Feast of Saint Matthew, Apostle and evangelist

We often imagine that our lives are defined by the places we sit. We think of the office, the desk, the classroom, or the family dinner table as the fixed points of our identity. We see ourselves in the context of the work we do or the roles we play. In today’s Gospel, we find a man named Matthew sitting at a customs post. It is a place of calculation, a place of cold, hard numbers, a place where people are measured by what they owe and what they can pay. It was a place of isolation, for to be a tax collector was to be separated from the community, to be viewed with suspicion, to be defined by the ledger rather than by the heart. And then, Jesus passes by. He does not look at the ledger. He does not look at the coins. He looks at the man. He says two words: 'Follow me.' And in that moment, the entire architecture of Matthew’s life changes. He gets up, he leaves the desk, he leaves the numbers, and he begins to walk into a new reality—a reality defined not by what he has, but by who he is with.

There is a profound beauty in the way Jesus calls us. He does not wait for us to clear our desks. He does not wait for us to balance our accounts or to make ourselves presentable. He finds us exactly where we are, in the middle of our daily tasks, in the middle of our routines, and He invites us to step into something larger. He invites us to step into the Body of Christ. Saint Paul writes to the Ephesians today, urging them to live in a manner worthy of their call, with humility, gentleness, and patience, bearing with one another through love. He speaks of the 'one hope' of our call. This is not a hope for a better tomorrow in the sense of a change in circumstances; it is a hope for a deeper union in the heart of God, a unity that persists even when the landscape of our lives is irrevocably changed.

I think of our dear Benjamin today. I think of a boy who understood, with a natural, intuitive grace, that life is not about the things we collect or the titles we hold, but about the connections we forge. Ben was a boy of brilliant, sharp intellect—a mind that loved the structure of logic and the elegance of a well-coded system. He loved the way things fit together. He spent hours in the world of GitHub and cloud infrastructure, building, creating, and dreaming. But he was also a boy who knew that the most important things in life are the ones that cannot be coded or calculated. He knew the value of a shared moment, the warmth of a family meal, the joy of a dream like his 'con chim airlines.' He was a boy who lived in the spirit of the 'one hope' Paul describes—the hope that love is the true substance of our existence.

Alan and Thao, I know the silence in your home is a heavy thing. I know that for these past three months, you have been navigating a world that feels as though it has shifted on its axis. You look at the photos—perhaps that one of Ben and Ryan leaning in close together, sharing a steamer basket at a neighborhood restaurant, both of them focused, shoulder-to-shoulder, completely present to the simple, holy joy of being brothers—and you feel the ache of the distance. You wonder how to reconcile the brilliance of his mind and the gentleness of his spirit with the suddenness of his absence. But hear the invitation of the Gospel today. Jesus is not calling you to move past the grief; He is calling you to walk with Him through it. He is calling you to sit at the table with Him, just as He sat with the tax collectors and sinners. He is the Physician who knows the weight of your hearts, and He is the one who invites you to bring that weight to His table.

Ryan, my dear brother, you know this better than anyone. You were the one who walked the path beside him, who shared the laughter, the adventures, and the quiet moments of growing up. When you feel the weight of his absence, remember that the bond between you is not a memory. It is a living, breathing reality in the heart of God. You carry his spirit in your own, and every time you choose to be curious, every time you choose to be kind, every time you look at the world with the same wonder that he did, you are carrying his legacy forward. You are the brother who knows that love is the only thing that truly lasts. Keep dreaming, Ryan. Keep being the boy who knows that the world is a big, beautiful place, and that you are never walking through it alone.

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 a sign, or if you could have done more. Please, hear this truth today: God does not send these seasons of sorrow 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 burden of 'what if.' That is a weight that belongs to the past, and Christ has already stepped into the future to welcome Benjamin home. You are loved without limit, and you are being held by the same hands that hold him.

There is a profound, healing truth in the Gospel today: 'I desire mercy, not sacrifice.' The Pharisees were obsessed with the rules, with the boundaries, with who belonged and who did not. They wanted a religion of performance. But Jesus offers a religion of presence. He offers a grace that flows into the broken places, a grace that does not demand that we be perfect, only that we be willing to follow Him. Benjamin lived this. Think of his generous heart, the way he instinctively offered to help his uncle, the way he cherished his family. He didn't need to perform for God; he was already a child of the light. His life was a testament to the fact that we are all called to the same table, the same Body, the same hope.

When you see the 'Well of Love' in Vietnam, when you see the way his kindness continues to flow into the lives of those who have never met him, you are seeing the truth of the Gospel. His life is still bearing fruit. It is still feeding the hungry. It is still quenching the thirst of those who have nothing. His love is not a memory; it is an action. It is a sign that the Kingdom is already here, and that the love we share is never lost. It is a sign that the 'one Body' Paul speaks of includes those who have gone before us, those who are already resting in the full stature of Christ.

So, what do you carry out the door today? It is a small thing, but a real thing. When the world feels too quiet, when the grief feels like it is choking the joy out of the day, do not try to fix it. Do not try to solve the mystery. Just be like Matthew at the customs post. When you hear the call, 'Follow me,' simply stand up. Take the next step. Whisper his name, and then whisper the name of Jesus. Let those two names be your prayer. You are a family of four, and you are being led, step by step, through the darkness and into the light. The reunion is certain. And in the meantime, keep walking in the presence of God, in the light of the living. He is there, he is waiting, and he is watching over you with that same sweet, gentle smile. You are not walking alone. You are walking toward the Banquet, where all the laborers are gathered, where all the tears are wiped away, and where the love you shared will bloom forever. Amen.