Memorial of the Queenship of the Blessed Virgin Mary

My dear friends, we begin today with a vision, an overwhelming, awe-inspiring vision from the prophet Ezekiel. Imagine it with me for a moment. Ezekiel is led to a gate, a gate facing east. And then, he sees it: “the glory of the God of Israel coming from the east.” It’s not a quiet, gentle arrival. No. He hears “a sound like the roaring of many waters.” Can you picture that? The raw power, the immense force of it, like a flood or a mighty ocean. And the earth itself, the very ground beneath his feet, “shone with his glory.” It was so immense, so utterly beyond human comprehension, that Ezekiel tells us, he “fell prone.” He fell to the ground, overwhelmed, humbled, unable to stand in the face of such divine splendor.

But then, a spirit lifts him up, brings him into the inner court. And he sees it again, even more intimately: “the temple was filled with the glory of the LORD.” Not just a corner, not just a glimmer, but filled, utterly saturated, with God’s presence. And then, the voice, speaking from the temple itself: “Son of man, this is where my throne shall be, this is where I will set the soles of my feet; here I will dwell among the children of Israel forever.”

This is God’s promise. A promise not just of a fleeting visit, but of a permanent dwelling. A promise that His glory, His very presence, will fill the sacred space, and indeed, as our Psalm echoes, “The glory of the Lord will dwell in our land.” Not just in the ancient temple, but here, now, in our world, in our lives, in our hearts.

This image of God’s glory, roaring like many waters, filling the temple, shining on the earth – it is breathtaking. It speaks to a longing deep within us, doesn’t it? A longing for a presence that is real, that is powerful, that truly fills the emptiness we sometimes feel. A longing for that divine light to shine in the shadows of our own lives, in the quiet ache of absence, in the questions that have no easy answers.

Because for all the grandeur of Ezekiel’s vision, we also live in a world where glory often feels… far away. A world where, as Jesus tells us in today’s Gospel, people can sit on “the chair of Moses,” speaking with authority, but their actions betray their words. A world where, as He says, “they preach but they do not practice.”

Jesus’ words to the crowds and his disciples are sharp, aren’t they? He warns against those who “tie up heavy burdens hard to carry and lay them on people’s shoulders, but they will not lift a finger to move them.” He speaks of those whose works are “performed to be seen,” who love places of honor, greetings in marketplaces, and the salutation ‘Rabbi.’ They seek outward show, external validation, a kind of superficial glory that is empty at its core.

And this is where the ache can truly settle in. Because sometimes, when we are carrying the heaviest burdens – the burden of grief, the burden of loss, the burden of simply trying to navigate a world that often feels indifferent – we can encounter those who, perhaps unintentionally, add to our load. Or we can feel the pressure to *perform* our faith, to *display* our strength, to *appear* as if we have it all together, even when our hearts are breaking. We can feel the weight of expectations, the unspoken demands to move on, to be strong, to find a silver lining. These can be heavy burdens, hard to carry, and sometimes, it feels like no one is lifting a finger to help us with them.

But Jesus offers a radical alternative. He says, “As for you, do not be called ‘Rabbi.’ You have but one teacher, and you are all brothers. Call no one on earth your father; you have but one Father in heaven. Do not be called ‘Master’; you have but one master, the Christ.” And then, the profound truth: “The greatest among you must be your servant. Whoever exalts himself will be humbled; but whoever humbles himself will be exalted.”

This is the turn, the light breaking into the room. The true gate through which God’s glory enters is not one of outward show, of titles, of seeking to be seen. No. The true gate is humility. It is service. It is the quiet, unpretentious heart that simply seeks to live close to God and to love others. It is the heart that doesn't tie up burdens, but seeks to lighten them. It is the heart that doesn't demand honor, but offers respect.

And when I think of that kind of humble, gentle spirit, my mind turns to Benjamin. Ben. He was a boy of extraordinary intellect, yes, diving into complex ideas, coding, technology. But for all his brilliance, he was defined by his gentle heart. He didn't seek to be called ‘Master’ or ‘Rabbi’ in his young life. He simply lived. He simply loved. He simply was.

Think of his quiet joy in simple things. His passion for aviation, for commercial jets, especially the Boeing 737. His cherished ritual of “airport spotting” with his dad, a shared moment of wonder and connection. Or his dream of creating his own “con chim airlines” – a name that would always bring a giggle and a smile to his face when he talked about it. These weren’t grand, self-exalting ambitions. These were moments of pure, unpretentious joy, shared with the people he loved most. These were moments where his heart was simply open, simply present, simply full of a gentle, quiet delight.

And his deep respect for his parents. He was always smiling, effortlessly happy, and profoundly respectful to his mom and dad. This wasn't a performance; it was who he was. It was a gentle, humble presence that made him a true dwelling place for God's glory. His life was a testament to the truth that God's presence, that roaring, shining glory, doesn't need grandiosity to enter. It needs an open, humble, loving heart.

Today, we also celebrate the Memorial of the Queenship of the Blessed Virgin Mary. And who better exemplifies this truth than Our Lady? She was not a queen by earthly title or by seeking places of honor. She was a humble handmaiden, a simple girl from Nazareth. Yet, she became the Queen of Heaven precisely because she was the ultimate dwelling place for God’s glory. Her 'yes' to God, her humble acceptance, made her the very temple where the Word became flesh. She didn't tie heavy burdens on anyone; she carried the greatest burden of all with grace and trust. She didn't seek to be seen; she simply served, loved, and pondered all things in her heart. Her humility exalted her beyond all earthly measure.

So, for you, my dear Alan and Thao, and for you, dear Ryan, and for Ben’s aunts and uncles, and for all who loved Benjamin and carry the weight of his absence: hear these words of Jesus. In a world that often demands outward show, that can lay heavy burdens on your shoulders, Jesus calls you to a different path. He calls you to humility, to gentleness, to service – not as a way to earn favor, but as the very gate through which God’s glory will dwell in your land, in your hearts.

Your love for Benjamin, your continued love for Ryan, your quiet acts of kindness, your simple presence for one another – these are not small things. These are the gates. These are the ways that God’s glory, roaring like many waters, shining like the sun, truly enters and fills your lives. You don't need to perform; you just need to be present, to be humble, to be gentle, just as Benjamin Vo was.

When the ache of missing Benjamin ambushes you, when the quiet in your home feels heavy, remember that roaring glory of God. Remember that it enters through the humble gate. Remember that Ben, in his gentle spirit and his deep respect, opened that gate wide in his own life. And he continues to open it for you, through the love that still flows, through the memories that still shine.

You are not alone in carrying your burdens. God does not tie them; He lifts them. He desires to dwell among you, to fill your hearts with His glory, not through outward show, but through quiet, abiding love. So, let your heart be that humble gate today. Seek not to be seen, but to simply be present, gentle, and respectful in your interactions, in your memories, in your continued love for one another. In that sacred space, God’s glory will truly dwell, now and forever.