For October 4, October 11, October 18, and October 25
Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time – October 4, 2026
Readings: Isaiah 5:1–7 • Psalm 80:9, 12, 13–14, 15–16, 19–20 • Philippians 4:6–9 • Matthew 21:33–43
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/100426.cfm
The Parable of the Wicked Tenants is an allegory — every detail of the story corresponds to a reality in our world: the owner of the vineyard is God, the vineyard is the people of Israel, the servants are the prophets, the son killed outside the walls of Jerusalem is Jesus, the tenants in the vineyard are the Israelites who closed themselves to the voice of the prophets, and the other nation that will produce fruit represents the Gentiles. The story is a bird’s-eye view of Israel’s history and the role of Jesus within it — the cornerstone of the new building, the Church, rejected by Israel.
However, we would be mistaken if we limited the meaning of this allegory to a summary of Jesus’ relationship with the Chosen People. The point of using an allegory is to help us realize that what took place in the past holds universal value. Although the story’s primary reference is to the relationship between Israel and God, this history continues to play out in endless variations. Indeed, every relationship between a community or an individual and God, can find in the story a light of its own.
What is it that goes wrong in this encounter between Israel and God? The story leaves no room for doubt: “When vintage time drew near, he sent his servants to the tenants to obtain his produce.” The tenants do not want to give the owner the fruit of the harvest; they want to claim full ownership of the vineyard that was merely leased to them. Yet a little further on, we read: “When the tenants saw the son, they said to one another, ‘This is the heir; come, let us kill him and get his inheritance!’” It seems, then, that the tenants are not driven by greed alone. Killing the son — who, in Mark’s Gospel (12:6), we learn is the owner’s beloved son — did not solve the problem of taking over the vineyard; after all, the owner remained alive. Murdering the heir was thus also an expression of resentment — the urge to strike back at the one who has more. The desire for possession becomes merely a justification for this much more sinister motive.
If we examine our sin — our rejection of God — in light of this parable, two primary motives emerge.
The first is greed: the desire to appropriate that which does not belong to us. Our sins of weakness are a vivid example of this attitude — we chase after created things that seem good to us in a way that ultimately obscures the Creator. In doing so, we forget the One who is the ultimate Source of all things. It results in placing creation — separated from its Creator — in the place of God. That is why some theologians, following St. Augustine, defined sin as a turning away from God and a disordered turning toward creation (aversio a Deo, conversio ad creaturam). The Eastern Fathers, following St. Irenaeus, viewed sin as an expression of our utmost immaturity, childishness, and impatience. It is obvious that God desires to gift us with all of creation — He gave us His own Son. Yet God wants to do so when it is clear that His gifts will not destroy us. Only an immature child would fail to grasp this.
A second element in the analysis of human rejection of God is also highlighted in the Gospel. This element is, unfortunately, far more toxic and deadly. It is not fully captured by the definition of sin as a disordered turning toward creation. It is illustrated not by sins of weakness, but by sins of pride. This second element is the desire for dominance, which ultimately expresses itself as resentment. It could be summed up by the question: “Why him and not me?” Absurd as it may sound, man can attempt to relate to God in this very way — we can imagine God as a rival to human freedom and love rather than their source. We should not think that this is merely a theoretical possibility; many intellectual movements over the past two centuries have reflected precisely this stance toward God.
Greed plus the desire for dominance — these are the two roots of our sinfulness, according to this parable. Notice how the cunning serpent in Paradise — an image of Satan — plays upon both of these (with an emphasis on dominance) when he whispers to the woman: “you will be like God” (cf. Gen 3:5, LXX). The temptation presented to our first parents is carefully crafted: God truly desires to grant human beings the fullness of His life, to make us partakers of His divine nature — to divinize us, as Eastern theologians put it, or to make us co-heirs, as St. Paul wrote. The Evil One thus leverages that which is true. Our problem, however, is that we refuse to let God accomplish this according to His plan and in His appointed time.
What remedy is there for us in all of this? In the light of the New Testament, that remedy has a name: Jesus Christ. The remedy is He who “did not regard equality with God something to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave” (cf. Phil 2:6–7). The self-emptying of the Son of God to express the primacy of God over all created things, along with His taking on the posture of a servant who washes His disciples’ feet, opens the path to a new world for us — a world without greed and without dominance. And yet what is most surprising and even shocking is that according to God’s mysterious plan, the history of the greatest and most shameful sin — the rejection of God’s Son — became the starting point, the cornerstone, of all our returns to God.
Let us pray that we may always have the courage to stand on the side of the owner of the vineyard and his Son, rather than on the side of the usurping tenants.
Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time – October 11, 2026
Readings: Isaiah 25:6–10a • Psalm 23:1–3a, 3b–4, 5, 6 • Philippians 4:12–14, 19–20 • Matthew 22:1–14
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/101126.cfm
This time, the Gospel confronts us with realities we would often rather put aside. We usually seek comfort in God’s word, yet here we are presented with images that evoke fear: the king dispatches his army, executes the criminals, and burns their city; a man without a wedding garment is bound hand and foot and cast into the outer darkness, where “there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Finally comes the sobering punchline: “For many are called, but few are chosen” (cf. Mt 22:14). The Gospel king appears extraordinarily severe, almost ruthless. We find ourselves resisting: Is this truly how God, who is love, operates?
To properly understand this parable, we must first notice that God is not inviting us to a labor camp; His reign is depicted as a wedding feast. Contrary to our initial impressions, God reveals Himself as One who begs us to let Him shower us with gifts. In the light of this parable, salvation history is the story of a King — the Father of the chosen people — who has prepared a place for everyone to celebrate together, continually repeating: “Everything is ready; come to the feast!” (cf. Mt 22:4).
Why, then, do the invited guests reject God’s call? At first glance, the reason seems almost laughably trivial: they are simply busy with their own work. In reality, however, this reveals our greatest and often overlooked spiritual trap: fleeing from unearned love and clinging to the illusion of self-sufficiency. We want to grant ourselves our own worth, believing that true value lies only in what we earn, achieve, and acquire on our own. We treat money, status, or personal achievements as tools to keep us independent — never having to ask anyone for help/grace. Yet receiving God’s gift requires the capacity to stand before Him empty-handed. Fearing this dependence and unearned grace, we escape into work, seeking higher status, and fulfilling the demands of daily life.
God, however, does not give up. His relentless pursuit of humanity leads Him to send His servants to the crossroads. These are symbolic places — turning points in our lives where competing priorities clash, uncertainties unfold, and life-shaping choices are made. God — through His servants — waits for everyone at all these existentially crucial junctions, extending His hand to the lost, desiring to invite them once more, without first sorting them into the good and the bad, to share in the feast.
Not much is required of us; it would be absurd to imagine that we could ever earn an invitation to the royal wedding feast through our own efforts. Yet grateful love is necessary; without it, no relationship can thrive. In Jesus’ story, this is symbolized by caring for the wedding garment. “He enters the wedding feast without a wedding garment who belongs to the Church and has faith, but lacks love,” wrote Gregory the Great. Thomas Aquinas developed and enriched this interpretation, referencing the Letter to the Romans (13:14): “To possess the wedding garment is to put on Christ through good deeds, through holy living (conversationem sanctam), through true love. If any of these elements is missing, things are amiss.”
Human ingratitude evokes a firm reaction from the king. What are we to make of it? Are we truly justified in accusing the king of disproportionate severity? Take a close look at the story. The king is disrespected for the first time by his subjects (the chosen people) when they decide they have better things to do than attend his son’s wedding banquet. The second insult involves the aggressive treatment — and murder (sic!) — of the royal messengers sent with invitations. If we consider both situations with even a modicum of empathy, it should not surprise us that the guilty are punished (incidentally, the burning of the city is almost certainly an allusion to the destruction of Jerusalem in AD 70).
What should surprise us is that, despite all this, the king still does not give up on inviting people to celebrate together — this time extending the invitation to the Gentiles. It seems that the king’s patience has finally run out, however, when neither an undeserved honor (the invitation to the royal feast) nor the punishments imposed (punishing those responsible for the messengers’ deaths) lead to repentance. The guest who shows up without a wedding garment effectively conveys through his behavior that it is not the king bestowing favor upon the guests, but the guests bestowing favor upon the king. Any possibility of building a relationship between the king and the people is thus ruined.
Let us not run off to our various fields and commercial pursuits. Let us not hide behind the armor of self-sufficiency or a superficial religiosity devoid of the inner flame of love. God stands at the crossroads of our lives. Let us strip away the rags of pride and put on Christ — His love, His forgiveness, and concrete good deeds. Let us not allow the illusion of our self-sufficiency to close the door to the fullness of life in God.
Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time – October 18, 2026
Readings: Isaiah 45:1, 4–6 • Psalm 96:1, 3, 4–5, 7–8, 9–10 • 1 Thessalonians 1:1–5b • Matthew 22:15–21
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/101826.cfm
The Gospel scene presented to us this time begins with a cold-blooded provocation. The Pharisees join forces with their political enemies, the Herodians, to drive Jesus into a deadly trap. They approach Him with false flattery on their lips: “Teacher, we know that you are a truthful man and that you teach the way of God in accordance with the truth.” Yet their visit is an intricately prepared snare. They ask a question to which — so they believe — there is no safe answer: “Is it lawful to pay the census tax to Caesar or not?”
If Jesus answers, “Do not pay,” the Herodians will immediately accuse Him before the Roman governor of inciting rebellion. Refusing to pay Roman taxes in the Judea of that time was treated as an act of open revolt, punishable by death. If, on the other hand, Jesus were to answer, “Pay,” He would lose all credibility in the eyes of a people exhausted by occupation. Israel was awaiting a Messiah who would break the yoke of pagan Rome and allow God to reign over Israel once again. Paying tax to a pagan ruler whose coins displayed his own claim to divinity was viewed among devout believers as betrayal of the one Lord.
Jesus, however, refuses to accept the terms of this false dilemma, and instead elevates the debate from a political squabble to an existential level. He asks them to show Him the coin used for the tax. His opponents immediately produce a Roman denarius, which at once exposes their lack of moral integrity: they carry the occupier’s coin even within the temple precinct, using it daily in trade and benefiting from the economic structure built by Rome. In other words, in their practical lives — and in the Temple itself (!) — they have long since acknowledged Caesar’s dominion.
Then Jesus asks the decisive question: “Whose image and inscription is this?” They reply: “Caesar’s.” In the ancient world, a universal rule held true: wherever a ruler’s coin circulates, his sovereignty and domain extend. Jesus responds with words that entered history forever, delivering a brilliant comeback: “Then repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God.”
Jesus’ answer could be translated like this: “Since the coin bears Caesar’s image, render that piece of metal to Caesar. But you yourselves were created in the image and likeness of God. Remember, then, that just as the coin belongs to Caesar, you belong to God, and therefore your worship belongs to Him alone (Gen 1:27; cf. 1 Chr 29:14).”
Here is the heart of this Gospel passage. Caesar may demand your taxes, and the Roman denarius may jingle in your pocket, but no Caesar of this world has a right to your heart, your dignity, your conscience, or your freedom. You are not — and must never allow yourself to become — a coin in a ruler’s purse. You are a child of God.
Today, Caesar rarely wears the face of a specific emperor. A contemporary Caesar can be much more anonymous and insidious. It may be the dictate of profit, the drive for success at any cost, blind consumerism, or technology trying to rearrange our consciences. How often do we surrender our whole lives to this new Caesar! We work ourselves to exhaustion, live in perpetual anxiety, and sacrifice our closest relationships and peace of heart simply to meet the standards set by the world.
Let us take a closer look at our lives today. This is not about fleeing from the world or scorning the state or society. A Christian lives in the world, pays taxes, and commits to building the common good. Yet we do so in a radically new spirit — a spirit of freedom and love. When you know that God is your only Lord, you stop fearing people. You no longer need to fight for power through trickery and violence, like the Pharisees in the Gospel. You can become a person who is capable of serving, forgiving, and building fraternal relationships even where brutal competition reigns.
To whom do we offer our strength, our thoughts, and our hearts? In whose image are we shaping our relationships with others? Remember: at no turn of life, under no political system, and in no financial hardship are we the property of this world. We bear within us the indelible mark of the Most High. Let us not allow ourselves to be sold for the cheap currency of this world. Let us be free — as sons and daughters of God who know to whom they belong.
Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time – October 25, 2026
Readings: Exodus 22:20–26 • Psalm 18:2–3, 3–4, 47, 51 • 1 Thessalonians 1:5c–10 • Matthew 22:34–40
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/102526.cfm
We live in a world caught up in a maze of rules, procedures, and regulations. We often feel overwhelmed by the constant burden of adjusting to new demands. The question that the scholar of the Law asks Jesus — “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” — is therefore hardly unfamiliar to us. In the Israel of Jesus’ day it was not just a theoretical problem either. The Pharisees had listed exactly 613 commandments in the Torah: 248 positive precepts, corresponding to the traditional count of the body’s parts, and 365 negative prohibitions, one for each day of the year. They divided them into “light” and “heavy” regulations, attempting to determine what ultimately decides salvation and God’s favor.
Hidden within the scholar’s question lies a valid anxiety that many of us share today: in a world structured by such a complex web of rules, what really matters most? Where should I focus my attention so as not to lose myself in the thicket of regulations, daily duties, and expectations imposed by others?
Jesus’ response turns legalistic thinking upside down. What he offers the Pharisee is neither another rule nor a new technique for meticulous compliance with the Law. Instead, He points to something that completely transcends legal codes: love.
Yet can love ever truly be “commanded”? Love cannot be forced by decree or enforced through fear. The Gospel’s “You shall love” is not the ruling of a judge, but an invitation to step into a relationship. We need to understand that God is not looking for efficient bureaucrats of a religious system who meticulously check out every box on the list of devotional duties. God wants our heart. Most importantly, He loved us first (1 Jn 4:10) and His unmerited love enables us to respond.
When Jesus recalls the ancient Shema Yisrael — “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength” — He draws on words intimately familiar to His listeners (Deut 6:4–5). Rabbinic tradition taught that these words should be understood in a deeply concrete way, reaching into the very core of daily life. It is a tradition worth remembering.
What does it mean to love God with all one’s heart? The scholars of Israel (Mishnah Berakhot 9:5) emphasized that we must love Him with both inclinations of the human heart: the inclination toward good (Yetzer ha-Tov) and the inclination toward evil (Yetzer ha-Ra). In other words, God does not wait for us to become crystal clear and free from temptation. He desires that we bring Him our whole heart — including our difficult, unrefined passions, fears, anger, and selfish impulses — and allow Him to transform it. What does it mean to love with all one’s soul? Tradition offered an uncompromising answer: even to the point of laying down one’s life. What is required in our lives is a willingness to entrust our soul — our destiny — to God in all circumstances, without setting conditions or fearing for our own security. And what does it mean to love with all one’s strength? The ancient Aramaic translations and interpretations of Scripture, the Targums, rendered the word “strength” simply as wealth or material goods. Love for God cannot remain a mere sentimental emotion; it must cost something. What are our money, time, health, and talents? Unless they serve love, they become instruments of selfishness, confining us in a cage of ownership and breeding endless anxiety. Employed for love, however, they become tools of true freedom.
The remarkable thing about Jesus’ answer, however, was not that he simply recalled the Torah — every Israelite knew it. Its real significance lay above all in the fact of that he added a second commandment to the first, placing it almost on equal footing: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”
Why should loving our neighbor be so closely bound to loving God? For Christians, the answer is evident: because in the Incarnation, God united Himself to humanity in Jesus Christ. That is why Jesus could say: “Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me” (Mt 25:40). For centuries, followers of Christ have known that there is no path to God that bypasses our neighbor. Serving others is loving God Himself. Love of God must always be demonstrated through love of neighbor.
We should also take note of the measure of this love: Jesus says we are to love our neighbor “as yourself” (cf. also Lev 19:18). If a person cannot accept and love themselves as someone infinitely cherished by God, they will be unable to truly love others. Authentic self-love always begins with receiving God’s love — standing in awe of the fact that God gave everything for us.
Saint John of the Cross wrote poignantly: “At the evening of life, we shall be judged on our love” (Sayings of Light and Love, 64). Our life will not be summarized by the sum of our achievements, our bank balance, or our flawless adherence to rules. We will be asked only one thing: Did we learn to love?
Let us not be afraid when God asks us to love. Instead of asking how much we must do to be “in the right,” let us open our hearts to the love that precedes us. Let us allow God to love us in our weaknesses, so that we may embrace ourselves and every person God places on our path with that same love.
About Fr. Michał Paluch, OP
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