Reflection for October 26, 2025

Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Sirach 35:12-14, 16-18 | Psalm 34:2-3, 17-18, 19, 23 | 2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18 | Luke 18:9-14

​Last Sunday, if you remember, Jesus taught His disciples about praying with perseverance—never giving up. Today, He takes it a step further and shows us something even more foundational: the importance of praying with humility.

Back in 1991, a Philippine Airlines 737 accidentally flew straight into a cloud of volcanic ash near Botolan, Zambales. One by one, all four engines coughed, sputtered, and died—just like cellphones at 1% with no charger in sight. The plane started dropping—fast. More than 25,000 feet down and already bracing to ditch into the Pacific, the captain grabbed the mic and gave the most honest announcement ever: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’re experiencing a small problem. All of our engines have completely stopped. Don’t panic—we’re doing our best to restart them. For those in business class, kindly keep your oxygen masks on and your seatbelts fastened for your safety. For those in economy class…” (long dramatic pause) “…please join me in reciting: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you…”
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In our First Reading, we are reminded: “The Lord is a judge who shows no partiality,” yet He inclines His ear to the lowly and hears the cry of the oppressed. God watches over the weak and the humble of heart while the proud rely on status and strength. This should move us deeply: God’s favour does not depend on our outward success or our social standing—but on our posture of dependence. We see this most clearly when we remember that the Son of God became one of us, choosing poverty so that those without might know they are not invisible to God. He came without earthly power, so that those with nothing might realise: their need matters. “Thus may the servant of God know if he has the Spirit of God: if when the Lord works some good through him, his body—since it is ever at variance with all that is good—is not therefore puffed up; but if he rather becomes viler in his own sight and if he esteems himself less than other men.” “Blessed is that servant who does not regard himself as better when he is esteemed and extolled by men than when he is reputed as mean, simple, and despicable: for what a man is in the sight of God, so much he is, and no more.” In other words the person who truly relies on God is the one who does not grow proud of the “good things” God works through them. They know that everything is gift—not something earned. They recognise how little they are on their own—and how much they need Him. That is the blessed poverty of spirit. When you wake up each morning, begin with an honest prayer: “Lord, I need you.” Not because you feel strong or righteous—but because you know you cannot journey alone. In conversation, resist comparing yourself to others: “I pray more than she does” or “I serve more than he does.” Instead, you might say: “Thank you, Lord, for being with me in my small effort.” That keeps humility alive. In moments of weakness—financial, emotional, relational—remind yourself: this is not a reason to hide in shame, but to turn to God in trust. The One who welcomes the lowly hears you. In the quiet of your heart, practice saying: “What a man is in the sight of God, so much he is, and no more.” Let this free you from false measures of success and draw you into true freedom. When we rest our identity in God rather than comparison or self-reliance, we live the beatitude of the poor in spirit. We become people who know: “I have nothing on my own, but in you, Lord, I have everything.” And God listens. God honours. God raises up the heart that bows. May we embrace this humble dependence—not as a weakness, but as the very way God chooses to dwell with us. For in our emptiness He becomes full, in our lowliness He brings honour, and in our trust He reveals His kingdom.

A small piece of bamboo once kept grumbling because its owner wouldn’t stop cutting into it—whittling, carving, poking holes all over. The bamboo felt hurt and thought, “Why are you destroying me like this?” But the one holding the knife stayed silent and kept working. He wasn’t trying to ruin the bamboo at all—he was shaping it into a flute. It was as if he were saying, “Little bamboo, if I left you the way you are, you’d stay just an ordinary stick, unnoticed and unused. These cuts may hurt, and you may not understand why I’m making them, but trust me—this shaping will turn you into something beautiful. Soon, you’ll make music that lifts hearts, brings comfort, and fills the world with joy. It’s in the cutting that you discover your true purpose.”

St. Paul’s words to Timothy are not those of a defeated man—they are the triumphant cry of someone who has allowed God to shape his soul through suffering. “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” These words were written not from comfort or applause, but from a prison cell, by a man abandoned by friends and surrounded by uncertainty. Yet in that darkness, Paul saw the light of a faithful God who never left his side. God often shapes us not through ease, but through endurance. Like Paul, we are refined in the fire of trials. Pain, disappointment, and sacrifice—these are God’s chisels, carving away our pride, selfishness, and fear so that what remains is a heart that beats in rhythm with His own. When we suffer with faith, we do not lose ourselves—we are remade. In our daily lives, this truth takes flesh in countless small ways. When we choose forgiveness instead of resentment, we become stronger in love. When we remain honest in our work despite temptation, we are shaped in integrity. When we care for a sick family member, or continue to serve despite exhaustion, we learn the language of Christ’s compassion. Each act of endurance and surrender becomes part of the “good fight” that Paul speaks of—a life poured out in love. St. John Chrysostom once said, “The endurance of darkness is the preparation for great light.” It beautifully sums up how God uses pain, suffering, and sacrifice to shape us into the best version of ourselves—people capable of radiant love and unshakable faith. What feels like a season of darkness may in truth be God’s tender work of transformation, preparing our souls for the light of His glory. Like Paul, may we also come to see that every cross we carry is not the end of the story, but the beginning of our becoming—the slow and sacred process by which God makes us whole, faithful, and ready to share in His eternal crown of righteousness.

During cathechism class, Teacher Carla asked the kids to fold their hands and pray. With her sweetest voice she said, “Lord, we thank You that we are not like other children who are noisy, naughty, and disobedient.” Little Jun-Jun, who couldn’t keep still, peeked with one eye, scanned the room, then leaned over to his seatmate and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear: “Uy, did Teacher Carla  just roast all of us in her prayer? That was rude!” The whole class burst into giggles—because even Jun-Jun knew: prayer is supposed to be humble, not a holy brag or a low-key insult.

In this Sunday’s Gospel, Jesus warns us about the danger of pride through the parable of two men: the Pharisee, who prayed out of self-importance, and the tax collector, who prayed with humility. The contrast between them reveals what true prayer looks like—and how God listens not to the proud, but to the contrite of heart. Think about it like going to the doctor when you’re sick. It wouldn’t make any sense to sit there and talk about somebody else’s illness, right? If you never mention your own symptoms, the doctor can’t help you, and you’d go home just as sick as when you came. Prayer works the same way. When we come before God, He doesn’t need our comparisons or excuses—He wants our honesty. God can only heal what we bring before Him. The Pharisee’s mistake wasn’t that he prayed, but that he used prayer to measure his righteousness against others. Meanwhile, the tax collector simply bowed his head, beat his breast, and said, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” That one line was enough to move the heart of God. His humility became his healing. In our daily lives, we can fall into the same trap as the Pharisee. We compare our goodness to others—“At least I go to Mass,” “At least I’m better than that person,” “At least I don’t do what they do.” But comparison blinds us to the work God still wants to do within us. The truth is, God isn’t impressed by our self-made holiness. What touches Him is a humble heart that says, “Lord, I need You.” Practically speaking, humility in prayer means admitting our weaknesses without shame. It’s taking a moment each day to say, “Lord, here’s where I’ve failed. Here’s where I need your help.” It’s choosing compassion over judgment, gratitude over entitlement. It’s the quiet courage of someone who knows that holiness isn’t a competition—it’s a relationship with the God who lifts us up when we kneel before Him. St. Augustine once said, “It was pride that changed angels into devils; it is humility that makes men as angels.” Pride distances us from grace, but humility draws heaven close. The tax collector went home justified because he told the truth before God—and that truth became his liberation. So let us come before God not as the self-satisfied, but as the sincerely repentant. Let us stop measuring ourselves against others and start measuring our hearts against the mercy of Christ. For when we pray, “Jesus, Son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” we open ourselves to the love that transforms sinners into saints.

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