Wednesday of the Twenty-eighth Week in Ordinary Time

We often think of the law as a map. We imagine that if we can just find the right path, if we can just mark off the correct coordinates and keep our feet on the narrow, prescribed trail, we will arrive safely at the destination. We spend so much of our lives measuring our progress by these external markers—the tithes of mint and rue, the specific ways we present ourselves to the world, the rigid structures we build to keep chaos at bay. We are like the Pharisees in today’s Gospel, so careful to measure the garden herbs, so meticulous about the appearance of our righteousness, yet often forgetting the very thing that makes the journey worth taking: the weightier matters of judgment and the love of God.

But notice where Jesus directs our attention. He does not tell us to stop being careful; he tells us to stop being hollow. He speaks to those who love the seats of honor in the synagogues and the greetings in the marketplaces, and he warns them that they are like unseen graves over which people unknowingly walk. It is a startling, even jarring image. A grave is a place where we think life has ended, a place we avoid, a place that holds the memory of what once was. To be like an 'unseen grave' is to carry a hidden emptiness inside while presenting a polished exterior to the world. It is the exhaustion of trying to be strong when we are hollow, of trying to be right when we are broken.

St. Paul, writing to the Galatians, offers us the only way out of this trap. He says, 'If you are guided by the Spirit, you are not under the law.' He contrasts the 'works of the flesh'—hatreds, rivalries, outbursts of fury, the things that tear us apart—with the 'fruit of the Spirit': love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. This is not a list of chores. This is not a new set of laws to follow. This is a description of the life of God as it begins to take root in a human heart. It is the difference between a tree that is merely standing in the ground and a tree that is planted near running water, yielding fruit in due season, its leaves never fading.

Benjamin Vo was a boy who lived as if he were planted by those waters. Think of the way his mind worked—not as a machine, but as a garden. He possessed a brilliant, analytical intellect, yes; he could navigate the complexities of AI and cloud infrastructure with a sophistication that amazed those around him. But his life was never defined by the 'works of the flesh'—the rivalry or the envy that so often consumes the world of the clever. No, he was defined by that gentle spirit that seemed to flow from him naturally, like a stream. He was a boy who loved the mechanics of 'con chim airlines,' who giggled at the thought of his own little aviation company, not because he wanted to conquer the world, but because he wanted to be part of the beauty of flight. He was a boy who saw the world as a vast, open space to be explored, not a grid to be dominated.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these four months, the silence of your home has been a heavy companion. You remember the way Ben would come to you with his ideas, his plans, his gentle smile. You remember the way he would listen—truly listen—to the stories his dad would tell, finding joy in the simple, quiet connection of a father and son. That bond is not a thing of the past. It is a living, breathing reality. It is the 'fruit of the Spirit' that Paul speaks of, which is not subject to the laws of time or decay. You are a family of four, and that is a truth that death cannot touch, because it is anchored in the promise of the One who is the Resurrection and the Life.

Sometimes, the weight of a life that has been completed so early feels like an impossible burden. You look at the empty space where he should be, and you wonder how to keep going. You might even feel a flicker of guilt, a thought that maybe you should have done more, or seen more, or held him tighter. I want to lift that stone from your hearts 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.

Ryan, you are a brother who knows the secret language of that love. You know that Ben is not gone; he has simply gone ahead to the place where all the 'con chim airlines' finally take flight. You are the one who carries the legacy of his curiosity, his kindness, and his smile. When you sit down to code, or when you look up at the clouds, know that you are not doing it alone. You are a family of four, and that bond is stronger than death. Keep being the boy who reaches out. Keep being the brother who knows that the most important things in life are not the things we possess, but the love we share. You are a witness to the fact that love is the only thing that actually lasts.

Look at the Gospel again. Jesus says, 'But as to what is within, give alms, and behold, everything will be clean for you.' This is the secret of the Christian life. We cleanse the inside not by scrubbing it, but by giving it away. We give our love, we give our time, we give our attention to others. When we pour ourselves out, the interior of our soul becomes clear. We stop worrying about our own emptiness and start focusing on the needs of our brothers and sisters. That is why the Well of Love in Vietnam is such a powerful, living sign of Benjamin’s life. It is his love, still flowing. It is his kindness, still quenching the thirst of those who are far away. Every time you are kind, 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.

Do not be afraid of the silence, and do not be afraid of the ache. 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 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.

There is a profound freedom in realizing that we do not have to hold it all together. We do not have to be the ones who provide the answers. We are children of the freeborn woman. We are heirs to a kingdom that is not built by human hands, but by the grace of God. That grace is the 'bread' we need for the journey. It is the strength that comes when our own strength is gone. It is the peace that settles over us when we finally stop fighting the silence and start listening to the voice of the Father.

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.