Tuesday of the Twenty-seventh Week in Ordinary Time

We often imagine that our lives are defined by the sheer volume of our activity. We measure our worth by the weight of our tasks, the length of our to-do lists, and the frantic pace at which we move from one responsibility to the next. We are, by nature, a people of the 'serving.' We want to provide, we want to fix, we want to build, and we want to ensure that those we love are cared for. We pride ourselves on our industry. We believe that if we are busy enough, if we are vigilant enough, we can keep the world spinning on its axis and keep the people we love safe within the walls we have built.

Then, we encounter a scene like the one in today’s Gospel. Jesus enters a village. He is welcomed into a home—a home that sounds very much like any of ours. There is Martha, who is 'burdened with much serving.' And there is Mary, who is simply sitting at the feet of the Lord. It is a scene that has been debated for centuries, often framed as a competition between the active life and the contemplative life. But look closer. Look at the ache in Martha’s voice. She says, 'Lord, do you not care?'

That is the question that haunts the human heart in the wake of great loss. 'Lord, do you not care?' It is the question that rises up when the rhythm of a home is shattered. It is the question that sits in the silence of an empty chair, or in the stillness of a room where a boy’s laughter used to echo. Martha is not just complaining about chores; she is expressing the fundamental human fear that we are alone in our burden, that our effort is unseen, and that the things we value most are slipping through our fingers despite our best attempts to hold them tight.

Think of Benjamin Vo. Think of the way he moved through his short, beautiful life with such a brilliant, focused intensity. He was a boy who loved the mechanics of the world—the way code could build a digital kingdom, the way a Boeing 737 could master the sky, the way a logic puzzle could be solved. He was a builder. He was a student of how things work. He was a boy who looked at the horizon and saw not just distance, but destination. He was a boy who loved his father’s stories, who shared in the joy of a kitchen filled with the bustle of baking, and who carried a quiet, fierce loyalty to his brother, Ryan. Ben lived with an energy that was always reaching, always learning, always trying to understand the world so that he could participate in it more fully.

But the Gospel today reminds us that there is something deeper than the work of our hands. Jesus does not rebuke Martha for her love; He rebukes her for her anxiety. He says, 'Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing.' What is that one thing? It is not a task. It is not a project. It is not a result. The 'one thing' is the presence of the Lord Himself. It is the willingness to stop, to sit, and to be held in the gaze of the One who made us.

Alan and Thao, I know the weight of these months. I know the feeling of wanting to do something, anything, to restore the order of your world. You remember the way Ben would look at you with that bright, silly grin, especially when he was caught in a moment of pure, unadulterated joy—like when he tried that spicy Pad Thai in Bangkok and just giggled at the absurdity of it. You remember the way he would offer his own resources, like that time he wanted to give his entire piggy bank to help his Uncle William. That wasn't a transaction. It was a reflection of a heart that understood that we are here to give, not to hoard. That is the boy you raised. That is the legacy of love he left behind. And that legacy is not a burden you have to manage; it is a grace you have been given.

There is a profound truth in our first reading today from Saint Paul. He talks about how God had set him apart 'from my mother’s womb.' Paul was a man who had been a zealot, a man who had been obsessed with his own 'serving,' his own righteousness, his own way of doing things. He had to be brought to his knees before he could see that the only thing that mattered was the grace of Christ. He had to stop fighting, stop building, and start receiving. Paul’s life was completely transformed when he realized that he was not the author of his own mission. God was. And God is the author of Benjamin’s life as well.

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. He is not a project that was cut short; he is a life that has been gathered into the harvest of God’s own love. 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.

Ryan, you are the one who carries that peace now. You are the brother who knows the rhythm of Ben’s heart. You know the secrets of the games he coded, the joy he found in the simple things, the way he 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.