To the first class belong the Gospels and Acts; to the second

Host:
The library was old — ancient, almost — with dust swirling in the thin beams of light that crept through the tall, stained-glass windows. Rows upon rows of books, their spines cracked and faded, stood like monks keeping secrets. The air was thick with the scent of leather, ink, and memory.

At the center of this quiet cathedral of thought, a single candle burned on a table, its flame trembling with the same uncertainty that lived in human hearts.

Jack sat in a high-backed chair, his grey eyes sharp, the candlelight carving deep shadows across his face. He had a heavy book open before him — a worn Bible, annotated with centuries of other people’s doubts.

Across from him, Jeeny stood near the window, her silhouette framed by shards of blue and red glass. Her hands were folded loosely in front of her, her eyes calm — deep pools of thought where logic and faith coexisted like uneasy siblings.

The room was still, save for the faint crackling of the wick and the slow turn of a page.

Jack: “‘To the first class belong the Gospels and Acts; to the second, the Epistles; to the third, the Revelation.’” He read the words as though he were dissecting them. “Philip Schaff was trying to build order out of chaos — divide the holy library like a taxonomist of faith.”

Host:
His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed the familiar restlessness of a man haunted by structure — a skeptic who feared both randomness and rule.

Jeeny: “He wasn’t dividing it to control it, Jack. He was organizing meaning. Sometimes order isn’t about authority. It’s about clarity.”

Jack: “Clarity is just illusion with better punctuation.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe confusion’s just faith without direction.”

Host:
A gust of wind pressed against the stained glass. The candle flame danced, sending shadows running up the walls like fleeing doubts.

Jack: “So you think Schaff was right — that revelation comes last? That humanity earns its apocalypse only after it’s finished reading the instructions?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only way to survive it.”

Jack: “You mean faith is linear?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “It’s layered — like scripture itself. The Gospels teach love, the Epistles teach endurance, and Revelation… teaches surrender.”

Jack: “Surrender.” He let the word linger, tasting it like something bitter. “You always bring it back to surrender.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where all wisdom begins. Every religion, every philosophy, every art — they all start when someone stops trying to control the fire and just lets it burn.”

Host:
Her voice had softened, but the conviction in it was bright as the candle itself. Jack looked at her — half skeptic, half seeker — caught between curiosity and discomfort.

Jack: “So the Gospels for love, the Epistles for endurance, Revelation for surrender. Nice symmetry. But where’s reason in that hierarchy?”

Jeeny: “It’s in the margins.”

Jack: “The margins?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s where the reader lives — between the words, making sense of the silence.”

Host:
The candle flickered violently, its flame bending toward her like something drawn to truth. The library seemed to hold its breath, and even the clock in the corner hesitated between ticks.

Jack: “You make Revelation sound gentle. Most people see it as doom — beasts, blood, and judgment.”

Jeeny: “Because they stop reading too soon.”

Jack: “And what comes after the end?”

Jeeny: “Understanding.”

Jack: “You really think there’s peace in destruction?”

Jeeny: “Only if the destruction is honest. Revelation isn’t about the end of the world — it’s about the end of blindness.”

Host:
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling smoke from a cigarette that had long burned out. The ashtray was full — not of ashes, but of unspoken doubts.

Jack: “You make faith sound like architecture. Schaff would’ve loved you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think he understood something people forget: that the divine needs order to be heard.”

Jack: “And yet the divine also destroys order whenever it shows up.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because revelation isn’t chaos — it’s truth too big for neat lines.”

Host:
Outside, thunder rolled faintly — not angry, but inevitable. The candle flame quivered, small but undefeated.

Jack: “You ever notice,” he said, “how people love dividing faith into categories — like Schaff did — as if labeling mystery makes it less terrifying?”

Jeeny: “That’s because humans crave hierarchy even in heaven. We want God to have chapters, not questions.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I think maybe God is the question.”

Host:
He stared at her for a long time. The light from the candle caught her eyes, making them seem infinite — reflecting something vast, like an ocean trying to fit itself into language.

Jack: “So the Gospels teach us how to live, the Epistles how to endure, and Revelation how to die?”

Jeeny: “No,” she whispered. “How to begin again.”

Host:
For a long moment, neither spoke. The wind sighed against the window, and the sound of distant rain began to whisper along the roof. The library felt alive now — as though centuries of faith and doubt had gathered here, listening to two mortals wrestle with their inheritance.

Jack: “You think Schaff believed all this, or was he just categorizing scripture the way a scientist dissects stars — naming what he can’t reach?”

Jeeny: “Does it matter? Even the act of naming something is a prayer.”

Jack: “You think classification is prayer?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s humanity’s way of saying — I see you, and I want to understand.”

Host:
The candle guttered once more, nearly going out, then steadied itself. The light swayed across their faces, flickering between belief and reason, between question and confession.

Jack: “So where would you put us, then?”

Jeeny: “Us?”

Jack: “Yeah. You and me. If Schaff could divide scripture into classes, what about souls?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re the Acts — movement, inquiry, struggle. And I’m the Revelation — quiet, patient, unafraid of endings.”

Jack: “And what holds them together?”

Jeeny: “The Gospels. The part that still believes in love despite everything.”

Host:
The clock struck once — deep and resonant. The rain had settled into a rhythm now, steady and sure, like the heartbeat of something eternal.

Jack reached out, closing the Bible gently. His fingers lingered on the worn cover, reverent in spite of himself.

Jack: “Maybe Schaff wasn’t dividing faith after all,” he murmured. “Maybe he was mapping it — from love, to endurance, to revelation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe.”

Jack: “And maybe revelation isn’t prophecy. It’s just gratitude disguised as truth.”

Jeeny: “I think that’s the holiest thing you’ve ever said.”

Host:
The candlelight trembled one last time before softening into stillness. The camera would have pulled back — the two figures small against the vast library of humanity’s longing, surrounded by shelves of sacred and secular words that had all been written to ask the same question:

How do we name what we love when we don’t understand it?

And in that sacred quiet, as thunder rumbled far away and rain cleansed the glass, the truth of Schaff’s divisions found its echo — not in religion, but in revelation:

That the story of faith — like life — moves from love, to struggle, to awakening.
And all of it belongs to the same book.