The Council That Never Was – Volume V
Prologue: The Bride in Ruins
The forum trembled. Not from war, nor wrath, but from memory.
Cathedrals burned.
Altars defiled.
Pulpits silent.
Saints forgotten.
Factions multiplied.
Creeds shattered on screens.
The Church had not died—but she had bled.
And now the theologians stood—not as rivals, but as witnesses.
Christ stood at the centre, eyes on His Bride.
And He waited.
Chapter 1: What Is the Church?
Augustine opened the scroll of De Civitate Dei:
“Two cities dwell among us—the City of God and the city of man. The true Church is not always visible—but always victorious.”
Calvin stood firm:
“Wherever the Word is rightly preached, and the sacraments rightly administered, there is the Church.”
Aquinas, seated with solemn dignity:
“The Church is the Mystical Body of Christ. She is one, holy, catholic, and apostolic—despite her wounds.”
Luther banged his fist—softly this time:
“The Church is wherever the Gospel is believed. Not in Rome. Not in councils. But in faith.”
Wesley, kind-eyed:
“And that faith must be seen in holiness—else the Church becomes a shell.”
Gutiérrez:
“And holiness must kneel in the dirt, not only before an altar, but beside the oppressed.”
Maximus the Confessor added:
“And the Church is cosmic—her song echoes even in angels.”
Chapter 2: Saints and Sinners
A procession appeared.
Martyrs.
Desert mothers.
Hidden monks.
Widowed intercessors.
Children who died with Christ’s name on their lips.
Balthasar stepped forward:
“These are the silent pillars. The saints are not perfect, but perfected in love.”
Barth, moved:
“The real Church is often invisible to institutions. Saints are often unknown to history.”
Pascal, quietly:
“Faith’s greatest proofs are often anonymous.”
Bonhoeffer:
“The Church is cruciform—or she is false. The saints bleed—not to earn salvation, but to echo it.”
Gutiérrez:
“The saints are in the slums. The factory workers. The mothers who chose hope over bitterness.”
Chapter 3: The Wounds of Division
Now the forum grew darker.
Icons shattered.
Pews divided.
Crosses flown on flags.
Doctrines weaponised.
Cyril of Alexandria frowned:
“I fought for Christ’s nature—and yet, my victory broke communion.”
Luther looked down:
“My protest sparked a forest fire. I sought reform, not schism.”
Calvin, struggling:
“Unity must be grounded in truth. But truth became a boundary.”
Athanasius:
“We fought Arianism to save the Church—and lost half of it.”
Wesley:
“We wanted revival—but found separation.”
Schleiermacher, almost sorrowful:
“And modernity gave us choice—but emptied our altars.”
Barth:
“We stood against Hitler—and found the Church compromised.”
Maximus, scarred from exile:
“And yet unity without truth is no unity at all.”
Moltmann:
“We need not uniformity. But we dare not baptise chaos.”
Chapter 4: Can the Church Be One Again?
Augustine prayed:
“You are our peace. Make of the many one.”
Aquinas added:
“Unity comes not by compromise, but by participation in Christ.”
Wesley:
“If your heart is as mine, give me your hand.”
Bonhoeffer:
“The Church is not a program. She is a miracle.”
Gutiérrez:
“Unity will be found on the margins—not at the centre of power.”
Barth:
“We will be one when we return to the Word—not when we agree on systems.”
Balthasar:
“Perhaps it will be beauty that binds us again—when the world sees Christ in us, not just our words.”
Epilogue: The Bride and the Lamb
Now Christ stepped forward.
He did not scold.
He did not explain.
He held out His hands.
And the scars of the Church pulsed in His own.
He said only:
“She is still mine. And I am still preparing her.”
And across the ages, the saints—known and unknown—rose.
Not to argue.
Not to divide.
But to worship.
Together.