The People Who Walked in Darkness have seen a Great Light

Homily – 3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)
Jan. 25, 2026 @ St. Patrick’s Parish Church (9am, 11am & 4PM Masses)

Brothers and sisters, today, we gather on this 3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time and many of you recognize and know that the liturgical color for this season is green. This is one way the Church reminds us that ordinary time is the Church’s invitation that we grow in our faith. 

In the liturgical language, green speaks of hope, growth, and patient trust. It teaches us that God’s work in our lives often happens slowly, faithfully, and beneath the surface.

Growth in faith is seldom dramatic. There is a saying that if you spend your life sleeping, you will still grow old but not necessarily grow up. Growing up in faith is not the same as acquiring knowledge about faith (learning faith is easy and handy now because of AI).

It is not about what you know or how much you know, but Who do you know. To grow in faith is like a seed quietly taking root, nourished over time by his Word, his Grace, and his Presence.

And in the next 32 weeks including today (minus of course the seasons of Lent, Holy Week and Easter in between), we are given this sacred opportunity to walk alongside Jesus in his daily ministry.

To listen to his parables, to witness his compassion, and to see how the Kingdom of God takes shape in ordinary moments. We will see Jesus move from village to village, watch him heal, hear him teach, and in the Gospel today, how he calls ordinary people to follow him.

We want to experience being with Jesus in his ministry not as spectators or admirers but for who God intended us to be when he took on flesh and became one of us – to be his disciples. And hopefully 33 weeks is long enough for his way of living and loving to begin shaping our own.

Today, this invitation is deepened because the Church also celebrates the Sunday of the Word of God. Which means that the Scripture is not simply something we hear proclaimed at Mass. The Word of God is meant to dwell within us, to take root in our hearts, and to shape how we see the world, how we make decisions, and how we live our lives.

This Sunday, Jesus the Word of God made flesh asks us not only:

‘What do I hear at Mass? but How does the Word I hear change the way I live?’

And in today’s liturgical readings, we would like to do just that. We want and desire this growth by being with Jesus at the beginning of his journey and ministry. Today, Jesus gives us two powerful realities that demand answer and action:

·       His coming as light in the darkness, and

·       His call that demands a personal response from each and every one of us

The readings we hear today are not anymore for the people at the time of Isaiah and the time of Jesus. They are for us.

In the first reading, the prophet Isaiah proclaims a message of profound joy and hope:

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”

He spoke these words amidst the destruction of the northern kingdom of Israel (Samaria) by Assyria which left Judah isolated and vulnerable. Isaiah speaks to people who know darkness well. The kind of darkness many of us can relate. They were weary, uncertain, and struggling to imagine a future.

This light that he boldly proclaimed is not simply a change in circumstances. It is not the promise that everything will suddenly become easy.

Rather, it is the promise of God’s presence. When he comes, while the darkness remains, but this light in the darkness, his presence amidst us is a promise that transformation is possible even before situations change. This light that God offers is the assurance that darkness will not have the final word. That sickness, unemployment, broken relationships and even the death of someone we love don’t have the final word.

The responsorial psalm echoes this same confidence with words many of us know by heart:

“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom should I fear?”

This is the heart of our faith. Not that we will never experience fear, struggle, or loss, but that God’s presence dispels our deepest fears when we place our trust in him. The psalm reminds us that light is not the absence of darkness; it is the presence of God within it.

When we turn to the Gospel, we hear Matthew tells us that when Jesus begins his public ministry in Galilee, he does so by a proclamation:

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.”

In other words:

God is near. A new way of living is possible.

In this Gospel proclamation, we see that before Jesus teaches in synagogues or performs miracles, he calls (latin: vocare). He walks along the shore and calls ordinary fishermen: Simon and Andrew; James and John. These are not scholars or religious elites. They don’t have advanced standings. They are working men, busy with nets, with their routines, responsibilities, and familial and communal expectations.

And here are the lessons of this call that we want to open our hearts with:

First, Jesus comes to us where we are.

·       Jesus does not wait for the disciples to come looking for him.

·       He does not summon them to a holy place.

·       He meets them at work, in the middle of their daily lives.

In the same way, Christ meets us not only in church, but in our homes, workplaces, relationships, joys, and struggles. The Word of God is not confined to sacred spaces; it seeks us out in the ordinary.

Second, the call is personal and transformative.

·       Jesus simply says, “Follow me.”

·       There are no long explanations, no detailed plans, no guarantees.

·       Yet this simple invitation changes everything. The fishermen leave their nets—symbols of security, identity, and livelihood—and follow him.

Their response reminds us that true discipleship always involves letting go. We may not leave literal nets behind, but we are invited to release whatever prevents us from trusting Christ fully.

Third, the mission extends beyond us.

·       After calling his first disciples, Jesus begins to proclaim the Gospel throughout Galilee.

·       Following Jesus is never just about personal fulfillment or private faith.

·       It is always missionary.

·       To encounter the Word is to be sent.

Brothers and sisters, the disciples did not follow a doctrine or a manual; they followed a Voice. Today, that same vox—the Word of God made flesh—echoes in this sanctuary and in our hearts. And as we continue with the liturgy and celebration, let us look at our hands. What 'nets' are we clutching? Is it past hurt, a need for control, or the comfort of the 'ordinary'?

The Sunday of the Word of God reminds us that Scripture is not a dead letter. It is not a fairy tale story we tell to make believe but a living invitation.

And I pray for all of you who are here. May we leave this Mass not just as people who have heard a story, but as disciples who have answered a Call. May his Voice be our light, His grace be our strength, and His life be our way.

The Kingdom is at hand. God is near. God is here. Let us drop our nets and step into the Light.

Amen.

A Life Lived, A Mission Fulfilled: Commending Bro. Frank Padilla

 Memorial Mass Homily By: Ferdie Gayos | 02 Jan. 2026 @ St. Mary's Cathedral

Today, we gather for a Memorial Mass. We are not here simply because someone has died. We are here because someone has lived.

We come carrying a heavy mix of grief and gratitude, memories and hope. We come to commend our brother, Frank Padilla, into the merciful hands of God. 

At every Sunday Mass, we proclaim: "I believe in the resurrection of the body and life everlasting." Today, that isn't just a creed; it is our lifeline.

What Does "Rest in Peace" Really Mean?

When we say "Rest in Peace," we aren't talking about disappearing or escaping. We are talking about Resting in God.

For centuries, the Church has whispered: "Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him." That’s not a prayer of resignation—it’s a prayer of Faith. In Christ, "rest" isn't inactivity. It’s finally coming home.

Living Christ, Sharing Christ

Bro. Frank’s life confronts us with the mystery we all eventually face: What happens when the journey ends?

The Church doesn't give us a theory; she gives us a Person. Jesus says, "I am the resurrection and the life." Frank didn’t just believe those words; he lived them.

• He knew faith wasn't a "break glass in case of emergency" kit.
• It was his daily bread—in his family, his service, and his community.
• He lived the Gospel quietly, consistently, and faithfully.

He didn't live perfectly—none of us do—but he lived faithfully. And in the eyes of God, that is what matters.

Grief is Not Despair

Let’s be honest: death is hard. Even Jesus wept at the tomb of His friend Lazarus. The Church allows us to ache and to mourn because love demands it. But for the believer, death is not a wall; it is a door.

In this Mass, we don’t "canonize" Frank. We do something more honest and more hopeful: we pray for him. We entrust him to a God whose mercy is wider than we can imagine. We thank God for the gift he was to his family—to Sis. Gerry, his five children (Ramon, Xavy, Vania, Lily, and Josh), and his 13 grandchildren.

To the family: Frank’s love for you didn't end with his last breath. Love is transformed, not destroyed. The same hands that held you and served you now rest in the hands of God.

To the Communities: MFC and CFC

Bro. Frank’s life is a masterclass in discipleship. He reminds us that following Jesus isn't always about being loud. Usually, it’s about showing up.

• It’s about being steady.
• It’s about serving when no one is watching.
• It’s about trusting God even when the road is unclear.

An Urgent Question for Us

Bro. Frank’s passing leaves us with a gentle but urgent question: If today were our day, would we be ready?

Not ready in fear, but ready in Trust.
Are we living reconciled lives? Are we loving more than we are clinging? Are we anchored in Christ rather than in our own control?

The Good News

Bro. Frank did not walk into death alone. He walked with the same Christ who fed him at the altar, the same Christ who forgave him in Confession, and the same Christ who promised, "In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places."

Frank now rests where faith becomes sight. We say goodbye, but not farewell. We grieve, but we do not lose hope.

Our Prayer Today:
Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

And for us who remain on the journey: May we live more deeply, Living and Sharing Christ, until the day we are all gathered home.

Bro. Frank Padilla’s legacy continues in the mission of Missionary Families of Christ. Let us carry the torch of faith he held so well.

---

🕯️ Advent Week 4: The Art of Holy Waiting (When the Impossible Becomes Real)

 

Late post: Homily given on Dec. 21, 2025 @ St. Partrick's Parish Church, 9am, 11am and 4pm

Dear brothers and sisters, when we look around us, we cannot deny that Christmas is already here. All the Christmas songs, Christmas carols, Christmas parties, Christmas shopping, and some, if not most of us here, have probably done Christmas exchange gifts in the office or within our close circle of friends.

We also see here that all the four candles of Advent wreath are lit. Christmas truly is very close. It is already here but not yet. Not yet because in the words of St. John the Baptist, we are still in a time of preparation, repentance, and waiting.

And this is why Advent is very important in the life of a believer. It teaches us the art of holy waiting — not passive waiting, but the kind of waiting that prepares a room in the heart for God’s promise and at the same time, set before us on this 4^th Sunday of Advent one more invitation:

to hope that dares to trust the impossible.

And the Church does something beautiful today to help us prepare a room in our hearts and learn how to hope and trust the impossible – she slows us down. She asks us not to rush ahead to the manger just yet, but to stop…to listen… and to watch how God enters the world.

In the 1^st reading, the prophet Isaiah captures the tension between human fear and divine fidelity. In here, the faithless King Ahaz, who was paralyzed by fear, chooses political maneuvering over trusting God. When he refuses God’s invitation to ask for a miraculous sign during a national crisis, God gave a sign anyway:

“Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.”

Imagine you are King Ahaz and hearing these words amid war and political collapse. But Isaiah asks us to listen as God declares that salvation begins:

·       not in power

·       not in armies

·       but in a woman’s womb.

God’s secret weapon — right there, hidden in the body of someone no one expected.

Theologically, this "God with us" promise signifies that salvation is a divine initiative, not a human achievement. It shows us that God's grace persists even when human faith fails.

And then our gospel writer Matthew today brings us into the troubled heart of Joseph. He begins with the premise that Joseph is a righteous man. A man who loves God and Mary with integrity.

But now he stands in a storm of confusion: Mary is with child… and it is not by him.

The plan is ruined…. the story is broken. His dreams for a quiet, holy family life have just collapsed right in front of him.

He could have chosen the easy path — walk away…. protect his own name…. avoid scandal…. continue life as expected. That would be a reasonable thing to do.

But God…. brothers and sisters, does not always move in ways that feel “reasonable.”

Joseph had a dream — a divine interruption — and that dream offered him new choices:

·       Stay.

·       Trust.

·       Welcome what you did not plan. 

Let God’s future break into your life through this child. Let hope rewrite the ending.

My friends, Advent Hope, often feels like that — A risk…. A leap…. A “yes” into the unknown. Because God’s promises are rarely convenient. He does not wait for the perfect moment. He enters in the messiness of human stories: in family misunderstandings, in sleepless nights of anxiety, in fear of the future, and in the wounds we hide from others

Emmanuel does not mean “God above us” or “God ahead of us.” It means: God with us — right where we are trying to hold life together.

So today I want to speak especially to those who come here with a heavy heart:

·       Maybe this Christmas is the first without someone you love.  Maybe a relationship is strained. Maybe the bills are piling up. Maybe you are carrying shame or fear that you cannot speak aloud. Maybe you feel like Joseph — confused by what God has allowed in your life.

But hear this truth: God has already stepped into that place.

Your situation is the very manger where Jesus desires to be born.

Joseph teaches us something vital - hope is trust that God is doing something new, even when we cannot see it yet.

The dream does not tell Joseph how the story ends. But he allowed that seemingly incomplete story to be bigger than his fear. And that is what faith looks like.

This final Sunday of Advent challenges us to ask:

·       Where is God inviting me to trust him in a new way?

·       Who is God calling me to welcome?

·       What fear must I surrender to allow Christ to enter my life more fully?

Maybe God is asking me to forgive someone I swore I would never speak to again. Maybe the Lord is nudging me toward a decision I have been avoiding. Maybe God is saying, “Do not be afraid — this child, this promise, is from Me, and I do not make mistakes!”

Brothers and sisters, don’t be afraid to change direction when God speaks.

Don’t be afraid to take Mary into your home — that is, to embrace God’s plan even when it seems inconvenient…. Scandalous…. Confusing.

Joseph shows us that salvation depends on the small, quiet yes of a faithful heart. As Christmas draws near — only days away — let us prepare a place for Christ.

·       Not a perfect place.

·       Not a clean and organized place.

·       But a real place, right here in our hearts where Emmanuel can be God-with-us in truth.

This week, I ask you to make one concrete act of Advent hope. Just one. This maybe something inconvenient or something difficult to say. Something that says to God: “Yes. I trust the impossible.”

·       Maybe it’s a phone call.

·       Maybe it’s a visit.

·       Maybe it’s a prayer whispered in trembling.

·       Maybe it’s offering forgiveness that feels difficult to say

 One act of hope — that is enough to let Christ be born.

And when we gather here on Christmas Day, the Christ we encounter in the manger will not be far away… He will be the God who has already entered your story, already moved into the hidden corners of your life, already whispering:

“Do not be afraid. I am with you.”

Emmanuel.

God with us.

God with you.

God with me.

Now and always.

Amen.