Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time

We often think that the most important moments of our lives are the ones where we stand on a stage, or receive an award, or make a grand, public declaration. We imagine that our 'yes' to God is something we shout from the rooftops. But if you look closely at the life of a family, you realize that the most profound moments happen in the quiet, in the spaces between the words, in the small, unrecorded gestures of a Tuesday afternoon.

In the Gospel today, Jesus tells a story about two sons. One says 'no' but then goes to work. The other says 'yes' but never moves. It is a story that feels remarkably human, doesn't it? It is a story about the gap between our intentions and our actions. We all have days where we mean to be patient, and we are not. We have days where we mean to be strong, and we feel fragile. But the beauty of this parable isn't in the failure of the second son; it is in the change of heart of the first. It is in the movement from 'I will not' to 'I will.' It is the story of a return.

Think of the image of a path. The prophet Ezekiel tells us today, 'If he turns from the wickedness he has committed, and does what is right and just, he shall preserve his life.' That is a hard word, but it is also a beautiful one. It means that we are never defined by our worst day, or our most stubborn refusal. We are defined by the direction of our feet. We are defined by the moment we decide to turn back toward the light.

I want you to think of Benjamin. I think of the way he navigated the world—not with the loud, performative energy of the world, but with a quiet, steady curiosity. He was a boy who loved the mechanics of flight, who looked at the sky and saw not just empty space, but a map of possibilities. He was a boy who had a mind like a finely-tuned engine, capable of understanding the complexities of cloud infrastructure and the logic of code. But what made Ben, Benjamin, wasn't his brilliance. It was the way he used that brilliance to connect. It was the way he looked at his family—at Alan, at Thao, at Ryan—with that gentle, unwavering gaze. He was a boy who didn't need to shout his 'yes' to life; he lived it in his smile, in his giggles, in the way he stood tall, and in the way he simply showed up for the people he loved.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these past three months, the silence of the house has felt like a question you cannot answer. You look at the photos—perhaps that one of Ben in his 'Top Gun' shirt, standing behind Ryan with that bright, hopeful smile—and you feel the ache of the distance. You wonder where the path leads now. You wonder if the 'yes' you gave to God is enough to sustain you through the long, quiet nights. And I want to tell you: your 'yes' is written in the life you gave him. It is written in the way you honor him today, in the way you hold each other, and in the way you continue to walk forward, even when your hearts feel heavy. You are not the second son who said 'yes' and stayed still. You are the ones who are doing the hard, holy work of moving forward, step by step, even through the fog.

Ryan, my dear brother, you know the rhythm of Ben’s heart better than anyone. You are the one who saw the 'con chim airlines' dreams, who heard the giggles, who shared the everyday life of being a brother. 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 look at the world, when you build, when you create, you are carrying his light into the future. You are the one who keeps his curiosity alive. Keep 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 world and we think, 'Did I do enough?' I want to lift that stone from your hearts today. You were the parents Benjamin needed. You were the family he cherished. 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 dust, 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.

In the second reading, Saint Paul gives us a beautiful, piercing invitation: 'Have in you the same attitude that is also in Christ Jesus.' And what was that attitude? It was the attitude of emptying. It was the attitude of humility. Jesus did not cling to his divinity; he let go. He came among us as one who serves. That is the secret of the Christian life. It is not about how much we can grasp, but about how much we can release. Ben understood this. Think of that moment when he wanted to offer his entire piggy bank to help his uncle. He didn't break it, he didn't empty it, he didn't make a show of it. He simply offered. He was a boy who already knew that the things we possess are not our true treasure. His treasure was his family, his kindness, his gentle heart. That is the wealth he carried with him into the Banquet of Heaven. And that is the wealth that remains with you, flowing through the 'Well of Love' in Vietnam, a living sign that his life was not a closed system, but an open, generous, and eternal gift.

We often look for God in the spectacular, in the miracles that change the course of history. But today, the Gospel reminds us that God is found in the 'first son'—the one who struggles, the one who hesitates, but who ultimately turns and goes to work in the vineyard. God is found in the quiet, persistent, daily 'yes' of a family that keeps loving, keeps praying, and keeps hoping, even when the world feels broken. You are that family. You are the ones who are showing us what it looks like to be faithful in the middle of the mystery.

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: 'Remember your mercies, O Lord.' That mercy is waiting for you. It is a promise, sealed in the heart of God, and it will never, ever fade. Amen.