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LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF
H.E. Pablo Virgilio Cardinal David, D.D.
Saturday, August 22, 2026 4:14 pm
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Homily for the Last Day of the Novena Mass of Mary the Queen Parish, Friday, 21 August 2026
Ezekiel 37:1–14; Matthew 22:34–40, Votive Mass of the Blessed Virgin Mary
Why is Jesus giving two answers to one question in our Gospel reading? He could have stopped after saying, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind.” That answer would have been enough. After all, the question was simply, “Which is the greatest of all the commandments?”
The standard answer was the so-called Great Shema. It comes from Deuteronomy 6. Up until now, every young Jewish male who reaches the age of thirteen and celebrates his Bar Mitzvah is expected to know this Great Commandment by heart.
But Jesus added an unsolicited second answer. And he even qualified it as being of the same value as the first: “The second is like it.” Meaning, not only should it be treated as being of the same value; it should never be separated from the first: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” That comes from Leviticus 19:18.
The late Jaime Cardinal Sin used to refer to these “two loves” as the two lines that make up the Cross of Jesus Christ: the vertical, our love of God, and the horizontal, our love of neighbor. We cannot have the redeeming Cross of Christ without one or the other.
But take note of a further qualification in the so-called second commandment: AS YOURSELF. It does not stop at “You shall love your neighbor.” It says, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” In Tagalog, perhaps we could say, “Ituring mo siyang parang hindi na iba sa iyo.” Treat the other as your own—your own brother, sister, mother, father, even as your own self.
One problem with English is that we use the same word “love” even to express our fondness for objects. “I love pasta!” “I love that shirt!” Sa Tagalog hindi natin sinasabi, “Mahal ko ang pasta.” Baka “Mahilig ako sa pasta.” Alam kasi natin na hindi naman tayo kayang mahalin pabalik ng pasta o ng T-shirt. To love a fellow human being is never to love an object, but a fellow subject, who may or may not love us back.
And remember where Jesus got that second commandment: Leviticus 19:18. It says, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself. I am the Lord.” Why should I love my neighbor as myself? Because, God says, “I am the Lord.”
Put it negatively and perhaps the implication becomes clearer: If you do not love your neighbor as yourself, then I am not really your Lord. You cannot separate your love for God from your love of neighbor. You cannot disconnect your faith in God from respect for human dignity, because the invisible God has made himself visible in the human being created in his image and likeness.
That is why St. John would later say, “I am a liar if I say I love the God whom I cannot see while I hate the brother or sister whom I can see.”
And this brings us closer to the theme of your fiesta: “Laboring with the Poor and for the Poor.”
There is a way of working for the poor that can still treat them merely as objects of charity, as beneficiaries of our generosity. We can give something to the poor and still fail to treat them with dignity. That is precisely one of the most serious problems of Philippine politics: the politics of patronage.
When politicians exploit people’s poverty and helplessness by using public funds to patronize them and expect political loyalty in return, the poor remain dependent on their patrons. Parang ninakawan ka ng sarili mong pera, tapos bibigyan ka ng kaunting sukli, at ngayon may utang na loob ka pa. How can we call that charity if caritas means unconditional love?
Jesus did not say, “Love your neighbor as your beneficiary.” He did not say, “Love your neighbor as the recipient of your ayuda.” He said, “Love your neighbor AS YOURSELF.”
I remember Cardinal Chito Tagle once telling the story of a little girl selling sampaguita. He was riding in a car with the sponsor of a Mass when they stopped at a red light. A little girl approached and tapped on the window. Perhaps conscious that he had to be charitable because there was a bishop beside him, the man opened the window and offered her money without taking the sampaguita.
To his surprise, the girl refused. She said, “Sir, hindi po ako nagpapalimos. Nagbebenta po ako ng sampaguita.” She returned the money and walked away.
She was trying to make a living. She did not want to be treated as a beggar. In effect she was saying, “Salamat po sa pera, pero hindi awa ang gusto ko kundi paggalang.”
And sometimes people react, “Ikaw na nga ang tinutulungan, nagmamalaki ka pa. Ayaw mo, di huwag.” But that attitude is precisely the opposite of loving your neighbor as yourself.
Many years ago, our PPC at San Roque Cathedral had a routine Christmas gift-giving project for indigent families. One day I saw a long line snaking from the cathedral all the way toward Mabini Street. I asked what was going on. Somebody said, “Namimigay po tayo ng ayuda.”
I said, “Ayuda? Galing sa gobyerno?” “Hindi po, galing sa parishioners.”
I said, “Then don’t call it ayuda, and don’t give it the way politicians often do.” Welcome them inside the church. Let them sit comfortably. Read the Gospel about the multiplication of the loaves and say something about the miracle of generosity. Then let our volunteers personally hand them the Christmas gifts. Perhaps include a little rosary and prayer card saying: “Hindi po ito ayuda ng gobyerno. Kaloob po ito ng inyong mga kapatid sa parokya. Pamasko. Pakisama na lamang po sila sa inyong panalangin.”
The difference may look small, but it has to do with dignity.
Perhaps we should ask why so much of our national budget continues to be spent on patronage-based rather than genuinely program-based projects. Why not invest more decisively in programs that truly give people a way out of poverty: good subsidized education, accessible healthcare, decent housing, sustainable livelihoods and jobs that allow people to support their families with dignity?
This is why our social action work must go beyond dole-outs and relief work. Of course, when people are hungry, we feed them. When disaster strikes, we help them. But we cannot stop there. Even our language should change. Instead of simply calling people disaster “victims,” we speak of them as survivors whom we accompany. The goal is not to keep people permanently in dependency as victims but to restore their capacity to stand on their own feet.
There are higher forms of charity: community development, transforming unjust social structures, putting an end to patronage politics, and promoting good politics for the common good. Pope Francis once said that although politics is often denigrated, it remains “a lofty vocation and one of the highest forms of charity” when it truly seeks the common good.
Sometimes the more charitable thing is not merely to feed a hungry family today, but to ask why that family has remained hungry for generations, and what must change so that their children will not inherit the same poverty.
And this brings us beautifully to our first reading: Ezekiel’s famous vision of the valley of dry bones.
This is not originally about the literal resurrection of dead bodies. The dry bones represent the people of Israel who had lost everything in the exile—their Temple, their country, their freedom and, finally, their hope. They said, “Our bones are dried up, our hope is lost.”
And God asks Ezekiel: “Son of man, can these bones live?”
That is also the question we might ask when we look at communities trapped in generations of poverty. Can the poor in our country still rise? Can families in our slum communities escape the cycle of poverty? Can OFW parents who endure years of separation from their children help create a future in which their children will not have to leave home simply to survive? Can we still save our country from corruption and from the resentment that makes us put our hopes in violent leaders who have little respect for the rule of law?
And God’s answer is yes.
The bones come together. The breath of God enters them. And then comes the most beautiful detail: they stand on their feet.
For me, that is a wonderful image of what it means to labor with and for the poor. The goal is not simply to put flesh and bones together. It is to allow God’s breath to breathe new life and new hope into our people, so that they can stand again on their own feet and participate in changing their own destiny.
When a poor family can send their children to a good school; when those children are given genuine opportunities; when those children are protected from violent video games, from cyberbullying and online gambling, when they can find decent work and build a future without being forced to leave their families and country simply to survive—then the dry bones begin to live again. People recover hope and experience what it means to live with dignity.
And perhaps this is where our Blessed Mother, whom we honor in this Votive Mass, points us back to her Son. In the Magnificat, Mary praises a God who does not merely pity the lowly. He lifts up the lowly. “He has cast down the mighty from their thrones and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things.”
That is more than charity. That is the Gospel transforming the way we relate to one another.
And it all begins with the simple but radical commandment of Jesus: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Not beneath yourself. Not as your beneficiary. Not as somebody permanently dependent on your generosity. As yourself.
Because the poor are not just people we are called to work for. They are brothers and sisters we are called to work with, and to walk with. And in them, if only we learn to see, we encounter the face of the God whom we say we love.
