Friday of the Twenty-seventh Week in Ordinary Time

We often think of our lives as a series of rooms we inhabit, each one carefully furnished with the things we have built, the plans we have laid, and the people we hold most dear. We spend so much energy guarding these spaces. We want to ensure that our ‘palace,’ as the Gospel calls it, remains secure—that the people we love are safe, that the future is predictable, and that the order we have established remains undisturbed. We become like the strong man, fully armed, watching the perimeter, convinced that if we are just careful enough, if we are just vigilant enough, we can keep the world from breaking in.

But life has a way of showing us that we are not the ones who ultimately hold the keys. There are moments when the house feels quiet, when the doors are left open, and when we realize that the strength we relied upon is not enough to keep the shadows at bay. In today’s Gospel, Jesus speaks of a 'stronger one' who comes to attack and overcome the one who thinks he is in control. It sounds, at first, like a threat. But look closer at what Jesus is actually saying. He is talking about the arrival of the Kingdom of God. He is saying that when God breaks into our lives, He does not come to destroy our palace; He comes to claim it, to purify it, and to fill it with a light that is stronger than any darkness we have ever known.

Think of Benjamin Vo. Think of the way he looked at the world, not as a fortress to be defended, but as a vast, open sky to be explored. Benjamin was a boy who understood that the true joy of living is found in the 'taking off.' He loved the mechanics of aviation, the soaring ambition of his 'con chim airlines,' and the way a plane could rise above the clouds and leave the turbulence of the ground far behind. He was a boy who moved with a natural, gentle curiosity, always looking for the next horizon. He didn't build walls; he built bridges. He didn't hoard his resources; he offered them. Remember that moment when he wanted to offer his entire piggy bank to help his Uncle William? He didn't need to break it, he didn't need to empty it, he didn't need to make a spectacle of it. The offer itself was the truth of his heart. It was a heart that knew, instinctively, that we are here to give, not to possess.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these past three months, you have been navigating a landscape that feels entirely new. You remember the way Ben would look at you with that bright, curious gaze, always ready to share a discovery or a joke. You remember the way he lived with such integrity. You gave him a home where he was free to be curious, free to be brilliant, and free to be gentle. And that love you gave him did not vanish when he went home to God. It is still moving. It is still working. It is the very thing that connects you to him even now. You are not a house that has been 'laid waste,' as the Gospel warns against division. You are a house that has been sanctified by the love of a son who now lives in the presence of the Father.

Saint Paul, in our first reading from Galatians, reminds us that we are children of Abraham through faith. He says, 'The one who is righteous by faith will live.' This is the hinge of our hope. It is not our ability to hold things together that saves us; it is our ability to trust in the One who has already done the saving. Faith is not a set of rules; it is a movement of the heart toward God. It is the realization that even when we feel like we are scattering, God is gathering. Even when we feel like our efforts have fallen short, God is the one who provides the inheritance.

There is a temptation to think that if we are 'good' enough, or if we pray hard enough, we can prevent the 'unclean spirits' of grief and doubt from entering our homes. We sweep our floors clean, we put everything in order, and we try to guard the door. But Jesus tells us that the only way to keep the house truly safe is to let the 'Stronger One' dwell within it. We cannot guard our hearts on our own. We need the Holy Spirit to move in and inhabit the space. We need the presence of Christ to be the anchor of our home. 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 carries that legacy in such a unique way. You are the brother who knows the rhythm of Ben’s heart. 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.