Thursday of the Twenty-fifth Week in Ordinary Time

We often look at the world, and we see the cycle of things. We see the sun rise, and we see it set. We see the seasons turn, the leaves fall, and the rivers flow toward a sea that is never full. There is something in our human experience that feels like a treadmill—the sense that we are running, working, and building, and yet, as Qoheleth says in the first reading, 'Nothing is new under the sun.' It is a sobering, even heavy thought. It reminds us that we are small, that we are passing through, and that our time here is but a 'watch of the night' in the eyes of the Eternal.

But if we stop there, we are only looking at the horizon. We are looking at the mechanics of the world, not the meaning of the soul. Today, the Gospel gives us a different image, one that is far more unsettling and far more hopeful. Herod, the man who held the power of life and death in his hands, is 'greatly perplexed.' He has heard the stories of Jesus, and he is trying to see him. He is looking for answers in the wrong places. He is trying to fit the mystery of God into the categories of his own past, his own guilt, and his own limited understanding. 'John I beheaded,' he says. 'Who then is this?'

Herod is the man who looks at the world and sees only what he has done, what he has taken, and what he has lost. He is trapped in the cycle of 'vanity' that the first reading describes. He is looking for a prophet, a ghost, or a sign, but he is not looking for a Savior. He is not looking for the truth that can set him free. He is just trying to make sense of his own unease. And so many of us, when the weight of life becomes too much, find ourselves in that same place. We look at the empty space where someone we love once stood, and we feel that same perplexity. We ask, 'Who is this, and why has my world changed so completely?'

I want to speak to you today about Benjamin. I think of Ben, not as a life that was cut short, but as a life that was lived with an intensity of light that most of us only ever glimpse. Think of his curiosity. Think of the way he looked at the world—not as a place of vanity, not as a place where 'nothing is new,' but as a place of endless possibility. He was a boy who looked at the sky and saw the flight paths of jets. He saw the 'con chim airlines'—his own dream of connecting people, of lifting things up, of taking flight. He didn't see a world of empty rivers and fading grass. He saw a world of wonder. He saw a world that was waiting to be explored, coded, and loved.

When we lose someone as vibrant as Benjamin Vo, the silence in the house can feel like it is confirming the words of Qoheleth. It feels like the world is just going on, indifferent to our pain. But that is the lie of the 'vanity' of this world. The truth is much deeper. The truth is that Ben’s life was not a cycle that ended; it was a spark that ignited a fire of love that is still burning. When you look at the 'Well of Love' in Vietnam, when you think of the way his kindness—that quiet, beautiful impulse to offer his piggy bank to help his uncle—continues to ripple out into the world, you are seeing that his life was not in vain. It was a life that touched the heart of God.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these past three months, you have been standing in the doorway of your own 'room 419,' looking for him, waiting for him to tell you that he is okay. You carry the weight of a love that is so deep it feels like it might break you. And that is exactly what love is supposed to do. It is supposed to break us open so that the light of God can get in. You are not meant to carry this alone. You are not meant to try to solve the mystery of why he is not here. You are meant to trust that he is with the One who made him, the One who knows the number of his days, and the One who is holding him in a place where the sun never sets.

Ryan, my dear brother, you are the one who knows the laughter best. You know the way Ben looked at you, the way he shared his life with you. When you feel the loneliness, remember that you are not just a brother who is left behind. You are a brother who is walking forward with his heart inside your own. When you dream of him, when you think of him, you are connecting to the reality that is more real than this world. Keep dreaming. Keep building. Keep looking at the world with the same wonder that he had. That is how you honor him. That is how you keep his spirit alive—by being the boy who knows that love is not a thing you lose, but a thing you carry.

There is a temptation, in the midst of this, to look back and wonder if we missed something. We look at the 'changing grass' of the Psalm and we think, 'Did I water it enough? Did I protect it enough?' I want to lift that stone from your hearts today. You are not to blame for the seasons of life. You are not the ones who decide when the sun rises or when the watch of the night begins. You were the parents he needed. You were the family he cherished. You did not miss anything. You loved him with a love that was complete, and that love is the only thing that holds up in the light of eternity. God does not accuse you, and you must not accuse yourselves. Let the guilt go. It is not yours to carry. It is a weight that belongs to the dust, and you are made for the light.

Herod wanted to see Jesus to satisfy his own curiosity. But we are called to see Jesus to satisfy our need for hope. We don't need to be perplexed like Herod. We don't need to ask, 'Who is this?' We know who He is. He is the One who said, 'Let the children come to me.' He is the One who walked through the darkness of the tomb and came out the other side. He is the One who is holding Benjamin in the 'Banquet of Heaven.'

There is a story about a boy who loved airplanes. He loved the mechanics of flight, the way a machine could defy gravity and soar. Benjamin was that boy. He understood that to fly, you have to leave the ground. And now, he has taken flight in a way that we cannot yet follow, but in a way that we can feel. Every time you see a bird, every time you see a plane climbing into the clouds, let it be a reminder. He is not in the dust. He is in the light. He is free. And he is watching over you with that same smile, that same gentle spirit, that same love that defined him.

So, what do you carry out the door today? It is a simple thing, but a profound one. When the world feels like it is just a cycle of vanity, when the silence feels too loud, do not look for answers in the 'why.' Look for the presence in the 'who.' Whisper his name, and then whisper the name of Jesus. Let those two names be your anchor. You are a family that is being held. You are a family that is being led. You are not just passing through the days; you are moving toward a reunion that is as certain as the rising sun.

Take this with you: you are never walking alone. You have a brother in heaven who is cheering for you, who is praying for you, and who is waiting for you at the end of the flight. Live for him, yes—but live for the One who gave him to you, and who has now called him home. Keep the 'Well of Love' flowing. Keep the kindness moving. Keep the dream alive. And when the evening comes, and you feel the weight of the day, remember the words of the Psalm: 'Fill us at daybreak with your kindness, that we may shout for joy and gladness all our days.' That joy is waiting for you. It is a promise, sealed in the heart of God, and it will never, ever fade. Amen.