Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time

We often think of the path of faith as a smooth, well-paved road. We imagine that if we are good, if we are prayerful, if we are kind, the way forward will be clear and the horizon will remain bright. We look for a life of steady, predictable progress, where every step upward brings us closer to a quiet, undisturbed peace. But then we encounter the prophet Jeremiah in our first reading, and the illusion of the smooth road shatters. Jeremiah is not a man who has found a path of ease. He is a man who feels duped by God. He cries out, 'You duped me, O LORD, and I let myself be duped; you were too strong for me, and you triumphed.'

Think of the raw honesty of that cry. Jeremiah is not speaking in the measured, polite tones of a classroom. He is speaking from the depths of a heart that feels overwhelmed. He wanted to stop speaking in the Lord’s name, to close his mouth and keep the fire within him from burning, but he could not. The word of the Lord was like fire imprisoned in his bones. He was weary of the derision, weary of the struggle, weary of the cost of faithfulness. He is a man who has been pushed to the very edge of his endurance, and yet, he is a man who remains in the hand of God. He shows us that faith is not the absence of struggle; it is the presence of a fire that we cannot—and ultimately would not want to—extinguish.

This is the reality of the human heart before God. We often feel that the weight we are asked to carry is too much. We look at the empty spaces in our lives, the silence where there should be laughter, and we feel the ache of a thirst that the world cannot satisfy. It is a thirst that makes our flesh pine and our soul long for the sanctuary of God’s presence, just as the psalmist says. We are parched, lifeless, and without water, waiting for the only thing that can truly sustain us: the kindness of God, which is a greater good than life itself.

Now, let us turn to the Gospel, and let us look at the moment when the path of the Cross becomes undeniable. Jesus begins to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer greatly. And what is Peter’s response? It is the most human response possible: 'God forbid, Lord! No such thing shall ever happen to you.' Peter wants to protect Jesus from the suffering. He wants a Messiah who avoids the Cross, who stays on the mountain of glory and never descends into the valley of rejection and death. But Jesus turns and says, 'Get behind me, Satan! You are an obstacle to me. You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.'

This is the hinge of our faith. To think as God does is to accept that the path to life often leads through the valley of sacrifice. Jesus says, 'Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.' This is not a call to misery; it is a call to reality. It is a call to recognize that the life we try to save—the life we try to curate, to protect, to keep perfectly safe and unchanged—is the very life we end up losing. The life we find is the one we offer back to God, the one we entrust to him even when the way is dark and the burden is heavy.

I want to speak today to the parents, to the brother, and to the family who know this weight better than anyone. It has been two months since Benjamin Vo was called home to the banquet of heaven. Two months is a time when the world expects you to be 'moving on,' but the heart knows that you are simply moving through. You are living in the reality that Jeremiah felt—a fire in the bones, a longing that cannot be silenced, a life that has been transformed by a love that is now hidden from your eyes.

Benjamin was a boy of such extraordinary, brilliant curiosity. He was a boy who looked at the world and saw not just what was, but what could be. Think of his fascination with the sky, his love for the complex, beautiful mechanics of aviation. He dreamed of 'con chim airlines'—the bird airlines—a name he would say with such a bright, infectious giggle. That giggle was the sound of a heart that was already soaring. It was the sound of a boy who understood, perhaps better than any of us, that to live is to be ready to take flight, to be ready to move beyond the boundaries of the earth and into the vast, open horizon of God’s design.

Benjamin lived with a beautiful, quiet intensity. He was a boy who gave himself fully to whatever he touched, whether it was a line of code for a game he was building, a badminton match, or the simple, precious moments of a family trip to the Vatican or the Grotto at Lourdes. He did not hold back. He did not live as if he were trying to save his life; he lived as if he were giving it away in joy. And that is the secret of the saints. That is the secret of the young Saint Carlo Acutis, whom Ben so resembles in his vibrant, modern, and deeply faithful spirit. They were both boys who knew that the true 'profit' of life is not what we gain, but what we become in the hands of the Lord.

To Alan and Thao: you have carried your son with a love that is a mirror of God’s own love. You have walked with him through every season, and you continue to walk with him now, even though his physical presence is no longer at your side. I know the ache of the empty chair. I know the way the silence in the house can feel like a physical weight. But I want you to know that your love for Benjamin is not a thing of the past. It is a living, breathing part of your present. It is the oil in your lamp. It is the fire in your bones. You have not lost him; you have been entrusted with his memory, and that memory is a sacred, holy thing that points directly to the God who holds him now.

And you, Ryan: your big brother was your partner in every adventure. He was the one who shared the world with you, who looked at the horizon with you, who showed you what it meant to be curious and kind. Ryan, do not be afraid to carry his light forward. You are the one who keeps the story of 'con chim airlines' alive. You are the one who knows the sound of his laughter. When you dream, when you build, when you reach for the sky, remember that you are doing so with a brother who is cheering you on from the very heart of the Father. He is not gone; he is just in a place where he can see the whole horizon at once, and he is watching over you with a love that is stronger than death.

Some of you listening today are carrying your own heavy crosses. You are sitting in rooms that feel too quiet, or you are watching a loved one suffer, or you are simply trying to find the strength to face the coming week. You may feel like Jeremiah, wanting to stop, wanting to hold it all in, wanting to be anywhere but where you are. But listen to the words of the Psalm: 'My soul clings fast to you; your right hand upholds me.'

Cling to him. When you cannot stand, let his right hand uphold you. When the world tells you to conform to its ways, to hide your grief, to pretend that everything is fine, refuse to listen. Be transformed by the renewal of your mind. Offer your life, your pain, your very self as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God. This is your spiritual worship. This is how we follow him to Jerusalem, and this is how we eventually share in his resurrection.

Benjamin’s life was a beautiful, brilliant, and gentle offering. It was a life that, even in its brief span, touched the world with a grace that continues to flow—like the water from the well in Cà Mau that now bears his name and brings life to those in need. That well is a sign of what Ben’s life really was: a source of life, a source of refreshment, a gift that keeps on giving. It is a reminder that when we lose our lives for Christ’s sake, we find them in the hearts of others, and we find them in the eternal life of God.

So today, carry this out the door: you are not alone in your thirst. The God who created the heavens and the earth, the God who holds the flight of every bird and the path of every jet in his hand, is the same God who holds Benjamin. And he holds you. He is the one who says, 'Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.' You have lost much, but you have found a love that cannot be taken away.

Take one small step today. Just one. Speak his name with a smile. Share a story of his curiosity. Let the fire in your bones be a source of warmth rather than a source of pain. And look up. Look at the vast, blue sky. Remember that the horizon is not a wall; it is a doorway. And Benjamin is waiting on the other side, giggling at the sheer beauty of the view, waiting for the day when the whole family is reunited at the banquet of heaven.

May the Lord bless you, may he keep you, and may he give you the peace that passes all understanding, now and forever. Amen.