The Rev. Canon Maylanne Maybee (second from left) celebrated her 60th birthday by hosting a total of 60 friends for dinner throughout the year.

I was talking about my impending birthday with a friend who had spent time in China, and he told me that a 60th birthday is considered very special in Chinese culture. In fact, the Chinese traditionally do not pay much attention to birthdays until the 60th, which they usually mark with a big celebration. Sixty years is regarded as the completion of one life cycle, and 61 the beginning of a new life cycle. Not only was this heartening, but it had special meaning for me. I like to tell people I was “made in China” (though born in Toronto) and I’m as old as the People’s Republic of China. As a reminder of my origins, my parents gave me a Chinese name with an Anglicized spelling, “Maylanne,” meaning “beautiful orchid."

In taking inventory of my life at this stage, I was aware of how precious my family was becoming to me: my parents, siblings, their offspring and mine, even my “exes”—my former husband, my brother’s former wife. I was aware too of the many friendships that had blossomed over the years through my justice work at Church House—in Toronto, across Canada, and overseas.

On the other hand, as workload increased and resources decreased, I was also aware of the absence of Sabbath time in my life—time for rest, for re-creation, for being creative, for nurturing these friendships, and showing friends and family the gratitude I felt for their support and hospitality. I started thinking of how to involve them in celebrating my jubilee year.

I played with the idea of a kind of cross-Canada progressive dinner—borrowing kitchens and dining rooms and hosting friends and family for meals on my travels from Victoria to Halifax. Then I thought of having 60 friends for dinner over “a month of Sundays”—four or five weekends in February and March. But both plans seemed too ambitious.

Eventually, the idea dawned on me to celebrate a diamond jubilee year, and invite 60 people for dinner in various sittings over a 12-month period. I considered who should be invited with whom, and worked out a nice chart of 10 dinner parties with six friends per meal, evenly spaced from February to February, with time off in the summer.

I decided to start my dinner project with people I had known the longest—people such as Michael and Dorothy Peers, whose wedding I had attended when I was 15 years old; Alyson Barnett-Cowan, who entered Trinity College as an undergraduate the same year I did; Kate and Helena, who were divinity classmates; and so on.

What I soon learned, however, was that even with four weeks’ notice, or more, it’s impossible to coordinate everyone’s commitments. So I just assembled a company of friends as best I could. I had determined that with limited space and cutlery, eight people, including me, would be the maximum I could handle. But, surprise! At that first dinner in February, 10 people sat at table: a couple who had been out of town phoned the morning of the party and said they’d love to come. I used every leaf in my dining room table and sat two at each end. It worked fine. (This was good practice for another dinner at which two people showed up when we were about to sit down—I’d forgotten they were coming!)

What did I serve?  I’m no great cook, but I can follow recipes and do fine with step-by-step menus that are timed by the day and hour. I decided to start with oxtail soup, in keeping with the Chinese year of the Ox when I was born. I researched cook-ahead menus on the Internet and served pork, vegetables, salad, and a lovely peach desert. My Sinophile friend had told me it was a Chinese tradition to serve foods with auspicious connotations on a special birthday: “long-life noodles,” eggs, and “peaches”—a dessert of steamed wheat in the shape of a peach with a sweet filling.

Later in February, I hosted a dinner for 12 family members in Picton, about midway between Ottawa and Toronto, two cities where most of them live. It was a lovely postmodern occasion that included ex-spouses and new partners. For the meal, I hired Deb—a friend who boarded with me while studying theology and had been a chef in her former life. At the end, I made a little speech about my love and appreciation for every family member, new and old. This had a healing effect and became a feature of my monthly meals.

As the weeks went by, I soon learned that, as someone once pointed out, when we make plans, God laughs! Certainly planning to have six people a month for 10 months was a laugh! In April, Holy Week and Easter came, and in a clergy household, a birthday dinner was out of the question. In May, my father died, aged 90—a sorrowful, intense, yet exhilarating event that took every ounce of my energy.

No dinner for two months, then three, then four, then five. June was conference month, and I didn’t have one weekend at home. In July, I left for four weeks of vacation, and in August my son got married. I hosted a wedding rehearsal party—cooked and served by the intrepid Deb—but didn’t count it as a jubilee dinner. As the year progressed, my motivation was waning, and I wondered whether I should quietly drop the whole idea.

I was saved when I found an unexpected companion for the journey in Julia Child, who arrived in my life late August when I went to see the movie Julie and Julia. Until then, Julia Child’s name was only faintly familiar to me, but her ebullient personality, portrayed by Meryl Streep, leapt out from the screen and filled me with delight. All that feasting and drinking with friends looked wonderful!

Along with the rest of the world, I bought a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. In September I organized two birthday dinners in quick succession. I ventured to make the boeuf bourguignon for one, coq au vin for the other. It was a thrill to replicate these recipes, even in the most modest way, and serve them in my own little house.

I began to realize that there is a certain economy of hospitality that goes beyond mere reciprocity. Friendship begets friendship. One dinner companion invited me to her graduation—42 years after she had begun her degree. Another was inspired to organize a neighbourhood reunion of friends I hadn’t seen in 30 years (see picture). Yet another gave me a copy of My Life in France, Julia Child’s story of becoming a chef, cooking teacher, and hostess extraordinaire. Reading about her life breathed joy and spirit into my own modest little jubilee project. It was these moments, rather than the stress of the workplace, that began to form the reality of my life.

At the time of writing, I am almost at the end of my jubilee year. I have had eight dinner parties and served 55 friends. I’m thinking of a prize for the sixtieth person who comes through the door!  My only regret is that I didn’t have people sign a guest book, and I didn’t take pictures. I’m now looking forward to gathering friends just for the joy of it. And I’ve signed up for cooking classes in this year’s “Winterlicious” festival to build confidence and expand my culinary repertoire.

I’ve learned that it takes a lot of time and effort to find a date that works, invite friends, plan a menu, shop, prepare, and clean up. Sometimes the dinners have taken place right after a long trip or an intense conference when I’d rather wear my pyjamas, watch a movie, and eat popcorn.

In My Life in France, Julia described one occasion when she and her husband, Paul, were supposed to visit close friends in Provence, but it began to seem just too inconvenient and bothersome. She remembered a favourite saying, though, that had carried them through their diplomatic days: “No one’s more important than people!”  “In other words,” writes Julia, “friendship is the most important thing—not career or housework, or one’s fatigue—and it needs to be tended and nurtured.”

This “sixty for supper” experience has given me new insight into the Jewish understanding of the Sabbath, closely associated with the notion of Jubilee. In his book The Sabbath, Rabbi Abraham Heschel writes, “Six days a week the spirit is alone, disregarded, forsaken, forgotten. Working under strain, beset with worries, enmeshed in anxieties, man [sic] has no mind for ethereal beauty…. Then comes the sixth day. Anxiety and tension give place to the excitement that precedes a great event.”

So it is with these birthday meals—the day before is spent in a fever of marinating and moving furniture. Then the guests arrive, the candles are lit, the wine is poured, and life stops for a minute. It’s a tiny glimpse into the seventh day when God rested from all that he had done in creation and said, “indeed, it was very good.”

Photo: Miguel Vidal / Reuters

At the beginning of the TEAM conference, our host, the Most Rev. Njongonkulu Ndugane, Archbishop of Cape Town, invited the 400 participants to unite against global poverty, thereby “blowing fresh winds of change into the lungs of the Anglican Communion.”  Rather than focus inwardly on differences and divisions, our attention was directed outward to the world around us, using the lens of the MDGs.

In 2000, world leaders made a commitment to achieve these eight goals by 2015. The goals aim to eradicate extreme poverty and hunger, eliminate gender inequalities, prevent environmental degradation, halt HIV and AIDS, and provide adequate education, health care, and clean water.

I recognize that the MDGs have much to commend them. They represent a significant shared responsibility within the community of nations. They are considered doable. It is widely acknowledged that the financial and human resources needed to accomplish them already exist and there are mechanisms in place to monitor our progress.

Not since the Jubilee 2000 movement, which called for debt cancellation in the world’s most impoverished countries, has there been such concentrated attention by people of faith on global well-being and economic justice. Many church members will remember the petitions, public action, liturgies, and demonstrations that accompanied the Jubilee campaign.

Yet I have been a slow convert to the MDGs. They are neither so clearly rooted in our scriptural tradition, nor do they have the same emphasis on God’s economy of abundance and sufficiency. They have been criticized for reflecting the approach of people who think they already know the answers, who regard poverty as an engineering problem that needs only a technical solution, who impose their own response to the “problem” of poor countries.

It certainly struck me at the TEAM conference that the more privileged provinces of our Communion tended to be the more vocal proponents of the goals. Those provinces in parts of the world where the goals are specifically directed were not on board to the same degree.

Upon reflection, this isn’t a big surprise. It’s the difference between viewing a dance floor from the balcony and being directly engaged in the dance!  People in Bangladesh or Chad are in the thick of things, striving day by day to get by and make things better. People from the UK or North America tend to see global events and development relationships at a greater distance, from above.

When a panel of presenters from different provinces of the Anglican Communion spoke about their local mission context, this difference between seeing things closely, on the dance floor, and seeing them from the balcony, became quite evident.

Bishop Munawar Rumalshah of Pakistan told a story of when an area near the Afghan border was bombed in retaliation for the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks. He and his colleagues were then confronted by a group of angry protesters demonstrating against the church as a symbol of the West. But just before violence broke out, the protesters began to question their own actions: “Why are we bothering these people?” they asked. “They have been cleaning our wounds for over a hundred years.”

This was one of many stirring anecdotes of local situations. I was similarly moved when Maori Anglican theologian Dr. Jenny Te Paa identified the challenge of theological education among women and Indigenous Peoples as a local mission priority of Aotearoa/New Zealand.

We also heard from the Western church. When Abagail Nelson of Episcopal Relief and Development (ERD) took the podium, she spoke about their program of distributing mosquito nets in malaria-ridden parts of Africa, an initiative that is clearly saving lives.

It was inspiring, yet what was missing for me was hearing from the American church about its own mission context. What about the US invasion of Iraq and the billions being spent on armaments? What about the unique spiritual challenges of being a wealthy church?

When challenged on this, the reply was that the Episcopal church had decided to focus its prophetic mission solely on the MDGs, in order not to muddy the waters and confuse its priorities. While this made some sense strategically, it seemed to me that countries of the global North tend to see things from the balcony. We need to be reminded of the Anglican understanding that responsibility for mission in any place always belongs primarily to the church in that place.

It’s a principle that should apply equally, whether one is in a wealthy or impoverished part of the world.

Hellen Wangusa, the Uganda-born Anglican Observer at the United Nations, articulated these and other challenges in her address to TEAM delegates. She reminded us that the Anglican Communion’s commitment goes far beyond 2015, and that its mandate is not only to tend to the needs of the poor, but also to address the responsibility of the rich. In her wisdom, she understood that the power of the MDGs lies in the fact that they name distant and abstract realities, making them specific and direct.

The TEAM conference report acknowledged that the MDGs are “merely the starting point for the Communion’s interventions,” and that there are many issues that the church must pursue that go well beyond the MDGs. Most notable was the issue of conflict, which plagues so many parts of the world and often prevents movement toward the goals.

Which brings me to the second Communion event, the Anglican Peace and Justice Network meeting where I represented the Anglican Church of Canada along with Ms. Cynthia Patterson of the Diocese of Quebec. This time, about 26 network participants from Sudan, Japan, Scotland, and beyond came together for 10 days in Rwanda and Burundi, guests of Archbishop Kolini of Rwanda and Bishop Pie Ntukamazina of Bujumbura, Burundi.

Not only did we engage intensely with local sites and stories, but we also heard many moving accounts of struggle or conflict from participants, and their efforts as Christians, and specifically as Anglicans, to respond in faith. These weren’t accounts from the balcony, but from people on the dance floor, directly engaged in mission within the vibrant, complicated context of their own countries.

I cannot begin to describe the effects of the sights we saw and the stories we heard. Archbishop Kolini spoke candidly of the failure of the church in Rwanda-a country that is over 98% Christian-during the 1994 genocide in which more than 800,000 people were massacred as the world looked on. When we toured the genocide museum in Kigali, I was horrified and perplexed by the stark evidence of broken humanity, of cruelty, deceit, and viciousness among human beings. Yet Rwanda was moving on, seeking healing, justice, and a new future.

In Burundi, a country racked by years of civil strife and conflict, we visited a memorial in the remote mountain village of Buta dedicated to 40 Roman Catholic seminarians and workers who had been slaughtered by rebels in 1997. The rebels demanded that the students divide into two groups along ethnic lines, so that one would be killed and the other spared. The young men refused to comply, and chose instead to die together in a courageous witness to their shared humanity and common baptism.

We heard similar accounts of courage, witness, and reconciliation from Uganda, Kenya, the Philippines, and Korea, where local churches had defined their own priorities of healing, restorative justice, interfaith cooperation, and economic justice.

In every case, I was deeply impressed by the role of the Anglican church-a role of social analysis, prophetic witness, of healing, and compassion.

The factors that define God’s mission are not the same in every place. They do not have a deadline and cannot be quantified or monitored. Hellen Wangusa expressed this recently at an American conference called “Everyone, everywhere.” She said that to her, MDGs have always stood for the “Mission Driven Goals” of the Anglican church in her part of Africa.

These MDGs were the kind that shaped Sunday school and catechism classes, ensuring that “everyone, everywhere” learned to read and write. These MDGs shaped communities that gave rise to the likes of Archbishop Janani Luwum, Stephen Biko, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu, helping to form them and give them the courage to speak truth to power, and inspire those around them.

In the end, what I would like to see as the outcome of the MDG campaign is this: that the Anglican church worldwide will become a mission-driven church-learning dif-ferent dance steps in different places, and together seeking the power of God’s transformation, who alone has a full balcony view of the human condition.

Six years later, it was my turn to take a sabbatical, but instead, the funding for our work dried up and I lost my job ... a very different kind of "time off."

In 1996 I started work at Church House, and tried not to look too envious as other colleagues planned and carried out their sabbaticals ... finishing a second degree, pursuing independent study, travelling with partner or parent, learning Spanish or brushing up on the piano, doing photography, pottery, painting. Once again, I waited for my turn to come up, but as time went on, the future of the organization looked very uncertain, and there was some thought that the operation might have to close down by the end of 2002. I wondered more than once whether my previous experience of losing my job instead of going on sabbatical would repeat itself.

In my better moments, I dreamed of all the things I would do if I could take the time off and organize the financing. I would cycle in France or Ireland. I would walk the pilgrimage along El Camino in Spain to Santiago de Compostello. I would visit sacred communities like Iona and Taizé. I would walk the labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral. I would go on a 40-day Ignatian retreat. I would deepen my understanding of the work of reconciliation - and visit the Henry Martyn Centre in Hyderabad, India. While I was there, I would find out more about Mahatma Ghandi. And oh yes, I would visit Oxford University and take in some theatre in London.

It was great to dream. But as the possibility became more concrete, the real challenge was to decide what parts of the dream I really wanted and to figure out how to make it happen.

The first challenge was learning that for various reasons I couldn't take my sabbatical during the spring and summer months as I had hoped. And I couldn't be away when the EcoJustice Committee, which I staff, was meeting. And I didn't want to wait for another year for fear that, once again, circumstances would change and a sabbatical would not be possible. So I dropped the pilgrimage idea.

At one point I sought advice from someone who had just completed a very successful sabbatical. It was Barry Jenks, Bishop of British Columbia, who had returned from Ireland, Jerusalem, and Guyana. His advice: plan plan plan, and give yourself lots of lead time to get ready. So I sat down and drew up a proposal and in January I put it before the Church House management team for approval - which they gave. Step one completed. There's lots of lead time, I thought, since I would not leave until November.

My proposal had some of the basic components of my dream, with a few adjustments to accommodate the time of year. I asked for time off between November and February - four months, all we are allowed. I would spend time in the United Kingdom. I would make a retreat. Time and money permitting, I would visit France.

On the advice of my director, I also explored a study program at the Episcopal Divinity School in Boston - Anglican, Global, and Ecumenical Studies. I learned that the program featured a travel seminar that would be going to India and immediately wrote to the registrar to express my interest. So I put that into my proposal too.

Weeks, then months, passed. How was I going to pay for this wonderful plan? I knew of a couple of funds for which I could apply that would cover the costs of airfare and tuition. All of a sudden it was spring, and the application deadlines loomed large and red on my calendar, less than a week away. That was the week, I might add, just after Holy Week and Easter ... and just before I had to leave for a 10-day trip in western Canada. More research, more pressure, and more dreaming. To qualify for each grant, I had to develop a research proposal with a focus and an outcome. It was fun to give the dream shape. And the pressure meant that I didn't try to make the proposals perfect - my goal was simply to get them in.

More weeks and months passed as I waited for the decisions to be made. I wrote to the Sisters of the Love of God, a religious community in Oxford that I had come to know in student days, about my desire for a retreat there. I received a hospitable reply, offering a place at their house in Kent instead. By mid-June, I learned that both of my applications for funding had been approved. I could now pay for the airfare to England and participate in the travel seminar.

Summer vacation was not far away, requiring its own level of planning and budgeting. And suddenly, there were fewer than four months before my departure. I still had no firm assurance of my participation in the travel seminar, though I now knew it was to be in South Africa rather than India. I still had no itinerary for my time in the United Kingdom. And there was an enormous workload to complete before I could leave in good conscience.

At the end of August, while having lunch with a good friend, also dreaming of a sabbatical, I learned about a sabbatical fund for clergy that made very generous grants in US dollars, without heavy demands in return. It sounded too good not to try. The deadline, however, was mid-September, and to qualify, one had to compete with 240 others from every denomination across the United States and Canada for about 40 grants.

Well, I thought, someone has to receive the grant, and it wouldn't be me if I didn't try. This meant more pressures and another deadline, with time growing short. The literature was very clear - a balanced sabbatical proposal was essential. At the very least, I supposed, this will help me to hone my plans yet further.

At the end of September, it was finally confirmed that I had been accepted into the seminar, travelling between Cape Town and Johannesburg for three weeks in January.

Meanwhile, at Church House, I buttonholed anyone who had been to or was going to South Africa. On the bus and subway to and from work, and whenever I could find a moment to sit, I would read about South Africa - the biography of Nelson Mandela, the writings of Desmond Tutu, the fiction of Alan Paton. I read about its history, religions, politics, and geography. The more I learned about the effects of colonialism in that country, the more I realized I had to learn about its effects in my own. So I started to read about pre-colonial Canada, about the encounter between Aboriginal peoples and Europeans. And I started to think about my own racial and ethnic origins. The journey of discovery was beginning already.

On a more practical level, I started to look in every luggage store I passed. I browsed through catalogues that sold travel clothes and backpacks. I agonized about what to take and what not to take for a four-month trip to two continents and two climates. I practised packing, and kept putting things in and taking things out. I made list after list - itinerary, budget, financial arrangements, household instructions.

In the end, my sabbatical has taken on a somewhat different shape from my original dream, and yet I see that it contains the essence of what I had hoped for - travel in Europe and beyond, a structured learning experience in South Africa, time for prayer and solitude, time for rest and recreation with friends. Here's the outline:

November: Fly to London, stay with friends, travel through England, Scotland, and Wales with a Britrail pass. Visit people and projects that are models of local mission. With luck, visit Whitby on the feast of St. Hilda. Spend a few days at Iona.

December: Make a 30-day retreat at Bede House, in Tunbridge, Kent. Spend Christmas with the sisters.

January: Fly to Cape Town, South Africa. Stay with a friend for the first week. Join the travel seminar group from the Episcopal Divinity School and travel with them to Johannesburg.

February: Stop in Paris. Rent a car and drive to Strasbourg, where another friend has a place overlooking a millstream. Use this time for writing, resting, eating, and socializing.

Is the schedule too full? Perhaps. Yet a wise friend assured me that when I am part way through a 30-day silent retreat, I won't feel over-programmed! And I don't begrudge defining some of the content and focus of my time in order to qualify for the sabbatical grants. At the same time, it was a good thing that I was required to seek balance in my plans - it seems to me that there's a nice combination of travel and retreat, study and vacation.

It is the eve of my departure, and coincidentally, Hallowe'en. For me, I feel that is the eve of a hallowed time in my life. The effort to make space has been enormous, and I confess I am tired out from the preparations, both at home and at work. Yet I am amazed that I am feeling some benefits of the sabbatical already - a sense of excitement, rejuvenation, of consolidating the parts of my life into a restful whole.

Maylanne Maybee is a staff member with the Partnerships department of General Synod.

As I learned more about the Eastern liturgy, I found out that this part of the service was the prayer of the faithful. The deacon would take his stole between thumb and forefinger and wave it before the iconostasis, in imitation of the seraph before the throne of the Most High. The experience did not convert me to Orthodoxy (as it did some), but it did draw me deeply to the diaconate, and to intercessory prayer.

It was in this orthodox phase of my life that I was introduced to Archbishop Anthony Bloom, who wrote about prayer. I was struck by his observation of how people would heap one need after the other onto God's shoulders just as long as Evensong lasts, then leave the service elevated by a new emotion, as if freed from any further responsibility.

He often told the story of Natalie, which took place in 1919, at the height of the civil war in Russia. A woman with two children was trapped in a city that had fallen to the Red Army. Her husband was a White Army officer, and she had been targeted by the enemy to be shot. Natalie, who had no children, offered to stay behind and take the young mother's place, knowing that she was also taking on her fate.

Natalie interceded for the young mother in the deepest sense, by stepping into her shoes, and accepting certain death.

I learned from this about the solemnity and the cost of intercessory prayer. I began to see it as an expression of service or diakonia, when we willingly set aside our own agenda and take on the needs of others. Of course, none of us can act directly on everything we pray for, nor can we assume that our prayer alone will change a situation. At the heart of all prayer, there is a mystery—why do some for whom we pray die, while others heal? We do not know what strange alchemy makes some things happen and others not.

In public intercession, there is a temptation to say too much. Often, I find the prayers of the people are lengthy, florid outpourings or self-righteous sermons, giving God—or the congregation -- exact instructions for handling every situation. Good intercessions invite the faithful to pray to God and act themselves for the people and things that are named.

Another deacon, Ormonde Plater, offers these guidelines for leading the prayers of the people:

Pray for the church, the world, the nation, the community, the suffering, and the dead. If we cover only a few categories, or pray for the same ones every Sunday, we risk losing perspective, becoming too inward looking, or seeing only what's out there and not what's on our own doorstep.

Make the prayers general, using restraint with specific names and local concerns. If specific needs and intentions are announced before the biddings, this allows people to centre themselves and to add their own intentions aloud or in silence.

Remember that intercessions are primarily prayers for relieving needs, fulfilling hopes, and remedying concerns. Prayers of praise, or thanksgivings for birthdays, anniversaries, or accomplishments have their place in other parts of the service or gathering.

Use short, easy to follow biddings such as For [person or concerns] or That [intention,] or a combination: For [person or concerns], that [intention,] ending with a cue such as let us pray to the Lord.

Use responses that are brief, uniform, and easy to remember.

The role of the leader is to address the people who do the actual praying. Leave them space to do that! When the leader reminds people of topics and asks them to pray, he or she is acting as a herald (a diaconal function), and the people pray the intercessions through silence or responses.

Intercession—stepping into the shoes of others—is part of the life work, literally, the liturgy, of all baptized Christians. It is corporate prayer, offered for the church, the world, and the nations, not just private bedtime prayers for friends and family. The Anglican tradition may not be to chant deeply, wave stoles, or bow before an iconostasis. And, God willing, we may never be called to take the place of someone marked for execution. Yet when we lead or participate in the Prayers of the People, we can become more deeply aware of the solemnity and cost of what we ask, and of Whom we are asking it. And we can leave the service, elevated by a new courage to change the world and be changed ourselves, into what is possible and desirable for God.

This May, I led a retreat for a wonderful group of deacons-to-be in the diocese of British Columbia, attended a consultation on the diaconate in Brasilia, and took part in the opening eucharist of General Synod in Montreal. I also celebrated 20 years of being a deacon. What a range of opportunities and adventures!

But the highlight of the month was the oppor-tunity to accompany Siméa de Souza Meldrum, an international partner from the diocese of Recife of the Episcopal Anglican Church of Brazil, on her visit to Canada just prior to and during General Synod. She is an exceptional person of faith, courage, and wisdom, who, as much as anyone I've ever met, exemplifies what I've been trying to say to people about diaconal ministry or servant leadership.

I began the retreat for deacons-to-be with a quote by Bishop Joseph Barber Lightfoot in an ordination address first given in 1883 for "Deacons Only."

He asked: "This office of the diaconate - what is it? What is its purpose, what is its character, what are its functions? What change will it make in my thoughts, in my habits, in my manner of life? What shall I be tomorrow that I am not today? What shall I do tomorrow that I am not required to do today?"

The questions have changed little since then. Today, when I speak to groups about the diaconate, the questions I am asked most frequently are: "What do deacons do? What makes their ministry any different from lay ministry? Why should we ordain deacons?"

I believe there are good theological answers to these questions. The purpose of the diaconate is to provide a particular kind of leadership for the people of God. What is confusing is that from about the fourth century on, it has been reduced to a kind of novitiate for ordained ministry, a six-month to one-year apprenticeship before being priested. However, a more recent movement seeks to restore the diaconate as a full and equal order within the church's threefold ministry, alongside the episcopate and presbyterate. In this view, each order makes a distinctive contribution to the church's life and leadership: bishops promote the unity, catholicism, and ecumenism of the church at the diocesan level; presbyters gather the local community of faith for worship, fellowship, and learning; deacons exemplify the servant ministry of Christ and mobilize the people of God into service.

The character of the office of deacon can be seen in the action of the servants in the story of the wedding at Cana (John 2:1-11). When they filled the jars with water, they acted with faith, yet in a direct and practical way that was both sensitive to the needs of the community, and responsive to the voice of Jesus. Though hidden and unrecognized, their role was transformative rather than servile. The character of the office of deacon can also be seen when Jesus washed the feet of the twelve. It was a concrete gesture of hospitality, but also a symbolic action performed to inspire and motivate his disciples to do the same.

The functions of the deacon, according to the BAS and also found in the BCP, are to set an example of service to all people, especially the most vulnerable, to interpret their needs and hopes to the church, to assist the bishop or priest in public worship. The deacon's role in the eucharist is a reflection of the deacon's ministry in the world: to announce the good news, invite prayers and response for those in need, prepare the table and clear up afterwards, dismiss the people. The actions are both practical and symbolic, serving as a reminder of what all Christians are called to be and do by their baptism.

The reason we ordain deacons is the same reason we ordain bishops and presbyters - to invite the strength of the Spirit, the recognition of the church, and the support of the people of God for their ministry.

While I believe it's important to become clear about the diaconate in relation to the other orders, and in relation to the ministry of the laity, I think the practical issues are even more important. Whether or not we call them deacons, the church needs dedicated leaders to inspire us to live out the servanthood of Christ in the world, especially as he makes himself known in "the least of these, my brothers and sisters" - those who are hungry, thirsty, a stranger, naked, and in prison.

It occurred to me, as I was going through my springtime experiences, that the life and ministry of Siméa de Souza Meldrum go a long way toward demonstrating the kind of leadership I'm talking about. Though a priest herself, her ministry is truly diaconal in the sense of being a sacramental sign of the servanthood of Christ.

Siméa achieved minor fame as the "star" of the Anglican video, I Live in the Garbage Dump. Those who have seen the video know the story, how one day she made a visit to the Olinda garbage dump with her youth group, and found that people not only worked but actually lived in the garbage, raised their children there, drew water, collected and ate food from the garbage.

When it was learned that a woman had mistakenly eaten human flesh - surgery waste was illegally dumped by a local hospital - thinking it was animal meat, an international scandal broke out. The media attention that followed embarrassed city authorities and private citizens into action. The result was housing for the most destitute families of the dump, more regulated garbage disposal practices, and the eventual conversion of the facility into a biological waste disposal plant.

Modest about role

Siméa is very modest about her role in this remarkable story. On her first visit, a man who was drunk offered her a ring and asked her never to leave. She felt in this gesture a deep sense of call. Even though she had no idea how to help, and even though she experienced disgust and fear, she remained steadfast. She told others what she had seen, looked about for solutions, accepted and acted on suggestions she thought would work.

At one point, she was asked to serve as a mediator between the company under contract to develop a biological waste processing plant on the site, and the people who depended on the garbage dump for their livelihood and housing. The company was in a hurry, and just wanted them out. She shared her dilemma about the future of the garbage dump dwellers with Missio, a group of Anglicans from around the world who were meeting in Recife. They signed a letter with their names and countries from which they came, asking that the garbage dump residents be moved into decent housing.

It worked! A few weeks later, Siméa received a phone call from the mayor of Olinda, offering land and materials for 120 families.

Today, everyone who once lived at the dump has been relocated to their own housing. Some are working in a recycling co-op. The community has started its own church, the Living Waters mission, complete with wardens and parish council. A new beginning. A resurrection community.

Getting dirty

This, I believe, is why the church needs to reclaim diaconal ministry. For the real question is not whether we have deacons but rather whether we can learn to practise diaconal ministry in the way that Siméa exemplifies.

The word diakonia, I'm told, means literally "through the dust." It describes work that has to do with getting dirty, with creating paths through new territory so others can follow.

In the BAS, the ordinal says about deacons that they are "to serve all people, particularly the poor, the weak, the sick and the lonely." It says they are to "interpret to the church the needs, concerns, and hopes of the world." It also says they are to serve "directly under the authority of their bishop."

Modern scholarship suggests that the diakonoi (ministers, servants, or more technically, deacons) in the early church were not just table waiters who did humble service. Rather, they had more of an ambassadorial function as agents, messengers and attendants for the episkopoi, or bishops, who had oversight of the well-being of the whole community.

Siméa's ministry among the dump dwellers of Olinda provides a very clear picture of diaconal ministry that includes both service and agency, with elements of both compassion and transformation.

When Siméa accepted the ring from the drunken man, she committed herself to those people and that work. There was stability and permanence to her relationship with them. She didn't just bring food and clothing and leave. On that first visit she had them stand in a circle and join hands, then quoted from a passage from Acts: "I have no silver or gold, but what I have I give you: in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk!" It was an expression of hope and faith.

She went back to her congregation and "made a loud noise" about what she had seen until someone responded. A member of her parish who worked as a television journalist broke the story and attracted worldwide attention. I think this is what it means to "interpret to the church the needs, concerns, and hopes of the world."

Siméa didn't work alone. When reporters from CNN and journalists from major newspapers appeared at her door, she called her bishop and asked what to do. He said, "Go and speak to them." So there was support and accountability for her ministry.

When she served as the go-between for the waste disposal company, and brought the letter to them from the Anglicans meeting for Missio, she was really acting in the interests of the garbage dump dwellers. Her own integrity was the catalyst that mobilized a positive response. Thus, being an entrusted messenger between different groups is a diaconal action, but one that assumes a preference for the most vulnerable.

I believe that a renewed diaconate will help point to the preferential and focused action of a diaconal community sent forth to serve all people, especially "the poor, the weak, the sick and the lonely," as distinct from the gathering, inclusive action of a priestly community. Anglicans process, assemble, sing, pray, and make eucharist very well indeed. What if we had deacons to make commitments, tell stories, relate needs, and send us out like Siméa did? What if this ministry was open to young people and other people of vision seeking to put their idealism into practice?

Bishop Lightfoot's questions are important. They need to be asked not only of deacons and theological students on the eve of their ordination, but more importantly of the whole people of God on the eve of a new millennium. If our church is to be a mission, servant people, and not just an assembled, surviving people, we need to take on the purpose, character, and functions of servant leadership, of diakonia that takes us "through the dust."

We need to commit ourselves to seeking out those whom our world rejects and forgets, to remain faithful in our quest to make a difference in their lives and ours. We need to interpret what we see to our parishes and church committees, to invite response, to mediate between the sectors and interests of our society, always maintaining a preference for the most vulnerable. And we need to find support and accountability within our structures and relationships to lift up this kind of work.

This is what gets me excited when I talk about the ministry of being a deacon, and what I hope will offer more adventure to me for the next 20 years, and more direction to the church for the year 2000 and beyond.