The walk to the Lord’s Table is more than a walk

We display breads from our many constituent cultures at our church on World Communion Sunday. Photo: Gerald Farinas.

There are currently two schools of thought on serving Communion in our congregation. There has always been the tradition of walking up to the Lord’s Table to receive the Eucharist. And there is the more modern practice of the minister coming to your seat to put it into your hands or onto your tongue.

I ascribe to the theology that the Eucharist is the summit of my Christian faith, the seal of my covenant with God that He is mine—and I am His.

The Presbyterian Church (USA) likewise considers the Eucharist as such a summit, alongside Baptism—Sacraments that are visible seals of our relationship with God.

Because of that, I have placed a lot of meaning into the act of getting up from my seat in church and walking to the Table.

There is a quiet poetry in the act of walking to that Table. Each step feels like a verse, a rhythm of faith and longing.

It is an act of movement, of pilgrimage, an acknowledgment that grace requires not just reception—but also response.

In those moments, I feel the invitation of Christ—open, radical, full of welcome—especially poignant.

For those of us who have often felt sidelined, unseen, or unwelcome in the larger Church, this walk takes on deeper meaning.

To approach the Table is to embody the truth: that I belong. That we belong.

The very act of rising, of journeying forward, is a proclamation: we are invited. We are wanted.

This sacred motion stands in contrast to being served in our seats, which, while practical for some, and impossible for those who can’t stand nor walk, can feel like a passive transaction to me.

To be served at the Table of the Lord is to be reminded of our agency, our place in the story.

It is an embrace of the invitation—not as one who waits for grace to come but as one who hears the call and responds.

For me, each step is holy, a dance of defiance against the forces that have tried to exclude or silence me (an LGBTQ person) or my ancestors (indigenous people limited by and ruled over by Spanish friars).

Each step is a rhythm of reconciliation, a physical reminder that the Table is wide and the Host generous.

At the Lord’s Table, I walk not just toward the body and blood of Christ, but toward belonging, toward love, toward home.

The altar at my parents’ church, St. Philomena Church, Salt Lake, Honolulu, Hawaii. Photo: Gerald Farinas.