A Byzantine church had been built at the entrance to the area. A later structure has succeeded its ruin, but parts of its floor remain with beautiful and intricate mosaics. I used up my time looking at the mosaics, but one of my colleagues ventured further, down to the grassy slope where the miraculous extension of the loaves and fishes is supposed by some to have occurred. There he found a sign that said, No picnics.

I tell this story because it is not uncommon for innovation and reform to result in a new rigidity that quite distorts their intent. Jesus ate and drank across economic, religious, and social boundaries, perhaps even on a dramatically large scale, and a later generation of tidy park-keepers have placed the putative location of his gesture off-limits to those who would eat and drink together.

In the eighth century the Carolingians imported the austere and succinct Roman rite to northern Europe as part of their policy of unification of a new and holy Roman Empire. Local practices, with their variety and ornamentation, were suppressed. But two centuries later when the Roman church had become decadent and the Ottonians sought to restore it from northern models, what came back to Rome was filled with Gallican intrusions, many of which were not cleaned out until the Second Vatican Council in the middle of this century.

Anglicans have not been immune to this pattern. The rubrics of the first Prayer Book of 1549 take for granted the continuation of the eucharist as the principal act of worship on Sundays, but with a communicating congregation of all clergy present and representatives (at least) of the laity. They also infer a return (where necessary) to a full pattern of Sunday morning worship: morning prayer, litany, and a single celebration of the eucharist.

Cranmer had not reckoned with the conservatism of traditional piety. The resistance of many lay people to regular reception of communion for reasons of exaggerated sacramental reverence led to a decline in the frequency of eucharistic celebration where the requisite number of lay participants could not be found. Morning Prayer, intended to be the first movement in a Sunday morning symphony of worship (a model that continues in the East), became in many places the central act of worship by default. The very rules that were meant to enforce both/and became the cause of either/or, leading to a tension that has been a thorn in the Anglican side ever since.

We are ourselves in the midst of a not dissimilar period of liturgical ferment, of which the Book of Alternative Services is only one visible token. As someone who has spent most of his life in that ferment, I cannot help asking what well-founded policies we have embraced that will, in the long run, have bizarre effects.

Some have begun to appear already. In keeping with the spirit of a General Synod resolution adopted in 1971, the Book of Alternative Services was conceived as a guide to a much more flexible approach to liturgy. This was never meant to encourage the notion that the field of liturgy is devoid of valid rules and structure (even if they are not absolute), nor that every point of flexibility must be stretched to the utmost conclusion to which it can be carried, but something like that is in danger of happening. Let me illustrate.

The rubrics in the Book of Alternative Services were intended to foster a concept of the liturgy as a truly corporate act in which there are many roles and functions. This had been true of our first 1549 Prayer Book, but in 1552 the tradition turned in a much more clerical direction in which almost everything was done by the priest with a few congregational responses. The Book of Alternative Services frequently identifies functions that may be performed by a deacon or by lay people as assistants or when conducting a liturgy of the word, and roles such as taking communion to the sick, which had been unnecessarily restricted to clergy. This expansion of functions has, however, been interpreted in some quarters as a mandatory dismantling of traditional church order.

I have twice attended eucharistic celebrations where everything (including the first half of the eucharistic prayer) was performed by vested lay readers. This reduces the role of the ordained leader to magic and the narrative of the last supper to an incantation recited by a wizard. The compilers of the Book of Alternative Services did not intend to undermine church order, just as Alcuin did not intend to subvert the Roman rite. We do not know what time bombs we leave behind.

It is against this background that I renounce the temptation to stand at the end of a millennium and predict where Anglican liturgy will go. Millennial forecasting is futile because the future is bound to bring the unexpected. There is, however, a ray of positive light in all of this. John Keble said, "God never lets us know the result of our actions, and in one way that keeps us humble, and in another it keeps us hopeful." The question is not what will happen? but what goals and guidelines will keep us more or less on track?

First of all, we have to remind ourselves as often as possible that the liturgical movement is essentially a theological movement. It is about the church as a corporate body with a common mission: to illuminate the way to the re-making of humanity in the model of Jesus Christ, his wisdom, his justice, his compassion, his subversion of the accepted values of self-interest, his love.

Insofar as the liturgical movement is reactive, it seeks to correct a piety expressed in individualism rather than sharing, guilt rather than liberation, political stability rather than social transformation. Biblically, the liturgical movement is rooted in the first word of the Lord's Prayer: Our (not My), and the destiny we are called to share together. It is rooted in Acts 2.42 and the notion of people held together by common teaching, by the bonds of social relationship, by the ritual action of sharing bread (at once a gift of creation and the sign of new being), and by common prayer. It is rooted in Ephesians 4.11-13 and the notion of a harmony of different gifts that combine "to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, until all of us come ... to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ." It is rooted in 1 Peter 2.9-10 and the notion that the nobodies who have chosen to follow the way of Jesus are, in fact, "a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God's own people." The liturgical movement is based on the idea that we should fashion our worship so that it will embed this vision within us.

A second goal for our liturgy is to be comprehensive, not only in terms of traditional tensions between conservatives and liberals, evangelicals and catholics, but in terms of different types of human personality and consequently of spiritual need. I find this tension running through myself. I recognize that I am a theologian of community, and yet I am a loner rather than a joiner, happy to be on the edge rather than at the centre of activity. I worry sometimes that we are in danger of creating a church only for extroverts, where more solitary people will feel unwelcome.

St. Benedict, in his Rule, said that an abbot should "so temper all things that the strong may still have something to long after, and the weak may not draw back in alarm." Without attempting to define strong and weak for myself or anyone else, I suggest that this counsel of accommodation is no mere compromise but is a principle of creative dialectics that must be played out in our theology, our worship, in the whole fabric of our pastoral care.

Finally, we must constantly remind ourselves that all our worship is about the reign of God. Our liturgy of the word must always be informed by the teaching ministry of Jesus with its good news for the poor and the broken and its provocative challenge to the established order of ideas and power. Our liturgy of the sacrament must always be informed by Jesus' table fellowship with marginalized and alienated people. I believe this means that we must craft our texts and design our liturgical events so that they open the door to new visions of the reign of God already among us (and not only to our own ready-made visions), so that they set people free rather than restrict and confine, so that they build people up and fan the flame of the God-given goodness that is already in them. These, I believe, are some of the principles that should shape the theological, pastoral, and biblical agendas of our liturgical future. If we are faithful to them, we will not forbid picnics where Jesus fed the multitude.

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.

In that time I have also spoken and corresponded with clergy across the country on issues of congregational leadership and development.

Based on this experience, here are a few reflections on how the Decade of Evangelism, now entering its eighth year, has influenced the life and thinking of our church and on what the future might hold. These reflect my personal biases, as one who is theologically conservative and liturgically liberal. They may not resonate with your own.

For a long time in much of our church, the Great Commission was (and in many cases still is) the Great Omission. The very word "evangelism" had fallen on hard times and developed a bad reputation. Many were reluctant even to use the word, let alone think about how to do it.

Perhaps one of the most significant contributions of the Decade has been that it has pulled evangelism out of the shadows and forced us to talk and think about it. As we have been able to think about many of the stereotypes associated with it, and to explore some of the reasons why we feel culturally and theologically intimidated by it, the word has experienced a certain rehabilitation.

There has also been a greater acceptance that evangelism is a ministry in its own right. No longer does the word evoke the automatic response: "Everything we do is evangelism." There is awareness, to be sure, that the other ministries of the church will do much to affect the integrity and effectiveness of our evangelistic efforts, but the ministry itself - getting the story out and inviting outsiders in - is not so frequently confused with or identified with these other ministries.

Likewise, this intentional focus on evangelism has provided us with the incentive to once again ask some of the very basic questions of ministry. Why do we do what we do? Why do we do it the way we do? Who are we? What does it mean to be the "people of God"? What does God expect of the church? What does faithfulness mean, and what does it look like?

At the beginning of the Decade, the Archbishop of Canterbury suggested that many parishes would be well advised to have no other agenda for a full year than to teach, think and reflect about what it means to be the church. He was exactly right. The Decade has provided an opportunity to bring these questions back onto the parish agenda and many congregations have done so. Many more should.

In a way, the Decade has provided an opportunity to test the pulse of the church. Congregations and clergy asking questions like, "How can we be more effective in reaching outsiders?" have been forced to ask much deeper questions, such as, "Do we have a faith worth sharing?" "Do we have a church worth inviting people into?" "What are we offering of genuine value?" Congregations that are asking these difficult and sometimes painful questions are on the way to a more effective future.

These questions have also led to new realizations about the changing context of our ministry. The "maintenance/mission" terminology has become part of our everyday vocabulary.

We speak of "post-Christendom" and "post-modernity," understanding that culture no longer leads people into our churches. The Judeo-Christian narrative no longer has a monopoly on the spiritual and ethical formation of Canadians.

These realizations present a stimulating challenge to the church, but they are also the source of much frustration and (in some cases) despair. More and more clergy are becoming aware that they have been prepared for ministry in a social and cultural context that no longer exists. They are given a good foundation in biblical and theological studies, and even, to various degrees, helped to develop certain skills for ministry. But they are given little help in practical and essential issues such as how to read culture, how to name and address its false gods, how to connect with people for whom the church has no meaning, how to lead people into a vital faith, and how to discipline them towards spiritual maturity and equip them for ministry in the church and the world.

Many para-church organizations are offering conferences and seminars on these issues, but most do not really understand the Anglican church from the inside out. There is a crying need for more "home-grown" help in this area, from those who have actually done this work effectively while bearing the weight and responsibility of congregational leadership.

Where these resources are provided there is generally an enthusiastic response, as clergy and congregations seek to equip themselves to develop more effective ministries. Unfortunately, in some cases, repeated disappointment and discouragement leads to a negative response to these challenges. This sometimes takes the form of denial and sometimes of cynicism.

Some choose to convince themselves that the church is having a hard time because the call to Christian discipleship is so costly. Undoubtedly, discipleship is costly, but many declining congregations are not really calling anybody to sacrificial discipleship; they are simply ineffective in connecting with people, and will eventually disappear if they don't face up to this.

For those who have become cynical in ministry, my heart breaks, and my deepest hope is that we might be able to offer practical help that would assist them to reclaim joy in ministry.

One of the major challenges for the immediate future remains that of continuing to develop a distinctly Anglican style of evangelism that will not only respect the dignity of those we seek to reach, but also engage them with an informed and articulate explanation of the Gospel and a sensitive invi-tation to join up with the people of God and learn to follow Christ.

This will involve improving our discipleship training methods in congregations, developing more celebrative styles of worship and equipping our people to share their faith in culturally sensitive ways. It will involve teaching clearly about the evangelistic imperative that is at the heart of the Gospel, and helping congregations to understand that tolerance and pluralism do not mean remaining silent about our convictions. Rather, tolerance means explaining our convictions clearly and sharing them in an invitational way.

This represents a formidable challenge. It's a good thing that Lambeth decided on a Decade of Evangelism rather than just a year or two. But the Decade is really a decade of preparation for evangelism. Our learnings from this decade will prepare us for effective ministry in the next century. At least, that is the hope and that is my prayer.