Memorial of Our Lady of Sorrows

We often imagine the great moments of our lives as grand, sweeping vistas—the view from a mountain peak, the arrival at a new city, the culmination of a long-held dream. We look for the peaks. But the Gospel today, and the memory of the Mother of God, invites us to look at the ground beneath our feet. It invites us to look at the place where we stand.

'Standing by the cross of Jesus were his mother…'

There is a profound, terrifying stillness in that image. She is not running. She is not turning away. She is not trying to bargain with the heavens or rewrite the events of the day. She is simply standing. And in that standing, she reveals the secret of a heart that is completely, utterly surrendered to the will of God.

Think of the weight of that moment. The sword that Simeon had promised would pierce her soul had reached its depth. And yet, she remained. She stayed. She did not abandon the place of her sorrow, because that was the place where her Son was. She teaches us that faith is not the absence of the sword; faith is the courage to stand while the sword is still there.

I think of our dear Benjamin. I think of the way he moved through the world with such a brilliant, curious, and gentle spirit. Ben was a boy who loved the mechanics of things—he loved the way an airplane was put together, the way the code in his GitHub repositories hummed with logic and potential. He was a boy who looked at the world and saw a system of beautiful, interconnected parts. He loved to build. He loved to connect. He loved to reach out to the horizon, whether he was looking at a city skyline or dreaming of the future of his own 'con chim airlines.'

But today, I want to talk about the way Ben stood. I think of those photos where he is standing with his family—the Fourth of July, the holiday gatherings, the travel selfies. He was always there, present, connected, a vital part of the body. St. Paul tells us today: 'As a body is one though it has many parts, and all the parts of the body, though many, are one body, so also Christ.' Ben was a part of your body—a vital, precious, brilliant part. And that connection does not break when the geography of our lives changes. It only deepens. It moves from the physical to the eternal.

Alan and Thao, you have been standing by your own cross for these past three months. You have felt the weight of the silence, the sharpness of the missing presence, the way the world keeps moving while your hearts feel as though they have stopped. You might feel as though your standing is weak, that you are swaying in the wind. But look at Our Lady. She did not stand in her own strength. She stood because she was held by the very One who hung before her. She was the first disciple, the one who understood that to be united with Christ is to be united with His suffering and His triumph. You are not standing alone. You are standing in the company of the Mother of God, who knows exactly what it is to watch a child with a love that transcends death.

There is a temptation, when we are hurting, to think that we must be 'fixed'—that we must move past the grief, that we must find a way to be 'better' or 'stronger' or 'more productive' so that we can justify our existence. But the Gospel today does not ask us to move. It asks us to 'behold.'

'Woman, behold, your son.'

In the most agonizing moment of her life, Mary was given a new calling. She was given the disciple whom Jesus loved. She was given a new way to be a mother. And in that gift, she was given a way to live beyond the cross. She did not stop being the Mother of the Savior, but she began to be the Mother of the Church. Her love did not end; it expanded.

Your love for Benjamin is expanding, too. It is moving from the daily, physical, beautiful rhythms of life—the morning greetings, the shared stories, the plans for the future—into a love that is now a prayer, a legacy, a living force of mercy in the world. Think of the 'Well of Love' in Vietnam. Think of the way his kindness continues to flow into the lives of those who have never met him. That is not a memory. That is Ben, still being a part of the body, still serving, still loving, still reaching out to the least of these. His love is not gone; it is simply working in a different way, through you, for the sake of the world.

Ryan, my dear brother, you know this better than anyone. You stood by Ben’s side through so many of these moments—you were the one who shared the battle poses, the cozy moments on the sofa, the dreams of the future. You are a part of him, and he is a part of you. When you feel the quiet, remember that your brother is standing with you in the spirit. He is cheering for you with that same bright, gentle smile. He is not a ghost. He is a child of the light. He is at the Banquet. And he is waiting for the day when the whole body is reunited in the presence of the Lord.

I want to speak to those of you who might be carrying a hidden, heavy stone of self-reproach. Maybe you find yourself replaying the past, wondering if you missed something, if you could have done more, if you should have been more watchful. Please, hear this truth today: 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, 'Behold, your son.' He is the one who holds Benjamin in His arms, and who holds you in His heart.

There is a peace that comes when we stop trying to solve the mystery and start living within it. We are all members of one body. We are all connected by the same Spirit. We are all drinking from the same cup. And in that, we find our strength.

What do you carry out the door today? It is a small thing, but a real thing. When the grief feels like it might overwhelm you, when the silence feels too heavy, do not try to run from it. Stand. Take a breath. Look at the Cross, and say: 'Lord, I am standing here. I am here with you. And I am here with Benjamin.'

Let that be your prayer. You are a family of four—held in hands that will never let you go. You are not walking toward an end; you are walking toward a reunion. And he is waiting for you in the light, where the sword is gone, where the tears are wiped away, and where the only thing that remains is the love that you shared, and the love that God has for you, now and forever. Amen.