Deacons: Seventh Word: Sent

The Seventh Word — Sent

Morning breaks pale and cool.

The suitcases are zipped,

cassocks folded with trembling hands.

The ordination is hours away.

The six gather once more

in the retreat house lounge.

Steam from mugs,

bags stacked by the door.

The air is thick with nerves.

The old priest enters quietly,

an envelope in each hand.

He smiles, lines deep in his face.

“These are my letters to you,”

he says softly.

“Words for today,

and for the days to come.”

One by one,

he presses them into their hands.

Paper, weightless—

yet heavy with love.

The planter opens his first.

Inside:

The deacon journeys with seekers,

hungry for faith they cannot name.

Walk beside them,

until they find their rest in Him.

The wounded one reads slowly:

Some long for forgiveness,

others for freedom,

others for a new identity.

Stay close.

Share Jesus, who came not to be served

but to serve,

and to give his life as ransom for many.

The quiet one unfolds his letter:

At the table of the Eucharist,

you will serve bread and wine.

It is holy mystery—

communion with Christ Himself.

Offer it with awe,

with tenderness,

with joy.

The one who doesn’t fit the mould finds:

Go to the sick,

to the housebound,

to those forgotten.

Carry Christ to them.

Prefer the margins.

Bring hope where the world

has left none.

The words sink deep.

Each holds the letter as if it burns.

The priest clears his throat.

“You will proclaim the gospel inside and out.

You will pray,

you will break bread,

you will sit by bedsides.

It is not pomp.

It is not prestige.

It is service.

Never forget—

once a deacon, always a deacon.

Even should you wear mitre or cope,

the call of Christ the servant

still rests on you.”

He blesses them,

voice low,

hands trembling slightly.

⸻

The minibus waits outside.

They climb in,

bags loaded,

letters tucked into pockets.

The road winds to the city.

Stone towers rise.

The cathedral gleams in morning light.

Crowds gather.

Robes swirl.

Trumpets echo.

The organ thunders.

Pomp.

Procession.

Incense curling to the rafters.

And there,

by a side door,

stands the old priest.

He does not wear a cope,

nor lift a staff.

He only nods,

smiles,

and whispers as they pass:

“Praying for you.”

⸻

They go forward.

They kneel.

Hands are laid.

Voices speak ancient words.

They rise—

changed.

No longer just six ordinands,

but deacons.

Servants.

The great doors open.

The crowd spills out,

the bells peal,

the city bustles.

Yet beneath the grandeur

they carry something quieter:

the memory of Christ who knelt to wash feet,

the stole placed crosswise on their shoulder—

sign of the servant,

the diagonal yoke of Christ—

and a diaconal call that endures,

even should mitre rest on their head:

to serve in forgotten corners,

to make Christ visible,

to be cracked vessels

pouring out living water.

These reflections/poems are from Rev John Swales, MBE, who is mission priest for the Lighthouse project in Leeds (placements for deacons are offered there!). In Lent this year I published here a series of his meditations on diaconal ministry https://cofedeacons.org/2025/03/11/herald-of-christs-kingdom/