The Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed

We begin today by looking at a simple, common object: a spark. Think of a spark leaping from a fire. It is small, fleeting, and bright. It does not stay in the ash; it dances upward, carried by the heat, finding its place in the vastness of the night sky. In the Book of Wisdom, we are told that the souls of the just ‘shall dart about as sparks through stubble.’ It is a beautiful, kinetic image. It tells us that those we love, those who have gone before us, are not extinguished. They are liberated. They are set into motion, shining with a brilliance that was always theirs, now fully realized in the presence of God.

I want you to hold onto this image: the spark. It is the image of a life that does not end in shadow, but in a sudden, glorious release into the light of the Father.

Let us tell the truth before we reach for the comfort. Alan, Thao, Ryan, and all of you who carry the name of Benjamin Vo in your hearts: it has been four months since he walked through the veil into the arms of the Lord. We know that the silence in your home is not a peaceful, empty space; it is a heavy, ringing absence. You wake up, and for a heartbeat, the world feels normal—you expect to hear his voice, you expect to see him at his desk, coding his games or talking about the mechanics of a Boeing 737—and then the reality rushes back in. You are grieving. You are missing a brilliant, gentle boy who brought such life to your ‘perfect four.’ You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to be angry at the unfairness of it all. You are allowed to be human, and you are allowed to be brokenhearted.

There is a temptation, when we carry this kind of sorrow, to look back at the path we walked and wonder if we missed a sign. We wonder if we could have seen something earlier, or done something differently, or if we failed in some hidden way. Let us lift that stone from your hearts right now. You missed nothing. You were the parents and the brother that Benjamin was given. You loved him with a completeness that filled his fifteen years with the richness of the world. You walked the globe with him, you shared the meals, you witnessed the brilliance of his mind and the gentleness of his spirit. God does not accuse you, and you must not accuse yourselves. Some sorrows in this fragile world arrive entirely beyond human reach, untouched by anything anyone did or failed to do. You are not to blame. Let that heavy stone fall to the ground; you are absolved. You were faithful. You were present. You were love in action.

Now, let the Gospel break in. Jesus says, ‘Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and I will not reject anyone who comes to me.’ Think of the gentleness of that promise. He does not say he will judge them or weigh their accomplishments. He says he will receive them. He says he will not lose anything of what the Father gave him. Benjamin was a gift from the Father to you, and he is a gift that Jesus holds now. He is not lost. He is not gone. He is held. When Jesus speaks of raising us on the last day, he is speaking of the restoration of everything that was beautiful, everything that was true, and everything that was kind. He is speaking of the restoration of Ben.

Benjamin was a boy who understood that life is meant to be lived with an open hand. Think of his brilliant, searching mind—the way he mastered mathematics and cloud infrastructure, the way he built games and dreamed of ‘con chim airlines.’ But think even more of his heart. Think of that moment when he offered his entire piggy bank to help his uncle William, who was suffering from strokes. He didn't need to break it open, he didn't need to empty it; the offer itself was the revelation of his character. It was the movement of a soul that already understood that we are here to give, not to hoard. That is the boy you raised. That is the boy who is now at the banquet of heaven, interceding for you. He is not a memory; he is a living soul, fully alive in the love of God.

Ryan, you are a brother who carries a unique, holy weight. You know the memories better than anyone. You know the games you coded, the dreams you shared, the simple, everyday life of being brothers. You are not just a brother who remains; you are a brother who continues the story. When you look at the sky, when you think of the future, remember that you are not doing it alone. You are carrying the legacy of his joy. You are a witness to the world that love is not a finite resource. It is a well that never runs dry. Keep being the boy who reaches out. Keep being the one who values the small, human moments. You are a vital part of this family of four, and your life is a testament to the fact that love is the most durable thing we possess.

We hear in the letter to the Romans: ‘Hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit.’ This is the hope that sustains us. We are not just waiting for the end of our lives; we are waiting for the revelation of the life we have already been given in Christ. Every act of kindness you do, every prayer you whisper, every tear you shed in love—these are the ways you are making your own robes white. You are participating in the life of the saints. You are living in the communion of love that death cannot touch.

There is a peace that comes from knowing that we are held. It is not a peace that takes away the pain, but it is a peace that keeps us from being destroyed by it. It is the peace of knowing that Benjamin is waiting. He is waiting in the light, he is waiting in the place where there is no more struggling, no more darkness, only the clear, bright presence of the Father. He is waiting for you with that same sweet, gentle smile that you remember so vividly. That smile is the sign that the work is going well. That smile is the promise that the reunion is certain.

So, what do you carry out the door today? Not a summary, not a heavy burden, but one small, doable thing: when the grief rises and the house feels too quiet, pause. Close your eyes. Imagine the Lord reaching into the silence, and imagine Benjamin smiling at you from the other side. Let yourself be gathered. Trust that you are held. And walk out into the world with the quiet, unshakeable hope that the love you share is the most powerful force in the universe. It is stronger than death. It is more enduring than time. And it is the very thing that will bring you home to each other. You are not a broken family. You are a family of four, and you are being held in the palm of God's hand. Keep your heart open to that truth. Keep your eyes on the light. And remember that he is watching over you, always, with love that knows no end. Amen.