Memorial of Saint Jerome, Priest and Doctor of the Church

We often think of the spiritual life as a polished manuscript—a collection of perfectly ordered thoughts, carefully edited and bound. Today we celebrate Saint Jerome, a man who spent his life laboring over the sacred texts, translating the Word of God so that it might speak to the hearts of the people. Jerome understood that Scripture is not merely information; it is a fire. It is a living, breathing encounter with the Divine. But even for a scholar like Jerome, the reality of God often remained a mystery that defied human logic.

Look at Job in our first reading today. Job is sitting in the ashes of his own life, trying to make sense of the vast, unsearchable ways of the Almighty. He looks at the mountains that move, the stars that are sealed, the sea that is tread upon by the Creator, and he realizes that his own perspective is incredibly small. 'He does great things past finding out,' Job says, 'marvelous things beyond reckoning.' There is a humility in that confession. It is the admission that we are not the authors of the story; we are the characters, and we are being written into a narrative that is far larger, far deeper, and far more beautiful than we can currently comprehend.

I want you to think about the image of the plow. In the Gospel, Jesus speaks to those who want to follow him but keep looking back at the fields they have left behind. 'No one who sets a hand to the plow and looks to what was left behind is fit for the Kingdom of God.' It is a challenging image, isn't it? We are so often tempted to keep our eyes fixed on the path we have already traveled, on the moments that have passed, on the faces that are no longer physically present at our table. We want to turn our heads, to check the horizon behind us, to see if we can catch a glimpse of what used to be. And yet, Jesus invites us to look forward. He asks us to trust that the field ahead—the field of the Kingdom—is where the life is truly found.

Benjamin Vo was a boy who understood, in his own way, what it meant to set his hand to the plow. He was a boy of such extraordinary, focused curiosity. Whether he was diving into the complexities of cloud infrastructure, mastering the logic of a new piece of code, or simply watching the skies for the next Boeing 737 to pass overhead, Ben was always looking toward the horizon. He was a boy who lived with a forward-facing heart. He didn't just exist in the moment; he engaged with the world as if it were a vast, open territory waiting to be explored. Remember the way he would talk about 'con chim airlines'? It wasn't just a dream of airplanes; it was a testament to a spirit that was always ready to take flight, always ready to ascend, always reaching for something higher.

Alan and Thao, I know that for you, the act of looking forward feels like the hardest work in the world. You are carrying the weight of a love that is so immense, so deep, that it feels like it anchors you to the past. You remember the way he would come down the stairs in the morning, always the first to say, 'Good morning, Dad.' You remember the way he would listen to your stories, Alan, with such rapt attention, as if they were the most important things in the world. You remember the quiet joy of a family trip, the way you all moved through the world together. To look away from those memories feels like a betrayal. But please hear this: setting your hand to the plow does not mean forgetting. It does not mean letting go of the love that binds you to Benjamin. It means taking that love with you into the future.

It means that the kindness you show today is a continuation of his kindness. It means that the way you hold each other is a reflection of the way he held you. You are not leaving him behind; you are carrying him into the Kingdom. You are the ones who are keeping his light burning in a world that so often forgets to look up. When you feel that sudden, sharp ache of his absence, do not be afraid. That ache is simply your love looking for a place to land. Let it land on the promise of the Resurrection. Let it land on the certainty that Benjamin is not in the past; he is in the future. He is at the destination, waiting for you to complete the journey.

Ryan, you are the one who knows the rhythm of his laughter better than anyone else. You are the one who knows the secrets of those 'con chim airlines' dreams. When you look at the world, when you face the challenges of your own life, know that you are not walking alone. You are walking with the strength of a brother who is cheering for you from the very heart of God. You are the keeper of the flame. Keep being the boy who is curious, keep being the boy who is kind, and keep being the brother who knows that love is the only thing that actually lasts. You are a family of four, and that will never change. You are just living in two different rooms of the same house, and the door between them is held open by the grace of Christ.

There is a profound truth in the Gospel that we often miss: Jesus does not call us to abandon our families; he calls us to bring them into the Kingdom. He calls us to recognize that our ultimate home is not in the 'dens' and 'nests' of this world, but in the presence of the Father. Benjamin has already arrived. He is resting in the place where there is no more waiting, no more longing, and no more looking back. He is in the light, and he is watching over you with that same sweet, gentle smile that you remember so vividly. That smile is a sign. It is a sign that the plow is moving, the field is being planted, and the harvest of love is already being gathered.

Do not be afraid of the 'why.' Job was afraid, the disciples were afraid, and it is okay for you to be afraid too. But stay with the Lord. Keep your hand on the plow. When the days feel long and the silence feels heavy, remember that you are not being asked to understand the mysteries of the universe. You are being asked to trust the One who holds the stars in place and who holds Benjamin in the palm of His hand. You are being asked to live in such a way that his memory continues to be a blessing to everyone you meet.

Think of the 'Well of Love' in Vietnam. That well is a perfect image of what you are doing. You are taking the love that was poured into Ben, and you are letting it flow into the lives of others. You are ensuring that his life is not a closed chapter, but a living, breathing, life-sustaining force. Every time you are kind, every time you choose to forgive, every time you choose to hope in the face of despair, you are allowing his legacy to refresh the world. You are turning the soil of the earth so that the Kingdom can grow.

So today, carry this away with you: you are never alone. You are a family that is being held by the same hands that hold the universe. When you see a bird in flight, or a plane climbing into the clouds, don't just see a machine or a creature; see a sign of the freedom that Benjamin now knows. See a sign of the promise that you are walking toward. Keep your eyes on the horizon. The journey is not over; it is simply continuing in a new, more glorious way. And one day, when the plow reaches the end of the row, you will look up and see him waiting for you, and the joy will be beyond all reckoning. Amen.