Tallimat 30-ngujuni Uvvaluuniit Aullaqtirvik

Imagine a quiet, sun-drenched afternoon. You are looking at a photograph of Benjamin, perhaps from those years when he was so full of wonder, sitting on a colorful carnival ride with his arm raised high, a small silver cross resting against his chest. In that moment, there is no past and no future—only the delight of the present, the wind on his face, and the simple, radiant joy of being alive. It is a moment of pure, unburdened existence. It is a moment of grace.

Today, Saint Paul writes to the Philippians with that same sense of deep, abiding affection. He says, 'I give thanks to my God at every remembrance of you.' Paul is writing from a place of confinement, yet his heart is not locked away. It is traveling. It is resting upon his friends in Philippi. He tells them, 'I hold you in my heart.' This is the language of a soul that has learned to live beyond its own boundaries. It is the language of love that refuses to be contained by distance or circumstance.

We often think of our hearts as small, fragile vessels, easily emptied by grief or exhaustion. But Paul shows us something different. He shows us that the heart is a mirror of God’s own heart, which is vast enough to hold every person, every memory, and every hope. When we feel the ache of missing someone—that sharp, sudden realization that a chair is empty or a voice is silent—we are not failing. We are simply experiencing the vastness of the love we were given. That love, like the grace Paul speaks of, is a 'good work' that God has begun in us. And Paul is confident of this: 'the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it.'

Think about the way Benjamin lived. Think of that brilliant, curious mind that loved the complexities of technology, the logic of mathematics, and the soaring beauty of aviation. Think of the way he would giggle and smile when he talked about his dream of 'con chim airlines.' There was a lightness in him, a joy that didn't just stay inside him—it reached out. It reached out to his brother Ryan, to his parents, to his extended family. It reached out in that quiet, beautiful moment when he offered his entire piggy bank to help his uncle. He didn't need to break the bank, and he didn't need to empty the coins. The act of offering was the truth of his heart. It was a heart that already understood the logic of heaven: that we possess only what we are willing to give away.

In our Gospel today, we find Jesus at a dinner, surrounded by those who are watching Him with careful, critical eyes. A man suffering from dropsy is there, and the tension is palpable. The scholars of the law are waiting to see if Jesus will break the rules of the Sabbath. But Jesus does not see a rule to be broken; He sees a person to be loved. He asks them, 'Who among you, if your son or ox falls into a cistern, would not immediately pull him out on the sabbath day?'

Jesus is teaching us about the priority of love. He is teaching us that the 'work' of God is always the work of restoration, of pulling someone out of the darkness, of lifting them up. He healed the man and dismissed him. He didn't make a spectacle of it; He simply restored him to his life. This is the heart of our faith. It is not about keeping a ledger of duties; it is about recognizing that every person is a child of God, worthy of being 'pulled out' of their suffering and held in the light.

Alan and Thao, I know the weight of these past four months. I know the way the world can seem to lose its color when you are carrying such a heavy cross. Sometimes, you might look for signs, or try to understand the 'why' of things that are beyond our comprehension. But look at how Jesus acts in the Gospel. He doesn't offer an explanation for the man's suffering; He offers His presence. He offers His hand. He pulls him out. God is doing that for you, even now. He is pulling you out of the depths of your sorrow, not by erasing the pain, but by walking with you through it. He is the one who holds your hand when the night feels too long.

And Ryan, you are a part of that same story. Your brother Benjamin loved you with a special, brotherly bond. That love hasn't gone anywhere. It is part of the 'good work' that God is completing in you. When you feel that silence, remember that you are not walking alone. You are carried by the same love that Benjamin knew, the love that made him so gentle, so kind, and so full of wonder. You are his brother, and that is a gift that belongs to eternity.

We must learn to trust that the 'good work' is still happening. Even when we cannot see the path forward, even when our hearts feel heavy, God is at work. He is the one who began this life, and He is the one who holds it now in His own hands. Benjamin is not lost to us; he is held in the very heart of the One who loves him more than we ever could. He is at the 'Banquet of Heaven,' where there is no more waiting, no more distance, and no more tears.

What can you carry out the door today? It is a small, quiet truth: you are not responsible for holding the world together. God is. You are only asked to love, to be kind, and to keep your heart open to the light. When you see a plane in the sky, or hear a bird, or see a smile on a child’s face, let it be a reminder of the joy that Benjamin shared. Let it be a reminder that love is the only thing that truly lasts.

Be gentle with yourselves. Do not rush your grief, but do not let it be the final word. The final word belongs to Christ, who is the resurrection and the life. You are seen, you are known, and you are held by a love that is stronger than death. Benjamin is waiting in the light, and he is watching over you with that same gentle, radiant smile that captured your hearts from the very beginning. Go in peace, knowing that you are never alone, and that the One who began this good work will surely bring it to completion.