Memorial of Saint Charles Borromeo, Bishop

We begin today not with a complex doctrine, but with the image of a foundation. Think of a builder standing on a plot of land, looking at the dirt, the stones, and the blueprints spread out before him. He is thinking about gravity, about the seasons, about how to build something that will not collapse when the wind rises. He is calculating the cost of the stone, the depth of the trench, and the strength of the mortar. It is a moment of quiet, intense focus. It is a moment of total honesty. Before the first brick is laid, he must know if he has what it takes to finish the work. Jesus speaks of this in the Gospel today—the builder, the king, the one who must count the cost of discipleship. It is an image of radical, sober commitment.

I want you to hold onto this image: the foundation. It is the place where we decide what we will build our lives upon, and it is the place where we discover what is truly strong enough to hold us when the world shifts beneath our feet.

Let us speak the truth of the heart before we look for the comfort. Alan, Thao, Ryan, and all of you who carry the light of Benjamin Vo in your souls: it has been four months since Ben crossed the threshold of this world. We know the reality of your quiet house. We know the moments when the silence becomes a weight, when the habits of a lifetime—the coding, the aviation spotting, the simple joy of a shared meal—are suddenly interrupted by the sharp, cold realization that he is not there in the way he once was. You are grieving. You are carrying a cross that feels far too heavy for human shoulders. You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to be angry at the unfairness of a world that takes a boy of such brilliant promise. You are allowed to be human.

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 is not asking us to count the cost so that we might walk away in fear. He is asking us to count the cost so that we might realize that we cannot build this tower on our own. He is inviting us to build our lives on the foundation of His grace. When he says, ‘Whoever does not carry his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple,’ he is not inviting us to a life of misery. He is inviting us to a life of profound, shared reality. He is saying, ‘I have already carried the cross. I have already counted the cost. I have already laid the foundation in my own blood. Now, come and build your life on me.’

Benjamin was a boy who understood the beauty of a well-laid plan. Think of his brilliant, searching mind—the way he mastered mathematics, the way he dived into the complexities of cloud infrastructure, or how he coded his own games in his GitHub repository. He loved the logic of things. He loved the way a system could be built to function perfectly. But think of the gentleness of his spirit, which was the true architecture of his life. 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. He is a guest who has already taken his seat, and he is waiting for the rest of his family to arrive.

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 Philippians today: ‘Work out your salvation with fear and trembling. For God is the one who, for his good purpose, works in you both to desire and to work.’ This is the mystery of our faith. We are not the ones building the tower alone. God is the architect. God is the one who provides the resources. He is the one who works in us to desire and to act. Even in your grief, even in the moments when you feel you have nothing left to give, God is working in you. He is the one who gives you the strength to wake up, the strength to speak his name, the strength to hope. He is the one who is holding you when you feel like you are falling.

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. He is a light in the world, just as St. Paul says, shining in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, and he is shining for you.

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.