THE GREAT JUDGMENT: THE STORY OF A MAN WHO BELIEVED HIMSELF JUSTIFIED

 

There was once a man.

A good man.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

He was a man of faith—unshakable faith. He believed, with all the confidence of a reformer holding a hammer before a church door, that faith alone was enough. That with faith—only faith—he was righteous before God.

He had read Luther and Calvin with fervor, debated with every Catholic friend he had, and was absolutely certain that salvation was his, with no need for works to prove it.

And in this absolute certainty, he died.

And then, he awoke in a great hall.

It was not an earthly hall. It had no visible walls or ceiling, yet he felt enclosed. No source of light shone, yet everything was illuminated. No voice spoke, yet something in him understood.

The judgment had begun.

And then, a voice—one that needed no introduction—asked:

— Have you been righteous?

The man, with the same confidence with which he had debated sola fide on countless online forums, raised his chin and declared:

— Yes, because I had faith!

There was a silence, as if the entire universe had paused to listen to his response.

And then, before him, a book was opened.

A massive book, like a divine ledger. His name was there, shining and clear.

And beneath his name—nothing.

Nothing.

Not a single work of mercy. Not a single act of charity. Not one moment where he had fed the hungry, clothed the naked, or visited the sick.

Nothing.

And the voice asked again, with a calmness that cut like a sword:

— Where are your fruits?

The man hesitated. For the first time in his existence, his confidence wavered.

— But… I believed.

And then, without warning, another voice echoed—a voice written centuries ago, in the pages of an apostle he had chosen to ignore:

— “You see that a man is justified by works and not by faith alone.” (James 2:24)

A shiver ran through his soul. But he was not defeated yet. No, he had answers—answers he had repeated countless times in his life.

— But… Saint Paul said we are justified by faith.

Another silence. And then, another page appeared, from the very same Paul he had cited. And in it, these words burned like fire:

— “For it is not the hearers of the law who are righteous before God, but the doers of the law who will be justified.” (Romans 2:13)

The man felt his confidence slip through his fingers like sand in the wind.

— But… I was justified because God imputed it to me. I… I didn’t have to do anything—just believe.

There was a whisper in the air, an echo of centuries of wisdom. And then, out of nowhere, a figure appeared—a man with a pen in his hand and the gaze of one who had crushed heresies before breakfast.

Saint Robert Bellarmine.

— “If justification were merely a declaration of righteousness without a real transformation of the soul, then God would be a liar, calling just what remains unjust.”

And for the first time, the man saw the abyss of his error.

God could not be a liar. And yet, his doctrine made God a liar. Because if he, filthy, empty, fruitless, was called just by a simple declaration, then justice had no meaning.

— But… Luther said…

And at that moment, another figure appeared, with the serenity of a lion and the logic of an unstoppable machine.

Saint Thomas Aquinas.

— “The justification of the sinner is a transformation of the soul in which, by God’s grace, he truly becomes just.” (STh I-II, q. 113, a. 2)

— But…

And then, another man stepped forward—an eloquent bishop with the heart of fire and a tongue sharp as a sword, a knight who had destroyed heresy with words as sweet as they were relentless.

Saint Francis de Sales.

— “Justification that does not produce a real change is a phantom without substance. If faith without works is dead, how could something dead justify?”

The man felt his soul tremble.

And then, the voice spoke again.

— God, who created you without you, will not save you without you.

The man recognized the words. Saint Augustine had said them. He had read them. But he had never understood them.

Because all his life, he had believed salvation was a blank check. That he could believe and remain unchanged. That his soul could be a corpse wrapped in a cloak of imputed righteousness.

But now he saw it. Now he understood. The soul had to be transformed. Faith had to be accompanied by love. Grace did not merely cover the soul—it made it new.

And he… he had done nothing.

And at that moment, he understood the Parable of the Talents. He understood the words of Christ:

— “Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink.” (Matthew 25:41-42)

He had believed that God would demand nothing more than faith. But now he saw that God expected fruits.

And he had none.

And for the first time in his existence, terror filled him.

The voice spoke one final time.

— If you love me, keep my commandments. (John 14:15)

The book closed.

And the man, who had died believing himself justified, fell into the abyss.

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Epilogue: The Lesson

The Protestant error is a fatal error. One that sounds pious, but is the greatest betrayal of Scripture.

The man who trusts in forensic justification, in a righteousness that does not change him, is living a lie.

Because God does not call just what remains unjust.

Because faith without works is dead.

Because grace does not merely cover—it transforms.

Because God created us without us, but He will not save us without us.

The man at the Judgment realized it too late.

But you, who have read this, still have time.