death, He breathes the fire of eternal life. Let us not be afraid of the emptiness, for it is the very space God uses to prove that love can never be contained. Christ is risen! He has conquered sin and death! Alleluia! Happy Easter to us all!

Back to Galilee

Homily: Easter Vigil in the Holy Night of Easter

Matthew 28:1–10

4 April 2026

Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA

Are there some of us here who are afraid of the dark? Darkness can be scary and uncomfortable… and I don’t just mean the kind we experienced earlier when the lights were turned off. I am talking about the kind of darkness many of us carry quietly: a worry we cannot fix, a sin we keep returning to, a heaviness we cannot explain. The kind where we seem okay on the outside… but inside, something feels heavy. It is into that darkness that the Easter proclamation breaks in with startling simplicity: “He is not here; for He has been raised” (Matthew 28:6). The Risen Christ is, for us, the brightest light—piercing through and dispelling our fears.

There is, however, a strange aspect to the story. The angel says: “He is going before you to Galilee; there you will see Him” (Matthew 28:7). If this were happening today, perhaps we would have preferred to hear something like: “Jesus will meet us in the Church,” or “Jesus will meet us when our life is already in order.” After all, don’t we usually prepare ourselves before going to church? Don’t we often think that only when everything in our life is okay can we truly face God? Jesus seems to believe otherwise. We are told that He goes ahead to Galilee—where life is ordinary, messy, unfinished. It is not a holy place, but it is where the disciples first followed Him… and where they also failed Him. It is where Peter once said, “Lord, I will follow you anywhere,” and later said, “I do not know the man” (cf. Matthew 26:33, 69–75). In other words, Galilee is not where everything is right—it is where everything is still becoming. And that is precisely why Jesus goes there.

The truth is, many of us are waiting to “fix” our lives before we come closer to God. We tell ourselves, “When I’ve changed… when I’ve become more prayerful… when my life is already in order—then I will come closer.” We feel ashamed of the state of our hearts, and so we hesitate to approach Him. However, Easter challenges that way of thinking and it invites us to see differently. Instead of waiting for us to improve, Jesus goes ahead of us—into our current situation, our real life, our unfinished story. In fact, if Jesus waited for us to be perfect before meeting us, perhaps He would have no one to meet. We would all still be “on the way”—still buffering, still loading… as if the signal of our life is weak.

Easter, nevertheless tells us something beautiful: God does not wait at the finish line. He meets us on the road and chooses to accompany us along the way—whether we sprint or fall. And He is there to lift us up and encourage us to keep going.

“He is going before us to Galilee”—this should be a great comfort to us. It means He is already there: in our less-than-ideal family situations, in our struggles that seem to repeat, in our ordinary routines that feel nothing special. He is there—in the things we go through again and again, in the simplicity of our daily lives, even in our repeated mistakes. He is already there. That is our Galilee.

And sometimes we lose sight of Him—not because He is gone…He is absent, but because we are looking where He is not. We look for Him only in big, dramatic moments—the kind that give us goosebumps or bring us to tears. All the while, He is quietly waiting in the ordinary. We expect Him in perfection, when in fact He is already present in our imperfection.

Going back to our Gospel tonight, notice this: the women were afraid. The disciples were confused. No one had everything figured out. Yet, the message given to them was clear: Go! Return! Begin again! And there—you will see Him (cf. Matthew 28:8–10).

My dear friends, Easter is not just the story of a tomb that became empty. It is the story of a life that can begin again. It is the assurance that no failure is final, no darkness is permanent, and no story is beyond redemption. Yes, Christ is risen—not only in glory, but in the unfinished story of our lives. Here and now.

Happy Easter, everyone!

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