Thursday of the Twenty-third Week in Ordinary Time

There is a specific, quiet kind of intimacy in being truly known. We spend so much of our lives curating the versions of ourselves that we present to the world. We wear our professional titles like armor, we hold our social circles at a distance, and we often keep the most jagged, tender parts of our hearts tucked away behind a polite smile. It is a defense mechanism. We fear that if we were fully seen—if someone truly understood the depth of our worries, the specific shape of our failures, or the raw, unpolished ache of our grief—they might turn away. But today, the Psalmist offers us something entirely different. He speaks of a God who does not wait for us to perform or to justify ourselves. He says, 'O Lord, you have probed me and you know me; you know when I sit and when I stand.'

Think about that image: a God who is familiar with your sitting and your standing. This is not a distant, cosmic clockmaker. This is a God who is present in the most mundane, unobserved moments of your day. He is there when you are staring at a blank screen at work, trying to focus. He is there when you are walking through the house in the middle of the night, feeling the weight of a silence that seems to press against your skin. He is there when you are simply standing by a window, watching the light change, wondering how the world can keep moving when your own world feels like it has stopped. You are not a stranger to Him. You are not a number in a ledger. You are a work of art, 'fearfully, wonderfully made,' knit together in the womb by the very hands of the Creator.

Benjamin Vo lived his life with this kind of transparent, honest joy. I think of the way he approached the world—not as a place to be conquered or a place to hide in, but as a place to be explored with a wide-open heart. He was a boy who looked at the horizon and saw not limits, but possibilities. Whether he was diving into the intricate logic of a computer program or imagining the routes for his 'con chim airlines,' Ben possessed a natural, unforced curiosity. He didn't worry about whether he appeared sophisticated enough or whether his dreams were 'practical' enough. He simply loved what he loved, and he shared that love with his family. He was a boy who understood that the most important things in life are not the things we possess, but the connections we forge. He was the kind of boy who, in a moment of pure, unprompted grace, offered his own savings to help his uncle—not because it was a duty, but because his heart was naturally oriented toward the good of others. That, my friends, is the mark of a soul that is already living in the Kingdom.

To you, Alan and Thao, I know that for these past two months, the 'knowing' that the Psalmist speaks of can feel like a double-edged sword. You feel known by God, yes, but you also feel the piercing absence of the one who knew you best. You look for Benjamin in the morning, you listen for the sound of his laughter, and you feel the ache of a love that has no earthly place to land. You wonder if God really sees the depth of this sorrow. I want to tell you: He does. He is not a God who stands at a distance. He is the God who knows your thoughts from afar, and He is the God who gathers your tears in His bottle. You are not walking this road alone. You are being carried by the same love that created Benjamin, the same love that is holding him now in the light of the eternal banquet.

And Ryan, you are the witness to that light. You know the way your brother’s spirit could transform a room. You know the way he stood beside you, shoulder to shoulder, in the photos that capture your shared adventures. When you feel the weight of the world, remember that your brother is not gone. He is simply in a room you cannot see yet, cheering for you with that same bright, gentle smile. You carry his legacy in your own heart. When you are kind, when you are curious, when you dream of the future, you are keeping his spirit alive in the most beautiful way possible. You are a brother, and that is a bond that death cannot touch.

In the Gospel today, Jesus gives us a command that seems, at first, to fly in the face of human nature. 'Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.' We often treat this as a moral challenge—a list of things we must force ourselves to do. But look at the 'why' behind it. Jesus says, 'Be merciful, just as also your Father is merciful.' We are called to love because we are, first and foremost, the recipients of an infinite, unearned mercy. When we realize that we are known by God, and yet we are loved by Him anyway—when we realize that He knows our 'crooked ways' and still chooses to lead us along the 'everlasting way'—our own capacity for mercy begins to expand. We stop judging. We stop condemning. We start to give, knowing that our own lives are a gift that has been poured into our laps, 'packed together, shaken down, and overflowing.'

There is a profound freedom in this. When we stop trying to prove our worth, when we stop trying to curate our lives for the approval of others, we become capable of a love that is truly radical. Think of how Ben lived. He didn't live for the approval of the world. He lived for the joy of the journey. He was a boy who could giggle over a spicy bowl of noodles in a crowded mall, not caring who was watching, simply enjoying the moment with his parents. That is the 'good measure' that Jesus talks about. He lived in the present. He lived with his heart wide open. He didn't hold onto his things—he offered them. He didn't hold onto his energy—he spent it on his family, his dreams, and his curiosity. He was, in his own fifteen years, a perfect reflection of the mercy of the Father.

I want to speak for a moment to those of you who might be carrying a heavy, secret stone of guilt. Maybe you find yourself wondering if you missed something, if you could have done more, if you should have been more watchful. Please, hear this: God does not send these sorrows as a punishment, and He does not hold you responsible for the mysteries of life that are beyond human control. You were the parents Benjamin needed. You were the family he loved. You did not miss anything. You are not being accused by God, and you must not accuse yourselves. Let that stone fall. You are free to grieve, you are free to miss him, but you are not required to carry the weight of 'what if.' That is a burden that Christ has already taken upon Himself. He is the one who says, 'Stop judging.' Start with yourselves. Be as gentle with your own hearts as you were with Benjamin’s.

We are all, in a sense, like the disciples listening to Jesus on the hillside. We are trying to understand how to live in a world that is often harsh, a world where the ones we love are taken from us far too soon. We want to know why. We want to know how to keep going. And Jesus gives us the only answer that matters: 'Give, and gifts will be given to you.' The more we pour ourselves out—the more we love, the more we remember, the more we offer our broken hearts to God—the more He fills us with His own life.

Benjamin is not a memory. He is a reality. He is a part of the 'great cloud of witnesses' that surrounds us. He is resting in the peace of the Father, and he is watching over you with a love that is now perfected, a love that is no longer limited by time or space. You are a family of four, and that will never change. You are held in the hand of the One who knit you together, the One who knows your sitting and your standing, the One who is leading you, step by step, along the everlasting way.

So, what do you carry out the door today? It is a small thing, but a real thing. When you feel the ache of his absence, do not try to close your heart. Instead, take a deep breath and offer a moment of kindness to someone who needs it. It could be a simple smile to a stranger, a word of encouragement to a friend, or a quiet prayer for a family that is hurting. Let the love that Ben gave so freely continue to flow through you. Let his legacy be a living, breathing testament to the mercy of God. And whenever you feel lost, whenever the silence feels too heavy, look up at the sky, remember the boy who loved the clouds and the machines that soar through them, and know that you are loved beyond measure, now and forever. Amen.