The Apostolic Palace felt colder than usual that first week of January, a chill that seeped deep into its ancient stones. Pope Leo 14th noticed it immediately upon waking on January 3rd, eight months into his papacy. He understood that some decisions carry a weight beyond theology—they enter history. On his desk lay a 17-page document titled simply Genesis 2: Genesis, penned in his own hand over four months. It drew from decades of missionary work in Peru, nights spent beneath stars that seemed close enough to touch, and conversations with indigenous farmers who perceived creation in ways long forgotten by Rome.

Cardinal Petro Marchetti arrived first, the prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, a man steeped in tradition and cautious of upheaval. Leo asked if he had read the document. Marchetti’s voice was steady but firm: “I ask you, as prefect and friend, to reconsider.”

“On what grounds?” Leo asked.

“Because it will fracture the Church when we can least afford fracture. Because it contradicts fifteen centuries of interpretation. Because you ask the faithful to accept that Genesis is not historical record but theological poetry meant to convey truth through metaphor rather than chronology.”

Leo folded his hands, a habit from teaching canon law in Trujillo. “I ask them to accept what science has proven and theology has long known but feared to say clearly. Creation is ongoing. God did not wind a clock and walk away. Every moment is Genesis. Every birth, every act of love, every reconciliation, every choice of mercy over judgment—that is Genesis.”

Cardinals filed in, including Archbishop Maria Delgado of Buenos Aires, Cardinal James Okonquo of Lagos, Cardinal Yuki Tanaka of Tokyo, and others Leo had selected not for agreement but for honest engagement. The meeting began at 7 p.m., no recordings or transcripts allowed—a lesson learned from Pope Francis: some truths must be spoken freely, without fear of headlines.

Archbishop Delgado spoke first: “What you propose is not merely reinterpretation. It redefines God’s relationship with time.”

“Yes,” Leo replied, “creation is not past tense but present continuous. Augustine said God exists outside time; every moment, the Big Bang, this conversation, the last breath of humanity—all simultaneous in divine consciousness. I say it clearly instead of hiding it in academic theology.”

Cardinal Okonquo warned of political fallout: “Climate activists will claim your endorsement. Anti-science factions will cry betrayal. Politicians will twist your words.”

“I accept that,” Leo answered. “Truth is sometimes inconvenient.”

Cardinal Tanaka added, “In Japan, the nail that sticks up gets hammered down. You will stick up far, Holy Father.”

“They will have to swing hard,” Leo said.

But Leo kept a secret from all but his confessor: a letter from Rosa Cruz, a dying woman in Yapera, Peru, where he had served as a young priest. She wrote in Spanish with the rhythm of her indigenous Queta language: Padre Roberto, do you remember the night we watched stars and you told me God was still making the world? My grandson asked if God stopped caring after making everything. I told him God is making us now. He is eight years old and it gives him peace. Is this still true now that you wear white? The letter moved Leo deeply—it was why he had been elected: to speak faith in ways that bring peace to children and their dying grandmothers.

The meeting stretched past midnight, arguments and debates swirling. Cardinal Marchetti paced, troubled. “You ask us to tell the faithful their grandmothers were wrong—that Genesis is not literal truth.”

“No,” Leo said, “I ask us to tell them truth is larger than they were taught. God is more present and creative than a literal reading allows. Science is not the enemy of faith but its ally.”

“What of those who see this as betrayal?” Marchetti pressed.

Leo lifted a photograph of himself as a young priest in Peru, surrounded by children in a tin-roofed schoolhouse. “I think of them daily—the ones who struggle, the ones who left because we refused to acknowledge what their eyes and minds revealed. Scientists who love God but feel forced to choose between faith and vocation. Children told to reject either fossil records or baptism. This is not about relevance. It’s about honesty.”

Archbishop Delgado reminded them of Galileo’s condemnation and the centuries it took to apologize. Cardinal Okonquo added, “God is big enough to handle our questions.”

At 12:47 a.m. on January 4th, the vote was held. Five cardinals supported immediate publication, three wanted more time, two opposed outright. Leo thanked them all and declared, “We publish on January 5th. There is never a perfect time to tell difficult truths. We face consequences together.”

Three cardinals stood and left silently; Marchetti remained, his face unreadable. “You know this will define your papacy.”

“Yes,” Leo replied, “and some will never forgive me. Historians will debate courage or recklessness. Let them.”

The document was released at noon the next day in seven languages. Headlines exploded: Pope Declares Evolution and Creation Compatible, Breaks with Traditional Teaching, Divides Catholic World. The Vatican Observatory praised its theological and scientific rigor. Scientists hailed it as historic bridge-building; critics dismissed it as rebranding.

Traditionalists reacted harshly. Bishop Robert Farley called it dangerous. Groups purchased ads demanding withdrawal. Leo spent the day in prayer, refusing to soften his words.

That evening, he recorded a simple video message from his modest apartment, speaking in English, Spanish, and Italian. “Faith that cannot withstand questions is fear. Truth that requires ignorance is superstition. Genesis tells profound truths—God creates, creation is good, humanity has dignity, we are stewards. These truths remain whether creation took six days or 14 billion years. The poetry of Genesis is enriched by acknowledging it as poetry.”

The video went viral with over 12 million views in 24 hours. Comments ranged from praise to calls for resignation. One comment from “Ros’s grandson” read: My abuela died last week. Before she went, she told me the priest from her village, now the pope, taught her God is still creating the world. She died peaceful knowing she was part of that creation.

By January 6th, Catholic universities announced lecture series, bishop conferences requested audiences, and the Vatican received over 20,000 letters—mostly supportive but some critical.

Marchetti visited Leo unannounced. “I still believe you moved too fast.”

“I know,” Leo said, “but you were right to move. Contradictions coexist. You’ve forced us into a conversation we’ve avoided for a century. It will be messy, painful, but silence was killing us.”

“That’s the most supportive harsh criticism I’ve received,” Leo smiled.

Later, Leo wrote a letter to Ros’s grandson in Spanish: Your grandmother was right. God is creating you now. Every breath, every kind word, every choice of love over fear—you participate in Genesis. The world is still being made, and we are invited to help.

He sealed the letter, trusting it would find its way to Peru.

Looking out at the Roman night, the stars above as they were over Peru thirty years before, Leo reflected: Genesis means beginning, but with God, there is no beginning without continuation. Creation did not start and stop—it started and persists, evolves, invites participation.

His phone buzzed—a message from his brother in Chicago: Mom would be proud. Dad, too. Stay strong.

Leo smiled, the first genuine smile since the document’s release. His parents, educators, had taught him that learning means growing, growing means change, and change means sometimes leaving behind old certainties for something larger.

The Church would survive this. It would debate, fracture, strengthen. Truth is more durable than tradition. Love more powerful than fear.

He had work to do—letters to answer, cardinals to call, bishops to console, scientists to engage, theologians to challenge. The work of the Second Genesis—the ongoing creation that calls for our participation.

Pope Leo 14th stood, stretched, and knelt in his private chapel on a simple wooden kneeler, praying not for victory or vindication but for strength to continue in faithfulness to truth. Outside, Rome slept. Inside, the Church wrestled with its future. And in Yapera, Peru, an eight-year-old boy slept peacefully, knowing he was part of a creation still unfolding.