“What does a deacon do?”
Such was the question from a bartender about to close at 2 a.m. There are others, from church friends who know I’m attending the School for Deacons at Berkeley: “Why don’t you go all the way?” “Why don’t you become a priest?” They suggest that deacons are somehow second-best, unable to cut the mustard at seminary, relegated to “nothing more” than reading the gospel, raising a chalice and shouting, “Let us go forth to love and serve the Lord” at the end of the service … as if those weren’t themselves worthy tasks.
They are tasks, however, that aren’t even mentioned in the Ordination of a Deacon. That calls rather for the ordinand “to serve all people, particularly the poor, the weak, the sick and the lonely,” to “interpret to the Church the needs, concerns and hopes of the world,” and to “show Christ’s people that in serving the helpless they are serving Christ himself.”
Nothing second-best or trivial about that! It’s a daunting calling that has attracted folks like Stephen, Philip, Barnabas, a young Italian named Francis and now a new generation willing to stand with one foot in the church and one in the world; ready to take Christ to his people wherever they are and to speak prophetically about the hopes and concerns of the neediest of those people.
So how does one do that? What does a deacon do? I’ll tell you a few of my own experiences as a deacon-in-formation at the Episcopal Jail Ministry and the San Francisco Night Ministry. Nearly all those helping in both places are lay ministers who recognize that, in our baptism, we all are sent into the world in witness to Christ’s love. Through their efforts, I have seen that love shine in the darkest places -- in jail and on the mean streets of San Francisco.
In jail, we pray evening prayer and record stories. Through a program called “Stories from Mom/Dad,” inmates are able to send their children a book along with a cassette tape of themselves reading the story for them.
This simple offering of self can be profoundly moving. Take my experience with Jorge. He entered the room in his orange uniform, orange socks in orange flip-flops, carrying that little Dr. Seuss book Huevos Verdes con Jamon (Green Eggs and Ham.) He smiled in gratitude as I placed the cassette in the recorder. Then, reading with gusto, he blossomed, using different voices and even sound effects. But at the end, he was close to tears, speaking from the heart to his son. He was followed by a less-animated Asian man who struggled in English with the song at the front of the tattered Pokemon book. Then he asked, “Can I speak to my daughter in my own language?” Now I was close to tears.
The Night Ministry
I’ve been to some unusual places with Father Don Fox and the Night Ministry. It is a ministry of simple presence from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. each night. Father Don or one of a handful of ordained night ministers carry Christ to the Tenderloin district and other troubled corners of San Francisco, while one of many volunteer crisis-line counselors listens at a phone to those alone and anxious in some private darkened place.
I chose the Night Ministry for my School for Deacons field education not knowing what an experience it actually would be. I’ll never forget that first night with Don on the streets. Our first stop was St. Mary’s Hospital to visit a friend, Charley, from a Tenderloin bar. We found him in good spirits and, Don said, much improved. Before leaving, we prayed together.
On our way out, Don got a call from our crisis-line counselor. The ICU nurses wanted us to come by to identify a patient just brought in after an apparent seizure. Don couldn’t identify the semi-conscious man, but he spoke tenderly to him before another prayer. We thought we should stop by Charley’s favorite bar to let his friends know that he was well enough to welcome visitors. There I met Joe, the owner, who, I learned, regularly provided free food for his customers.
After another few stops, we arrived at a quiet, downright refined place in the Castro district. There were still several customers, including a clean-cut young African American who asked, “What is the relevance of religion today?” While Don engaged the young man in a theological discussion, I found myself alone with the bartender. Leaning across the counter, he asked: “Tell me, what does a deacon do?”
I forget precisely what I replied, but I know that the answer was becoming clearer to me that night … and needed no words. The Spirit never does.
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