Communion: The Feast of Fools
Imagine a Table.
Not a stiff, polished boardroom table where elbows stay off and deals get made, but a messy, feet-on-the-chair kind of table. A table where wine spills, bread gets torn with bare hands, and laughter drowns out the solemnity.
If tables could talk, they’d tell the truth—the full, unfiltered story of joy and heartbreak, devotion and betrayal, failure and grace.
And if one table could tell the best story, it would be the one in that Upper Room. A ragtag crew of friends, some devout, some disillusioned, all about to scatter at the first sign of trouble.
In the middle of them? Jesus.
Not strategizing. Not doling out requirements. Just using a human necessity—food and drink—to give thanks. Then, in an act of sheer insanity, He tells them to keep doing this when they slow down with others—not to remember their failures, but to remember Him.
And so they did. And so we do.
A Sign of Something Real
For centuries, the table has been a sign—not of who’s in and who’s out, but of who Christ already is for everyone. Communion was never a performance, never a moment for spiritual gymnastics or self-improvement. It was a meal. A scandalous, seat-for-everyone, grace-on-display meal.
But somewhere along the way, people got it backwards—turning the feast into a test, a quiet corner for private reflection, a somber duty to check off the list. We shrank the portions, muted the laughter, and forgot that the whole point was celebration, not evaluation.
And they did it using Paul (myself included).
Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians have been hijacked to instill fear—“Examine yourself,” they say, as if the whole point of communion is to make sure you’re worthy before you eat. But here’s the irony: the Corinthian church was never rebuked for eating unworthily. They were rebuked for making others feel unworthy.
See, early Christian gatherings weren’t in publicly advertised services—they were in homes. And in these homes, the wealthy showed up early, feasting on bread and wine while the poor, arriving later after work, found the table empty.
Imagine the scene: a room full of believers, celebrating a God who welcomes everyone, while simultaneously telling the latecomers, “Sorry, there’s nothing here for you.”
Paul’s response? Not “Make sure you’re morally spotless before you take communion.” But “When you come together, wait for one another” (1 Cor. 11:33). If you’re hungry, eat at home. Communion isn’t a feeding frenzy—it’s a family meal where no one gets left out.
Which means the biggest mistake isn’t eating unworthily. It’s denying that everyone’s already been made worthy.
A Declaration of Freedom
Every time we eat the bread and drink the wine at a meal, we aren’t just remembering Jesus’ death—we’re proclaiming our own. His death was ours (Gal 2:20). His resurrection is ours (Eph. 2:5-6). The old self—clawing for approval, exhausted by religion, obsessed with getting it right—is dead and gone (1 Cor. 15:22). What’s left is life. Abundant, undeserved, deliciously free.
And that life? It’s the New Covenant in full bloom.
“The days are surely coming,” says the Lord, “when I will make a new covenant... It will not be like the covenant I made with their ancestors... But this is the covenant I will make with them: I will put my law within them and write it on their hearts. I will be their God, and they shall be my people… For I will forgive their iniquities and remember their sins no more” (Jer. 31:31-34).
Not a contract. Not a deal. Not a transactional arrangement based on effort or performance. A covenant—unilateral, unbreakable, already accomplished. Jesus didn’t just offer a new way to approach God. He became the way. And in Him, “we live, move, and have our being” (Acts 17:28).
With this in mind, look at who was at the first table. Peter, who would deny Jesus. Judas, who Jesus knew would betray Him. The lot of them, about to fail spectacularly. And yet, Jesus celebrated this covenant with them all!
If that doesn’t settle the issue of who gets to come, nothing will.
A Feast, Not a Funeral
Looking to Jesus, we are free to refuse the trade—an overflowing table for a rationed meal. Sure, what began as a feast has been reduced to a funeral for many—thimbles of juice, crumbs of bread, and a moment of personal angst instead of a shared declaration of joy.
But communion was always meant to be a party, not a performance. A place where people feast—not a place where they get judged for how well they sit at the table.
Yes, Paul rebuked the Corinthians for getting drunk at the Lord’s Supper. But let’s pause for a second. They got drunk. That means the table wasn’t a place of solemnity—it was a full-blown feast! So while Paul certainly wasn’t advocating for sloppiness, the fact remains: this meal was meant to be enjoyed, not rationed like a prison meal.
So gather people. Eat. Drink. Laugh. Toast to the absurdity of grace. Because this table was never about getting it right. It was about never getting left out.
And that, friends, is worth remembering.
For a look at how to create this space, check out this fun little guide: