Monday of the Twenty-seventh Week in Ordinary Time

We often think of the spiritual life as a series of negotiations. We come before God with our questions, our lists of 'what ifs,' and our desire to define the boundaries of our duty. We want to know exactly where the line is drawn: where does my responsibility end, and where does my neighbor begin? We want to be sure that if we follow the rules, we will be safe, and that if we are 'good,' the world will make sense. But today, the Gospel pulls us out of that tidy, logical world and places us on the dusty road between Jerusalem and Jericho.

There is a man lying on that road, stripped and beaten. He is not a symbol; he is a human person in need. He is someone’s son, someone’s brother. And the priests and the Levites who pass him by—they are not necessarily evil men. They are likely men who were busy, men who were worried about their own religious purity, men who had a schedule to keep. They saw the victim, but they did not see a neighbor. They saw an obstacle. They saw a situation that threatened to disrupt their carefully ordered lives. And so, they crossed to the other side.

Then comes the Samaritan. And notice what the Gospel says: 'He was moved with compassion at the sight.' He didn't ask for a resume. He didn't ask if the man deserved his help. He didn't check to see if the man was a friend or a stranger, a countryman or an enemy. He simply saw the suffering, and his heart broke. That is the moment the Gospel breaks into our own lives. It is the moment when we stop asking, 'Who is my neighbor?' and start asking, 'How can I be a neighbor?'

I want you to think about Benjamin Vo today. Think of the way he looked at the world with such brilliant, analytical curiosity. Whether he was coding a game in a GitHub repository or talking about his 'con chim airlines'—that dream he would giggle about with such pure, infectious joy—Ben was a boy who saw potential everywhere. He didn't just see machines or code; he saw a world that was waiting to be understood and cared for. He was a boy who lived with his eyes wide open, always ready to learn, always ready to connect. And that curiosity was rooted in a heart that was profoundly, naturally kind.

Think of that moment when he told his parents he wanted to give his entire piggy bank to help his Uncle William. He didn't need to break the bank, he didn't need to empty it, he didn't need to make a show of it. He simply offered. That offer was a prayer. It was the movement of a soul that understood the heart of the Gospel long before he had to face the complexities of life. He was a boy who knew, in the quiet, unforced language of his own heart, that we belong to each other. He was a neighbor to everyone he met, because he carried within him the love of the One who is the true Neighbor of us all.

Alan and Thao, I know the weight of these months. I know the silence that sometimes echoes in the rooms where his laughter used to be. You remember the way he would always, without fail, say 'Good morning, Dad' when he came down the stairs. That wasn't just a habit; it was a way of saying, 'I am here, and I love you.' 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 are not just remembering a boy; you are remembering a witness to love. You are remembering a son who taught you that the most important thing you can ever do is to be present to the one you love.

Sometimes, we think that to be a Christian is to have a perfect, logical answer for everything. But look at Saint Paul in our first reading today. He is writing to the Galatians, and he is fierce. He tells them, 'I am amazed that you are so quickly forsaking the one who called you.' He is calling them back to the truth—not a set of rules, but the person of Jesus Christ. Paul had to learn, through his own journey, that the Gospel is not something we receive from human beings or something we are taught by the world. It comes through a revelation of Jesus Christ. It comes when we stop trying to curry favor with the world and start living as a 'slave of Christ'—which is just another way of saying, a person who is completely, totally free to love.

If you are feeling lost, if you are feeling like the road you are walking is too steep or too lonely, remember that you are not walking it alone. You are walking it in the company of the One who was also stripped, who was also beaten, who was also left for dead, and who rose again. Jesus is the ultimate Samaritan. He is the One who stops when everyone else passes by. He is the One who pours the oil and wine of His grace over our deepest, most hidden wounds. He is the One who takes us to the 'inn'—the Church, the community of faith—and says, 'Take care of them, and I will repay you when I return.'

Ryan, you are the brother who carries that light now. You know the secrets of the games you played, the joy of the trips you took, the way Ben looked at the world with wonder. When you walk into a room, you are carrying that legacy. You are carrying the curiosity, the kindness, and the love that you and Ben shared. You are not a brother who is walking alone. You are a brother who is walking with the strength of a love that has already arrived at the destination. Keep being the boy who is curious. 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.

I want to speak very gently to the ache that sometimes visits you in the quiet of the night. There is a weight that parents often carry, a stone of wondering if they missed something or could have done more. I want to lift that stone from you today. You were the parents Benjamin needed. You were his sanctuary. You were the ones who nurtured that brilliant, curious, gentle spirit. You did not miss anything. God does not look at your son’s life and find it lacking, and He does not look at your care for him and find it wanting. You are not being accused. You are being held. 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 self-reproach. That is a weight that has no place in the kingdom of God. You are loved without limit, and you are being held by the same hands that hold him.

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. You are the ones who are keeping his light burning in a world that so often forgets to look up.

We are on this earth, as the Psalm says, to see the bounty of the Lord in the land of the living. Sometimes that land feels like a desert. Sometimes it feels like we are waiting for a harvest that will never come. But the Gospel tells us that we are watched over. We are guarded. We are guided. We are never out of the sight of the Father. 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.

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 long road reaches the end, you will look up and see him waiting for you, and the joy will be beyond all reckoning.

Take this with you: you are a family of four, and that will never change. The geography of your life has shifted, but the bond of your love is eternal. Keep the 'Well of Love' flowing in his name. Keep the kindness moving. Keep the dream alive. And when you walk out those doors, look up at the sky. Remember that he is not in the dust. He is in the light. He is waiting for you, 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 harvest is coming, and that the One who started this good work in you will surely bring it to completion. You are loved without limit, and you are being held by the same hands that hold him. Amen.