The first Sunday of every month, my church celebrates communion. Of all the sacraments that we celebrate, communion is my favorite. I was an evangelical for many, many years and part of that culture is this adherence to certain rules as it relates to worship or Christian life. Communion was not an exception. We believed that a person needed to have done certain things in order to partake in communion. Now, in the midst of deconstruction (and reconstruction), I stand fully in my belief that God is not concerned with our policing who is welcome at the table.

When my wayward heart found its way to my Methodist Church, I was deeply searching for a place to serve my calling to the ministry in a way that aligned with my understanding of who God is and how I want to walk through life: a deep sense of radical hospitality and wide open doors. You are welcome, you are celebrated, and you are expected here. There is space just for you, unconditionally.
Until I came to my church, I had not actively participated in communion for several years. Not as a statement, but because I was serving the church in a way that removed me from the worship space. It was my choice, in a way, to hide away from deep hurt caused by years and years of living in spaces where I never truly belonged.

When we celebrate communion, one of our pastors speaks the liturgy over the bread and wine (juice) before we partake together. She says the phrase “this table does not belong to this church, or to the United Methodist Church, but this table belongs to our Lord Jesus Christ” because anyone, everyone, is invited to the table. That’s it. There are no prerequisites, no conditions. There exists nothing but the invitation to share in the celebration of God’s deep love for us.

This most recent communion Sunday, I was fulfilling different ministry duties than I normally do and I forgot to take it. I was present for it, but my mind was elsewhere. I remembered long after I had gotten home, and I grieved for a moment at the missed invitation. The emotion of missing what was mine to take brought me back to several years ago, to another communion Sunday when I was busy ensuring that our worship services were going according to plan and missed the invitation. That time, though, I was walking quickly down the hallway, flustered and sweaty when a friend stopped me. He had led communion in the service and was returning the elements to their appropriate place. He asked me if I had taken communion that day. I told him no, and he offered it to me. Right there in the hallway. I’m not even sure he remembers this moment, but it was incredibly profound to me.
It is the very essence of what an open table looks like. He made space for me to be. He (re)extended the invitation and made a way for me to receive it.

It’s taken years of hard soul work to find the words to put around any of my feelings or to be really honest about my experiences. The work is far from over, but one thing I know with absolute certainty is the God I know is a God of open doors and long, open tables. A God of extended (and re-extended) invitations and a God who makes a way for us to receive it again and again without question or cause. A God of radical hospitality.

Like when you sit in front of a fire in winter — you are just there in front of the fire. You don’t have to be smart or anything. The fire warms you

Desmond Tutu