I served communion yesterday at the small church I pastor in western North Carolina. There were 21 of us in the sanctuary. Save for three concerned about the COVID, we gathered around the Table to receive the bread and the wine (only, it wasn’t really wine, of course).
What happened before, during, and after this Lord’s Supper pushed the boundaries of what we mean by “open communion” especially for this old preacher who grew up in the epicenter of “closed communion” country.
For almost two thousand years, Christians have debated how open and how closed this central ritual should be. Yesterday, I had just seconds to my own stance on “open” and “closed” in the context of the traditions and convictions of the congregation.
Jesus, you recall, ate frequently with everyone. It was a central element of his earthly ministry. My favorite story is Jesus inviting himself to the house of Zacchaeus. Food is not mentioned in the text, but it is strongly implied and often assumed.
What is explicit elsewhere is the open invitation that accompanied so many of the meals where Jesus was present: children and their parents, law-keepers and law-brakers, friends from the village and strangers from afar, those in good standing and those with no standing.
“Come unto me, all who are weary and carry heavy burdens,” Jesus said. “The burden I give you is light.” It is hard to think of a better place to receive this promised gift than the dinner table where Jesus serves, speaks, and saves.
This practice of table fellowship was the beginning of what we now call The Lord’s Supper.
His early followers continued this pattern of mealtime spirituality. The New Living Translation puts it like this: “They worshipped together in the temple and ate in homes for the Lord’s Supper and shared their meals with great joy and generosity….”
Paul’s description of The Lord’s Supper is similar, as written in his first letter to the congregation in Corinth. The agape meal, they called it, using the Greek word for love. In and around the common elements of such a fellowship supper they lifted the cup and passed the bread, invoking the death and resurrection of Jesus.
But within one hundred years, Christians separated the meal from the celebration, leaving the food in the fellowship hall (as we might say) and moving the bread-and-wine ritual to the sanctuary. The former remained open and inviting; the latter became closed and limited. The former welcomed all; the latter excluded many.
In other words, the open invitation of Jesus and his table of fellowship was replaced by a religious ceremony closed to all but those properly baptized and in good standing with the bishop.
Today, most Christians attend communion services (or Eucharist, as it is called by many) that are limited, not just to Christians, but to those whose baptism, confession, or membership is approved by some council, ministry, or church authority.
In other words, the Lord’s Supper today excludes not only millions of Christians but also billions of other people whose beliefs, belongings, or behaviors do not meet the standards of somebody somewhere.
Which brings me back to our communion this past Sunday.
Among the 21 was a mother and her two small children, plus several others whose place on the gospel trail was unclear to me. I surveyed the small congregation before issuing my invitation to the Table. I wondered: is our communion with the Lord around this Table open or closed? Is it open only to those old enough, connected enough, and discipled enough? Or is it open to all those gathered in the Lord’s house on the Lord’s Day?
All eighteen approached the table but our circle embraced also the three who stayed apart. I passed the bread, kneeling to serve the two little boys and standing to serve the adult seeker. I distributed the “wine,” bending low to accommodate the little boys who had difficulty handing the small plastic cups.
Then this happened.
After the benediction, I took the half empty tray and invited the still circled people to deposit their empty cups. All did, until I stooped for the little boy. Instead of placing an empty cup, he took a second cup of the sacred juice. He drank it right down before I could speak or act. I looked at his mother and smiled.
Later, my communion assistant took the little boy by the hand and sat him down on the floor where she had put the communion tray. He proceeded to drain the rest of the cups. (It reminded me of the story told by Kevin Costner at the funeral of Whitney Houston about their experiences growing up in Baptist churches!)
We had clearly broken all the rules of any and every church concerned about who can gather at the Lord’s table and who can’t. We had, right there in front of God and everybody, declared our own determination to, well, be like Jesus and welcome anybody and everybody.
I am sure there are religious people, good religious people, who, like their kinfolk of old, will accuse us of being too careless, too clueless, too casual about eating and drinking with Jesus.
Maybe they are right. But I don’t think so.
What do you think?
(March 2022)
