The Theology of Tea, Coffee and Biscuits

Why Coffee After Mass Matters More Than We Think

On a trip to Durban, I attended Mass at a church I love, Star of the Sea in Umhlanga, with its wide glass windows overlooking the Indian Ocean. There is something deeply calming about worshipping while gazing out toward the endless sea — a reminder of God’s vastness and peace.

After Mass, with a Sunday morning still stretching ahead of me, I wandered down to the beachfront along the famous Whalebone Pier. On my way, curiosity led me through the doors of a well-known evangelical church with a strong Pentecostal influence.

The service I encountered there was very different from what I am used to — more of a stage set-up, complete with dramatic lighting and a pastor whose presence resembled that of a rock star. It was unfamiliar territory for me, but fascinating to observe.

What struck me most, however, was not the service itself. It was what happened afterwards.

In the foyer was an impressive tea and coffee station, beautifully arranged, inviting people to linger. And linger they did. Groups formed naturally by extension of the conversations that flowed. People stayed — not out of obligation but because they genuinely wanted to. There was warmth in that space, a sense of belonging and fellowship.

As an outsider quietly walking among them, I found myself simply taking it all in. There is much to be learned when we allow ourselves to become observers — when we enter unknown environments not to judge, but to notice, to listen, and to learn. The opportunities for growth and discovery are endless when curiosity replaces assumption.

And yet, to be honest, there was something missing in that otherwise beautiful experience. As much as I appreciated the warmth of the setting and admired the vibrant post-service fellowship, nobody came to introduce themselves to me. Nobody asked my name. Nobody invited me into conversation. I remained an observer — welcomed by the atmosphere, but not necessarily by the people.

Why Hospitality Matters

There is a difference. Hospitality is not only about providing tea and coffee. It is about providing encounter. It is one thing to create a space where people can gather; it is another thing entirely to intentionally draw them in.

Pope Francis captured this beautifully when he reminded the Church that it must be a place for, “Todos, todos, todos”— Everyone, everyone, everyone.

Not just everyone who already belongs. Not just everyone who knows where the tea, coffee and biscuits are. But everyone — especially the newcomer, the visitor, the quiet observer, the one standing alone.

That is the deeper theology of tea, coffee and biscuits: not merely refreshments but radical welcome.

It also made me reflect on my own Catholic experience. In many Catholic parishes, once the dismissal given and the final hymn is sung, parishioners disperse quickly — back to their cars, homes and routines. Outside of planned events, opportunities for informal fellowship can sometimes be limited.

Yet at my own parish, St Augustine’s in the diocese of Port Elizabeth, we have something precious: a coffee and tea bar after Sunday Mass.

I must confess: I am often one of those parishioners who do not go out of their way to attend post-Mass fellowship gatherings unless they have to. Not because I do not value them, but perhaps because, like many of us, I have somewhere else to be, somewhere else to go, or simply a habit of rushing back into ordinary life.

I am not suggesting that we need to attend post-Mass tea every single Sunday. But perhaps we should make a habit of staying, at least from time to time.

I say this because some of the most meaningful conversations I have had in parish life happened over a cup of rooibos tea, a biscuit, and shared reflection. I have found myself discussing the Gospel of the day, unpacking the priest’s homily, and hearing perspectives that enriched my own understanding of faith.

Parish Life

Over a cup of tea, one of my fellow parishioners told me interesting tales of his time with the Schoenstatt community. It took me back many years ago to a Sunday afternoon in Johannesburg when we prayed the rosary at the Schoenstatt shrine in Bedfordview. We connected through our shared experiences. That is not a small thing.

One Sunday after Mass, I noticed a woman from our RCIA group sitting quietly by herself at the tea and coffee table. She is new to our parish. Had I not recognised her, I might not have noticed her at all. But there she was, clearly there not for the free refreshments but perhaps for something deeper: connection, belonging, community.

It made me wonder: did others notice her too? Did anyone see what she might have needed?

And in that moment, I realised something important: perhaps this is what I had also experienced at the Pentecostal church in Durban — present in the space, yet still not truly drawn into it.

At St Augustine’s, parishioners like Sandra and Ruth, who faithfully prepare the tea, coffee and biscuits — and the monthly birthday cake — are doing much more than serving refreshments. Their ministry is important. As modern terminology would express it, their ministry matters. It is an extension of God’s welcoming hand. It is an invitation to continue what began at the altar — to move from the Eucharistic banquet into the everyday banquet of human encounter.

We never really know what someone is carrying when they arrive at church. Some may need a listening ear. Some may need a kind word. Some may not want to speak at all — they may simply want to sit, observe, and hear someone say: “You are welcome here.”

What Sandra and Ruth offer is not merely hospitality — it is belonging. So this is my heartfelt thank you to them, and to all the unseen ministers in parishes everywhere who keep the kettles boiling, the coffee flowing, and the conversations alive.

They are not merely stoking coffee fires. They are stoking friendship and community. They are building the Body of Christ — biscuit by biscuit, cake by cake. And perhaps it is time we noticed them, thanked them, and prayed for them.

But perhaps our gratitude should not end there. Perhaps the greatest way we can thank those who serve this ministry is by becoming an extension of it ourselves.

A Welcoming Ministry

Their ministry may begin with preparing the tea and coffee, but ours can continue by preparing the welcome.

As parishioners, we can choose to linger a little longer. We can look beyond our familiar circles. We can notice the person standing alone, the newcomer trying to find their feet, the visitor unsure of where to go, the quiet soul who feels like an outsider.

We can offer a smile, a greeting, an invitation to join us. We can help turn a table of refreshments into a table of belonging. In doing so, we become partners in their ministry.

And perhaps that is the greatest thank you we can offer Sandra and Ruth and all those like them: not simply to drink the coffee they pour, but to pour out love, inclusion, community, humanity, connections, unity and peace.

Their ministry may seem ordinary. But it is, in its own beautiful way, holy. Sometimes theology is not only preached from the pulpit. Sometimes it is poured from a kettle, shared over a biscuit, and received in conversation.

It reminds us that the Church is not only where we worship together—it is where we learn to belong to one another.

And perhaps we may discover that the Body of Christ is still being built, one conversation, cuppa and koeksister at a time.

What does fellowship look like in your parish after Mass? Is there a tea table, a coffee bar, a monthly breakfast, a shared meal, or another beautiful tradition that gathers people together?

And who are the often-unseen ministers behind it — the Ruths and Sandras of your community, those faithful hands that keep the kettles boiling and the welcome flowing?

I would love to hear from other parishes across our country. Send in your stories to The Southern Cross. Send in your photographs. Let us celebrate these quiet ministries and the people behind them.

Gregory B. Stephenson is a parishioner of St Augustine’s cathedral in Gqeberha. Photos by Courage Desmond Maumbe.