This Sunday at Bethany, we celebrate Communion together. I’m especially excited because, with the holiday weekend, we’ll gather in one worship service (10 AM—just a reminder!). And the kids will be with us, too. So as families and as one big family we’ll join in a celebration the church has shared for 2,000 years.

In the ancient world, sharing a meal carried deep meaning. To eat with someone was to open your life to them. A meal meant trust, intimacy, fellowship. That’s why meals fill the pages of Scripture. Abraham welcomed strangers with a feast, only to discover he was entertaining angels. God provided manna in the wilderness to sustain His people. Psalm 23 declares, “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” Jesus taught, healed, and revealed His identity so often around tables—whether at the home of “sinners”, Pharisees, or His closest friends. And on the night before the cross, He gave His disciples food and drink, bread and cup at the table. The Lord’s Table is intentionally structured as a meal to model the kind of intimacy and fellowship God desires with His children.

So it’s no surprise that in Revelation 3, Jesus uses the image of a meal to describe His desire for fellowship with His people. To the church in Laodicea, He says:

“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.”

That’s shocking, isn’t it? Jesus longs to share a meal with his people, with all the trust and fellowship that entails. But He’s not even at the table. He’s outside the house, knocking, asking to be let in. How could that be?

Because the church had excluded Him. Laodicea was wealthy and outwardly strong, but inwardly lukewarm—neither hot nor cold, complacent and blind to their need. And so Jesus gives this haunting image: He’s on the outside of His own church, waiting for someone to open the door.

That’s not just their story—it’s ours. Many Bible scholars see Laodicea as a mirror of the western church: prosperous, resource-rich, outwardly successful, yet too often spiritually apathetic. And if we’re honest, that same danger lives close to home. Long hours at work, running the kids to soccer, dance, & hockey; packed social calendars—even serving at the church—can all fill our table, while Jesus stands on the outside, knocking.

Yet His invitation remains. Jesus doesn’t pound the door down or barge His way in. He doesn’t come with a list of demands. He comes with an offer: “If you’ll open the door, I’ll come in. I’ll eat with you. I’ll share fellowship with you.”

The Lord’s Table is a perfect moment to let Him back in. At the Last Supper, Jesus shared bread and wine with His disciples. That same intimacy is available today through the Holy Spirit. Communion isn’t just a ritual—it’s a way of opening the door, welcoming Christ, and sharing a meal He provides.

Communion is a table of remembrance, pointing us back to the cross. Paul says in 1 Corinthians 11: “Whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death.” But it also points us forward—“until He comes.” Every time we eat and drink, we anticipate the day when we will sit with Jesus literally at His table at the wedding supper of the Lamb.

But for now, the choice is ours. Is Jesus seated at your table, or is He standing outside, knocking?

As a church, let’s invite Jesus in. We don’t want to be a Laodicea—busy, prosperous, respectable, yet with Christ left outside.

And it’s personal too. In your own life, where is Jesus standing today? At the center, welcomed into every corner of your heart? Or on the outside, waiting while you try to manage life on your own?

This Sunday, when you come to the Lord’s Table, don’t just remember a ritual. Open the door. Invite Him in. Share the meal.

And as you hold the bread and the cup in your hands, ask yourself: Where is Jesus standing?