The Council of Minds: A Theological Novel
Chapter 5: The Table and the Blood
The great hall shimmered, and a second table appeared—this one short, intimate, set with bread and a chalice. A cross loomed behind it, neither crucifix nor empty—a paradox of death and resurrection.
Aquinas stood reverently: “This is no mere memory. The substance changes. The body and blood of Christ are truly present—transubstantiated. Not symbol, but reality.”
Luther nodded fiercely. “Yes, Christ is present—in, with, and under the elements. But no need for Aristotelian categories! Just take Him at His word: ‘This is My body.’”
Zwingli, suddenly appearing like a lightning crack in dry air, raised a brow. “No, it’s a memorial. A sign. Spiritual, yes—but symbolic. Christ is in heaven, not in bread.”
Calvin, ever the reconciler: “It is more than symbol. The Spirit lifts us to Christ. We commune by faith with His true presence—but not physically.”
Lewis, quietly: “I do not know the mechanism. But when I kneel and taste the bread, something happens. Something more than metaphor.”
Barth frowned. “Sacraments are signs—yes—but powerful ones. Baptism and the Table preach. They point to Christ’s Word, which alone saves.”
Wesley gently: “They are means of grace—channels of divine love. Not magic, but mystery. To neglect them is to weaken faith.”
Augustine tapped the cup, whispering: “Visible word. Sign and thing. Sacramentum and res.”
Bonhoeffer was silent. His thoughts drifted to a clandestine table in a Nazi prison, where stale bread and shared fear became divine communion.
Chapter 6: Baptism and Belonging
Cyprian, his voice a relic of the early Church, thundered: “There is one baptism. To break with the bishop is to break with Christ. Water unites.”
Luther raised his hand. “Baptism saves—yes. But faith alone justifies. Baptism must be joined to promise, not institutional control.”
Calvin spoke as if reciting case law: “Baptism initiates the elect into covenant community. Yet its efficacy lies not in the act, but in God’s decree.”
Wesley frowned. “Infant baptism is right. But do not mistake it for regeneration. It must be followed by conscious repentance and holiness.”
Zwingli, stubborn as a Swiss cliff, replied: “No! Baptism does not save. It’s the badge of faith. No faith—no baptism.”
From the shadows emerged a woman—a quiet Anabaptist martyr—burned for her dissent, whispering: “Baptism follows faith, not precedes it. My blood replaced my baptismal water.”
The hall fell into quiet grief. Her presence accused and absolved them all.
Barth finally said: “Baptism without discipleship is betrayal. The church must not bless nationalism with water.”
Bonhoeffer whispered, “Cheap baptism is as dangerous as cheap grace.”
Lewis simply asked, “When He rose from the water, the dove descended. Might that not be more than poetry?”
Chapter 7: Justification and the Work of the Cross
Luther stood once more, hammer in spirit: “Justification is by faith alone, through grace alone, because of Christ alone. Not one work. Not one.”
Anselm nodded slowly. “And the cross? It satisfies divine honour. The debt was infinite—only God could pay it.”
Calvin sharpened the point: “Christ bore our punishment. The wrath due to us was placed upon Him. Penal substitution.”
Barth, shaking his head, declared: “God was not against us. He was for us. Christ was God reconciling the world—not a divine whipping post.”
Wesley, heart stirred: “Yes, faith justifies—but sanctification proves it. True faith always produces love and holiness.”
Augustine, timeless: “Grace begins it, continues it, finishes it. But man must not resist.”
Edwards, fierce again: “We are spiders over a flame. Only God’s mercy suspends us.”
Lewis, weary: “I find all the models true—each one a window. Atonement is too deep for one metaphor.”
Aquinas chimed in with calm: “Satisfaction, merit, infusion—yet all flows from charity.”
Bonhoeffer finished: “When Christ calls a man, He bids him come and die. Justification is not escape—it is entrance into cruciform living.”
Chapter 8: The Undercurrent of Conflict
The hall began to quake—not from wrath but weight.
The weight of 2,000 years of argument.
The burden of schisms, denominations, councils, executions.
The tears of martyrs and the pride of systems.
Cyprian glared at Zwingli.
Barth dismissed Aquinas.
Wesley pitied Edwards.
Luther insulted Rome.
Lewis tried to mend them all—but knew he couldn’t.
The table splintered down the middle. The chalice spilled.
And yet—a single drop hung in the air. It shimmered with light not of earth.
And a Voice—not loud, not soft—filled the room:
“This is My Body. Broken by you. Broken for you. Still offered.”