We have been blessed with the ministry of deacons for many years now, but some of us may not be familiar with how the diaconate came about in our Church. The roots of the story can be found in the sixth chapter of the Book of Acts. As the early community grew, a complaint was raised that some of the Greek-speaking widows were being neglected in their practical needs. And so, the twelve Apostles ordained seven men to make sure that pastoral care would be extended, fairly and equally, among those in need.

The deacon from that original group with whom we are most familiar is Stephen. As a matter of fact, our first reading two Sundays ago dealt with the witness of Stephen’s death—the first martyr, the first to give his life for the faith. But before that, Stephen was known for his holiness, his defense of the faith, and great “signs and wonders he performed” among the people (cf. Acts 6:8).

What is striking about Stephen’s death is how closely it mirrored that of Jesus. After being accused of blasphemy and sins against the law of Moses, Stephen was dragged outside the city and stoned to death. As he lay dying, he prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” And he cried out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” In both life and death, Stephen faithfully imitated his Master, who had come, not to be served, but to serve; his Master, who taught that we are to forgive even our enemies.

In the third century, there was another deacon who was a shining example of faith and courage. His name was Lawrence. It was during the time of Emperor Valerian, who hated all Christians, especially those with property. Lawrence began, then, to give away church property. Valerian offered Lawrence a way out of certain death. If he would show him where the Church’s gold and silver were located, an order of clemency would be issued.

Lawrence then asked for three days in which to gather all the gold and silver of the Church in one central place. For those three days, Lawrence went throughout the city and invited all the poor, the handicapped and the misfortunate to come together. When Valerian arrived, Deacon Lawrence presented him with the true gold and silver of the Church, the poor. The emperor was so enraged that he ordered Lawrence to be burned alive. It was not an easy time to be a deacon.

In the years prior to Vatican II, the diaconate was experienced as a stepping stone, a transitional phase in which those on their way to priesthood would first be ordained deacons. Then, after the Second Vatical Council, the permanent diaconate, open to married as well as single men, was restored. This added a whole new richness and depth to the position. Many of these new deacons would have a dual, bridge-like role, being ordained as deacons, and also being married and having a family.

When Deacon Joe first met with me some ten years ago, he made it very clear that I was getting a package deal: three, not just one. If I was having a dinner in the rectory, or the Women’s Group was having a breakfast, there were to be three seats at the table: Joe, Kay and Joanna. When we went to the Chrism Mass, it would be the four of us—to the ceremony first, and then to Olive Garden, or another, pre-approved, sufficiently Italian, restaurant for dinner.

I want to reflect on Deacon Joe’s life and ministry in light of the powerful example of Deacons like Stephen and Lawrence. If you spent even a few moments with Joe, you would find that, for him, the diaconate was not so much a role to be played as a person to become. Since his ordination in 1997, Joe became a living embodiment of Jesus Christ, his Master, who came not to be served, but to serve.

In his first Sunday appearance at the window in Rome, the new Pope Leo XIV said, “In the Gospel, Jesus says that he knows his sheep and that they listen to his voice and follow him” (cf. John 10:27). He then quoted Pope Saint Gregory the Great, who taught, people ‘respond to the love of those who love them.’” (Homily 14:3-6).

That’s the kind of authenticity Deacon Joe had. People responded to him in love because they knew he loved them. When he first came to this parish, I asked some of our youth what they thought of him. They immediately said, “Oh, he's an OK guy.” I heard that, when Joe worked at the Erving Elementary School, he was one of the most important people in the building because the students confided in him. They knew instinctively that he loved them.

On Sundays, after our morning Masses, I would want to have dinner and then take a siesta, but not Deacon Joe. He had certain people he had to visit, in their homes, in the nursing home, at the hospital—he came with Communion, a parish bulletin, and a desire to serve. They knew in their hearts that Deacon Joe loved them.

The truth is that Joe would know how to start things, but not how to stop them. He became interested in Scouting, as many men do, when they want to pass on wholesome values to their sons. But Joe just kept on doing that, helping boys and young men to become self-sufficient, well-rounded and well-grounded. Many youth learned survival skills, collected merit badges, and went on to become Eagle Scouts—all because Joe didn’t know how to stop. They loved him because they knew Joe loved them.

During his career of service in the military, Joe became very proficient at fixing things, particularly the electronics on military planes. Well, he never knew how to stop that either: over the years, if something needed fixing, recalibrating, or redesigning, Joe was our man.

Joe and his family became very much involved in making sure that services and opportunities would be provided for those with special needs. Joe and Kay became advocates and fought for many of the programs that are now such a blessing for many. The same was true of services for the elderly. And projects of the Knights of Columbus. Joe saw a need and jumped in.

Deacon Joe became a special friend to many members of our Spanish-speaking community. Not only did he help them to feel welcome here at our parish, he also became a practical curator of their dreams. There are young families who now have their own homes because Joe knew how to navigate the process and find the practical and financial help needed. They loved Joe because they knew he loved them.

During Holy Week this year, cancer was already taking its toll on Deacon Joe. But he was here for all the liturgies. He sang his heart out during the solemn intercessions on Good Friday. He could not carry the Easter candle, but he still sang, “Christ, our light!” And on Easter Sunday morning, he made sure that Fr. Goni and I received the traditional frittata for our breakfast.

In a homily he prepared for Palm Sunday, our late, dear Pope Francis noted, “Jesus’ passion becomes compassion whenever we hold out our hand to those who feel they cannot go on, when we lift up those who have fallen, when we embrace those who are discouraged. Brothers and sisters, in order to experience this great miracle of mercy, let us decide how we are meant to carry our own cross during this Holy Week…” (L’Osservatore Romano, May 2025, p. 55).

We all saw how Deacon Joe carried his cross during Holy Week. But then, there was the final week that he made holy by the way he carried his personal cross. On May 17^th, he was here for the celebration of Confirmation. On Monday, the 19^th, he was admitted to the hospital, and on Friday the 23^rd he died. During that time, he carried his cross with patience and courage. He surprised those who came to minister to him by giving them a blessing. To the end, he imitated his Master. He came, not to be served, but to serve. He lived and died, a Deacon to the end. And we loved Joe because we knew he loved us. May he rest in the eternal embrace of the Shepherd whose voice he heard, and followed so faithfully, to the end.