Thirty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time

We begin today with a small, quiet image: a lamp, trimmed and ready. Think of the weight of it in your hand. It is a simple thing, really—a vessel for oil, a wick, and the potential for a flame. In the darkness of a home, a lamp is not just a tool; it is a companion. It is the object that keeps the shadows at bay, the thing you reach for when the house is still and the world outside has faded into the deep, velvet black of midnight. We all know that feeling of waiting for a light to appear, of watching the threshold, of keeping a space ready for someone who is coming home.

I want you to hold onto this image: the lamp. It is the image of a life lived in expectation. It is the image of a heart that refuses to go dark, even when the wait is long, even when the hour is late, even when the bridegroom seems to be delayed beyond our understanding.

Let us speak the truth of the heart before we look for the comfort. Alan, Thao, Ryan, and all of you who hold the memory of Benjamin Vo as a sacred trust: it has been four months since Ben moved from this life into the fullness of God’s presence. 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 brilliant, curious mind that loved to explore the architecture of the world, the gentle, respectful spirit that made him such a treasure to his parents—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 is heavy, real, and unrelenting. You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to feel the sudden ache when a memory ambushes you in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday. Do not pretend the weight is lighter than it is.

And let us gently lift one particular stone from your hearts today—a stone that grief often slips into our pockets without us noticing. Sometimes, when a family suffers an unimaginable loss, the mind begins to circle back, whispering quiet, unfair questions. Did we miss a sign? Could we have done something more? Could we have watched closer? Let us lay that burden down right here at the altar. You missed nothing. You loved Benjamin with a completeness that filled his fifteen years with the richness of a lifetime—traveling the globe together, sharing quiet stories, and walking side by side. You were the exact parents and the exact brother that Benjamin needed. Let that heavy stone fall; you are absolved, and you are held. You did not fail him in any way. You were the light in his life, just as he was the light in yours.

Now, let the Gospel break into that quiet room. Listen to what Jesus says to His disciples today in Matthew’s Gospel: 'The kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who took their lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom.' The foolish ones had no oil. The wise ones brought flasks of oil with their lamps. They all fell asleep, for the bridegroom was delayed. But when the cry went out at midnight—'Behold, the bridegroom!'—the wise were ready. They had prepared. They had carried the extra oil. They had lived in such a way that they were never caught off guard by the light of the Lord.

Benjamin was a boy who knew the value of being prepared, of being curious, of being engaged with the world. 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 systems, the way a problem could be solved if you just worked at it long enough. But think of the gentleness of his spirit, which was the true architecture of his life. Think of the way he loved to look at airplanes, dreaming of his ‘con chim airlines.’ He wasn’t just looking at metal and engines; he was looking at the horizon, looking for the next place to explore, the next connection to be made. 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 has found the destination he was searching for, and he is waiting for the rest of his family to arrive.

Consider the first reading from the Book of Wisdom: 'Whoever watches for her at dawn shall not be disappointed, for he shall find her sitting by his gate.' Wisdom is not a distant, abstract concept; it is a person who meets us at the gate. It is the presence of God that waits for us in the ordinary moments of our lives. Benjamin had this wisdom. He had the wisdom of a heart that was already sized for heaven. Think of that remarkable moment when he unprompted told his parents that he was willing to give up his entire piggy bank to help his uncle William, who was suffering from strokes. He didn't need to break it open; the offer itself revealed the magnificent generosity of his soul. He was a boy whose heart was already sized for eternity. He was a boy who knew that the true wealth of life is not what we keep, but what we are willing to offer for the sake of those we love.

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. Your brother's love is not gone; it is woven into the very fabric of who you are becoming.

We hear in the letter to the Thessalonians today: 'For if we believe that Jesus died and rose, so too will God, through Jesus, bring with him those who have fallen asleep.' This is the turn of the heart. Paul is telling us that our grief is not the end of the story. Our grief is a form of love that is waiting for its reunion. We do not grieve like those who have no hope, because our hope is anchored in the Resurrection. We know that the bridegroom is coming. We know that the door will be opened. We know that the one who has gone before us is not lost to us; he is simply waiting in the light, where there is no more struggling, no more darkness, only the clear, bright presence of the Father.

Think of the dream you had, Alan. You were waiting in line to buy ice cream, and Ben paid. That is the image of the kingdom. It is the image of the one who has gone before us, the one who is now in the position of the steward of grace, waiting to welcome you. He is not distant. He is not gone. He is simply ahead, preparing the way. He is the one who will one day stand at the door of the Father’s house and say, 'I am here, and my family is with me.' That dream was a whisper from heaven. It was a reminder that the bond you share is not broken by death. It is only changed, deepened, and held in the eternal keeping of God. He is well, he is strong, and he is watching over you with a love that has been purified and perfected in the sight of God.

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, and he is shining for you. He is the one who has already passed the test, as he said in your dream: 'Ba ơi, test nào con cũng qua hết.' He is home. And because he is home, you are never truly lost.

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. Breathe in. Imagine the Lord reaching into the silence, and imagine Benjamin standing beside you, smiling that bright, cheeky grin, looking out toward an endless horizon. Let yourself be gathered into the peace of Christ. Walk out knowing that you are loved, that you are not to blame, and that the one who went before you is waiting at the door of eternity, holding the key. 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.