“The Council of Minds: A Theological Novel”
Prologue: The Timeless Gathering
A great stone hall, lit by neither candle nor sun, stood suspended in something not quite time and not quite space. The architecture was drawn from no one era—Byzantine mosaics adorned Gothic arches; Romanesque pillars flanked Reformation pulpits. Along its vaulted chamber stretched a table without end, encircling a single throne—unoccupied.
Figures materialised—not born from flesh, but forged from memory, doctrine, struggle, and spirit. Each bore the weight of centuries. Each was a voice of the Church. And each had come prepared to speak, argue, remember, and defend.
Augustine entered first, robe of North African dust and a quill dipped in Confession. His eyes glinted with grace and guilt in equal measure.
Then came Aquinas, like a cathedral in motion, with scrolls spilling Latin syllogisms. His gaze was calm, logical, unhurried.
Martin Luther stormed in next—thunder in boots, flame in eyes, Scripture in hand. He slammed down a German Bible on the table.
Calvin followed, precise and sharp-edged, carrying the Institutes as if it were a blade.
At the far end, wrapped in an Oxford scarf, C.S. Lewis looked confused but intrigued. “I didn’t think theology debated quite like this,” he murmured.
From the walls echoed the cautious footfall of Barth, the thunderous conscience of the 20th century. He nodded at Luther. “The Word,” he said softly, “remains.”
In a quiet alcove, Bonhoeffer had already taken a seat—his glasses fogged slightly, his thoughts torn between Ethics and barbed wire.
Anselm had entered silently, whispering prayers to a Reason that adored God.
Then from the shadows, Jonathan Edwards appeared, eyes lit with fire and gravity. “The sinner hangs by a thread over the pit,” he said, uninvited.
John Wesley strolled in last, cheerful and methodical, radiating methodism and method.
From above the throne echoed a Voice—silent yet sovereign: “Speak.”
Chapter 1: Grace and the Human Will
Augustine leaned forward. “None come unless drawn. Grace is not merely offered—it seizes the soul, unchains the will.”
Wesley shook his head gently. “Yet grace must be cooperated with. Prevenient grace awakens, but man must respond freely.”
Luther growled: “Respond? No! The will is in bondage until freed. Free will is a lie told by the serpent!”
Calvin nodded in agreement. “God chooses, not based on merit, not on foresight—sovereignly. Double predestination reflects the purity of divine will.”
Lewis flinched. “That makes God the author of damnation. Love doesn’t force.”
Barth interrupted: “Let us speak not of systems. In Christ, all are elect. The rejection is His too. He bears it for us.”
Anselm spoke softly: “We must see justice as satisfied, not overrun. God’s honour must be restored. Grace cannot bypass righteousness.”
Edwards pointed a trembling finger: “Even the awakened tremble. Grace is not comfort—it is fire!”
Bonhoeffer, calm but bleeding within, whispered: “Grace that costs nothing is not grace. Christ calls to death, not preference.”
Aquinas raised a hand. “All true. But grace is not violence against nature. Grace perfects it. Freedom is real—and so is God’s action.”
The table throbbed with tension.
Chapter 2: The Nature of the Church
Cyprian materialised from an earlier age, walking solemnly. “Outside the Church, there is no salvation. The bishop holds the keys.”
Luther stood. “No bishop, no pope—not one—can bind my conscience. The Church is where the gospel is rightly preached!”
Calvin murmured, “Yet it must be visible, ordered. Elders, discipline—marks of the true Church.”
Lewis, trying not to offend, said: “I prefer the hallway of ‘mere Christianity’. Denominations are rooms. We may visit, but we dine in the common space.”
Barth frowned. “The Church must confess—against Hitler, against idols. It is never neutral.”
Bonhoeffer nodded. “And it must suffer. The Body of Christ exists only when it bleeds with Him.”
Augustine mused: “The City of God is formed in time but is not of it. Don’t confuse the Church with empire or institution.”
Aquinas offered a framework: “Sacraments are channels of grace, and order is not tyranny.”
The silence that followed felt ecclesial.
Chapter 3: Revelation and Reason
Anselm began: “I believe in order to understand. Faith precedes—but does not silence—reason.”
Barth responded with thunder: “God speaks. Not nature, not philosophy, but the Word! No ontological proofs—only divine initiative!”
Aquinas bowed his head but answered: “Yet God is not illogical. Reason was created by Him. To deny it is to insult the Imago Dei.”
Lewis leaned forward: “And imagination? Can it not baptise reason, as the Spirit baptises the soul?”
Luther, unconvinced, snapped: “Reason is a whore. Only Scripture holds!”
Augustine intervened: “But Scripture itself must be interpreted—reasonably. We are not beasts.”
The tension simmered like a volcano beneath a chapel.
Chapter 4: Hell, Hope, and Election
Calvin stood calmly: “God chooses whom He wills. This is not cruelty, but glory.”
Edwards added: “The damned are rightly damned. The justice of God is no less beautiful than His mercy.”
Lewis, nearly in tears: “Then damnation becomes destiny. But what of choice? Love must offer a door.”
Barth stared into the unseen: “Christ was damned in their place. Can we speak of anyone outside His election?”
Wesley pleaded: “The Spirit woos all! Why would God command repentance if He withholds the grace to obey?”
Augustine replied: “None are unjustly condemned. The potter has rights over the clay.”
Bonhoeffer, barely audible: “Who can speak of judgment who has not hung from a prison cell and heard the silence of God?”
The hall darkened.
Epilogue: The Empty Throne
The theologians paused. No one had been crowned victor. Each had spoken truth, yet none possessed it in fullness.
The throne remained unoccupied.
A whisper rose—perhaps from the walls, perhaps from the Spirit:
“My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways… but I have revealed Myself in My Son.”
Theologians bowed their heads. The ink of their writings faded into eternity—but the Word remained.