Memorial of Saints John de Brébeuf and Isaac Jogues, Priests, and Companions, Martyrs

We often imagine that our lives are defined by what we can hold in our hands. We look at the space around us—the rooms of our homes, the projects on our desks, the plans we have laid out for the coming year—and we feel a quiet, persistent urge to secure it all. We want to build walls, to construct barns, to create a perimeter around our happiness so that nothing can ever touch it. It is a very human instinct. It comes from a place of wanting to protect what we love. But today, the Gospel pulls us up short. It asks us a question that is both terrifying and profoundly liberating: 'The things you have prepared, to whom will they belong?'

Think of the rich man in the parable. He is not a villain in the traditional sense; he is a man who has worked hard. He has seen a bountiful harvest. He has a logistical problem—too much grain, not enough space—and he solves it with the same efficiency that many of us apply to our own lives. He decides to tear down and build up. He is looking at his life through the lens of 'how much' and 'how long.' He believes that if he can just store up enough, he can finally say to his soul, 'Rest, eat, drink, be merry.' He is searching for a security that is anchored in the material, in the tangible, in the things that he can measure and count.

But notice the suddenness of the interruption. 'This night your life will be demanded of you.' The conversation changes in an instant. The barns, the grain, the planning—all of it becomes irrelevant, not because it was bad, but because it was incomplete. It was a foundation built on sand. It was a way of living that ignored the most fundamental truth of our existence: we are not the owners of our lives; we are the recipients of a gift.

St. Paul, in our first reading today, gives us the perspective we need to see through that illusion. He tells us, 'For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not from you; it is the gift of God; it is not from works, so no one may boast.' Think about that. We are his handiwork. We are not the architects of our own destiny. We are the work of a Creator who has been planning for us, loving us, and preparing a place for us long before we ever took our first breath. When Paul says we are 'created in Christ Jesus for good works that God has prepared in advance,' he is telling us that our lives are not a series of acquisitions, but a series of responses. We are here to live in the grace that has already been given to us.

I want you to think about Benjamin. Benjamin Vo was a boy who understood this truth in a way that many of us spend a lifetime trying to grasp. He was a boy of immense intellect, yes—a mind that could navigate the complexities of cloud infrastructure and the logic of mathematics with a speed that startled those around him. But his life was not defined by what he could build or what he could store. It was defined by his capacity for relationship. It was defined by his kindness. Think of the way he looked at the world. He didn't look at it as a place to hoard; he looked at it as a place to explore and to share. He loved the sky. He loved the way a Boeing 737 would carve its path through the clouds. He loved the dream of 'con chim airlines.' And why? Because it was a way of connecting, a way of reaching out, a way of sharing a vision with his father. It was a way of being together.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these four months, the silence of your home has felt like a weight. You have walked through rooms that hold the echoes of his laughter, the remnants of his projects, the quiet space where he used to sit and dream. It is a silence that can feel like a question without an answer. But I want to tell you that the grace of God is not silent. It is speaking to you in the very love that you shared with him. When you remember the way he would say, 'Good morning, Dad,' when you remember the warmth of his smile, you are not just remembering a past event. You are participating in a reality that is eternal. That love did not end in June. It was gathered up by the One who gave it to you in the first place. 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 weight 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. 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 'harvest.' 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 the world. 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 martyrs we celebrate today, John de Brébeuf and Isaac Jogues. They were men who literally gave everything. They didn't store up grain. They didn't build bigger barns. They poured their lives out like a libation. And why? Because they knew that the treasure they were seeking was not of this world. They knew that when you give your life away to God, you don't lose it. You find it. You find it in the heart of the One who loves you more than you can imagine. Benjamin’s life, though brief, was a similar kind of offering. It was a life that was given in love, a life that was lived with a gentle, radiant spirit that didn't need to boast, didn't need to hoard, and didn't need to prove anything to anyone. He was a boy who was rich in what matters to God.

I want to speak to those of you who are tuning in from afar, perhaps carrying your own heavy crosses, perhaps wondering why the path of your life has been so steep. 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 held. 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.

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 the world offers—the status, the control, the predictability. But Jesus is inviting us to look at the barns and see that they are just wood and stone. 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 'whys' 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 in the house of the Father.

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 'harvest' in your own life today. Look for the small, hidden acts of kindness that you can offer to someone else. 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 future. The same God who held Benjamin in his hand as he looked out at the sky from an airport terminal is the same God who holds you today as you look out at your own horizon. He is not a stranger. He is your Father. He knows the exact shape of your heart, he knows the depth of your longing, and he knows how much you miss the one you love. And he is promising you that the story is not over. The harvest is coming. The reunion is certain. 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.