Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross

We often think of the Cross as a destination—a place where a story ends in silence and shadow. We look at the wood, the nails, and the weight of it, and our human instinct is to turn our eyes away. It is too heavy. It is too raw. And yet, the Scriptures today invite us to do something entirely counterintuitive. They invite us to look.

In the desert, the people of Israel were dying. They were bitten by serpents, their bodies failing, their patience exhausted by the long, dry road. They cried out to Moses, 'We have sinned.' And the Lord, in His mysterious mercy, did not simply take the serpents away. Instead, He commanded Moses to craft a bronze serpent and mount it on a pole. He told them, 'If any who have been bitten look at it, they will live.'

Think about that for a moment. Why a serpent? Why look at the very thing that was causing their pain? Perhaps it was to remind them that God is present even in the midst of the bite. Perhaps it was to strip away their denial, to make them face their reality in the presence of His healing. When they looked at that bronze image, they were not looking at the poison; they were looking at the sign of their salvation. They were looking at the command of God.

Jesus takes this ancient image and places it squarely over His own life. 'Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up.' The Cross is no longer a symbol of defeat. It is the pole upon which our Salvation is raised. It is the place where God so loved the world that He gave His only Son.

I think of Benjamin Vo today. I think of the way he looked at the world. Ben was a boy who loved to look up. He loved the clouds. He loved the mechanics of flight, the way a Boeing 737 cuts through the air, the way humanity has found a way to rise above the earth. He was a boy of curiosity, a boy who spent his time in GitHub repositories and cloud infrastructure, always trying to understand the architecture of things, always trying to see how the pieces fit together. He was a boy who looked at the world with a wide, bright, expectant gaze.

There is a profound connection between that curiosity and the faith we celebrate today. To believe is to look. When the world is heavy—when the silence in your home, Alan and Thao, feels like a desert—the temptation is to look down. To look at the floor, to look at the empty chair, to look at the 'why' that has no answer. And yet, the Cross calls us to look up. It calls us to look at the One who was lifted up, not to condemn the world, but to save it.

I want to speak to you, Ryan, about your brother. You shared so many moments of looking up together—standing on granite rocks in the mountains, watching the sky, dreaming of the next adventure. That brotherly bond is a work of the Lord. It is a work that does not end because the horizon has shifted. Ben is now looking at the face of the One who was lifted up for him. He is in the light where there is no more desert, no more sting, no more distance. He is the same Ben—curious, gentle, smiling—only now he is seeing the true architecture of the universe, the very mind of God he so loved to explore in his own brilliant, young way.

Alan and Thao, I know the weight of the last three months. I know that the 'desert' of your grief has been a long and winding road. You have felt the sting of the loss, and you have felt the urge to complain, to ask, 'Why?' You are not alone in that. The people of Israel asked the same thing. But notice that God did not strike them down for their questions. He provided a way for them to live. He gave them a sign of hope.

When you feel that the weight is too much, do not try to carry it by looking only at the ground. Look at the Cross. Look at the sacrifice of love that defines your son’s life. You see, Benjamin’s life was a life of giving. Think of that moment, so simple and so beautiful, when he wanted to offer his entire piggy bank to help his uncle. He didn't break it open; he didn't boast; he didn't make a scene. He simply offered. That was his 'bronze serpent' moment—the moment he looked at the needs of another and chose to be a sign of healing. He gave what he had, even when it wasn't needed, because his heart was already tuned to the frequency of the Kingdom.

That love is not a memory. It is a force. It is the same love that is working in the 'Well of Love' in Vietnam, bringing life-sustaining water to those who have none. It is the same love that lives in the quiet prayers you whisper at 3 a.m. It is the same love that binds your family of four together, across the veil of heaven and earth.

There is a peace that comes when we stop trying to fix the desert and start looking at the One who walks through it with us. You have been faithful. You have loved with a depth that is a testament to the Gospel. You have not missed anything. You are not to blame for the storms that hit the house. You have been the guardians of a beautiful, gentle soul, and you remain his family, now and forever.

So, what do you carry out the door today? It is a small thing, but a real thing. The next time the grief feels like a bite—the next time the sting of his absence feels sharp and sudden—do not look away. Do not close your eyes. Instead, look up. Look at the Cross in your room, or the crucifix in your heart. Whisper the name 'Jesus,' and then whisper the name 'Benjamin.' Let those two names be the pole upon which you fix your gaze. Remind yourselves: He is safe. He is held. And because he is held by the One who was lifted up, you are held, too.

There is no distance that the Cross cannot bridge. There is no desert that the love of God cannot cross. Keep looking. Keep trusting. Keep being the family that loves so well. You are not walking toward an end; you are walking toward a reunion. And he is waiting for you in the light. Amen.