Ulluupik Saint Matthew, Apustili ammalu Evangelist

We often think of a call as something that happens in the quiet, in the solitude of a chapel or the stillness of a prayerful moment. But look at where Jesus finds Matthew. He is at the customs post. He is in the middle of the noise, the commerce, the dust of the road, the very place where the world is busy calculating, measuring, and perhaps even cheating. Matthew is sitting there, surrounded by ledgers and coins, and Jesus simply walks by and says, 'Follow me.'

There is no long introduction. There is no invitation to first become perfect, or to study, or to clean up his life. There is only the gaze of Jesus and a command that is also a gift: 'Follow me.' And Matthew—this man who was likely seen by everyone else as a lost cause, a collaborator with the occupiers, a man whose soul was buried under the weight of his own choices—he simply gets up. He leaves the desk. He leaves the money. He leaves the security of his old life and he follows.

I want you to think about that moment of transition. It is the moment when the ordinary becomes the sacred. It is the moment when a man who was defined by his job title, by his social standing, and by the suspicions of his neighbors, suddenly becomes a disciple. It is a reminder that the Lord does not wait for us to be 'ready' or 'worthy' in the eyes of the world before He calls us. He calls us exactly where we are, in the midst of our daily work, in the middle of our routines, and even in the middle of our own confusion.

Think of the way Benjamin looked at the world. He was a boy who loved the mechanics of things—the logic of code, the sheer, breathtaking physics of a Boeing 737 climbing into the clouds. He understood that to make something work, you have to understand its structure, its design, its purpose. He was brilliant, yes, but more than that, he was attentive. He didn't just look at the world; he observed it. He saw the potential in things. And that is what Matthew saw in Jesus. He saw, in that single, piercing invitation, a new design for his life. He saw that his existence was not meant to be limited to the customs post. It was meant to be part of something much larger, something eternal.

I speak to you today, Alan and Thao, and to you, Ryan, because I know that you are living in the 'after.' You are living in a world that feels as though the ground has shifted beneath your feet. It is tempting to look at the empty seat at the table, or to hear the silence in the hallways, and to feel as though the story has come to an abrupt, inexplicable end. But look at the Gospel again. The Pharisees are scandalized because Jesus eats with sinners. They think they know who belongs and who doesn't. They think they know the rules of holiness. But Jesus tells them, 'I desire mercy, not sacrifice.'

Mercy is not a feeling; it is an action. It is the movement of God toward the broken places. When you feel that sudden, sharp ache of missing Benjamin—that moment when you see something he would have loved, or you remember the way he would giggle when he talked about his future plans—that is not a sign that you are failing. That is the ache of love. And God is in that ache. He is not a distant, uncaring observer. He is the Physician who comes to the sick, the One who sits at the table with the ones who are hurting. If you feel like you are struggling to keep your head above water, if you feel like you are just trying to survive the day, know that you are exactly the person Jesus is looking for. He is not looking for the righteous who have it all together. He is looking for you.

Ryan, you are his brother. You know the way Ben moved through the world. You know the way he would lean in with his chopsticks, fully focused on the meal in front of him, or the way he would smile when you were exploring together. That bond you share is not a memory of the past; it is a living reality. You are part of his story, and he is part of yours. When you go about your day—when you study, when you work on your own projects, when you look at the sky—remember that you are not doing it alone. You are carrying his curiosity, his kindness, and his gentle, brilliant spirit with you. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to be you. You have to be the one who keeps looking, who keeps learning, who keeps loving. That is how you honor him.

There is a profound, gentle truth in the way Saint Paul writes to the Ephesians today. He urges us to live in a manner worthy of our call, 'with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another through love.' This is the life of the disciple. It isn't about grand gestures or being the loudest in the room. It is about the small, consistent ways we show up for each other. It is the way a boy offers his piggy bank to help an uncle, not because he expects a reward, but because his heart is naturally oriented toward kindness. It is the way a family holds onto each other when the world feels heavy. It is the way we continue to believe that even when we don't understand the 'why,' we can trust in the 'Who.'

Some of you are carrying burdens today that no one else can see. You are wondering if you missed something, if you could have done more, if you could have somehow changed the outcome. Let me tell you this with the authority of the Gospel: God does not play games with our lives. He does not send suffering as a punishment, and He does not hold you responsible for the mysteries of this life. You have loved your son with a pure, sacrificial love. That love is a reflection of the Father's own heart. Do not let the enemy of your soul tell you that you failed. You did not. You were his parents, his brother, his family, and you gave him the greatest gift anyone can give another: you gave him a home where he was known, where he was cherished, and where he was free to be the brilliant, gentle boy he was. That is enough. That is more than enough.

When Matthew got up from that customs post, he didn't know where the road would lead. He didn't know that he would become an Apostle, an evangelist, a martyr. He only knew that the voice of Jesus was worth following. You, too, are being called to get up from the place where you are sitting—the place of grief, the place of questioning, the place of waiting—and to follow. You don't need to know the destination. You only need to take the next step.

Maybe the next step is just to look at a photograph and smile instead of crying. Maybe it is to share a meal with someone you love, just like Ben and Ryan used to share those sushi rolls. Maybe it is to be a little kinder to yourself when you feel overwhelmed. These are the small, holy acts of mercy that build the Kingdom. These are the ways we preserve the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.

Benjamin is not gone. He is simply in the presence of the One who called him by name. He is in the light, the same light that shone on Matthew’s face when he looked up from his coins and saw the face of God. One day, we will all be gathered at that same table. We will see the full design of the life we were given. We will understand why the road took the turns it did. And in that moment, all the questions will fall away, and there will only be the joy of being home.

Until then, carry this with you: you are seen. You are known. You are loved. When you wake up, when you walk through your home, when you feel the weight of the day, remember that you are part of the Body of Christ. You are not alone. And the love you have for Benjamin, and the love he has for you, is the very thing that will carry you through. It is the thread that connects you to heaven.

Today, I invite you to do one small thing. When you see a plane in the sky, or when you see something that makes you think of Ben—a bit of technology, a bird, a simple act of kindness—don't look away. Stop. Breathe. Say a little prayer of gratitude. Acknowledge that he is safe, he is whole, and he is waiting for you. And then, keep going. Keep living. Keep being the kind, gentle, curious people that you are. Because that is how you continue to build the Kingdom of God, one day at a time, one act of mercy at a time, until we are all together in the light.