Feast of Saints Simon and Jude, Apostles

We often imagine our lives as a series of solitary projects. We build our own little castles, we design our own private flight paths, and we try, with all our might, to keep the structure standing against the wind. We look at the blueprints of our days—the jobs we hold, the families we nurture, the future we plan for our children—and we assume that if we are just careful enough, if we are just diligent enough, the house will remain secure. But today, on this feast of the Apostles Simon and Jude, the Word of God invites us to step out of that solitary mindset and into something far more vast, far more ancient, and far more beautiful: the architecture of God’s own household.

St. Paul tells the Ephesians, 'You are no longer strangers and sojourners, but you are fellow citizens with the holy ones and members of the household of God.' Think about that for a moment. You are not a guest who might be asked to leave. You are not a stranger passing through the lobby of this life. You are a member of the household. And the foundation of that house is not your own effort; it is the witness of the Apostles, and the capstone—the very thing that holds the weight of the entire structure together—is Christ Jesus himself. In him, the whole structure is held together.

I want you to hold onto that image of the 'capstone.' It is the stone at the very top of an arch, the one that locks all the other stones in place. Without it, the arch collapses. With it, the weight of the stones actually makes the structure stronger. The pressure doesn't break the arch; it settles it into a permanent, immovable strength. That is what Christ is for us. He is the one who bears the weight of our lives, the weight of our longings, and the weight of our griefs, locking them into a design that reaches toward eternity.

Benjamin Vo lived as if he understood this, even if he didn't use these words. Think of how he looked at the world—with that boundless, brilliant curiosity, always reaching for the sky. He had a mind that could navigate the complexities of AI and cloud infrastructure, looking for the logic that connects things. He loved the idea of flight, of 'con chim airlines,' a name that made him giggle with a joy that was pure and infectious. He saw that the world was meant to be connected, that there were pathways to be explored, and that life was meant to be shared. Benjamin was a boy who looked at the horizon not as a boundary, but as an invitation. He was a builder, a dreamer, a student of the way things work.

But Alan and Thao, I know that for these four months, the silence of your home has felt like a structural collapse. You look at the place where Ben used to be, and you feel as though the arch of your family life has been shaken. You wonder how the structure can hold when such a vital, beautiful stone has been moved to a different place. You wonder how to keep the roof from falling when the weight of his absence feels so heavy. I want to tell you something that is true: you are not holding this house together by your own strength. The Capstone is holding you. Christ is holding you. The very fact that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are seeking the Lord—this is the proof that the house is still standing. You are not alone in the silence. The same Jesus who walked up the mountain to pray, who spent the night in communion with his Father before choosing his Apostles, is the same Jesus who is spending the night with you in your grief. He knows the weight. He knows the ache. And he is the one who keeps the structure from falling.

There is a temptation, when we are hurting, to look for a reason for the change in our lives. We want to know why the wind blew the way it did. We want to know why the sky turned dark. We look at the blueprints of our past and we wonder if we missed a detail, if we should have reinforced the walls, if we should have been more watchful. I want to lift that stone from your hearts today: you missed nothing. You were the parents Benjamin needed. You provided the home, the love, the encouragement, and the laughter that shaped his beautiful, gentle spirit. You were the ones who sat with him, who listened to him, who shared his joy in the airplanes and the birds and the simple, silly, wonderful moments of a life well-lived. You did not fail. You were faithful. The sorrow that has visited your home is not a result of anything you did or did not do. It is a mystery that rests in the hands of the Gardener, in the heart of the Capstone. Do not blame yourselves. Do not carry the weight of 'what if.' You loved him perfectly, and that love is the foundation upon which he stands now in the presence of God.

Ryan, you are a brother who knows the geometry of this love better than anyone. You know the way the house feels, the way the memories are woven into the very fabric of your life together. You are the one who carries the legacy of his joy. When you look at the sky, when you think of the planes, when you remember the games you coded together, you are participating in the building of the Kingdom. You are a vital part of this family, and your life is a testament to the fact that love is the most durable thing we possess. Keep being the boy who reaches out. Keep being the one who sees the beauty in the small things. You are a witness to the world that love is stronger than any distance, that it is the most beautiful material in the universe.

In the Gospel today, we see Jesus choosing his twelve Apostles. He spends the entire night in prayer. He doesn't just pick them; he consecrates them. He calls them by name. He knows their strengths, he knows their weaknesses, he knows the future that awaits them. He is doing the same with you. He is calling you by name. He is choosing you to be his witnesses, to be the ones who carry the light of Benjamin’s memory into a world that often feels dark and cold. You are the living stones of his household. Every time you show kindness in his name, every time you choose to live for the sake of one another, you are building the temple that St. Paul describes. You are making the presence of God visible in a world that is starving for it.

I think of that dream your father had, of the two of you waiting in line for ice cream. It is such a simple, human, ordinary moment. But in the landscape of our longing, it is a mountain of hope. It is a sign that the roles we play, the love we share, the simple, everyday gestures of affection—they do not end. They are gathered up. They are held. They are the currency of the Kingdom of Heaven. When you feel the ache of his absence, remember that he is not lost. He is just waiting in a different line, in a place where the ice cream never melts and the sun never sets. He is waiting for you with that same sweet, gentle smile, the one that you remember so vividly. That smile is the sign that the Capstone has already accomplished its purpose in him. He is home. And he is waiting for you to come home, too.

We are living in a time that often feels like a long, cold autumn. We see the leaves falling, we feel the air turning, and we are tempted to look for security in the things we can control. But Jesus is inviting us to look at the Capstone. He is inviting us to trust that the ground we are standing on is holy. He is not distant. He is the one who is kneeling with you in the silence. He is the one who is holding your hand when the night is at its deepest. He is the one who is whispering to your hearts that you are not alone, that you are not forgotten, and that you are loved beyond all measure.

So, what do you carry out the door today? It is not a new set of plans. It is a simple, quiet, doable thing: keep your heart open to the construction of the Spirit. When you feel the ache, do not turn away from it. Let it be the place where God meets you. 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, 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 water moving, just as you have done with the 'Well of Love' in Vietnam. That well is a sign, a tangible, physical piece of the grace that you are living. It is a sign that the love that was poured into Ben is still flowing, still quenching the thirst of the poor, still bringing life to the dry places. Every time you are kind, every time you choose to hope, you are adding to that well. You are keeping the water moving. You are ensuring that the legacy of his gentle spirit continues to nourish the earth.

Do not be afraid of the future. The same God who held Benjamin in his hand as he looked out at the sky 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 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 banquet 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. You are a family of four, and your story is being written in the book of life, where every page is filled with the grace of God and the beauty of the love you share. Amen.