»God not only loves to hear our stories, he loves to tell his own. And, quite simply, we are the story God tells. Our very lives are the words that come from his mouth. This insight has always fired the religious imagination, refusing to be rationalized or dismissed. The conviction that we are God’s story releases primordial impulses and out of a mixture of belligerence, gratitude, and imitation we return the compliment. We tell stories of God.«  John Shea, Stories of God

For this reason we use this page to regularly offer new stories and reflections out of the world of literature, music and art.

Nächster Abschnitt

How does the name of Mary shine within us?

Perhaps she was humming softly familiar songs

or peeling potatoes in the common room,

in tbe best case, both at the same time.

Simply everyday life, accustomed and familiar.

That's where the inspiration entered in.

How else could it be?

She was startled and almost fell over,

the gracious words, worthy of a queen,

reached her ears as if from far away.

Did he know

of her urgent longing,

her almost insolent desire:

this world could be different?

Her heart and mind were confused,

but she asked the question:

How shall this come to pass?

The answer of the messenger

reached her completely.

There was no turning back.

God survived the intrusion.

She sets out,

looking for her companion.

She feels recognised -

and starts to sing, with a quivering voice,

her revolutionary song

for future generations

and for us today.



»Hark, despots of all times and your satellites:

Why do you rage, scourging whole peoples?

May it sound worldwide, this song, against your furies of injustice,

against your cynical scorn and contempt, for the man-child and his God.

The God of this man-child shudders and weeps in His heaven.

Then He roars, shakes His mane and leaps - invisible with light

He descends into a human heart:

You my shepherd, my lion, you shall feed my lambs,

wash their wounds and anoint them, to shepherd my universe, I have raised you up today.

May it be a carpenter's son, a publican, a tentmaker,

a queen or a charwoman,

to whom He breathes His passion, His tender mercies.

They are full of fear. Yet they walk - their path is the whole earth.

To every place where still supreme powers still smasch mortals like earthen jars.

Woe to you, satellites, corrupt judges, woe to you, despots, be warned.

What kind of world do you want for your children - this one?«

Psalm 2 according to Huub Oosterhuis


Sylvia Ditt                                                       

Koblenz, December 1rst, 2022