18th Sunday in Ordinary Time [A]

August 2, 2026

Matthew 14:13–21

The miracle of the multiplication of the loaves appears in all four Gospels, yet Matthew presents his account with a distinct contextual emphasis. He situates the miracle immediately after the execution of John the Baptist. Is this merely a coincidence, or is something deeper at play?

From the Gospel of Luke, we know that John the Baptist was a relative of Jesus. Yet beyond family ties, John was the great prophet who prepared the way for Israel’s Messiah by preaching repentance. John recognized Jesus as “the greater one” (Luke 3:16) and as “the Lamb of God” (John 1:29), while Jesus acknowledged John as the greatest born of women (Matthew 11:11). Their connection was not merely familial; it was a profound spiritual bond. When Jesus received the sad news of John’s unjust execution, He naturally felt deep grief—not only for His kinsman, but for a faithful prophet of God.

Upon hearing the news, Jesus withdrew to a desolate place to be alone and to mourn. In doing so, He revealed His genuine humanity and taught us the value of grieving. Grief is not something to be avoided or suppressed, but rather acknowledged and embraced. It is a natural human process for processing profound loss.

However, the Gospel story does not end in solitary grief. Hearing of Jesus’ presence, crowds of people followed Him. Looking upon them, Jesus saw their ailments and burdens. Moved with compassion, He began to heal their sick. As evening approached, the disciples asked Jesus to send the crowd away to buy food. Jesus had another plan: He instructed His disciples to feed the crowd themselves. Initially overwhelmed by the massive throng, the disciples thought the task impossible given their meager supply of five loaves and two fish. Yet their willingness to offer what little they had was enough for Jesus to perform a historic miracle.

Jesus’ choice to serve and feed the people was not an escape from His grief, but an expression of it. His compassion for the suffering stemmed directly from His own sorrow. Loving John deeply meant experiencing profound emotional pain at his death, and embracing that pain expanded His capacity for empathy. Etymologically, the word compassion derives from the Latin roots cum (“with”) and passio (“suffering”)—literally meaning “to suffer with.” Jesus was able to enter into the people’s suffering precisely because He had embraced His own. By directing His disciples to feed the crowd, Jesus revealed the true transformative potential of grief: suffering need not turn us inward, but can instead move us toward active love and service.

Every one of us experiences suffering in various ways. God permits us to go through hardship not because He delights in pain, but because suffering can expand our capacity to love—especially toward those whose burdens are heavier than our own. In Christ, even the painful chapters of life are not wasted; they are transformed into instruments of love, service, and holiness.

Manila

Valentinus Bayuhadi Ruseno, OP

Guide Questions:

How can we allow our own personal grief or suffering to open our hearts to the pain of others, rather than turning us inward? What small resources or “loaves and fish” do we currently possess that we can offer to God to help serve those around us? How can we transform the difficult or painful experiences in our lives into active expressions of love and compassion for others?

17th Sunday in Ordinary Time [A]

July 26, 2026

Matthew 13:44-52

At the end of Chapter 13, Jesus speaks about “the scribe of the Kingdom.” But who were the scribes?

In the time of Jesus, scribes (translated from the Greek grammateis) were professional copyists of the Torah. Being able to read and write when most people were illiterate was a distinct privilege that placed scribes in positions of honor. Because they spent most of their lives reading and copying the manuscripts of the Torah, they were extremely well-versed in the Mosaic Law. Given these advantages, they were expected to impart their knowledge to those who lacked access to written texts. As teachers of the Law, they also interpreted the Scriptures and explained how to apply them to daily life. The Gospels depict scribes in a nuanced light. At times, they appear as opponents of Jesus (as seen in Matthew 9:1–8, Matthew 12:38–42, and Matthew 15:1–20). On other occasions, however, they are portrayed favorably (such as in Mark 12:28–34 and Matthew 8:19).

Returning to Chapter 13, Jesus speaks specifically about the scribes of the Kingdom. To understand who they are, we must look at the context of the chapter. Throughout Matthew 13, Jesus teaches His apostles through parables and explains how to interpret them. At the conclusion of this instruction, Jesus asks His disciples whether they have understood everything. When they reply affirmatively, He says, “Therefore every scribe who has been instructed in the kingdom of heaven is like a master of a house, who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old” (Mat 13:52). In this context, the term “scribes of the Kingdom” primarily refers to Jesus’ apostles, who received direct formation from Him regarding His teachings and their proper interpretation. Many of the apostles were uneducated and did not possess the formal literacy typical of traditional scribes. Nevertheless, Jesus chose to call them “scribes” because they would ultimately carry out the essential functions of a scribe: teaching and interpreting the Scriptures—especially by illuminating the Old Testament through the lens of Jesus’ life and ministry. Even more profoundly, the apostles would “write” their faith through their lives, ultimately offering up their very existence as witnesses to Christ.

While the “scribes of the Kingdom” initially referred to the apostles, the concept extends beyond them. Because the overseers and bishops of the early Church succeeded the apostles, they inherited this scribal role. Today, bishops act as “heads of households” who hold the primary responsibility to teach God’s Word within their dioceses. Furthermore, every believer is called to be a scribe of the Kingdom within their own family and community. A husband is called to share God’s wisdom with his wife, and parents are tasked with passing the true faith on to their children. To continuously bring forth both the old and the new from our “storeroom,” we must all remain dedicated students of our True Master.

Valentinus Bayuhadi Ruseno, OP

Guide questions:

How well are we actively learning from our True Master so that we have rich insights, both old and new, to share with others? In what concrete ways can we act as “scribes of the Kingdom” within our own families, workplaces, and communities? Are we willing to “write” our faith through our daily choices and sacrifices, just as the early apostles did with their lives?

12^th Sunday in Ordinary Time [A]

June 21, 2026

Matthew 10:26-33

Fear is one of the most basic emotions we possess. It serves a vital purpose, hardwired into us to ensure our survival by alerting us to immediate dangers. Without this instinct, our ancestors would never have reacted to predators, and our species would have long been extinct. Yet, in today’s Gospel, Jesus explicitly commands His disciples, “Do not be afraid.” What does this mean? Is Christ asking us to throw caution to the wind and ignore the very real dangers of this world?

To understand His words, we must look at the context. Jesus has just called His disciples and is sending them out on a mission. He candidly warns them that the path ahead is perilous, filled with rejection and life-threatening hostility. Being human, their natural reaction is fear. But Jesus knows we are more than just creatures driven by basic instincts. Unlike the rest of the animal kingdom, we are blessed with reason, and it is precisely to our rationality that Jesus appeals.

Reason allows humans to look beyond immediate hardships toward a greater, unseen good. Whenever we believe an expected reward outweighs temporary suffering, we can make a deliberate choice to endure a trial. We see this every day: a student willingly sacrifices sleep to study for exams because he knows the education will benefit his future. A father endures grueling, exhausting labor because he recognizes that his hard work provides for and protects his family. In both cases, a future promise conquers present discomfort.

Jesus uses this same logic to reveal the ultimate reward of preaching the Gospel: the salvation of souls—not only the disciples’ own, but also the souls of those who will hear their message. He reminds them not to fear those who can harm the mortal body but have no power over eternity. Instead, our true concern should be the loss of our eternal salvation. The stakes of the Gospel are eternal, making the fleeting dangers of this world pale in comparison.

Yet, abstract promises are rarely enough to move our fragile human hearts; we need a living example. This is why Jesus does not just speak the truth—He embodies it. In preaching repentance, He faced bitter rejection and was condemned to death. But death could not hold Him. By His victorious Resurrection, Christ proved that the ultimate danger has already been defeated. He then poured out His Holy Spirit upon the Church, granting us the supernatural wisdom to see the value of salvation and the fortitude to withstand overwhelming fear.

Even with this grace, our natural instinct to preserve our own lives remains strong, and the struggle to witness to the Gospel is very real. We see this vividly in Saint Peter, who was the boldest of the apostles, yet crumbled and denied his Master when danger closed in. The other disciples likewise abandoned Jesus in His darkest hour. Yet, God’s grace did not abandon them. It continued to work quietly within their hearts, gradually transforming their fear into apostolic courage. In time, they followed in the footsteps of their Master, carrying His mission to the ends of the earth.

Rome

Valentinus Bayuhadi Ruseno, OP

Guide questions:
What immediate, earthly fears are currently holding us back from fully trusting in God’s plan for our lives? When we face hardships or sacrifices, do we fix our eyes on temporary comfort, or are we motivated by the eternal reward of our salvation? In moments when our faith wavers—much like Saint Peter’s did—how can we better open our hearts to the Holy Spirit to receive the courage and fortitude we need to stand firm?

11^th Sunday in Ordinary Time [A]

June 14, 2026

Matthew 9:36 – 10:8

Jesus called His twelve apostles and sent them out on a mission. The choice of the number twelve was not merely a coincidence or a practical consideration; rather, it holds a profound truth, representing the twelve tribes of Israel. By choosing twelve disciples, Jesus intended to establish the New Israel, with Himself as the center and His apostles as its pillars. However, to understand why the New Israel is necessary, we must look back at the identity and purpose of the original Israel.

In the Book of Exodus, shortly after the Israelites escaped slavery in Egypt and crossed the Red Sea, they arrived at Mount Sinai. There, God offered them a covenant, in which He would be their God and they would be His people. Under this covenant, they were called to be a holy nation and a kingdom of priests (Ex 19:6).

Being a holy nation meant belonging exclusively to God, setting aside all other gods. This holiness was also defined by closeness to God. While the Israelites journeyed through the wilderness, the Tabernacle—the dwelling place of God’s presence—was situated right in the center of their camp. Because they walked so closely with God, they were expected to obey the laws given at Sinai and to behave as God’s chosen people. Furthermore, they were called to be a kingdom of priests. They were not meant to be a kingdom of warriors focused on war and the conquest of nations, nor a society of merchants primarily concerned with accumulating wealth. Instead, as a kingdom of priests, their primary function was to offer sacrifices, bring blessings, and sanctify the people. This is how Israel was meant to live and grow.

Just like ancient Israel, the New Israel established by Jesus is called to be a holy nation and a kingdom of priests. While ancient Israel was formed through the covenant at Sinai, the New Israel was established through the New Covenant at the Last Supper (Matt 26:28) and confirmed by the blood of Jesus on the cross. And just as ancient Israel was led by Moses with the help of leaders from the twelve tribes, the leadership of the New Israel is entrusted to the apostles and their successors, the bishops.

However, the New Israel is no longer bound by blood ties, but by faith in Jesus. We are a holy nation because we belong to Jesus, the Holy One of God (Mark 1:24), and as His people, we live in obedience to His commandments. As a new kingdom of priests, we are called to conquer the world not through military might or economic power, but by blessing and sanctifying it. Every time we celebrate the Eucharist, we not only sanctify ourselves but also bring blessings to the world. Every time we proclaim the Gospel, we not only strengthen our own faith but also draw others closer to God. Every time we perform acts of charity, we not only fulfill Jesus’ commandments but also expand the Kingdom of God on earth.

Rome

Valentinus Bayuhadi Ruseno, OP

Guiding Questions:

How well do we keep Jesus at the center of our daily lives, and in what ways does our behavior reflect that we belong entirely to Him? Since we are called to be a royal priesthood, are we actively striving to bless and sanctify those around us, or are we too focused on pursuing worldly wealth and power? When we participate in the Eucharist, listen to the Gospel, or perform acts of charity, do we view these as routine rituals, or do we truly realize our mission to expand the Kingdom of God on earth?

The Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ

John 6:51-58

June 7, 2026

At the heart of the Catholic faith lies a profound mystery: during the Eucharist, the consecrated bread and wine become the true Body and Blood of Jesus Christ. Ordinarily, while the underlying substance changes, the physical appearances of bread and wine remain. Yet, throughout history, there have been extraordinary moments when even these physical appearances have transformed into actual flesh and blood. The Church recognizes these awe-inspiring events as Eucharistic miracles.

Among the most ancient and renowned of these is the miracle of Lanciano, Italy. According to a tradition formally documented in 1574, an eighth-century priest was celebrating Holy Mass while struggling with profound doubts about the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist. Right after the words of consecration, the unleavened bread visibly transformed into living flesh, and the wine into blood, which soon coagulated into five distinct globules of varying sizes. Remarkably, these miraculous relics are still preserved and can be venerated in the Shrine of Lanciano today.

This ancient miracle underwent rigorous scientific scrutiny between 1970 and 1971, led by Dr. Odoardo Linoli, a professor of anatomy and histology. His findings were astonishing. He concluded that the flesh is authentic human myocardial tissue (flesh from a heart) and the blood is genuine human blood containing normal proteins and minerals. Both the flesh and the blood belong to the AB blood group. Furthermore, Dr. Linoli found no traces of mummification chemicals, salts, or preservatives, making the uncorrupted preservation of this biological tissue over so many centuries scientifically inexplicable.

Lanciano, however, is not an isolated event. In his book, A Cardiologist Examines Jesus, Italian physician Dr. Franco Serafini gathered scientific data from four modern Eucharistic miracles—Buenos Aires in 1996, Tixtla in 2006, Sokółka in 2008, and Legnica in 2013—and compared them with the Lanciano findings. A striking pattern emerged: all the relics consist of human heart tissue of the AB blood type. Even more profoundly, the modern miracles all display active signs of severe physiological stress, trauma, and a lack of oxygen, indicative of a heart in its final agony. Interestingly, while scientists have been able to isolate human DNA from these samples, they have found it remarkably elusive to fully sequence. It is almost as if the DNA itself resists yielding its complete genetic code, though the fragments consistently indicate a male profile.

These miracles defy human explanation, offering extraordinary physical affirmations of the Eucharist. Yet, we must ultimately view them as gentle instruments of God meant to strengthen our faith, rather than something we should actively demand. I remember celebrating Holy Mass in Lanciano when a pilgrim confided in me, hoping to witness a Eucharistic miracle right there at the altar. I replied that I would not want that to happen, simply because I already believe. The truest and greatest miracle happens invisibly within our own hearts when we are granted the faith to recognize that what appears to be simple bread and wine is truly the Lord. That profound, quiet faith is the kind that can move mountains of doubt and fear.

Rome

Valentinus Bayuhadi Ruseno, OP

Guide questions:

When I encounter doubt in my own life, do I bring it to God, or do I allow it to silently distance me from Him? How does recognizing the profound depth of Christ’s sacrificial love in the Eucharist change the way I respond to my own personal trials and sufferings? Am I constantly seeking extraordinary signs to validate my beliefs, or am I cultivating the faith to recognize God’s presence in the ordinary, everyday moments of my life?

The Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity

May 31, 2026

John 3:16-18

In his first encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas, Pope Leo XIV reminds us that we are created in the image of the Holy Trinity. But what does this truly mean?

Being created in the image of God has several profound implications; primarily, it means we share in His attributes, albeit to a finite degree. Because God possesses perfect intellect and will, we too are endowed with these faculties. Because God is eternal, our souls are immortal, destined to survive death and stand before our Creator. And because the Holy Trinity is a communion of infinite love, we are inherently social beings who find our truest happiness in loving others.

There is, however, another, deeper aspect we share with the Divine: just as the Holy Trinity is a mystery, we too are created as a mystery. But what do we mean by “mystery”? In our contemporary mindset, the word often conjures ideas of secrets, true crime, or thriller films. Yet, in Scripture and theology, a mystery (from the Greek mysterion) is a profound truth and reality about God. Because it belongs to God, it exceeds our natural human capacity to grasp—until the Lord chooses to reveal it. This is why we refer to the Holy Trinity as a mystery; it is a truth that can only be known because God has graciously made it known to us.

We, too, are mysteries, because the ultimate truth about who we are remains hidden in God. Without His revelation, our deepest selves remain partially unknown even to us. Certainly, advances in science and technology allow us to discover and study various aspects of our biology and psychology, helping us improve as a species. Yet, without divine revelation, our truest identity, our inherent dignity, our origin, and our ultimate destiny will always remain beyond the reach of a microscope.

Because we are a mystery, the truth of the human person cannot be reduced to a mere concept for the mind to dissect, nor can our reality be entirely mastered by human will. Just as our minds cannot fully comprehend God and our wills cannot conquer Him—yet we can embrace, experience, and love Him—the same applies to us. As living mysteries, we are not meant to be subjected to oppressive domination or mere analysis; we are meant to be embraced, experienced, and loved.

We are not mere statistics or data points in a computer. We are not just animals to be dissected, nor bodies to be manipulated for the sake of “progress.” We are not economic machines to be discarded when we are no longer productive, nor are we mindless consumers. Recognizing that the human person is a mystery to be reverenced rather than a problem to be solved, the Catholic philosopher Gabriel Marcel put it beautifully: “Getting to Mars is a problem. Falling in love is a mystery.”

Rome

Valentinus Bayuhadi Ruseno, OP

Guide questions:
In what areas of my life am I treating myself or someone else as a “problem to be solved” rather than a “mystery to be loved”? If the Holy Trinity is a communion of infinite love, how does that reality challenge or change the way I approach my daily relationships? When modern life tempts me to view people as mere statistics, workers, or consumers, what specific steps can I take to recognize their hidden, divine dignity?