Pingajuat, 28-ngat Ubluq Ukiuqatautimi

There is a quiet, steady rhythm to a life lived well—a rhythm like a tree planted by running water, as the Psalmist tells us today. It is not a life of noise or public display, but a life rooted deep, drawing strength from a source that never runs dry. We often think that to matter, we must be loud, that we must be seen in the marketplace, that we must collect the ‘seats of honor’ that Jesus speaks of in the Gospel. We think our worth is tied to the tally of our accomplishments, to the tithes we pay, or to the way the world greets us. But the Gospel today tears that illusion apart. Jesus looks at the Pharisees, those who were so careful to tithe even the smallest garden herb, and He says, ‘Woe to you.’ Why? Because they had forgotten the heart of the law. They had forgotten judgment, and mercy, and the love of God. They had become like ‘unseen graves,’ beautiful on the outside but empty of the Spirit within.

Think of the contrast Saint Paul gives us in our reading from Galatians. He speaks of the ‘works of the flesh’—the rivalry, the jealousy, the outbursts of fury, the factions. These are the things that divide us, that make us feel like we are walking over ‘unseen graves’ in our own lives, stumbling over the hidden hurts and the secret regrets we carry. But then, he gives us the alternative: the fruit of the Spirit. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Against such things, there is no law. These are not burdens to be carried; they are the natural growth of a soul that is planted in the right place.

Benjamin Vo was a boy who understood this growth. He was a boy who, despite his brilliant mind—that same mind that could navigate the complexities of technology and logic with such ease—never sought the seat of honor. He was, in his own quiet way, like that tree planted by the water. Think of the way he lived. He didn't need the world to notice his brilliance. He was a boy who could sit at his desk, surrounded by the bustle of a classroom, and simply be. He had a knowing, subtle smirk that suggested he knew something the rest of the world hadn't quite caught onto yet: that life is not about the race, but about the joy of the journey. He was a boy who loved the mechanics of airplanes, who dreamed of his ‘con chim airlines,’ not because he wanted to own the sky, but because he loved the wonder of flight. He was a boy who looked at the world with a gaze of pure, unhurried curiosity.

I want to speak to you, Alan, Thao, and Ryan. I know that the silence in your home can feel like a heavy weight. You look for that giggle, you look for that bright, curious face, and the world feels smaller without him. You might wonder if you are doing enough, if you are ‘getting it right’ as you walk this path of grief. You might even feel a flicker of guilt, wondering if you missed a sign or could have steered things differently. Let me tell you this, as clearly as I can: you are not under a yoke of slavery. You are not bound by the ‘what ifs’ or the ‘should haves.’ God does not hold your heart to a standard of perfection; He holds your heart in His mercy. You were the parents Ben needed. You were the brother he adored. That bond is not a chain; it is a grace. It is a promise that, just as Ben was free to love you, you are free to be loved by God, even in the middle of your tears. You missed nothing. You are not to blame. God does not accuse you, and you must not accuse yourselves. You walked with him, you loved him, and you continue to love him. That is the fruit of the Spirit, and it is a fruit that will never fade.

When Jesus speaks to the scholars of the law, He tells them they impose burdens on others that they themselves do not touch. But look at how Jesus acts. He does not impose; He lifts. He is the One who carries the weight. When you feel that you cannot carry the grief of another day, remember that He is already carrying it for you. He is the Water that nourishes the tree. He is the Light that reveals the path. When you feel the ache of an empty chair, or when the morning light finds you missing him, do not look only at the silence. Look up at the sky, just like Ben loved to watch the airplanes trace their lines through the clouds, and remember that his spirit is as free as those jets in the sky. He is not in a grave; he is in the heart of God.

There is a memory of Ben that captures this so perfectly. He was a boy who, unprompted, wanted to give his entire piggy bank to help his uncle who was struggling. He didn't need to break the bank, he didn't need to make a spectacle of it; he simply offered. That was his heart. That was his freedom. He was already a child of the promise. He lived with an open hand because he knew, in that gentle, intuitive way of his, that everything we have is a gift from the Father. He was free because he wasn't trying to hold onto anything too tightly. He was just being Benjamin.

Ryan, my brother, you are the keeper of those memories—the road trips, the snacks, the laughter. You are the one who knows the rhythm of his heart. When you feel the weight of his absence, don't try to carry it alone. You don't have to be 'strong' in the way the world demands. You just have to be yourself, the brother Ben loved. You are free to miss him, free to cry, and free to laugh at the memories you shared. That is the freedom of the children of God. You are not a slave to your grief; you are a son of the promise, just as Ben is a son of the promise. He is not gone; he is simply at the destination he was always meant for.

To all of you who are tuning in from afar, carrying your own heavy crosses, know this: you are seen. Whether you are a parent who has lost a child, or a person who feels overwhelmed by the pressures of life, you are not forgotten. The Lord, who raised the lowly from the dust, is the same Lord who is holding your hand today. Do not let the 'yoke of slavery'—the fear, the regret, the feeling that you are not enough—take root in your heart. You are free. You are free to be weak, free to be sad, and free to be held by the One who loves you more than you can imagine.

So, what can you carry out the door today? It is a small, quiet thing. The next time you see a bird or look up at the sky and see a plane tracing a line through the clouds, take a breath and whisper, 'Thank you.' Thank you for the gift of Benjamin. Thank you for the promise of the Jerusalem above. Thank you that we are not alone. And then, do one small thing that Ben would have done—share a giggle, offer a kind word, or just sit quietly for a moment and appreciate the beauty of the world. Ben’s life was a light that didn't just flicker; it burned bright, and it continues to burn in the hearts of everyone who knew him. He is safe. He is free. And he is waiting for you at the end of the journey, where the flight is smooth and the joy is endless. May you find, in the silence of your heart, the same peace that Benjamin now knows in the arms of the Father. He is home. And one day, the feast will be complete for all of us. Until then, walk in the light, and know that you are never, ever walking alone.