Monday of the Twenty-third Week in Ordinary Time

Look at the posture of the man in the synagogue today.

He is sitting there in the assembly, perhaps near the back, keeping his right arm tucked close to his side. In the ancient world, your right hand was your livelihood. It was the hand that held the plow, the hand that swung the hammer, the hand you extended to clasp a neighbor in peace, the hand you lifted in blessing over your children at the evening meal. And his right hand was withered—dry, stiff, completely unresponsive.

He had learned how to hide it. He had learned how to sit in the congregation without drawing attention to what was broken.

And then Jesus walks in. Jesus does not merely notice him from across the room. He looks directly at him and says two startling things. First: 'Come up and stand before us.' And second: 'Stretch out your hand.'

Have you ever thought about how terrifying that command must have been?

To ask a man to stretch out the very thing he has spent years concealing? To pull the withered limb out from under the cloak, into the bright daylight, in front of the critical eyes of the scribes and the Pharisees who are just waiting to catch someone breaking a rule?

Jesus asks him to expose the wound. Not to shame him, but because the place of our woundedness is precisely where the resurrection begins.

Today, Saint Paul writes to the Corinthians with a very similar urgency about what we keep hidden and what we bring into the open. He uses the image of bread: 'Clear out the old yeast, so that you may become a fresh batch of dough… let us celebrate the feast, not with the old yeast, the yeast of malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.'

Sincerity. Truth. Unvarnished, open hands.

When we carry great grief, our first instinct is often to curl our hands inward. We clench our fists against the pain. We tuck our broken hearts beneath our coats so the world won't see how fragile we feel. We walk through grocery store aisles, we sit in church pews, we show up to work, nodding and smiling when people ask how we are doing, saying, 'We're hanging in there.' But underneath, inside the quiet of our chest, something is stiff and aching. The chair at the dinner table remains empty. The hallway upstairs is painfully quiet. The morning sun rises, and before you even open your eyes, the heavy reality lands on your chest again: *he is not here.*

Two months have passed since Benjamin Vo went home to God. And two months is that strange, grueling threshold where the rest of the world begins to move on, while for those who love him most, the silence only seems to grow louder.

To you, Alan and Thao: I know the ache of your hands. A father's hands that used to teach, that used to guide, that used to high-five after a great game or hold the tools of a shared project. A mother's hands that held him, comforted him, and prepared meals for a growing boy. When your child is taken into the arms of eternity, your hands feel desperately empty. You want to reach across the veil. You wonder how you are supposed to unclench your fingers when your heart feels so completely shattered.

And Jesus stands in front of us today, looks you in the eyes, and says gently: *Stretch out your hand.*

He is not asking you to pretend the wound doesn't exist. He is asking you to bring that very ache out into the light of His grace.

Look at how Benjamin lived his life. Ben was never a boy who kept his hands clenched or his heart guarded. Think of his brilliant mind and his natural athletic spirit—the boy who gave his whole heart to everything he touched. Think of him on the badminton court, racquet held high in that right hand, moving with lightning speed, determined, joyful, completely unafraid to try. His motto was simple: *trying is all that matters.* Making that badminton team wasn't just an athletic achievement; it was an overflow of his open-handed approach to life. He didn't hide his gifts, nor did he shrink back from a challenge. He stepped onto the court, stretched out his hand, and played with sheer, radiant delight.

Ben knew how to live with the 'unleavened bread of sincerity and truth' that Saint Paul speaks about. There was no pretense in him, no sour yeast of bitterness or pride. Whether he was diving into complex computer algorithms far beyond his years, or sharing a joyful laugh with his family, his hands and his heart were always wide open to the goodness around him.

To you, Ryan: you know the strength and the gentle kindness of your brother's hands better than anyone. You remember the way he would look at you, the way he shared his life with you, his best friend and brother. Right now, your own hands might feel heavy. You might wonder how you are supposed to keep going, how you are supposed to take the court, how you are supposed to walk into school without your big brother beside you.

Listen to me, Ryan: Ben's love for you has not ended. It has not withered. It is alive, right now, in the presence of Jesus. When you put your hands to your studies, when you pick up a game, when you smile at a shared memory, you are stretching out your hand with the same courage Ben had. You are carrying his legacy forward in sincerity and truth.

And to everyone joining in this prayer from afar—especially families who are watching a child suffer, or anyone carrying an invisible, exhausting cross: Christ sees your withered hope. He sees the places where grief or fear has made you stiff and numb. He does not condemn you for feeling weak. He does not ask you to fix yourself before you come to Him.

He simply says: *Come up and stand before us. Stretch out your hand.*

What happened in the synagogue when the man obeyed?

'He did so, and his hand was restored.'

Notice that Jesus didn't make a grand show. He didn't use complicated rituals. The restoration happened in the very act of reaching out. When the man trusted Jesus enough to open what was closed, the life of God rushed into the withered places.

That is the promise of the Gospel. Our God is not a God of destruction, but of restoration. He is the God who takes our empty, aching, trembling hands and fills them with eternal life. Benjamin is not lost in some dark void. Benjamin has been fully restored, radiant, living in the boundless joy of the Heavenly Banquet, surrounded by the angels and saints, close to Our Lady and resting in the peace of Christ.

So what do we carry out the door today? What is the small, concrete thing we can hold onto?

Today, whenever you feel the grip of grief tightening around your heart, do not close your fists. Do not hide your sorrow away in the dark.

Literally open your hands. Turn your palms upward toward heaven for just five seconds. And pray that simple, quiet line: *'Lord, restore what is broken in me.'*

Bring your empty hands to the altar of God's love. Ben is safe in the Father's house, watching over you with that bright, beautiful smile. And the same Jesus who commanded the man to stretch out his hand is reaching out right now to take yours… and He will never let you go.