The Council That Never Was
Prologue: The Great Convergence
In a place beyond time—neither heaven nor earth, but a divine forum prepared for discourse—the greatest minds of Christian history are summoned. They do not age. They do not sleep. But they think. And they speak.
Twenty figures step into the light, their robes as varied as their ages, their minds as sharp as the swords of angels. A great table is set—a convergence of theologians who never met in life, yet whose ideas have warred across the centuries.
The Host speaks:
“Welcome, defenders of doctrine. Teachers of truth. Lovers of Christ.
You have shaped the Church—but you have not always agreed.
This is your moment. Speak freely. And let the debate begin.”
Chapter 1: Grace and Will
Augustine of Hippo sat upright, his piercing eyes locked on the two seated opposite: John Wesley and Jacobus Arminius—though Wesley appeared a little brighter, his Methodist coat crisp and clean.
“Free will?” Augustine began, his voice slow and deep. “It is but a shadow after Eden. Grace alone awakens the soul. Without God’s sovereign election, none would turn.”
Wesley folded his hands.
“And yet, dear father, if grace is irresistible, what place has love? What virtue in a coerced surrender? Prevenient grace is God’s gift—but the will must answer freely.”
Calvin interjected sharply from the side, his voice sharp as Geneva steel:
“If the will decides salvation, man saves himself. That is Pelagius in disguise.”
Luther grunted. “Let God be God. We are donkeys, unless Christ rides us.”
But from the far end of the table, a quiet challenge came:
Gustavo Gutiérrez, in priestly black, gestured toward a cracked loaf of bread.
“Gentlemen, does grace only save from sin? Or also from poverty? From injustice? The poor die waiting for your debates.”
Augustine narrowed his eyes.
“Justice is the order of love.”
Wesley nodded.
“Then let our love burn through the streets.”
Chapter 2: The Nature of Christ and the Trinity
Gregory of Nazianzus, robed in Eastern dignity, rose like a candle in the smoke-filled air.
“Let us not dissect Christ like a corpse. He is God from God, Light from Light. The Trinity is our mystery and our salvation.”
Athanasius, older and sterner, added:
“And yet, let us defend Him boldly. Against Arius, I contended with my life.”
Suddenly, Karl Barth leaned forward:
“Your clarity saved the faith. But now we must speak into modern fogs. Christ alone is the Word that judges all human systems—even our theologies.”
A soft voice echoed from a corner. Hans Urs von Balthasar, hands clasped like a prayer, whispered:
“And the Word became beautiful. Theology without beauty forgets the face of God.”
Jürgen Moltmann stood, wounded by history.
“Was He beautiful on the Cross? No. He was abandoned. If God cannot suffer, then He is not with us.”
Anselm stood slowly:
“You speak of suffering. I speak of satisfaction. The debt of sin must be paid—justice demands it.”
Balthasar:
“No. Love demands descent. He harrowed Hell—not to balance books, but to break chains.”
Chapter 3: Scripture, Church, and Authority
Martin Luther banged his fist on the table.
“Scripture alone! Councils err. Popes err. Let the Word speak!”
Thomas Aquinas, seated like a cathedral, replied calmly:
“But who gave you the canon, Brother Martin? The Church is the mother of Scripture.”
John Calvin raised an eyebrow:
“The Spirit testifies to the Word. No pope can add what the Spirit has not sealed.”
Cyril of Alexandria, eyes keen and ancient, warned:
“But division breeds heresy. The Church must guard the flock.”
Friedrich Schleiermacher smiled sadly.
“Gentlemen, the age of creeds is fading. Faith must touch the feeling, the intuition of God.”
Barth almost exploded:
“No! Schleiermacher, your God is a mirror. I met the real God—in the storm of the Word.”
Pascal, ever quiet, looked up:
“The heart has its reasons which reason knows not.”
Chapter 4: Hope, Justice, and the End of All Things
Jonathan Edwards stood as if from a pulpit, eyes burning:
“The glory of God is the purpose of all. Even the damned reflect His justice.”
Moltmann’s fist clenched.
“If justice damns the innocent, then we must redefine justice. The Crucified is God’s justice.”
Gutiérrez rose again.
“And where is your justice for the slums of Lima? Is Hell full of orphans and mothers?”
Bonhoeffer, silent until now, whispered:
“The call is to discipleship. Cheap grace saves no one.”
Wesley placed a hand on his shoulder:
“And holiness must touch the earth.”
Maximus the Confessor joined in quietly:
“In Christ, the cosmos is transfigured. Even death shall die.”
Chapter 5: The Breaking of the Bread
They paused.
All.
And the Host returned.
“You have spoken doctrine. Now speak as brothers.”
They stood.
And from opposite ends of the table, Augustine and Gutiérrez walked to the middle.
Luther and Aquinas nodded to one another.
Calvin and Moltmann, though still troubled, clasped hands.
And as the Host broke the bread, each took a piece.
For in the end, they were not theologians first—but disciples.
Epilogue: A Great Cloud
Above them, the witnesses cheered.
The martyrs.
The poor.
The mystics and pastors.
The wounded and forgiven.
And Christ stood at the centre, scarred and smiling.
He spoke only one sentence:
“You have all seen in part. But now, you see Me.”