Cuxhaven, Germany — There’s something magical about a quiet Sunday morning in Cuxhaven. The sea air is crisp, the streets are calm, and at precisely 9:30 a.m., the doors of St. Petri Cuxhaven Döse open to a handful of familiar faces.
It’s never a packed house—but that’s never the point. This little church by the northern coast doesn’t need to be loud to speak volumes.
As I sat in my usual spot this morning, the gentle hum of the organ and the calm voice of the pastor settled over me like a warm blanket.
But while the service unfolded with its usual peaceful rhythm, my thoughts were somewhere else—floating thousands of kilometres away, across continents, oceans, and cultures, all the way to Ghana.
But first—St. Petri Kirche.
This church doesn’t deliver sermons about crushing the devil or unlocking your divine breakthrough. Instead, today’s message was about the climate—how we are stewards of this beautiful Earth, responsible not just for ourselves but for the children of our children.
It was thoughtful. Grounded. Real.
And the collection? Not for a bigger building or a new PA system. Today’s donations were earmarked to support dementia patients in local care homes. A small gesture, perhaps—but in a town like Cuxhaven, even small gestures have a way of adding up to something beautiful.
Here, if you drop your phone on the street, chances are someone will pick it up and take it to the local lost and found office. Come back the next day, and it’ll likely be waiting for you—unbothered and untouched.
There’s a quiet integrity in the way things work. Corruption is barely a whisper. Systems run like clockwork. And the church—modest as it may be—reflects those values without saying a word.
But then, my thoughts turned to Ghana. Oh, sweet Ghana. Where Sunday is anything but quiet.
There, churches overflow with energy and excitement. The preachers are charismatic, the choirs powerful, and the messages passionate.
Services stretch for hours—two, sometimes three—and every moment is alive with spirit and song. You’ll hear about destiny helpers, spiritual enemies, and divine favour. It’s powerful. It’s moving. It’s faith in high definition.
But alongside the passion comes a different reality. If your phone falls on the church floor, it may not find its way back to you. It could be seen as God-given. A blessing.
Collections are generous, but often go towards church expansion rather than supporting the vulnerable.
And corruption? Sadly, it’s as abundant as the hallelujahs. A strange contrast—deep faith in the air, but fragile trust on the ground.
And that’s when the thought hit me, right there in the wooden pews of St. Petri:
Is it possible that the God in Germany is different from the God in Ghana?
Of course, we know better. God is the same—yesterday, today, and forever. But the way we live out our faith? That’s where the difference lies.
In Cuxhaven, God is spoken of gently and lived out quietly—in honesty, in systems that work, in care for the elderly, in the trust of a community where even lost items find their way home.
In Ghana, God is shouted from rooftops, celebrated in song and sermon—but sometimes, that faith struggles to translate into daily life. Systems fail. Trust breaks down. And the same people who sing loudest on Sunday may turn a blind eye on Monday.
So, what if we could bring both worlds together? The vibrant spirit of Ghana, the quiet strength of Germany?
What if our churches were full—not just with people, but with purpose?
What if our faith echoed not just in our prayers, but in our politics, our streets, and our everyday kindness?
As the bells of St. Petri Cuxhaven Döse rang to signal the end of the service, I stepped out into the fresh sea breeze with a full heart and a thoughtful smile.
Today, I didn’t just attend church. I experienced a gentle reminder that faith isn’t just something we speak—it’s something we live.
Whether in the silence of a small German chapel or the joyful noise of a packed Ghanaian church, God is always there.
Perhaps waiting for us not just to worship, but to walk the talk.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real miracle.
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