My friend, Father Joe Linck, had just let me know that his doctors were ceasing treatment of his cancer — “no more chemo for me” — and switching him to palliative care.

Father Joe was 43 years old, a bright, hard-working, generous priest. What’s more, he was rector of St. John Fisher Seminary in Stamford, Conn., so he was training a new generation of good priests.

And now he was facing the end of his earthly life. What, indeed, was God thinking — allowing cancer to consume this promising life at a time when we’re all feeling the pinch of a priest shortage?

I had known Father Joe for about one-third of his life, since shortly after he was ordained for the Congregation of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri. While I was editor of this newspaper (1993-1996), Father Joe served as chaplain for many of Pittsburgh’s colleges and universities: Pitt, Carnegie Mellon, Chatham, Point Park, Robert Morris and the Art Institute.

In those years, he also established his reputation as a scholar, a historian of the Catholic Church in the United States. He was the author of many articles and an excellent book, “Fully Instructed and Vehemently Influenced: Catholic Preaching in Anglo-Colonial America.” He edited the essay collection “Building the Church in America.” He taught at St. Vincent Seminary and at Franciscan University of Steubenville. As a senior fellow of the St. Paul Center for Biblical Theology, he was my colleague.

He was always busy, but serene and good-humored, and his humor itself was an effective pastoral tool. Like comedian Jack Benny, he knew the comedic power of not saying anything — of extended silence — and he used that power for genuine spiritual direction. I can’t recall that he ever took me to task for anything I did or said, but he often made me laugh at myself (and things I did and said), achieving the same end, but in a painless way. Only my sides hurt.

In 2005, Father Joe and I helped lead a pilgrimage to Rome, and that’s when I saw his pastoral care up close. He preached stunning homilies every day. He made himself available for confession at all hours. And he looked for opportunities to offer counsel and friendship.

One of our pilgrims was struggling with a very old wound of grief, and over the course of the week Father Joe guided him to a deep understanding of the Catholic doctrine of the communion of saints. The man told me last week that he’s never forgotten Father Joe’s last words on the subject: “Relationships don’t end.” That’s what the church prays in the Mass of Christian burial: “Lord, for your faithful people life is changed not ended.”

The relationship goes on. Father Joe, like all our priests, is a priest forever. In the fourth century, St. Gregory the Theologian mourned the death of his closest priest-friend, but observed, “Now he is in heaven, and there in our behalf, I am certain, he offers sacrifice and prays for the people.”

God knew indeed what he was doing. If a man’s priestly ministry is so effective during its earthly phase, imagine what he might accomplish once he’s free from earthly constraints. If a teacher inspires his seminary classes to go deeper in prayer and study, imagine what that same teacher might accomplish through his intercession.

A month before he died, Father Joe reflected in an e-mail on the life of one of his favorite American heroes, Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha: “I was thinking about Kateri, specifically the meaning of her Indian surname, ‘she who feels her way with her hands’ — a reference to her limited sight after smallpox, but, of course, it speaks volumes to me right now about making a journey through illness and beyond, day by day, trusting in the Lord.”

He moved through illness and beyond. But he remains a priest. May God send us many more like him.

Mike Aquilina is executive vice president of the St. Paul Center for Biblical Theology, based in Steubenville, Ohio.