After a short break, I'm all the more excited to continue my interview series today. This time, Heiko Metz has taken on my questions. Heiko is a theologian, author, and lecturer – and a passionate bookworm on the side. He lives with his family in Marburg and delves deeply into topics surrounding spirituality and everyday life.
In his concept of everyday mysticism, he combines deep reflections with practical insights—always with an eye for real life, including his own experiences with burnout and as part of a family with disabilities. An interview about inner peace, crises as turning points, and the small spiritual moments of everyday life.
What’s your name?
Heiko Metz.
Where do you live?
Right in the heart of Germany, in the incredibly beautiful town of Marburg. And I even have a view of the castle.
What kind of art/creativity do you primarily engage in?
Words are my medium. My art comes to life in sentences that touch, in texts that bring a piece of heaven into everyday life.
I write blog articles—about our life as a family with disabilities, about the good life, about burnout prevention and recovery. About everyday mysticism and experiential spirituality. About the big questions and the small moments when you can feel God.
Every day, I create blessing texts and prayers, which I share on Instagram—fresh, relatable, straight from life itself. And then there are the poems. Sometimes in free verse, sometimes in classic form, but always with the intention of making something invisible visible.
Beyond that, I write books, contribute to publications, and create Christian-spiritual reflections and meditative texts. In short: anything that sets words in motion.
Have you completed formal training, or are you self-taught?
Yes and no. I don’t have formal training as a writer or journalist—at least, not yet. But that’s changing right now. I’m in the middle of a journalism training program because I want to refine my craft, making my writing even more precise and impactful.
What I do bring to the table is a degree in Protestant theology. And that actually serves as a pretty solid foundation for writing. Theology isn’t just about thinking about God—it’s primarily about working with texts: reading them, interpreting them, placing them in new contexts. During my studies, I must have read around 200,000 books and articles… and written at least 77,777 texts myself.
Academic, popular, pastoral. Sermons, prayers, pastoral care texts. Writings for weddings and funerals, for people in the midst of life, and for those currently at odds with God. All of this has shaped me. And today, this very experience helps me craft texts that don’t just inform but also resonate on a deeper level.
Where can people find your work? Do you have a website or social media profiles you’d like to share?
Website: https://heiko-metz.de
Instagram: @heikometz
My creative journey began with words. Or perhaps more with the need to express the inexpressible.
Writing is as essential to me as breathing—it’s my most natural form of expression, the place where I can think, feel, and understand most clearly. While spoken words often disappear into the air, writing allows me to create depth, structure my thoughts, and weave meaning.
Maybe it all started with diaries, with scribbled notes on napkins or loose sheets of paper. With questions that kept me awake at night. And at some point, these fragments turned into something bigger: blog articles about life in a family with disabilities, about what it means to live well, about burnout and spirituality. Prayers and blessings that I share with others. Poems that try to make the invisible tangible.
I love playing with language—inventing new words, rewiring layers of meaning, experimenting with form and sound. Writing, to me, is a creative process: I shape something that carries a part of me and yet exists for others. Something that, hopefully, is beautiful. Moving. Maybe even capable of changing the world, just a little. And sometimes, that’s when it truly becomes art.
Writing is more than a craft to me. It is a spiritual path. A way of searching for God—and sometimes finding Him in a single sentence.
I find inspiration everywhere—in nature, in encounters, in everyday life. In the grand narratives and the small moments that are often overlooked.
Nature is an endless source for me. It speaks of transformation, cycles, and the intricate interplay between the vast and the minute. From breathtaking mountain panoramas that leave me in awe to the delicate veins on a single leaf. From the expanse of the ocean to the bustling activity of an anthill. The budding blossoms of spring, the vibrant colors of autumn, the fragile frost flowers of winter—all these remind me that life is constant change, yet carries a deep sense of continuity.
I also find inspiration in people. Especially in children. Because they are genuine. Because they approach the world with open eyes and a heart full of wonder. They discover stories we adults have long since overlooked. And often, they tell these stories with a sincerity and enthusiasm that challenge me to see life with fresh eyes.
And then there’s my family. The people I am most deeply connected with. Love writes the most beautiful, the funniest, the deepest, but also the most painful stories. It challenges, holds up a mirror, gifts unforgettable moments, and creates life’s greatest celebrations.
And finally: God. The creator of all these stories. The one who sows hope where everything seems lost. Who loves light and warmth into the world—in the most unlikely places, at the most unexpected times. Who keeps surprising me, and whose adventures I not only want to experience but also pass on—in words that touch, comfort, and inspire.
Oh yes—words shape words. And some have been with me for a lifetime.
Christina Brudereck fascinates me with her gentle eloquence. She writes with a kind of poetry that comforts without being sentimental, that moves without being intrusive. Her texts feel like a good conversation—one where you feel understood, even if you haven’t yet found the right words yourself.
Hans Dieter Hüsch is a master at creating entire worlds with simple words. I read his work—and find myself in it. And when I read it again later, I discover myself anew. His texts are like good friends: they remain the same, yet they grow with me.
Astrid Lindgren captivated me as a child—and still does today. She tells stories not just for children but out of love for them. She creates worlds where children are the heroes—strong, independent, courageous, and full of imagination. Her way of storytelling has deeply influenced me.
Henri Nouwen, I admire for his clarity. His words are simple—but never shallow. Deep, but never complicated. He has the gift of touching the heart in just a few sentences, making you think, feel, and grow.
And then there are so many others. Lovers of words, linguistic acrobats, quiet poets, and loud thinkers. Some accompany me only briefly, while others are old friends in spirit. But all of them have left their mark—on my words, my thoughts, and my way of writing.
It begins with a blank page in my notebook. With my favorite fountain pen, which glides over the paper just right. Or with my notes app on my MacBook, when thoughts flow faster than my hand can write.
And then: letting the words flow. Raw, unfiltered at first. Letting them rest. Taking them for a walk. Having coffee with them. Turning them this way, rearranging them that way. Letting new ideas seep in. Crossing things out, rewriting, tearing out pages and crumpling them—sometimes even smoothing them out again and putting them back.
My writing process is not linear. Texts stay with me as I go through my day. I look at them from different angles, let them grow, breathe, change. And then, at some point, that moment comes: Now, it’s my text. Now, it says exactly what was meant to be said.
Always the current one ;-)
Very important—and at the same time, often difficult to maintain. Creativity can be a lonely process, but it also needs resonance. Exchange, friction, the shared struggle for the best possible outcome.
One great advantage of being a writer is that I can always read the works of others. Their words accompany me, inspire me, challenge me—even if I never meet them in person. But whenever possible, I seek direct interaction: the back and forth between writer and editor, the shared search for the perfect phrasing, the magic that happens when individual ideas come together to create something new.
And yet, it still feels like too little. There is this longing for more connection, for creative conversations, for true collaboration. Maybe that’s a path I still need to walk—creating more spaces for exchange, turning more of my own solitude into community.
Art is both resistance and comfort to me. It is proof that beauty exists even in the worst chaos. That light can flicker in the midst of darkness, that a melody can emerge from the noise, that something can be created in the middle of a crisis—not just to endure but to transform.
I need art in my life because it reminds me that God made this world colorful, beautiful, and full of wonder. That beauty is not just a footnote, but a promise. A piece of heaven woven into everyday life. Art invites me to see, hear, feel, taste—and to take part in it myself.
Sometimes art is grand and overwhelming. Sometimes quiet and almost unnoticeable. It can be found in a song that plays at just the right moment. In a sentence that heals a wound. In a color that paints hope. And often, it emerges in the most unexpected places—in a fleeting encounter, an honest prayer, a text that sets something in motion.
Art doesn’t just make the world more bearable. It makes it better. Simply because it exists.
Art is more than entertainment. It is a mirror and resistance, comfort and new beginnings. It helps us express the unspeakable, grasp the unfathomable, and dream the impossible. Especially in times of crisis, its true power emerges—it holds onto what is breaking apart and gives voice where words fail.
Artists are the seismographs of society. They sense what is brewing before it becomes tangible. They put their finger on wounds no one wants to see and make hope visible where it seemed lost. They tell stories that connect—across people, generations, and worlds.
Art can disturb and provoke. It can soothe and heal. It can be loud or quiet, political or deeply personal. But it always has the power to create change.
In a world that often values only functionality, art reminds us that we are more than just our usefulness. That we need beauty. That creativity is not a luxury but a necessity. It creates spaces where we can feel, remember, question, and dream. And perhaps that is its most important role: to remind us, again and again, what it means to be human.
My words carry a message: You are valuable. Not because of what you achieve, but simply because you exist. Loved—by God, by people, by life itself.
Inclusion, equality, solidarity—these are not abstract concepts to me, but a way of being. A truly good coexistence is more than just individuals existing side by side. It is a vibrant, colorful tapestry of diversity that creates more than we ever could alone or in perfect harmony.
I write about people and their stories. About family—both my own and the larger human family. About the longing for peace, for connection, for a world where no one is overlooked or left behind.
And time and again, I write about what sustains me: the deep certainty that love has the final word. That God walks alongside us—through highs and lows, through light and darkness. That a good life is possible, even in the midst of challenges. And that we are all part of it.
Thank you, Heiko!
If you are an artist or creative, no matter whether you work in painting, music, literature, or any other art form, and you’d love to talk about your work and creative process, feel free to reach out to me.
I’m excited to showcase the diversity of creative expression in my interview series and to read about your perspectives and experiences.
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