This doctrine of Christ and of the apostles, from which the true

Host: The wind whispered through the narrow alley behind the cathedral, carrying the scent of wet stone and burnt candles. Evening had fallen, but the city still glowed — a mosaic of amber lights trembling through the rain. Inside a small bookshop café, a dim lamp flickered beside a wooden table, casting slow shadows over two figures seated opposite one another.

Jack leaned back in his chair, a leather notebook half-open before him, his eyes cold and grey, reflecting the flame like mirrors of reason. Across from him, Jeeny sat with her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, her fingers trembling slightly as if holding not warmth, but memory.

The Host’s voice was low and measured, like the echo of an unseen camera gliding closer.

Host: Between them lay a single sentence written on a torn page — “This doctrine of Christ and of the apostles, from which the true faith of the primitive church was received, the apostles at first delivered orally, without writing, but later, not by any human counsel but by the will of God, they handed it on in the Scriptures.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. Jeeny’s eyes softened. The air between them thickened with thought and faith.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The idea that truth began not with ink and paper, but with voice, with breath itself — that faith was once alive, spoken from one soul to another.”

Jack: “Beautiful, maybe. But also dangerous. Spoken truths can change, Jeeny. They can be twisted by memory, distorted by emotion. That’s why we write — to anchor meaning before it floats away.”

Jeeny: “But writing can kill meaning too, Jack. Once you trap a living word in letters, it becomes law — cold, still, untouchable. The apostles spoke before they wrote because they wanted to breathe the truth, not lock it in stone.”

Host: A brief silence settled, broken only by the faint tick of the wall clock and the rain tapping softly on the windowpane. Jack turned the notebook, tapping its edge against the table like a judge testing the weight of an argument.

Jack: “You sound like you want to erase the very idea of structure. You forget that every civilization is built on what’s been written. The laws of Rome, the Constitution, even the Bible — they all survive because someone decided to record them. Oral tradition dies with the last mouth that speaks it.”

Jeeny: “And written law dies with the first heart that stops feeling it. You talk about civilizations, but what about the souls that lived them? The early Christians didn’t have books; they had each other — they had trust. Their faith wasn’t owned by any institution yet. It was shared, whispered, lived.”

Jack: “Faith without record becomes myth, Jeeny. Look at what happened with the Greek epics — a thousand versions, none certain. Writing doesn’t just preserve — it protects.”

Jeeny: “And yet the moment it’s written, it becomes contested. Protected from change, yes, but also from growth. Isn’t that the tragedy? What begins as revelation ends as dogma.”

Host: The lamp flickered again. The flame stretched tall, then shrank, throwing their faces into sudden contrast — Jack’s stern, Jeeny’s luminous with quiet conviction. The rain outside had turned into a steady drizzle, like the steady breathing of an unseen witness.

Jack exhaled, long and heavy.

Jack: “You’re talking about freedom, but you forget that even freedom needs a frame. You can’t build cathedrals from air. The apostles eventually wrote because they realized the voice fades, Jeeny. Maybe God Himself wanted His truth to have a spine — something stronger than memory.”

Jeeny: “But that spine turned into a scepter, Jack. Look what men did once they held the Scriptures. They used the written word to divide, to control, to burn and to crucify in His name. You think the ink saved truth? I think it shackled it.”

Jack: “You can’t blame the medium for the message, Jeeny. People kill for their own interpretations, not for the text itself.”

Jeeny: “But they needed the text to justify the violence. You can’t torture someone for their belief if you don’t first claim your belief is written in stone.”

Host: Jack’s hand clenched around his pen, the metal clicking softly like a nervous heartbeat. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes glistening, her voice trembling — not with fear, but with fury restrained by tenderness.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the story of Jan Hus? Burned alive for saying that Scripture should be read by everyone, not just the Church. That’s what happens when the living word becomes a weapon of authority.”

Jack: “And do you remember the Reformation, Jeeny? Hus’ fire didn’t just consume him; it ignited an age. Luther translated the Bible, yes — but he wrote. He didn’t just speak. He gave the world a written faith people could hold, not just hear. Without the text, truth would’ve stayed a rumor.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Truth isn’t meant to be held, Jack. It’s meant to be lived. The apostles spoke before they wrote because the Word was not a manual — it was a presence. It walked, it healed, it cried.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the apostles were wrong to write?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying the writing wasn’t the end — it was the beginning of misunderstanding.”

Host: The tension in the air grew thick, like a storm gathering behind a thin curtain of silence. A bus rumbled past outside, its lights sliding over the café walls, breaking the darkness into fragments.

Jack looked down at the quote again, reading it under his breath.

Jack: “Not by any human counsel but by the will of God. Maybe that’s what you’re missing, Jeeny. Maybe the writing wasn’t just a human act. Maybe it was divine necessity — the same way a heart beats without thinking.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s what you’re missing, Jack. Maybe the divine doesn’t need necessity. Maybe the will of God is in the voice, not the page. In the breath, not the letter.”

Jack: “But what’s the difference? Both are expressions of faith.”

Jeeny: “The difference is that one can speak back.”

Host: Her words hung like smoke, slowly rising, curling through the light, until they dissolved into the quiet hum of the city beyond the walls. Jack stared at her — not with anger, but with an almost reluctant wonder.

Jack: “You really believe the apostles meant for it to stay fluid — that they wanted faith to keep changing?”

Jeeny: “Not changing, Jack. Growing. Like a river, it moves, but it’s still the same river. If you try to dam it, it stagnates. The early Church was full of that movement — voices sharing, contradicting, discovering. The writing was a map, not the land itself.”

Jack: “And yet, without the map, how do you find the land?”

Jeeny: “By walking, Jack. By trusting the path under your feet.”

Host: A moment passed. The café’s lights flickered once more, and then steadied. The rain outside began to slow. The air smelled of wet dust and coffee, mingled with something older — like the faint scent of parchment and prayer.

Jack’s voice softened, almost weary.

Jack: “Maybe both are true, Jeeny. Maybe God knew His words would die if left unspoken — but also die if written without life. Maybe that’s why He made people to speak and write, not one or the other.”

Jeeny: “Then perhaps the Scriptures are only half the story, Jack. The other half is still being written — every time someone chooses to live by them instead of just quote them.”

Host: The storm had passed. Through the high window, a single beam of moonlight fell across the table, illuminating the torn page between them. The ink gleamed faintly — as if alive, as if still speaking.

Jeeny smiled, her eyes gentle again.

Jeeny: “Maybe the Word never needed us to preserve it. Maybe it only needed us to keep listening.”

Jack nodded slowly, his hand releasing the pen, his gaze lingering on the page as if seeing it for the first time.

Jack: “And maybe faith isn’t in the writing or the speaking — but in the silence that follows both.”

Host: The camera drifted upward — past the table, past the lamp, past the old books lining the wall like silent witnesses to centuries of searching. Outside, the last raindrop slid down the glass, catching the light like a silver tear.

And then, there was only stillness — as if the world itself were holding its breath, waiting for the next word to be spoken.