By Joseph Bionat
Special to The Texas Catholic
My wife Karoline and I had planned to be in Rome for a celebration — a “sposi novelli” (newlywed couples) blessing, the canonization of Blessed Carlo Acutis, and a final trip before we welcome our first child this fall. But everything changed on Easter Monday, when the news broke that Pope Francis had died.
In an instant, our trip became something else entirely. We didn’t arrive for a celebration — we arrived to be part of a Church in mourning.
Karoline folded away her white dress and packed black instead — not in despair, but in reverence. Her dress still held color and pattern. It felt right: respectful, simple, but not somber. That’s the strange beauty of a Catholic funeral. It’s not a rejection of grief, but a reshaping of it. Even as we mourn, we do so as Easter people. We grieve in the light of the Resurrection.
We weren’t alone. Before sunrise, St. Peter’s Square filled with hundreds of thousands — priests from Lebanon, youth groups from Poland, students waving flags from every continent. Singing, praying, and calling out “Papa! Papa!” This wasn’t just the funeral of a pope. It was the farewell of a father.
I’ve worked in ministry for over five years — currently serving as director of marketing and communications at St. Ann Parish in Coppell, Texas — and still, I was surprised by the depth of my sorrow. Pope Francis has been the pope of my adulthood. His leadership didn’t just shape my faith — it shaped how I imagine the Church can be. His witness formed how I understand mercy, mission, and what it means to be Church.
What marked his papacy most for me was his insistence that mercy is not optional — it is the Gospel. From his first “urbi et orbi” to his final days, he challenged us to move from self-preservation to self-gift. He reframed the Church not as a fortress to defend, but as a field hospital for the wounded. He taught us that communication is not only about truth, but about tenderness.
That conviction reshaped my own vocation. It’s why I earned a Master’s in pastoral ministry at the University of Dallas in 2023 — because I came to see that communication in the Church is about more than clarity. It’s about hope. It’s about making mercy and joy visible.
The funeral liturgy was quiet, reverent, and simple — just as Francis had asked. Voices from Eastern Catholic Churches, prayers in many languages, the Ecumenical Patriarch seated in a place of honor. His final witness was not spectacle, but simplicity. Even in death, he was teaching.
And yet — the joy. It wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable. A joy rooted not in sentiment, but in Easter. A joy that Francis insisted upon: that Christ has conquered death, and so nothing is wasted. That grace moves.
We came for a blessing. What we received was a witness — not only to the life of a pope, but to the Gospel he lived and preached. A Church that goes to the margins. A faith that listens before it speaks. A mercy that never gives up.
That’s the Church I want to help build — one rooted in mercy, alive with joy, and anchored in hope. That’s the hope I want to pass on to our son.
Joseph Bionat is the director of marketing for St. Ann Catholic Parish in Coppell.
Cutline for featured image: Pallbearers carry the coffin of Pope Francis inside the Basilica of St. Mary Major in Rome following his funeral Mass in St. Peter’s Square at the Vatican April 26.
