23-ngaat Sapaat-ngani Inuuqataulluni

It is a quiet, steady thing to watch someone listen. Think of the way Ben would sit with his father, listening to a story—not just hearing the words, but leaning in, his mind already turning the narrative over, finding the logic, finding the joy. He didn't just hear; he received. He made room in his heart for the words he was given. That is the beginning of the life of faith: the capacity to stop, to quiet the constant hum of our own thoughts, and to hear the voice of the One who made us.

Today, the Prophet Ezekiel is given a heavy task. 'I have appointed you watchman for the house of Israel.' A watchman is someone who stays awake when the rest of the world is asleep. He is someone who stands on the wall, scanning the horizon, not for his own sake, but for the sake of the city. He is the one who sees the danger coming, or the rain, or the dawn, and he speaks. He warns. He calls out. It is a lonely, necessary work. But notice what the Lord says to him: 'If you warn the wicked, trying to turn him from his way, and he refuses to turn from his way, he shall die for his guilt, but you shall save yourself.'

There is a weight here, yes, but there is also a profound freedom. We are responsible for our own faithfulness. We are responsible for the love we offer, for the truth we speak, and for the way we live our days. We are not responsible for the outcome of another's heart. We are not the masters of the world; we are the stewards of the love we have been given. And that is where the comfort lies. You have loved, and you continue to love, with a depth that is a testament to the God who is Love itself. That love is not lost. It is not wasted. It is the very thing that binds you to Ben, and Ben to the heart of the Father.

In the Gospel, Jesus gives us the rhythm of community, the way we are to walk together. 'If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault between you and him alone.' It is so simple, and yet so difficult. It requires courage. It requires the humility to be vulnerable, to say, 'This hurt me,' or 'This is where we have drifted apart.' But why does He ask this of us? 'If he listens to you, you have won over your brother.' The goal is never to be right. The goal is never to win an argument or to prove a point. The goal is always the brother. The goal is always the relationship. The goal is always the return to unity.

I think of Ben’s heart—that gentle, brilliant boy who understood the value of connection. You remember how he once offered everything he had, his entire savings, to help his uncle who was struggling. He didn't need to break the bank, he didn't need to empty it; he simply made the offer. That is the heart of the Gospel. That is the heart of a brother who knows that what we have is meant for the sake of the other. Ben lived that. He lived with an openness that is rare. He did not hoard his life; he poured it out. He looked at his family, at his brother Ryan, at his parents, and he saw not just people to live alongside, but people to love, to care for, to be present to. He was a boy who knew that the most important things in life are not the things we possess, but the people we are given to love.

Alan, Thao, Ryan—I know the silence in your home can feel like a wall. I know that there are days when the weight of that silence is so heavy that it feels like you are the only ones awake in the world. You feel the absence of his voice, the absence of his laughter, the absence of the 'Good morning, Dad' that greeted you every single day. Do not rush past that ache. Do not pretend it is not there. The Lord knows the silence of your house. He knows the empty chair. He is the one who sits in that silence with you. He is the one who, as the Psalm says, is the 'rock of our salvation.' He is not a distant judge; He is the Shepherd who knows His flock by name. He knows Ben’s name, and He knows yours.

Some of you are carrying a burden of wondering, of questioning, of looking back and asking if you missed a sign, or if you could have done more. Let me tell you this as plainly as I can: you missed nothing. You loved him with every fiber of your being. You were his world, and he was yours. There is no blame in the mystery of a life that is completed. There is only the grace that held him, and the grace that holds you now. You are not responsible for the timing of the world; you are only responsible for the love you gave. And that love was perfect. It was a reflection of the Father’s love for him. You are absolved of any guilt, any self-reproach. You gave your all. Let that be enough.

When Jesus says, 'Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them,' He is promising us that we are never alone. When you are sitting together, when you are sharing a meal, when you are remembering a story—even when you are just sitting in the quiet—He is there. He is in the space between you. He is in the memory of Ben’s smile. He is in the way Ryan carries his brother’s spirit forward. He is the glue that holds your family together even when the world feels like it is falling apart.

Ryan, my dear boy, you are the keeper of so many memories. You and Ben were a team. You went on adventures, you shared the world, you looked up at the same sky. When you feel alone, remember that you are not. You have a brother who is closer to you now than he ever was on earth. He is in the presence of the One who created the stars and the airplanes and the very breath in your lungs. He is cheering for you. He wants you to live, to laugh, to discover, to be the brilliant and kind person you are. Do not be afraid to be happy. Do not be afraid to pursue your own dreams. Every joy you find is a joy that Ben shares in, because you are one. You are part of the same heart.

To everyone listening today, especially those who feel like they are wandering in the desert, like the fathers at Meribah, testing God because the path is too hard: listen to the voice of the Shepherd. 'Harden not your hearts.' It is so easy to let our hearts get hard when we are hurt. It is a defense mechanism. We think that if we stop feeling, we will stop hurting. But the Lord asks us to keep our hearts soft, to keep them open, even when it is painful. Because a heart that is closed cannot receive the light. A heart that is closed cannot hear the voice of the One who loves us.

Ben’s life was a life of openness. He was curious about everything—about the math, about the code, about the birds and the airplanes. He was always looking up, always looking for the next thing to learn, the next thing to wonder at. That is the spirit of a child of God. He didn't close himself off. He embraced the world. And now, he is embracing the fullness of the Truth. He is at the Banquet, where all the questions are answered, where all the logic of the universe is finally clear, and where there is only love.

Take this with you today. You are not alone in your grief, and you are not alone in your love. The same God who held Ben in his curiosity and his kindness is holding you in your sorrow and your hope. When you go home today, look for the light. Look for the way it falls on the floor, or the way the sky looks when the sun begins to set. Remember that Ben is in that light. Remember that you are in that light. And know that the love you have for him is the most powerful thing in the universe, because it is a participation in the very love of God.

One small thing to carry out the door: today, say a name in your heart. Say 'Ben.' And then say, 'Thank you.' Thank God for the gift of his life, for the way he taught you to love, and for the way he is still, in a hidden and beautiful way, a part of your journey. You are a family of four, always. The distance is only a thin veil, and one day, the veil will be lifted, and you will see him again, smiling, strong, and waiting for you at the door. Until then, keep your hearts open. Keep listening for the voice. He is there. He is with you. You are held.