This Is Not That: Communion
An Unforgettable Story
When I was pastoring churches, there was always a list for who we were supposed to listen to. And who we weren’t.
Tony Campolo was on the latter. Ordained minister. Sociologist. Professor. Too much of a “loose cannon,” they said.
But I never did well with man-made rules. So I listened.
And one of his stories still undoes me.
The city of Honolulu. Tony’s there for a speaking gig. Flew in from Philadelphia. Can’t sleep. Jet lag.
So at 3:30 in the morning, he wanders into this greasy spoon diner. Counter only. Coffee that tastes like burnt motor oil. The kind of place where time doesn’t move.
He’s sipping his cup when the door swings open. A group of prostitutes files in. One of them—Agnes—sits down next to him. And Tony overhears her.
“Tomorrow’s my birthday,” she says, almost embarrassed.
Her friend laughs, sharp. “So what? You want me to throw you a party?”
Agnes stares down at the counter. “Why you gotta be mean? I was just saying it’s my birthday. Besides, I’ve never had a birthday party in my life.”
That line hangs in the air.
Never.
Not once.
When they leave, Tony leans over to the diner owner. “Hey… what do you say we throw Agnes a birthday party tomorrow night.”
The guy’s face lights up. Calls his wife out from the back. “Oh, Agnes? Mr, she’s one of the nice ones… Decorate until your heart’s content.”
And the husband grins. “I’ll bake the cake.”
Word gets around. By 3 a.m. the next night, that little diner is wall-to-wall prostitutes. Every stool. Every inch of floor. Packed.
The door opens. Agnes walks in. The whole place erupts: “Happy Birthday!”
She stops dead.
Eyes wide.
Hands trembling.
And then the tears come.
Someone brings out the cake, candles blazing. She stares at it. And when it’s time to cut it, she whispers to Tony:
“Would it… would it be okay if I didn’t cut it?
I just want to take it home.
To show my mom.
She’s never seen a cake like this.”
Tony nods. “It’s your cake. Do what you want.”
And she picks it up, cradles it like a treasure, and walks out the door.
The room is silent. Awkward. Nobody knows what to do.
So Tony prays.
Prays for Agnes.
Prays for her safety.
Prays for the years of pain,
and for the love she’s never been shown.
When he says “Amen,” the diner owner breaks the silence: “You said you were sociologist! But you’re a preacher! What kind of church do preach at?”
And Tony answers, almost without thinking: “I belong to the Church that throws birthday parties for prostitutes at 3 a.m.”
The man stares at him.
“No you don’t!
Because if you did… I’d join a church like that.”
And Tony says softly, “Wouldn’t we all. Wouldn’t we all.”
Because somewhere deep down, we recognize that kind of church. Not as an idea—but as a memory.
It’s the kind of belonging we didn’t invent.
It’s the kind Jesus gave us first.
Remembering the Table Jesus Set
If you want to see what the grace of God actually looks like—don’t look at a pulpit. Look at a table.
Not a polished table with place cards and perfect manners. Look at the messy kind—where wine is spilled, bread broken, laughter is too loud, kids are running, and dishes are piled high in the sink.
Because if any table tells the story of grace, it’s that one in the “upper room” (see Matthew 26).
A bunch of frail friends—some devoted, some doubtful, all about to fail Jesus—
and there, He raises a cup anyway.
He gave thanks.
He held up bread and wine.
Declared His body and blood given for them.
And then He said: “Keep doing this.”
Not to remember their failures. But to remember Him.
But somewhere along the way, that table got repurposed.
It became a test. A marker of who could host this meal and who couldn’t. A litmus test for who could partake and who was left out.
But communion was never meant to be a polished performance. It was always a party—for all.
Which also means it wasn’t tightly controlled, professionally managed, or safely curated. Because as the Scriptures reveal: people got drunk at some of these gatherings.
Naturally, Paul doesn’t endorse that. He rebukes it outright. But let that point land for a moment: people could get drunk at a church gathering.
If that doesn’t undo everything we think we know about how the New Testament Church gathered and took communion, nothing will.
Which means we need to reread Paul’s words in that chapter more carefully—not defensively.
Paul’s line in 1 Corinthians 11:28—“examine yourself”—wasn’t scolding people for participating who were unworthy. It was rebuking the Church for making others feel unworthy.
Here’s the scene: the early believers met in homes. The wealthy arrived early and feasted—some to the point of excess—while the poor, who had to work late, showed up after work to find empty tables and scraps.
Imagine the scene: people celebrating the God who welcomes everyone, while simultaneously saying, “Sorry, you missed your chance.”
So Paul doesn’t say, “Take time to do some soul work before you partake.” He says, “Wait for one another” (1 Cor. 11:33).
And to make sure this point is not lost, or confused with who qualifies for communion, Paul ends his exhortation with:
“If you’re that hungry, eat at home” (v. 34).
The problem wasn’t overeating.
It wasn’t even drunkenness.
It was exclusion.
Because the table isn’t a test. It’s the place where people use an ordinary meal to remember how Jesus made everyone worthy.
Still not sure who’s invited?
Remember: Judas was at the first one.
After he had already betrayed Jesus.
And what did Jesus do?
He gave him bread.
He filled his cup.
He said “drink,” and “eat.”
If that doesn’t settle who belongs, nothing will.
So don’t overthink it.
Set the table—wherever you are.
At home, at a pub, in a break room, on a porch.
Sit with your spouse, your kids, or even a few friends.
Celebrate the stories.
Name the grace that holds us anyway.
Raise a glass to the absurdity of God’s love.
Because when we eat and drink in His name, we’re not trying to summon God. We’re toasting to the One who already made His home in us all. The One who keeps passing the bread.
That’s communion.
Right where you are.
The key is not letting religious overachievers rob you of this way of life.
NOTE:
For help on how to throw a party centered on communion and human connection, click here!