Reflection for December 7, 2025

Second Sunday of Advent (A)

Isaiah 11:1-10 | Psalm 72:1-2, 7-8, 12-13, 17 | Romans 15:4-9 | Matthew 3:1-12

​Today we light the second Advent candle. This Sunday’s liturgy reminds us about renewal, peace, harmony, and keeping our hearts focused on Jesus.

​Jude spots Grace relaxing on a park bench, a dog stretched out beside her like it owns the place. “Hey, does your dog bite?” Jude asks. Grace answers, calm as ever, “Nope.” So Jude confidently reaches down to pet the dog—only for it to spring up and chomp his hand. Jude yelps, clutching his hand and practically crying, “Grace! You said your dog doesn’t bite!” Grace shrugs and says, “Right. My dog doesn’t. That one isn’t mine.”

When the Messiah finally shows up, the whole world flips. Peace becomes the new normal. Imagine it. The wolf shows up at the lamb’s tea party. Leopards and goats crash on the same couch. Calves and young lions share one table without fear. Even little kids play outside the cobra’s den like it’s nothing. Isaiah shouts this vision at us because he wants us awake. He says a new leader will rise from Jesse’s broken family tree. Not a king rebuilding old borders or chasing political wins. Someone who brings creation back to the harmony God planned from the start. The kind of peace Eden had before we messed everything up. This is the kingdom the Messiah builds. And it calls us out. If God wants to restore the world, then we better stop settling for the chaos we’ve grown used to.

Fr. Sireneo, a Roman Catholic priest, Fr. William, an Anglican clergyman, and Pastor Apollo, an evangelical preacher, were standing by a river arguing—again—about which church was truly faithful to God’s teaching. Fr. Sireneo lifted his chin proudly. “There’s really no debate,” he said. “The Catholic Church comes straight from the Apostles. Peter was our first Pope! We have Scripture, Tradition, and Teaching Authority. In fact… I can even walk on water like Jesus!” With that, he calmly stepped onto the river and strolled across like it was a tiled church floor. Fr. William dusted off his cassock. “Well, the Anglican Church shares the same roots,” he said smugly. “And I, too, can walk on water.” He stepped forward and crossed the river as easily as stepping through a garden path. Pastor Apollo scoffed. “I don’t care how your churches started. I studied the Word, preached it straight, no add-ons. If you two can walk on water, then I should do it even better. All it takes is faith!” He boldly took one grand step forward…and immediately sank knee-deep into the river like a stone wearing a necktie. As Pastor Apollo flailed around, insisting his faith was just “warming up,” Fr. Sireneo leaned toward Fr. William and whispered: “Should we… tell him where the rocks are?”

The very first Christians came from two worlds—Jews and Gentiles. And trust me, these two groups couldn’t stand each other. They didn’t eat together, they didn’t talk to each other, they didn’t even want to be seen together. Then they met Christ… and the differences didn’t magically disappear. Their old habits, old judgments, and old ways of thinking kept pulling them into conflict—especially over something as basic as food. That’s why Paul, writing to the Romans, practically shouted from the rooftops: “You claim to follow Christ? Then show it!” For him, real Christianity meant stepping into God’s dream of a renewed creation—a creation built on harmony, not pride; unity, not stubbornness. Paul begged the believers to stop drawing lines, stop building walls, and start living like the family God has already made them. Because being a true Christian isn’t just saying “I believe.” It’s opening your arms wide—wider than your comfort zone—to people you once ignored, avoided, or even disliked. Jews, Gentiles—didn’t matter. In Christ, they were called to glorify God together, side by side, one voice, one heart, one salvation shared. So kapuwang kapatid… may kagalit ka pa ba? May iniiwasan ka pa ba? Pasko na, and Christ is calling. Enough with the grudges. Enough with the cold shoulders. If Jesus broke down the wall between Jews and Gentiles, who are we to keep building our own? Let’s end the conflict. Let’s mend what’s broken. Bago mag-Pasko, ayusin na natin ang dapat ayusin.

Back in the days when there was no Facebook, no Instagram, no X/Twitter—meaning you couldn’t just stalk someone’s profile to see what they looked like—people were way harder to identify. So when the New York Times published an article confirming Einstein’s theory of relativity and suddenly the whole world knew his name, not everyone actually knew his face. He became “the famous Dr. Einstein,” and every university wanted him to give a lecture. Einstein couldn’t drive, so he always traveled with his loyal driver, Harry. Harry sat through every single lecture, always in the back row like a dedicated chismoso taking mental notes. One day, after yet another mind-blowing talk, Harry joked as Einstein got into the car, “Professor, I’ve heard your lecture so many times, I could give it myself!” A few weeks later, on their way to Brown University, Einstein fell sick. Since nobody could Google his face to check if he was legit, he told Harry, “Alright, today you be me… I’ll sit in the back and pretend to be you.” So Harry—now wearing Einstein’s coat, hair fixed like a mad scientist—stood at the podium and delivered the lecture flawlessly. He was so good that the academic crowd had no clue they were actually listening to Einstein’s driver. Then came trouble. Two grad students had been arguing about who was smarter, and one of them wanted to show off by asking a question so complicated it could make your brain file for resignation. He stood up, smirked, and asked a ridiculously technical question meant to stump “Einstein.” But Harry didn’t even blink. With perfect confidence he said, “Ah, that question is so basic… so simple… that I’ll let my driver answer it!” Einstein, still in the back pretending to be Harry, just sighed—because even geniuses can’t escape a quick-thinking driver with perfect comic timing.

John the Baptist holds a wild, one-of-a-kind place in God’s rescue story. We call him the Baptist, the Voice shouting in the wilderness—not to make noise, but to wake people up. Our Gospel today drags us right into John’s world and shows us what he was all about. John shows up in Judea like a holy alarm clock, preaching repentance with the urgency of someone who knows Heaven’s deadline is coming fast. And he is brutally honest about his place in the story: “The one coming after me is way mightier than I am. I’m not even worthy to carry His sandals!” John knew exactly who the real star was—and it wasn’t him. He wasn’t the main actor; he was the guy sweeping the stage so the King could walk in. And that’s why he matters so much. His whole mission was to teach people how to prepare their hearts for Jesus. John lived with this fiery joy: “I must become less, and He must become more.” He understood that the voice crying in the wilderness must eventually give way to the voice of the Good Shepherd. And now it’s our turn. John prepared the way in the first century. We have to prepare the way today—starting inside our own hearts. We must name and confront whatever pushes Jesus out of the center of our lives. Because let’s be real: the holiday season can drown us in ourselves—endless parties, shopping lists, reunions, travel plans, and commitments that leave our souls exhausted but our hearts empty. Christmas is not about us putting ourselves on display; it’s about making room for Jesus to shine. So here’s the call to conscience: “More of Jesus… less of me.” When Jesus becomes greater and we become smaller—not in dignity, but in ego—our joy doesn’t shrink. It explodes. Because true joy comes when the spotlight moves from us to Him. This Advent, let John the Baptist shout into your heart: Clear the clutter. Drop the pride. Prepare the way. Jesus is coming.

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