The Church today honours one of the most inspiring chapters of Catholic history — the Vietnamese martyrs: St Andrew Dũng-Lạc and his companions,
117 men and women — bishops, priests, laypeople, catechists, farmers, mothers, and children — who died between the 17th and 19th centuries for the faith.

They were not rebels or revolutionaries.
They were ordinary Catholics who refused to renounce Christ
when the state outlawed Christianity, destroyed churches,
and demanded that believers trample on the crucifix.

Their message still speaks:
You can destroy buildings, but not belief.
You can silence a voice, but not the truth.
Faithfulness outlives fear.

In the first reading, Daniel and his companions find themselves exiled in Babylon — a foreign land, a pagan culture, a place where everything holy seemed lost.
The king’s servants try to make them forget who they are.
They’re given new names, new food, new customs —
a slow attempt to erase their faith.

But Daniel “resolved not to defile himself.”
He stayed faithful even in the small things —
the food he ate, the prayers he said, the God he served.

And the Lord honoured that fidelity:
He gave them wisdom and strength greater than all the others.

That’s the lesson for us:
Holiness begins in small refusals —
the quiet “no” to compromise,
the daily “yes” to truth.
If we’re faithful in the small things, we’ll be ready for the great test when it comes.

The Vietnamese martyrs lived that truth.
They refused to eat food offered to idols, refused to burn incense to the emperor,
refused to deny Christ — and paid the price.
But heaven saw what earth called foolishness.
Their hidden faith became a crown.

The Gospel brings us another quiet act of faith:
the poor widow putting two small coins into the Temple treasury.
Others gave from their abundance; she gave her all.

Jesus doesn’t measure by the amount — He measures by the heart.
Her gift looked small, but it was heroic.
She held nothing back from God, and that made her rich in heaven.

The martyrs did the same.
They didn’t give money; they gave their lives.
The world saw loss — God saw love.
The widow’s two coins and the martyrs’ courage are the same currency: total trust.

We may not face persecution,
but we are still called to give like that widow —
to give our time, our patience, our forgiveness, our witness —
and to keep giving, even when it costs.

The world still wants to reshape us as Babylon did Daniel:
to make faith a private hobby, not a public truth;
to make us blend in, not stand out.

But the martyrs remind us: Catholicism is not meant to be hidden.
It’s a light — and light is meant to shine.

Our test today is quieter but constant —
to stay faithful in truth, in chastity, in honesty, in the teaching of the Church,
when it’s unpopular or misunderstood.
To say, “I am Catholic” not only in church but in the public square.

We’re not likely to face prison or execution,
but we can still live like Daniel —
refusing what defiles, standing tall in faith,
and trusting that God sees our small acts of fidelity.

The widow gave two coins.
Daniel gave courage.
The martyrs gave their blood.
All gave what they had — and all found that God cannot be outdone in generosity.

The Lord doesn’t need our success; He asks for our surrender.
He doesn’t measure greatness by applause, but by love.

So today, as we honour St Andrew Dũng-Lạc and his companions,
let’s take up their banner of quiet faithfulness —
in prayer, in daily Mass, in small sacrifices, in unashamed witness.

Because every coin given in love —
every “yes” whispered in faith —
echoes in eternity.

Christ the King reigns through hearts that refuse to bow to the world.
Daniel stood in Babylon.
A poor widow stood in the Temple.
The martyrs stood before the sword.

Now we stand before the same Lord.
Let’s ask for their courage —
the courage to give, to trust, and to keep faith
until the King says to us too:

“Well done, good and faithful servant;
enter into the joy of your Lord.”