Perched in a busy Sofia café with a steamy vanilla late, I feel transition in the air. Soon the smell of roasting peppers will envelope the city in their signature scent as Bulgarians pull out their Чушкопеки (pepper-ovens) and decimate the pepper population.
Of course, transition has a darker side. A street urchin of ten escapes the cold to wander into the trendy café as I read an article for my theology class. It asks if the Church can help save the world. He moves from table to table, his dirty face deciphering the answer before he voices the request. As I take him to buy a sandwich, the barrister smiles kindly at me, the gullible foreigner, “You don’t have to do this.” Over the rustle of packaging, I return her smile, “I know but if I don’t, who will?”
Admittedly, the hospitality I offer is inadequate. To be ruthlessly honest, it may be detrimental but this will not be the last stomach I feed as the October breezes transition. I understand that my wealth demands a responsible response and it seems right to embrace this moment of opportunity.
Through the steam of my coffee, I watch the world take his last bite, wave a ‘merci’, and walk out of the café. Clarity comes as I watch his receding figure: In this moment, in this café, I am the Church. The thought leaves me troubled as I return my gaze to the theological text. Can the Church in a wealthy, Euro-café ever hope to join God in saving the world?
