Jean Khoury

Summary: The permanent deacon occupies a distinctive and essential place in the Church’s ordained ministry, understood not as a subordinate role of practical service divorced from the Word, but as a sacramental configuration to Christ the servant whose mission centres on Gospel faithfulness, deep scriptural learning, and prophetic teaching. This article retrieves and develops this integral vision through an examination of four paradigmatic figures—Stephen, Philip, Saint Ephrem of Syra, and Saint Francis of Assisi—while arguing that Lectio Divina stands as the foundational practice that must animate the deacon’s entire vocation. The deacon is not first an administrator or functionary; he is a herald of the Gospel whose primary mission is to be saturated in Scripture through Lectio Divina, to live the Gospel with radical fidelity, and to teach and interpret it for the building up of the Church. Against reductive interpretations that confine diaconal ministry to charitable administration, this study demonstrates that the deacon must be an expert in Lectio Divina, a man in whom the Word of God dwells richly, whose interior conversion precedes and authenticates all external ministry, and whose life becomes a living proclamation of Gospel truth. The four exemplary figures examined here illuminate distinct dimensions of this vocational integrity: Stephen demonstrates scriptural courage unto martyrdom; Philip shows the deep pedagogical interpretation of Scripture; Ephrem reveals how comprehensive biblical knowledge flowers in theological wisdom; and Francis embodies the radical living of the Gospel ‘sine glossa’ (without dilution). Their witness converges on a single truth: the deacon’s faithfulness to the Gospel depends first on his commitment to Lectio Divina as the primary means of transformation.

Introduction

The permanent diaconate in the Catholic Church has experienced renewed attention since its restoration by the Second Vatican Council. Yet contemporary discussions of diaconal identity often remain constrained by a reductive reading of Acts 6:2, wherein the apostles declare: ‘It is not right that we should give up preaching the word of God to serve tables.’ This text has been weaponised in some quarters to define the deacon’s role narrowly as one of practical, material service—a sort of ecclesiastical administrative functionary. Such a reading, however, truncates the actual scriptural witness and the living tradition of the Church. More critically, it obscures what must be the deacon’s primary mission: to be a man of Lectio Divina, whose deep, contemplative engagement with Scripture is the wellspring from which all authentic Gospel proclamation and witness flows.

The narrative of Acts itself refutes this confinement. Stephen and Philip, who emerge from the Seven chosen in Acts 6, immediately demonstrate a ministry far transcending ‘tables.’ Stephen engages in powerful scriptural testimony and signs; Philip becomes an evangelist and teacher of profound depth. The Second Vatican Council’s articulation in ‘Lumen Gentium’ places the deacon within a threefold ministry: ‘Strengthened by sacramental grace, in communion with the bishop and his group of priests, they serve the People of God in the ministry of the liturgy, of the word, and of charity’ (LG 29). The Word is not peripheral or secondary; it is constitutive. Yet for the Word to be truly operative through the deacon, it must first dwell in him richly, transformed and received through the discipline of Lectio Divina.

This article proposes that the deacon is fundamentally a herald of the Gospel, and that this vocation begins and is sustained by a rigorous commitment to Lectio Divina—that ancient practice of reading Scripture with listening ears, allowing the Word to critique, convert, and transform the reader himself. Before the deacon can proclaim the Gospel to others, he must allow it to work upon himself. Before he can teach Scripture, he must be remade by it. Before he can witness to the transformative power of Christ, he must embody that transformation in his own life. This is not an additional spiritual practice appended to his diaconal ministry; it is the essential foundation upon which all else rests. To substantiate this claim, we shall examine four exemplary figures whose lives and ministries illuminate distinct dimensions of the diaconal vocation: Stephen, whose scriptural depth and martyrial courage establish the deacon as a man of the Word willing to suffer for its truth; Philip, whose pedagogical engagement with Scripture demonstrates how the Gospel must be explained and interpreted at its deepest levels; Saint Ephrem, whose vast scriptural knowledge and theological poetry witness to the deacon as one whose mind has been saturated in the mysteries of revelation; and Saint Francis, whose commitment to Gospel living ‘sine glossa’ (without gloss or dilution) embodies the deacon’s vocation to make that Word alive and operative in concrete existence. Each of these figures, in their own way, exemplifies the primacy of Gospel faithfulness and the deep scriptural learning that comes from sustained engagement with the Word of God.

Lectio Divina: The Deacon’s Primary Mission

Before examining the exemplary figures who illumine the diaconal vocation, we must establish the foundational practice that animates their entire lives: Lectio Divina. This ancient monastic practice, recovered and emphasised by the Church in recent decades (especially since the New Lectionary in December 1969), is not a specialised technique for contemplatives alone. It is, for the ordained minister—and preeminently for the deacon—the indispensable means by which the Word of God becomes his interior transformation and the source of his apostolic fruitfulness.

According to the Gospel, Lectio Divina unfolds in two movements: 1- Listening and 2- Putting into Practice. In lectio, one reads slowly, attentively, listening for the Word that God wishes to speak. It is not academic study, though study has its place; it is rather a humble, receptive posture before Scripture. The Word is turned over in the mind and heart, allowed to resonate, to critique, to illuminate one’s own situation and spiritual state. All Lectio is Prayer and asking for the Help of the Holy Spirit: “Jesus, tell me what do you want from me today”. By putting into practise what the Lord says we allow the Word to work its transformation silently and deeply. These two movements form an organic rhythm that invites the whole person—mind, heart, will, and spirit—into living communion with the Risen Lord through His Word.

For the permanent deacon, Lectio Divina must be the primary spiritual practice that anchors his entire life and ministry. This is not a counsel of perfection for exceptional individuals; it is a requirement for the integrity of the diaconal vocation itself. Why? Because the deacon is ordained to be a herald of the Gospel. He is entrusted with the proclamation of the Word in the liturgy; he is called to interpret Scripture for the people; he is mandated to make the Gospel operative in the life of the Church. Yet these external ministrations ring hollow and empty if they do not proceed from a man who has himself been transformed by the Word. The deacon cannot be an instrument of transformation for others while remaining unchanged himself.

St. Paul writes to the Colossians: ‘Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom by means of psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts’ (Colossians 3:16). This passage encapsulates the deacon’s vocation. The Word must dwell in him richly—not superficially known, not merely studied as a professional discipline, but inhabiting the deepest chambers of his being. This rich indwelling comes about through Lectio Divina: through the patient, repeated, prayerful engagement with Scripture that allows the Living Word, the Risen Lord, to reshape one’s understanding, desires, and actions. Only when the Word dwells in a man richly can he teach and admonish others with genuine authority. Only when he has been remade by the Gospel can he proclaim it authentically.

The permanent deacon must therefore become an expert in Lectio Divina. This means not only that he practices it regularly for his own spiritual nourishment, but that he understands it deeply, can guide others into it, and can articulate its essential elements and fruits. He should be capable of teaching his family, his parish community, and those he encounters how to engage in Lectio Divina, how to listen to Scripture with an open heart, how to allow the Word to convert and transform them. This is a core part of his educational mission within the Church.

The deacon should establish a daily practice of Lectio Divina, treating it not as an optional devotion but as essential to his vocation as a priest treats the celebration of the Eucharist. Through this daily engagement with Scripture, he is continuously being formed in Gospel fidelity, continuously having his mind and heart renewed, continuously being given new insights into the mysteries of Christ and the Church. This interior transformation is the necessary ground for all his external ministry. When he proclaims the Gospel in the liturgy, it is a Word that dwells richly in him. When he teaches Scripture or catechesis, it proceeds from a mind immersed in the sacred text. When he witnesses to the Gospel through his charity and his conduct, it is the authentic fruit of a life shaped by the Word of God. This is the foundation upon which everything else stands.

Stephen: The Deacon as Scriptural Prophet and Martyr

Stephen appears in Acts 6 as one of the Seven chosen to address a dispute over the distribution of alms in the early Jerusalem community. The criteria for selection are notable: men ‘full of the Spirit and of wisdom’ (Acts 6:3). Already, the portrait is not one of mere administrators, but of men whose spiritual interiority and wisdom qualify them for a role of responsibility within the community. Yet Stephen is presented with even greater emphasis and particularity than the others. The text declares: ‘Stephen, full of grace and power, did great wonders and signs among the people’ (Acts 6:8). This is the language of apostolic charism, not administrative competence.

The portrait of Stephen presented in Acts reveals a man whose knowledge of Scripture was not merely theoretical. It was a knowledge that had penetrated his entire being through prayer, meditation, and spiritual struggle. When opposition arises against Stephen, the narrative emphasises a capacity inseparable from deep scriptural formation. Acts 6:10 states: ‘They could not withstand the wisdom and the Spirit with which he was speaking.’ This is not the wisdom of clever rhetoric or natural eloquence; it is the ‘wisdom and the Spirit,’ a combination indicating that Stephen’s utterances proceeded from a mind steeped in Scripture and animated by the Holy Spirit. His adversaries, recognising they cannot defeat him in doctrinal argument, resort to false witnesses and ultimately to violence. This tells us something crucial: Stephen’s knowledge of Scripture had made him formidable in witnessing to Gospel truth. He could not be silenced by argument because his testimony was rooted in the living encounter with the God revealed in Scripture.

The climax of Stephen’s witness comes in his extended speech before the Sanhedrin recorded in Acts 7. This discourse is remarkable: it is a comprehensive, Christologically-centered reinterpretation of Israel’s entire history from Abraham through Solomon. Stephen does not merely recount biblical events; he reads them with authority, selecting and interpreting them in light of the saving work of Christ. He traces the pattern of Israel’s resistance to the Holy Spirit, and culminates his testimony with a vision: ‘Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God’ (Acts 7:56). This vision transforms his speech from academic discourse into prophetic witness—he has become a seer, a man to whom the heavens have been opened. This profound scriptural interpretation, animated by the Spirit, demonstrates what it means for the Word to dwell richly in a man. Stephen did not merely know Scripture; he had allowed Scripture to transform his entire vision of reality, so that he could perceive the living Christ within the sacred text and bear witness to Him before those who opposed the Gospel.

Stephen’s ministry culminates in martyrdom. He is dragged outside the city and stoned to death, yet his demeanour remains pastoral and forgiving. ‘Lord, do not hold this sin against them,’ he cries as he dies (Acts 7:60). This final act, echoing the words of Christ on the cross, reveals that Stephen’s diaconal vocation has achieved its consummation: he has not merely preached the Word; he has become conformed to the Word’s deepest meaning—self-gift and intercession for those who kill him. His faithfulness to the Gospel, nurtured through intimate knowledge of Scripture, has made him willing to die rather than deny or dilute the truth of Christ. This is what it means for the Word to work transformatively in a man: it reshapes his will, his affections, and his very willingness to lay down his life.

Stephen thus establishes the deacon as a man whose scriptural knowledge is inseparable from spiritual depth and apostolic courage. He teaches that the diaconal vocation involves not merely the administration of charitable works, but a profound immersion in the word of God—an immersion that comes about through patient, prayerful engagement with Scripture. He demonstrates that Gospel faithfulness requires being willing to stand before civil and religious authorities and declare the Word of God, whatever the cost. The permanent deacon, studying Stephen’s example, must ask himself: Do I know Scripture as Stephen knew it? Is my knowledge animating my entire being, reshaping my values and my will? Am I willing to witness to Gospel truth even when it costs me something? Stephen’s answer to these questions, written in his faithful witness unto death, should inspire every deacon to deepen his engagement with Scripture through Lectio Divina and to allow that Word to remake him continuously.

Philip: The Deacon as Deep Interpreter of Scripture

Philip, likewise one of the Seven, is distinguished from Stephen by what one might call his pedagogical rather than prophetic emphasis. Where Stephen confronts and proclaims with prophetic authority, Philip instructs and guides. Yet this difference is one of style, not of substance: both represent a diaconal ministry deeply rooted in Scripture and devoted to the interpretation and communication of the Gospel. Both men demonstrate that Gospel faithfulness begins with deep scriptural learning, sustained through devoted engagement with the Word.

Philip’s ministry in Acts 8 reveals him as a missionary and evangelist. ‘Philip went down to the city of Samaria and proclaimed to them the Christ’ (Acts 8:5). His proclamation bears fruit: crowds gather, demons are cast out, and the city experiences a visitation of apostolic grace. Yet Philip does not remain among them indefinitely. The Spirit directs him to a different encounter, one that reveals even more profoundly his vocation as a herald and teacher of the Gospel. In this redirection, we see that Philip’s charism is not merely to proclaim but to instruct, to deepen understanding, to guide individuals into encounter with Christ through the interpretation of Scripture.

Philip encounters an Ethiopian eunuch, a court official of Queen Candace, traveling homeward in his chariot. The man is reading the prophet Isaiah aloud. The Spirit prompts Philip to approach the chariot, and what follows is a crucial exchange: ‘Philip heard him reading the prophet Isaiah and asked, ‘Do you understand what you are reading?’ And the reply came, ‘How can I, unless someone guides me?’ So he invited Philip to come up and sit with him’ (Acts 8:30-31). In this simple dialogue lies a theology of scriptural interpretation: Scripture requires a guide, a teacher who can illumine its meaning. Philip is precisely that guide. Notice the intimacy of the encounter: Philip sits with the eunuch, they are face to face, speaking of sacred things. This is the model for how a deacon should engage in teaching Scripture—not from a distance, not in a merely professional manner, but in genuine conversation, bearing witness to the power of the Word to transform.

The text then provides the passage the eunuch is reading: Isaiah 53, the suffering servant song. ‘Beginning with this Scripture, he told him the good news about Jesus’ (Acts 8:35). This is no superficial summary. Philip opens the Scriptures from within—he does not impose an external Christological template but allows the inner logic of Isaiah 53 itself to reveal Christ. The passage speaks of the servant – Jesus – who is oppressed and afflicted, who is led like a lamb to slaughter, who bears the sins of many. Philip helps the eunuch see in these words the portrait of Jesus, not as an allegorical fantasy but as the actual fulfillment of what Isaiah foretold. The eunuch is so moved by this interpretation that he requests baptism immediately. ‘What is to prevent me from being baptised?’ he asks (Acts 8:36). Philip has not merely transmitted information; he has mediated an encounter with the living Christ through a deep, Spirit-guided reading of Scripture. He has practiced, in essence, a form of Lectio Divina with his companion, allowing the Word to resonate, to illuminate, to transform.

The significance of this episode for understanding the diaconal vocation cannot be overstated. Philip demonstrates that the deacon is not a functionary but a teacher, one capable of plumbing the depths of Scripture and drawing out its christological meaning. His focus on Isaiah 53—the prophecy of the suffering servant—reveals that his interpretation is not superficial kerygma but deep theological penetration. He shows the eunuch not merely that Christ exists but how Christ is present within the very texture of the Old Testament revelation. The deacon, in Philip’s model, is one who can say to the Church: ‘You do not understand what you are reading? Let me guide you into its depths. Allow me to show you how Christ illumines every word of Scripture.’ This is teaching in its truest sense—not the transmission of abstract doctrine, but the opening of the living Word of God so that it transforms the hearer’s understanding and moves the heart toward conversion and faith.

Note: Before assisting his brother, Philip had already entered into the mystery described in Isaiah 53: “Who has believed what we have heard? And to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed?” (Isaiah 53:1). This suggests that he had received, at least in germ, the revelation that the Passion is not a contradiction of God’s glory but its manifestation. The glory revealed there is not external splendour, but the depth of divine love disclosed in the suffering Servant. This is precisely the interpretation given by St John: “Isaiah said this because he saw his glory and spoke about him” (John 12:41). In other words, the vision of glory granted to Isaiah finds its fulfilment in the revelation of Christ crucified.

For the permanent deacon, Philip’s example establishes teaching Scripture as a core part of his vocation. He should be capable of standing before a group of believers and opening Scripture in such a way that they encounter Christ living within the text. This requires not merely the ability to cite biblical passages or to reproduce the commentary of scholars—though scholarly tools have their place. It requires that the deacon himself have so internalised Scripture through Lectio Divina that he can speak of the biblical narratives and prophecies with genuine intimacy, as one who knows them not merely as historical documents but as living witnesses to Christ. The permanent deacon should be asking himself: Can I sit down with someone and help them understand Scripture? Can I show them how the Old Testament points to Christ? Can I open the Gospels in such a way that they truly encounter the Lord? These capacities do not come from academic credentials alone; they come from having allowed Scripture to work upon one’s own soul through faithful, patient engagement with the Word.

Philip is later honoured with the title ‘the evangelist’ (Acts 21:8), a designation that recognises his particular charism. His diaconal ministry is not confined to initial proclamation but encompasses the patient, careful work of scriptural instruction—the labor of sitting with someone, listening to their questions, and gradually opening before them the infinite depths of the Word of God. He teaches that diaconal mission involves the kind of tender pedagogy that transforms understanding, that moves a pagan official not merely to intellectual assent but to the waters of baptism and into the communion of the Church. The permanent deacon should aspire to Philip’s example: to be a teacher of Scripture, an evangelist, one capable of mediating the encounter between the living Christ and those who seek Him in the pages of Scripture.

Saint Ephrem of Syra: The Deacon as Doctor of Theological Wisdom

If Stephen embodies the prophetic deacon and Philip the pedagogical deacon, Saint Ephrem of Syra (306-373) represents the deacon as a profound synthesizer of Scripture, one whose immense knowledge of the sacred texts finds expression in theological poetry and hymnography. Though separated from Stephen and Philip by centuries, Ephrem continues their witness by demonstrating that the deacon’s vocation to herald the Gospel extends to the composition and transmission of that proclamation in forms that reach the heart as well as the mind. His entire life was a testimony to the transformative power of Scripture, lived faithfully and taught with depth.

Ephrem was born in the city of Nisibis in Mesopotamia and, like the deacons of Acts, served the Church in a role combining practical responsibility and theological ministry. He is known to have been a deacon of the church at Edessa, and his entire life was consumed by the work of scriptural study, theological composition, and pastoral care. His output was prodigious: hymns, theological poems (called ‘memre’), commentaries on Scripture, and ascetical writings. The Eastern Christian tradition honors him with titles of extraordinary distinction. A traditional hymn describes him as ‘a lyre of the Spirit, sounding forth divine mysteries’; the Church calls him ‘the Harp of the Holy Spirit’; and centuries of Christian witnesses have recognized in him a doctor of the Church whose insights rival those of Augustine, Jerome, and other major theological voices of the patristic age.

What is remarkable about Ephrem’s scriptural knowledge is its comprehensiveness and its spiritual depth. He was not an academic scholar in the modern sense, isolated from the life of the Church; rather, his learning was entirely ordered toward the worship and spiritual transformation of the Christian community. His hymns were sung in the liturgy; his theological compositions were meant to nourish the faith of ordinary believers. Yet they contain profound theological substance. His interpretations of Scripture, while different in method from modern exegesis, demonstrate an extraordinary capacity to see connections across the scriptural text, to draw out typological meaning, and to plumb the mysteries of Christ and the Church. This capacity came from his immersion in Scripture, his willingness to let Scripture speak to him afresh in each reading, his practice of allowing the Word to illuminate his mind and shape his theological vision.

Ephrem exemplifies what it means to be an expert in the study and interpretation of Scripture. But his expertise was not that of the dry academic, accumulating information for its own sake. Rather, it was the fruit of a life devoted to Lectio Divina—to patient, prayerful reading of Scripture, allowing it to reshape his understanding and to guide his theological vision. He meditated on Scripture continuously, turned it over in his mind and heart, allowed it to speak to him in ever-new ways. From this interior transformation came his ability to teach others, to compose hymns that make the truths of Scripture memorable and movable, to interpret the sacred text in ways that illumine both the mind and the soul.

Ephrem’s diaconal ministry shows that the deacon’s vocation to herald the Gospel is not confined to explicit preaching or catechetical instruction. It extends to the contemplation and artistic transmission of Scripture through the whole spectrum of ecclesiastical and theological expression. When he composed his hymns and memre, Ephrem was not engaging in a private spiritual practice; he was fulfilling his diaconal commission to make the Word operative and transformative in the Church. His theological poetry was a way of proclaiming the Gospel—not in the form of an apostolic speech addressed to a listening crowd, but in the form of verses that could be memorised, sung, and internalised, so that Scripture might ‘dwell in the Church richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom’ (Colossians 3:16). Every time a believer sang an Ephrem hymn, they were receiving scriptural instruction, being moved toward conversion, being shaped in their understanding of Gospel truth.

Ephrem’s example also illuminates an often-overlooked dimension of the diaconal vocation: the deacon as a man of profound knowledge, not merely of Scripture in its literal sense, but of Scripture in its theological and spiritual depths. The early Church’s characterisation of the seven deacons as men ‘full of the Spirit and of wisdom’ did not mean superficial learning; it meant the kind of wisdom that produces genuine spiritual fruit. Ephrem embodied this wisdom. His vast knowledge of Scripture was not hoarded but made fruitful; it became the source of teaching, healing, and spiritual formation for countless believers across generations. He demonstrates that the permanent deacon should not apologize for being learned; rather, he should ensure that his learning serves always the building up of the Church in love and truth.

For the permanent deacon, Ephrem’s example shows that deep study of Scripture—pursued through faithful Lectio Divina and supported by sound scholarly tools—is not a diversion from pastoral ministry but its very foundation. Without putting the Word of Christ into practice, one does not truly come to know him. As the Lord himself teaches, “Whoever has my commandments and keeps them is the one who loves me” (John 14:21). Knowledge of Christ, in the biblical sense, arises from obedient reception and lived assimilation of his Word. The deacon should continually deepen his knowledge of the scriptural text. He should read the commentaries of the Fathers. He should study the historical and cultural context in which Scripture was composed. He should learn the original languages if possible. But all of this study must be animated by prayer, by the desire to know Christ more intimately through the Word, by the intention to make that knowledge fruitful for the building up of the Church. The deacon becomes a teacher when he has internalised Scripture so thoroughly that it becomes his native language, his lens for understanding reality, his guide for pastoral action.

The deacon who studies Ephrem’s example learns that his vocation to herald the Gospel may take forms far more varied than modern ecclesiology sometimes imagines. Ephrem shows that the deacon can be a theologian, a poet, a teacher, a contemplative, and a guide to others in their own spiritual reading of Scripture. He demonstrates that the Word, when it dwells richly in the deacon, will naturally overflow in forms suited to the time and the gifts received. The permanent deacon should ask himself: What are the gifts God has given me to teach and proclaim Scripture? Can I write? Can I compose liturgical texts? Can I create visual art that expresses biblical truth? Can I use music to make Scripture memorable? Ephrem shows that all these modes of expression are legitimate and valuable extensions of the diaconal vocation, provided they are rooted in genuine Gospel faithfulness and flow from a deep engagement with the Word of God.

Saint Francis of Assisi: The Deacon as Living Gospel

If Ephrem represents the deacon as one in whom Scripture has become interior wisdom flowering in poetry and theology, Saint Francis of Assisi (1181-1226) embodies the deacon as a man wholly conformed to the Gospel through the radical practice of living it ‘sine glossa’—without gloss, commentary, or any dilution. Francis demonstrates that the proclamation of the Gospel by the deacon is not purely oral or literary; it is embodied, existential, and transformative. Moreover, Francis shows that this living of the Gospel must be rooted in a profound transformation wrought by faithful engagement with Scripture. Gospel fidelity is not mere emotional enthusiasm; it is the result of allowing the Word of God to critique and remake one’s entire way of life.

Francis was not formally a deacon throughout his entire life, yet he received ordination to the diaconate and his entire spiritual project was rooted in a deacon’s fundamental commitment: to herald the Gospel by becoming one with it. His famous instruction to his friars is instructive: ‘Preach the Gospel at all times; if necessary, use words.’ This aphorism, whether historically authentic or later attributed, captures the essence of Francis’s understanding of evangelical witness. Words matter, certainly; but they matter most when they issue from a life transfigured by Gospel truth. Francis understood intuitively what scholars and spiritual directors have always taught: that the most powerful preaching is not a sermon, but a life that manifests the transforming power of Christ’s Word.

Francis’s commitment to Gospel living ‘sine glossa’ can be understood as a radical hermeneutics. Rather than interpreting the Gospel through the apparatus of theological commentary, institutional practice, or cultural convention, Francis sought to read it with the hermeneutic of obedience. When Christ said, ‘Go and sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven’ (Matthew 19:21), Francis took those words with absolute directness. When Christ commanded his disciples to travel without possessions, Francis and his friars did precisely that. When the Gospel spoke of poverty, chastity, and obedience, Francis bent his will entirely to embody them. This was not recklessness or a lack of intelligence; it was rather a profound commitment to Gospel faithfulness, an unwillingness to allow his natural human desires or cultural assumptions to dilute or compromise what Scripture clearly teaches.

This approach had profound consequences. Through his lived commitment to Gospel poverty, Francis became a living critique of a Church that had become wealthy, comfortable, and distant from the evangelical counsels. His very existence proclaimed a word that no sermon could match: that the Gospel is livable, that Christ’s way is truly possible, that radical discipleship is not an esoteric ideal but the inheritance of every Christian. People recognized in Francis the living presence of the Gospel message; his life became his most powerful proclamation. He showed the world that the Gospel is not merely a collection of beautiful truths to be discussed in the abstract, but a transformative reality that reshapes how one lives, what one values, how one relates to others and to creation itself.

Yet Francis was not a silent witness. He preached extensively, and his preaching is notable for its simplicity and directness. He did not deploy elaborate theological apparatus or rhetorical flourishes; instead, he spoke from a heart saturated in Scripture and transformed by grace. When he preached to the birds, he was enacting the Gospel understanding that creation is our kin, that all creatures exist within God’s providential care. When he embraced a leper, he was proclaiming through embodied action the Gospel of divine love that transcends fear and revulsion. When he received the stigmata—the five wounds of Christ—his body itself became a text proclaiming the Gospel message of self-sacrifice and participation in Christ’s redemptive suffering. He understood that what people needed to see was not a clever argument for the truth of Christianity, but a living witness to its power to transform a human life completely.

Francis’s diaconal vocation reveals that the herald of the Gospel must be one in whom the Word has taken such complete possession that it transforms every aspect of existence. The deacon, in Francis’s model, is not a technician of ritual or a professional presenter of doctrine. He is a man so conformed to Christ through the Gospel that his life itself becomes a proclamation. ‘Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly,’ the Apostle Paul wrote, ‘as you teach and admonish one another in all wisdom by means of psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts’ (Colossians 3:16). Francis shows how this indwelling of the Word overflows not merely in verbal instruction but in a total reconfiguration of the self according to evangelical truth.

The simplicity of Francis’s Gospel reading, moreover, does not entail ignorance of Scripture. Francis knew the Gospel thoroughly. But he did not permit his knowledge to become a substitute for obedience; he did not allow theological understanding to dilute practical commitment. He exemplifies a principle crucial for the diaconal vocation: that the truest interpretation of Scripture is the one that leads to transformation. The permanent deacon, learning from Francis, understands that to proclaim the Gospel is not ultimately to explain it in abstract terms, but to show its power to reshape human life, to redirect desire, to open us to grace. The deacon’s life must be a commentary on Scripture—a living interpretation that says to the world: This Gospel is true; it works; it transforms.

Francis of Assisi thus completes our quartet of exemplars by revealing that the deacon’s vocation as herald of the Gospel must ultimately find its fullest expression in a life conformed to Gospel truth. The deacon is not primarily a speaker or a teacher, though he may be both. He is fundamentally a living witness to the transformative power of the Word. As he carries and proclaims the Gospel in the liturgy, the interior reality of that proclamation—his own conversion and growth in Christ, his increasing conformity to the evangelical counsels, his radical commitment to Gospel faithfulness—must be the substance that animates the external gesture. The people of God, looking upon the deacon, should be able to recognize in his face, his conduct, his gentleness, and his holiness the presence of one who has allowed the Word of God to dwell in him richly, to reshape him continuously, to make him ever more conformed to Christ.

The Herald of the Gospel: Gospel Faithfulness and Teaching as Central

The four figures we have examined—Stephen the prophet, Philip the teacher, Ephrem the poet, and Francis the living Gospel—do not exhaust the possible expressions of the diaconal vocation, but they do illuminate its essential character. Together, they refute any reductive understanding of the deacon as a mere administrator of charitable distribution. They show that the deacon stands at the junction where Word, worship, and charity converge, and that his identity as ‘herald of the Gospel’ encompasses multiple modes of proclamation, all rooted in Gospel faithfulness and sustained by deep scriptural learning.

What these four exemplars share in common is a profound commitment to Gospel faithfulness. None of them treated the Gospel as an optional addendum to their lives or ministry. For Stephen, the Gospel was worth dying for. For Philip, it was the truth that opened the eyes of the spiritually blind. For Ephrem, it was the inexhaustible source of theological and poetic wisdom. For Francis, it was the absolute norm to which all human desires and cultural assumptions must be submitted. This Gospel faithfulness was not abstract; it was worked out in lived commitment, in the transformation of their entire beings, in their willingness to allow Scripture to remake them.

Teaching Scripture also emerges as a central dimension of the diaconal vocation from these exemplars. Stephen taught through his prophetic interpretation of Israel’s history. Philip taught through his patient guidance of the eunuch into the meaning of Isaiah 53. Ephrem taught through his compositions and commentaries that shaped believers’ understanding of Scripture and theology. Francis taught through his embodied witness, showing how Gospel truth translates into action. The permanent deacon must embrace teaching as a core element of his vocation. This teaching may take multiple forms—catechesis, homiletic reflection, theological composition, spiritual direction, adult faith formation—but it is essential. The deacon is not merely a ritual functionary or a charitable administrator; he is a teacher of Scripture and theology, one entrusted with helping the people of God understand and live the Gospel more deeply.

The Church’s liturgical tradition preserves this integral understanding. In the Roman Rite, the deacon carries the Book of Gospels in procession, vests it in honour, and when the time comes, proclaims the Gospel from the ambo before the assembled faithful. This is not a privilege incidental to the diaconal office; it is an expression of the deacon’s essential mission. The Catechism of the Catholic Church states: ‘At an ordination to the diaconate, the bishop hands the book of the Gospels to the ordinand, saying, Receive the Gospel of Christ, whose herald you have become’ (CCC 1574). The ordination rite employs the term ‘herald’ deliberately: the deacon is not a mere ritual functionary but an official messenger of Gospel truth. Moreover, the deacon is entrusted with the actual Book of the Gospels—a reminder that the Gospel is not a doctrine to be imposed, but a Word to be proclaimed, received, and lived.

Equally important, the act of carrying and proclaiming the Gospel is not severed from the deacon’s interior spiritual reality. The ordination rite assumes that the one who is commissioned as a herald of the Gospel has himself been transformed by it. This transformation comes about through Lectio Divina—the patient, prayerful engagement with Scripture that allows the Word to reshape understanding, desires, and will. The rite does not make the deacon an apostle or a priest; it configures him sacramentally to Christ the servant in a manner both distinct and complementary. The deacon is configured to Christ not in his office as teacher and shepherd—that belongs primarily to the bishop and priest—but in his radical self-donation, his service, his openness to the movement of the Spirit, and his commitment to proclaiming the Gospel faithfully.

Conclusion: The Permanent Deacon as Faithful Herald

The renewal of the permanent diaconate in the post-conciliar Church requires a recovery of the integral vision of diaconal ministry articulated in Scripture and preserved throughout the tradition. The reductive reading of Acts 6:2 has done disservice to the diaconal vocation by suggesting that the deacon’s role is primarily practical rather than pastoral and evangelical. The evidence of Scripture itself, exemplified in the figures of Stephen and Philip, resists such confinement. The voices of the tradition—the Desert Fathers, the medieval commentators, the great saints and doctors—consistently affirm that the deacon is a man formed by Scripture, capable of proclaiming it, and commissioned to make it effective in the life of the Church.

At the heart of this renewal lies Lectio Divina. The permanent deacon must understand that his primary mission is not administrative or even primarily sacramental in a narrow sense. His primary mission is to be a man transformed by the Word of God, continuously deepened in Gospel faithfulness through lectio divina, capable of teaching Scripture and theology to the people of God, and embodying in his life the transformative power of Christ’s Word. Lectio Divina, correctly understood and well practised, is not a peripheral spiritual practice; it is the essential foundation upon which all authentic diaconal ministry rests. Without it, the deacon becomes merely a functionary. With it, he becomes a true herald of the Gospel, a man whose entire existence proclaims that the Word of God dwells richly in him.

The four exemplars examined in this article offer concrete witness to what this renewed understanding entails. Stephen teaches that the deacon must be deeply versed in Scripture and courageous in its proclamation, willing to bear witness before hostile authorities and even unto martyrdom. His Gospel faithfulness was absolute and cost him everything. Philip demonstrates that the deacon is a teacher and interpreter of Scripture, capable of opening the depths of the Word to those who come seeking understanding. Ephrem shows that the deacon may be a theologian and artist of the highest order, one in whom Scripture has become such interior wisdom that it overflows in teaching that shapes the faith of generations. And Francis reveals that the deacon’s ultimate proclamation is a life conformed to Gospel truth, where the radical demands of the Gospel are not merely explained but embodied and lived. In each case, the foundation is the same: a life remade by the Word of God through committed engagement with Scripture.

In the contemporary Church, as it faces the spiritual hunger of secularised societies and the fragmentation of Christian unity, the diaconal vocation—properly understood—is desperately needed. The Church requires deacons who can proclaim the Gospel not as a historical curiosity or an institutional obligation, but as a living, transformative word. She needs deacons who, like Stephen, can stand before the contemporary world and declare the truth of Christ with clarity and courage, willing to be countercultural if necessary. She needs deacons who, like Philip, can take those who are confused and lost in their reading of Scripture and guide them into encounter with the living Christ. She needs deacons who, like Ephrem, can bring the riches of theological tradition and spiritual wisdom to bear on the questions and sufferings of the present age, capable of teaching in ways that engage both mind and heart. And she needs deacons who, like Francis, embody in their very lives the Gospel that they proclaim, showing that the way of Christ is not merely a doctrine to be believed but a path to be walked, a transformation to be undergone.

The permanent deacon who takes seriously his vocation as ‘herald of the Gospel’ must commit himself to a life of scriptural formation rooted in Lectio Divina. This is not an optional practice for the spiritually advanced; it is essential for the integrity of the diaconal office itself. He must establish the discipline of daily Lectio Divina, treating it as fundamental to his vocation as the celebration of the Eucharist is to the priest. He must allow the Word of God to dwell in him richly, not merely as external knowledge to be transmitted, but as an interior transformation that reshapes his understanding, his desires, and his actions. He must develop the capacity not only to proclaim the Gospel but to interpret it with depth and wisdom, showing how its ancient truths speak to contemporary human needs. He must be willing to express that proclamation in multiple forms—through the spoken word in the liturgy, through theological reflection and teaching, through the arts and poetry if called to them, and most fundamentally through the witness of a life surrendered to Christ.

The permanent deacon should also recognise that becoming an expert in Lectio Divina and in the teaching of Scripture is not beneath his dignity or a distraction from his ‘real’ work. Rather, it is part of his essential mission. He should pursue further study of Scripture—biblical languages, exegesis, the Fathers of the Church, theology. But all this study must be animated by prayer, ordered toward the transformation of his own soul and the building up of the Church. He should be capable of guiding others into Lectio Divina, of helping them understand how to read Scripture with a listening heart. He should participate actively in parishes’ adult faith formation, in Bible studies, in catechesis. He should not shy away from teaching; rather, he should embrace it as a constitutive element of his vocation.

Finally, the deacon is not a solitary witness. He stands in communion with the bishop and the presbyterate; he serves ‘in the ministry of the liturgy, of the word, and of charity’ (Lumen Gentium 29) not in isolation but as an integral part of the Church’s structured ministry. Yet within that communion, his role is distinctive: to be, in a particular and sacramental way, the voice of the Gospel, calling the Church back to its evangelical roots, inviting her members to a deeper conversion, showing that the Word of God is not a dead letter preserved in a book but a living reality that can and must transform every aspect of human existence. The permanent deacon’s faithfulness to this vocation depends first and foremost on his commitment to Lectio Divina—to allowing the Word to dwell in him richly, to reshape his understanding and will, to make him ever more conformed to Christ. From this interior transformation will flow genuine Gospel faithfulness, authentic teaching, and prophetic witness. This is the dignity and the demand of the diaconal vocation as herald of the Gospel—a vocation renewed and vivified by the examples of Stephen, Philip, Ephrem, and Francis, and ever waiting for new men of faith and courage to take up this noble office in the Church of our time, committed to the deepening of their Gospel faithfulness through the ancient practice of Lectio Divina.

Jean Khoury, “Hearing the Living Word, The Gospel’s Grammar of Lectio Divina” (Amazon USA, Amazon UK)

Jean Khoury, “Lectio Divina at the School of Mary” (Amazon USA, Amazon UK) Very Important Book, a must!

See more books, articles, videos on Lectio Divina here.

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