SNAPSHOTS
A Remembrance of
Deacon Anthony Signorelli
September 22, 2017
Snapshots . . . Moments frozen in time . . . Glimpses into the lives of the people captured in them.
This past week, as I’ve gone through the photo album of my mind, I’ve found snapshots, hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, beautiful memories of Tony. Some of them are recent – snapshots that show him as brave, courageous. But these snapshots are too recent. I choose not to focus and dwell on them now. They’re for another time.
Snapshots . . . Here’s one of Tony wearing an apron. I don’t think there was anytime Tony was happier than when he wore an apron preparing a meal, ready to welcome guests into his home. Tony delighted in good food, good company, and good conversation. Whether it was a party with a dozen guests in his dining room with a feast from fruit to nuts, or a few priests, deacons and seminarians sharing a burger on his deck in the summer discussing theology, Tony was in his element and in his glory. He was the epitome of a generous, gracious and gregarious host, who allowed the occasion of breaking bread to be an opportunity to share his home, good food, and most especially, himself.
Snapshots . . . Here’s one of Tony walking down Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. Here’s another one of him wearing a blue cap with the letters ND embroidered in glistening gold - Notre Dame. Tony was a passionate man who celebrated his roots and never forgot the significant influences on his life. I see snapshots of him and Fr. Jim Smith engaged in fierce debates over which was greater – Brooklyn or the Bronx, the Red Storm of St. John’s University or the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame. Tony claimed victory on both.
Snapshots . . . Here’s one of him teaching at Pope John. When most men would look forward to a life of leisure after retirement, Tony yearned for new challenges, new opportunities to share his wisdom and his faith. At Pope John, Tony not only taught lessons in science but also lessons in Christian living. And, as with all things, Tony embraced life at Pope John with model dedication. That is, except in one area. Tony “claimed” that he would always forget when he was assigned to cafeteria duty. This invariably led to an announcement over the loudspeaker, “Doctor Signorelli, would you PLEASE report to the cafeteria!” Tony told me that once, he actually reported for his assigned duty, BY ACCIDENT. And when he walked into the cafeteria, all of the students rose and gave him a standing ovation.
Snapshots . . . Here are snapshots of Tony surrounded by family: his sister Barbara, his daughter Laurie Anne and her husband Craig, his son Michael and his wife Allison, and his grandchildren Brendan, Annie, Ava and Bobby. And I recognize the expression that’s on his face. It’s the same expression that was on his face whenever he talked about the success and achievements of his children and their spouses, the same expression as when he would tell me about the track meet, the baseball game, the Confirmation, the academic success of his grandchildren – PRIDE!
Snapshots . . . In my collection, I have so many of Tony with Dolores. And in those snapshots I again recognize the same look in his eyes that I saw every time he looked at Dolores – the look of love . . . the look of admiration . . . the look of appreciation. I remember one time years ago when Tony and Dolores were asked to give presentations to our RCIA candidates. And as I saw them interact with one another, I said to myself, “My God! After all these years of marriage – children and grandchildren – they still act like newlyweds!” Tony and Dolores had the kind of marriage that in the 1940’s and 50’s, they used to make movies about. The type of marriage that everyone strives to have, but ultimately say it can’t be; it’s just too good to be true. But it wasn’t. And it isn’t. And it's the kind of love that we need a lot more of today.
Snapshots . . . Here’s a whole bunch of Tony and me. We were the greatest foils for each other’s jokes. We had nicknames for each other. As a jab at him being somewhat older than me, instead of Signorelli, I called him “Senior-elli”. And instead of Olsen, he called me “Young-son.” Dolores once said, “You two are just so silly!” Yeah we were . . . and we loved it. I don’t know if you ever noticed, but Tony was somewhat shorter than me. There were times when we would be exchanging barbs with one another, and he’d say, “You know, you’re not too big for me to take care of you.” I’d say, “And just how are you going to do that?” And he’d look up at me, pointing his finger, “By physical force if necessary! Come on Big Guy! Let’s go!”
When Tony arrived for mass on Sundays, he would go up to the sanctuary, make sure the ribbon was in the right spot in the Book of the Gospels, make sure the credence table was set as it should be, and check how many ciboria were in the tabernacle. After he had set everything the way he wanted it to be and returned to the sacristy, I would go and raise the microphone stand as high as it would go, so the microphone would be about four feet taller than Tony. When mass began, I would stand in the back of the church, and after he reverenced the altar, I’d see Tony’s shoulders moving up and down with laughter when he saw what I had done. When he turned around and saw me, he would squint his eyes and shake his finger at me as if to say, “I’m gonna get you!” And he did. The following Sunday, I processed into the sanctuary, to find that Tony had lowered the microphone stand so it was no higher than my knees.
Tony was my mentor, my friend, and my brother. He was there to guide me throughout my diaconate studies, and has offered me his sage wisdom and encouragement throughout the sixteen years of my ministry. He was the friend who constantly put in a good word for me at Pope John whenever there was an opening in the Theology Department. And he was the brother who was there for me when both my parents died.
Snapshots . . . Here are ones that all of you are most familiar. They’re of Tony as deacon. Deacon Tony at the altar. Deacon Tony baptizing. Deacon Tony conducting a wake service. Deacon Tony leading Adult Education. Deacon Tony involved in Work-Life Ministry. And most memorable, Deacon Tony standing here, at this ambo, PROCLAIMING the Word of God and PREACHING the Word of God - both of which he was able to do so authentically because he LIVED the Word of God. Of all the homilies Deacon Tony preached, there’s one that I most remember. It was the one where he focused on one simple, three letter, one syllable word: YES. The YES of Mary. The simple, three letter, one syllable word that transformed the world, because it made salvation possible for us. I think that Deacon Tony was able to speak so eloquently about that simple, one syllable, three letter word, because YES was his mantra, his creed, his philosophy of life. YES! YES to God! YES to the teaching of the Church! Yes to the values of Christian life! YES to love and fidelity in marriage! YES to the responsibilities of family life. YES to job-related obligations. YES to every man, woman or child that sought his advice or ever needed his assistance. YES!
The word “deacon” comes from the Greek word diakonos, which means servant. The patron saint of the diaconate is St. Stephen, one of the original seven deacons. But for me, the patron saint of what it means to be a deacon is Deacon Anthony Signorelli, for he epitomized what it meant to be a servant to his family, to his students, to his parish, to his Church, and to his God.
On Tuesday when I first got word of Deacon Tony’s passing, immediately one line of Scripture came to mind. It’s from the Gospel of Matthew: “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” I truly believe that those were the first words that Deacon Tony heard from the mouth of our Lord when he stood before him. “Well done, my good and faithful servant!”
Snapshots . . . I’ve got hundreds, thousands of them of Tony. Some are vivid. Some are blurry and I wish I had paid more attention when they became part of the photo album of my memories. But there’s one problem with snapshots. Even assembling all of them together, they don’t do justice to one who lived his life with such grace, nobility, purpose, and virtue. But how much better our lives are that one such as he blessed us by his presence in them. Thank you, Tony.
And Tony, I know you’re angry with me right now. You always told me that the ideal homily should be seven minutes. And tonight, I certainly exceeded that. But it’s your fault, you know . . . Why did you have to be so darn good? God bless you.
