This Is Not That: Communion

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.

Honolulu.
Tony’s there for a speaking gig.
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—her name was Agnes—sits down nearby.
And Tony overhears her talking.

“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 her a 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.

And 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 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 didn’t tell me you were 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 that church.”

And Tony says softly,
“Wouldn’t we all.
Wouldn’t we all.”

And that’s the thing.
We all would.
Because that’s what our hearts long for: a table like that.

Which is why I always say: If you want to see what grace looks like—don’t look at a pulpit. Look at a table.

Remembering the Table Jesus Set

Not a polished table with place cards and perfect manners.
The messy kind—wine spilled, bread broken, laughter too loud, kids running wild, dishes in the sink.

Because if any table tells the story of grace, it’s that one in the upper room. (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 for who can host this meal and who can’t.
A litmus test for who’s in and who’s out.

But communion was never meant to be a performance.
It was always a party.

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 got there early and feasted. The poor, who had to work late, showed up late after work to find empty tables and scraps.

Imagine the scene: celebrating a God who welcomes everyone, while whispering, “Sorry, you missed your chance.”

So Paul dosn;’t say “get it together before you eat and drink.”
He says, “Wait for one another.” (1 Cor. 11:33)
“If you’re that hungry, eat at home.” (v. 34)

The problem wasn’t overeating.
It was exclusion.

Because the table isn’t a test.
It’s the place where people remember how Jesus made everyone worthy.

Still not sure who’s invited?

Remember: Judas was there.
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.
At home, at a pub, in a break room, on a porch.
Invite a few friends.

Celebrate the stories.
Name the grace.
Raise a glass to the absurdity of 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.