Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

We often think of our lives as a series of transactions. We trade our time for a wage, our effort for a result, our loyalty for a place in the world. We are always calculating the cost, always measuring what we owe to the various powers that claim our attention. It is a way of living that feels very safe, very predictable, and very small. But then, we encounter a moment like the one in today’s Gospel—a moment where the Pharisees try to trap Jesus with a question about a coin. They bring him a Roman denarius, a small, cold piece of metal stamped with the face of Caesar, and they ask him if it is lawful to pay the tax. They want a simple answer. They want a 'yes' or 'no' that will pin him down, that will force him to choose between the political reality of the empire and the spiritual reality of the Kingdom of God.

Jesus does not give them an answer. He gives them a mirror. He asks, 'Whose image is this and whose inscription?' When they say, 'Caesar’s,' he gives that famous, piercing command: 'Repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God.' But think about what he is really doing. He is shifting the entire weight of the conversation away from the coin and toward the soul. He is reminding them—and us—that while we live in a world of coins, taxes, and borders, there is a much deeper reality that claims us entirely. If the coin bears Caesar’s image, then it belongs to Caesar. But what bears the image of God? What carries the inscription of the Creator? You do. Your life does. Your heart does.

I want you to think about that image—the image of God imprinted upon a human life. It is not a stamp on a piece of metal. It is something much more profound. It is a likeness that cannot be worn away by time, or distance, or even by the deepest sorrow. When we look at the people we love, we are looking at the image of God. When you look at the memory of your son, Benjamin, you are looking at that image. You are seeing a life that was never meant to be a transaction, never meant to be a 'what if' or a 'should have been,' but a sacred, living, breathing reflection of the Father’s own heart. Benjamin Vo was a boy who carried that image with a rare and beautiful clarity. He was a boy who was not interested in the 'taxes' of this world—the status, the envy, the petty rivalries that consume so many of us. He was interested in the horizon. He was interested in the sky, in the way a 737 cuts through the clouds, in the way a piece of code could build something entirely new. He lived with a curiosity that was, at its heart, a form of worship. It was a way of saying, 'God, look at this world you made; it is vast, and I want to know it all.'

Alan and Thao, I know that for these past four months, the silence of your home has felt like a wall. You have walked through rooms that still hold the echoes of his laughter, the remnants of his projects, the quiet space where he used to sit and dream of 'con chim airlines.' It is a silence that can feel heavy, a silence that can make you wonder if you have somehow been forgotten by the world outside. But I want to tell you something that is true: you are not forgotten. You are being held. When Jesus speaks of rendering to God what belongs to God, he is speaking of a return. Everything we have is a gift—our children, our time, our very breath. And when the Giver calls that gift back to Himself, it does not mean it is lost. It means it is finally, eternally, safe. Benjamin belongs to God in a way that he never belonged to the world. He is held in a light that never dims, in a peace that never falters. You, too, are held in that same light. You are a family of four, and that is a truth that is written in the mind of God, a truth that no earthly calendar can erase.

There is a temptation, when we are grieving, to try to 'repay' the past. We go over our memories, we try to fix the things we think we broke, we try to balance the books of our lives to see where we went wrong. We carry a heavy, invisible coin in our pockets, and we keep trying to pay a debt that does not exist. I want to tell you, as clearly as I can: there is no debt. There is no failure. There is no 'missing' something that could have changed the course of a life. You were the parents Benjamin needed. You were his comfort, his joy, his world. You are not being asked to account for his life; you are being asked to receive it as a gift that continues to bear fruit. The 'Well of Love' you have created in his name in Vietnam is not a monument to a life that ended. It is a sign of a life that is still working. It is a sign that the image of God in Benjamin is still pouring itself out, still quenching the thirst of the poor, still bringing life to the dry places. That is the true 'repayment' to God. It is the act of taking the love he gave you and letting it flow through you into the lives of others.

Ryan, you are a brother who knows this better than anyone. You know that the bond you share with Ben is not a memory; it is a living connection. When you look at the world, when you think of the planes, when you sit with your parents in the quiet, you are carrying the legacy of his heart. You are the one who knows what it means to be a brother, to be a friend, to be a witness to the fact that love is not a transaction. Love is the only thing we have that doesn't belong to Caesar. Love is the only thing that belongs entirely to God. Keep living that way. Keep being the brother who sees the beauty in the small things. Keep being the one who reaches out, who shares, who refuses to let the world turn you into a calculator. You are a witness to the world that love is stronger than the grave, that it is the most powerful force in the universe.

Think of the first reading today, where God speaks to Cyrus. He says, 'I have called you by your name, giving you a title, though you knew me not.' God is the one who initiates. God is the one who reaches out. We spend our lives trying to find him, trying to pay him, trying to earn his favor, and all the while, he is the one who has already called us by name. He called Benjamin by name. He knows him better than you do, better than he knew himself. He knows the exact shape of his smile, the depth of his curiosity, the way he would have grown into the man he was meant to be. And because God is the one who called him, God is the one who keeps him. Nothing is lost in the economy of God. Every dream of 'con chim airlines,' every shared story with his dad, every act of kindness toward his uncle, every moment of joy—it is all gathered into the treasury of the Kingdom. It is all part of the eternal life that he is now living.

We are living in a time that is often anxious, a time that is often afraid. We see the world changing, we feel the ground shifting beneath our feet, and we are tempted to look for security in the things that Caesar offers—the status, the control, the predictability. But Jesus is inviting us to look at the coin and see that it is just metal. He is inviting us to look at our lives and see that they are something much more. We are made for more than this world. We are made for the banquet. We are made for the moment when all our questions will be answered, not with words, but with the presence of the One who holds us. And in that moment, all the 'what ifs' and all the 'why's' will simply dissolve in the light of his face. You will see Benjamin again. And when you do, you will see that he was never really 'gone'—he was just waiting for you to catch up.

So, what do you carry out the door today? It is not a new set of rules. It is not a new way to measure your grief. It is a simple, quiet, doable thing: look for the image of God in the next person you meet. When you see someone who is struggling, when you see someone who is thirsty, when you see someone who is just trying to make it through the day, remember that they, too, bear the image of the Creator. Reach out to them. Give a little of your time, a little of your heart, a little of your kindness. Not because you have to, not because you are paying a debt, but because you are overflowing with the love that Benjamin left behind. You are the stewards of his legacy. You are the ones who keep the well flowing.

Do not be afraid of the ache. It is the price of loving well. It is the mark of a heart that is truly alive. And do not be afraid of the silence. It is not a void; it is a space where God speaks. If you listen, if you really listen, you will hear the voice of the Father calling you by name, just as he called Benjamin. You will hear the promise that you are a family of four, forever. You will hear the invitation to keep walking, to keep hoping, to keep trusting. The road is long, and it is sometimes steep, but you are not walking it alone. You are being held by the same hands that hold the universe. You are being loved with a love that has no end. And one day, the journey will reach its destination, and you will understand everything. You will see that every step, every tear, every moment of longing was part of the way home. Keep your eyes on the sky. Keep your heart in the light. And remember that 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.